The Most Miserable Winter, page 11
part #14 of Alone Series
“Starter kits contain just a few dozen seeds. We’ll plant them indoors, near a heat source, three or four weeks before the thaw. That way they’ll be seedlings which we can transfer into the ground as soon as the soil is warm enough.
“The idea is to get them to grow as early as possible. And then they’ll mature early enough so we can recover the seeds, let them dry out, and then use them for the regular crop.”
“I don’t understand. Why do two crops instead of one?”
Chapter 32
Now, Dave was a pretty intelligent man. Sarah liked to say he was smarter than the average bear.
But there was a breakdown in his communication with the stranger. He just didn’t comprehend what the man was trying to tell him.
The man tried a different tact.
“Well, for example, last year they had me grow tomatoes. They gave me a packet that contained maybe fifty seeds. I planted them in my house, next to the fireplace and with the sunlight coming in the window. By the time the ground outside was warm enough to transplant them they were six to eight inches high.
“Because they got a jump on the planting season, they matured and grew tomatoes very quickly. By the end of April I had red tomatoes on the vine, ready to pick.
“According to the instructions they gave me with the seeds, the seeds in these tomatoes weren’t for eating, they were for planting. I could eat the meat of the tomatoes, as long as I scraped every one of the seeds out of them first.
“That’s why they were called starter kits.
“Out of those first fifty seeds I got probably two hundred tomatoes. And from those two hundred tomatoes I got several thousand seeds. I just laid them out on paper to let them dry, just like in the instructions. And three weeks later I planted them. I had enough seeds to plant almost a whole acre of land. Four months later we harvested over three tons of tomatoes. Enough for everybody in town to dry or can a bunch for the winter.
“My next door neighbor and the man behind him, they did corn. My brother on Elm Street did wheat. None of us were farmers before, but everybody pulled their share of the weight and collectively we grew enough food to keep everybody fed. And the same thing is happening all over the country.
“The starter kits were the method FEMA used to share a limited supply of seeds with every town in the nation. Or at least the towns south of Kansas City.”
“What about the towns north of Kansas City?”
“They got no seeds from FEMA.”
“What? Why not? How do they survive?”
“What we’ve heard is that there are very few people left in the northern cities.”
“What? Why?”
“Well, several reasons, really. The harsh winter last year took its toll. Most of the residents in the northern tier states didn’t survive. Their homes weren’t set up for wood-burning heat. They were set up for electric heaters or for heating oil.
“Many people, tens of thousands across the nation, actually burned their houses down when they tried to burn wood to stay warm. Either that or died from carbon monoxide poisoning because they didn’t vent properly. Many, especially in the cities, just couldn’t find enough firewood to burn and froze to death in their sleep.
“The government put out an estimate that over a million people in New York City and Chicago committed suicide. And they estimated another million or more across the northern tier states.
“Most of the rest, once the miserable winter finally ended and it warmed up again, said enough was enough. They considered themselves lucky to have survived it, swore to themselves they’d never do it again, and headed south.
“Southern cities, including those in Texas, are bursting at the seams with winter refugees from the northern states.
“According to FEMA, the only people still north of Kansas City are the heartiest of souls and the most stubborn.
“But how do they survive? Without seeds, I mean?”
“Because the ones left are tough as shoe leather, I reckon. FEMA won’t give them seeds because they see it as a waste. People who don’t know how to grow crops won’t be able to in the colder temperatures and shorter growing season.
“Those who do know how to grow crops up there were smart enough to harvest their own seeds from year to year and don’t need FEMA’s help. And we help them out too.”
“You help them out too? But how?”
“Well, not just us. Everybody. Every town and city south of Kansas City.
“You see, FEMA doesn’t just give me starter seeds to grow my tomatoes.
“They don’t just give starter seeds for my neighbors to grow their beans and wheat and corn and squash.
“For every man tasked with growing tomatoes or cucumbers there’s another man tasked to grow sorghum or hay.”
“What in heaven’s name is sorghum?”
“Here in the United States it’s used to feed livestock.
“I understand that in some of the third world countries they use it to feed people too.
“But me personally, I’d have to be not only starving but near death before I’d consider eating cattle or hog feed.
“Anyway, according to the government and their grand scheme to help everyone survive, the nation is now pretty much divided by an imaginary line that runs roughly through Kansas City, from the west coast to the east.
“Those south of the line are given seeds and taught how to grow their own food. But they don’t get to keep all of it. The government comes around at harvest time and takes a third, which they deliver to the northern cities and towns along with one hundred percent of the hay and sorghum.”
“Okay, let me guess the rest of it,” Dave offered. “The people in the northern cities and towns are asked to raise livestock, and the southern hay and sorghum are provided to them instead of seeds.”
