by M. D. Massey
She gathered her gear, complete with a camouflage hunting vest to carry the essentials. She grabbed the flashlight out of habit, stuffed two granola bars in one of the pockets and a canteen of water in another pocket, added a mini notepad and pen, and slid the loaded gun into the inside vest pocket for quick and easy access. Then she draped a compass necklace around her neck, grabbed the tire iron, and then cautiously climbed down the tree.
Despite the brisk January morning, it felt good to get out after being cooped inside the past two weeks. Glancing at her watch, she decided to walk twenty minutes in each direction and write notes of her surroundings.
Heading east, she rediscovered the dilapidated shack and rusted-out water tower. She came across the old barn, which looked as if it might collapse at any moment. Scarlett peered inside the door-less doorway with the aid of the flashlight. No signs of any two-legged or four-legged creatures. She decided to investigate the small barn more thoroughly. With the tire iron ready in one hand and flashlight in the other, she went inside. Not too bad. The roof had caved in at one corner, and animal droppings and old hay littered the ground.
The barn was completely empty; the only thing she noticed of interest was a built-in ladder leading to a small loft. She shoved the ladder to test its sturdiness. It was more stable than it appeared, the weathered-grey wood belying its age. Cautiously, she climbed the ladder and flashed the light around. I could have stayed here that first night.
At the time, the storm had been so fierce, she hadn’t considered the old barn, thinking it might have blown away like the house in the Wizard of Oz dream. Good thing I went running into the woods like some crazed banshee—that’s how I found my little bug out. She almost laughed.
After losing her supplies in Natomas and then again in the hotel fire, the barn might be a great place to store emergency supplies in case she had to make another fast getaway. She couldn’t risk being that vulnerable again: no weapon or food. Think I’ll stash a set of clothing, a blanket, a few tins of Spam, a lantern, and a weapon. Unfortunately, she was short on weapons, maybe a sharp piece of metal from the pile of old farm equipment she’d seen earlier. It got her thinking about the possibilities.
She climbed into the loft, guessing it to be about ten by twenty feet in size. She could hide a backpack of supplies behind the hay bales or under the wood in the corner and then cover it with a plastic camouflage tarp, something she had plenty of. Then, restack the wood over the tarp. She certainly wouldn’t ever want to live there, but it was a good place to store emergency supplies.
Note to self, she jotted on her notepad: SEARCH SCRAP METAL FOR WEAPON. The bug out was equipped with a few knives but try killing a creeper with a knife—It was quite gruesome and nerve-rattling, not to mention extremely messy. She had done it only once and hadn’t slept for a week. Even the thought of it made her squeamish.
Scarlett continued eastward. She remembered passing the old orchard of small trees. She continued until she came to River Valley Road. It took several minutes to find the fallen-down Payton’s Place street sign covered in vines. On impulse, she stomped on the sign, embedding it further into the soft soil. Just in case someone else happened to find a set of MapQuest directions in an abandoned vehicle—as she had. After all, there had been at least three families on their way to the bug out. She couldn’t risk Paxton or anyone else for that matter, finding the directions.
Of course, the odds of Paxton coming across the directions were astronomical—like owning a winning Powerball jackpot ticket. A wry smile crossed her lips. Eventually, someone always won (used to win) the Powerball. It was only a matter of time. So, no matter how ridiculous and absurd the possibility of someone accidentally finding her bug out sounded, she felt secure knowing it would be practically impossible for anyone to find. She labeled it “peace of mind insurance.”
Scarlett retraced her steps back to the tree-lined cover of the old orchard. She sat under a tree for a while to observe the roadway for signs of life other than the forest’s usual inhabitants. All was quiet. Too quiet. Surreal. Rather abruptly, her mind pulled her into a dream-like state. How could she dream with her eyes wide open? “Scarlett . . .” a whispering in the wind drifted from across the country road. She ignored the silly notion, realizing the long-term isolation was causing her mind to play tricks on her by seeking out alternative forms of companionship, even if it was only make-believe. She forced herself out of the trance-like state.
