Internet radio interview this evening....

I've been asked by Bobby at Just Measures Radio Network to spend an hour with him on line this evening, from 7 to 8PM Pacific Daylight Time.  


I'm expecting that we'll talk about how the story came about, the research behind it, background information, perhaps where I'm taking the story next. 


Listen in if you have the chance!  Here's the link: 


http://justmeasurescs.com/?page_id=18


Never having done one of these before, this should be interesting....

Chapter 25, Distance

25

Sunday,

February Fifth

A week had passed and the strain on the relationship with Julie hadn’t decreased. Their conversation had illustrated that Julie’s beliefs and convictions weren’t even on Doug’s radar screen….not that she didn’t have valid points….they just didn’t matter as much to Doug as they did to Julie. They’d both called each other after the Sunday dinner, both to apologize and patch things up, but things had changed between them and there wasn’t a way to turn back time.   Complicating things further, the phone lines at the farm were down most of the time.  His cell phone coverage was intermittent as well.

Early in the week, Doug had buried himself in work as his primary means of compensating, as he had most of his adult life.  Regent helped facilitate his immersion by prompting Doug and his remaining team members to get moving on a new marketing effort for RNEW. Their next primary target would be implementation of the product line into emergency ration suppliers and suppliers of ‘meals, ready to eat’ for the military, which were really just the same products in different packaging. A secondary target would be to institutional end users, which effectively meant, ‘prison food.’  Regent had very little penetration in either of the market areas, and both appeared to be promising areas of projected growth within the business development pro forma.  Doug didn’t think for a moment about the implications of the market segments, they were just potential clients.

In normal times, Doug would be getting ready for the last meaningful football game of the year, laying bets with his friends and co-workers, maybe even trying to attend the game.  This year, Detroit had been picked to be the host city, but a truck bomb had been detonated not long after the teams arrived for practice a week before.  The game was now being played in Minnesota, the game video running in a window on Doug’s laptop. He was watching out of habit--he really didn’t care that the Patriots were being demolished by the Niners.  Doug’s pick, the Packers, had been defeated handily in the playoffs, not that he’d seen the game.  He’d actually forgotten that it was even being played. One thing Doug had noticed was that the video didn’t show much in the way of ‘crowd shots’. One ‘panoramic’ view of Vikings stadium showed only handfuls of people in attendance…but the soundtrack sounded like a full stadium.

Radio reports, followed much later by mainstream television news filled the days with rumors of the spread of the pandemic when the War wasn’t filling the time. Morbid predictions of the rates of infection, the mortality rate, mortality rate by age, mortality by race…were punctuated by the too frequent news of the death of a celebrity, sports star or elected official. It was obvious that no one was being spared.  Rich or poor, healthy or ill…all were being taken. Mainstream sources weren’t—at first—reporting actual numbers of the dead. As the days went by though, it was obvious that it was futile to try to hide the numbers.   It took until Thursday for the CDC to publicly to start to disclose official mortality rates.

Some rumors were proven through a leaked CDC report, which triggered even more speculation. Many people in poor health initially had been infected and were not recovering.  Some races seemed to be hit harder than others, although it was difficult to prove statistically “this early in Stage 5 of the Alert Protocol.”  Once a tipping point was reached within the infection timeline, there appeared to be no treatment that would make a marked difference in the outcome.  The infection would either kill or not.  Hospitals became places of palliative care. Within days, ‘Social distancing’ became the common theme of infection prevention: Stay away from others.

The Pentagon finally confirmed that dozens of foreign bases were in fact being closed and decommissioned to prevent other powers from simply moving in when the United States left.  Decommissioning wasn’t defined, but amateur cell phone video showed that buildings were being imploded; fuel tanks emptied and then filled with dirt or sand; some heavy stationary equipment looked like it had been melted somehow.  No one on the networks commented or even speculated on the reason for the evacuation. They were simply reporting on it.  The amateur bands—Doug picked up several streaming broadcasts on the internet—told very different stories.

Some broadcasts were speculative, wildly so. Others sounded much more professional, contacting experts in finance, the military, the contracting community, and retired reporters.  It was a near universal observation that the U.S. was being forced to contract the decades of force-projection due to simple economics…not as a result of the Mexicans and Chinese.   A speech by the new Vice President, McAllen, was the focus of a full afternoon on one broadcast.  The VP had the spotlight on him as he announced that the U.S. had suspended all foreign aid.  Doug thought the speech was masterful, but the mainstream media shredded it.  The ‘independents’ as Doug began to think of them, thought the speech was good, but studied McAllen in more detail than the speech or the content.  They all seemed to know in advance that the foreign aid would be cut.

Domestic reports weren’t any more cheerful.  The major cities were almost all in trouble, with military and police stretched thin. Food supplies were thinner.   Doug’s ears perked up naturally at that, immediately he began to strategize a Regent solution. He’d spent several hours on that opportunity, creating a tactical outline for his team members to flesh out. He then emailed it to his boss, Pete Bollard, to clear it before distribution to the team.  The next email, sent a few minutes later, was a similar tactical plan for all three major suppliers of MRE’s to the military and their dozen or so surviving civilian counterparts.

Less than an hour later, Doug received a response from Bollard, giving him the go-ahead. Bollard augmented Doug’s team with fifty-three additional staff…all reporting to him. Their dossiers would be provided by the end of the day….almost all of them would be senior to him in terms of time with Regent. By Friday afternoon, Doug had reviewed all the dossiers, sent out assignments to the core leaders in the group, with the outline of the plan approved by Bollard. Within a week, Doug wanted the final plans in his inbox.

Saturday was spent mostly in bed.  Doug had picked up a cold and wanted to stay ahead of it. A giant crock pot of chili simmered most of the day. He’d planned on having that evolve into other dishes over the coming days. His sleep during the day was interrupted by the flashing ‘ALERT’ image on his browser window. The inner-city violence was all but out of control.  The story of the day was framed around images of urban riots in Cincinnati…a ‘normal riot’ of thousands of ‘urban youth’, punctuated by a truck bomb that detonated right in the middle of the rioters.  The buildings around the explosion, already damaged by the rioters, were left as smoking rubble.  Body parts were everywhere, unfiltered by the surviving reporters. A network video camera was shown on the ground, with the dismembered forearm of the cameraman still strapped on.

Now, mid-Sunday afternoon, the gloom and cold of the early morning held steady. Doug watched the Niners score again, just as his phone came to life.  The number on the screen was blocked.

“This is Doug,” he answered professionally.

“Doug this is Matt Bowman,” was the response.  His ex-wife’s new husband.

“Matt, how’s everyone doing? Everything OK?” Doug asked with concern.

