Not Dead in the Heart of Dixie

by R Kralik

  He slowly moved his head forward enough to see out the small window. He saw mountains, farm land, and an Interstate off-ramp. He figured that he was at a roadblock and the bus was waiting to haul passengers taken from vehicles trying to get through. He knew he'd be seen by the first "recruit" or guardsman that stepped on the bus.

  The bus door opened and he jerked his head back to his seat perch, peeking under the seat in front of him. He had a mostly blocked view of the top of the stairs at the front of the bus. He waited.

  A young guardsman stepped aboard. He could hear the guardsman coming down the aisle and he had only one option if he was going to make it out.

  As soon as he saw the man's feet near his position, he reached out and grabbed him by the ankles, pulling his feet out from under him. The man fell backwards onto the deck of the aisle.

  Since he had the element of surprise on his side, Jeremy was able to wrestle the M16 away from the guardsman and bash him in the head with the stock end before he could call for help. The man was unconscious and sleeping like a baby while Jeremy quickly removed his uniform and pulled it on over his own clothing. He wore everything but the man's shoes because they were too small.

  He was extremely nervous, but finally found enough courage to come to a full stand at the rear of the bus. He walked to the front slowly, with every fiber of his being screaming out for him to run and hide.

  He stepped off the bus and shouted "goin' to take a dump," in the most casual voice he could muster, toward the crowd of guards gathered at the roadblock.

  He walked slowly but deliberately into the woods and when he was sure he could no longer be seen, he took off at a sprint. He ran for 20 minutes, zigging this way and zagging that way around trees, dead falls, bushes, and little streams, before he stopped to catch his breath.

  Then, he realized he'd left his jacket and the M16 on the bus with the unconscious, mostly naked guardsman. He didn't go back for them.

  He decided to make his path parallel to the highway, but hidden in the cover behind the tree-line, until he could see some kind of sign that would tell him where he was.

  After a half hour, he saw a sign that read "Tupelo 29 miles." He knew where he was. The Interstate in front of him was I-22, better known as Corridor X.

  He wasn't far from the Alabama line and he headed east at a fast clip. He knew it was pretty woodsy and barren with big tracts of farmland from there into Alabama, but he was sure he could make the trip in just a few days.

  It was midday and he decided he'd keep going until the sun set. Then, he'd find a place to hole up and hide for the night.

  There was a granola bar, a Bic lighter, and a piece of Double Bubble bubblegum in the guardsman's uniform pockets. That granola bar would be supper.

  He found a little stream to drink from. It looked pretty clean and he took his chances. He didn't have a water filter and couldn't remember how to make one on the fly.

  He settled up against the trunk of a huge oak tree, behind a massive boulder, and covered himself the best he could with leaves and debris from the forest floor. He was grateful for the extra layer of clothing. It was pretty darn cold but he slept like a log until the sun came through the treetops and hit him in the face the next morning.

  He got up, brushed himself off, took care of nature, and headed east. Two hours later, he needed to find water and stop for a break. He was hungry, so he popped the piece of bubblegum in his mouth to try and quiet his growling stomach. There were squirrels jumping around in the trees, but he had no way to kill them. He tried throwing a few rocks to knock one out of a tree, but he couldn't make contact.

  He found water dripping from a rock crevice on the side of an incline. He scooped the water into his hands, drank as much as he could, and continued heading east.

  After another hour or two, he came up on an old abandoned shack that had a collapsing roof which was sagging almost to the ceiling of the first floor. There was garbage all over the place, and he found an old glass bottle that he decided to take along for collecting water. He didn't dare go in the house because the roof looked like it could complete its journey downward at any minute.

  There were several rusted out barrels that had water pooled on their shallow tops, but he decided not to collect rusty water.

  He noticed fresh tire tracks at the back of the house, leading off into the woods along an overgrown trail. The trail was once wide enough to be a driveway, but Mother Nature had taken a lot of it back. He was just about to turn and continue on his path when a man who looked like he'd just stepped off the set of "Deliverance" came out of the woods with a big ol' shotgun pointed straight at him.

