by Paul Clayton
“Okay,” said Moore. He looked out at the flag stirring in a slight breeze in the little parade field. “But we have to keep the road closed a little while longer. Our assets north of here haven’t reported back yet.” Moore looked at Mike. “You can head back south towards that forest service road I told you about if you want.”
“I think that’s what we’re gonna do,” said Mike.
“Okay.” Moore leaned sideways as he reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out Mike’s .38. “You can have this back.”
“Thanks,” said Mike, putting it in his pocket. He glanced over at Marie and Elly; they were looking into the cook’s window.
“So,” said Moore, “you’re determined to make a run for the border, huh?”
Mike didn’t care for the “run for the border” wording, but kept that to himself. His first responsibility was to protect his wife and daughter. “That’s the plan,” he said.
Moore blinked, his look turning somber. “Well, you’re not alone. Reports are it’s getting pretty crowded up there, and chaotic. Were you in the service?”
“Yeah, Syria. I was just a kid. I was in supply and didn’t see much action. Mostly just the after-effects … the bodies. What about you?”
Moore shook his head. “No. Too young to serve. But I got involved with this Militia when the RPP formed and started their campaign. Those people have to be stopped.”
Mike said nothing in response. He thanked Marie as she set a paper plate of scrambled eggs and potatoes before him.
Captain Moore got to his feet. “Well, I have work to do,” he said. “I’ll let you all enjoy your breakfast. You all be careful, okay?”
Mike stood and shook his hand. “We will. And thanks for your hospitality.”
Moore smiled sadly at Marie and Elly who were setting their plates down on the wooden table. “Goodbye, folks.”
They ate quietly, Elly glancing around at the occasional passers-by. The day had warmed a little and things were quiet when they got back to the camper. Mike assumed most of the men were off on some kind of movement or training; there had been a lot of activity just before sunup, with people walking and talking, vehicles starting up and driving out. They cleaned the camper and got ready to go. Elly asked her mother if she could ride ‘shotgun.’ Marie agreed and Elly waited for her to get in, before climbing in beside her. She looked around hopefully as they slowly drove the circular road to the gate. Mike knew, of course, who she was looking for, but said nothing. As they came out onto the highway Elly’s face darkened.
“What’s the matter, Hon,” Marie asked, knowing full well what the matter was.
“Aw, I wanted to say good-bye to Gabe.”
Mike nodded. “Maybe we’ll see him again,” he lied.
“Really?” said Elly, brightening.
Marie smiled sadly at Mike, but said nothing.
“It’s possible,” said Mike.
Mike drove south. Soon Marie and Elly were asleep. When his odometer indicated they’d driven eighty miles he slowed and searched the wood line on the left carefully. He spotted the turnoff at the 86 mile mark, indicated by a short metal stake in the ground. He slowed further and turned in.
The road was flat and maintained. After a mile or so it came to a fork. Mike cursed under his breath as he stopped. Marie awoke. Moore hadn’t said anything about a fork in the road. Which one was he supposed to take? He took the one on the right.
“You sure this is right?” said Marie.
“Yeah,” he said, “as sure as eeney meeny miney moe will get you.”
They drove for about a half hour until the road came to an end at a deserted ranch of sorts—an old water tower rose above a small, dilapidated house with a caved-in roof and all the windows broken out.
“Shit,” said Mike as he stared out at it. “This sure as hell ain’t the right road.”
“Well, at least we only wasted an hour or so.”
“Yeah. We got another half-hour or so just to get back to the fork.”
They were quiet as they drove back, looking out at the thinly forested land on both sides of the road. By the time they arrived at the fork it was already one o’clock. Mike said nothing, turning the truck onto the left fork. They drove on.
The next forty or so miles of road was paved, then deteriorated into a sandy track. The camper creaked and swayed as Mike negotiated the ruts and scattered rocks and branches lying in the road.
Elly woke. “Where are we?”
“Well,” said Mike, “we’re still trying to get around the area that was closed off, so we can pick up the main road further north.”
Elly stared out at the thin growth on both sides of the truck. “I don’t like it here,” she said.
Mike said nothing. They drove for another hour and the forest grew thicker, the light more anemic. It was after two.
“How much longer?” said Marie.
“I’m guessing at least four or more hours just to get to the main road above the militia camp.”
“That would mean driving this in the dark, or camping out here.”
“I know,” he said.
“Maybe we should just go back to where we were and wait for them to open the road.”
“Jeez,” said Mike, “we’ve come this far. Let’s just go a little further.”
Mike drove for another ten minutes and then slowed and pulled to the side, bringing the truck to a stop.
“What is it?” said Marie.
Mike pointed ahead. About a quarter-mile up the road an old pickup truck was parked. It appeared empty, but it was too far away to be certain. “Maybe someone’s there. We can ask them how much farther to get to the main road.”
Marie nodded as Mike began driving slowly forward. He stopped a couple hundred feet back and left the engine running. “Better let me get out by myself and check it out.”
“Okay,” said Marie, “be careful.”
