Foster - Two Old Men Too Old to Die

Two Old Men Too Old To Die

Ron Foster

Alabama, USA

2018 by Ron Foster

All rights reserved.

P rinted in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

Henry Repeating Arms

B rass Stacker (TGR Enterprises Inc.)

My Patriot Supply

Gamo U.S.A.

Woods Stalkers

W alt studied the little pond in back of the small country hotel and wondered if he had what he called The sense God Gave a Goat in his southern vernacular to even be here today. Times were tough ever since the grid went down and it was either go out foraging and scavenging or try to extend the trap line that wasnt producing like it should. He was a lonely and unhappy anomaly in this grid down world, a man who was known by a neighbor or two to have predicted this mess they were in and prepared for it somewhat, but all that meant was that they knew where to come ask for a handout after it actually happened. He was what was known as one of those survivalist types, conspiracy theorist or something.

He had warned them all many times that he didnt have much to share and that they should have prepared for themselves when he had advised them to do so previously but that concept hadnt stuck on this poor end of the road and folks basically had done nothing to prepare for this calamity. The only blessings he had gotten back from of all his carefully worded admonishments and preparedness advisements that they should do something for themselves before this crap happened was for them to know to come knock on his door and ask what should they do now and did he have any extra food to spare. Well, that wasnt his only blessing: nobody had tried to rob him yet, they respected him too much, probably because they were scared he would shoot them but somehow his continued helpful nature had kept their desperation at bay for now because they had guns too.

He shared a lot of what he had in his food preps initially and he told them a bit about what he would try to do to help them further if they helped him some and for a time it sufficed before the local game thinned to nothing and folks started looking like they would kill him for a biscuit they thought he might have had hidden out. Walt had spent many a sleepless tossing and turning night pondering what was next in this apocalyptic world and had dug into his bag of half remembered woodsman and prepper tricks but the community was dying. Wasnt much of a community, wasnt a tribe or anything, only three households on the end of a road that seem to depend on him entirely too much.

At the beginning of this disaster, he had the juice, both figuratively and literally to apply his knowledge and preps to the tasks of survival at hand but these were dying days and he was giving out more than he received in support to do the task. Being alone and on your own sucked during the apocalypse, Walt didnt have a mate or a family. Oh, everyone was friendly towards him and committed enough at first to let the old prepper homesteader guide them along in this transition from grid up to long-term grid down but when his pantry was empty and his traps didnt produce, his usefulness suffered as well as his security and popularity in this small seemingly getting more selfish community as times got harder.

He had remembered an old odd red brick rural motel from passing it a bazillion times and he was always wondering how it stayed open and wondering what kind of guests it attracted as just part of the real estate he passed coming and going to town. That it had a landscaped rectangular fish pond visible from the highway set in back of it behind a rusted old barb wire fence had always intrigued him and made the fisherman in him wonder what was in those still seemingly forgotten farmland waters. On more than one occasion he had noted the white feathers evidencing a duck or two hanging out on the lawn beyond the fence of this probable illicit rendezvous for broke married lovers but that speculation made no sense because you could see the entire parking lot from the road if you got out this far. Still and all it was an old farm pond that might have fish still in it and if nobody had thought about collecting the occasional passing or domesticated duck out of it for dinner then it warranted his attention to investigate and use some of his precious gas up today.

He had gotten up this morning as a man focused on a mission, he had told his neighbor who had a wife and three kids of his intentions in hopes of having some more intel on this place but he got no answers and only questions on what should they do if he didnt return.

The idea was, Walt explained, for him to string his trotline across what appeared to be a disused pond using some dough bait made from a bit of salt, water and flour and see if any catfish or bream were present. Food was short and this was the only new short term solution he could think of.

He and his friend Thomas had speculated on the chances of any fish remaining in it and the hazards of such a journey and it went something like this.

Walt started the conversation up by inquiring who had owned that run down place which neither one could answer, other than agree the nonpolitically correct statement that it was probably India Indians who had taken over most of the formerly white southern generationally owned service stations and country stores dotting this stretch of highway.

Walt didnt have anything personal against the new inclusion of foreign owners other than him reminiscing about missing the old country boy and girl familiarity of old times and good people and for that matter neither did Thomas except for the newcomers upping prices as soon as they took over and us residents of the old south saying hold on now or we will boycott until they acquiesced to a more gentile understanding of poor folks and the ways of southern living around here.

The reason race or ownership of the hotel came up at all was the question of if either one of them thought the owners would still be there. That hotel was right directly on the highway and for the life of both of them they pretty much considered that surely those folks had to have moved on or been starved out of there by now.