The Last Orchard_Prequel_Surviving the Collapse Read online

  The Last Orchard: Book 0

  James Hunt

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Copyright 2018 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.

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  1

  The bank’s interior was immaculate. From its polished white marble floors to the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, every square inch of the financial institution was bathed in decadence; all of it monitored by a pair of armed guards by the revolving front doors.

  It had an open layout inside, with the tellers situated to the left, protected by bulletproof glass where they handled the queue of customers’ withdrawals or deposits.

  All walks of life waited in line, all of them on their phones save for an elderly woman who waited patiently, both hands clutching her large burgundy purse with dollies etched across the side, smiling to herself while the man behind her argued and raised his voice on the phone.

  “I told him fifteen times that the deadline was this afternoon. Just get it done!”

  The rest of the bank’s open floor was comprised of ornate wooden desks built from oak and stained a rich, dark brown, where the loan officers examined proposals. By checking a box on a form with a simple flick of their wrists, they had the power to bring dreams to life or kill them before they had a chance to take their first breaths.

  A mixture of handshakes and tears brought the conversations to an end, though not all the applicants walked away without pushing back.

  “Thirty years!” An old man stood, shoving his chair back, his voice and the screech of the legs of his chair turning every head in the bank. “That’s how long I’ve given my business to this bank.”

  “Sir, you need to calm down.” The fortysomething suit behind the desk raised his palm, trying to soothe the old man like a child, then tossed a quick glare at one of the guards, and the sentry approached quickly and soundlessly.

  “I missed two payments, and only two! I already told you I can pay it back.”

  The banker leaned over the desk. “Then pay it.”

  “Because I can’t do it in the time you’ve given me!” The old-timer slammed his fist onto the table, causing a few pens to fall off the banker’s desk. “My family has been on that land for five generations! What right do you have to take it away? We worked that land! We’ve helped feed this state and this country for over a century!”

  The banker remained emotionless. Cold. “You’ve defaulted on your loan. And we’re well within our rights to take control of your assets. It’s all outlined in the details of your mortgage.”

  “But you can’t—”

  The security guard seized the old man’s arm from behind. Surprise and shock flashed across the old-timer’s face. He stared up at the big brute, his pleading eyes useless against the guard’s apathy.

  The banker stood once the guard had the old man secured, and he leaned forward and planted his knuckles on the desk. “You will have until the end of the month to pay the remaining balance of your mortgage, or your family will be escorted off the property.”

  And with the flick of the banker’s eyes, the security guard dragged the old man away from the desk.

  But the old man didn’t go willingly. “Get your hands off me!” He jerked his arm but was unsuccessful in his escape attempt, and the guard yanked the old man harder toward the door.

  “C’mon, you mother—”

  The security guard froze and whipped his head around quickly to the stranger that had grabbed him.

  Charlie Decker kept a firm grip on the security guard’s arm, blocking his path toward the bank’s exit. The pair stood eye to eye, both just a hair above six feet tall, though the guard had the weight advantage.

  A light tic at the corner of the guard’s eye prompted Charlie to remove his hand. He wasn’t in the mood for an altercation, especially not before he had a chance to plead his own case to the bank.

  Charlie kept his voice low, and while the bank had grown quiet, only the guard and the old man heard him speak. “I’d like to think security here would handle folks with a little more dignity.”

  The guard flared his nostrils but then noticed the number of phones pointed in his direction, ready to make him the latest viral video.

  The guard released the old man but then thrust a finger in his face. “You walk out of here without a word. Understand?”

  The old man grimaced, but he nodded, the weathered lines from all the years of manual labor etched along his face like worn wheelbarrow paths. He turned to Charlie. “Thank you.”

  Charlie nodded. “You’ve still got until the end of the month. I’m sure you’ve done more with less.”

  The old man cracked a smile, exposing a missing tooth on the left side of his mouth. He shook Charlie’s hand. The calluses on both men’s palms were part of their identity. Then Charlie watched him leave and glare at the security guard on his way out.

  Charlie returned to his seat in the waiting area, ignoring the expressions of shock from the other customers. He picked up the folder he’d dropped on the floor when he saw the growing altercation then waited patiently to be called.

  The old man was one of hundreds of farmers that had gone belly-up. It was the nature of the business—adapt or die. It was a trend that was becoming more common among the farmers in the area. If you couldn’t compete with the large farm conglomerates, then it was game over.

  Most families were lucky to get back what they owed, and a best-case scenario involved walking off their land without any debt. But that was a rarity.

  “Mr. Decker?”

