American Epidemic Omnibus: An Ebola Prepper Survival Tale

by Roger Hayden

  The Ranch

  They arrived near Tilda’s ranch around ten as planned. Greg was satisfied with the layout, but he wanted to investigate the house before going in. Anything could have happened in the time since Veronica had talked to her aunt on her cellphone. Tilda lived in a ranching community of sorts, spread out over hundreds of acres of land. Veronica had even referred to them as “homestead preppers,” and Greg was impressed to find that she had such a lineage within her family.

  Once they got out into no-man's land, however, Greg wasn’t sure where to go. He got on the radio and told Veronica to take the lead. She pulled in front and drove down a bumpy dirt road as Greg followed. Fortunately she had just enough gas to get there. The plan was to bug-out and hunker down, but they would need to find some more fuel if the house wasn’t safe. With what they had been through so far, Greg was expecting anything.

  Thick clouds of dust trailed from behind her car, covering Greg's windshield as he followed behind. Arched trees passed by the window in a blur with the desert, rolling hills, and mountains in the far distance. They were surrounded by darkness except for the faint light from the stars. Greg didn't see any power lines, which worried him. Then again, it meant they were far from the city.

  Veronica already explained to him that the house used well water and that Tilda and her neighbors lived self-sufficiently. Tilda's place could very well be the key to their survival. But Greg preferred to tread lightly and not put too much faith in one idea.

  Commit yourself to a plan, but be prepared to change, was what he always told himself.

  After five minutes or so of navigating over all dips and holes in the dirt road, they veered right at a fork. It led to a steel gate with three reflectors along the top panel. A line of trees blocked any view of the house, and Greg was already growing suspicious. Veronica stopped her car and called him on his radio.

  “This is the place. I'm gonna get out and open the gate, then just follow me in.”

  “Roger,” Greg said. “Turn your headlights off before we enter, and I’ll do the same, over.”

  “It’ll be hard to see” was her answer.

  “We have to be careful. Just do your best, over,” Greg said.

  “Okay Greg.”

  “Need any help with the gate? Over.”

  “I’m good, just keep a look out.”

  Greg watched as she got out of her dusty blue Volvo and went straight to the gate.

  She pulled a latch holding the gate in place and pushed it open. She looked over to him, a distant shadow, and gave him a thumbs-up. When she got back into her car, he saw her hitting her steering wheel.

  He picked up his radio. “What's wrong?”

  There was a pause; then she came on. “I still couldn't get ahold of her. There's no reception here either. It doesn't make any sense.”

  “We just need to stay alert. If she's here, I'm certain she'll be plenty confused at first, but we'll explain everything. But we have to make sure the house is safe before we enter. Over.”

  “If she's not here?”

  “We investigate, then find a way in. Over and out.”

  Veronica put her radio down and shifted her car into drive. The idea of breaking into her own aunt's house and squatting there was funny in itself, but they had few options left.

  They drove past the gate. Greg parked, jumped out of the van, and closed it. Then he got back in the van and followed Veronica down the long straight path to an impressively sizable ranch house resembling a log cabin. He got on his radio and told her to park a safe distance from the house. Her car rolled to a stop on the dirt path, roughly fifty feet away from it, and stopped.

  There were steps leading to a front porch with a wood railing and wooden pillars that held up the deck roof. A cat skirted across the porch, jumped off, and disappeared. At each side of the front door there were large windows. The green roof of the house rose up at a high angle. There was a barn to the left of the house and an open field to the right. Inside the house, the lights were on.

  She noticed her aunt's white station wagon parked on the side of the barn. It was a good sign. Next to her station wagon was a red Ford truck she had never seen before, but it had been a while since she had visited. Maybe Tilda got a new truck. It was filled with boxes in the back, like someone was in the process of moving.

  The lights and the station wagon had convinced her that Aunt Tilda was there, and she was excited. She turned her engine off and jumped out of the car. Greg’s voice came over the radio. “Give it some time. Come back to the van here, and we’ll watch the house together.”

