Long Road to Survival: The Prepper Series

by Lee Bradford

  “You said ‘I didn’t do nothing wrong’. That’s bad grammar.”

  “Oh, thank you, Professor. I can’t wait to see what that big brain of yours comes up with when the food and water in this here bag runs out.”

  “We’ll just need to find more,” Paul replied, wondering if Buck was asking a trick question.

  “At the supermarket, I’ll bet.” Buck let out a bellowing laugh. “If I dumped you in the woods with nothing but this pocket knife”—Buck yanked it out of his pocket, blood still on the grip—“you’d be dead in two days or less.”

  “I could last longer than that.”

  “Really, how? By drinking your own pee?”

  “Maybe,” Paul replied, although he knew his false bravado was only making him look silly.

  “If thirst didn’t do you in first, then the animals would. Being a prepper ain’t just about being able to survive for a few extra days if the grid goes down. It’s a way of life. It’s about freedom and getting back to the things that once made this country great.”

  “Made us? You make it sound like our greatness is long gone.”

  “And for good reason,” Buck replied as they passed the second street. “And I’m not just talking about those cities that got nuked. This sort of thing’s been a long time coming. Over the years there’s been lots of voices trying to warn people that if something real bad happens, we don’t have a backup plan. How many people know how their cars work? You ask ’em and they’ll say, ‘Sure, I hit the gas pedal and she goes.’ But that’s not what I mean. Very few know precisely what makes their cars work and the mechanics of the world—like the grease monkeys who worked at the Phillips 66 station—aren’t complaining one bit. Heck, other people’s ignorance puts food on their table, and maybe even buys their kids an education.”

  “Yeah, and what’s wrong with that?”

  Buck shook his head. “Information is power, that’s what’s wrong with it. When you’ve got a country filled with people who rely on the expertise of others, you have a time bomb waiting to go off. We’re seeing the proof of that right now. The bombs that took out all those cities are bad enough, so is the radiation which is already on its way. But it’s only when the power grid gets knocked out that you start to really see what I mean. You ask a child where chicken comes from and you know what he’ll say?”

  “The supermarket.”

  Buck laughed. “And he may even remember they stock it along the back aisle in the cold section. You think he understands it starts out as a bird? That it needs to be defeathered, gutted, the meat taken off the bone?”

  “No, of course not, but that’s a child.”

  “Once all those grocery shelves empty out and folks start feeling those hunger pangs the desperation begins to take over. That’s one of the reasons I insisted on coming along to clean up your mess. I wanted to get my daughter and granddaughter back to safety before things went completely to Hell.”

  “What do you mean cleaning up my mess?”

  “I told you before,” Buck said, pulling the brim of his cap down an inch. “You dropped the ball the minute you let them go off on their own.”

  “I can’t follow them around. I thought we already went over this.”

  “No, of course you can’t, but what’s the real reason you didn’t stay there to help, Paul?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what’s the real reason you went back to Nebraska? You said earlier you wanted the girls to have some time alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “So there wasn’t anything else informing your decision?”

  “I had to work.”

  “Oh, come on. You run a music shop. You telling me you woulda gone bankrupt if you’d stayed in Atlanta two more days?”

  Paul’s heart was thumping in his chest. Of course, there were other reasons he’d come home while Susan flew out to Atlanta. He’d wanted some time to himself. The house would be quiet and he could eat on the couch or in bed without getting an earful. It also meant he could stay up late, play his guitar at full tilt until his fingers bled if he really wanted to. He needed some solo time and there was nothing wrong with that. But then how could a judgmental guy like Buck understand such things? After driving off his own wife and nearly everyone else, solo time was all Buck had left. Paul wasn’t a bad person, was he?

  Up ahead he spotted the house Travis had told them about. He hadn’t been kidding about the cars parked on the front lawn, except there weren’t six of them. From here it looked more like ten.

