by Kyle Pratt
When Ginger spotted him, she jumped to her feet and barked excitedly.
“Yeah, girl, I’m free and you’ll be in a second.” He untied her while she licked his face and then they hurried out of Lebanon.
Neal avoided Albany and hiked along the quieter rural roads. He soon crossed the South Santiam River and later in the day crossed the north fork. Along the way he saw many dark homes and the occasional barking dog, but no other refugees passed as he continued his northward trek. Only when the darkness became so deep that he had trouble following the road did he stop and sleep in a grove of trees.
Neal awoke to dog breath. As his eyes crept open, Ginger licked his face. “Okay, okay, I’m awake.” Neal pushed the dog back, sat up, and wiped his face. He felt the stubble of his growing beard and imagined he looked like a bum. He slid from the sleeping bag, pulled off his shoes and socks, and rubbed his sore feet. Taking a knife, he popped a few blisters.
Four days. That was all the time necessary to transform him from a well-paid financial planner into a homeless beggar sleeping under a canopy of trees. His former life seemed like a half-forgotten dream.
Neal stood and rubbed his sore back and legs. Perhaps he should stay and rest here today. He leaned against a tree and slid to the ground. “Let’s get some breakfast, girl.”
Ginger wagged her tail.
He fed the dog and then opened an MRE for himself. Nearby a small creek babbled through a culvert under the road. He should rest here for a while more. He slumped to prone position and napped.
It seemed only minutes later that Ginger whined in Neal’s ear. Startled from a dream, he flailed his arms, sat up, and opened his eyes. He was tired, sore, and really wanted a cup of coffee.
Over a hundred miles of hiking remained ahead of him. His feet still hurt. Even with the MREs, he would run out of food before reaching home. Were Drake and Conner okay? Were they alive?
Ginger nudged him.
“You’re right, girl, I need to get off my butt and head home.” He stood, packed his gear, and continued north.
Determination remained tempered by pain in a multitude of places and slowed his pace. Several hours passed before whiffs of smoke hinted that Salem might be near. The road he hiked along widened from two to four lanes and more side roads intersected it.
Neal didn’t want to go through the town and began searching for a way around. He turned east and then onto a two-lane road that paralleled the freeway.
As he hiked north past farms and fields, the smell of noxious smoke increased. A few hundred yards along, the road climbed, causing him to slow. When he reached the crest, thin lines of black smoke swirled into the air beyond a cluster of splintered trees.
What could have broken and charred the trees? The foul smoke caused him to gag. This wasn’t burning trees. Something else smoldered just out of view.
Now curious, Neal jogged toward the next bend in the road.
The noxious smoke increasingly irritated his nose and mouth as he rounded a bend and came to a long straight stretch of road. Neal halted and stared. In the field ahead lay the shattered and charred wreckage of a commercial airplane.
* * *
Kittitas County, Washington, Wednesday, September 7th
“Wake up,” Madison repeated. “The fire is coming this way.”
Conner bolted to his feet. Most of the world remained dark, but to the east devilish fingers of fire burned toward him along both sides of the freeway.
Shouts and screams mixed with the crackle of flames. Below Conner, hundreds of shadow-like figures ran west along the highway. Some who couldn’t run faster than the flames veered off and plunged into the nearby Yakima River.
“Pack,” Madison commanded as she tossed her bag over a shoulder.
Conner nodded and stuffed gear into his bags.
Madison grabbed her bike but waited nearby until Conner finished packing. Then they both dashed down the slope toward the freeway. Conner struggled to catch up with Madison but couldn’t, so he mounted his bike and, like a skier, flew down the slope. Careening down the hill, Conner caught up with Madison. Then his bike hit a bump that flung him into the air. Hitting the ground with a thud, he rolled to a stop in the dirt.
“Are you okay?” From a few yards ahead, Madison looked back at him with wide, frightened eyes.
The crackle of fire mixed with the screams of women and men.
“Yes! Go on! I’ll catch up.” Conner raced back only to discover a bent and mangled wheel. He tossed aside the now useless bike but kept the pump thinking Madison might use it. Then he rushed down the hill after her with only a few yards between him and flame.
Screams hung in the air with the smoke and ash.
Finding no sign of Madison, he sprinted west along the freeway and up the slope.
Coughing and wheezing from the foul air, Conner ran past two elderly couples and several parents with small children in their arms and on their backs. Would they be able to stay ahead of the flames? He didn’t know, and had no idea how he might help them. Please God, keep them safe.
Catching a second wind, Conner scrambled up to the crest of the next hill. There a cool breeze swept his sweaty face. The wind had changed direction again. He looked back at flames now hundreds of yards behind him and drawing no closer. Hoping to put much more distance between him and fiery death, Conner continued running until he gasped for air. Then he slowed to a jog and eventually walked.
In the growing pre-dawn light, he spotted a cliff. He jogged from the freeway, climbed through the trees to the rocky outcrop, and stood near the edge of the cliff looking over thousands of acres of forest and flame. No humans would come and fight this fire. How long would it burn? Would it continue to scorch the Earth until the fall rains?
He looked at the freeway. Like a line of ants, hundreds weaved west. Was Madison in that line? Was she okay? Would he be able to find her?
