Turning Point: A Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction Series (The Blackout Series Book 3)

by Bobby Akart

  The old man spoke up. “Oh, you talkin’ about them Decatur boys. They got mad ’cause a bunch of folks left Savannah and headed into Decaturville, causin’ trouble. They decided to close their borders. Nobody gets into Decatur County from thisaway unless they’re Decatur folks.”

  “Well, that does seem to be the trend lately,” muttered Colton.

  “How’s that?” asked the old man. “I don’t hear so well.”

  The young boy tried to help out. “He said it’s trendy, Gramps!”

  “Oh yeah, I reckon so,” said the old man with a shrug. “Whereabouts you goin’?”

  Colton sat up in his seat and pulled the map over to show them. “Really, we just need to cross the river to get back down near Highway 64. I don’t have a lot of gas and can’t afford to drive all over hell’s half acre looking for a safe route.”

  The old man pondered for a moment and pulled the young boy out of the way. He reached for the map and studied it. He nodded, smacked the map a couple of times, and then gave Colton a toothless grin.

  “Well now, this might just work for y’uns,” he started. “There’s an old black feller down thar acrosst from Saltillo. He’s got the old car ferry, but I don’t reckon it’s run in years. I ain’t sayin’ it don’t, just I don’t know if it can.”

  Colton looked back towards Madison and Alex. Madison shrugged and Alex nodded. “Let’s go for it, Daddy.”

  “Okay, do you know how to get there?” asked Colton.

  “Sure thang,” said the old man. “Head back towards Crossroads and turn when you see Violet’s hair cuttin’ place.”

  “You can’t miss it,” interrupted the boy. “It’s gawd-awful purple.”

  Colton remembered seeing it when they came up the highway.

  The old man continued. “Turn right at Violet’s and the road runs right into the old feller’s place, if’n he’s still alive. When the road ends, take a right. Can’t miss it.”

  “What? Still alive?” asked Colton.

  “Yeah, he was pert near ninety when I saw him last, though I can’t rightly ’member when that was,” the old man replied.

  Colton thought about this plan again and then realized it was all they had going for them. He thanked the old man and his grandson and made his way back to the highway. Turning south towards Savannah wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, so he drove quickly, looking for Violet’s Purple Hair Salon and Spa.

  “Comin’ up on the right, Daddy. There’s Violet’s, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” replied Colton. He turned down the one-lane road and wound his way through the woods. Periodically, a clearing would appear and fields of cotton, corn, and tobacco surrounded the highway. Around the last bend through the woods, the road ended abruptly at a large mound of gravel. Colton brought the truck to a stop a couple of hundred feet short of the obstruction.

  “Now what? Did we miss a turn?” asked Colton.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Alex. “The man said drive until the road ends and then turn right.”

  “Colton, maybe you should drive a little closer,” suggested Madison.

  “He might’ve been wrong, Daddy,” started Alex. “He wasn’t a hundred percent, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” muttered Colton as he eased the truck forward. As the truck approached the gravel, he could see a driveway veer off to the right. A wooden sign hung on a single nail in an oak tree.

  Colton read aloud. “Saltillo Ferry, this way, except the arrow points down toward the devil’s den.”

  “What do ya’ll think?” asked Madison.

  “I say we pull in the driveway, lock the truck, and go check it out,” said Alex as she gathered her fanny pack and slapped a magazine into the AR-15. “Right?”

  Colton chuckled at his daughter’s attitude. “Yeah, let’s go see.”

  Everyone got their weapons ready and Madison grabbed the binoculars. Colton found a place to slide the Wagoneer into the woods, although he doubted there would be any passersby. He locked it up and they started down the tree-lined driveway, weapons at the ready.

  “Do you smell the water?” asked Colton.

  “Yeah, I love it!” replied Madison. “Trust me, I’m ready to get to Shiloh Ranch and stick my feet in the muddy banks of the river.”

  “And fish, too,” said Alex. “I really liked the way Stubby breaded them. It was spicy!”

