Michelle swiveled her eyes back and forth between the two bickering campers. Although she was sure they were both teasing, her first thought was that she had found the married equivalent of Walter and Andy.
Fred looked up and said, “Please, pull up some chairs. We’d be happy to share our fire and some coffee with you.”
Andy removed a couple of folding camp chairs that he had behind the seat of his truck, and he positioned them close enough to the fire to take some of the evening chill away. Any remaining shivers were permanently laid to rest with the first sip of the awfully strong coffee that was made in a cast iron skillet by Bucky.
Michelle and Andy shared what little information they could about their experiences with the infection. Bucky was stoically quiet throughout their tale, occasionally adding a “Uh-huh” or a “Mmm-hmm” to the narrative. Fred, on the other hand was a virtual chatterbox—frequently commenting with “Ohhhs” and “You don’t says”—interspersed with the almost as frequent “Really?”
Without being too specific of their destination, Michelle broached the subject of needing to get to the cut-through. Moving the Bronco wasn’t going to be a problem. Moving the tent would be. It could certainly be done, but it would be much easier and more convenient in the daylight.
“It’s already been a long day. I don’t see any problem in waiting until tomorrow to push on,” Andy said.
Michelle agreed. It was 7:00 PM and she was already beat. Besides, negotiating the cut-through would be much easier in the daylight as well.
“Would you like help getting your tent set up?” Fred asked.
“Actually,” Michelle replied, “we didn’t bring one. There’s plenty of room in the truck though, so we’ll be fine.”
Both Bucky and Fred nodded as Andy and Michelle got up. Bucky spoke, “Fred here is a night owl. I’m more of the early bird. So if you need anything, one of us should be awake and piddling around. Help yourself to the campfire—there’s plenty of wood.”
They returned to Andy’s truck–remembering to grab the shotgun that Andy had leaned against the grill—and entered the vehicle.
“What do you think?” Andy asked.
“About what?” Michelle yawned.
“Them . . . Bucky and Fred I mean. And about tonight. Should one of us stay awake and keep watch?”
Michelle considered Andy’s questions before replying, “I like them. I’d say we’re pretty safe here, at least from them. That said, we should still probably keep a watch. I’m going to volunteer you to go first.” Michelle yawned again as she stretched out in the back seat. The luminous digital readout of her wristwatch showed 7:17 PM. “Why don’t you wake me around 12:30 AM, OK?”
“Sounds like a plan. Get some rest,” Andy replied as he got out of the truck.
Michelle drifted off to a weary, dreamless sleep almost immediately, groggily awakening with the sound of the truck door opening.
“You awake?” Andy’s half whisper called out in the darkness.
“Yeah.” Michelle looked at her watch as she stretched and twisted. It was a little after 1:40 AM.
“You let me sleep too long,” Michelle sighed as she sat up and rolled her neck in slow circles.
“So fire me. But wait until the morning when I’m better rested,” Andy said, “and speaking of rest, get out of my bed.”
Michelle chuckled as she located her flashlight and Glock before sliding out of the vehicle. “Is everything good to go?” she whispered.
Andy crawled into the seat as he answered, “Yeah, Bucky went to bed shortly after you did. Fred is still up . . . reading a book on one of them little flat tablets like you have. I think she’s about ready to hit the hay, though.”
“OK,” Michelle replied, “I’ll wake you around 3:00 AM,” she teased.
“Don’t even think about it.” Andy’s sentence trailed off in the beginnings of a snore.
Michelle walked over to the campfire and accepted a large mug of Bucky’s cowboy coffee, reheated and condensed even further almost to the consistency of maple syrup. A few sips of that and she was in no danger of falling asleep.
April 22nd, Michelle part 1
Michelle chatted with the older lady for about an hour before Fred stood up and said, “This is silly . . . there isn’t any reason for us to be missing out on sleep. I’m tired, and I’m sure you are too honey.” She rolled up her sleeve and stuck her arm out towards Michelle.
