Sunday, July 27, 2014

Tuskers. Chapter 5

This book is just pouring out of me.   I've never written this fast, and I'm a fast writer.  Don't know what's come over me.  I love this book, though I'm in the middle of it and probably not very objective.

I've added new characters, so instead of a novella, it's becoming a real book.

I'm going to put a couple of chapters a day on the blog now.

I hope you guys are enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

(Remember: this is a raw first draft, so give me a break...)

NOTE:  This is actually Chapter 4 in the book now, and yesterdays chapter is Chapter 5, but they are in close enough proximity to just keep going...)

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Chapter 5


Lyle Pederson examined the pig-sized hole in the side of his barn.  The critters were getting bolder and more aggressive with every day.  And there were more of them.
When he was growing up in this valley, weeks and months could go by without seeing a javelina.  They stayed higher up, rooting around the foothills, where there was more forage.
Humans had brought the javelinas down to the valley floor.  Free, unprotected garbage.  Gardens with plump green shoots and tasty flowers.  The population had exploded.  He’d been warning Hamilton about the problem for years, but he could tell the Animal Control officer just thought he was an old crank.
Pederson didn’t think he was a crank, but he had to admit he probably looked like one.  Old and scrawny, missing a few teeth, a tobacco chaw in his cheek most of the time.  Wild and at the same time sparse white hair, and unshaven chin.
He also had a Masters in Engineering from Stanford, and had spent a couple of decades in Silicon Valley, but he was too proud to announce his bonafides.
So he’d set about to document the numbers of skunk pigs.  He’d built an observation tower on top of his barn with a telescope and started counting.  And what he found had amazed him.  The pigs moved around, almost as if they knew where Hamilton was going to be next.  They’d be sparse when he was around, and the minute he left an area, they’d flood back in.
Then Pederson had noticed that each of the packs had a leader, but most intriguingly, they all seemed to report to one giant pig, who Pederson thought of as the “Leader.”
He crawled into the hole in the side of his barn and found himself in the small area behind the hay bales -- which was there to keep the heat from building and possibly bursting the walls into flames.  There was pig shit, and it looked like the javelinas were spending part of their day there.
Pederson sighed and crawled back out.  He had lain in a pile of lumber in back of the barn and over the last few weeks, he was reinforcing the flimsier portions of the barn.  He grabbed a couple of two by fours and hammer and nails and closed the hole.  He stepped back, then decided to do the entire side in two by fours, up to about five feet.
He’d have to go to town and get more wood.
He was the lumber supply store’s best customer.  What no one knew was that his little foray into Silicon Valley had made him rich.  Filthy rich.  He was tempted a few times to go and flash his wealth at a few of the county officials and get Hamilton replaced by someone a little more savvy.
But it was against his principles.  He lived by a code, and using money to get his way was against his code.
The only time he used his money was for his twice a year jaunts to the Caribbean.  He’d clean himself up, put on his nice clothes, and flash his money.  He was under no illusions that there was any other way to get the good-looking guys down there to pay any attention to him.
But here in the valley, he was incognito, in more ways than one.
Besides, Hamilton was a good man.  It was just that the pigs were outsmarting him.
When Pederson had reinforced the barn the best he could with the available lumber, he got up and went back to the wide doors at the entrance of the barn.  The javelinas knew about Pederson and so far didn’t dare the frontal approach.  Next to the door was a shotgun loaded with buckshot.  The pigs weren’t the only ones keeping track of Hamilton’s comings and goings, and Pederson wasn’t shy about using the shotgun whenever he saw a javelina on his property.
It would make him a pariah among the retirees if they knew.  Hell, some of them were so stupid, they were actually feeding the pigs.   But he didn’t really care what the newcomers thought.  He wasn’t part of them.  He was the last of the old-timers.  All the rest of the pioneer families had sold out and moved away, up north where it was green.  The opposite of snowbirds.
He went to the ham radio set on a small desk near the entrance.  He could’ve just emailed his friends Emerson, Johnson and Hawkins, but they all preferred ham radio, if nothing else, just to keep in practice.
He hadn’t been able to raise Emerson for over a day.  Which was unusual, since Emerson was wheelchair bound and didn’t go far from the house.  He tried again, still nothing.  Even more alarming, Johnson wasn’t answering either.  But before they’d signed off last, they had reported some disturbing things.
