Sol Survivors 2: Nashville Nightmare: Sol Survivors, #2

By Ken Benton

Forty days. That's how long it's been since the largest solar storm ever observed, now referred to as Helios, decimated modern civilization and released a polarizing nervous disorder into the human population. For diurnals like Joel McConnell and his odd assortment of guests, it means an all-out effort at self-sufficient living and keeping the local nocturnal population from stealing everything they produce.
 
With military law enforcement busy saving terrorized citizens from the cadaverous remains of large cities, rural suburbanites such as Joel's clan find they must fend for themselves and settle their own problems. Thanks in part to a cooperative trading post he established, which is starting to gain notoriety beyond their own neighborhood, Joel is managing to mostly keep peace.
 
Until, he learns, he must make a daunting rescue attempt which leads him into the heart of what has become the darkest and most dangerous abyss in the entire south. A place many who escaped it refer to as the demon's dump. Most know it by its former name: Nashville.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Kasch
• Release date: Aug 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201364649

Book preview

Interstate 85, Alabama

Major Tillman could sense that the JAG Corps officer in the passenger seat next to him was growing more uncomfortable the closer they came to Montgomery. When the unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoed in the distance ahead, he finally verbalized his anxiety.

We’re not going into the city, are we? Captain Mallard asked shifting in his seat.

Tillman took his eyes off the road to glance at him. Not too far. The next station is on the outskirts.

I was told none of our stops would take us into dangerous zones.

It’s Montgomery, Tillman answered. Not Atlanta.

The two soldiers in the back seat of the Humvee chuckled. Tillman saw Mallard’s square jaw turn to them in his side vision.

Easy, guys. I’m still an officer. He turned forward again and sighed. I should have listened to my sister and gone into family law.

Not much demand for that right now, Tillman replied. Though a family counselor may have come in handy last week when I was actually in Atlanta. May have helped prevent an unfortunate incident between a man and his stepsons.

Who won? Mallard asked.

Tillman only gave him a somber look.

Damn. How often do you have to go there?

Our daytime search and rescue patrols have been cut back to twice a week in Atlanta. Not many diurnal citizens left there. It’s the nocturnal squads who have it rough still. But from everything we hear the demon’s dump is worse, on both sides of the clock. I’ll admit I’m glad it’s out of our sector. That’s where you get reassigned these days if you screw up.

You mean Nashville, right?

Yeah. Tillman checked his mirror and slowed to let the bait car catch up.

Where are they getting food in those cities? Mallard asked.

Tillman shrugged. None is going in, that’s for sure. It’s only been five weeks or so since the grid went down, so they may still be fighting over whatever hoarded supplies are left. The pigeon populations are noticeably smaller, though. Ducks keep landing in the park lakes—the stupid ones anyway, as polluted as they’re getting and with feathers covering the shorelines. The noctos surely haven’t run out of skunks and possums yet. And there are still a few stray cats and dogs about. Hell, we treated someone in Tallahassee the other day for a copperhead bite, and this guy went on to cook and eat the snake.

I can’t believe anyone stays put in a living hell.

Some seem to like it, Tillman replied. Sick in the head maybe, or no place to go and afraid of leaving what they know, or else they want to be part of a street gang that rules the rubble. That’s the station ahead. We can watch it from the top of this hill.

Major Tillman parked the vehicle behind a bush in a spot with a clear view of the subject gas station. The bait car, an old tan BMW, pulled up next to him. Captain Mallard removed everything that looked military from his clothing and joined the plain-clothes driver in the bait car.

Then they waited. Tillman’s two soldiers in the back seat opened a deck of cards and began playing. After their first game, Tillman thought of joining them. But that’s when a white hatchback pulled up to the pumps at the station.

We have a possible, Tillman said.

The soldiers delayed their game. Down the hill, two men came out of the gas station to greet the driver. One was armed with a shotgun. The driver handed them something, and then followed them inside. They all shortly reemerged, whereupon the gas station attendant put a nozzle in the tank of the sedan and began pumping a lever up and down.

