‘Christie… this is a sorry camp without water or firewood. So tell me what you want me to do. I’ve never heated medical rocks before, either.”
“Just add chunks of wood to the pit, then boil rocks that fit in the large pot.”
Slowly they heated Ernie’s body, but his prospects did not improve. His breathing was shallow, labored, and painful. By noon, Lazlo realized that another day without proceeding was inevitable. Water would be critical by morning and burning firewood all day would deplete their stash well before then. Remaining another day meant finding both.
Lazlo returned hours later with full canteens and a load of firewood cut from stunted deadfall. Anxious about being away so long, he returned knowing the wood he’d gathered wasn’t sufficient. When he drove into the Wayside, the huts inspired a grand idea. The privy roofs were made of wood. Under the circumstances, no one was likely to miss one roof and he had all the tools on the sled necessary to cut it up for firewood.
By evening, Lazlo had cut and split all the wood they might need for days. Alerted to his plan, Christie deepened her fire cavity, lined it with roof wood, and buried the large pot flush to the rim. Now shielded and burning quality wood, the fire pit again heated the warming wall.
Ernie remained immobile and lethargic. Christie decided a hearty meal might help. She filled the stew pot with venison jerky, cheese and powdered eggs planning to provide breakfast in the morning as well. Christie was heartened as Ernie consumed a generous portion and seemed somewhat rejuvenated.
Following dinner, Christie prepared a layer of wood chips and charcoal mixed with gravel and lined the bottom and sides of her fire cavity. She buried their canteens beside the steel pot capped with a heavy flat rock covered with gravel. Neither the cooked food nor their fresh water would freeze overnight.
Puppy’s throaty warning growl awakened them at night. Lazlo opened the door, rifle ready, but saw no reason for alarm. They drifted asleep to be awakened again by renewed growling. Opening the door, they saw nothing, but this time Christie left the door ajar. When Puppy alerted them, they were ready with the flashlight and rushed outside. Christie caught a brief flash of glowing eyes. Instantly, Puppy unleashed a tirade of intense snarling and bolted forward.
“Grab her, Laz! It’s a wolverine!”
The dog struggled mightily but Lazlo hung on. “That animal’s been into something, you can bet.”
“Damn! I think the wolverine was feeding in our cook pot,” replied Christie.
The animal had pushed off the heavy rock cover and devoured breakfast. “Laz, I’ve got to straighten up this mess or we’ll lose the coals before morning.”
An hour later they retired to the hut and slept until dawn when Puppy renewed her guttural growling. Opening the door, Lazlo heard a disturbance coming from the adjacent privy hut. Lazlo and Christie ran outside. They opened the door confronting the wolverine snarling from within. Halted by the surprise, the animal bolted between them, disappearing into brush. Christie held Puppy thrashing vigorously, ready for the chase.
Wondering how the wolverine could have gotten inside, Lazlo realized that he’d left the snowmobile parked beside the outhouse wall to cut away the roof. The handlebars and windscreen provided a manageable hurdle to the top of the block wall. The animal had chewed into their wrapped cache of frozen food.
Lazlo’s nose was overwhelmed. “Damn… what’s that terrible smell?”
“Oh Laz, the wolverine sprayed musk to discourage scavengers.”
“You mean until that bloody thing comes back for more?”
“Yes! And we need to rescue what’s left or nothing will be fit to eat.”
Lazlo found the task truly unpleasant. The stench was unimaginably strong and before they had completed the work, their hands reeked of musk. Christie insisted that they remove their gloves and coats during the task or they wouldn’t be fit to wear. She separated and cast aside all the affected meat. They abandoned the tarp which was fouled worst of all. Puppy took one whiff of the discarded meat and backed away. Even a vigorous wash with soap failed to rid their hands of the stink.
Frustrated, Lazlo said, “Christie… this desperation camp is grinding us down. We need to move on… today!”
“I’m not sure Ernie can endure traveling.”
