by Ray Gorham
Ed looked down at his feet. “Kyle, I was thinking about your plans, or lack thereof, last night. Let me drive you home. I can have you there in a week.”
“Ed,” Kyle watched and waited until Ed looked up. “I can’t let you do that.”
“But you saved my…” Ed began to protest before Kyle cut him off.
“Ed, please. I’ve thought long and hard about that. It’s too dangerous.”
“How is it dangerous?” Ed asked.
“Tell me you weren’t scared yesterday every time we drove past someone walking down the road.”
Ed half shrugged. “It’s just the whole situation. The world’s been flipped on its head.”
“I know, Ed. Yesterday was barely 48 hours since the event, and we were scared then. The longer this goes, the more desperate people are going to get. You think someone won’t try and kill you, or us, for your Jeep?”
“We’ll take a gun -- for protection.”
“How many people are you willing to kill to keep your Jeep? And that’s not all, Ed. I know you’ve put a lot of work into it, but your Jeep’s old. What if we break down, or can’t get gas, or wreck, or have a flat tire or two. There’s no mechanic or tow truck to help us out.”
Ed was fighting to find a rebuttal to Kyle’s arguments, but Kyle pressed on. “You don’t know how much I’d like it to work, but I don’t think it will. It’s too big a risk to have you take me.”
Donovan had been listening in silence and spoke up when Kyle paused. “So you just going to walk?”
Kyle nodded. “I’ve got a pack. I think it’s the best option.”
“You’ll never be able to carry enough supplies, Kyle. Just carrying the water you’ll need to get through Texas will kill you.”
“It’s the only option I’ve got, unless you’ve got a second vehicle I can take. I’m in decent shape, and I can refill my water jug at the rivers.”
“This isn’t Montana, Kyle. A lot of our rivers are dry in the summertime. You’ll die before you get out of the state.”
“Well that’s a risk I’m going to have to take. I’d rather die on the road than go crazy doing nothing.”
Virgie reached out and squeezed Kyle’s arm. “Kyle, we can’t just let you walk off and die. Surely we can come up with a plan that will get you there in one piece. Donovan, don’t you have a suitcase with wheels or something?” She looked from her son to her husband and then back to her son again, her eyes pleading.
Donovan thought for a minute then smiled, his eyes lighting up. “Mom, you’ve given me an idea. I’m not sure if it’ll work, but it can’t hurt to try. How important is it for you to leave tomorrow, Kyle?”
Tuesday, September 6th
Boston, Massachusetts
Senator Christine George lay on the floor outside the men’s room of the eighteenth floor common area. She was sure her right leg was broken. It was discolored and swollen, and every time she attempted to stand up, the pain was so intense that she nearly blacked out, making it impossible to do anything other than slide along the ground.
Two and a half days of lying in helpless solitude had followed Christine’s failed attempt to escape the high-rise perch from which she’d watched the chaos unfold below her days earlier. Early Saturday morning the streets had appeared safer and mostly clear, and so, still tired and sleepy after a fitful night on the reception area couch she’d attempted to exit down the unlit, emergency stairway.
After descending twenty floors using the light from her cell phone, it had finally faded to black, and her heel had caught on a step and sent her careening head over heels down the stairs in the inky black darkness. She’d only fallen a single flight, but, blind in the darkness, it had seemed like she’d tumbled all the way to the parking garage. As she lay on her back, winded, hurt, and groping for support, a deep burning sensation just above her right knee had impressed itself on her mind, to the exclusion of all her other injuries. She’d probed the area with her fingers and found, to her horror, an unfamiliar angle to the bone and shooting pains with any hint of movement.
It had taken her five hours; hours filled with pain so intense she almost blacked out, to get down to the next landing and the door to the 18th floor. By late Saturday afternoon, she was in too much pain to use a toilet and had soiled herself as she lay in the hallway fighting back tears, mortified, but confident then that no one would know what the always perfectly-coifed politician had been reduced to. A fever had set in sometime Monday, and now she noticed red streaks shooting out from the dark bruises around her knee.
