Chapter 19: Spring Pride and Peril

March 18, 2030

The start of spring was only a couple of days away, yet Canadian geese were already seen flying north in pursuit of their summer residence. Clark, Sally and Katie too were busy settling into their new home, rediscovering its familiar quality, finding opportunities and occupying spaces unnoticed before. It was perfect for playing hide-and-seek and each room fit a particular mood.

Far more potent was the excitement of living on the farm, an extended universe to stretch their legs and cultivate imaginations. They were bursting with energy and ideas to make the land bountiful and the animals productive; raising the children and stoking the embers of their love; of making things they had never done before seem so obvious and natural.

They were too busy to remember or even care about the memory of the City. The hardships and dangers that tested their courage and resolve of four years ago were very dim and distant and no longer exercised any power over them. They had more promising prospects to look for.

Not one to lose an opportunity to take advantage of the weather, Clark decided that he would drive into Farrville to check if he could get access to the diesel fuel tank at the gas station. It was crucial for his plan to get his hands on one of those tractors across the road from the station in time for preparing the soil. Cultivating the field was like cultivating a dream, yet he was not looking forward doing it again by brute human force for the fourth time. The image of driving out of the dealership with him sitting proudly behind the wheel filled his mind for many months.

As he made his way to the village, there were many more cracks and fissures in the road’s pavement and whole sections of asphalt had lifted and were loose. The precarious conditions added extra time to the drive. The road had already showed signs of needing repairs when they first plodded along it four years earlier to reach the mountain. Another year or two it would look like a cracked windshield in most places.

On the final descent into the village, a sudden flash of light pierced his eyes. It was so intense that it felt like someone had just taken a picture with an old camera inches from his face. It came from the western edge of the village. He never thought of paying any attention to that part of town. It looked more residential, devoid of resources that were essential for their immediate farming needs.

Clark stopped the car and slowly backed up hoping to get struck by the flash again and pinpoint the location from where it came. The light again blinked, but this time a millisecond longer. He rolled forward until the light was no longer a flash but a steady glare so intense that it seared his eyes. He closed his eyes and turned his face to escape the line of the glare. When he looked again, it was gone. Nevertheless, he was able to determine its location.

He was intrigued and thought about going there to investigate. “It’s probably only a reflection from a window,” he muttered to himself. He dismissed the idea and made a mental note of the location. His priority was to check for diesel fuel; that was his mission and that’s where he had to go first.

As he approached the familiar junction with Main Street, he was dismayed to see that the traffic light had fallen onto the pavement scrapping the side of the pickup truck. It served like a beacon, welcoming him into town. The weather during the past winters and the lack of maintenance contributed to its tragic downfall, as did stretches of overhead electric and telephone wires that snapped and lay like twisted spaghetti on the ground.

As an architect, Clark knew that it was only a matter of time – maybe another two or three years - that buildings would begin to sag and eventually collapse. Roads, bridges, electric power and communication grids, water and sewage systems, and other infrastructures would also erode, decay, corrode, and vanish. He felt the urgency, a race against time to acquire the right resources to sustain his family’s survival. And realize his dream.

He drove past the hardware store and around a cluster of grocery carts, hoping he would return within the hour to get a fuel hand pump. He already knew the kind he wanted. However, it all depended on being able to gain access to the underground diesel tank, if even there was one, and ascertain if enough of the precious fuel was available before going on to the next step of his plan of action.

In less than a minute he pulled into the gas station immediately scanning the crumbling concrete pavement around the pumps looking for the right manhole cover. There were four off to the side of the pump island covered with dust and debris, yet one with its faded yellow bumblebee color still stood out among the rest, drawing Clark to come closer. Cast in its metal cover showed that the buried tank had a capacity of 6,000 gallons which made him cautiously grin from ear to ear.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to contend with any locks on the fill pipe and was quickly able to insert an antique twelve-foot long folding measuring stick from the tool shed down into the tank. The wood was discolored, but the numbers were still perfectly visible to get a good reading of the level of fuel inside. It hit bottom with little over a foot and a half sticking out of the pipe.

He pulled up the measuring stick and was happy to see that the tank was approximately over two-thirds full. In his estimation, that meant there were more than 4,000 gallons available. He never owned a gallon of diesel in his life and now he felt like he had hit the mother lode.

Overwhelmed with joy in his heart and renewed hope, Clark jumped into the car and raced back to the hardware store. Within minutes, he returned with a red rotary hand pump and four five-gallon plastic canisters. He had to hold the pump steady with one hand while cranking it with the other. It became a wrestling match of sorts getting the heavy nozzle from tipping over the empty canister. Of course, failure was not a part of Clark’s vocabulary, and with a little cursing and leglocks, he had all three canisters filled in no time.

