Humanaty's Blight

by LeRoy Clary

  “I’ve only been on a powerboat a few times, twice with my uncle in a little aluminum rowboat with an electric motor. A long time ago. Sorry.”

  “That’s more than me. So, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but my sleepless night told me one thing. As good as we have it now, that will quickly change in the next few weeks and then get worse as more people arrive from the cities. Then it will get ugly and it may be impossible to leave as more survivors are about and looking for their next meal or a place to stay. In my opinion, no matter what we do, we will not be alive long if we try to remain here until next winter. Someone will kill us, or an animal will, or we’ll get sick, or break a leg, or starve.”

  Spreading my hands in surrender, I told her, “I’m an orderly sort of person. Most programmers and computer geeks are like me. We like things that way. With computers, you can’t skip steps or eliminate them, and usually, you cannot write a script or program that is out of sequence, even one line.”

  “I don’t know anything about that stuff.”

  “Like now, we’re sitting. If our goal is to run in a race, we have to tense the muscles in our legs, balance, stand and turn to face the direction we want to go. Then we can begin to run by lifting one foot and using the other to brace our start.”

  “What’s that got to do with a sailboat?” Her brows furrowed as she waited with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I’m trying to explain how my mind works. Before we go, I need to know the sequence of events. If we don’t stand up, we can’t run. In our case, if we leave here but don’t reach the city, we fail. If we get there and can’t travel through the maze of rats, dogs, and gangs of crazed people, we fail. If we can’t figure out how to sail, we fail.”

  “That’s a lot of failing and we still haven’t gotten anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, but sailing the boat away to a better life where the sun shines daily, and unicorns visit every evening is way down on that list of things to come first.”

  I expected an angry retort. It didn’t happen. She turned inward and avoided looking my way for maybe ten minutes before saying, “Makes sense. If we just take off, we’ll never make it. Got any good ideas?”

  “Not good, necessarily, but some eliminations, which are ultimately good. They will keep us from making certain mistakes.”

  “Anyone ever say you talk in circles?”

  She had me there. Many had said that in one way or another. I ignored her comment and continued, allowing my mind to prioritize in its own fashion, “First, there are boats tied up to buoys all along the coast near Everett. Most are open boats or fishing boats. Not what we want and not worth our effort to investigate, from what I remember. There is a sailing club in the Everett harbor that has hundreds of sailboats of every kind. Small one-person boats right up to small ships. So, we eliminate the chance of maybe locating one somewhere else. And of running into trouble while searching, and we go for the place where most are located. That’s our best chance of finding a good boat. In short, a place where we can select what we want and are most likely to succeed.”

  “Any sailboat will do, as far as I’m concerned.” She snapped, ignoring my effusive explanation as if she didn’t understand a word.

  I still disagreed. “Grabbing the first one we see is a total mistake. Taking a boat too small because it is easier to handle will hurt us in the end. The boat will become our home. We need it to carry enough supplies to live on and to give us room to move around. Imagine living in a little space the size of a walk-in closet at home and storing all our supplies in it.”

  “We don’t even know how to sail. We should start small and get a bigger boat if we do okay.”

  She had a valid point. However, going to the docks twice invited twice as much risk. We wouldn’t be the only ones stealing sailboats. It was such a perfect solution to avoid the conflicts and dangers that others would think of it too. That last thought, I kept to myself. Changing the subject seemed prudent. I said, “Okay, the exact boat will depend on what we can locate. The bigger problems are how we are going to travel from here to Everett, then through the city?”

  “When we went there, my family and I, we always crossed a river. A big one. What about that?”

  I pictured Everett, remembered the few trips there years ago in my mind and didn’t remember a river, especially a big one. That could radically change things. We desperately needed the map I had dreamed about. “Proceeding without a map is dangerous and foolhardy. We have to get one before we can do much more planning.”

  “The cabin where we stole the food? It may have one.”

  “Too exposed, I think. At least one couple already knows about it and knows we were there, and they might be watching it and waiting for us to return. There could be others.”

  She wrinkled her nose and curled the edge of her lip. “Why do you think they would do that? Are we so important?”

  “We’re alive and may have supplies they don’t. We’re a danger to them, from their perspective. Besides, we may attack them at any time for what they have. Again, from their perspective. If they can kill us, what we have is theirs and the threat is removed.”

  She glanced around at our stores. “It isn’t much.”

  “They wouldn’t know until they got here. Besides, what will that can of peas we ate this morning be worth to a starving person in a few months, or a year? Will it be worth killing over?”

  “We’ll go to the cabin at night. Then they can’t see us.”

  “And how will we see if there is a map once we get there? Light a lantern and attract every person within miles?”

  “Okay, your turn to use your orderly brain and think of something constructive.”

  “We go to the outskirts of Darrington, where there are only a few houses and they are spaced farther apart for privacy. We look for cars, first. Many will have paper maps in gloveboxes, at least I hope so.”

  “So, walking up to a parked car and assuming it is locked like most are, we’ll just break a window in the middle of the day, ignore the sound of breaking glass and the people it will bring running, while we leisurely search for a map. If there is not one, we’ll just walk down the street and do the same to the next car?”

