CHAPTER 3 

Collaborative

AS WE ENTERED Massachusetts on I-95, we sighed with relief. It had been an emotionally and physically draining day.

The last fifteen minutes was filled with silence, not the stoic kind but the kind that admits the limitations words. Vivian was spacing out, twirling her hair. Jessica looked out the window like a sad, lost puppy. I was lost in my head, drifting from moment to moment of happier times before all this EMP shit began. I couldn’t allow thoughts of those last seconds before I squeezed the trigger at the angry bitch to surface. The repetitive recriminations of what-if thinking would doom us right now. We had to breathe in some relief first. Survival demanded it that away.

“Hey, Dad,” Jessica shouted. “You’re going past the exit.”

Whoa! I thought. What I am doing? “Thanks, Jessica,” I replied as I returned to the present. I stopped, backed up the car, and proceeded to our exit.

Most of the same cars were still stranded on the road. A few were pushed to the side, including the SUV with broken windows. Even in the affluent neighborhoods, there were some really bad apples. As we were anticipating our arrival, we passed the attorney Schiller’s house.

He owned a corporate law firm in downtown Boston. His home was a monstrosity of a palace, gated with at least one and a half acres of manicured lawn. My guess was that his BMW had met the same fate as mine. I wondered if his security systems still worked.

The last three years in the Boston area, we have had very cold and snowy winters. During a three-day nor’easter, it was common to lose electricity in the suburbs. It was very costly to purchase a natural gas generator and have it wired in if you were fortunate to have natural gas on your street. Unlike oil, there are no delivery trucks, and there is a meter that registers usage, which is all very convenient. The Schiller’s have an automatic natural gas generator. As long as the gas keeps coming, he will have electricity. The main problem though was that their home would make for a well-lit target.

We were now within minutes of our home. When our neighbors heard our car, they started coming outside. Its distinctive noise was the sound of a lifeline. “Crap,” I said out loud. “Too much notoriety.” It was difficult to stay under the radar when you were the only game in town. We drove by Officer Ryan’s house. His straight three-bedroom ranch had a small but well-maintained lawn. It represented the two-mile mark from our home. He had both his car and the blue and tan squad car in the driveway. He was on the night shift. He was a Massachusetts State Trooper.

All the time I lived here, he never talked much to me or his neighbors. Maybe he thought it would be a conflict of interest. Or perhaps it meant he wanted to maintain a professional distance. But this time he did a half salute with two fingers while he was dressed in blue jeans and his trooper’s tee shirt. I was sure to wave back. There was no use in burning that bridge.

“Hmm, girls, that was weird,” I muttered softly. I imagined him like my drill sergeant in basic training. It was the army way or no way. There was no deviation, no adaptation. When we fought the red coats, did we not adapt? Were they not lined up in a row and the patriots fired from behind trees and stone walls? Maybe I misjudged him.

As we pulled in the yard, both Alice and Randy heard the Buick’s engine. Without a TV, cell phone, radio, or other electronic gadgets, one picks up an engine sound very quickly. Our house was a twenty-year-old colonial. It sat on a little more than an acre of land. A nice work shed sat in the back of the house. Randy and I spent a lot of time there working on the Buick, the lawn mower, and the snow blower. The land sloped in the back to a swampy, wooded area. The realtor had showed this feature last. Somehow she knew our wants and needs, making sure to satisfy them first.

Alice hugged both Jessica and me. Randy had a big smile and was about to say something. “What the f– happen to my mirror?” Randy exclaimed in shock.

“We went through a lot, didn’t we, Dad?” said Jessica. “Yes, Jessica. Yes, we did,” I replied, about to collapse.

“Hi, honey,” Vivian’s mom said to her daughter. Vivian’s mom was shorter than her daughter. She also had a full figure. She wore a light black jacket, dress jeans, and a pullover blouse. It was not a typical biker’s outfit.

“Mom, how did you get here?”

“Your cousin’s bike. God, am I out of shape,” Vivian’s mom touted.

Before I could tell Randy what to do, he grabbed the keys and pulled the car behind the shed so it was out of sight from the road.

Everyone chipped in to carry in the water, bread, and corn. As we walked into the house, Alice informed me that it had been a stressful day for her and Randy too. I didn’t even get a chance to unwind or talk about the day’s event. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

No hot water gets old very fast. But we did have a gas stove. So far there was still gas coming through the town pipes. The main problem was that there was no electrical ignition. We had to turn on the knob and use a lighter. So far most of us just take GI baths.

Today’s events started to annoy Alice. She informed me that the police chief came by twice to talk about the Buick. “I think they wanted to confiscate it,” she said.

Vivian’s mom was in the kitchen. To me, this was not a good time to air out family laundry.

“Ben,” Alice commented with anger and frustration.

“Yes, dear,” I calmly replied, wishing I could just have a nightcap to calm my nerves.

“There has been a steady stream of neighbors and strangers coming here today,” she said with a determined point of view. “It seems many people know of our survival radio … and the Buick.” In a despondent voice, she continued, “Some had the audacity to ask to use our stove to cook on. These are people I have never seen before.”

“Dad,” Randy now chimed in.

“Yes, son,” I said as if I had the option to ignore him.

“Mom and I listen to the radio,” Randy said. “It seems that not only the president but also the governor has declared martial law for our state.”

I slowly looked at Vivian and her mom. I knew there could not be a reasonable conclusion. I was really emotional and beaten up. “Today I took someone’s life. I am not myself,” I said, but Alice pushed on.

“Look, Ben, Randy and I have been considering that we need to act,” she said with a commanding voice.

“Not tonight please. We will have a family meeting in the morning.” With angry and deep emotion, Alice shouted, “I am the one who worked, cooked, and took care of the kids. I am due my respect.” Then she started to cry.

“Yeah, Dad,” Randy said. “We have the car. We have marketing talents. We can go north.”

“What makes you the boss? It’s my car. I paid for it. I repaired it.”

Randy left and slammed the bedroom door. Anger and frustration was showing their ugly heads. Vivian’s mom walked over to me. She was wearing a large cross on her neck.

“Mr. Randal, sir,” she said in a soothing tenure.

“Yes,” I replied, hoping that this was not going to be a lecture.

She reached in her coat pocket and pulled out a small Bible. “Mr.

Randal, you’ve been a good influence on my daughter. You have been a father figure to her. This has had a stabilizing effect on her and me. I came here today and kept my hand on this Bible. I prayed. Dear Jesus, please keep the Devil away. Tonight, Mr. Randal, I want you to hold this Bible to make you strong. I pray for you to have the courage to do the right thing.” She smiled.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Vivian and I will leave now. We’ve got an hour of sunlight left.”

