by E. E. Borton
Gathering kindling and driftwood from along the shoreline, I ignited the pile of debris. As soon as the first flames reached out, a sense of calm and accomplishment washed over me. Rubbing my cold hands over the growing blaze, I exhaled.
With warmth and light working with me to fight off the cold and darkness, my breathing slowed and the shivering stopped. I sat near it for a moment before heading into the woods to collect the materials I’d need for the construction. Breaking and cutting the branches to the right size and using cordage I carried to lash them together, I built a frame over the fire. I started with my shirt, laying it over the frame to dry out. (Every stich of clothing I wore – down to my boxers and socks – were designed to repel moisture and dry quickly.)
Fire changes everything.
In most, if not all, survival situations on land, fire will not only save your life but transform desperation into comfort. In my current state it was preventing hypothermia, drying my wet clothes, giving me light in the darkness, keeping animals at bay, and entertaining me. (I’d rather watch a fire than television.) If I desired, it would cook any food I caught in the river or the woods. The only disadvantage was that it would signal to any cowards in the area that potential prey was sitting next to it. The pros outweighed the cons as I stoked it.
Everything still hurt, but not as bad. Waiting for my clothes to dry gave me too much time to think. Drowning and freezing were taken off the table, but I knew I had just pulled myself out of a stew of bacteria. Any hopes I had of delaying the infection of my open wounds disappeared with the boat.
I applied more antibacterial ointment and fresh dressings, but the damage was done. It would only be a matter of hours before one of the invisible killers would breach the barrier – and then ferociously multiply – inside me.
Before my voyage I stuffed everything I needed to keep from getting wet into my pack. When my clothes were dry, I slid my pistols back into the holsters on my belt and took my pocket watch out of the waterproof box. I unfolded the map, trying to figure out my position on the river.
Since leaving Atlanta, I’d known where I was and where I was going. Most of the routes I took were very familiar. Sitting by the firelight, looking at the map, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Neither was my compass.
There was no possible way I was sitting on the east bank of the river. Even through the chaos of being torpedoed, the boat didn’t spin completely around. I swam to the closest shoreline – the west shoreline. Either my compass was defective or magnetic north had disappeared. I’d find out soon enough if I found the road leading to Stevenson that paralleled the river on the west side. According to the map – and my best guess – it should be a short hike away.
In spite of the few minor setbacks of being shot, broken, gashed, capsized, frozen, and infected, I was still on schedule. (Well, close enough.) After dousing the fire I headed into the woods. Two hundred yards later I found the road. It confirmed that I could no longer trust my compass to point north. The discovery did nothing but create more questions I wasn’t smart enough to answer. Regardless, answers weren’t going to make the last four miles any easier. I was hoping for something a little less challenging than the previous four.
Limping along the road, all the pain in my ankle, arm, and face returned. If I could press through it and keep my pace, I should reach my uncle’s property shortly before sunrise. I wanted this cluster fuck of a road trip to end, but I wasn’t willing to risk a daylight stroll through town. I’m not a fan of towns.
Popping another painkiller, I was determined to make it to the checkered flag. If I didn’t, then I’d have to hole up somewhere and hide for twelve hours before completing the last few miles. Twelve hours could kill me. (As if there weren’t enough opportunities for the Reaper to collect his prize.)
I had neither the time nor the energy to spare on thoughts of what might happen when I reached my uncle’s house, but as I approached Stevenson my brain decided otherwise. What if he wasn’t there? What if he were dead? What if the town had the same policy for strangers as Bridgeport? What if they were in worse shape than I was? What if he slammed the door in my face? Where would I go?
Why did I blow up my house again? Oh, yeah, I was trying to kill ghosts and take control of my life. Mission accomplished, asshole. Now look at ya’. All banged up, homeless, and looking to be saved. You’re not in control of shit.
Thanks, me. Great pep talk.
Without electricity for lights, even the smallest fire emits a telltale glow that can be seen for miles. There’s no other animal on the planet that can create – or control – fire, other than humans. When I saw the faint glow from the direction of Stevenson, two things came to mind. Cowards were burning it to the ground, or the locals were still in control. Either way, I turned down a road that would avoid the activity. At the turn I was less than a mile from whatever fate awaited me.
Stevenson, Alabama was much smaller than Lafayette, Georgia, so there weren’t as many homes or buildings on the outskirts. It didn’t reduce my level of anxiety or caution when they came into view. They came into view because the sun was rising. I was too close to stop, so I sucked it up and began to limp faster. With every impact of my foot to the ground and swing of my semi-good arm, the pain elevated from bad to excruciating.
As the shadows retreated, exposing the landscape and me, my uncle’s house was in the same place I remembered as a teenager. I stopped at the mailbox in front of the white picket fence of the pale yellow farmhouse-style home.
It was larger than I remembered, but what confused me was its condition. There was debris in clumps from the windstorm, but other than that, it was pristine. Even the lawn was manicured with flower beds blooming along the walkway to the wrap-around front porch. There were no boards on the intact windows, and the glass door was still on its hinges. It didn’t make sense.