* * *
Rural Lewis County, Washington, Wednesday, September 7th
Sunlight flowed through open curtains, waking Drake. After dressing, he grabbed the rifle by his bed and walked the few steps to his brother’s room, where Ashley slept. He thought about knocking but decided to let her sleep. With Gruff at his side, he left to feed the animals, including the Hamiltons’ horses, and milked the goat.
Clouds obscured the sun and the morning breeze felt cool. Thankfully, the animals had enough water, saving him the chore of hand pumping. Within thirty minutes, Gruff and Drake had both finished what they had to do and returned to the house.
Ashley stood in the kitchen, wearing a pastel blue robe. She rubbed her eyes. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No, not yet.”
She opened the refrigerator. “I’ll cook eggs and bacon if you start the generator, but then I’d really like a hot shower.”
Anything you want. “Sure.”
She held a green egg in one hand and a blue one in the other. “Are these chicken eggs?”
“Yes. Ready for Easter.” Drake grinned “Just kidding. That’s how some chickens lay them. They’re normal inside.” The smile lingered as he strode toward the garage to start the generator. He used the last fuel from one of the gas cans to fill the tank. How long would the gas last even if they only used the generator a few hours each day? Could he find more fuel somewhere?
Drake fired up the generator. At least for a while, Ashley would have hot showers and he wouldn’t have to pump water for the animals.
Ashley set a plate of bacon, eggs, and crackers in front of Drake. He held one of the crackers, staring at it. “Why did you add these?”
“We’re out of bread. There’re boxes of them in the pantry.”
“Really? Boxes?” Drake smeared jam on one. It would do fine. He took another bite. The food, the fuel, the generator; even the animals and fruit trees, all of it had been his father’s idea, but he had never appreciated it. Thanks Dad. Come home quick, please.
“I was going to ask about the heaters, but I think I know the an
swer.”
Drake looked out the window. “The clouds are thinning. It should warm up later this morning. I don’t want to use the electric heaters for that—not yet anyway.”
“What about the wood stove?”
For several moments, Drake pondered the question. The smoke would reveal that someone lived in the house, but would that knowledge keep looters away or encourage them. Ashley had said that looters were near her house, not very far away, and that someone had been shooting. His dad would have an answer, but he had none, and decided to put off the decision. “Let’s not use the woodstove yet.”
Ashley frowned. “I’ll get a sweater.”
All the problems that harassed his mind and troubled his sleep drove Drake back to his father’s office and the folders that now provided the only insight he had to his dad’s thoughts. While he read, Gruff curled up nearby.
Several hours later, Ashley, now dressed in jeans and a purple shirt, strolled into the office, carrying a tray. “You look like an executive behind that desk.”
“I feel like a student.” He set the folder down. “Is that tray for me?”
“Yes.” She placed it in front of him. “Water, crackers with cheese, and some apple slices. It’s not much, but I thought you’d be getting hungry. I was going to give you cereal for lunch, but the milk tasted funny so I poured it out.”
Drake felt annoyed but ended up grinning.
“What did I do?”
“The milk tasted funny because it was goat’s milk.”
“You actually drink it?”
“And use it on cereal.” He hoped they would be together long enough for her to grow used to it. “If any does go bad, we can still feed it to the animals, so don’t throw it out.”
Ashley set the tray on the desk with a frown.
“Thanks,” Drake said and watched her behind sway on her way out of the room. Having Ashley here was really good, but he worried about their future. Gas would run low in a couple of weeks. Food for the animals wouldn’t last the month. How long would the human food last? He didn’t know. His father had stocked the pantry and more had been stored in the survival room, but, even if only he and Ashley ate it, the food would eventually run out.
When he finished lunch, he closed the folder, grabbed the tray, and walked toward the kitchen with Gruff.
Ashley hurried around a corner and slammed into Drake.
“What’s the hurry?”
Her eyes were wide with fear. “Two men are in the backyard.”
* * *
Lane County, Oregon, Wednesday, September 7th
Neal tugged on Ginger’s leash, but the dog found sniffing the air and ground more compelling. Had the plane carried passengers? Is death what Ginger smelled? Images of burned and mangled bodies flashed through Neal’s mind. Trying to avoid such sights and smells, Neal pulled hard on the leash, nearly dragging the dog as he hurried in an arc around the largest portion of the smoldering plane. Then he scurried across a wide cut in the ground where the craft had apparently belly-flopped in the pasture. From there it seemed to have skidded, plowed deeper into the ground, and broken apart.
In normal times there would have been a huge police and first responder presence. No one just hiking by could have ventured this close without crossing police tape and being ordered away, but in a mere four days, the world had changed.
On the far side of the wreckage, hundreds of postal packages lay strewn across the field. A few large crates had broken open, spilling boxes of computers and televisions beside the shattered fuselage. Neal stopped and stared with the sudden realization that this had been a mail and cargo flight. The crew were probably dead somewhere in the wreckage, but at least there hadn’t been hundreds of passengers. He crept through the debris wondering how many planes had crashed on the night of the EMP. How many people had died?
Ahead, a child-like form lay motionless on the ground.