  "Well, lookie hur what we got" the old man said. He was wearing an assortment of filthy clothes and smelled like he hadn't bathed in a month. Jeremy was surprised he didn't smell him before he saw him. He was rail thin and had a long gray beard hanging down the front of his shirt. His hair was long and oily looking. It was so filthy that Jeremy couldn't figure out what color it was. On his head was an old, red baseball cap.

  The hands holding the shotgun were wrinkled, with brown spots all over them, and the fingers were shaped funny at the oversized knuckles. The fingernails were long and looked like they had enough dirt underneath to start a small garden. The man had all his fingers on one hand, but the other was missing at least two.

  Just as Jeremy finished looking him over, and preparing to take off like a cat with its tail on fire, a blinding pain slammed into the left side of his face and he felt himself fall to the ground.

  He counted three sets of dirty boots standing near his head as his eyes tried close on their own. Someone kicked in him in the ribs and he felt intense pain. He saw a bright light before fading into blackness just as the boot that had kicked him pulled back for another blow.

  It was dark when he finally opened his eyes. He could barely see out of his left eye and could feel the heat in it from the sucker punch and swelling that followed. His arms felt like they were on fire and he realized they were pulled behind him and wrapped around a large post. His hands were almost numb and he could identify, by touch, a zip tie that had been used to bind his wrists.

  He had no idea how long he'd been there. He realized that he was extremely cold and looked down to discover that he was missing the guardsman uniform. He thanked God that he still had his civilian clothes and shoes

  He was inside a barn type building with built in stalls. Everything around him looked only like dark piles in different shapes and sizes. There were little slivers of moonlight coming in between the cracks of the door and walls, but it wasn't enough to make a positive identification of anything around him. He saw moonlight glancing off bits of metal here and there.

  He was sitting in dirt with his legs sprawled out in front of him and there was no one else there. His face felt like it had met up with a freight train and his jaw hurt too much to even try to open his mouth.

  He tasted blood and figured it came from his nose, which he assumed must be broken. He couldn't inhale through his nose, and his lips were heavily chapped from mouth breathing. His tongue felt dry and brittle, and he couldn't even wet his lips. His ribs felt like he had been stabbed several times with a red hot poker. Every bone in his body was aching and it hurt to breathe.

  The night was silent, and stayed that way, as he laid his head against the post and faded in and out of painful consciousness.

  He woke hours later when sunlight came glaring through the open door. There was a figure standing in the door. It looked simply like a dark human shape because of the sunlight glaring in behind it. A rank smell was floating across the breeze. "Mornin' boy" the figure said. "You dun gotchersef sum truble."

  As the figure stepped into the building, two similar shaped figures followed behind and the rank smell tripled in strength. Once inside the building, they closed the door. Jeremy recognized the old man from the woods. The other two looked like younger versions and they were just as filthy and smelled just as bad. Each man was holding a
shot gun in his arms like it was his favorite girl.

  "Whur'd ya get dem close ya had on" the older man asked. "Who wants to know?" replied Jeremy. The words came out like a course whisper. One of the younger men kicked him hard in the thigh and told his to "keep'is smart elek remarks to 'isself and ainser da durn queshton."

  Jeremy told them he’d found the clothes on a dead guardsman and had taken them because he was freezing and didn't have a coat. "Whur ya headin' to?" the old man asked. "I'm trying to get home" Jeremy replied. "Whur's home?" the old man said. Jeremy told him home was across the Alabama line and he needed to get there because his Mother was sick, and he hoped he didn't have the same sickness she had, because he hadn't been feeling good. One of the younger men took a couple steps back.

  "Do ya know whur yer at right now?" said the older man. "I guess I'm in your barn" Jeremy said. The closest man kicked him in the already injured ribs and Jeremy screamed out in pain. Then, the man punched him in the mouth and told him to "shutcher pie hole."

