One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  He scrambled down the stairs, ran to the camper, and unhooked the power cable, shut down the generator and tossed it unceremoniously into the bed of the truck. He made sure he had enough diesel fuel in the Jerry cans, unlocked the gate, and drove his rig out onto the street. He didn’t look back again until he was at the entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike where, for the first time in his life, he drove right through the gate, not stopping to take a ticket.

  The wind was fierce, and it took all of his driving skills to keep him and the camper, upright and on the road. He did have to weave around crashed vehicles from time to time, but they were growing fewer, as he headed west, and the wind subsided a little more with each mile he traveled. A few miles west, the sky cleared as the prevailing winds blew the huge smoke cloud east, but he could still see it in the rearview mirror. The winds finally subsided about ten miles west. He was frustrated that it couldn’t have waited another few days, but he knew he’d had to leave anyway, and even though it looked as if the fires started somewhere in North Philadelphia, it most assuredly had consumed his Mayfair neighborhood by now.

  By the time he passed the King of Prussia interchange, the road had completely cleared of all crashed or stalled vehicles, and he put his foot down to gain some speed. From time to time, he would see gatherings of buzzards over dairy farms, but no signs of people. It took him several hours to drive the hundred or so miles to the bridge that spanned the Susquehanna River before the exit for Harrisburg. He stopped for a piss break on the shoulder of the road by the edge of the bridge and looked eastward. He could see the huge plume of thick, black smoke, flames dancing through it even from here. The mushroom cloud gave him chills, and he thought of his fears during the Cold War, which he’d actually missed. He mused aloud once to a group of soldiers who had been born after it had ended and had no idea what it was, that at least during the Cold War you knew who the enemy was.

  Wasn’t that the truth, he thought now as he sped along the Turnpike at greater than the posted speed limit. Then, you knew who the enemy was. Who was it now? It could be anyone. The three he’d killed the other day were Americans just like him, but far different than him, on so many levels. Sometimes, you had to destroy in order to rebuild.

  Why did I just think of that? he asked himself silently. Well, it was the way of nature. Just look at what’s happening behind you. The fire is going to erase everything from your hometown, and in time, nature will cover it up, so that in a hundred years or so no one will even be able to tell it was ever there.

  Hell, nature was coming back pretty good, he supposed. Even though it was early spring, every expansion joint and crack in the pavement in the road he was driving on was already sprouting with weeds. He could feel the thump of the tires on them. In about ten years, he reckoned, the road itself would be covered with weeds and grass. Even faster down south, where the kudzu grew like wildfire. Every crack in every sidewalk, every loose chunk of mortar between bricks, would fill with water, freeze and thaw, expanding. And with the widening of these fissures, weeds, then plants, and roots of trees, would take hold. Vines would scale buildings.

  Yeah, Tim thought, the breeze from the open window ruffling his growing hair, Nature will take over soon. Clean up the mess we made, and move on.

  He wondered what the world would look like in a hundred years. He thought of this along with his choices of roads to take. He could take Interstates 81 or 83 headed south, or keep on I-76 west. He decided to stay on the turnpike, or I-76, because he reckoned it would be the most free of heavy trucks, and therefore no pileups or wrecks to block his passage, at least to the Ohio border. The semi-trucks that travelled the nation’s interstate highways would stay clear of a toll road like the Pennsylvania Turnpike and stick with the freeways, like I-40 to the south, and I-80 to the north.

  About twenty miles west of Harrisburg, he came to several tunnels cut through the Appalachian Mountains, the first being Blue Mountain tunnel, followed by Kittatinny Tunnel. He turned on his headlights, slowing almost to a crawl to drive through these, because without power, there would be no lights, and he didn’t want to drive up on a huge pileup of wrecked cars at seventy miles an hour. He relaxed a little as he went through each tunnel and saw daylight at the other end. He made it all the way to Bedford, Pennsylvania before he came upon a huge pileup at the interchange, blocking any westward travel from that point.

