Sol Survivors

by Ken Benton

  “Target practice starts today.”

  * * *

  Debra watched Joel saunter back along the left fence as she took a sip from a fresh cup of coffee. His body movements portrayed a man deep in thought; someone who needed to be alone for a while.

  The heck with that. She walked out to meet him. Joel didn’t appear to take notice of her until she reached him.

  “Working on equations?” she asked.

  “That’s an excellent guess. One of those equations is how long our coffee supply will last. What is that, your fourth cup today?”

  She took a sip. “Every time I shoot someone—or some thing—I get all the coffee I want the next day. Deal?”

  Her response induced a slight smile on a face that appeared utterly incapable of it one second prior. Funny. Any other man who tried to use such scolding sarcasm on her would have met with the wrath of Debra few ever encountered. Archer knew better that to try that crap. But with Joel, she reacted in a way that ebbed and flowed much more naturally. It was difficult to imagine having a heated fight with him, even if he was occasionally infected by male macho bullshit.

  “Deal. I’m sorry, Debra. Just learned of more problems we have to face. Maybe I’ll have another cup myself. It’s not like any of us got a good night’s sleep.”

  “Not with Annie Oakley practicing her trick shots at midnight, huh? And then you insisting on soaking my latest victim in saltwater before going back to bed.”

  “At least it was a good humane kill shot,” Joel said.

  “And missed all our tires.”

  Joel produced a chuckle. “That too.”

  “What happened to your hat?” Debra asked. “You shouldn’t take chances out here. Jessie and Archer are already sunburned, and they haven’t been outside in it for more than brief spells.”

  “We’re down one hat. I was coming in to get another, but…”

  Debra held her cup at her naval and stood still.

  “…I think I’m going to take a walk up to the crossroad. It’s shady all along there.”

  Debra replied only with her eyes.

  Joel’s vision moved beyond her, towards the side of the house. “How is your latest victim doing?”

  Her eyes changed to a scrutinizing glare.

  “Hey, you said it first.”

  “Some things only I get to say,” she responded. “I just added more wood, turned him over, and gave him a basting. He’s good for a while.”

  “Care to go for a walk, then?”

  Debra smiled. She accompanied him across a place in the fence that still needed mending, through the trees, and out to the road they arrived by yesterday. They remained quiet until passing the bad neighbor’s driveway. No one could be seen outside the house, or around what looked like half-finished stables.

  “At least two of us are getting some sleep today,” Debra said breaking the uneasy silence.

  “Are they both still in bed?” Joel shook his head. “Unreal.”

  “I guess there isn’t much for them to do, since they won’t go outside all of a sudden.”

  “Debra, are you sure it’s only sunburn? I noticed the skin discolorations on Archer yesterday. I don’t know him like you do, but they look unnatural to me.”

  “I don’t know what else it could be. He never had the smoothest complexion. And he feels okay now, I think, or at least he did last night. I’m more worried about Jessie.”

  “She never had clear skin, either.”

  “True, but she is acting strange, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Joel’s response was flat and immediate.

  Debra giggled. “I mean medically strange. Not doing yoga outside at night strange. She got up for a short while earlier and let me reapply Neosporin on her hog bite. Good thing she was wearing stretchy jeans and not leggings. I tried to get her to come out and see the barbecue pit, but the mere mention of stepping outside freaked her out. She has blankets up over the curtains to make it extra dark in your room.”

  “Shouldn’t she be more afraid of the dark than the light now, after that?” Joel asked.

  “I know I am.” Debra glanced around at the plant life. “Ferns. Funny.”

  “Why are ferns funny? Parts of them are edible, and we may soon find them on our dinner plate.”

  “Archer said that’s what they were meditating on last night. Jessie instructed him to become a fern, or something.”

  The two of them looked at each other, looked at the ferns, and burst out laughing together.

  The moment was short-lived. When they came to the near crossroad, Joel’s pensive attitude retook him. He seemed most interested in the street name sign, and tried to shake the old wooden pole it was attached to.

