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Day 175, Dawn, Cape Cod
Alferd Packer's first word that morning was quite simple. "FUCK!"
As he drifted towards wakefulness on that fine spring morning, his delusion had snapped, his good humor evaporated. Now, he was simply mad. That which could be called human about him was gone. He thrashed uselessly around in his tent for a moment, nearly destroying it in the process. When he finally disentangled himself and was on his feet, he attempted to ball up his sleeping bag and hurl it into the woods. It traveled exactly three feet before re-expanding and fluttering gracefully to the dewed grass of the forest clearing.
He choked on a frustrated string of expletives and stomped with excessive force towards the bay. When he got to the beach, uncaring about anything else, he screamed at the water. He yelled incoherent things at the sand. He even flipped off the sun as it peeked through the trees in the eastern skies.
But a single thought made him stop.
You're going through the five stages of grief.
He sat on the sand roughly, as though shoved down by the thought. Denial, then anger. Bargaining, then depression. Finally, acceptance. He'd heard it all before; his mother had died when he was twenty-one, so he was well-acquainted with the process. He'd been grieving for his wife (though she wasn't technically dead, for all he knew) for the last six months.
Most people jumped around the stages of grief; repeating some, ignoring others entirely. When his mom died, he distinctly remembered skipping straight to the depression, then leaping back to formless anger for the better part of the summer. With his wife, it'd been mainly depression. Since he did not believe in any sort of God, there was no one to bargain with. He had finally reached acceptance with his mother, but his wife...that was going to take a while.
But this? What was this insanity?
"I'm coming to terms with my own death," he whispered hoarsely.
Packer was amazed at the notion. He had successfully deluded himself for this long? How had he managed that? Dimly, he tried to think back to the boat ride out here. He'd been uneasy, but confident. He'd danced around the issue, or flat-out ignored it. He'd believed what they told him to believe; he'd created the delusion for their benefit! Even when the boat captain had confronted him with the truth (at least, her estimation of the truth), he still ignored it, or at least tiptoed around it. Then, with revulsion, he realized:
I was so convinced, I even lied to my wife about it.
He reached into his pocket and found his phone. Turning it over on in his hand, he stood, facing the water. "I've been talking to someone who will never exist every night because I can't face the fact that she will never exist. I convinced myself that this trip was anything other than a death sentence. I went ballistic for like ten minutes there. Fucking losing it, man. Fuck, now I'm talking to myself?"
No. You had a little hiccup, he told himself soothingly. Maybe a bit of a psychotic break. It was all a defense mechanism. You tried to cope with an impossible situation the best you could. Put on a good show for everyone around you, so they think you're a good guy, all well-adjusted. But when they sent you out here, it was too much. You couldn't keep it all balanced. It was going to come crashing down, no matter what you did. And now, it's all laid bare.
Your wife is gone. She'll never exist. Because you could not get over her, you squandered your opportunity for companionship and happiness back on Nantucket. You obviously fucked with the wrong people. And now, you've been sent out here to die in a way that will only benefit them. You're angry. It's not fair. But that's life. No one said it would be easy.
"No, it's not easy," he muttered. "To face death cannot be easy."
"Dying is not an easy thing," he called out to no one.
But even though he addressed no one, he was not unheard.
Day 42, Evening, Nantucket
Packer weaved his way through the crowded cafeteria, a bowl in each hand, a look of happy concentration on his face. All around him, men joked, laughed, and shouted over each other as they wolfed down dinner. Packer was stopped at least half a dozen times, exchanging pleasantries with sailors, fishermen, lumberjacks, and wreckers.
When he finally got back to the tiny table in the corner, he found Jason Terrance waiting for him, two mugs of beer in front of him. "Christ, boss, I never knew you were such a Chatty Cathy."
Packer set the bowls down. "I would like to extend to you a formal invitation to jump up my ass. There's a step stool back in the kitchen if you need it."
