Alone, Book 3: The Journey

by Darrell Maloney

  But he’d do it. He’d cry and scream and pound his fist. But he’d accept it as God’s way.

  And he’d accept that God spared him for a purpose.

  That purpose, he’d accept as fact, would be to continue to raise his rabbits, and his seeds, and to spread his extra food among the masses. To work with the other survivors, and teach them how to raise their own bunnies, plant their own crops.

  To survive, and to repopulate the earth.

  Dave suddenly had an epiphany.

  He wasn’t a big reader of the Bible. He preferred books he didn’t have to put a lot of thought into, ones he didn’t have to try to interpret.

  But he seemed to recall something in the Bible about Armageddon.

  He seemed to remember something about the day when God would call the righteous home. Take them into heaven.

  And the rest, the sinners, the less deserving?

  Well, they’d be left behind, to suffer an unimaginable fate.

  An unimaginable fate that was never specifically spelled out.

  Perhaps a solar storm that would send the unholy back to the Stone Age?

  “I’ve got to stop doing this,” Dave muttered aloud to himself.

  “I’ve got to stop thinking so much.”

  Sarah used to tell him the same thing when she wanted to give him a hard time.

  Dave always had a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.

  “Stop thinking so much,” she’d tell him with a smile.

  “Stick to things you’re good at. Save the thinking for people who are better at it. People who have had more practice.”

  Dave hoped his sweet Sarah was still alive. He quite literally couldn’t imagine going on without her.

  Didn’t want to.

  But he would. If he had to.

  He finally shook himself out of his funk.

  It was fully daylight now, and he hadn’t been paying attention to the area around the big rig.

  If someone had been walking down Highway 281, they’d have been able to spot him with no trouble. Might have asked where he came from. What he was doing there. Whether he planned to take things from the back of the trailer that they had, perhaps, already claimed as their own.

  Or perhaps they’d have shot him dead, as he’d asked God to have them do.

  He looked around and saw nobody.

  And he realized how exhausted he was. This thinking thing, he decided, really wore him out.

  He crawled through to the sleeper cab, closing the curtain behind him, and collapsed on the bunk.

  He was asleep within seconds.

  Chapter 23

  Dave awoke with a start around three in the afternoon, but didn’t have a clue why.

  He shook his head to knock out some of the cobwebs.

  He peered out the hole he’d made in the back of the sleeper cab at his Explorer.

  There was no one near it, and it didn’t appear to be broken into.

  Dave liked that the driver of this truck had been bobtailing at the time the EMPs hit the earth. He’d been driving only the tractor when the world went dark, probably on his way to pick up his next load.

  It was nice for Dave because he didn’t have to look over a long trailer to keep an eye on his SUV. Plus, he was closer to the vehicle and more likely to wake up if someone broke a window to get into it.

  But he wasn’t sure why he woke up, exactly.

  He couldn’t remember hearing a noise. He was comfortable, wasn’t too hot or too cold.

  And he didn’t need to go to the bathroom.

  He didn’t have a bad dream. Or, if he did, he couldn’t remember it.

  He weighed his options.

  He could forget it, chalk it off as nothing, roll over and go back to sleep.

  He could get up, peek through the curtain and out the windshield of the truck, to see if there was anything north of it he needed to know about.

  He could get up and go to the bathroom, even though he didn’t really need to. And while he was up he could eat some Vienna sausages and a couple of energy bars. So he wouldn’t wake up again hungry later on.

  Then his mind wandered a bit, as he wondered whether energy bars would keep him awake.

  They didn’t contain caffeine, at least as far as he knew.

  Or any other sleep inhibitors that would keep him from nodding off after he’d eaten and done his business.

  But common sense would dictate that anything which professed to give him additional energy would also make him more alert.

  Wouldn’t it?

  He finally shook his head vigorously, to get himself back on track. Instead of energy bars he’d have another can of Ravioli and some trail mix. Just to be on the safe side, he’d save the energy bars for when he needed to be awake and alert.

  Like at night, for example, when he was driving in the dark through the Texas hill country.

  He got up and looked through the curtain. Before him, through the Ford’s windshield, stood a panorama of almost-empty highway, a scattering of abandoned vehicles, and plenty of trees that were in the process of budding their new spring leaves.

  But no people.

  Nothing at all, in fact, that looked even remotely as a threat.

  He took a two liter bottle from his backpack.

  The blue and white Pepsi label announced what the bottle once contained, and for just a moment Dave longed for an ice cold soft drink.

  Perhaps another time, if anybody ever figured out how to get the bottlers running again.

  He expected that if it did happen again in his lifetime, he’d likely be a very old man.

  So lukewarm rainwater, boiled for ten minutes on his camp stove in San Antonio, would have to do on this particular afternoon.

  He was satisfied after half a dozen swallows. But he drank a dozen more.

  Dave was always mindful of warnings about dehydration he’d learned as a Boy Scout and as a Marine.

  A well-hydrated body moves faster, thinks better, and survives longer.

