Journal

by Craig Buckhout

  After, I checked his pulse to make sure he was dead, briefly rested my hand on his forehead and gently closed his eyes. I grabbed up my pack, and Anna and I walked away with our bodies touching, Gabriel’s eyes on us, and the vultures moving in for their meal.

  When we joined Gabriel, I repeated to them what Michael Bass had told me about Turnbull. As I said the words, it didn’t even seem like they were mine. It was as if they were coming from a speaker mounted right behind my head. I also got this weird sensation that the world had somehow shrunk to the point that it was no bigger than the sweep of my fingertips. The only people alive in the entire universe were the three of us right there. I can only attribute this to the experience I’d just had. At that moment, though, Anna reached out and took hold of my ring and little fingers with her index finger and thumb. She just hung on for a couple of seconds, that’s all, and then let go. I don’t know why, but that simple gesture somehow brought everything back into perspective. I hope I’m not losing my mind.

  By agreement we decided that we had to find a place to hide right away, as in immediately. We were only a couple of miles now from Turnbull, and there was no way to know if the people who attacked Michael Bass weren’t right up the road and headed our way. The .22 wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough. We had to consider the possibility.

  So, we moved off into the orchard. It was so overgrown from years of sitting unattended that at fifty yards-in we were invisible from the highway. There, we stopped again while I checked my map.

  Turnbull wasn’t a big town. So without a better plan, we decided to bypass it completely to the east and continue our trek south. We also figured that it might be better if we waited until dark to do it. So, we walked deeper into the orchard looking for a good place to wait out the sun.

  You know, I have to stop the story here for a second. As you may have figured out by now, when I write, I periodically go back and proof read my words before moving on. When I do, I sometimes find I have to make a correction or addition here and there, which is no less the case this time.

  In reading over my last several paragraphs, I feel that I’ve left the impression the transition from killing Michael Bass, to the continuation of our journey, were emotionally separate things. In other words, I killed Mr. Bass, felt bad about it, and then it was on with the business of the day. That’s not the case. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

  I didn’t just leave my feelings about what happened back there on the ground next to him. I picked them up and placed them with all the other memories of the last few days, mostly bad, that weigh me down and are my constant burden wherever I go. It is often the case that in quiet moments, those last few minutes before sleep, or during the endless hours of walking when my thoughts are my company, I unwrap these objects of discontent, one at a time, and examine them closely before eventually putting them safely back in their assigned place. It is no less the case in the death of Mr. Bass. I continued to think of him in background t south along the river6ithe entire day, as I think of him now.

  In fact, as I walked on, these tremendously sad, regretful, depressing feelings I was experiencing over the events just written, began to fold and swirl and mix together until they formed an emotion of an entirely different character. Anger. I was infused with it. I could actually feel it flow out from my center to the tips of all my extremities. It burned my face, knotted my stomach, shook my hands, and overwhelmed me with the want to kill. Faceless men became the targets of my rage and were brought down cruelly as I ran among them, shooting, and stabbing, and clubbing without exhaustion. They were left begging at my feet but were granted no mercy by me, until all were done, and I was done, unable to conjure up any more.

  I‘ve never felt like that before. I have never needed to kill so wantonly. The death of Michael Bass and all the other things that have happened, have changed me and not for the better, I’m afraid.

  OK, with that off my chest and the record set straight, I’ll try to get back to the rest of the day’s events.

  We found a small house or shack, stripped bare of anything useful, about a half mile from the road. My guess is that it was once occupied by seasonal workers, but like I said, that’s just a guess. After watching it for an hour or so to make sure it was unoccupied and scouting its perimeter, that’s where we hid out for the remainder of the day. It’s also where I took the time to think about and record these events.

  April 10, 2054

  I’m writing this on April 10th, though the first part of it concerns the last few hours of the 9th. I’ll do the best I can to try to keep dates and events clear. Sometimes it’s even confusing to me.

  We finished most the meat and started off about two hours after dark, so I’d estimate that was around eight o’clock. At first, we walked east for a couple of miles and then turned south. Either two miles wasn’t far enough to avoid the town of Turnbull, or I guessed the distance we walked wrong, because within a half hour we encountered a number of houses.

  They were just your typical tract homes. You see them everywhere; three bedrooms, two baths with a garage. They weren’t so long abandoned that the paint was peeling or anything, but none of them was in great shape. The yards were all pretty well overgrown with weeds and sometimes littered with old furniture, rotting in the damp Washington weather. On some, the doors had been kicked in and were standing open, while others were more or less intact. Their owners probably just left them unlocked when they took off or were carted off. Who knows? Most also had a car, layered with dirt, parked in the yard or at least on the street. Their dream: a house and a car, long ago given up.

  Over the last few years I’ve been in many such neighborhoods as this and always found something useful, even when the place had been searched three or four times. At first it was kind of an eerie experience knowing that not long before, families had lived there, maybe invited ea atatjch other to a Sunday barbeque, played touch football in the street, and took turns driving their kids to school. I got used to it, though, and now don’t give it much thought. I was even tempted to check out a couple of the places while there, except I could hear dogs in the neighborhood, and I was afraid if they sniffed us out and made a ruckus, anyone nearby might be moved to investigate.

