“What’s this lady look like, how are we gonna recognize her?” Walter asked, bringing a burst of amused laughter from Mr. Westwick, who blurted out, “I’m pretty sure that she’s gonna be the only mostly naked, hot blond running around in the dark freezing her nipples off near the Canadian border, or maybe you see that kind of thing up here all the time.” We all shared a brief chuckle.
“Michelle,” I said, “you and I need to get back to my truck; it’s still parked outside of Walter’s office, you ready?” She nodded yes as she drew her Glock. We started moving, side by side, slowly advancing around to the right. Our flashlights were dancing left and right, illuminating pie shaped wedges of the parking lot and casting shadows that flickered and jumped. We made it to the door that went into the grocery side of Sheldon’s. I tested it—still locked. Twenty more feet and we made it to the back corner. Lots of miscellaneous piles and stacks of pallets were back here, so we swung wide to give us some clearance in case anything leapt out at us. Nothing did. Seventy-five feet across the gravel parking lot my truck was parked. We trotted over to it, shined our lights in front, in the bed and underneath it, it was clear. I unlocked the doors and we got in, started it up, and drove around to the front slowly, completing our loop of the marina and finding nothing. I left the truck running and got out, turned back inside and folded the seat forward. Behind the seat of my truck I always keep several things. The first thing is a duffel bag that contains a complete change of clothes for work—plus a towel, toothbrush, etc . . . everything I need to be presentable at work if I get stuck out in the boonies, or at some girl’s place. The second thing is BOB, also known as the “bug out bag,” or the “get home bag,” or even as Uncle Andy calls it the “get out of dodge” bag. No matter what you call it, it’s basically a lightweight survival pack that with practice, someone could survive almost anywhere for several days to a week, maybe longer if you’re good and can supplement the items inside. The third thing that’s always there is a small tool box that will allow me to make basic field repairs on my truck. The final thing is a long, thickly padded nylon case with several pockets sewn on the outside. Inside of it is a Mossberg 590 twelve gauge pump shotgun, nine shots, parkerized finish with night sights. Scattered between the pockets are thirty shells, twenty of them are number four buckshot, and the other ten are slugs. The tubular magazine in the shotgun is also loaded with eight rounds of buckshot. Oh, there’s another case back there also; it has extra magazines and ammo for my CZ, it’s also where I keep my belt gear, like extra batteries for my flashlight, my cuffs and pepper spray, that kind of stuff. I pulled out the shotgun, worked the slide to chamber a round and loaded up one more. Michelle and I walked over to where my uncle and Walter were.
“Nothing out back as far as we could see, and we’ve got to find this . . . lady,” I said. “I’ll take the other portable radio, that leaves Michelle with her mobile, and you still have the one I gave you earlier, right?”
Uncle Andy patted his left hip and said, “Right here underneath my coat.”
“Michelle, why don’t you head east back toward the campground, but go past the turnoff and out the highway a little bit, and then if you don’t see anything on the highway, turn around and drive up Ravenwood Campground Road, at least a mile or so. I know we just came from there but none of us were really looking for anything on our way back. I’m going to go west out the highway for a few miles to check that direction. Walter, Uncle Andy, you stay here and hold down the fort.” I extended the Mossberg toward them and Uncle Andy hesitated for a second before taking it.
“Don’t you think one of you two might need this?” he asked.
“Keep it,” I said. I looked around at Walter, my uncle, and Michelle. “Remember, if you find her, or she finds you, call on the radio, don’t do anything yourself, understand?”
“Does that apply to you also?” Michelle snipped.
“I promise, and I’m sorry for being short earlier, it’s been a long day and this ranks right up there with the ‘last thing I need.’”
She smiled and said, “I won’t tell you to be careful if you won’t tell me not to worry.”
I turned to Mr. Westwick and asked him, “How long ago was the last time you saw her . . . think.”
He tilted his head left, paused for a few seconds and said, “Um, I guess about, well, probably about twenty minutes or so.”
Michelle said, “She couldn’t be more than a mile or two, three at the outside and that’s if she’s running.”
“Let’s go, and remember, stay in contact,” I said.
I got into my truck, hit the auxiliary off-road lights and pulled out onto the highway heading west; in my rearview I could see Michelle’s tail lights heading east.
I drove slow, my off-road lights flooding the pavement in front of me with brilliant white light. After a quarter mile, I keyed the radio and reported that so far I had nothing. They answered back the same. The highway was strangely devoid of traffic, which typically is the way it is. Lately, even though it’s not a main highway or thoroughfare, there’s still been a huge increase in the amount of traffic with all the people heading north. The next half mile was empty, with the exception of a fox that crossed in front of me. I checked in again, nothing all around. At the one mile mark, my radio crackled to life; it was Walter saying that all was clear at the marina. Michelle and I confirmed the same. I drove out the road another two miles; nothing was moving, so I turned around and headed back to the marina. Michelle beat me back by about thirty seconds. I drove another loop around Sheldon’s, using the off-road lights to push back the darkness, but came up empty. I drove to the front, left my truck running, and walked over and stood next to Michelle.
