by Paul Greci
We’re just getting finished setting up the tent when we hear voices coming from somewhere behind us.
Only the voices aren’t in English.
CHAPTER 73
ALL FOUR OF US SLINK away from the noises, leaving the tent unattended. We’re basically trapped between the Rambo camp and what I’m pretty sure are Russian soldiers. We lie on our bellies, but instead of facing the Rambo camp below we’re now facing toward our tent.
None of us know Russian, but what they’re speaking isn’t English. And it sure doesn’t sound like Spanish or French to me.
The voices grow louder, and then all of a sudden they go silent. Through the woods I can make out at least two, maybe three people. They’re carrying large brown sacks.
“They’re Russians,” Shannon whispers, “but not the Russians. Delta Junction has a large Russian immigrant population.” She motions with her head. “They’re collecting mushrooms.”
“Still,” I say, “don’t you think there could be some infiltration into the community? Some spies reporting to the soldiers? Some people loyal to the homeland?”
Brooke whispers, “Even if they aren’t spies, we can’t trust them. We can’t trust anyone.”
“Yeah,” Derrick says, “I get all that.” He pauses. “It’s just, what do we do now that those mushroom hunters or spies or whatever they are have discovered one of our Sam’s Special camouflaged tents?”
“Where the hell are all these people coming from?” I whisper. “I mean, we walk for days from Simon Lake looking for people and don’t see any, and now Sam drops us at some secret brush-infested location and we’re surrounded?”
“If they aren’t communicating with the Russian soldiers,” Shannon whispers, “then we’ll be okay. But even if they are, we’ll be okay. As long as we break Sam’s rule and get out of here now, in broad daylight.”
We crawl along the edge of the low bluff, not wanting to expose ourselves to the Civil War–era militia below nor to the Russian mushroom hunters who’ve found our tent.
Sleepiness isn’t a problem since, in the new world order, any human we encounter can derail the mission, and we’re all wired from feeling surrounded even though we haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours. I thought most of our challenges before approaching the bridge would be from the natural world, and now it seems like the natural world is just a stage where our lives are playing out.
At least we’ve only left behind a tent, and we’ve got one more. I haven’t pulled out the route finder because I figure we can start following the arrow once we get away from this spot.
The mushroom hunters have started talking again, and their voices grow fainter as we move farther away. The Rambo camp is still visible below, but it seems like we’re approaching one of its edges.
I stop and turn and face my friends and wait until we’re all bunched up. “The land is sloping downward,” I whisper. I pull out the route finder and power it up, and the arrow points directly through the center of the Rambo camp. “We’ll need to keep going around.” I point off to the right of the camp and start down that way. I’m glad we’ve all got rubber boots because as soon as we hit the flat area to the right of the camp we are in a quagmire of hell.
“They did this on purpose,” Shannon says. “For protection. They built their camp on a dry island in the middle of a swamp.”
The mud and water are suctioning my lower legs up to my shins, making it feel like I’m walking through wet cement. Except instead of a cement smell, it reeks of sulfur. My rubber boots stay on my feet despite the continual attempts from the swamp to claim them.
The idea that we’re going to make it to the lake, inflate the kayaks, paddle down a creek to the river and down the river to the bridge, blow the bridge, and get away with it seems about as remote as the chances of us going to the moon. But I keep putting one muck-sucking foot in front of the other because to stop would pretty much mean to choose to die. And let a lot of Alaskans die.
CHAPTER 74
WHAT SEEMS LIKE HOURS LATER we’re out of the swamp and following the arrow again. The forest thins and we enter a meadow where the walking is easy, which has me both psyched and scared out of my mind. I mean, since we had a major detour because of the Rambo camp, we’re now coming at the lake from a completely different direction, a direction I’m guessing Sam didn’t pick for a reason.
I stop and wait until we’re all bunched up. “I don’t like the feel of this,” I say softly. “It’s so open.”
“We could backtrack”—Shannon points over her shoulder—“just a couple hundred yards to where the forest is thicker, and rest until dusk.”
Derrick nods. “Dusk to dawn activity. Stay dormant during the day. Those were Captain Sam’s orders.”
Brooke and I both agree, and we all backtrack until the underbrush is thick enough to provide some camouflage.
“We’ve got one two-person tent for the four of us,” I say.
“We’ll have to stack ourselves like firewood to fit,” Derrick says.
Shannon shakes her head. “Two of us rest while two of us keep watch. Then we switch.”
“I’ll take—” But then I’m cut off by a high-pitched chattering sound that goes on for at least thirty seconds.
“A squirrel giving a warning call,” Shannon whispers, putting into words what I’m already thinking.
We all peer in the direction where the call came from, where the forest opens up into a meadow. My experience with squirrels around my house is that they break into warning calls almost every time I walk out the door.
We’re far enough into the thick brush that it’ll be hard for someone to see us if we aren’t moving, but we’re close enough to see a little ways into the meadow. I wonder if there are Russian soldiers on the march or if the Rambo camp people are out on patrol or if there are more mushroom hunters. Whatever it is, we need to remain still or melt farther into the underbrush.
