Pilgrimage_A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story

by Tom Abrahams

  “Yes,” confirmed Vincent. “If we have to get out fast, and it’s on, you’ll have to cope. Gooz will have a pair of bolt cutters with him. He’ll be able to cut through the razor wire along the top of the fence once I’ve shut off the power the first time.”

  He took another deep breath and sighed. He was smart enough to know better, but desperate enough to attempt the raid.

  Vincent was out of options.

  CHAPTER 37

  EVENT +92:00 Hours

  Sweet Valley, Pennsylvania

  Steve Driggers’ hands were in his front pockets as he walked the path between the main house and the cottage. He noticed the lights were off in the cottage and figured his patient must be asleep. Everybody in the main house had long ago called it a night.

  Driggers didn’t sleep much. He never had. He was what scientists called a “short sleeper” and was among those the Wall Street Journal had dubbed “the sleepless elite”. He could function on five hours of sleep a night, sometimes less. Less than two percent of the population shared what researchers believed was a genetic mutation that allowed for his lessened need for sleep.

  It served him well in college and veterinary school. He could stay up late studying, sleep a few hours, and feel refreshed and alert in the morning. It was a curse with which he was happy to live.

  Every night, after his wife and son had gone to bed, he’d read a book or play Call of Duty on Connor’s Xbox. He’d wander the property, enjoying the quiet and admiring the stars above.

  Just four nights ago he’d caught a glimpse of the Perseid meteor shower. They were bright, brief streaks across the sky, fiery balls of dust and ice escaping the comet’s pull just long enough to offer a brilliant show.

  Now, he looked up and longed for those fireworks, wishing he could use his sleeplessness to figure out time travel. He’d take his family back to that Monday night. It was peaceful. Their world had a seemingly certain future.

  Steve opened the barn door and walked into the large open space. To his left was the security closet. Above that closet, wired into the wall, were three thirty-two-inch LED televisions. Each of the televisions had a split-screen display for the security cameras dotting Camp Driggers.

  Steve looked at the monitors and saw nothing unusual. He opened the cabinet to check the hard drives. They were humming quietly, alit with small green diodes flashing to indicate they were recording. He closed the cabinet and locked it shut.

  To his right, on the wall opposite the entry door, were two large walk-in freezers. They were eight-foot galvanized steel cubes with latching, hinged doors. There were no shelves on the inside of the freezers, so the Driggerses installed PVC storage racks to accommodate their needs.

  He considered pulling a beer from the freezer, but instead walked to the wall-length dry goods cabinet on the right side of the barn and pulled open the heavy, cedar-lined door. He flipped on the light and checked his stash.

  Inside the twelve-by-three-foot space there was a trove of dry goods and nonperishable foods. The Driggerses spent weeks researching the best use of their space, and weeks more organizing it when they started stocking the cabinet’s four tiered, wall-to-wall shelves.

  On the top shelf, closest to the ceiling, were a series of five-gallon, food-grade bins. The bins were labeled with their contents; salt, brown sugar, white sugar, buckwheat, dry corn, kamut, durum wheat, spelt, barley, quinoa, and rye. All of the items, further packed in large gallon plastic bags, would last anywhere from eight to ten years.

  There were extra bins of salt at the far end of the cabinet. The Driggerses planned on using the excess for bartering if it came to it.

  On the second shelf from the top were the pastas and various kinds of flour. They too could last up to eight years. There were also airtight containers of pinto and kidney beans, lentils and garbanzos.

  There were ten large vats of coconut oil, which had a longer shelf life than most oils. It would be good for two years. Large bottles of olive oil and jugs of vinegar sat next to the coconut oil. They wouldn’t last as long.

  On the lower two shelves were the foods with only two to five years of shelf life: canned tuna and chicken, canned vegetables and sauces, coffee, and peanut butter. There were a half-dozen unopened boxes of powdered milk and baking soda, and several jars of raw honey. The honey, Steve read, was good for wound healing as well as a sweet treat.

