by Kurt Gepner
TJ lived out toward the Port of Vancouver with his mother, who owned the yarn store down on Evergreen Boulevard. Evie knew the place, because she frequented the Mexican restaurant, El Restaurante, which was across the street from the store.
Once all of the introductions were out of the way, a free flow of information ensued. Everyone, guests and residents alike, were hungry for news. As a whole the guests related a story that was all too similar to the experiences of the Shumway household. Out-and-out chaos followed by caring for the injured. The whole time, they were uncertain about what had happened and expected that some authority would come and tell them what to do. Their group had formed when Tom had shouted to the mob clustering in the street, "Does anybody here live in Vancouver? We’re headed that way."
By the time all of the emergencies had been handled and they started walking, the rain was easing up. It had all but stopped when they reached the freeway, but the sun was setting. Someone had got a small fire going under the shelter of the overpass and they had food from a Hostess delivery truck, so they huddled there for the night. Before dawn, Tom was anxious to hit the road. He woke up his companions and they started walking just as the sun was rising.
As the new acquaintances passed Ridgefield they saw a steady stream of refugees making their way to the Clark County Fair Grounds. Word had been spread, mostly from horseback, that emergency shelters and some sort of field hospital were being set up in the buildings. Apparently the facility had suffered fairly little damage and the city council designated it headquarters.
Continuing on toward Vancouver the group passed hoards of cars that had been abandoned. The majority had not even pulled to the side of the road. Many had burned. There were countless accidents and even a few bodies just lying out in the road. They saw others who were walking in the same direction; two groups were ahead of them by more than a mile and one person was behind them by about the same distance. Occasionally they crossed paths with people who were headed in some other direction. A few traded news with them. Others avoided them.
When they got to Hazel Dell, a couple of teenagers had set up a road block. They had a gun and they took all of the water and food that the travelers were carrying. Silas claimed they were looking at his watch with "some real interest. But I gave them a look that said, you don’t want to mess with this colored man."
It wasn’t until they had reached the Main Street off ramp that they had any real trouble. Hearing a muffled scream, they ran to a big metal building on the corner by the stoplight. It was a transmission shop, still standing. Silas took over the recounting of events at that point.
"The place had weathered the storm, so to speak, and it looked like a bunch of rats had already put down roots in there." Everyone had migrated to the living room and Silas occupied the window seat. Framed by the window, as he spoke, his body rocked and swayed. He painted images with his hands, wriggling his fingers when said "rats" and thrusting them down, like striking the keys of a piano when he said "roots." Silas was a compelling storyteller.
"When we busted into that den," he said, suddenly throwing his arms wide, "they all scattered! But they weren’t giving up their game. No way." His eyes roamed around the room, bulging now and then as his voice fluctuated emphatically. "They had themselves a pretty young girl, and her brother, all trussed up. Isn’t that right?" He got his companions nodding and he gave Andrea a wink before he went on. She blushed and sat back in her folding chair, crossing her arms in her lap. "Andrea, there, picked up a jack handle when she saw what those rodents were getting at. She started swinging on those low-lifes like some Amazon warrior." All eyes turned to her as she studied her hands.
"Now she’s not the only hero in this room," Silas said, holding up a cautionary finger, which he pointed across the room. "My man, Tom, was on his toes, too. He grabbed up a box-knife and went straight over to the young pair to cut 'em loose. But those rats weren’t ready to let go their prize, just yet. One of the filthier of the bunch jumped old Tom from behind a stack of tires." Silas’ fingers curled like claws. He simulated an ambush and wrapped his arms around his shoulders as if he’d grabbed a person. "But you take a good look at that boy. Tom is a wiry one," he said with a half-grin. "That fool had picked the wrong dance partner, ‘cause old Tom just did the tango and laid open a piece of the rat-man’s arm.
