Nathan Jones - Shortage

Lewis talked about purchasing a few lambs if the Normans were willing to sell, but that was something they’d have to wait for since none had been born yet this spring. Having a flock of their own was something to look forward to, along with trying to trap a few rabbits alive to start their own hutch.

In the meantime, between hunting and their duties protecting the town Trev and his cousin also took time to carefully prepare their plot along the canyon stream as they anxiously watched the skies for the spring planting. The temperature improved day by day, and two weeks after Trev and Lewis got home many of their neighbors decided to plant, including the Larsons and Watsons. Ever the careful one, Lewis insisted they wait another week just to be safe.

Thankfully no frost arrived to threaten the tiny shoots emerging in many of the plots, but Trev didn’t begrudge his cousin’s caution as they got to work planting their own plot, one of the largest with only the Aspen Hill general plot covering more area. They opened each packet of seeds with care, careful not to waste even one of them if they could help it. Trev was slightly alarmed at how many packets were required to plant the entire plot, but Lewis assured him that the seeds were all heirloom and when the plants they produced went to seed they’d gather and preserve those for the next year’s crop.

At least that was the plan. His cousin had read up on preserving seeds and even watched a few videos, and so far his studied knowledge had translated decently into practical applications. Lewis’s dream was to move beyond the need for long term food storage to where they could provide for themselves reliably day to day with their own two hands.

“Preparedness is better than being unprepared, but it’s much, much better to be self-sufficient,” he said more than once. And considering that they were nearly out of the food they’d prepared Trev was more than ready to move into self-sufficiency. The alternative wasn’t attractive.

He did allow himself a little hope for the harvest, though, and even joked to others that with any luck soon they’d be learning how to preserve whatever grew for the winter. Canning and drying were mostly lost skills, although some in the town, mostly older residents, still had experience with them. In preparation for what all hoped to be a bountiful harvest each and every house, abandoned field, and garbage pit was rummaged through for old glass or plastic jars and bottles.

Canning jars with pressure sealed lids became a prized commodity, and unsurprisingly Lewis had several boxes of a dozen, all tightly sealed with plastic to keep them clean and protect them from breaking. Even better, while cleaning out the shelter Ferris had ignored them as useless.

Needless to say, once the plot was planted they guarded it nearly as fiercely as they did the shelter, working with their other neighbors growing crops alongside them. No one wanted to see these crops harmed or stolen, and the only place in town more secure was the storehouse itself.

It was just after Lewis and Trev finished planting three weeks after their arrival that the routine was finally broken, in perhaps the worst way possible. At least for Trev.

He’d just finished scouting past the roadblock, spying nothing but a group of townspeople combing over the landscape looking for any edible greens, and had come back to resume his position on the cars when he saw Chauncey waiting there.

Waving, he hopped one of the cars to join the older man. “What brings you to Roadblock 2?” he asked. “Something happening? I didn’t hear anything over the radio.”

The retired teacher shook his head. “No. Well yes, but it doesn’t really concern the town. Or I guess it does, but…” He trailed off with an uncomfortable shrug. “I thought you should hear it since it might affect your family.”

“Lewis?” Trev asked. “Or is our shelter in the path of some danger coming from the north?”

“No no, nothing like that.” Chauncey sighed. “You know the US had threatened to launch nukes if the Gold Bloc didn’t get their troops out of Canada within a month’s time, right?”

Trev nodded. “Saber rattling, you called it.”

“Yeah, well apparently I’m not the only one to think so. Word on the grapevine is that Russian troops are mobilizing along the border, near Toronto and Sault Ste. Marie. Alaska’s long since gone silent, you know, but word is that broadcasts out of the Yukon and British Columbia territories are being squelched as well. It could indicate a large movement of Chinese troops towards the US border, and ships have been sighted along the coast of California and New England. It’s all pointing to an invasion in the works.”

Realization dawned. “You mean my family in Michigan.” Trev tried to remember his geography. Sault Ste. Marie was along the Canadian border just north of Michigan, and Toronto was northeast of Detroit with a fairly major highway leading there. An invasion from either of those locations would almost certainly bring enemy troops close to his family’s house in Greenbush.

The older man nodded grimly. “The Gold Bloc seems to have called our bluff. They’re going to invade, probably within the next few weeks. I think they might even be planning to invade before the deadline for when they were supposed to withdraw from Canada in less than a week, just to further tweak our noses.”

Trev did his best to hide his alarm. “Have you been able to contact anyone in Greenbush?” Lewis hadn’t had any luck, but Chauncey had been on the radios longer and might have made contacts his cousin hadn’t.

“Sorry,” Chauncey said, shaking his head grimly. “There’s plenty of chatter from up there considering the imminent threat, but nobody’s heard anything specific about a Smith family living along the shore of Lake Huron. And all things considered no one’s got the time or patience to go and personally check it out just to do a favor for someone halfway across the country.”

In answer Trev pulled the radio from his belt. “Speaking of favors, could you take the rest of my shift?”

The retired teacher accepted the radio, although he gave Trev a stern look. “Don’t do anything rash, son.”

Trev thought of Betty Thornton. “I’m not going to wait until it’s too late to help them. I’ve felt more and more like I needed to find them with every passing month since the Gulf refineries attack.”

Chauncey sighed and held out his hand. “You know better than anyone why it’s a bad idea, but family is family. Travel safely.”

Nodding, he shook the man’s hand firmly in thanks and broke into a trot towards the shelter, trying not to let his rising worry turn to panic. He was only half successful and his trot became a sprint, which he was able to maintain for the few minutes it took him to reach home.

When he got there, staggering and panting like a bellows, he found Matt and Lewis manhandling the 50 gallon tank of gasoline out of the shed. “The guys who attacked this place used up less than I was afraid of,” his cousin was saying as he approached. “We’ve probably still got 25 gallons in there.”

“What’s going on?” Trev demanded. But in spite of his own agitation he couldn’t leave them to that kind of heavy lifting. So even though he was seriously winded and on the verge of collapse he came over and grabbed a corner, letting Matt gratefully shift to the other corner on his side so they could split the weight.

His friend was eating better and had gotten back a bit of his strength in the last few weeks, but that tank had to weigh a couple hundred pounds: on the other side Lewis was straining to hold up half the weight as they shuffled it over to where the back of the shipping container met up with the hill. There was no answer to his question until they’d finished lugging it and started to cover it with a tarp, partly to protect it from the elements but mostly to hide the container’s precious contents.