“What are we going to do with ‘em?” asked Pappy. “We can’t just let ‘em go. They’ll be back into mischief or worse.”
“Just hog-tie ‘em until morning,” said Jack.
“So they can whine and fuss in the middle of the night?” asked Pappy.
“That barbeque sounds better all the time,” said Jack.
“Why not just lock ‘em in that closet,” said the Captain. “It has a janitor’s sink.”
“They’ll still fuss,” said Pappy. “I wantta good night’s sleep for the road.”
“Give ‘em four more bottles of wine,” said Jack. “That’ll keep ‘em happy.”
“I think we should bring wine along as food ourselves,” said Judy. “We’re starting out with less food than we had at the cabin even if we eat all this marginal meat.”
“And I think breaking into homes for food is too risky,” said Mac. “Besides, this town has already been plundered.
“We’ll have to depend on game and what we find along the way,” said Pappy.
“Game? We’re driving straight into towns,” said Jack. “How’s that gonna work?”
“Towns have vegetable gardens… that’s our ace in the hole,” answered Pappy.
At breakfast, the companions again confronted where they were driving. North was out; while a chaotic city like Anchorage didn’t impress anyone; further south to a warmer climate did. So south from Talkeetna was the first step. Beyond that, Palmer and the Matanuska River Valley, the Kenai Peninsula, and even back through Canada were possibilities. The preferred favorite remained, ‘I’ll know it when I see it.’
Loaded and ready to travel, they returned to the jailed derelicts. Judy had sympathy only for Henry. “I think that poor boy is worth rescuing. If we separate him from that drug addict, he might get hold of himself.”
The five men agreed – every member of their little band needed to be irrefutably dependable. The boys were to be released but left behind. Jack summed it up, “If that kid is really worth savin’, he’ll pull out of it himself. All he has to do is walk away.”
Judy sighed and said, “Guys, really… Do you think that boy can walk away from his only companion in the world? And if he did, what chance would he have? If the six of us can’t survive here, how about a boy all alone?”
“I’ll answer that with my own question, Judy,” said Jack. “What’s our chances? Got a realistic answer for that? Six of us pulling together keep gettin’ whacked around like pin balls. It’s a new world that’s turned loose the wicked and the wasted to do what they want. Remember Craig the troublemaker looter hanging there? It’s survival of the fittest, I’d say.”
“Jack, it’s compassion that separates us from the beasts, but I can see that I’m out voted… this time!”
Pappy opened the closet door brandishing the shotgun. His precaution was unnecessary. The young bandits were asleep alongside four empty bottles. At Judy’s insistence, they left a handful of jerky for them.
Were the boys fated to drown memory of the calamity until they polished off the hundreds of remaining bottles of wine? They had survived the madness of watching family and everyone around them die. Mac thought they seemed well on their way to joining the second toll of the calamity… those unable to cope with the hateful life of surviving.
31
Chandalar River Bridge, Brooks Range, October 15th. Snowfall continued all night. Lazlo and Christie were often awakened by the reverberating roar of another avalanche somewhere within the pass above them. More than once, the bridge beneath them vibrated with the violence of a thunderous avalanche while their chosen spot remained out of harm’s way.
Morning brought a light shower of ice crystals blanketing the fresh powder. Their makeshift camp perfectly blended within a white velvet carpet.
Lazlo and Christie stood holding each other tightly contemplating the beautiful scene. The undisturbed vastness conveyed a stronger feeling - loneliness and isolation from humanity. Unconcerned with social longings, Puppy frolicked exuberantly in the feather-light drifts. He had his family.
Lazlo heated another can of stew while Christie took inventory of what they’d rescued. Without the trailer, the snowmobile carried their only food. They had been feeding Puppy jerky, but that couldn’t continue. Hunting would have to provide for her. Canned stew, venison jerky, hard and soft cheese, and a quart of dehydrated berries might last a week. Their backpacks of untouchable emergency rations might give them a few more days.