“No, you can’t. Please not now. There is some water and bread for you. Two women walking alone without a cell phone or protection is not safe. One dead woman is all I can live with. I will calmly make a concession to my wife tonight,” I said with resignation. “I will agree to the move in two days. I know we can survive this. The house and money are material things. God and my family are important. Even if in my heart I feel that it is the wrong move, I will do it,” I said with a slow, sad, and soft tone. I continued, “You have given me strength. Tonight please sleep on my sofa and loveseat. Tomorrow morning there will be no drama. Randy has a car and .22 rifle. You’ll be safe.”

“Mr. Randal,” Vivian said, twirling her hair.

“Yes, Vivian,” I replied.

“I still have the gun, you know, from the angry bitch,” Vivian stated, showing it to me.

“You’re right, Vivian,” I stated, my mind going into overdrive.

Jessica heard her mom crying. She made a vain attempt to communicate.

“Not now, Jessica,” her mother replied as Jessica tapped at her bedroom door.

I saw to it that Vivian and her mom were all set. The temperature this April night was in the upper forties. I gave each of them a quilt and one towel. I had to shampoo my hair in cold water. I put on a bathrobe and clean underwear.

God, this is going to be difficult, I thought. It had been an hour since all of the drama. I held the little Bible tight. I slowly opened the door. My wife was sleeping on her side, facing away from me.

That was uncharacteristic. “All right, honey, we will leave. All I beg for is two days. Today Jessica and I went through a lot. I took a woman’s life. I need to digest everything. It is difficult not only for us but for the whole country,” I commented as I pulled the blanket over me.

Alice put her hand on her mouth. I know she wanted to hug me. It was her own fleeting ego that stopped her. Both of us were emotionally drained. I slept with a tight grip on my borrowed Bible. Somehow it gave me a second wind.

Morning came. Days were getting longer, but it was still a chilly morning. Vivian and her mom were up. It’s hard to sleep when you’re not in your own element.

I looked at both as I headed to the bathroom. “Morning, ladies,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “Morning, Mr. Randall,” they said almost in unison.

After I finished with the bathroom, I went to Vivian’s mom, kissed the Bible, and handed back to her. I spoke clearly to both. “The pain is real. I have to come to terms with it.”

As I was walking away, Vivian’s mom stated slowly and clearly, “God has his own way and his own timetable. He will lift your grief.”

“I pray so. I pray so,” I said as I continued walking away.

Alice got up. “Well, the milk will go sour soon. We also have a couple dozen eggs,” she said with an accommodating voice.

“The French toast was not bad. I never got used to instant coffee, but it’s better than no coffee,” Randy blurted in his pissy mood, while Jessica joined us at the table.

“Randy,” I said, “we will leave in two days.” I had to throw him a bone to stroke his ego. “Would you be so kind as to drive Vivian and her mom home?” I said with empathy.

Feeling a little embarrassed and guilty, Randy replied, “Sure, Dad.”

Vivian and her mom grab some water and bread. As they were leaving, I said, “Son.”

“Yes, Dad,” Randy replied.

“Grab your .22 rifle and a few clips,” I said with calmness. “Come right back.”

They got into the Buick and left. Alice and I did not talk much that morning. I did not want to listen to the survival radio. Somehow I knew it would make matters worse.

“Alice, I am going for a short walk. I’ll be back soon,” I tried to say with respect.

“All right” she replied indifferently without bothering to look up.

The cold war between us was still on. Gads, I thought, I’m in a no-win situation. So I decided to go off to see my friend William, who lived down the street behind a gated driveway. He always had a calming effect when there was a storm.

Since it was harder now to keep clothes clean, I put on my gray sweatshirt and wore the same blue jeans as yesterday. It was a quiet street with a half dozen homes. I couldn’t ring the buzzer because there was no electricity. Fred was outside.

William’s wife signed up to provide care services for Fred. He was a challenged man in his seventies. Age had shrunk his height by a few inches. He stood close to five-foot-seven. He was a compulsive eater.

The state of Massachusetts was a leader when it came to the care of the challenged. Fred had a low IQ and was now a ward of the state. He had only a few teeth and was mostly bald. Usually he was smiling.

Every day he poured birdseed into the feeder, but today he was cursing the squirrels. He was totally oblivious to what had happen, and now he was putting up a sign. Since he couldn’t write, he would scribble.

“Hi, Mr. Randal. Just feeding the birds. I’m mad today the squirrels are stealing their food. I am writing a sign on a sheet of copier paper. It says, ‘no squirrels allowed.’”

“Would you mind telling William that I would like to talk to him?”

I said with respect.

“I will. Something is wrong with my TV. I can’t turn it on, and the van never came today,” Fred said while he was in his own world.

 

 

 

I met William four years ago while trying to do a little exercise during the week. As I biked past his house, he said hello. His wife, Ruby, was a teacher nearby. Like Fred, Ruby also liked to eat beyond normal limits. My wife found her a little overpowering, very quick with opinions, and a little short on sensitivity.

William was the polar opposite. At six-foot-one, his body only carried 170 pounds. I never saw him drink alcohol or eat meat. He was a very picky eater. He explained that he played Ping-Pong at the community center two to three times a week. He offered to take me if I was interested. I told him that while I was in the army, I played Ping- Pong. We were often on call, confined to the base, so I’d spend all my free time in the day room. There were several paddles usually without rubber on them. We chipped in to buy white Ping-Pong balls. They were always on sale at the rec room. I learned to hit the ball hard and developed a good rhythm.

Being from the Midwest, Alice knew I was not a womanizer. She encouraged me to have outside activities. She was a homebody. Family, cooking, cleaning, and a few sitcoms made her content. For me, I had to get away a little. I did like to go to the casino. It was a break from reality. There were no clocks, no pretense. It was another dimension of therapeutic escape. It beats paying the high price for a therapist. Plus I can have all the free drinks I want. To be honest, I was basically a social drinker. Foxwoods is a classy place. The drinks were watered down. They did not want a bad reputation. If I took a trip to Atlantic City, it was a different story. Two or three drinks, and I need an aspirin.

As I got older, I had to be pragmatic about exercise. Golf ’s a lovely game. It is time-consuming, expensive, and not really me. Tennis is a great game. In the Boston area, you should start looking to play inside starting in late October. Another big activity is darts.

It is a real fad. The throw line is three to four inches shorter than it is in England. Many of the bars support local teams. It’s great for business. Lifting a Bud is the only exercise. The calories that one gobbles down will cause a floatation device around a midsection.

William was right. Your mind and body needed to be tuned. With great anticipation I went with him to a Ping-Pong game. He was gracious enough to lend me a paddle. The rubber was different on each side. One was a little softer than the other. He explained that one was for control and that the other was for speed. Control? What was he talking about? I just wanted to hit it and deliver a Roger Clemens fastball. As I entered the center, I was amazed by the exquisite community center. The playroom had a pool table, shuffleboard, and a Ping-Pong table. There were leather chairs and a leather sofa. This was a high-end center.

