Going Home

by A. American

  This was followed by a chorus of “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!”

  “I appreciate that, mister, but I’m just trying to get home,” I replied.

  The old man wasn’t swayed from his goal. “The Lord has judged man and found him wanting!”

  “Yeah, and left him wanting even more,” I replied. Apparently that little statement had an effect on the old sooth. He just stood there looking at me. His eyes were nothing more than black sunken pits in his face, from where I stood. After a brief moment in his creepy gaze, I simply turned and began to walk away, down the road. I didn’t fear these folks. I never heard them leave the road, never heard another word spoken. The road out of Cross Creek curves gently as you leave town; when I finally did look back, I couldn’t see the church, only the orange glow cast by the flames around the bend and on the low clouds.

  Walking along in the dark for a bit, I started to think about those folks back there. Did they really expect some sort of miracle or salvation to be delivered unto them? Or were they simply so overwhelmed, so impotent to do anything about their current situation that this was the only thing they could do in the face of it? It didn’t really matter to me; they were no threat to me and, therefore, no concern. I dismissed the thought with a shake of my head.

  Trudging along, I flipped the goggles down to check out the road—nothing ahead. Turning them off, I flipped them back up and started thinking of home and how I didn’t call today. I hoped that they weren’t worried and that they were all okay. This, in turn, made me start to think about the last call to Sarge and his cryptic message, the reason I didn’t call home. Why in the hell was he leaving his place? What would cause that? I guess the possibilities for that scenario were unlimited at the moment. I guess I would find out a little more later today, and I would call home today no matter what.

  Passing a small road, the sign on the corner indicated I was on CR 325. A small house was on the corner. It was dark, but I moved to the far side of the road, just in case. Getting past the house by a hundred yards or so, I stopped to check my map. Dropping the pack, I stretched my back and dug the map out of my cargo pocket, using the red LED on the headlamp to find my location. This small road intersected with 301 just east of here. Highway 301 was a major road that I didn’t particularly want to travel on. This section of it ran almost due north from there; ideally I needed to head south-southeast. There were no roads leading that direction, so it would be overland.

  Coming to the intersection of 301, I checked my watch through the goggles, 3:47 a.m. Within the next two hours, I needed to find a hide for the day. One of those little green DOT signs read Island Grove—didn’t look like much. Turning south on 301 and moving as stealthily as I could, I got back into an uninhabited area. Seeing no houses, I checked the compass and turned off the road to my planned overland route. Almost immediately, I crossed a small paved road. Damn, thought this would get me out into the woods. Pushing past the road, it wasn’t a hundred yards before I crossed another larger paved road. Damn! Past this, I entered the bush again, thankfully.

  Walking on, the trees started to thin dramatically. Before long, I found myself on a prairie. Looking through the goggles, I couldn’t see the other side. There was no cover on this thing. It was really early; there shouldn’t be anyone around, so I started out across the plain. Being out in the open like this made me feel naked, completely exposed. That’s an odd feeling for the modern world, being afraid to be seen.

  Shortly after entering the prairie, I had to cross a fence. Starting to cut it with my Leatherman, I paused and decided to climb it. There could be cattle out here, and I don’t want to let some poor rancher’s cows out. Climbing fences with this pack was a pain in the ass. I had to take it off, put it over first, climb my big ass over, and then shoulder the pack again. I hated climbing fences.

  The front that passed through yesterday was carried in on some pretty stiff winds. Now that the front was south of me, the winds were gone. Shouldering my pack, I thought I heard voices out in the dark. I froze, my pack half on, and listened—nothing. After struggling back into the pack, I grabbed up the carbine and took a look around the prairie, green gloom, nothing but green gloom. Moving as I was was taking me away from Island Grove, leaving the little hamlet over my left shoulder. It was over my left shoulder that the field suddenly lit up, the green view of the goggles blazing.