  She felt annoyed at his hesitance but knew he had his reasons and that his instincts were generally good. “OK,” she said into the radio, walking back to his van.

  As she approached, he turned off the ignition, losing the tail end of the news update on the radio. But apparently Reno was in shambles after having problems establishing quarantine facilities and enforcing martial law. It looked as though they had gotten to Tilda's just in time.

  It had been a long day, and Greg was ready to get the formalities out of the way and hunker down in style. Veronica got into the passenger seat of the van and began to explain how big the house was, and how it had four bedrooms, and how she believed they had come to the right place. She explained that Aunt Tilda was widowed and had owned the house with her rancher husband, Bernie.

  Before his passing, the couple would have friends stay and visit all the time, but not so much anymore. Tilda, Veronica explained, was a generally cheerful person. She was tough, and Veronica also stressed that she believed they would get along great. Greg was ready to put on the charm.

  “How did your uncle die?” Greg asked.

  Veronica looked at him. “Heart attack.”

  With both vehicles parked, they waited. There was no movement they could detect inside or around the house, but Greg kept his Beretta pistol nearby anyway. He asked Veronica about the other vehicles, and she explained that she had never seen the truck before.

  “That could be a problem,” he said.

  “Maybe she got a new truck.”

  “Why? Does she like trucks?”

  Veronica’s hair flew into her face as she turned to Greg. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a friend. Maybe a boyfriend.”

  “A boyfriend?” Greg asked.

  Veronica laughed. “She’s not that old.”

  Greg stared forward, not taking his eyes off the house. “I just like to know things before I walk into a situation.”

  They sat and they waited. Nothing changed. The lights in the house remained on, and they saw no movement whatsoever. Veronica suggested that her aunt might be asleep, but Greg remained suspicious.

  Twenty minutes had passed, and Veronica was growing anxious.

  “What do you say, Greg? Should we check it out?”

  Greg sighed. “All right. But you stay behind me. We don’t want to go walking into a situation we can’t get away from.”

  She got out of the van before he could say another word, closed her door, and waited patiently. He got out and walked around the front of the van toward the house, his pistol ready. They slowly climbed the front porch steps to the door. She stopped, took a deep breath, and then turned to Greg.

  “I don’t know why, but I feel nervous,” she whispered. “It's stupid. Never mind me.”

  “No reason to doubt the plan now,” Greg said.

  “You're right. I just don't want to scare her. It's pretty late, but I think she's kind of a night owl anyway.” Veronica still seemed hesitant. “Should I knock or ring the doorbell?”

  “Whatever you feel is more appropriate.”

  She bit her bottom lip and then went straight for the glowing doorbell to the side. They could hear its elegant tones ring throughout the house. They waited. No one came to the door. Veronica took a few steps, leaned over, and tried to look in the window, but the blinds were shut. Greg peered into a blurry glass circle in the top center of the front door and saw only
an empty foyer.

  Veronica came back to the door and knocked several times.

  “Should we wait?” she asked.

  Greg nodded and pulled at the scruffy beard on his chin. They waited. A few minutes went by and no one came to the door. Just for the heck of it, Veronica put her hand on the doorknob and turned it, opening the door a crack. They looked at each other, and Greg signaled her to push it open all the way.

  She placed her palm on the wooden door and pushed it open. The light from the foyer hit them, casting their shadows across the front porch. Still, they saw and heard nothing. Greg entered the house first, with Veronica following closely behind.

  “Aunt Tilda,” she called out as their footsteps moved over the tile floor.

  They walked past a closet to their left and a mirror at their right and entered a wide-open room with a high ceiling that covered the living room to the left and large dining room and kitchen area to their right. The living room had a single step leading into it, and the room was shaped like half of a hexagon.

  There were chairs that had a distinctly rustic look to them, wood-stained frames that looked like tree branches. A large Navajo quilt was hanging on the wall with several cattle skulls lined up next to it. There was a flat screen TV, silent and only displaying white noise.