"It was about then," Silas said with splayed hands bordering an astonished expression, "that those fools figured out what sort of business we’d brought ‘em." His mouth rolled into a tight-lipped smile and with brows raised he gave the room a knowing nod. "TJ was dishing out a serving of what-for and my girl, Andrea, did a number on one toad-faced boy. Just knocked him clean through a window!" Speaking with a boom in his voice, Silas swept his thick arm through the air. "That’s about the time that this old man," he said with a thumb pointing at his freshly stitched wound, "got a reminder that he’s not in the infantry no more."
With a touch of awe in his voice, TJ interrupted the story. "He’s lying." Everybody looked at him, stunned by his accusation. "He might be old, but he’s one tough bastard." Phim let out a hysterical laugh that ended as abruptly as it had begun when Jessie jabbed her ribs. TJ went on, a lot less comfortable in the spotlight than Silas. "He picked up one of those guys over his head and body slammed him. Then he threw another one against the wall and punched him so hard that the rivets popped out. If another guy hadn’t hit him with a pipe wrench he would have tore them all apart, by himself." As suddenly as he began, TJ was silent again.
Filling the gap, Silas picked up where TJ left off. "My boy, TJ, has one thing right. I did get walloped," he said as he smacked the back of one meaty hand into the palm of the other. "Next time, I’ll leave the fightin’ to the Amazons." The room spilled over with laughter at his imagery.
When the chuckles had settled, Val asked, "So what happened to the kids? Were they okay?"
Holding up his palms to reassure her, Silas said, "The two were no worse for the wear. They had gone into that shop looking for a place where their family could stay. When they had walked up, hollering hullo," he cupped his hands around his mouth to produce a resonance. "Hullo. They’d let those filthy rats know that someone was coming. And rather than holler back, as would be polite, they hid themselves from sight. When we happened by, those hooligans were trying to work up their guts to do something they’d really regret."
Shaking his head, Silas went on. "No, ma’am, those two kids weren’t hurt. We cut them loose and walked them on home. That’s when they told us that they were the oldest of their brothers and sisters. I’m guessing they were fifteen and sixteen. And they had snuck off to find a better place. When we got ‘em home, I guess I can see why they’d have tried. Their whole family, Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad and four other brothers and sisters besides them had moved into the dinky little garage right next to their burned down house.
"While we stood out in the street, which seemed like the smart thing to do, given the size of that shotgun their old man was waving around, they told their family what had happened. They were Russian, you see…"
"I think they were Ukrainian," TJ injected.
Without missing a beat, Silas went on, "or Ukrainian. Whichever they were, their folks didn’t speak a lick of English. Not one syllable. Of course, you don’t have to speak a language to know just what their folks were sayin’." With a tight smile, he rubbed a palm down one check. "Whewh! I would not have wanted to be those kids, just then. Once their folks had got the story, they cleaned me up a bit and then we hit the road again.
"We had just started down this street when we heard the sound of children laughing. Old Tom and Sarah took off like someone had lit their tails on fire. And I think you know the rest." Silas finished by slapping his hands down on his knees.
The room again blazed with questions. The guests had as many as their hosts and between the two groups they pieced together a larger picture of their world. From the town of La Center to Vancouver the only thing motorized that t
hey heard were a few dirt bikes. Most every building had been gutted, with an exception, here and there. The Vancouver Fire Department on Main Street had quickly put out the fires at their nearest neighbors: Safeway and the YWCA. But they were mostly limited to fire extinguishers because none of their equipment was working. Hoses were hooked to hydrants, but water pressure was gone in no time. When the extinguishers and water ran out they had run from door to door helping anyone they could.
As of an hour ago fire fighters were guarding the Safeway grocery store, letting in a few people at a time for food. The group had planned to head back as soon as they found little Jimmy and get some supplies. Where the police were concerned, the rumor was that they had withdrawn to their headquarters and they were keeping the peace downtown. Many people were living out of their car. Some people were becoming aggressive, threatening passers-by for food and water. A few people they spoke with had claimed that there was an organized gang roaming the streets, but Silas didn’t think that was likely. Whether or not it was true, it was certain that a few people were taking advantage of the lack of law enforcement.