When I turned to look down the street I had just traveled, dawn revealed all of them in the same condition. There were no abandoned cars in the streets frozen in time since 8:13. All of them were in their driveways. I was the only thing out of place here.
Trying to wrap my head around the surreal scene, I wondered if the violence of the new world skipped over this town like a tornado bouncing over a church. Was Stevenson an island sanctuary or just sitting on the edge of hell? Was the rest of the world intact beyond the line I just crossed? I reached out to steady myself on the gate, feeling dizzy from the revelation that Atlanta and north Georgia might be isolated events. Looking down at my watch, I held my breath.
It was still 8:13.
For some reason I thought it would be rude to pull my shotgun and start the normal process of checking the perimeter. Besides, if I went up peeking through a window, I had a feeling I’d catch a bullet in the face. Or at least scare the shit out of anybody inside. That was no way to announce the presence of a nephew. So I opened the gate and strolled up to the front door like I was the milkman.
They were probably asleep (if it was them), but it seemed like a good idea to start knocking lightly. After no response I looked around and gave it a more vigorous rapping. I took a step back and pulled at the tail of my jacket as if removing a wrinkle or two would improve my appearance. This was ridiculous. This was dangerous.
This time, I did see it coming.
Chapter 36
Blood, Mud, and Bacon
Putting my hands in the air, I saw movement coming from both corners of the house. I didn’t want to make any sudden moves, so I shifted my eyes from left to right. Both times I focused on the barrels of the assault rifles. Hearing the gate open behind me, I knew more guns were aimed at my back. I didn’t knock on a door; I kicked a hornet’s nest…again.
“Those hands go anywhere near your guns, and I’ll put one in your ear, dipshit,” said the gun on the left.
“They won’t,” I replied. “I’m looking for my uncle. His name is Perry Dawson. I haven’t been here in a while, but I was pretty sure this was his house.”
&
nbsp; “Holy Mother of God,” said Uncle Perry, standing on the left corner. “I knew it! I knew you’d make it.”
I kept my hands in the air as he approached. I wasn’t going to feel comfortable about anything until the others lowered their rifles. When I heard him walk up the porch steps, I slowly turned around. Uncle Perry is a big man. I forgot that he gives big hugs.
“My arm’s broken,” I said, wincing in pain from the squeeze.
“Damn. Sorry, son,” said Perry, taking a step back, putting his hands on my shoulders. “You look like shit. What the hell happened to your face?”
“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I said. “I’ve had a few setbacks.”
“Stan!” yelled Uncle Perry. “Go get Doc Hammond. Tell him my nephew’s hurt.”
“Will do,” replied Stan from the gate.
“Stan!”
“Yeah?”
“Tell him to bring the big bag,” said Perry, looking me up and down.
“This is my cousin?” asked the gun on the right, walking up the stairs.
“It is, Joey,” said Perry. “I told you he’d make it.”
“All the way from Atlanta?” asked Joey.
“What’s left of it,” I said.
“Let’s get you inside,” said Perry. “Donna’s going to flip.”
Taking me inside, his wife and daughter were standing in the hallway with shotguns pointing my way. “I don’t believe it,” said his wife, Donna, lowering her gun. Laying it on a table, she slowly walked toward me.
“His arm’s broke,” said Perry, sensing her intent.
“I’ll be gentle,” said Donna, squeezing my neck. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Not as happy as I am that you are here,” I said. “I didn’t know for sure.”
“Well, you know now.”
“What happened to you?” asked his daughter, River.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I bet,” said River. “Is Doc coming?”
“Yep,” said Perry. “He’ll be here shortly. I’m going to take him upstairs to get cleaned up. Why don’t you two get some breakfast going.”
Walking upstairs, he took me into one of four bedrooms. I couldn’t help looking around at how everything was in order. There wasn’t one thing out of place. It was as if nothing had happened at all.
“Uncle Perry,” I said. “This place is beautiful. How have you kept it this way?”
“It hasn’t been easy,” said Perry, going into a closet. “We’ve had our share of trouble, but the entire community has stepped up. We’ve got a bunch of good folks ‘round here. They’re all doing the best they can.”
“It’s impressive,” I said. “I’ve been through a few towns. Bridgeport looks like Fort Knox. They’re shooting people before they can cross the bridge.”
“I know, I know,” said Perry. “I was up there not too long ago. It’s like a war zone, but they’re our shit screen for looters and drifters coming down from Chattanooga and Nashville. There’s another town, Scottsboro, to the south that’s the screen for Birmingham and Atlanta. We used to let folks pass through, but that all changed about two weeks after it happened.”
“They’re protecting Stevenson?” I asked.
“They are,” replied Perry. “We were more prepared than most. We started having community meetings after the first blackouts. About a year ago we came up with the plan to use the natural boundaries of the river to the east and the mountains to the west. Bridgeport and Scottsboro were the logical choices for chokepoints. We have a militia that rotates every other week with Stevenson being the safe zone. I guess we’re getting a little complacent.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because you’re still alive,” answered Perry. “You never should’ve made it to my front door unchallenged.”
“Look at me,” I said. “I was challenged. If I hadn’t seen those bodies at the bridge, I would’ve tried to cross it.”