  They walked toward the kitchen, which had a bar and stools in the center of the tile floor. Beyond the bar were green countertops and a stainless steel faucet. In the nearby dining room was a long wood-stained table with four tall chairs on each side and one on each end. The wood beams of the ceiling arched high, and there were two skylights at the top. Two fans hung down and spun at a low setting.

  “Just look at this place,” Greg said in awe.

  “I told you that you'd like it here,” Veronica said. There were shelves on the walls filled with collectible artifacts and several paintings of green fields and desert plains. It was a lot to take in, but it looked like a comfortable place to hunker down.

  “Rooms are down the hall,” Veronica said, pointing. “Aunt Tilda is probably in bed sleeping right now.”

  She looked at the kitchen counter and saw a key ring on it next to some empty glasses.

  “I don't know if we should wake her or not.”

  “Unfortunately, we're going to have to,” Greg said.

  She sighed and then walked to the living room, trying to decide. “You're right.” She leaned down to turn on a nearby lamp and turn the TV off. When the light came on, she screamed.

  A young man was leaned back in a reclining chair near the TV. His eyes were closed, and his head was tilted up against the headrest. In his lap was an empty bottle of whiskey. He was clean-shaven, and had a crew cut and thick, dark eyebrows. He was dressed in army fatigues. The patch over the left side of his chest said “US Army” while the patch over his right said “Irwin.” He was knocked out cold, and his breathing was steady and calm.

  Greg immediately ran into the room and moved Veronica to the side, standing between her and the mysterious sleeping man. He looked to be of average height and build—a little under six feet, and he was wearing black combat boots. Greg held out his Beretta pistol and aimed. Veronica stood motionless, watching.

  “Do you know this man?” Greg asked.

  She looked past Greg and studied the man. “No. I've never seen him before.”

  Greg approached the recliner, coming within an arm's reach of the man. The risks of walking into a house with a complete stranger inside were extremely high. The man could be infected for all he knew.

  “Hey,” he said to the man. “Hey, you.”

  The man remained asleep. The last thing Greg wanted to do was touch or shake him.

  “We should have suited up before we came in here,” he said to Veronica.

  “Don't be ridiculous, Greg. It's my Aunt Tilda's house.”

  He cut her off. “Haven’t you learned anything yet? We don't take chances.”

  “Look, let me go find Aunt Tilda, and she'll work this all out,” she said and ran off toward the bedrooms.

  Past the dining room, there was a hall that led to all the rooms. She checked each one as Greg waited with his eyes locked on the sleeping man. He could hear her calling for Tilda and coming up empty. Greg's instincts made him suspicious; to arrive at an aunt's house with no aunt in sight, only to find a man passed out in a recliner wasn’t good. The situation didn't add up.

  Veronica came back into the room, looking worried. “I couldn't find her, I don't know where she is,” she said, catching her breath.

  Greg held up his gun, pointed it at the man, and shouted, “Hey!”

  Veronica jumped. The man's eyes flickered open. At first, he just squinted at them, as if he didn’t know where he was. He was still noticeably out of it.

  “Who are you?” Greg shouted.

  The young man squinted at them again when suddenly his eyes went wide and he jumped up from the chair, sending the empty bottle to the tile floor. It broke into pieces as both Greg and Veronica jumped back.

  “Take it easy!” Greg said as the man stumbled backward.

  He almost fell right into the TV stand but caught himself just in time.

  “Who are you?” Greg asked.

  “Who the hell are you?” the man asked back.

  “Where's Tilda?” Veronica said forcefully

  The man stumbled toward them a little, scratching the black hair on his head. “Tilda?” He steadied his footing and then suddenly appeared to be fully awake. “Oh, Tilda!” He stopped and looked around the room, trying to see how many people he was dealing with. “I don't know.”

