Part 9 (2/2)

So ended The Day.

Chapter 7.

When nuclear fireb.a.l.l.s crisped Orlando and the power plants serving Timucuan County, refrigeration stopped, along with electric cooking. The oil furnaces, sparked by electricity, died. All radios were useless unless battery powered or in automobiles. Was.h.i.+ng machines, dryers, dishwashers, fryers, toasters, roasters, vacuum cleaners, shavers, heaters, beaters-all stopped. So did the electric clocks, vibrating chairs, electric blankets, irons for pressing clothes, curlers for hair.

The electric pumps stopped, and when the pumps stopped the water stopped and when the water stopped the bathrooms ceased functioning.

Not until the second day after The Day did Randy Bragg fully understand and accept the results of the loss of electricity. Temporary loss of power was nothing new in Fort Repose. Often, during the equinoctial storms, poles and trees came down and power lines were severed. This condition rarely lasted for more than a day, for the repair trucks were out as soon as the wind abated and the roads became pa.s.sable.

It was hard to realize that this time the power plants themselves were gone. There could be no doubt of it. On Sunday and Sunday night a number of survivors from Orlando's suburbs drove through Fort Repose, foraging for food and gasoline. They could not be positive of what had happened, except that the area of destruction extended for eight miles from Orlando airport, encompa.s.sing College Park and Rollins College, and another explosion had centered on McCoy Air Force Base. The Orlando Conelrad stations had warned of an air raid just before the explosions, so it was presumed that this attack had not come from submarine-based missiles or ICBM's, but from bombers.

Randy did not hear Mrs. Vanbruuker-Brown again, or any further hard news or instructions on the clear channel stations on Sunday or Monday. He did hear WSMF announcing that it would be on the air only two minutes each hour thereafter, since it was operating on auxiliary power. He knew that the hospital in San Marco possessed an auxiliary diesel generator. He concluded that this source of power was being tapped, each hour on the hour, to operate the radio station.

Each hour the county Conelrad station repeated warnings to boil all drinking water, do not drink fresh milk, do not use the telephone, and, in the Sunday morning hours after the destruc tion of Orlando, warnings to take shelter and guard against fallout and radiation. There had been no milk deliveries and the telephones hadn't worked since the first mushroom sprouted in the south; nor were there any actual shelters in Fort Repose. All Sunday, Randy insisted that Helen and the children stay in the house. He knew that any shelter, even a slate roof, insulation, walls, and roof, was better than none. There was no time to dig. The time to dig had been before The Day. After Orlando, digging seemed wasted effort. Anyway, there were so many other things to do, each minor crisis demanding instant attention. While radiation was a danger, it could not be felt or seen, and therefore other dangers, and even annoyances, seemed more imperative.

At two o'clock Monday afternoon Helen was in Randy's apartment, and they were listening to the hourly Conelrad broadcast, when Ben Franklin marched in and announced, ”We're just about out of water.”

”That's impossible!” Randy said.

”It's Peyton's fault,” said Ben Franklin. ”Every time she goes to the john she has to flush it. The tub in our bathroom is empty, and she's been dipping water out of mother's bathtub too.” Randy looked at Helen. This was a mother's problem. ”Peyton's a fastidious little girl,” Helen said. ”After all, one of the first things a child learns is always to flush the john. What're we going to do?”

Randy said, ”For now, Ben Franklin and I will drive down to the dock and fill up what washtubs and buckets we have out of the river. You can't drink river water without boiling it but it'll be okay for the toilets. And from now on Peyton-all of us--can't afford to be so fastidious. We'll flush the toilets only twice a day. Then I guess we'll have to dig latrines out in the grove because I can't haul water from the river forever. Matter of gasoline.”

Randy looked out on the grove, noticing a thin powder of dust on the leaves. There had been a long dry spell. The fine, clear, crisp days with low humidity were wonderful for people but bad for the orange crop. He would have to turn on the sprinklers in the grove. . . .

He slammed his fist on the bar counter and shouted, ”I'm a d.a.m.n fool! We've got all the water we want!”

”Where?” Helen asked.

”Right out there!” Randy waved his arms. ”Artesian water, unlimited!”

”But that's in the grove, isn't it?”

”I'm sure we can pipe it into the house. After all, that's the same water the Henrys use every day. I think there are some big wrenches in the garage and Malachai will know how to do it. Come on, Ben, let's go over to the Henrys'.”

Randy and the boy walked down the old gravel and clay road that led from the garage through the grove and to the river. Randy's navels had been picked, but the Valencias were still on the trees. They would not be picked this year. Matching strides with Randy, Ben Franklin said, ”I just thought of something.” ”Yes?”

”I don't have to go to school any more.”

”What makes you think you don't have to go to school? As soon as things get back to normal you're going to school, young feller. Want to grow up to be an ignoramus?”

Ben Franklin scuffed a pebble, looked up sideways at Randy, and grinned. ”What school?”

”Why, the school in Fort Repose, of course, until you can go back to Omaha, or wherever your father is stationed.”

