The Third Ten

by Jacqueline Druga

  “Come on, Danny,” Bentley beckoned. “I’ll save you the first piece.” He winked.

  “Ug.” I winced. “Fine.”

  I went. I donned my hunting clothes and armed with the trap we headed up the mountain.

  That was at seven in the morning.

  By three in the afternoon we still hadn’t had any luck.

  Not that we didn’t find a few light, fat, rabbits.

  We did. We caught them. But then Bentley would grab them by the scruff and sniff them as if he could tell the quality of flavor by that.

  Give me a break.

  I thought the fifth catch was it. Bentley did a double sniff. Then he shook his head and set the rabbit free.

  “Ah, Bent, you suck. That was perfect.”

  “He was tough. The meat wouldn't be right.”

  I took a look at Bentley, a man who when everyone else got thin gained weight. I supposed it was from eating the right rabbits. “I quit,” I said.

  “No. No. Just a bit more. It’s here. The rabbit is here. I know it is. Danny, he probably went and told his friend right now. He said…” Bentley softened his voice and crinkled his nose. “Guys, guys, there’s a free carrot for ya over there. All you gotta do is get caught and they set you free. Honest.”

  “Did you just crinkle your nose like you had whiskers?”

  “I was being a rabbit.”

  “You’re whacked.” I chuckled. “And I’m taking a break. I need to.”

  “A spiritual break, Danny?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  Bentley chuckled. “I’m in. You got the good stuff from your dad?”

  I gave him a look that all but said, would I have anything else.

  The spiritual stuff was an herb my father smoked for relaxation. No it wasn’t marijuana, but it definitely had a similar effect.

  To get the full effect, at least for me, I needed to peer out into a wide open space. So we tromped on for a spell until we found a clearing which gave us an exhilarating view of the other side of the mountain.

  I dropped to the ground and pulled out the pipe, packing it while waiting on Bentley to arrive.

  He did. But not as I expected.

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa,” he said. “Get low Dan. What’s this?”

  I stuttered a ‘huh’ at his new lingo. Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Get low? When he pushed on my back, I noticed he was on his stomach, inching over to crawl behind a bush.

  It wasn’t until I laughed at him that I saw it.

  Or rather saw what he did.

  At the foot of the mountain, on the roadway that passed between us and the route to our community about ten miles back, was what looked like a military convoy.

  They were at a standstill, eight trucks. Multitudes of soldiers, all standing there. A few tents were erected, and from where we were I could see a couple men moving, but most of them stood still.

  I grabbed my binoculars for a closer look.

  I was correct in my first assessment.

  People rarely left Gray Mountain, and even more rarely traveled that road.

  Hell, that convoy could have been there for days and no one noticed.

  “They look like zombies,” I said, handing the binoculars to Bentley.

  “You know, I’d laugh at that, if a plague hadn’t wiped out the world.”

  “Omega Man?” I asked.

  “Yep. They could be zombies.”

  “Doubtful.”

  Bentley examined them. “They’re just standing there.”

  “Armed?”

  “Very much so.”

  “I can’t zoom in but they all have a blank expression,” I told him. “Is that military protocol? You know, to stand there with weapons ready, staring blankly?”

  “No military protocol that I know of. They aren’t at parade rest or attention. This is weird.” He handed me the binoculars and rolled on his side.

  “What do you make of it?”

  Bentley shook his head. “I don’t know. But I do think we should head on down and let Gray know of this. See what he thinks.”

  “Good idea. Sorry, we have to cut the perfect hunt short.”

  “This is a bit more important.”

  We scooted back, staying low until we reached the safety of the trees and leaving our gear behind, we headed down to the town.

  Our news was not a surprise. While Bentley and I were traipsing in the woods looking for the perfect Bunny fu-fu to pickle, our little community was paid a visit.

  A man in a suit showed up, accompanied by four soldiers in camouflage. The camouflage struck me as odd. In fact, I recall thinking they were foreign, perhaps from another country. I didn’t see a US flag at all, or the wording US ARMY.

  I did however, see a gold patch on the arm, bearing the letters CS.

  I was told I was incorrect. That these men were indeed from the United States government. And that a fellow named Jeremy was an ambassador.

  The President had survived and it just took that many years to put things in order.

  The US was back on its feet. Or on its way, and needed survivors to start tasks. Repopulating, farming, the military, you name it.

  Everyone was excited. They were cheering this. One man shouted, “We’ve been rescued!”

  Rescued.

  As if we were stranded on a deserted island or something.

  How in the world could you claim rescue in this situation?

  It was a plague ravished world.

  The government was rounding up people for civilization.

  Everyone was ecstatic.

  So why wasn’t I?

  It felt wrong to me. It just didn’t set right.

  I kept going back to the soldiers with blank expressions. A gut twinge hit me when I thought about it.

  The suited man named Jeremy told the townsfolk that if they were willing to join back up with the US, they’d pick them up first thing in the morning.

  First light.

  Have your belongings ready, but please do not take too much.