“It’s been interesting up here,” he said. “I wanted to let you know that we’re off-line most of the time up here. Cell service is only working about ten percent of the time.  Mail is a joke of course. Brenda thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.  Is everyone staying healthy?”

“So far, yeah. Normal stuff. The kids have been trading colds, Ronnie has it now, and she’s not happy about it,” Matt said, referring to Veronica, who never went by ‘Ronnie’ when he was the step-Dad, Doug thought. The three kids, Veronica, Michael and James, always went by their formal names…back then anyway.

 “What are you hearing?” Matt continued. “We have no television up here, most of the radio stations are just repeating the same thing over again, which is flat out not true or based in reality.”

“Do you have internet? Email?” Doug asked.

“Not anymore.  Cable is dead, phone lines can’t handle the bandwidth, phone data transfer has been disabled.”

“Disabled? How?”

“An information tech officer I work with said the government shut it off.”   Doug filed that away for further consideration, before giving Matt as much information as he could, recapping the past few days and filling him in on the CDC report and the dangers of contact with those that might have been exposed. Doug finally remembered the shortwave frequencies.

“Shortwave,” he blurted out.  “Do you have access to a shortwave radio?”

“I’m trying to round one up. I have a hand-held but the range is crap.  No one’s selling them, and information is hard to come by, especially for me.”   Matt was a deputy sheriff and a constable for several small towns. “Everyone thinks that we’re out to get them.”

“What about your department? Don’t they have…”

“Either looted or in the hands of people looking out for their own.  Command isn’t completely gone, but unless there’s a reason for law enforcement to band together, it’s just about every man for himself.”

“How far are you away from a major population center?” Doug asked, realizing he didn’t have any idea exactly where his ex-wife and her family lived. Their infrequent correspondence had always been via email.

“We’re a fair piece.  Not far enough, probably,” Matt said.

“Can you tell me where?”

“How well do you know the state?”

“I’m from Duluth originally. Fairly well, I suppose.”

“We’re on the edge of the Nicolet National Forest. Nearest little town is Crandon, population twelve-hundred. Nearest big town is Wausau, which is around thirty-thousand.”

“Are you getting traffic from Milwaukee? Chicago? Minneapolis?”

“Some.  There’s not a whole lot of attraction to northern Wisconsin in the winter.”

“Food and fuel….”

“…are well defended.  People up here like their privacy and know how their weapons. Most of the trouble we’ve had has been locals going after each other.”

“That sounds worse than it is down here,” Doug said, not meaning to say it aloud.

“However bad it is there, it’s better than a big city or anywhere near a big city…”

“Yeah, but that’s where the business is,” Doug replied.

“You aren’t seriously still doing over the road sales, are you?”

“No, that’s been suspended due to the flu. I’m focusing on other markets that we can work with electronically.  This won’t last forever though. Eventually we’ll have to get back into pounding the pavement,” Doug said.

“You’re assuming that there is a legitimate government on the other side of this.  I’m not so sure that will be the case,” Matt said.

“We’ll get through it,” Doug said, remembering the conversations with Julie. His reply to Matt was almost identical to the reply he gave her.

“The parasite-looter class will not….and they are the easy ones to be ready for because they’ll feed on each other first. Diminishing threat.” 

“So who’s hard to get ready for?”

“Simple. Those in power. They want to stay there at all costs. Anyone gets in their way, they’re dead.”

Doug was shocked by that and took a moment to respond. He was in mid sentence a few moments later when the phone line went dead.   He sat there a moment, tried to call Matt back, and received an ‘all circuits busy’ message.   He went back to the football game, eyes on the screen, not really watching it or taking it in.  After the Forty-Niners’ victory, he ate a solitary dinner of evolutionary chili over cornbread, with a tall glass of Bourbon and ice.

Doug awoke to a cold, dark house, utterly silent.  After dinner, he’d parked himself on the couch, under a thick, very old quilt, intending to just listen to the news.  He didn’t remember hearing any of it. 

Fumbling for his watch, he punched the nightlight button, seeing that it was nearly one-thirty in the morning.  The house was cold, and he wrapped himself up in the quilt as he went to put some shoes on and another layer.  With the power out, the gas furnace was out as well. Again, he’d have to fire up the wood furnace and decide to either get the generator going or just feed the furnace.  He spent five minutes trying to find the butane lighter for the white-gas lantern. He’d have to plan better. 

By lantern light, the digital thermometer on the hallway read fifty-one degrees on the main floor; a sensor upstairs which read forty-three; and the exterior temperature on the north garage wall, now reading eleven. Doug dressed quickly, found his small flashlight, and headed into the basement.

It took an hour to get a decent amount of heat out of the furnace, and once again Doug made a trip through the house, shutting off all the light switches, before readying the generator. This time however, the generator didn’t fire up when he flipped the switch.  An alert displayed on LCD indicator panel, stating ‘insufficient gas pressure.’ Doug thought that it could be a local problem…but it also occurred to him that he might have seen the last of natural gas at his home.

Monday,

February Sixth

6:50 a.m.

The rest of the night had been broken, Doug sleeping either minutes or an hour at a time when he wasn’t up feeding the wood furnace.  He alternated between sleep and fear that the pipes in the house might freeze if he didn’t keep the place warm enough.  At six forty-five though, the power came back on and woke him.  There was an alert chime on one of the power supplies in the video cabinet that woke him.  Power meant water, but it didn’t mean hot water. He’d have to use the electric stove for that….

He’d thrown on some clothes and made the trip back into the basement for another load into the furnace, checking the LCD panel again, which still warned of low gas pressure.  When he returned upstairs, someone was knocking on the front door. Doug remembered that his shotgun was in the other room, quickly grabbed it, and flipped the porch light on before carefully looking out the window.  It never occurred to him that a thief would have just kicked in the door.  Mr. Kliest, the realtor and neighbor, was at the door.

“Good morning, Mister Kliest,” Doug said, opening the door. It was bitterly cold.

“Remember, call me Augie…and good morning. Have a minute?” Kliest said, coming inside.

“Sure. Just got up and fed the furnace.”

“That’s right, you’re gas over here. Wood backup.”

“Right. What do you have?”

“Electric with propane backup. Little gas generator too. How’s the place working out for you?”

“Pretty well,” Doug said.  “That might be an understatement.  Let me get some coffee on,” he said, moving into the kitchen and setting up the coffee maker.

“You have enough wood? I can set you up with a source if you’re short,” the older man said.

“I’ll take you up on that.  Gas pressure’s dropped and I’m not sure it’s coming back.  I seriously doubt I have enough wood for very long,” Doug said in a grateful tone.