  Charlie lifted his head and flashed a smile at the loan officer dressed in a sharp blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He was clean-shaven and had a fresh tan but didn’t smile.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Charlie extended his hand, and the banker regarded it for a minute, almost as if he was making sure it was clean. Once Charlie’s hand passed inspection, the banker reciprocated the handshake.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Decker.” The banker kept his attention on the papers on the neatly stacked piles of documents on his desk, then glanced to the folder in Charlie’s hands. “I see you came prepared.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie answered, repositioning himself in the chair. The plastic seat wasn’t comfortable, but he suspected that it was designed that way.

  “Your visit today is for a loan application for your…” The banker flipped through the pages, unable to finish his thought.

  “Orchard,” Charlie said, happily filling in the blank.

  “Yes, orchard.” The banker accentuated his frown the further he dove into the orchard’s financial history.

  Charlie cleared his throat. “It’s no secret that smaller farms just don’t have the same profit margins as the larger corporate farms, but we’re more agile than those big guys, which allows us to adapt more quickly.” Charlie set the folder on the banker’s desk. “My plan outlines a more efficient and streamlined approach for harvesting, which in turn will allow for better marketing because we’re producing a better product.” He pressed a finger on top of the pages. “We’re rebranding our orchard and opening it up for tours, and I alr
eady have vendors lined up for a weekly weekend farmer’s market. We’ll also have an events department for weddings and parties. And once we’re able to purchase the upgraded processing equipment, we’ll be able to double our daily output.”

  The banker picked up the folder, and Charlie took the nods as a good sign. “You’ll be funneling the projected revenue into the payments for the new machinery and renovations?”

  “Yes, sir, and those projections are very conservative.” Charlie inched toward the seat’s edge. “I think those margins will increase to the low teens by the third quarter after operations are up and running. I’ve also developed relationships with local bakeries and grocers to help supplement our demand, and I’ve received a lot of positive responses. There’s definitely an interest for our product both locally and nationally.”

  The banker nodded but never broke from the stoic nature of his posture or expressions. And the longer the banker remained silent, the more Charlie’s stomach soured.

  Finally, reaching the end of Charlie’s documents rather quickly, the banker closed the folder then leaned back in his chair, hands clasped together over his stomach. “You’ve put together a fine presentation. Your numbers look solid, but I don’t share your optimism about your margins increasing so quickly.”

  Charlie chewed the inside of his cheek and nodded. “Our property is well maintained. Our nurseries are promising, and our cover crop—”

  “Your orchard’s financial history doesn’t paint a pretty picture.” The banker shifted in his chair, the stiff suit limiting his mobility as he stretched his neck. “Every loan that this bank has extended to your farm has been met with late payments and extensions. And despite the rosy figures you put together, you failed to account for the toxic debt that your orchard has accrued over the past forty years.”

  “I understand that, and if you look at my reinvestment numbers, you’ll see that I include paying off that debt from the profits—”

  “Mr. Decker, even if you managed to scrounge together enough funds to pay the minimum payments on your debt, which is doubtful, those numbers just aren’t profitable for our bank.”

  Charlie lingered at the edge of his seat. He clasped his hands together and chewed the inside of his cheek, gathering his thoughts. “I know that my family’s orchard doesn’t have a history of consistent payments or profits and that this bank has granted us a lot of leeway over the years, and I don’t want to take advantage of that generosity—”

  “It wasn’t generosity, Mr. Decker.” The loan officer planted his elbows on the table, his small, beady pupils boring into Charlie’s rich hazel eyes. “It was bad business. And it’s not a business this bank will be continuing.” He pushed Charlie’s folder across the table.

  Charlie stared at the weeks of work inside that the banker had discarded.

  “Next!” The banker raised his hand toward the waiting area, and another hopeful applicant rose from their seat and stepped into the lion’s den.

  Charlie headed for the exit, remembering his family’s prior experience with bankers coming to the farm to collect. It was never the same people twice, but they all had the same look. They’d drive down the dirt road in a dark-colored luxury sedan, kicking up dust and not getting out of the car until that dust had settled.

  Charlie watched them complain about the dirt that would collect on their suits and polished shoes as they scowled and turned their noses up at everything that he had called home.

  All the bank saw was numbers on a spreadsheet. They didn’t see the toil, the sweat, the blood that Charlie’s family poured into their land, which was why they fought so desperately and passionately to keep it.

  But what he wanted the bankers to see was something that couldn’t be shown in a PowerPoint or spreadsheets or business proposals. And it was something that the bankers who came out to their orchard never stuck around long enough to see.

  It was watching something grow. Months, and sometimes even years, of constant nurturing. You couldn’t see all of that in five minutes of assessing land. Hell, you couldn’t see all of that over the course of a long weekend. It was only when you woke up in the morning, on a normal Tuesday, after fifteen years of living on the farm, and you walked out and caught the sunrise in the field and, for the first time, really felt the warmth on your face.