Clark carefully wrapped the pump in plastic and hid it among the brush behind the gas station building. He loaded the filled canisters into the car and headed across the street to the implement dealership. The special sales offers were still boldly written across the showcase windows and Clark was ready and eager to come away with a deal.

He cut the lock on the chain link fence with a bolt cutter and boldly walked through the lot choked with a sea of dry weeds. Nothing would deter him from getting to his orange-colored dream machine. He was partial to the green brand, but orange would probably do the trick just as well.

He slid his hands over the dusty hood and kicked the tires, like an adolescent inspecting his first true love, reminding himself of the time he walked into a car showroom attracted to a red Jaguar. Now, he was all excited about a different kind of machine. It wouldn’t take him far, or very fast, but it would make survival and life a million times easier to put food on the table for his family and barn yard animals.

He mounted the tractor to admire the view and study the control panel, the gauges, lights, switches, and ignition. “Shit!” Clark hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in frustration. There was no key in the ignition, a simple fact that he had taken for granted, but that in this world he should have known better. Immediately, he admonished himself for his unnecessary emotional and physical outbursts.

He got off the tractor and went to the side door of the building with bold determination. It was locked, but a crowbar handily solved that obstacle and he stepped into the brightly lit 100-foot long showroom.

“Where would they keep the keys?” he pondered, scanning the signs hung from the ceiling and posted on doors.

He walked past the Parts-Services counter where a computer monitor sat in silence. A recessed door in the corner with the familiar icons of a man and a woman required no explanation. There were three more doors, the last of which had a sign that read Store Manager. Below it, another sign with smaller letters recommended to “Knock before Entering.” Clark smirked and confidently strode towards the door. He didn’t need permission; the customer was always right.

He swung open the door and stepped into a windowless office. There was a desk with several drawers, a couple of file cabinets with an assortment of trophies and awards on top. An antique three-foot tall safe and an upright metal storage cabinet completed the arrangement. The desk drawers were not locked, and he found nothing. He rifled through the folders in the file cabinets. Nothing there either.

“It better not be you,” he said, sneering at the venerable strongbox, and stepped over to the storage cabinet.

The handle didn’t turn to open the doors, nor was there a key hanging from it. Clark remembered seeing a key in the top middle drawer of the manager’s desk. He crossed his fingers. The key worked and the cabinet doors swung open, but no sign of tractor keys on the shelves, except for stacks of paper and sales brochures and a metal cash-box with the key still in its lock.

Gingerly, Clark rattled the box. There was a distinct familiarity to the clinking within, and he immediately opened it. “Eureka!” he shouted as he discovered several keys tied to tags identifying which set belonged to which tractor according to model and serial numbers.

He took a deep breath and rushed back outside, mumbling praises to himself. “Now for the final trick.”

He poured one canister of diesel into the tractor’s fuel tank and made sure the fuel line was primed. The battery was still juiced up; oil and water coolant full. He remounted the tractor and inserted the key into the ignition, making sure the gear was in neutral. He strained his ears, focusing on the tractor and the sound as he turned the key. The engine turned and sputtered; sputtered and turned, until black soot and smoke coughed out from the exhaust pipe and the tractor came alive with a mighty roar before it settled down to a steady purr.

Relief and a feeling of triumph spread over Clark’s face. He cheered and wanted to do a happy dance. He knew better not to celebrate prematurely. Instead, he put the tractor into first gear to take it out of the patio for a short test drive in the dealership parking lot. He released the clutch and the tractor leapt forward as if eager to get to work. Even though driving at a snail’s pace, he wished Sally, Katie and the kids could see him.

However, if he wanted to get home before dinner, he had to hurry. He still had to hook up one of the disc harrows to the tractor and inflate all the flattened tires with the electric air pump.

He left the car in the dealership patio and, with the disc harrow in tow, took the tractor for a spin over to the pharmacy. He made a promise to himself that if he got the tractor going, he would get a plush toy for each of the girls and a baby rattle for little Matthew. It didn’t hurt to splurge on them once in a while especially when Daddy was coming home with a toy of his own.

At a top notch speed of nearly 10 mph and half an hour later, Clark finally reached the farm. He shifted it into first gear and, at full throttle, made the tractor roar as he slowly pulled into the farmhouse yard with his chest puffed up feeling proud.

