Sol Survivors 3

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Watching Baker chuckle as he read a letter piqued Colton’s curiosity. It appeared to be written on a restroom paper towel. When he finished, Baker looked up at him and Bic, waving the letter.

“From the owner of a gas station in South Carolina,” he said. “A couple of our street guys harassed the place after they signed on with Octo instead of us. This man possesses significantly more huevos than their network boss does.”

“Do we need to pay him another visit, then?” Colton asked.

Baker shook his head. “No, because he also has more brains than his boss. I’d like to hire him away, actually. He’s right. Saber-rattling is an expense neither network can afford at the moment. This racket is quickly becoming more about manipulating currency than selling gas or trading in vehicles, anyway. Gotta jump on the opportunities early, as they break. So we’ll stop the raids, but press on with our efforts to devalue Octo’s vouchers and inflate our own. That includes rapid expansion, now that our brand has a stamp of legitimacy on it.”

Baker bent down behind his large desk so far that only his slicked dark hair remained visible. The sound of a drawer opening and closing accompanied his reappearance, along with a carton of thin cigarettes in one of his hands.

“The good news is I’m getting my best district manager back. Lanny managed to arrange for his own release, wizard that he is. Do you two want to go pick him up, or would you rather take a choo choo ride to DC and let Vance and Dryden get Lanny?”

Colton and Bic glanced at each other. Bic’s face remained unanimated as usual, his large square jaw anchoring his face in place

“What’s in DC?” Bic asked.

“What the hell is a choo choo ride?” Colton said.

Baker scooted forward. “The new DC power grid is on and fairly stable, despite our weak-a*s efforts to stop it. The federal government is in the process of resuming some semblance of normalcy. They want to get the entire city running again. So they’re planning on granting assistance to former small business owners in order to lure them back. If you can’t beat them, join them. We’ll want to acquire any locations we can there, by hook or by crook.”

“I’m for that project,” Bic said.

Baker looked at Colton. Colton thought for a few seconds and nodded. It definitely had more potential for recognition than a simple escort errand.

“All right.” Baker set the cigarette carton down and picked up an envelope. “Here are two tickets for the next Triple-C run to DC, tomorrow. You can pick it up in Birmingham or Chattanooga. It’s an antique coal-burning train, in case you haven’t heard about it, repurposed from an amusement park. Gets you into DC before dark. You’ll be met by another agent from our northern operations, a chick named Lucy, who will arrange for your accommodations. There’s a picture of her with the tickets. You’ll find she comes in handy for closing business deals with men of certain weaknesses. Which in her case is most.”

Bic took the envelope, opened it, pulled out a photograph and whistled. “I can see why.”

“Take that briefcase against the wall, too. For Lucy. It has our latest voucher logs and branding equipment. You may also need to visit a couple new locations to explain the rules. And don’t ever mention Black Eagle, to anyone now, or make any further references to it at all.”

“Sorry about doing that the other day,” Colton said.

“It’s all right.” Baker waved a hand. “Old habits, I know. Get it out of your brains. If someone asks, you don’t know about it. You represent Vector. Plant that firmly in your head and on your tongue.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And here.” Baker pulled a stack of rubber-banded vouchers out of his top drawer. “Pass these wherever you can. Not too many in one place.” He tossed it to Colton.

Colton caught it in the air and looked at it. There were about thirty counterfeit Octo vouchers in it.

“And pay Lucy when you see her.” Baker tossed Bic another stack of vouchers. Colton could see that those were legit Vector vouchers.

* * *

“I’ve walked these streets before,” Ricky said, “when going to scout new holes on the river. Want me to carry the rods?”

“Yeah.” Joel handed him both fishing poles. “Thanks. There is supposed to be a yellow barn. I don’t see a yellow barn.”

“I see a yellow shed behind a house on the right. Should we knock on that door?”

Joel hesitated. No one liked uninvited visitors in the current times. But the urgency of the situation was a provocateur.

