One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  On his daily excursions, he collected things he thought he’d need, not only for the winter, but for his planned exodus out of the city once the weather warmed. He knew for certain he’d have to leave, because even though the cold temperatures kept the decomposition down, everywhere he went now smelled of death. He could even smell Phil and his wife next door through the wall now, and it was starting to bother him. He’d made several more trips to the Armory, and had gotten an IVIS tablet, actually a hardened IBM laptop made for the military, on which he could not only write a daily log of his activities, but he could connect with the US Army’s central computer network through the satellite radio. It also showed him the exact position on a GPS map where every vehicle in his Brigade was located, and showed any movement, which sadly, he noted, hadn’t moved a hair since his first look.

  It really was global, The Event. Inexplicably, he was alone.

  Tim started to think like Robinson Crusoe. On every trip out, he felt like Crusoe heading out on his raft to the stricken ship, retrieving what he could to survive, only instead of a tropical island, he was in a sea of rotting corpses. He headed out every day and brought back a bounty of things: tools, food, more ammunition. He’d hit every gun shop in a forty mile radius of the city, and now had enough ammo to fight off a small army, although such an army, as he had feared invading the city, never materialized.

  One day he drove by a branch of the Free Library, and stopped. He broke into it easily, and thankfully, since The Event had happened at night, found it free of bodies. He went from aisle to aisle with a little trolley cart, getting books he thought he might like to read. He took some great classics, along with some popular novels and how-to books, like general carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and one on growing a small vegetable garden. He was thankful for these, because at the end of January came the worst blizzard he’d ever seen. It snowed for three days and left a fresh blanket of snow near three feet deep all over the area, and he couldn’t even get out of the house for three weeks.

  Tim spent that time reading and making plans, scouring over maps to decide where to go when spring arrived. He decided against going north, too cold. In the end he decided on no place in particular, he’d just gather his things and head west, let the place pick him.

  He also kept a calendar, marking off each day as it passed, and had a routine for every day. Monday through Friday was reserved for exploration and gathering. Saturday was “Range Day”, where he’d fire five hundred or so rounds through all of his weapons at garbage cans he’d set up at the end of the block. Saturday night was Barbecue Night, when he’d get quietly drunk and cook whatever he’d shot or trapped. He was starting to like rabbit a lot, and since they were so abundant, he experimented with different ways to cook them.

  He was, in fact, getting bored. He’d almost wished it was a zombie apocalypse, and maybe things would get a little exciting. But none of the bodies he saw were going anywhere. And honestly, really didn’t need any more excitement in his life, he’d had more than his fair share of it earlier in life. On one of his exploration trips, he decided to play soldier, and used a whole city block as his own personal “Hogan’s Alley”. Going from one end of the block to the other, using parked cars for cover, he burned up over two hundred rounds of 5.56mm ammo, shooting out almost every window. When he reached the far end he was winded. He looked back at the destruction and shook his head.

  “Well, Timmy boy, you’re most definitely not going to see any people now— if there’s even any left— if you continue to go around shooting up the place,” he said aloud, deciding to leave the GI Joe shit at the door. No sense running around like a nut, shooting everything that moved, and plenty that didn’t.

  One Saturday evening in mid-February, while cooking a venison steak on the gas grill that he kept on his front porch, he looked up and surveyed his little kingdom. Despite the harsh winter, he really wasn’t that bad off. He’d gotten almost everything he needed to survive, but he still lacked that one thing that was slowly draining him subconsciously. He really needed some human contact, someone to talk to. All of the years of insulating himself from people, shutting off his feelings, hadn’t really done him any good. Sure, it made him a good cop and a good soldier, but it sure as shit destroyed his marriage. Maybe once he headed out in the spring he’d find someone to talk to, if only just for a few fleeting moments. He finished cooking his steak, went inside, ate and got drunk, then passed out before eight PM.