We rallied for a good twenty minutes. He played to my level. Soon five Chinese players entered the room. They came mostly on a senior bus. Some who lived nearby did bike. William was a giving person. He invited them for a game of doubles. Ping-Pong was usually a game of singles, and you played until you reached eleven. We were the geriatric group. Most were senior citizens. They played doubles. It was less taxing. We also played to twenty-one. Still it was like tennis. You had to win by two.

William and I rallied with two Chinese players. Their Ping-Pong paddles were different. They had a shorter handle. They gripped the racquet with four fingers spread out and their thumbs in.

I grabbed mine like I did with a tennis racquet. We were ready. The game was afoot. Shock and Awe, that is how my first game went. The two Chinese players not only placed the Ping-Pong ball well but it came with a lot of spin. I really felt like a fool. My turn to serve. I hit a fast one just over the net. It did not bother them. They returned it with either an undercut or overcut to William. He handled it well. The problem was me. I could not handle it.

When it came my turn to receive, it was soon apparent that I wasn’t as skilled. The Chinese players I met were older and slender. Most were short, although a few were more than six foot.

This was their pastime. There were tables in homes throughout China. They learned to play right after they learned to walk. The lady could not speak English. She served an undercut spin. I blocked the shot, and it went into the net. The last two were overcut, and I nearly returned the shot to the ceiling. The Chinese player laughed. At first I thought it was an insult. Later I found that it is custom to laugh off your mistakes. They did it to themselves. In an hour or two, one can get a lot of exercise. Afterward, I would sit and talk with William. He was extremely intellectual.

There was a good mix of American, Chinese, and a few Russian players. Most of us were older.

After several weeks I noticed a lot of the Chinese players (not all) would only play with or against me for a short while. My level of play was likely not enticing. William suggested I take a few lessons. I talked to Alice. She asked if I enjoyed the game and the people. I told her, “I really look forward to it. The social interaction and exercise suit me.”

She said, “Go for it.”

William and I went to a town near Boston. They rented out a gymnasium. The master who ran the show was a high-seated player.

There were six tables and buffers around all of them.

There were several Chinese players. It was different. They were mostly young and training for tournaments. There were also several white players. Most of them came from Cambridge.

God, what a culture shock. It was east meets west. The city of Boston is known for its liberal political leanings, but Cambridge went to the extreme. Folks from outside of the greater Boston area often joke that the Cambridge city limit signs should read: “Entering the People’s Republic of Cambridge.” The players from Cambridge were white and very serious players. Most looked like they were ready for a GI inspection. Their shorts, socks, sneakers, and racquets were all pristine.

I felt a little intimidated. William was there, and he brought Fred with him. Fred did like to go. He picked up the Ping-Pong balls and handed them to everyone. He really felt accepted. With reluctance, I signed up both for play and lessons. The master’s wife handled the sign-ups. She made me feel comfortable. “Don’t worry,” she exclaimed.

“I will pair you up with another beginner.”

Two hours went by. Then it was lesson time. I went to the table with the master. He spoke perfect English. He had a crate of four hundred Ping-Pong balls. We rallied for two minutes. He assessed my level immediately. In a diplomatic way, he commented that I had to relearn my technique.

I was told to go on the corner of the table and get in a crouching position. I had to make my hand and racquet function as one. He spat out Ping-Pong balls like a machine gun. As I returned one ball, another was already on its way. Backhand and then forehand. Over and over.

The last ten minutes he served with underspin and over spin shots. He instructed me to mimic the server. If it was an underspin, I was to follow through with an underspin return.

Eureka. It really worked. My level of play was climbing. I came back for several weeks.

At this point I could play even some of the Cambridge players. Most were nice. One, however, had an elitist attitude. He had a beard and an unruly hairdo. I heard that he was a software engineer. He was a wannabe, so I challenged him. God, his serve had more of a loop than a Bill Lee slow curve pitch. I was humbled by a game that ended eleven to two. I thanked him. He walked away without a thank-you or a gesture.

William witnessed the whole event. He challenged the bearded player. Like a pool shark, He rallied just enough to keep up with him. The bearded one wanted to move on and said, “Let’s play.” William showed his pearly whites. His intensity and agility were high. He never allowed the bearded man to even score a point. He was humiliated.

This Sunday I felt would be my last lesson. I was becoming more accepted. A middle-aged Chinese man with two little boys came to me. He asked if I would like a game. Of course, I said yes. If my ego got any bigger, it would have consumed the whole building. “Great,” he said. “My son wants to play a game.” I looked down at the little tykes. Gad, maybe they need a milk crate to stand on, I thought. Their heads barely made it to the top of the table. I hesitated. Then I thought, I cannot humiliate him as I was humiliated. I accepted.

We rallied for a few minutes. That little tyke could play. I thought I would go easy on him. The first two points went to me. Then it was his turn to serve. He went to the corner of the table. He measured his distance so that it would be a legal serve. He held his racquet to the side. What is he doing? I asked myself. When he served, the spin on the ball took it to the side of the table. I did not even get my racquet on it. How much more humble pie could one eat? The score was ten to nine. One more point, and the little one was sending me to a therapist. He looked at his dad.

The dad gave him a signal with his hands. The little one acknowledged him.

The next three points went to me. I knew it was not me. The father was giving a lesson both to his son and one to me.

I went to him with my hands clasped and said, “Thank you for the game and your lesson.” He smiled at me and put his hand on his son. He spoke to his son in Chinese, and the son answered in Chinese. I guessed he was saying, “Dad, you should have let me wipe that white dude out.” I smiled and left the building.

Practice, more humiliation, and more practice have improved my game greatly. Now when I play at the community center, William observes something different. The people may be the same, but as Ed Sullivan said, “Showtime.” My level of play now almost matches the Chinese players. To beat me, they have to play at their best. I had gained their respect. These were great memories of the past. Now the lights were out at the community center.

 

 

 

As I was speaking to Fred at William’s house, I saw him come out the door. He opened the gate and invited me in. I walked with the bike to his porch. William was a good listener.

William had suffered two traumatic events in his life. The first happened when he was young. The other happened at his workplace in Boston. He had a high-level job with a major insurance company. In the end, the company did a personnel change, and William lost his job. It totally affected him. The unjust way they treated him did finally result in a large six-figure settlement. Money was never an issue with him. It was his fragile emotions that were severely damaged. He never spoke to me about his early childhood, and I never asked. Nor did I want to know. He did lend me a book he liked—Dr. Michael Newton’s Journey of Souls. After I read it, I was even more impressed by William. The next time I met him I turned in his direction and said: “William, you’re alright in my book. Someday I hope to be of kindred spirit.”