Terrance grinned, then eyed the stew in the bowl. "What do we have tonight?"
"Cod and mussel, along with some vegetables? Beats the fuck out of me, man. Smells good, though. What's the beer situation like?"
"Bad. They're apparently down to Coors here. We should've eaten at the one of the other places; they've still got decent beer!"
Because beer does not keep for more than a few months, it, unlike wine or hard liquor, had to be consumed as though it were a perishable item(which it in fact was). Since the numerous restaurants on the island all had bars with multiple beers on tap, there was quite a bit of beer to drink; enough that part of the standard dinner ration was a twelve-ounce mug of whatever was being served. It was the perfect way to get nearly everyone an extra hundred to two-hundred calories per day.
At first, it had been the good stuff. Sam Adams, Guinness, Stella, even the island's local brew. But that hadn't lasted long, and now they were down to Coors. Soon, it would be the abhorred Lite Beers. Then, nothing until next winter at the earliest.
"At least this shit'll be gone from the earth soon," Packer said. He lifted his mug. "Bottoms up!"
Each man quickly and decisively chugged their beer. There were two prevailing schools of thought on how to drink the Nightly Beer: sip it with the meal, or chug it straight away, while the soup/stew cooled off. Even on an empty stomach, it didn't provide much of a buzz, but that was fine by Packer. What little there was was enough to relax him for a few minutes.
Packer set his mug down and belched. Terrance set his mug down and belched louder. They regarded each other for a moment. "You nervous, boss?"
Packer shrugged. "Honestly, not as much as I thought I'd be. I'm glad you're here, along with the other guys from the shop. At least I know I'll have some support out there."
Terrance sat up in his chair. "First of all? There wouldn't be any lights on in this goddamn high school if we didn't do what we did. No one would have heat, except for the wood they could burn. The gasoline and diesel would be almost gone. Everyone knows that. You'll have a friendly crowd to greet you, and they'll eagerly listen to whatever you have to say. Second of all..."
"Goddammit, Jason, don't say it."
But he said it. "...You're Alferd Packer. You can do anything if you just put your mind to it!"
"It's a good thing no one else at the shop has picked up your little catch-phrase." Packer eyed his stew. "And why are we even talking? Let's friggin' eat!"
And so they ate. The stew was good, though they each could've done with a bit more. According to the committee who devised the menu, eating at the community cafeterias would provide a balanced diet, as well as enough calories for most people. Still, Packer surmised that he'd lost quite a bit of fat since arriving on Nantucket, though he still weighed the same. Now, when he bulged up against his clothes, it was more likely to be muscle than blubber.
When they bussed their table and left, they immediately wove through the halls of the high school towards the auditorium, where tonight's town hall meeting was taking place. Packer had not been to any of the town hall meetings so far. He thought that there had been two before tonight's one, but he just couldn't muster up the interest. Besides, his work at the shop meant that he dealt with the council on a regular enough basis. Now, though, he'd been asked by the council to give a short speech about he machine shop, and its current gasifier project. He thought it a fine idea.
The entire crew was amongst the crowd waiting in the hall outside the auditorium. After getting slapped on the back more times than he could count, Packer said, "Alright, I need to go in. If you chucklefucks sit up front and try to make me laugh or something, I swear..."
"Good luck, boss!" Terrance said with gleeful menace.
Packer winced and separated from his guys. Heading over to the door, he withdrew from an inner pocket his writ. A runner from the council had dropped it off at the shop earlier that day, and it was the only way he'd get in. He showed it to the guard, who was packing twin pistols on his belt. "Mister...Packer, is it?" he said, consulting a clipboard.
"Indeed it is," Packer said, just because he thought he should respond.
"And there you are on the list. Go on in, sir. I'm looking forward to your speech."
"Thanks?" Packer couldn't help the incredulous tone from creeping into his voice, and he went in.
