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  “Daddy? Daddy, are you still there?”

  Jenna’s voice was tinny over the phone, and Clay raised it back to his ear. “I’m still here, darlin’, but the traffic is getting a little heavier so I had better hang up. I’m very proud of you for graduating. And I love you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you too, Daddy. I just wish that you were a little more open-minded about things.”

  “Tell your mama I said hi,” Clay said. “Bye.”

  “I will. Bye, Daddy.”

  Clay punched out of the call then dropped the phone back into his shirt pocket.

  He thought of Carol, whose background was everything his wasn’t. Whereas Clay’s father was a Vietnam war veteran, Carol’s mother had been a hippie, caught up in the free-spirit anti-war crowd. Carol, who was born in San Francisco, had no idea who her father was but, as she often assured Clay, she at least had the satisfaction of knowing that he was not a warrior.

  There had been sparks between them from the moment they met, but underneath those sparks, or perhaps causing them, there was a very strong sexual attraction. In the end, though, the sexual attraction was not enough to save their marriage, and when Clay deployed to Iraq the second time, this time under George W. Bush, Carol left to protest that same war. In doing this, she was taking up where her mother had left off a generation earlier.

  World Cable News—Thursday, May 10

  In Washington today, Congress passed by acclamation President Ohmshidi’s Water Resources Act, a comprehensive law that gives the federal government absolute control over all coastal waters, bays, rivers, lakes—whether natural or man-made—springs, creeks, canals, drainage ditches, and ponds. Under the auspices of this act those bodies of water that now lie on private land will be confiscated, and their use for any reason, whether watering livestock, fishing, boating, or drinking water, will be subject to federal government approval and taxation.

  Congressman Hugh Langston of Alabama, who had led the fight against the Water Resources Act, protested the acclamation, claiming that the count was too close for a voice vote. Speaker of the House Nina Percy had Congressman Langston removed from the House floor.

  In other news, the National Chamber of Commerce estimates that the amount of money taken from the U.S. economy as a result of the petroleum freeze, by virtue of lost revenue from the shortage of goods and services, as well as lost income from jobs that have been eliminated, to be in excess of five trillion dollars.

  Despite severe rationing, and the steadily increasing cost of gasoline, our nation’s supply of fuel has already reached the critical stage. Analysts are particularly concerned about those in the north who heat their homes with petroleum. If the winter is very severe, there will be extreme hardship throughout the Northeast.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Page and Canvas Bookstore, Fairhope, Alabama—Saturday, May 26

  One hundred eighty-five miles southwest of Fort Rucker, Bob Varney sat behind a table in the Page and Canvas bookstore. The Page and Canvas was a popular and well-known bookstore among authors because they could always count on a good turnout for their autographing sessions. Bob was here to autograph his book Murder in Milwaukee. His action and adventure books were consistent bestsellers and he always did well at book signings. In addition, he was considered a local author in Fairhope, even though he actually lived thirty miles south in an area called The Dunes, on the Gulf Beach, next to historic old Fort Morgan.

  There were at least twenty people waiting for Bob before he started signing. The problem was, there were only four books available.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Varney,” Shirley Grace, the owner of the bookstore, said. “I had fifty books on order in plenty of time, but the distributor I have always worked with has gone out of business.”

  “Yes, that’s been a problem over the last few years,” Bob said. “The consolidation of distributors. Dozens of the regional distributors have gone out of business or sold out. Now there are only two or three major companies left.”

  Shirley shook her head. “There are none left,” she said.

  “What do you mean, none?”

  “There are no book distributors left in business. Not one.”

  “Damn, I didn’t know that. So, where are you going to get your books? Direct from the publisher?”

  “I’m not going to get them from anywhere. As soon as this inventory is gone I’m closing my doors. She took in the books in her store with a wave of her hand. “The prices of the books are printed on the covers. I can’t very well sell a seven-dollar book for fifty dollars, but at the current rate of inflation, that’s what I would have to charge for them, just to break even.”

  “Tell me about it,” Bob said. “I have three more books to do on this contract. I thought it was a good contract when I signed it—now what would have been a year’s income will barely last a month. And my Army retirement and Social Security checks? They have been suspended, supposedly while DFAS reorganizes, and they haven’t been restarted. Also, because I had more than one hundred thousand dollars in stock, I was not included in the one hundred thousand dollar giveaway.”

  Shirley wiped a tear away. “My grandfather started this store when he came home from World War Two,” she said. “We have been in business since 1947. Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Eudora Welty, Willie Morris—they all signed books here. I can’t believe it is all coming to an end.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” Bob said. “I want you to know, Shirley, what an honor it has always been for me to sign here. I don’t know where I’ll be signing from now on, but I will very much miss this place.”

  “I don’t know where you will be signing either,” Shirley said. “I’ve talked to every bookstore owner in Baldwin and Mobile Counties. None are staying open.”

  “You’re talking about the independents, though.”

  Shirley shook her head. “Not only independents but the big chain stores as well. By the end of this month, there won’t be a bookstore left anywhere on the Gulf Coast, and I would be surprised if there were any left anywhere in America.”

