77 Days in September

by Ray Gorham

  Cassidy shrugged her shoulders and broke off a tiny piece of the granola bar to put in Austin’s mouth. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice lacking any life. “I just don’t know.”

  “You should try some of the local churches,” Jennifer suggested. “They might be able to help you. Just don’t give up, okay, Cassidy? You’ve got your little boy to live for. He needs you to stay strong.”

  Cassidy nodded but didn’t speak.

  Jennifer gave Cassidy a pat on the shoulder and smiled at Austin, who was busy trying to chew on the piece of granola bar, his arms and legs kicking excitedly. “I’ve got to go, but please don’t give up.”

  “I’ll try,” Cassidy responded weakly.

  Jennifer pedaled away and was about to turn onto the street when a wine colored car near the back exit of the parking lot caught her eye. She stopped and looked at it, noting that the car was facing towards the exit. She pedaled over and peered through the windows. The seats were empty, but the rear passenger door had a big dent in it that kept it from closing tightly. Jennifer tugged on the door and managed to pull it open after a couple of good yanks. She opened the driver’s door and lifted the latch for the trunk.

  Hurrying to the back of the car, Jennifer opened the trunk and found herself staring at a dozen plastic bags filled with groceries -- pasta, canned vegetables, a dozen or so cans of tuna fish, crackers, and plenty more. She removed her backpack and quickly filled it with bags of food. As she worked, she noticed a foul odor and found, in one of the bags, a package of chicken thighs, which was now a putrid, dripping, brown mass. Holding her breath, she tied the bag of rotting meat shut, finished loading her bags, and climbed back on her bike.

  Jennifer rode around to the front of the building where she had last seen Cassidy, but Cassidy was gone. She rode to the other side of the building and looked both directions, spotting Cassidy pushing the stroller down the street and away from the store. “Cassidy!” she shouted as she hurried to catch up. “Cassidy! I found some food!” Startled, Cassidy turned to see Jennifer holding out a bag. “There was a car on the other side of the building. The trunk was full. I grabbed this for you, but there was more for you to take if you go back.”

  Cassidy’s eyes went from Jennifer, to the bag, then back to Jennifer again. She reached out and took the bag, but her expression didn’t change. “I don’t know that I should.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Go ahead. I have as much as I can carry on the bike. I just wanted to find you and let you know.”

  Cassidy shook her head. “What’s the point, Jenn? So we get some food. That just prolongs the inevitable. Now we’ll die in two weeks instead of one. It doesn’t change the reality.”

  Jennifer stared at the young mother, shocked. “What are you saying? That you’re giving up?”

  Cassidy looked away from Jennifer and didn’t respond.

  “I can’t believe you,” said Jennifer, her anger rising along with her voice. She struggled to find the right words. “You’re a mother. You should be ready to kill for your child, not sentence him to death.” Jennifer felt her hands shaking, and she clenched the handlebars of the bike. “You should be ashamed. I’ve heard of mothers fighting wild animals to save their children, and you’re just going to give up?”

  Cassidy turned back around and started to push her baby away from the store, the single bag of food hanging from the stroller.

  “You need to think of Austin,” Jennifer called to her. “He deserves a chance at life, not a death sentence. The car is by the far exit if you change your mind, but the food won’t last long.” As a few people nearby took Jennifer’s directions to heart and ran for the unclaimed groceries, Jennifer watched Cassidy walk away, feeling madder than she had in years.

  Jennifer jerked the bike around and had just started to pedal when she felt something tug on her bicycle. She twisted her head around and saw a man with unkempt, curly red hair holding onto the cable of the lock she had wrapped loosely around the bike seat post. The sight of him holding her back frightened her, and Jennifer pressed harder on the pedals, trying to break free of his grip.

  “What do you want?” Jennifer shouted as he pulled her to a stop. Her heart was racing and her legs shaking so much she had a hard time keeping her balance.

  “You said you have food. I want it,” the man demanded.