“Yeah, what the heck. Let’s try it.”

Three minutes later two men with shotguns opened a front door. One held back a muscular Rottweiler by its spiked collar with his free hand. The dog wasn’t sure what to make of the visitors and looked to its handler for instructions.

“My name is Joel McConnell,” Joel said. “I live nearby. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for a residence by the name of Wade.”

“Sure, we recognize you,” one of the men said. “We trade at your post on occasion. Here for Tuck?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Pretty sure he’s out in the shed working. You can just go around—”

“Joel!” a voice said from the side.

Joel and Ricky turned to see Tuck waving for them to come around the house, strands of his well-groomed gray hair rebelling in the slight breeze. Within a few minutes, Joel and Ricky stood above a workbench inside the shed. Behind the bench Tuck fashioned jewelry, by hand and with the help of small power tools plugged into a solar generator.

“I’ve been careful to keep it stable,” Joel said handing him the lump of clay. “I don’t think it’s squished or stretched any. It’s pretty firm.”

Tuck carefully took the clay, studied it a moment, and nodded. “Nice job. I’ll have it ready in a couple hours. I assume we can complete the transaction this evening?”

“Yes. In fact, I need to.”

“Great,” Tuck said. “See you in a bit.”

Back out on the streets, Ricky spoke as he led the way.

“So you’re only going to fish with me for a couple hours?”

“At the most. Ricky, what are your thoughts about watching my house for a while? I mean staying there with Red, to help out and keep an eye on everything.”

“For how long?”

“Not sure. Could be days, weeks, or even months.”

“Months, you say? Starting when?”

“Maybe starting tomorrow, if everything works out.”

“And where might you be going tomorrow for who knows how long?”

“Washington DC.”

“Ah, don’t tell me…” Ricky shook his head. “You’re not seriously considering becoming a city slicker again, are you? At the very first place that gets power back?”

“It is where I’m from, you know. I have another house there. Well, across the river, anyway.”

“Yeah, but city life again after everything that’s happened? You really think things are going back to normal just like that?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then what’s the rush?” Ricky asked. “I mean, as soon as the lights come on you go running back willy-nilly? With all you’ve managed to get going for yourself here?”

“It depends on what I’m offered, Ricky. That’s why I don’t know. I currently enjoy a reputation for creating a successful crossover marketplace. Who knows how long the window will stay open for leveraging that? The carrot they may be willing dangle in front of me could be pretty big. I need to see how big.”

* * *

Lucy caught the old coot’s eyes bouncing off her knees for the fourth or fifth time. Loosening the upper button on her top didn’t appear to have much effect on him. He must be a leg man. She scooted back slightly in the rusty folding chair and crossed her legs the other way, simultaneously pulling her skirt up on her thigh.

“So the tanks are still in the ground,” she said.

“Yeah, the USTs are still there,” the coot replied from behind his splintered wooden desk. “Haven’t been opened in years. The place was simply abandoned, and never cleaned up to code. Now all of a sudden it’s in demand. Like I told the octopus guy, you’d have to get the EPA to check it out and sign off before you could fill them and install one of those hand pumps on top. Knowing the EPA, they are probably going to find leaks, imaginary or otherwise, and require thousands of dollars of work—or bribes—to make them usable. Wouldn’t be surprised if they have to be dug up and scrapped.”

Lucy smiled. “We’ll take care of the EPA. Don’t worry about them. So do you want to partner with us and run the location, or sell out?”

The coot took his eyes off her legs, formed a twisted frown, stared out the dirty broken window, and chewed a piece of jerky ten or twelve times before responding.

“Can’t decide. Maybe neither. Maybe hold onto it and see who else shows up out of the woods. Maybe a bidding war will start. About time something went my way.”

