She said that they eventually stopped for the night in a small grove of trees not a hundred yards from the road that traced the eastside of the river. No sooner had they settled themselves down then they heard gun fire somewhere up ahead of them but not too close. My assumption is that these are the same gunshots that awoke Petra and me, and eventually led to the discovery of the two men, one dead and one dying, I wrote about earlier. I also now reflect on how close we must have been to one another at that point and wonder how many others, of both good and bad character, are nearby right now.
In the morning, they moved on. She said, “After a couple of hours of walking, Gabriel swore he heard someone shouting. I didn’t, but we still got off the road and stood quietly for several minutes. Neither of us heard anything further, so we continued on our way again. You know how it is, though, we kept thinking about it, wondering if someone was nearby and we were going to walk into trouble. So periodically we stopped to listen and watch, both behind and in front of us. Sure enough, we spotted them, Nora and that man. They were behind us. I’d know her anywhere.”
Gabriel and Anna hurried on at that point, looking for a place to ambush them.
I’ll stop Anna’s narrative at this time. I’ve already essentially recorded the rest of; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4tif their story some pages back. There’s certainly no point of repeating it here, even from Anna’s perspective instead of mine. But I must add that as she said her last few words to me, she laced her fingers into mine and squeezed my hand. Her arm rested on the outside of my own, for the most part, and I could feel the rise and fall of her breathing through the softness of her breast. I kissed her ear and nestled my cheek into her hair.
In the silence, I felt her body sink back into mine. I kissed her neck and wrapped both my arms around her. We sat there in this way for several minutes before she finally leaned forward, stood up, took my hand, and led me to the unoccupied bedroom.
There, on a dusty mattress, covered with a dusty blanket, washed over in the faintest of light, we made love — slowly at first, almost awkwardly, and then with the unrestrained passion of lovers held off too long. After, sleep came so fast that I have no recollection of anything said between us or of any caresses taken or given. Just sleep. And in the early hours of the morning, before even first light, we woke almost as if on mutual arrangement and made love again. This time, commitments, promises, and words given to feelings long held secret were exchanged. Everything was different, or at least seemed so.
As I think once more about these incredibly deep feelings I hold for Anna, I find myself trying to make sense of them instead of just surrendering to their truth. I always do this. I know it, and I can’t help it. It’s my way I think of taking control of my life, of denying the inexplicable randomness of things, such as finding love amidst the wreck of civilization, because to surrender myself to fate or chance or whatever you want to call it, makes me seem powerless over the course of my life.
I guess the thing is, I just want to know that what I do today changes what happens tomorrow. I want to feel that I matter; that my life is not just a series of reactions on my part to accommodate events orchestrated by some being, or worse, by chance.
I love her. It’s genuine. I know this because I can feel it. I think she loves me, too. Would it be the case under other circumstances, though? Does it really matter if it wouldn’t? Love is love, is love, regardless of what unlikely occurrences, random, intended, or divine, brought us together.
I remembered something Claire Huston wrote and have found it again in the pages of one of the surviving volumes I’ve carried all these miles.
“Love always makes a difference. Great things come from it. People are changed and good is done….” Claire Huston, September 2050.
Another thought: is that what we’re doing? Are we subconsciously trying to make a difference with our feelings? Love by definition is the antithesis of hate. Where love exists, hate is displaced. Is this union, she and I, a decided part of the struggle for survival against Ponytail and all other haters? It’s something he can’t destroy. It will sister in San Antonioged and stand in spite of him. It can’t be captured or stolen or shot or torn apart. It can’t be buried either. It claims its space and changes the world because of its mere existence. Is it our win?
___________
As I lay there in the early morning hours of April 15th holding her, hoping for the time to prove the promises I’ve given, the floor gave notice of Gabriel rising and prompted my wondering of his take on these new things. He and Petra are certainly a part of it …If they accept me.
After a few seconds, I heard him leave his room, walk past our door, and eventually go outside. I followed soon after and went into the kitchen, cracked a window, and saw him settle against a tree looking west toward the river with my rifle resting across his knees. I turned away and began a search of the cabinets for anything of use. The day had started.
Anna and Petra continued to sleep, which allowed me a start at forming these last several paragraphs. I enjoy writing. It helps me sort some of the confusion out. I’m determined to continue on with it for as long as I can.
Eventually, Anna woke and, in turn, woke Petra. I heated tea over an old coffee can, well vented with holes around its base and elsewhere, to contain a fire built from paper and twigs. The first cup I carried to Gabriel before rejoining Anna where we examined the map I have so often referred to.
We found the town of Orson on the map and first determined that we had about one hundred miles to go, give or take, before reaching Woburn. Once again, I figured about five days travel if we pushed ourselves hard and made at least twenty miles a day. That would have us arriving a couple of days before the expected attack. We might do better than that if the terrain and our enemies were accommodating.
One of the problems, we agreed, was that the route we now traveled was dangerous. Several times now, we’ve encountered people intending to do us harm. We’ve so far managed to escape unhurt but bad luck, a moment of inattention, or a mistake on our part could change all that. If one of us got hurt or trapped, we might not get to Woburn in time, and if killed, not at all. So we decided to change our route slightly.