“Exactly,” the old man said, glad the light finally came on in Dave’s head.
“The northerners raise livestock, but they only get to keep half. FEMA confiscates the other half to help provide meat to those who live in the south and who donate some of their produce or feed to send up north.”
Chapter 33
Dave thought for a moment and said, “But it can’t really be that simple, can it? What about the northerners who still live in the cities? Who have no land or technical know-how to raise livestock?”
“Oh, that’s not the only government program at play. They’ve got several others which cater to peoples’ particular skills or talents.
“All the factories the government has opened up are in the north or middle-nation states. That’s a new term the government has coined to mean those states that aren’t far north, but which still have harsh winters and short growing seasons.”
“What kind of factories?”
“Mostly transportation-related. Rebuilding electrical parts for cars and trucks. Things like starters and ignitions. Making new electrical fuses and headlight bulbs.
“Other factories are collecting old engines from junk yards and rebuilding them by the thousands. Then they’re shipped to other factories which are taking in cars with electronic ignition systems and replacing the engines with old fashioned ones.”
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to rebuild the electronic ignitions?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe they’re doing that too and I just haven’t heard about it. Or maybe for one reason or another they’ve decided that old fashioned engines with carburetors make more sense. I don’t know…”
Dave though he might know.
You see, Dave was a prepper for many years before the EMPs came. That’s why he was in much better shape when the power went out, and even had the capability to get his own vehicle running again.
Like many preppers Dave had an instinctive distrust of the government.
Many people who aren’t preppers consider such feelings nothing more than paranoia. But given the track record of the federal government and its bad habit of keeping secrets and outright lying to its citizens, any distrust preppers feel is certainly justified.
In Dave’s mind there was only one reason the government would go through the trouble of rebuilding older carbureted engines and using them to replace more modern ones.
They expected another round of EMPs in the near future.
He hoped he was wrong.
In any event, right or wrong, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself for now.
Instead of voicing his concerns he listened to the old man rattle on.
“Those who aren’t involved in collecting and rebuilding old engines and carburetors help in a lot of other ways. Like taking the refurbished vehicles and driving them to FEMA distribution centers all over the country, for example.
“Those who aren’t working on the vehicle project are being fed and provided fuel oil for other things, too. Like being policemen or firemen or keeping the hospitals open.
“I heard thousands are working on the communications infrastructure as well. Replacing all the electronics and wiring to get the cell towers and television stations working again.
“There’s a factory my nephew works at in Toledo, Ohio that’s collecting TVs by the tens of thousands. Most of them are beyond repair, but he told me over that ham radio over there that about one in ten is salvageable. And they’re fixing them so they can be sent to community centers and libraries all over the nation. So when they get the TV stations up and running again people will have places to go where they can watch the daily newscasts. Maybe even watch some old movies between broadcasts.”
The old man’s mind started to wander.
“Geez,” he said as his eyes started to tear up, “I haven’t seen a good movie in so damn long…”
He seemed a decent man, and obviously friendly.
A man who, under different circumstance, Dave might want to get to know. A man he might eventually consider a good friend.
But Dave remembered he had a wife and daughter back at Red’s place who were probably hungry.
And in his hands he held two containers which held their evening meals.
He took the old man’s break in the conversation to make his exit.
He reached out with his free hand and said, “You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but I have to run. Would you mind if we continued this another time?”
The old man looked disappointed, perhaps because he was losing his captive audience.
But he took it well for he was a friendly sort. A man who’d outlived and outlasted most friends his age, and who loved making new ones. But he understood that most other folks didn’t have the same free time he did.
He smiled broadly and said, “I’d like that.”
He extended his hand and said, “Just ask for me next time you come around. Everybody here knows me. I’ve been a resident here for seven years. The name’s Sam Bradley.”
Even as Dave took the hand and answered with his own name the name ‘Sam Bradley’ struck a chord with him.
It sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.
Dave and Beth made their way through a rather wide assortment of other townsfolk. Some old or infirm, some young and healthy. Most offered warm smiles or nods, as was the way of Texans when meeting strangers.
And especially Texans from small towns who were typically more kind than city folk.
They ended up outside a different door than the one they’d entered through, but still on the same wraparound porch.
Dave had natural bearing, which meant it took him only a second to realize they were facing north instead of east. An easy walk around the old house got them back on course and they were on their way back to Red’s.
Lilly said the townspeople would make them feel welcome, and they certainly did that.
Dave wasn’t very keen at first at the prospect of delaying their trip home by staying the winter in Blanco.
Now he was getting more comfortable with the idea. For though they knew nothing of his plight and certainly hadn’t necessarily gone out of their way to do so, the citizens of Blanco were making him feel right at home.