“No one else is coming,” Lucy said. “Trust me. The property is too far from the interstate for the feds to take notice. They wouldn’t want a rundown stink-hole like that place anyway. Octo doesn’t have the connections we do with the government agencies. I’ll bet they peeled out of here as soon as you mentioned EPA approval. There aren’t any other networks operating in this part of the country, and aren’t likely to be because the three of us are acquiring everything usable. Yours barely fits that description, but we can still make use of it.”

His eyes went up and down her whole figure this time. “Connections, eh?”

She leaned forward until her eyes fell into his vision. “Mr. Jackson, maybe you should just sell. You don’t strike me as someone wanting to operate a gas station right now. It’s long hours.”

“I ain’t got no problem with long hours, missy.”

“Lucy.”

“Lucy. I’ve worked long hours my whole life. If I decide to sign on and run it, it’ll be run right. You can count on that.”

“Well there is more to it than selling gas,” Lucy said. “The garage will have to be open for minor repairs, and Vector is also actively engaged acquiring an inventory of certain vehicles, whether in good running condition or not. We buy most of them from customers who rumble in with them coughing and clunking. We’d send you a couple employees for that, a mechanic and a buyer who will work under you. But a district manager will stop by and spend a few days with you once or twice a month, and you’ll be under him.”

“Under someone at my own damn station?”

“That’s how it works, sir. In exchange, you get business sent your way, lots of it, and a prime slice of the profits. You do things right and you might find yourself sitting pretty in a few months. But if you are prone to doing things wrong, or tempted to skim the till, I’d strongly advise you to sell out instead. We are a serious venture run by … serious people.”

The old coot abruptly offered her a piece of jerky from a tray on his desk. Lucy took one from it without breaking eye contact.

“I make that in fifty pound batches,” Jackson said. “Got a deal with the local slaughterhouse.”

She looked at the fatty piece of dried meat, turned it around in her hand, and took a nibble.

“If this is your current livelihood,” Lucy said, “then you don’t have time to run a Vector shop.”

“Yes I do, young lady. I can have the beef slabs delivered to the station and the dehydrator set up in the garage. And I can offer it for trade with the customers. Best damn jerky in Ohio.”

“Now this is the kind of thing we like to hear from our partners,” Lucy responded. “Especially from people who can help the network. We own a packing facility, so can package this up for you and label it. Jackson Jerky, best damn Jerky in Ohio. I like the sound of it. We can distribute it at half our locations, as far south as Tennessee and North Carolina I imagine. It will add to your revenue. Jackson Jerky might even become famous. Only available at Vector, of course.”

The coot’s eyes brightened. Fifteen minutes later, Lucy had his signature on a contract. Her agreeing to pay him the front money in federal vouchers is what sealed the deal. He followed her out to her car where she gave him a box of initial materials and supplies from the trunk.

“Nice car, Lucy. Did you acquire this from one of your locations and fix it up?”

“Yep,” she said slamming the trunk of the 1969 Oldsmobile Hurst. “Stay alert and you could end up with something like this yourself. Expect a visit soon from your new employees. One of them will have the details of your first gas delivery. You, uh, may want to clean the dump up a little in the meantime.”

She accepted his parting gift of another strip of jerky and left him there watching her slowly pull away. Eyeing the sky, Lucy decided she had ample time to make Chillicothe before dark, so stopped at the newly-acquired property a mile down the road.

Out came the stepladder from the trunk, along with three cans of spray paint and two cardboard molds. She selected a prominent spot on the front side of the old building, set the ladder up, climbed, held the cardboard with one hand and painted. She repeated the exercise three more times, swapping the cardboard mold once and the paint cans twice.

When everything was put away, she stood to gaze at her artwork. The big green and orange V stood out well, with the rest of Vector painted in green not as visible on the dirty wall. But the red Coming Soon under it was bright.

Coming SoonBack in the car, Lucy performed her ritual of checking her Sig Sauer P365 in the leather bag wedged between the bucket seats before cranking the ignition. If anyone was watching, the last they would have seen of her was the strip of jerky being flung out the window as the white Hurst-Olds peeled out and away from the abandoned rural gas station.