The map wasn’t detailed enough to show exactly where, but in or near the town of Orson there was a road that went due east for several miles before connecting with another road, a minor road, that went south, essentially parallel to the one we had been traveling on. The parallel road (not named or numbered on the map, so I’ll call it “Road P”) continued south approximately sixty or seventy miles. At its point of termination, we’d have to choose to turn back to our original route of travel or go cross country for the next twenty miles or so. We might even find some lesser, unlisted roads to travel on at that point.
The advantage of this choice was safety. The disadvantage — it would be a less direct route and would take more time to negotiate.
After a breakfast of canned fruit and canned Vienna sausages (not the tastiness me; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4tifal we’ve had), we started south, staying well away from the outskirts of Orson. In less than an hour, we struck a road that went east and followed that for about an hour and a half, maybe a bit more, until we reached the intersection with Road P and turned south.
I know I’ve said this before, but let me again explain that when I write of Road P, I’m really talking about what used to be a road. Now, it’s just a strip of land about thirty feet wide that was only recognizable for what it used to be because it was less overgrown with vegetation than the areas on either side of it. The terrain through which this road was built was essentially flat and had obviously at one time been well farmed. On either side of the road the land had been fenced off into large blocks. It was within these blocks that the earth had been cultivated. Irrigation equipment was plainly observable in some of these fields — big wheeled affairs with aluminum piping attached, still dime bright in spite of its exposure. Not as visible, were dirt, single lane service roads that hint
ed themselves only by the different type of vegetation that surrounded the perimeter of the fields in a grid like pattern.
Had we more time, it would have been worth our effort to explore these fields for fresh food. Many times in the past, I’ve found vegetables that have re-seeded and are available for picking or, in the case of potatoes and carrots, digging.
As we moved, every once in a while we also passed homes close to the road or seen in the distance. These often included large barns and garages as well. We didn’t take the time to stop to scavenge on these occasions, even though it’s these out-of-the-way structures that often yield material of good use. Since we were equipped well enough to reach our objective, and time was more important than comfort, we continued on.
As we progressed, we more than once also passed over minor streams flowing at capacity. In this area, finding fresh water wasn’t difficult, so we were able to keep our water bottles filled. Where banks were muddy, we frequently also saw tracks from wildlife, usually deer, but sometimes dogs or smaller animals as well.
Three times in the first four or five hours, we crossed intersecting roads that ran east and west. We were unable to find any of them on the map in order to take measure of our progress, so I reasoned they were minor ones that didn’t lead to anywhere but other farms and fields. We took our first break at one of these intersections, inside a weathered roadside vegetable stand with “Field Fresh” hand-painted in faded green letters on its walls and offering a bench where undoubtedly the operators had at one time sat. It seemed a strange place for such a shop, unless in good times this Road P we were on was more traveled than I suspect.
After splitting cans of green beans and tuna, Anna, Gabriel, and I took inventory of our remaining food and determined a five day rationing plan to make it last. While so engaged, I periodically watched Petra and saw her pick white and yellow flowers from nearby bushes and imagined her with other girls her age playing tea party or some such thing. I wish that for her. Children should have that time to pretend a world where the worst was a disagreement over who pours and who passes out the imaginary cookies.
We marched on and continued to make good progress. The weather was pleasantly warm, and I noted things were drying out nicely. This part of the state was more arid than that to the west, a fact apparent by the type of vegetation in growth.
We stopped near dark, perhaps twelve hours after starting and at least twenty miles farther south, considering the first of our many steps were spent going east until we reached Road P. The place we choose to stop was a house perhaps a quarter mile from the road.
The house was built long and low, in the shape of a V, much like geese in flight. On one end was an attached garage and set apart was a large combination shop and barn. Italian Cypress, fifty feet tall, stood shoulder to shoulder on both sides and closed off the back yard, which included an algae laden pool, so thick with green goo it looked like a giant pot of split pea soup. A wooden jungle gym, including a fiberglass slide with a sandbox at the bottom, occupied one corner of the yard.
Anna, Gabriel, and Petra decided to explore the house while I went to take a look at the shop.
The shop was one of those prefab metal types, with a concrete slab floor and foundation, common to farms in the area. It had two roll up doors in front and a single, standard swing door on the side. As I approached it to investigate, something else caught my attention and prompted me to postpone my investigation.
It was a grave yard; a small one, fenced off with pointed white pickets three feet high and a gate in the middle. Inside were five graves, each marked with a simple white cross bearing the name, date of birth, and date of death of the person buried beneath it. Planted behind each marker was a flowering plant of some sort that was just starting to bud but offered no hint as to fragrance or type. Three of the markers were easy to read while standing outside the enclosure: Margaret Thompson (Jan. 20, 2017 to March 9, 2051), Henry “Hank” Thompson (Aug. 3, 2042 to March 27, 2051), Abigail Thompson (November 1, 2044 to April 6, 2051). A fourth marker, which was on my far right, was obscured by the branches of the plant rooted behind it. The fifth grave, well I suppose it wasn’t really a grave at all, was just an empty hole with the dirt piled next to it along its length. The marker at the head of this one read: Hank Thompson Sr. (February 15, 2015 to …) the date of death blank.
