by Mark Tufo
“I know,” he says.
He reaches over and starts going through the radio stations. Good idea, I think. After going through all of the stations twice, he leans back in his seat. Nothing.
“Try the AM,” I suggest. Again, there is nothing but static.
We make it to the highway with both of us looking out of the windows drifting in our own thoughts. I still have not seen a single living person other than us. There is nothing moving but wildlife. I notice I have now put the dog I saw earlier into this category. The roads are still empty, and the only thing moving is the sun as it wends its way westward toward the hills. The hills are bald in many places due to the logging in the area.
Well, that’s a bonus, I think, at least we’ll have the trees back. Not that I will likely live long enough to see it fully forested again, but the thought is reassuring nonetheless.
A gas station sits to our left at the intersection of our road and the highway. There’s only a white, newer model pickup parked in the lot. Newer model means locking gas caps, but I pull into the gas station hoping the keys are nearby. Well, hoping the keys are there and not attached to some transformed, crazed owner. We park about ten yards from the pickup and don’t see anything inside. I look at the gas station front and see nothing there except dark windows staring back.
“Okay, let’s get out, but keep your eyes peeled,” I say as Robert reaches for the door handle. “Is that thing safetied?” I nod toward the shotgun. He looks at the button on the trigger guard and nods.
We meet in front of the Jeep. “I’m going to go check the truck. You stay here, keep an eye out, and keep me covered. Get my attention if you see anything moving and be ready to get back into the Jeep quickly,” I tell him taking my gun out of the holster.
“Don’t you want me to come with you and cover you?” Robert asks.
“No, just stay here. You have my back,” I answer.
“Okay, Dad.”
I slide the safety off and check for a round in the chamber as I cautiously approach the truck, angling to the cab from the rear. I can’t see anyone inside, but I don’t want to be surprised by a door suddenly opening and slamming into me. Ten feet from the driver’s door, I glance to check the store and the drive-up coffee stand in the corner of the lot. This county probably has more of these drive-up coffee stands per capita than anywhere else in the world. Reaching the door, I stand next to it but away from its range of motion. Rising, I peek in the window.
What I see sends a small adrenaline shot through my body. Inside, a man is slumped sideways on the front seat with his legs resting on the driver’s side floorboard. One eye stares blankly at the dash in front and there is a wet mass of something on the seat and floorboard in front of his head. I know what this is from the years I spent as a firefighter/EMT following the military. The adrenaline junkie part of me had not left by then. The years in the military and as an EMT taught me that death is never pretty.
“Do you see anything?” I call to Robert.
“No,” he calls back.
It is a king cab, extra cab, extended cab, or whatever they are calling it nowadays. I look in the back seat. Nothing. Well, at least, nobody is there. A Styrofoam coffee cup is on its side and an empty candy bar wrapper lies on the seat but that’s all I see. I notice a patch of leather dangling from the steering column.
“No way!” I breathe quietly.
I step back and pull the door open. The stench pours out of the door like a physical presence. It is overpowering and I swear the light of the day grows dim.
“Whoa, Nelly!” I say, waving a hand in front of my face and hold my breath as I stumble backwards a step or two.
He hasn’t had enough time to decompose much. The smell is a lovely combination of feces, vomit, and who knows what else. Regaining some composure, I make a mental note to self: Have Vicks handy. That was one thing I disliked when in the fire department or riding along with the ambulance was the call of someone who had died in their sleep or, quite commonly, on the toilet. I didn’t mind death or bodies. I worked many gruesome and messy scenes without being affected; I’d witnessed and been a part of countless others in the military, but it was the smell of bowels letting go that bothered me the most. Vicks under the nose helps some with the smell.
Holding my breath, I walk back and pull the keys out of the ignition. I think of pulling the guy out or at least rolling down the window. That way, if I need to use the truck, it won’t smell so bad. But if I need a pickup down the road, there are plenty available so I just close the door. The sound of the door shutting is unnaturally loud in the stillness. There is a gas key on the key ring and I open the fuel tank. I grab the siphoning gear telling Robert to grab one of the cans and follow.
“Do you know how to siphon?” I ask.
“Not really,” he answers.
“Okay, watch,” I tell him, putting the hose into the fuel inlet hole. “Slide the hose in all of the way but don’t force it once you meet resistance. You want it close to or at the bottom of the tank.”
I slide the hose in until it comes to a stop. “Now notice how I put the hose in, so the arc of the hose is arched up. That’s for two reasons. If it was arced the other way, the hose would merely slide along the bottom with the top of the hose possibly rising above the fuel level,” I say, looking up at him.
“And the second,” he asks.
“Kneel down here with me.” I point to the tank. “Now listen.” I move the hose up and down slightly. “Do you hear the noise of the hose sliding against the inside of the tank?” He nods. “That lets you know you are actually in the tank. Some later models have anti-siphon screens on the inlet tube to prevent you from putting a hose into the actual tank. If you arc the hose the other way, it will be harder to tell or hear the hose in the tank.”
“Now, here comes the fun part.”
