by Nathan Combs
“In a week or so. An Ice Age would make life more difficult than we could imagine. Feeding everyone would become a major problem.”
“You’re right. It would.” A mischievous grin spread across her face. “So… what… ? You don’t think I’d look good hanging out in the cave in an animal skin?”
He pulled her close, nestled his chin in her hair, and smiled. “I think you look better in Maggie skin than any other. In fact, it’s my favorite skin in the whole world.”
The four years since the collapse had been harsh, but they were kind to Maggie. He tilted his head back and looked into the smiling face of his wife. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Chapter Six
Odyssey
Captain Noah Wallace was proud of his Scottish heritage, but was button-popping proud to be a direct descendant of Sir William Wallace. Born and raised near the hamlet of Delano, Tennessee, Noah graduated from the University of Tennessee and, the day after, joined the United States Army. After basic, OCS (Officer Candidate School), and Airborne School, he completed the IBOLC (Infantry Basic Officer Leadership Course), went to Ranger School, and was assigned to the 82nd Airborne. He did tours in Iraq and Afghanistan with the 82nd, then applied for and was accepted into a ranger regiment where he completed the Captains career course. Assigned to the 75th Ranger Regiment, 2nd Battalion, in Fort Lewis, Washington, he looked forward to deployment in his new position.
Noah was a loner and hated stupidity with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He liked individual people and did have friends, but held out little hope for humanity. Twenty-eight years old with light brown hair, at six foot one and two hundred ten pounds, he was considered attractive, but had one glaring physical anomaly. His left eye was bright green while his right eye was pale blue. Looking him in the eyes was disconcerting, or, as his last girlfriend put it, fucking weird, man. He also had trouble maintaining relationships because, in the words of the same ex-girlfriend, “you suck at communicating.”
Noah liked shooting terrorists. Which meant he liked combat. When asked why by the ex-girlfriend, he replied: “Because they’re evil and don’t deserve to live.”
Apparently she didn’t like that answer and asked what gave him the right to be judge, jury, and executioner.
His response was: “Fuck you!”
While it was common knowledge to the warriors in the 75th that Noah was fearless in battle, they had no idea he was little-girl-petrified of spiders. In addition to arachnids, he feared and hid two other issues: failure and commitment. Not necessarily in that order.
Other than his immediate family, Noah was close to one other person: his best friend, Captain Joshua Cook. Against all odds, Noah and Josh had gone through every phase of their army careers together, from basic training to their current assignment with the 2nd Battalion of the 75th Ranger Regiment. They were both company commanders and shared a two-bedroom house in a quiet military neighborhood in DuPont, just minutes from the main gate of Fort Lewis. On a gloomy and drizzly evening in March, Noah was watching Brave Heart for the millionth time, and Josh was rolling his eyes in his best effort to get under Noah’s skin.
“Hey, dipshit, why don’t you put on that little plaid mini-skirt you pretend you don’t have? I can assemble the platoons and you can tell ’em how tough you wee Scottish lads are?”
Noah ignored him and cranked the volume to max, which was the only way to fend off Josh’s never-ending assault.
The movie was winding down, and as always, the ending gave Noah goose bumps. FREEDOM ricocheted valiantly off the walls and rattled the windows.
As the last remnant of the M faded into oblivion, Noah’s cell phone rang.
It was his boss, Lt. Colonel Edward Collins. “Wallace, I hope Cook’s with you.”
“Yes, sir, he is.”
“We got a problem. Both of you get over here. Now.” Click.
The two friends looked at each other, eyebrows raised, and headed for Collin’s office on the double.
Entering Lt. Colonel Collin’s office, the captains saluted and stood at ease.
Collins said, “Sit down. I’ll cut right to the chase. The dollar has collapsed. We’re in deep shit. I have a directive from the commandant”—he waved a single sheet of paper—“via executive order that suspends Posse Comitatus, which as you know does not allow the use of active duty military troops to operate within the United States. We’re supposed to deploy to Seattle and patrol the streets.”
