Leonard helped his wife Glenda unload the last of the firewood from the wheelbarrow, jamming his thumb between the final two pieces and causing a small blood blister to immediately form. Figures. Memories of his father saying time and time again “Nothing is ever easy” sprang to mind. Tagging along with that thought was his father’s gruff voice saying “Get back to work Lenny.”
“Hey honey,” Glenda said, “I’ve been thinking about how we might be able to help out a little more around the campground, and I think I’ve come up with a good idea.”
“Warr iss it?” Leonard replied, his speech slurred by the insertion of his pinched finger in his mouth.
Glenda chuckled at her husband’s predicament and said, “Awww, do you want me to go see if the Doc will make a house call . . . maybe bring you a band aid for your boo boo?”
Her glittering eyes and rosy dimples brought a smile to his face. They always had. “Nah, I reckon I’ll survive, although I might have to put in a claim for workers comp. This here blister could end my career as a concert pianist.”
Glenda giggled and said, “Why maestro, I didn’t know you played the piano.”
It was Leonard’s turned to laugh at his wife’s mirth. She was a real joy to have, and he made sure to tell her that every day. “What were you saying about an idea?” Leonard asked.
“Well, I know that we need to save as much food as we can, but you and I are both rather blessed with ample ‘energy reserves’ that we carry around underneath our belt.” Glenda beamed another smile as she patted her liberal tummy.
Leonard walked over and gave his wife a big hug, grinning as he said, “So you’re saying we’re fat?”
“Well no, I’m not saying we’re fat, but between the two of us we have more chins than a Chinese phone book.” Glenda’s musical voice sang out.
Thirty more seconds of hugging and shared laughter followed before Leonard asked again, “So what was that idea?”
“I’m pretty sure that I have enough ingredients in the pantry of our RV to make several dozen cookies, mostly chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin. I think they’d go a long way toward boosting morale for the people who are serving on the protection teams, the medical teams . . . I guess on every team. Plus there’s a lot of little kids who look like they could use a cookie,” Glenda said.
Leonard gave his wife another quick hug, letting his hands slide down to grasp hers as he backed away to get a better look at this loving, generous woman he had been fortunate enough to marry seventeen years ago. “Promise me one thing . . . that you’ll save at least one cookie for me.”
She didn’t answer.
“What . . . am I asking for too much? A single cookie?” Leonard teased.
Glenda still didn’t answer, her eyes were looking past Leonard, a slight frown on her face as she squinted.
“Honey . . . what’s wrong?” Leonard said.
“Is that . . . Travis?” Glenda said, still squinting towards the edge of the campground her and Leonard had been hauling wood from all morning.
Leonard turned to look. He knew that Glenda had left her glasses on the dashboard of the RV that morning, and without them she was pretty nearsighted. Leonard’s eyes were perfect however, and what they saw made a chill, hollow lump rise in his gut. “Take my hand,” he said. She did, recognizing his tone and the urgency it conveyed.
Seventy yards away, five putty gray figures emerged from the tree line. One of them was missing an arm, several others were covered with blood. Their movement no longer hampered by the thick brush, they began to pick up speed. Behind them more came.
Flitting along the game trail one hundred yards to the north, two brown-haired girls with sickly yellow eyes darted and weaved with a speed and dexterity that defied explanation. Worn down by countless generations of deer, fox, and other animals through the years, the trail would zigzag for another 200 feet before emptying into a large field. Usually vacant of anything larger than butterflies, today the field contained twenty-seven tents. By tonight it would be empty.