“No problem. Glad to be of service,” Kliest said, writing a name and phone number on a slip of paper. “Call this outfit. They’ll take care of you. Have you been up to Des Moines lately?”

“Week or so ago,” Doug said, remembering that his neighbor was also a Regent employee. “You?”

“Not for a while now,” he said. “I haven’t seen your pickup lately,” Kliest asked.

“Loaned it to a friend,” Doug replied, an uneasy feeling in the back of his mind.

“Miss Forsythe,” Kliest replied.

“Oh, you know her?” Doug asked with obvious surprise.  “I wasn’t aware that…”

“Oh, we’ve not been introduced,” Kliest said before pausing.  “Doug, your employer has a fairly significant interest in preserving security of the RNEW line.  That includes people who associate with our employees; information that might be made available to our competition; associations with fringe elements who might influence corporate resources.”

Shock didn’t begin to describe Doug’s emotions. “Now wait one damned minute here. You’re obviously not who you said you were when we first met. I thought you were a real estate agent!”

“I work for Bluestone, that is correct,” he said calmly. “There are several other business groups aside from real estate and mortgage service, all working quietly in service to the corporation.”

“Poking into my personal life is one of them? This is utter bullshit.”

“You are a Regent resource. You allow the corporation the ability and the right to review every aspect of your personal life, Mister Peterson,” he said formally. “It’s in your employment agreement.”

“And it’s your job to keep an eye on me? To spy?”

“It is my job to ensure that Regent resources are not compromised in any way and to ensure that the corporation is protected.”

Doug was fuming. This wasn’t at all what he expected, ever.  Kliest went on.

“Regent has a substantial investment in the RNEW project as you are aware. Other elements within the market place are acting to restrict or kill the launch and expansion. Some of these elements appear to be quite innocent at first.”

“Julie Forsythe is no such threat. It’s ludicrous to suggest it.”

“Review your associations carefully,” Kliest said in a fatherly tone.  “And then decide if they are what you think they are.”

Doug didn’t have a reply.

“You will have a busy few weeks, starting today.  Once this flu problem passes, you’ll be visiting a number of clients within the Midwest. Then making a swing into the Northeast, looping down to Atlanta, and then back. You’ll hit a number of corporate offices along the way.  The details are in an email that you will be receiving at eight a.m.  You have little time for distractions,” Kliest said.

“Just how long do you think this ‘flu problem’ as you call it will go on? From what I know this is going on for months. A road trip—or worse yet, air travel—is a horrible idea. Suicide.”

“By the end of March it will be post-peak. You will be traveling for Regent shortly thereafter. It would hardly be suicide.  The risks to most are quite within acceptable limits.”

Doug stood, looking at the man in his kitchen as if he were seeing him for the first time.  Kliest wore farmer overalls, a well-worn coat and feed-store hat, insulated work gloves under his arm.  He might as well have been from Mars, Doug thought.

“You are exceptionally well paid for your service to the corporation…especially these days. I would suggest that you remember that when you are selected for your assignments. And remember just who your friends are.”

“I believe I know who my friends are,” Doug said.

“Do you in fact? The Segher family for example? Very private family.   Unusual records of transactions and business operations in general. Strange interpretations of the role of governance. Unpredictable.”

“I don’t know anything about the way they run their farm.  Julie Forsythe’s brother….”

“….Is married into their family. We know.”

Doug forced himself to get into a mode of negotiating with a hostile client, to keep himself from saying something regrettable. He should have made the transition far earlier.

“Where do you fit into the hierarchy of Regent? Am I expected to report to you, or continue working with my team?"

“I am part of Bluestone,” Kliest said with smiling--almost sneering--confidence.  “That’s all you need to know. Continue to work within your established team framework, of course. Watch your associations,” he said in closing, in effect stating, ‘We are watching you.’  Kliest nodded with a self-satisfied expression, and let himself out.  

With Kliest’s departure, nothing in Doug’s life would be the same. 

Distance, Chapter 24

24

Sunday,

January Twenty-ninth

12:50 p.m.

The drive down to the Farm was just as perilous as the drive home had been, but much more scenic.  The windblown snow had created drifts across the fields and roads, with a fog of snow covering the terrain ahead.  The blizzard warning was still in effect, but the heaviest snow had been pushed back until late Sunday night. Doug wasn’t too worried about it…he’d be back to his place by then.

Pulling into the driveway, Doug found himself driving slowly around a half-dozen monstrous hay-bales, placed in an irregular stagger for a couple hundred feet on the main entry.  The sides of the driveway were now plowed high with earth and snow—a lot of work had gone into the project. He recognized it eventually for what it was—a trap for any fast-moving vehicle that might be trying to attack the farm.  Julie saw him coming and was on the porch as he pulled in next to ‘her’ Dodge pickup.   By the time he stepped out of the truck, Arie joined Julie, shotgun on his arm. 

“I hope that’s not for me,” Doug said to Arie as he shook hands.

“Not this time,” Arie said with a pause, before starting a deep laugh. “Good to see you, Douglas.”

“You as well sir. Fairly impressive work out there,” Doug said as he motioned to the entry.

“More than a few hours there.  Some friends of ours had some problems. City-folk.”

“There’s a lot of work like this going on, from here to Des Moines.  Whole towns have blocked off the roads,” Doug said as he took Julie’s hand.  “Hi, there.”

“Hi.  Got plans for the afternoon?”

“You’re it,” Doug said. “What’s in mind?”

“Arie’s just loaded up your pickup with some stuff that needs to go to Peter and Molly’s place. Last minute.”

“Glad to help.  You want to drive or navigate?”

“You just follow, you two,” Arie said, sizing Doug’s clothing up.   “My truck has a load as well.”

“Don’t forget your coffee!” Maria said from the door.  “Sorry, Douglas. Didn’t mean to yell. The man will forget his feet but for his shoes.”

Arie said something in Dutch, kissed his wife and took the battered green Thermos. Maria smiled back.

“Let’s go. Daylight is precious,” Arie said and headed for his one-ton truck.

A minute later, they were threading their way back through the barrier, and Doug realized the Dodge wasn’t in four-wheel drive. He had to stop to engage it, and it still wouldn’t go in.

“What’s wrong?” Julie asked.

“No four-wheel, apparently. No light on the dash. See?” he pointed to where the light should be. “And the way she’s behaving, obviously. He goosed the accelerator and the rear end snapped around.

“Just be careful then.  We’ll look at it later. Arie will keep an eye on us.”

The trip wasn’t long…only a mile or so, with two big left-hand turns. ‘This parcel had to be contiguous to the Segher’s place,’ Doug thought.

