American Exodus

by JK Franks

  “I really don’t—some water and a few granola bars. I literally have nothing that I am going to need to get home.”

  The senior pilot nodded. “Wish we could help, but we don’t keep anything in this thing. In fact, if you could spare a water or two we would be much obliged.”

  He hated to give up any of his precious water but couldn’t refuse the men for what they had already done. He removed two of the plastic bottles and put them in the drink holders attached to the seats. He left a few more on the cabin floor. “Thanks, guys, I’m not sure I could have made it this far without your help. You easily cut my trip in half.”

  “Aye . . . no prob . . . man,” Lambert offered before—“Holy shit, Mike. Do you see that?” Both men were leaning forward, looking over the instrument cluster at something ahead. From his position behind the two flight chairs, Steve was just beginning to catch sight of the high-rise buildings of downtown. Like Charlotte, it appeared fire had raged through parts of the city. The interstate they were following entered into a massive multi-level interchange off to the right, and the sight of thousands of stalled cars and tens of thousands of people on the overpasses was unnerving.

  On the left side of the airship was the solid granite facade of Stone Mountain. Some things can never change, he thought. The gray rock looming out of the sea of trees still seemed so out of place as to not be natural. None of those were what McKay and Lambert were focused on.

  Just coming into view was part of the enormous airport. In lines stretching off in multiple directions, regularly spaced columns of thick black smoke plumed upward. “Those are airliners, jumbo jets,” one of the men said in a somber voice. The lines of smoke were arrow straight, mirroring the take-off and landing approach vectors. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Lambert said before crossing himself.

  This was the airport Steve used on a regular basis. He knew from the stats that it was one of, if not the world’s busiest. A flight left or arrived every forty seconds, well over a hundred and twenty flights an hour. With even more traffic at the adjacent international runway, he could only guess at the numbers. Tens of thousands of lives lost from these crashes alone. Again, he saw only a few emergency vehicles at the crash sites.

  McKay had deviated to fly closer to the tarmac. The devastation was everywhere. At the end of the runway, a scorch mark ran for hundreds of yards before ending in a blackened lump. Obviously, a take-off that never happened. At the terminal building a large section was collapsed and burning; the silver tip of a wing one of the only recognizable signs of the cause. Just as scary, everywhere they looked were people. Many must have fled the terminals onto the tarmac, and all those sitting on planes about to take off or just landing had eventually hit the emergency doors. The sagging remnants of inflated slides were hanging from every stopped jet like an animal trailing its insides.

  Many people stared up at the brightly colored blimp overhead. They must be feeling their pain and despair on display like at a sporting event. “We need to go,” said Steve.

  The men up front seemed to realize this as well. The airship turned away from the macabre scene and was away from the airport in seconds. That was when they realized someone was shooting at them. A hole appeared in the fiberglass floor just in front of Steve. “Holy shit! What was—” Another cracked the glass windshield.

  “Losing pressure in the envelope, Mike. Get us out of here.”

  The pilots sounded concerned but were not panicking. Steve looked over the side to see neighborhood streets filling with people looking up and pointing. He no longer felt as safe up here as he had. “Can’t we go higher, get out of range?”

  McKay yelled back, “Some but not much. We mostly fly map-of-the-Earth only about 1,500 feet up. With a full load of gas, we can add 500 more feet, but not today. He shoved the yoke forward and to the right, working the control pedals at the same time. Steve could see more of the city skyline filling the view, the old Olympic Stadium and former home to the Atlanta Braves coming into view. The city was unrecognizable; fires were raging out of control, and nothing was moving down there but waves of people out on the streets.

  The city of Atlanta had always been one of his favorites. It was still relatively young and vibrant and not so large that you couldn’t get around. Great restaurants, museums and excellent luxury hotels. He and Barbara had spent many nights here over the years. Now, it looked dead—sinister even. It was no longer the city that he loved. He watched as the Westin Hotel, one of the iconic landmarks downtown passed by, a deep gash and black charring taking out most of one side. Something had impacted it hard.

  McKay swung the craft back west and let the wind carry them away from downtown. Steve leaned forward. “Captain, what about the airship? Do we need to check for damage, fix something?”

  “Not much we can do. The ship is designed with redundancies. The outer envelope will trap most of the escaping gas. I would say only a couple of the internal gas bladders were struck. You see, the airship it is not just one balloon, but many, all surrounded by the outer shell, the envelope, as we call it. We should be fine unless we run into more of that. Come up here and look out to tell me a good place to set you down.”

  6

  Steve watched as the giant craft rose gracefully back into the sky, the landing rope sliding through his hands until he was sure they would clear the hangar. McKay had brought the airship back to Earth at a small abandoned, rural airstrip well outside of Atlanta. Steve had exited the craft, and they were back on their way in minutes. The horrific scenes they had witnessed the previous night, and especially the last few hours, had left them all shaken. Few words were spoken other than wishes of good luck to each for their journey home.

