by Bowman, Dave
Even if she knew how to get back there to the town, she wouldn't dare return to the scene of that terrible encounter.
And even worse – Heather had no food or drink with her.
She had at least consumed some juice and cookies back at the store, but the extras she had packed, along with her meager supply of dried fruit, were back in the town, still in her backpack.
Heather stood up and looked around. Somehow, she had managed to lose track not only of her whereabouts, but also of the time of day. The sun dipped low in the sky toward the horizon. It would be dark within minutes. There wasn't enough time to try to retrace her steps and return to the highway.
She would have to spend the night in the campground.
"No blankets, no clean clothes, no food, no drinking water," she said aloud, breaking the chatter of the birds flitting over the creek on their late afternoon tasks before night set in.
"You really screwed up," she said to herself. "And now you're talking to yourself."
I've probably lost my mind, she said, silently this time. Somehow, the thought of a mental breakdown was too real, too terrifying to utter aloud.
Grabbing her bike, she made her way uphill from the creek. She chose a campsite tucked away in the corner of the campground. She curled up in a cleared area underneath some white pines.
As the light faded, she closed her eyes. She wanted to sleep until first light, but she knew that was wishful thinking. The temperature was already dropping, and she knew it would be a chilly night without anything to ward off the cold.
I've got to find the highway again first thing in the morning.
Her stomach growled. Her thirst was so intense that she was tempted to go drink from the stream. But she knew a case of Giardia wouldn't help her situation.
She didn't open her eyes as darkness fell on the area, but she didn't fall asleep, either. Rustling noises in the bushes and forest nearby kept her on alert.
It's just animals. Go to sleep already.
But every time she dozed off, a noise from the forest startled her awake. And with each hour, she grew hungrier and weaker. As the night wore on, she began to shiver.
At some point, finding her way back to the highway in the morning no longer seemed to be her biggest challenge. She began to wonder if she was going to survive the night.
17
Paul Hawthorne stood on a bridge overlooking a reservoir.
The water was neon green from an algae overgrowth. Fish floated belly up on the surface. The air was thick with a putrid odor.
He kept walking.
Soon, he came upon a large complex for a chemical manufacturing company. Several large buildings were clustered behind a tall fence. The bad smell was stronger here.
He picked up his speed, anxious to leave the area. With the EMP having destroyed the electrical grid, he imagined the electric security measures of the chemical plant had failed. The toxic waste products had leaked into the reservoir.
He thought of the environmentalists who had always been causing trouble for the logging company he worked for. Tree huggers were always complaining about the trees his company harvested. They never seemed to listen to the company's statements about sustainable harvesting and their efforts to replant fast-growing tree species on the lands they held. One young guy had even chained himself to the highest branches of a tree on company grounds once, in protest of the logging company's operation.
Paul shook his head as he remembered it all.
The environmental groups had been wrong about Paul's employers. But maybe some of the critics had had a point about the operation of the chemical plants. At the very least, Paul figured the manufacturing company should have been more prepared for an electromagnetic pulse that would destroy the nation's power grid.
But then, everyone should have been more prepared.
And in the end, Paul thought, what did it matter? After all, he had lost his family. He had lost the only thing that mattered to him. And so many others, probably all over the country, had lost their lives or loved ones.
The world that he knew was over.
Now, he could only cling to the hope of seeing his brother again.
Paul moved quickly as he entered the edge of a small city. He was still in the Piney Woods of East Texas. Knowing he had a long journey ahead of him, he was preparing himself for several more days of walking toward his family's old ranch house in Loretta.
Paul tried to avoid walking through the centers of the populated areas he passed through. He didn't like how everyone seemed to stare at him in the towns.
He was far from the only person traveling on foot. Every populated area had people walking or on bicycles, forced to leave their cars behind. But his appearance made Paul stand out. His coworkers hadn’t called him Paul Bunyan for nothing. At six feet seven inches, he towered over most people. And now, he looked like he had been in an epic bar fight. His clothes were shredded in several places, and he was covered in bruises and scrapes from wandering around in the woods aimlessly for a couple of days. He knew he must look insane and dangerous, and he didn't want to frighten people.
But he couldn't avoid everyone. As he got farther into the town, he got more and more strange looks.
He had been to this town before with Marie and the children. They had passed through it about a year before. What was supposed to be a fun day trip to Houston had quickly turned into a tense argument with his wife over money. They had been discussing whether to buy a new car, trying to keep their voices down where the kids couldn’t hear them over the radio blaring in the backseat of the minivan.
Marie insisted they needed to buy a new vehicle, one that was more up-to-date with safety measures for the kids. But Paul argued it was unnecessary and besides, they couldn't afford it.
The argument escalated until Brooklyn, their youngest, piped up.
"Mommy, don't you and Daddy love each other anymore?"