“This is Molly’s sister Catharina’s place.  It’s one of the first homes in the area.  Cath and Tom have almost finished their new place.   Peter and Molly are buying it; Peter’s finishing the remodel and helping out with the new place.”

“Busy man,” he said, meaning it. “So what’s in the back?” Doug asked, watching Arie turn into a long driveway, similarly set with a vehicle trap.

“Doors….original to the house.  The guys refinished all of them. Oh, and a bunch of other wood trim. Arie’s truck has the last of the insulation and some drywall for the new store room,” Julie said. “What’s up with these masks?” she asked, holding up the container of Regent-supplied masks as well as his heavy-duty version.

“Company provided—I’m advised to wear them when there’s a chance that the local population has been exposed to the flu. I’m assuming that the locals are safe in this case?”

“No contact with anyone outside of the family or anyone that’s showing symptoms,” Julie said, realizing that Doug was dead serious. “They’re telling you that?”

“Picking up supplies was an interesting experience—yes. That’s what they’re telling us.”

The home came into view, just on the far side of a shallow draw. “Not exactly palatial,” Doug said.

“There’s more than outside appearances,” Julie said, squeezing his hand.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Arie had already backed the flatbed up to the side door, and three men were quickly starting to unload.  Doug pulled in next to them, careful to leave enough room on the side and back.

Roeland, Peter, and Cath’s husband Tom were making quick work of the load on Arie’s truck and Doug joined them, moving bales of insulation into the basement stairwell followed by twenty sheets of thick drywall. Doug helped as much as he could, trying to keep moving and stay out of the way when he wasn’t helping with a load. He quickly found himself winded.

Julie had opened up the canopy of the Dodge, where a dozen interior doors were placed, laying on edge, held just-so with the help of a frame made for the purpose.  Doug was stunned—the doors were solid oak, each had hand carved panels, and the new stain and finish was mirror-like.

“These are incredible, Arie. Your work?” Doug asked as Arie took the holding bracket apart.

“No, this be Peter’s. Fine craftsman, that one.”

“Are these original to the house?”

“Ya, my great grandfather built the house, cut the lumber, built the cabinets and doors and such.  These took a month each to build.” Peter came up behind them.

“These are amazing, Peter,” Doug said. “Nice work.”

“Thanks, and yes they are.  Restoring them was quite a pleasure.”

Ten minutes later, the Dodge was buttoned up, and all four men were hauling doors throughout the house. Peter had them numbered, and once they were inside, it was just a matter of hanging them on their hinges and slipping in the pins. 

The home was compact, with a large kitchen and family dining table; a parlor—too small to be a ‘living room’; a small ‘master’ bedroom; two small bedrooms, one each for the boys and the girls; and a fair sized bathroom on the main floor. 

“That was fun to watch,” Julie said. “Coffee’s ready in the kitchen,” she said.  “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

“You did. You made coffee,” Arie said in his clipped accent, a glint in his eye.

After everyone poured a cup, they made their way back to the basement where the next project beckoned.

“Douglas, have you every set drywall?” Arie asked.

“Helped my father do our garage, a long time ago,” he replied, remembering that in his youth, he’d vowed never do it again. He’d make an exception.

“We need to get this set today.  Moving day is coming with much to store here,” Arie said as Peter and Tom cleared some loose two-by-sixes out of a framed room against one wall.  The walls were all insulated and covered in plastic, even though it was in the basement, essentially a room-within-a-room.  Doug then noticed that the foundation was concrete.  That wouldn’t have been possible in the home’s original construction.  Arie saw Doug’s realization.

“We replaced the foundation two years ago. Raised the house up as well. This was once just a root cellar. Now there’s nine feet clear down here. Foundation is a foot thick, ceiling is six inches of concrete. Reinforced, ya.”

“Why the insulation in that room within the foundation? I don’t get it.”

“That room is insulated to be warmer storage space.  The rest of the basement will be cool for root-cellar storage.  The canned goods and things will be stored there,” Arie motioned to the storeroom. “Each home should have storage like this. That door on the back goes to the storm cellar outside. All underground.”

“Pretty wise. Tornadoes?”

“Ya,” Arie said.  “That’s why the concrete ceiling, too.  House sits on top of it. Stairs down on that end, just through that door,” he said, pointing to a large steel door on the far end of the basement.

Doug was given some gloves and quickly the men set to work, with Julie refreshing their coffee as needed.  The twenty sheets of fire-rated drywall took less than an hour to install, with two men hoisting and holding, one cutting and trimming when he wasn’t also securing the material with screws. Doug found it quite enjoyable, not remembering why he’d hated it as a teenager. Little small talk took place—there wasn’t time.

“Nicely done, Doug.  Many thanks.”  Peter said.

“You’re welcome. I’ll be feeling that tomorrow I’m sure. Badly out of shape.”

“Comes with the territory,” Tom said. “Shelves are next. You up for it?”

“No tape and compound on the joints?” Doug asked.

“Nope. No time.  Besides that, the shelves’ll go against the finished wall. These can be finished later,” Peter said, exchanging a look with his brother in law Tom.  Doug saw the look as well, and it told him that ‘there would not be time.’

‘What were they expecting?’ he wondered.

Another two hours of work, longer than he expected for certain, and the heavy steel frames were assembled, wood shelves in place, and each unit tied together and bolted to two by fours exposed on the finished ceiling. Once finished, the shelves wouldn’t move.

“All right now, men. That’s enough for now. Move in can start tomorrow,” Arie said, as Julie joined them. “More to do at home now, and then dinner.”

After washing up, they donned their outerwear, cleaned several inches of snow from the trucks and headed back to the main house. 

“What were you up to the whole time we were slaving away?” Doug asked.

“Working on the nursery, helping fold diapers, stuff like that. Molly’s on bedrest most of the time now. Two weeks, probably less.”

“What are you doing for medical care?”

“Five midwives within three miles from here, for starters. And there’re a couple of doctors not too much farther away.”

“What about a hospital if she needs it?”

“Most births around here are at home.  If there are complications, we might have to go to the clinic….but with the flu going around like it is, that’s probably a bigger risk than a reward.”

“Didn’t Molly have a prior miscarriage?” Doug asked.

“Two. First trimester. This one looks much better.”

Doug pondered what it must have been like for Peter and Molly to have gone through that.  “That must have been tough,” he said.

“It was. Molly handled it better than Peter did at first. The second one was worse for both.  They’ve been on edge for months of course.”

Doug turned into the driveway, slewing around the obstacles.  Without four-wheel drive, the truck was dangerous on the compacted snow.  Roeland, who’d arrived with Arie, flagged them to pull the Dodge into the equipment shop. They parked inside as Roel closed the monster garage door.

