Black Autumn Travelers

by Jeff Kirkham

  That was his rock bottom.

  He had logged plenty of time in the world of manipulation and laziness. He admitted to himself that he had come close to taking the easy way, the city way, many times. Hungry, scared, and trotting a path toward his supplies, thoughts of his family loomed large.

  One day he would face his father, his uncles, and his grandfathers, and he would account for his journey and the things he had done to stay alive and to get ahead. He had promised his dad that he would do everything necessary to survive. Yet he would account for this decision—to warn the farmer or succumb to his own lust and weakness. That foreknowledge made the decision for him.

  He would warn the farmer.

  Sage kept his present course, circumnavigating the camp and the pond. Soon he reached the rock ridge and ducked behind it, heading directly for his rifle. He carefully lifted the rock away and dusted off the garbage bag, making sure no sand dropped into the mouth of the bag. He removed the rifle and pocketed the box of 30-30 shells.

  Sage peeked over the rocks and looked down on the Starbucks Camp, hoping he could sneak over the ledge and grab a few more things. People still mulled about the campfire, a sickly, smoke haze wallowed in camp, the fire apparently starved out through inattention.

  It was a no go. In mid-afternoon, in full light, he might be seen by the group and then he would be forced to either explain or shoot. His throat was parched and he hadn’t been able to resupply his water since the day before yesterday. He would simply have to endure.

  At a slow jog, Sage loped back toward the road, keeping well away from the Starbucks Camp. With the sun at his back, he eventually approached the farmhouse. Sage slid behind a run-down shed and leaned a sun-bleached pallet over the top of his backpack and his gun. The snow had completely melted away, leaving only a few wet spots in the shade. He looked around and marked the location of his gun in case he was forced to make a quick getaway.

  As he walked across the front yard, two armed men stepped off the porch and moved behind two huge cottonwoods shading the house.

  “Let’s see your hands,” one of the men shouted as he leaned around the tree with a hunting rifle. The other guy had an odd-looking rifle that Sage concluded was a pellet gun. No matter, the hunting rifle was scary enough. Sage raised his hands.

  “I’m a friend,” was all Sage could think to say.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them and stop.” The man turned to the guy with the pellet gun. “Vete a trier mi papa,” he said in Spanish.

  Pellet-gun guy trotted into the house with a slam of the screen door. A few moments later, a tall man in a Levi’s jacket emerged from the farmhouse, still chewing his dinner. Sage recognized the farmer from their trip to fill up at his spigot.

  “I’m Sage Ross.”

  “Well, hello, Sage Ross. What do you want?” the man drawled.

  “I’ve been camped with the people at the pond up the road, but I’m not really with them.”

  “Okay…” The man waited on the stoop, picking at a tooth.

  “They’re planning on coming here tonight to do something to your family. At the very least, they’re planning on stealing your food, and maybe taking your livestock.”

  “That so?” The farmer thought about it for a second. “So what do you want?”

  “I wanted to warn you. They’re getting desperate.”

  “How about you?” the farmer asked. “You getting desperate? Desperate enough to blow the whistle on your friends?”

  Sage hesitated. He couldn’t answer the question honestly without revealing his stash, which he wasn’t going to do. “I’ve been digging through your field and eating the onions the harvester left behind. I killed and ate a rattler yesterday.”

  “You can put your hands down, young man.” The farmer walked toward Sage. “So how many of these friends do you expect will come and bushwhack us in the night?”

  “There are three men and eight women, but a couple of them are pretty sick.”

  “What’s ailing them?” the farmer asked.

  “They drank the pond water.”

  The farmer relaxed a little. “Ah, yeah, you shouldn’t drink the pond water. It’ll go through you like shit through a goose.”

  “I’m worried one of the girls might die.” Sage didn’t know why he had said that.

  “Lots of people are dying, son. But you’re looking pretty healthy.”

  “My dad taught me a couple things about camping. I was a Boy Scout for a while.”

  The farmer softened. “Well, Boy Scout, how about you come inside for a bite of dinner? Why don’t you sponge off some of that mud on your coat over in the mud room? Antonio will show you where.”

