The spruce
trees planted along the edges of the lonely highway were evenly spaced, part of
a plan designed to fool the eye. Like
the waving fields of grain ripening behind them, they concealed the entry to Fresh
Start, the village that was Bill Watson’s next destination.
Fresh Start was the biggest community in these parts, and his best chance to meet his sales objectives. In his truck, he carried sufficient inventory to put him over the top, cases of batteries neatly concealed under burlap sacks stuffed with seed corn. Bill just needed to sell the load.
He chewed on his lip and glanced in his rearview mirror, checking to see that none of his cargo had shifted. The road was in worse shape than he’d remembered. He should have expected that. It didn’t see much traffic anymore, but there wasn’t anyone to do maintenance, either.
The load looked good. Bill blew out his breath, and reminded himself to appear relaxed. There’d be a sentry to talk his way past.
He watched the gravel shoulder for where it leveled out, showing hard-packed dirt. It helped that he’d been to Fresh Start about a year ago, and knew where to look.
Bill took a quick glance around his cab, to ensure nothing contradicted the image he wished to project.
His inspirational photograph was out in plain sight, sitting in the tray below his radio. With a grimace, he flipped the picture face down. He’d put it away when he got a chance. Here, so close to the entrance, he didn’t want to give the impression he had something to hide. Surveillance cameras were easy to conceal. Someone might be watching.
The image that inspired him didn’t look like much, just a metal security barrier set in a high concrete wall, with a biometric scanner for entry. The uninitiated wouldn’t understand the appeal. Just glancing at it made Bill’s heart beat faster. Those gates were the entry to paradise.
A few more sales would propel him inside. This time, he’d make it. It wouldn’t be like the first occasion, when he’d returned to the office to discover the dates had mysteriously changed, or the second, when he’d gotten there to learn the quotas had been raised.
He understood. Only the most dedicated could be allowed to make it to the top, to share in the spoils. Otherwise, the wealth would be diluted, and the wealthy, no better than anyone else. Maybe Bill had taken a few hard knocks, but he’d learned how the game was played.
The economy still operated, after a fashion. Though manufacturing had almost disappeared, with the population so low, there was little need for it. Warehouses were stuffed with product. Customers were the scarce resource.
For him, places like Fresh Start were potential goldmines. They made money hand-over-fist. Good quality food was the new luxury item, the only thing in demand, but not in sufficient supply. These villages were growing fast.
That should have been good news for Bill, but it wasn’t. Sales were harder than ever to come by. It took all his ingenuity just to get in.
His last visit to Fresh Start hadn’t worked out well; he hadn’t gotten past the sentry. This time he was better disguised, sporting a bad haircut and stained clothing. With a bit of luck, this bunch of hicks wouldn’t remember him.
Turning his dusty pickup into the narrow lane, Bill negotiated the nearly invisible gap in the razor wire fence with ease. He drove between the grain fields and past a second band of trees. Stopping by a ramshackle hut, he rolled his window down. He tipped his grimy baseball cap, and peered into the dim interior. “Howdy.” Bill had perfected his twang, and was confident it sounded real.
Inside, the young hayseed put down the bucket of peas he’d been shelling, and got to his feet.
Bill’s chest tightened, but he kept a friendly smile on his face. Though he’d hoped just to be waved on, all wasn’t lost, not yet. He smelled a trap. The lout was in his target demographic, but Bill knew better than to make his pitch here. The kid would’ve been given instructions.
The sentry stepped out of the small building, and Bill reassessed. The fellow wasn’t a kid. He was older than Bill had first thought, maybe closer to his own age, almost thirty. The man’s gingham shirt and wiry build had been deceptive until he’d stepped into the sunshine, giving Bill a good look at his face. Clean-shaven, the guy had a long jaw, emphasized by a smudge of dirt. His hair was dark and so were his eyes, with a sharper gaze than Bill liked to see. The man rubbed his chin as he examined the load. “Corn?”
“Yeah, and it’s good stuff.” Bill let his breath go, but slowly, so his inquisitor wouldn’t notice. Picking up a bag from the passenger seat, Bill passed it out the window. It was a cloth bag, with drawstrings, and held a sample of the corn. He knew better than to offer anything in throwaway plastic. That was like a red flag to these folk. He’d also told the truth about the seed. It was top-quality corn, a variety that would do well here. These people might not know a double-A battery from a triple, but they knew seed.
Bill had learned that the hard way, too. Even so, buying it had been a challenge. It had taken him a long while to learn enough to pass muster.
