15 Miles From Home

by P. A. Glaspy

  "So, basically, you're asking us to take care of you," Carly said coming around the corner. "No, I get it. If it weren't for my parents here I'd be in the same boat as you. Hell, I'd be you."

  "Carly …" Joel said softly.

  "No, no, it's okay, Dad. I get where she's coming from. But the problem, Beth, is that this isn't just going to last for a week or so," Carly went on. "According to my dad, it's going to last for years. Years! Can you even fathom that? I've known all day and I still can't believe it. So, unless you are willing to get your hands dirty — literally — and learn how to grow food, you're going to die. Plain and simple. Oh, and that's if you can get your hands on some seeds, and if you have any idea how to garden, and if you have the equipment to preserve it, which let's face it, we all know you don't. You won't even use your fancy cookware to feed yourself. That brings us back to you're probably going to die unless you can find someone to take care of you. Well, sorry to tell you, sister, but that isn't going to be us."

  Lauri cried out, "Carly!"

  Carly turned to her mother. "What, Mom? Shall we sugar coat it instead and send her home with some of your canned green beans and tell her everything will be fine in a few days? Because that's a lie. You taught me not to lie. Unless she's willing to work, she's gonna die. Period." With that, Carly left and headed for the kitchen.

  Lauri's face was beet red as she looked at Beth. "Beth, I'm sorry about Carly's behavior. Her sons are at their other grandfather's house up in Tipton County, and she's distraught over not knowing if they're okay, or how to get to them."

  Beth looked down her nose at both of them. "She was very rude. There's no excuse for bad manners like that —"

  "Now you hold on right there, Beth," Joel interrupted her. "Lauri just told you why she's acting that way and that is a good excuse, especially on a day like today. If you had kids you'd understand. And FYI, everything she said is true. So, I'd suggest you march yourself back home and try to figure out how not to starve to death. Good luck with that." He had never invited her in, so she still stood out on the porch. He started to close the door, but she reached up and placed a hand on it.

  In a slightly whiny voice, she said quietly, "I don't know what to do. I don't know where to start."

  Joel looked her in the eye. "Get those fancy pans of yours and cook everything in your fridge that's going to spoil out on your gas grill. That's a good place to start. Make what you've got last as long as you can. Good luck. You're gonna need it." Joel shut the door without giving her a chance to respond. Lauri was still red-faced. Joel put a hand on her arm. "Carly's right. No need to lie or beat around the bush. Most of these people are probably going to die in the next month or so."

  "Are you saying we should just stand by and watch that happen, Joel?"

  He shook his head. "No, we won't watch it because we won't be here. As soon as Will gets home, we're leaving."

  "How?" she asked, shock apparent in her voice.

  "I'll let you know as soon as I figure that out."

  Chapter 19

  Elliott lived on Tracy Road, close to the end, by Highway 14. When he had built his house forty odd years before, there were very few people out there. With the growth of Memphis and its suburbs, folks had fled to the adjoining counties to buy homes. While there weren't neighbors right on top of him, they were a lot closer now than they were back then. Many times through the years he had considered selling the place to move further into the country, but he could never quite bring himself to do it. He and his wife, Judy, had designed and built that house, and even though she had died of cancer when Ethan was ten, he felt he would be betraying her memory to let it go. Plus, he often thought he could feel her presence in the house.

  The house was built ranch-style; that is, all one level. They called it a cabin, because it had a log exterior rather than siding. The interior looked pretty much the same as it had for the past forty years. Judy had chosen the paint, flooring, and cabinets; almost everything inside had her hand on it. A few more reasons why he couldn't let it go.

  In lieu of fencing, Elliott had planted pine trees along the property line for a sense of privacy when other houses started going up nearby. His driveway came straight from the road then curved to the right to go into the carport. Another row of pines shielded the house and yard from the road. Those trees had been in the ground for thirty years. There was no gate, but anyone trying to see the place would have to come up a gravel driveway, and they were not going to be able to do that quietly. Not in a car or truck anyway.