Uneasy about crossing River Valley Road, she heeded her intuition, and continued her twenty-minute hike westbound past the bug out. And that’s when she came upon the river. Definitely not a little babbling creek. Well, she certainly didn’t have to worry about running out of water, although it would be a pain in the butt to haul.
She found a spot on the river’s edge, hidden amongst several evergreen bushes, and enjoyed the tranquility of the river. Everything is going to be all right, she thought. She watched the sunlight shimmer across the rippling water while magpies and jays fluttered about the trees in apparent territorial disputes. For a moment, she wondered if the past few horrifying months had been an illusion of sorts. Maybe she was detoxing at an isolated retreat after overdosing on those painkillers . . . and life was normal. The moment passed all too quickly. The harsh truth pricked her soul.
A plopping sound made her jump. She searched the shoreline but couldn’t find the source of the noise. Another plop. She couldn’t stop chuckling. No creepers, silly, just fish. Of course, the river has fish! A wave of excitement swept over her. “I can fish.” Great, she hadn’t been looking forward to eating freeze-dried soup and Spam for the next few months. Only one problem, she didn’t know how to fish. She remembered the fishing poles and the box of lures; apparently, the owners had intended to fish. As she recalled, there was even a book, something like Fishing for Dummies. Perfect.
Scarlett headed back to the bug out with a renewed zest for life. What was I so scared about, you little scaredy-cat? She smiled, remembering the last camping trip at Lake Almanor with Cyndi, Rex, and the boys. Joshua had wanted to play in the lake without getting his feet wet. Cyndi had called him a scaredy-cat, which ended up being the catchphrase for the weekend.
She might as well spend the next few months (until her departure—she reminded herself), learning how to fish and maybe try out the smoker. The government will have things under control by springtime. At least it’s what she had always promised Ella and Justin. But in all actuality, it had been more of an affirmation: Positive thinking. She found instant relief knowing there were plenty of projects to keep her busy. Scarlett was going to be just fine. “Just fine and dandy,” somehow hearing Miss Purlie’s voice in her mind.
29
“Holy Mother of . . . it can’t be!” Dean’s jaw must have dropped a foot when Luther pulled into the Sweet Suites parking lot.
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Luther said with hesitation. “That’s your hotel all right.”
Dean hustled to the charred foundation. “Damn thing burnt to the ground. What in tarnation happened?” Dean stood at the edge of the rubble, flabbergasted.
“Hey now, they’re around here somewhere,” Luther consoled.
“Huh, reckon you’re right. Scarlett must have left a note,” he muttered more to himself than to Luther. She was the most logical of the bunch, usually.
The Stockton Boys’ trucks were gone, leaving only his Fiat and the Civic, the car Scarlett had been prepping for her Pinole trip. He and Luther policed the parking lot, analyzing the remains of the hotel. He felt like one of those television CSI investigators inspecting a crime scene. ’Cept I don’t have a dad-blast-it clue what I’m looking for. Something was amiss, but Dean couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Dean . . .” Luther hesitated. “Check it. You might want to see this.” Luther pointed to the back of the Fiat.
Spray-painted on the Fiat’s windshield was SUCKER. The orange paint blared out a silent warning to Dean. Dean met Luther’s wary express
ion.
“Any idea what it means?” Luther asked, his eyes darting around, eyeballing the area.
“Damned if I do. Sure sounds like something Paxton might say,” Dean said somewhat dumbfounded. Dean checked out the inside of the car for any clues.
Luther looked about nervously. “My skin’s quivering. ’Bout time to jet.” His voice wavered. “There—” Luther pointed to the east. “There’s a horde gathering.”
Sure enough, in the horizon, highlighted by the rising sun, a mob of dead-heads scuttled toward them. Seemed like no matter what time of day, or how quiet they were, the dead-heads always sniffed them out. It was most likely why it had taken them so long to get back to Vacaville in one piece. The two of them had barely escaped from one predicament only to find themselves smack-dab in another.
“Yup, time to go,” Luther said somberly. The figures staggered closer, gaining speed. “Maybe three minutes—maybe not,” Luther’s voice warned.
Dean frantically scanned the parking lot, convinced there had to be a note, something informing him where his people had gone.