  Along the floor under the shelves were countless rolls of toilet paper, paper towels, and cases of bottled water. There were stacks of homemade candles, carefully crafted by Kosia, in the event the supply of gas shut off. There were cans of lighter fluid, bags of charcoal, and boxes full of soap.

  On a separate, smaller shelf, to the right of the entry door, Steve stored the emergency medicines, vitamins, bandages, peroxide, iodine, and cotton swabs.

  Everything looked in order, except for the quinoa container. He’d not closed the lid all of the way when pulling out the bag from which Kosia had cooked the side dish for lunch and dinner. He stepped onto a small ladder and reached up to push the box closed. Satisfied it was sealed, he stepped down and walked over to the spot where they stored hard candy. He cranked open a mason jar full of butterscotch and popped a piece in his mouth.

  He sucked on the sweet taste of brown sugar and butter, relishing the momentary distraction. Steve Driggers knew they were as prepared as they could be.

  They’d spent the last six years taking steps to avoid the mistakes of 2013. They’d moved from their hometown, a thriving practice, and the friends they cherished to an outpost sixty miles away. Sure, it wasn’t as if they’d relocated to the West Coast. But for a family so entrenched in Scranton, it was emotionally taxing to leave.

  They’d uprooted Connor from his school and soccer teammates. There was no neighborhood trick-or-treating on Halloween or block parties on July fourth. Instead they were loners, dependent on one another for support and entertainment. The pool and the tree house were poor substitutes for a close-knit cul-de-sac.

  They wondered if they’d made the right choice, or if they were the fringe-thinking lunatics some of their “friends” had suggested. They were ready for the disaster that might never come. And then it did.

  They were vindicated, Steve thought. They were right to do what they did, to make the sacrifices they made. Still, there were nagging questions he couldn’t shake. Even if he’d been able to sleep, he’d have lain awake.

  Did they save enough? Was their home secure? What did they forget to do?

  He knew with every passing day their preparedness, or unforeseen lack of it, would be increasingly tested.

  At what point, he wondered as he made his way back to the main house, would they fail?

  CHAPTER 38

  EVENT +95:00 Hours

  Sweet Valley, Pennsylvania

  Vincent looked up at the waning moon, half of it alit with sunlight, and prayed quietly to himself as he crossed Route 4024 in front of Camp Driggers. He wasn’t a religious man and didn’t really expect any celestial help, but thought it couldn’t hurt. Never mind he was violating commandments eight and ten.

  He gripped the walkie-talkie in one hand, a small bag of tools draped over his shoulder. Quietly, he knelt in front of the small metal junction box perched six inches above the ground on a conduit that ran up to the gate panel and adjacent camera. That conduit also carried the electrical wiring underground to other parts of the property.

  Vincent placed his bag on the soft grass, unzipped it, and pulled out a small ratchet screwdriver. He twisted out a pair of flathead screws, pulled the faceplate from the box and laid them together on the grass.

  He made quick work of the wiring, attaching a battery-cell bypass switch to fool the system into thinking it was still on.

  The switch was typically used to replace irremovable dead lithium ion batteries in electronic circuits. It was rated to handle continuous current and was perfectly adaptable to Vincent’s needs. Once he had the switch attached, he cut the wires supplying p
ower to the fence. For the moment, the power stayed on. Then he hit the switch and held his breath.

  No alarms.

  Vincent took the ratchet screwdriver, with its plastic handle, and held it against the fence wire closest to him.

  Nothing.

  He put his tools back into his bag and keyed the walkie-talkie.

  ***

  “Gotcha,” Dunk whispered into the walkie-talkie. “Over.”

  He and his two conspirators were at the northwestern corner of the property. They’d had no problems following the creek bed to the edge of Camp Driggers. Gooz was out of shape and sweating profusely. Bruno was complaining about blisters on his heels. But they made it. And now the fence was off.

  “Take the cutters and snap that razor wire along the top,” Dunk ordered Bruno. “We’ll pull it away once you cut it.”