“Where could she be?” said Uncle Andy.
Michelle and I took all of ten seconds to relay that we hadn’t found squat along the road.
“Do you think she would have walked cross country into the brush, or maybe she fell into the lake,” Walter said.
I considered it, but told them I thought it was unlikely. We kept offering up suggestions but nothing seemed to pan out until Michelle mentioned that, “Maybe she got a ride with somebody else.”
That seemed to make a lot of sense, and I had just about convinced myself that it was the most likely scenario that had taken place when our guy sitting on the curb looked up at me and said, “Hey dude, like, I’m not trying to tell you your business or anything, but there’s another road out of here.”
I looked down at him questioningly, and a few milliseconds later as it was sinking in, Walter shouted out “Shit . . . the road up to my house . . . Bernice!” I spun around and sprinted to my truck yelling, “Max, get in the truck.” I saw him vault up and over the closed tailgate, heard his claws hit the bed liner just before I dropped it into gear. Michelle barely made it to the passenger seat and we were off like a shot, racing around the back of the marina and heading up the road toward Walter’s house. I could see the headlights of Uncle Andy’s truck about one hundred yards behind me. Walter’s driveway follows the contour of Ghost Echo Lake for about 300 yards before it makes a sharp dogleg to the left and climbs a low, wooded hill that overlooks the water. Walter’s house is on top of that low hill. I gunned the V8 engine and raced along the shore, slowing down only enough to make the sharp left, then accelerating up the short switchback road until I made it to the small clearing that surrounds his house. I skidded to a stop, slammed the truck into park and leapt out, flashlight and gun leading the way. I heard Michelle shut her door and saw the beam of her light dart forward and back, searching. Max started barking and two seconds later I heard a huge BOOM, followed quickly by another, and another. The explosions were coming from Walter’s house. I sprinted up the short stairs that lead to the wrap-around deck, zigzagged to the right around some folding chairs and a converted 55 gallon barrel barbecue grill, made it to the first corner and turned left toward the kitchen entrance. As soon as I made that turn I saw the blond. Or what was left of her. Standing in th
e doorway to the kitchen was Bernice, she was casually holding a shotgun in the crook of her arm, like she was walking through a field at a private hunting preserve with all of her country club buddies, waiting to step on a stocked bird so it would fly. She looked up at me and then down at the body and said, “Little chilly to be running around all nekkid like that, doncha’ think?” Then she slid the kitchen door shut and walked back inside her house. I sat down to catch my breath, shaking my head and wondering if I should laugh or swear. I buried my face in my hands and did both.
Chapter 9
A short time later we were all sitting in Walter and Bernice’s living room with huge mugs of spiced apple cider heated up to borderline scalding temperatures nestled in our hands. Nobody said anything; I think we were all too busy just processing what had happened, and the implications that may be forthcoming.
Walter fired up his pipe and the aromatic scent of cherry apple tobacco drifted through the room. Finally Michelle spoke.
“Well, first things first. We need to come up with a plan, a serious plan. Think about it—whatever this sickness is, it’s not just in Miami anymore. We’re in the middle of nowhere and it’s already impacting us, and even though I would imagine that big cities have it a lot worse, I think we’re only seeing the tip of our particular iceberg right now. There’s traffic that’s been buzzing up and down the highway nonstop for the last two days; there’s at least 300 people . . . maybe over 400 at a campground that’s only eight miles that way.” She pointed her finger towards the northeast. “Everywhere you look there are cars, trucks, campers, and RV’s pulled off the side of the road. How many of those people driving by, how many of those that are parked along the road, heck—how many of those 300-400 people at the campground are already infected?”
We were silent . . . everybody just raising eyebrows and casting glances around the room. She was hitting the nail on the head, the nail that all of us had been quietly keeping to ourselves. She continued.
“We need a plan . . . it doesn’t need to be the ‘end all-be all’ plan of the century, but it at least needs to be a start. We need to start prioritizing stuff, because if we don’t, sooner or later that’s gonna be us,” she nodded towards the dead blonde that was still on the deck.
I stood up and said, “Michelle’s right, everything she said is spot on. Her and I are supposed to be at the campground for the meeting at 10:00 AM tomorrow . . .”
My Uncle cut in with, “I think I’ll tag along to that meeting as well.”