  Sage took a chance. “Sir, I have a rifle stashed behind that busted-up shed. I’d like to bring the gun and my backpack inside, just in case.”

  The farmer stiffened again. “Do the trespassers down by the pond have guns?”

  “No, sir, just me.”

  “Okay, then. Show Antonio where your stuff is and he will hold onto your gun.”

  “Okay, Mr.…”

  “I’m Rowland Holland.” He held out his hand. Sage shook it firm like his dad had taught him.

  The farmer smiled. “Get your gun, clean up and come in for dinner. We’re working on the main course right now, so hustle. You might like it better than rattlesnake.” The farmer turned and ambled back to his supper.

  At the dinner table, Sage met the family and two of their laborer staff.

  “This is my wife Thelma, my daughter Angelina and you already met my son out on the front lawn. That’s Terrence. Then you got Antonio and Fernando. They’re our farm supervisors.”

  Sage shook hands all around. The daughter looked like she was about eighteen, with long, red hair and a big port wine mark on her face. The son, Terrence, appeared a couple of years older than his sister.

  Dinner consisted of country fare—fried chicken in a stick-to-your-ribs batter, mashed potatoes, bottled green beans and apple pie. Everyone but Sage had already finished the main course, but there was enough food left to make him a plate.

  “How’re you guys eating so well?” Sage asked in wonder.

  “This is a farm, young man,” the lady of the house answered. “We’ve always raised our own food. There’s not much we need from the grocer.”

  “How about power?” he asked between bites.

  “We miss having electricity, that’s for sure,” she answered. “But the well’s pumped by the windmill, and we don’t need to refrigerate much. We’re running on candles and kerosene.”

  “But that’s a conversation for another day,” Rowland interrupted, probably uneasy sharing so much information with a stranger. “We got some work to do before the sun goes down. If you’ve had enough to eat, how about you come with us? We’re going to invite your friends to leave.”

  “Now?”

  The farmer scratched his head. “It wouldn’t be too smart to wait until after they were sneaking up on us in the dark of night, would it?”

  Sage hadn’t considered confronting his friends. He imagined they would come in the night and the family would repulse the raid. Thinking about it, the farmer’s plan made a lot more sense.

  “Their car’s out of gas. If you could spare a half a gallon of fuel, they could gather up their gear and drive out of here.”

  “Good idea.” The farmer turned to the supervisor. “Antonio, could you please get the small gas can?”

  The farmer walked around a corner and came back with Sage’s 30-30. He racked the handle and breech-checked the gun, making sure there wasn’t a bullet in the chamber or any in the tubular magazine.

  “I’m going to hang onto your bang stick until we know each other better, okay? Doesn’t sound like we’ll be shooting anyone, but speak softly and carry a big stick. It was President Roosevelt that said that—the real Roosevelt, not the sissy one.” Rowland looked Sage in the eyes.

  “Let’s go.” Rowland turned and walked out the front d
oor with Sage, his son and the two supervisors in tow. Terrence carried his hunting rifle from earlier, and Antonio had his pellet gun. Sage noticed that Rowland had strapped a six-shooter in a leather holster onto his belt.

  When they pulled up to the Starbucks Camp in the farmer’s pickup truck, the hipsters looked like deer caught in the headlights. Nobody made any quick moves, probably because they were so sick and hungry. Sage noticed a handful of onions burbling on the coals.

  “Listen up,” Rowland shouted. A couple of the girls jumped at his deep baritone. “I’m telling you to clear off my land right now. Please grab your stuff, pile it in your vehicle, and git.”

  Justin stepped forward. “Hey, mister, you don’t own the land. It belongs to everyone.”

  “Is that right? Where’d you learn that? Smart-ass school? How about this, Professor Smart Ass? How about you and my boy punch it out for a camping permit here on my land?”

  Justin visibly shrank.