  Out of three hundred and sixty three, forty-seven opted to stay behind.

  My father, myself, and Bentley were three of those forty-seven.

  I reasoned that if the United States was getting on its feet, it would still be on its feet when I felt the time was right to join.

  Boy did I hear a lot of flack that night.

  People said I was copping out of the work. That I just wanted to wait until everyone else did everything and then I’d join.

  They said this to me? Me? I brought them there. I built the electricity; I did a lot of things to keep the community running. I was afraid of work?

  Yeah, right.

  The forty-seven of us met up rather late that night.

  A few of us had weird vibes, but most just didn’t want to be a part of it.

  We’d bid our friends farewell in the morning and wish them luck.

  “Daniel, wake up,” my father’s voice called to me.

  I opened my eyes and it was still dark. In fact, my father didn’t have a light on at all.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Daniel, I have a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. We should go. Go now.”

  I sat up in bed, swinging my legs over the side. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “The escort will arrive in two hours, Daniel. I do not feel it is wise to be here. Call it a gut instinct or paranoia. I would like to go.”

  “Father, go where?”

  “To the mountains. Pack what we need. I have been thinking Daniel. Why if they are escorting do they need all of those military men?”

  “It’s pretty bad out there.”

  “It is bad here.” He pointed to his gut.

  My eyes adjusted and I looked at my father. He was wearing a spring coat and had a small black bag packed.

  He said, “We can come back for things if we need to. If it is safe.”

  “Safe?” Another moment of thought passed. If my father was worried, I had to put stock in th
at. I nodded and asked him to let me get dressed. I only packed a few things. A weapon, the tracker, water and food.

  I figured I’d take my father up to the mountains, wait it out and allow him to see it was fine, and then return.

  I wondered if he was experiencing some sort of later life neuroticism, because he acted paranoid.

  Before we left he looked outside. He asked for the tracker, put it on silence and checked the reading. We walked close to the house and then around it, sneaking next door to Bentley to wake him.

  Bentley was more open to my father’s concern. After jumping up and getting ready, he made us crouch down and go off behind the backs of the houses.

  It felt like we were on a secret mission.

  We followed a secret path that no one took or even knew about it. That was the route we took to the mountains where Bentley and I had been hunting rabbits the day before.

  We edged our way to a clearing while being careful to stay out of sight.

  The line of armed soldiers were still the same. Still standing in the same place and position, as if they hadn’t moved at all.

  A few flickers of light were seen from the highway below.

  As the break of dawn approached, we watched fifteen buses roll past the military line, then the soldiers followed suit with two trucks.

  “Why do they need all that?” My father asked. “Why do they need hundreds of armed men going into the town to fill the buses?”

  Bentley whispered. “Something’s up.”

  My father nodded. “Yes, something is up.”

  I peered at them both with a quirky look. Again, I thought they were making too much of it. I was tired. I just wanted to go back to bed.

  An hour later the fifteen buses rolled out of town. Soldiers marched behind them as they had going in. The buses kept going and the soldiers kept walking, despite the fact that the buses left them in the dust.

  “There, see?” I said. “We worried about nothing.”

  “There are some missing,” My father said. “There are not as many returning. Where are the rest of the trucks?”

  No sooner had he said that, gunfire erupted in the distance from below us.

  Our town.

  Massive amounts of gunfire. Rapid, machine gun like.

  My head jerked at the sound, my body jumped up and I spun.

  “Daniel!” My father called. “Do not go.”

  “I have to, Father. Stay here.” I instructed. “Stay put.”

  I started running toward the path. Bentley followed me.

  I thought my father would stay behind. In fact, I was positive of it. He did, for a spell.

  He later told me he stayed until he saw the two trucks carrying the soldiers roll from town. That was after the gunfire had stopped.

  We arrived in town after the trucks left.

  From our mountain path, we emerged to a massacre.

  I didn’t shout, I couldn’t. No words would have emerged even if I had tried.

  Both Bentley and I were running. We ran straight into the center of town, our footsteps the only sounds we heard.

  The main entrance guard was lying dead. A tracker was still in his hand. He hadn’t even a raised his gun.

  I looked at the tracker but it was blank. It was turned on and working, but blank. I pulled up the history. How many stormed the town? How many had rolled in?

  The history showed nothing.

  The tracker didn’t pick them up.

  Of all the times for it to fail.

  I tossed the tracker and looked around.

  Our home. Our community that we had built.

  Bodies were strewn across the street. They were bullet ridden and shredded. A bloody mess. The bodies of those who were saying goodbye to their comrades. Those who didn’t want to leave and chose to stay behind.

  They thought they had a choice. I suppose they did. Go or die.

  Two houses burned in the distance.

  One was Bentley’s.

  I cried as I stared at the scene. It was too overwhelming for me to fully comprehend.

  But one thing I did understand. My father’s gut instinct was right. Had we stayed we would have been killed.

  “We can not stay long,” My father’s soft voice carried across the street.