Mike nodded. “Lock the doors.” He walked slowly up the road, looking left and right. He was conscious of the weight of the .38 in his pocket. He heard nothing and there was no sign of anyone. When he was about twenty feet from the pickup he made out someone’s head leaning back against the cab window. He put his hand into his pocket, fondling the .38 as he approached the truck’s window. The glass was dirty and a large spider web hung from the headliner down to the floor of the cab. The man was on the other side of it, as if behind a curtain. Head back, mouth wide open, his cheeks were hollow and the skin on his face yellow. An empty bottle of gin lay on the seat to his right. Mike figured he’d washed down some pills with it.
Mike turned and looked briefly around. He didn’t want to take Marie and Elly any further up this road. It was too remote, too quiet. There was no telling what was ahead. He turned back to the truck, looking closely at the dead man’s face. Something dark moved in his mouth—a good sized spider peered out. It seemed to be aware of Mike’s scrutiny and backed away into the mouth out of sight.
Mike was about to start back when he heard the putter of a motorcycle engine from around the bend in the road. His pulse picked up and he reached into his pocket to fondle the .38. He heard the bike shift gears as it approached. He heart began pounding. The bike rounded the bend, a middle-aged man giving him an appraising look as he rode past.
Mike composed his expression as he walked back to the camper.
Marie unlocked the door and he got in. “What happened up there?” she said.
Elly watched him closely.
“Just some old guy sitting in there, drunk. He said that the road further up is partly washed out. Who knows if we’ll be able to cross it? We should just turn around and head back to the main road.”
“Some guy on a motorcycle rode by,” said Elly.
“I know.”
Marie looked at Mike, but said nothing. Mike turned the truck around and starte
d back. After they turned onto the main road, Elly broke the silence with a cheery voice, “Maybe Gabe will be there when we get back.”
“Maybe,” said Marie, “but it’s also possible the road will be open and we can continue north.”
“I hope not,” said Elly, “I want to stay at the camp again. I want to see Gabe.”
Mike had no intention of staying at the camp again and was pleased when Marie gently laughed at Elly’s comment. He had already decided to drive slower and give More and his men more time to clear the road north. “Yeah,” he said, “well, we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”
They drove for another hour as the light waned and the temperature began to drop. Mike said to Marie, “I think we should just find a good place to camp for the night. We’ll hit the Militia check point in the morning or early afternoon. I don’t want to get there after dark.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Aw,” said Elly.
“It’s okay, Hon,” said Marie.
Mike had already tamped down their camp fire. Sulfurous-smelling steam wafted off of it, occasionally reaching his nostrils as he tied the chairs and table to the back rack of the rig. Marie and Elly were in the camper getting ready for sleep. The sky was black, only the brightest stars visible, the rest obscured by low clouds. Mike tugged the rope hard, moving the rig slightly. He turned to look behind him. He wasn’t concerned about animals; it was people that worried him. He saw nothing but comforting blackness and returned to his task. As he reached for the door to the camper, a flash of red in the northern distance caught his eye. It was like lightning, but ruby red. He walked away from the camper out toward the road, clear of the overhanging branches, and looked up. It came again, a thin red line, like tracers, but straight as an arrow, coming from the clouds down to the forest in the distance. He watched a few more moments until it was gone. He went back to the camper and put his hand on the door knob. He heard Elly talking to her mother. He could tell from her voice she’d been crying. He held back a moment to allow Marie time to soothe her. No doubt they’d been talking about Elly’s attraction to Gabe. Mike felt a familiar pang of sadness. They’d almost broken up over Elly. When the extent of her developmental problems became evident, the need to find an explanation had led them to blame each other. Only prayer and sage-like restraint had enabled them to get through that phase. Mike thought of praying again now but couldn’t bring himself to do it. The whole fucking world had gone crazy and God was either indifferent, or off in some other galaxy helping more-deserving creatures. Before climbing into the camper, Mike looked around at the darkened trees once more, wondering what the streak of red light had meant. Inside, things had quieted. He locked the door behind him and got in the bed next to Marie. He fell asleep quickly and slept soundly until the chirping of birds announced the dawn.
They drove slowly north, Mike watching the odometer. He spotted one of the militia’s camouflaged trucks ahead on the side of the road. It pointed off into the woods, as if the driver had not had time to park properly. The driver’s door was open. Mike slowed and pulled over behind it.
“I wonder where they are,” said Marie as he stepped down on the emergency brake.
“I don’t know. Let me check it out and then we’ll decide what to do.”
Mike got out and shut the door. He heard Elly questioning her mother in a plaintive voice. He walked up the weed-filled slope of the shoulder and peered into the truck. It was empty and the keys were in the ignition. The vehicle didn’t appear to be damaged in any way. Out of curiosity, he turned the key; nothing happened. He checked to make sure it was in park; it was. Maybe the battery was dead or it had some kind of electrical short-circuit.
He walked back to the truck. Marie pushed the button, rolling the driver’s-side window down. She and Elly leaned toward him.