Noah said, “That’s not funny, boss.”
“It’s not funny because it’s not a joke, Wallace.”
Noah and Josh looked at each other, then simultaneously asked, “When?”
“As soon as His Eminence decides it’s necessary. After the banks close and the food’s gone, there’s gonna be major rioting. My guess is we have three to four days.”
Josh said, “What are we gonna do, boss?”
“I can’t speak for you guys, but that’s not what I signed up for. I’ll wait until he gives the actual order, but when he does, I’m resigning my commission. I swore to uphold the Constitution of the United States. Not trash it.”
Five days later, President Owen ordered troops into the streets of America, and Noah and Josh followed the lead of the majority of commissioned officers in the United States Army. Resigning their commissions was a difficult decision. They both loved their country and genuinely loved the army, too, but like Lt. Colonel Collins, they refused to be part of an order that violated the oath they took to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States of America.
After separation, they decided to hang around Fort Lewis until the situation returned to normal. It never did. Life in the United States quickly went from bad to worse, and although they kept every piece of equipment they were issued, they were not prepared for the total collapse of the country.
Two weeks later, the riots were out of control, and they watched normal, everyday citizens being taken from their homes and transported to FEMA camps. Neither liked what he saw.
Because they still had contacts at Fort Lewis, they decided to take advantage and secure additional gear. Within two days, they appropriated a dosimeter and other high tech equipment, packed go-bags, and headed to the Gilford Pinchot National Forest to ride out the storm. Another three weeks brought the successive EMP attacks. A brief but devastating nuclear war followed, and the Pacific Northwest, including large parts of Washington State, became a radioactive wasteland.
Deep in the Gilford Pinchot National Forest, they were holed up in a cave for over a month until the threat from low-level fallout abated. Since there was no USA left to defend—or to go to, for that matter—and because they had nothing tying them to the area, they decided to head to their homes to see what had happened to their families. The first stop was Josh’s hometown of Fayetteville, Arkansas. GPS satellites were still up and running, so they plotted a course, skirting areas they deemed dangerous.
Arriving at the banks of the Hood River ten days after starting the journey, they headed east. Within a week, they crossed the river at Maryhill, Oregon, and learned of the Millennial Bug. The plague put a different spin on things. Knowing it was imperative to avoid other humans, they paralleled Highway 97 and cautiously continued east. When they hit Interstate 85, they headed to Salt Lake City, arriving fifty days after the inception of the plague.
Salt Lake City was the beginning of a long nightmare for Noah Wallace. Rotted corpses were legion. On the streets, in yards, and in every building they entered. Pile after pile of charred bodies were scattered haphazardly throughout the city. Buildings were blackened and gutted. Fires still smoldered. The husks of burned-out cars littered the streets, and no matter where you looked, there was all manner of debris. It wasn’t uncommon to see dogs and wild animals feeding on human carcasses. Buzzards—silent sentinels of death�
��fed and watched. The stench was overpowering.
They avoided as much of the carnage as possible, wore their HAZMAT suits and respirators, and hustled through Salt Lake. The day after Salt Lake was in the rear view mirror, Josh got sick. It was obvious to both that he had the bug, and for two days, Noah could do nothing except watch him sweat, shake, vomit, and then die. Horribly.
After burying his best friend, Noah sat by the grave and thought about his next move. It was a long way to Delano, Tennessee, and he knew it would take months to complete the journey. He was reasonably sure he was immune to the plague or he wouldn’t be sitting there thinking about it. In truth, he no longer cared. He’d just buried his best friend, and the only people he saw since they went into the Pinchot were the dead and dying. The thought occurred to him that he might be the last man alive on planet Earth.
That would suck, he thought. He pondered the possibility for a few more moments, decided it didn’t matter, and resigned to whatever destiny fate had in store for him. He stood, donned his pack, and headed east.
