Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

Jack shook his head. “No wonder people are freaking out.”

Frank Auerbach knew a lot about advertising revenues. A fourth-generation newspaperman, he had watched with a heavy heart as social media decimated the industry he loved. The attention span of the public had been shrinking by the day. Few would take the time to read an entire page of newsprint anymore. The once-healthy circulation of The Sycamore Seed had dropped to a few hundred diehards who did not provide enough income to keep the presses running.

Frank Auerbach had not given up.

As the Change progressed he sought to provide a positive voice for a town teetering on the brink of a panic. “We are in an undeclared war,” he wrote in a front-page editorial, “which is imposing a new sort of rationing. We have endured rationing before, we can adapt. Toothpaste containers have failed, but we can mix salt with baking soda and continue to care for our teeth. Beginning with this issue, The Seed will be offering helpful hints to its readers. Please send us your own discoveries for the benefit of your friends and neighbors.”

As components of his printing machinery began to fail Frank was fighting back. He improvised where he could; found or fashioned replacements. In desperation he dragged outdated equipment out of storage until what he had looked like something out of the nineteenth century, but was still serviceable. No plastic parts.

A member of his staff showed up one day with an ancient typewriter. Frank appropriated the relic and set it up on his desk beside his computer. He sent his wife halfway across the state on a bus in search of typewriter ribbons.

His employees teased him at first, then began looking for typewriters of their own; Royals and Underwoods from the last century, constructed of metal. They made a terrific clatter, but they worked.

The redbrick building that housed The Sycamore Seed began to smell the way it had smelled when Frank Auerbach was a small boy; an amalgam of metal and ink and physical labor performed by men with their shirtsleeves rolled up.

“The Change is happening faster now,” The Seed reported. “The outskirts of Sycamore River are being littered with the corpses of consumerism. People are dumping nonfunctional, big-ticket appliances on curbs and along roadsides. Freezinfridges, washing machines, even supercycles and ride-on mowers—we urge you to retain these items for spare parts. You will need them in the future.”

The calm editorial voice of The Sycamore Seed had a steadying effect on the town, though a barely contained hysteria was building beneath the surface.

As social media sites faded ghostlike from their computer screens, Nell expected her children to respond with adolescent histrionics. Colin was outraged that he could no longer communicate his feelings directly to the sports stars of the moment, who he assumed were eager for his critiques of every game.

Jessamyn had revealed an unsuspected maturity. “I don’t think I’ll miss it very much, Mom. The internet’s, like, awful for self-esteem. If anybody’s going to call me fat I’d rather they said it to my face. Lots of snot-clots are hovering over their keyboards waiting to destroy other kids.”

Nell frowned. “I hope you haven’t been doing that.”

Jess dropped her eyes and pleated the sleeve of her blouse instead of answering.

The nation received a shock when two high-speed passenger trains on the East Coast found themselves on the same track but going in opposite directions. The carnage was massive.

In the Oval Office at 1600 Pennsylvania the president complained to the secretary of state, “Is everything on God’s green earth dependent on computers? How the hell did we let that happen?”

The small annoyances which had heralded the Change were as nothing compared to the discovery that a large part of the nation’s ground transportation network was compromised. The national highway authority predicted that automobile traffic in the United States could be cut in half by Christmas.

With a corresponding decrease in carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, as meteorologists pointed out.

To the average American male, whose automobile was emblematic not only of his financial status but also of his manhood, the situation was personal. “Road rage has taken on a whole new meaning,” the Seed reported. “Those who can still drive their cars are becoming the victims of those who cannot.” At first they were punched and cursed; soon they were being shot and stabbed.

Shay Mulligan and Gerry Delmonico still went for occasional runs together. The Change had been their major topic of conversation until Gerry announced, “We’re pregnant.”

A smile furrowed the meadow of Shay’s freckles. “Gloria must be thrilled.”

“She is and she isn’t. We’ve waited so long, and now it seems to have happened at just the wrong time.”

“How can there be a wrong time for something you’ve wanted so much? The Change is a big mess, I know, but we’ll get through it.”

“Will we?” Gerry asked glumly. “I’ve lost my job at RobBenn. ‘We’re sorry, but…’ You know the drill, Shay. Bennett’s not sorry about anything but losing business. They don’t need anyone in the lab now, the assembly line’s shut down. So I’m unemployed and there’s a baby on the way. I’ve put money aside over the years, but it won’t last forever.”

“There must be plenty of other things you can do.”

“An industrial chemist in a town with no industry? We love our house, we don’t want to sell it; it’s ideal for raising children. But if I do find another job how will I get there? My tires have a whiff of rotten eggs and the ones on Gloria’s car are shot. I can run a few miles on shank’s mare, but that’s no way to commute to work. Or get to the grocery store or the doctor… the doctor, for God’s sake! Do you know any local doctors who still make house calls? I’ve put my name down at my car dealer’s for a set of high-performance tires, but there’s an eight months’ waiting list and it’s getting longer every day. You don’t know how lucky you are to have your place of business attached to your house.”

“You think so? How are people without tires going to bring their pets to me? This thing’s having a tremendous ripple effect, we’re all stretched to deal with it. The town’s hoping to add more buses, but the mayor says there’s no money in the budget. Even if there were, what’s to prevent the buses from… say, how do you feel about dealing with the black market?”

“What does a straight arrow like you know about the black market?”

“In times like these a guy can’t afford to be a straight arrow. You know Eleanor Bennett?”

“Not personally, but of course I know who she is.”

“She’s been a client of mine for years. When she brought her dogs to me for their annual inoculations I commented on the fact that she was still driving her car. She told me her husband bought high-performance tires from a ‘private source,’ as she put it, a garage on the north side. Bud Moriarty and a pal of his had realized what was going on before the rest of us did, and cornered the market. Tell them Rob Bennett’s wife recommended them; I suspect you’ll get your tires.”

“How do I pick them up?”

“Problem solved. Day after tomorrow, my boy Evan is taking delivery on the slickest bit of transport you ever saw. It’s what used to be called a pony and trap; a light cart that can carry two or three people and be pulled by a pony or a small horse. It was made by a retired fellow this side of Benning who builds reproductions of horse-drawn vehicles as a hobby. I ordered this one for Evan’s birthday present not long before the Change set in. That chestnut mare of his is in foal and I thought it would be easier on her than carrying my big lug of a son on her back.”