  Her tone was that of a fourteen-year-old who believed someone older had made a bumbling error. I laughed. Her attitude struck me as funny, and laughter was precious. There hadn’t been much, lately. I said, “How about we slip into a garage and search a car in there where we are out of sight?”

  “Ah, that sounds a lot better,” she said with a sudden smile that revealed white teeth almost too large for her mouth. “Do people with garages lock their cars? I don’t think so. If we’re seen going inside, the danger will be to find who is waiting when we come back out.”

  I hadn’t thought of that, but wouldn’t admit it. As if that had been my plan all along, I said, “One of us stays outside to watch.”

  She seemed to accept that. “When do we go?”

  That answer took me by surprise. “I was expecting more input from you. Maybe a little resistance.”

  “My input is that we need that map right away. Without one to help us make plans, you won’t get off your butt and move. So, why not go look for it today?”

  She was completely right again. It was becoming a trait of hers that bothered me more and more. I sat and considered both her knack for seeing what I didn’t and that her observances were not better than mine, just different. She complemented me. Where I failed to consider important aspects of a situation, she filled in the details. Together, we were more than either of us alone.

  I stood. “Okay, grab what you need and let’s go find a map.”

  Her eager grin made her appear like a ten-year-old at her surprise birthday party. My new gun belt went around my waist, my twenty-two tucked into the front of it at an angle so I could bend but still retrieve it quickly. The brown coat covered the red flannel shirt that had a funky smell and was beginning to bother even me. That’s what happens when you
don’t shower for a couple of weeks and wear the same clothes. However, I would have to do something soon or I couldn’t stand being close to myself.

  “Sue, do I stink?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You do too,” I shot back instinctively.

  “Do not. I washed two days ago. Everything.”

  Maybe she had. I didn’t know. She didn’t smell, so it was probably true. “Let’s go scout around and see if we can find a car or two. Afterward, I need to wash a few things, including me.”

  She held up her little thirty-two to assure me she had it with her, then slipped it into her coat pocket. I wished I had had time to make a silencer like mine for her. A little PVC pipe filled with cotton balls, a couple of rows of holes drilled on the sides, and duct tape to hold it in place. In an emergency, a toilet paper tube would work. Another valuable bit of information gained from the Internet. Or not.

  It had seemed like it might work when I read about it. Maybe not cut the noise by half, but a third would be great. Twenty percent was acceptable to people who were trying to keep their presence hidden from others on the same mountain, like us. However, the little gun she held couldn’t make that much noise without a silencer, could it? I didn’t think so. And if we proceeded carefully, neither of us would have to fire our weapon.

  On the other hand, just to be fair, I’d once tried to double my internet speed with a little tinfoil as revealed in a video. It was a solution guaranteed to work by the person who posted it. If anything, it slowed the speed. Then, another time, there was a job offer to make fifty dollars an hour, easily, and in the comfort of my home. I’d eagerly given my credit card number and agreed to pay a hundred bucks they needed to set me up and get the process going. Never heard from them again. So, a toilet roll silencer might or might not work.

  We left the tunnel and moved in a general direction to our right, crossing the river further away from town than the last time. Avoiding where the three men had died and what had happened to their bodies since. Seeing that was something both of us could do without.

  As we moved, light snow fell, large fat flakes, which was good for covering our tracks. I didn’t want to actually enter town. There were too many hidden eyes watching, the people too well-versed in fending for themselves, and they all had weapons and skills that translated to the situation. Some locals may have relished the end of civilization coming.

  We approached a small, unpainted, shingled house from the rear. The sides were weathered dark gray. Inside it, a little dog yapped, and a voice growled for it to shut up. Good dog. Stupid owner. Still, he would watch out the window to see why the dog had made a fuss, so we eased back into the forest.

  I didn’t want a confrontation. Many of those survivors we had seen were as bad as wild animals. There was no way to know which were which, who would help us and who would kill us on sight. At the beginning of the pandemic, as soon as the cops started to get sick along with everyone else, fewer people reported for duty each day. Things rapidly got worse. And then there were fewer cops, firemen, repairmen, and the rest. Even my packages ordered from online dealers quit arriving, and the phones for local restaurants went unanswered, so I went hungry as soon as my chips and bowl of candy were gone.

  The fewer police that patrolled, the more crime increased. It’s just a fact, as anyone who has lived through a hurricane or natural disaster can attest. When there is nobody to stand up to a certain class of people, criminal tendencies rise. They roam the streets in gangs, killing, robbing, and looting at leisure.

  A few days earlier, many of these same people had been carpenters, mechanics, or worked at the supermarket. Others sold stocks or worked in banks. By my estimation, it took about four days for it all to change—along with the thin veneer of civilization to peel away. Everyone was out for themselves. Including me.

  We moved on to another house a few hundred yards away. From our vantage on a small hill, we waited and observed. Empty houses have a different look about them, but a few minutes of additional observation could mean all the difference. We searched for things less obvious than lights in windows, men ordering their dogs to be quiet, and loud music playing.