The dim firelight reflected the confusion on Michelle's face.
Fred said, “Well, go ahead.”
“Go ahead and . . . what?” Michelle replied.
“If you’re one of those zombie people, go ahead and bite me now. At least that way I’ll get a couple hours sleep before my eyes turn all red and I chew the boots off of my Bucky.” The mirth in her eyes was clearly visible in the glow of her computer's screen. So was the tiredness.
Michelle chuckled softly; declined her offer and told her to get some rest.
"I know we've already told you, but feel free to use as much of the wood as you want. And please help yourself to that foul brew my husband calls coffee," Fred replied before wishing Michelle “Goodnight” and heading in to the tent.
Michelle spent the rest of the night fluctuating between states of deep concentration and whimsical thinking. It was a beautiful night—still warm—yet she could sense that a change was coming. The cloud cover progressed from almost nothing when she started her watch to almost one hundred percent at first light. The wind was starting to pick up just a little as well. By dawn though, Michelle felt very rested. Almost six hours of sleep earlier in the evening, supplemented with several hours of peace and quiet and she was ready to go. At 6:45 AM, Michelle quietly opened the passenger side back door to Andy’s truck and took out the coolers. Andy was still softly snoring. A quick inventory of the food confirmed that Bernice had packed enough to feed a small army. Michelle figured they'd be back at Andy’s cabin later today if everything went well—tomorrow if everything didn’t. Even with a two day cushion, there was still plenty of extra food, including a dozen eggs and a quart sized plastic Tupperware jug filled with some type of batter—pancake or waffle she guessed. She wasn't a gourmet chef, but weren't they the same? It was just whether you cooked it on a pan or in a waffle iron . . . right? Well, gourmet chef or not, Michelle felt fairly confident in her ability to whip up some pretty awesome camp food. Bucky came out about five till seven, and using a combination of his cookware and both of their food supplies, they quickly had the little clearing fairly resonating with the aroma of hot breakfast. Andy and Fred soon joined Bucky and Michelle, and the four of them shared a wonderful meal together as the wind stirred little leaf tornados into a dance by the water’s edge.
After breakfast, Andy and Bucky worked together to take down the cabin tent while Michelle and Fred cleaned up the breakfast dishes. When the tent was down, Michelle unlocked the cable and Andy was able to pull his truck through without too many problems. After relocking the cable behind the truck, Michelle helped Fred and the boys set up the tent about twenty feet away from the original location.
“This way, we won’t have to take your tent down again when we come back through,” Andy said.
“When will that be?”
Andy and Michelle exchanged glances briefly before Michelle answered. “If everything goes well, we should be back in three or four hours.”
Bucky nodded and asked, “You got an empty thermos?”
Andy crossed over the cable to his truck and retrieved an old Stanley thermos, pausing only to dump out the leftover tea that Bernice had filled it with yesterday. A quick trip to the fire and it was filled with a batch of scalding hot cowboy coffee.
Fred pointed toward the handgun at Michelle’s waist. “If you run out of bullets, you could probably use shots of that coffee as a weapon.”
Hands were shook all around, and Andy gave them Doc’s name and directions to Ravenwood Campground, saying, “That’s where we’ll be eventually.” A
final round of handshakes and they were on the way.
The cut-through proved slightly more difficult than they had imagined. Disrepair and recent rain made two of the small creek crossings a little bit dicey. Any worse and it would have been winch time. The winch was required, however, to move three small, fallen trees that were across the path, but other than that they ran into no significant issues. It took a grand total of about forty minutes to traverse the path, and after opening the far cable, Smyrna Chapel Road lay in front of them.
“Turn left and head west. Stay on the main tar and chip road and ignore any small turnoffs . . . most of them are just dead ends used for field access anyhow.”
Several miles passed with no sign of other vehicles, moving or otherwise. About five minutes further they crested a small rise and had to hit the brakes. To the right, a dirt road meandered along a fence line, gradually ending at a farmhouse a quarter mile away. Several barns and outbuildings were scattered through the area as well.
