Shortage (Best Laid Plans Book 2) (26 page)

In spite of the awkwardness Sam didn't complain, insisting that she actually didn't mind being a part of the close-knit family unit with loved ones all around. And, perhaps because they were so hard to come by, Matt treasured their opportunities to spend time alone together all the more.

Still, when he brought up building a house in the spring Sam definitely didn't seem opposed to the idea, although she insisted that it was a secondary concern when they already had a place to live and so many more important things to worry about.

One nice thing about living with the rest of the family in the shelter, same as they had before the wedding, was that their new life together felt like it flowed seamlessly from their old life with no awkward interruptions, and their honeymoon never seemed to end as they settled into being married.

It also helped that Christmas came just over a week later. Matt's family had never been much for celebrating holidays, and according to Sam her family's Christmas tradition was a half hour or so of opening presents in the morning and then the rest of the day was pretty much normal.

This year, however, Matt had a bit more insight into the much anticipated and eagerly celebrated event he'd seen in old classic movies or read in stories from the Old West or Victorian Era. It made sense in a way, since without television or internet to distract them, and with so much worry and suffering around them, any holiday would be both entertainment and distraction, an excuse to forget everything and celebrate with loved ones for a while.

They brought the best young evergreen tree they could find from the foothills and spent long evening hours that week carving ornaments out of bits of wood from the woodpile, since they'd left their own ornaments at home. Matt's mom had gone to visit Jane, much improved and who'd left the storehouse clinic and had been living with her refugee group for weeks now, and insisted the refugees have the Larson family ornaments to decorate their own tree. She wouldn't hear of the redheaded woman's protests, insisting that carving new ornaments gave them all something to do.

Even Aaron was given a bit of styrofoam packing that might once have been considered garbage to whittle into a snowman. Meanwhile Paul was given the important job of breaking the remaining styrofoam into snowflakes, to be pinned onto the pointy bulbs of the strings of LED lights Lewis had hung along the walls to light the shelter before Ferris took the solar panels.

Which was too bad, since they were technically Christmas lights repurposed for general lighting and would've perfectly fit the holiday spirit.

In an attempt to lift the town's spirits for at least a short time Catherine organized a celebration in the town square on Christmas Eve, complete with a large decorated tree and carols. And while there was no wassail or hot chocolate she did manage to get her hands on several boxes of herbal tea, which along with dollops of precious honey made an enjoyable drink for townspeople to warm their hands around as they sang.

She further tried to raise spirits with a dance on Christmas day in the auditorium, one that Matt and Sam were only too happy to attend. Neither of them was a particularly good dancer, but then again no one around them seemed to be either and that didn't seem to be stopping anyone.

Altogether between family and friends Matt didn't think he'd ever celebrated a more enjoyable Christmas, not even as a kid when the magic of the holidays was so much more exciting. Even New Year's Eve, which he'd never considered much of a holiday, was given special treatment as everyone in Aspen Hill looked forward to a year where things improved, clinging to that hope in spite of all evidence to the contrary.

Because unfortunately aside from the wedding and holidays there wasn't much to celebrate that winter. Thanks to Trev's generosity with his cache and Lewis's (assumed) generosity letting them stay at the shelter and draw from his massive woodpile, Matt and his family were far better off than the rest of the town.

Which wasn't to say things were perfect. They had to viciously ration Trev's gift to make it stretch among 8 people through the cold months, and over time all of them grew thin and weak and listless. They got sick more frequently as well, which was a great concern in their weakened states and required larger meals to nurse them back to health.

That concern was even greater when they were all effectively sharing one room with only curtains to divide beds, since sickness tended to spread. At one point in January everyone but Sam fell sick at once for almost a week, nothing life threatening it seemed but enough to keep them all weak and feverish in bed. Matt's new wife was driven almost to exhaustion caring for them all, and although he tried to help as much as he could he'd been hit the worst out of everyone and could barely stand.

That was probably because he was the most active out of the group, since he was often out on patrol or organizing the rosters down at town hall or responding to crises in the town. With all that he worked himself even harder than Terry, who was kept busy doing his best to care for the sick and injured as the town's only doctor.

Their family in the shelter was better fed and kept warmer than almost everyone else, while the former intern surgeon found himself dealing with increasing number of patients among the townspeople who weren't so fortunate. As far as they could tell they'd managed to prevent the flu down in Price from spreading to Aspen Hill, but even so people were coming to Terry in droves for other illnesses, injuries, or more direly as they approached the perilous brink of starvation.

In growing desperation Mayor Tillman had haggled to purchase any spare animals townspeople had, even horses and dogs, to butcher for meat. She couldn't offer anything but IOUs or less valuable commodities, which was everything but food these days when everyone was starving. Precious metals, jewelry, even ammo found itself seriously devalued, but Catherine offered what she could to try to feed those on the brink of starvation.

