Hideaway_An Emp Thriller

by Roger Hayden

  “I'm struggling here, Larry,” he said with a sip of coffee. He paused and saw slight confusion, followed by a suspicious eye. “Nothing to do with you or Carol,” he quickly said. “You guys have been great. I just feel so trapped and confined.” He scratched along the scruff on his face and then pulled at the collar of his flannel jacket. It was chillier out than usual that morning. He had on pants and a jacket just as Larry did. “I'd like to take a hike just to clear my head.”

  In response, Larry studied him with careful eyes. “It's only been a week. Pull your head out of your ass and enjoy the scenery.”

  “It's more than that,” James said, hoping to reach a compromise. “Marla and I have been fighting a lot.” He then set the coffee mug down and cleared his throat, feeling Larry's piercing stare. “I just need to get away for a few hours. Have some time on my own.”

  Larry massaged his own forehead and then tossed his arm down. “You want to go for a walk? Go for a walk and blow off some steam. No one's stopping you.”

  “I appreciate your understanding,” James said. “It'll only be for a few hours.”

  “I've some stuff I'm working on anyway,” Larry said with a shrug.

  “Okay. I'll probably head out in a few hours,” James said, finishing his coffee. “Unless there was something you needed me for.”

  “Nah,” Larry said, standing up. He walked to the door and then turned around as if remembering one of his own rules. “Don't venture off too far now. Stick to the areas I've shown you.”

  “Of course,” James said.

  Larry walked inside and saw Carol in the kitchen, washing dishes at the sink. James soon followed and continued toward the bedroom. Opening the door, he saw Marla at the window. The curtains were open and sunshine beamed inside. Her head never turned, even as he crept inside. Closing the door, he approached, speaking just above a whisper.

  “I'm going to head out soon,” he said.

  She turned and it was easy to read what she was thinking. “Larry’s okay with it?”

  “No objections,” James said, squeezing her shoulders. “I'm going to try my best to get us a car.” They kissed and he went to a chair in the corner, grabbing his backpack. Inside was bottled water and some snacks along with his map, compass, and pistol. He kicked off his sneakers as he sat on the end of the bed. Marla continued to watch out the window as he put on a pair of hiking boots.

  “Nearest town isn't too far,” he said. “About eight miles.”

  “You told me last night,” she said, walking over. “Don't get lost.”

  “I won't.” They kissed as he went to the door, opening it.

  They walked out together toward the kitchen, where Carol was sitting at the table with a paperback book in hand. She glanced up to see the backpack over his shoulders. “Going somewhere?”

  “Just a little hike,” James answered, omitting specifics. He continued to the front door with Marla following. They exited the cabin and saw Larry on the porch. He looked up at them, surprised as he lowered a book.

  “Figured I'd get started while it's still early,” James said.

  Larry wished him luck and waved as he and Marla walked off the deck and toward the side of the cabin.

  “Be careful,” Marla said, squeezing him tight.

  “I will,” James said.

  He headed behind the cabin, waving to her. Except this time, he'd turn and go the other way once out of sight. Winslow was in the opposite direction of the creek and everything else, a course that he and Larry had never taken. James walked down a rocky path leading into the expansive forest and could already feel a sense of confinement lifting from him.

  The backpack bounced against his shoulder, with its water bottles inside. James hurried down the uneven terrain off the beaten path and finding a spot in the shade of a dozen trees, where he would to begin his real journey. He lifted his pack up and set it onto the ground. Kneeling next to it, he pulled out his compass and map from the front pocket. He had to maintain a consistent direction of 320 degrees northwest. He even had a small handful of pebbles he planned to use for a pace count.

  He hoped to find a rural town largely unaffected by the blackout. There were a lot of farms out there. People were self-sufficient by nature. Feeling confident in the mission, James continued down the thickly overgrown path, through heavy brush and rows of pine trees, his focus shifting between his compass and the view ahead.

  He tried to maintain a brisk pace despite the rough terrain, and the continual downhill slope assisted him with that. Though James knew it wouldn't be the same story walking back. The trip home would be just the opposite. That was where most of the work was going to be. He soon came upon a clearing, seemingly empty, where the tall grass and weeds had been flattened or dug out.

  He continued along the large circle which resembled a crop circle at first glance. There were several different fire pits dug into the ground, and James soon realized he was walking by one of the campsites Larry had warned him to stay away from. But there was no one around. They hadn't seen a single person anywhere in their travels through the forest over the past few days. Most people, he assumed, had either evacuated the area, found refuge elsewhere, or were hunkering down like they were.

  James kept a steady downhill pace through the thick grass and patches of dead autumn leaves. He stepped over twigs and branches in his path, while moving completely around a dead fallen tree, snapped at the bottom as if hit by lightning. He stared down at the compass in his hand, trying to maintain the proper degree and direction, dropping pebbles after so many pace counts along the way.

  Even with the slight breeze in the air, trees peacefully swaying, he was sweaty and out of breath. Maneuvering through the brush, he came upon a familiar dirt path with tire tracks. It was the very path that led to the cabin. All James had to do was follow it down to the road at the end of the hill and he'd be somewhere closer to town. He was making progress. In his pockets were his wallet, cell phone, and keys. He didn't know why he brought any of it other than out of habit. His hiking boots dug against the rocky dirt path, crunching along the way and leaving footprints behind.

