by David Wayne
In normal times, it was a fifteen-minute ride back to Heartsville. Zigzagging between houses and traveling down side roads took three hours. But it gave me time to think.
The St. Paul’s campsite had roughly fifty people. About half were able-bodied adults; the rest were children and older people. Excluding my own weapons, we had maybe fifteen guns, mostly hunting rifles, and a small amount of ammunition. The group had three men and one woman who could adequately defend themselves against thugs who killed without conscience. Several more would help but wouldn’t hold up long under that kind of intense pressure. The balance was the typical civilian whiner, complaining about having no internet connection and the lack of air conditioning. When gangs of Hogwogs rolled into town, they’d be like a rabid pack of wolves, descending upon a herd of unsuspecting sheep.
In my line of work, training teaches us to handle reality with reality. Sugarcoating dire situations results in death. I arrived back at camp just after lunch and spent the afternoon busting hump, putting together a plan, and getting myself ready for the trip to the Safe Zone. None of this was good, and I was about to face the worst part. Father McGeegen would have to make some very hard decisions, the kind no one should ever have to face. As the sun was sinking, I stood waiting in the church, mentally preparing for the private meeting we were about to have. I felt horrible for the old guy; the weight of the world was now on his shoulders, and what I was about to tell him was going to increase that burden.
Chapter 3
I scanned the dark sanctuary, scratching a two-week-old beard growth—even though I felt no itch. Sipping from a flask, I noticed the slight tremble of my hand, unsure if the cause was no-sleep exhaustion or from fear and frustration. I should have seen the writing on the wall and taken immediate action. That’s what I’m trained to do, and there had been plenty of red flags. No National Guard, no FEMA helicopters doing flyover assessments, the major rioting and looting we’d seen that first week in Birmingham. It all painted a picture that should have sent me a clear message that something much bigger than a major power outage was going on. But living in an Alabama suburb for three years had softened my instincts. Had we left before things got desperate, I’d already have these people in Atlanta, or close to it. Now, it would require the impossible task of traveling one hundred and fifty miles through a war zone. I’d suffered the same dumb-attack as the civilians, and we would all pay dearly for our McDumbness—probably with our lives.
After returning from my trip to Birmingham, I hit the Heartsville library, snagging up all their maps and travel-related materials. I made a two-page outline of notes, and then called a meeting with three of the more level-headed members of the Leaders Group. Father McGeegen wasn’t available until tonight. I spent over an hour explaining to them what I’d seen and learned in Birmingham, and provided an educated hypothesis on what to expect moving forward. I gave them some maps and reference materials from the library, along with the detailed notes I’d prepared, which provided survival tips and tricks. My presentation was met with skepticism, along with accusations of exaggerating our predicament. The meeting didn’t end well.
I’d been as patient as possible with the group, but unless you’ve seen the effect widespread desperation has on people, it’s beyond comprehension. I’ve witnessed it up close and personal, in Rwanda and Croatia. People change when there’s no food or water and no promise of relief. A mob mentality takes hold, and law-abiding citizens become violent and riot. If the situation is prolonged, that mindset sets in permanently. It’s an instinct to survive, and before long, killing and stealing become just a part of that process.
A soft, tired voice broke my trance. “Max, please. Must you in here?”
“Father McGeegen, I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, quickly slipping the whiskey flask into my back pocket, feeling like a ten-year-old caught smoking behind the garage.
He smiled an un-smile, an automatic response borne from thirty years of practice, what athletes call muscle memory. It was a fake smile, resting below bloodshot eyes, hanging above drooping shoulders. “They’re getting restless out there,” he said, referring to the campsite. “I truly wish you’d speak to them, provide a ray of hope, before a total group meltdown occurs. They’ve just received earth-shattering news.”
“I’m not going to do that, Father,” I said, reaching instinctively for my back pocket while Father McGeegen did the same, only faster.