There was a spiral staircase near the center of the barn (it had cost a fortune to buy, to have shipped to the farm, and to install.)  He climbed the staircase, taking pleasure in its beauty, and emerged into his observation tower. 
From here he could see most of the valley.
Back in his childhood, this valley had been mostly empty.  His parent’s farm was situated in a prime location, near the creeks, with the least rocky pastures.
But the subdivisions that had popped in his absence didn’t care about any of that.  They just bulldozed the boulders, piped in the water.  Just as long as there were views of the mountains, they didn’t care about the same practicalities that generations of farmers had.
His dad had sold about half the ranch to these developers, making Pederson even richer than he was before, which was already way too much for him to ever spend.
Most of the old-timers were upset by the newcomers, the snowbirds, the retirees from up north and back east.  They wanted the subdivisions stopped.  But Pederson had judged that the onslaught was coming, was unstoppable, and when they had proposed a subdivision with five acre lots, he’d been all for it -- because the alternative might have been one of those types of developments where they packed the houses in.
Then later, he’d fought to keep the lots large, even if it was environmentally dubious.  He figured he’d earned the right to maintain his privacy.  But the people kept coming, and in the next county over, they had piled one subdivision on top of another.
The consequence was that any of the wildlife that couldn’t adjust to the humans had been wiped out, and those animals that could adapt experienced population explosions.
He scanned the foothills with his telescope, knowing all the places the javelinas spent the hot summer afternoons.  The Leader was usually at one of these spots, surrounded by his followers.  Lately, Pederson had noticed that the Leader had created a cadre of lieutenants, who alarmingly, were displaying the same quantum leap in intelligence.  His offspring? Pederson wondered.
He’d been meaning to contact his old friend from Stanford, Professor Harker, Nobel Laureate, and ask him about the possibility of such a thing happening.  But…though he prided himself on his independence, he was still worried Sam would think he was going senile.
Not more of that, Pederson decided.  It was time to contact the good professor.
He caught a movement as he was traversing the hills, and settled the scope on a pair of mountain bikers.  It was the Stevenson’s, one for first couples to move into the valley, who were from Washington state.  Pederson had made it his business to know who all his neighbors where, though most of them probably couldn’t tell who lived two houses over.
The Cameron and Stacy had been busy for years building their on private bike trail, which was illegal of course, but Pederson kind of admired their industriousness.  The Stevenson’s were approaching one of the hidden hollows where the javelinas spent the days. He kept the telescope on the couple, curious to see what would happen.
The pigs came squirting out on to the trail, catching the Cameron’s front tire, and he went head over heels over the handlebars.  His wife crashed into his now unoccupied bike.  Once they were on the ground, the javelinas swarmed over them, and Pederson thought he saw arms and legs thrashing for a short time, and then the only movement was from the pigs, who were feeding as if they were at a trough.
“Holy shit,” he muttered.  He reached for his phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1…what’s your emergency?”
“This is Lyle Pederson, 21 Pederson Road.  I just saw a couple of mountain bikers get attacked by javelinas, up on Burnt butte.
“A cougar attack?”
“No, dammit.  Skunk pigs.”
“Skunk pigs?”
“Javelinas, you idiot.”
“Please calm down, sir.  Please describe exactly what you saw.”
“It saw Stacy and Cameron Stevenson bike riding.  They were attack by a group of javelinas.”
“Are they hurt?”
Pederson almost hung up.  He took a deep breath. 
“They aren’t moving…”
“Are you nearby?”
“No, I saw them on my telescope,” Pederson said.  Even as he said it, he realized how it sounded.  Crazy old coot with a telescope spying on his neighbors.  Well, it was true, even if it wasn’t for nefarious reasons.
“Excuse me, I thought I just called 9-1-1, for emergencies.  I didn’t think I called Nitwit Central.”
“There is no call for that, sir.”
“Just get someone up to Burnt Butte, about halfway up.  They’ll find a bike trail.  Hurry.”
He hung up.
He went back to the telescope.  The pigs had dispersed.  There was no sign of the Stevenson’s, just the two upended bikes.
Guess it doesn’t matter, he thought.  It’s too late.
He went down spiral staircase, left the barn, being careful to close the big doors behind him.  He got in his biggest pickup, and started toward town.  Time to load up with as much lumber as he could fit.  Make the barn a fortress.  He didn’t know how he knew a war was coming -- but it came from the same place in his brain that had made him rich, seeing connections, seeing patterns.
He’d learned to trust those instincts.   Now he needed to figure out how to overcome his own natural crustiness and find a believable way to warn his neighbors.




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