But then what I see materializing on the edge of the meadow makes me pause. I know the smartest thing to do would be to stay still and not be seen, but part of me wants to make contact. To see what they know. To find out what they’re doing and where they’re going.
I glance at Shannon, Brooke, and Derrick, and whisper, “We need to break Sam’s rule.”
They all agree and we slowly move toward the edge of the brush.
CHAPTER 75
“CANADA,” THE MAN SAYS. “WORD is, they’re not turning away anyone who makes it to the border.” He strokes his beard, which hangs to just below his collarbone. “Word is, the Russians are rounding people up.” He shakes his head. “They’re not getting my girls.”
The three girls standing in a row next to their father are younger than us. The two oldest ones—obviously twins—are maybe thirteen, and the youngest is nine or ten, I’m guessing.
“The border is over a hundred miles from here,” Shannon says, “and that’s by road.”
“We got food,” the man says. “We can hunt and fish if we need to.” He’s got a rifle slung over one shoulder, and the girls all have fishing poles strapped to the outside of their packs. “As long as we keep to the woods and off the roads, we’ll be fine.”
I tell them about the Rambo camp, and the man thanks me for the information.
“Did you live in Delta Junction?” Brooke asks.
The man replies, “The people there didn’t even have a chance to leave. The Russians came at the town from all sides. It’s basically one big refugee camp. Our place is about twenty miles out of town.”
I tell him about the Russian mushroom hunters we saw, and he says, “They could’ve worked out a deal with the soldiers, or they could be working for them now. Who knows?”
The girls haven’t said a word the whole time. Maybe they were instructed by their father to keep quiet.
“Are there a lot of people doing what you’re doing?” Derrick asks. “I mean, are the woods full of people fleeing the Russians?”
The man shrugs. “I got a tip from
a friend. Called me from town before the Russians got to his place. Me and the girls, we packed up, climbed a high ridge, and watched for a few days. Tanks on the highway. Truckloads of soldiers.” The man shakes his head. “I love my country. But I love my girls more. My wife—may God bless her soul—I promised her I’d always keep them safe.”
None of us ask him what happened to his wife. We don’t know if she died three weeks ago or three years ago.
The man asks us what brings us to where we are. We tell him about Simon Lake and the earthquake, but say nothing about Sam and our mission.
“And you’re doing what now?” the man asks. “The high-tech clothing and packs. Carrying rafts. All gray. You look like the military, but you’re just kids.”
“We can’t tell you everything,” Shannon offers. “All our families are in Fairbanks. We hope what we’re going to do will not only help them but all Alaskans.”
We don’t tell the man that if our plan fails and the United States decides to nuke Alaska, he and his girls will probably die on their way to Canada.
“You’re smart to get out of here,” I say. “Go as fast as you can.”
For a few minutes, we watch the family continue along the edge of the meadow, and then we backtrack into the brush to get some rest until dusk.
Refugees, I think. Those people are refugees fleeing America, land of the brave and home of the free, because it’s unsafe to stay.
CHAPTER 76
SHANNON AND DERRICK INSIST ON taking the first watch so Brooke and I set up the tent and crawl in. This tent is a little bigger than the one-person tent we shared on our trek from Simon Lake. We’ve got our sleeping pads and bags spread out, but it’s too warm to crawl inside the bags so we’re lying on top of them. And since the tent is spacious enough, instead of lying head to toe we’re both oriented the same way.
“I wish the world wasn’t so screwed up,” Brooke says. She’s lying on her back but then turns to face me. “That’s what put us in this situation.”
“People in power created this emergency,” I say, “but it’s regular people who suffer the most from it.”
Brooke puts her hand on my arm and leaves it there. “When that guy and his daughters said they were heading to Canada, I wanted to go with them.” She bows her head. “I’m no hero, Josh. I’m scared out of my mind.” Then she pulls her hand away, but I can still feel the warmth from it being there.
“Brooke,” I say, “I’m scared, too. Who wouldn’t be?”
“You sure don’t show it,” Brooke says.
“I deal with it the way I deal with anything that’s stressful,” I say. “I do something physical. And there’s plenty of physical things to do on this mission.”
“Tell me about it.” Brooke sighs. “And that’s part of my fear. I mean, besides getting shot, I’m worried that I won’t be able to do what we need to do.”
“Brooke,” I say, “you hiked one hundred twenty miles with your feet full of blisters while eating almost nothing.” I turn toward her and look her in the eye. “You can do this.”
“I need a way to deal with my fear,” Brooke says, “so I don’t freeze up and cause us all to fail. The three of you would be better off without me.”
“Brooke, we need you.” I put my hand on her arm. “As it stands, we need all four of us to set the charges on the bridge.” I take my hand away. “If any of us gets hurt or caught or drowns, then the ones who are left to do the job will be needed even more.”
