Chapter 27

With a muffled 'thunk' the bowstring snapped back to its resting position as the arrow flew straight and true. I wasn't the best hunter in our community, so I was gratified to watch the shaft sink deeply into deer's side, just behind the shoulder. The big Mule Deer buck didn't realize he was dead, and took off at a run, bounding through the scrub, headed for the trees. Slinging the compound bow over my shoulder, I took off after it, drawing my sidearm as I went. It never paid, now that the Black Bear, Coyote and Grey Wolf populations were coming back, to be too far behind when your kill ran out of steam. I really did not want to get into an ownership dispute with the other predators of the Sierra foothills.

Little Gav was making better time than I going up the steep slope, but that was as it should be. Hell, if it hadn't been for the sickness, right about now I would have been sitting behind a desk somewhere, contemplating my growing paunch and chiding myself for not getting to the gym more often. Now, here I was in hot pursuit of a deer that I had shot with a bow and arrow, and I was not carrying an extra ounce of flesh anywhere on my body.

The arrow kept most of the blood in the wound, but with the deer's strenuous exertion, some leaked out, leaving a trail of droplets for us to follow. We came upon the magnificent beast struggling in some brush that it had tried to leap over when its body finally gave out. Its eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, and like all wild things that live with the constant threat of death, it knew its time had come.

As my mentor, Grey Eagle, had taught me, I thanked the animal for providing its meat, hide and bones to help my family and community survive. I cannot know if the animals understand the words or the sentiment, but it is necessary for us, as the most prolific predators on the planet, to maintain such reverence for the lives we take, lest we again start killing for sport. Grey Eagle and I have pounded this lesson into the hunters and the consumers of the community, and it's gradually taking hold. Little Gav administered the coup de grace, stroking the beast's trembling body almost affectionately before swiftly drawing his hunting knife across its throat, severing the jugular.

In only a few moments the life had gone from its eyes and Gav turned to me with a hint of mischief on his face.

"Well, it's about time, Dad! I was afraid I was going to have to hunt down another one that you botched and put it out of its misery!"

I took the jibe with as good grace as I expected of him, especially since it was true. The last time we had gone hunting together, my arrow had been off the mark and rather than leave a wounded animal to die a slow death, or be torn apart by predators, we had spent many hours tracking it down. Gav, who was a much better shot with a bow, had delivered the kill shot.

"Yeah, well, you keep that up, son, and I'll let you haul this guy down the mountain by yourself!" I told him as I set about rigging the hind legs so we could hang the carcass from the nearest tree for dressing. We would take the heart and liver, but leave the entrails for the creatures of the forest.

"Okay by me!" Gav laughed. "This guy ought be worth at least ten credits, and I want to get a new baseball glove."

Yep. We have money now, and baseball. Moving to Phoenix (somebody decided to rename it that three days after we reached Springville, and no one objected) has forced a number of changes on us, some of which I had not expected to see for decades.

The Little League ball field at the western end of town got groomed, repaired and put into service almost as soon as the sun and rain of our first winter decided that it was going to be spring. In anticipation, our foraging parties, over the winter months, had found gloves, bats, balls and other equipment during their expeditions.

Gav is a pretty good pitcher, too. His fastball won't break any records, but he has a wicked slider, and can throw a variety of breaking pitches. His biggest asset, though, is that he can read the batters and throw the right pitches to catch them napping. He hits his spots, too.

Money? Well, it started simply enough. With everyone living in separate dwellings, it was no longer feasible to provide such community services as food and clothing in a central location, and with the community spread out more we needed a way to equitably distribute such things so that everyone got what they earned.

We first tried just allocating supplies at a given rate per person, but that led to squabbles and fights about how so-and-so had not done a lick of work and didn't deserve to get as much as everyone else. Rather than try to arbitrate such disputes, we decided to start issuing work chits. For each hour of work done on behalf of the community, a person would receive one credit. These chits, issued at the end of each week, then, were presented at the community stores when one went to get one's supplies for the next week.

