by Roger Hayden
“Shit,” he said to himself.
He walked down the driveway to the front of his house and turned to survey the damage. Where there was once a living room, there was now an enormous, gaping hole. His garage had been ransacked, and much of his supplies taken. Gone were his MREs, the water supply, and supplies that he had been building up for the past year.
It felt like such a waste. He had expected that after seeing the man in the window that someone would be back. He just didn't expect them to hit him like they did. It was overwhelming, but maybe that was the point. Death was resoundingly in the air, and he didn't even have his HAZMAT suit. By the time he squeezed back into the garage, he found Veronica looking around in shock.
“They took everything,” she said. “How did they do it?”
Greg approached her. “They didn't take everything.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“We held our own, we still have stuff.”
“Yeah, but all of our water. The majority of the food.”
“They didn't get our hidden supplies.”
Veronica was confused, but she should have known better. “What are you talking about, hidden supplies?”
“You'll learn soon enough. But a word to the wise, a prepper never reveals his preps.”
They went back into the house, trying to wrap their heads around the destruction that surrounded them. There was no easy way around it; they were going to have to hunker down elsewhere.
On The Road
With the house in shambles beyond any practical repair, Greg knew they would have to find somewhere else to hunker down. They had also killed lots of people, and those who fled could very well come back with others. The place was too hot, and the new life Greg had made for himself had crumbled with the fallen debris of the living room. Where there had been a wall and two windows was now a massive hole framed by splintered wood, shattered plaster, and brick. An old Buick Skylark sat motionless in the dining room, smoke rising from under the crushed front end.
A man wearing a motorcycle helmet was slumped over with an open hole in his helmet and a seat belt holding him in place. There were four bodies in the garage, one in the doorway, and at least ten to fifteen more lying about the front yard, not to mention the ill-fated driver of the truck. Surveying the damage and carnage around him, Greg came to the realization that there was simply no staying there any longer. It was far too dangerous. He would have to relocate and start a new life somewhere else, just like he had done before.
He didn't know who the people were who attacked his house or where they had come from, but he knew that it was no longer a safe place. Perhaps there was nowhere safe left to go. They had to get out of the neighborhood for sure; out of the city, if possible. He'd have to leave his home and his job and never return, regardless of the Ebola outcome.
There was no turning back. He only hoped that Veronica would go with him. They had remaining supplies throughout the house: in the hall closet, the pantry, and Greg's bedroom, but losing the supplies in the garage was a huge blow nonetheless.
“What now?” Veronica asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.
The kitchen was relatively undamaged, but she couldn't stand to look at any of the dead bodies, which seemed to be everywhere her eyes fell, much longer. The smell of gunfire and death filled the air.
“Whatever we do, we need to move fast. We've been completely compromised.”
“I'd say that's pretty obvious,” Veronica said.
“The point is, I'm not coming back here. I can't.”
Veronica's forehead crunched up in confusion. “What do you mean? This is your home.”
Greg leaned closer. “You have to understand, Veronica, there are certain people looking for me, and they will always be looking for me. I have to stay a step ahead. All these people I've killed today, this further exposes me. Even if I were to get rid of them and fix the house up, others would come.”
“So why keep running?” she asked at last.
“Because it's the only thing I have left to do,” he said, looking off into nothing.
It was getting dark out, and the gray sky was gradually fading to black. Greg was determined to hit the road.
“What's the plan then?” Veronica asked. “Where are we going to go?”
“I'm going to try to get as far away from the outbreak as possible. You should find some family and maybe stay with them, like your aunt's place.”
“What about the checkpoints and roadblocks?”
“I’ll find a way around them. All I know is that we can't stay here.”
Veronica's expression shifted to one of astonished anger. “Are you trying to ditch me? After all that we've been through?”
Greg turned and began to walk away.
“Answer me!” she shouted, grabbing his arm.
“I thought I had all the answers!” he said, his voice raised. “But I can no longer guarantee your safety.”
“I never asked you to,” she said. “But you have kept me safe, multiple times, and if you think that we're just going to part ways now, you're out of your mind.”
Greg paused. “OK, then what do you want to do?” he asked.
“I want you to come to my aunt's house with me. She lives on a ranch. It's perfect.”
Silence came over them as Greg thought it over. “How would she feel about that?”
“She'll be fine with it. You'll like her. Please, Greg, no one will bother us there, I promise.” She looked into his tired eyes, hoping that he would go for it. She felt doomed at the thought of being on her own and couldn't imagine, at that point, going their separate ways.
“I'd be honored to stay at your aunt's place.” He paused, as if strategizing again. “But we still need to do things my way.”
A light seemed to go off inside him, and Greg was back on point. “It's going to be tricky getting there, but if we play our cards right, we can do it. We'll load up the van with everything we have left, pack it in there real tight, and then leave this place once and for all.”
Veronica nodded. “One vehicle or two?”