It wasn't nearly enough. Terry knew the numbers better than anyone since he saw many of the deaths, and Matt learned of the others from the Mayor during their weekly councils.

All in all over a third of the residents of Aspen Hill had perished by the end of February. Among the refugees it was closer to two-thirds. Many of those deaths were among the older and younger members of the population, those most vulnerable to sickness once they were weakened from hunger. Although even the healthiest members of the community weren't always spared. Matt ended up attending funerals nearly every day, one of the few strong enough to help dig graves in the frozen soil.

It was brutal work, especially with the specter of cold and exhaustion looming over him, and with every shovelful Matt thought of Ferris with more and more bitterness.

Terrible as it was to think of, if the administrator hadn't fed the refugees with the town's food far more of the people of Aspen Hill would've survived. The grim tradeoff would've been that almost all the refugees would certainly have died, but heartless as it sounded Matt would've preferred to be burying strangers rather than friends.

Which wasn't to say the refugees weren't doing their part. Under Ben and Catherine's leadership they'd integrated well into the town, and aside from a few exceptions Matt had no complaints about the new citizens helping defend their borders. In truth he had almost as much trouble from the townspeople he worked with. But any trouble he had from the people reporting to him paled in comparison to what he was forced to deal with from the rest of the townspeople.

Following the Mayor's strict crackdown on crime after the refugees were integrated into the town thefts had dropped to almost nothing, but as the cold and starvation took its toll crime gradually started to climb again. Many, in the last extreme faced with death or theft, did what they thought they had to. And since the refugees were the worst off a disproportionate amount of that desperate violence and stealing came from them.

Matt, Catherine, and Bert Peterson were faced with many difficult and sad choices as they held strict to the Mayor's policy of exile for theft and other crimes. It was easy to assume it was a more lenient punishment when the weather was fair, but in the depths of winter exile was practically a death sentence and they all knew it.

Tormented by her determination to keep the promises she'd made Catherine had a harder and harder time insisting that the sentencing be enforced, although she stayed firm in her resolve. As for Matt, the only reason he was able to carry the punishments out on her behalf was because he wasn't the one making the decisions. That helped, some.

The same couldn't be said for Bert. The elderly retired lawyer had gravely upheld his duties judging the members of Razor's gang after they attacked the town, but it had weighed on him. He was used to a system where those condemned to death often waited a decade or more through a lengthy process of appeals and other legal proceedings. He'd gone along with the hasty sentencing and carrying out the executions because of the dire situation and the clear guilt of the condemned men, but it had taken its toll.

The later sentences he had to hand out, especially exile, nearly broke him. He even tried arranging a meeting to discuss more lenient punishments for theft, but the town wouldn't hear of it. Everyone else was just as desperate as those who were stealing, and the threat of exile was the only thing keeping the town from collapsing into chaos.

In the end Bert had pled to be excused from his position as town judge, and no one had begrudged him the decision. In his place a tribunal consisting of six members of the community, including Ben and Chauncey, was set up to pass judgment on crimes. It was a solution almost everyone was satisfied with, and it kept the town relatively peaceful.

Not that there weren't a few exceptions. The worst came early in March, when the shelter itself came under attack by a dozen starving people.

Chapter Twelve

Desperate Times

Matt's legs felt dead by the time he finished his patrol shift west of town.

He'd walked it dozens of times over the winter, and it wasn't so great a distance, but any distance stretched on into infinity when all he'd had for the last ten meals was a cake the size of his palm. They were made of boiled wheat mashed into a paste, and for the breakfast cake included Henrietta's daily egg mixed into enough batter for eight people, then fried in olive oil and drizzled in honey. They took turns licking the remaining oil off the pan when the meal was finished, and it was almost depressing how much of a treat that had become.

From the first Matt had tried to have his people patrol in pairs for their safety, and he'd managed it for a while, but now he walked alone. He had less than a quarter of the volunteers he'd once had defending the town. Some had died, which was heartbreaking, but more had abandoned what felt to them like a worthless chore when they'd had less than a dozen incidents all winter and the only real fight any of them faced was against starvation. They argued that their time could be better spent searching for food than for enemies that weren't coming.

Matt couldn't fault them for the decision, but it did worry him. The radios still worked, the guns were mostly in good repair, plans for defense of the town and calling up swift response defenders at the first sign of a threat were laid out, but none of it would do any good if they didn't have people out there to give advance warning of a possible attack.

So he kept to the routes, taking more and more shifts as less and less people showed up to do them. Those who stayed with him at the task were mostly people who'd lost someone in Razor's attack, or younger men whose families had survived the winter better like the Watson boys. But even they showed up lest often, and seemed more halfhearted at it.