  “Please, I have three children. I need it.”

  The expression on the man’s face didn’t change. He was young, probably in his mid-twenties, and his face was covered with freckles, giving him an especially youthful look, but his eyes were set hard, and Jennifer could tell by his expression that he was completely serious. “I don’t care about your kids. I have my own worries. Give me your food!”

  Jennifer swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. She could see Cassidy monitoring the situation over her shoulder, but hurrying in the opposite direction, and making her escape while she still had a chance. “Please,” Jennifer begged. “Please, I really need the food.”

  The man jerked on the cable, pulling the bike and nearly knocking Jennifer to the ground. “Just shut up and give me the food. I don’t want to hear about it.”

  Jennifer swiped at a tear on her cheek and had started to slip the backpack from her shoulders when she heard another voice from across the street. “Let go of her!” it demanded.

  Both Jennifer and the man holding her bike turned in the direction of the voice. An older man wearing boxer shorts and an undershirt that was once white was striding across his lawn with an aluminum baseball bat raised threateningly above his right shoulder. He had a determined expression and was making a beeline towards them.

  “Stay out of this, old man,” the red head snarled, looking back at Jennifer. “This is none of your business.”

  “I’ve seen enough to know this is my business, you little punk. Let go of the lady. I don’t want to have to get your blood on my bat. You understand?”

  The young man nodded slowly and released his grip on the cable, the lock falling back against the frame of the bike with a metallic clang. “Leave now!” the man with the bat ordered, looking at Jennifer.

  Jennifer wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, but didn’t really care. As soon as she was free, she pushed her bike away and reached with her foot for the pedal. Once up to speed, she turned to look back at her protector. Just as she looked she saw the red head lunge towards the older man, and the baseball bat swing around in a heartbeat, catching the red head on the side of his head and dropping him to the ground like he’d been shot.

  The violent act shocked Jennifer and she almost lost control of the bike. Catching herself, she weaved the bicycle between a couple of abandoned cars and turned back to where the two men were. This time the older man was kneeling on the ground, checking the younger man for signs of life.

  She let out a horrified gasp, but she didn’t stop, too frightened to spend any more time in the city.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sunday, September 11th

  Northern Texas

  The eastern sky glowed a peach-tinged yellow as the sun began its daily ascent. Kyle tied his shoes, then rolled up his sleeping bag and squeezed it back into its designated place in the cart. After a few hours of pulling on Wednesday, he had stopped and adjusted the load every mile or so until finding just the right balance. Now his challenge each morning was to repack the cart without upsetting the carefully earned equilibrium.

  With his bedding repacked, Kyle stepped into pulling position, grabbed the handle, and set off for a fifth day. His legs and shoulders ached, but not as much as they had the day before, gradually becoming accustomed to the demands of pulling.

  North Central Texas was forgivingly flat, and heading north from San Angelo, Kyle had made better time than he expected. Wednesday, his first day, he had pulled until well after dark, making it most of the way to Sterling City before stopping. A grassy patch had been his first bed site, but bugs, noises, worries and the hard ground had kept him from getting much rest. The second
day started early, and he had walked to just north of Sterling when an old pickup passed him by. One thing that had surprised Kyle as he walked was the number of vehicles still operating. He had expected the roads to be devoid of any traffic, but on Wednesday, eight vehicles had passed him, and the pickup was the second one on Thursday.

  Most drivers just waved as they sped by, and Kyle had been expecting the same from the pickup, especially since the truck bed had been loaded with boxes and bags, but it pulled over and a young couple jumped out.

  “Where are you headed to?” the driver asked.

  “Montana,” Kyle answered with a grin. “I don’t suppose you’re headed that way?”

  The man’s eyes widened, and he looked at his wife. “No,” he said, “but we could help a little if you want. We’re heading to family in Hobbs and could save you a few miles.”