  Dropping where I stood and pulling off the goggles, I rolled out of the pack, struggling with its weight on the ground, I felt like a damn turtle on its back. Finally freed from the pack, I rolled around to the direction the light came from; the field was dark again. Lying prone with the carbine across the pack, I continued to scan the pitch blackness. It didn’t take long for the light to cut across the field again; this time I locked on the location of the source.

  The light, bright-ass light, swept back and forth across the field. Was someone looking for me? I chuckled to myself, remembering the words of a good friend of mine: “It isn’t always about you.” Asshole, I muttered under my breath. The light stopped its sweep; it was locked onto something in the field off to my right. Looking out there, I saw two does, maybe seventy-five yards from me.

  Whoever took the shot made a damn good one. She dropped right where she was, without taking a step. The other one bounded off into the darkness. The light stayed locked onto her but began to jiggle around, drawing near. Shit, someone’s coming. A couple of minutes later, two figures appeared by the doe. One figure was tall, and the other was short. From the sound of the voices I could tell it was a kid—a girl—and a man. The girl held the light as the man knelt to work on the deer.

  Being so close, I heard them talking. The little girl was excited about the prospect of food, something that had been in short supply, apparently. She was chastised by the man, from the tone he was clearly her father, a couple of times for shining the light around the field, putting the blade in his hands in the dark. It seemed that Amy was afraid of the dark. I felt a tug at my heart as I listened to him talk to her. He spoke softly and gently to the little girl, explaining to her that this was what was needed if they wanted to eat; she was a trooper and took the grisly scene before her in stride. It so reminded me of my little one, always ready to go fishing and help clean the fish. “Help” usually consisted of touching the fish’s eyes and washing the fillets with the hose on the cleaning station behind the shop.

  He finished his field dressing quickly, an experienced hand, I would guess, and they were headed back the way they came. He dragged the doe by one of the ears, his rifle in the other hand. The light blinked out shortly after they started moving. I lay there listening to them go, the sound of the deer scuffing across the ground and the little girl’s voice fading. When I felt they were far enough away I jumped up and quickly shouldered the pack. I want out of this damn field.

  I went toward the gut pile, curious more than anything else. I was very surprised to find that he left the heart and liver. With food in short supply, I couldn’t imagine leaving any cut behind. Steam still rose off the pile of offal; this mixed with the smell of the rain-soaked prairie. It created such an intense natural aroma—one that was nearly impossible to describe. Fog was already starting to rise off the rain-soaked grass. Not being a fan of deer liver, I picked up the heart; taking a quick minute to find a Ziploc bag in the pack, I dropped it in. I was having some fresh meat for breakfast or dinner or the next time I ate.

  I finally came off the prairie through the Orange Creek Restoration Area, only having to climb two more fences. Taking the driveway out of the restoration area, I was at another road. On the other side was a small forestry sign indicating the boundary of a conservation area, meaning no houses, perfect. Crossing the road, I checked my watch again. It was almost five—time to find a camp.

  A small dirt lane led out into the bush, heading off in the southeasterly direction I needed to go. Knowing that roads increased risk, I took it anyway. The benefit of mo
ving farther, faster, and easier was worth it. The roadbed didn’t show any sign of travel, no tire tracks or footprints other than those of deer, coons, and other critters. There was no sign of people anywhere, so I started to look for a place to camp near the road, making it easier to start off in the evening.

  A straight horizontal line in the trees caught my eye through the green haze of the goggles. It was unnatural and didn’t fit with everything else. I moved a little closer to see what it was and discovered a small metal shed. It was off the road a little and covered in old grapevines. Winter killed stems of dog fennel and beauty berry plaited the sides and door. Stopping a couple of yards from it, I stood and listened for any sounds of people. Satisfied it was empty, I pulled the door open, stepping on the fennel stalks to swing the door out. Inside was a dirt floor, covered in litter in the form of cigarette packs and butts, empty beer cans, and condom wrappers. Fortunately, I didn’t see any condoms.