“Well… we need to look after ourselves. We’ve done very poorly here… and this is no way to live. We’ve lost another two days of food and we’re short of water again. For God’s sake, Christie, we just keep slipping. How can we help Ernie if we fail? It’d be a bitch to die out here after surviving Atigun Pass. I’ll set him up on the sled as best I can, but we’re moving on.”
Christie, expecting Lazlo’s objection, and doubtful of remaining longer herself, knew a better camp lay ahead within a day’s travel. “Then please promise to stop at a wayside we should find by dark. There’s a visitor’s log cabin there with a wood stove perfect for us.”
The highway improved descending south. Lazlo pushed the snowmobile as hard as he dared, determined to find a properly wooded, wet camp before dark. After hours in the frigid air, travel became one of numb endurance. Lazlo cinched his parka so that as little of his face was exposed as possible. Christie fared somewhat better hunkered down behind Lazlo’s warm body, but far worse conditions tormented Ernie. During a break, she considered trading places with him but the man hadn’t the strength to hold tightly riding behind Lazlo. The churning snowmobile treads hurled snow on the sled with each curve in the road. Ernie rode with a tarp pulled over him, but hours of traveling encased him with ice. Immobile and without heat he was miserably cold. Pausing for a break gave him no relief and the couple considered stopping for the night. Ernie persuaded them that lying all night in the open would be worse. They moved on.
Presently, Lazlo slowed to look over a line of snow covered trucks parked near a tiny roadside café. The wintry scene looked desolate and uninviting despite everyone longing to stop. Fearing worse inside, they pushed on.
They arrived near Christie’s destination before dark, but found another unwelcome surprise. A stretch of unavoidable orange highway barrels forced them off the road onto a lane facing military guns.
35
Airplane Service Hangar, Palmer Airport, October 19th. Mac was dead to the world when Tony shook him awake long before first light. He sat up trying to grasp the urgency.
Tony said, “We’re hearin’ motorcycles somewhere in town. Best get dressed.”
Mac found Tony kneeling in the office peering over a corner window watching the distant streets of Palmer. Headlights swept the avenues… likely looking for them, he thought. Jack snapped for everyone to get prepared, then returned to his blind.
Shortly, several high winding bikers swept onto the airport tarmac, halting near the hangar. They met a third rider who stopped near Jack’s blind. All heard angry voices. Shortly, the three left and the sound of motorcycles ceased. An hour passed. No one returned. Mac felt more sleepy than threatened.
“Mac!” someone called. Mac awoke on the floor by the office window wrapped in a blanket stiff and groggy. “Guess I drifted off,” he said, feeling guilty.
“No shit,” said Jack, “could ‘a heard you in town.”
“Hear anything out there?”
“Yea… some. I don’t think they were looking for us after all… a rival maybe. They were all dressed in camo and two of them saluted a third. I think they’re part of some gang or militia with lots of guns. One of ‘em was young, maybe in his teens. He was really worked up… hot about something.”
“Just great, more hot-head survivors, looking for a way to die anyway,” said Mac.
“That about says it.”
“Aren’t you both jumping the gun a little?” interrupted the Captain. “They didn’t look like those other brutes at all.”
“Trust me on this, Cap. I was
the guy out there, not you. Those punkers were into blood lust. It’s time to move on.”
“And which direction are we taking today, boys?” Judy asked. “Just last night we agreed to spend the day looking at farms here in Palmer. So why are we moving on?”
“Okay… this discussion ought to be right quick and easy,” said Jack.
“So long as we agree,” replied Judy. “A consensus, remember, Jack? You keep pressing to take charge.”
“Sound familiar to you, Jack?” asked the Captain.
“Alright… I get it. Someone else do the talkin’ if I’m gettin’ too pushy.”