The auditorium was large, but not large enough. No building on Nantucket had a room large enough to house three thousand people at a stretch. Fortunately, groups of people tended to send one or two representatives to these meetings, which kept attendance under a five hundred or so. Still, they were expecting the place to be packed tonight, or at least this what Packer had been told three days ago, when he'd been invited.
Yeah, it might only be half the island showing up. No pressure 'r nothin, Mistah P.
"Mister Packer!" a voice boomed across the auditorium. He was met halfway to the stage by an average looking man in his thirties. "Thank you so much for showing up. I'm Bill Weems, the coordinator for these little events."
"Meetcha, Mister Weems," Packer said, offering his hand and getting loose shake in return.
"So, the council tells me you'll be speaking tonight. Right now, I have you going last, after the Chairman speaks. Is that alright with you?"
"Uh, fine, I guess. Do I close out the meeting, or...?"
"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't realize you hadn't attended previously. No, the Chairman will adjourn the meeting after the last speaker. Now, as you can see, there are two podiums on stage. You and the two other guest speakers will be speaking from the one stage left, while any council members will be speaking stage right. We have you seated on stage, of course, and you'll have water as you need it. Have you eaten supper yet?"
"Yes, I have," Packer stated blandly, eyeing Weems with admiration. An event planner who managed to make himself useful in this weird world of theirs. Good for him!
"Excellent. Well, we're almost ready to let the general public in, so why don't you take your seat on stage? It's labelled with your name."
"Thank you, Mister Weems," Packer began, but Mister Weems was already moving off.
Packer was almost off stage, there were so many chairs crammed on there. If everyone on stage is speaking tonight, I might as well just go straight to work after this, Packer thought miserably.
No sooner had he sat down, though, than people started filing in. What made him sit up a little straighter was the fact that the first people in were women. All of them--at least, all the ladies who hadn't chosen a mate.
He tried to remember the last time he saw a woman. It had to be when they installed the gasifier at the Point Breeze Hotel, which the women claimed as their own haven early on. Or had he seen some out in the marina that one day? Could've been; there were some women who were sailors, and one certainly couldn't teach someone how to sail from your hotel room.
Most of the women were sensibly dressed for the cool night, bundled up in pants and parkas, but some were made up to the nines, opting for low-rider jeans, trendy wool coats, and fancy scarves. One girl(and a pretty one at that) was even wearing high heels and a skirt. And she sat in the front row, almost directly in front of the podium!
Suddenly, Packer longed for Terrance and Andrew and Rustbucket making faces at him and surreptiously flipping him off as he tried to speak.
The women weren't unescorted. Aside from a cadre of armed men, there were, of course, the several den mothers: older women who'd protected the younger, vulnerable girls during those crazy first few days and since vigorously defended their charges in all matters. If a woman on the island had chosen a man out of fear for her own safety and subsequently changed her mind, a den mother would see them safely separated. And as the den mothers demanded, the council acceded. The spurned man had no recourse: he either got over it quickly, or he went up the rope.
At any rate, the entirety of the island's women seemed to be there tonight, and they and their escorts took up nearly a quarter of the seats. Packer felt strange; not aroused by these women (though, if he stared at High Heels Girl's legs long enough, he'd be thankful the podium blocked the lower half of his body from view), but rather interested. What were their days like? How were they coping with the difficulties imposed on them? Would he ever get a chance to ask?
As Packer pondered this, the men started to pour in. Packer's crew was, perhaps mercifully, seated somewhere towards the back, where the lighting was a little murkier. When all the seats were filled, people started sitting on the floor, in the orchestral pit, then up the aisles. When those were full, they were standing three rows deep in the back of the auditorium and the doors could barely close.