  “Stop it, y’all.” Colton laughed. “I’m really hungry and ready to get there. There’s a clearing ahead. Fan out through the woods a little bit and let’s see what we’ve got ahead of us.”

  They spread apart and walked the last hundred feet through the pine trees. They stayed in eyesight of each other and took up a position overlooking the perfectly plowed fields of wheat and cotton. A slight breeze caused the wheat spikes to sway back and forth. The only sound that could be heard was the occasional crow yammering to his buddies.

  After an uneventful thirty minutes, Colton waved the girls back to the road. Alex joined him first, chewing on a wheat stalk. “Howdy, Mr. Ryman.” She laughed. “You ain’t from ’round these parts, er ya?”

  “I see you’re embracing the local culture,” replied her dad, who reached out and plucked a stalk for himself. He wondered if he’d end up wearing overalls and a straw hat before it was over.

  “It looks good to me,” said Madison as she joined the family. “Colton, why don’t you grab the truck and let’s go see this gentleman about a ride.”

  They loaded up and slowly started across the farm, the wheels of the Wagoneer following the ruts in the soil created by decades of farm tractor and truck travel. As they cleared the tall stalks of corn on their right, an old white clapboard farmhouse came into view. The red brick fire chimney held onto the side of the house with vines and ivy.

  They gradually descended the gravel drive, which was surrounded on both sides by a variety of farm implements and old vehicles. Alex was the first member of the family to see the proprietor of the Saltillo Ferry rockin’ back and forth in an old white rocker, sipping iced tea from a Mason jar.

  Chapter 41

  DAY EIGHTEEN

  2:00 p.m., September 26

  Old Man Percy’s Place

  Saltillo, Tennessee

  “Wait here,” instructed Colton. He slowly opened the driver’s door and slid off the bench seat. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves. He carefully rounded the truck and held his hands away from his body.

  The old man kept rockin’ and finally set his tea down on the wicker table next to him. He pushed himself out of the rickety rockin’ chair with a groan. He wore a plain white shirt, a pair of navy pants held up by suspenders, and a pair of work boots with the soles separating from the leather. Colton imagined that the man had been wearing the same outfit for decades.

  “Hello,” started Colton. “We’re sorry for interrupting, but we hoped you could help us.”

  “Yo sho ’nuf lost,” said the man as he pulled his suspenders away from his thin frame. He moved slowly toward the porch rail and leaned against the post before spitting out some of his chew.

  “Well, not exactly. My name is Colton Ryman from Nashville. I was told you might be able to help us.”

  “Ryman, you say?” the old man replied. “I useta know da Rymans. They run dem boats up and down da river. Dat was a lotta year ago.”

  “Yessir, it sure was,” said Colton. He liked the old guy and didn’t feel threatened at all. He glanced over toward the river and could make out a large boat in the midst of some weeping willows along the bank. He decided it was time to cut to the chase.

  “Mister, um,” started Colton.

  “Percy, young man. Ya can jus’ call me Percy.”

  “Well, sir, Percy, we were told you might be able to take us across the river on the ferry. Do you have a ferry boat?”

  “Sho ’nuf do,” replied Percy. “But it’s old and slow, kinda like these ole bones here.”

  “You look like you’re movin’ pretty good, P
ercy.” Colton laughed.

  “Purdy good. Now, I can take you folks across, but ya gotta help me git ’er started.”

  Colton’s heart leapt out of his chest. Finally, someone would help them across and they’d be able to end this madness.

  “Oh, yessir. My wife and daughter, they’ll help too. You just tell us what to do! Thank you, Percy.” Colton reached out and took the man’s hand and began shaking it. It was rough and bony.

  Percy smiled to Colton. “Lemme get my hat and finish off this tea. Y’uns want some tea?”

  “No, sir, thank you though. I’ll tell my wife and daughter the news.”

  Colton bounced down the steps, pumping his fists in celebration. This instantly brought the girls out of the truck, bearing smiles.

  “Is he gonna help us, honey?”

  “You betcha!”

  The three crashed together in a hug and Colton explained the plan. Percy donned an old railroad cap and joined the three of them in the yard. After the introductions were exchanged, they walked down to get acquainted with the Saltillo Ferry.

