“We heard faint noises outside,” Pam Wallace told him. “We couldn’t see anything but I’m sure I heard a tractor or two moving around out there earlier. We let you sleep, Captain. You needed a good night’s rest.”
“Thank you,” he replied, taking the coffee and sitting up. He had slept on the front seat of the SWAT truck, a few blankets had filled the hole between the seats and he had slept well, exhausted from the previous two days. The captain was still dressed, except for his thick winter coat, and he put that on and unlocked the main door to the hangar. He slid it open just enough to walk outside and was confronted by several men—three sitting on old farm tractors and the rest standing, all armed and interested to see who was in the private hangar owned by a doctor friend of theirs who had gone down to Key West for Christmas and was not yet expected back. Also, there were no wheel tracks of his aircraft landing on the runway.
“I don’t believe you own this hangar,” stated one of the farmers sitting on his tractor.
“Unfortunately, I don’t,” agreed the captain. “I’m Captain Mike Mallory, a pilot with Southwest Airlines. When the power went out over New York, I landed my aircraft in the water, managed to survive, rescue my passengers, and I am now taking my crew and what’s left of my passengers south to escape the cold. It is bitterly cold up there in New York and very dangerous.”
“You mean that this power outage is bigger than just around here?” the same farmer asked.
“I believe it’s countrywide,” replied the Captain. “There are fires in New York as big as some of the buildings. All of I-95 is clogged with dead cars and trucks. We must have seen at least a thousand dead bodies in the cars, frozen to death. We even saw a couple of lions that must have escaped from a local zoo eating a human body in New Jersey. It is pure carnage out there, and I think it’s getting even colder.”
“You’re right,” replied the farmer. “Air smells like we going to get an arctic blast sometime today. Why are you here in our friend’s hangar? Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately no, but I’ve flown into this airfield several times on recreational trips and fueled up from those fuel tanks over there. Mickey Mason was the guy who always refueled me when I landed here.”
“We know Mickey! He also flew out of here just before Christmas, down to Macon, Georgia to visit his folks,” added the farmer. A fourth tractor appeared, driving into the airfield as fast as it could with a young boy on top. He pulled to a halt and was excited.
“Pa, I saw a convoy of more old trucks driving south. There was at least nine or ten of them. I saw them through the binoculars. Fords and Dodges they were, and they went past the off-ramp and didn’t stop.”
“I’m sure there will be thousands coming south to escape the cold up there,” continued Captain Mallory. “There must be thousands upon thousands of dead up there already and this cold blast is not going to help anybody stay alive.”
John came out and introduced himself, still in his flight uniform, and so did a couple of the flight attendants.
“We have cleaned up our mess, Captain. The trucks are packed and we are ready to go,” he reported to Mallory. He then turned to the farmer. “We got a donation from all the passengers and crew and there are a couple of hundred dollars on the owner’s desk for what little food and drink we consumed.”
“I’ll let him know when he comes back,” replied the farmer. “Captain Mallory, what are we supposed to do?”
“Can you survive the winter?” the Captain asked.
“Sure,” the farmer replied. “We have firewood and food. We have enough hay stored for our cattle. We will have to milk the cows by hand since nothing works, but yes, we can last the winter. When are things going to get back to normal?”
“Unfortunately, with what we’ve seen in New York and on the highway, I don’t think things are going to be right again for quite a while, gentlemen. Nothing electrical works, apart from any old mechanical machines and vehicles. It is as if every piece of modern machinery has died, from jumbo jets to I’m sure some of your newer farm equipment.” The farmers nodded, agreeing with the captain. “People are going to get hungry and mean. They are going to die, if not first from the cold, then hunger will get them. My belief is that the meanest will survive by killing the weak and honest for their food. I’m sure this scenario has been played out many times in Hollywood movies depicting the end of the world since the 1930s.”
Everyone nodded, listening to him. They had all seen the movies, even the very latest. “The only major forces to protect us against people with guns are the military bases or police stations, if they are still organized… or even groups of people in communities protecting what they own.”
“What can we do to help our country?” another farmer asked.
“I think that you guys must stay alive for one, protect yourselves for two, and start growing edible food as soon as it’s time to plant. Corn, vegetables, meat and whatever you can grow to keep people alive. Help your local communities. Get your community numbers up. Barrage the off ramps to stop people in vehicles coming to attack you. I don’t know… I’m a pilot for God’s sake. But this country must survive, and for the people to survive, they must be housed and fed.”
“But there are hundreds of miles of farmland around here. How can we protect that?” another farmer asked.
“I know that there are other communities of farmers just like you out there. Go and spread the news. Tell them to get ready, get ready for good people begging for food and bad people who will shoot to steal anything they can. I think money has no value anymore. Maybe bartering is the new form of financial system. Staying alive and keeping this country going will have to be the ultimate reason to stay alive for everybody.” Captain Mallory thought for a moment and then asked John to open the hangar door and start the vehicles. “Farmers, go to your local National Guard station or military base. Ask them for help in return for food when they run out. That’s bartering. They will also run out of provisions one day and die without guys like you growing new food. I think that a strongly protected community will deter vigilantes and they will go where the pickings are easier. Try and help the poorer citizens if you can. Maybe the Army will give you guards or weapons to defend your farms. The promise of future food I’m sure will help. Send out people on horseback or tractors like the Civil War days and get other communities to do the same—protecting themselves and growing food to bring this country back to strength, and then we will see an end to this whatever it is. Tell them that the cities are dying and to expect cold and hungry, good and bad. Look after the good and repel the bad.”
There was silence until the old engines started up behind him.
“There are a couple of us who would like to stay and help the farmers,” said one of the male passengers, “if they will feed us. We can increase their numbers and help protect their community. Some of us are from around here and the surrounding areas and we have nowhere else to go.”
The farmers asked how many there were, and a family of three put up their hands, as well as several men and women. One of the flight attendants said that her town was only 20 or 30 miles to the west and she would like to try and get home to her husband. The men on the tractors nodded, inspired by Captain Mallory’s speech.
“I think letting people know that they could be in this for the long haul is most important, then community protection, and then food production. Getting that information out as far and wide as we can will help keep this area of the country alive. People not being able to text on their cell phones will certainly be a benefit, in my point of view,” smiled the captain, and he turned to the group behind him. “This is still a democratic country. Anybody who is invited to stay may stay. As for the rest of you, we are leaving in five minutes. I want to see if we can catch up to the convoy that passed by several minutes ago.” He then turned back to the dozen farmers. “If I don’t come back and refuel here again someday, tell Mickey Mason to remember me, and that he still owes me a beer. Tell him Mike Mallory and the white Cessna 210 say ‘hello’.”