Lazlo and Christie each wore a liter canteen to prevent the remaining drinking water from freezing. The large insulated jug was buried in the avalanche with the sled which meant filling the canteens frequently. The single bottle of propane for the tiny tripod stove was far too precious for melting drinking water from snow. Their food might sustain them as far as Fairbanks but was inadequate if they must walk.
Dressed in dry winter coats and furs, they headed out for the Chandalar Shelf Transportation Station of Christie’s memory to find another sled. They traveled the three miles in fifteen minutes – a dramatic contrast with yesterday. Pulling onto the driveway, Christie whispered, “Laz, we should stop right here.”
He did so, and asked, “You see trouble?”
“Very strange… the station’s gone. Every building is gone except that wreck.”
“I’ve never been here. What was here?”
“Just this summer… a big barrel shaped shop… sheds, trailers… the whole maintenance station for the highway. Even the big snowplows are gone.”
“Sure this is the same station you remember?”
“Has to be… I’m sure.”
“Doesn’t look very encouraging, alright.”
“Go slow Laz… something bad happened here.”
Lazlo stopped by the first truck and dismounted. “Looks like that might be a company truck.” He swept the snow from the driver’s door and found the British Petroleum insignia.
“Sure is…” he said and then swept the glass free of snow, instantly jumping back.
“Shit… bullet holes… and there’s someone inside… dead!”
“Laz, please back away from that!”
“Christie, I think this may be the truck that left Deadhorse just ahead of me!”
“Aren’t those military trucks over there? One of them has burned.”
“Both of them have… look, all the tires are missing.”
“The whole place must have burned down.”
“Couldn’t have been an accident. I think it was torched.”
“But why?”
“Maybe someone brought that bug here… scorched earth response to stop it.”
“Then, Laz, let’s leave. Those aren’t dog tracks in the snow, either.”
“Damn little left anyway. Good thing you knew this place.”
Shortly, they were cruising the highway with Puppy out front in her favorite position bounding in the lead. The Malamute halted abruptly peering to the west. Christie followed Puppy’s intense gaze and exclaimed, “Laz… wolves! Stop and get her back on!”
Needing no encouragement, the Malamute leaped onto the rear cargo rack. She turned toward the wolf pack releasing a long, wolfish, warbling bay. Lazlo sped away as the pack flowed toward them as one. The wolves followed for more than a mile, and then falling behind gave up the chase. The Malamute had deliberately challenged the pack.
Running smoothly on an ideal carpet of powder, they decided to push for Coldfoot, the most likely place to find gasoline regardless of what else they might find in a town. Dusk found them at Marion Creek Campground, a few miles short. They ignored a dozen snow-blanketed vehicles and camped in a far corner of the modern spacious campground. They found a heap of split firewood and a welded steel grill for preparing supper. The night passed blissfully.
The cloud cover dissipated overnight and morning dawned cold. They built a warming fire which helped thaw and fold the tent for repacking. They loaded as much split firewood as the cargo rack could carry together with Puppy.
Christie remembered that Marion Creek trailhead was known for low bush cranberries and probed the snow for the brilliant red berries, easily gathering a pack full.
Meanwhile Lazlo explored the abandoned vehicles for gasoline. Lacking a siphon, he punctured several tanks, draining enough to refill the snow machine.
Consequently, stopping at Coldfoot was no longer critical. With clear weather they considered passing through, but shortly they were halted by a line of snow bound vehicles. Exploring on foot, Lazlo discovered a formidable military blockade at Slate Creek Bridge.
Backtracking, Lazlo found a rough old highway grade paralleling the road, where they easily descended. Reaching Slate Creek, they found where others had attempted to cross. A large military truck mired hopelessly in the mud-churned creek blocked the obvious crossing.
Lazlo and Christie searched each way on foot for an alternative . Christie found a narrow stretch with a cobbled creek bottom but the depth risked stalling their machine. They gathered more cobbles then cemented them together with an over toping of snow. Hours later, they safely crossed the new dike.