As she lay on the floor, reeking of urine and feces, and reduced to drinking water out of the toilets, Christine thought long and deeply about her own mortality. Before her fall Saturday morning she hadn’t thought much about dying, but she was thinking about it now, and this certainly wasn’t how she would have hoped it would be. She would have liked to die in her own bed, surrounded by family and friends, certainly not crippled, helpless, and alone on the floor outside a public bathroom. She knew, however, that even under normal circumstances, her chances of dying that way were just a dream. Her husband was fifteen years her senior, and her only child, whose visits home rarely seemed to fit into his busy San Francisco schedule, had no plans to give her any grandchildren. So what family she had would hardly have made for a grand send-off. Even the people she represented might have paid their respects, but they certainly wouldn’t mourn her passing.
Christine had resigned herself to the fact that there would be no rescue and no grand funeral. Twice on Sunday she’d heard people going down the stairs and had even managed to get the attention of one of them, but that was more than forty-eight hours ago, and the frightened, Asian, cleaning lady who had heard her cries, but whose English consisted of only a dozen or so words, was an unlikely candidate for heading up a rescue effort. Now Christine just wished she could write a note, to leave some kind of farewell, but she couldn’t even do that since her purse was up one flight of stairs and impossible for her to retrieve in her condition.
She wondered how long it would be until the end came, and how long until someone found her body? Would they know who she was and that she had powerful friends and a burial plot already paid for? Her emotions tapped out, Senator Christine George, sixteen-year senator and chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, lay her head on the floor and waited to die.
San Angelo, Texas
With dinner over, Kyle and the Davis family sat in the living room, their conversation uncomfortable and forced. Kyle was on the floor with the items he planned to take on his trip piled in front of him. As he inspected the meager stacks, he wondered if he was making the right decision but didn’t have a better plan and was much too anxious to delay his departure any longer.
Donovan’s idea had been to scavenge wheels from an old, broken bicycle and construct a cart that Kyle could tow behind him. Using Donovan’s half-stocked workshop, the men had worked all day Monday, and until just past noon on Tuesday, mustering enough wood, nails and screws to cobble together the cart. Logan and Cheyenne, making the ultimate sacrifice, had donated the wooden ladder from their swing-set to be used for the arms that extended forward for the cart’s handle. The finished product had a bed approximately four foot by three and a half, with three sixteen inch tall sides, and a back that was twenty-four inches high, giving Kyle a comfortably sized wooden box for his supplies. The two wheels from Donovan’s bike were attached to the sides, and the side pieces from the playground ladder extended four feet beyond the front of the cart with a shovel handle secured between them, which left a small space for Kyle to walk in while pulling the cart.
When they had finished, Kyle had been both relieved and embarrassed by their efforts -- relieved that the cart worked and was sturdy enough to carry more weight than he expected, but embarrassed by the crudeness of the construction, the result of using handsaws, screwdrivers, hammers and nails.
Worried that he would forget something important, Kyle once again inventoried the ite
ms in front of him, most of which he had taken from the Wal-Mart on Saturday, but the list remained the same: four changes of clothing, unopened bags of underwear and socks, a new pair of hiking boots, a blue backpack, a case of water, three boxes of food, a sleeping bag, a thin jacket and a sweatshirt, a hunting knife, a .22 Marlin rifle, and two boxes of bulk ammunition. Donovan had also contributed several items to the pile: a small tent, a frying pan, a hatchet, matches, a leather canteen, a first aid kit, a half-full can of mosquito spray, an old pair of tennis shoes, an extra blanket, and a dozen trash bags.
“Doesn’t look like much for such a long trip, does it?” Ed said, summing up Kyle’s thoughts succinctly.
Kyle shook his head. “No, but I’m not sure what the right amount is. The more I add, the slower I’ll go.”
