Dear Readers, it becomes all-consuming
when I write daily about the lives of fictitious characters. I allow my brain
to go there to that alternative reality, and while I go about my day, I am
thinking about characters admittedly created by me. These characters come to
life, and have minds of their own, and surprise me in so many ways. But when my
reality comes into step with theirs, that is chilling. That’s what happened
this morning, as I read about a scram that happened last night at Pilgrim. Yes,
“On November 7, 2016, at 1609 [EST], with the reactor at 100 percent core
thermal power and steady state conditions, the High Pressure Coolant Injection
(HPCI) system was declared inoperable.”
This kind of notice always makes me
nervous. In this case, the situation is supposedly not a threat to the public,
and the state “will be notified.” Hopefully the HPCI will somehow be repaired,
but what I really want, is for that nuclear reactor to be safely put to bed-
forever.
Chapter Seven, first draft, National Novel Writing Month
John Fox stood in the wheelhouse as he steered the Mary Lynn across the
bay and glided through the mouth of the canal at Sandwich. The marina was ahead, and
he saw the refrigerated fish truck waiting for him on the wharf. He had been
able to call that in before dropping his iPhone overboard. There were some sirens
wailing off in the distance, that was normal. All the texting that people were
doing behind the wheel these days, it was worse than living with a pack of
drunks. John had been driven off the road twice this week already, both times
the drivers looking down at their laps instead of eyes on the road.
But then he saw a Coast Guard surf launch
tied up at the dock, and immediately a heavily padded armed guardsman strode down
the floating pier towards him. John felt that instant of panic, and then
remembered he’d given up pot smoking years ago, this guy wasn’t even going to
find a seed on board the Mary Lynn. He
called out a greeting before the dude had a chance. “Hey, how’s it going?”
The guardsmen was all serious. All
business.
“Sir, do you live nearby?”
“Yes, I do. About a mile away, Pleasant Street. Why?
What’s up?”
“Sir, I regret to inform you that you’ll have to leave
your catch on board for now, and you must immediately go to your home and
shelter inside until you receive official notice of further instructions.”
“Hey, what is this? Some kind of house arrest? I didn’t
go out of the allowed fishing areas, I’m all above board here!”
“I wish it was that simple sir,” the guardsman said. “We’ve
got an emergency radiological warning going on. Fire up at the Pilgrim nuclear
reactor. We are getting radiated right now, and your fish, too, with that open
hatch. I mean, it would be the same, even if it was closed. The fish can’t be
sold. You need to get to your house now, sir. Do you have family here?”
“Yes, I do. I’m just shutting the engine off, then. I
have to leave the bilge pump on, though. Or she’ll sink right here.”
John ducked back into his cabin. He grabbed up his
sunglasses and his jacket. There was nothing much else worth taking. He shut
off the key and pulled it from the ignition.He opened the dash compartment and pulled out his permit papers. Might as well not have those vandalized. The cabin door lock was a joke.
“When will I be allowed back?” he called to the
guardsman.
“I have no information on that. Do you have a vehicle
here or do you need a ride home?”
“Over there, that green truck.”
“Get in it and go, sir. And stay inside your house until you hear
otherwise from official sources.”
John sprinted over to his truck, worried about
Charlotte and the kids now. He saw the guardsman get back on the surf launch
and shut the door to the cabin. Damn it, those fish would be rotten by tomorrow
afternoon, all the ice in the hold would melt by then. He looked up at the
refrigerator truck, and realized there was no driver in the cab. In fact, he
didn’t see any people anywhere. It was downright eerie.
He thought of his iPhone as it had slipped into the
water. What a day to lose it, even though he did have insurance on it. “Damn
it, damn it, damn it!” he shouted as he pounded his dashboard. Then he started
the truck and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a long strip of black
rubber. The guardsman had told him to hurry, hadn’t he?