Suddenly Jeremy spoke up. "We’re going up to the mountains. You could come with us." All eyes focused on the young boy, at the fringe of conversation, standing in the dining room. His face instantly bloomed crimson and he recanted his last words, "Or not..."
From the front door Hank, who had let the body of the group ask most of the questions, cleared his throat and said, "It’s true we’re getting ready to head out. And you all seem like decent people. But we are getting a little crowded. Still, I’m sure we wouldn’t turn you away if you found that you had nobody, or no place to go… Assuming you’d want to join us."
That statement initiated another round of questions and Hank found himself laying out the general plan. Tom and Sarah expressed a strong desire to accompany the caravan, as did Silas. Silas said, "I buried my wife and kids after our house burned down thirty years ago. I’ve got nothing holding me here, but I may have learned a few tricks in Vietnam and Beirut that could help you out. Any time a man can be useful, I’d suppose he’d be wrong not to offer."
TJ said, "I like to go camping, but I’d really like to get home and see if my mom is okay." His eyes danced across the room and met with Lexi’s. "But given the worst case scenario, it’s nice to have the option."
Jessie spoke for her and Phim. "We’re pretty urban, because you just don’t find too many of our kind of people up in the hills." Phim broke into a cackle, but silenced herself when Jessie jabbed her again. "On the other hand, the prospect of getting raped is even less appealing than having to shit in the woods." Phim sniggered and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth. Jessie went on. "There’s no reason we should walk two more miles to see if our apartment is still there, because we haven’t seen any other apartments standing." She looked at Andrea and grimaced after the words spilled from her mouth. "You can count us in," she said taking Phim’s hand in her own.
Cautiously raising her hand, Andrea said, "Me too. My home is gone and I'm not close with anybody around here."
Looking over the assembly of people Hank had to consciously stop himself from grinding his teeth and keep his expression neutral. This is getting out of hand, he thought. "Okay," he began, and then paused to arrange his thoughts. "The deal is, there’s a lot of hard work that needs to be done. You do your share, then you’ve got a place to sleep and food in your belly."
"I’m no stranger to hard work," Silas said as he puffed up his barrel-like chest.
Hank smiled despite himself. "What we’ve got to do right now is just the beginning of what needs to be done. Things will get harder and people will get more desperate every minute, so we’ve really got to get busy and get going."
"Damn straight," Silas seconded.
"From the sounds of it," Hank went on, "there’s going to be a lot more junk in our way than I suspected, so progress will be slow and exhausting."
"You don’t know exhausting," Silas put in, "’till you’ve low-crawled through three mile of rice paddies. I say, as long as you’ve got a pair of feet under you, there’s nothing you can’t do."
Hank nodded, finding Silas’ gung-ho attitude strangely refreshing. "We’ve wasted a lot of time this morning, so we need to hustle."
Evie pulled open a drawer in the coffee table and extracted a pad of legal paper and a pen. "What needs to be done?" Hank looked at his wife with such adoration and appreciation that she felt her knees go weak. "Come on, Mr. Shumway," she said sternly. "You’re the one who said we’re in a hurry. What needs to be done?"
Hank didn’t hesitate. He machine-gunned a list of tasks that quickly filled up two-and-a-half pages. "Is that it?" Evie asked after Hank had said "um" a half-dozen times.
"I think so," he answered.
"Okay, then," she said with a commanding voice. "You get out there and get that engine pulled. Norah, how’s Salvador doing?"
"He seems to be doing okay," she answered.
"All right, get in back of that U-haul and start pulling everything out. Set everything in the yard and pray the rain stays away. Jeremy, I want you to help her."
"Can’t I help Hank?" Jeremy’s face bloomed crimson again when Evie and his mother both shot him a look that left him without doubt about the answer. "Or not," he said meekly.