Tillman turned to his men. It’s a go. He signaled the bait car driver to be at the ready. When the hatchback finished fueling and drove away, he waved the BMW forward.

It went as expected. The bait car pulled up to the same pump, but the attendants refused to sell to them, and even made a threatening motion with the shotgun as Tillman and his men watched. Captain Mallard, standing outside the car, turned and waved up the hill. Tillman hit the gas and quickly arrived on the scene.

I saw you up there, one of the attendants said to Tillman before he had both feet on the pavement. This game you’re playing is unnecessary. We aren’t doing anything wrong. The attendant was muscular, but not much taller than five feet.

We’ll be the judge of that, Tillman answered. So far it doesn’t look good. We know you have gas because we watched you sell some. Then you refused a different customer at gunpoint. That’s illegal. What is your name?

Douglas Bell, the attendant said. I own this station. We are independent and unbranded. And I don’t have any available gas. It is all sold.

You’re telling me if I start cranking that lever no gas will come out of the nozzle? Tillman pointed to the pump where Captain Mallard was now inspecting the rigging.

You would be spilling someone else’s already paid-for fuel, Bell replied. And it seems to me that would be illegal, not to mention hazardous.

You’re pre-selling it?

That’s right.

To who?

I don’t even know.

Tillman put his hands on his hips. Explain that, please.

It’s done through vouchers.

Captain Mallard finished the pump inspection and walked over. No problems with the pump, he said. It’s not leaking, and appears relatively safe.

He says they only sell gas through presold vouchers, Tillman informed him. Is that legal?

Can I see a voucher? Mallard asked.

Follow me. Bell led them inside the building.

Two additional armed men stood about the poorly-lit room that was once a mini-mart, along with one unarmed man sitting behind a wooden desk wearing a suit and smoking a thin cigarette. Bell produced an oddly-shaped purple ticket and handed it to Captain Mallard.

How do you prevent counterfeits? Mallard asked holding it towards the window.

The symbol on it, plus it must fit in a mold.

Can I see the mold?

Over here.

Mallard followed him to the counter where he fit the ticket into something resembling a cookie cutter.

It’s clever, Mallard said returning, and isn’t illegal—yet, anyway. He pointed at the window. But the symbol on the ticket is also posted in the window, so the scheme looks to be part of an unsanctioned network. The brass is surely going to want the details, and in the unlikely event they approve of it, establish regulated channels. Assuming these guys actually have a distributor agreement with someone who can make recurring deliveries, which seems highly doubtful.

Tillman nodded and turned to Bell. Well, what about that, Mr. Bell? How many other stations are part of this rogue ticketing scheme?

Bell glanced at the smoking man before answering.

I honestly don’t know if there are any.

So you admit there might be? Whose idea was this? And who is running it? Tillman turned to the smoking man, who remained a statue.

I don’t know, Bell answered. I got the mold, the tickets, and the symbol for the window at a local swap meet, where I also sold most of my available gas.

Tillman turned back to him. "Where exactly is this swap meet held, and how often?’

I only knew about the one I went to, which was at a private residence. I haven’t been to any others personally, and do not know where or when they take place. I sold the rest of the tickets through a liaison who visits, and I do not even know his name.

You are not cooperating, Tillman said. Do you understand I can shut you down right now?

For what, exactly?

Selling stolen gas, for one thing. No unbranded gas stations are currently able to get deliveries, nor do they figure to be able to any time soon, and I know damn well your supply isn’t left over from pre-Helios. Reselling hijacked gas can land you in a prison camp for a long spell. You don’t even have a price posted.

There is no price posted because there is no gas currently available, Bell said walking behind the counter again. He shortly came out with a handful of paperwork. Here is the receipt of my delivery from Valero, last week.

Mallard intercepted it, looked it over, and grudgingly nodded to Tillman. Looks legit. There’s a note that it’s been rerouted from a closed Valero station.