“You’re right, Josh.” Brooke licks her lips. “Sometimes I just get overwhelmed, and I don’t have a thing I do when I’m scared like you do. I used to complain that all I got to do was tag along with my sisters on things they did. But I never had to do anything on my own. I never had to pick up the slack. I was always just there. You know, being passive.” She swallows once. “For this, I can’t be just there or just here. Wherever we are, I need to be active, to stay active, to not freeze up in fear. I can’t be just here.”
“Maybe that’s it,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Brooke asks.
I look her in the eye and say, “I can’t be just here.” I pause. “Make that your mantra to keep yourself present in what’s going on. That way your mind won’t have the time or space to think about whatever it does to get in the way of you doing what you need to do. Just don’t give your mind a chance to psyche yourself out.”
“I guess I could try that,” Brooke says. “I can’t be just here. I can’t be just here.”
I nod and then say, “We better get some rest because it’ll be our turn for watch before we know it.”
“Thanks, Josh,” Brooke says.
I tell her no problem and turn on my side facing away from her. She’s beautiful and there’s no way I’d get to sleep if I kept facing toward her.
I close my eyes and think about what Brooke said about being scared. It takes guts to just plain admit it and then ask for help. Brooke didn’t know how I’d react when she told me. I’m glad she trusted me enough to say something. And I feel better now that I’ve told her that I’m scared, too. It’s good for me to remember that we all must be scared out of our minds—not just me. I think about Derrick. He deals with most things by making jokes. I think about Shannon. She analyzes things. We’ve all got our ways of dealing with tough stuff—with fear. I hope the suggestion I gave Brooke will work for her because without everyone 100 percent on board, we could all die.
CHAPTER 77
DERRICK AND SHANNON WAKE US up, and we trade places so they can get some rest. And now Brooke and I are sitting at the edge of the forest, hidden by some brush, looking out across the meadow toward the forest that starts up on the other side.
“I changed my mantra,” Brooke says softly, “to just be here. It’s more positive, and it’s more accurate. I have to put my energy into what’s right in front of me and not try to escape by wishing I were somewhere else.”
“That sounds good,” I reply. “It makes way more sense than what I came up with earlier.”
“I know it won’t be easy.” Brooke looks me in the eye. “I mean, just since we’ve traded places with Shannon and Derrick, I’ve already wished I were somewhere else like five times.”
“But just the fact that you’re aware of it,” I say, “makes all the difference. We’re all going to fantasize about being other places, but your mantra is what brings you back to the present moment.” I pause. “At least that’s how I use my mantra in cross-country races to keep my mind from straying.”
“What is it?” Brooke asks.
“Step,” I say.
“Step?” Brooke says. “That’s it? Why?”
“Because,” I say, “that’s the action I have to perform over and over from the start of the race to the finish.” I look at the sky. “When the sun touches those treetops”—I point—“I think we should get moving.”
“Do you have a mantra now?” Brooke asks.
“Not really.” I turn and face her. “My mind is filled with all the stuff we’re supposed to remember. I’m pretty good at focusing on a task, so I tell myself to just focus on what I’m doing if my mind starts running. Like right now, we’re talking softly, but I’m scanning the clearing with my eyes, searching for movement because we’re on watch.”
“I hate this,” Brooke says, “but I know how important it is. I thought what happened at Simon Lake was horrendous. So horrendous that I couldn’t deal with it. But this is potentially a million times worse if we fail.”
“Or,” I say, “we might succeed, but the mission might fail. If that happens, we’re so close to Fort Greely that we’ll probably be vaporized if the United States nukes it.”
“That’s the part of the plan I don’t like,” Brooke says. “I think after we set the explosives, instead of heading downriver and stopping at the spot Sam described, we should just keep on going toward Fairbanks. Maybe we’ll be far enough away that if the fort gets nuked we’ll survive. Why sit around and wait to see if we’re going to die?
”
“I think I agree with you on that one,” I say. “We can see what Derrick and Shannon think and then make a decision.” I take a breath. “The only reason I hesitate is because maybe Sam knows something about what’s downriver that we don’t. Maybe there’s some Russian presence that he wants us to avoid.”
“He didn’t say anything like that,” Brooke says.
“Maybe he knows that if the mission fails,” I say, “the nukes will get launched so quickly that no matter how fast we paddle there’s no way we’ll get out of the death zone. Maybe there’s—”
“Josh.” Brooke points. “I see movement on the far side of the meadow.”
I follow Brooke’s finger and sure enough, I see people pouring out of the woods, coming this way.
CHAPTER 78
“WORD MUST BE GETTING AROUND that this is the route to take,” I whisper to Brooke as we watch about thirty people making their way along the far edge of the meadow, traveling in the same direction as the man and his three daughters did earlier.
We sit in silence, blending in with the brush, as the refugees pass by a couple hundred feet away. People of all ages, size, and shapes. Most of them have backpacks. A few carry duffel bags slung over their shoulders, and some have rifles. I wonder if these people have come from the same area as the man and his daughters or if they’ve escaped from Delta Junction. Or maybe they’ve come from somewhere farther away. Somewhere closer to Fairbanks.