CHAPTER SIX
In short order, everyone had been distributed a task and shooed away to get it done. The Shumway household was a hive of activity. TJ gave his recent companions a round of friendly hugs and got back on the road. Tom wanted to satisfy his curiosity, so he left Sarah to perform her chores while he finished the walk to their home. When Dale and Camille returned, lugging a cart and wheelbarrow full of odds and ends, they were rewarded with another task. Evie ran her industry from the kitchen, where she gave herself the full-time job of cooking enough food to feed her army of laborers.
She put Camille and Susanna Rae in charge of pulling all of their food stores into the living room, which had become the grand staging area. All of the furniture had been moved and stacked on the back porch. Pauline was still caring for Brian. The huge man was running a fever that ranged from one-hundred-two to one-hundred-four degrees. Evie told her that she could check on her patient as often as she liked, but she was to start packing up the books.
Bertel kept the children in line and, due to her experience at running a soup kitchen as a young woman in Germany, she helped Evie with food preparations whenever she could. Lexi was sent to the attic where there were boxes upon boxes of "stuff" that needed to be sorted, as well as racks of old clothes that needed to be bagged. The Shumways always intended to donate their old, worn out and out grown clothes, but like many things in life, they never got around to it. Now, every scrap was more valuable than a tax write-off would ever have been. As precious as they were, the clothes were unceremoniously stuffed into black-plastic yard-bags with nothing more than a label stating: Girl’s, Women’s, etc.
Andrea, Sarah and Silas helped Norah and Jeremy to pull all of the Rodriguez belongings from the back of the U-haul and sort them onto the lawn. Furniture got stacked in the back yard next to the garage while more useful supplies, such as clothing, food, plastic bins and other containers were assimilated into the rest of the goods.
As a matter of trust Dale and Val were given the job of packing Evie’s china, crystal and wine collection. The wine collection was one of Evie’s prides. Dug into the basement wall, across from the foot of the stairs, Hank had built a small cellar with pull out racks. The space was almost exactly one cubic yard, with a capacity of one hundred and eight bottles. There were thirty-two bottles of spirits, of varying ages and experiments, from Hank’s moon-shining hobby and fifty-six bottles of wine. Many of the wines were young, but they still had four bottles of two-thousand-two Pinot Noir from Erath Vineyards.
Evie tried to get Brody to work, but the boy was withdrawn and resistant to any instruction. She felt terrible for him and impotent because there was next to nothing they c
ould do for him. He even got belligerent with her when she suggested that he go help out her husband with his engine project. "You’ve done all sorts of wood working with Hank," she said. "I don’t know exactly what he’s up to right now, but I keep hearing the saw running, so he could probably use your help."
"Who do you think you are?" Brody lashed out. "A fucking slave driver?"
She was caught unprepared for his attack and gaped at him. "Why would you say that?"
His face screwed up in a distorted snarl. "You wouldn’t fucking know. Would you?" He didn’t wait for a response. Evie watched his back as he brooded off to the front yard.
At that moment, Hank was fabricating an A-frame from several pieces of lumber and a few sheets of plywood. After he got it in place, he disconnected his shop hoist from its track and secured it to his new construction. The second story apartment was not entirely framed in, but he had all of the material to complete the project stored in the shop portion of the building. Everything from the toilet to the kitchen sink and all of the wiring was sitting in their boxes waiting to be installed. Some of that wiring was now running electricity from the shop breaker box to the hoist.
Once everything was hooked up, Hank ran a chain around the engine, which was still mounted to the frame. With it, he lifted the front end of the U-haul three feet off the ground. Satisfied that it would do the job, he got busy disconnecting lines and cables from the engine. In the Army, he had been a diesel mechanic. During that time, he had discovered that working on engines was his least favorite occupation. Regardless of his preference, however, it was what he did for four years. At this moment, he was more grateful than ever for his mechanical knowledge. He used his experience, working in hostile environments, to toil at a frenzied pace.
Even with a sense of looming peril, Hank took occasional breaks, to tour the progress in his home. He cautioned people to drink lots of water and be safe. The last thing they needed was for someone else to get hurt. As it was, Theresa had received very little rest and she seemed even more ill than she had been yesterday.