“I’ll do the talking since I’ve tried twice,” said Pappy. “Going to the Kenai Peninsula is out… we can all see that. That leaves only three choices. North back to the mountains to a place called Fishhook… somewhere here in Palmer on the Farm Loop… or northeast along the Matanuska River to the interior. I’ve always liked Palmer, but with biker friends, maybe not… so I say let’s move on to some peaceful lodges out that way… something Judy might like.”
“Guys, I dearly hope so. Nothing is more important than peaceful and safe. But we ought to look at farms first. Maybe this time you’ll like it when you see it,” said Judy.
“Who can argue with that,” said the Captain.
Everyone nodded except Jack who said, “The best farms are here in Palmer, not at some refuge ‘out that way’. We need to stay here and make the best of a good ...”
All heard motorcycle engines. Soon, dozens of bikers swarmed from town onto the airport. These bikers looked different… older muscular men, dressed in black and sporting flowing hair capped with red bandanas. Many rode high performing dirt bikes, others fancier street versions, and some rode double.
Alarmed, everyone grabbed weapons and took position. Jack returned to his corner but didn’t risk going outside. Mac knelt near the window sill. For the first time since the calamity, he watched dozens of healthy people gathering together. While encouraged, he wasn’t ready to let his guard down or stand up to reveal his presence.
Several cyclists passed directly by the windows. All were heavily armed. Those riding double carried a woman behind brandishing a shotgun. They raced round the tarmac putting on displays of acceleration and perilous riding, obviously showing off.
After each flamboyant exhibition, they gathered along the runway. Groups of two or three arrived later, each demonstrating their competitive skills.
The bikers organized themselves in paired races, each mounted on top performing motorcycles. Spectators reclined on the grassy edge of the runway. Mac watched transfixed as competitors sped down the runway, machines screaming at peak capability.
After the last race, everyone was startled by the deep rumbling reverberations of countless motorcycles approaching from behind the hangar. The wayside spectators leaped up, mounted their bikes and gathered in an orderly line broadly facing the interlopers. There were no friendly greetings.
The intruders appeared to Mac to be the same group of camouflaged youths of the night now returning with friends. They rode together in a close pack, straight for the assembled racers. Both groups unslung firearms and maneuvered into a broad confrontation. The racers charged forward.
The intruders hesitated, a few yelling commands, and then all accelerated. Long before the lines closed, automatic weapons unleashed their staccato barrage upon each side. As the riders intermingled, they heard deeper spasmodic booming of shotguns. Mac watched stunned as bodies and motorcycles tumbled to the ground. Once through the phalanx, both groups circled widely, accelerating and attacking randomly. Individuals skirmished where the most skillful racers held advantage in closing on their opponents, then scattering defensively.
Mac watched a camouflaged warrior race toward their hangar pursued by two black shirted combatants. The camouflaged biker gained a small advantage until both black shirts swept him with automatic fire but missed their swerving target. Errant slugs penetrated the hangar. Mac was riveted to the window ignoring the danger.
Checking his pursuers, the warrior abruptly maneuvered to double back toward them. He misjudged his speed, lost control, and tumbled to the ground in a spectacular summersault. His bike bounced once, hurtled into the air and slammed into the hangar, cleaving a rent in the sheet metal. His black shirted antagonists pumped several rounds into his twisted, already lifeless body, then turned to rejoin the fray.
Mac could see skirmishers racing erratically at breakneck speed across the airport tarmac and into wild land turf. He saw fallen victims and downed motorcycles all over the airfield. Some of the wounded struggled to find cover only to be hunted down and shot. The theater of battle expanded while combatants engaged one another on city streets beyond sight. Soon, the sound of gunfire and speeding motorcycles ceased.
Mac wondered how many fortunate souls spared of the plague had perished in the past ten minutes. What wretched fate. Plague pandemonium had expanded to a new dimension: tribal warfare. Their first contact with a surviving colony of people degenerated into shocking violence. What motivated this heartless bloodshed so soon after surviving a heartless plague?
Jack left to reconnoiter the airfield while the others remained stunned from the horror of biker warfare. Two unrestrained gangs spilling blood within their own neighborhood was a pathetic caricature of urban living. Could anyone find peace and safety now?