  Bruno did as instructed and within a minute all three of them had hopped the fence and were no more than fifteen yards from the rear of the barn.

  “There’s a camera above us,” said Gooz, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “So don’t turn around to give it a shot of your faces.”

  Bruno resisted the strong urge to spin and look up. But he knew if he did, Gooz might turn him into a pillar of salt. He placed the bolt cutter up against a small pine tree and adjusted the heel on his shoe.

  “Let’s go,” said Gooz, waving the other two to follow him. Crouched low, their bags in hand, the men moved with purpose to the barn, moving to the side opposite the generator.

  “Shouldn’t we be where the generator is?” whispered Dunk. “So we can hear it shut off?”

  Gooz shook his head. “Vince is gonna tell us when it’s off. Plus I can hear it from here anyhow.” He waved the men to inch their way to the southwestern corner of the barn, ready to enter once the generator was off.

  ***

  Vincent followed the eastern edge of the driveway to the parking circle in front of the main house. There were lights on upstairs, but from what Vincent could see, they appeared to be in the hallway. All of the front-facing downstairs windows were dark.

  He sprinted between the garage and the house, careful to lower his head as he approached a camera set high on the soffit of the house. Once on the right side of the house, there were no cameras. It was dark. He moved deliberately to the rear of the house, toward the low rumble and hiss of the generator.

  As he reached the generator, he ran his hand along it, feeling the power run up his arm and into his chest. He quickly familiarized himself with the make and model and then darted past the pool to the generator on the eastern side of the barn. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see his compatriots as he passed the front of the building.

  He knelt beside the generator and placed his hands on it. He knew there were a couple of ways he could shut it down temporarily. He could remove the fuse built into the controller, or he could hit the circuit breakers at the transfer switch. Either way would work.

  He looked at the wall to the left of the generator and saw the automatic transfer switch was unlocked. That was the way to go. He popped it open and flipped the breaker. The generator rumbled, spat, and hissed its way to silence.

  He keyed his walkie-talkie a second time.

  ***

  “It’s off,” Dunk said. “Let’s go.”

  The men wormed their way to the front of the barn and pulled the handle, swinging the door inward. A moment later Vincent was behind them, closing the door.

  “So far, so good,” Vincent said. “Dunk, you and Bruno hit the freezers first. Gooz and I will do the pantry.” The men agreed as the battery backup kicked on, repowering the generator.

  The freezers beeped and their refrigeration units powered up.

  Dunk and Bruno strode to the back of the barn and the pair of walk-in freezers. Neither of them could stop from smiling when they opened the doors and found the treasures inside.

  “Gooz,” Vincent reconsidered, “you go to the pantry. I wanna look at the security.” He nodded to his left, in the direction of the wall monitors. Gooz opened the pantry door and stepped in to begin his work.

  Vincent walked to the opposite wall and looked up at the monitors. The security cameras were infrared, as he’d suspected. But the images were relatively poor, inverse black-and-white stop-motion frames. Lana could be looking at the video, Vincent thought, and even if he stared straight into a lens, she wouldn’t know it was him.

  They were good.

  He opened the cabinet beneath the screens and checked the recording device. It was humming along, counting the time on the hard drive, small green diodes blinking on the face of the DVR.

  There was a control panel tucked into the wall. All of the security wiring for the property ran through that box. Vincent considered flipping the breaker, but decided against it. That could trigger a silent alarm in the house. They’d already risked it once by turning off the generator for thirty seconds. There was no point in taking another chance.

  “Vince,” Gooz called from the open pantry doorway. “Dude, get in here and grab your stuff. There’s all kinds of food and supplies.”

  Vincent crossed the barn floor toward the pantry when a wave of nausea stopped him cold.

  What have I done? He bent over at his knees and closed his eyes.

  “What is it?” Gooz dropped his bag and walked over to Vincent. “You okay?”

  “No.” Vincent shook his head, unable to look at his friend. “We’re screwed.”