I confided in him about the situation that happened between Alice and me. I said to him, “If I do not leave with her and Randy in two days, our marriage is over.” William showed no emotion. After three to four minutes of silence, he muttered one word, “Collaborative.”

I said, “What?”

William stated again, “A collaborative. You have water, bread, a Buick, and the survival radio. I have cases of peanut butter. Mr.

Henderson is a contractor. He could dig a well for water. The Leonards’ have a gas generator. You can use it at each house to run everyone’s refrigerator. This way it keeps everyone food without spoiling. The Arnolds have always grown and used their own veggies.”

I reiterated, “A collaborative. Hmm, William I am going to see Officer Ryan.”

“Officer Ryan? He is two miles away. What does he bring to the mix?” asked William “You remember the New Jersey mobster actor who died in Italy of a heart attack?”

“Yes, Ben, I remembered him,” William answered with curiosity. “Well, the mob boss always goes to one who is paying for protection,”

I said as a light went off in my head. Remember what the mob boss would say?

“Heh piss on you. Do right and no one bothers you. Then you don’t need my protection.” “We should do it right and invite Officer Ryan in I said turning to William. Please tell the neighbors there is a meeting at my house in two hours.” I went home, got the bicycle, and explained my little game plan to Jessica. I told her to bring some spring water, two loaves of bread, and my one bottle of whiskey.

“Dad, are you inviting the man next door. He is a drunk,” she stated in a sarcastic tone.

“Yes, him too, Jessica. If we don’t, there will be hell to pay. I will be back,” I said as I got on the bike and rode off to Officer Ryan’s house. As I was peddling, I got a little nervous. I had never spoken to him. Two miles was easy on a bike.

“Officer Ryan, may I have just five minutes of your time?” I asked with confidence.

“We are all trying to survive this horrible event. My neighbors and I are forming a collaborative for our survival. I think we can help each other,” I explained slowly.

“I am not sure.” His arms were folded as a defensive gesture.

I continued,” It would be for your benefit too. Wear at least part of your uniform and wear your gun. Each of us has something to contribute. Together we can survive. If we go it alone, it will be to our demise.” I was finished. Saying anything else would be an effort in diminishing returns. I just got on my bike and left. After a short two- mile bike ride, I was home. My next-door neighbor, the drunk, was in my yard.

“How are you doing?” the old drunk said. He was thin, and his face showed the poison that heavy alcoholics drank. It was morning, so he was sober. He had lost his wife to cancer. His one daughter never talked to him. At least he was quite wealthy. “Your daughter talked to me,” he continued. “I don’t remember ever talking to her. She is a sweet little thing,” he said with surprised. “I guess we are having a neighborhood meeting, and I am invited!” Then he wiped his nose. “No one ever cares about me. My large inheritance can’t bring her back. This electricity thing does not bother me as much as the rest of you,” he said with a whimper. “I am not hurting anyone with my drinking. I am waiting for the Lord to take me so I can join my wife,” he exclaimed as he wiped a tear from his eyes.

Damn, I thought. I never knew this about him. “Do you still have that old watch? The one that John Cameron Swazi said, ‘It just keeps on ticking.’”

“Of course I do.” Then he showed to me. “This is a classic. It winds up with your hand. My wife and I saw the ad on TV. We watched I Love Lucy, and the Ed Sullivan Show. We would cuddle on the sofa. I always looked at the watch to see what time it was.”

“Couldn’t miss Ed or Lucy,” he said with a smile.

“Please follow me,” I asked kindly. I put and iron pipe in the ground.

I then drew a circle around it. Next I put twelve rocks in equal distance.

I then replaced two with larger rocks. I made sure they were opposite each other. I turned to our drunk and asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s 10:35, time for my first drink,” he replied as he looked at his watch.

I set the stones so that we had a sundial. The shadow now indicated the time.

“You really should eat a little before drinking,” I said with a helpful voice.

“The elderly council says the same thing to me,” he espoused. “They bring food over, but it spoiled in the fridge. Now they keep bringing canned food over. I have cases of food in the spare bedroom,” he said like it was a problem to him.

“We are having a collaborative meeting here in one hour,” I commented. “If you can hold off drinking until then, it would be an honor to have you attend.” I was trying not to insult him. My mind clicked fast. “In little more than an hour, we all can take one little sip of whiskey.” He looked at his watch again.

“We have a deal, I can wait another hour before I drink,” the drunk replied.

Jessica came out as I had asked her. She bought the bread, water, and whiskey. I told Alice I was having the neighbors over for a meeting. She was not impressed. Most came within an hour. With no radio, TV, or electronic devices, entertainment was hard to come by. William brought the peanut butter. I had to adapt. Too many to bring inside, I thought. The cold war between Alice and I was still ongoing.

We scrounged up chairs, milk cartons, logs, coolers, tool chests, whatever it took to find seating. Almost everyone came. I first gave out water and a little food. I even insisted that the drunk have a peanut butter sandwich. He ate. I knew that when a despot feeds his followers, it becomes easier to lead them. I am not a natural leader, but instinct told me that I needed to gain their trust and respect. I bought a bunch of branches and left them at my feet. First I gave everyone a sip of whiskey. Only Jessica and, of course, William did not partake. The sundial indicated it was not even twelve noon. Randy looked. He shook his head, thinking, Dad is drinking. Why not head to Canada with Mom now?

I stood up. “Look, everyone, I am not much of a leader or speaker.” I took a twig and broke it. But then I took a whole bunch and tried to break them. I showed everyone that I could not break them. “Maybe to most of you this is lame,” I continued. “Truth is that we are in a bad situation. By ourselves we are doomed. Yesterday I went on a trip to get spring water. To defend my daughter and her friend, I had to shoot at two people. I took the life of a young woman. It really is out of my character. The rest of us may encounter the same crisis. Either we will hurt someone or be hurt.”

I had everyone’s attention. I continued, “Each of us has something to offer. My son has the Buick. I have the survival radio. The Henderson’s can dig a well. They can dig it right over there.” I pointed to a spot where the ground sloped down. “One has a gas generator. One has canned vegetables.”

The drunk interrupted with a smile and said, “Besides a lot of alcohol, I also have a lot of canned food.”

“A collaborative is pool of talent and resources. I want to survive like the rest of you,” I said.

Ruby, William’s wife, interrupted. “But your wife wants you to move to Canada in two days?” Most everyone turned to look at Alice.

She turned and walked inside the house.

“Look, that is a possibility. We are working on it as a family. A good collaborative can survive with people coming or leaving.”

“I’m bored,” Mr. Henderson said. “My two sons and I are going to start digging. We will have you a well in a few hours.”