Chapter 20
Ravenwood campground
“Crowbar” Mike searched the ground at his feet, looking for the perfect combination of weight, curvature and size. Most of the rocks were too round—round as in three dimensional, like a golf ball. He wanted something round but flat, like a small Frisbee. They made the best skipping rocks after all. Brenda and Scott had already gone, and he was the final contestant in the annual Ghost Echo Lake rock skipping extravaganza. Seventeen was the number to beat, done twice in a row by Scott, no doubt heavily influenced by his baseball skills. Looking out at the water, Mike shook his head as if giving the negative sign to an imaginary catcher. Twice more he declined the suggested pitch from the fantasy catcher before acquiescing with a nod. A quick glance to his left showed him the ghostly runner on first was holding in place. Mike coiled up, lifting his leg and snapping it forward as his chosen projectile hurled out over the undulating water. One large splash later it was out of sight and on the bottom of the lake.
“That would be a . . . ONE! Also known as a ‘ker-plunk,’” said Brenda in a voice that didn’t really match her body.
Scott chimed in by speaking through his hand in the shape of a tube, attempting a big league announcer voice. “And it looks like it’s going to be a trip back to the minors for the big man.” Switching his voice to a lower octave in an effort to simulate a different commentator he continued, “Yes, I’d have to agree with you Bob, this is the third time the big guy has waffled, and I’m not sure how much longer the coaches can continue paying his high salary with this level of performance, or should I say a lack of performance.”
Brenda smiled while Mike frowned and Scott continued the color. “You are so right Dan, I’m personally amazed that he’s been on the roster this long. You know there were rumors about steroid use last season, and the latest information to come out of the bullpen says that the big man may be fighting an addiction to certain, ahem, ‘male enhancement’ drugs. Apparently his performance issues aren’t only in the ballpark.”
Brenda burst out laughing as Mike picked up his crowbar and gave a fake charge toward Scott, who scooted away while yelling out, “Remember, an erection lasting longer than four hours can be a medical emergency . . .”
The last comment finally broke through and Mike joined in the laughter. It had only been, what, eight hours ago or so that they started their first real shift as “team day” and he already felt like he had known them for years. In order to simplify things, Amy had asked if they wanted to continue on in the groups they had cleared the campground with. That made sense, so he, Brenda, Scott, and preacher Dave stayed together. Replacing Eric was Jason Lambert. Jason and Dave were up at the campground entrance, and that put the rest of their team on patrol duty. Mike’s trio had finished gate duty around 10:00 AM, and they’d switch out again about 3:00 PM.
Somebody, he didn’t know who exactly, had taken a photocopy of the camp map and drawn a path in pink highlighter. Several pink directional arrows had indicated their patrol direction. It was overly simplified, and in Mike’s opinion, unnecessary. They could have just said, “Walk around both loops of the campground, then make a third loop that goes past the volleyball court and playground area. Lather, rinse, repeat.”
The bottom of both Blue Heron and Golden Eagle loops fronted the lake. Each journey to the water saw a friendly repeat of the rock skipping contest. Blue Heron loop, where they were now only had nineteen tents currently occupied. From their position at the bottom of the loop they could look out over the field that was designated as their impromptu group camp area. There were at least twenty-five tents set up there, but only about half were occupied. Mike could see a few guys fishing where the field met the water. He never could understand the attraction of standing out in the hot sun or freezing rain waiting for a fish to bite. The seafood counter at the local grocery store was much more his style.
“’Bout ready to head up?” Brenda asked.
Mike no
dded, taking a final look over the area before shouldering his crowbar. “Yeah, let’s go.”
The walk back to the top of Blue Heron loop only took a few minutes, and probably wouldn’t have taken that long if they hadn’t chatted briefly with a few of the campers. Truth be told, it took them much longer the first few laps because everybody wanted to talk. After the fourth or fifth circle however, most folks just nodded their heads as his team passed. You could only say “Any news?” so often.
They swung to the right and headed toward the dirt road which would loop down and around the southern end of the campground, passing by the athletic fields and playgrounds along the way. A few young kids riding their bikes swerved around them and sped off, heading in the same direction. One of the bikes—a small, neon pink model with tassels sticking out the ends of the hand grips—was piloted by a giggling dark-haired girl. She was perhaps the oldest of the bikers, maybe ten or eleven years old Mike guessed.
