Alone: Book 1: Facing Armageddon (15 page)

     So far, so good. He made a second loop, once all the cans had been drained of their water, and carefully slid each of the cans out from underneath their garbage. Then he took the cans, two at a time, back to his front yard, and over to the side of his fence.

     By three thirty, he’d retrieved all of them.

     Now was the tricky part. It was very likely that throwing the cans over the fence would make considerable noise. Certainly enough to wake up curious neighbors and make them look out their windows.

     He didn’t know if any of the neighbors would be able to make him out in the darkness, in the shadows between his house and the one next door. He certainly didn’t want to be mistaken for a prowler and shot at.

     He stood back, scratched his head, and came up with a solution.

     At least he hoped he did. In theory it would work. But Dave had found in years past that the best laid plans sometimes went awry. So he’d hope for the best.

     He laid the first two cans down and inserted one within the other. They were different sizes and shapes, made by different manufacturers, so the
y didn’t fit together well. The second one stuck out about a foot from the top of the first.

     But that was okay. That’s what he expected and in fact was banking on.

     He then put the third can inside the first two, and so on until he had one long stack of trash cans, laying on its side.

     So far, so good.

     The monstrosity was probably eighteen feet long, but was relatively light. So light, in fact, that Dave could start at one end, lift it up, and then walk beneath it, lifting it higher and higher as he went.

     Until the stack was upright and leaning against his fence.

     Then he grabbed the bottom of the stack and lifted it up, until the weight of the top-heavy stack caused it to tip silently over the fence and come to rest on the other side, in his back yard.

     He paused for a full minute, watching in both directions up and down the street for any sign of movement. Then he made his way back to his overhead garage door, eased it up, and rolled back inside.

     After securing the garage, he went into the back yard and carefully eased the tall stack of trash cans to the ground. And one by one he slid them from the stack and carried them to his back yard, out of view of anyone peeking over his fence.

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     Dave stood on a ladder late the next afternoon, after he’d slept most of the day. It was hard cutting into the aluminum gutter from above, at an awkward angle. It was made even harder because he was trying to do so quietly. He had an insane vision in his head of a man in prison, using a smuggled file, to quietly saw at the bars of his cell while everyone slept around him.

     It took him almost an hour to cut the first notch in the bottom of the gutter. It was about the size of a quarter, and during a heavy rainstorm would provide a good-sized stream of water
to flow into the trash can below.

     He moved three feet to the left, and started the next notch.

     His arms were burning by this time, mostly because to cut the notches in the gutter he had to reach the saw up and saw downward. But he’d fight through the pain. He didn’t want to give in to a little bit of pain and then end up cursing himself again if the rains came back before he was ready.

     By nightfall, he quit simply because he couldn’t raise his arm anymore.

     He finished the first four of the notches, and had four of the trash cans lined up in a neat little row beneath them, each ready to catch their fill of rainwater.

     It was a good start.

     The following morning the ground was finally dry enough to start planting his crops. He knew it would take longest for the corn to grow to maturity, so he’d plant the corn crop first. Then the wheat, then everything else.

     The corn was going to be a pain in the ass. He knew that going in. But it had to be done.

     The privacy fence in the back yard of the Hansen house was eight feet tall – two feet higher than his own. He was fairly confident that none of the corn would grow that tall, but he started the first row three feet inside the fence line, just in case.

     The ground was barren now, free of grass and weeds. It was no longer mud, but rather soft packed dirt. His feet left slight depressions, which gave him a great idea.

     In the back of the garage were a couple of extra fence posts. He didn’t need them for the outhouse or rain tarp projects. He’d just bought them in case he dreamed up a use for them later on.

     He told Sarah at the time, “If we ever need them for a new project, they’ll be here. If we don’t need them, we can burn them for fuel at some point. One way or the other they’ll get used.”

     For now, though, he had a perfect use for one of them.

     He put on a pair of heavy leather work gloves. The project would require a lot of manhandling of the post, and he didn’t relish the idea of ending his day with hands full of blisters and wood splinters. Hopefully, the gloves would prevent both.

     Back in the Hansen yard, he found the spot where he planned to plant the first of many corn seeds, lifted up the post, and pounded it into the ground.

     It left a depression about an inch deep. A perfect little four inch square hole that would retain the precious water Dave poured for the seed every couple of days, without letting it roll away and go to waste.

     Dave worked backwards, so he could see the depressions he’d already made. By doing so he was able to make the first row fairly straight and evenly spaced.

     He took a short break and counted the depressions. There were sixty of them.

     As he caught his breath, he did the math.
Sixty plants per row, and he figured maybe twelve rows. He had no clue how many ears of corn each stalk would yield, but he knew he’d have an awful lot of corn when it came time to harvest it.