The man fingered the corn before letting it drop. “Yep.” He passed the bag back with a nod. Though he didn’t say anything more, he didn’t have to. Bill knew the signs. The fellow’s silence was acceptance.
Keeping his triumph from showing on his face, Bill tipped his hat again, and gently pressed the gas pedal. As he drove away, he rolled up his window, to keep the dust on the outside of the truck.
Just down the road, he passed the usual painted sign. He read it and rolled his eyes. Happiness is just a shovelful away. It was the stupidest motto he’d ever seen, but these people passed it around like it was gold. He’d seen the same idiot slogan in every one of these dinky little holes.
Bill knew happiness. He’d been slaving toward it for years. With his targets met and his next promotion in hand, it would be his. His heart lifted at the thought. He glanced down, to where his inspirational photograph lay. After checking in the rearview to make sure the sentry had gone back in, Bill leaned over to open the glove compartment. He shoved the picture inside.
It didn’t stop him from thinking about it. Inside that barrier lay a mansion with his name on it. There were plenty lying empty; he’d have his choice.
He’d spent years in that enclave, having come from a serving family. If he’d chosen to stay on that path, he could have remained on the other side of the wall. Bill hadn’t stayed. He was going to live the dream.
Bill slowed down as he crossed a curved bridge over a lazy stream. A pair of older men in straw hats lounged against the rail, holding fishing rods. One waved at Bill as he went by. He gave them a cheery nod and a grin, but once he was past, Bill shook his head. Didn’t they have anything better to do?
He drove on and looked around, appraising his surroundings. Fresh Start was a big place, bigger than he’d expected. He passed a large tractor cutting hay. Beyond that, he saw another field planted in corn. A building held a sign that read Caution: Biodiesel Production.
He crawled past the wind turbines, the storage facilities with their banks of solar collectors, and then the orchards. Powered vehicles were a rarity in such places, and the residents had gotten out of the habit of watching for them. For the most part, they treated the roads as footpaths or bicycle trails. He kept a close eye.
Past a woman in a berry patch, he saw a scene that looked promising for his needs. Two people stood between rows of tomato plants. A young man stuck some kind of gadget into the soil, while a woman tapped on an electronic tablet. Bill licked his lips. He was willing to bet that those devices needed batteries. His prospects were looking good.
Bill decided he’d hold to his plan, to approach the kids first. There were always some who sought an advantage to lord over their friends. A bit of childish pressure might tip the balance with wavering parents.
As he approached the edge of town, he checked his clock. The school would be easy to find, and he’d timed it just about right. It should be letting out shortly.
All the villages were arranged the same way, with the fields ringing the outside, and the houses clustered together in the core. Public buildings were always right in the middle.
Bill passed a pair of women sitting on a shady bench, laughing together while they watched toddlers play in the sandbox at their feet. These people had such wealth at their fingertips; why did their children play in sand?
He spotted the school, and took a deep breath. This was it, the moment that would set his feet on the path to his dream. He longed to race forward, but held himself in check. The streets were full of people walking, or just standing around and chatting. Bill took it slow.
He pulled up close to the side of the school, choosing a location near the door, where the kids would race by. After parking the truck, Bill climbed out and walked around to pull open his tailgate. From under the sacks, he took out a small box.
His timing was perfect. The bell rang. A few minutes later, he heard the bang of doors, and the pounding of feet. Voices filled the air.
A towheaded boy in jeans jogged past.
“Hey.” Bill caught the kid’s attention and offered a grin, motioning him over. “Ever seen one of these?”
The kid stopped and stared at him. He sidled closer.
Bill pulled a pocket videogame from the box and held it out. “It’s a lot of fun. Have you tried it?”
The kid’s eyes went wide. After taking a close look at Bill’s face, he held up his hands and backed away. “You aren’t supposed to be here.” The boy raced off.
Bill snorted. He tried again, enticing a younger, freckle-faced lad wearing beige shorts, with skinned knees. The kid looked intrigued. He crept closer.
With a quick flick of his finger, Bill turned the machine on. Holding it out, he gave the kid a smile. “Try it. There’s one free with every case of batteries.”
A man cleared his throat behind Bill, just as a big hand clamped down on his shoulder. Someone plucked the video game from his fingers.
The kid turned pale and ran.
Swallowing, Bill swung around to face a knot of glaring men. There were about six of them, most with farmer’s tans and dusty shoes.
The one closest was a middle-aged fellow with blond hair and a beaked nose. Sticking his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills. He peeled some off, holding them out to Bill. “We’ll give you this for the seed corn. It’s a fair price. You leave now, and take the rest of that load away.”