  He opened a bag of jerky and took out a chunk.

  He was surprised to find it was chicken jerky.

  It looked the same as rabbit, but had a different flavor. He’d been tossing the bags of rabbit jerky into the same box as the chicken jerky he’d made with Sarah so many months ago.

  It shouldn’t have surprised him that when he’d packed for the trip, some of the chicken would have gotten mixed in.

  But he hadn’t expected it, and it brought back a pleasant memory.

  Of Dave, walking through the kitchen. Slapping the bottom of his sweet wife as she peered into an oven full of jerky to check its progress.

  “You do that again, Mister, and you’ll be part of the next batch.”

  To Dave’s recollection, he never did it again.

  Oh, it wasn’t because he was afraid of her. That wasn’t it at all.

  After all, he used to tell her, she was too sweet to do anybody any real harm. And she hit like a girl.

  No, the truth was, he didn’t do it again because he felt guilty for doing it the first time.

  He remembered going to Sarah later that day and apologizing to her.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’m very sorry for what happened earlier.”

  By then, she had forgotten the incident.

  “For what, honey?”

  “For spanking you as I walked through the kitchen. It was very disrespectful to you, and I apologize for doing it.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yes, I do. You see, when we took our vows, I promised to love, honor and obey you. Part of that is respecting your body, and the fact that it belongs to you, and not to me. And I have no right to place my hands on it without your consent.”

  She was touched.

  “Why, thank you, honey. But then, how come you don’t obey me when I wake up at three a.m. craving a chocolate milkshake, and I tell you to go get me one?”

  “That’s different. There was nothing in our vows
about chocolate milkshakes.”

  That was indeed the last time Dave ever spanked his wife.

  Except, of course, for those times late at night after the girls had gone to bed and she’d asked him to.

  0

  Chapter 24

  Dave stretched, then checked his mirrors before opening the tractor’s door and stepping down.

  It was all clear. There wasn’t a living thing anywhere in sight.

  Dave stepped over to the shoulder of the road. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Perhaps it just seemed uncivilized to pee in the middle of the highway.

  It was while relieving himself in the dark green grass at the shoulder of the highway that Dave had a thought.

  Directly in front of him, on a small green sign with white lettering, were the words BLANCO, 1 MILE.

  Dave had always been a suspicious sort by nature. Sarah used to say that’s why, in addition to being a hoarder, he was also a conspiracy theorist. She used to make fun of him, call him one of the “black helicopter crowd.”

  Dave had always countered that the government doesn’t do anything unless it has something to gain. That “by the people, for the people” was a myth, and that now it was “by the congressmen, for the congressmen.”

  Sarah said she certainly couldn’t argue that particular point.

  “I’ll grant you all that. As for the FEMA death camps and all that, I don’t buy it. Sometimes bad things happen without the government making it so. And sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence.”

  “Hey, black helicopters are real. So are implants. They were talking about doing it when I was in the Corps. ”

  “Did you ever see it done?”

  “Well, no. But they said that sometime in the future, all soldiers and Marines would receive chips to help doctors take care of them when they couldn’t tell the doctors their blood type, medical conditions, or any of that kind of stuff.”

  “So you never saw it happen?”

  “No.”

  “I rest my case.”

  The couple never resolved the issue, preferring instead to agree to disagree.

  Dave never stopped believing in many of the conspiracy theories that came along.

  And Sarah never stopped saying that sometimes a coincidence is only that: a coincidence.

  Dave wondered what Sarah might think about him stopping for the night and sleeping in a truck that was parked precisely in front of a sign.

  A sign telling him there was a town only one mile ahead.

  A town which surely must have at least one auto parts store.

  At a time when Dave desperately needed a new alternator for his vehicle to continue his journey.

  He muttered out loud, “Ha! Sometimes things just line up way too nicely to be just a coincidence.”

  The words, of course, were meant for Sarah. As though she were close enough to hear them.

  In Dave’s mind, the sign was there to tell him he was close enough to a town to make a parts run, and he just happened to wake up and go outside and see the sign, because there was something else at work.

  Maybe not black helicopters, but perhaps something more benevolent.

  Like maybe the same force or power that sent his daughter to tell him to take care of the rabbits.

  Dave continued to talk to himself. For some reason, it seemed to give him comfort.

  “Lindsey, I don’t know if you can hear me, sweetheart. I don’t know if you had anything to do with me finding this sign. But if you can hear me, and if this is you telling me to go get an alternator, I want you to know that I love you. I don’t know what happened, but if this means you’re in heaven, then I promise you I’ll see you again someday. I’ll be a better person. I’ll read the Bible more. I’ll try to help others more. Whatever I have to do to earn my way into heaven when I die, I’ll damn sure do it.”

  He pondered his words for a second, then said with a sheepish smile, “And I’ll try not to say ‘damn’ so much.”

  He looked around after he finished emptying his bladder to make sure no one was around.

  Then he returned to the big Freightliner and pulled out his backpack.

