“Come on,” Barbara said, “I’ll show you our fancy digs.”
We walked towards the lake as everyone else in the group said their good nights and went on their way. I waved to Sally, Burt’s wife, as they disappeared, arm in arm, down a dark trail. I had the surreal feeling I now existed in some bizarre fairy tale at the mouth of the wood elves’ lair. The ultraviolet sky enhanced the mystical ambience. The mystery of this place contributed too.
“Where are we?” I asked as Barbara and I walked hand-in-hand with the girls on either side of us carrying large flashlights.
“Brentwood Springs,” Abby said.
“It’s an old coal mining town,” Steff interjected with enough disgust in her voice she might have said an old crap-mining town. “Love my new room … thanks Dad,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her words.
Barbara turned and glared at her. It didn’t seem to have any effect. Steff gave her an exaggerated apologetic smile. She then stared at her feet for the duration of our walk. It was not a submissive gesture; she didn’t want to make eye contact.
I don’t blame her for the way she felt and I was in no mood to reprimand her for disrespect. I let it go and addressed Barbara with a playful, curious tone.
“So, are we bunking with the seven dwarfs?” I asked.
“Hardly,” Barbara said with giggle. “Maybe the seven rats … Steff is right, it’s not the best place in the world, but at least we are together and safe.”
Steff huffed and kept her eyes down.
“It’s not bad, dad,” Abby said. “I’ve been to Girl Scout retreats with cabins much worse.”
“So, no amenities at all?” I asked.
“See for yourself,” Barbara said as Abby shone the flashlight beam in front of us.
The girls didn’t exaggerate. The place looked like a bunch of sheets of plywood tacked together with a roof thrown on as an afterthought. The roughly hewn front door rested off center between two small black windows. I couldn’t tell if the window openings contained glass panes or were empty holes. In any case, the place was not very inviting except to maybe a member of the Sawyer family, the chainsaw wielding clan from Texas. I forced a smile and squeezed Barbara’s hand.
“Home sweet home,” I said.
It was obvious from the absence of light that electricity was not present in this old mining village. Whether or not my resistance allies brought any generators I did not know. I guess it made sense because we were hiding out from the military and electric lights would make us easy to spot.
The door creaked like it would fall off its hinges as we entered the small cabin. Dust rained down like brown snow. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and much to my relief it was a mouse. There were no furnishings inside except for four camping cots, an ice chest and a gas lantern. The clean, new cots with fresh sleeping bags seemed completely out of place in the dusty, musty interior. I considered the bright side; it was preferable to a tiny prison cell. I was free and my family was with me. I counted my blessings and stepped inside. Taking the flashlight from Abby I walked around the small room, inspecting for more vermin and for any easy access points. I spotted a small hole in the far corner opening under the house. I found a discarded flagstone, which someone tried to cook on it ages ago. It was the right size so I slid it over the hole. I turned around to see Steff watching me with folded arms and a smirk.
“There are snakes,” she said. “I would stay out of the outhouse if I was you … oh, and we’re pretty close to the lake here.”
Abby grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the pair of cots on the opposite side of the room.
“Come on Steff, you need some sleep,” she said, pulling the deliberate dead weight of her little sister.
Steff plopped down on her cot with a huff and turned her back to us. Abby gave me a faint smile. Her sister’s attitude embarrassed her.
“I haven’t seen any snakes, Dad,” she said. “I wouldn’t use the out-house because it is about to fall in and well … there isn’t much of a hole anymore.”
Necessary body functions were the last thing on my mind. Now it seems they would soon be foremost on my worry list.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said. “Pleasant dreams.”
“Love you Dad,” she said before lying on her cot.
“Love you girls,” I said. As expected, I got no response from Steff.
I sat down on my cot on the opposite side of the room. I watched my daughters until Abby turned off the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. Barbara sat down beside me and wrapped her arm around my shoulders.
“She’ll get over it,” she whispered. “She’s going through one of those stupid stages.”
