The men outside were shocked. It wasn't part of the plan.
“Not reverse, dumbass! You were supposed to go forward!”
Greg moved his rifle around, trying to follow the voices, but everyone was hidden. He fired shots at the line of vehicles, blowing out some of their tires. Some men panicked and fled, and Greg knew he was thinning the ranks. There couldn't have been more than ten or fifteen left. It was at that moment that everything changed.
“Give him the signal!” a voice yelled.
“Do it now!” another man said.
Greg could hear something in the distance. Barreling down the road was another car; a beat-up, rusty Buick. It must have been traveling over eighty, because Greg had barely any time to respond. He took a shot at it, hitting the window, but saw that nothing was going to stop the looming metal beast. It was headed straight for the house. Greg jumped back and looked to Veronica.
“Get out of the room!”
Just as he shouted, the car crashed with a fury into the living room. The wall exploded into a million fragments: wood, paneling, insulation, wiring, glass, and drywall. The car stormed through, taking out everything in its path. Greg was thrown to the side and hit a nearby wall; the blow knocked him out. Victorious cheers rose from outside. Veronica jumped out of what seemed like a tornado’s destructive path and fell back into the kitchen. The impact of the collision had slowed down the car’s progress, and it soon rolled to a halt somewhere near the dining room, having torn everything in the living room apart: the couch, coffee table, chairs, and bookcase.
On the cold tile of the kitchen floor, Veronica lifted herself up on all fours. She still had the 9mm in her hand and knew that she was probably going to have to use it.
“Greg!” she shouted. She couldn't see him anywhere amid the rubble of the collapsed living room. She stood up and hobbled over to the Buick, its engine still smoking as it sat in the middle of the room. She expected to find its driver with his head split open against the windshield. But the man had been prepared. In the driver’s seat, he was trying to unfasten his seat belt. His face was completely concealed by a large helmet with a dark, thick, tinted visor. He was also wearing padded clothes like a football player.
Even given his safety gear, he seemed a bit dazed, and Veronica took full advantage of it. She strode to the side of the car, held the pistol against the top of the helmet, and fired. After a loud blast, his helmet shattered open at the top, and his head slumped forward. He never got his seat belt off. Veronica held the pistol up in front of her face. She was surprised with herself. But the helmet man wouldn't be the only one. She could hear sounds of rummaging coming from the garage and cheers of elation at what they had discovered.
“I told you!” a man's excited voice said. “Didn't I tell you all that there was something about this place?”
“We need to check the rest of the house first. We don't know how many people are here.”
“That car really did the trick!”
“It sure did!”
She moved quickly to the ruins of the living room and finally found Greg lying on the floor near a pile of drywall and chunks of brick. He was unconscious. She knelt down and shook him. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he was just lying there.
“They're coming in, Greg. They got into the garage.”
Suddenly the door to the garage opened, revealing a man crouched low and holding a bushmaster. Veronica raised her pistol and shot without hesitation. His body flew back, and a dark hole opened in his chest as his rifle fell to the ground. The gun blast fully woke Greg, and he jumped up, looking for his rifle.
From somewhere, a scared voice yelled, “Let's get out of here!”
Veronica helped Greg up. He thanked her and gently took the pistol from her hand. “Stay here, OK.”
Before she could respond, he backed against the wall and inched toward the swaying door where the body of the man lay. Greg whipped around and stormed the room like some kind of SWAT team member. They had already scavenged most of his supplies, and the smoking, smashed-in rear of the truck looked like a shipwreck. There were five or so men in the garage still carrying supplies. John was one of them, and he ran the second Greg entered. He didn't get far, as Greg fired two shots into his back. The others scrambled to run, but Greg showed them no mercy.
He picked up the bushmaster at his feet and shot each man as they attempted to get away. He moved along at a steady pace, past the opening of the garage door and the body of the dead driver inside, over the bodies of the ones he had killed earlier, and he saw that the few remaining survivors had made it back to their cars. They peeled out as he approached, nearly crashing into each other. He fired rapidly as they tore off down the road and into the distance.
“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 see
med 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 handheld 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.
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