Ten weeks later, in Wichita, Kansas, he cautiously entered McConnell Air Force Base and began searching for supplies. Hidden in an obscure office closet, he found a full case of mixed MREs. He decided to spend the night, and as he was unpacking his sleeping bag, heard a faint thud outside. He crouched and peered through the window.
A man and a woman were picking up boxes that fell from their Radio Flyer Wagon. He followed them to the fence line on the south side of the base and watched them pass through a missing section. He smelled smoke and the odor of grilled meat. The overpowering aroma caused him to salivate, and he followed both his nose and the couple. A hundred yards later, the man and woman entered an encampment of half a dozen tents. From the security of a grove of trees, he knelt and watched. In the center of the camp, a large man was grilling. Others sat around engaged in idle conversation while several more prepared other dishes. Five men and two women. Seven survivors.
They didn’t look threatening, so Noah took a chance. He walked to within fifty feet of the camp, stopped, and called out, “Hey.”
All heads turned toward him.
He said, “I’m not a threat to you. I’m immune to the bug. I’m by myself. Can I join you?”
The griller stepped away from his Weber Kettle and told him to put his gun on the ground.
Noah said, “I can’t do that, man, but I swear I am not a threat to anyone who isn’t a threat to me.”
The man was immense, maybe six foot six, and weighed at least three hundred pounds. He walked to within four feet of Noah and said, “I ain’t askin’, bud. I’m tellin’ you. Lay down your weapon and, since it ’peers yer an asshole, put yer hands up and turn around.”
“Can’t do that. But, since you don’t want to be friends, I’ll just be on my way.” He started backing up.
The man grinned, then charged.
Noah saw it coming and sidestepped, kicking him in the legs as he blundered past.
He went down in a heap, rolled over, and reached for the gun on his belt. As the revolver came up, Noah shot him three times with his M4 and turned to defend against the others.
They sat unconcerned, their attention quickly leaving the dead fat man to return to their meal preparations.
Noah said, “I didn’t want that to happen. Sorry.”
A toothless old woman came forward and said, “Ain’t any big deal. He was an asshole and mean as a striped snake. Good riddance.” She shuffled to a folding table, filled a plate with food, limped to where he stood, and handed it to him. “Eat up.”
Noah didn’t have to be asked twice. He sniffed the food and, never taking his eye off the others, wolfed it down. While he ate, he assessed the group. They were harmless, helpless, and not very bright. He decided this group of survivors was not where he wanted to be, so he thanked them for the food and backed out of the camp. While taking a circuitous route back to his own bedding, he decided to avoid all other survivors until he completed the journey home.
The trek from Wichita to Fayetteville took three months. Initially, he kept count of the human remains he encountered, but after a few days gave up. What’s the point? Ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine are dead.
Fayetteville was identical to Salt Lake and every other metro area he’d passed through. Death and destruction dominated the landscape. Nothing survived. His mind was beginning to wander. His thoughts less cogent. The number seven kept flashing in his mind. Seven. Seven-Eleven. Seven dwarfs. Seven wives. Seven survivors!
He knew the odds of finding Josh’s family alive were slim to none, but felt he owed it to him to make the effort. He checked their addresses, but all he found was rotting corpses, none of which appeared to be those of Josh’s family. After a week, he gave up. No trace of them existed.
He left Fayetteville and headed east on Highway 16. At Lake Sequoyah Park, he saw a thin column of smoke.
Nine months later, his relationship with a girl named Callie ended when she died from pneumonia. After burying her, he shook the hands of the three men, hugged the two women survivors, and headed for Tennessee.
Almost four years and two pairs of boots after he resigned from the army, Noah stood on Lookout Mountain, gazing out over the dead city of Chattanooga. The evening wind on the mountaintop was biting cold, and he shivered as he thought about his family. The odds of finding his parents or his sister alive was remote, he knew, but he didn’t come all this way to not make the effort.