“Father said that you had no four-wheel?”

“Yeah.  No dash light, nothing,” Doug said.

“It worked yesterday—I used it,” Julie said.

“We’ll look at it later. I’m sure we’re expected inside,” Roeland said just as the intercom came to life.

“Roeland? You’ll need to eat quickly.  You’re needed by Jakob.” Julie and Roeland exchanged a quick look.

“Jakob?” Doug asked.

“One of the neighbors,” Roeland replied. Doug could tell there was something else…

They made their way to the house, and entered the tiled ‘mud room’, where there was a cubby for work shoes near the floor and above it, a spot for ‘house shoes.’ Above the shoe cubbies, one for gloves; another for a hat.  Julie handed him some nice leather slippers to wear as he sat on a bench opposite the cubbies. He hung his coat on one of a dozen matching dowels above the bench, seeing Arie’s coveralls on the peg nearest the door.  He’d never seen a utility room as organized in any house.

Doug was re-introduced, which he appreciated as he’d been a little overwhelmed the first time they’d met. Molly’s younger sister Beth was much more talkative this time, with good reason.  She’d heard from her fiancé, just home from Jalalabad, now at Fort Hood, headed for Mexico.

Dinner was a lesson in itself: Hutspot, which included potatoes, carrots and onions, with rookwurst, which was a smoked beef sausage; a very thick pea soup called snert; and a magnificent rye bread, topped with butter and a smoked bacon. Dessert was an appeltart, which seemed a vast improvement on a traditional apple pie; and to wash it down, home made beer, ice cold.  Roeland ate quickly at the kitchen counter, and had coffee instead of beer Doug noticed.  He slipped out without announcement.

After-dinner conversation covered a wide range of topics: Doug’s life history it seemed, politely brought to the surface with casual comments; his trip to Des Moines, which required substantial detail; the young woman that he’d brought to her home in Ottumwa; other observations on the trip, some things mundane to Doug but of interest to the Segher’s.

“Arie,” Maria said from the kitchen, “Turn on the radio. News time.”

Arie reached behind him, and opened an ornate wood cupboard, revealing what Doug thought was a shortwave radio setup.  He switched on four switches, including two on a non-descript black box below the radio.

“….apparently executed in Pittsburgh, mirroring several other gang-type slayings in New Orleans, Memphis, Indianapolis and in major cities in the Northeast. National Guard units from Pennsylvania were dispatched to the Mexican frontier late Thursday, leaving local police departments alone in the fight.  With the loss of the Governor, the commonwealth is struggling for leadership at this time…”

“Where’s this from?” Doug asked.

“Independent station.  Western New York state,” Julie said quietly, anticipating Doug’s next question. “I listen a lot and try to keep everyone up to date, since I’m not all that able-bodied right now.”

“We are hearing that this afternoons’ earthquake in the Western United States may have been centered near Mount Shasta. The quake, reported to be magnitude six point three, hit just after eleven a.m., local. Local observers have stated over the relay network that roads around the mountain are blocked by debris and snowfall, and that the mountain itself cannot be seen. It should be noted that a half-dozen local residents who are part of a local preparedness group have not contacted their leaders, calling into question the chance of an eruption or major landslide.”

“They’re just not getting a break out there,” Doug said, remembering a drive, a long time ago, through that part of the state.

“..reports that at least six barter networks have been raided by Department of Revenue and IRS agents, demanding that the transactions be taxed and taxes paid to the local and Federal government immediately.  In several locations, precious metals used in trading—even though they are legal currency—were seized, along with legally-obtained, legally-permitted firearms. All listening should take that news and act accordingly in any transaction.   In North Carolina, a handful of Federal agents were blockaded from a pending revenue action by directed rifle fire, which resulted in more than a hundred agents descending on a single residence.  The residence was later found to be abandoned. The agents in that area, and we’d expect in other areas, are fanning out and looking for anything at all of interest. Be warned.”

Doug said quietly to Julie, “The government wouldn’t do that…”

“Sure they would. It’s the only way they can keep control.”

Doug looked surprised at her response. “Do you think that?”

“I absolutely think that,” she replied, looking at Doug oddly. “Come with me.”

In the larger living room, they took a seat on the couch. “We’ve never really talked politics, Doug, but I think it’s time we do.”

“OK, that’s fine,” Doug replied, not knowing the dark territory that might be covered.

“You traveled thousands of miles a year in sales, right?”

“Tens. Hundreds of thousands in some years.”

“Air and ground, right?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How many times did you go through a metal detector at an airport? How many times through a scanner? How many times was your phone and your computer put into a machine while you walked through another?”

“Uncountable. Why?”

“All that was done in the name of ‘security.’ Yet you don’t look like any of the terrorists who flew planes into buildings, who bombed the stock exchange or the El, who brought backpack bombs into sporting events, do you? And neither did most of the other people you traveled with. Yet you were searched. You were forced to surrender your liberties. And you didn’t do anything about it…or not much, right?”

“Wait a minute, now,” Doug said. “What they did made us safer. They stopped attacks on us.”

“Through airliners. Then they found other ways, so more searches were put in place. On buses, on trains. TSA teams on the streets in Manhattan. Camille and I saw them there with machine guns. They’re all over the place, in plain sight, and we’ve let it happen.”

“We didn’t let it happen. It was necessary.”

“What did the government learn from this?” Julie asked, leaning forward toward him.

“Learn? They learned what the terrorists could do….”

“Debatable but I think wrong. They learned that the people of today’s United States would not argue with them when they were inconvenienced. Then they learned that they would not argue when they were searched. Then they learned that whatever you have in your computer or your phone or your network or your email is critical to national security and therefore needed to be searched. They learned that they could take more and more, and you wouldn’t do anything about it.”

Doug was getting angry. Not at Julie, but at the points she was making. She wasn’t wrong.  “So you think that the agents in that story were part of that same mentality? Those people weren’t paying their taxes…”

“Why should they pay taxes on trading goods? They aren’t selling, they’re trading.”

“It’s commerce…” he replied.

“Many believe, myself included, that those types of attitudes,” Julie said, pointing to the radio in the other room, “are wildly outside the bounds of the intents of the Founding Fathers and are in direct conflict with the Constitution. If there was an issue there it was a state issue, not a Federal issue, and the IRS shouldn’t have been there.”

“As a living document the Constitution needs to adapt to the times…”

“Nonsense!” Julie said quickly.  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap like that, but that type of interpretation has put us in the basket we’re in, headed someplace hot,” she said, echoing his thoughts of the morning.