“It’s empty and it seems to have a bad battery or something. I’m going in the camp to see what’s up.”
Elly turned away from her mother and began to open the door. “I want to go with you.”
Marie’s voice was sharp. “No. Let Daddy go look. I want you to stay here and keep me company.”
Elly’s face darkened with frustration. “Okay.”
Mike looked at Marie. “I’ll be about ten minutes. If someone comes up, just crack the windows, don’t unlock the doors.”
Marie nodded.
Mike walked up the highway to the turn-off. He walked down the gravel road, coming to the white gate-posts. A hundred or so feet away he noticed that the flag pole was gone. There was no wind and his crunching footsteps the only sound as he trod the curving road. He came out into the camp. The buildings were all gone, in their places, rectangular whitish shadows on the ground. Half the vehicles seemed to be missing, and the half that remained were blackened, twisted hulks. He recalled the bright red lines in the sky the night before. So that’s what it had been—lasers. He left the road and walked toward the nearest shadow. It was ash, symmetrical, with a few things protruding from underneath, pipes, hunks of concrete, pig-tailed wires, the burnt remains of what looked like a washing machine and dryer. He walked further to where the HQ had been, now a huge rectangle of ash. Twenty feet away, two trucks lay in heat-twisted shapes. He approached and saw just behind them what looked like an ancient sculpture—three men sitting on a log or stone bench. They appeared to be carved from bone or ivory, granular and whitish. Two of them were missing limbs, one had no head. Mike thought of the captain and the young soldier, Gabe, that Elly had been so taken with. Not far away he saw three more mounds of ash—people fleeing? He turned and started walking back toward the gravel road. He paused. The unmistakable remains of a motorcycle lay etched into the earth. It appeared to be a smaller Japanese bike, maybe a Honda. He stared it. There was no way of telling if it was theirs. He started back to Marie and Elly, picking up his pace.
He sighed with relief as he came out of the turn-off and saw them sitting calmly in the truck. He got in and closed the door.
“Well,” said Marie, “were they there?”
Mike bit his lip and shook his head. “No. They evidently moved out, the whole bunch of them.”
“But I wanted to see Gabe,” Elly pouted.
“Just wait, Honey,” said Marie. “Maybe we’ll run into them further up the road.”
“No we won’t,” said Elly, on the verge of tears.
“It’s possible,” said Marie. “They have to be somewhere. If we don’t run into them before we get to the border, maybe after we cross over we can come back down and visit sometime. Right, Hon?”
“Maybe,” said Mike.
“Really?” said Elly, her voice tinged with suspicion.
“Yeah,” said Mike. “But for now we better keep on going. We have to find a place to spend the night. I don’t think we can make the border before it gets dark.”
As Mike drove north his mind returned to the burnt-out remnants of the camp. He pictured Moore, Gabe, and the others. He still couldn’t believe people had opted for war so quickly. He remembered the on-line posts, the vicious and cruel comments, mostly, it seemed, young men filled with righteous indignation that anyone would disagree with their fantasies about fighting a war. They were ignorant, without wives and children, most of them. Strong, they could fight or run fast if things went badly. Not so many others. How could people have been so stupid, throwing away the good for the perfect, the utopia? And now what the hell did they have, and who knew where or when it would end? How does anybody turn off something like this once it has started?
And what about him? What had he done or tried to do to stop the rush to this insanity? Not much. He had even waded into a few late-night Facebook insult fests, throwing away all reason and civility while giving vent to his own righteous anger. But—a nagging voice whispered in his head, why not fight? Neither side was black or white—and he would have to come down on one side eventually. He
would. But not until he got his family to safety.
IV
They drove just over an hour before they reached the border. They were about a quarter mile out from the border crossing station when they passed the first vehicle parked on the side of the highway. Another hundred yards up vehicles lined both sides of the road. Some were parked in the trees not far from the road. People could be seen talking beside their rigs, or sitting on metal folding chairs around small fires. There were all kinds and types of vehicles—campers, sedans, homemade rigs, even long semis converted to huge campers. The closer Mike got to the crossing station, the more crowded it became, and he realized he would have to turn back to get a place at the end of the line. He made a U-turn in front of the building, pulled over and double parked twenty feet from the entrance.
“I want to run in and take a look before we go back and park.”
Marie nodded tiredly as Elly slept beside her.
Mike walked up to the glass doors. He saw a handful of people inside, a security guard about ten feet away. He tried to push the door open but it was locked. He noticed the hours stenciled on the glass. Closed at 4:00. It was already twenty minutes past. He put his face close to the glass to get a sense of the place. The security guard saw him and approached. He opened the door and stepped out.
“I just wanted to look around,” said Mike.
The guard pointed to a large Quonset hut-type building. “That’s where you want to be,” he said. “That’s where all the action is now… on the Canadian side.”
“Really?” said Mike.
The guard went on, “They open at nine, but people begin lining up around seven.”
“Thanks,” said Mike. He studied the distant building. Through the windows he could see rope lines, a long counter, and in the back about a dozen chest-high cubicles. He went back to the truck.