Chattanooga’s southern horizon was cloaked in a white-grey haze, and he sat staring at it for more minutes than he realized. He was emotionally tired and no longer sharp as a tack.
That’s not fog. It’s smoke. Campfire smoke. A shithouse full of campfires.
He considered spending the night on the mountain, but decided it would be warmer in the city. He carefully picked his way down the slope around the leafless trees and brown, dormant brush. At dusk, he emerged on a blacktop road and followed it east, crossing Chattanooga Creek via the East 38th Street Bridge. On Dodds Avenue, he found a ramshackle house that would provide reasonable security and spent the night.
Early the next morning, he awoke to temperatures near zero. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal, he made his way through Chattanooga and stopped at the intersection of Interstate 24 and Interstate 75. After the carnage he witnessed while trekking across the United States, the lack of corpses in Chattanooga was glaring. And interesting. Someone had burned the dead. Piles of ash, grey and forlorn, were scattered every half mile or so. Parts of unburned human remains were visible: an arm here, a leg there. Someone had made a concerted effort to cleanse Chattanooga of corpses. He decided the most likely candidates were connected to the campfires south of town.
At the on-ramp to the interstate, he crouched beneath a poplar tree and considered what he’d seen the night before. The smoke appeared to be coming from Fort Oglethorpe and Ringgold, Georgia. It was so thick it seemed tangible and hung in the valley like a shroud, forcing him to use his respirator. Although it wasn’t on his itinerary, he decided it was in his best interest to find out whom, and more importantly, what the people using the campfires represented. Diverting from his planned route of Interstate 75 north, he headed south on the interstate to recon the area.
At the Battlefield Parkway exit, he hunkered in a grove of trees outside what was once a Racetrack gas station and watched sporadic horse traffic flow between Fort Oglethorpe and Ringgold. In the Racetrack parking lot, a group of a dozen men was bunched around a fifty-gallon oil barrel heater. He considered his next move. They were all armed, which wasn’t alarming, since anyone who survived the apocalypse would be armed. He decided to act like he belonged, and nonchalantly sauntered into their midst and held his hands toward the barrel. The men looked at him and nodded, but said nothing; they continued their conversation as though he was one of them. Standing next
to them, hands stretched towards the heat, he listened. He deduced they were part of a raiding party returning from a trip to Atlanta and were part of a group called Nirvana. Their leader called himself Colonel. They were redneck slavers—pure and simple. They sent patrols to scavenge food and gear and to capture women for use as slaves.
Welcome home, he thought.
One of the men nipping on moonshine turned to Noah and offered the bottle.
Noah knew he’d look weird if he refused, so he took it, nodded, and pretended to take a long pull.
The man asked, “W’ere ya bunkin’, bud?”
Mimicking the man’s southern dumb ass redneck dialect, Noah replied, “Jus’ got here. Ah ain’t bin a’signed nothin’ yet.”
The guy was half in the bag and grinned. “No prob, bud. Ya kin come with me. We got room at my place. Mah name’s Jesse, what’s your’n?” He held out his hand.
“Ah’m Hank.” They shook.
“Well, les’ go, Hank. Got me a woman waitin’. We kin share her if’n ya-all want.”
Jesse led Noah down the street behind the Racetrack and, as they walked, he said, “Got me a lil’ apartment just yonder.”
Jesse was a caricature straight out of Mad Max. Short and thin with long greasy hair, his full-length black leather coat flapping behind, head covered by an old leather pilot’s helmet, and goggles raised to his forehead, he babbled and ambled along.
Noah followed him as he cut through a yard and started through a grove of trees. When the trees covered them from view, Noah said, “Hang on a minute, Jesse.” When he stopped, Noah put him on the ground, pulled his knife, put it to his throat, and said, “Let’s play a game, Jess. I’ll ask a few questions. You answer them. Consider, though, that I don’t like guys who won’t answer my questions. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll probably slit your throat. Wanna play?”