  “What?” Gooz looked around the barn. “We’re fine. What’s the problem?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to come in here,” Vincent said. “I was supposed to stay outside at the generator to shut off the alarm.” He slowly lifted his head and met Gooz’s eyes.

  “You were, weren’t you.” Gooz took a deep breath. “We’ll just have to run like hell.”

  Vincent didn’t say anything. He cursed himself for being an idiot.

  “You might as well grab some food, Vincent,” Gooz told him. “We’re fine until we open that door.”

  Vincent nodded and walked to the pantry. He blankly pulled cans and jars from the shelves, unaware of what he was taking. He couldn’t focus. His mind wandered to all of the horrible possibilities unfolding in the next ten minutes.

  “Vincent.” Dunk snapped him from his haze. “Gooz told us what happened. It’s cool. We’ll get out of here.”

  Vincent turned and faked a smile. “Maybe.” He tied the top of his pillowcase into a loose knot and walked past Dunk into the barn’s open space. Bruno and Gooz were standing there, near the door, ready to go.

  “What’s the plan?” Gooz asked. “As soon as we open that door, the alarm goes off, right?”

  “Probably,” said Vincent.

  “Then we need to run,” said Gooz. “Right?’

  “Yeah.” Vincent nodded, trying to regain his focus. “I think you three go back the way you came. Hop the fence and get into the trees. Follow the creek back to your car and get to Bruno’s place. Don’t speed. You’ll be fine.”

  “What about you?” asked Dunk. “What are you going to do? You could come with us?”

  “No, I can’t leave my truck parked across the road from the front entrance,” he said.

  “You could jump the fence with us and then walk the perimeter to get back to your truck,” suggested Bruno.

  “That’ll take too long,” said Vincent. “I just have to sprint straight for the front gate, jump the fence, and hope I drive off before anybody tags me. I’ll go home, unload my stuff, and then head over to Bruno’s. Cool?”

  They all agreed that was the best plan and moved to the door. Vincent grabbed the door handle and pulled inward. “Here we go!”

  CHAPTER 39

  EVENT +95:05 Hours

  Nanticoke, Pennsylvania

  Reggie sat in the cab of his truck, counting the cash. All of it was there, one hundred twenty thousand dollars in cash. He looked at the clock on his dash. It was early.

  The drop
had been easy. No problems.

  The meet was at a park bench. Three men were waiting for him when he got there. None of them said anything, though Reggie thought he recognized one of them from Albion. His swastika tattoo wasn’t unique, but that it ran across the front of his neck in red and black glory was familiar.

  He was frisked and cleared by the largest of them, a bald, mustachioed dude with gauges in both ears. He nodded to Nazi neck that Reggie was clean and then grabbed Reggie by the arm. Reggie was as big as him, but didn’t resist. He was outnumbered. And they were armed.

  Reggie sat on the bench, his arms folded in front of him, and watched the transfer.

  Box by box, the trio unloaded the drugs. They declined Reggie’s help when he offered.

  Mustache or the third man would carry a box to their awaiting Mercedes GL450. They dropped it into the SUV and cut open the flaps. Nazi neck would then rifle through the boxes, checking the labels and the security caps, making sure they were legitimate and sealed. The process took less than an hour.

  Nazi neck walked around to the front of the Mercedes and pulled an envelope from the glove box. He strode back to Reggie, the chains on his motorcycle boots jingling as he walked, and handed him the envelope.

  “Count it,” he said, his voice deeper than Reggie imagined it would be. “Should be one twenty.” The swastika wobbled on his neck as he talked.

  Reggie thumbed through the series of fifty- and one-hundred-dollar bills, counting it in his head. He worked through the envelope front to back and then back to front before confirming the amount.

  “Tell Kepler we’re good,” Nazi neck grumbled and spun on his boot heel back to the Mercedes. The two other climbed into the SUV and they sped off, leaving Reggie sitting on the park bench in the quiet.

  He sat there for a moment, listening to the cricket and frog symphony in the thick woods behind him. He looked in the envelope again.