Pavement Ends: The Exodus

by Kurt Gepner

  Once the inventory and headcount was done, Matt told them about Dearborne’s theories and that the phenomenon was likely a global event that would have destroyed nearly every modern form of communication and transportation. The officers disregarded his explanation. They were certain that the event was caused by a high-altitude nuclear detonation and that the country was under attack. Lieutenant Chancey assured Matt that he had intelligence that supported their assumption.

  Already they had concluded that the maximum capacity of the camp was five thousand people. If they rationed food, their supplies would be depleted in a week, which would be enough time for large-scale relief from local agencies and the federal government. As for whom to let in, they followed standard protocol. Severely injured, orphans and families with infants would have priority.

  Matt told them that he intended to leave, because he wanted to get home to his family, but they convinced him to wait until morning. For the rest of the evening, he supervised the civilians in making the camp into a long term shelter. Regardless of the military confidence, Matt didn’t believe that help would be on the way any time soon.

  Early Thursday morning one of Matt’s friends, Reza Yavari, regained consciousness. Reza had suffered some terrible internal injuries and the medics couldn’t do much for him, except ease his pain. Only Matt could offer solace to his friend. All day and night Matt held Reza’s hand while Reza spoke of his life and regrets. Reza died at dawn on Friday morning.

  Although he didn’t feel hungry, Matt made himself eat some food and took two bottles of water for his trip. The officers attempted to change his mind about leaving, but Matt was determined to go. His first stop along the way was only a few miles from his route along Highway Twenty-Six. He stopped at Marissa’s parents’ home.

  Marissa told him that they were still in Peru and not due back until next week. Matt, who relied on a smartphone app to be his memory, told her that he couldn’t recall if they had come back yet and he checked just to be safe.

  Like nearly every other house, it had been gutted by fire. The shop was also in shambles. The only thing of value on the property was her parent’s RV. A family of four was occupying it. Matt tried to explain that he was looking for his in-laws, but the man threatened him with a tire iron. Since he found no evidence that his in-laws were there, he left the family alone.

  After that, he started off toward Home. Sometime, around noon, he got to the Portland Zoo. He filled his two water bottles from a pool that had once been a fountain. There wasn’t much of the murky water left, because it was being consumed by so many other walkers.

  After filling up on the brackish water, he kept walking until he reached the Vista Ridge Tunnels. They were a pair of tunnels, one Eastbound the other Westbound, along the path of Highway Twenty-Six. Near the Eastbound tunnel there had been a tanker-truck explosion that caused a landslide on both ends of the tunnel. According to the hodge-podge group of rescue workers, several dozen people were trapped inside.

  Like most of the wayfarers, Matt was simply going to cross over the median and use the other tunnel, but the anguish of a desperate father compelled him to stop and help. The man had been following his daughter in her first car, which they had just picked it up from the dealership. His wife was with her. He needed help to rescue them.

  The team worked into the night, sustained by the generosity of a few sympathetic passersby who gave the crew of eight rescuers food and water and flashlights. Finally, around midnight, they broke through and saved several people, including the family of the man who had inspired Matt’s help. Most of the people who had been in the tunnel at the time of the explosion were dead. Only those on the West end had survived and most of those survivors were badly burned. It was a terrible, tragic scene, despite the miraculous reunion.

  The rescuers had only made a small passage in the rubble and mud, but it was large enough for people to squeeze through. At least it seemed large enough. While Matt was inside the tunnel helping the last person - a disabled woman of exceptional proportions - she got stuck. Rescuers pulled as Matt pushed from inside. They got her through with a sudden release of debris and the passage collapsed on top of Matt.

  He didn’t know how long it took, but he awoke when he felt a strange sensation in his left hand. He was too weak and in too much pain to do anything, but he could hear them. There was a vague pressure as somebody pressed their fingers into the wrist of his outstretched arm. Then they said, "It’s too late, Rick. He’s dead."

  Matt tried to move his fingers, but he couldn’t. Then they were gone.

  "It was the most terrifying moment that I have ever experienced," Matt said with a shudder. "I got so scared and panicked that I wriggled and squirmed and, I don’t even know how, but got myself out of that hole. I was still inside the tunnel and it was perfectly dark, but I was alive. My left arm was broken, I could tell, but it was numb. It must have pinched off an artery, which is why they couldn’t feel a pulse. But I was alive!"

  Matt took a short break in his telling as his family showered him with love and sympathy. But he picked up his thread again when Ella asked, "What happened next, Daddy?"

  At first he yelled for help, but he heard nothing in response. Then he felt around until he found a flashlight. With that he frantically searched for something useful. Finally, he found some eight-foot lengths of galvanized pipe on a plumber’s truck. He shoved the pipe through the dirt and yelled for help. When nothing came of his pleas, he cleared out the end of the tube and pursing his lips, he blew the pipe like a trumpet. Shortly after his third blast, he felt something touch the pipe and then a voice saying that they were coming for him.