The chickens scattered, running for cover, spooked by the noise shattering the calm and the sight of an orange monster growing larger as it inched its way into the yard. Sally and the girls emerged from the barn, where they had been feeding the goats, frantically waving their arms as if greeting a triumphant victor on his return from a faraway conquest. They were anxiously expecting Daddy any minute, making his spectacular appearance, and wanted to be the first to lay eyes on the fantastic mechanical horse that he often described in his bedtime stories to the kids.

Katie came around from the back of the house carrying a wailing bundle. The noise had awakened and scared little Matthew who sought protection and comfort in his mother’s arms. They all stood around the tractor, its engine purring idly, admiring its form, its bulk, and acknowledging the noble power within.

“Go ahead, you can touch it,” Clark told the girls who shrank back clinging to Sally’s legs.

She dragged them forward and placed her hand on one of the colossal rear tires. “See how round and smooth this is?” she said. “It’s like Daddy’s butt.”

They squirmed and giggled taking turns, poking at the tire with their little fingers, until they had enough courage to pat the tire with their hands and look up at Daddy with a smile showing they were no longer afraid and waiting for his approval.

“Here, let me introduce Matthew to the tractor, too,” Clark said holding out his arms toward Katie.

He was calmer and listened carefully to Clark’s reassuring voice, oblivious to the excitement and commotion around him.

LIKE A TEENAGE BOY and his first car, Clark spent nearly a whole day cleaning and polishing the tractor. He read the manual and made sure he knew all the important maintenance tasks, listing the engine oil, hydraulic oil, filters, coolant and grease, as well as the quantities he would need for the short term and the years ahead. It was easier to identify and locate every part, especially on the engine, than it was on a car where everything was crammed under the hood like sardines in a tin can. He also studied the recommendations how to set the disc harrow for deep tillage and final preparation of the soil for planting.

“Are you done yet, Daddy?” Fifi and Trish were always asking, impatiently waiting for him to take them on a promised spin around the yard.

“All set! Who wants to go first?” he announced the following afternoon. Everybody, including Sally and Katie, lined up to take their turn like it was some kind of thrill ride at the county fair.

Little Matthew was too short for the ride and would have to wait a couple more years to sit between daddy’s legs. However, Fifi and Trish told him all about the fun, riding several feet high off the ground on Daddy’s lap as the noisy tractor confidently and powerfully lumbered its way several times around the yard.

Little Matthew didn’t understand a word, but loved the attention he got from them, smiling and babbling, kicking his feet and wiggling his arms. When the girls tried to imitate the noise of the tractor, he coed and laughed for the very first time, feeling good. It was a milestone and everyone, especially Katie and Clark were immensely proud.

When the kids were finally tucked away for the night, Clark, Sally and Katie discussed his return to the village to bring back the car. Clark learned to keep things close by under their careful watch.

March 20, 2030

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING after milking the nanny, Clark prepared for his two-hour long walk into Farrville and to the dealership. Sally and Katie each gave him a list of things they needed from the hardware and drug store. Fifi and Trish were growing fast and needed new clothes. Otherwise, they would soon be running around naked which they thought was more fun anyway.

The first day of spring promised to be a beautiful sunny one with a light, delicate breeze from the south. The air smelled moist like it might rain later that evening or overnight, bringing a much needed first spring shower to the land. Clark gave everyone a quick hug and kiss, and set off down the road in a brisk stride.

Back at the dealership, Clark quickly loaded the car with oil and other maintenance items and set off on his rounds to the drug store and hardware store to fulfill Sally’s and Katie’s wish list. He also made a pit stop at the feed store to grab more chicken feed and several bags of field pea seeds. The recommendation to plant a cover crop like peas and plow it under as green manure now no longer seemed like some fanciful idea, but a reality he wanted to test.

As he neared the intersection to the county road, Clark remembered the flash of light from two days before and had a strong urge to go investigate the strange phenomena. It was not yet noon, and there was still plenty of time left in the day to take a little side tour to the unexplored section of town where he was sure the piercing light came from.

Except for rusting cars and scattered grocery carts, the main street and the few side streets were still empty and in worse shape than before with many more cracks and lifted pavement. Curbsides were littered with debris and broken branches. Sidewalks and walkways were cracked allowing weeds to sink their roots and flourish.

The once-thriving shops and charming houses looked weary and worn; some already showing signs of decay and dilapidation that if not repaired soon would start to fall apart.

Through broken windows, birds flew in and out, taking up residence in the abandoned buildings. Nature was reclaiming front lawns and back yards, working to erase the manicured spaces and order of man, the signature patterns of mankind.