That worked for me, and even if it wouldn’t have, I was too tired to argue. I continued, “It’s already almost 1:00 AM, so somewhere in the next nine hours we’ve got to come up with some damn good ideas, not to mention getting some sleep. Uncle Andy, Walter, Bernice . . . I know it’s late, but if you can get a jump start on some kind of plan, it will still allow us a little bit of time for sleep, and then we can hash out some of the details in the morning.”
“You’re not gonna help with the plan?” Bernice said.
“Yeah, I will, as soon as I get back,” I replied.
“Where are we going?” Michelle said, emphasizing “we.”
“We,” I re-emphasized the word, “are going to release back into Mother Nature one mostly innocent hippie.”
I got up and left, Michelle followed me out. Walking down the stairs outside the deck I slowed down, then stopped.
“What is it?” asked Michelle.
I was silent for a moment, thinking, doing the math. She waited another moment before asking, “Well…?”
“I was just thinking about what Sam Ironfeather said . . . running the numbers . . .”
“And . . .?” She sighed.
“Just based on what Sam told us about Trooper Fernandez, you know, how long it took the bite to affect him, and considering how long some of those people have already been in the campground, I’d say it’s highly likely that if any of them were exposed to whatever this is before they got there, then by now they’ve already . . . I don’t know what the word would be, maybe . . . ‘turned.’”
Michelle let out a deep breath. “Great,” she said.
Do you remember a long time ago when I said that this was going to be a very long update? Yeah, me too, and I’m almost done. Michelle and I drove back to the marina in my truck. Mr. Westwick was sitting exactly where we left him. I had the impression that if we would have moved to Venezuela for twelve years and then returned, he would have still been sitting there. As it was, he just looked up and us and said, “Find her?” I nodded. He started to say something, maybe to ask how she was, but whatever he saw in my face must have told him the story, or at least enough of it that he didn’t want to know any more. We stood him up, uncuffed him and told him that his story checked out and he was free to go. I warned him not to pick up any more hitchhikers, no matter how hot they looked. Then Michelle reached into her side pocket and pulled out the bags of pot we found during the search and tossed them to him. His reflexes were about five times too slow and the bags bounced off of his chest and dropped to the ground at his feet.
“Oh man, you serious? . . . This is, like, totally cool.”
Michelle said, “I think the world has enough problems to worry about right now, just don’t toke and drive, OK?”
“Scouts honor,” he said, holding up both of his hands, forming the “V” peace sign on each. His ear to ear smile immediately had me convinced that he had no intention of honoring that promise. I didn’t care. Michelle’s truck was still idling, driver’s side door open and headlights on. It’s amazing that nobody driving by swiped it, I thought. I turned to walk back toward my truck, but our now liberated hippie stopped me with a question.
“Um . . . Mr. Officer dude . . . like, um . . . it’s like really hard to ask this man, because you’ve been so cool, the chick too, Oh sorry ma’am, …I mean Mrs. Officer dude, but like, you know, you left my van running the whole time you were gone, and like a few minutes before you came back she ran out of gas; it was, like, so lame, I just had to sit there and listen to her breathe her last breath.”
Why is it that everybody around me runs out of gas. Am I like some cosmic petroleum black hole? I don’t know. I did feel a little bad though, partly because he was right, we did leave his van running. Mostly though because as far as I am able to fathom, the story he told us had no BS in it, and that’s a rare commodity from somebody in handcuffs. I wish I had a dime for every joker I’ve pulled over who was swerving along the back roads shining a spotlight into the fields looking for deer. They’d be totally trashed, beer cans nine inches deep on the floor of their truck, and they’d swear they “only had two beers.” The infamous two beers speech; never one, never three . . . always two.
I told him to wait there, and Michelle and I drove back to Walter’s house. She went inside and I drove Uncle Andy’s truck back down, put about ten gallons in the van and wished him well. I saw the flicker of a lighter through the passenger side window as he pulled out onto the highway. So much for his promise.
When I got back to Walter’s, Bernice told me that everybody else had gone to bed after coming up with what they thought were a few good ideas. I also got the rapid fire rules.
“Breakfast is at 7:00 AM—sharp . . . leave your clothes outside your door tonight and I’ll do them in the morning . . . no hanky panky under my roof with the redhead unless you’re married to her, which you ain’t . . . and if your dog pisses on the floor or kills any of my chickens I’ll turn both him and you into rugs.” She started to walk down the hallway but turned after three steps and added, “And . . . the first job after breakfast for you boys is to get miss plastic tits off my deck.” Behind one of the closed doors along the hallway I heard a faint chuckle.
So here I am, it’s 1:39 AM, I’m tired. Good night.
April 20th
*click*
I’m lying in bed, according to my watch its 6:47 AM, it’s April 20th, I think. I actually feel pretty rested, although I know I dreamed . . . somethin
g. Have you ever seen that little kid’s toy, it’s kind of a plastic hot dog shaped thing that’s filled with liquid, and when you try and grasp it, the slippery little critter folds in around itself and squirts out of your hand? That’s what I feel like trying to remember this dream. Hold on somebody’s knocking at my door.