  Buck seemed to notice that as well. “Place looks like Sam Raferty’s junkyard,” he whispered. An observation which under different circumstances might have amused Paul since Buck’s property back in Nebraska was quickly heading in that direction too—a landscaping design Paul liked to call ‘post-tornado.’

  As they approached, a man glared at them from his porch. The moment they drew even with his house, the man racked his shotgun and told them that was far enough. “You two boys stay right where you are. Sheriff’ll be here any second.”

  Chapter 19

  “You called the sheriff?” Paul asked, wondering when the phone lines were fixed.

  “He didn’t do nothing of the sort,” Buck whispered. “He’s bluffing.” He turned to the old man and threw his hands into the air. “We ain’t here to hurt you, old-timer. Your neighbor Travis Wright sent us. Our truck broke down not far from here and he said you might be able to lend a hand.”

  The man on the porch used the butt of the shotgun to prop himself up. “Who you calling old-timer? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you were one of them stunt doubles for Kenny Rogers.”

  Paul let out a snicker. Buck didn’t make a sound and he didn’t need to. If smoke could shoot from a man’s ears in real life, that was what Paul would be seeing right now.

  “’Sides,” the old guy said, “Travis Wright and his wife Teresa are a pair of no-good liberals come down here from Vermont. Well, they can head on back to their cows for all I care. I heard those shots earlier and the police sirens not long after. The sheriff or at least one of his deputies should be rolling through here any minute now.”

  “Then you didn’t call him?”

  “With what? Don’t you know the phones and ’lectricity’s gone out?” He stood there as though regarding a couple of village idiots. A loose shirt and slacks hung from his body like a bed sheet from a clothesline.

  “Listen,” Paul said, “we’ve got a long way to go. My wife and daughter are stranded hundreds of miles from here and we’re trying to bring them home to Greenwood.”

  The man’s face twitched at that last part. Had the story about Paul’s family melted the old guy’s heart?

  “Greenwood, Nebraska?” he said, working his jaw to keep the dentures in his mouth.

  Paul was surprised. “Yeah, you know it?”

  “I got a relative up that way. Cousin of mine named Jarvis Taylor.”

  The expression on Buck’s face soured right away. “Forget this guy,” he said in what was less of a whisper than Paul would have liked.

  “You’re related to Jarvis?” Paul said with surprise.

  “Course I am. You know him?” The old man looked suspicious.

  “Sure do. He’s got a cattle farm right near us.”

  “That’s true, he does raise cattle. Well, I’ll be.” The old man set the shotgun down and waved them over. “Any friend of Jarvis’ is a friend of mine.”

  Buck leaned over. “Great. And what are we gonna do when he finds out Jarvis and I hate each other’s guts?”

  “We just gotta make sure he doesn’t,” Paul replied with a sheepish grin.

  Chapter 20

  Soon they were in the man’s house, Paul painfully aware of every second that ticked by.

  “Name’s Bill Parrett. Folks round here call me Wild Bill.”

  “I can see why,” Paul said, shaking hands. “I’m Paul.”

  Buck stuck out his hand. “And I’m Bu—”


  “—Marv,” Paul cut in, just in case Bill knew of Buck and Jarvis’ longstanding feud.

  “Barv?” Bill said, his thin lips forming a puzzled frown. “I ain’t never heard a name like that before.”

  “It’s Belgian,” Paul added, trying to smooth things over and getting a piercing look from Buck in the process.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything. You boys want something to drink?”

  Bill’s house could more accurately be described as a shack. A cat ran between Buck’s legs and meowed, nearly giving the big man a heart attack.

  “Oh, don’t mind her,” Bill said. “That’s Cindy. She’s just getting used to you. Won’t be another minute before she tries scaling up Barv’s clothes to sit on his shoulder.”

  Buck smiled weakly. “Can’t hardly wait.”

  But Cindy wasn’t the only feline around. Seemed Wild Bill wasn’t wanting for companions. In the short time they’d been here, Paul had already counted over half a dozen furry little critters. Although their presence had been given away the moment Bill pushed open his front door, since the overpowering odor of a collection of dirty litter boxes had hit both men like a slap in the face.