“Are you sure that peashooter is going to be enough?” Donovan asked. “I have a real rifle, if you want to take it.”
Kyle laughed. “I think I’ll be good. I won’t be hunting big game, just rabbits and raccoons, maybe an armadillo or two. Besides, I’ve got a thousand rounds of ammunition for this little .22, which should give me more than enough opportunity to get some food.”
“But what about for protection?”
“I’ll just be careful and avoid dangerous situations as much as I can, besides, the better armed I appear the more likely anyone will shoot first and ask questions later. I know things are bad, but I’m not planning to shoot any big game, or any people for that matter, so the .22 should do. Besides, the six of you need protection, too. Don’t you?”
Donovan looked uneasy. “I suppose. I guess I just still think you’re crazy to try and walk. The offer to stay here still stands,” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“I know, and I appreciate that,” said Kyle, “but I’d go insane sitting here, even one more day. These past four have been hard enough. At this point, I think I’d rather die trying.”
Wednesday, September 7th
San Angelo, Texas
The sun glowed a bright orange on the eastern horizon and a hint of the early morning coolness still hung in the air as Kyle made the final adjustments to his load.
Ed, Virgie, Donovan and Wendy watched Kyle, not knowing what to say.
“You ready for this?” Ed asked finally.
“Ready as I’m ever going to be,” replied Kyle. “I certainly wouldn’t be this ready if it wasn’t for all of you.”
“You saved my life; it’s the least we could do. Sending you off on foot sure doesn’t seem very gracious though. I wish I could drive you home.”
Virgie stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Kyle. “Once we get through this, you’d better come back with your family to visit,” she said. “We need to tell them what kind of a hero you are.”
Donovan extended his hand. “It was great getting to know you. Thanks for helping my dad, Kyle. Good luck with your trip.”
“Thanks. Don’t forget, I owe you a bike, and Cheyenne and Logan a ladder. Please be sure and thank them again for me.” Kyle shifted his weight from foot to foot, the fear of heading into the unknown resting heavily on his mind. “Guess I’d better get on my way, before I chicken out.”
Kyle stepped behind the handle of the cart, picked it up, and started to walk down the driveway, his pace slow. “I feel like I’m pulling a rickshaw,” he joked. “Anyone want a ride?”
The four Davis’s laughed. “I don’t think I trust the cart,” said Ed. “I know who put it together.”
Kyle laughed and waved. “Wish me luck,” he called over his shoulder as he approached the front street.
Virgie wiped away a tear. “I’ll be praying for you, Kyle,” she called out. “Please watch out for yourself!”
“Good luck, Kyle!” Ed shouted, his voice breaking with emotion. “Be careful, and Godspeed.”
Kyle gave a half-hearted smile as he once again said goodbye, then turned onto the road and headed off. He forced himself not to look back. They had been through a lot over the past few days, and Ed and Virgie had come to feel like family. Walking off into the heart of an America he was no longer sure he knew was more difficult than Kyle had expected it to be.
To keep his mind off of his emotions, Kyle forced himself to think about the task at hand. Twenty-five miles a day was his goal, at least to start, and three miles an hour was the pace he was striving for. That meant eight to nine hours of walking each day, not including breaks, meals, and sitting out the hottest part of the afternoon if he needed to. If he could cover twenty-five miles on the good days, and fifteen to twenty on the tough ones, Kyle estimated he would be back home before Thanksgiving.
What he was confronted with still didn’t seem real. A week ago he was scheduled to make the trip in a few hours with minimal effort, the only concerns being making his connection and finding the right souvenirs for his kids. Now he was setting out on a trek in excess of fifteen hundred miles, pulling a homemade cart in which, he hoped, he was carrying the items he needed to survive. He was stepping into the unknown: no guaranteed shelter, no guaranteed food, and no one who would know where or how he was.