Now, since people were 'paying' for things, they wanted to pick and choose what they got. Once their 'purchases' were collected, they were taken to a 'cashier' who would assign a value and deduct that amount from the person's credits, writing the new balance on the credit chit in lieu of change.

Over time, split lips, and not a few bruises over the valuation of items, and how much really was left on the chit, this system evolved until the central 'bank' was not only marking the chits but tracking who was issued how many credits and how many they had spent. You guessed it. This system became too cumbersome very quickly, and offered little flexibility, so we started printing credit certificates in various denominations. This way, community members could buy from each other as well as the central stores, and as long as they presented enough credit certificates, could purchase whatever they wanted from central stores.

The next step was inevitable. There have been groups in the San Joaquin Valley besides us struggling since the sickness for their own survival. Some, like the farmers we were already dealing with while at the Citadel, were upstanding folks trying to hold on to whatever bits of civilization they could. Others, like the scavengers, were somewhat less than upstanding, and would take whatever they could beg, borrow, or steal. There was another class of folks that existed in these times, as well. These were nomadic wanderers who primarily lived off of trade. Of necessity, they were tough, and many were not sticklers for honesty, but all wandered the countryside, finding things left behind after the sickness that they thought would be of value to someone else and bringing them to settlements to trade for whatever the settlements could provide that they needed or thought they could trade profitably elsewhere.

All three of these groups found the convenience of Phoenician credits to be a boon to their trade. Soon, bargaining was being done with our credits instead of goods.

Now, having co-opted the printing presses from several places nearby, we are busily printing Phoenician money on paper that we make ourselves. By pre-sickness standards, I suppose our money would be easy to forge, but with the available technology and the lack of infrastructure to support it elsewhere, we're miles ahead of anyone who might want to try, and the consequences for the few who have tried should be a bit of a deterrent, as well.

I must admit that I never expected to be issuing money in our eleventh year. I expected that to be at least another decade down the road. I thought we would have to accumulate precious metals or some other such basis before we could begin to even think about a monetary system. It never occurred to me that money based on our most valuable commodity - ourselves - would work so well. It remains to be seen whether this system will remain viable and stable as time goes on, but so far it seems to be working just fine. As long as we can keep the basis the same - one credit for one hour of Phoenician labor - we might even be able to keep a handle on inflation.

Hell, we're now paying our suppliers in credits and they give them back to us to pay for our protection or other services.

Anyway, Gav and I finally got the deer dressed and trussed up on a pole for carrying. Gav is tall for twelve, but I still wind up carrying the end with the head, just so the rack won't drag too often. Fortunately, home was just a few miles downhill.

The folks at central stores issued us nine credits each, since that's how long it took us to find, kill, dress and haul the carcass back home. Gav was so happy with his earnings that he went straight away to the recreation section and spent two and a half credits on that new baseball glove.

At my urging, he took some of the remaining credits over to the bank, where the bank president herself handled his deposit.

"Good evening, young man," she said, "you made it just in time. We're just about to close. What can I do for you today?"

"I'd like to deposit five credits in my savings account, Mom," he answered. "Dad and I got a huge buck today! You would have been proud of him. He got it with his first shot!"

"That's great! I hope that package contains some of the meat," she said, eyeing the paper-wrapped bundle that I carried. "I'd love to have some venison for a change."

"From the loin," I told her. By now, I was pretty familiar with her tastes, and knew she would welcome a change from beef and pork.

"Look what I bought, Mom!" Gav said, showing her his new glove, still in its cellophane wrapping. After all these years, the cellophane was somewhat the worse for wear, but we had found that most non-food items so sealed remained reasonably serviceable. A little oil and that glove would be as supple and pliable as when it first came out of the factory.

Amanda and Gav discussed his new purchase while I went over to visit with Sophie. Our two-year-old was happily playing in the corner with a set of blocks and a couple of other children whose parents worked at the bank