Barbara took Steff’s flashlight and rested it across our laps; the beam shown into the corner of the room a few feet away. A brilliant array of spider webs reflected the light making them sparkle like strings of crystal. The ambient light shown upwards and highlighted Barbara’s strong chin and wavy dark hair. It was too dark to see the brilliant color of her hazel green eyes, still, I could clearly make out her form. She gained a few pounds over the years, yet still managed to keep her sexy feminine shape.
I am indeed lucky to be in my forties and have a wife who is still a head turner. Burt’s wife was a sweet, sweet woman, but she resembled a Weeble with her oval shaped form. I shared this thought with no one. I felt guilty for making such a cruel comparison with such a nice woman. The damned Weebles pitch song from the 1970s resurfaced in my head every time I saw her. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
“I know, I don’t blame her for being upset,” I said. “I’m sorry I got y’all caught up in this.”
She grabbed my chin and turned my head towards her then planted a big kiss on my lips. When she pulled back, she left her hand under my chin and gazed deep into my eyes.
“You are doing the right thing,” she insisted.
I saw the love and the sadness in her eyes; I felt guilty. She had lost someone too.
Barbara’s mother passed away a couple of years after we married. She was a widow the last ten years of her life and lived alone in a small farmhouse outside of Hagerstown, Maryland. Two days after the storm arrived, Barbara got a call from the Yarnells. They were the people who purchased her mother’s house after her death.
“Your mother is here,” a terrified voice said on the other end of the line. “Please come and get her.” They hung up and refused to answer when Barbara tried to call them back. By the time she was able to drive to Hagerstown the Yarnells were gone and so was her mother. We heard rumors that she was captured by the military. We were never able to confirm this.
“I love you,” I said and kissed her on the cheek.
We both almost jumped out of our skin when a loud knocking echoed through the cabin; someone was at the door.
“Cecil, it’s me, Burt … you decent?” said the hushed voice of my friend on the other side of the door.
I took the flashlight and walked to the door, opening it a crack. I shone the light in the opening. Burt squinted back at me.
“You trying to attract every bug in a three county radius?” he said, shielding his eyes with his hand.
“Sorry,” I said and lowered the light. “What’s up?”
“If you’re settled in, I have something I want to show you.”
Barbara shrugged. “We’ll be right here,” she said, patting the cot. “Leave me the light.” She paused for a moment, “You do have one, don’t you Burt?”
“How do you think I got here?” he asked with a huff.
Barbara loved messing with Burt because he often didn’t get her sense of humor. Handing her the light, I stepped out the door and closed it behind me. Burt motioned for me to follow with a couple of quick jerks of his light then we set out down an overgrown trail behind my cabin. I wished I controled the light because he didn’t keep the beam low enough for my taste.
The heavy canopy of trees surrounding our cabin did not allow any light in. We could
not see anything outside the range of our flashlight. I could hear very well though, and I heard the unmistakable sound of water lapping gently on the shore to our left. We were close, too close; I took a deep breath and focused my eyes on the forest floor in front of us.
“Okay, Burt … you want to tell me where we are going? It’s getting kinda late,” I finished with a yawn.
“You always were a sissy at parties,” Burt said. “Always asleep on the sofa by ten o’clock.”
I glanced at my watch to verify, however I forgot it was confiscated at the prison. There was too much on my mind to remember to retrieve it as we broke out.
“Yeah, it’s a lot later than ten,” Burt confirmed, noticing my futile motion. “Trust me; this is worth staying up for.”
I was anxious to get back to my family, yet I wasn’t keen on getting back to our dusty rattrap of a cabin. I knew this was going to be our home for the foreseeable future. It still didn’t mean I had to like it. At least my wife and daughters were there. Their presence made it bearable. I would live over a pit of snakes if that were what it took to be with them.
“All right, buddy … whatever you say,” I said. “What’s the joke?”
“No joke,” he assured me.