“So we’re supposed to have a twenty-first century government with eighteenth century rules? How is that supposed to work?”

“You should know that I’m a Constitutionalist. Meaning that I believe that the Constitution was ideally created and we’re in trouble now because we’ve allowed it to be subverted. I’m not alone in that belief,” she said, looking at the Seghers, who had taken an interest in their discussion, but were polite enough to pretend otherwise.

Doug was surprised by her forcefulness. “So what…you have some sort of litmus test for your leaders?”

“Don’t you? Do you vote for people who will deliver, or do you vote for people who will protect?”

“Deliver.  If they promise to do something, they should make good on it.”

Julie sighed, with some disappointment. “Protect. Protect the Constitution. Protect the nation from greed. Protect the future from ourselves.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t see how that is a practical outlook. Too lofty an ideal,” Doug said, almost immediately seeing that he’d regret that statement.

“But the ‘deliver’ attitude has created a society of instant gratification, greed, and debt that has crushed us. Everyone is angry with us. ‘More’ at the expense of others…funded by others through deceit, is toxic. It’s killing our country.”

“We’ll recover. We’ll get through this….” Doug said.

“Some of us will if we’re lucky, but the old system is dead. They used to say, ‘it is different this time.’ They’re right this time. It is different. There is no going back,” Julie said, an expectant look on her face. “Doug, do you disagree?”

He thought for a minute before answering. “Julie, I’ve been just trying to do my job. I’ve never really delved into the low drama of politics. I have just never thought about it. It didn’t matter to me. There wasn’t any difference that I could make anyhow.” 

“Does it matter now?” she asked.

“There’s a lot going on. Yeah, it probably matters.”

“Doug, I need you and I to believe the same things if there’s going to be a future for us,” she said quietly.

“I’m not sure I know what to say right now.”

“Neither do I,” Julie said, looking down at her hands, folded on her lap. 

The radio broadcast continued, as they sat in silence.  Neither heard a word of it.  

Distance, Chapter 23

23

Saturday,

January Twenty-eighth

4:20 p.m.

The drive home was turning into a far more complicated matter than Doug had anticipated.  Far too late he realized that without traffic to keep the roads clear, the blowing and drifting snow presented challenges that he hadn’t had behind a steering wheel since he left Duluth many years before.  Complicating the weather was the complete lack of any sort of snowplows, sanders, or ice melters.  He was down to twenty-five miles per hour…partly due to the ice, partly due to the visibility.  He could see the road signs, but little else beyond the side of the road.   If this weren’t the ‘real’ storm, it was an ugly precursor.

Doug had to stop between Monroe and Pella to clear the iced up windshield and wipers, a ‘fix’ that lasted all of two miles. He was almost on top of the figure walking along the other side of the highway, and slowed as the person turned toward him, waving him down.  He thought for only a moment before touching the brakes and slowly coming to a stop…then realizing that he could be in more danger than he realized if the person were armed and wanted to take his loaded Explorer….let alone potential exposure to the flu. The mask was still around his neck, and he quickly put it in place. He then pulled the old revolver from the holster and kept it in his right hand as the hooded figure appeared at the drivers’ door.  Doug triggered the power window with his left hand.

“Where you headed?” Doug asked, seeing part of the woman’s face for the first time.

“Ottumwa.  Can you give me a lift?” she asked, dropping the scarf a little more, showing her chin.  She was bouncing a little, obviously moving to keep warm. 

“Where are you coming from? Any exposure to the flu?”

“Coming from Fort Dodge. Negative on the flu thing. Just trying to get home.  Can you help me please?”  she said as she shivered. 

Doug grabbed a face mask from the bag in the passenger seat.  “Here. Put this on.  Then get in.” 

“Awesome. Thank you!” she said as she took the mask, pulled back her parka hood, then what looked like a sweatshirt hood and a balaclava, and looped the elastic over her head, securing it expertly.

Doug unlocked the doors as she rounded the front of the SUV.  He then noticed her largish backpack, and wondered if there would be room in the car for it.  She opened the passenger door as Doug holstered the revolver.  She didn’t seem to be a threat.

“Is there room for my pack? I can strap it on the roof if there’s not,” she said.

“You tell me.  It might be on your lap,” Doug said, pointing to the cargo in the back.

“Roof it is,” she said, stepping up on the running board, and Doug assumed, securing it to the rack frame.  A minute later she’d finished and was seated in the passenger seat.

“Hi. I’m Amanda,” she said through her mask. Doug thought she was smiling. She pulled off some heavy leather mittens, and then a layer of woolen mittens under that.  He was surprised at her small hands by comparison to the mittens.

“Doug. What are you doing out in this weather?” he said as he turned up the heat to full.

“My parents live in Ottumwa.  Up until noon yesterday, I was working at a plant in Fort Dodge. At twelve-oh-one, I was unemployed.”

“What happened? Economy finally get them?”

“They were owned by a European company.  Closed it up tight.  A bunch of foreign guards are keeping everything that way. No idea why or what happened.  Zero warning. Told us to clean out our lockers and be out within fifteen minutes.”

Doug was surprised.  “What kind of plant?”

“Veterinary pharmaceuticals. I worked in a lab there.  After they closed down, I didn’t have much choice but to leave.  Rent near the campus was about to quadruple, the bank didn’t open so I had what cash I had on me which wasn’t very damned much, and to top it off, some son of a bitch stole my Toyota.”

“No other way home?” Doug asked, not really thinking about it.

“Tried the bus, nothing’s running. I’ve only seen a handful of cars all day, and one pissant cop followed me all the way through town to make sure I was moving on. No one--except you—is picking up hitch-hikers.”

“They…your folks…couldn’t come to get you?”

“Couldn’t get through.  Phones are screwed,” she said, pulling the balaclava down around her neck and freeing her bright red hair. The mask stayed in place.

“What do your folks do?” Doug asked.

“My Dad’s a flight instructor at the community college. Retired Air Force.  Mom’s a property manager,” she said. 

Doug didn’t think that either sounded all that promising given current events.  

“So what’s your story?” Amanda asked, catching Doug a little off-guard.

“I live not far from Fairfield,” he started, wondering how much he should divulge. “I’m a sales rep. Had to go up to Des Moines to get samples,” he said, waving his hand toward the full cargo area. “When all this flu stuff ends, I’ll be back on the road again, or in an airplane.”

“I can’t believe how good this heat feels,” Amanda said, holding her hands in front of the dash registers.

Doug’s cell phone beeped at him.  The battery needed to be charged.

“You have a cell? That works?” Amanda said, incredulous.

“Uh, yeah. It worked a little while ago anyway. Why?” Doug asked.