Several laughs and shouts of “Wait for me” echoed from the group as they pedaled furiously to catch the dark-haired girl.
“What I wouldn’t give to be young again,” Brenda said shaking her head.
In the distance, maybe 150 yards down the road in front of them, Mike could see the chubby couple walking hand in hand this way. No wheelbarrow though. That was odd, Mike thought, every other time he’d seen them one of them would be pushing the firewood laden cart, either towards the top of Blue Heron loop where the supply was being gathered or back down to pick up another load.
Brenda followed where his gaze was, picking up on the same fact Mike had noticed and asked, “Do they run the same shift schedule as the guard teams?”
“I don’t know,” Mike answered, squinting his eyes against the afternoon glare. It looked almost like the two members of the comfort team were swatting at flies with their free hands as they moved this way.
“Let’s go,” Mike said, increasing the pace of his group slightly.
“Do you think something’s wrong?” Scott asked.
Mike was considering his answer, when from off to the right a faint scream resonated through the quiet air. It was quickly followed by several small caliber gun shots.
All three of them spun toward the sound of the disturbance, unspoken anxiety plain upon their faces as they listened, trying to triangulate the exact vector the noise had come from.
More screams followed by several more gunshots rang out. Scott looked over at Mike and said, “That’s coming from the group camp field, I’m sure of it.”
“This is why we’re here people,” Mike said to Brenda and Scott, “are you ready?”
“Hell yeah,” Scott said.
Brenda just nodded.
Mike hefted his namesake and took two steps in the direction of the group camp field, but Brenda grabbed his coat sleeve and said, “Wait a minute, Mike.”
“Huh?” Mike said, stopping in his tracks and turning back to look at Brenda.
Brenda was indicating toward the rotund pair that was forty yards away and still gesturing with their hands, half dragging, half leaning over as they approached.
Making a snap decision, Mike trotted over to the approaching pair, Brenda and Scott at his heels.
Heavy gasping and wheezing was coming from the stout man; the equally plump lady seemed to be out of breath as well.
“What’s wro . . .” Mike started to say, but was cut off by a sharp statement from the lady.
“Behind us . . . at least thr . . . ee . . . or four . . . those things . . . kids . . . couldn’t stop them . . .”
“Slow down and catch your breath, OK, just take some deep breaths and try to calm down . . .” Brenda said.
“No,” the huffing lady gestured with her left arm while supporting her wheezing and coughing husband with the other. “Kids . . . on bikes . . . went around us, couldn’t stop . . . them . . . sick people coming . . . out of woods . . . right now.”
Mike looked up toward the direction the large couple had approached from. He could still see several bicycles riding in circles and figure eights near the edge of the dirt road about 400 feet away. Several more gunshots sounded from the group camp field, shifting Mike’s attention briefly that way.
The puffing lady must have noticed his distraction and grabbed Mike’s coat. “No. Help the kids . . . gray people are coming . . . that way,” she managed to point in the direction of the bikes.
“Hey man,” Scott said, “I think she’s right.” He was looking through a small pair of camouflage binoculars that he kept hanging from a lanyard around his neck. “I can see . . . three, maybe four, um . . . I don’t know, there might be more than that. Oh man, they are definitely all pasty and gray. Holy shit, one of those dudes is missing an arm!” he exclaimed.
Several more small caliber explosions rippled through the air.
“Which way?” Brenda asked.
It was a no brainer. Mike turned to Scott. “You’re the fastest. Bust your ass up to the gate and get your dad and Jason down here. We’re going after the kids first.”
Michelle
The gravel road zigzagged through the low forested hills for a little less than a mile before coming to a “T.” Michelle knew that right would take them partially around the edge of two small lakes, and then end up at the muddy clearing by the boat ramp. Left would slither around several coves before dead ending at the small turnaround. The far end of the turnaround was where the cable blocked access to the cut-through. She indicated left and Andy turned. The gravel road slowly turned to a mixture of gravel and dirt, and then disintegrated into plain dirt the further they went. They were almost to the turnaround when Andy saw a campfire up ahead. He slowed down and looked at Michelle.