Just beyond the group, Bill noticed the fellow who’d acted as sentry pointing at him while talking to an older man.
That fellow pushed through the scrum. He was dressed like someone who worked indoors, in pleated trousers and a striped shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. Balding, his fringe of gray hair was too thin to balance his bristly mustache and goatee. He nodded to the man in charge. “Hold on. Let me show him something first.” Waggling his fingers at Bill, he turned toward the school doors. “This way.”
Bill surveyed the hard-faced men who surrounded him. They looked implacable, but he’d seen the evidence. This community could use batteries, and had the money to buy them. Maybe, if he gave them some time, they’d reconsider and he could make his pitch.
He stuffed the bills into his pocket, gave the others a tight smile, and hurried after his rescuer.
The man held open a door to the school. “My name’s Peter. Peter Stemmer. I teach history here. And you are?” He ushered Bill inside.
“Bill Watson.” Bill stepped in and turned in a circle, staring openmouthed at the walls of the main foyer. There were crests and shelves with awards, but also pictures, big ones. He’d never been inside a school before. Though he’d gained an education, much of it had been a clandestine affair taught in kitchens and basements, out of the sight of his betters. It was true that servants were more successful when they’d gained basic skills, but how they attained them was their problem.
He’d known what a school was for, of course. Bill had just never given much thought to what went on inside one.
Peter gestured toward the longest wall. It was a big one, and covered in images.
No two were alike. They were grouped, with small gaps between sets. One cluster held an old castle surrounded by stone walls, a barrier of armor-clad men astride horses, a king in robes staring at a kneeling man, and a raggedy fellow walking behind an ox with a wooden plow.
Beyond that, the panorama of a mansion with manicured lawns caught Bill’s eye, together with a group of people in fancy, modern dress, strolling behind barbed wire. In the foreground was a line of police in riot gear. The picture under it showed a huge factory floor filled with women behind sewing machines.
Across the wall’s top was a title in big block letters, but without quotes. Bill read aloud, “Those who forget their history are doomed to repeat it.”
“That’s right.” Peter gave an approving nod. “We’ve followed this same model for centuries. Groups form for good purpose, and leaders emerge with honorable intentions. But others follow. Over time, power corrupts.” He pointed to a black-and-white picture that showed a man washing an old-fashioned vehicle. The car’s license plate had a date on it, 1954.
Bill looked it over. He wondered what it was he was supposed to see in the outdated image.
“Over a century ago, the economy of this country boomed. Jobs were plentiful and the standard of living improved. The head of an average company earned about ten percent more than his workers.”
Bill shrugged. What did he care about things that had happened before his grandparents were born?
Peter moved along and pointed at another image, that of a grocer stacking cereal boxes. “A half-century later, the companies were bigger. With bonuses and stock options, a CEO might have earned more in a year than all his non-management workers combined. Economists talked about ‘trickle-down’ but the money mostly went up. For normal folk, it took two incomes to do what one used to, and many jobs no longer produced a living wage.”
Bill took a closer look at the wall. He still didn’t see the point Peter was trying to make. Those times were gone.
Peter moved further along. “The trend continued, concentrating more money into fewer hands.” He tapped on a picture that looked very much like Bill’s own photograph of inspiration.
It made Bill catch his breath.
Peter gave him a sour grin, as if he knew what was in Bill’s mind. “As people grew more desperate, the crime rate increased, and the rich hid behind walls. It became harder to get around, harder to move things, or to keep them.”
Bill’s eyes moved further down the wall. He found a shot he recognized. It was famous, or infamous, an image everyone had seen. Those born to money said it was proof that they were finer folk, called by destiny to rise above the rest.
Bill’s teachers had called it the beginning of the end.
Peter tapped the aerial view of hundreds, maybe thousands of people pushing, grappling, and fighting in city streets. “After the food riots of the thirties, it finally dawned on the top echelons that they’d been dependent on a middle class that no longer existed. But by then, it was too late to recover. The system just couldn’t cope with the massive cycles of disease and starvation that followed. With the collapse, millions more died.” Peter crossed his arms and scowled at Bill. “Now, do you understand?”
Bill shrugged. It fit nicely into his worldview. “Sure. The rich don’t have anything special, other than money. Someone in their past just had the guts to reach out and take power. Anyone with sufficient drive and determination can do it.”
Peter snorted, and lifted his lip. “That’s true, but the point is, we want to break the cycle.” He tapped the picture again. “What you have to understand is, people didn’t set out to create the conditions that destroyed so many. One thing just led to another. Over and over, feeding egos has become more important than feeding people.”