“We won’t get far without gas. The truck’s running on fumes,” Luther reminded.
Dean paced the lot, trying to remember their last phone conversation. Come to think of it, Justin had sounded overly-anxious on the phone that day. At the time, Dean had chalked it up to Justin’s hyper nature; the boy was always riled up about something or another. Thinking back, the call had ended abruptly. As he recalled, Paxton had been carrying-on about something, but the connection had been weak, and all Dean had heard was a bunch of gobbledygook until the call disconnected.
“Yup, we’ve got trouble,” Luther warned again.
Dean snapped back to the issue at hand. “Should be petrol in Scarlett’s car.” The day before the trip to Travis, he had taught Scarlett how to siphon gas, and they had filled the tank together. “Reckon the Stockton Boys didn’t figure on that,” Dean’s voice faltered. “I’ll start siphoning—”
“Too late.” Luther pointed to the south. “A whole gang’s coming from the south and the north. Got a minute, if we’re lucky,” Luther said with a note of panic in his voice.
“We’ll take the Civic,” Dean said, thinking out loud.
“You happen to have the keys?” Luther asked dramatically, adjusting the front seat.
“If not in the ignition, flip the sun visor. One of our rules.”
“Gotcha. Good Rule!” Luther dangled the keys out of the window. “Battery’s dead,” Luther said with grim finality.
“I’ll hook up the jumper cables,” Dean said, popping the hood to the truck.
Dean connected the battery cables to both batteries and waited for Luther to turn the key, but the Civic’s engine didn’t catch. The click, click, clickity sound of a dead battery haunted the parking lot.
“Check the connection,” Luther yelled out the window.
Dean turned around just as a dead-head charged him headfirst. Dean punched it in the shoulder, buying him a second to snatch the crowbar he’d left leaning against the truck’s front bumper. He struck down on the thing’s head, bashing-in its bulging skull with a single blow.
Luther rushed to his aid. The next thing he knew, the dead-heads had them surrounded. Dean and Luther circled around in a back-to-back stance, brandishing and swinging their weapons, resembling a hellish pinwheel with blood and guts spewing everywhere.
After they annihilated the first wave, Dean managed an out of breath whisper, “You all right, Luther?”
“Damn straight. And you?” Luther panted back.
“Never felt better,” Dean gasped, clutching his chest. “Reckon we got a 30-second window ’fore that next bunch gets here,” Dean said, pointing to the two hordes juddering as fast as they could toward their hopeful dinner.
“I’m on it. Check those connections, will you? I’ll try turning the engine again,” Luther said, already in the Civic.
“Nothing,” Luther shouted.
Dean didn’t have time to get in the truck. Instead, he leaned into the truck and pressed on the gas pedal with the crowbar. He revved the engine until the engine caught with black smoke belching out the tailpipe.
“Get your ass in here, you crazy old man,” Luther hollered out with his thunderous voice.
Dean hesitated. He didn’t have time to unhook the cables. He slammed the car’s hood on the cables, causing the hood to crumple to a contorted shape. Dean scrambled into the Civic’s passenger side just as Luther stomped on the gas. There was a sort of pause as the cables held the car in place like in a game of tug of war. Until, the cables connected to the truck’s battery flew through the air, crashing into the car’s windshield as they drove off in the Civic.
Luther peeled out of the parking lot with the cables dragging on the pavement behind them, emitting sporadic sparks. Luther swerved, avoiding a head-on collision with a new horde that spawned from out of nowhere. Dean stared in the side mirror in astonishment when the sparking cables dragged past another horde and ignited one of the dead-heads. Its tattered pants went up in flames. The dead-head stood in the middle of the horde, prancing around, its spluttering scream piercing the morning. Its fellow hordes-men encircled it as if enchanted by the flames. But the horde got too close. Their raggedy clothing went up in a poof. The cursed things flickered about like demonic sparklers and then chased after the car in a scene from a homemade horror movie.
“Hell’s bells, you see that?” Dean shrieked. “There you have it. A new way to kill those bastards.” Dean laughed. Justin would be proud!
