Apocalypse Drift (50 page)

Grover’s truck was the first vehicle of what would become Plymouth’s second parade of the day. Dan and he had dedicated days to canvassing the community; personally contacting
Sugarhill’s machinists and other employees to make sure enough staff would be available to manufacture the desperately needed parts.

The campaign had yielded some tragic results. So many people were dead or too sick to work. The surviving population of Plymouth, Ohio suffered from lack of nutrition and the diseases that naturally followed, as well as lack of access to maintenance medications, ordinarily taken daily to control the symptoms of hypertension or diabetes or clinical depression. Regardless of the cause,
Sugarhill would barely have enough staff reporting to restart the company. Grover was determined to roll up his sleeves and contribute.

Providing transportation for those healthy enough to report for work proved problematic. As automobile tanks had been drained to provide fuel for generators, no one had any gasoline left. It was the FEMA representative who managed to deliver three five-gallon plastic cans of gas to mobilize the workforce.

Grover drove from duplex to cottage to farmhouse, pouring a gallon or two in his employee’s cars and trucks so they could make it to Sugarhill. Those personnel were now lined up behind him, ready to follow the military convoy to the plant. Everyone switched off their motors to conserve every last drop of the precious liquid.

Due to security concerns, Grover was instructed to hold until the last escort vehicle passed, wait for a few minutes, and then follow. The small, once friendly town of Plymouth was an abstract backdrop for the military hardware slowly snaking its way down Main Street.  Grover couldn’t help but consider the surreal picture the situation had created. The brick and clapboard storefronts broadcasted a message of welcoming, rural America. The locally owned businesses that lined Main were inviting, honest places to fill a prescription, shop for second-hand goods or share a sandwich for lunch. Watching an armed, ready-to-engage military force passing by windows that advertised fresh pie and a sale on paper towels was disturbing, almost bizarre.

Grover waited the prerequisite amount of time before pulling onto Main and following the government procession. He glanced in his rearview mirror to verify everyone was part of the convoy. A few miles outside of town, they encountered one of the military Humvees blocking the road. Grover was identified and waived by, as were the six civilian cars and trucks following behind him. Presumably, folks who didn’t have business at the machine shop wouldn’t be allowed to pass.

The once-abandoned business became a beehive of activity. Soldiers scampered here and there, distributing power cables, boxes of supplies, and other equipment. As soon as the employees had collected in the front office, a man wearing the uniform of a major greeted everyone and explained that the Army Corp of Engineers would have the power turned on shortly.

Before long, duties and tasks were assigned to all of Grover’s staff, and everyone began to work, trying to reboot Sugarhill.

Within two hours, electrical power was flowing through the shop, provided by the rumbling generators parked outside. That milestone caused the men working inside to pause, many of them staring up at the florescent bulbs like they had never seen electric lights before. Grover let it go, intrigued by the reaction. A few moments passed before the boss cleared his throat rather loudly, a signal it was time to get back at it.

By late that evening, the first lathe was turning. Sugarhill was in business again. 

Plano, Texas

June 28, 2017

The small U. S. Air Force shuttle landed quite smoothly, the pilot braking hard to slow the rolling plane before it reached the end of the short runway. Even in normal times, the Plano, Texas Regional Airport didn’t see that many jet aircraft. In reality, the plane could have skidded sideways and spun in circles and Reed probably wouldn’t have cared. He was going to see his family.

The congressman also failed to observe several damaged aircraft parked outside the hangars. The charred rubble of a nearby maintenance facility went completely unnoticed as well. Reed just wanted to hold his wife and children.

Six Texas National Guardsmen were waiting for the aircraft. Two would remain behind to protect his plane while the pilots were escorted to a nearby facility for food and rest. A pair of the reservists would accompany Reed to his father-in-law’s remote ranch. Texas was still a dangerous place for travelers – or anyone else for that matter. Five other government vehicles from various agencies and authorities waited on Reed’s traveling companions. The representative’s head came out of the clouds long enough to realize all of the drivers were armed.

In a way, Reed felt guilty. He was using resources that no doubt could have been utilized doing other things. The remorse wasn’t overwhelming, just a small tugging that slightly tainted what would have otherwise been the perfect homecoming.

A small, unfolding staircase allowed everyone to depart the aircraft. Reed had talked little with the other passengers during the flight. A combination of FEMA, DOD and Homeland Security personnel were aboard. Their conversations had held little interest for Reed. His mind filled with visions of his family, curiosity over how much the children had grown and a longing to hold his wife. Right now, nothing else was going to hold his attention.

“Congressman,” approached an older man wearing captain’s bars, “If you’ll please accompany me, we’ll be on our way.”

Reed nodded, glad there wasn’t going to be another delay. In minutes, his overnight bag was loaded into the back of the Hu
mvee, and they were moving.

The military version of the Hummer wasn’t very comfortable – lacking the amenities normally associated with the high-end civilian model. The dash wasn’t padded, the seats were quite hard, and there wasn’t a stereo in the console. Reed barely noticed and didn’t care. He was going to see his family.

The two guardsmen were very quiet, and that suited Reed just fine. No doubt they had their own problems, missed their own families or were worried about their own homes. Reed couldn’t fix that, and had learned several weeks ago not to dwell on things he couldn’t fix. There were simply too many objects-beyond-repair in his current life.