The meeting began, and Packer immediately tuned out. It seemed to consist largely of facts, figures, and the recitation of those facts and figures. The one thing Packer did distinctly hear was that they should have enough food to make it through the winter, as this was punctuated with wild applause. Then there was some debate between some Council members and some of the audience over common usage of certain berths in the marina, followed by some other debate about what to do with the wind turbine over on the Bartlett farm. Otherwise, he ignored everything that was said, and instead he split his time between casually ogling High Heel Girl's legs and chastising himself for being such a demented pervert. She's got to be at least eight years younger than you...if not younger! whipped through his head more than once.
He was so absorbed, that he nearly missed his cue. "And finally," the Chairman said, "we'll hear from Mister Alferd Packer, who's been doing a hell of a job at the machine shop, getting our generators running again. Mister Packer?"
The applause thundered in his ears as he stood up. If he hadn't been nervous before, he was now! He stood stock still for half a heartbeat before he could force himself to the podium, while the applause seemed to roll on politely. It died precisely when he reached the podium, and he cleared his throat, heart thumping palpably.
"Thank you, Mister Chairm--" the rest was cut off in a hideous whine of feedback, loud enough to cause Packer to recoil. It cut out just in time to clearly pick him up muttering, "...piece of crap microphone," and the crowd burst into good-natured laughter.
Face the color of steamed lobster and greasy sweat beading on his forehead, he said, "Guess I should've practiced on Rock Band or something, huh?" The crowd applauded more than the lame joke deserved.
"Anyway!" he said when the noise had died down, "I'd like to begin by thanking the Chairman and the Council for inviting me to speak tonight. Also, I'd like to take a moment and thank them for giving us not one, but three soup kitchens! Now that's delivering on a promise! How about it!" And he started clapping.
The applause caught on and was respectable. "But we're not here for a damn circle-jerk, are we? Let's talk gas.
"I know you've probably got some idea of what we do down at the metal shop. Most of you have seen the gasifiers we install. But what is a gasifier? Why does it work? This is what the Council asked me to discuss tonight, and since I'm sure all of you have to take a leak, I'm going to be quick."
A smattering of laughter. Packer noted that High Heels Girl had laughed, so as far as he was concerned, he was the funniest man on the goddamn planet at that moment. "A gasifier is exactly what its name suggests. It takes something that's not a gas and makes it a gas. In our context, we're taking wood and making gas from it. How? by burning it.
"You probably remember reading stories of people who suffocated in their homes due to carbon monoxide leaks, right? Well, carbon monoxide is produced when any number of things, wood included, is combusted. What is interesting is that when wood is incompletely combusted, other gases are produced, including hydrogen. This collection of gases, if it can be directed and concentrated, can then be burned in its own right.
"It turns out that an engine which normally utilizes gasoline as fuel is just as well-equipped to burn this gas we have created in its stead, completely obviating the need for liquid fuel. With a few trivial modifications, any gasoline engine can be made to run on this gas we've created through burning wood. When this gasoline engine is hooked up to a dynamo or an alternator, we have electrical power. Power for light. Power for heat. Power for tools for carpentry and metalwork. Power for medical devices. Power for refrigeration. Power for construction. Power for destruction. You name it, we can do it...so long as we have power!"
Everyone applauded. Even the Council members were clapping. Packer held up his hands, but that seemed to spur people on. Eventually, though, he got things quiet enough. His fear was gone. "I need to stop things right there, though. None of what we've done in the last forty days would've been possible if I didn't have my crew. They're the ones who deserve your applause. Guys, get your asses out your seats." And there was another round of applause, even louder this time and punctuated by shrill whistles and hoots. Packer grinned as the eighteen men on his crew wriggled under the glare of public adoration. When things were quiet again, Packer continued:
"Now, I was told to keep this brief, as all the Chairman's favorite TV shows start at nine," the Council members laughed more loudly at this than the audience did, "so I'll just say this. We're working as fast as we can to get as much power to the island as we possibly can, but we are understaffed. If you've ever worked with metal before, we can use you. If you've worked with wood before, we can use you. If you just want us to teach you something, we can use you. Come on down to the shop and give it a try. We work every day, but the hours are fair.