Driving through the village of Coldfoot, the central attraction was its recently constructed public building. But the BLM visitor’s center and museum had become an emergency medical infirmary for the afflicted. A military ambulance and a dozen cars stood abandoned, covered in snow.
Puppy leaped off the snowmobile and bounded to the entrance. Her tail uncurled and she turned toward Christie, ears perked, waiting. Peering through the windows revealed an appalling scene. Several dozen mattresses arranged on the elaborate wooden floor each contained a frozen blood-streaked corpse. The bodies of two medics were sprawled nearby where they had been performing their duties to the last. The makeshift infirmary was the couple’s first image of what must have been happening around the world.
“Imagine what a hospital was like in the cities?” asked Christie. “An answer isn’t necessary, Laz; let’s just go.”
Across the highway at Coldfoot Camp, a line of snow encased trucks and cars queued beside two commercial fuel pumps. Lazlo saw no human tracks visible in the snow anywhere around the gas station or the restaurant. The grocery store held hope of more food. Through the windows, the store looked nearly bare of merchandise. Lazlo spotted a precious water jug on a shelf near a frozen corpse lying on the floor. The risk was unacceptable.
The neighboring repair garage provided better opportunity. The huge truck door stood open revealing a white dusting of snow. Inside a BLM truck held a snow cat with a small sled suitable to be towed by the snowmobile. The snow cat was disabled by an unbolted tread. They easily removed the sled and loaded several ground tarps, a set of mechanic’s tools and a rubber hose for siphoning gas. Lazlo loaded more firewood, two axes, a splitting maul, a crosscut saw and secured them within a new tarp. Before leaving, Lazlo was anxious to find a firearm for Christie.
Along the old loop road, they happened upon a weather-worn Jeep with a spare jerry can roped on top. Lazlo strapped the empty can on his sled and then paused to consider taking the jeep. The jeep wouldn’t start but he found the owner’s weathered rifle scabbard containing a vintage Remington .308 bolt-action rifle and a handful of shells in the pouch. The simple hunting rifle plus fishing gear was exactly what they needed. The jeep’s fuel tank was dry.
Despite their failure to obtain more food, Lazlo and Christie considered their trip through Coldfoot a resounding success. They had restored most of their critical gear except a water jug. Their supply of gasoline might last as far as Fairbanks. They were as fit for the road as opportunity and caution would permit.
At Grayling Lake they stopped for a break. Christie noticed a moose cow and her calf grazing in the shallows. Sensing movement, the cow bolted, but the calf floundered into deeper water. Lazlo shot the animal only to watch it sink out of sight.
Lazlo settled for spearing a few lethargic Arctic grayling, and gave a small one to Puppy who gulped once and continued loping in the lead. When Pump Station No. 5 loomed ahead, Lazlo stopped at a distant vantage point.
Much of the Station remained hidden behind the hillside, but he could see a military C-130 transport parked at the far end of a gravel runway. He could see no sign of life, but thinking the camp might have a store of food, Lazlo returned to the highway seeking the entrance, then halted abruptly, stunned.
A man carrying a rifle was walking along the highway stooped over a cane moving toward them. Astonished to see another living human being, Lazlo dismissed all thought of the camp. Puppy raced ahead confronting the man who stood motionless without fending off the Malamute. Lazlo followed quickly and Christie called her back, collared her, and tied her to the snowmobile.
Evaluating him cautiously, they realized the man didn’t appear sick, but looked weary, gaunt and unstable on his feet. He was poorly dressed in a soiled official-looking uniform wearing only a light zippered jacket and a baseball cap. His forehead appeared extensively bruised, the tip of his nose blackened and his stubby beard frosted with ice. As they drew near, the man muttered inaudibly.
“You need help?” asked Lazlo foolishly.
“Water.” he repeated hoarsely.
