Nathan Jones: Fuel

The burning Gulf was probably the best visual representation of the millions upon millions of gallons of fuel that had gone up in flames. But more devastating than the fuel itself was the destruction of the operations designed to refine that fuel from the relatively useless crude oil piped in from elsewhere. This didn’t just represent a short term catastrophe but a long term disaster.

Trev numbly watched the alternative images of melting refineries and burning waters as the newscaster on the screen droned on about sailing itineraries and cargo manifests for the boat bombs that had caused most of the devastation, starting to go into detail about the identities and nationalities of their captains and crews. No pattern that anyone could see, no hints about the source behind it all, but Trev had to wonder how much it mattered now.

No nuclear bomb had landed on US soil. No EMP had detonated high in the atmosphere above them to wipe out the nation’s electrical grid and electronics. The refineries had been destroyed at night so the loss of life was minimal, and although the fires were fierce the summer had been a wet one and there wasn’t any danger of them spreading.

And yet in spite of all that Trev wondered if the panicked newscasters caught up in the moment, the President and other politicians making brief reassuring statements, or the people watching realized that millions of people were potentially about to die.

Most gas stations kept just enough gasoline and diesel to meet demand and their tanks were regularly refilled. Where did that gas come from? From the burning depots on the television screen. Those impressive fireballs represented most of the US’s reserves of fuel.

The nation had just run out of gas and there was nowhere else to get more.

His phone suddenly rang, and in spite of himself Trev jumped as he hurried to answer it. That was nerves, not surprise: everyone’s phones had been ringing ever since the news first broke about the disasters. Loved ones calling or him and his roommates calling loved ones to let each other know that they were all right, even though nobody on either end was within 100 miles of the attack. Trev had already called his parents to share the same reassurances.

Even without checking the ID he could guess who was calling, and sure enough when he pushed the talk button it was Lewis’s voice he heard. “Hey man.”

“Hey,” Trev answered. He expected his cousin to say something like “Can you believe this?” or “Pretty crazy, huh?”, but Lewis wasn’t the type to state the obvious.

Instead his cousin got right to the point. “I think this is going to be bad. Really bad.”

“I was thinking the same.” Trev took a deep breath. “I’m glad you called because I wanted to make sure you haven’t piled my bed full of junk. I’m coming home.”

“Good. I was about to suggest it, and the sooner the better. Right now if you can manage it, but either way I hope you don’t waste any time on things that probably won’t matter in a week.”

“No, I’ve got nothing I really need to do here, although there’s a few things I want to check out before I go and a few friends I want to say goodbye to. I’ll leave tomorrow morning as early as I can get away.”

After a few inquiries about family and some pointless speculation about the attack Trev hung up and headed to bed, leaving his roommates still gathered around the TV. He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be a long day and he wanted to get whatever sleep he could.

The morning after the Gulf refineries attack Trev didn’t even bother going to class or letting the university know he was leaving, probably for good.

During a mostly restless night he’d well and truly cut all mental and emotional ties with the heavily populated area around Orem, Utah, his college education there, and everything else in his old life. The only thing he was interested in now was saying a few goodbyes and maybe running a few quick errands, and then he was headed home.

Officially home was up in Michigan where his parents and younger siblings had moved a few years ago, but for Trev he didn’t have nearly that far to go. He’d spent his childhood in Aspen Hill, roughly 75 miles southeast of Orem, where his cousin Lewis Halsson still lived and looked over things while his parents and teenaged sister, Trev’s aunt and uncle and cousin, were on sabbatical in Norway reconnecting with their Scandinavian roots.

More importantly, his cousin had been preparing for a disaster since even before the nukes fell a year ago. And since he and Trev were practically brothers and had spent all their time together growing up Trev had been pulled into it too, reluctantly at first but with more commitment after the tragedy in the Middle East.

He’d helped Lewis purchase a sturdy half-cylinder aluminum shed, reinforce it, then bury it facing south for better sun exposure like they’d read about. The underground shelter would stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter, and almost as important to his cousin’s cautious nature would be away from prying eyes when the Schumer hit the fan. Lewis had then gone on to fill it with inexpensive wheat, rice, barley, and other grains, beans, honey, olive oil, and any canned foods he ran across while they were cheap. He’d also purchased other tools and supplies necessary for survival, including guns and ammunition.

His cousin had blown just about all his money on his preparations, everything he’d earned over a few hard summers installing security systems in cities back east. Trev had joined Lewis on those jobs, but unlike him had spent most of the money on paying his way through college. Although he had listened to his cousin enough to purchase about two years’ worth of wheat and other necessities, as well as a Mini-14 and a thousand rounds of ammo to go with the 1911 he’d bought when Lewis bought one for himself a few years ago.

At the time Trev had considered his spending choice the more practical one. In a world without a disaster Lewis was basically trading away his future to live an 1800s era settler’s life off the grid. Meanwhile Trev was making a few cautious preparations but also paying for college and a career in a world that still continued to function.

In the end it looked as if his cousin’s all-in gamble had paid off, grim as that sounded considering the situation the nation was in. Still, Trev was glad he’d prepared at least as much as he had, and also had a place to stay with someone who’d done even more and was better equipped to survive.

It felt a bit strange to not be heading to class as he left his dorm and made for campus, but with some luck and favorable timing he managed to catch up to Matt just before his friend went into his first class of the day.

Matt Larson was another resident of Aspen Hill, but although they’d all grown up together Trev hadn’t spent nearly as much time with him. He would still call Matt a close friend, though, and going to the same college had helped cement that friendship.

“Isn’t your first class English?” his friend asked, looking a bit puzzled as Trev flagged him down outside his classroom.

Trev shrugged. “I’m heading back to Aspen Hill. Today. I just wanted to touch base and let you know.”

Matt gave him a surprised look. “The attacks were all the way down along the Gulf of Mexico. You don’t expect anyone to attack us up here, do you?”

As Trev had expected, people were still thinking in terms of terror attacks. The more forward thinking may have been thinking about no longer having fuel for their cars, but very few, it seemed, had stopped to wonder about all the trucks that shipped necessities to cities. Not to mention that just about everything they needed like electricity and gas for stoves and heating also ran on the fuel that had gone up in flames last night and was still burning this morning.