A few moments later, we came to an abrupt stop. Burt turned and beamed at me like a kid who was about to present his award-winning art project to his parents.
“Okay, step to the side,” he said, motioning to his right with the flashlight. “Now give me a hand here,” he said grabbing at a pile of brush and limbs in front of us.
It was so dark it seemed the only things in the world were this suspicious brush pile and us. I obliged Burt as I grabbed a handful of pine branches and hoisted them to the side. After several moments of clearing I was no more enlightened than I was before, all I could see was more darkness in front of us. When Burt shone the light where the brush pile had been, I noticed something very unusual. It was as if the darkness somehow reflected the light back at us.
Burt stepped forward and stuck out his right arm. He moved it in a motion as if he were drawing a curtain. I heard the sound of rustling material, like canvas. A moment later, my eyes adjusted. I could see he moved aside one corner of a massive tarp. It was at least fifteen feet wide and extended upward about ten feet before disappearing into the blackness. I saw only darkness behind it.
“What the hell?” I whispered in awe.
“Wait,” Burt said. “We aren’t in yet.”
He stepped inside the tarp and motioned for me to follow. Once in, he let the corner fall back to its original position. It soon became obvious we were in an enclosed space. Every breath, every step seemed to echo as if we were in close quarters.
“Burt … I’m getting a little freaked out now,” I said. “Where the hell are we?” He might as well have taunted me by singing, “I know something you don’t know.”
“One more tarp!” he whispered. His whisper was almost as bad as a shout in our cramped environment.
He walked a few steps ahead and then bent down and grabbed what appeared to be the corner of another tarp.
“Ready?” he said with almost giddy excitement.
I shrugged; I was as ready as I was going to be.
When Burt switched his flashlight off I experienced a moment of panic. However, the panic did not have time to sink in before another sight froze me in place as he withdrew the tarp. What I saw blinded me.
CHAPTER 6
VIRGINIANS
“Words do not pay for my dead people.”
~Chief Joseph
The brightness was blinding to my light deprived eyes, but that was not what struck me with awe. We were in a subterranean passageway full of hundreds of Impals. Most of them did not notice our presence as they stood, laid or sat about. The ones lying or sitting were doing so on one of the small cots lining each side of the passage. I always pictured a mine tunnel as being a small passage with a single track. Mine cars hauling out the commodity harvest in never-ending succession. This was different.
We were in a large room, twenty to thirty feet wide and about fifteen feet high. The chamber seemed to narrow the further back it went until it was almost a V-shape. At the tip of the ‘V’ I could see the beginning of a stereotypical mine tunnel where several more Impals resided.
The few Impals who noticed us gave us a mixed reception. Some smiled and waved, while others ignored us. I felt as if we were in the presence of living history and I guess, in a sense, we were. The Impals inhabiting the mine ranged from dress styles of Colonial times to the present day. I even noticed a few American Indians in the group. Their presence could potentially expand the historical timeline much further. The group was an even mix of men, women and children. I couldn’t help thinking of Seth Pendleton when I saw a group of little boys about his age sitting nearby.
“My God, this is incredible!” I stammered.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Burt said.
“So, all the Impals are living in the mines?” I asked.
“Yep,” Burt said.
“Why?”
If I could take the time to think it out, the reason would have been obvious. My brain was too tired.
Burt folded his arms and seemed a little disappointed. He sighed and gave me a textbook answer. “Well … the Impals can be a little bright, especially at nighttime, so hiding them in here made the most sense. We put the two layers of tarp in so you could enter and close the first one before entering the second one, thereby not letting light out.”
“How did you pull this together so quickly?” I asked.
“It wasn’t that quick. We started prepping this place two weeks ago and started moving the Impals in last week. Before then, they hid out like a bunch of outlaws. The poor folks were scattered all over the countryside. Some took refuge in basements, back rooms, caves and about any hole they could find. This place was easy. We brought a bunch of cots in, a couple of dozen buckets and bulk food items like cheese, crackers and canned meats.”