“I’ll bring that up at the next meeting,” said Perry. “We need to clear them out. But I had a feeling you were coming. It doesn’t surprise me that you made it through. You’re a lot like your father.”
“So are you,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”
“You’re home now, kid,” said Perry, handing me fresh clothes. “We haven’t heated up the water yet, so the shower might be a little chilly. Get yourself cleaned up; we’ll get some hot food in you and wait for the Doc. It’ll take him a little while to get here from town.”
“Thank you,” I said, putting out my left hand.
He ignored it, choosing to give me another hug instead. He went easier on me with the embrace. I walked into the bathroom, looked into the mirror. I couldn’t believe anybody recognized me. I didn’t.
It was obvious the birdshot wound on my face was infected. The gash on my right cheek wasn’t far behind, showing signs it was turning as well. Taking care not to mess up the bathroom, I folded my dirty clothes and stepped into the shower. Every cut and hole in my body ignited when the soap and water hit them. Blood and mud mixed together to form a dark brown trail to the drain. It hurt like hell, but it may have been the best shower of my life. I felt human again, drying off with a plush towel that smelled like Downy.
Reflected in the mirror, my face was still swollen beyond recognition, but at least it was clean. I stared into it with a better understanding of how quickly things can go bad. I then thought about how things can turn for the better just as quickly. My uncle told me I was home now and I believed him. When I tried to smile, a red tear fell from the hole in my face, reminding me that I was still in trouble.
Breakfast was ready by the time I put on the fresh clothes. They smelled as good as the towel. I felt like an old man trying to dress with one arm and then limping down the stairs, leaning on the rail. My eyes grew wide when I hit the last step and the aroma hit my nose.
Holy shit. It can’t be.
Turning the corner into the kitchen, I saw that it was. I stood mesmerized by the popping and hissing of the bacon in the pan. River was putting a bowl of scrambled eggs and grits on the table as Perry walked inside from the deck with a stack of toast and a block of cheddar cheese. Donna was pouring what looked like fresh squeezed orange juice. It had been a while since I’d seen orange juice.
“Don’t get used to this,” said River, smiling. “Usually it’s bread and water.”
“Oh, come on now, River,” said Donna. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s like I’m on another planet,” I said. “This is amazing.”
“I will say we don’t normally break out the bacon,” said Perry, “but this is a very special occasion. This is for you, kid.”
“You shouldn’t have,” I said. “but I’m glad you did.”
“Come sit down before it gets cold,” said Donna.
As I took my seat everyone started piling food on my plate. All I could do was sit there with my hands in my lap, shaking my head. Maybe blowing up my house wasn’t such a bad idea. Holding the cheese grater over my eggs, Perry asked me to say when. He had to stop himself because I couldn’t speak.
“You okay?” asked River, noticing my distant stare.
“Perfect,” I replied, coming back to them. “It’s been a long road.”
“I can only imagine,” said Donna. “We’ve heard stories. All of them are so sad.”
“Not today,” I said. “I consider this a very happy ending to mine.”
“Eat up, son,” said Perry. “Doc will be here any minute.”
Taking a sip of the orange juice, I discovered a cut on the inside of my lip. It was a wonderful pain. Setting down my glass, I started in on everything around my bacon. I was saving that for last. When I took a bite of the rare treat, I closed my eyes, savoring it for a moment before I chewed. Joey came inside and joined us.
“Did you stop by your parents’ place?” asked Joey, grabbing a handful of bacon.
I stopped chewing.
“I did,” I
replied after the difficult swallow.
“How’d it look? Dad and I were thinking about heading down there. Was that the AR we kept there?”
“Yes,” I answered. “The house and the AR saved my life. I buried everything else of value before I left.”
“I love that place,” said River. “Your dad built a beautiful home. I hope it’s still there if you guys go back.”
My appetite disappeared.
“I just hope the guns and ammo are still there,” said Joey. “We need ‘em in Scottsboro.”
“Is it getting worse down there?” asked Donna.
“It is,” said Joey. “It’s like the entire cities of Huntsville and Birmingham are trying to get in.”
I was thankful for the subject change. “How do you deal with refugees?”
“We don’t anymore,” replied Perry. “During the first week after all this crap happened, we’d offer them a little help and shelter for a day or two. Then we’d have to send them on their way. Some of them started coming back, looking to stay. After that, things got ugly. They’ve been that way ever since.”
“I hate that they have to turn people away, especially the children,” said Donna. “That has to be horrible. Not having anywhere to go, I mean.”
“We wouldn’t be sitting here right now enjoying this meal if we didn’t,” said Joey. “It has to be this way or none of us would make it.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” said River. “This is a good day.”
She smiled at me, reaching over and patting my arm. I could see her pain through the smile. I remembered that she was married with a daughter. I also knew her other brother wasn’t sitting at the table. Everybody lost something at 8:13 – some more than others.
After trying to help clear the table but being ordered to sit and rest, I heard a knock on the door. Grabbing the shotgun off the table, Perry went to greet the visitors. It was the first obvious sign that things had changed. A month ago it wasn’t necessary to take a weapon to welcome guests into a home.