“We haven’t had phone service for three days.  Cell phone service was spotty before that.  I haven’t been able to call anyone since Thursday night. I thought all phones were screwed up.”

“Some are, but from what I understand it’s mostly caused by people wrecking the lines,” Doug said, intending to explain how that happened.

“Can I..use your phone?” she asked tentatively.

“Sure. Plug it into the charger first,” he said, wondering why Amanda’s phone….or those in Fort Dodge in general, weren’t working while his was.   Maybe a coincidence.  

Amanda plugged the phone in, started the charge cycle, and dialed a number.  A minute later, she was crying as she talked with her parents, spilling the full story of the past several days.   The young woman had had a very tough time.

It took almost two more hours to get to Ottumwa, another small city almost completely shuttered for business or social activity.  Doug was met on the outskirts of town by three police cars, at the head of a maze of parked farm equipment in the middle of the highway. He pulled over as directed.  The cop asked him questions from ten feet away, with the wind blowing from the side so that neither cop nor Doug would be exposed to any airborne virus. A brilliant flashlight played over Doug and the cab of the SUV as two other flashlights tried to light up the tinted windows in the back.

“Name please,” the cop asked.

“Doug Peterson.  I live near Fairfield.  I’m bringing this young lady home,” he replied.

“Her name?”

“Amanda Jean Rogers,” she said through her mask, and then gave her address.

“How long do you plan on being in Ottumwa, Mister Peterson?”

“Just long enough to bring this young lady home.  After that, I’m heading for home,” Doug said, a little self consciously.  He realized that the pistol might be visible under his coat if he wasn’t careful.

“What’s all that cargo?  You have a receipt for that?”

“Samples. I’m a salesman for Regent.  They’re a food producer.”

“Papers on that stuff if you don’t mind,” the cop said, moving closer, tone of voice stating nothing in the way of politeness.  Doug moved to pull the cover receipt—not the manifest page—from the center console.

“Whoa, there, partner. Slow on that console,” the cop said. Doug at that point noticed the cop had a gun in his hand.

“No problem. One piece of paper, is all,” he said, slowly retrieving the cover document. He handed it to the cop. A second cop was behind the first, towards the front of the car, weapon raised with a clear shot to Doug’s chest.  Doug tried to remain calm, as he looked at the cop’s name-plate: ‘McCreedy,’ it read. 

The sausage like cop was dressed in mismatched coat, hat and pants and squinted as he looked over the receipt.  The cover page had a time-stamp from Regent, showing that Doug had been where he’d said he’d been, when he said he’d been there. He handed the paper back to Doug.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to drop her off and be at the checkpoint on the other end of town, Highway Thirty-Four interchange.  If you’re not there by then, a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Clear?”

“Uh, sure. No problem,” Doug said, shocked by the threat.

“Proceed immediately. The clock’s against you,” McCreedy said.

Doug rolled up his window, put the Ford back in gear, and drove as directed around the barriers.  “That guy’s got a real personality,” Doug said facetiously.

“I went to school with his son.  He’s a perv,” Amanda said. “We called him ‘McCreepy.’ I can’t believe what I just heard. ‘Get out of town or we’ll arrest you.’”

“These aren’t normal times.  I can’t say I blame him.  I saw some stuff in Chicago that’d justify that behavior,” Doug said, finally settling down a little.  “Fear is a powerful thing.” 

Five minutes later, Doug pulled the Ford into the driveway and honked the horn.  Amanda’s parents rushed out of the house and to their daughter.  With a few brief words of thanks, and Amanda’s telling of the town cops’ warning to Doug, and her parents handed Doug a business card with their contact information, and a vow to someday repay him for bringing their daughter home.

He hit the checkpoint with several minutes to spare, and noticed that another cop checked his license plate as he was slowed at the checkpoint.  Doug was waved through, and back on the road home. Fifteen more miles and he’d be home.  He tried twice to call Julie, and found again that the call would not go through—no ring on the other end, despite the allegedly strong signal that his phone displayed.

“Dang it,” he said to the snow in front of him.  He knew she’d be worried about him on the road in this weather.

It took another forty-five minutes to reach the driveway, and a couple minutes to navigate the drifts. He could tell that someone had plowed the driveway earlier—had to be his neighbor. He’d have to repay him for the favor. Doug pulled into the garage and took the backpack with him into the house.  The rest could wait.

He realized how hungry and tired he was, and relieved to be home.

Sunday,

January Twenty-ninth

8:20 a.m.

“…correspondents.  Reportedly three were seized as they tried to flee Tripoli, their bodies later washed up on the shore of the Mediterranean. The revolutionary government stated that the three were lost in a ‘marine accident’. The French government had no immediate comment on the deaths.  Two freelance German writers were killed in a train station in Barcelona, with a third in critical condition after being shot in the head at close range.”

Doug was about to say aloud, ‘what is the world coming to?’ but had already answered the question to himself. ‘Hell in a bucket.’

“Rumored large-scale evacuations of American dependents appear to be more than a rumor.  Numerous reports from multiple American installations around the world have been received indicating a hurried evacuation of families and civilian personnel, using civilian airliners apparently chartered for the purpose.  Bases are in full lock-down, with a full communications blackout in place.  No one in the Department of Defense is commenting on this either, Pete,” the reporter said.

“Thanks, Ed,” the talk show host said. “Interesting developments indeed. Is this in anyway related to this Guangdong Flu business?”

“Doubtful.  This doesn’t follow any of the protocols already in place for infectious disease contingencies.  Cessation of commercial air traffic is drastic enough…some call it draconian.  Realistically, the government chartering all those planes is keeping the airlines out of another round of bankruptcy, because no one’s traveling anyway.  Amtrak has seen an eighty percent drop in ridership in the Northeast, with half of the trains expected to be idle throughout the region next week.  The rumors of infection are spreading faster than the flu itself, which is no small potatoes.”

“Our friends on Wall Street view this with extreme pessimism. Thoughts on that?”

“No reason to disagree, Pete.  There’s literally no reason for optimism in the investment markets at this time. I mean, Hell, the Dow closed on Friday at two hundred eighty two, which we haven’t seen since the mid-Fifties. If it keeps going like it has been, we’ll see it rival the lows of Nineteen Thirty-Two.”

“How far down was it then?” the host said.

“Just shy of forty-three.”

“Forty-three POINTS?” the host exclaimed.

“Yep. Nothing to stop it,” said the guest.

Doug stood there, half-shaved.  “So much for my investments,” he said aloud, thinking of his friend Hal Downing’s advice. “All of it gone.”   He flipped the radio to scan, and found another broadcast.