  “This is one of the spots Sammy said they got confused at, isn’t it?” Debra said. “Are you thinking of improving it? Expecting more company?”

  The look Joel gave her in return was, for the briefest flash, frightening.

  “I’d like to dig this up and plant it elsewhere,” he said with one hand grasping the pole. “It would be an easier task if I had a pole post digger.”

  “You happen to have a pig rotisserie, but not a pole post digger?”

  “Mine broke.”

  “Ah.”

  Joel then reached up to the actual street sign section on top and found it somewhat loose. He managed, with maximum-extension stretching and face scrunching, to twist it so the street names swapped positions.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want any more company,” Debra said.

  He nodded at her with concern. “It’s only fair of me to tell you there could be more serious trouble headed our way. Specifically, bad guys coming here looking for my house. Our lives may even be in danger.”

  “Wow. You and Sammy really must have sold a lot of lemons.”

  “I’m afraid it’s Sammy’s fault,” Joel said. “No, strike that. Actually, it’s mine.”

  “How so?”

  “I should have just left those guys alone at the truck stop. But what they were doing wasn’t right, and depriving innocent people of food. It would have been like not reporting a crime for fear of reprisal from the criminals, like paying extortion money to the mafia or something. Every fiber of my being screams against that. So hell, I guess it’s nobody’s damn fault. But man, what a stupid chain of circumstances.”

  Debra tossed her last half-inch of tepid coffee into a fern. “I guess I should be thankful none of you are blaming the geomagnetic scientists for bringing this calamity on everyone.”

  When Joel gave her a twisted face in response, she said, “Trust me. Some people somewhere are.”

  They began walking back to the house, whereupon Joel did something awkward. He put his hand on Debra’s back—only for a second, but long enough for them both to perceive the infraction.

  Debra decided to react in an amused fashion. But when she looked at Joel, he launched into a rehearsal of the things he still wanted to accomplish today, probably as a way of back-peddling. It was obvious he placed his hand on her out of habit, as a man did who was used to walking with his girlfriend—she was pretty sure.

  Debra let it go. She couldn’t deny she didn’t mind it. Archer hadn’t touched her in any kind of loving way since the incident in the mountains. Interestingly, she hadn’t noticed much affection displayed between Joel and Jessie since then, either.

  When they had traversed the remaining section of road, Joel pulled a chisel out of his tool belt and pried the house numbers off the stake at the entrance to his driveway.

  “What about the mailbox?” Debra asked.

  “There isn’t one. I’m here no more than twice a year. Can you imagine how many real estate agent brochures would be stuffed in it?”

  The rest of the afternoon went more or less as Debra expected. She turned the pig on the spit, added wood when needed, and basted. Somehow that had become her job. Sammy and Mick came back from fence mending, acting pleased with themselves for their accomplishment but at the same t
ime cowering around Joel as a dog being punished for chewing a $200 sneaker.

  Joel didn’t give them much validation for their sheepishness, but neither did he offer them much respite. He soon had them busy on a new project: erecting two old plywood pieces out at the far fence line and spray painting targets on them. Meanwhile, Joel organized his firearms and counted his ammunition. He eventually carried two rifles and two boxes of ammo out to the new shooting range.

  Debra could feel his dilemma. She knew how his soul longed to conserve everything which may become irreplaceable in the current crisis. But she also knew how much he valued preparedness, and how concerned he’d become for a very real impending danger on his home. And how that concern was not only for himself, but for his guests.

  The popping sound of the rifles soon commenced. So did Joel’s voice giving instructions. His tone moved from that of correction to that of praise fairly quickly.

  The stupid hog’s face began to bother Debra as it dried into a golden bronze. Why was it still here? Couldn’t a pig be roasted without retaining the semblance of its personality? The hog now had his revenge, condemning her with its sad image.

