April 19th
*click*
We’re on our way to the meeting with Walter. We’re taking two trucks again, just in case one of us has to come back to the cabin before the other one. It was below freezing this morning, not much below, just enough to make me put on a long sleeve Thinsulate layer underneath my ever present sweatshirt. Max and I did a quick “ridge run,” which is just a made up name by yours truly for the trail that starts behind the cabin and winds up zigzagging back and forth through the woods. The total elevation rise along the trail is maybe 600 feet, and we ended up jogging maybe five or six miles of it. When we got back Uncle Andy had some hot oatmeal ready for me and him, and a big bowl of dry dog food soaked in the warm juice that came off a venison roast he was heating up to take into Walters for lunch. After breakfast, I knew I needed to get started on the solar panel and battery installation, but something about the lake was calling to me so I grabbed my rod for a few casts. Three casts exactly. Let me tell you what, the northern pike are always hungry in the lake. I caught three of the “water wolves”—one with each cast. No wall mounters in the lot, but still, going three for three was a great way to start the day. I released them back into the water and got started on the panels.
*click*
We’re on the gravel road heading to the marina, well, heading to the road that goes to the marina. It’s kinda strange though, normally we don’t see anybody on the gravel road. It’s not a private road or anything; it’s just an access road/firebreak that has very little maintenance from the state even though they technically own it. There are a couple of little gravel pull off’s where you’ll occasionally see the car or truck of some fishermen who doesn’t own a boat, but that’s about it. What makes it strange right now is that we’ve just passed two RV’s that were pulled off along the edge—not right next to one another, a few miles apart actually—still strange. If they’re still parked there when I get back, I’m gonna stop. Max is riding with me again. I think Uncle Andy was afraid to put Max in the same proximity as a venison roast. Can’t say as if I blame him. Well, I guess this will be continued when I have more information.
*click*
We’re still a couple miles out from the marina. We would have been there by now but the front left tire on Uncle Andy’s truck went flat. It wasn’t a catastrophic blowout, just a leak . . . he must have hit a sharp rock or something. We pulled off to the side of the highway and switched it out with a spare he had, and in the ten minutes or so it took to do that almost a dozen cars, trucks, and other vehicles passed us, most of them heading west. That amount of traffic is rare on this road, especially considering the time of day and the season. Something’s going on. Anyhow, while Uncle Andy was changing the tire, (hey—I asked him if he wanted me to do it) I was sitting in my truck playing tug of war with Max and one of his chew toys. Just when we were getting into it, I heard a call over the radio Michelle had given me.
“State WCO do you copy?” It was Michelle.
I was pretty sure that I’m the only North Dakota State Wildlife Conservation Officer that has a Fish and Wildlife radio.
“10-4. This is state WCO,” I replied.
“Copy, what’s your location?” she asked.
“En-route to meeting location, ETA five minutes.”
“Copy, 10-84, at least thirty,” she said, indicating she was on her way there as well, but wouldn’t be there for at least thirty minutes.
“10-4.”
Interesting. She didn’t mention the other day that she was coming back for this impromptu meeting. Either something happened to change her mind, or maybe it was . . . me. Big smile. Then again, if her assessment of these radios and their range is accurate, why is it gonna take her at least thirty minutes to get there? Part of me wants to radio her back to see if she needs some kind of assistance; the other part of me says, “leave it alone, she’d only get pissed thinking that I thought she couldn’t do her job.” She’s got a temper, but she’s also tough . . . and smart. She would have let me know if she needed help. I’ll update again after the meeting.
*click*
Oh man, this update is going to take awhile. Shoot, I hardly even know where to begin. All right, deep breath . . . Here we go. After changing the tire, we drove the rest of the way to the marina, passing several more cars and trucks along the way. As we approached, we could see that the parking lot was almost completely filled and there were cars in a line for the gas pump that stretched at least seventy-five yards out the road. People were standing all around the parking lot and it looked like everybody had some type of trailer loaded down with boxes, bags and whatnot—it kind of reminded me of move-in day at the college dorms, except that a lot of people were wearing bandannas or what looked like dust masks around their mouths. The large gravel parking lot across the road was about half full as well. We pulled around back near the propane storage tank, parked, and got out.
“Max, guard the truck,” I said, letting him out so he could assume his duty in the bed of my pickup.
The door to Walter’s office was locked so we walked up to the main store. It was a madhouse in there. People were lined up at the register on the grocery side, and that line stretched all the way to the back corner. The bait store side was just as crowded. Almost everybody had some type of cover over their mouth and nose—surgical masks, dish towels, or even a wad of paper towels held in their hands. WTF? I looked around quickly and guessed that over half of the edible inventory was already gone from the shelves. Walter himself was standing at the juncture where the bait store transitioned into groceries. He had a battery powered megaphone in his hand, and was repeatedly broadcasting, “Please remember folks that we are cash only . . . we cannot take credit cards or checks, and there is a maximum total grocery purchase limit of twenty-five dollars. Gasoline, diesel and kerosene purchases are limited to ten gallons per vehicle . . . no exceptions.” He saw us enter his field of vision and an expression of relief crossed into his face. We edged our way through the crowd over to him.
