Chapter 3

John spent most of his time laying corrugated iron on the framework and welding it in place. He prepared meals at his leisure, but seldom took more than an hour or so away from the work of building the silo to his satisfaction.

One of the tasks he placed priority on, was building a workshop on the second level down. Once the floor was in place he moved the woodworking tools he had purchased onto the level. Once the shop was set up, the job of cutting and fitting fixtures for the other levels was streamlined greatly.

Four bales of hay purchased from a farm on main road leading by the silo road provided him with a rudimentary firing range. Once a day he’d practice his shooting. Wearing an old set of headphones because he’d forgotten to purchase hearing protection. He got pretty good with the old python. He’d practice swinging to the side and hitting a bulls eye, just for fun.

He didn’t ever expect to have to use the gun. He just did it to give him a break from the monotony of work. It became a daily exercise. After a solid month of this he could hit the bulls eye seven out of ten shots. He gave it up when a slug passed through a bail and ricocheted. It zinged past his head on one side, ricocheted off the curved wall and zinged past his head on the other. He shuddered to think what would have happened if he’d been shooting the higher velocity .357’s, instead of the 38’s.

“That’s about enough of that shit.” he told himself.

He re-applied himself to the problems of the silo.

He solved the problem of lowering heavy objects to lower levels through the use of trap doors on each level.

It was weeks before John cracked the hatch again.

One day he got a hankering for a drink of scotch, but discovered that he was out. It seemed like as good an excuse as any to go to town.

John cracked the hatch and emerged from his refuge to find a light skiff of snow coating the world. He squinted at the bright sun reflected off the white landscape and shivered a bit from the cold. A quick trip back inside brought him out again wearing a parka and sunglasses.

He had to jockey the snowmobile trailer around and unhitch it to free the car, but he should have done that in the first place.

Finally he was fishtailing down the road into town. It occurred to him that he needed a better winter driving vehicle, but his dollar supply was getting low.

He was down to a paltry $38,000, and the next year’s allotment wouldn’t come in for months. The absurdity of the thought struck him like a rock. $38,000 was more than he had earned the entire year before.

When he got to town he bought a whole case of good scotch, and searched around for a good —used— four wheel drive.

He located a fairly nice mid-seventies Toyota Land Cruiser that had a Chevy 350 CID V-8 engine shoe horned into it. He test drove it, but didn’t like the gear ratio. He bought it anyway and arranged for a shop in town to install a Chevy 5- speed tranny to match the engine. He lined up several other modifications with several shops and negotiated with each to deliver it to the next one. When he came back into town he would have a deluxe four wheel drive waiting for him.

It was evening by the time he was through in town. He sought out a good steak dinner and then headed home with his case of scotch and a few bags of groceries.

John’s mind was on his new vehicle as he headed out of town. He was almost to the turn marked only by the lonely single set of tracks leading to the silo when it happened.

Entirely without warning, there was suddenly somebody waving their arms in front of the car. John slammed on the brakes. The anti-lock kicked in, but even that wasn’t enough. He was still traveling faster than a walk when he thumped the body off his fender onto the side of the road.

John just sat there for a moment and shook.

Had he killed the hitchhiker?

There was only one way he could find out. He forced himself out of the car and walked over to the ditch, fearing the worst.

To his surprise he found it was a girl. The tight jeans told him that much. She was lying face down in the snow, unmoving. He gently rolled her over and found a pretty young face, about 15, eyes closed and unresponsive. A scuff on her forehead from the rock her head had hit. His heart sank.

A quick check of her pulse sent a wave of relief over him. She was probably okay, but might have a concussion from the way she had landed. He checked all her limbs and found no broken bones. Her hip would probably be bruised real good from where the car had bumped her.

Why the hell had she done it? He would have stopped for anybody this far out ... What the hell was she doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

All these questions would have to wait. She may have needed attention right then. If she was worse than he was equipped for at the silo, the drive back into town would be too far anyway.

Getting her warm was probably the best way to stabilize her until real help could arrive if needed. His silo was the best answer, if for no other reason than to get her out of the elements and get to communications. He mentally vowed to get himself a Cellular phone, even if he never needed it again.

He carefully picked her up and carried her to the car. He noticed that her clothing and body stank like she had been on the road for a long time. He didn’t care. He wasn’t about to leave her out in the cold to die.