Tony spoke for all, “No way can we deal with that lot, so we should stay low.”
“If I had the chance, I’d fly outta here right now,” said Pappy. “But there’s not a single airplane out there I can see, and those murdering gang bangers are no doubt why.”
“So what do we do now?” replied Judy. “First bugs… and now bikers… so a farm in Palmer isn’t safe either. I suppose east is all that’s left.”
Heads nodded sadly.
“I have to agree with Tony,” said the Captain. “We should stay out of sight and leave at dawn. That way we’d have the whole day to drive as far east as we can.”
Jack wheeled in the motorcycle which had crashed outside the hangar. The bike needed only handlebars and headlight to be serviceable. Jack planned to use the motorcycle. He and Tony would reconnoiter after dark for parts.
Meanwhile Tony couldn’t rest idle and returned to his favorite occupation… improving the cat. If they must get back on the road, he would add a heater to serve the bridge seats. The remedy was simple – add a fan duct cut into the foot well from the cab.
Judy commandeered the pilots to reheat the pork and prepare meals for two days.
Mac worked on his journal, recounting and reflecting on the dreadful experiences of the past week. They still had no safe haven for winter. As resourceful people, the little band should do better than a rudderless hand-to-mouth existence. Judy was the notable exception. With frequent reflection on her aspirations, she always pressed for consensus about their future and was willing to take responsibility for the family. Mac sought stability and especially renewal, but was little better than the others about settling down.
He had few suggestions for their future except one strongly held conviction. The next time they found a refuge as suitable as the Talkeetna Lodge, they should find a compromise for any liability. Had they realized what waited for them on the road, they surely would have remained in Talkeetna. Life had become a gauntlet of unforeseen perils. Maybe the lack of resources in Talkeetna might be remedied by stronger motivation now that they had experienced the road.
Wearing black clothing, packing rifles and tools, Jack and Tony departed at dusk. They instructed their companions not to come looking for them nor reveal themselves. They assured everyone that even if delayed, they would return. They left a lantern burning low in a corner of the hangar far from the windows.
Mac suspected the pair sought more than motorcycle parts. He wondered at the contradiction
of separating in the manner Jack considered so imprudent especially at night. If the gang bangers returned, they would lack warning, offensive leadership, and their best weapons. Unrestrained independence was certainly Jack’s style and Tony always followed his lead. Something yet unmentioned had to be driving them.
The miners returned hours later, flinging open the side door as they carried in a woman slung over their shoulders. She was wrapped in a leather jacket worn backwards with her wrists tied behind her back. As the two left again, Jack said only, “She’s hurt, but don‘t leave her alone with Judy… she had a knife and tried to use it.”
Pappy and Mac carried the woman to the large office desk. Judy asked for the lantern and swept the desk clean in one motion. They settled her on a blanket and thought she appeared to be part of the black-shirted racer gang, still wearing a red shawl. Whimpering and wincing in pain, she looked from face to face terrified as Judy untied her wrists and removed the jacket.
Judy said, “She’s afraid of you rag-a-muffins. Please leave me with her.”
“Be careful! She tried to use a knife on the guys,” Mac replied.
“Then just you, Mac, and sit in the corner, please. The rest of you…out!” After they departed, Judy whispered to her patient. The woman responded quietly to Judy, occasionally lapsing into Spanish when pain overtook her. Judy carefully probed her body responding to her answers. The woman seemed to relax somewhat, but when Judy attempted to unbutton her heavy wool shirt, the woman protested with a vehement “No!”
“I cannot properly examine her with you present, Mac. I’ll be safe with her.”
He knew better than to protest, hearing that firm formal tone of voice, so Mac said, “All right, but I should tell you that I’ll be just outside with the pistol.”
“Men! You’re a stubborn lot! Please have someone heat clean water… warm, mind you, not hot!”
Flight To Pandemonium Page 33