  From his vantage point, he could see farther down to where the road curved around the hill and the ground leveled out below. Miles from the cabin, he hadn't heard or seen any vehicles from afar or aircraft above. He had seen little wildlife on his journey so far. Following the narrow path with trees on both sides, took James slightly off his directional pattern as the compass arrow veered north. He'd readjust on the road when he was only a few miles from Winslow.

  James soon found himself on level terrain, following a long line of tire tracks leading out of the forest. Through hanging branches, he could see a horizontally-stretched road ahead. Beyond the road was a corn field, one of many in that area. The sight of civilization was a breath of fresh air, and he found himself smiling.

  James quickened his pace, holding his compass to the side as the backpack slapped against him with every hurried step. He continued down the path, insects buzzing around him. He estimated the time as close to nine or ten in the morning. The week had blurred together so much, and it wasn't easy to keep track of the days. He needed an escape from it all, if such a thing was possible.

  The road slanted upward where the road was in clear view. James pivoted to the side, behind some bushes upon hearing some kind of rumbling in the distance. His mind raced with possibilities. Was it a single vehicle or a convoy? The sound became clearer as he crouched for cover. There were multiple engines roaring in the distance, loud and unruly. James looked all around him, trying to figure out which direction they were coming from. The roaring increased. James whipped his head to his left and saw a blurry figure moving fast down the road, trailed by several others.

  Upon closer inspection, James could see they were motorcycles. They were moving fast. Rubbing his eyes, James watched them, transfixed. There were at least a dozen bikes, storming down the road like torpedoes. The riders all wore black leather and no helmets.
James immediately rose and stared ahead in amazement. He hadn't even made it to town, and already things were different. He rushed from behind the bushes and hurried forward, attempting to wave down the bikers. He stumbled down the hill and ran out onto the road. The bikers were already far past, their blaring engines howling down the road. They hadn't noticed him, and perhaps that was for the better. The haze of exhaust lingered in the air.

  He stopped in the middle of the road, weeds sprouting from its cracked pavement. He leaned down, stretching and catching his breath. Soon things were quiet again, and there were no other vehicles. He moved across to the other side of the road, pulling the folded map from his pocket and leaning on a guard rail. Unfolding the map, he held his compass out and then measured the distance to Winslow at an estimated fifty 290 degrees west. He had roughly five miles to go. He pulled a bottle of water from his bag and sucked it down while resting against the guard rail. He sat for a moment, examining both sides of the road. After a quick breather, he stood up and walked left, carefully keeping to the shoulder out of habit, and reenergized knowing that the town of Winslow wasn't much further off.

  9

  Crossing Borders

  Beyond the town sign were homes in view on both sides of the desolate road. Unfortunately, no signs of life, not yet anyway. James kept to the side of the road, holding a pair of binoculars. He scanned ahead and saw a few scattered mailboxes and vehicles in the driveways. The homes were fairly spread apart, and far ahead he could see the hanging lights of an intersection. Of course they weren't working, and James was disappointed that he hadn’t encounter anyone during his journey into the town, other than the bikers he’d seen passing by.

  He scanned the street head and saw a sign for a vacant gas station and a small plaza across from it. The road he was on veered off in two directions with grass median separating them. James stuck to the left side and walked by several homes shrouded behind woods, with long dirt driveways and No Trespassing signs hanging from wooden fences. He passed several more, on smaller lots, then grew excited when he spotted a quaint house on the corner of a rundown intersection, with an old blue Cadillac, its top down, sitting in the driveway.

  James looked at the cluttered yard and knew something was amiss. A television lay flat on the ground with its screen cracked down the middle. Beyond that, he saw dresser drawers scattered about with clothes everywhere. He walked up the driveway and kept a careful eye on the front porch for anyone who might come out. He stopped near the Cadillac and called out toward the house. “Hello? Is anyone there?” He waited, but there was no answer. He turned and peered inside the open Cadillac. Below the already-cannibalized steering wheel, a mess of wires had been pulled out.

  James looked to the porch and saw a busted front door. He ventured closer to explore, making his way up the porch steps. He called out again as he looked inside the house. There was furniture slashed open and tables and lamps flipped among the shattered glass shards, and holes punched in the walls, as though a rowdy bunch of vandals had had a field day. He quickly left the house and went back down the driveway, moving on. The street was quiet, no sounds of engines or people. He felt completely alone.

  A few abandoned vehicles sat on the road ahead, among them a white Ford Falcon crashed into a telephone pole. He walked past a two-story Victorian style home with a vast yard surrounded by wooden fencing. On the side of the house was an empty stable.

  He continued down the seemingly desolate street, glancing at a few sporadically-placed homes on both sides of the road. They all had sprawling yards with forest behind them. James kept to the sidewalk and slowed to examine one small, square home with a flat roof, far behind a chain-link fence. Its front door was open and there was a Mercury Sable in the driveway, at least ten years old. Its gray paint had faded sun spots. Children's toys littered the sizable yard. Like some abandoned nuclear test village, there was no one around.