The ground in this section of town rose from Main Street toward a dense forest. The houses on either side of a cracked and abandoned neighborhood street sat quietly like every other house in Farrville. He often wondered what kind of stories sat buried in the remnants left behind by each family previously inhabiting these homes.

He turned left onto the last street overlooking the village. It came to a dead end in front of a two-story colonial style house. Bushes and shrubs were in desperate need of a manicure and dead weeds choked the rock-lined flower beds. The outside looked like it had been renovated with new siding and energy efficient windows, and to his surprise solar panels covered the entire front roof facing south; undoubtedly the source of the flashing light. Rather than drive off, Clark decided to snoop around.

He walked up to the porch, constantly looking behind and on both sides of him at the strange, but quiet neighborhood. The deep blue shade of the door matched the blue sky mirrored off the solar panels. It was fitted with a brass door knocker in the shape of an electric guitar, a novelty that he had never seen before and seemingly unconventional for this part of the country. The door was locked which didn’t surprise him. However, previous experiences had proved there might be an easier way to get inside through a back entrance.

The side driveway led to a spacious backyard with a forest providing a green backdrop of scented pines. The yard had turned into a grassy jungle and looked like it had been carved out of the forest to make room for a large off-white metal building more than double the size of the cabin with solar panels laid out like postage stamps over a green roof. The structure looked new; the paint untarnished. A sign next to the building’s door read Gibson Solar Solutions.

Clark grinned upon seeing the backdoor of the house, a typical country door with glass panels over the top half. A handwritten note was tapped to the inside of one of the glass panes that said, Taking Anna to Carmel Maternity Center. Should be back by Monday. It was signed Chris.

The note was dated five days prior to the sun storm and the onset of chaos. Apparently, no one had returned to the house since and the note was a stark reminder how everyone’s plans and lives were abruptly uprooted.

He broke the lower corner glass pane and reached inside to unlock the door. It opened into a combined mud and laundry room. A key rack hung next to the door with a carved inscription that quipped “Keys to Success.” An assortment of household keys each properly tagged along with two sets of car keys hung like ornaments from the hooks. Clark took the one marked “Gibson Solar” and headed straight for the metal building.

A mass of cold air and the smell of vulcanized rubber greeted him when he opened the door. It housed a workshop with a long, wide assembly table occupying most of the middle. The smell came from the non-slip rubber flooring with little white specks, similar to the type used at his fitness gym in the City. Technical diagrams, electrical schematics and assembly instructions were posted on the wall above a workbench adjacent to the door. An assortment of tools, a printer, notebooks and manuals were neatly arranged on the bench. Shelves and racks lined the back wall containing cables, batteries, and lots of other electrical gizmos. Two wood pallets were stacked with a dozen or more residential solar panels. At the far right corner, in front of a garage door, sat a white delivery van with the company name in blue letters over a blazing sun.

As he poked around, he was able to identify a few items. There was a box filled with inflatable solar lights sitting on the workbench. The packaging proudly displayed the company logo, making the lights a clever promotional freebie for a start-up business, hoping to corner the solar energy market in Farrville and surrounding areas.

However, what really got him excited were rows of portable solar panels and shelves filled with bright red EMP bags each containing a portable generator. Together, they were used for emergency situations or in remote places where electricity was not available. His hunting partner had thought about bringing a portable generator up to the mountain cabin, but the ranger friend had a distrust of complicated things and insisted they keep it as rustic as possible.

Clark had a rudimentary working knowledge of solar panels. Many of his customers requested integrating them into the architectural design of their buildings to make them less obvious. These portable devices, however, were no-brainers, required no college degree or expertise.

Thoughts started racing through his mind of the many possibilities and uses of one or more of the devices at the farmhouse. With electric energy, they could run the refrigerator, some of the kitchen appliances, the water pump, and so much more, making their lives more comfortable, reminding them of the technological wonders they had taken for granted before society fell apart, and easing the inevitable, steady slide toward a dark, bleak future.

Without hesitation, he bagged six solar lights, grabbed a portable solar generator and a folding solar panel, and returned to the backdoor to take a tour of the Gibson house.

Earlier, Clark had caught a glimpse of the electric power panel on the wall behind the door in the mudroom. He stood for a few moments in awe, admiring the expert installation and clean connections. However, he was most impressed when he realized that the system was not tied into the public utility grid. There was no electric meter installed on the outside, nor a device to supply surplus solar electricity back into the grid.