When we were a few feet away Uncle Andy chimed in, “Guess we’re gonna have to change our lunch plans.”
Walter nodded and said, “Damn straight, and if you even want to have the opportunity for lunch, which will probably be served closer to supper time, give me a hand.”
“What the heck is going on?” asked Uncle Andy.
“The report is that the Korean flu is spreading all over the United States; infected people are going crazy and attacking other folk. I’ve already heard about ninety-nine different stories of what’s going on, everything from the president being evacuated to martial law in every major city.”
“Where are all these people coming from, or I guess a better question would be where are they going?” Uncle Andy asked.
Walter made another announcement about the price limitations before he answered. “From what I can gather, most of them are coming up from the big cities, trying to get someplace away from all the other people.”
Just then a well dressed middle-aged couple intruded on our conversation. The lady looked at her husband and then toward Walter before saying, “Mister, my husband will write you a check for $5000.00 right now if you just let us fill up the gas tank in our RV.”
Walter shook his head and replied, “Ma’am, I wish I could. But if I do that for you than I have to do it for everybody, whether they have $5000.00 or not. And besides, the way I hear it, checks aren’t worth anything right now, heck as far as I know cash ain’t worth nothing either. I truly am sorry, but I have to be fair with everybody, and I intend to do that until I run out of food and gas.”
The husband gave the wife an “I told you so” look before leading her away by the elbow.
“It’s been like this since we opened this morning,” Walter said with a deep sigh.
“Tell us how we can help,” I said.
“Andy, you can wander around inside here and help me keep things moving and . . . um . . . you know, make sure that items don’t wander away without
being paid for. Eric, you could be a great help to me if you could kind of make your presence known outside near the gas pumps. We’ve already had at least three fights, and things are going to get a lot hairier when we run out of gas in that tank, which at the rate they’re emptying it should be less than an hour.”
He turned around and used a key to open a locked glass display case, remove a blister pack of Midland GMRS radios and a large pack of AA batteries. As if by magic a small folding Buck knife appeared in his calloused hands. A few short slices later the radios were freed and had batteries installed. I looked down and noticed he had a similar radio on his belt. He fiddled with the radios for a second after turning them on, verifying that they were set to the same channel and security code as his.
“Eric,” he said, “I always knew you were a standup guy.” Turning to Uncle Andy he said, “And you, you belligerent old goat, for helping me out I forgive half of the stuff that I know ya done to me over the years.”
Uncle Andy got a mischievous look on his face and said, “Too bad you only know about half the stuff I done to you.” I chuckled as I walked outside.
Walter wasn’t kidding, I was outside less than ten minutes before a fight broke out. Just as I was getting them separated, Michelle pulled up. The back left quarter panel of her Tahoe had a fairly impressive dent in it. I looked at her and then toward the dent and then back at her.
“Don’t ask,” she said.
I filled her in on what Walter had asked Uncle Andy and I to do, and suggested she stay out here with me since she was in uniform and I was still going plain clothes, badge and gun only. And cuffs; not gonna forget them again. The next twenty-five minutes went fairly smooth, and then the pumps shut off. I called Walter on the radio and he said that it wasn’t the gas level, although that was getting mighty low, it was that the power had gone off, and to hold down the fort until he could get the generator started. I asked him if he had an extra megaphone I could use and he said he did, so Michelle went inside and returned with it. A few minutes later the pumps came back on. I started announcing on the megaphone that gas was cash only, prepaid only and limited to ten gallons per vehicle, I also added that we expected to run out very soon and to be prepared for that eventuality. As I was announcing this, Marty’s voice came over the radio saying that he had a very irate customer inside. Michelle said she’d take care of it and walked into the bait store. Less than ten seconds later two gunshots exploded behind me.
People in the parking lot screamed and ducked behind their cars. I drew my 9mm and did a fast, low “crouch-walk” toward the bait shop where the shots had come from. I could hear several people screaming inside but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I made it to the door, did a quick look-see into the bait shop window, and then shouldered the plywood encapsulated door open, gun leading the way. Three people, one of them Michelle, were piled on top of another guy. Michelle had the guy’s left arm twisted high into the center of his back and was ordering him to stop resisting. I holstered my gun and went to assist. We had him cuffed and stuffed in less than two minutes. Michelle said that she went into the store and it seemed like she had gone no more than three steps when she heard somebody yell, “Gun!” She turned to see the guy we arrested fire two shots into the ceiling. As soon as the second shot discharged another guy in line right behind him reached out and drop kicked him in the crotch. Two other guys jumped on him before Michelle could reverse course and enter into the mix up. Like I said though, we took him out and stuffed him in the cage of Michelle’s Tahoe. At that point we didn’t know what to do with him, so we left him there. When the dust settled down about five minutes later, the gas ran out. When it rains, it pours.