  James passed the next seemingly empty house at a four-way stop. Beyond the narrow intersection, he saw a field on one side with cows grazing in the distance. Across the street was a sign indicating a police station a half mile up the road. He pulled out his binoculars again and spotted another intersection ahead. Below the non-functioning traffic lights, he saw two cars smashed into each other.

  He lowered his binoculars and moved on, boots against pavement, passing a speed limit sign riddled with bullet holes. He wasn't sure how old the damage was, or if street signs were normally used for target practice around there. He increased his pace, determined to reach the police station. There had to be someone around who had answers. James peered into the brush at his right, where insects flew away upon his approach. Pine trees whispered overhead, lightly shading his path. He paused for a moment, leaning down to stretch. His backpack felt heavier by the hour, despite its lighter weight. It had warmed up since morning, and he was already sweating.

  He took the ball cap off his head and fanned his face, readjusting his sunglasses. He tapped the pointy end of his walking stick against the sidewalk. He'd been gone at least two hours by his estimate. He soon arrived at the intersection with the car collision in the middle. The smashed-in truck and the Subaru Outback were both unoccupied. Glass was shattered and broken out of their windshields, bits covering the oil-stained road.

  He followed a curve and passed an old three-story brick building surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. Vines trailed the front of the building, obscuring an already faded sign. Most of the multi-paneled windows were smashed out. Weeds sprouted from tiny rocks that once constituted a parking lot.

  Gripping the chain-link fence, James examined the building. There were several No Trespassing signs affixed to the front and on the fence itself. He looked at the gaping windows and absent glass. Whatever it used to be, it was no more. He turned from the building and kept walking. Even before the EMP, it had not been a pretty or prosperous town.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” he said under his breath while moving quickly down the road. He followed the next curve of the endless sidewalk and saw another building ahead on the right, across the road. He moved faster and was able to make out a sign in the front lot surrounded by bushes. There was a police logo and a few marked cars parked. Across the street from the station sat a quaint gas station with a big yellow sign. Its doors were closed and no one was inside.

  James hurried across the road toward the police station, eager to talk to someone. The front doors were locked, much to his dismay. All the windows had bars on them as well. James pulled the entrance handle and then banged against the door, rattling it. A sign hung on the door from inside, displaying hours of operation and the name of the sheriff and deputy.

  “Anyone in there? Hello?”

  He backed away from the door, disappointed. He then circled the small building, passing the two police cruisers parked in the shade. They were covered in leaves and debris from the trees around the lot. He opened one driver's side door and saw that the car had been cleaned out of any police equipment. There were no weapons, laptops, uniforms, or anything else inside. It was just the car and its divider cage.

  He closed the door and went directly to the next car. Its driver's side window was smashed out, shattered glass covering the vinyl seat. James carefully opened the door and saw a crowbar lying below the ravaged steering wheel. With its array of wires hanging out, it was clear that someone had already tried to start it.

  James continued around the small building, passing an air conditioning unit, but couldn't find a way in. There was no way inside, so James gave up and returned to the street. He didn't know the answers, but he did see refuge in the form of a grand church across the way, with its gothic steeple stretching to the sky. Up an entrance ramp, the double-door entrance was closed. There were no windows in the front. The lower half of the building was stone, its upper half, dark brown wood. Its vast green lawn was still surprisingly trim. There was a long, horizontal sign planted in the lawn for the First Winslow Baptist Church. The marquee below had bible section
s listed and the date of the next service, dated two weeks prior.

  James hurried through the grass and toward a lot where only a few vehicles were parked. Along the side of the church were long stained-glass windows, blocking visibility inside. He stood for a moment and watched the church for any movement. He turned to see a mini-van parked nearby in the otherwise empty lot. It was old enough, he believed, to warrant a second look. Through the dusty windshield, he saw a dozen empty cigarette packs scattered across the dashboard. He opened the door and peeked inside.

  There were no keys in the ignition. Wrappers and soda cans littered the floor. There were blankets on the seats in the front and back. Clothes were everywhere. It looked as though someone had been living inside. He checked the middle console for keys and then sifted around in the trash on the floor. Suddenly, the church doors flew open, crashing back onto the stone wall and making a loud and startling noise.

  James ducked down and watched from behind the steering wheel as a woman ran outside, her long hair blowing in the wind. She made it down the ramp and across the concrete, tumbling over into the grass. On instinct, James went for his pistol just as four men emerged, following the woman. They were bulky and big, with shaved heads and with visible tattoos along their arms. One had long hair braided down his back. They looked out of place in a small farming community. They approached the crying woman with confident strides as she struggled to get up.

  James peered around the van with his pistol drawn. One of the men wasted no time delivering a swift kick to the woman's side. They circled her as she screamed in pain. James gripped the side of the van door, trying to decide if he should intervene. Four against one?

  Damn it, he muttered, raising his pistol. He had expected perhaps a random encounter with the locals, but nothing like this. After a deep breath he walked forward, leaving the concealment of the van behind.