  By the time they fished him out of the hole it was very late in the morning. Matt didn’t waste any time. After they got his arm in a sling, he set out for home. Unfortunately, aside from having a broken arm, he was out of water and it was unbearably hot. But he didn’t have much father to go, so he didn’t worry about it.

  The weather soon took its toll upon him and before he knew it, he had succumbed to heatstroke. One minute he was walking past the 39th Street exit, along Interstate 84, and in the next he had fallen on his face. Marissa was horrified to learn that her husband had been only miles from home, dying on the side of the road.

  Hours passed as the sun baked him and nobody stopped to help. Then somebody did stop… and took his shoes. After his shoes were gone everything, except his underwear, followed in short order. He recalled struggling when his pants were taken, but he didn’t even have the strength to cry when they took his shirt.

  The next thing he remembered was waking up, shivering and wet, in the dark. The rain hurt his skin and the lightning was terrifyingly close. Matt made himself get up. He had to get to his family, whom he loved more than life. That was all he could think and that was all that kept him going. He didn’t even remember finding his way home. "I thought I had died. I thought I had failed," Matt said, in conclusion.

  "But you didn’t, Daddy," Steven said and hugged his father. Tears flowed freely as his family held him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Finally Hank stood up, wiping away his own tears, and said, "I hate to ruin our Kodak moment, but we’ve got to get going." He pulled out his hip flask. "Let’s get these water bottles filled."

  "What’s that, Uncle Henry?" Steven asked, pointing at the shiny container in Hank’s hand.

  "This, my boy," Hank said with high eyebrows, "is one-hundred and eighty gallons of drinking water."

  "Nu-uh!" Ella challenged.

  Hank nodded deeply. "Oh, yes," he said with wide open eyes. He opened the flask and held it low for his niece to smell. When the odor hit her nose, she flinched away and rubbed at her nostrils.

  "That’s bleach, not water!" she accused.

  Both Matt and Marissa made a sound of understanding and Hank said, "Yes it is bleach. And bleach, when added in the correct portion to dirty water, makes it potable. Do you know that word?"

  Ella’s face fell and she looked sad
. "No…" she answered softly.

  "It means safe to drink," Hank told her. "And as it happens, this amount of bleach," he held his flask high, "is enough to clean one-hundred and eighty gallons of dirty water."

  "Ooohhh," Ella said with comprehension. "So it’s not that it holds that much water, but that you can make that much water potable," she said, chewing on her new word.

  "Exactly!" Hank confirmed. "Now, let’s gather up all of these bottles and start filling them with water from buckets, bowls, or even puddles, if you have to." He cinched the lid closed on the flask and clapped his hands together in staccato emphasis of his words, "Chop, chop! Let’s move."

  Hank gave each of them a square of cloth and showed them how to use it as a basic filter. He stretched the cloth over the mouth of a bottle and dunked the bottle into the lid of a garbage can that had settled, upside down, full of rainwater. He filled the bottle about half way, then a second bottle without using the rudimentary filter. When the two were held against the light of morning and compared against each other, the unfiltered water was full of swirling particles and some sort of wriggling, black insect. The demonstration was most compelling and they all got busy filling bottles, using their improvised filters.

  In short order there were three squares of sixteen full bottles. "Shouldn’t there be more than this?" Hank’s brow furrowed at his own question.

  "We played with a bunch of them," Hank’s nephew volunteered.

  "Shut up, Steven!" Ella commanded her brother.

  Ever yielding to his sister’s venom Steven shrunk down and said, "Okay."

  "All right!" Hank snapped. In a calmer tone, he said, "You didn’t know." Kneeling down before the children, Hank gave each a pointed look. "From now on, always ask before you play with or throw away anything at all. Okay?" He waited for their nods and then asked Ella, "How much water does each bottle hold?"

  The little girl read from the label of a bottle and said, "twenty ounces. That’s a little more than two cups."

  "Good," Hank said. "Now… You need to know some basic conversions and ratios before you can safely use bleach to sanitize water. First thing to know is that, for our purpose, there are three-hundred and sixty drops per ounce of fluid. Next thing to know is that you can purify clear water with eight drops per gallon. Double the number of drops if the water is cloudy." Indicating the collection of bottles, Hank asked, "What does our water look like?"

  "I wouldn’t drink it!" Steven declared.

  Hank’s eyebrows jumped high on his forehead and Ella expressed his thoughts immaculately. "You will drink it if you want to live," she said. Steven, being totally cowed by his older sister, twined his fingers together and said nothing.