  He knew his lips were busted and a new trickle of blood ran down his chin. The thought came to mind to ask them how he was supposed to answer questions if his pie hole was shut, but he kept that thought to himself.

  "We gon' letcher go but it'd be a dam shame if ya tell inywun whur we's at 'cause we'd huntcha down an' whup ya reel gud, an' skin ya livin" the old guy said. "Wur keepin' dem clothes so's if'n we need um. Jay heer's gon' cutcha loose and ya bes' high tail it outa heer fas' as ya kin. Yer gittin' sompin' ta 'member us by on yer way."

  "Jay" pulled out a knife that looked as big as a machete, and Jeremy felt a chill run down his entire body. His heart felt like it jumped up into his throat. He almost passed out again when "Jay" went around to the back of the post and split the zip tie around his wrists.

  Jeremy slowly pulled himself to his feet by holding to the post for support. His shoulders and ribs were screaming in pain, and he saw a few traveling light spots.

  He started for the door, and Jay put a big ol' nasty fist into his face again. Jeremy hit the ground, rolled over, spit blood out of his dripping mouth, and pulled himself up on all fours. He headed toward the door. He couldn't believe they were actually letting him go.

  All three men began hitting and kicking him, and hootin' and hollerin' in some strange swamp language as he crawled toward the door. He went down several more times and that was the last he saw of the "inbred assholes."

  When he finally got out the door, he slowly rose to his feet and walked away as quickly as he could put one foot in front of the other, which wasn't always right in the front of the other and wasn't very quick. He made it into the trees before he had to call Ralph a couple of times. He was still scared and wanted to lay down and die, but he kept going.

  He was sick in the woods several times and fell to the ground too many times to count.

  He ripped his clothing on tree branches and briars, crawled through brush and brambles, and fell over rocks. He threw himself face first into mud puddles and sucked the dirty water down his throat.

  He lost his shoe when he had to jump in a cattle pond to get away from a pack of dogs that were snapping at his heels. He had to stay in the pond, shivering with cold, for several minutes before the last of the dogs lost interest and skedaddled off to chase something else.

  When night threatened to come, he crawled into the hollowed out base of a huge tree and closed his eyes. He was tired and hurt too much to pull any leaves or forest debris over himself. He felt lucky to be alive, and he fell into a restless sleep while shivering from the cold and crying from the pain.

  He woke when the sun was coming through the trees. He was so cold that he couldn't feel his feet or hands, and he stumbled east until the feeling came back in his legs. His entire body screamed with every step until he got so cold that he could hardly feel a thing.

  He stopped only when he found water.

  He was afraid to go to sleep, so he kept stumbling east through the night. He saw eighteen HDI's in total outside a gas station and an old farm house, but he stayed downwind and far away from them. He just wanted to get home. He'd left Corridor X a ways back and knew he needed to find I-65.

  He began having flashbacks of his parents, placing presents under a brightly lit Christmas tree and turning to tell him and his sister that it was time to open gifts from Santa. He said he almost felt warm and the memories seemed real.

  He kept heading east, stumbling, falling, and getting back up to push on. He traveled for three days and nights without eating or resting. He drank from mud puddles and anywhere else he could find before it started to rain. He'd lost his green bottle when the Deliverance guys took the uniform from him, so he tilted his head and drank whatever rain water he could catch in his mouth. He kissed the "Welcome to Alabama" sign and trudged on.

  Finally, he came across I-65 and began heading north. When he came to a familiar exit off the Interstate, his mind told him he was almost home and he snapped back to reality for a short time and headed toward a place he recognized... Marisa's trailer. It took him the entire day and into the night just to make it the three miles from the Interstate to our property.

  He made it up our hill but, to him, it seemed to take forever. Night had closed in around him. He fell when he tried to raise his hand and knock on the door. His voice was too weak to call out, so he laid there and slipped back into his memories. He doesn't remember anything about last night except the sight of me shoving soup in his face and feeling warm in front of a fire.