  Colton’s first impression coincided with Madison’s.

  “Will it float?” she whispered as they walked hand in hand to the vessel. Colton glanced across the water, where he could see the small town of Saltillo. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards.

  “I don’t know,” replied Colton. “We don’t have to go that far.”

  “It’s about one thirty, Daddy,” added the accomplished golfer in the family.

  “When was the last time you took this one across?” asked Madison.

  “Can’t rightly ’member, Miss Madison,” replied Percy. “Maybe ten year ago, or five.”

  Percy took them on a tour. “She ain’t run regular since back in ’98, best I can ’member. She don’t look like much, but she can handle one truck at a time. Back before dey built dem bridges, dey was dozens like her.”

  “Is it coal fired?” asked Colton.

  “Sho ’nuf,” replied Percy. “It don’t take long for her to git goin’. Grab that shovel.”

  For the next thirty minutes, they helped Old Man Percy fire up the Saltillo Ferry. When the engine was roarin’ and black smoke was pourin’, Colton drove the Wagoneer onto the back side of the boat. He made Alex and Madison stand on the bank until he was comfortable the entire rig would float. He was pleasantly surprised.

  Old Man Percy, as the ferry boat began to move, sounded the usual long, single whistle to warn approaching vessels of its intent to cross the river. Percy probably hadn’t noticed that boats were no longer running.

  They chugged across and the unusual sound began to draw a crowd across the way. Some of the locals from Saltillo began to gather around the landing on the other side. Colton grabbed the binoculars and scanned the banks of the river. He saw a couple of men with rifles slung over their shoulders, but none appeared hostile. They appeared to be stunned by the curious spectacle of the ferry making another run after all these years.

  Colton approached Percy in the wheelhouse and struck up a conversation with the old guy.

  “How old are ya, Percy?” asked Colton.

  “Ya know, I don’t rightly know,” he replied. “Last I can ’member, I started goin’ to school when dem rich folks went broke in twenty-nine.”

  Colton quickly did the math. Ninety plus!

  Percy continued. “Time don’t rightly matter anymore. I’m at peace with da good Lord and thank him every day for the life he give me.”

  “How you makin’ out without electricity, Percy?” asked Colton.

  “I ain’t got none,” he replied.

  “I know, nobody does. But you comin’ along okay since the power went out?”

  “When da power go out?” asked Percy.

  “About three weeks ago, a big solar flare from the sun knocked the power out across the country. You mean, you didn’t know?”

  “Hmmmph. Nah, sho didn’t.”

  The ferry arrived at the other side and a welcoming committee of about two dozen onlookers helped tie the boat off and opened the front gate.

  “Percy, I don’t know how to thank you, my friend,” said Colton as he extended his hand to shake. Madison and Alex both rushed to give Percy a hug, which produced the biggest smile the man had probably allowed himself in years.

  “Ya know sumptin’, Mister Ryman? My ma always said ya lives by da sun and ya dies by da sun. She weren’t never wrong.”

  Chapter 42

  DAY EIGHTEEN

  5:00 p.m., September 26

  Saltillo, Tennessee

  Colton carefully drove off the ferry onto the west bank of the Tennessee River. A sense of relief poured through his body. Crossing the river, a part of the journey that he initially had taken for granted, had become an unexpected life-threatening obstacle. In addition, for the first time since they left Nashville, he was surrounded by people who approached with smiling faces rather than rifles. It was a welcoming sight.

  With their windows rolled down, Colton could hear the locals talking.

  Who are they?

  Why did they take the ferry?

  Are they just passin’ through?

  Colton took a gamble, a calculated risk based upon years of studying folks at the negotiating table. He decided it would be inhospitable to drive through their town without explanation or showing his gratitude for them not shooting his family. He decided to get out of the car and speak with them.

  “Colton, are you crazy?” objected Madison. “Just ’cause they’re not shooting at us doesn’t mean they won’t.”