Here are receipts for every voucher sold. Bell rustled the remaining papers in his hand.

Mallard took them, flipped through the stack, and asked, Why are you selling unleaded for $200 a gallon when the going price is $300?

How the heck do I know what the going price is? I sold it profitably, is all I know. And we are selling by the tankful, not the gallon, for noncommercial vehicles. You should appreciate the fact that I’m not gouging.

Moment of silence while everyone looked at each other. The smoker casually put out his cigarette.

Anything else? Bell asked. Are you going to arrest an honest businessman, or shut him down because of creative marketing during difficult times?

Tillman pointed a finger at him. Your attitude could use improvement. You are only hurting yourself. Do you realize reports from field units like ours are what the high command is listening to as they decide where to wire the new south states mini-grid? It could very well end up being me who effectively determines whether you get your local substation hooked in with the new transformers, or whether we go with one 50 miles east.

Crickets again, although now the expressions on all faces in the room turned to ones of concern. Even Captain Mallard’s.

Let’s go, Tillman said to Mallard, leading him outside at a quick pace.

Before they could climb back in the Humvee, Bell came out and shouted to them.

Hey!

Yeah? Tillman responded, not hiding his annoyance.

I’m sorry.

Tillman only nodded before climbing into the driver’s seat.

Back on the road, Captain Mallard spoke. I haven’t heard anything about a south states mini-grid.

Tillman failed to suppress a growing smirk.

Oh, Mallard said. You were bullshitting.

* * *

Lanny lit another thin cigarette as he waited for the boss to see him. He inhaled deeply and worried about the dwindling supply of his non-negotiable brand of smokes while his eyes darted among the classic movie posters on the walls. How nice it would be to watch one of those again.

Finally, Quinn stepped out of the office and waved him in.

Inside Baker’s office, Lanny had to do a double-take when he saw a classic movie actually in progress on a bulky old TV set. Baker, noticing his captivation, laughed and lifted a remote to pause it. He’d dressed casual today in a red golf shirt, but his hair was slicked as usual.

Things weren’t so bad in the 80’s, huh, Lanny? There’s more of these old sets out there than you’d think. The trick is finding a working video player. This is a VHS tape playing, believe it or not, thanks to our last swap meet. Of course, it helps to have a generator and some gasoline. What’s up?

We had a visit at Bell’s place, Lanny responded. Just as you anticipated.

And? Baker asked, not appearing the least bit concerned.

Lanny chuckled. Bell isn’t the most graceful under pressure, but he did okay. They had some kind of lawyer with them, who tried to trap us but ended up pretty much conceding that everything is airtight.

Airtight? Baker said scooting his chair forward.

Strike that, Lanny said. I’m not going on record with airtight. But this lawyer guy couldn’t find anything to roust us over, and they were visibly disappointed.

Excellent. Baker nodded enthusiastically. We’ll go ahead and expand the operation, then. I want ten more stations on board by next week. And thirty within a month. If we do this right, we’ll soon control a nice percentage of the available gas trade in the south. It’s important we get established before another outfit moves on the idea. Then any others will have to come in under us.

That schedule is going to be a lot of work, Lanny said. How can we be confident of deliveries for all who join up?

That’s the beauty of it. Baker stood from his desk and walked to a stack of cardboard boxes against the wall. We are now connected in. I can guarantee deliveries to those who play ball. Enough to make it worth their while, anyway. You don’t need to worry about how. Just run the shops. I’ll get you some more guys, too. Here.

Baker stooped to put his hand in one of the boxes and then tossed a black object from it towards Lanny. Lanny flinched but managed to catch it. He smiled widely when he recognized a full carton of his thin cigarettes.

Thought you’d like that, Baker said.

Thanks, Baker. Thanks a lot. There is one more thing.

What?

The soldier in charge mentioned something about a mini-grid getting hooked up in the southern states, and the possibility of it coming through that area. New transformers being brought to certain substations, wherever they decide to map it.