  He checked his watch, then his road atlas, and decided to take US Rt. 220 south. He’d have enough daylight left to make it to Cumberland, Maryland, where he’d stop for the night, and decide where to head from there. At least, he was far enough westward now that he couldn’t see the smoke plume from Philadelphia. The thought saddened him, that there was so much history there. It really had been a great place to grow up. The thought of it all gone now made his heart sink. He had wanted to go to the cemetery, to say his farewells to his mother and father, but never got the chance. The fire had stopped him from doing that, and he understood Paul a little bit more at that moment.

  He stopped for the night at an empty rest stop, and in the morning after coffee and a shower, he headed south again on US 220, crossing into West Virginia at a little town called Keyser. There he stopped, and topped off his diesel fuel by siphoning out the tanks of a stalled Peterbuilt. His tank and Jerry cans again full, he decided to take US Rt. 50 west from there. Twenty miles or so west of Keyser, he passed into Maryland for a few miles, and then back into West Virginia. The roads were smaller than the interstates, but thankfully they were free of any major blockages. At one point, right before Grafton, he’d had to find a way around a huge dump truck lying on its side, its load of coal spilled across all the lanes of travel.

  He really needed to get back on an Interstate, and by looking at his map he saw that he could pick up I-79 a few more miles away in Bridgeport. With a few small detours made around stalled vehicles he made it to Bridgeport around noon. Driving past the cars and trucks, he made special effort not to look at what was behind the wheels. He didn’t need to see that, not now.

  He stopped on the middle of a bridge, right before the green and white signs telling him to keep left for I-79 south, keep right for I-79 north. He took a can of potted meat and a package of stale crackers, and sat on the hood, eating in silence, mentally tossing a coin to decide with way to head. When he finished eating, he looked past the sign for the highway and saw a church with an overgrown lawn. Someone had spray painted Where is your god now?’ in blood red paint on the front door.

  Absolutely, he thought, some God. He gathered his garbage, tossed it into the bed of the truck, then he hopped in the cab and headed for the southbound on-ramp without looking back. While he drove, he thought about God, or the lack of one. If God was so forgiving and loving, why the fuck did He kill everyone? Oh, that’s right, he’d done that before with the great flood. Worship me or I’ll kill you all. Seems legit. He continued south, taking in the landscape. He’d never been through West Virginia before, and was sorry that he’d missed the chance before now. It was really quite beautiful.

  By late afternoon he’d reached Sutton, and decided to stop for the night. It was still daylight, but it would be dark in less than an hour. Finding a truck stop off of the highway, he pulled around to the rear so as not to be seen from the highway. Setting up camp on the far end of the parking lot near some trees, he took the M3 grease gun and decided to do a little exploring. There was a small diner attached to the fueling center, and also a convenience store. He searched both, and found them picked clean of supplies. That left him with mixed emotions. Should he seek out whoever had cleaned the place out, or avoid them?

  He really did desire to find other people, but what if they were like the three who’d done Paul in? Firepower or not, there was only one of him, and if they were like that, chances are they’d get the better of him. What had happened in New Hope was actually a fluke. He’d surprised them, and had the upper hand. No, he didn’t like the law of averages, and made his way as stealthily as he could
back to the camper. When he got to it, he looked at how obvious it was. The M880 was painted camouflage, but the camper was a bright, glossy white that stuck out like a neon sign. He’d have to do something about that.

  Entering the camper, he shut the blinds to hide the light, and made himself a supper of canned chili and beans. After dinner he cleaned up, and with the .45 automatic and M3 by his side, he extinguished the lights and stretched out on the bed. Sleep, didn’t come easy that night.

  Thoughts of roving bands of assholes and thugs kept interfering. Try as he may, he couldn’t get to sleep and the frustration built. His subconscious had him worked up into a pretty good lather by 2AM, when he sat upright and screamed, “Fuck I just want to sleep!”

  He poured himself four fingers of vodka and downed it in one gulp. Falling back into bed, he was immediately asleep, but it wasn’t a restful slumber, as the phantom army began its nocturnal march, robbing him of the rest that he desperately needed. The next morning, Tim woke feeling not a bit rested, like he’d been run through the wringer. He dragged himself out of bed and made a pot of coffee.