“It’s not right.  They’re not doing enough,” the voice said, apparently a caller to a talk show.

“I can’t disagree with you, New Jersey.  We’ve really seen a dramatic lack of action during this crisis from our leaders.  The longer this goes on the more it’s apparent that the leadership really doesn’t give a rats’ for working people.  They had their chance to stave this off if they would’ve taken control of the markets when there was still time, and put those pension funds and IRA’s and Roth’s to work instead of leaving them on the sidelines to benefit the few.  There are greater needs now than ever, and they’ve squandered the chance to make things right.”

“And now we’re done.  We’ve lost everything. Just what in God’s name do they expect us to do now? Our medical insurance is gone, my disability checks aren’t showing up, prices are through the roof and the banks aren’t open. Are they trying to kill us all off?” The caller asked.

“The government needs more control over the financial markets.  Anything they’ve done to date just hasn’t worked. We need to demand accountability and action and intervention on behalf of the people.  Thanks, Wichita. Moving on to Ohio.  How’s it going, Dayton?” the host asked.

“I can’t really answer that honestly without using four-letter words, Tom.  I really can’t,” the Dayton caller said.

“Let’s hear about it without the color, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the host, laughing a little.

“We’ve got to take this country back.  It’s been taken from us.  Where are we going to find a leader to get behind?  There’s no food in the markets.  There’s no freaking food! Where’s the government in all this? They’re all seeming fat enough from what I see, and we don’t see anyone here locally helping us.  Where did all the food that was supposed to be in our stores go? Who’s got it? Where’s FEMA? We need to find that out and get it back and make those bastards pay for keeping it from us!”

A chill went down Doug’s spine.  He knew just where the food was, or where it wasn’t and why.  The distribution system was failing, and once it completely tipped over, it would have to hit bottom before it could be re-established…..unless the government stepped in with force to protect it.

He’d studied food production and distribution through his time in the industry to gain a better understanding of what worked and what didn’t.  Most of the West believed that the old Soviet Union couldn’t produce enough food to feed itself effectively.  The probability said otherwise—there was plenty of arable land, potable water and mechanical resources to easily exceed the needs of the population and create a generous surplus.  But the distribution system was hugely inefficient and deliberately so, and there was no incentive for the average Ivan to work.  Food shortages, whether real or manufactured, kept the population in line. The government engineered the situation through controlling the workers, equipment production, control of the land and all other incidentals of production.  As he saw it, the Soviet model was too heavy handed; too unbalanced; while the American model was too light handed;  too unbalanced in the other direction, and would fail as a result. 

After a breakfast of granola and tea, Doug rounded up the ingredients for a big batch of chili that he’d polish over a few days’ time. He’d have it ready to simmer overnight, after dinner with the Seghers. He checked the Internet connection, and found it down again.  His mind came back to the radio program, and he wondered how many people were going hungry, while he was lucky enough to have more than enough to eat and the ability to get more.

The main to-do item for the day would be unloading the Regent supplies.  The garage was cold but not quite freezing; which saved him from damaged cans, frozen bottles, and loss. He realized that it was stupid of him not to get the stuff stowed away properly when he got home.

Each of the plastic pallets was compression wrapped and sized to just fit between the wheel wells  and roof of the Explorer, with a spare inch or two between the tops of the package and the roof lip of the rear hatch.  Someone had done some masterful planning, Doug thought.   He realized that Regent must have dozens of reps in the field, maybe hundreds of employees with company vehicles. If Regent bought vehicles for their use as they had with him, it probably wasn’t that big of a deal to understand the load size limits.  Still, it wasn’t something that he would have thought of….

The Regent product was labeled ‘not for resale or public distribution’, and Doug noticed that while the majority of the products had very familiar labels, none of them had anything in the way of ingredients or nutritional information in the spaces provided. Where a white panel might contain the nutritional information, a traditional bar-code print had been provided, along with a digital code.

The first small pallet was wrapped up in both plastic and cardboard, Doug assumed to keep things in place.  Cutting away the outer layer, he removed a large box of chocolate bars, densely packed coffee, a shrink wrapped case of canned baking powder, then a large box of vacuum sealed spices…more than one person would need in a decade.  The bottom of the first package had corn starch and corn syrup, packages of powdered eggs, cans of cocoa and highly compressed bricks of dried soup mix, sealed in mylar.

The pallet in the middle of the cargo bay had four gallons of honey, packed in quart-sized, square plastic bottles; a hundred pounds of salt, about half of which was iodized.  The rest included Kosher and sea salt, all of it vacuum packed. Two cases of evaporated milk and fifty pounds of dry milk, two gallons of molasses, five pounds of stabilized parmesan cheese, ten pounds of stabilized cheddar. 

After the second pallet was unloaded, Doug went after the mystery packages on the sides of the main load, tucked into the window shelves and around the folded rear seats. The left side mystery packages were sugar; the right side was drink mix.  Beneath the folded rear seats in the footwells, soft, squishy mylar foil packages of peanut butter on the left side; dehydrated vegetables on the right.

The final pallet was much heavier than the first due to the nature of the order. The upper half of the load included a hundred pounds of factory vacuum-packed corn meal, in five pound bags. The lower half of the pallet was loaded with fifty pound bags of wheat, cleaned and ready for grinding.  Two bags of Durum wheat, which Doug intended for pasta making; two bags of soft red winter wheat for crackers, pastries and the like; and three bags of hard red winter wheat for breadmaking.  He had two grain mills, a Country Living mill that had belonged to his late parents and a little Back to Basics mill that he’d bought years before.  

By eleven a.m., the SUV was unloaded and Doug was winded.  All of the supplies went into the basement, and a few trips down there with fifty-pound bags had his thighs and calves burning. The house storeroom was nowhere near full.  Doug imagined that there were once boxes of Christmas ornaments and canning jars stored there.  He poured a cup of tea, and found the beans about ready for the next phase of chili assembly, which would wait a little while until he rested up. He was almost seated when the cell phone rang.  ‘Unknown’ was printed on the screen.

“Hello?” he answered.

“Good morning,” Julie said. “You made it home in one piece I assume?”

“I did. Tried to call a few times last night, never went through.”

“The power was out down here. That was probably it.  How are you?”

“Tired, actually.  I just unloaded my cargo. You?”

“Just home from church.  Will you still be able to make it for dinner?”

“Absolutely. Can I bring anything?”

“Nope, just you.  Can you come early?”

“Sure—how’s mid-afternoon?”

“How’s one o’clock?” Julie countered, speaking softly and giggling. “I thought we could go for a walk.”

“I can do that,” Doug said smiling.  “See you soon.”