The drive through suburban Dallas didn’t shock him. Piles of ashes where there had been thriving businesses, gas stations boarded up, people standing in line for handouts or medical care…the scene reminded him of Washington – probably the same as any major American city.

As they passed, Reed couldn’t help but notice the faces of the people. Words kept popping into his mind, words like hollow, sunken, forlorn - zombies.  Children didn’t move with the energy of youth as they should have. Reed watched a mother with two pre-teen kids walking down the sidewalk, all of them stirred with the lethargic gait of the elderly, the infirm or the weak. 

Dirty faces and stringy hair were the norm. Many of the people appeared to just be standing or sitting – no place to go or nothing to do. The passing Hummer was a curiosity, but a minor one. The military vehicle wasn’t even worthy of the energy required to move one’s neck so as to follow its progress.

Reed had played sports in high school. While his athletic ability wasn’t worthy of note, he had developed a keen eye toward judging momentum. He could always tell how the game was going to end by watching the body language and expressions of the players. Momentum was so important. The winners knew how to turn it around. The better teams seemed to sense how to manage it.

“We’re losing,” he muttered quietly. “We’ve lost momentum, and the world is kicking out butts. We’re beaten, and the game’s not even over yet.”

Reed forced himself to direct his vision ahead, determined not to allow anything or anybody dampen his mood. He only had one day, a short 24 hours to visit. He wanted to make the most of it.

Before long, they were out of the urban area and into the countryside. It was a relief. The open spaces of northern Texas rewarmed Reed’s soul, recharging his mood. It was if they had driven out from under a giant dome of gloom and despair. The air was different out here - the fog of suffering was diluted.
These people are doing better
, he thought.
They’re better off
,
if for no other reason than not having to witness so much pain in their fellow man.

The two-hour drive seemed to pass quickly, despite the rock-hard seat and jarring ride. Reed pointed to the lane leading to the ranch where his father-in-law was waiting by the gate. Climbing out of the older, faded pickup, the tall man moved to unlock the heavy chain. Dressed in worn jeans and button-collar plaid shirt, the old cowboy looked distinguished in a western sort-of-way. His rugged demeanor, worn boots and dirty Stetson gave Reed a sense of peace. Who better to have looking after his family in a world that resembled the Old West than a son born of those times?  

At the end of the long, winding driveway waited his wife and children. Reed almost didn’t wait for the driver to come to a complete stop. He threw the door open and rushed to the reunion, not having enough arms to deliver the embraces so mightily needed.

Cob McCormick gingerly perched in the old lawn chair on the back porch. “There’s a front moving in, boy; I feel it in my bones,” he said to
the old hound at his feet. Bluto’s answer was a short wag of his tail and nothing more.

Cob knew it was the broken leg he’d suffered years ago. It was more accurate than any of these high-tech weathermen on television. The old rancher couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The notion that not only was his old injury capable of forecasting, his bone-barometer had outlasted all those high-tech Doppler thing-ah-
mah-jiggers and electronic climate voodoo machines. He knew it was going to rain tonight, and those television weathermen weren’t saying much these days.
Another victory for the old ways
, he thought.

For the hundredth time, he concluded the broken leg had been punishment – the Lord’s wrath. A warning from God directed at an out-of-control youth to mend his unbridled ways. Cob shook his head at the memory, a slight color warming his leathery face. It was as close as Cob got to shame. 

“No,” he commented to Bluto, “it was that ornery cuss Slang Adams. It was his fault we all went down to Mexico to drink and carouse. It was sinful, boy. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Bluto’s
soulful eyes gazed at his master with an expression that seemed to say, “I’ve heard this story a million times before.” And in fact, he had. 

“How was I supposed to know that pretty senorita had a jealous boyfriend? How was I to know he was skilled with a shovel handle?” Cob reached down and scratched the old hound’s ear, the act initiating a rapid sweeping motion of
Bluto’s tail. “No, old boy, a man’s past deeds come back on him later in life. I can remember all of us piling into the back of Slang’s worn-out, Oldsmobile convertible after that last football game. Full of ourselves, we were. All young and invincible - heading to Mexico to sample beer and pretty girls.”

Cob shook his head at the memory and wondered why he dwelled on that injury so much. Maybe it was because it was the only time in his life another man had bested him. Maybe it was because of his father’s reaction.

Cob’s mom had gone off like a rocket when she found out the truth, clutching her Bible to her chest and ranting for hours. Cob’s daddy just shook his head, pretending disgust for his wife’s sake. Later, when they were alone, he’d only had one question for his wayward son – “You didn’t run into a pretty gal down there by the name of Katrina, did ya?”

His old man hadn’t waited on an answer, and the incident was never spoken of again. Cob realized his father was sending a message – I can’t throw the first stone because I’m not without sin.

“Bluto, I’ve been shot by a rustler, suffered broken ribs, been thrown from a horse, and lost count of the number of fistfights with ranch hands. Why do I keep coming back to Mexico?”

Again,
Bluto wasn’t any help.

Cob waved off his companion’s silence
. The dog was beginning to act like his wife, BeaGwen - both of them evidently bored with his reminiscing. The rancher changed his gaze to the backyard. While he would never admit it, the old gruff loved having his grandkids here at the ranch. Having his only daughter back home during these troubling times was a bonus. Cob casually observed the kids run around the ancient rusty swing set, yelping and laughing with their parents.