  When the drink was ready, he poured himself a cup, and thought of his next step. First thing, he’d really have to do was stop being so damn paranoid. It wasn’t helping him one little bit. But there were other people about; he’d seen the signs yesterday. What to do? He hated being this way. He generally loathed indecisive people. In his line of work, indecisiveness got people killed. Now here he was, second guessing himself and unsure about everything. Securing the camper for travel, he got into the truck cab with the grease gun on the seat next to him, and placed the M4 on the dashboard.

  He drove around to the front of the truck stop again to see if there was any fuel to be had. Taking an empty Jerry can and the hose, he went from truck to truck, checking their fuel tanks. When he found one that wasn’t completely empty, he quickly filled the fuel can. There definitely had been some people through here. All the trucks in the lot were just about drained dry of diesel. He’d have to check the underground tanks anyplace else he’d stop at, and then figure a way to get the fuel out without power to the pumps.

  He drove out, heading west, saw the signs for US Rt. 19 south, and decided to head that way. As before, it was a smaller road than the interstate, but as he’d seen on the map last night, he would be avoiding the bigger city of Charleston, and this way he could pick up I-77 in Beckley. Going through the town of Summersville, he barely slowed down, and kept heading south. By 1 PM, he had reached Beckley and stopped at a rest area off of the Interstate to eat some lunch. When he finished, he gathered his garbage up, walked over to a dumpster, and tossed it in. “Keep America Beautiful!” he said aloud, closing the lid on the dumpster. When he was walking back to the truck he saw several pigs cross the road, heading away from him and figured they must be domestic pigs gone feral. He began to salivate. The Event hadn’t killed them off, and he’d love some roast pork.

  He took the M4 off the dashboard, and stalked the pigs, seeing how close he could get. They were busy rooting through the underbrush along the shoulder of the road, completely oblivious to Tim, who got within twenty yards. He squatted down, placed the carbine’s selector on semi-auto, took aim at a nice fat pig, and squeezed off a round.

  The shot pig squealed loudly and spun around in circles as his friends all abandoned him, scattering to the four winds. Tim walked over to the pig and put another round into its head, and it dropped stone-dead on the spot. Gutting and cleaning it quickly with his K-bar knife, he dragged it back to the camper. Now how to cook the damn thing? He really should have thought of that before he shot the goddamn beast. It was almost one hundred pounds cleaned out, far too much for him to eat all by himself.

  He busied himself with gathering wood to make a decent sized fire, and after several trips, he had a goodly sized pile. He made a fire near the camper, and with some rebar he had scavenged, used it to make a spit to put the pig on. He really ought to have dug a pit and cooked it that way, but this would have to do. As the sun went down, the fire lit up the surrounding area near where Tim, had staked out for the evening. He pulled out a folding camp chair and sat watching the pig cook. He figured he’d just slice off pieces, and eat it that way.

  Once or twice, he got a weird feeling like someone was watching him, but it quickly faded each time. He reached in with a plate and knife, sawing off chunks of pork. Sitting back down, and throwing out his manners, he chewed on the large chunks, swallowing greedily. He moaned and closed his eyes. It tasted delicious! How could anyone not love pork or bacon? It was just so damn good! He stuffed himself with the delicious meat and drank several beers. He let the fire burn down enough and went to his camper where he quickly stripped, showered and climbed into bed. His last thought before falling to sleep was that it was a shame to waste all of that pork.

  The next morning when he woke, he felt a lot better. He put the coffee on, lit a cigarette, looked out the window, and his heart dropped. The pig was gone! Not knocked down by a bear or something, the spit and everything was gone! He grabbed the M3 and ran outside in his underwear, looking around frantically. It was still early enough in the morning to have dew on the grass, and he saw several wet footprints near and around the still smoldering fire. By the looks of it there were four people, two adults and two kids. He was being watched last night! He looked around some more, and saw something fluttering on the bottom step of the camper, that he’d stepped over on his rush to get outside. It was a crumpled bit of paper weighted down with a rock. Tim reached down and picked it up, unfolding it to read a note written in what looked like blue crayon, in a child’s handwriting:

  “Thank you sir for the nice pig.