  So we turned east once more, this time with Gabriel in the lead, carrying the .22 rifle in the crook of his arm, the cartridges in his pocket. One of the things I appreciate about him is that you typically don’t have to ask him to do anything. I’ve noticed on more than one occasion, when taking a break for instance, he’ll position himself so he could view our surroundings and keep watch. He will also pitch-in with wood gathering, or shelter building, that sort of thing, often times being the one to get it started. He is a good kid. I think he has a chance to survive all this.

  Another half hour east and another turn south did the trick. The land here wasn’t forested anymore. It was farm land, so we were passing in and out of orchards, walking hit and miss on grown over farm equipment roads. Every once in a while we’d encounter some critter skittering across our path, maybe a coyote, or fox, or something, but other than that we didn’t see any other living, breathing thing.

  Sometime during the next hour, Anna and I ended up walking next to one another. I guess she figured it was her turn to ask the questions because she wanted to know where I was from. I told her most of what I’ve already written in my first few paragraphs. I wasn’t so honest with her when it came to, shall we say, the personality flaws I’ve admitted to. I just sort of left that stuff out. I don’t know why, I just did. Later, I told myself that we’ve all changed so much that who we were isn’t who we are anymore, so I didn’t need to go into all that. I don’t really want to consider any other reason for this omission.

  She asked me what my plans were once we were safely away from Mr. Ponytail. Her question was posed in a most conversational sort of way. There was a tone there, though, that hinted her inquiry was more than just a casual thing. At the time, I figured her intent was to see if I was
going to stick with them all the way to Woburn, or if I was going to strike off on my own at some point prior.

  I told her about my sister in San Antonio and how I would like to find out if she were alive or dead, and if alive, perhaps make my home there.

  After that, we lapsed into silence for the next several minutes, just walking along. But with her eyes looking off over her shoulder, away from me, I suppose to make her next question appear as inconsequential as possible, she said, “You could always stay with us in Woburn.”

  I wasn’t expecting that one, so I didn’t answer her right away. Instead I sort of soaked-in her offer a little bit first. To start off, the thought of wandering like I’ve been for the rest of my life is just flat out depressing. It is a lonely existence. My focus is always on shelter, water, food, and weather, not to mention avoiding danger. There are no discussions like I had a few nights ago with Gabriel. There is nobody to turn to when you need help, say, “wotor a better idea, or to just hear a human voice. So having a place to belong to, a safe place, or at least as safe as any place can be nowadays, and with people to talk with, was very appealing.

  On the other hand, while mulling all this over, I remembered that she told me that to be accepted by the town you had to have a useful skill. What exactly does a part-time card dealer … no, wait, a lazy part-time card dealer with a degree in business have to offer? Plus, the way I saw it, this relationship we’ve formed, her and I, was based on situational need, not close personal bond; I saved them and they saved me. Remember it wasn’t that long ago that Anna was poking me with a stick to let me know it was my time to go on watch. So I figured that when we got to this Woburn place, when we didn’t need each other anymore, her feelings toward me would change, and I didn’t think she’d want to know me anymore.

  So I told her that I appreciated her offer, but if my sister was alive I should find her. “Family, you know?”

  Upon delivering my answer, she kind of made one of those humph sounds and said, “Well, suit yourself.” And that was that, the end of our conversation. She just dropped back behind me and didn’t say anymore. She obviously didn’t get the answer she was expecting. I don’t know how to figure that.

  The uncomfortable silence that followed only went on for a little while because shortly after this exchange between Anna and I, Gabriel stopped in his tracks, stood still for just a couple of seconds, and dropped to his belly. Anna and I immediately followed suit and, without saying a word, moved to locations about ten yards apart, both with our rifles out and ready, looking in all directions.

  At this particular moment we were on the edge of an orchard to our left. Like the others, it hadn’t been pruned in years and so the branches intertwined into a solid mass of green dotted with tiny white blossoms. Beneath, the weeds were thick and green and wet, not at all easy to maneuver through. The orchard ended just a short distance ahead and beyond that it appeared there was a field thick with brush. To our right was another field of similar description. This one, however, had a small wooden structure in it that I assumed used to be a pump house for irrigating the property. It was about fifty yards or so in front of us and another twenty to the right of our line of travel.

  We watched Gabriel crawl back toward us, partly on his stomach and partly on his hands and knees. His progress was slow, and he kept looking back behind him. When he reached us, we grouped up. He whispered that he smelled something and told us that he thought it was pot (marijuana) being smoked. He also said that up ahead, a little ways from where he stopped, was a pretty good sized road, at least two lanes wide.

  Living like we are, our sense of smell has become pretty keen. So I thought it was a good possibility that the wind could have carried the odor of marijuana quite a distance. Pot has a pretty distinctive, strong aroma to it. When I offered up this theory to Gabriel, he shook his head and said no, the source was definitely close by.