“No more of that,” he said, pulling my arm away. “Can we go outside and talk? I’ve got a pack of Marlboros and some Johnny Walker.”
That sounded like an excellent idea. Who knew, that could be the last bottle of whiskey and pack of smokes I’d ever get. “Sure,” I said with a shrug.
He fished the stash from behind a bookcase, and we walked outside. He handed me the bottle. “This is for later.” He took a smoke, fired it up, and handed me the pack.
“Let’s go over to the sitting rock,” I said, walking in its direction without waiting for a response. He followed. The sitting rock was really a bench set atop a hill, overlooking the Birmingham skyline. I’m unsure why they call a bench the sitting rock, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment.
He talked as we walked. “Sorry I couldn’t make the earlier meeting; I was tied up with camp conflicts. After the government announcement, everything’s deteriorating at supersonic speed around here.” His voice sounded weary and tired.
“You’ve been busy, Father. It’s all good,” I said. This was a poor choice of words, because everything was all bad.
He let out a deep breath. “The others briefed me on the meeting, Max, and I must say, I’m more in agreement with them. Your assessment and recommendations seem extreme. I’d almost decided that taking the congregation to Birmingham, rather than Atlanta, was the wisest move.”
The camp community had unaffectionately nicknamed me Bottom Line Jack. Apparently, I can be too blunt; I’d say honest, but why split hairs? I decided directness would work best right now. “Birmingham’s out of the question, Father. A complete no-go.” As we approached the bench, I gave him the skinny on what I’d witnessed on my day trip and what I’d learned from the cop. I also shared the specifics of what my training dictated under our circumstances. I finished with a detailed accounting of the atrocities I’d witnessed overseas. As we sat on the bench, we lit up fresh Marlboros, and he picked up the Johnny and took a swig, collecting his thoughts.
“Surely you exaggerate, Max?” he said without much conviction.
I pointed toward the city. “You see that, Father? Look toward downtown Birmingham."
Our surroundings were coal black, a typical Alabama night. But no lights were shining on street poles or in nearby homes. There were no headlights zipping down the highways. Visibility through the dark blanket was zero. Except toward Birmingham, where a burnt-orange color glowed. Down low at the city skyline, it was bright, as if the tip of the sun were peeking above the horizon. Above that, the colors changed into an orange-grey radiant, dulling as you gazed higher, before eventually turning into coal-black sky.
“Tell me what you see over there, thirty miles away,” I prompted.
“I see what you see,” he said.
“Well, that’s not an eight o’clock sunset. Birmingham’s burning—burning to the ground. The Hogwogs have overrun the city, and their violence will spread out here to the suburbs quicker than the flames are spreading down there.”
He looked at me, biting his lower lip, but said nothing.
I placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got to face facts, Father. Groups of Hogwogs will be pulling into town any day, stealing our supplies, enslaving men for forced labor and women for…”
In the silence, I watched his body slump further down, hoping I wouldn’t have to expand on what such an onslaught would really look like. Thankfully, he changed course. “How in the world do we get fifty people some hundred fifty miles to Atlanta? Through all that mayhem, and with no food or water?” he asked.
&
nbsp; I didn’t like the word we, or the question itself, for that matter, so I said nothing.
“You have to step up here, Max. You know that, right? These people are helpless. You can save them. Be our leader. I know it’s not what you want or desire. But neither did Washington or Lincoln,” he said.
I laughed, because I didn’t know how else to respond. “I’m no Washington or Lincoln. Hell, I’m not even—”
He held up his hand. “Enough with the jokes. Give me the bottom line.”
This was the part I’d been dreading the most. But there’s no good way to say a bad thing, so brief and to the point seemed best. “We’re a camp full of lawyers, teachers, and soccer moms. We have a few hunting rifles and a couple of handguns. They’re a group of well-armed thugs, intent on stealing our supplies and enslaving people. Our only course of action is to evade and hide. Engaging with them is out of the question. That means we’ve missed the window to safely travel the interstates and highways. That leaves only forest trails, railroad tracks, and back roads.” I took a swig and a few puffs off my smoke. I noticed he was nodding along, like that was good news.