  He turned to leave the grassy field as soon as possible. The large, colorful blimp would have been seen. Others would be coming. That, he now knew, could likely be very bad. The few neighborhoods and houses were mostly to the north and east, so he headed south. With few supplies and no real plan, he simply wanted to keep moving. Avoid large roads and big towns. This part of Georgia was unfamiliar to him, but he had selected it for several reasons. It was less developed; it had good roads and a large river flowing south. Truthfully, it was simply the least bad option. He would have loved to have caught another blimp flying south, but you work with what you have.

  So much had changed since yesterday, and yet he had no idea how much. The lack of information was driving him mad. He could be out here risking his life for nothing. In less than twenty-four hours his life was unrecognizable—the world he had seen so far was in shambles. He recalled a friend of his had a Ford dealership in a town about thirty miles away. For no other particular reason, he decided that would be his first destination and began moving in what he hoped was the right direction.

  The August heat in Georgia is something you can either deal with or not. He was ok with it but knew the water wouldn’t last long with temperatures in the high nineties and the sauna-like humidity. Within thirty minutes, his clothes were soaked through with sweat. Even the waxed-canvas messenger bag strapped across his back was soaked. He needed to focus on something else, and his mind drifted to his family. How were they doing? His current wife, Barbara, had not been the first Mrs. Porter. He had defied his parents and married his first wife for love. Marie was pretty, simple and kind. She had been an art major while he was in business school. They had fallen in love, and she had gotten pregnant. His father had very nearly disowned him. “The woman is a goddamn Democrat, Steve. What were you thinking?” To alleviate further family shame, his mother had given him money to go to Vegas for a quickie wedding. Sadly, Marie lost the baby two months later. The miscarriage devastated her, and she never was the same again. The scar of loss reshaped her from the woman he loved to someone looking for an escape. Her path got darker as the years passed. After bouts with alcohol, then prescription pills, they were finally divorced, his father feeling vindicated by his opinion that “the girl was trash.”

  With few other options, Steve had rel
uctantly joined his father’s business. While he hated sales—and having no love for cars in particular—he proved to be a valuable addition to the business. What he possessed was a unique ability to observe people and gauge needs. His father had made him work in every department at the company before giving him a management position. He realized quickly that the service side of the business was both the most profitable and the department with the most potential to grow. Over the years, the Porter family of dealerships grew because they were so service oriented and customer focused. His service department managers were always the highest-paid people in the company. The dealerships were really just fancy garages that leased space up front to the manufacturers to move their product. Money was not made on the front-end—the new car sales—but instead, most was made on the back-end, mainly in service and in finance. The sales were simply a good supply pipeline to get more people into Fords, which in turn, fed more work for the service department.

  A sound ahead snapped him out of his mental time travel. He was in the woods about fifty yards from a two-lane highway. He crouched as he saw movement on the road. Two men in camo with guns slung lazily across their chests. Could just be hunters, but he had to be sure. Be a rat. The Aussie man’s words came back to him over and over. He watched and stayed hidden.

  “Hey, you! Stop right there,” one of the men said. Both men were running now. Steve thought he might have been spotted and ducked even lower. The men kept running as they went by, and then one took a knee and fired his gun. “Shit, man, can’t just be shooting at people for fucking wid ya stuff.”

  The other man stood back up. “I can, and I will. Our stuff may mean life or death right now. Things have changed, Will.” They turned and walked back in the direction they had come.

  Who in the hell were they shooting at? He had not seen anyone else come by, but he didn’t always have a good view of the road. Highways are dangerous, he needed them for navigation but now was wishing he had a GPS or a compass instead. Not that he knew how to use a compass, but he was becoming convinced that he needed to do something different. It was slow going through the woods, and if he caught a root and twisted an ankle or broke a leg he would probably die there. “Shit, shit, shit.” The best of the bad options was to stay concealed, closer to the road, but not on it, and watch the road as well as the path ahead. He stopped to think about what he was wearing. How much would it stand out if someone was looking? His clothing was dark but not made for roaming through the woods. Twill pants and a dark gray dress shirt. His running shoes were originally bright but well-worn; the day in the forest had them already stained and dirty. He rubbed some soil onto his face and the same on his exposed hands.

  He hated working with limited knowledge. He was used to being in charge—being the most informed and usually able to accurately predict outcomes. It made him a good businessman, and in his opinion, a good husband and father. Right now, he wasn’t even being a good rat. The men with the guns had not seemed evil but had no problem defending themselves. That told him something: unlike the cities where seemingly random violence, death and probably even looting was already a fact, here it was more like people being opportunistic than outright thieves. Small towns and rural communities had their own way of dealing with problems. He was from a small town. All of his dealerships were in relatively small towns. He understood the mindset of those people and could appreciate it. Protect what is yours, don’t trust strangers, be prepared to meet danger head-on.

  The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, but he knew this time of year it could stay light until nearly nine. Shelter was a concern, and one he had no idea how to solve. Walking out of sight alongside the rough-paved road, he’d seen no other houses, barns or even shelter of any type. Had no idea how to craft anything, nor if he even needed to build one. The night wouldn’t be cold, not that many predators were around, wasn’t really bear country or anything. He was considering this as he noticed the roadblock just coming into view ahead. He was deep enough in the woods to not be seen but thought briefly of stepping out and strolling up to see what was up. The idea of being turned around and sent away was more than he could handle, though. He was a rat. Sneak up close enough to listen to the people and see what he could learn. Observe, little rat.