Christie offered him her full canteen but he was too weak to grasp it with one hand and unwilling to release the cane to use both. Christie helped raise the canteen to his lips and the man gulped until she withdrew it fearing the consequences of so much cold water too quickly. He reached for the canteen, stumbled and nearly fell over, wincing in pain. Christie said, “Come over to the sled and sit down.” She gave him an arm to lean on and asked afterwards, “Feel better?”
“Yea, just cold. Damn glad to see people. Thought I was the only man left alive.”
The man leaned back exhausted. Lazlo asked, “Have you been sick?”
“Not with that bat flu if that’s what you mean. Have you?”
“No, but we were just lucky. Were you exposed to anyone sick?”
“Yea… my colleagues and a native family, but they all died.”
“Then you must be one of the lucky few who are naturally immune.”
“Lucky? Hell, you’re the first lucky break I’ve had in a month. Thought I was going to starve out here if the wolves didn’t get me first.”
Lazlo said, “Let’s go find a place to camp and get you warm… but not here. I’ll secure you on the sled with a rope. Where’s your kit?”
“Haven’t got one… lost everything in the river. Where’re you heading?”
“Don’t know just yet, maybe Fairbanks,” answered Lazlo. “No one seems to be left anywhere else. Wherever there’s food, I suppose.”
The man replied weakly, “Death, riots and no food for anyone in Fairbanks.”
“Really!” said Lazlo, “How so?”
“Dear Laz, the man needs help first.”
“Alright then, hang on tight as you can… I’ll take it easy.” Lazlo wrapped the tarp around him to screen him from the ice kicked up by the snowmobile treads. Christie smoothed ointment on his frostbitten face and bruised forehead. She softened her tone, “This is going to need some special treatment later, Mister….”
“Doctor Feinstein… but everyone calls me Ernie.”
“I’m Christie… that’s Lazlo and he’s anxious to move on. We’ll talk later.”
When she mounted the snowmobile, Christie said, “Laz, Prospect Camp is right nearby… we could stop there.”
“Christie, it’s only noon and the weather is good,” he replied firmly. “We need to push on. I can only crawl now with Ernie on the sled. Let Puppy run on ahead.”
“Then let’s find a spot with firewood t
o warm him up… maybe the Arctic Circle Wayside… twenty miles or so. But, he’ll need a break long before then.”
“Okay… you know the road.”
They arrived at the wayside campground avoiding abandoned automobiles parked in the lot. While Christie unloaded, Lazlo cut deadwood adding to the split firewood. Christie built their campfire among large boulders to reflect the heat. In half an hour, they ate a pot of hot fish stew while Ernie hovered over the fire as close as he dared.
After the meal and more ministrations to his face, Ernie conversed with Christie in a hoarse whisper all the while looking downtrodden. “I’m freezing in this thin jacket. Do you have a spare you can lend me?”
“We’re wearing everything we brought. How about wrapping in a sleeping bag?”
“That’s better, I suppose. May I keep it for tonight?”
“Sure and Laz will rig a warm shelter for the night.”
“I hope so…nights are even colder when I can’t sleep.”
Lazlo was puzzled by the man’s lack of resilience and defeatist resignation.
“What’s the matter with the man?” whispered Lazlo.
“He’s exhausted and weak from lack of nourishment,” replied Christie. “I think he has broken ribs and his mind isn’t all together there either. He desperately needs heat and rest. We need to build a quick shelter for tonight and a better one tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? As in… we stay here all day?”
“At least through tomorrow… maybe more. Laz, I can hear your anxiety talking. We can’t get back on the road with Ernie in such bad shape. He might die on the way.”
Lazlo looked around at their surroundings. “Well… if you say so. I suppose this isn’t such bad spot among the boulders… and the man’s already asleep sitting up.”
“Then why don’t you unload the sled and think about shelter while I build up this fire for a long night. Will three of us fit sleeping together on that sled?”
Flight To Pandemonium Page 29