Kyle approached the first corner and turned back to take one final look at his friends. Ed and Donovan stood in the street watching him. Kyle raised an arm over his head and waved in a long sweeping motion. Ed and Donovan returned the gesture, and he could faintly make out their shouts of encouragement over the breeze blowing through the trees.
His throat tightened, and he closed his eyes, then turned back to face the road. He glanced at the map Donovan had drawn showing the quickest way to the highway while avoiding the city, a detour that had been planned after Wendy had come home Tuesday afternoon with frightening tales about the chaos at work.
The situation at the hospital had been reasonably calm through Sunday, but on Monday, safety and order had rapidly deteriorated. A gang fight early Monday morning had resulted in a number of wounded people, accompanied by friends with weapons, demanding treatment and threatening the staff and other patients. Without police or any viable security, the staff, which was short-handed to begin with, had started to walk off the job, one after another. To compound the hospital’s troubles, their supply of drugs had been robbed, the generator powering the hospital had only enough fuel for maybe another four days, and the condition of their patients was becoming more desperate by the minute. Finally, after a nurse had been shot and killed during a brawl in the emergency room, the hospital director had called the staff together and ordered them all to go home.
Wendy had resisted, but without any hope for power, medication, or food, and no guarantee of safety, she had come to realize she would only be postponing the inevitable while risking her own life if she stayed. The hospital staff was encouraged to help where they could in their own neighborhoods, and then they quietly exited out a back door. Wendy knew that some of the staff who had no families to go home to had ignored the order and stayed, but she had ridden her bike home in tears, struggling to come to grips with abandoning her patients and knowing that most wouldn’t make it, but seeing no way to change the outcome.
The city of San Angelo lay off to the east, and Kyle could see a large column of smoke rising from a warehouse that was on fire and burning furiously. He took a long look at the city and wondered if he would ever make it back to visit the Davis’s, and if he did, how different things would be then.
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday, September 7th
Deer Creek, Montana
Jennifer sat on a hard wooden kitchen chair pushed up against a wall in Doug Jarvis’s unfinished basement. It was apparent to Jennifer that Doug wasn’t in the habit of hosting large groups as the seating was an eclectic mix of kitchen chairs, a rolling office chair, mismatched folding metal chairs, and a half dozen cheap, green, plastic outdoor chairs. Regardless of the improvised nature of the furnishings, after days of anxiety it was a relief that something was being done to organize the community.
The previous meeting, with no strong voice to direct it, ha
d gotten out of hand, and Jennifer hoped this one would go better. At the last meeting, people had barely had twenty-four hours to digest the fact that their lives had been irreversibly upended, and rationally discussing how to spend the next several months had been too much for many. Most people had still been trying to wrap their mind around the fact that there would be no more trips to the grocery store, no more daily work routines, no more turning on the TV or surfing the web or calling your family across town. It was now five days removed from what was being referred to as “the event,” and Jennifer hoped that people would be able to be more reasonable.
For her part, the adjustments were ongoing and far from over. With simple things, she was managing adequately, although she still found herself flipping the light switches when the sun went down, fighting the urge to check for emails, reaching for the phone when she thought about her mother, and going to the fridge for food. On an emotional level though, Jennifer had a long way to go. She thought about Kyle on an hourly basis, sometimes more often than that if there was nothing to keep her busy. The two weeks that he had been gone prior to “the event” had been much easier, and she remembered, with some guilt, that he’d only crossed her mind occasionally during those days. Now, knowing that he should be home and wasn’t, and that she had no idea where or how he was, thoughts of Kyle were never far removed.
Jennifer watched people filter into the meeting and wondered what situations they were dealing with. Who else might be missing a spouse? Who had kids away at college? Who needed medical care? The questions were endless. She tried to read people’s expressions, but most wore masks that revealed little beyond the fact that they were scared. As she surveyed the room, Jennifer recognized a few people from her street and from school events, but most in attendance would have been complete strangers had it not been for the meeting three days before.