  “I know, Maddie. It’ll be all right. Let me just thank our friends for letting us pass. You never know, we might cross paths again someday. I don’t wanna be rude.”

  Alex slid across the backseat behind her dad. “I agree, Daddy. Let’s be nice and then we can be on our way. Besides, it’ll be getting dark. They might have a place we can stay for the night.”

  “Okay, Maddie?” asked Colton, although his decision was made.

  “Okay, let’s go for it.”

  Colton shut off the motor and smiled at his greeters. All of the Rymans exited the truck and spoke with the families of Saltillo who’d crowded around them. They shook hands and exchanged oh mys and you poor dears. The crowd started to grow and Colton began to realize that this might become an all-night affair, when a booming, baritone voice came from the back of the crowd.

  “Well, I’ll be doggone, if it isn’t Colton Ryman. Look here, you son of a gun!”

  The folks in the crowd parted as the most famous celebrity in the history of Saltillo, Tennessee, population three hundred and three, approached Colton. Everyone stopped talking, including Madison and Alex, who stared at Colton in a combination of surprise and apprehension.

  “Russ. Russ Hilton. Are you kiddin’ me? Boy, howdy, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my friend!” The two men gave each other an embrace with some hearty backslaps.

  Russ Hilton, a popular country music performer from the turn of the century, was born and raised in the tiny town of Pyburn, which was just a few miles south of Savannah in the mountains surrounding Pickwick Dam.

  After bouncing around several music venues in Branson, Fort Worth, and Pigeon Forge, he’d finally returned to West Tennessee with his wife, Lisa, and their children. Over the years, older entertainers were relegated to classic country stations and secondary venues. Hilton had enjoyed the highs of his career and then gradually slipped into the twilight when they settled in Saltillo.

  Even after retirement from touring, he continued to write music and had a couple of top twenties, including “Tennessee River Run” and “Shiloh,” a haunting tune about the infamous Civil War battlefield.

  His relationship with Colton went way back. “Folks, listen up,” started Hilton, his voice booming as strong as ever. “This here is Colton Ryman. He used to be my agent when I was playin’ in Nashville at the Opry.”

  “As a matter of fact, Russ was one of my first clients. Do you rem
ember that, Russ?”

  Hilton started laughing, slapping Colton on the back. Russ Hilton stood six foot six and therefore towered over Colton. “Do you remember what I said when I hired you to represent me?”

  “I’ll never forget it,” replied Colton. “They were words to live by. Russ said, ‘If you ruin my career, I’ll hunt you down like a dog and kill ya.’”

  Everyone started laughing as Madison and Alex joined them.

  “You know I was just ribbin’ ya, Colton, right?” Russ laughed.

  “No, Russ, actually I didn’t. You scared the daylights outta me!”

  Colton received another backslap from Russ, which almost knocked the wind out of him. “Well, we done good, buddy. You got me a Billboard number one, a CMA, and a spot on the stage at Vegas. I ain’t complainin’.”

  Madison approached the hulk of a man. “Hey, Russ, do you remember me?”

  “Why look at you, Madison! Dang straight I remember you. You’re still purdy as a picture.” Hilton wrapped her in his massive frame and gave her a hug, but it wasn’t life threatening. Alex caught his attention. “No way, is this little peanut?”

  “Alex, this is Russ Hilton,” started Colton. “He was one of the first people to meet you after you were born. Russ used to refer to you as a little peanut.”

  “Look at you, Alex, you’re all grown up and a beauty queen just like your momma,” said Hilton. He gave her an equally man-sized hug as he’d provided Madison.

  “Hi, Mr. Hilton,” said Alex. “I love your songs, especially ‘I’m a Cowboy.’”

  “This kid’s got great taste! That was my number one the summer I met Colton.”

  Percy pulled away from shore and took the Saltillo Ferry across the river. A final trumpet of the horn sang so long. Russ and the Rymans spoke for another moment with some of the locals and then the crowd began to dissipate.

  Colton looked to the sky and saw darkness beginning to set in. He hated to break up the reunion, but if they were going to make the final thirty miles to Shiloh Ranch before dark, they’d need to get going.