  By the middle of March, the days were warmer, and beginning to stay lighter longer. He didn’t expect any more snow, but several cold rains impacted his trips out and about. He’d worried about his mental stability a time or two, for he’d experience huge swings in his mood. One minute he’d be elated, floating on cloud nine, and the next minute he’d sink into a deep depression, weeping uncontrollably. He really had to keep himself busy. That’s what Crusoe did to keep from going mad.

  On one of his trips out, his one big dilemma was resolved. He’d been wondering what he was going to do when travelling. Would he use a tent, crash in abandoned houses he’d find along his journey? No, neither would do. He’d had enough of sleeping on the ground while in the Army, and the thought of going into silent homes and finding more bodies, was even less palatable. He located an RV dealership outside of Philadelphia, and had a good look around. Some were virtual palaces on wheels, and way out of his budget normally. Now, however, he didn’t have to worry about haggling, and there was no annoying salesman following him around. He eventually decided on a small two-axle tow behind twenty-four footer. He’d briefly thought about a slide-in, but he’d need the bed of the M880 for extra gear. The camper was a nice one, mid-grade. It had a three burner range, a small oven, and a two way refrigerator, meaning it would run on electric or propane. There was also a toilet and shower and a queen sized bed in the back. Over the small dining area, with a table that would also fold down into a bed, was another berth. Best thing of all, it had plenty of cabinet space and hidden storage under the seats and beds. It also had a roof mounted heater/air conditioner he’d have to check out. He wasn’t sure about the EMP doing any damage to it.

  After pulling the Dodge around and backing it up to the camper, he was dismayed to find that the military pintle didn’t match up with the civilian standard ball hitch on the camper. He’d have to fix that right away. He searched through the camping supplies section in the showroom until he found what he needed, a new receiver hitch for the truck, which he threw into the bed. He drove with a newfound determination to the Armory, spending the better part of the day and evening using the tools in the motor pool, drilling out the holes for the bolts in the truck’s frame, attached and properly secured the trailer. By the time that was done it was well after dark, and he went outside the garage for a smoke.

  The bright star he’d noticed the first week after The Event wasn’t there anymore, or was too dim to see. He did look at the sky for a long time, amazed at the wonder of it. Every time he looked, he was awed at the magnitude and the sheer majesty of the night sky. He figured that no one else had seen a sight like this since before the Industrial Revolution. He went back inside, tidied up after himself, and shut down the generator he’d used to power the lights and tools.

  After he got back to the warmth of the wood stove in his home, he washed up and made some supper. Several weeks before, he’d found that the IVIS tablet had a CD drive, and was elated that it actually played music CDs. He’d gathered hundreds of CDs one day at a music store on Frankford, and now he could eat and relax to the sounds of music again. Beethoven serenaded him as he enjoyed his meal of homemade rabbit stew in solitude. After washing the dishes and pots, he began another nightly ritual: cleaning every weapon he had, whether he’d fired it, or not.

  Upon finishing, he went back into the kitchen and poured himself a strong vodka and orange juice. Back at the window in the living room, he pulled back the blanket covering it and looked out to see the deer were back. One looked right at him from his posta
ge stamp-sized yard with a blank look. It seemed to almost be saying to him, “What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here! This is our place now!” The deer went back to grazing, and he let the blanket fall back into place, covering the window, walked over and sat down on his cot to finish his drink.

  He sighed. The world’s population had been somewhere near seven billion people. Math not being his strongest subject, he attempted the problem anyway. Even if 99.9% of the population died the night of The Event, there had to be at least a few million people left. Maybe he wasn’t alone. The thought elated him for a moment, until he thought about the other side of it. If .01% were still alive, they’d be spread all over the world, in ones and twos. It’d be like finding a needle in a haystack.

  His best bet to find other people would be a double edged sword. Most people would be in built up areas, the very places he really wanted to avoid. He’d just have to leave it to chance if he met up with other survivors. He wanted to avoid those places like the plague, not only because of the smell, but because of the diseases that would be rife there.