I was familiar with the Impals’ desire to eat. There didn’t seem to be any physiological need for it, yet they craved it all the same. I figured the buckets were probably for the end result.
A single little girl, sitting on a cot about twenty feet away, found it very amusing. She could have stepped out of an episode of Little House on the Prairie.
“My momma calls these squenching buckets!” she giggled, pointing at a stack of buckets in the corner.
I have never heard anyone use the term other than Thomas Pendleton. I wondered if this was someone who crossed paths with him and Seth. Curiosity got the best of me. I walked over to the little girl and knelt down.
“What’s your name, honey?” I asked.
She stopped giggling and studied my face for several moments.
“Rebecca … Rebecca Fiddler,” she said in a sweet tinny voice.
“Where’s your mom and dad?” I asked.
She pointed to a woman in similar nineteenth-century apparel. The woman held her hand over one of the buckets, dropping something out of her palm resembling breadcrumbs. A moment later, she walked toward us.
“Hello … Mrs. Fiddler?” I asked, extending my hand.
My hand felt like ice as she grasped my fingers. I did a good job suppressing my discomfort. Touching an Impal has always been akin to jumping in a cold lake. You know the water is cold, you know the moment is coming, but nothing ever prepares you for the shock of the initial plunge.
“Yes I am … and you are?” she said with gracious Southern charm in her voice. She reminded me of Scarlett O’Hara speaking into a tin can.
“My name is Cecil Garrison, ma’am. I would like to ask you a question if I may.”
She shrugged and then sat down next to Rebecca on the cot.
“Did you come up with the term, squenching?” I asked. I felt a flush of embarrassment for asking.
Even though Impals can’t blush like flesh-and-blood people, a sheepish smile washed over her face. Her eyes
fell to her lap. As she began to speak, I believe I saw a noticeable bloom in her glowing features.
“I don’t know … maybe,” she said.
“Did you ever run across a man named Thomas Pendleton and his son, Seth?” I asked.
She blinked with surprise. “Why, yes … a little over a month ago we enjoyed a picnic with them … back in Arkansas,” she said, and then her eyes widened with fear. “Are they okay?” she gasped.
I glanced at Rebecca who was watching us with great interest. Therefore, I decided to lie.
“Well, yes … I believe so,” I stammered. I was never very good at lying, especially doing it on the spot. “Saw them not too long ago.”
Rebecca seemed to buy my bogus story as she rolled over on her stomach on top of the cot and began to sing a soft lullaby as she clutched her pillow like a doll. I’m sure it was a beautiful and innocuous song in her day. It sent a chill up my spine. I guess my affinity for horror movies coupled with the reality of my present company got the best of me for a moment. I jumped as I felt cold encircle my hand; I looked down to see Mrs. Fiddler grasping my hand and beckoning me to follow. She was not as gullible as her daughter. When we walked a few feet away, she stopped and regarded me with stubborn resolve and terror swimming in her luminous eyes.
“What happened?” she asked.
I glanced at Rebecca and then back to Mrs. Fiddler. I knew I needed to answer her, however I needed to ask a question of my own first.
“Where is the rest of your family?” I asked.
I immediately wished I hadn’t asked. The balance in her eyes of stubborn resolve and terror shifted. My throat tightened into a knot as large silvery tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“We … my husband and my son … we got separated this side of Memphis. I think the Army took them away. We were trying to find my oldest son, Nathan. We wanted to see if he stayed behind like we did … that’s all we were doing,” she sniffed then quickly turned her head away. I noticed Rebecca was watching us again.
“I’m sorry,” I said, patting her upper arm. “I’m sure they are fine.”
I saw the balance in her eyes shift back to stubborn resolve. “I heard about the Shredder, Mr. Garrison,” she said. “I don’t think any of us who get captured will be all right, do you?”
The Myriad Resistance Page 5