Baker stood thinking a few seconds before shaking his head. That’s no good. It could flood the operation with competitors. Take some of your guys when you get a chance, and see if you can damage the closest substations to our shops bad enough they won’t be selected for the project.

Those things are high voltage areas, Lanny said. Some of the components in them are still live. I think we’ll need an electrician to advise us.

Baker frowned. I didn’t say don’t be careful. Just get it done.

Chapter One

Joel’s high spirits deflated when he spotted Jessie and Archer standing a hundred yards up the road in the fading light of early dusk. This was only the second time he’d seen either one of them since their treacherous testimonies led to him being thrown in the prison camp five weeks ago. He knew they wouldn’t come any closer—especially after having to step out of the way of a suddenly approaching army Humvee.

Joel recognized Colonel Cowboy in the front passenger seat even without his hat on. His spirits promptly re-inflated. In another few seconds the Humvee was parked next to him.

Well now this is something I had to see for myself, the colonel said exiting the vehicle. Wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. McConnell, I get the feeling if we were exiled to the moon you’d have a moonrock dealership operational within a week’s time, and would be wheeling and dealing with Martians.

Joel grinned and turned to follow the colonel’s eyes as they swept across the flat piece of ground that had been cleared between Joel’s place and the Dunn’s, on the opposite side of the street. Eight of the twelve available tables were currently occupied, one by Sammy and Mick. They were constructed of nothing more than dirt mounds, log stumps, and sapling trunks woven together, but had a pleasing rustic quality everyone seemed to appreciate. In addition, several attendees carried a single item for trade around. One of those was the Danson kid holding an impressive 8-pound catfish on a stringer.

Glad to see you again, Colonel, Joel said. Yes, our market is growing nicely. Some of these Oakdale neighbors have come from more than two miles away to trade, even a couple diurnals who are risking a short spell of night air for their walk back. I must say I’m surprised to see you here so late.

Joel then frowned at the colonel’s two escort soldiers who came out of the vehicle clutching their weapons at the ready, doubtlessly in response to seeing so many armed civilians—including old man Dunn, Rob Danson, and Joel himself, all three of whom had shotguns resting on their shoulders.

The Colonel noticed and ordered his men to shoulder their weapons. Joel spotted a pistol in the colonel’s sidearm holster under his coat, but it was not the same Glock 19 model he’d given Joel.

Well I do recall something about a dinner invitation? the colonel answered. And I’m hoping you have room for three guests for one night, in either of your homes, even if it’s in the barn.

Of course, Joel said. We have lodgers in the house up the street now. But if you guys don’t mind sleeping on thin camper mattresses in the loft, you are most welcome to stay over in my cabin.

Hell, that sounds like a four-star hotel to us.

Great. Let me work on dinner, then. Joel turned and yelled for Ricky Danson.

Ricky eyed Joel in response, and formed a hesitant expression. He almost appeared as if he wanted to run away. It was an unfortunate moment that reminded Joel of not only the mutual distrust between diurnals and nocturnals, but of the natural divide between the younger and older generations, especially between youth and authority. Ricky stood out from the rest of the crowd as the best dressed, perhaps in an effort to get the highest possible price for his fish. That kind of planning scored points with Joel. Of all the Dunn residents he’d met, Ricky was the one he disliked the least. This evening he wore a stylish zip-up hoodie that complimented his Panama hat nicely.

Joel smiled and urged him forward with rapid hand-motions.

Ricky cautiously approached.

I have unexpected dinner guests, Joel said. How old is this fish? I sure as heck know you didn’t catch it today.

I caught it last night, Ricky replied. And it’s been in a tub of saltwater all day. This thing is as fresh as you are going to ever get one, unless you catch it yourself—which isn’t likely, since the big ones only bite at night.

Joel could not help beaming. In a different reality, he might hire this kid to sell cars for him.

What’s the best offer you’ve gotten, Ricky?

Not something you could match.

Try me.

