Pilgrimage_A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story

by Tom Abrahams

  “I’m fine.” James coughed before sitting up on his elbows. “Just a bad dream.”

  “We’ve been asleep for a while, I think,” Leigh said. “The kids are awake now, whispering to each other. I think the sun’s going to be up in a couple of hours, if not sooner.”

  “Why do you say that?” James asked. “It’s completely dark. It could be any time of night.”

  “I went to a window in one of the classrooms,” she explained. “The moon is setting. I looked in that camping almanac you bought. It was in my pack. It has moonset at three thirty in the morning. So it must be right around there. Sunrise is at five thirty.”

  “We don’t want to head out until the sun is up.” James leaned up and pulled his knees to his chest. He could feel the stitches in his leg resist. “I don’t think it’s safe to be moving in the dark.”

  “I agree.” Leigh nodded. “How far do you think we can get today? Will we even make it out of Maine?”

  “There’s no telling.” James didn’t know what to expect. He could only imagine things were getting worse by the hour. “Do you remember how much gas we had left in the Nissan?”

  Leigh pursed her lips. “No,” she said. “I didn’t check it. Why?” Her eyes narrowed with concern.

  “We didn’t have a full tank when we bought the car,” he reasoned. “We burned a lot of fuel driving around roadblocks and major roads. Then there was the BMW.”

  “The BMW…” she echoed.

  “I need to check the tank before we leave,” James said, pushing himself to his feet. “We can’t get stuck out there without gas.”

  “Let me get the keys out of my pack.” Leigh scooted over a couple of feet and unzipped her pack. She pulled out the keys and dangled them in front of her husband. “Bring these back!” She smiled, her teeth being almost all that was visible in the darkness.

  James kissed her on the forehead and then turned to walk out of the gym. His footsteps echoed against the varnished hardwood, occasionally squeaking as he pivoted to find a line to the exit.

  On the way out, James found a classroom and pulled an eraser from the ledge of a chalkboard. He used the eraser as a doorstop when he exited the double doors they’d used to enter the west building hours earlier.

  He quietly hustled across the narrow parking lot to the twin portables and unlocked the Nissan. He slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition one click, activating the gauges without turning over the engine.

  At first he thought it hadn’t worked. The fuel gauge didn’t move. He tried it again. Still nothing. But then he noticed the orange low fuel light on the opposite side of the driver’s display.

  They were almost empty.

  Not good.

  James pulled the keys from the ignition and used them to pop the trunk. He hadn’t bothered to check the trunk when they’d loaded into the Altima to leave South Portland. They’d been in too much of a hurry. Thankfully, in the surprisingly large space, he found jumper cables, a full-sized spare tire, and a pair of five-gallon, plastic gas cans.

  He pulled the gas cans from the trunk and quietly closed it. James sighed, suppressing a cough, and looked around. The moon wasn’t much help with visibility. It had slipped beneath the horizon, well below the trees that surrounded him on all sides but one. To his south was the baseball field.

  James pulled the penlight from his pocket and, taking the gas cans with him, walked south. He crossed the baseball field, a football practice field, a field hockey field, and then a soccer field. There was a lot of open grass to cover before he reached what he thought, at first, might be salvation: a parking lot full of school buses.

  It wasn’t until he read the fine print at the gas tanks that he knew his walk was just beginning. They were diesel buses. The Nissan Altima was regular unleaded.

  Somewhere, somehow, he’d need to find someone willing to part with gasoline. If he couldn’t, his family was stuck here.

  CHAPTER 18

  EVENT +24:03 Hours

  Waterboro, Maine

  Leigh took the news remarkably well. Max, not so much.

  When James told them he’d need to walk to find gasoline for the car before they could leave, Leigh seemed almost relieved to have a couple more hours of relative safety. And while she wasn’t thrilled about her husband wandering the Thunderdome alone, she understood the necessity of it. There were no options.