"Also, if you just want to learn more about gasifiers or our operation, please stop on by. Most of us are well-behaved, and if you bring snacks, you can usually coax us into doing tricks. Thank you."
The applause was raucous and warm, and Packer basked happily in it. When it died, Packer moved to return to his seat. The Chairman was already talking, but suddenly, something struck him. He hadn't planned on it, but the idea ballooned in his mind so rapidly, the impulse was so strong, that before he knew it, he was at the podium again.
"Mister Chairman? Mister Chairman!" Packer looked across the stage.
The Chairman was so stunned, he simply said, "Yes, Mister Packer?"
Packer looked out at the audience for a moment; all eyes were trained on him. What was he doing? "I'm terribly sorry to do this, sir, but I just realized something. When I was speaking, I said that we at the shop work every day. And that's true of everyone in this room...no, everyone on this island, just about." Packer licked his lips quickly. "For the last forty days we've all gone nonstop, trying to survive in impossible circumstances. We've been running on adrenaline and fear, and only now do we have a concrete hope that we'll make it through the winter. We can look further into the future than to our next meal, or our next day on the job.
"We should have--we deserve--a break." The crowd began murmuring in an excited way.
The Chairman said placidly, "A break, Mister Packer?"
"Yes, Mister Chairman," Packer said eagerly. "In a few weeks, the winter solstice will occur. That'd be a perfect time to have ourselves a day off and a party: a party for everyone on the island, if they want to come! We celebrate everything we've accomplished so far, and we also celebrate the fact that there will finally be more goddamn daylight."
"A fine idea, Mister Packer, to be sure," The Chairman began, "but we don't have the facilities--"
"Sure we do!" someone in the audience with balls of wrought iron shouted. "The Nantucket Inn, out by the airport! It's got a big reception hall and a bunch of other rooms. And we can set up bonfires out in the fields nearby!" A chorus of affirmation rippled across the crowd.
"Order!" the Chairman barked, and he rapped his gavel a few times. The crowd quieted down. "The Nantucket Inn may be large enough, but there's absolutely no power on that side of the island. We would need to divert gasifiers which run essential services, causing critical lapses elsewhere."
"Mr Chairman?" Packer spoke up. "Since I brought up this idea, I'll volunteer my time, and the time of my crew. We'll pull double shifts between now and the solstice to get the extra gasifiers built in time for the party. We'll live in the shop if we have to, but we'll fill all of our scheduled orders, as well the extra ones to bring power to the party. Am I right, gentlemen?"
"You can count on us, boss!" Terrance hollered somewhere from the middle distance. Someone else called out, "And we woodcutters will make sure you've got plenty of fuel for the celebration!" If anyone else offered their services, it was drowned out by a happy babble. Packer grinned, and turned to look at the Chairman, who once again had to call for order.
"Very well, the motion has been put forward by our esteemed Mister Packer here to have a party, and apparently has been seconded about nine hundred times. Since it appears that the extra labor needed for such an event will be provided by the appropriate parties, I have no material objections to the event. However, our procedure calls for this motion to be discussed by us in committee before we put the vote to the general public, which will have to take place at the next meeting. Since the next meeting isn't for two weeks, it appear we'll miss the solstice."
"Hey, fuck the procedure!" some daring soul yelled out from the back. "Let's get the vote done now, so we can have the party on the solstice! Figure out all the bureaucratic shit later!" A ripple of rough agreement worked its way across the crowd. "Yeah, we need some time off!" another person called out. "We're gonna go fuckin' bugshit if we don't get a break!"
The Chairman's mouth worked helplessly for a moment, then he shot a glance at Packer, who grinned amiably and shrugged. Finally, he said, "It appears I am outmatched. Very well. Secretary, please amend the current motion to today's list of votes." He tapped the gavel twice, then called out, "It has been motioned and seconded that on the winter solstice, some ten days hence, that we furnish the Nantucket Inn for an island-wide party. All in favor?"