“I will bring a few cases of canned food,” the drunk replied.

Another offered to cook, and another to bring her veggies. Alice was still guarding our front door from our new friends. I thought it better to build a fire outside for cooking. My God, the collaborative was up and running. “Look, Randy, just tonight, please take the Buick out to the highway and look for delivery trucks.” Randy seemed unsure of this new activity, so I said, “Fine, I will do it.”

“Look, Mr. Randal, I am good at getting doors opened,” one of Mr.

Henderson’s sons said. He was a brute of a man who weighed more than two hundred pounds and was all muscle.

“You will need protection,” someone said. Everyone turned around.

Damn, it was Officer Ryan.

Mr. Henderson’s son got a couple of sledgehammers and crowbars.

Randy started up the Buick. Mr. Henderson’s son graciously offered Officer Ryan the front passenger seat.

Officer Ryan climbed in and asked Randy to stop at his house.

Randy obliged. Officer Ryan came out with his uniform on. “Now you have an official Mass trooper to protect you.”

Gads, it had been days since Randy had smiled. With adequate protection in place, they went off on their mission.

At the home front, digging the well proceeded smoothly. They didn’t encounter any large rocks or heavy clay. Twelve feet down they hit water. Mr. Henderson was very clever. Out of a few birch trees he built a high horse over the well. This would act as a lowering mechanism to bring water up. We started the generator up. Each house got an hour of use from the generator. This way we could all keep food from spoiling.

I was hoping if Randy came back in time, he could make another run for gasoline for the generator.

I had the fire going pretty high. With everyone chipping in, our survival camp was almost opened for business. I asked for a pool or tub. Mr. Henderson said he had a tub for cement mixing. Two of the neighbors had blow-up pools. It was slowly coming together. Randy came back then. They found an eighteen-wheeler. It still had food that had been scheduled for delivery to a large supermarket. The weather was still cool enough. Much of the produce was salvageable. Well water was generally safe to drink. But to be sure, we did what people in underdeveloped countries did. We boiled the water and then put it in a refrigerator.

Tonight I had to go for broke. I put a clothesline up. With old quilts hanging on the ropes, I relegated one area for washing and another for taking baths. A well and a good fire meant we had the means for heating water. With the generator running in the drunk’s house, we hooked up a 220 line for his electric stove. One of the pools was for washing clothes and the other for warm baths. This reminded me of my days in Nebraska—the community getting together and bonding.

Dusk was nearing, and we had a roaring fire. Hot water was available both for washing and bathing. Everyone had chipped in. Now we drew names out of a hat to see who would get the bath first. At this point Alice came out of the house. She thought of our days in Nebraska too.

Sometimes the Almighty shows up in a mysterious way. The drunk said, “Let Mrs. Randal go first. This is her land and her husband’s initiative.”

“Yes, Mom, you first” Jessica said. She put her hand in the pool. It was warm. With the roaring fire, the whole atmosphere was tantalizing. Alice stepped behind the quilt and undressed.

She yelled out to Ben, “This doesn’t change anything,” As she tiptoed into the pool, a smile appeared on her face. “Oh, Jesus,” she muttered softly. “This is heaven.”

The old drunk was really shocking me. He whispered something to Jessica. The next thing I knew, Jessica said to her mother, “Mom, can I give you this?” With her head turned, she handed her mom a glass of White Zinfandel wine.

The stage was set. A seed was planted. As she toweled off, we drained the old water out and put new water in for the next person.

Mr. Henderson had led a hose so that we could drain the water away from our area.

It was a grand night. We had food, wine, and clean clothes, and now we started to sing Neil Diamond songs. We sang as we held hands.

Then half of us repeated, “So good, so good, so good.” It was the song that was always played at the Red Sox games. It was also a song we could sing with our limited musical talent.

Now it was getting late, and it was time for bed. I said to Alice, “I’m off to count sheep. I love you, Alice. I will keep my word. We can still leave in a day and half.”

Alice had a half smile. It was a smile just the same. She exclaimed, “We’ll see. We’ll see. Good night.” Even in a Greek tragedy, I thought, there is always a moment of hope. This was that moment. I had played out my hand. Now I need to let the dice roll.

That night, even though I went to sleep late, I slept well. It was warm near the fire. I just threw a few quilts over me as I breathed in the crisp, cool air. There was a saying in these parts. “If you do not like the weather, wait another day.” Marathon day can come with hot weather or cool weather with rain and sleet. Usually when we have a cold, snowy winter, we have little or no spring. We jump straight into the hot weather. There was no electricity and no fan now. We were adapting.

I have learned to keep a pair of cotton PJs near me. Getting out of a warm bed into the crisp air is a bit like jumping into cold water. I put my PJs on under the covers. After a trip to the bathroom, it was time to get a little instant coffee. This time I put clean duds on. Today we would get the generator for thirty-five minutes. By using a power strip, there was a lot we could do. The freezer could make ice and keep the food from spoiling. I was sure Alice would be at the ironing board. I would also use the dryer to get the wrinkles out. Last night I had had too much to eat. Today I just needed my morning cup of caffeine.

As I opened the door, I found that the smell of the fire was still present. There was still a small flame where we were at. William and the drunk kept the place tidy. What an odd alliance, I thought. Now there was another small problem—rubbish. I figured I could throw everything that was burnable in the fire pit. We really should have another meeting. Maybe tomorrow morning. Too much familiarity can bring out nasty traits in all of us. Rubbish will definitely be a topic. I sat on a cooler. I couldn’t shake the thought of that woman I shot. This was strange. I really needed consolation from my wife. There seemed to be a gradual thawing in her. I wondered if it was this hard for Henry Kissinger when he had to deal with the Russians during the Cold War.

The sundial was working. The time was a little after 9:00 a.m. After twenty minutes or so, Mr. Henderson and one of his son’s came over.

“Morning, Mr. Randal,” Mr. Henderson said with an enthusiastic attitude.

“It’s great wearing clean clothes,” he said with a smile.

“Sure is,” his son chimed in. “Wonderful idea of yours, Mr. Randall. I mean, forming this collaborative. You give all of us hope when there was none.”

“Everyone contributed,” I replied, trying to be a little humble. “Hold on,” I said quickly. “I will bring out some instant coffee.” I went in the house, took my Bic lighter, and lit the gas stove. After I heated the water, I went outside. To my surprise, the son came back with some real cream for our coffee.

“Here you are, Mr. Randal,” Mr. Henderson’s son said with an uplifting tone. He continued, “It is not Dunkin’ or Starbucks, but it will do.”

At that moment Jessica stepped outside. Her hair seemed a little strung out, but otherwise she looked great. “Morning, Dad,” she said cheerfully. “Morning,” she said again as she gestured toward Mr. Henderson and his son.