  Max, on the other hand, wanted to go with his father. He wanted to help. He didn’t want to be separated from the man he idolized. He stood at the back door, holding the eraser in his hand, dejected as James walked away from the west building to find fossil fuel salvation.

  James had assured him he’d be okay, he wouldn’t be gone long, and that he needed Max to take care of the girls. His son had reluctantly agreed, knowing perhaps he had no choice.

  James couldn’t turn around to look at his son as he began his trek. If he had, he might not have had the strength to leave. Instead, he slung his pack onto his back, carried a gas can in each hand and marched off. Now, two hours later, he hoped he’d found the right place.

  He’d walked east from the high school and then turned north onto Main Street. After a half hour, with the sun on the verge of rising, he turned west and found an electrical easement. It was a wide, grassy path surrounded by thick woods on either side. James thought it was the safest way to travel, the best way to avoid any unwelcome entanglements. It was oddly quiet, and James noticed the conspicuous absence of transformer hum.

  That hum, any student of electricity of physics would know, was a product of magnetostriction, a phenomenon which causes a piece of magnetic steel to expand and contract as its magnetization is amplified and reduced. Alternating voltage and current in high-tension power lines produces that eerie, ubiquitous hum.

  Without power there was no hum. Instead there was only the slight rustle of the trees to break up the monotonous beat of James’s Merrells trudging through the high grass. He adjusted his grips on the gas cans and looked at the sky.

  The clouds were returning. They looked dark and swollen. It wasn’t long, he’d figured, before it would start raining. He’d sensed the humidity in his lungs as he breathed. So it was a godsend, he’d reasoned, when he found the “Blast From The Past” Diner, a large gas generator rumbling in the parking lot.

  James pushed his way through the open polished chrome door and found himself in the 1950s. There was a jukebox in one corner, the floor was checkboard, and the service counter was straight off Route 66.

  “Can I help you?” asked the stubby brunette behind the counter. Her eyes spotted the gas can in his hand and she was instantly unsure of the stranger in her restaurant. James could hear the suspicion in her husky voice. “You’re up early.”

  “Hi.” He smiled and kept his distance, choosing not to belly up to the bar. “My name is James Rockwell, and I’m a tourist.”

  “No kidding,” said a tall, thin man in an unseasonably warm plaid wool shirt leaning on the far end of the counter. He was stirring a spoon in a steaming cup. A pot of coffee sat in front of him as he spun back and forth on the red vinyl barstool. Other than the short-order cook clanging in the kitchen, James figured they were the only two in the building.

  The brunette chuckled but kept her gaze on James. She didn’t return his first volley.

  “My family and I are trying to get home to Maryland,” he said, shifting the pack on his shoulders. “We’re out of gas. I’m hoping someone here might be able to help me out.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, raking her teeth across her bottom lip. “That wouldn’t be up to me. You’d have to talk to Frank.” She sounded like a cross between Kathleen Turner, Suzanne Pleshette, and James Earl Jones.

  “Frank would be the man,” offered tall and thin from his seat. “She’s right.”

  James sucked in a breath of patience and smiled. “Is Frank here?”

  “Yep,” said the brunette. “He’s here.”

  “Ayuh,” tall and thin ec
hoed. “He’s here. Where else would he be?”

  “Could I please speak with Frank?” James shifted his weight off of his injured thigh. He must have winced, because the brunette’s brow furrowed.

  “You hurt?” she asked, leaning forward onto the counter, dropping her green order pad onto the bar.

  James coughed and nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “We were on Peaks Island and I got caught in the water. Something cut the back of my leg. It’s okay. But it hurts from the long walk over here.”

  “You didn’t walk from Peaks Island,” said the brunette. She was both the waitress and master of the obvious.

  “No way you could have walked from Peaks,” said tall and thin, pulling the coffee cup to his mouth and slurping a mouthful.

  “I didn’t walk from Peaks Island,” agreed James. “I walked from a couple miles away.” He didn’t want to tell them where his family was holed up. He was growing increasingly wary of the Wayward Pines vibe he was getting from the two. “Could I please talk to Frank?”