Directly in front of them however, the already narrow road tapered even further where it crossed a small one lane bridge about seventy-five feet away. There was a low pile of railroad ties on the bridge, and a man running a farm tractor with a front end loader was adding to it. Andy pulled off the road and waited until they were noticed. It didn’t take long. Using the binoculars, Michelle saw the man on the tractor pick up a handheld radio, probably similar to their own GMRS walkie talkies. She was just about ready to pass this information on when Andy asked, “What’s he got in his hand?”
“I think it’s a little radio. Probably calling in the cavalry.”
Before either of them could comment further, the man spun the tractor so the loader bucket faced the truck. To the right a reflection caught Michelle’s eye and she turned to see a pickup truck racing up the farm road toward them.
“Yep, reinforcements coming from the right. What do you want to do?” The solid weight of the Glock on her hip was reassuring, but Michelle still felt vulnerable. She repeated her question.
“Kid gloves. They’re probably just wondering who we are and where we came from, but let’s not push it. Some of these old farmers are likely to shoot first and ask questions later,” Andy said.
Michelle wasn’t wearing her uniform, but she had her badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She opened the door and slowly stepped out—Andy mirrored her on the other side. They left the doors open and waited for the pickup to arrive.
The man on the tractor had left it running and stepped down. A scoped deer rifle had materialized in his hands. They were close enough to see his finger near the trigger. The muzzle wasn’t pointed at them—yet—but Michelle got the distinct impression that he wouldn’t hesitate to use the gun. The crunch of gravel slowed as the approaching vehicle—a newer model Nissan Titan; metallic gray with a chrome plated roll bar, running boards, and a large yellow Myers snow plow on the front—came to a stop about fifty feet away. A young man, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old stepped out; AK-47 held across his chest. The glint of at least two other gun barrels could be seen poking up over the cab. Michelle could feel the tension in the air.
Andy slowly stepped to the front of his truck—hands in a neutral position—nodded his head and said, “Hello.”
The man with the deer rifle came forward, stopping about ten feet away from Andy. He was younger than Michelle had first thought . . . maybe forty. His skin was weathered, though. Forty years spent in the sun maybe. His face was friendly, his eyes not so much.
“How’d you get back there, this road don’t go nowhere but back to some old abandoned farms.” His voice was nasally, like he was either just getting, or getting over a cold.
Andy tilted his head toward Michelle and she stepped forward a few feet, giving him a clear view of her badge.
“Officer Owens, United States Fish & Wildlife Service. We came across that cut-through by Crossbow Lakes. I have the key.”
“Anybody else behind you with a key?” he asked.
Michelle’s hackles started to rise involuntarily. Something about this guy was keeping her on edge. The two dominant sides of her logic were fighting a battle—one side convincing her that the guy was just being cautious, the other side thinking about all those horror movies where the cannibal family asks the lost college kids if anybody knows where they’re at. She chose to ignore the question. Time to try some psych 101.
“We need to get down this road, but it might be a little difficult with all those railroad ties in the way. With what’s going on in the world I can understand why you’d want to restrict access to your property, and I can’t say as if I blame you. I’d really appreciate it if you can show us another way around so you don’t have to move those railroad ties.” State the problem, sympathize with their situation, ask them for personal help while restating, yet minimizing the consequences if they don’t.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Fort Hammer.”
Michelle saw a glimmer of fear? . . . anger? . . . pain? Something flashed in his eyes when she had answered.
“Why?” he replied softly.
“Why what?” Andy said.
“Why do you want to go to Fort Hammer?” he answered.
Michelle could sense Andy losing patience, so she cut in, “It’s where my office is, and I need to get there as soon as possible . . . can you tell me another way around . . . please,” she added.
A female voice sounded from the bed of the truck. “Keith, why don’t you let these people cross by the old sawmill, that way you don’t have to move your pile of ties.”
A look of resignation crossed onto his face and he slowly nodded, saying, “Follow me.”