  Going in, I dropped my pack in one corner and used my boot to sweep all the litter to one side. This little shed was about eight-by-eight and made a nice little hide for the night. From the look of the outside, no one had been around it in a long while. Satisfied that there wasn’t anyone’s DNA lying around in a latex sock, I laid out the sleeping mat and sat down on it. From the pack, I pulled my stove and fuel bottle, mess kit, and deer heart. Inside the top flap of the pack I keep a small cutting board; it’s one of those really thin ones and is only about ten by twelve inches. A board or something flat would be nice to lay it on. Looking around the little shed, I didn’t see anything, so I went out to walk around and see if there was something out there.

  Behind the shed was a trash pile—full of old cans, pieces of junk, old hoses, and a bunch of little black plastic pots, the kind you use to start plants in a greenhouse. In the junk, I found a rather stiff metal sign that read, Beware of Dog, in fading red letters. It would make a good base for the cutting board. Carrying it back inside, I set it down and pulled the Glo-Toob out and turned it on. There weren’t any windows, so the likelihood of anyone seeing the light was slim. Setting the stove up, I dumped the contents of the pot out on the sleeping mat and poured a couple of inches of water in it. Digging through the pack, I found an accessory pack and took out the salt packet and poured it into the water and stirred it up.

  With the cutting board on the sign and that on one end of the mat, I laid the heart out and started making half-inch-thick cuts across it, starting at the bottom and working my way up. I cut the valves out and trimmed some of the meat from around them, placing each piece into the salted water. Once I had cut everything I could from it, I lit the stove with my fire steel and set the pot on to boil. I buried the leftover parts of the heart in the corner of the shed, using my little trowel.

  Since I was going to have fresh meat, I decided to splurge a bit. Pulling a pack of cocoa from the pack, I set a canteen cup of water on the Esbit stove and lit the tab with a BIC. Rooting around some more, I found a pouch of Mexican rice and stuffed it in an MRE heater with a little water. The water in the pot began to boil, so I turned the heat down a bit to maintain a low boil and put the lid on. I pulled the sleeping bag out and used it as a big pillow to rest an elbow on while my dinner heated up. The tab in the Esbit stove burned out. The water wasn’t boiling, but it was steaming, so I dumped the cocoa in and stirred it up. Checking the heart, it was already turning a dark brown—good enough.

  Taking the pot from the stove with the lifter, I went outside and around to the junk pile, where I poured out the water, and then I came back inside. In my mess kit, I keep a small bottle of olive oil. I poured enough in to coat the bottom of the pan by rolling it around. Then I shook one of the small bottles of Tabasco into the pot and set it back on the stove, using the little folding spatula to stir the cut-up heart and sauté it in the oil. It smelled great and was making me seriously hungry.

  Checking the pouch of rice, the heater was hot and swollen. Taking it out of the heater, I cut open the pouch and dumped the rice into the pot and mixed it with the heart. I sat there and ate, savoring every bite. It was so good—hot, fresh meat, and the sweet cocoa washing it all down. The meat was a little tough; it’s better to soak it in the salty water for a while. Nonetheless, this was the most satisfying meal I’d had in a long time.

  With a full belly, I packed the stove up and poured a little more water into the pot. Using the little bottle of dish soap and scrubber, I cleaned the pot and used the soapy water to wash the cutting board, then rinsed them with a little more fresh water from the Platypus bag and dried them with a clean bandana. After putting everything back into the pot, I strapped the top back on and stowed it in the pack and put the cutting board back in the flap pocket. I cleaned my knife with the scrubber and dried it with the same bandana and then sheathed it on my belt.

  Leaning back on the sleeping bag, I finished my cocoa and just relaxed. After a good meal and a long night of walking, I was drowsy. Then I remembered the can of Cope. I fished around in the Devildog and found the can. To my surprise, it was still pretty moist. I took a pinch and sat there enjoying the little buzz it gave me. I didn’t keep it long, though. I was tired, so after ten or fifteen minutes, I spit it out in a corner and started getting ready to go to sleep.