  Right now, the world was one big petri dish, and who knew what kind of shit was brewing out there? He chuckled to himself at the thought. Wouldn’t that be fucking great, eh? To survive all of this only to be knocked dead by some microscopic little bug?

  He also knew that it wasn’t just the cities and towns, but farms as well. He’d gone out into the western parts of Montgomery County, and found whole herds of dairy cattle lying dead in the fields.

  It was definitely a Catch 22. The towns and cities were places he’d need to go to replenish his supplies, but were also places full of rotting bodies and disease. If he had to go through a town, he’d make his stay very brief indeed. On that thought, he finished his last cigarette of the day and drifted off to sleep.

  All the eggs and bacon were long gone, and the next morning he settled for a bowl of stale corn flakes and powdered milk. After he finished his meal, he got dressed and looked at the condition of his uniforms. He was still wearing his Army clothes, and they were getting a little worn. He’d figured out a way of washing them by hand in the wash basin in the basement, then hang them to dry on a cord he’d strung in the living room in front of the wood stove. He’d have to sort out some clothes soon.

  After he finished up in the house, he went out and fired up the truck, then drove straight to the RV dealership. He backed up to the camper he’d chosen the day before, and in one reverse move, had it hitched up to the new receiver. The camper was not sitting level. The back bumper on the truck was a good six inches higher than the level of the camper’s tongue, leaving the camper leaning backwards, its rear bumper almost dragging the ground. Another hurdle to overcome. Adapt and overcome. He laughed, remembering the words told to him so many years ago in Ranger School at Ft. Benning, Georgia.

  He went back into the showroom once again, and after a few minutes found what he was looking for— a lift kit for RVs. Shackle bolts and nylon bushings fit between the camper’s axles and leaf springs, making it sit higher and ride level with 4x4 pickups and SUVs. These he tossed onto the passenger side seat in the cab, and headed back to the Armory’s motor pool. After arriving and setting everything up, he jacked the trailer up with a large hydraulic jack meant to lift up armored vehicles, secured the trailer with its own leveling jacks, and proceeded to remove all the bolts. After installing the lift kit on one side, he moved over to the next and began taking those bolts off. He was lying on his back while doing this, and when he took the last bolt off, his hand slipped on the axle and the whole assembly crashed to the ground, missing his head by an inch. Tim jumped up and scampered away, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow.

  That could have killed me!

  He sat with his back to the motor pool’s outer wall and looked at the axle and wheel hanging down, almost mocking him. See? it seemed to say. I could kill you anytime I want, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it! He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and thought for a while. After the shakes stopped, he tossed the smoke, got up, brushed himself off, and went back to work. He finished in another hour, tidying up after he was done. Now, with the camper sitting level with the truck, he could breathe easier. He could take it places along with truck, because not only was it level, but it also had the added ground clearance. This had taken most of the day and he drove tiredly back home. On entering his house, he lit a fire in the stove and put on some music. He was hungry, but didn’t feel much like eating. What to read tonight? He’d finished The Great Gatsby the other day.

  He went through the stacks of books he’d gotten from the library. “How about some Hemingway? Way too depressing. Ah, here we go, Tom Clancy. I haven’t read this in a while!” he said out loud and sat down with a drink he’d poured. He briefly thought he’d better stop talking to himself or he’d really go mad. He read until about ten PM when his eyes grew heavy. He put the book down, carefully marking his page with a $100 bill he’d found in the street a while back. He put out the lantern and drifted off to sleep.

