Simon parked in the trees behind the building and left the door open for Winston, who was sleeping, as he gathered his pack and rifle. He walked to the front of the garage. The building was wiped clean, the racks barren of anything other than aged litter.
In the garage, Simon looked from the tool chest to the shelves on the far wall, and something caught his eye. It shone on the floor, under the lowest shelf. He reached under and grabbed a pile of crushed, silver candy wrappers. He dropped them back to the ground and wiped the chocolate from his hand on the oil-spotted cement floor. Bending over, he noticed a rolled bundle of blankets tucked in the back of the shelf. He pulled them out. They were torn and ragged, but not entirely useless. He left the blankets where they were and continued inspecting. There was an assortment of tools back there: an old camping stove—the fuel spent—articles of clothes, and a few jackets in acceptable condition. Then Simon found a small, red gas canister. He swished the fluid inside, watching where it hit against the walls of the container. There was just under a gallon. Farther down the shelf was an assortment of books, a few tattered magazines, and several well-thumbed-through comics, dirty from greasy fingers.
He took the container, along with the books, and left.
The wind was sweeping small clouds of grit from the packed-earth lot as Simon crossed to the gas pumps. The day was warm in the sun, and a layer of sweat was forming under his shirt.
He took the nozzle from the cradle and sniffed. The same stale gasoline fumes as at previous stations stung his nostrils. He put the hose back in the cradle and began walking off when he noticed the lids on the ground where the gasoline was stored in underground tanks. The thought of checking the tanks had never occurred to him, probably because the other station had been lined with cars and trucks, and the lids were never visible. But if there was gasoline down there, and it wasn’t coming out of the pump, how would he get it out?
With a rope and bucket, he answered.
The metal covers in the ground were smaller than a regular manhole opening and nearly coated with packed dirt. He placed the books and gas container on the ground and stuck his fingers in the pry-bar holes, but the metal was heavy and there was little room for his fingers to grasp. The rifle slid off his shoulder as he bent to his knees, so he rested it on the ground. Reaching back, he removed his knife from the sheath and slid the blade into the groove, working it back and forth so the embedded dirt broke away. He pressed and pried, and the blade buckled. The knife flew out of his hand, cutting across his pointer and middle finger.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted.
Then he heard it. A high-pitched voice traveled over the windswept ground.
“D-don’t m-m-move, mister,” the voice said.
Simon stopped moving. He could feel his blood pumping from the wound.
Chapter 9
A Town on the Horizon
Brian and Steven sat huddled in the crevice of a mountain, barely large enough to shield them from the onslaught of rain. From their vantage point, they had a clear line of sight to the valley bellow, and to the distant range of mountains that encircled the valley.
“Thii-tthhiss is sooome sh-sh-shit,” Brian said, his whole body rattling in the wind.
The nonstop crackling of lightning diffused through the expansive evening sky like spiderwebs in the clouds. At times the lightning spread out from behind the mountain range, as if the bolts were rising up from the earth; other times, the lightning came straight down in gigantic columns to the floor below. The thunder that followed bellowed over the valley as if the men were camped in the side of a drum.
It was cold against the damp rock, a cold that crept into their bodies through their spines. A cold that emanated from deep within the mountain, from the core of the rock itself. A thick mist wafted in, covering their bodies and making blankets pointless to use.
If they slept at all—curled up like gargoyles, with their knees tucked into their chests under their ponchos—it was brief. When the sky turned pale, with the sun emerging somewhere behind the clouds, the rain slowed to a light shower, and the lightning stopped altogether. Brian and Steven were happy to stand and stretch their frozen limbs and step out from their rocky crevice. As groggy, miserable, and sore as they were, the storm they had witnessed that night would remain burned in their memories for the rest of their lives, as the most awesome and terrifying display of nature they would ever behold.
Steven stopped short, looking down to the basin far below. “Brian. Brian.” He pointed down. “Something’s stirring. Look.”
Brian squinted. The blanket of trees in the valley moved together in the wind. “I don’t see nothing.”
“There, by that big rock.”
Brian studied the terrain. “Horses.”
Steven turned sharply to Brian. “There riders down there?”
“Look wild to me. This was all farmland; probably nothing to it. Come on, let’s get on.”
The storm had made a mess of the terrain, with fallen trees and flowing floodwater crisscrossing their path. Carefully, they proceeded down the treacherous mountain.
When they reached the bottom, the land leveled out.
Steven coughed, and then snorted mucus back into his throat. “I feel like shit,” he said.
“So do I.”
“I can’t feel my toes.”
“I haven’t felt mine in days.”
They were both sniffling, and Brian’s head felt as swollen as the saturated earth beneath their feet.
Steven spat. “I think I’m getting sick.”
“I reckon we’re both sick.”
Brian led the walk, and he sped up when the terrain cleared.
“Should we be taking some medicine?” Steven asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What? I can’t hear you. Slow down.”
“I said,” Brian stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face his cousin, “I don’t fucking know. I ain’t a doctor. If you want to take some medicine, you go on and take it. You don’t need my permission.”