Both the dad and son gave greetings to Jessica. Jessica’s insecurity and the fact that she didn’t want to lead on Mr. Henderson’s son showed. “Honey,” I said to Jessica. “Heat up some instant coffee for yourself. The Hendersons brought some real cream.” I did not want to mention his son’s name to her. If I did that, I know she would have declined. She came out and sat to the left of me on a milk cartoon. It was her way of sending a subliminal message that these were the boundaries.

“My sons and I would like to come by and do a little more work on the well,” he said in a respectful manner. “We would only spend a few hours a day here.”

Just as I was about to speak, Alice came outside with a cup of hot instant coffee.

“Morning, Jessica,” she said and kissed her on the cheeks.

“Morning, Mom,” Jessica retorted gleefully. “Morning,” Alice said to the rest of us.

God, I thought, do I have leprosy or some contagious disease? This is getting old. I wished the mail service was still running. I would have liked to order a Howard Stern blow-up doll. I could start napping with it in the shed. Not saying anything, Randy just joined us. He did partake in the coffee hour. The little pleasures made life worth living.

That cream was a big hit.

“Mr. Randall,” Mr. Henderson commented in a deep voice. “I always saw those ads on the Internet—you know, for the survival kits.

I thought it was a joke. Now I guess the joke is on me,” he said, shaking his head.

“The ones that sell for thirty-seven dollars or the upgrades for ninety-seven,” I said. With everyone looking at me I continued, “Some of you may want to have a shelter in the ground. Can you imagine living in a tight place underground with your family? Sleep, eat, go to the bathroom—after a few days, what do you talk about? How do you know when it is safe to come up? What if a family member asks to open the latch and check it out?” Now everyone was really listening. “I open the latch, look east, look west, and then poof, another nuke goes off.”

“Houston,” I said. “There’s a problem. I lower the latch and come down. My hair is standing straight. My face is orange except where the sunglasses were.”

At this point there was a smile on everyone’s face, even Alice’s. I continued on with my satire. “And what if you hear people feet above you, except they’re speaking Russian or Chinese or some foul language, saying, ‘God is great.’ At this point everyone is laughing, including Alice. Since I was on a roll, I continued, “Maybe the safe thing to do is put a mailbox next to your latch. One can open the latch to check the mailbox. If there are bills in it, you can come up. If you can’t afford them, go back down,” I said, laughing at myself. I then retorted, “With my luck, I will get a knock at the latch door. I will open it, and it’ll be an IRS agent in a gray suit.” Everyone knocked the IRS.

“The IRS would say in a threatening, businesslike manner, ‘Mr. Randal, you have a large bill that needs to be addressed.’”

“‘Sir,’ I would respond. ‘The check is in the mail. Problem is that it was incinerated along with the postman.’”

At this point I finished my coffee, and then Mr. Henderson stood up. “My son and I are going to start. Oh, and Mrs. Randal, it’s your turn at 2:00 p.m. with the generator. You might want to get ready. You know, clothes, electric heater, and your refrigerator,” Mr. Henderson said before he walked away with his son.

With her hands clasped over her face, Alice cried with joy.

Damn, I thought. William, you are a genius. Collaborative. I got up and grabbed a rake. I thought I would rake a little around our new survival area. After an hour of raking, I started to cut tree limbs and gather any wood I could.

“Dad,” Randy finally spoke up.

“Yes, son,” I answered with trepidation. I did not know if this was going to be a good-bye speech or a question.

“Some of the neighbors have given me several more gas cans. I think we might as well hit it now before it is too late,” he said in a tone that was more of a question than a statement.

“Randy,” I said firmly, “it is a good idea. Make sure you at least ask Officer Ryan.”

Then I looked at him with a fatherly look. “No women with you. Make sure you have at least two or three for safety.” Then I concluded my instructions to him in a stern, direct way.

“Yes, Pops,” Randy replied with a very happy and respectful tone.

I continued on with the wood cutting while Jessica went inside with Alice.

“Mom,” Jessica said to Alice.

“Yes, dear,” Alice said sweetly. She was still in a joyful mood.

“I do not think you’re being fair to Dad,” Jessica said in a tone of disapproval. “Dad is a good provider, and he is really trying to hold us together. It’s hard enough for him to protect and provide for us. He threw up and almost broke down when he shot that angry bitch.” With a little anger at her mom, she continued, “I see his face every time you give him a short answer. It’s not right.”

“I think you’re right, dear. I worked so hard when we were in Nebraska. I worked teaching all day. At night I had to cook, clean, go grocery shopping. Grad school was hard for your dad. It was his ticket for all of us to have a better life. I feel frustrated. I can see what your dad is doing to survive this,” she said remorsefully. “Sometimes when you are older, you will have the motherly instincts. We feel more than we think. It is in our special nature to be motherly, protecting.”

Enough said. Jessica left the kitchen area to gather some of her clothes. She wanted a few of the clean blouses ironed. When they come with the generator, Alice wanted thirty-five minutes of ironing.

After I finished with the wood cutting, I went for a short walk. The drunk and a few neighbors greeted me. They wanted to know when the next collaborative meeting would be held. I tried telling everyone that there wasn’t any boss. But to be practical, I suggested a meeting the next day around 1:00 p.m. I explained that I had heard on the survival radio that the president would speak at 2:00 p.m. and that we needed to know as much as possible. Perhaps it was my down to earth upbringing in Nebraska, together with the hours of having to listening to my father in law, the survivalist. Folks started to get the feeling that I was the ‘all wise protector’. On the inside however, I struggled. There was conflict between having some practical answers and understanding that I am not a leader who has to coddle his subjects. We all have something to contribute.

Strange, inside or outside our house, it was the same. No electronic devices, little heat. Today, with the generator, there would be some heat. Two people came with the generator. They placed it right outside the kitchen door. Alice and Jessica were waiting. Both seemed a little giddy. One man wheeled the generator around. It had its own wheels. The other had a wheelbarrow. It carried gasoline and a twenty-five-foot extension cord. After they checked the oil level, they pulled out the chord.

The noise was like listening to the Boston Pops. The house jumped with life. The refrigerator, the iron, and the electric heater were all in sync. Home sweet home.

William and Fred were walking down the road. William seemed more inclined to be in the company of Fred than his wife. With his age and weighing more than two hundred pounds, Fred fought a constant battle with diabetes. Fred’s kidneys could no longer take the high dosage of diabetes pills. He had to have insulin needles two to three times a day. William was very methodical about Fred’s care.

William had several months of insulin. He had chosen the viles instead of the pens. The syringes would run out in a few weeks. William was concerned with Fred’s sugar levels. I had told William that I planned on a trip to Boston within two days. It had now been a good week since the EMP blast. News was sketchy, and the mood among the masses was becoming more desperate.