  The next day, while he was on one of his exploratory patrols, he stopped along the banks of the Delaware River in Bucks County near the town of New Hope. This was in the country, and the trees in a small park went all the way to the edge of the river. Just a few miles south was Washington State Park, where it was thought that George Washington had his men sail across the Delaware River to Trenton, New Jersey to catch the Hessians with their pants down. It really was a lovely area, and he decided to enjoy the early spring day. It was warm enough now in the daytime that he wouldn’t need a jacket. He took the M4, a MRE and walked down to the riverbank where he sat under a tree and looked out over the water. He took a six pack of beer and tied it by a cord on one end to the truck’s front bumper then tossed it into the river. It would chill nicely; the river was still running quite cold from all the snowmelt upriver. He watched a pair of ducks swim along the bank of the river, and ate his meal quietly.

  It was a nice day, temperatures in the low 60’s, and a few clouds to obscure the sunlight and vivid blue sky.

  After digging a small hole with a folding tool, he buried his refuse and cigarette butts. He thought he saw movement to his left, and looked in that direction. About fifty yards away, he spotted a tall, thin figure with a bucket at the bank of the river retrieving water.

  Another person! his mind shrieked.

  “Hey!” he shouted, but the lone figure looked at him in fear, dropped his bucket, and ran away, back towards the town.

  “No! Please! Don’t run!” he shouted, and started off after the man, who was scrambling away, blindly running through bushes and briars in a panic, and even though Tim was out of shape, he was steadily gaining on him.

  About two hundred yards away from the river, they broke out of a copse of trees onto a road. The man ran blindly up the road, right on the double yellow stripe painted down the center. Tim was gaining ground at every step, but his breathing was becoming labored. The man veered off to the shoulder of the road, and Tim decided he’d had enough running. He launched himself into the legs of the running man, tackling him as if he was sacking the quarterback making a pass. They fell in a heap, and the man kicked wildly at Tim trying to get away.

  With what breath Tim had left after the long sprint, he screamed at the man, “Calm down! I’m not going to hurt you! I just want to talk!”

  With that, the man deflated. It was like someone had unplugged his power cord. He lay back on the ground, panting and gasping for breath, fear still in his eyes. “You…you’re not with them?”

  “Them? I’m alone. You’re the first person I’ve seen in months!”

  “Oh thank God!” the man said, and Tim watched the relief sweep over him.

  “I’m Tim, and you?” he asked, holding out his hand. The man took it after a brief moment. “Paul. I’m Paul Williams.”

  Tim cocked back his patrol cap and scratched at his growing beard. He’d given up shaving two months prior, and had le
t it grow out into what he called his “tactical beard”, which would make any Special Forces trooper proud.

  “Well, Paul, I’m sure glad to meet you! I thought I was the only one left.”

  “So did I…until they came along, that is.”

  “Who’re ‘they’?” Tim asked, lighting a cigarette, offering the man one also.

  “Thanks. I gave it up several years ago, might as well start again,” he said. After accepting the light offered, he coughed a few times and said, “There’s three of them. They came into town about a month ago, and started breaking into every store on Main, shattering windows and smashing beer bottles. They took all of the good stuff away. They hang out in the town square at night, getting drunk and smashing things.”

  “They know you’re here?”

  “Oh yes. They chased me into the woods once, trying to kill me. They walk around town yelling for me, taunting me to come out. I’ve been hiding from them ever since.”

  “Three men you say? What do they want, I wonder? They’ve got everything they could ever imagine.”

  “I think they want to… they… want to do bad things to me. Keep on making lewd taunts when they get close enough that I can hear them.”

  “The world ends and there’s still assholes,” Tim said to no one in particular.

  “Yes. Like you said, they have everything but still want more!”

  “You should get yourself a gun, Paul.”

  “Gosh no, I’m afraid of guns!” he said, eyeing up Tim’s M4 carbine slung over his shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Are you in the Army?” Paul asked.

  “The National Guard, and I am a cop in Philly. Well, was a cop. You’re safe with me. Have you eaten?” he asked, standing up.

  “No. Not today. I’m running low on food, and I’ve been too afraid to come out. I was just trying to get some fresh water when you saw me.”