Once inside, Peter began to study the faces of the attendees. They were lifeless. There was no laughter. No chatter. No greetings between old acquaintances. The shoppers wandered past the vendors’ booths, gripping their barter item as if it were a bar of gold from Fort Knox. Only it wasn’t nearly that valuable. Some held their wedding bands in their nervous, sweaty palms. Others carried a grocery tote bag of canned goods. And then there were those who offered themselves up in trade. Strong young men who offered to work the fields or act as security to the vendors. Women who offered up anything the vendors asked in exchange for food.
It was desperate and depressing. Peter couldn’t believe America had been reduced to this. A nation that was once the greatest country on Earth was now something straight out of a dystopian movie. He took a deep breath and tried to put the despair out of his mind. He began to study the vendors as he searched for the truck drivers Charles had mentioned.
In that part of North Carolina, for early November, apples, leafy greens and broccoli were most prevalent. Throughout the year, there were plenty of peanuts and sweet potatoes. Today, the vendors sold more than locally harvested crops. There were tables with guns, ammunition, knives, and even swords. One man was selling gallons of gasoline while another offered a variety of pharmaceuticals.
Barter was the name of the game, and the most sought-after form of currency was precious metals like gold and silver. Many people toted drawstring bags full of pre-1964 U.S.-minted coins because they consisted of ninety percent silver. A few of the larger booths included jewelers with their magnifying equipment and jewelry tools. Some jewelers charged a fee to issue a letter of authenticity for a bracelet or ring. The customer would take the piece with the letter to another booth and make their purchase.
Credit cards were worthless, and most vendors considered U.S. paper currency to be a joke. Peter was fascinated by the dickering back and forth between the buyers and sellers. As he followed Charles through the crowd, he gripped his AR-15 a little tighter as many of the attendees eyed the powerful rifle. He wanted to loiter around the gun traders to determine what it was worth, but Charles, who was toting his oxygen tank on a wheeled cart, was on a mission to find a truck driver he recognized.
“There they are,” said Charles as he turned his body slightly to address Peter. Peter was watching a transaction between an ammunition maker and a customer. It reminded him that bullets came at a premium as he heard the prices the ammo seller was demanding.
Peter turned his attention to Charles and followed him as the old man picked up the pace through the crowd. Just ahead was a man in his late sixties standing behind a folding table full of a variety of guns. Hunting rifles, shotguns, and several types of pistols. He unconsciously slid his AR-15 behind his back in a weak attempt to hide it from the prying eyes of the man and his two husky sidekicks, who turned out to be his children. Each of the boys held a shotgun at low ready as they stood guard over the truck-driver-turned-arms-dealer-turned-Uber-driver.
“Mornin’,” the man mumbled to Charles as he sized up his customers. He exchanged a glance with one of his sons, who provided him an imperceptible nod. From that point, the young man never took his eyes off Peter’s. “What can we do ya fer?” He had a heavy country accent that was all the more difficult to understand because he rolled a protruding toothpick around his mouth.
Charles furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you Harvey Lawson’s nephew? I used to drive trucks with him.”
“I am. Who are you?” The man’s response and demeanor were brusque.
“Charles Spencer and this here is Peter Albright. He’s looking for a ride to Florida.”
The man glanced at his other son and then looked around Charles to get a better look at Peter. He rose from the folding chair where he’d been seated.
“Well, this is your lucky day, Petey,” the man began sarcastically. “We’re pulling out for the Sunshine State this afternoon.” His sons began to laugh at the reference to Florida as the Sunshine State. Apparently, the sun was no longer shining there, either.
“Okay,” said Peter hesitantly. “I’d like a ride. Where in Florida are you headed?”
The sons laughed again. “We thought we’d see Mickey freakin’ Mouse. Sound good to you, slim?” The bulky belly of one of the young men shook as he laughed.
“What you got to trade? That AR?” the father asked.
Peter sighed. He hadn’t used the weapon yet, but it would be a great source of protection in a shoot-out. However, if he had a ride, the prospect of getting into a gun battle with a bunch of bad people was less likely. He began to remove the gun from his shoulder when Charles reached his hand over to stop him.
“Something better,” began Charles in response. “How about I fill your tanks with diesel when you return?”
“They’s seventy gallons in there.” One of the sons spoke up, drawing a scowl from his father.
“Deal,” the man responded before Charles could change his mind. The man asked to confirm that Charles actually had it, and it was agreed that the nephew of the former truck driving acquaintance could come over at lunch time to see for himself. After a handshake and a somewhat toothless smile from the truck’s owner, Peter was told to return at two o’clock.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sunday, November 3
Hickory, North Carolina
Peter returned at one, an hour sooner than he’d been instructed to by the man he began to refer to in his mind as Mr. Uber and his sons, Greyhound and Mack. The slighter thinner, taller son was Greyhound, as in the bus line. The shorter, chubbier son was Mack, as in the dump truck. The men had never offered their real names, and Peter didn’t really care. He just wanted to get to Florida without a hassle.
Unfortunately, the hassle started before they left Union Square. Peter had wheeled in his bicycle with his tote bags after Charles gained him reentry into the market. The first order of business was to trade his bike for food. The best he could do was a box of twelve Clif bars, a nutritious energy snack used by hikers and runners.
He contemplated trading his duffel full of winter-weight hunting apparel but then thought better of it. It was colder everywhere, including Florida, he’d heard by eavesdropping on conversations in the market. He was pretty sure his dad hadn’t been storing away fleece-lined cargo pants or woolen socks.
He was making his way toward Mr. Uber when suddenly a fistfight broke out in the center of the market. Two men were walloping on one another over a transaction, and then a third man jumped in. Soon, there were four or five guys pummeling one another, causing the stress levels of everyone in Union Square to rise. Including Mr. Uber.
When Peter arrived at the truck, the father and his sons were packing up their belongings. Mr. Uber’s father was there to load up the table and weapons.
Peter stood at the back of the line of refugees waiting to climb aboard the military-surplus truck. A Hispanic man stood in front of him with his wife and son. He turned to Peter and offered his hand to shake.
“I’m Rafael Sosa.”
“Peter Albright. Nice to meet you.”
“This is my wife, Maria, and my son, Javier. We hope to get to Miami. How about you?”
“I live in the Keys,” Peter responded. He nodded toward the truck. Several people were being assisted into the rear, open-air cargo box. “I thought they might cover it for us.”