  Debra turned it upside down, added a piece of wood, put up her hair, and set out on a trek to join the guys.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Looks like you’re doing a good job to me,” Sammy said to Mick. “And I must say slicing pork improves the character of your face. What do you think, Joel?”

  But Sammy could see that Joel was still distracted. The poor guy couldn’t give his eyes any rest when he was near his driveway or the road side of his property. What a terrible thing to do to him. The whole affair reminded Sammy of children’s stories where outrageous consequences resulted from minor mistakes.

  If that Roland character did come, it wasn’t Joel alone he would be gunning for now, assuming he truly memorized the address and directions, and assuming he could find the place. Those were big assumptions, especially with Joel working to make it even tougher than it had already been to locate the property from a scribbled note. But if Roland succeeded, Sammy knew his own name was high on his hit list.

  Sammy wanted to tell Joel all this. He wanted to comfort him by pointing out these issues, especially about how difficult it would probably be to find them. But it was useless. Joel understood all this. He would continue to be tortured nonetheless. So, Sammy tried a different approach.

  “Do you think I’m better off with a rifle or a shotgun, boss? In a general defense situation, I mean.”

  That got his attention.

  “You’ve never even fired a shotgun,” Joel said. “That Mossberg Shockwave I gave you is excellent short-range protection, but can be difficult to aim because you shouldn’t fire it above shoulder level. It isn’t even technically classified a shotgun. That’s why I like to refer to it as a blunderbuss. An accurately-scoped rifle is unquestionably the best defense if you can see the enemy coming from any reasonable distance. Let’s pray we always have that advantage. The .22LR you fired today will do the job, especially if you get a little quicker on the bolt-action. Judging by your marks on the target out there, I’d have to give Mick the rifle first.”

  “If you’re going by those marks,” Mick said, “you’d have to give Debra the rifle first. Although she seems pretty handy with a shotgun here as well. Is this enough?” He held the plate of sliced pork up.

  “Yes,” Joel answered. “I’m going to slice mine directly onto my plate anyway. That’s the customary way to do it at a pig roast. But since some of us are prone to stay indoors—”

  “I want to slice mine too,” Sammy said. “It’s too bad we don’t have tortillas.”

  Joel flashed him an unexpected smile. “Thanks to you two we have cabbage leaves, a decent substitute—not to mention salsa. I didn’t see any chili peppers in the food truck I was in, and would not have thought to take cilantro. I don’t mind opening a can of tomatoes for the occasion. But we are going to have to start living less extravagantly, very soon. I better go inside and make sure the girls don’t over-boil the cabbage.”

  “If by less extravagant you mean no salsa or cabbage for the next pig roast,” Mick said with his mouth full, “I think I can handle it.”

  Sammy spotted someone walking up the driveway. The irony of it was not lost on him. He’d finally succeeded in retiring Joel’s watchdog eyes moments before they would have actually been rewarded with something for their tireless effort.

  “We have a visitor,” Sammy said motioning behind Joel.

  Joel spun around, but not before Sammy saw a scowl form on his face.

  It wasn’t the guy in the Panama hat. Whoever this was wore a floppy fishing hat, well-worn hiking boots, and carried a clipboard.

  “Is this one of them?” Sammy asked.

  “No,” Joel said. “He looks a little familiar, though.”

  “Howdy neighbor,” the man said making his last few strides. “Fine afternoon for a barbecue pit.”

  “Indeed,” Joel replied. “Do I … know you?”

  “I believe we met before. Do you recall? Hal Bronson?”

  Joel reacted as if confused.

  “I guess not,” the visitor said. “Thought you were at his house when I was there once. I’m up the road from him.”

  “The Maddock place?” Joel asked.

  “At your service,” he replied. “You’re McConnell, right?”

  “That’s me. Call me Joel.”

  “Parker.” He extended his hand.

  “Yes,” Joel said with increasing warmness. “We’ve met. Sorry for not recognizing you.”

  “Don’t be. We haven’t had any occasion to chat. Hal says I look different since my operation. And you’re probably like most of us on this street, preferring your privacy.”