  “When did all this happen?” Bob asked.

  “Bob, I know you and the others down at Fort Morgan live almost like hermits. But you really should pay attention to what is going on around you. It’s not only the bookstores; the entire country is coming down around us.”

  “I’ve been watching the news, but I never know what to believe. Even the news now is so slanted that it is difficult to discern the truth. The left-wing media says we are in a temporary recession and all will be well, while the right-wing media is all gloom and doom. I pass it all off as hyperbole and figure the truth is somewhere in the middle.”

  “It’s not hyperbole. I wish it were, but it isn’t.”

  “Maybe I should get out more,” Bob said.

  “No, you are probably better off holed up down there on the beach, away from everything. I would think that now is the time to just dig in and wait until this all blows over,” Shirley said.

  “I’ll miss coming over here,” Bob said. “And if you ever decide to reopen, let me know. I’ll be your first guest author.”

  “If I ever reopen, yes,” Shirley said wistfully. “It would be wonderful to think so.”

  As was his custom, Bob called his agent after the signing to tell him how the signing went.

  “You have reached The Taylor Group Literary Agency. Please leave your name and telephone number.”

  Bob also knew Greg Taylor’s personal cell number, so he called that.

  “Hello, Bob,” Greg answered.

  “Hi, Greg. I forgot this was Saturday and I called the office,” Bob said. “I didn’t leave a message, but when you go in to the office Monday and check your missed calls, one will be from me, so you can just disregard it.”

  “I won’t be going into the office Monday,” Greg said. “No one will be. There is no office, there is no agency.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “You have
n’t checked your e-mail, have you?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Ohmshidi is what happened,” Greg said. “Bob, there is no agency, because there is no publishing. As of Monday morning, every publishing house in New York will be closing its doors.”

  “Every publishing house? You mean Kinston?”

  “I mean Kinston, Berkline, Pelican; Pulman, Harkins and Role, Bantar; Dale, St. Morton—all of them, every publishing house in New York. The cost of fuel has shut down not only Ingerman, but every other distributor as well. And you know better than anyone that the book industry cannot survive without distribution. The only thing left now is online publishing. I tried to move the three books you have on contract with Kinston to Spindle press. Spindle agreed to take the books, but they are offering no advance, just royalties against the Internet sales. I told them I would talk to you, but to tell the truth, I don’t think it’s worth it. And since Kinston closed its doors, you are under no obligation to complete the three remaining books. I’d advise you to not to write any of them since you would be writing them for nothing.”

  Bob was silent for a long moment.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” Bob said.

  “I wish I had better news for you.”

  “Yeah, so do I.”

  “It’s been good working with you, Bob. I wish you all the best.”

  “Thanks, Greg. You too,” Bob said. He punched the cell phone off and continued his drive to the Wash House Restaurant, where he was to meet his wife, Ellen, and their neighbors, James and Cille Laney, and Jerry and Gaye Cornett, from The Dunes at Fort Morgan.

  Ellen was surprised when she saw Bob coming in.

  “I thought you were signing books.”

  “I did sign them.”

  “Already? That was quick.”

  “There were only four books to sign.”

  “Only four books? That doesn’t sound like Shirley. She always keeps a lot of your books on hand.”

  “Not today.”

  “You should call Gary right now, and tell him that she only received four books. He could probably find out what happened,” Ellen said. Then, to the others, she added, “Gary Goldman is Bob’s editor. He’s been with Bob through three publishing houses, Bantar, Berkline, and now Kinston.”

  “I can’t call Gary because there is no Kinston publishing anymore,” Bob said, morosely.

  “Oh, Bob! No!” Ellen said. “Kinston has gone out of business? But they are one of the strongest houses in New York. Well, is Greg going to try and put you somewhere else?”

  “Greg closed the agency, and there is nowhere else.”

  “What—what do you mean?” Ellen asked in a small, frightened voice.

  “There’s no Bantar or Berkline or St. Morton,” Bob said. “There are no publishing houses anywhere, and no distributors.”

  “If that is the case . . .” She let the sentence die, unable, or unwilling to finish it.

  “If that’s the case, I am out of work,” Bob said, finishing the sentence for her.

  “And with your retirement income halted,” Ellen added. “Oh, Bob, what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to do what every other American is doing,” Bob said. “We are going to find some way to survive. And we can start by having lunch.”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be spending money eating out until we know where this is all going to go.”

  “We may as well spend the money,” Bob said. “I have a feeling it will be worth about half as much tomorrow.

  “This is getting bad for everyone,” Jerry said. “I was talking to my broker yesterday; he said things are going to hell in a hand bucket on Wall Street. It’s the total opposite of economic crisis in the past. Instead of the Dow going down, it is going up every day. But even though the Dow is now more than three hundred percent higher than it was when Ohmshidi was sworn in, its real value, according to my broker, is about one-fourth of what it was.”