Neal feared what he would find but felt compelled to confirm what his eyes told him. He brushed away paper and packages and grinned with relief. Grabbing it by an arm, he picked up the life-size infant doll.
“Mommy.”
The voice startled him even though he knew it came from a toy.
Ginger clamped her teeth on one leg of the doll and shook it.
“Get away from that stuff!” The voice shouted from behind.
“I’m not taking anything.” Neal eased himself to a standing position and, with his arms away from his body, slowly turned to face the new threat.
Ginger dropped the doll and growled.
Ten yards away stood a wrinkled, gray-haired man with a ball cap on his head and a pistol in his hand. A few feet behind the old guy stood a woman with salt-and-pepper hair wearing faded jeans.
“The plane crashed on my land,” the old guy yelled. “This is all my stuff.”
Neal had a shotgun over his shoulder and a pistol in his vest but decided to back away. “Just passing through. Come on, Ginger, let’s go.” Keeping his arms away from his torso, he tugged on the leash and eased toward the road. Then he hurried to put some distance between them.
When he looked back and couldn’t see the wreck, he considered slowing his pace but rejected it. If he stayed out of Salem and walked all night, he might reach Portland by tomorrow morning.
I’m coming, boys. Please stay safe.
* * *
Kittitas County, Washington, Wednesday, September 7th
Conner returned to the highway and tried to concentrate on the hike home. He had left his little brother alone. The guilt of that beat in his brain like a mantra. He tried to focus on just the route home, but traversing that would still take days and seemed overwhelming.
The climb to Snoqualmie Pass would take more than a day, but after that the trip would be largely downhill into Seattle. He narrowed in on just that portion of the route, but even then he found his mind drifting. Where was Madison? Would she be okay? They spent less than two days together, but even after so little time her image lingered in his mind. Would he ever see her again?
She had a bike and stamina and might now be miles ahead. If he were to ever find her, he would need to catch up. He strode onward and soon reached the trailing edge of refugees from Ellensburg. Madison had worn a pastel blue and white jacket so every relatively blue coat caught his attention, but those within view were worn by elderly or infirm walkers.
Just ahead, a significantly overweight man and woman tried to keep up with several rambunctious children. On his right, a group helped a young man on crutches hobble along. Nearby, a middle-age man pushed a wheelchair that carried an old woman. Most of those nearby seemed past retirement age with gray hair. Could these people make it over the mountain and reach help? Would there be any help?
He slowed his pace and looked again at those around him. They all might be dead in the next few weeks.
“Martha, are you okay?” a panicked elderly voice called. “Talk to me.”
An old man with thin white hair slumped to the shoulder of the road, holding a woman about his age.
Conner hurried over as the man cradled her head in his lap.
“We’ll rest. You’ll be better.” The man tearfully stroked her shoulder-length hair. “Please be okay.”
“I’m Conner. Is she okay?”
He shook his head.
“May I check her pulse?”
He nodded. “Are you a doctor?” The words were both a question and a plea.
“No.” Conner shook his head. “I know first aid.” He checked both her neck and wrist without finding a pulse.
“Do you know CPR?” the old man asked.
“Yes.”
For an exhausting fifteen minutes, Conner performed chest compressions while the man breathed for the woman, but she never responded.
The old man slumped back and clutched her hand. “She won’t be waking up. You should stop. Her heart was weak. Let her rest.”
Conner wiped sweat from his forehead. “Ah, if we do ….”
&
nbsp; The old man nodded and looked to the sky. “She’s in Your hands now, Lord. Take good care of her.” He kissed her cheek.
For several minutes, Conner sat in silence, trying to think of what to do or say. He had seen more death in the last four days than in all his life. This had been the most peaceful, but he didn’t think that would be the right thing to say.
“Your name’s Conner, right? Mine is Arthur. Thank you for your help.”
Conner nodded, uncertain what help he had provided.
“We have family in Seattle, a son, a couple of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We were trying to reach them.”
“I left my little brother alone the day before the sun storm. Now I’m trying to get back home to Riverbank.”
Arthur nodded but said nothing.
Conner felt a need to talk and so continued his story of meeting Madison, passing through Ellensburg, and then losing her after crashing his bike.
Arthur caressed Martha’s hand. “We married right out of high school and had our first boy a year later.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I enlisted in the marines and served for eight years. Then we moved back here and have been together more than sixty years.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell my dad I wanted to join the marines. I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”
He smiled at Conner. “You’re a good young man, and you would have made a great marine. Your parents raised you right. No matter how ugly this world gets, remember the things they taught you.”
Again they sat in silence.
“I can’t leave her here alone.”
“What choice do you have? We don’t have the tools to bury her.”
“There’s always a choice, young man. Help me get her out of the road.”
When they had moved her to a shady spot nearby, Conner asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to stay with Martha.”
“No one will come. No police, no ambulance.”
“I’m eighty-five. In this new world where nothing works, how long do you think I’d live?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” He pulled a plastic bag with half a dozen pill bottles from the luggage. “These were Martha’s. I guess now they’re mine.” He smiled at Conner. “Thank you for your help. I’m staying with my wife.”