  It bin a wile since we all had good cooked supper.

  God bless U!”

  There really had been someone watching him last night! He went back to the fire and spun around.

  “Hey, you guys! Please come back!” he yelled. He screamed for over an hour and still no one came back in reply. Whoever they had been, they stayed far away from him, and left as stealthily as they had come. Finally, after yelling himself hoarse, he collapsed in a ball in the middle of the overgrown parking lot and wept.

  After he regained his composure, he quickly packed up his things and headed south along a smaller road that paralleled the highway. Traveling this road was slower, but free of stalled cars and was away from larger towns. He stopped at two places— a convenience store and a small grocery— and was able to restock most of his canned goods and fuel. Going through Athens, he spied a small hardware store and decided to stop. He broke into the building easily, finding several five gallon pails of flat matte paints to camouflage his camper. Backtracking several miles to a state park he’d passed earlier, he drove in and after an hour of searching, found a nice secluded spot in the woods to camp out for a few days.

  Setting up the camper and leveling it, he took a large carpenter’s pencil and drew the outline of the camouflage pattern from the M880 onto the outside of the camper. After that was done, he took the paint brushes and started to paint the camper, starting at the roof and working his way down, coloring in each spot like a giant paint-by-number. After several hours he was finally finished, and had every spot of the white camper completely covered. The flat exterior latex would cure overnight, and would be completely dry in about two days. It wasn’t pretty, but the matte colors would hide the brush strokes. It was effective, if not aesthetically pleasing. He’d have to scare up some cammo netting too. Any Reserve Center or National Guard Armory would have that.

  He glanced around at his surroundings and figured it was pretty much hidden from the road, so he felt confident he wouldn’t be seen by passers-by on the road. Just no campfires, and no bright lights on after dark. He’d have to follow strict light discipline. He cleaned up, got himself some supper of beef stew, and ate listening to the breeze through the trees. It was not a bad place really, and he thought he might just stay here for a few weeks. At least he was far enough aw
ay from anyplace where there would be bodies lying about. So he was free from the smell, and there wasn’t a really bad fly problem.

  The weather was getting warmer by the day, and he sat outside as the sun fell in the west. He watched the stars appear one by one, still amazed at the night sky he was treated to every evening. He smoked his cigarettes, drank his beer, and looked up, wishing for some answer but knew he wouldn’t get one.

  Using the park as his base camp, he spent his time exploring the area, driving a little further every day. He found an Army surplus store, and acquired a 20’x20’ cammo net, along with some other things, including several cases of MREs and enough canned goods to last him several months.. He was staying well away from larger grocery stores now because the smell from the rotting meat was every bit as bad as the smell of rotting humans, and for the most part, everything in them had been picked through by rats, mice and cockroaches now anyway. He was really surprised at how fast everything was starting to let go. Mother Nature was taking back everything very quickly. It had only been five months, but the weeds and grasses were taking over everywhere, and even though the leaves weren’t fully out on the trees yet, he spied a small sapling poking its branches through the boards of a porch of an empty house the other day.

  Animals were all over the place too. Still no dogs or cats to be seen, but he did hear a coyote one night. Deer were literally bumping into each other. That will probably go on for another two years or so, until there will be so many of them around that they’d eat all the vegetation, then they’d begin to die off from starvation. The same thing would probably happen with the rats and mice too. They were having a feast on all the cookies, crackers, bread and rice lying around, but when that was all gone in another few months, they’d start to die off too. Another animal that was literally multiplying daily, it seemed, was rabbits. There were thousands of them all over the place, and with the lack of cats to keep their numbers down, he was almost stepping on them. On one of his exploratory trips, he broke into another gun shop and got himself two .22 Rugers, a 10-22 rifle and an MkIII target pistol. He figured that would be better for shooting rabbits, and a lot quieter than the M4 or M16. He was pretty well hidden in this part of the park and he wanted to keep it that way.