  “What do you mean, you don't know? Who are you, and what are you doing in my aunt's house?” Veronica asked

  Greg raised his pistol again. The man crossed his arms over his face and shielded himself. “Please! My name is Sergeant Charles Irwin with the United States Army. I’m on a scout mission to find people in need and transport them to Base 42.”

  “In a privately owned vehicle?” Greg asked.

  The man smirked. “Well, our resources are limited.”

  “Where’s my aunt?” Veronica asked.

  “Tilda went out. One of the neighbors came by. Man named Joe. They’re doing their rounds, making sure everything's okay. You know, neighborly stuff. With all this Ebola stuff going on, you can never be too—”

  “Quiet,” Greg said. He pointed to Veronica. “She doesn't know who you are, which means she can't vouch for you, which means you and I have a problem.”

  “We do?” the man asked.

  “You could be infected for all we know. And it looks like you’ve been doing a little drinking. Hardly the behavior of a soldier on a mission.”

  Sergeant Irwin extended his arm defensively. “OK, yeah, you’re right. I haven’t touched the stuff in a while, but Tilda offered it to me. Said to make myself comfortable while she was gone.”

  “And how long has she been gone?” Veronica asked.

  Sergeant Irwin looked up. “About an hour or so. She’s checking on her neighbors and telling them about Base 42. She insisted that I stay here. She’s a real nice woman. She took me in. She can explain everything once she gets back, sir.” He looked to Veronica. “So you’re her niece, huh?”

  She said nothing. He tried to shake their hands, but Greg told him to keep his distance. There was an uncomfortable silence when Greg suddenly motioned to the couch to his far right against the wall.

  “Take a seat over there.” He turned to Veronica. “I have some rope in the van, right in the front. A small reel of it. Please go get it and bring it back.”

  The man walked slowly to the couch with his hands up and took a seat. “Please, sir. This really isn’t necessary.”

  Greg turned to him. “A soldier who drinks on duty isn’t exactly the most trustworthy individual, if you know what I mean.”

  Sergeant Irwin laughed. “Come on, I haven’t had a drink in ages. Tilda insisted.”

  “I don’t care. We’re not taking an
y chances,” Greg said.

  Veronica took a look back into the kitchen and saw that there were several other liquor bottles sitting on the counter, some of them still half-full. She walked behind Greg and turned off the TV manually.

  “Couldn't get a single channel,” the sergeant said.

  “That's enough,” Greg said. “Even if you know Tilda, like you claim, your presence here is unexpected. So we’re gonna wait until Tilda comes back and clear this whole thing up.”

  “Fair enough,” Sergeant Irwin said. “But do you really have to tie me up?”

  “Yes,” Greg said.

  Veronica walked back behind Greg and began to investigate the rest of the house. The bottles intrigued her. She knew her aunt drank wine, but the whiskey was her late husband's—Veronica's Uncle Bernie—and Tilda wouldn't have let just anyone touch it. Maybe she had a soft spot for the soldier.

  “How about that rope?” Greg asked.

  “Sorry,” Veronica said, walking out of the house, taking a flashlight from the counter with her. Greg took a seat on the couch across from the solider and kept his gun aimed. Irwin tried to smile at him, but Greg kept his guard up. He didn’t say a word to the soldier but kept his gaze locked on him. Irwin opened his mouth to speak but then decided not to.

  “Where’s your weapon?” Greg asked.

  Irwin looked at him funny. Greg continued. “If you’re on some kind of mission, I assume you have a weapon, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” Irwin looked down at the ground. “But I left it in the truck. Saw no reason to bring it inside.”

  “With everything going on right now, you’d leave your weapon in the truck. What is it, a rifle?”

  “An M16A4 rifle.”

  “Anything else?” Greg asked.

  “Nothing,” Irwin said.

  Veronica entered the house, came into the living room with a small spool of yellow nylon rope, and handed it to Greg. He gave her the pistol and told her to keep it aimed as he pulled a pocketknife from his pants pocket and cut the rope into sections. All Irwin could do was sit there and watch. Greg approached the man and told him to stand up.