  Kyle had eagerly accepted their offer, and the three of them loaded the cart in the back of the truck. There were no ropes to secure the cart, and three small children were wedged on a narrow bench behind the driver, so Kyle had sat in the back, perched on top of a box and clinging to his cart like a mother holding a newborn. The miles had sped by without incident, and within two hours they had arrived in Lamesa, where Kyle’s cart was unloaded and they parted ways, with Kyle thanking the couple profusely for saving him three days of walking.

  From Lamesa, Kyle had continued towards Lubbock, thrilled to already be so far ahead of schedule, and only stopping at night once it got too dark to continue walking. Camp that night had been set up on the shoulder of the road. Friday he had been on the go again at dawn, anxious to stay ahead of schedule, but before he could get very far in the day’s journey, aching muscles and joints had conspired to slow his progress. This setback surprised him since he was in relatively good shape, having hiked dozens of miles in the mountains around Missoula every summer. But none of that was preparation for the punishment he was currently inflicting on his body.

  A little after noon, Kyle found a shaded area by a small creek, ate lunch, and managed to get in two good hours of sleep. When he awoke he wet himself in the creek, refilled his water bottles, and continued on his way, walking for only three hours before stopping for the day.

  Saturday, blistered, sore, and tired, Kyle only managed to pull a couple of hours before once again stopping for the day to give his body a break. By Sunday morning, nine days after he had expected to fly home, he was approaching Lubbock, two days ahead of schedule on his new timeline. Despite the aches, the satisfaction of making good time helped keep him going, and he noted with pleasure as the numbers on the mile markers slowly count up.

  Over the past four days he had met others who were in a similar predicament, although he had yet to meet anyone with as far to travel as he did. In these limited interactions, it was apparent that people were scared, struggling, and lacking the resources to cope. The few reports he’d heard about the federal broadcasts had a similar theme, with no hope of immediate assistance being offered beyond limited, government, food stockpiles that they were unable to deliver and a few emergency air shipments of food that were more symbolic than useful. The man who had given that information to Kyle had agreed that three hundred million people weren’t going to be helped much by the arrival of a handful of cargo planes full of food.

  As Kyle approached Lubbock, a haze hung over the city that made his eyes water and his lungs burn. He could see evidence of fires in multiple locations, but he trudged warily onward, worried about the danger of the city. Residents eyed Kyle suspiciously, rarely waving or offering words of encouragement like he’d experienced in the small towns when he’d first begun his journey. Part of it was probably because the homes here were set further back off of the highway, but there was still a different feeling, a sense of wariness and fear that he hadn’t felt in the towns he’d passed through earlier.

  Kyle waved at a man sitting on the back steps of a house and shouted “Good morning!” to him. The man sat quietly, eyes locked on Kyle, then, after much deliberation, responded with a slight dip of the head and disappeared into his home.

  From the position of the sun, Kyle estimated that it was just before noon, and he stopped briefly to eat a power bar and take a drink. The water was warm, but it quenched his parched throat and helped lessen the hunger pangs. It had been six days since he’d had an official meal, and a drink with ice was well over a week removed. He thought about some of the things he missed, simple things he’d taken for granted his entire life -- cold drinks, hot food, mattresses, air conditioning, showers, cars, clean clothes, a phone call. Until a week ago, he’d never given those things much thought. Now they were unattainable luxuries that crossed his mind incessantly.

  Kyle capped the water and stowed the jug, then resumed pulling. As he walked, his thoughts once again drifted to his family. What is Jennifer doing? How are they getting along? Are they safe? Hungry? Scared? Worried? These were the same questions he asked every day, and he still didn’t have any answers. He tried to reassure himself that Jennifer was strong and that she could handle it, but it hurt beyond description to not be with her and the kids.

  As Kyle pulled his cart into Lubbock, gloom hung in the air like the smoke that blanketed the city, creating a feeling that enveloped him and made his cart feel heavy and his legs weak. The further into the city he ventured, the thicker the smoke became and the stronger the uneasy feeling grew.