“Look, William,” I said sincerely. “I have to go to the hospital to check on my mother-in-law. I will try to barter with the doctor. There has to be some basic medical supplies shipped in soon. The military planes have some protection with a built-in Faraday shield. We have to be positive.”

“Thanks,” he said with a downtrodden look. “I have not thrown the syringes away. If I have to, I will dip them in alcohol and reuse them.

It is better than no insulin shots.”

“There are a lot of hardships,” I continued. “The government was slow to react when Katrina hit. They were also slow when the hurricane hit Atlantic City.” With a disappointing mood, I continued, “I remember CNN and Fox reporting from the Superdome in New Orleans. A short bus ride could have bought them to a better environment. In all fairness, I don’t know if it is a responsibility of the state or the federal government. I know the feds can’t violate a state’s law. What I do not get is the lack of communication,” I said slowly and softly. “There were many who lived in inhuman conditions. There were also many who died. Atlantic City was also badly handled.” William nodded in agreement.

“Tomorrow we will have a collaborative meeting,” I said cheerfully. “The president will speak at 2:00 p.m. I feel he seems to really care about the people,” I commented with optimism. I looked at Fred. “God, he still is happy. He does not know the realty of the situation. All he knows is that he is taken care of. His mind seems to be on his bird feeder and those pesky squirrels.”

William headed back with Fred at a slow pace. I was sure his wife would feed Fred and William. It was a crapshoot to what I might find stepping inside my own home. Within fifty feet, I heard the Buick pull up. Randy seemed to have had a good outing. There were many stranded cars with gas in them.

“Look, Pops. The collaborative is well stocked with gasoline,” he said.

“Great job,” I said in a supporting tone. “That should really bring everyone’s morale up when we meet tomorrow. I continued on to our door. Randy parked the Buick in the back.

Alice was cooking on the stove. “I guess its spaghetti night,” I said to Jessica. She had this mischievous smile, a smile that told me something was about to happen. I went into the bedroom.

My clothes were not only cleaned but also pressed. There was a candle burning on the dresser. Outside it was still a bit chilly, typical April weather. Inside seemed warm. The electric heater was still a little warm, and the gas stove also was throwing some heat.

“What do you think, Dad? Nice to have clean, pressed clothes?”

Jessica said with excitement. “Mom and I make a good team.” Alice was trying to hide her smile.

Randy came in and immediately noticed the warmth and his pressed clothes. “Mom, it smells good. When are we going to eat?” Randy said cheerfully.

“In about one hour,” she said softly. “Would you mind setting the plates?”

We sat down and had a great meal. Alice also bought a bottle of wine to the table. This is a strange way of smoking the peace pipe, I thought, but I was grateful to see the thaw in her face.

At the dinner table, Randy related his experiences on the highway. And he talked about some of the people who were looking for anything they can find. “It’s a wasteland. Debris everywhere. I hate seeing the broken windows. There are some fine cars. The trucks we went into yesterday are now pretty empty. As we were driving, we could see smoke coming out of the strip mall by the highway,” Randy said as he finished with his little salad. “Dad, I think we should check on Grandma soon.” Jesus, I thought. Did we not just finish the cold war? Is this what therapy is? Are we to carry on like nothing happened? I thought of opening up a dialogue, but maybe this had been stressful enough on all of us.

I needed to think before I speak. I was still trying to figure out the woman’s mind.

“I really appreciate a nice, warm meal,” I said. I figured that was my way of smoking the peace pipe.

“Many of the runners would eat a big carb dinner the night before the marathon,” Jessica chimed in. “Where they start the race is a long ways from the finish line.”

“Over twenty-six miles,” Randy boastfully said. Cars and sports were Randy forte. Now that dinner was over, I helped with the cleanup. “It’s nice to have a full belly and a warm home.” I said trying to make small talk.

“Last night Ben reminded me of our days in Nebraska,” Alice said in a romantic way. “I really enjoy the culture, malls, and the opportunities of the East Coast,” she said. I could feel a big but coming. “There was more caring and gatherings of our neighbors back home,” said Alice, taking a little trip down memory lane.

I felt like this was letting out the fish line. You have to feel it out.

“Well, dear,” I said, trying to accelerate the thawing, “tomorrow is our meeting. There is a lot to talk about it. I also feel like the collaborative is bonding well,” I commented, choosing my words carefully. “The next day we can leave for Boston.”

In a deliberate way, I stated, “Tomorrow the president is going to speak. I really want to get a handle not only on the country but also downtown Boston. Randy said Officer Ryan was not home. I think either he or the commander got him back to work.”

Stress really makes me tired. Dusk want setting in. Lighting candles would serve no purpose. We still had flashlights to go to the bathroom. Randy was outside. He set up warning string too. He had learned how in an old war movie. One would tie together two tin can with nuts and bolts in them. They would be spaced about ten feet apart. The string should not be seen. This way if someone was to go after the Buick we could hear the rattling of the cans.

Emotionally I was still distraught—too much for me to handle. I could get relief through a whiskey bottle, but a look at the drunk ended that thought. I was a father and a husband but also the glue for our collaborative. It was not only a means for our survival but also a good social interaction for all of us. When the patriot players came out for introductions, they came out as a team. They did not come out one at a time. They were one. This was what I wanted for the collaborative.

“Alice, I really need to get to bed,” I stated boldly. “Tomorrow is a pivotal day.”

“Sounds like good advice, Ben,” Alice said with more normality.

In the middle of the night, I got up to go to the bathroom. Alice was sleeping on her back. She was not on her side with her back to me.

Huh? I thought. I do believe the war is over.

I had a decent night’s sleep. As morning came, the temperature cooled in the house. We were now at the same temperature as outside.

Sleeping under a lot of quilts, your body stays warm, but your face breathes in the cool air. It does put me in a deep sleep. When I arise, I feel rested.

In the morning I found Randy awake. We both made some instant coffee. With the refrigerator cooled down, I opened it. I decided to scramble some eggs for the whole family. So far with our collaborative, we were staying afloat. I did feel a little sad. I knew we had taken action, and we were surviving; however, I was sure many of the elderly and those who lived in high-rise complexes were probably not so fortunate.

I told Randy that I would be outside checking the sundial for the correct time. As the days passed in April, we found the sunrise early at 7:30 a.m. We had a meeting today set for the early afternoon. I wanted to cut as many branches as I could. I sat on my cooler for a half hour. I was enjoying my cup of coffee. The air was crisp, and the sun was magnificent.

I did hear the sounds of a cargo plane. The military must have been flying in supplies. The military and politicians made sure they were protected from all unforeseen events. We’ve known about EMP devices for a long time. It is a tradition that goes back a long time. Save the queen and king at all costs. There are underground bunkers for the top leaders. I wondered if our top leaders had evolved at all.