Surprisingly Jane was out there almost as much as Matt himself, although he had the feeling she wasn't motivated by loyalty to the town. The hunting parties had to split the meat among them, and give a portion to the town in exchange for use of the guns and ammunition. Meanwhile anyone on patrol who managed to bring down game also had to give the town its portion, but the rest was theirs.

Matt had seen her ranging far out beyond the patrol route, particularly in places where the terrain might encourage game to follow predictable paths down from the mountains. And truth be told her refugee group
was
faring better than most of the town under her care, fed by the consistent meat she brought in. In spite of the extended ranging she carried out her duties on patrol as expected, and Matt couldn't begrudge her for her resourcefulness: attentive eyes had an equal chance of spotting humans as game, so she wouldn't miss any potential threats.

In truth he had to admire what she managed, caring for the group practically all by herself with whatever help Tom and Alvin Harding, neither of whom were particularly good shots, managed to provide. Matt did his best to do the same for his family, but a lot of the time he felt like he wasn't managing as well as he could. It physically pained him to see how much weight Sam had lost over the winter: she'd always been petite, but now she felt like just a wisp in his arms. Even worse, her cheery optimism had given way to the same sort of plodding dullness he saw in too many faces these days as she mustered the energy to do only what needed to be done.

It scared him.

He knew he wasn't much better off. He'd always been skinny, but now the face that looked back at him in the mirror when he shaved every few days was practically skeletal. He had trouble finding the strength to do more than plod along at a walk, and his arms trembled if he held his rifle up for more than a few seconds to look through the scope. He'd tried to follow Jane's example and find his own game on patrol, but she was either luckier than him or had a better idea of where and how to look. Probably the latter. All he'd managed were a few skinny rabbits and a single doe, which he still counted a blessing.

But his shift was over now, and that meant another cake that wasn't enough but that he desperately needed. More importantly, that meant he could collapse on his cot and rest for a few minutes with Sam in his arms, enjoying being with her for as long as he could afford to before getting back to the business of staying alive. Even a week ago the prospect of that would've been enough to put a spring in his step in spite of his weariness, but now it only served to keep him on his feet long enough to get home.

Smoke drifted up from beyond the shorter hill which lay between him and the shelter, since he was approaching from the west, and as he circled it and the shelter came into view he couldn't help but be grateful for the warmth he knew would be waiting for him inside.

Before going in, though, he made his way up to the observation post to greet April, who was sprawled listlessly staring through the scope of their dad's .30-06. Her gauntness worried him as well, especially when he saw her like this, perhaps even more so because she always made an effort to put up a cheerful and energetic front when she was around other people, hiding her suffering as best she could. Like she did now when she finally noticed him, only ten or so feet from the observation post, and scrambled to her feet to give him a wave.

“It's been nice lately,” she said, holding her arms out as if to embrace the sun. “I know this is just the “in like a lamb” part of March, but it still feels like spring's just around the corner.”

“I hope so,” Matt said, unable to share her mood. “Old Man Winter's overstayed his welcome.”

April sniffed, taking in the scents of baking on the smoke that drifted their way, and Matt heard her stomach growl. “Oh, that smells good. The same thing we've had for the last dozen meals straight and it's still making my mouth water.” She picked up the rifle and slung it over her shoulder. “I'm going to come in and eat with you guys.”

He hesitated, about to object, but then he thought of how close he'd come before she even noticed him. She needed a break, even from something as easy as sitting in the observation post scouting the area. And he was too tired to protest anyway, so he nodded and led the way down into the shelter.

Sam was at the stove frying the cakes, hands trembling slightly on the spatula when she flipped one. Matt came over and put his arms around her from behind, kissing the top of her head, and she gave a contented sigh and settled back against him as she kept working. The rest of the family drifted in for the meal, even Terry from the clinic, and gathered around the stove in anticipation. He heard more than one stomach growling.

Before too long the meal was ready, and they settled down on their cots in the living area with the curtains drawn back so they could all see each other, tossing the hot cakes from hand to hand.

Matt had just finished swallowing his first bite and was about to take a second when he caught movement outside on the ramp leading down to the door. At first his dull wits didn't ring any alarm bells at that, until he remembered that his entire family was gathered around him also eating. Even then it wasn't enough for concern, since he thought it might be someone they knew coming for a visit. That happened on occasion, so he was in no hurry as he looked up to see who it was.

Which turned out to be a gaunt, raggedly dressed man he vaguely recognized creeping for the door, pistol in one hand and eyes squinting into the relative darkness of a large underground space lit only by a single stove in back and light coming through the door. Behind him other figures crowded the ramp, clearly visible in the afternoon sun streaming in around them.