A friend many, many years ago would cup his hands around the inlet and blow into the hose forcing an overpressure inside the tank. Once he took his mouth away from the hose, the added pressure would start the gas flowing in the hose. I, for whatever reason, could never make this work. Not that I ran around siphoning gas.
Glancing around to make sure we are still alone, I put my hand on the hose just past the highest part on my side.
“Here, put your hand on the hose next to mine. You want to feel for a decrease in temp as the gas flows by your hand. The idea is to drink as little gas as possible. The ideal being zero. Once you feel the gas pass by your hand, quickly put the end of the hose into the can and let gravity do its thing.”
Opening the gas can, I create suction on the hose, feel the gas pass by my hand, and quickly jam the hose into the gas can. I hear the gas pouring, and, yay, no drinking of the gas. Ideal conditions achieved. Filling both gas cans, we carry them to the Jeep. I hold the funnel while Robert pours the gas into the Jeep. Whatever ideal conditions were achieved during the siphoning process is quickly lost putting the gas in.
“Try putting some in the Jeep,” I say after like the fourth time my hand becomes soaked.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“Well try harder. Maybe, we aren’t going about this the right way. Try not getting a bit of it in the funnel. Maybe that’ll work better,” I say.
He gives me a big grin, the first in a while. We have always joked around like this and a sense of normalcy settles in on us with a warm glow. Our relationship has always been close, I mean very tight, and we both get a sense that perhaps things will be fine as long as we have this between us.
He gives as good as he takes. I remember when we were playing a co-op game on our 360. We were in the middle of a battle against the aliens on Halo 3. Greatly outnumbered but holding our own, he comments, “You’re a really good shot.” I was ready to thank him when he continued on, “I mean every single shot you fired hit me.” Yes, my gamer tag in Halo should have been ‘friendly fire’.
We manage to get some of the fuel in the Jeep, secure the cans, and put everything back
inside. I make a mental note to secure a larger funnel and put the keys inside the fuel door. That way we can use the truck again or someone who needs it will be able to. Robert has retrieved the shotgun from the front seat of the Jeep and is keeping an eye on the area.
Good, I didn’t even have to tell him.
“Okay, are you ready?” I ask.
“Yep,” he answers and climbs in.
The fuel gauge reads a little over three-quarters of a tank. Good deal. That should be good enough for today, tomorrow, and to get back. I pull out of the gas station and to the highway, look left, right, and left again – yes, old habits, only, they aren’t really that old – before turning southbound toward Olympia.
I drive by a casino about a mile down the road. I think it may make a safe haven but then, realize there are far too many entryways, and it would be difficult to secure. I mentally strike it off my list of secure places in the event we need one.
“What kind of plane are we taking?” Robert asks as the casino slides past.
I fully expected him to be concentrating on picking up Michelle, but he is already ahead of that now that we were on the way. He always surprises me with his thinking abilities and inner-toughness. It’s that same fortitude I noticed when he hadn’t texted Michelle back that night. That would have been rough and must have gnawed at him. He is also one to keep his head about him.
“I’m thinking about a C-17 from McChord if there isn’t anyone there,” I answer.
“Do you know how to fly one?” he asks.
“Um…sure,” I reply with a shrug.
“Why not a C-130 like you used to fly?” he asks.
“Too slow. Besides, they don’t have any remaining there that I know of. They traded those out some time ago. I think the ranges are about the same in any case,” I answer.
“Wouldn’t you want one you were more comfortable with though?” Robert asks, knowing you can’t just arbitrarily fly any aircraft you choose just because you know how to fly.
He was close to getting his Private Pilot’s license and would have completed it this summer. His grand master plan was to head off to the Air Force Academy and go fly fighters. He was fully capable of doing just that.
“Well, yes, but it’ll take us twice as long and, like I said, there aren’t any left. It’s going to be enough of a bitch anyway with all of the refueling stops along the way. I don’t want to poke around at it, too,” I say looking at him.
“I’m not saying there won’t be a steep learning curve,” I add after seeing a guarded look cross his face. “And, I will need you to be my co-pilot.”
I see a flash of fire and excitement course through his eyes, to the extent that I am thankful there isn’t anything flammable in the immediate vicinity.
Oh wait, there is the gas on my hand, although evaporated, I think as I mentally tuck my hand under me.
“Okay, grab that note pad,” I say, nodding toward the tablet sitting in the glove box. “We need to make a list of what to bring with us tomorrow.”