  “I don’t write books and I don’t have any money in the stock market,” James said. “All I have is my retirement from the power company, and it hasn’t gone up one dime since all this began. Hell, my monthly income used to be enough to enable Cille and me to live comfortably. Now, it is going to take an entire month’s retirement check, just to pay for this meal.”

  “James, maybe we shouldn’t eat here,” Cille said. “Maybe we should save our money, and go back home.”

  “Why?” James asked. “Bob is right. Whatever we spend today is probably worth twice as much as what it will be tomorrow. This may be our last meal out, so I say let’s enjoy it.”

  Monday, May 28

  Bob and Ellen Varney owned a house on the beach and a condo in St. Louis. They had a condo in St. Louis because they had a son who lived there with his wife and son. Every summer they rented out the beach house, earning enough rental income to pay for their St. Louis condo. The idea was that when they got too old to be able to live in the beach house, they would sell it, then move to St. Louis and live there full time.

  Normally by this time of the year their house would be rented and they would already be in St. Louis. But so far not one person had booked their house for the summer. In fact, Sunrise Properties, who handled the rental for them, confided to Bob that not one of the thirty-six houses they managed had been rented.

  Bob was sitting on the sofa in his living room, watching television. His wirehaired Jack Russell, Charley, was on the sofa with him, lying up as close to Bob’s leg as he could get. Bob was rubbing Charley behind his ears.

  Bob watched World Cable News almost exclusively. His son, who was considerably more liberal in his thinking, had often teased Bob about watching the most conservative of all the cable news channels, but Bob believed, sincerely, that WCN was the most accurate in their reporting. Besides, WCN had George Gregoire, and Gregoire was Bob’s favorite commentator. But Gregoire did not come on until six o’clock, and it was just a little after five, so Bob was watching the Evening News Report with Sherman Jones.

  You are looking at pictures of the many Liberty Party rallies held across the country today. Although the Liberty Party has neither national organization nor officers, they have sprung up since the election of Ohmshidi to make their feelings known. This rally, held in Chicago, had well over two hundred thousand in attendance. Similar rallies have been held in Cleveland, Philadelphia, New York, and Houston so far, and they are planning a large rally in Washington, D. C. But if you didn’t watch WCN, or didn’t know someone, personally, who attended one of the rallies, you wouldn’t know anything about it. Not one of the other networks has carried so much as one minute of news pertaining to the Liberty Party rallies.

  Well-known conservative talk show host Royal Peabody spoke at the rally in Houston.

  The picture moved from the rally in Chicago to the one in Houston. There were several signs on display:

  Impeach The Foreign Imposter

  We Need Fuel

  Fuel Now

  Royal Peabody was standing behind a podium on a flatbed trailer as he addressed the crowd.

  We are the heart and soul of America; we are the voice of the people. Some are mocking us, saying that we are in the pocket of a political party, but I say no, a thousand times no! We are beholden to no political party or ideology other than the principle of freedom, common sense, and the right to pursue happiness.

  You know what would make us happy now? Fuel!

  Peabody shouted the word, and it came roaring back on two hundred thousand voices. “Fuel!”

  There are literally hundreds of billions of barrels of recoverable oil in the Bakken range, and nearly that much oil in Anwar. In addition we have more usable coal than the rest of the world combined, to say nothing of our huge gas reserves.

  Ladies and gentlemen, our nation is collapsing around us, while our salvation is before our very eyes. We have enough energy to last for one thousand years without importing so mu
ch as one drop of oil. We have forty trillion in pre-Ohmshidi dollars worth of energy.

  We were at the beginning of a monetary windfall that would put to shame anything we have ever experienced before—then we elected Ohmshidi. My friends, Ohmshidi promised us change, and he has delivered on that promise. We have changed from boom to bust. Ohmshidi’s misguided policies, his insane order to halt all drilling and refining, even the importation of fossil fuel, has snatched financial disaster from the jaws of economic boom.

  “Supper’s ready,” Ellen said, and Bob muted the sound as he and Charley went into the kitchen. Though they had a dining room, they ate there only when they had company. When it was just the two of them, they ate across from each other at a small table in the kitchen.

  “Bob, what’s going to happen to us?” Ellen asked.

  “Nothing. Except we will probably spend the summer here, instead of going up to St. Louis as we normally do. With the cost of fuel it would be foolish to go up there for no reason. Besides, if it actually comes down to a condition of survival, I think we could survive better here, than in St. Louis.”

  “It is going to come down to that, isn’t it?” Ellen asked. “A condition of survival.”

  “I wouldn’t have said this six months ago, but yes, I believe it is.”

  “Are you afraid?” Ellen asked.

  “No.”

  Ellen smiled wanly, then reached across the table to put her hand over his.

  “Good,” she said. “As long as you are not afraid, then neither am I.”

  “I think we need to start getting ready, though.”

  “Getting ready, how?”

  “You know how. Just like we do when we are getting ready for a hurricane. The only difference is, this time we are going to have to be prepared for a much longer time than we ever had to with any hurricane.”

  “We’ve got the freezer nearly full now.”