Their daughter's words stung. Both Paul and Marie assured the kids that they still loved each other, that it was just a disagreement. But Paul couldn't help feeling guilty. The conflict between him and his wife had intensified so much that the kids had started to worry.
Paul wished that he and Marie had stopped fighting that day, and the days after that. But they hadn't. The arguments continued, becoming more regular over the past year.
And Paul was ashamed to remember the times he had lost his temper and raised his voice at his own children. All the times he had been distant from them, annoyed at their antics. All the times he had wanted to be alone. He had taken out his frustration on his family.
Paul shook his head in sadness. How stupid he had been! If he had only known how quickly he would lose them, he would've never raised his voice at his wife or children. He would have relished every moment with them.
But there was nothing he could do to change the past. They were gone forever.
The sky darkened overhead from gathering clouds as he walked, matching Paul's mood.
He should have let Marie buy the damned car she wanted. He should have been better to her and the kids.
And most of all, he should have gotten them out of the house in time. He shouldn't have been working so far from home. They should never have bought a house so close to Dallas, a big city and a target for terrorism.
Paul had made so many mistakes.
He walked with his head down, avoiding the prying eyes of people on the street. He wanted to get out of this town fast, and return to the solitude of the open country.
A man's voice jostled him from his thoughts.
"Need a ride?"
Paul looked up and saw a guy in an old Jeep, the first running vehicle Paul had seen in days. The man had pulled over on the shoulder and was looking right at Paul, who had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed.
"It's going to rain," the guy said. "Thought you could use a lift."
Paul shook his head. "No. I'm good."
The guy shrugged.
"Suit
yourself," he said and took off again down the street.
Paul watched him disappear over the next hill. He didn't know why a stranger would be generous to him. In any case, he didn't want the ride. He didn't want to make small talk or act interested in what someone had to say.
He didn't trust anyone, either. He doubted he ever would again.
Except for Jack. His brother was about the only person left in the world he could trust.
Their dad had passed away ten years ago. Their mother had always been so close to her husband, and she began a steep decline after she lost him. A couple years later, she had passed away too.
Paul's grandparents were long gone. Aside from a few distant relatives scattered in Oklahoma and Arkansas, Paul and Jack had no living relatives. They only had each other.
Paul hoped that Jack could bury the hatchet and forget their old disagreements. They, too, had said things to each other Paul now regretted. But Jack was still his brother, and the only person he had left.
It started to rain lightly, but Paul kept walking. The rain didn't bother him. He liked it, even. It was cold and miserable, but Paul felt he deserved it. He wanted to be punished.
After two or three miles past the city limits, Paul came to a cornfield. It was getting dark, and Paul decided to turn in for the evening. He figured he had at least three more days to walk. When the rain let up, he ate the meager supply of food he had found in an empty house on the edge of town. He had considered sleeping in the old shack since it seemed to have been abandoned. But he didn't want to be comfortable. As long as he was haunted by the memory of his family, he couldn't afford himself comfort or shelter.
He lay down under a pine tree and closed his eyes. So much had already been lost. Could he really count on Jack and Annie still being alive? As he drifted off to sleep, he was plagued by the feeling that his brother was already dead.
18
Jack ran inside the garage and flung open the door to the stairwell.
"Hurry!" he urged Brent onward, holding the door open for him.
Brent ran through the door and began climbing the steps with Jack on his heels.
"Get off at the second floor," Jack said, keeping his voice low. He followed Brent through the door.
"Now what?" Brent asked, panting, as they stood on the next level, looking around.
"Shh," Jack whispered.
They listened as the sound of footsteps grew louder on the first floor. The guards were entering the garage.
Jack motioned Brent toward the row of cars before them. Moving lightly between the vehicles, the two men stationed themselves out of sight behind a large truck.
Jack drew his Glock from the holster, setting his rifle down silently on the floor. He needed to reload the rifle, but he didn't want to make a noise. The guards were running up the stairs now.
The stairwell door to the second floor flew open. Footsteps echoed through the dim garage. Another guard continued running up the stairs and emerged on the third floor. Jack heard him running on the ground overhead. Meanwhile, the guard on the second floor was getting closer.
Finally, Jack saw him. The man was moving slowly through the middle of the space, looking between each vehicle in both rows to the left and right.
The man was just three vehicles away now.
Jack raised the gun and waited for him to get closer.
The man took a few more steps forward, looking to the left and away from Jack and Brent.
It was Jack's only chance.
He pulled on the trigger. The man made an unexpected move to the left, and Jack missed.
The guy cursed. He ducked behind a vehicle and started firing in Jack's direction.
Damn!
Jack dodged his fire, adjusting his position behind the truck. He aimed again, waiting for the man to expose himself as he fired.
When the guy took aim again, Jack fired. This time, the guy was still, and Jack hit him.
He fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Jack saw his arm fall to the side with his pistol clanging to the ground.
Nearby, Brent blew out a jagged breath.