  Sue said, “No footprints anywhere.”

  No lights. Undisturbed snow remained on the shaded porch of the doublewide, and a hundred other clues said nobody was home. Make that, probably nobody home. Inside were most likely two or three dead people, victims of the blight. It would smell. Enough to gag a person.

  There was a garage, detached from the house by fifty feet. Beside it was a neat stack of cut and split firewood, probably harvested late last summer. Normally, there would be a path from the house to the wood. I said, “I’m going to sneak into the garage.”

  “No.” She placed her hand on my arm to delay me. “You are a better shot, have two guns, and I’ve never even fired this little popgun and don’t know if I can shoot anyone if it comes to that. You stand guard and I’ll go.”

  Before I could protest, even if I wanted to, she slipped away. There was a side door to the garage. It was locked and she moved around to the front and I heard the cold springs protesting the lifting the big garage door. Then, the side door suddenly swung open from the inside. Sue darted away and ran to where a large cedar hid and protected her from sight.

  I guessed she had opened the large garage door enough to roll under it and let it close again. Then she unlocked the side door, ran and hid. Now she waited to find out if someone came to investigate the noise or sighting. She was laying where I could protect her. Smart. There was no other word to describe her.

  No dogs. No people. No shots. She gave me a curt nod, stood, and ran toward the open side door where the front fender of a green pickup was clearly visible. I saw the increase of light inside when she opened the truck’s door and the interior light came on. A moment later, she was racing in my direction, a fistful of papers in her left hand.

  Oddly, she didn’t appear happy. She glanced over her shoulder and kept running. I slipped the twenty-two inside my waistband and pulled the nine-millimeter in response. I racked a shell into the chamber and waited. Something had spooked her.

  Sue ran past me, into the forest well off to one side. Her footprints were clear in the snow and anyone could follow them. I dropped to one knee and then went down to the ground on my chest, ignoring the cold and wet. The pistol was held in front of me, aiming at the corner of the garage when two men simultaneously rushed into sight. Both carried handguns and wore black leather. Bikers.

  One called out, “Halt or we’ll come get you and that won’t be pretty.”

  The other didn’t waste his breath. He looked at the footprints she had left, pulled up and aimed somewhere to my left, nowhere near where Sue was and pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession. The sharp sounds split the quiet air. The other man was also pointing his gun at the same location, and I assumed they had seen an animal, maybe a deer. Sue was behind me, to my right.

  They were only forty or fifty steps away and were intent on watching for her as they slowly advanced in my general direction. Another dozen steps and they would almost step on me. Both held pistols in front of them, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. I’d stand no chance when one of them spotted me. They would both fire and I’d be dead.

  They kept walking at a slow pace. Neither saw me before I fired twice at the head of the leading man. From that distance, I couldn’t miss. Without waiting for him to fall, my barrel shifted slightly, and I fired twice more, then shut my eyes.

  Both were on the ground when I opened them.

  I managed to get my feet under me as Sue reached my side. She asked, “Are you wounded?”

  “No.” My eyes were locked on the motionless bodies. My mind was on the seven shots that had been fired. The first three were much louder than mine, thus larger caliber guns. Anyone within a couple of miles would have heard them and they would know the difference, if not the specific calibers. Then people, probably more bikers would arrive. They wou
ld follow our footprints.

  I didn’t move. Sure, I was scared, but it was more than that. My mind was spinning with information and what to do with it. The house had been empty. I was sure of it. So, where had they come from?

  Sue tugged my coat, trying to get me to run, and said, fear in her voice, “Come on!”

  Turning, I almost followed her back into the forest. In a flash of inspiration, I hissed, “No, you come with me.”

  My thoughts had caught up with the circumstances, sorted things out, and devised a plan. Running to the mine would get us killed. They would follow and hunt us down. My mind also dredged up assorted facts and provided inspiration.

  My cousin Harry had self-named himself Harry the Hog when he had bought a used motorcycle a few years earlier. At first, he had ridden with friends on the weekends. They wore leather jackets with mean-looking patches of devils and death-heads and acted the part of bikers. During the week, he sold mattresses at one of the discount stores in the mall. He wore a suit and tie at work, leathers on the weekends.

  Our family had laughed at him. He’d been the butt of endless jokes. Eventually, he was fired from his job and rode off one day, never to be seen or heard from again. Those two dead men lying in the snow hadn’t known how to shoot. The one that shouted at Sue to stop had said halt. Neither had shouted a swear-word. None of their words began with the letter F. What kind of badass biker uses words like halt? And shouts a warning before shooting? My cousin, Harry the Hog, would do that. That’s because he was a pretender. A wanna-be biker.

  Not that I thought either of them was him. But Harry never got more than a few steps from his bike until the day he rode off. He was so proud of it. The bike turned him into something special. Even while eating with us at a picnic, he’d placed himself where his bike was right in front of our table. A worker in the park had made a big deal about moving the motorcycle off the lawn to the parking lot instead of the picnic area and they had almost come to blows.

  The two men who chased after Sue were pretenders. I was convinced of it.