  Bentley had dropped to his knees, rifle in hand.

  I shuddered a breath. “Look what they’ve done.”

  My father nodded. “And they will be back. They know how many they killed and how many were supposed to go. They will be back. We must move on. Forward. A different location. Different direction from this New Mexico place they were taking them.”

  “Why is not important right now, Daniel? We can discuss that later. But right now, we must go.” He turned. “I want to go to the house. There is a photo of your mother I left there.”

  I walked over to Bentley and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “We have to go.”

  “We should bury them.”

  “We can’t. We have to go.” Sliding my hand from him, I walked in the direction of my house.

  When I arrived, my father was packing another bag. He told me to do the same.

  There was so much I wanted to take, but only so much I could fit in a duffel bag.

  “We will take Dustin’s red cart,” my father said. “We can pull it with our things.”

  I nodded.

  Bentley arrived in a few minutes. He didn’t have anything to take and he stood in the doorway of my room with my father.

  “I’m ready,” Bentley said. “Your dad is, too.”

  “I’ll be done in a second.” I placed the last item in my bag.

  “Any idea on where we’ll go?” Bentley asked. “We need a direction, to aim for something. Any ideas, Dan?”

  The moment he said that was the moment I saw it. Perched on my nightstand as it always did. The one foot by one foot black cardboard box. The joke. The joke that would become our new focus. I lifted it. “Yeah, I do. It’s the only place to aim for.” I tossed him the box. “Utopia.”

  7.

  My Father

  It’s about heroes.

  That was what I set out to write this book about. Those who went above and beyond without regard for their own life, just the good of others.

  Saving someone comes in many forms, so therefore there are many ways to be a hero.

  I have known men in my life who cured illnesses. Who took that extra step, went to the edge medically. I’ve known people who were heroes because they save others in a psychological way.

  Then there were the obvious heroes. Those who physically beat the odds.

  There is no man in this world or beyond, who was a bigger hero in my eyes than my father.

  So that is why he gets his own chapter.

  Such a minor tribute to a man who deserved so much more.

  I recall telling my father about him being my hero, even giving him that line. No one was more a hero to me.

  He chuckled. “Daniel, on earth and beyond? What about Jesus? Surely, he is more heroic than me.”

  “Um, Jesus was a cool, guy, I guess. I didn’t know him,” I replied. “But, you know, I don’t think Jesus would have kicked ass like you did during the plague.”

  At the time the plague hit, seventy-one years old was not old by any standards. Medicine had progressed and illnesses were controlled. A man who took care of himself and was healthy could kick it with the best of them.

  My father was seventy-one when the plague hit.

  He was a tower of strength and persevered.

  When Gray’s Mountain was hit, he was pushing seventy-seven.

  Not a spring chicken, still fit, but tired. He wore out easily and the jaunt across the country on foot was a lot for him. But he never complained, never asked us to stop. He trudged on.

  He was funny.

  We had taken a boy’s little red wagon with us and filled it with supplies.

  He loved pulling that wagon.

  Especially when I rigged it up. Not two
weeks into our journey for Utopia, I redid the wheels, attached a small solar panel to it and it took very little effort to pull it. The wheels carried the weight.

  We were quite the trio. Especially visually. Tall, thin, me. My father, short and wiry, and Bentley, average height but bulky.

  We walked the roads or stayed near to them. We had to. If we didn’t we wouldn’t have known where we were. We had to stay close to signs.

  But the problem was increasingly, no matter where we went, we ran into those soldiers. They were usually in packs of ten, just like the wild Indian types.

  Soldiers or warriors, we ran from them constantly.

  It was too tiresome to keep fighting.

  Four months after our Gray Mountain departure, we found a horse. Actually we saw lots of them, but this one was different. It wasn’t too wild and was easily broken. It became our means of transportation, pulling us in an old fashioned Amish style cart.

  We crossed the border from California into Nevada. We followed the direction that the last group of survivors we happened across said they heard about Utopia.

  All of us knew Utopia was more than likely a myth, but we didn’t care. It was a goal.

  We stopped for the night at some house. It was run down, but it was also shelter. We cleaned it up a little, clearing the dust.

  My father had found a board game. Actually it was an older home version of the game show Family Feud. He was ecstatic because it wasn’t electronic.

  We played. Although it was difficult to play traditionally with only three people, we did. My father had to be the host. I think it was mostly because he enjoyed the questions.

  “They surveyed a hundred people, Daniel. Seventy percent said they put their dirty clothes in a hamper. Do you really believe seventy percent of all people own a hamper?”

  “Father, it’s a game,” I replied.

  Bentley added. “I never had a hamper. I put mine in a pile on the floor.”

  My father nodded. “And you never had a hamper, Daniel. You had a laundry basket. You filled it with dirty clothes; you laundered them, folded them, put them back into the basket, emptied it and started again.”

  I lifted a hand. “Why is this important?”

  “Because it is misleading,” my father said. “The question is - Name a place you put your dirty clothes.”

  “How is that misleading?”