  With the tree lines in place, Elliott couldn't see his neighbors and they couldn't see him. But when they were outside shooting, Elliott and the boys could be heard. Not that Elliott cared — he was shooting his guns on his property in the direction of the state land that joined his on that side. There was no one for miles that way.

  Elliott had come out on the porch to check on the boys' progress with the wood when he heard the sound of rocks crunching under wheels coming up the driveway. Aaron and Cameron were on their way back from the shed. Aaron was pushing a wheelbarrow loaded down with cut wood. Cameron had the wood tote bag from the house full, bringing up the rear. Elliott slipped into his coat, walked down the steps of the back porch, and headed out to the driveway to see what the sound was. He was surprised to see his neighbor, Roger Harrison, struggling to ride a bike up the gravel drive.

  Roger came to a slippery stop in front of Elliott. Gasping for air, he said, "Hey … Elliott … give … me … just … a … sec … to … catch … my … breath …" He stopped, overcome with a coughing spell.

  Elliott chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Aren't you a little old to be bike riding, much less in the snow, Roger?"

  Still trying desperately to take a deep breath, the fifty-something-year-old man nodded. After a moment, with a huge sigh, Roger was able to speak. "Hell, yeah, I'm too old, and too out of shape, but it was the only thing with wheels at my house that would run. I figured if anybody would know what was going on it'd be you, so I told Cindy I was gonna ride over here after I heard you shooting this morning. That was a half hour ago."

  "Good Lord, Roger, you could've walked faster than that. Where'd you get the bike anyway?"

  "It was supposed to be my grandson's Christmas present. My son, Jeff, left it at our house to keep it hid until Christmas. Just so you know, you might still be able to ride a bike, but you're probably not good at it anymore."

  Elliott laughed out loud at that. "Give yourself a break, Roger. Riding a bike in the snow wouldn't be easy for anybody. How about a cup of coffee?"

  "That would be awesome," Roger replied. "Let me just park this contraption up by the porch."

  Aaron and Cameron had reached them by then. Elliott turned to them and said, "Boys, this is my neighbor, Roger Harrison. Roger, these are my grandsons, Aaron and Cameron Marshall."

  Aaron set the wheelbarrow down as Cameron walked up and set the bag on the back porch. They both shook Roger's hand. "Very pleased to meet you, sir," Aaron said. Cameron commented the same.

  "Pleased to meet you fellas, too. Now, how about that coffee, Elliott? I'm about froze to death," Roger said, shivering as if to prove his point.

  "Come on inside. I've got some warming on the wood stove. Aaron, you can dump that wheelbarrow right there. Cam, go ahead and bring that tote inside."

  "Yes, sir," the boys replied in unison. With that, they all went in, stamping their feet to dislodge the snow from their boots on the porch. Inside, coffee was poured for the adults, while the boys had instant hot chocolate. Settling down in the warm living room with their hot drinks, Roger posed the question he had ridden over to ask.

  "So, do you? Know what's happened, that is?"

  Elliott shook his head. "Not for positive, but I've got an idea."

  Roger waited. When Elliott didn't expound on his statement, Roger said, "Well? Are you going to tell me, or you just going to leave me hanging here?"

  Elliott remained quiet while thoughts raced thro
ugh his head. Roger, and his wife, Cindy, had lived next to Elliott for twenty years. They invited Elliott over for cookouts three or four times a year. They were friends, possibly could be considered good friends, but not exactly close friends. They knew Elliott grew and canned his own vegetables because he shared his canned goods with them. They knew he hunted because he brought them venison every year. They didn't know he planned for possible disaster situations.

  While he wasn't an extremist, Elliott could have been considered a bit of a prepper. He usually kept at least six months' worth of canned goods, store-bought or home-canned, and usually a combination of the two, along with a large chest freezer that was mostly full of meat, along with some vegetables that froze better than they canned. He had made sure he could get water from his well, even without electricity, and he never let his propane tank get less than half full. He had enough seasoned wood in the shed to last into next winter, even if they had to use the wood stove to cook. He had livestock that provided food and could be food if needed.