  “So about the car that Travis mentioned,” Paul said, trying to broach the subject without Bill feeling like his hospitality was unwelcomed.

  “Where I come from,” Bill replied, “it just ain’t right to talk business unless both parties have shared a drink. What’s your poison, gentlemen?”

  Paul and Buck looked at each other.

  “I could go for some whiskey,” Paul said. “Got anything aged ten or fifteen years?”

  Bill stepped around the corner into the kitchen and swung the fridge open. “Afraid I’m all outa whiskey right now, but I do got something a little more recent.” He returned holding two beer cans. “Coors or Busch Light?”

  Paul made it a point of never drinking domestic beers, especially the canned stuff they sold in grocery stores by the case.

  “I’ll take the Coors,” Buck said, his eyes brightening.

  “Guess that leaves the Busch Light for you, Paul,” Bill said, tossing him the can.

  If the thought of pouring cheap cold beer down his throat seemed unappealing, the thought of doing the same with a warm beer made his stomach turn.

  Bill scurried off to get his own and the three men pulled the tabs back and cheered one another, the forced grin on Paul’s face plastered there with all his might.

  “Bottoms up,” Buck said and tilted it back, his throat working as he downed the entire thing down in one go. When he finished, he let out a burp and crushed the can into a tiny ball.

  Bill did the same. When he was done, both men turned to Paul, who took a sip and raised the can as if to let them know how great all of this was.

  “Chug it,” Buck ordered him.

  “What?”

  “Beer wasn’t made for sippin’,” Bill spat, slapping his bony knee with the palm of his hand and flashing them a pair of gnarly dentures.

  Paul’s eyes jumped between each man, knowing full well that their success in convincing the old man to give them a car might depend on this very moment.

  “Go on, you sissy,” Buck said, nudging him.

  Paul wiped the mouth of the can with his shirt and only afterward brought it to his lips. Like everyone else he’d heard the stories about rats peeing on cans stored in warehouses and wasn’t about to risk contracting some disease. Leaning back, he felt the warm, carbonated liquid pass over his tongue and roll down his throat. The urge to stop was strong. The urge to throw it up all over them was stronger, but he fought both and stopped when the last of the beer was gone.

  Buck slapped him on the back. “That a boy. I thought all you college boys could drink?”

  Paul’s eyes were still watering. “That was more than twenty years ago.”

  “I still can’t believe you two know Jarvis,” Bill said. “What a miniscule world we live in. Last time we spoke musta been months ago. He was having trouble with that neighbor of his. Buck, I think his name was. Or maybe Bobby. Cross between a mule and a bull. That’s how Jarvis used to describe him. A really petty SOB too, squabbling over a few feet of property. Even used his tractor to knock down….”

  “Yeah, we know the story,” Buck cut him off.

  Bill looked at him strangely. “Well, I didn’t mean no offense. I take it you know this Buck character too?”

  “You might say that,” Paul replied, trying to keep from breathing in the cat litter fumes.

  Buck straightened his cap and fidgeted with a child’s squirt gun he found on a small table next to him. “Buck’s not such a bad guy.”

  “Really,” Paul said. “Maybe you don’t think so, but half of Greenwood does. That I can promise you. He’s one of those angry men who’ll bite your face off for having the gall to disagree.” He turned to Buck. “You know what I mean?”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” Buck shot back. “But from what I hear Buck ain’t all that bad. There’s two sides to every story. The way I heard it, that Jarvis was building on land that wasn’t his. All Buck done was enact his rights.”

  Bill didn’t like the sound of that and Paul gave Buck a reproachful look. This wasn’t the moment to prove that he was right and Jarvis was wrong.

  Buck drew in a breath and let the air out real slow. “I will admit that sometimes Buck can be curt and unfriendly.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Paul said, trying to having fun. “The man is like a bull in a China shop.”

  Buck looked at him. “Maybe he’s something like that.”