Greg scratched his head. “It's going to be more difficult to move around town, following each other, but we want to have as many vehicles as possible, especially for a long-distance bug-out. That's first. We take both vehicles and stay close together. It's the only way.”
They agreed that they would pack their personal items and all the remaining supplies and leave the house for good, as quickly as possible. Traveling was at the top of Greg's list of “don'ts” during an outbreak, but the situation was beyond his careful control. They could stay in the house, or one nearby, and wait until another roaming mob came, or perhaps a wave of police would be dispatched, ready to arrest Greg. Gun laws were somewhat lax in Nevada, but somehow Greg didn't see himself coming out on top.
They were also supposed to be under official government quarantine, like everyone else, and would have no explanation for their actions. The more he thought about it, the more he considered Veronica's Aunt Tilda's house ideal for a “bug-out.” Reno was outside Carson City, where the outbreak had originated, and the ranch, he was told, was away from the main city.
They left the bodies to rot, not wanting to touch them. Veronica packed her things from the guest bedroom, and in a way it almost felt good to get out of the house and move on. Although it was a short trip to Reno—about forty miles—anything could happen along the way. Greg was in his room packing as well. Being a minimalist had its perks, particularly when it came time to “bug-out,” and he was able to fit his necessities—clothes and hygiene products—into one suitcase.
There was still the matter of packing up supplies and what to do about the house. He had appliances and furniture that he obviously couldn't take with him, and abandoning them completely would be a considerable financial loss. But he had little choice; to leave one's home for good meant leaving everything he couldn't fit behind.
His loss would be someone else's gain. Maybe, just
maybe, if the situation improved, he could send for his things or possibly hire a moving truck. To worry about his personal belongings seemed frivolous, and Greg moved on, trying to get everything together in order to leave.
After moving all supplies to the kitchen, Greg went into his room for one last haul. A kerosene lamp sat flickering in the corner, providing just enough light to allow him to work with. He pushed his bed frame to the side, revealing a trapdoor with a combination lock over the hinge.
Down below, in a hollowed space five feet deep, was where Greg had stored his back-up supplies—his secret stash. It was his own personal bug-out storage where he kept sensitive documents, cash, birth certificate, passport, bug-out bag, emergency food storage, and extra ammunition.
They were the kind of items he stored for an emergency that required him to be on the move. Unfortunately, the day had come. He turned the combination and opened the lock. The number 18-24-35 came natural to him, though he hadn't opened the trap door in a long while.
He pulled the door open, causing the hinges to creak. It was dark inside the hole, so he grabbed a nearby flashlight and turned it on.
“I'm almost ready,” Veronica shouted from the other room.
Greg turned his head slightly. “No rush. Take your time.”
Crouched down, he leaned in closer and shined his flashlight into the hole. Everything looked to be just as he had left it. There was a small security box that housed $1,000 in cash, his passport, and other sensitive items, all placed in sealed Ziploc bags.
His camouflage bug-out bag was packed with essentials ranging from multi-tools, knives, paracord, flashlights, first-aid kits, solar crank radio, and water filters to cooking and eating utensils, trail mixes, powdered drinks, sewing kits, socks, gloves, poncho, tent, and a basic survival kit.
He pulled the bug-out bag out of the hole and set it on the floor. He shined his light back down into the hole, revealing ammunition cans, bottled water, and several MRE cases at the bottom. It was time to clear out his secret stash and start loading up the van.
Veronica was packed and ready as Greg brought the remainder of his supplies out of his room, staging them in the kitchen. She marveled at him as he piled up the last of the MRE boxes. He turned and took notice. “See, I told you they didn't get everything.”
“You're the biggest hoarder I've ever seen.”
“That's why you're here, right?” he asked.
It was the first time either of them had smiled in hours. The task of loading up both the car and van was upon them, and Greg wanted to hit the road quickly. It had been an exhausting day, but they decided to try to move on.
Greg offered Veronica a thermos full of coffee before their departure, for the road. She gladly accepted it and thanked him.
“Did they get our HAZMAT suits?” she asked, as if the thought just occurred.
Greg nodded. “As long as we stay away from populated areas, we should be good.”
“Are you convinced that the disease isn't airborne yet?”
“I'm not sure,” Greg said. “But either way, our stops need to be kept to a minimal. How are you on gas?”
“I think I had a half tank last time I checked.”
“You should always keep a full tank, like me,” Greg said.
Veronica swung her thermos at him playfully. “Well, aren't you Mr. Perfect?”
Greg laughed. “We'll get you there someday.”
As if suddenly remembering something, he knelt down next to his bug-out bag and took out two hand-held radios. “Here,” he said, handing one to Veronica. “We can't trust cell reception any longer. This way we can communicate with each other on the road.”
“Good idea,” she said, taking it.
She turned the power knob on and was treated to a jarringly loud amount of static, which caused her to immediately turn it off.
“Too bad I don't know how to use it,” she said.