  “Frank!” the brunette called to the kitchen. The clanging stopped and the cook emerged. He was wearing a grease-stained white apron around his neck and a Boston Bruins ball cap on his head. His Coke-bottle glasses were fogged.

  “Ayuh?” said the cook. “What do you want? I got steamers on back there.”

  “This man here needs help,” said the brunette.

  “He needs help,” echoed tall and thin. He was back to stirring his coffee, swiveling in his seat.

  The cook took off his glasses and wiped them on the apron. He squinted at James without saying anything.

  “I’m James Rockwell.” James put down the gas cans, stepped to the counter, and offered his hand to the cook.

  “I’m Frank,” said the cook, taking James’s hand and shaking it firmly. “What help do you need?”

  “I could use some regular unleaded,” James said, keeping his eyes on Frank but sensing the glares from Succubus and Incubus. “My Nissan’s about out of gas. I’m from Maryland and I’m trying to get my family home.”

  Frank pursed his lips and moved them to one side of his face before pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I might be able to help you, but it can’t be free.”

  “Can’t be free,” said tall and thin.

  “I’d be happy to pay,” said James eagerly. Maybe too eagerly. “How much? I’ve got some cash on me.”

  Frank looked the stranger up and down and nodded. “I could use the cash,” he admitted, “but that’ll only get me so far.”

  “Only so far.” Tall and thin was a parrot.

  “I understand,” said James. “I’m looking for ten gallons.”

  “I figured,” said Frank, looking past James to the two red plastic cans on the floor. “What’s in that pack of yours?”

  “Survival gear, mostly,” said James, pulling it from his shoulders and plopping it on the counter.

  “Weapons?” asked Frank. “We could use some weapons. People aren’t always benevolent when the world collapses.”

  “Has the world collapsed?” asked James, unzipping the pack.

  “I heard it’s China,” said Frank. “They dropped the bomb.”

  “A nuclear bomb,” offered tall and thin.

  “Could be aliens too,” said the brunette, sounding a little like E.T. “You know, riding in on the Perseids.”

  “Where are you hearing this?” asked James, fishing out a six-inch folded knife from the bag and sliding it across the countertop.

  “I heard rumors of some attack on my shortwave before it stopped working,” said Frank. “People talking about some Chinese launch. Then the chatter stopped. The radio was dead. I tried to get it working for hours. Nothing.”

  “Nothing.” Tall and thin pulled the spoon from the cup.

  “Then a couple of kids in a fancy BMW pulled up last night,” said Frank. “They were punks. Left without paying. Said they had authority and were helping set up a new government. They were part of a militia. They knew anarchy was coming. They blamed the Chinese too. And the Russians.”

  “The Russians too.” Tall and thin spun in his chair.

  “I still think it’s aliens,” offered the brunette.

  “The kids,” James asked, “they were in a silver BMW?”

  “Yep,” said Frank. “Two of them. One had a gun tucked in the front of his jeans. Had on black motorcycle boots. Said they’d be back. It’s kinda why I need more weapons. They took my shotgun. All I got is a nine millimeter back there. And I’m out of ammo.”

  “You can have the knife here.” James suddenly felt rushed. “And I have a box of ammo too. It’s nine millimeter. I don’t have the gun anymore, so the box is yours. It’s almost full.” He pulled the box from the bag and placed it next to the knife.

  Frank looked at the offering and nodded. “Give me those and a hundred bucks,” he said. “Then we have a deal.”

  James nodded. “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Event +24:47 Hours

  Waterboro, Maine

  He knew it was too good to be true.

  James was finishing the fill on the second gas can when he heard the squeal of tires. He was behind the diner in its rear parking lot, tapping a portable gas tank. Frank had bid him goodbye and left him there.

  “It ain’t like you could take more than ten gallons,” he’d figured and pushed the door to the kitchen. “Good luck to you, and watch your back.”