He grabs the paper and prepares to write. We think of items and potentialities as we drive to Olympia. When we finish, this is what we have:
Water – from gas station – one bottle per person per day – forty minimum
Food - canned (from gas station)
Bread – if it is still good
Jam and peanut butter
Plastic silverware
Can opener
Flight suits - I have about ten of them with rank and patches
Flight jackets - I have one summer and one winter jacket
Sleeping bags – four
Clothes:
Changes
Gloves
Warm coats
Sweatshirts
Toiletries:
Toothbrush
Toothpaste
Flashlights
Batteries – D and AA
Battery operated cell phone charger – in Jeep
Toilet paper – five rolls
First aid – in aircraft
Sunglasses
Toolbox
Towels and washcloths – four
Rope – one hundred feet - in shed
Charts, maps, approach plates – worldwide – base ops or wing scheduling desk
Knee boards – in briefcase
Flight computer – in briefcase
Paper tablet – writing on one
Felt pens – red, black, and blue
Binoculars
Weapons – shotgun, Beretta, knives, ammo
I pull off the exit ramp as we finish our list. This list is going to put a serious dent in the available space in the Jeep, especially with five people. I am assuming Michelle is going with us. I think about using the truck at the gas station, but we may manage with the Jeep. This has been a long day. It feels like a week has passed since getting the kids this morning.
“Okay, tell me where I need to go, Robert,” I say.
“Just go up by Capital. It’s only a couple of blocks away from the school,” he answers, putting the tablet away and pulling out his phone.
After several seconds, he says, “We’re just pulling off the highway and almost there.”
He listens, and says okay after getting what I can only assume is a reply before closing his phone.
“She’s waiting outside for us,” he says, turning to me.
I had expected a little traffic or to at least see someone, but we are met with the same silence and lack of movement as we drive through the west side of Olympia. There are very few cars on the road, meaning off the road or in the parking lots. At the stoplight and about to turn, a Safeway to the right gives the same message as did the Walmart and Fred Meyer earlier. No one is here. The stoplight ahead blinks red, which is the only indication that humanity was here not so long ago.
I turn left and a high school baseball field appears to our right. To the left, the new strip mall is vacant.
It’s a little warm inside, I think as the sun gleams through my driver side window.
On any other day, I would take down the Jeep top for a nice summer day in the sun. Not knowing what to expect, that is just not going to happen today.
“Well?” I ask as the baseball field slides past us.
“Turn right here and then a left in front of the school.” He nods toward the street we are approaching.
A cat wanders out of the trees and dashes across the street, vanishing in bushes as we approach the high school. The normal things you would see as far as animals go, thrown in with the total lack of people, just makes everything all that much more eerie. A painted rock appears on the right by some trees. This is the high school rock the seniors would paint as the school year progressed, constantly changing colors throughout the year. I remember that rock well. Not that I went to school here, but I used to live fairly close.
One night, a girlfriend of mine decided, along with her friend, that it would be a good idea to paint the rock. Oh, I might add there was a little alcohol involved with that decision. As was seemingly usual, I was tasked to go along. There was my girlfriend, her friend, several Mike’s Hard Lemonades, a can of spray paint, and me. Every time a car would come by, they would whisper-scream ‘a car’ and scramble back into trees and bushes. I would just stand there and watch them do their ninja impressions. I mean, we were just painting a rock; hardly something that was going to get us anything like solitary confinement or pounding rocks with hammers.
With the addition of more drinks, the whisper-screams became less of a whisper and more of a scream and the scrambles into the trees would get a little farther from the road. Oh, did I mention there was a large, steep hill? Well, it was inevitable. Like an apple hanging from a tree, it was only a matter of time before the apple let go and fell to the ground. It did. One of the many ‘a car’ notifications and subsequent ninja moves was followed by a screech, which was itself followed milliseconds later by a second one. I turned to look as both of their flawless ninja impressions transitioned into t
hat of an avalanche, both literally going head over heels and tumbling down the hill. That was when I learned that laughing heartily until tears streamed down my face at two women who had just scraped a hillside free of shrubbery with multiple parts of their bodies was not conducive to one’s health; note taken.
I turn left in front of the school and see a blond girl sitting by the curb a block and a half away. I have never met Michelle but have seen her a couple of times when dropping Robert off. She is sitting on a military-style duffle bag with a suitcase beside her. We pull up next to the curb. She brushes off her jeans and picks up her duffle. Robert jumps out as soon as we stop and walks to her while I scan the neighborhood.
It’s just your normal middle-class neighborhood; the houses built close together, small front yards, concrete driveways leading up to double-car garages. Not that there is anything wrong with that, just that the contractors building these neighborhoods only build three or four different varieties and use paint colors to provide the diversity. The road ends a half block away in a ‘T’ intersection with houses at the end and across the intersection continuing to the right and left. All of the windows emptily stare back. Some of them have the drapes pulled across the windows with others drawn back revealing only darkness beyond.
I continue watching the neighborhood, looking for any movement as Robert gives Michelle a quick hug and puts her gear in the back seat. My thoughts once again turn to how much room we have versus how much we are going to need. The truck, or any truck, is sounding like a better idea for packing our gear and driving up to McChord tomorrow. I think about finding and raiding an armory at either McChord or Fort Lewis, but feel that time is of the essence and there isn’t any to spare playing hide-and-seek with an armory.
“Hi, Michelle, I’m Jack,” I say, stepping out and joining them. We shake hands and I continue, “Sorry to meet you for the first time under these circumstances, and doubly sorry to ask you this, but do you know if your parents have any weapons?”
She looks at me with blue eyes, a shade darker than either Robert’s or Bri’s.