That heated Bill’s blood. He glared at Peter. “You’re controlling the food.”
Peter’s smile turned cold. “Yes, we are.”
Bill’s eyes widened. He’d expected denial. For a moment, he just stared at Peter. Was the pastoral setting a crock, and Peter just like him, wanting to prove he belonged at the top?
Bill recalled the families who lived in the shantytown outside the wall of the enclave. The price of good food was too high for most of them. They depended on the leftovers of those who lived inside. Though few realized it, those on the other side were dependent, too. Their lifestyle required a supply of people desperate enough to work for scraps.
Bill knew it. If he was going to enjoy that life, he needed those workers. He’d heard the rumors, and now he recognized the threat. Villages like Fresh Start collaborated, keeping food prices high. Then they offered an alternative lifestyle. Had they not insisted on small groups and time to assimilate, the shantytowns would already be empty.
And here, standing before him, was the cause. Bill pointed an accusing finger. “If you lowered your prices, it would be easier for folk to cope.”
Peter raised his eyebrows and took a few steps. He tapped first on the image of the grocer, and then the mansion. “Would it? Or would it just be easier for you?” Crossing his arms, he shook his head. “You’re a remnant of the old values, a monument to emptiness.”
Bill stiffened, clenching his fists. Beneath his anger was an undercurrent of doubt. Peter’s words felt like a threat to the man Bill had worked to become.
Even worse, old memories flooded back. Bill recalled his days behind the wall, the camaraderie and laughter, and the feeling there were people who cared about him. He shook his head. He’d put all that behind him. It wasn’t the path to success.
But jollying Peter along might be. Bill took a deep breath. He needed to sell his batteries, and Fresh Start was still his best bet. “Yeah, I see.”
“Do you really?” Peter gave him a flat stare. “You think we’re a bunch of hicks. Well, you’re wrong. Several people with advanced degrees live here in Fresh Start, looking for ways we can all live better. We’re just careful about how we define success. If you need to have someone under your thumb to believe you’re doing well, you’re not welcome here.”
Bill rubbed his fingers down his jaw. Wasn’t that what the boy outside had said? You shouldn’t be here. He’d been looking at Bill’s face, not at what Bill held in his hands.
He put it together, and sucked in his breath. The batteries weren’t unwelcome. He was.
His clothing and mannerisms weren’t enough. He wasn’t one of them, and they knew it. Giving Peter a last glare, Bill turned on his heel and rushed back outside, to his truck.
The grain was gone and the tailgate was up. His load of batteries and video games was still there, safe and sound.
The sentry lounged against the wall. Bill eyed him. Swallowing, Bill voiced his thoughts. “You knew who I was when I arrived, didn’t you?”
The fellow raised his head and gave Bill a lazy grin. “Yep.”
Bill grimaced. “Why did you let me in?”
“You brought good seed. Don’t have enough acres back under cultivation yet. Variety is important if we’re to stave off disaster. We’d like more strains of wheat and barley, too. A fellow who learns quick and knows his way around has skills we could use.”
“Oh.” Bill snorted as he climbed into his truck. So, the hayseed had gotten the better of him, after all. All they’d wanted was the corn. Well, they’d have to find a new patsy. They were onto him, but he was onto them, too. He gave the fellow a dour look. Then Bill drove away.
He wended his way back to the highway, ignoring the knot in his gut. Fresh Start was a minor setback, nothing more. He’d head home and start out again in the morning.
As he passed the gardens, Bill was forced to stop his truck. A slender woman blocked the road, holding a basket. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, a loose blouse, faded jeans, and a mischievous smile. Her brown hair hung long, twisted in front of one shoulder.
Bill watched her stride to the passenger door of his truck. She pulled it open. He bent to see under the hat.
With a chuckle, she raised her head to stare straight at him. She was no beauty, just average, late-twenties maybe, with a sunburned nose and dimpled cheeks. Setting her basket on the seat, she said, “A gift, for your trouble.” Her voice was mellow and rich.
The basket was filled with strawberries. They were big, lush and red. Bill raised his eyebrows.
“It’s late in the season. That’s what you’re thinking isn’t it? They’re ever-bearing.” She picked up a particularly large one and held it out to him. “Try it. I developed this variety myself. It’s disease resistant, but bred for flavor, not so it’ll last for weeks in a transport.”
Bill took a bite. It was warm, juicy and sweet. He’d never tasted anything like it. Strawberries were a treat he hadn’t enjoyed in years. Even in memory, these made the ones he’d had seem wooden and tasteless. He blinked at her. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” She closed the door and waved him on.