Jack brought his hand up, silently telling Brent to keep quiet.
Overhead, the guard was silent. Jack waited for his response, wondering what the guy was up to. The guard was waiting as well, considering his next move.
Jack stood up and silently began to make his way to the fallen guard nearby. He picked up the man's gun and motioned for Brent to follow him to the other end of the parking garage. They crouched behind a minivan several yards from the scene of the shootout. Once in their new hiding place, they waited.
Upstairs, a truck engine started.
Brent looked at Jack with surprise. Jack got ready, waiting for the truck to appear.
The truck took off, peeling out overhead. It raced down the aisle of the third floor, then turned and began descending the ramp to the second floor. The driver took the next turn quickly and drove past the dead man lying on the floor.
The man steered the truck slightly to the left. He was heading straight for Jack and Brent. Somehow, he knew where they were hiding.
Jack opened fire on the driver. The shatterproof windshield cracked, but the bullets did not penetrate the glass. The truck kept charging ahead.
"Get out of here!" Jack shouted to Brent at his side. Brent, who had been watching the truck’s advance in shock, finally came to his senses and crawled to the side.
Jack continued firing a second longer. When the truck was nearly upon him, he rolled to the side.
Unable to stop in time, the truck slammed into the wall. Jack watched the vehicle's front end crumple into the wall, destroying the engine. It was obvious that the truck wouldn't run again.
A sharp piece of metal splintered from the vehicle and sliced into Jack's lower leg as he rolled.
Jack came to a stop on his side, then raised his Glock once more, training his weapon on the driver. The engine smoked and hissed, blocking Jack's view of the cabin.
At last, the door slowly opened, and the driver emerged. He held a pistol in his hand and weakly tried to lift it.
Before the man could fire, Jack shot him twice in the chest. The man collapsed on the floor, his body slamming down just inches away from Jack.
Jack glanced at Brent, who was watching the scene from several feet away. The two men wordlessly pushed themselves to their feet and ran toward the stairwell.
In the stairwell, Jack struggled to make his injured leg work. Brent ran ahead, taking the steps two at a time to the third, and uppermost, floor.
"No," Brent said from the doorway to the third floor as he looked at at the top level. "There's nothing else up here. They must’ve had just that one truck stored on this level."
Gritting his teeth, Jack began the race down the stairs to the ground level.
"Wait," Brent said. "Shouldn't we see if any of the cars run on the second floor?"
"No," Jack said. "I already looked at them all. They're all too new to run. First floor as well. They just kept that one running vehicle on the top floor."
Brent followed Jack to the ground level. Jack entered the garage and turned to the right – away from the front entrance.
"Wrong way!" Brent said.
Jack kept going forward. "We're jumping out this back window."
Brent watched as Jack ran with a limp toward the big opening at the rear of the garage.
Jack gave a quick look outside the garage, then began to pull himself up and over the open window. He hit the ground with a jolt on his injured leg. Brent pulled himself over as well and jumped to the ground.
They ran along a row of junipers toward the apartment building a few yards from the parking garage. Jack looked over his shoulder. So far, no one was behind them.
Jack crossed to the east side of the building, and began to check the exterior doors of each apartment. Each of them was locked. He growled in frustration.
As Brent ran upstairs to search the second level’s doors, Jack knew
their time was running out. It wouldn’t be long before more guards appeared and opened fire. Sooner or later, his luck was going to run out.
“This one’s open,” Brent said, leaning over the balcony and keeping his voice low.
Jack ran up the steps and followed Brent inside the apartment. The first order of business was checking every room of the apartment. Jack checked the two bedrooms while Brent looked through the kitchen and living room. Jack emerged from the bathroom after making sure it was clear, and raised his eyebrows at Brent in a question.
“All clear out here,” Brent said as he turned to look out the front window. “And so far, I don’t see anyone out there coming for us.” He bolted the front door and followed Jack to the rear bedroom.
The men peered through the window and watched as a small group of male and female guards ran down the street behind the apartment building and toward the abandoned lot where Brent had worked. Jack reloaded his Glock, keeping an eye on the people below. He didn’t know where they were headed or if they had seen him and Brent run inside the apartment.
“That was crazy back there!” Brent said. “You just started picking off guys out there at the work site. And how did you know where to find me? And – how did you get out of C Block?”
Brent looked at Jack, eager for answers. Jack finally glanced at him.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Brent sighed and looked out the window.
Jack inspected the rifle Brent had lifted from his guard. Jack didn’t have any more ammo for the weapon, and it was low. Jack set the rifle down and watched as the group dispersed at the end of the block. Several went to check on the fallen men in the work site. A few turned toward the parking garage.
“We may not have much time,” Jack said. “But we can’t make a run for it now. They’re too close. They’d see us running out of here. We’ll have to wait.”
“Wait for what?” Brent asked, staring out at the people moving over the abandoned lot. “For them to find us?”