  “A real unreasonable piece of dung,” Bill added, smiling.

  Buck gripped the squirt gun and worked the lever with his finger, producing nothing but dry wisps of air. “All right, Buck’s the biggest jerk in Nebraska.” He turned to Paul. “You happy?”

  “Very,” Paul said, his face split by a widening grin.

  “Good, then I’d like another warm beer, Bill. And this time make it a Busch Light.”

  Chapter 21

  The three men had moved outside to the part of Bill’s property where he kept his cars. The majority of them looked as though they’d sat for some time. The rest looked in dire need of a mechanic or a one-way trip to the scrap yard.

  “You sure these will run?” Buck asked the old guy. “There’s quite a distance between here and Atlanta.”

  “Only one I know for sure is the Chevrolet Celebrity,” Bill offered. “She’s an eighty-eight model.”

  “American-made,” Buck said with growing confidence.

  “That’s right, Barv. I don’t mess with any of those foreign contraptions. American-built is good enough for me.”

  Paul studied the car. Burgundy with a matching interior. He wasn’t going to be picky so long as it would get them from point A to B.

  “Any gas in the tank?” Buck asked, running his hand along the hood.

  “I filled her up couple days ago. Had a man here yesterday from Kansas City interested in buying her. I figure once the power comes back on he’ll be calling. But if you boys really want it, I may be able to lean him toward the Pontiac Grand Am.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath about that buyer, Bill,” Buck told him. “There ain’t no telling when the power’s gonna come back on.”

  Bill fixed him in a puzzled stare.

  “I don’t think he knows,” Paul said.

  “Knows what?” Bill asked, becoming agitated.

  “We’ve been attacked, Bill,” Paul said as plainly as he could.

  “Attacked?”

  “The USA, Bill,” Buck cut in. “Terrorists went and detonated nuclear bombs in our biggest port cities. Smuggled ’em in using container ships. It’s about as bad as it gets. That’s why we’re heading to Atlanta, to grab our loved ones and bring ’em home.”

  Bill’s jaw was twitching wildly as his eyes darted from one man to the other, not entirely sure if they were pulling his leg or not.

 
; Paul put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “See, Bu… I mean Barv here’s got a bunker under his barn that we’re gonna head to before the radiation reaches us.”

  Buck dug an elbow into his ribs and Paul let out a squeal.

  “You two ain’t pulling my leg, are you?”

  “No, sir,” Paul said. “It’s hard to wrap your head around, I know, especially for us folks smack dab in the middle of the country. I can’t even imagine what’s going on up and down the East and West Coasts.”

  “Not to mention the Gulf of Mexico,” Buck added.

  Paul couldn’t help feeling bad for the old man, but even stronger was his yearning to get back on the road as soon as possible. “Those gunshots you heard before, Bill. I’m sure that’s just the first sign that the threads of society are slowly coming undone.”

  As if on cue a police cruiser pulled to a stop in front of Bill’s house. The passenger window rolled down and a voice from inside asked if everything was okay.

  “Not really, Deputy Brant,” Bill shot back, his voice tight with emotion. “I’m not sure I believe what these two gentlemen are telling me.”

  Brant seemed to catch on right away. He got out of the car and as he did Paul’s pulse began speeding up.

  “Afraid it is, Bill,” the deputy said, shaking his head. “We’re still waiting for more information to roll in. National Guard’s on its way from Topeka. Seems like all Hell’s breaking loose and we’re seriously undermanned.”

  “Heard some automatic gunfire earlier,” Bill added and Paul wished he’d just kept quiet.

  “Yup, it’s a bloody scene up there. We’re still putting the pieces together. Looks like a robbery, but we’re not sure just yet. Got a few dead as well, including two men we’re trying to identify.”

  “Two?” Buck blurted out without thinking.

  “That’s right,” the deputy replied. “One took a shotgun blast to the chest. The other musta split his skull open when he fell.”

  Buck grew quiet.

  “You don’t think they’re some of them terrorists, do you?” Bill asked.