As he drove, he helped himself to another berry. It was tasty. Juice dribbled down his chin, staining his t-shirt. Bill glanced down at it. He’d dotted his clothing with various stains to make it look like he blended in. This might be the first honest mark his shirt had ever acquired. It felt surprisingly good, like a badge of honor.
He passed the grain fields and turned back onto the highway before he tasted another berry, and then another.
They were good, but also a temptation, one he needed to resist. It was time to move on. He leaned over and opened the glove compartment to pull out his inspirational photograph. As he set it back in its place, the familiar hollow feeling formed in his chest. He’d always associated it with the need to meet his goal.
A monument to emptiness, Peter had said.
Bill’s back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the razor-wired fields. Whatever they thought, they were no different. They kept people out, too. Still, Peter’s words stuck in Bill’s mind, striking a chord in the hollowness within.
He tasted another berry, and recalled the warm smile of the woman who’d provided it.
Bill thought of the amiable faces of the fishermen on the bridge, and the friendly chatter on the streets of Fresh Start.
They’d rejected him.
Gritting his teeth, he put his foot on the gas pedal and sped up, ignoring the bumps in the road. Peter had shaken his confidence, that’s all. Bill couldn’t lose sight of his goal, not now, when he was so close.
It was a long drive home. Putting Fresh Start out of his mind, he tried to relax and enjoy the scenery. Trees and bushes had grown enough to obscure most of the ruins, making the landscape look less desolate.
Bill took the familiar ramp off the highway, and negotiated his way back to the company lockup, at the base of the hill. The enclave was at the top.
Bill opened the window and reached out to eyeball the remote. Movement distracted him.
Four youths stepped into his path, probably hoping for work. With an eye to the future, he offered it when he could. Bill recognized them all, but only knew two names. The blocky, red-haired lad was Len. He was pushy and brash. Tall, dark Raul was quiet and thoughtful. The other two looked to him for leadership.
Bill glanced at the basket beside him. He had no work to offer, but there were still many berries left, and he’d had his fill. Climbing out of the truck, he said, “Sorry, boys, this is all I have.” He held out the basket.
Len grabbed it and twisted away from the others, mashing berries into his mouth.
With a growl, Raul reached over Len’s shoulder to snatch the basket away. The rest circled him, crowding Len out.
Raul ate, but also kept a close eye. Under his gaze, the others each got their fair share.
After a few minutes of scuffling and an apology from Len, the group relented and let him in.
The scene reminded Bill of a time years ago, when he’d stolen a bowlful to share with his friends. It had been his first taste of strawberries.
He stared up at the wall on the hill, and chuckled at the memory.
Then he glanced back at the boys, and sucked in his breath. Suddenly, it all seemed so clear.
Bill strode over to a small door set into the wall beside the main gates. The door opened to his retinal scan, and he let himself in. There was an equipment locker right beside the entry. Bill helped himself to two shovels, but didn’t bother signing them out. He didn’t plan to return. He also grabbed several burlap sacks.
Bill tossed the sacks and shovels into the back of the truck, and then slapped a hand onto Raul’s shoulder. “Do you have family here?”
Raul shook his head.
“I have a job for you.” Bill used his head to point at the truck. “Get in.”
The others clamored around him, but Bill held up his hands. “Sorry, I can only take one.”
Raul handed the basket to one of the other boys. He climbed into the truck.
So did Bill. He started it up and backed out of the drive.
As they drove off, Raul waved to his friends. He glanced at Bill. “Where are we going?”
Bill rolled down his window. He picked up his inspirational photograph and chucked it out before rolling the window back up. “We’re going to shovel up some very fine wheat and barley, and then we’re heading to a place called Fresh Start. They made me an offer, and I just figured it out.”
Raul narrowed his eyes. “They made you an offer. So, why am I am coming along?”
Bill chuckled. “Why didn’t you give that basket back to Len?”
“What?” Raul blinked at him. “Because he’d already proved he couldn’t be trusted with it.”
“You could have done what he did. Instead, you shared with your friends.”
Raul shrugged. “Everyone needs friends. If you try to go it alone, you’ll just get left behind.”
“Yeah.” Bill turned the truck back toward the highway. “But there’s a big difference between sharing, and handing the basket back to Len.” He snorted. “Now I get it, but you always have. Fresh Start is growing. It needs people like you.”
Raul gave him an incredulous look. “So, we’re going to take seeds to them?”
Bill laughed. “Happiness is just a shovelful away.”