Chapter 34
Angela was terribly worried about her big sister.
All their lives they’d served each other well as confidants, sounding boards and even co-conspirators occasionally.
For as long as she could remember Kristy was the only one she could trust with her deepest and darkest secrets. The only one she could share her most intimate feelings with.
Further, it had always gone both ways.
She couldn’t understand what happened to change all that.
But something definitely had.
It had been two weeks now, perhaps a bit more, since the day Kristy came home from her regular mission deeply distraught.
“You look like someone ran over your puppy,” Angela told her. “What can I do to help?”
Angela took her sister’s hand to show her that whatever happened, there was someone there who cared. Who’d listen. Who’d try her best to make things better.
Even when Kristy broke down and cried, which shocked Angela because it almost never happened, she refused to open up.
Whatever was causing her pain, she kept it to herself, as though sharing it would cause Angela pain as well.
And that was something Kristy was simply unwilling to do.
Since that day she’d been very despondent. She spoke only when spoken to, and then seemed to use the fewest words needed. Almost as though each word was a treasure which was to be cherished and held onto as long as one could.
At night she tossed and turned fitfully in the darkness.
Angela was so worried she wished Kristy would talk in her sleep.
Angela herself sometimes suffered such an infliction and it embarrassed her terribly. That was partly because she hated it when Kristy interrogated her when morning came to call: “Who the heck is Caleb and why were you calling out his name in your sleep?"
It wasn’t necessarily that Angela was keeping secrets from Kristy for they were thick as thieves, the two of them were.
No, it was mostly that the younger sister called out when she was in the midst of REM sleep, when she was having a dream.
She seldom remembered more than bits and pieces of her dreams. Sometimes she didn’t remember them at all. So when Kristy demanded to know who Caleb was and why Angela was calling to him there was a better-than-even chance Angela didn’t know herself.
And that embarrassed her. It made her feel dumb.
She didn’t know that most people were the same way, remembering only small parts of their dreams.
She didn’t know that because the only one in the world who cared enough to teach her such things was Kristy herself. And Kristy never dreamed at all. So she didn’t know either.
For days Angela had watched over her big sister as she went through long periods of darkness, helpless and alone.
Kristy had done a good job of finding and retrieving food. So much so that on nearly every one of her daily missions for months she was able to bring home more food than they needed for that particular day.
A can of creamed corn here, a box of dried pasta there, they were able to accumulate a considerable amount of excess food, stored carefully within the air conditioner duct in the crawlspace above their tiny home.
But now it was all gone.
Kristy hadn’t been on a mission in more than two weeks.
They’d depleted their reserves.
They needed food.
And therein Angela finally saw a way she might be able to help her sister out of her funk.
Angela had never gone out before to scrounge food.
Not alone, anyway.
In the early days of the blackout they’d gone out together.
But then a very bad man grabbed Angela by the hair one day while Kristy was rummaging through what remained of a 7-Eleven.
Angela had refused to go in because there was a body lying across the doorway.
It smelled horrendous. It made her stomach turn.
Her curiosity piqued, she looked at the man’s face, to see if perhaps she knew him. For back in those days the sane world wasn’t in the distant past. Just days earlier she’d had a normal life. Gone to school, played in the park, said hello to people on the street.
The man’s eyes were gone. So was half his head, blown away by the animal who’d killed him for the two cans of Spam he’d carried.
In the cavity which once held his brain were a thousand maggots, happily eating away what was left of his soft tissue.
Her curiosity instantly quelled, she backed away from the rotting corpse and told Kristy she’d wait outside.
The bad man had come out of nowhere, walking up quickly behind her. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her so violently she screamed involuntarily.
They never knew what his intentions were for her.
Perhaps he just wanted to rob her of any food she might be carrying.
Or maybe he had something much more sinister in mind.
In any case, her scream caused him to give pause, and to hesitate just long enough for Kristy to make it to the doorway and to raise her rifle in his direction.
“Get away from her, you mangy son of a bitch.”
That was all it took to send him running.
She never had to fire, but she was certainly ready to.
The pair went straight home that day, empty handed and shaken.
And that was the last time Angela left the house.
Until now.
Chapter 35
Kristy was quite good, at the end of each of her missions, to share her day with her kid sister.
Not necessarily the most gruesome of the details, for there was nothing pleasant about a discussion of the dead babies or other atrocities she saw in her travels.
But she did a good job of telling Angela about the houses she’d gone in and out of, and how nice they were, with lavish furnishings and knick-knacks and luxury items the girls could only dream of having themselves.
Kristy told her where she searched for the hidden treasures the homeowners stashed here and there in the oddest of places.