The next two hours or so were utter chaos. People pushing and shoving, cursing and swearing, and demanding that Walter fill their tanks. Several shouting and pushing matches broke out, and at least four fender benders—most of which I think were intentional. When all was said and done, we had cleared out the cars in line for gas and roped off the pumps. There was hardly any food left on the grocery side by then, so Walter shut that register down and had the lady who was running it paint several pieces of plywood bright yellow. I found out later that she was Marty’s sister. More on that later. After a few quick coats of yellow—none of the layers completely dried before the next was put on—she painted “no gas” in big black letters on the plywood. We took the plywood out toward the road and set it up so it was visible coming from both directions on the highway. When that was finished, we went back inside, turned the door signs to “closed”, and locked the store down. Uncle Andy, Walter, Marty, and Francis went back to Walter’s office; Michelle and I did a final walk around of the store. At the front of the store, where the highway ran, at least a dozen cars drove by, slowed down until they read the sign, and then left without pulling in. We had just made the corner of the building when the sound of tires on gravel alerted us to an approaching vehicle. Turning to look behind us we saw a North Dakota state trooper in a late model Crown Victoria slide into the parking lot a little too quick to be safe. The front right corner of his marked patrol car stopped about eighteen inches from my left hip. Michelle and I looked at each other and then toward the car. The big V8 engine gasped and wheezed before shutting off with a sputter. A few seconds after that, the driver’s side door opened.
The man that got out was short and stocky, close cropped dark hair with the beginnings of silver wings above his ears. He was in full uniform minus the hat. He walked over to us, dark eyes scanning us up and down as he approached. His name tag read “Ironfeather.”
“Trooper,” I said.
He nodded his head towards us, appearing to relax a little now that he was in the presence of fellow LEO’s.
Extending his hand, he said, “Sam Ironfeather.” Michelle and I shook his hand and introduced ourselves.
“I thought this place would be busier,” Sam said.
“You should have been here an hour ago. In between the fights, pushing and shoving, vehicle accidents, and generally crappy behavior, we were even blessed enough to have some dirt bag fire a couple shots through the ceiling when he didn’t get his way,” I said.
The trooper shook his head slightly and said, “If that’s all you’ve had to put up with you better count your blessings,” he continued as Michelle and I listened. “We’ve got problems all over, a lot of problems. But right now my biggest problem is gas. You probably heard my ride tank out just as I drifted in here. My last duty assignment has me heading to the town of Carson on the Canadian border to help with the mess up there, but as it stands right now it doesn’t look like I’m gonna make it unless I walk.”
I thought for a second or two and then said, “I might be able to help you out, or rather you and I might be able to help each other out.”
“What did you have in mind?”
My answer was shattered by a combination of barks, growls, and screams of pain. Michelle and I looked at each other and both of us said the same word—“Max”—before we took off toward the back of the building, Trooper Ironfeather following hot on our heels.
Chapter 5
Approaching our trucks, I could see Max was on the ground with his jaws clamped around the calf of the guy we had put in the back of Michelle’s Tahoe. He was screaming, “Get it off of me!” over and over. I whistled and called Max, who gave the guy a farewell chomp before trotting over to my side. The guy was still in cuffs but had somehow managed to get them in front of him. Michelle motioned towards her Tahoe which was parked about forty-five feet away on the back side of the marina. The back window had been kicked out. I pulled the guy to his feet, spun him around and slammed him against the closed tailgate of my truck.
“Buddy, this makes you 0-2 so far today, and my patience for putting up with pieces of crap like you is all gone, so I’m gonna take those cuffs off of you and recuff your hands behind your back, and if you don’t do it exactly as I say, I’m gonna kick your sorry ass back onto the gravel and let the d
og finish you off. Do you understand me?”
He was still panting and sobbing about his encounter with Max, so I dug my thumb into the base of his skull and repeated, “Do you understand me?”
He winced and started sputtering, “Yes-yes-yes, just keep that damn dog away from me.”
I recuffed him, took him back over to the Tahoe and put him inside. I attached one side of my cuffs to the set of Michelle’s that he was wearing and the other side to the anchor point in the seat crevice. He wasn’t going anywhere now. I walked back over to the trucks. Walter and Uncle Andy were there as well now.
“You want to sell that dog?” Sam asked.
“Well, a day or so ago, after he ate a spicy Slim Jim I probably would have paid you to take him,” the memory of that smell still made my nose wrinkle, “but I guess he’s earned his keep now.”
Introductions were made all around, and then Sam asked, “So what about this deal you want to make?”
“Part of the deal is going to involve Uncle Andy, but here’s the way I see it. You need to get to Carson, which is about an hour and a half away at normal highway speeds, roughly translated to about three days walking if you don’t have any gas.” Trooper Ironfeather showed a gap toothed grin as I continued. “Now I believe that not fifteen feet from this very spot there’s about one hundred gallons of gas sitting in a transfer tank,” I nodded toward the back of Uncle Andy’s pickup. “I think in the interest of helping out a fellow law enforcement officer I could probably talk the old man into filling up your tank.”
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