“There's nothing to it. If you can use a cell phone, you can use one of these. We just make sure we're on the same frequency and go from there.”
He went over the basics and showed her how to use it. It seemed that each day with Greg, she was learning something new. A thought suddenly came to her out of nowhere: If they survived everything, she would have a hell of a story to tell.
***
As they left the house behind, Greg taking the lead, their vehicles echoed down the deserted neighborhood street. Most lawns they passed were sprouted with weeds. Trash littered the streets, and there was an unusually large number of dogs roaming the area. They weren't strays, as most of them had collars. Instead, it was more likely that they had been abandoned by their owners in haste.
It was close to nine, and they hoped to get to Aunt Tilda's no later than ten. After charging her phone in the car, Veronica tried calling her but couldn't get a signal. She threw the phone at the dashboard in frustration.
“You piece of junk!”
She didn't like going there unannounced, but they trudged on anyway. Tilda was a sharp woman, and she had probably chosen to hunker down as well. Veronica knew that her aunt would be the last person to voluntarily resign herself to some government quarantine facility. As they drove on, many thoughts crossed Veronica's mind. She wondered how far they were going to make it and at what point they were going to come across a checkpoint or something worse.
Would they see any other cars on the road? She wondered what the power, water, and cell phone towers had to do with the outbreak, if anything. It made little sense that they would lose those things because of an epidemic. She wondered what things were like everywhere else. Maybe they were the only ones. Maybe Carson City had been shut off from the rest of the world while everyone was just waiting for them to all die. She thought about her friends, her roommates, and her family. They were probably worried sick about her, and there was little she could do about it.
Greg had thoughts of his own swimming through his head. He was foremost concerned for their safety and hoped that they would make it to Tilda's house without issue. His heart was racing, and he felt anxious but confident. A pistol rested on the middle console, right below the car stereo that wasn't getting a single frequency.
He thought of his house, his mortgage, his job, and his time in Carson City. Funny, it seemed, that things had so drastically changed. He was grateful to have Veronica accompanying him for the journey. Before Captain, she had been his only real friend in the area.
He navigated along the winding neighborhood streets, not seeing a single light, vehicle, or person, and finally pulled out onto the street leading to the highway. Veronica trailed close behind, one headlight more shaky than the other. They passed a sign with an arrow that pointed right: Reno 43 Miles.
He turned onto the highway on-ramp without issue. They still hadn't seen a vehicle or a roadblock like the one Veronica experienced when first trying to flee the city some two months earlier. Perhaps the travel ban had been lifted. As he merged onto the highway, he increased his speed and watched his mirror for Veronica's lights. She merged as well and kept a good pace behind him.
He held up his two-way radio and pressed the button to talk while steering with his free hand. The road ahead was dark, but he could see headlights coming toward him down the lanes on the other side of the divided highway.
“V-six, this is Badger, over,” he said.
Moments later, her voice came through the radio. “Is that some kind of call sign or something?” she asked, laughing.
“Roger, forgot to mention that, over.”
“Well, those are very creative names. I almost thought you said V-sex at first.”
“Let's keep it clean, over.”
Veronica just laughed.
“You still good on gas? Over.”
There was a pause.
“Yes, I should be fine...over.”
“Roger, just keep your radio on, in case I need to talk to you, over and out.”
Greg set the hand-held down on the console then flipped throug
h stations on the dial. The typical static and pops sounded as he moved through the different stations, finally coming to something that sounded promising. It was a man's voice, an announcer, speaking in an almost monotone voice. Greg's hand froze on the dial. He carefully pulled it away and leaned back in his seat.
“…Support in infected areas has decreased dramatically as federal agencies have put the brunt of their resources into staving off the unprecedented epidemic in California. However, Nevada residents are reportedly trying to cope with dwindling resources, support, and treatment.
“As of now, there are conflicting reports about the quality and effective operation of several quarantine and treatment centers set up throughout infected areas. It's been two months since Governor Peterson ordered a state of emergency for Nevada and the National Guard was activated to assist in the controversial implementation of martial law. The Guard’s role has been to enforce the travel ban, to ensure that residents report to treatment centers, and to provide order to infected areas.
“New figures released today show that the numbers of infected and dead have increased despite the best efforts of the state and federal agencies to control it.”
“Just great,” Greg said to himself. There was no silver lining just yet.
Several large military trucks zoomed by on the opposite side of the highway. It was a close call, and earlier Greg purposely sought out the scenic route on the outskirts of the city to travel by. Now the highway was the only choice, and from it he could see Carson City in the far distance. He could also see and hear helicopters circling around, some lowering large crates into the streets.
He moved his eyes back to the barren road, astonished but relieved by the absence of checkpoints. His headlights provided the only light for some distance. With his map and Veronica's directions, Greg was confident he could get them there without issue. He just hoped that it wouldn't necessitate the taking of more lives in order to protect themselves.