Time seemed to slow down, and the world froze as the fog around Matt's mind vanished into mounting horror. Sam sat beside him, between him and the door. The boys were sprawled on the floor gnawing on their cakes not two feet away from Matt's feet, directly in the gunman's line of sight. In fact, sitting there eating their lunch with an open door and no one manning the observation post they were
all
in his line of sight like fish in a barrel.

Matt drew the .40 he always kept on his hip and pointed it towards the door, inches from Sam's face. In spite of her own haze of hunger and exhaustion his wife had the presence of mind to duck back, hands darting to her ears, as he opened fire.

The shots echoed deafeningly in the enclosed metal space, and the placid sounds of eating and murmured conversation were replaced by his family's screams.

The gunman fell, his pistol thumping onto the carpet inside the shelter as its owner slumped across the threshold. Another man behind the first also fell, and with the sort of agility that comes from seeing a gun being fired your way the other attackers all dove back up the ramp and out of sight.

Matt bolted for the door, kicking at the groaning gunman to get him clear so he could close it. In the painfully bright sunlight outside he saw a dozen or more men and even a few women standing or sprawled around the ramp, some with guns but most bearing machetes or wood axes or other improvised weapons. The few guns he saw lifted his way, and Matt threw his weight behind the door and slammed it shut just as the first shots rang out.

Some of those weapons had been large caliber rifles, and he could only hope that Lewis's solid wood and sheet metal door could keep out bullets meant to bring down big game. It seemed like it could, or at least he didn't see sunlight shining through any new holes. It probably helped that they were firing down the ramp at an angle instead of straight on, giving the bullets a better chance to ricochet rather than penetrate.

He locked the doorknob and then the two sturdy deadbolts, just in time as the entire door shuddered under the weight of multiple people slamming against it. Which didn't worry him too much, since a door that could stop bullets would be hard to break down, and they'd have a fun time trying to chop through a quarter inch of sheet metal to get to the wood behind.

Behind him the screaming had stopped, at least among the adults. His dad hurried up, stooping to pick up the pistol the fallen man had dropped. “What in the world is going on?” he shouted.

Since Matt's ears were ringing from the shots he'd fired he appreciated the volume, although the question itself seemed a bit unnecessary. “We're under attack!” he shouted back. “More than a dozen people, four or five guns. I saw them sneaking in while we were eating.”

His dad scowled at the door. “Five guns? If we'd had someone in the observation post we could've sent them packing before they got within a hundred yards of this place.”

Matt felt a stab of anger, which wasn't enough to overwhelm the even more powerful surge of shame he felt. He'd left their home unguarded even when he should've known better. “You think I don't know that? I get it, I messed up.”

“That's not what I meant,” his dad protested. “We've just gotten careless. This isn't the first time we've brought everyone in to eat instead of bringing food out to whoever's on watch, and that's on all of us.”

That didn't make him feel any better, since he of all people should've been on top of making sure someone was in the observation post at all times. But before he could respond the thumps at the door abruptly stopped and a voice cut in harshly from outside.

“Larson!” The door shuddered under a pair of blows. “We know you've got food in there, Larson! An entire bunker full of it. And your doctor's probably got medicine too! Bring it all out and it's the last you'll see of us.”

Matt glanced back at his family. His mom had gathered up Aaron and Paul and retreated back behind the stove where they'd be safer from any stray shots. Sam had snatched up Matt's AR-15 from where he'd set it on the bed and was staring at him with wide eyes, while Terry held the shotgun Matt had given him and April held their dad's hunting rifle.

They were as well armed as the bandits outside, the problem was they were in here and the bandits were out there. At least this place was built like a bunker and the entrance could hold for a while. Matt pulled his radio from his belt. “Chauncey?” No response. “Mayor Tillman?”

Blast. Of course the radio wouldn't work this far from town and inside a metal shed buried under a few feet of dirt. Which left just one option, talking. “Who's out there?” he called through the door.

“As if we'd tell you!” came the immediate reply. The door rattled again. “Listen, Larson, we don't have anything against you. Most of us even respect you. But we're getting that food from you one way or another.”

Matt didn't need them to identify themselves. He vaguely recognized the man he'd shot as one of the refugees, nobody who'd worked with Ben or helped defend the town, though. He thought he might've seen him go out with the hunting parties a few times. The others were probably his friends and family, willing to risk exile or even execution in the hope of food. Although they'd probably planned to leave town after this attack.

“Not through this door you're not,” Matt answered. “And you've got about fifteen minutes to realize that before the help I just radioed Mayor Tillman for gets here.”

There was a doubtful pause, and he thought he heard the faintest sounds of conversation drifting through the thick door from the people outside. “No way your radio works in there!” the attackers' spokesman finally said.

Matt laughed, although he felt more like throwing up. “Haven't you heard anything about this place? My friend thought of everything. He's got an antenna going out. Not only can I radio the town but I've got double the range I usually would.”