Well, Ricky said pushing the brim of his hat, a guy from a nearby hood offered me a pair of Air Jordan 1’s. I was about to accept the deal.

What is that? Joel said. Shoes?

He nodded. Sneakers. An OG colorway. Serious fire.

In your size?

Close enough.

Do you need shoes?

Ricky thought for a second. Maybe I need those shoes.

Joel laughed. What do you really need, man? I mean, in the current world. No one is going to appreciate how those classic sneakers look at night, right? And you’d just get them all muddy when fishing. Think. Is there something you wish you had above all else? Keeping in mind there is no electric power, of course.

Ricky looked at his fish in an almost absent-minded way and responded, More fishing tackle. Especially line and hooks.

Great. Let’s do some business.

Joel took the walkie-talkie out of his jacket pocket and radioed Debra. He instructed her to have Red bring the old blue tackle box from the shed out to the trading post.

While they waited, the colonel and his men perused the marketplace. Joel took the opportunity to ask Ricky several loaded questions about how things were going living at the Dunn property, hoping to get a little scuttlebutt on Jessie and Archer. Ricky skillfully deflected the questions. Old man Dunn stepped closer during the questioning and acted concerned about it, but stood ten yards off and remained silent as usual.

Red shortly showed up with the tackle box, his bushel of fiery hair mostly tucked up under a baseball cap. He spoke in his typical short, polite sentences to Joel before waiting for further instructions.

Joel thanked him and invited him to hang around the marketplace if he wanted, but Red chose to go back home after fearfully recognizing some of the Dunn house residents. Joel didn’t stop him. There was no warmth between he and Red, and Joel couldn’t imagine there ever being any. Their relationship had at least settled into something routine, with a mutual understanding. Red was like a bumbling hired hand who was fully aware of his expendability. Unfortunately, he was also like a child who needed to be provided for. Joel couldn’t simply discharge him into the cruel world without his conscience—and his woman—castigating him for it.

Joel opened the tackle box for Ricky and then held the fish by the stringer for him while he rummaged through it.

It’s a trade, Ricky said.

Whoa, hold on a second, Joel replied. Not the whole box. I was thinking the one spool of ten-pound test in there and one box of hooks, plus if you worked me over enough I’d throw in a package of weights, but I need to keep some of that back for the next big fish you decide to trade.

I can use all this now, Mr. McConnell. How about I credit you a few fish from my future catches? I got a sweet hole dialed in. We’ve been eating catfish for a week straight.

Call me Joel, Ricky. I’d rather you come back when you need more tackle and we can talk about it then. I have a couple rod and reel rigs I’d be willing to loan you as well, in exchange for a piece of your catch. For now take the line, hooks, and weights, plus any other item you feel you really need, like that knife you are holding, in exchange for this day-old cat. Then when you need more gear, come see me and we’ll work out an arrangement.

All right. Ricky stood and shook Joel’s free hand.

* * *

No hot sauce, huh? the colonel asked before taking his first bite. His soldiers sitting at the table next to him were already on their third bites.

Joel decided not to answer right away. An unlikely moment of silence occurred in the suddenly full house where the only sound to be heard was the barely-perceptible low hum of the large propane generator running. This was a special enough occasion for it.

Never mind, the colonel said after swallowing. Doesn’t need it. Nicely spicy and perfectly cooked. What’s your secret? He lifted his glass of wine.

Debra spoke. Goat’s milk, fresh egg, and, thanks to their trading savvy, she motioned to Sammy and Mick sitting at the counter, a crusting of Carolina chilies and Georgia peanuts.

Mm, the colonel replied. I’ve got to go civilian hopping more often. You had peanuts and peppers show up at your flea market, huh?

Yes, Joel replied. Along with all kinds of other surprising stuff.

You ain’t kidding there, Mick commented from the counter in a way that made Joel turn and frown at him. Sammy then whispered something in his ear.

The colonel kept shaking his head. "It’s inspiring, McConnell. I’ve heard about loosely organized rural swap meets,