  "Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Roger, I think somebody hit us with an EMP," Elliott finally said matter-of-factly.

  Roger sat looking at him blankly. Finally, he replied, "Huh?"

  Elliott spent the next ten or fifteen minutes relaying to Roger what he knew about EMPs. Roger didn't ask any questions until he sensed Elliott was done.

  "Ho-lee shit," Roger finally said. "You're serious, aren't you? You really think we've been attacked?"

  Elliott shrugged. "It would explain all that has happened this morning. You tell me — what else takes out the power, cars, phones, everything?"

  "Wait, how do you know about this stuff? Why do you know about it?" Roger asked, incredulously.

  "Because I don't trust our government to tell us everything we should and need to know. Because anything can happen at any time. Earthquakes, tornadoes, floods, just to name a few. Because I talked to people who were in New Orleans during Katrina and heard what the police and city government did and didn't do. I wanted to be able to take care of myself if there was an emergency or a disaster. I didn't plan well for this one though. Didn't really think it was possible for someone to kill everything electronic. Yet, here we are."

  At this point, Roger was looking scared. "What … I mean, I don't know … what do you think we should do now?"

  Elliott stood, went over to the wood stove, picked up the coffee pot, and walked back over to Roger. He poured fresh coffee in his friend's cup, and replied, "Live. Just do the best we can. There's not much else to do."

  "Live how? No electricity for God knows how long. No food at the grocery store because there's no more deliveries, but that doesn't matter because no more gas for the cars and the cars don't run anyway. I'm sure we can figure out how to live without electricity, but nobody lives without food and water. We aren't set up like you, Elliott. No power means no water at our house since we have a well, too. We probably have one to two weeks' worth of food. Then what? I don't know how to hunt. Hell, I don't even have a rifle or a shotgun. What are we going to do?"

  Elliott was still standing beside him and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I can help with some of that, Roger. You can get water from my well. I'll even give you one of these containers I have to haul it in. Maybe you can figure out a way to strap it on that bike you rode over here. Hell, I found out my old tractor runs so we can use that as long as we have fuel. If you want to learn, I can teach you how to hunt. In the spring, I can share some seeds with you, so you can plant a garden. You and Cindy will have to learn how to cook over an open fire. If you don't have any cast-iron cookware, it will be harder for you, but you can still do it. Yeah, we can live without electricity. Plenty of folks before us did. But they were set up for it with cook stoves, lanterns, that kind of thing. Most people don't have things like that anymore. All we can do is try."

  Roger gazed into his coffee cup as if it could somehow magically fix the issue. After a moment, he looked up at Elliott and said softly, "I'd really appreciate any help you can give us, Elliott. Otherwise, we'll be dead in a month."

  Elliott patted Roger on his shoulder. "That's not gonna happen. We'll figure it out. Now, let's go take a look at that bike and see how we can rig it to carry 40 pounds of water."

  In the end, they couldn't come up with a way to attach anything to the bike that could hold the heavy water jug. Roger told Elliott they had a good bit of bottled water and would probably be all right for a day or so. He said he'd look around at his place to see if he could figure something out, and Elliott promised to do the same. Roger said he needed to get home to Cindy to tell her what Elliott had shared and start figuring out what they needed to do now. Elliott told him he would check back in with them in a couple of days. The three of them watched as he struggled to ride the bike through the snow and ice down the drive.

  Aaron looked at his grandfather and said, "Do you think they'll make it, Pap?"

  Elliott looked thoughtful then replied, "They will, because we're going to help them."

  "Do you think we'll make it, Pap?" Cameron asked, voice full of concern. "I mean, all of us? Mom, Nana, Pops, and Uncle Will?"

  Elliott laid a hand on the arm of each of his grandsons. "I have no doubt we will all be fine. They'll get here, I know they will. If they don't, we'll go get them. And you know what? We need to start getting ready for that. Let's go inside and make room for four more people in our family."