"AYE!" so loud it shook the walls.
"All opposed?" Not a peep. "As I thought," the Chairman said with a wry smile. "The motion carries, and with that, I think it's time we adjourn. We'll be posting information about the party at the ferry slip, so make sure to check it out. Goodnight, everyone." The gavel came down, and the audience burst into wild cheers and applause. Some of that is for me, Packer thought. Some is for the Council and the Chairman. But most of it is for themselves.
He stepped back from the podium and quietly snuck out a side exit, a dreamy smile on his face. Good for them. Good for us. We deserve it.
Day 175, Early Morning, Cape Cod
Packer was resolved: they sent him out here to die? The least he would do is die with dignity. No suicide. No "accidents." He would face whatever awited him, and thus he would die in his right mind. Or whatever he had left.
He turned to go back to camp, to clean it up, but he stopped. His phone was still in his hand.
"Sorry, babe," he said sadly, "you can't come with me on this one. I'll always love you, though, and I'll remember. Goodbye." He hesitated for a moment, but then with sudden conviction he whipped the phone into the bay. It burbled once as it sank. He watched it go, then went back to his camp.
He struck the tent, repackaging it as best as he could. He rolled up his sleeping bag. He stripped naked and strapped to his thigh a Velcro band which had on it a small pocket. The pocket contained a few wedding bands he'd managed to hold on to, as well as someone's diamond engagement ring. They'd probably be safer up his ass, but he was gonna be goddamned if he pulled a Christopher Walken now. To his left ankle he strapped the sheath for his short, narrow-profile knife(and the knife itself). He didn't plan on fighting anyone, but what would happen in the short remainder of his life was anyone's guess.
After this, he donned all of his clothes: two pairs of socks, his winter boots (with a zippered leather flap covering the laces, so that snow wouldn't get caught in there), thick woollen long underwear under his heavy-duty waterproof work jeans, a leather belt, a t-shirt, two sweaters, and his bomber jacket. He thought about carrying the crossbow with him, but decided against it, instead attaching it to his pack.
Now, he was ready. But where to go? Wander inland until he got ambushed by natives? Or perhaps a bear would choose him for lunch? Say, weren't there wolves to worry about, too?
Nah. Just because he was going to die, he didn't have to seek death out. That'd be crazy. He might as well go back to the bay and have breakfast.
He saw them through the trees at a distance of twenty feet. There were four of them, and they were rifling through the bag of cod fillets. He made no effort to mask his approach, and when he stepped out onto the beach, they all had their spears pointed at him.
Hollywood had spoiled him. His intellectual mind told him that the tall, iron-faced, stoic Indian of the Wild West was a stereotype. It still didn't allay the shock he felt at observing the men in front of him.
They were downright tiny! Packer, at two inches shy of six foot, was by no means a tall man on Nantucket. Here on Cape Cod, though, he was a giant. The tallest native amongst the group might've been five-one on a good day.
But still, they sort of looked like Native Americans as one would expect...if they'd gone through the dryer one time too many. The skin color was right, a kind of ruddy copper. The eyes and hair were dark. They went shirtless, and wore some kind of hide breeches and moccasins...at least, that's what Packer thought they were.
At any rate, they did not regard this strange white giant with friendship and warmth. Their spearpoints were dangerously close to his body, and though they were stone, they looked nastily sharp.
So, this it how it ends? Stabbed to death by hostile natives? Well, we all gotta go sometime. But Packer would not provoke them. Let them be the aggressors.
Slowly, he raised his right hand to shoulder height, palm forwards, and simply said, "Hello!"
He then had the faintest notion of something behind him. Then a brief, crushing pressure on the right side of his head, then....
Nothing.
"There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance--that principle is contempt prior to investigation." -Herbert Spencer
"Against stupidity the gods themselves contend in vain." - Schiller, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, III vi.
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