  The same warmth that fed the trees and the earth that grew the very crop you were trying to harvest. It was all connected.

  When Charlie passed the security guard, the big man snickered. “Don’t forget your dignity.”

  Charlie ignored the quip and stepped through the revolving door and into the busy weekday Seattle afternoon, squinting from the sunlight.

  Hurried pedestrians passed Charlie, most of them on their cell phones, and two of them knocked into Charlie as if he weren’t even there.

  After a few steps, Charlie stopped and turned back toward the bank.

  Seattle Credit was carved in gold letters, and a pair of thick marble columns stretched from floor to ceiling. The structure looked Romanesque and ancient compared to the Starbucks and H&M stores on either side.

  Hesitant, Charlie removed his phone and made the call that he’d been dreading all day. It rang seven times before his mother finally answered.

  “Charlie? Son? Can you hear me?”

  “Hey, Mom,” Charlie said, stepping out of the sun and into the shade of a nearby tree surrounded by a fence and concrete. “Is Dad with you?”

  “Yes. Hold on. I’ll put you on speaker. Okay, can you hear us now?”

  “How’s the weather over there?”

  Charlie pulled his ear away from his phone, laughing at his father’s boisterous greeting. “It’s fine, Dad.”

  “So how’d it go?” his dad asked, his tone masked with trepidation.

  Charlie exhaled. “No one approved the loan.”

  “Not even Seattle Credit?” his mother asked.

  Charlie glanced back up at the bank’s moniker. “Nope.”

  His parents’ silence was louder than any words they could have spoken, and Charlie headed for his truck, parked on the street a few buildings down.

  “So what options does that leave us?” his mother asked.

  “Not many,” Charlie answered. “I’ll look at the books again and see if there is any other capital that we missed that could be used as collateral, but it’s going to be hard to find.”

  “It’s all right, Charlie,” his father said, that hearty voice still optimistic even with the deadline fast approaching. “They’ll have to drag me off this farm cold and dead before I leave!”

  “Oh, Harold, stop it,” his mother said. “Well, we love you, honey, and we’ll see you at home. Drive safe, okay?”

  “I will.”

  Charlie pocketed his phone, trying to rid himself of the lingering taste of the lie on his tongue. He’d already been through every asset that his parents owned. Every leaf and blade of grass was accounted for, and he knew checking the books again wouldn’t yield any hope.

  He might be able to try some other banks throughout the state, but after the dozens of doors slammed in his face, he didn’t expect a different outcome anywhere else. Seattle Credit had been his last hope.

  Charlie loved his family, and he loved the orchard where he grew up. For the past four years, it was all he’d focused on. He’d attended one of the best agro-business schools in the state, and after graduation, he was confident he was equipped with the tools he needed to save the farm.

  But his parents had driven them too far into debt, and despite their arduous hours and tireless work ethic, they could barely break even. And while their yearly losses were small, they added up after four decades. It was just too big of a hole to climb out of.

  The only option left was the one option he hadn’t discussed with his parents, and that was to sell before the bank took everything. They might be able to break even then find work somewhere else, but he knew that his father was serious about never leaving his land. He had too many roots s
et deep into that ground. If he uprooted them now, he wouldn’t survive the transplant somewhere else.

  Charlie walked the three blocks to his truck, which was parked in a space on the side of the road. Cars zoomed past, and as Charlie approached his truck, he noticed a green paper pinned down on his windshield by one of the wipers. “Dammit.”

  He snatched the parking ticket off his windshield and checked the meter, finding it expired by only a minute. “Unbelievable.” He crumpled the ticket in his fist and searched for the parking maid but found no one in uniform. “When it rains, it pours.”

  Charlie fished the keys out of his pocket and stepped toward the driver’s side door. With his mind still lingering on the ticket, he didn’t see what caused the scream from across the street. But he glanced up in just enough time to watch the sedan veer from its lane of traffic and make a beeline straight for his truck.

  2

  The harsh crunch of metal preceded the shattering of glass and the din of the car horn as Charlie half jumped and was half thrown from the driver’s side door of his truck.

  He thrust his arms out to catch himself against the sidewalk, which greeted him stiffly, and his palms scraped across the grainy concrete, drawing blood. His knees hit next, the pain sharp and hot, which he tried to diminish by rolling to his side, the momentum spinning him a few rotations before the world was finally upright again.

  Bones aching, Charlie struggled to his feet, his senses overwhelmed with pain and light and screams, compounded by a symphony of car collisions that echoed down the street.

  People scattered from the sidewalks as drivers lost control of their vehicles and swerved into parked cars, signs, meters, trees, and buildings.

  What few cars managed to stay on the road smashed into each other, creating a chain of wrecks that stretched to the horizon.