  Chapter 20

  Right before reaching Wilmington, Damon chose the 295 bypass which would take him into New Jersey after crossing the Delaware River. From there, he took the New Jersey Turnpike which passed through both rural and suburban areas. Though it was another toll road, none of the barriers were intact. He was still able to maneuver relatively easily around the dead vehicles littering the highway. He was pretty sure that would change when he got to a major city.

  The closer he got to the outskirts of Philadelphia, the more urban the surrounding area became. He had topped off the fuel tank when he stopped to check his map and was fairly certain he had enough diesel to get him all the way to New York. At least, that was his hope. He certainly didn't want to have to stop and try to find fuel anywhere between Philly and New York. The area was heavily populated, and he knew he didn't stand a chance if a large group tried to commandeer his vehicle.

  Just past Parkville Station Road, he came into a densely populated area. Even though it was bitterly cold out, there were people milling about in the neighborhoods he could see on either side of the highway. As before, the sound of the Humvee’s engine garnered more attention than he wanted but the tree line on either side of the road provided a bit of a barrier between him and the people who were outside. He kept his speed steady and didn't slow down for anything or anyone.

  The upside to this area of the Turnpike was that there weren't a lot of exits. Consequently, he didn't have to constantly watch on and off ramps for danger. The downside was that it made a perfect chokepoint for an ambush. If you saw one up ahead there was really no way to avoid it unless you were willing to drive into the thick tree line on either side of the road. Damon didn't know if things like that were going on yet, but he had to consider worst-case scenarios; and that was one of them.

  The light snow that had been falling when he left DC was getting heavier the further north he went. Tire tracks in the road in front of him were being covered over with the falling snow. Whoever had busted through the barricades at the toll booths had done so hours before. The fact that they had a running vehicle told him they were either military or a civilian with a car or truck that was at least forty years old.

  He had come across people walking on the highway who tried to flag him down. Every time he would move to the other side of the road, not slowing any or acknowledging their presence. He could see them railing at him in the rearview mirror. He wished he could help but he knew he couldn't. And he had a mission. One that, if successful, could save his beloved country. If he failed, they would be left with
a shadow of their nation.

  He had let his mind wander contemplating the repercussions of his success or failure, so it took a moment to register that there was something blocking the highway ahead. He instinctively let his foot off the gas as he peered through the falling snow trying to see what the obstruction was. Checking that there was no one around to assault him, he came to a stop. He was less than half a mile from exit three. Beneath the overpass, there were cars blocking all the lanes in both directions. It was too much of a coincidence that people would have filled all four lanes directly under the overpass when the pulse hit. Someone had done this deliberately.

  Damon let the Humvee inch forward slowly as he tried to make out where the people were who had to be there. Just before the exit ramp he saw a head pop up, then another. Movement on the overpass got his attention. Two more men appeared with some kind of semi-automatic rifles pointed in his direction. Not good. Not good at all. He pulled the Beretta from under the seat and set it beside him, then took the Sig out of its holster and placed it in his lap.

  Damon quickly weighed his options. Stopping wasn't one of them. Though he wasn't familiar with the area, he knew he'd have a better chance on the ramp. Ramming the vehicles blocking the road was an option, but there was also a possibility it could disable the Humvee. Slight, but still possible. His decision made, Damon pushed the gas pedal to the floor and headed for the ramp.

  This action apparently caught the pirates under the ramp off guard. They scrambled from behind the vehicles they had been using for cover. Their counterparts on the overpass were in a better position and started firing on the Humvee. Bullets hitting the metal body only made Damon instinctively duck as he made the curve that would take him directly to them. Just as the ramp started to rise to make it pass over the Turnpike, Damon blasted through the guard rail, yelling, "Shit!" while cutting a path through the deep snow between the road and the tree line. The large tires sent up a plume of white behind him as he slid to the right, very nearly hitting a tree, then to the left taking out a sign on the side of the road. As he headed away from what could have been a deadly confrontation, he was thankful for the armored body and bullet-resistant glass of the vehicle he was in. He heard the bullets pinging in the back until he got outside their range.