  “I didn’t think so,” Rowland said. “So I brought you a gallon of gas, unless you think I don’t own that, either. I’m going to have Antonio here put it in your Japanese vehicle and then you’re going to drive back the way you came. I’d appreciate it if you’d take the next ten minutes and clean up your God-awful mess. Sound fair enough?”

  The Starbucks Clan mulled around, stunned.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Now, get it up!” the farmer bellowed, and the starving baristas jumped to action, stuffing gear into the back of the SUV.

  After fifteen minutes, the campsite still looked like a dump, but the sun was setting.

  “That’s good enough. Now get in your car and drive back that way.” Rowland pointed toward the highway with Sage’s rifle. The trespassers loaded into their car until it became obvious that it was physically impossible to fit eleven people into an SUV designed for five.

  “A couple of you can get in the back of my truck,” Holland said.

  The remainder climbed into the pickup truck, including Penny. Sage helped her climb up.

  “How’re you doing?” Sage asked.

  Penny looked at him with glazed eyes. “I’m sick.”

  “Yeah, I know you are. Maybe you can get medical help at the highway.”

  “I’m sick,” she repeated. “I’m hungry.”

  Sage fell silent. He felt like an asshole. He had turned on Penny and the group and now he had a full belly for his treachery.

  “Mr. Holland, can you wait a second?” Sage asked through the driver’s side window. The farmer nodded and Sage trotted back to the campsite. He grabbed three onions from the coals, now cooling, and ran back to the truck.

  He slapped the side of the truck bed twice after he jumped into the bed next to Penny. The farmer rolled slowly down the road. The SUV followed. Sage handed the onions to Penny and she unwrapped the black outer layer and nibbled on the sweet core. She should have been wolfing it down; she’d had little or nothing to eat in three days. Sage watched her closely as they bounced down the road.

  When they reached the highway, Sage wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Cars were bumper to bumper from one horizon to the other, like an endless dead centipede, the body beginning to decompose. Most cars were in a state of being dismantled for parts—hoods made into rain shelters, wiper/washer tanks repurposed to collect water, and upholstery ripped out for bedding. People camped right where their cars had died, doors open, hoods up, trunks flipped upright, belongings strewn across the lane of blacktop, stretching back to Seattle.

  Hundreds, maybe thousands of people shuffled about, so much like zombies that Sage did a double-take. This was no dystopian television show. These were real people and they were dying. The farmer didn’t linger; dropping off his load of trespassers, he doubled back on the road to come window to window, face to face, with Justin, who was driving the SUV.

  “Don’t come back. We won’t be so helpful next time.” The farmer rolled up his window and drove on, with Justin glaring at Sage in the truck bed as they pulled away.

  Sage thought of the vicious, maimed cat. He remembered the look in that tomcat’s eyesan eight-pound animal that would’ve given anything to launch itself at Sage and claw its way into his guts.

  Near Thixton Lane, South of Louisville, Kentucky

  Lord knew, Mat had done plenty of overland infil in his day, and he knew it could be a long, arduous process. But nothing had prepared him for moving overland on foot with civilians in the middle of Americanistan.

  The suburbs around Louisville contained thousands of patches of woods, along with a mind-bending number of mud water creeks, each forest and each creek requiring a broad detour. It had already cost them the Raptor. They had been forced to leave it in the crook of the river on the wrong side of escape from the gangbangers. They were doing everything possible to avoid homes and streets, sticking to the helter-skelter pockets of woods.

  Mat regretted losing his truck almost as much as he regretted delaying going after Caroline’s parents sooner. He gave up the truck in a split-second decision to balance sacrificing their mobility against risking it all in a battle against a hardened crew of criminals.

  Ultimately, he had found the deepest, darkest road he could find, drove the Raptor as far into the woods as he could and covered it with a camo net from the Baltimore EZ Storage. Mat promised himself he would come back for his Raptor once this area quieted down, maybe in a couple weeks.

  As they closed in on the motorcycles, Mat halted the party in a heavily wooded area and insisted they hole up for the rest of the day, catching up on the sleep they forfeited the night before. They would be better off moving at night anyway, when Mat’s NVGs would give them an advantage and reduce the risk of being detected from one of the homes. They had been moving through peoples’ yards, so to speak, and every step brought risk they would be shot by some dude’s hunting rifle.