  I rolled the bag out, took off my boots and coat, and climbed into the bag. The carbine was leaned against the wall by my head; the .45 came in the bag with me. The goggles were lying close by my head; staring at them with no real thought in my head, I remembered I had batteries that needed charging.

  Climbing out of the bag, I slipped my boots back on and dug out the Goal Zero panel and charger. I found the dead batteries in the Devildog and put four of them in the charger then went outside to set it up. Not wanting to leave it where it could be discovered, I placed it on the roof on the reverse slope from the road I walked in on, propped at a slight angle facing south. The vines on the roof weren’t very thick, and I used some of them as the prop. The clearing behind the shed where the junk pile was should provide enough sun to charge them.

  Returning to the shed, I climbed back in the bag and turned off the little light. Lying back, I started to think of home again. It had been better than two weeks now, and I could only lie here in this shitty little shed wondering what was going on at home. All I could do was hope that everything was okay and that they were all well, safe, warm, and not hungry. As thoughts of home faded, thoughts of all the others came into my mind—Thad, Sarge and the Three Muskee Queers, and Jess. I kind of bailed on her, and now I felt bad, even for Jim. There could have been more there, but there was so much going on. Thad trying to drive to Tampa, on I-75 of all places, gave me little hope for his success. I hoped he made it, but I didn’t hear him on the radio yesterday—not good. But then I had missed calling home, so hopefully it was nothing.

  • • •

  Thad drove out of the little hammock toward the overpass. It was still dark, so he had the headlights on. It would be light soon, and he just wanted to get on the interstate and make as many miles as possible. Approaching the overpass, he pulled off the road. This was just an overpass, no ramps onto I-75. Pulling down the embankment, he found someone had already cut the fence, saving him from having to do it. Maneuvering the truck through the open section of fence, he hit the pavement of the northbound lane and stomped on the pedal, pushing the old truck hard, heading south in the northbound lane. Most folks had pulled their cars off the road when they died, but some real window lickers left their cars in the lane right where they died. What kind of idiot does that? Fortunately for him, there weren’t too many window lickers.

  The problem with being on this side of the road was that he couldn’t see the signs. As soon as there was a break in the guardrail, Thad steered the old truck across the center median to the southbound side. At least over here he could use the mile markers and signs to keep track of his progress. Thad didn’t live in Tampa proper. He lived in the Land O’ Lakes area; he u
sed Exit 285 off 75. He figured he was at least a hundred miles from his exit off the interstate.

  Not two miles from where he got on the interstate was an exit for Micanopy. There was the usual assortment of sad little gas stations there, the type that were just on the edge of profitability. They had a major oil company name on the sign but smelled like curry and spice and sold the oddest assortment of merchandise on the planet, everything from seashell bric-a-brac to “Lucky 7” dice and ski masks. Ski masks, in Florida? The other real oddity at this exit was the strip club. It was “World Famous” and catered to truckers.

  Approaching the exit, Thad tried to push the old truck a little harder. He wanted as much speed as he could muster. The interstate passing over the surface road below would be a natural choke point, and Sarge’s crew had warned him about these as possible ambush sites. The eastern sky was starting to lighten as the old truck roared across the overpass, the frame bottoming out with a thunk as the old worn-out shocks couldn’t take the weight of the truck as it crested the rise.

  Other than the bouncy ride, he made it across without incident. Looking down on the road below from the top of the overpass, it was obvious that people were down there, still hanging around the little stores. Even from this distance, he could tell one of them had been looted; all sorts of crap littered the parking lot. About five minutes after the overpass, he approached his next obstacle. It was an overpass over I-75, like the one leading to Bill’s house.

  The “Three Muskee Queers,” as Morgan called them, had covered this sort of obstacle in their training. Thad scanned the overpass for anyone on top, as well as where the embankments met with the upper road. Seeing no one there, he focused on the other side. Thad eased the truck all the way over to the left until he was actually on the shoulder; then as he went under the leading edge, he started to move to the opposite shoulder as he passed under the bridge; again he made it by without incident.