Ben stopped. ”Just a minute, Randy. I'm not fooling myself. n.o.body's going back to Omaha, maybe ever. And I don't think I'll ever see Dad again. The Hole wasn't safe, you know. Maybe you think so. I know Mother does. But I'm not fooling myself, Randy, and don't you try to fool me.”

Randy put his hands on the boy's shoulders and looked into his face, measuring the depth of courage behind the brown eyes, finding it at least as deep as his own. ”Okay, son,” he said, ”I'll level with you. I'll level with you, and don't you ever do anything less with me. I think Mark has had it. I think you're the man of the family from now on.”

”That's what Dad said.”

”Did he? Well, you're a man who still has to go to school. I don't know where, or when, or how. But as soon as school reopens in Fort Repose, or anywhere around, you go. You may have to walk.”

”Golly, Randy, walk! It's three miles to town.”

”Your grandfather used to walk to school in Fort Repose. When he was your age there weren't any school busses. When he couldn't hitch a ride in a buggy, or one of the early automobiles, he walked.” Randy put his arm around the boy's shoulder. ”Let's get going. I guess we'll both have to learn to walk again.”

They walked down to the dock, and then followed a trail that led through the dense hammock to the Henrys' cleared land. The Henrys' house was divided into four sections, representing four distinct periods in their fortunes and history. The oldest section had originally been a one-room log cabin. It was the only surviving structure of what had once been the slave quarters, and Randy recalled that his grandfather had always referred to the Henrys' place as ”the quarters.” In recent years the cabin had been jacked up and a concrete foundation laid under the stout cypress logs. The logs, originally c.h.i.n.ked with red clay, were bound together with white-washed mortar. It was now the Henrys' living room: Late in the nineteenth century a two-room pine shack had been added to the cabin. In the 'twenties another room, and a bath, more soundly constructed, had been tacked on. In the 'for ties, after Two-Tone's marriage to Missouri, the house had been enlarged by a bedroom and a new kitchen, built with concrete block. It was a comfortable hodgepodge, its ugliness concealed under a patina of flame vine, bougainvillea, and hibiscus. A neat green bib of St. Augustine gra.s.s fell from the screened porch to the river bank and dock. In the back yard was a chicken coop and wired runs, a pig pen, and an ancient barn of unpainted cypress leaning wearily against a scabrous chinaberry tree. The barn housed Balaam, the mule, the Model-A, and a hutch of white rabbits.

Fifty yards up the slope Preacher Henry and Balaam solemnly disked the land, moving silently and evenly, as if they perfectly understood each other. Caleb lay flat on his belly on the end of the dock, peering into the shadowed waters behind a piling, jigging a worm for bream. Two-Tone sat on the screened porch, rocking languidly and lifting a can of beer to his lips. From the kitchen came a woman's deep, rich voice, singing a spiritual. That would be Missouri, was.h.i.+ng the dishes. Hot, black smoke from burning pine knots issued from both brick chimneys. It seemed a peacefiil home, in time of peace.

Ben Franklin yelled, ”Hey, Caleb!”

Caleb's face bobbed up. ”Hi, Ben,” he called. ”Come on out.”

”What're you catching?” ”Ain't catchin,' just jiggin'.”

Randy said, ”You can go out on the dock if you want, Ben, but I'll probably need your help in a while.”

Ben looked surprised. ”Me? You'll need my help?”

”Yep,” Randy said. ”A man of the house has to do a man's work.”

Preacher Henry dropped his reins, yelled, ”Ho!” and Balaam stopped. Preacher walked across the dusty field, to be planted in corn in February, to meet Randy. Malachai came out of the barn. He had been under the Model-A. Two-Tone stopped rocking, put down his can of beer, and left the porch. Inside, Missouri stopped singing.

Randy walked toward the back door and the Henrys converged on him, their faces apprehensive. Malachai said, ”h.e.l.lo, Mister Randy. Hope everything's all right.”

”About as right as they could be, considering. Everything okay here?”

”Just like always. How's the little girl? Missouri told me she was about blinded.”

”Peyton's better. She can see now and in a few days she'll be allowed outside again. No permanent injury.”

”The Lord be merciful!” said Preacher Henry. ”The Lord has spared us, for the now. I knew it was a-comin', for it was all set down, Alas, Babylon!” Preacher's eyes rolled upward. Preacher was big-framed, like Malachai, but now the muscles had shrunk around his bones, and age and troubles deeply wrinkled and darkened his face.

Randy addressed his words to Preacher, because Preacher was the father and head of the household. ”We don't have water in our house. I want to take up some pipe out of the grove and hook it on to the artesian system.”

”Yes, sir, Mister Randy! I'll drop my diskin' right now and help.”

”No, you stick with the disking, Preacher. I thought maybe Malachai and Two-Tone could help.”

Two-Tone, who was called Two-Tone because the right side of his face was two shades lighter than the left side, looked stricken. ”You mean now?” Two-Tone said.

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