  You know what happened from there.

  8:30 PM...

  We know where Jeremy will stay. He'll be staying in one of the bedrooms at Caleb's house when Jason and Marisa get moved in or when he’s strong enough to keep a fire going. We need to get more food in him so he can regain his strength. Right now, he's sleeping on the couch and he's been able to hold down a small amount beans and rice along with half a cornbread muffin. He's allowed only water, coffee, or juice at this time.

  His clothes are beyond repair and Mick says he'll burn them when he gets a chance.

  Marisa says his nose isn't broken and neither are his ribs, although they’re as multicolored as the samples in a New York hair salon. He talked non-stop after supper about getting to his parents place to find out about them. I suppose we'll take him there when he's able to travel without calling Ralph.

  I gave him another pain pill, even though he didn't ask for it. Marisa cleaned and put fresh ointment on his cuts and bandages on the ones that needed them. He’s apologized over and over for showing up at our home, and screaming us awake this morning. That’s okay Jeremy. You're lucky to be alive. God, Bless Your Soul.

  And now, on with the lootin' story.

  We pulled out of the driveway sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 AM. We were loaded with blueberry muffins, lots of coffee, and a shiny Benelli M4 12 Gauge. Mick had Mr. Colt keeping his side warm. I had my Glock 17 and some kind of big knife called a "Ka-Bar" on my belt. Pop said I might need it.

  I had a little notepad in my pocket with a list of the clothing sizes each person wears. We need to get something for Jeremy so he can get out of those high water sweatpants and into something more respectable. I gave him a pack of the new underwear I'd picked up at Super Walmart on crazy day, so he's good in that department.

  We don't need anything for Caleb because he's all set with clothes in his own size and a bunch more in the next three sizes up. I think Caleb has the best wardrobe of us all.

  Carisa has a bunch of "new to her" clothes because she's the same size as "Momma," but I want to get her more things just in case she feel icky about wearing "Momma's" clothes. Jason has a lot too. "Daddy's" clothes fit him and he doesn't feel icky about wearing them.

  I had a list of Nana and Pop's medications along with a list of things I'd written down from my "Nurses Guide to Medication Dosages" book. We knew we were gonna grab any medication we found and research it later, but I wanted to make sure we got the ones we need most of all. I was praying we
'd find at least one pharmacy that hasn't been looted.

  Mick and I led the way in his little Chevy S10.

  Jason and Marisa were in the Jeep Cherokee right behind us. Jason was armed with Mr. Winchester and a nice big Bowie knife in a pouch on his belt. Marisa had Walther P22 along with her own Ka-Bar knife. They also had a nice basket of muffins and thermos' full of whatever.

  We felt like we were a force to be reckoned with.

  At the end of our street is a pretty large pull-off that belongs to the county. They keep gravel, rock, and roadwork equipment there when they're workin' down this way. The crossroad is the road that heads straight into town if you turn right, and straight to the Interstate if you turn left. There is a little teeny little town called "Nickel City" right past the Interstate ramps. If you blink, you'll miss it.

  The pull-off is on the corner of our street and the main road. Town is about five miles from this corner.

  We saw a group of three motorhomes and a white Chevy truck with an attached pop-up trailer parked at the pull-off. There's a camper on the bed of the truck. Two motorhomes look old(ish), worn, and dusty. The third one is bigger, and dusty. The ground was clean around them.

  There's two motorcycles parked near the white truck. No one was outside, but it looked like they've been cooking over a fire pit with a homemade wooden tripod over it. There's a cast iron pot hanging down a piece of rope from the center where the wood meets. The tripod is lashed together with some sort of rope.

  Four or five lawn chairs are sitting around the fire pit and a rectangle fold up table with no chairs around it is up against the side of one of the motorhomes. There's a 55 gallon barrel and a small charcoal grill sitting beside the table.

  We decided to stick to our plan and didn't stop to knock. We need food and meds more than we need neighbors at this time. We'd check those motorhomes on our way back from town.