“Father, you can’t do that in large numbers. It can only be accomplished in very small groups of two or three—a full family worst case. We don’t have provisions, and there won’t be any stores in the woods. Fifty people can’t tiptoe through the forest or quickly hide from groups of Hogwogs,” I said, taking another pull of whiskey and a hit from my cigarette. I’d quit smoking five years ago, and the nicotine was giving me an unpleasant dizzy buzz on top of the booze buzz, so I thumped the smoke.
He stood and was obviously angry. “But we have sick and elderly people here. Old man Tillery’s in a wheelchair, for criminy sake. What are they supposed to do? Tell me that.”
I gave him a blank stare. He knew the answer.
“If we run straight up I-20, traveling as fast as fifty people can move, why won’t that work? I figure twelve, fifteen days tops,” he said. Even in the pitch-darkness, I could see the slouching outline of his body. He stood there like a stunned boxer, anticipating the final knockout blow—and I was the one to deliver it.
“There’s no chance any size group would arrive without…major casualties,” I said, not sharing what I really thought. No way was I going to guess a survival number—or lack thereof. I didn’t want to contemplate it.
For a second, I thought he’d break down. He was barely holding back tears. “Please reconsider leading us to Atlanta. We need you as much as God himself right now,” he said, standing and walking away. After several feet, he stopped and turned. “Max, sometimes the only way to exorcise past demons is performing future good. Whatever you decide, let God be with you,” he said, then disappeared into the Alabama darkness.
I unscrewed the bottle and lit up another smoke—they were harsh and horrible, but man, did it feel good to reunite with my little friends. Even though I felt emotionally exhausted, somehow I felt better. I’d said what needed saying, and tomorrow I would leave camp and, God willing, make my way to Atlanta. Solo.
A wave of guilt threatened to wash over me, but I pushed it aside. This wasn’t Max Ryker being an asshole and playing the I’m a lone wolf card—it was reality. If I could turn back the clock two weeks, I would gladly lead the group to Atlanta. I wouldn’t like it, but it would be my duty. The bottom line was we’d missed that window. I missed the window to save all these people. The situation was even worse than what I’d shared with the father; I wasn’t convinced I would survive the trip—even traveling alone along the back roads.
The real-world looting and violence I'd witnessed in Birmingham, combined with this nighttime view of the burning cityscape, made me think of the post-apocalyptic movies I loved. The ones with amazing special effects and fifty-million-dollar budgets. One thing was clear—those movies couldn’t touch the reality of real reality. Was Steven Spielberg out there somewhere, sharing a similar nighttime view and arriving at the same exact conclusion?
Chapter 4
Back at camp, I stoked up the fire pit and heated some canned peas—damn, what I wouldn’t give for a Big Mac right now. Over the flickering flames, and between scoops of yummy baby peas, I pulled out my notebook and jotted down some notes into my Event log. I used it to document everything—the information could be useful down the road. I crawled into my small pup tent, which even my modest five-eleven frame had to struggle with. I heard footsteps approaching.
“Mr. Ryker? Are you in there?” a voice called.
“Shit,” I said under my breath. It was Sister Susan. She’d attended the afternoon meeting and was a pain in the ass. Out of everyone in Leaders Group, she was the pesky pest of the lot, constantly hammering me with why this and why that. I had no idea what she could want. I wasn’t about to get my rear back up, so I yelled, “Sister, I’m exhausted and need some rest. Can you respect that, please?” I did my best to keep the frustration from my voice.
“No, you don’t understand. Could you please come out a moment?” she asked, her voice calm but apprehensive.
I decided to get firm. “Sister—”
“Don’t you sister me, Max Ryker. I’ll not be put off as a child,” she said. After a brief pause, she continued softly, barely above a whisper.