“Good God Almighty!” Luther exclaimed. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re pretty damn tough for a white boy?” Luther shouted, letting out a wide grin, showing off his pearly whites.
“Matter of fact, believe you did yesterday after we escaped from that mob on Monte Vista Avenue,” Dean said with much more conviction than he felt. He didn’t know how much more of this his heart could take. He turned to face the window, hoping Luther didn’t notice him clutching the left side of his chest in an attempt to suppress the pain. Now wouldn’t that be a kicker if’n my ol’ ticker gives out now—after all this?
“Reno, here we come!” Luther bellowed out the window and slapped at the horn, alerting even more dead-heads.
The thing was, Dean had absolutely no desire to go to Reno. He was ready to call it quits and ride out the rest of his days in Winters. Peacefully. In my own cabin. On my own terms. Despair swept over him when Luther drove past the I-505 exit. He was about to tell Luther to back up, that he had missed the exit to Winters, but the word SUCKER still haunted him. It dawned on him when they passed the green highway sign: Sacramento. Was Justin trying to tell me they relocated to Sacramento?
Reckon I got a few good days left in me. For the life of him, Dean had to give it one more shot, even if the odds of finding Ella, Scarlett, and Justin were slim to none. He certainly didn’t want to die without a clear conscience. Got a hunch they’re in a heap of trouble. After mulling it over, Dean realized the whole thing had been a set-up from the get-go. It was too much of a damn coincidence. Come to think of it, the radio chatter had been non-stop after Luther’s arrival.
Might as well have put it in a box, wrapped it, and topped it with a ribbon, for Dean had walked right into Paxton and Nate’s trap. Still, Dean pondered, wouldn’t it have been much simpler just to kill him off, instead of going through all the trouble to create such a cockamamie plot to get him out of the picture?
Luther remained silent as they sped past the stranded vehicles on I-80 East. Dean drifted deep in thought and got to thinking about the sabotage of the generators. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure someone had been tampering with them. Dean had managed to Macgyver it, getting the generators running again minus a few crucial connecting parts. He thought back. Yep, there had been parts missing each time. If the Stockton Boys had stolen the parts, that meant they probably had their own safehouse. In Sacramento?
Hell, I let it happen right under
my nose—let them bastards take over. What if they had kidnapped Scarlett and Ella? And poor Justin, an innocent kid; he had most likely been blindsided by the Stockton Boys as well. As for LuLu, well Dean figured she’d do whatever it took to ensure her own livelihood. He had seen it many a time. When Dean had been the only man in town, LuLu had offered herself to him nightly. After the Stockton Boys had joined them at the hotel, she had ignored him more often than not, except for an occasional night when the Stockton Boys were too drunk or hadn’t returned to the hotel for whatever reason. It all makes sense now.
Luther drove lickety-split down I-80 East when Dean noticed the clear pathway. The highway hadn’t been this clear the last time he had checked it out back in September. Yep, the Stockton Boys had been working overtime these past few months and all the while playing him for the fool that he was. Yesiree, I do believe they’ve been planning this for quite some time. He was responsible for Ella and Scarlett and Justin. And he had let them down. Yet, what could he do? His old aching bones warned his days were numbered.
“What’s on your mind?” Luther’s voice interrupted Dean from his troubling thoughts.
“You notice anything peculiar?” Dean asked.
“You joshin’ me, right? You mean, besides all those rank-smellin’ nimrods . . .”
Dean didn’t answer for a moment, carefully considering the situation. “Sacramento might be a good place to stock up on supplies and gas-up . . .”
“What'd ya have in mind?” Luther asked cautiously.
“Got enough petrol to make it to Sacramento?” Dean asked.
“Yup.”
“I know you got your heart set on Reno. But, how’s about we make a pit stop in Sacramento at the first unobstructed exit we come across? And take a look-see, see if we spot any signs of them,” Dean said, aware Luther was most likely getting fed up with all these side ventures. “Feel bad enough as it is. Hate to waylay your trip to Reno. Hell, I’ve already screwed up your plans, quite royally I might add.” It was Dean’s best offer of an apology.