  The roadblock consisted of an older truck with a Carroll County Sheriff emblem, an ancient and rusty station wagon and a large, yellow piece of road paving equipment. It would have been effective had anyone been driving, but if you stopped to look, it was something less than official. Steve got close, then lay on the ground and slowly began crawling up to within earshot. Two men and a woman leaned against the truck and wagon chatting. One of the men was in uniform and armed. The other two may have been officers, but he couldn’t see any weapons.

  The conversation was well under way when he lay back and began focusing on the words, “ . . . wire, and he said it was the same all over. The fucking Russians done nuked us, we are at war.”

  The other man: “You don’t know that and don’t go spreading rumors. The powers out, that’s all.”

  “Then why won’t our cars start? Huh? Why did them jets fall out da sky? You the assistant sheriff, Clay, you sposa know these things.”

  The woman spoke for the first time, “I heard it was space weather, some freaky solar storm fried everything.”

  “Solar flares don’t do all that. Shit, they happen all the time, Lori. . . . damn. Might lose service on your phone, but wouldn’t make the whole world go to shit.”

  She huffed, “So you are an expert now? How did I forget the time you spent consulting for NASA? You don’t know shit. But, Clay . . . what in the hell are we doing out here? Nobody has been down this road all day.”

  The deputy said, “Keeping people from coming into town. The mayor and council said to expect people to start flooding off the interstate and out of Atlanta and the bigger cities. Turn them away as whatever resources we have are ours to use. Even if they have family here, we are to send them away. If they are walking, it is probably too soon for them to be showing up, but later tonight, definitely tomorrow, we are going to start seeing ‘em. One of the guys at the meeting is a ham operator, and he said lots of other towns are already having problems.”

  “Did he say how widespread the blackout was?”

  “He didn’t know. Said everyone he had reached so far was reporting the same thing. He hadn’t been able to reach his pops up north, but gathered from the others that all of the U.S. was affected, probably much more.”

  “So, how long before its fixed?” the woman asked.

  “No idea Lori, no idea. . . . It’s bad. Real bad.”

  The conversation kept on for a while. Steve just lay there in the cool carpet of dead leaves and pine needles listening to his empty stomach rumbling and the idle chatter from the roadblock. One was sitting in the station wagon flipping channels on the old radio trying to find a working broadcast. They stopped on what sounded like a weak AM station. A preacher, by the sound of it, condemning everyone, saying that God’s judgment had been cast. The only way forward was to battle the non-believers and spread the Lord's message. Steve cringed—why would that guy be the one broadcast that was still getting out? As the shadows grew longer, sleep overcame him. He had found shelter, and it was going to be right here beside the roadblock.

  7

  It was late the next morning before he saw the first real signs of civilization. They came in the form of numerous stalled vehicles. He stayed inside the tree line and avoided the cars. As he neared the small town ahead, he realized it was nothing more than a rural community. A church, small store, repair shop, several other squat buildings and a few homes clustered near an intersection. He had awoken before dawn to the sound of cars and equipment being moved. The woods were dark, and he had bug bites all over, but the sleep had been needed. The trek so far had been uneventful. This, he doubted, would continue.

  The crew manning the roadblock had gone north. He assumed they were extending the blockade farther out
. As he neared the cluster of homes and buildings, he was forced to walk on the paved road. The forest had turned into fenced pastures; the last thing he wanted to do was be caught trespassing in a farmer’s field. Having grown up in the even more rural, southern part of the state, he knew about farmers and ranchers. He consciously took his hands out of his pockets and kept them slightly raised as he walked toward the store. He could feel the eyes on him. He fully expected a local to step out with a gun and block his way forward at any moment. It didn’t happen.

  He heard the unmistakable sound of a small engine behind the store and realized a neon “Open” sign was lit. They have a generator. He eyed cautiously up and down each of the roads but knew he needed supplies. If they were selling, he needed to be buying. The door was an old screen door with a spring to keep it closed. He pushed on it, noticing the rusted image of the Merita Bread company logo on it. The store was dimly lit. A single lantern stood on a counter, but the two small windows provided a bit more light. While most of the shelves were nearly empty, the store was neat and tidy. He again felt eyes on him immediately. Two men were talking to an older woman behind the counter. As a businessman himself, he tried to think the way she might be thinking. Was this man someone she knew? No. Was he a threat? Did he have money? Quickly working out the basics of a plan in his mind, he walked forward to the counter.

  “Morning, just curious if you guys might have any information on what happened?” He gently removed the strap on his backpack and lowered it to the ground, again showing his empty hands. “Name is Steven Porter, not from around here . . . obviously, but trying to get back home.” They all eyed him with interest, but none seem overly concerned.

  The younger of the two men, wearing jeans, boots and a t-shirt, asked, “How did you get past the roadblocks? Deputy sheriff said they started turning people away yesterday.”