“May we speak face-to-face for a moment? I would come in there but… please?”
"Shit," I said for the tenth time tonight. As I fought to get out of the tiny tent, I tried to think of what I knew about Sister Susan, and how best to handle her. She had an agenda, probably another sales pitch to lead the survivors’ group to Atlanta. So I’d be gentle and firm—but brief. She was maybe five years younger than me, around thirty-three, I’d guess. Supposedly, she’d moved to Birmingham eight years ago but I couldn’t recall from where. By all accounts, people liked her, and she seemed to fit in well with the locals. No one really knew much about her past, but in these parts, people didn’t ask, which was the reason I’d moved here.
She was a petite woman but carried that strong air about her like many Southern women do. Perky and peppy were two words that came to mind. I stretched the kinks from my bones. I actually knew nothing about the sister—and intended to keep it that way. I figured the best course of action was simple—slap Ms. Peppy on the rear and send her on her perky little way—figuratively speaking, that was; after all, she was a nun. Sister was sitting cross-legged over by the dying fire, stoking it into the occasional burst of sparks. She wore her habit. I didn’t sit because I wasn’t staying.
“How can I help you, Sister?” I tried to sound caring, when all I really cared about right now was crashing out, maybe for two weeks solid.
“Sit, Mr. Ryker, please. I’ll get a crick in my neck staring up at you from down here. You look like the angry version of the Jolly Green Giant,” she said, letting out a short string of girlish giggles. I tried not to smile, but couldn’t hold it back. Reluctantly, I joined her.
“I’ll get right to it. I know they call you Cut-to-the-Chase John or something or other, right?”
“Bottom Line Jack," I responded dryly. “I don’t much care for it, actually.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know. Anyway, I’ll get to the root of it. I can’t travel with the survivors’ group, and it breaks my heart—but I simply can’t. I’ve listened to all the arguments you’ve presented, and a large group will be nothing more than a moving target for those Hoglogs—”
“Hogwogs,” I corrected.
“Indeed. In my view, you’ve proffered the most plausible course of action to our dilemma, traveling in pairs or very small groups. Therefore, I’ve decided to travel with you,” she said, case closed.
I almost chuckled at the sister's frankness and candor, but I’m not sure why. I guess I expected a long-winded story but got a straight-ahead zinger instead. “Well, I can appreciate you wanting to take a different path to the Safe Zone. Traversing in a large group will be exceedingly dangerous, but I intend to go it alone. Perhaps you could find another companion? I can’t b
e the only one breaking from the pack.” I offered this as gently as possible.
“No, thank you. I’ve decided to travel with you if you please.”
I took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “I’m going to be taking the back roads to Atlanta. The trails will be hard. I can’t stress enough how treacherous it will be. I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but I’m traveling alone.” I stated the last part with gentle toughness, like a salesman leading up to the close. She wouldn’t realize I was handling her, because I’d do it subtly. I’m a master smoothie.
“I see. Well, I’ll tell you one thing. I can outhunt, outfish, and outclean a kill better than two thirds of the men in this camp. I was raised in the woods, and my father taught me how to live in the outdoors. I’m a crack shot, and can even outshoot you. Wanna bet?” she said. Her jaw was set tight; she crossed her arms and threw me a glare.
“I’m sure all that’s true,” I said, trying not to crack a smile at her boldness and swagger. “But, like I said, I’m traveling alone. Now if you please, I’ll say good night, ma’am.”
“Mr. Ryker, if you could—”
I cut her off. “If it’s all the same to you, Sister, Max will do just fine.”
“Okay, Max, you’ve said all along we should travel in pairs, yet you’re going solo. Incongruent at best, wouldn’t you agree?”
Good point. “Well, it’s just...”
“What? It’s because I’m a woman?”
“No, of course not. I love women,” I said, immediately regretting my choice of words.
“Is it because I’m a nun? Is that what’s bothering you?” she said, her tone becoming more aggressive.