  At the top of an overpass, Kyle was close enough to watch a fire burning through a neighborhood. The homes were close together, and the fire was spreading from one home to another. Kyle stopped and watched as people on the roofs of the homes nearest the fire, with shirts pulled over their faces and armed only with blankets, tried to stop the flames from spreading. Cinders from the burning houses dropped onto the roofs of neighboring homes, and panicked homeowners rushed forward to beat at the flames, then retreated, driven back by the heat.

  Kyle was drawn in by the drama and wanted to help, but knew there was nothing he could offer beyond what was already there. The scene was pitiful, no fire trucks or even garden hoses to fight the fire with, just people, blankets and sweat. He shook his head in sympathy as he picked up the handle of his cart and continued on his way.

  Deer Creek, Montana

  Jennifer was attempting to take notes, but with all of the arguments, the meeting was going nowhere. It was easy to understand why Gabe was reluctant to bring too much up for discussion. Education and food had already run their course. Now the subject was generators. Of the just over one hundred homes in their community, so far only six generators had been identified. Everyone assumed that there were more, but they knew of just the six.

  “We just need to confiscate them!” a woman shouted from the back of the room as the argument raged. “I need water, and I bet most of you do, too.” A couple of people voiced their agreement.

  Gabe raised his hands, trying to regain order. “Folks, I know we need them, but we can’t just take them.”

  “Why not?” yelled a man. Jennifer recognized him as the attorney who had wanted to be the council chairman. “It’s for the good of the community.”

  “I know that, sir, but that doesn’t give us license to do it.” Gabe looked around, trying to garner support. “We have no authority to do something like that, nor do I have the desire.”

  “There are more of us than there are of them. What more authority do we need?”

  Chuck, who was attending his first meeting and was obviously exasperated with the proceedings, rose from his chair near the front of the room. “Folks,” he began, “my name is Charles Anderson, and I’m new to these meetings, but I need to say something. I know this is a frightening time, and we’ve all got our own worries, but there are some things that we just can’t do. I put my life on the line in Vietnam to fight for liberty, and that’s what America stands for.” He looked around the room, his expression serious but warm. “I know we’re just one small group, but if we start taking things from other people just becau
se we want them or need them, then we’re giving up on those principles that made this country great. We’ll be just like the people I fought against. What’s right isn’t decided with a vote. It’s what we all know in our hearts, and taking something from someone else isn’t right if you ask me.” He paused and looked around the room. “We’re not Hitler’s brownshirts; I’m sure we can figure out something better than force. That’s all I have to say.” Chuck smiled politely and sat down.

  Jennifer caught his eye and gave him a wink; he smiled back at her. She could hear mumblings in the group, some rejecting what Chuck said, but most seemed to agree.

  “What if it’s a life or death situation?” demanded a woman standing in the back. “This council is a joke if it can’t even solve a little problem like this.” She looked down at her husband, who was glaring at Gabe. “Come on; we’re done here,” she ordered as she grabbed her husband by the arm and pulled him to his feet. They squeezed past an older lady sitting beside them, then stormed from the room.

  Gabe silently watched the couple leave, then shook his head. “I have to agree with the good gentleman who just spoke. We just can’t take things from people. I know there are a couple of owners, Mr. Patel being one of them,” he motioned to a man sitting in the middle of the room, “who have been willing to share and try and make things work for other people. We’ll talk to the other folks with generators and see if we can make arrangements for them to be made available to more people. I’m sure something can be worked out. One thing we all have to remember, folks, is our group is voluntary and not everyone has chosen to participate. We don’t have any authority, so we have to rely on people choosing to cooperate, which makes things much tougher.

  “This meeting has gone on too long already. Lets meet again on Wednesday. Those of you who volunteered for the school committee, please see if you can have some schedules worked out by then. The council will see what can be done with the other items we’ve discussed today. Does the same time work for everyone?”