  I looked back in the direction he had come from and asked him how far from the for an hour or sotifroad was the pump house, the one I described earlier.

  He told me that it was practically right next to the road, maybe only a half a dozen steps away.

  That had to be it. Somebody, probably a lookout, was concealed in the pump house trying to spot people traveling at night. I remember wondering if that was how Michael Bass and his companions were caught. I also thought that there were probably other lookouts on other roads all around Turnbull. If true, that meant leadership and organization, which made me think of none other than Mr. Ponytail.

  Our first order of business was to get into the orchard and out of sight, which we did. Then what? I didn’t want to turn back the way we came. We needed to put Turnbull behind us, not hang out there. We couldn’t go to our right, west, because the town was that way. So the only logical solution was to go east a little bit further into the orchard, turn south once again and eventually try to cross the road unseen.

  That was the goal, not to be seen. As far as we knew, our pursuers weren’t aware of our presence in the area. Hopefully they were looking for us on the other side of Highway 97. So if we could just get past the sentries they had posted, we might have a chance of getting completely away.

  We crawled on our hands and knees for about twenty or thirty yards, far enough that we couldn’t see the pump house anymore, meaning whoever was in there couldn’t see us either. After that, we walked for another hundred yards or so before turning south and moving to the edge of the orchard, stopping a very short distance from the road. From there, I crawled on my stomach, clear of the trees, and checked in both directions.

  From this position I couldn’t see the pump house to my right because it set back from the road so the trees were still blocking my view of it. But I did see that the street we were trying to cross was laser straight in both directions. I could also see that maybe fifty yards or so to my left, at the other corner of the orchard, were two abandoned cars. The way they were situated, there might have been a third one as well. I just couldn’t tell at that point.

  I also couldn’t tell if there was anyone inside these cars. That was because of the way the moonlight reflected off their grimy windows. It made the glass to be impenetrable squares of opaque white, darkening to gray at their edges, and framed in sheet metal. Still, I watched them for several minutes, looking for any sign of occupancy. Though I didn’t see any overt indication there was someone in-residence, I did notice that one of the windows, of one of the cars, had a pie sized dark spot in it that I took to be a place where someone had rubbed away the dirt.

  I stared at this dark spot a good long time. As the seconds ticked, I began to imagine the eyes and face on the other side of the glass staring back. My field of view narrowed to that one spot such that everything around hazed from focus. At that point, I began to get the strangest sensation centered where the bridge of my nose intersects my eyebrows. It was a tingling of nerves much like you would get if you were to put the tip of your index finger there, a hairs thickness from your skin. This tingling became so intense I was telling the truth.tifand unnerving, that I was overwhelmed with the desire to scrub it away, but I didn’t. At the same time, I wondered if the person who I imagined to be inside that car was possessed with the exact same feeling; sensing my presence yet without seeing it.

  I took this situation to be a serious problem. We had to get across the road to continue south. If there was someone inside the car, there was no way we were going to safely get to the other side without moving a considerable distance east.

  I inched my way backward, out of view, and told Anna and Gabriel to stay where they were. I next worked my way closer to the cars to see if I could determine if anyone was actually inside. If not, that’s the point where we’d cross. The cars would shield us from the pump house.

  It turned out there were three of them: two cars and a pickup truck. So I lay down next to a tree trunk, about ten yards away, well hidden in the tall weeds, to watch. I told myself I’d give it a half hour. It didn’t take that long.<
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  I’ll bet you I wasn’t there five minutes when I was startled out of my socks by the sudden appearance of a man. He came from the direction of the pump house.

  By the looks of his face, I would guess he was in his twenties, with wispy chin hairs that hung down like loose threads on a frayed shirtsleeve. He had on a black bowler hat, blue jeans that were short enough they showed the tops of his boots when he took a step, a medium dark plaid suit coat over a hooded sweatshirt, and carried what looked like a single shot shotgun, casual like, slung over his shoulder. He made quite the sight.

  He walked to the driver’s window of a Chevrolet, the one with the wiped windshield, and leaned one arm on the roof before bending down and saying something low. I heard another voice answer him back, also just mumbles to my ear. After a minute of talking, he straightened up, set the shotgun on the ground, leaned it against the car, and pulled what turned out to be a joint from his coat pocket and lit it. He took a deep pull and passed it off to the person inside the car. After a couple of seconds, I smelled the marijuana. This went back and forth for a few minutes until the joint was apparently gone. Eventually, I saw the man pull the door open, as if he was going to get in, but the person inside pulled it shut again. At the same time I saw a hand come out the driver’s window and push the man away. A woman’s hand, if I saw it right, which I did. The man laughed, stuck his head through the open window, laughed again as he backed out, and then started the return trip toward the pump house, which of course was also toward Anna and Gabriel.

  After a couple of minutes (enough time to make sure the man was a good distance away) I backed up a few yards, got to my feet, and turned toward Gabriel and Anna. I was thinking this was a serious problem. How were we going to get across the road and continue our way south? I was worried that we would have to go back the way we came and circle all the way around to the east before finally going south again. It could waste precious hours of nighttime travel.