In my humble opinion, there have been three great leaders in this past century. First has to be Winston Churchill. The Nazi war machine rained down on London daily. As the stoic population sought shelter with each siren, Winston gave his famous speech. “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” It gave hope not only to the English but to all the Allies as well. They were hardened fighters.

My second pick would be President John Kennedy (Camelot). He was an Ivy League man who spoke eloquently. He was a Democrat and our first Catholic. His Boston accent made him distinguishable. He traveled to the Berlin Wall. In German, he told the Berliners, “We stand with you.” He gave courage to those who defied the Russian communist machine.

What impressed me was his communication to the common folks. He urged shelters against a possible nuke attack. This was more symbolic than a real solution. The main thrust was to let those KGB thugs know we were ready to defy them. He implored all Americans with one of his most famous lines, “Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.” Gads, that was inspirational. High school and other public buildings display this saying in their foyers to this day.

Like the license plate of New Hampshire says, “Live Free or Die,” he drew his line in the sand. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, he sent US Navy warships to form a blockade. President Kennedy was not about to let Russians install nukes ninety miles from Key West. As the Russian premier pounded his mighty fist, he sent the Russian submarines into action. They were there to possibly sink the American ships. It was an extremely tense time for the two superpowers. The most perilous time was when the Russian submarines lost contact with the Kremlin. The world outcome was in the hands of a resolute American president and the commander of a Russian submarine. The Russian commander could have sent a torpedo at the Americans. That could have had started a nuclear war that would have devastated our planet. Only the cockroaches would survive the nuclear blast. The Russian commander was sane. He knew there could be no winners. He ordered the submarines to stand down.

President Kennedy had a love for his country and our forefathers. His policies were made for economic growth. On that frightful day in November, he was taken from us. The horror and emotions went into infamy.

The third great leader in my view was President Ronald Reagan—a cowboy actor, a former Democrat, governor, and finally president. When he became president, the country was in turmoil. With high inflation, Americans were taken hostage. We were humiliated and appeared weak.

The economy spiraled downward. The Russian bear was getting fat. It snarled and breathed down heavily on Europe. The Europeans seemed passive and splintered. The great communicator talked directly to the American people. He explained in detail about the threat to freedom, to us, and to the world. He came up with a plan—Star Wars, which was a giant money pit. It was a ruse, a bluff at the poker table. To the Russians, it was real. They tried to match him. But their economy was in a fragile state. The Russian people suffered greatly. The Russians then spent the final ruble that broke their economy. They could not empty their pockets of any more change. Like the walls of Jericho, the Berlin wall came down. There were rumors that the guards were confused with their orders. Some historians say it was a communication glitch. After the wall came down, there was a domino effect. The Eastern Bloc was fractured and floating away.

Like Kennedy, President Reagan had love for his country. He enacted his supply-side economic policies. With the far-left liberals and most of the mainstream media mocking him, he carried out his policy.

He said with pure eloquence, “Rising seas lift all ships.” This was his theme. The economic seas really rose in the United States. Trillions in wealth was created. There were so many jobs that people from around the world were trying to jump aboard our economic gravy train. He did this not for personal gain but love of all mankind.

After President Reagan, the American experiment hit many snags. We were adrift. The political monster reared its ugly head. Instead of speaking from the hearts, government filled with professional handlers. The right and left dug in their heels. The Beltway caught a terrible disease called polarization. Instead of a love for country, it was a love of money and power.

In my opinion we drifted without a rudder. Our top leaders became wealthy while they were in office.

Their families and friends became wealthy. All the while I viewed Moses on top of the mountain, shaking his head. He saw all this greed and domination for personal gain.

Here we are in a terrible predicament. There could have been a biological weapon, suicide bombings, and number of other threats. In an open and free society, it is difficult to protect the people. No longer wishing to reminisce, I had to deal with our collaborative. The hardships were very real. I wanted another fire—fire for warmth, light, cooking, and purifying our water. A fire with stimulating social discourse outweighs being alone in front of a TV tube. As a good Christian, I knew there had to be a light at the end of this tunnel.

It was late morning. Already the Henderson family and a few neighbors came. I just hoped the drunk would show up sober. To my surprise, Vivian and her mom showed up. They both came on bicycles. Vivian’s mom indicated to me that she had to cook the meat in her freezer. It would go bad soon. I said to her, “Isn’t it dangerous for two women to be out in this wasteland?”

“I believe Jesus will protect me, but I also have this equalizer,” she said. Then she showed me a 9mm gun. I smiled.

We would soon start another collaborative meeting with good food.

One could only pull the rabbit out of the hat so many times. I was sure with the survival radio would be spitting out a gloomy forecast. But today for us it was sunny skies.

It started out more as a frat party than a meeting. But a constant drumbeat of gloom and doom came out of the survival radio—countless stories of deaths, riots, suicides, and mankind’s inhumanity to man.

Just west of the Mississippi River, survival tents were set up. They were intended to stop the flow of immigration into the unaffected area.

The whole country had been affected economically and spiritually.

Commerce, stock markets, and communications had been influenced throughout the whole country.

To make matters worse, biker gangs from Southern California went into the affected areas. They attacked the supply trucks to the tent cities. Just like Genghis Khan, they also went for the spoils. In this new lawless territory, there was one matter they did not count on. They were entering an area of guns and Bibles. To many of these simple people, they all had one common thread. There was no gray area. Either you were children of God, or you were doing the bidding of the Devil. After a while our new president did seem like a leader. When a convoy of supplies was sent, it was well protected. There would be no stagecoach sent out for the slaughter.

Everyone was here except Officer Ryan. We all chimed in and had a say. Even the drunk showed up and spoke with a coherent tongue. My God, would miracles never cease? We pooled our resources and ideas. I told everyone my plans for the following day. Right then Officer Ryan’s wife showed up. She explained that he was called to duty. Damn, I thought, there goes our mafia protection. I told her I was about to embark on a short trip to a Boston hospital. She told me that if I could wait one more day, her husband would join me. It seemed that the barracks commander had a sick mom at a Boston hospital. When he found out about the Buick, he asked for a favor. Well, her husband smiled and said he would oblige. I thought about it for a few minutes. I told her that I would pick him up early the day after tomorrow.

“Please tell him to be dresses in his state trooper’s attire. I do not want the Buick confiscated by another policeman or gang.” She agreed.

We all agreed on this change in plans, and the meeting petered out as the day turned into night. It was another day to be thankful for. Again the drunk and William helped to keep the area tidy. Well, it was off to bed for me. I was also off to a more receptive wife. I insisted that Vivian and her mom sleep here for the night. I told them, “You got to know when to hold them and when to fold them.” They both smiled and nodded. As Jimmy Durante would say, “Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”