“No shit, I don’t need your permission. I never asked nothin’ from you.”
“Good.” Brian turned and continued walking. “Then if there’s nothing else, let’s get the hell out of this shit-valley and this piss-rain.”
They didn’t speak again for a while.
Brian stole glances of his cousin, whose face looked cold and numb. Steven appeared lost in angry thought, and Brian could only guess the words stirring inside that massive head of his. No shit, I ain’t asking your damn permission. You ain’t the boss of me.
Brian was lost in thought as well, but he was saying to himself, All we need is fire. Just one night with fire. Please, God almighty, let this rain stop for a few hours. All this water ain’t natural.
With each step they took, the gear on their packs became heavier and heavier, and they were stopping to rest more often. Brian knew he was losing weight fast; he had tightened his belt two holes since leaving the bunker. Steven’s face looked thinner, but it was hard to tell if he’d lost any weight with him wearing a poncho all day and night. The last time they built a fire—just a small fire before the rain drove them to cover—they’d removed their shoes and peeled back their wet socks like banana skins. They let their bloody and blistered feet dry near the flames before bandaging them up. That was two days ago, and neither of them had removed their boots since.
“Hey, look at that,” Steven said.
“Look at what?”
“That.” He pointed to an old, half-disintegrated car tire buried in the mud. “And that over there.” A ragged plastic bag was blowing, stuck in the branches of a bush, with a mess of decomposing garbage nearby. “We must be nearing a town. Even more trash up ahead.”
“Looks like it,” Brian said. He took the map out of his breast pocket, hunching over to shield it from the rain. The laminating film was peeling along the edges, and the paper beneath was wet and puffy. He traced his finger over the paper, leaving a trail of dirty
water. “Okay,” Brian said. “We should be right … here.” He pressed his finger to a spot on the map.
Steven leaned in. “Where?”
“Right here.” Brian looked at the land ahead, which rose in degree like a ramp. “There should be a town just over this hill.” He looked back to the map, squinting. “Odyssey.”
They walked up the earthen trail to where the hill overlooked the town below. They lay on their stomachs under a low-lying tree, looking through their binoculars at the town of Odyssey in the distance. It was a valley town, nestled inside a circling mountain range. From their vantage point they couldn’t see much, just a section of buildings before it swept lower into the unseen valley below.
“You see anything?” Steven asked.
Brian scanned back and forth, pausing at each house. “Not a damn thing.”
They lay still for a while, not speaking. Neither of them wanted to say it first, but they were both thinking the same thought—they wanted to sleep in a house for the night. Maybe two nights. It went against everything Uncle Al had told them about avoiding cities and towns, and sleeping in parks when civilization could not be avoided. But they were cold and tired and in desperate need of warmth and shelter. They had bandages to change and needed to tend to their feet. And a hot meal would do wonders for their morale.
Brian asked Steven, “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“It’ll be dark soon. You want to head on, or find a place here for the night?”
Steven didn’t answer.
Brian took Steven’s silence as an agreement. He’d noticed that his cousin had been walking funny the past few days. Steven’s injured leg was stiff, and he grimaced when climbing over rocks and fallen trees. Brian had asked him several times if he’d been changing the bandage or checking for infection, and Steven would say, “I’m fine,” and leave it at that. But being that the only times they’d spent away from each other had been when relieving themselves, Brian knew that Steven had not changed the bandage since it was first applied. His wound was most likely infected and bound to get putrid. Staying indoors for a night was a necessity.
“Let’s find a house on the border.”
Steven remained quiet, but he stood when Brian got to his feet and he readied his rifle on his shoulder as they began to make their way down the hill. There was a trail still visible going from the edge of the dense woods, and they stuck just outside of the pathway as they entered Odyssey. They passed the first few homes set far out from the rest of town on large parcels of land. When they arrived at the back of a house set on a city block, they walked with their backs to the wall, their feet treading through the knee-high grass. Brian cut across the yard to the next house, using a fence for cover.
Steven scrambled after him and whispered once they were up against the wall. “What’s wrong with the houses we passed?”
“Look.” Brian pointed to a house set higher than the others on a small hill, just a few buildings away. “We could see the whole town from there, overlooking the valley. It’s safer.”
“Fuck the rest of the town. Let’s just go in this one.”
Brian shook his head. “It’s right there, Steve.”
Brian didn’t wait for a response. He ran to the next property, gun up and at the ready. Steven followed, covering the sides. They went from house to house, looking for any sign of movement, but there was nothing to be seen. All Brian heard was the sound of the rain; all he saw was the movement of the grass in the wind.
They neared the house on the hill with its roof taller than the rest. It was a two-story cottage with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. The yard was cluttered with garden gnomes, birdbaths, and little signs with phrases like Home Is Where the Heart Is.
A crack of thunder made them both jump. Brian looked up into the sky. There were no storm clouds.
They looked at each other and dropped to their knees. The sound hadn’t come from the sky. It came from the unseen valley below.
Chapter 10
Two Years Prior: Meet the Kalispells
The sky was a light shade of blue with the coming of morning, and a much younger Simon Kalispell was the only student awake to enjoy it.