I opened the gate and approached the grave with the marker I couldn’t clearly read. I moved the obscuring branch to behind the cross and read Naomi Thompson (Aug. 10, 2048 to April 4, 2051). She wasn’t yet three years old when she died. Except for one, I supposed it was the entire family, and they all died within the period of about a month. I figure it had to be the sickness that took them. A lot of families went that way. My family went that way, though we were separated by three thousand miles. Anna’s family went that way. Gabriel’s too? Maybe, but he has yet to talk about it with me.
I pulled a few weeds that were sprouting on Naomi’s grave, cast them aside, smoothed the disturbed earth back in place and stood up, wondering about the man, Hank Sr. What happened to him? And suddenly it struck me. Why hadn’t I seen it before? A chill washed over my body. I felt so stupid. The graves, they were tend sister in San Antonioged and ed. So were the flowers planted near the markers. The paint didn’t look weathered, either, at least not like it had been exposed to the elements for what, a little over three years now.
I had just started to turn, to warn Anna and Gabriel, when I heard a low down, unfamiliar voice, “I knew someone like you would be along.”
Behind me, not three feet away, stood a man holding an axe handle in one hand, his other tucked inside the pocket of a tan, heavy canvas barn coat. He looked my age and was just under six feet tall, with a full beard and blond hair that reached his shoulders. The face was leathery and wrinkled, especially around the eyes, which were pale blue and possessed a sadness of someone who had born much tragedy. He looked well fed and healthy enough, though.
My first thought: what a strange thing to say; I knew someone like you would be along. My second thought: Could I get the shotgun up, safety off, and pull the trigger before he hit me with that axe handle?
He motioned with the end of the axe handle toward my shotgun and said, “You have no need for that. If I’d wanted to, I could have laid you out long ago, and if I’ve judged you right, you’re not wanting to hurt anyone either. Not everyone who comes through here is like you, though. They’re buried out there.” He motioned again with the end of the axe handle out toward the field beyond the graves. At that, he turned his back on me and said, “Let’s go find your people. Close the gate behind you.” He walked off in the direction of the house.
I caught up with him and told him I better go first, thinking that Anna or Gabriel might not wait to say hello before shooting. I also asked him if he was Hank Sr., and he told me he was.
We found them going through his kitchen cupboards, which, I have to say, made me a little embarrassed. After they got over the initial shock, I told Gabriel and Anna it was all right, that this was his house, and he willed us no harm. I could tell Gabriel wasn’t too sure about that, however. In fact, over the course of the next several hours, I noticed that he kept his hand, his gun hand, not too far from the pistol tucked in his waistband. I think Hank noticed this, too, but as far as I could tell, no offense was taken.
He cooked us dinner, venison and boiled carrots, over an alcohol stove of his own design. We talked as he did it, co-mingling our various stories with small talk. It was a cautious exchange, though. I know we held back, being vague as to our destination and giving only scant detail of the trouble we’d had with Ponytail. I can only assume he did the same. I didn’t find this odd in any way what-so-ever. We were taking his measure and he ours. It’s what you do now-a-days when you meet a stranger; either that or, I suppose, try to kill each other.
As far as his particular story goes, at least as much as he told us, rather than write it out in a he said - I said manner, I’m going to do my
best to lay it all out as if it were one continuous narration. I think it will be easier to understand that way. So here goes.
He told us that when the sister in San Antonioged and first virus wave struck, and it became clear through all the news reports that it was going to be deadly, he and his family simply put themselves into quarantine. They really had everything that they needed on the farm, and they communicated with their children’s school by computer and phone, so the kids didn’t miss out on any of their lessons. As the weeks turned into months, things got worse. There were frequent power outages that sometimes lasted for days, the computers were hit and miss, and eventually the only news was through government run broadcasts on the emergency channel and even those were only once in a while.
On one particular evening, he was walking from the house to the shop, and he saw this huge flash in the sky. It lit things up from horizon to horizon for what seemed like a good four or five minutes and slowly faded to dark. He continued on to the shop where he discovered that the lights weren’t working. At first, he thought it was just another power failure. In the past, when that happened, he would just use the headlights from the truck for light, do whatever it was he had to do, and shut them off after. But this time, when he tried to start the truck it wouldn’t work. He went back into the house and tried a battery operated radio they had and couldn’t even get static. It was the same story with his PCD (portable communication device). In fact, everything with micro circuitry no-longer worked.
Hank said that at that point, he knew exactly what happened. He explained that he read an article in a magazine several years before about electromagnetic pulse bombs and how when detonated high above the earth’s atmosphere they could make everything that used modern electrical circuitry to essentially burn out and stop working. The article warned of dire consequences in the event our enemies used one or more of these devices against us. It said that our whole way of life would be changed for a very long time. In an instant, everything that we had come to rely on would be taken away from us because just about everything ran with or by micro circuitry. The author of the article also wrote how the United States wasn’t prepared to deal with such an event except to have their own such devices that, it was thought, would act as a deterrent. Hank kind of laughed at that and called them fools.
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