  James had thanked him and worked to fill the tanks as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to risk running into the BMW or its occupants. He was too slow.

  He’d turned off the pump and was replacing the cap on the can when the punks wheeled into the parking lot. James’s gut told him to leave, to get out of there as fast as he could.

  His family was counting on him.

  And he might have left had it not been for his having left his pack inside the restaurant. He needed that pack, the medicine and supplies it contained. He couldn’t risk leaving it behind, effectively cutting his family’s rations in half.

  Cursing himself for his stupidity, James grabbed both of the gas cans, heavy and full of five gallons each, and backed his way into the kitchen. The griddle on the far right side was hissing and spitting. Clams popped and snapped on the gaslit heat. James put down one of the cans and inched his way, crouching low, toward the door leading to the dining room.

  “That’s not what I asked, Frankie,” said one of the punks. “If I wanted to know what was on the menu, I’d have asked what was on the menu.”

  James surveilled the kitchen for something he could use, if needed. He saw a butcher knife stuck to a magnetized strip above the industrial stove. There was a pot of water boiling on a burner. Some dishes were stacked next to the cooktop. There was an apron hanging on a hook next to the door. Frank’s ball cap was sitting on a butcher block island next to his Smith & Wesson.

  “We want to know if you’ve seen a Nissan driving around,” said the other punk.

  “Shut up, Bruce!” said the first punk. “I ask the questions. It’s my dad who put me in charge!”

  “Sorry, Drake,” said Bruce. “Just trying to—”

  “You speak when I tell you!” Drake snapped. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” said Bruce.

  “Now.” Drake cleared his throat. “Frank. It’s Frank, right?”

  “Ayuh,” the old man answered.

  “Have you seen a man and a woman in a Nissan?” Drake asked. “It was gray or white and probably had some damage to the paint on the driver’s side.”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Frank answered. “Nobody’s been in here but Lyle over there, Gertrude here, and me. Of course, you fellas stopped by yesterday.”

  “Right.” Drake dragged out the word. He was doubtful. He mumbled something James couldn’t hear.

  So James leaned forward against the butcher block, trying to better hear the conversation. But he knocked into a large ladle, clanging it to the linoleum floor.

&
nbsp; “What’s that?” Drake asked. “Who’s back there?”

  “Oh, oh,” Frank stuttered. “I did hire on a short-order cook. He’s back there working on some food.”

  “Get him out here!” ordered Drake. “Hey!” he called back to James. “Get out here, cook!”

  James grabbed the Bruins cap and pulled it low on his head. Then he grabbed the apron at the door and dropped it around his neck before pushing his way into the dining area. His backpack was on the floor behind the counter. Frank must have moved it.

  “Can I help you?” James asked, keeping his eyes down. “You guys need something to eat? I was just—”

  “Who are you?” Drake pulled his handgun from the front of his jeans and leveled it at James.

  James immediately raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, brother,” he said softly, “no need for that. I’m just a cook.” He recognized Drake as the BMW’s driver. The punk next to him, Bruce, was the passenger.

  “What’s your name?” Drake leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. He was still aiming the weapon at James’s chest.

  “Jimmy,” said James.

  “Jimmy what?”

  “Jimmy James.” It was the best he could do without forethought and a gun pointed at him.

  “That’s a stupid name!” said Bruce. “Were your parents stupid?”

  James looked at Frank and then over at Gertrude, the waitress. They averted eye contact and, instead, kept their gazes at the floor.

  “I guess maybe they were.” James nodded. “I’m not that smart either, tell you the truth. Can’t keep a job, can’t keep a woman—”

  “You have a ring on your finger,” observed Drake. “Why’s that if you can’t keep a woman?” His lips wormed their way into a sneer.

  “Dead wife,” said James, pulling his hand down to look at the ring. “Can’t let go.”

  “Maybe that’s why you can’t keep a woman!” Bruce laughed.

  “How’d she die?” Drake wasn’t ending the interrogation. “When did she die?”