He led the way down the farmhouse driveway with the tractor—the pickup truck following slowly behind them made both her and Andy a little nervous. They followed the tractor down the driveway almost to the farmhouse before it turned left onto a dirt path that led towards the old barn. A second structure turned out to be the old sawmill. Three walls and a tin roof sheltered the equipment while what looked like countless low mounds of aging sawdust decorated the immediate vicinity. The creek that passed under the narrow bridge obviously continued its course and meandered past the sawmill. What Michelle had initially mistaken for another of the farm’s outbuildings turned out to be an ancient covered bridge. The tractor drove across it and they followed, slowly winding their way along a dirt track that twisted through several woodlots before coming back out onto Smyrna Chapel Road. A heavy gate secured with logging chain blocked the path. The farmer got off of his tractor and walked back, stopping at Andy’s side of the truck.
“You plan on coming back through the same way?” he asked.
Michelle tilted forward on the seat and looked past Andy. “If everything goes well we should be back through this same way in a few hours. If things don’t go so smooth it may be later than that . . . I hope not though.”
He nodded, glancing upward at the late morning cloud cover briefly before replying with a frown, “I’ll let you back through, but not at night. So if you don’t make it back before dark, don’t bother showing up until the next morning after sunrise. I’ve already buried one child today, so I don’t believe a few dead strangers would make much of a difference to me at this point.”
Michelle started to say something . . . to sympathize, but he continued before she could find the right words. “When you come back through, pull up to the bridge by the railroad ties and beep your horn a few times. If I recognize your truck, I’ll come out and meet you and take you back this way. If anything looks suspicious to me, well, just remember what I said about strangers.”
Their attempts at thanking the farmer went unanswered, and he turned and unlocked the thick chain—walking backwards and dragging the galvanized livestock gate with him as he went. Without a word, Andy pulled through and turned right, once again heading west on to Smyrna Chapel Road. Twenty minutes later the tar and chip turned into pavement and became Sawmill Station Road.
Several more farms were passed along the way, but neither Andy nor Michelle had any interest in stopping. The gradual sways in the road straightened out as it climbed over a small wooded hill in the distance.
“Just over that hill and we’ll come into the outskirts of Fort Hammer.”
“How far from the hill to your office?”
“Not too far . . . maybe three miles or so. That little hill is about the highest point around. You can see the town from the other side.” When Andy didn’t say anything, Michelle added, “The county put up barricades and closed the road for a day last year after the first big snow. Somebody had organized what they called the ‘Fort Hammer 500’ . . . basically an impromptu street party for the kids to go sledding. I wasn’t there, but from what I hear it started off with just a few people, then more and more families came. By the late afternoon there were a couple dozen moms doling out hot chocolate and cups of soup to the hundred or so kids who were sledding. The coolest thing about it though,” Michelle added, “was that it was a ‘shoe leather express’ only affair. If the kids wanted to sled down the hill, they had to walk up the hill. Nobody was pulling them with a snow machine or ATV.”
“My kinda town.” Andy replied. “It’s about time parents get their kids’ fat butts off of the couch and outside.”
“Yeah, I feel the same. And apparently so do most of the people in town. The local paper is already planning another similar event next year.”
The flash of metal on the approaching hillside caused Michelle to look through the binoculars again. “Andy, go slow—it looks like there’s a wreck or something up ahead.”
Halfway up the hill they discovered the remains of a three vehicle crash. Two cars and a box van—similar to the type you rent to move furniture—were smashed and scattered over a small area about 150 feet this side of the crest. One of the cars was totaled. The moving van and the other car were also banged up pretty bad, but may have still been drivable if they were on the road. They weren’t. Both of them were on their sides near the edge of the woods. Andy slowed as Michelle rubbernecked. Nothing was moving that she could see. No bodies, alive or otherwise, were visible either. Andy picked his way through the scattered debris, avoiding most of the larger pieces of wreckage as Michelle turned to keep looking backwards.
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