“Yeah, I’m awake.”
“Breakfast is in ten minutes, your clothes are outside the door . . . and don’t forget about the bimbo on the porch.” It was Bernice, obviously.
I didn’t really know how to reply, so I just said, “Thank you.”
OK, Max is licking my face and pawing me. Time to get out of bed. I’ll update this again later if I have time.
*click*
It’s about, 7:45 AM I think, and things are moving quickly here. I rolled out of bed, wrapped a blanket around me, and let Max outside. A quick, hot shower later and I was feeling rather human, especially with my clean clothes that Bernice had somehow managed to wash, dry, and press. I headed to breakfast a few minutes later; Michelle was just coming out of her room. She still looked very sleepy and was groggily moving toward the shower. The four of us minus Michelle slammed down a mess of French toast, scrambled eggs, and hot oatmeal. Bernice made an extra plate for Michelle, and then asked if I wanted the scraps for the big hairy varmint. Uncle Andy couldn’t resist and said, “Oh Bernice, I think Walter’s already had enough.” Bernice stared at the two old men, her face unreadable, and then she turned to me again and said, “Do you want the scraps or should I throw them out?”
“I’d be happy to take the scraps, but don’t let that stop you from throwing them . . .” I nodded toward my uncle and Walter . . . “out.”
We all shared a quick smile and laugh, except Bernice. I think in all the years I’ve known her, I’ve only ever seen her laugh once. It was a few years ago at Thanksgiving. I was up at Uncle Andy’s cabin for the holiday, and Bernice and Walter invited us over for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. There was about eight inches of new snow on the ground, and after we ate, Uncle Andy and Walter were “feeling their Wheaties” and decided to go sled riding down the hill toward the lake. There was a narrow, but basically straight run that Walter had cut through the forest many years ago for his daughters to sled on. The only problem was that in the years since they grew up, so did the trail. It was still passable for the downhill run, but at the very bottom a thick tangle of briars had overtaken the area. Uncle Andy, wearing nothing but jeans, boots, and several layers of buttoned down flannel shirts, made the first run, packing down the snow until his sled stopped about halfway down the hill. Walter, in his brand new, fluorescent orange, insulated snowmobile suit extended the trail another fifty feet or so. When he walked back up to the top he was complaining that because of his much greater speed, all the snow was flying up and sticking to his goggles. He said that halfway down the hill he was completely blind. Uncle Andy called him a wuss and with a running start, sped down the narrow packed run. About thirty feet from the briar patch, his sled hit a bump and shot him into the air, tail over tea cup. Walter laughed at him the whole time Uncle Andy was climbing back up the hill. Bernice had stepped out onto the porch with some hot coffee for everybody, and Walter drained his entire cup without stopping, gave several Indian war cries and took off down the hill. Approaching the midpoint of the run, Walter achieved what he later referred to as “terminal velocity,” and at that exact moment “my darn goggles got ripped off my face by the shockwave when I passed through the sound barrier, and I had zero visibility for the rest of my ride.” I’ve got to say, from our vantage point up on the deck it sure looked like he was moving to beat the band. Our vantage point also gave us an incredible view of the large black bear that shambled out of the briars right into the projected path of Walter’s sled. It was one of those moments in nature that you rarely get to see, like a penguin slipping on the ice, or a monkey jumping to a limb and missing. This bright orange, unguided missile was streaking at breakneck speeds down the icy run, its lone pilot unaware of the danger fast approaching—also forgetting about the bump. When Walter’s sled impacted the bump, the plastic sled split in two and ejected Walter “at roughly the equivalent of the speed of light” as he puts it. “Ah kinda felt like I had achieved some kind of a Zen state of mind, all free and floatn’ through the air . . . ‘till I done run into a big hairy wall.” The bear, also apparently taken by surprise, was not in the least bit amused and proceeded to shred Walter’s orange snow suit into tiny pieces. It threw Walter up in the air several times, and even bounced him off a tree for good measure before huffing defiantly and ambling off. Uncle Andy and I stared in disbelief at the scene that unfolded before our very eyes, and Bernice let out a string of hysterical laughter, the tone and resonance of which would make a pack of Yeti grimace and cover their ears. Walter slowly made his way back up the hill, shedding puffs of insulation with every limping step. The three of us watched with an amused curiosity as he drug himself up the stairs, grabbed the half drank cup of coffee from my hand and sat down in a snow covered folding chair. Bernice, face made of stone once more, stared at him for a few seconds before saying, “Wally, you big dummy . . . bear season don’t start ‘til next week.” I think I almost peed my pants I laughed so hard.
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