  They searched fruitlessly the entire next night for their buried motorcycles. Mat had been wholly unable to connect the landmarks he had memorized in the daytime with the landmarks he could see through his NVGs at night. Finally reaching Thixton Lane, he had called it a night, surrendering to the fact that he would have to approach the bikes in the daytime if he was ever going to find them. The group made a hasty camp in the middle of the forest.

  For almost the entire day before, they had moved in silence, the distance between Mat and Caroline seeming to grow with every passing hour. With death breathing down the back of their necks, there had been no time to discuss the disastrous repercussions of Mat’s mistake. His mind worked overtime interpreting every glance. Not once had she touched him since leaving her parents’ home and mostly she looked away when he turned toward her. It probably hadn’t helped matters that her mother and father had been abandoned with the truck after their bodies had been tossed around while fleeing the gangbangers. They had barely taken time to straighten them out, lying side by side, before disappearing into the Kentucky woods. Odds were good that wild animals would get to them before Mat could return for the truck.

  Helpless against their silence, Mat distracted himself with the business of escaping.

  The dog, some kind of terrier, he supposed, had turned out to be the perfect patrol animal. Caroline’s parents had either cut his vocal cords or trained him not to bark because the only sound Mat heard him make was a silky growl that couldn’t be heard by anyone but the person standing next to him. The dog never once wandered more than ten yards away, and he could be relied upon to alert them if discovered.

  While he set up their expedient camp, Mat struggled a little to figure out sleeping arrangements. They only had two sleeping bags, with three travelers plus the dog. The rich Ross girl from Baltimore had packed ridiculously light sleeping bags, which were also miraculously warm. In a fit of curiosity, Mat dug out his red-filtered flashlight to check the tag on the bag.

  Every American operator was also a gear whore, and Mat Best was no exception. Even with modern industry in the shitter, probably for the next two decades, Ma
t still needed to know who had made that amazing sleeping bag. Western Mountaineering was a brand of gear Mat hadn’t heard of, but he guessed the sleeping bags had set old man Ross back at least four hundred bucks apiece.

  “Hats off to you, Mister Ross,” Mat muttered to himself. Obsessing about the inevitable dew that would fall on their down bags, Mat went to work with an ultra-light canopy material he had found at the bottom of his backpack. Kifaru was a brand Mat recognized—makers of special operations shelters and bags. Mat loved the Kifaru Woobie, a waterproof and tough blanket, standard kit for an operator. Within a few minutes, Mat had the Paratarp up and camouflaged, keeping the dew and uninvited eyes off their hide. He needn’t have worried about the sleeping arrangements, as Caroline and William slept together under her sleeping bag, spread open on her own tarp.

  Now, with afternoon shadows lengthening, Mat packed up the tarps, hoping to find the motorbikes before the last of the autumn afternoon drained away over the horizon. He knew they were close. There could only be one “Thixton Lane.” Somewhere to the south, he had hidden the bikes in the bend of small creek, the thicket made dense by the nearness of water.

  After circling two homesteads, Mat stepped right into the thicket, realizing he had been within six hundred yards of the bikes the entire day.

  As quietly as he could, Mat pushed the bikes out of the mass of brambles and stood them up one at a time, scanning the forest for prying eyes. The bikes had been selected for this exact mission and, as much as Mat struggled with losing his Raptor, he had to admit that Ross had assembled the perfect “Mad Max” motorcycles. The bikes were light. A woman could probably stand them up if they fell over—which wasn’t true of most motorcycles. The light weight probably gave them a hundred miles to the gallon or more. Ross had mounted a tough-looking saddlebag system with Rotopax gas cans bolted onto the racking with a clever cam system. Mat inspected the mounts and concluded they had been built especially for touring. The saddlebags and gas cans put the weight over the back tire, exactly where he would want to carry extra weight on a motorbike.