  “Well I’m rarely here, usually. This is my vacation home. What can you tell me about the next house up the block?”

  Parker checked his clipboard. “The one that backs up to your land?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the Dunn place. Don’t know them. Word is they are a bit reclusive and unfriendly.”

  “I would have to concur with the unfriendly part,” Joel said. “But not quite reclusive enough for my taste.”

  “That sort of brings me to the point of my visit.” Parker lowered the clipboard. “Some of us, Bronson and myself and a couple others, are forming a neighborhood cooperative. You know, helping each other during the power outage with supply trades, planned food production, and a shared security effort. We’d like to know if you’d be interested in contributing.”

  Parker then looked at the plate of pork in Mick’s hand. “But I don’t mean to interrupt your supper, sir, and do apologize.”

  “You’re just in time,” Joel said. “Please come in and have a plate. The girls would love to meet you.”

  Parker hesitated to accept the invitation, but not convincingly. Sammy could tell he absolutely craved to come inside and eat hot roast pig. He was like a customer who pretended he liked a car a lot less than he did while negotiating the price.

  At the dining room table, Sammy pulled up a barstool on a corner so everyone else could use the chairs. From his less comfortable high perch, he had the advantage of observing all the interaction without anyone realizing how much he could perceive. Sammy studied Parker mostly, for no other reason than habit. He liked to size new people up. It helped him close deals. But he could never confront customers about their inconsistencies of logic or obvious hypocrisies. That’s one of the reasons he found he liked hanging with Mick. It was game on with him, and Mick had plenty of internal conflicts he could mess with.

  Parker played the grateful guest for the most part. His eyes moved about the cabin as he ate his cabbage-shell carnitas tacos, frequently towards the still unorganized piles of supplies in the living room. Occasionally they also landed on Debra or Jessie around the chest area, especially Debra. Jessie didn’t look her best this evening. Neither did Archer, for that matter. Maybe those
two were groggy from sleeping all day. Sammy couldn’t blame a guy’s vision for stopping below Debra’s neckline for brief seconds. He hoped no one noticed his own doing the same.

  Jessie did express an outright appreciation at meeting a friendly neighbor. Joel used obvious mannerisms in trying to show her he was being hospitable to one.

  Coffee cups came out after everyone had their fill. It was then, at Joel’s insistence, that Parker explained more details of the proposed neighborhood co-op.

  “The first thing we are doing is making a list of trade goods,” Parker said. “So everyone can offer to swap items they have an excess of for those they have need of. If that makes sense.”

  “Perfect sense,” Joel replied. “But it will take me a couple days to figure out what I might be able to contribute, and what I may need.”

  “That is most understandable, seeing as how you just arrived and all. But you’re liable to miss the first swap, of the highest priority goods.”

  “This is really smart,” Jessie piped in. “Joel, can’t you come up with something?”

  Sammy noticed Jessie suddenly perking up. Maybe she just needed a good meal. Or maybe it was the coffee. But he also noticed the sun was beginning to set.

  Joel flashed Jessie a disapproving glance before replying to Parker.

  “What are the highest priority items? Food?”

  “Firearms and ammunition,” he replied.

  Now Jessie flashed a disapproving look before rising from the table. Archer followed her into the kitchen. Sammy took the opportunity to slip down into one of the chairs.

  Joel shook his head. “Can’t help there. The only ammo I would even consider having a surplus of is 22 caliber.”

  “Oh,” Parker said. “I see. The short rounds?”

  “No, LR.”

  Parker smiled. “That should be of some interest. Nothing of larger caliber? No buckshot? Extra firearms?”

  “We certainly have all of that,” Joel said. “But not in excess.”

  “How about canned and dried food, then? Sundries such as soap and toothpaste? Fishing tackle? Rope? Tools? Knives? Archery equipment? Extra clothes? Shoes? Backpacks? Tents? Building supplies? Sewing—”