Jacqueline Druga - Fallout

Harris stated, almost in shock, “Just go right. Make a right. I always turned right when I walked out of the building.”

“Then what?” Marissa asked.

“Then we keep going in hopes we get a sense of direction.”

“So, does this mean we’re sticking together?” Marissa questioned.

“Just until we get out of the city.”

Toby couldn’t believe that was such a concern for Marissa. If Harris wanted to be on his own, then that was fine with Toby. It was his loss not theirs.

But how could either one of them even think about anything else but what had happened to Cleveland?

The broken buildings were not the extent of it. Everything was black. Soot and grime covered everything. The amount of charred bodies matched the degree of rubble. They scattered about everywhere, under concrete, curled in balls, some tossed to the side and some in pieces. Frozen in time, instantly burnt to a crisp. They weren’t the only human remains. There were the remains forever embedded on any wall left standing, Another horrific testament to the human loss. The force of the bombs was so strong they not only incinerated the people, they created a photograph of them, in the form of a shadow on the wall.

Toby had seen pictures of such an event when it happened in Hiroshima. He always wondered what it was. A burn mark, ashes, remains?

He had to know.

Pausing, Toby reached out to a wall and trailed his fingers on the image of a head. After he rolled his fingers together, there was nothing on them and the image hadn’t smeared.

It was all that remained of person who, a little more than a week earlier, had a life, a family. Now they were a mere etched-in-stone image and a gruesome historical marking.

The goal was to get out of the city, to the outskirts, where hopefully there would be people and help.

Slowly and surely, with very few words between them, they did their best to get from the circumference of ground zero Cleveland.

The pump was doing its job, but Joe only ran it a small amount of time per day. Despite the chic discrete design boasted by Mike’s Well Service, it still let out a racket when it was really rolling. It was one of four on his property and the best producing well he had. He kept the pump in a small well house that looked more like a taller dog house.

The other wells, he didn’t bother hiding their production, but this one he did. It was his supply well. Each day he’d run it during the late morning, load a bunch of gallon containers in his truck and drive the quarter mile across his property to the canning operations building.

Outside it looked like a newer barn, and inside was where Joe’s workers made his trademark Fat Joe tomatoes.

It was quiet in there. Not a single employee or piece of machinery was running. A few hours earlier it was noisy. Joe was producing a carton of canned goods. Cook the tomatoes, jar them, seal them, and stick them in a box. After he finished, he shut down, cleaned up, and aired the place out.

It had become his new daily routine. Canning and then water.

He was just about finished with that before heading out to the fields.

He had returned from the water pump to the barn. Joe moved a mat, lifted the floorboard under steamer number three and exposed a staircase. He carried the water down and placed it against the far wall.

The downstairs storage area was filling up nicely. Soon he would be well stocked. He needed it to be that way. Word of the resistance had reached him and he knew those foot soldiers fighting for freedom would need a safe place, one stocked with provisions, so they could hide away, rest, and gain strength for the battles.

That was Joe’s plan. His contribution to the cause. He wasn’t in shape enough to fight. He would if he had to, but his part would be to keep the soldiers strong.

He was stockpiling nicely and secretively. Even though the invaders had set up a headquarters in San Joaquin Valley with the mayor perched on their lap, no one had even approached him or visited his farm.

That was about to change.

He pulled the string on the light and as he started up the stairs he heard the sound of motors, a truck motor. He hurried, shut the floor hatch, covered it with the mat, and peeked out the window. Sure enough, a jeep and a truck were parked outside.

Figuring he might as well see what the visit was about, he left his canning building.

Four foreign soldiers stepped from the truck, and from the jeep an Asian man wearing a suit accompanied the mayor. Joe had never met him before personally but knew his face.

Mumbling under his breath, “Snitch,” Joe took a breath and placed on a fake smile. “Morning, gentleman, what can I do for you?”

“We are looking for Mr. Fajo,” the Asian gentleman said.

“Excuse me?” Joe asked.

“Mr. Fajo.”

“Fajo?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Joe chuckled. “Fat Joe.”

“Yes. Fajo.”

“Not Fajo. Fat Joe. Fat…” He patted his stomach. “Joe. Fat Joe. Get it?”

“No.”

“I used to be large. Fat Joe is a nickname and now trade name. My name is Joe Garbino. Anyhow… what’s up?” Joe asked.

“You are a large producer in the area,” he said. “We have reason to believe that you may be… what is the word?”

The mayor stepped forward. “Hoarding. They’d like to check the property.”

“Hoarding?” Joe asked with ridicule. “Why in the world would you think that? I mean you are welcome to check but, come on, hoarding?”

“Joe,” the mayor said. “You didn’t drop your Wednesday order off at the school or Mavis’. You also didn’t show up at UPS to ship out.”

“First of all, who the hell knew UPS was still running. Secondly… I don’t stockpile, my orders are made fresh and shipped out the same week. From farm to can in hours, that’s my motto. My farm is dying. Because right now I only pick what I can eat. As far as production, how the hell am I gonna do that without any workers? You wanna know why nothing has gone out? I ain’t had anyone here to work.”

The suit gentleman looked at the mayor for clarification.

“He’s not hoarding. He’s not producing right now,” the mayor said.

The suited gentleman looked around. “He has a large farm.”

“Yep.” Joe nodded. “I do.”

“You must produce.”

“Oh, I produce the food,” Joe said. “I just can’t produce the Fat Joe product. You’re welcome to go out to the fields and get whatever you want. Otherwise it will rot on the vine. In case you didn’t know, war broke out and my employees never came back to work.”

“How many hand workers do you need to produce your normal quantity?” he asked.

“I lost sixteen employees.”

The suited man nodded. “You will have twenty tomorrow. The liberation movement will pay their wages and will compensate you for the products. But you will produce what is asked of you.”

“Will they be my workers?” Joe asked.

“They will be workers.”

“Will they know what they’re doing? Trained?”

“If not, you will train them.” He turned and walked back to the jeep. “But you will deliver the orders.”

“You mean fill my standing orders?” Joe asked.

The suited gentleman ignored him but the mayor answered.

“No,” said the mayor. “You will be given a quota to deliver daily.”

“Daily?” Joe barked. “My system is set up for weekly.”

“Then I suggest you change.”

“Change what?” Joe argued. “My system? You’re sending me workers that may or may not know what they’re doing. Not only do I have to push them, I have to train them. Weekly? You’ll bleed this farm dry.”

“I doubt that. You’ll keep up. If you need more workers, let us know. But you will produce daily.” The mayor walked to the jeep as well.