     The wheat would go right next to the corn, to the west. He planned to plant thirty rows of wheat too, but the plants would
be a lot closer together.

     On the other side of the wheat, he’d plant a regular vegetable garden. Tomatoes and squash and cucumbers and a dozen other vegetables.
Each would require individual watering, plant by plant. After all the seeds were planted he expected to work pretty much from dawn to dusk, every day.

     But he had nothing better to do.

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     Hi Sarah.

     I hope you and the girls are doing well. I’ve been totally miserable the last few days, missing you. I’ve decided it’s the little things I miss the most. Listening to you breathe at night when I can’t sleep. Watching the morning sun against your face when I wake up before you on a Saturday morning. Holding your hand in the supermarket.

     I miss you so much.

     I don’t remember if I told you, but I’ve been
sleeping on your pillow for the last couple of weeks. It gave me comfort, because it smelled like your hair. When I closed my eyes I could almost pretend you were there, laying beside me where you belong. I think it made me sleep better.

     The scent is starting to fade now, or I’ve gotten used to it. In either case, I don’t notice it when I lay down anymore. I have to bury my face deep into the pillow to find it again. I hope it never goes away completely. It would be like losing you all over again.

     I’ve spent the last three days going back and forth between the Hansen house and our own yard. Planting the seeds is back breaking work. I made depressions where I want each seed to go, to retain water later on. It helps me keep the rows straight, but planting the seeds themselves is still a pain in the butt. I’m having to crawl on my hands and knees from one depression to the next.

     We never discussed the method we’d use to plant the crops. I guess we probably should have. But I always took it for granted that you’d be here when it came time for that, and that you’d lead the way.

     I hope I’m doing it right, without you here to guide me. The method I’ve chosen to use it to poke a hole in the ground in the middle of each of my depressions. I’m poking it about an inch deep, dropping in a seed, and then using my thumb to press down on the soft dirt to cover it. Whenever I finish a row, I carry pitchers of water from the bathtub, and pour about a cup or so into each depression.

     Do you think that’s enough? I sure wish you were here to guide me. You’ve always been the gardener in the family. I’ve always sucked at it.

     Anyway, I don’t want to overwater the crops and waste any of the water. I figured I’d start out with a cup every day until they came up, and then look at the leaves. If they look dry, like they need more, I’ll increase their water. If the leaves are soft and green I’ll keep it at a cup per day.

     I’m already tired of lugging the water back and forth. I could use the rain barrels at the Hansen house, but I want to get the water out of the house first. It’
s grown stagnant and is starting to smell up the place. Once the tubs and sinks are empty, I’ll start using the barrel water.

     I’m also still sawing notches in the rain gutters for the additional trash cans I
took from the street. I’m going back and forth. When the planting makes my back and knees hurt to the point where I desperately need a break, I switch off for awhile and cut the notches. Then when cutting the notches wears out my arm to the point where I can’t lift it any more, I go back to planting.

     I have four notches left to cut, and should finish them tonight. I should finish planting the corn tomorrow, and will start the wheat after that.

     I wish you were here to help. Shoot, I wish you were here for a million different reasons.

     Mostly because I need you by my side.
That’s where you belong. Not a thousand damn miles away.

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By the time Dave finished the fifth row of wheat, he desperately needed a break from planting seeds. He’d finished the notches a couple of days before, which was great. But without that occasional respite from the crop, he’d been planting full time. And his back hurt so bad he could barely walk.

     So it was actually pretty good timing that he happened to run low on
drinking water that very same day.

     He
and Sarah had stockpiled twenty cases of bottled drinking water. Their thinking was that if the EMP occurred during the summer time, when rainfalls were few and far between, and if they weren’t able to get any backup from the tap, that the drinking water would get them by until the next rainfall.

     Dave had been careful to save all of the empty bottles, and now that he was down to the last case, he knew it was time to refill them.

     His plan was simple. He’d use the camp stove and disposable bottles of propane to bring the rainwater to a boil for ten minutes. Then he’d let it cool, while a second stew pot heated up and boiled. Then a third.

     He figured that by the time the third pot boiled for ten minutes, the first pot would be cool enough to pour into the bottles. Then he could refill the first pot with more rainwater and continue the cycle.

     While he sat on the deck, watching the first pot come to a slow boil, he nursed his aching muscles. He never knew that farming could be this hard. He had a new respect for farmers. Although they had fancy equipment to help them along that he didn’t have, he felt somewhat of a kinship with them. He knew that they, too, worked from dawn to dusk and went to bed each night with their muscles and joints crying out in pain.