  He drank more of the water, then examined the bottle.

  There were only a few ounces left.

  “Might as well kill it now. Might need the extra space.”

  He emptied the bottle and tossed it back into the truck. All he left in his backpack were two protein bars, a two-pack of Pop-tarts, and two loaded magazines for his handgun.

  He wasn’t sure how many other things he might find besides the alternator to bring back with him. The more space he had in his backpack, the better.

  Dave threw the almost empty pack over one shoulder and headed out, on foot, down the center of the desolate highway.

  In his mind, he went over his options should he encounter anyone in the broad daylight.

  He shouldn’t have any trouble convincing them that he was merely a drifter looking for food. Or maybe someone who got tired of living a hardscrabble life and went looking for greener pastures.

  He wondered if the highway people were territorial.

  Perhaps they staked out their territory, in the same way a male dog marks his turf and gets angry when another dog encroaches upon it.

  Perhaps they got hostile when a stranger happened upon their stake and tried to force them off of it.

  He wondered if they shot first and asked questions later.

  Or never at all.

  He stopped and turned around. He wondered if he should have brought his rifle from the Explorer. So he’d have a fighting chance if someone started shooting at him from afar.

  But he was several hundred yards away from the Explorer now.

  And he was a peaceful man by nature. He’d rather resolve things without anger or weapons if possible. He liked to think he could talk his way out of most situations, just by keeping a level head and tone.

  Of course, that was in another world.

  One vastly less violent.

  He pressed on, headed north up the lonely blacktop.

  But he made one small concession.

  He moved from the center of the road to the edge of the shoulder.

  Just in case.

  Along the shoulder, there was heavy brush he could leap into when the first rifle shot rang out.

  Assuming they missed, of course.

  And if they didn’t miss, at least he’d have the chance to see Lindsey again sooner, instead of later.

  He came to Exit 306 and walked along it, to a county road with a sign pointing to Blanco on his right.

  Still no sign of trouble.

  Or of other people, for that matter.

  After another quarter mile, he came across a Chevron Station with all the front windows shattered. Across the street, a deserted McDonald’s rested peacefully in the same condition.

  Instinctively he knew he’d be wasting his time checking out either of them.

  Everything of value to him was long gone.

  He trudged along another hundred yards and next to a second hand store sat a large blue and yellow NAPA outlet.

  “Well, what do you know?” he uttered. “Just like back home.”

  Chapter 25

  If Dave thought an auto supply store would be the one place safe from looters in search of food or drink, he’d have been wrong.

  The glass window in front of the store had been smashed. There was broken glass piled on the sidewalk in front of the window, which Dave stepped on gingerly to keep from slipping.

  It wasn’t the biggest store he’d seen in the chain, but he figured that in a small town like Blanco it was probably the only option.

  And he was sure he wasn’t the only one who drove a Ford Explorer before they all died.

  Hopefully they had the part he was looking for.

  On the floor he saw the remains of what the looters had come after. Empty bags of potato chips, cookies and crackers were strewn about everywhere.

  An empty sales
rack, which once sat proudly on the sales counter, proclaimed “Tom’s Tasty Snacks: 50 Cents.”

  On the other side of the floor, a soda machine lay on its side, its heavily damaged door pried open and all its drinks gone.

  The money box lay next to the machine, still full of quarters and dimes and nickels.

  Apparently money was no longer worth picking up. Not even for lowly looters.

  Dave didn’t fail to catch the irony of the situation. At first he looked around the place and shook his head, amazed that animals would break in and take what they wanted, leaving such a mess behind.

  Then it occurred to him that he, too, was planning on looting. Taking something that didn’t belong to him, with no intention of paying for it.

  Of course, he’d gladly have paid if there was a means to do so.

  But one thing he didn’t expect to see on this bright and sunny day was a friendly sales clerk greeting him at the door and asking how he might be of assistance.

  If Dave had thought it odd not to encounter any living soul on his way into town or his short excursion into it, he didn’t let it stop him.

  He was, after all, on a mission.

  And since he never saw another human body to that point, he might be forgiven if he got just a little bit sloppy and stopped looking over his shoulder.

  But then again, he should have known better. It wasn’t that long before he was wearing desert cammies and inhaling the burning hot sand north of Fallujah. And every morning at roll call, Gunny Gonzalez always gave Lance Corporal Speer and the rest of the platoon the same tired speech.

  “I’m tired of sending people home in body bags, tucked inside aluminum caskets. I’m tired of writing letters to mamas telling them how noble their boys were, how they fought the brave fight. How they were heroes for their country.

  “What I want to tell them, what I’m tempted to tell them, is that their boys screwed up. They got sloppy. They got complacent. Complacency, gentlemen, is your ticket to a speedy plane ride home, and a nicely folded American flag that your mama can put on her mantle.

  “I’m tired of writing those damn letters. I don’t want to write any more of them. If any of you screw-ups get yourselves killed today, I don’t care how dead you are. I’m personally gonna kick your dumb ass.