He crouched over the ashen campfire, with the circle of sleeping students around him. A small degree of warmth could still be felt against his fingers as he turned the larger chunks of cinder over, emitting faint wisps of smoke. He blew gently and the cinders began to glow. After a light scraping with his knife and a few long and methodical blows of air, smoke began to steadily rise, and bright orange embers radiated. He crumbled a handful of dried straw and leaves in his palm, held them to a glowing ember, and blew into the spark. The bundle of dry tinder fumed, and then came to life with a burst of flame.
Simon added another handful of dried straw, leaves, and birch bark, then placed a few pieces of kindling meticulously over the dancing flames. Once those pieces caught, he added larger pieces, until the fire was burning unaided.
The other six campers were still asleep, or pretending to be asleep so they could stay curled up in their sleeping bags as long as they could. Despite the cool morning, it was shaping up to be a nice spring day, with a brilliant blue sky and only a few white and puffy clouds in sight.
This was the last week of the Advanced Scouting and Tracking class. From here on in, they would no longer be sleeping in sleeping bags at night, or using matches and lighters, or any other conveniences readily found in the outside world. They would be sleeping under debris huts for shelter—small dwelling made out of branches and leaves that were surprisingly warm and protected against the elements—and eating only what they could scavenge or kill.
Simon added a few more sticks to the fire, then stood to look around the campsite. Where was Marcus Warden? This was the first morning that the instructor was not present as the students awoke.
Maybe Marcus was checking the figure-four traps, the snares, and the deadfalls for breakfast? That would be unusual; the students always checked the traps and reset them if need be. It was part of the training. Maybe he’d gone off in the woods to relieve himself?
Simon heard a few of the students rustling about in their sleeping bags and turned to see Frank Peters and Terry Litz sitting up and stretching. They stood and joined Simon by the fire, everyone nodding to each other. As a general rule, there was no talking until the sun was fully up or all the students were awake. The mornings were a spiritual time, and quiet solitude was important.
Terry—or, “The Owl,” on account of him spotting a magnificent screech owl their first night of class—was filling three cups with water. He passed over a small pine branch so that they could each make a cup of pine-needle tea. Simon was tearing off a cluster of needles when he heard a noise.
It was distant, an engine of some sort. As the sound grew louder, he could see a vehicle far off in the trees. The other students were now unzipping their sleeping bags and sitting up to face the direction of the disturbance.
No one moved as the birds all about them screeched and sang, and the movement of squirrels and small animals scuttled about in flashes. The car, which they could now see was a Jeep, approached the camp as close as it could before the thicket of trees became too dense. The vehicle came to a stop with the engine idling. The passenger and back doors opened, and two men approached. One was Marcus Warden, only he was wearing a shirt and sneakers—which he never wore in the wild—and his shoulder-length hair was pulled back and looked combed. The other man with Marcus was a ranger, in full uniform and wide-rimmed hat.
Marcus stepped into camp. “Good morning,” he said.
The group nodded, and everyone repeated, “Good morning.”
His face was blank as he addressed his students, and his eyes were cast to the ground. “I’m very sorry to wake you all.” He looked at Simon, who was sitting before the fire. “Simon, can you please come with me for a moment?”
***
Simon remained speechless for the entire r
ide to the base camp of Marcus Warden’s Wilderness Survival School. It was a good school with a great reputation. It taught everyone from park rangers to police, military, and special ops. Simon couldn’t believe he was being pulled out of class. And this was the last class—just one more week until graduation.
He expected to see her there, at the school, but she was nowhere to be seen. For the first time since arriving, he put on his shoes and laced them up. His toes felt cramped and his feet were not fully stable on the ground. He said goodbye to Marcus, and they shook hands.
“You’re a good student, Simon. I’m sorry we have to cut this short.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“You’ve learned a lot. Just remember to always be aware of your surroundings and listen to your inner voice. Never doubt yourself or your abilities.” He pointed to Simon’s chest. “Somewhere deep inside, you’ll always find the answers that you seek.”
“Thank you, Mr. Warden.”
“Marcus.”
“Marcus.”
They parted, and another ranger drove Simon out of the woods to a park station a few miles away.
Simon took his gear from the trunk, thanked the ranger, and walked past the station to the only car parked in the vacant lot.
And there she was, standing beside the limousine.
Simon walked up. “Hello, Mother. It’s good to see you.”
“Yes, Simon. You look … well.”
He knew that he looked filthy. His hands and nails were dark with grime, and his hair was wild.
“I promise I bathed,” he said. “Yesterday.”
“In a pond?” Her forehead was raised, as if the tightness of her ponytail was pulling her head back.
“Actually, it was a stream. Are you going to tell me what this is all ab—”
She sighed and reached forward to hug him. It took him by surprise, and he didn’t hug her back for a moment. She smelled like lilacs, the same as she always smelled since before he could remember. Floral. The animal fur around the neck of her coat tickled his nostrils, and he thought he was going to sneeze.
The After War Page 6