“What do you want to do?”
“I’m pretty sure that whoever’s at the campfire has already seen our headlights, so keep going . . . just be careful,” Michelle said.
Andy pulled into the clearing—his headlights illuminated an older model Ford Bronco parked beside a canvas wall tent. Both of which were blocking the way to the cut-through. There was a man sitting close to the fire in one of those old-fashioned aluminum folding chairs—the kind with the woven plastic mesh for seats. He had one foot propped up on another identical chair, and tilted his hat down to shield his eyes from the glare of Andy’s high beams. Andy killed the headlights, leaving the running lights on and the truck still idling. He looked over at Michelle and said, “What say we get out and have a chat . . . either that or I kick it into four low and we just drive straight through their tent and Bronco.”
Michelle couldn’t decide if he was serious until he broke out in a grin and said, “Maybe we should try and talk first . . . just be ready.”
She nodded, grabbed her Maglite, and stepped out. Andy did the same.
Michelle could tell that the person in the chair was pretty tall judging from the size of the cowboy boot that was crossed over his one knee. He had on jeans and what looked like a denim-covered sheepskin lined jacket. A wide brimmed boonie hat that had seen many miles of hard trails adorned his head. His right arm was crossed over top of his left, shielding it from her view.
“Evening,” Andy said.
The man nodded his hat and replied, “A fine one at that . . . can I help you?” His voice was gruff, gravelly. It reminded Michelle of that actor who does all the truck commercial voices, the guy who played the old bouncer in “Roadhouse” . . . damn, what was his name? She couldn’t remember.
Andy said, “I’m Andy, this here is Michelle. We don’t want any problems, and I’m sure you and your friend don’t either.” Andy slowly lowered the shotgun and leaned it up against the truck. The man’s hands didn’t move, but the brim of his hat tilted slightly upward and he said, “What friend?”
“The one that’s pointing a gun at us right now,” Andy replied.
“How’d you know?” Gruff voice asked.
“I’m old, and I’ve seen a lot of things in my life, but I’ve yet to see a man whose ass is so big he need
s two chairs for it.” Andy nodded toward the chair currently being used as a footstool.
The man by the fire nodded slowly and called out, “C’mon out Fred.”
From behind Michelle some brush cracked, and she turned to see a figure emerge from the edge of the clearing—rifle at the ready. It was a lady.
They spent the next half hour or so getting acquainted with Bucky and Fred—short for Frederica. They were both in their sixties and had been traveling across country when the trouble started. Originally from Dallas, their journey so far had taken them through the Southeast United States, up along the eastern seaboard as far north as Maryland, and then west as far as, well, here. Their plan had been to spend a few more weeks around Montana, Idaho, and Washington before heading north toward Alaska. Those plans got sidetracked a few days ago. Bucky was a retired truck driver and Frederica—“Fred”—a retired schoolteacher.
“So what exactly is going on?” Fred asked. “I mean, the last news we were able to get was the president’s speech. Now the radio has nothing but static or those darn ‘stay tuned’ messages.”
“You mind if we pull up a couple chairs and talk some shop? Although I can’t say as if we have a bunch of answers, but we might be able to shed some light on the current state of affairs . . . at least in exchange for some of that coffee I smell,” Andy said.
“Coffee?” Fred hacked out with amusement, “Do you mean the furniture stripper that Bucky is condensing into battery acid?”
“Now you listen here old woman,” Bucky shot back, “don’t you be talking ill about my cowboy coffee. Besides, I needed something to boil away the taste of them fish you burned for supper.”
“There wasn’t a thing wrong with those fish, with the possible exception that most people would use critters of that size as bait to catch a real fish, although I imagine that a simple task like that might be a little beyond your particular skill set,” she teased.
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