  "Anyway," Hank said without approval or reprimand. "Some of this water is pretty cloudy. Just to be sure, however, we’ll double the bleach and treat each bottle as if it were a full quart."

  "That’s four drops each," Ella announced.

  Taking a moment to do the math, Hank proclaimed her correct, causing the young girl to beam.

  "Anyway," Hank said as he unscrewed the top of a water bottle. "Since we don’t have a dropper for measuring, we’re going to have to guess at the right amount. Hold the cap at this angle," he said as he held the cap so that its top and side formed a V. Children and parents raptly watched his demonstration. "Now, pour enough bleach in that pocket…." He followed his own instruction. "…to fill it. It only takes a few drops. And then dump it into your bottle.

  "Once you’ve got the proper amount of bleach in your bottle," he continued, "just hold the lid on, but don’t screw it down." Hank demonstrated. "Just like so. Now shake it up, allowing water to squirt out and down the threads. That will clean and rinse the mouth of your bottle. After a few shakes," he went on, "screw the lid on tight and leave it sit for a half-hour, preferably in the sunlight. It needs that time to react with any germs that may be swimming around in there."

  "Now, Steven," Hank said. "You uncap these bottles and hand them to me." Looking pointedly at his niece, Hank said, "You shake ‘em like I showed you and toss ‘em into the trailer." The young boy returned his uncle the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights stare, so Hank snapped his fingers in front of Steven’s face and barked at him, "Now!"

  The boy jumped into action, but not without shooting his uncle a look of apology mixed with resentment. Marissa asked her brother-in-law what she should do. Hank told her to sort the contents of the garage into three piles: needs, wants and junk. Matt made a move to help, but was immediately shut down by his family.

  Everybody fell into their respective tasks and quickly accomplished their goals.

  "What does it taste like," Steven asked with excited curiosity.

  Hank gave his nephew a devilish grin. "It tastes like…," he paused and the brightness in his eyes faded. He had intended to say something ridiculous, like slug juice, but it didn’t seem right for him to act ridiculous any more. "Steven," he said, flatly. "You’re not going to like it. You’re going to have to drink it. And you can’t complain. But you’re not going to like it. Do you understand?"

  Steven was crestfallen, but he nodded. "It probably tastes like olives and Spam." Then he threw his hands at the ground and started to bawl. "We’re always going to eat olives and Spam, from now on!"

  In the past, Hank would have been amused by Steven’s tantrum, with its absolute declarations and exaggerated emphasis. That was the thought that dashed, fleetingly, through his mind. But now he felt no humor about it. With an icy expression and tired eyes, Hank said, "Enough! Go get your bicycle. Both of you!"

  Steven gaped at his uncle, but Hank snapped his fingers and pointed at the garage shouting, "Go! Now!" Looking to his mother for support, he found a stony-faced woman looking back at him. Steven ran off crying and retrieved his bicycle as ordered. Ella acted swiftly to do the same, mostly to avoid her uncle’s suddenly harsh demeanor.

  "All right, Folks," he addressed his brother and sister-in-law. "Let’s throw everything we can into the trailer and get the Hell out of Dodge. Matt," Hank said as he picked up a five-foot length of two-by-four. "You’re going to be our brakes. Climb in." Hank showed his brother where to wedge the two-by-four between the frame of the trailer and its wheel so that he could use leverage to apply friction.

  They looked through the stacks of wants and needs only to immediately launch into debate over a set of solid oak doors. "We’re not taking them. They serve no purpose," Hank said.

  "They are hundred-year old, oak doors. You couldn’t find wood like this before everything was burned up. Now they’ve got to be worth their weight in food," Marissa defended.

  Hank hefted one end. "There’s no doubt that they are heavy," Hank said. "But that’s the problem. They weigh about a hundred pounds each. You know how hard it was to stop. I don’t think this situation is good for these doors, Marissa. We can’t take them. The rest of it, yes. That loom, definitely. But these doors, absolutely not!"

  "Hank," Marissa countered. "Be reasonable…."

  "No!" Hank’s face contorted into a mask of rage as he shouted at his sister-in-law. "There’s no more time for your kind of reason! If you trusted me with the welfare of your children, then you trust my decisions. I said no and meant it. We’re far behind the time I wanted to leave, already. This discussion is over!"

  Marissa’s face became a placid mask of alabaster. "Knock it off, Hank!" Matt shouted in defense of his wife.

  A pang of guilt flashed through his stomach, because his outburst was so contrary to his personality. Hank opened his mouth to apologize for his behavior and then snapped it shut. He knew that he was exhausted and that his nerves were stretched to their limit, but that didn’t change the fact that he was right. "Let’s go," he said, instead.

  Everything, including Matt, was loaded into the trailer. Beside the injured man, next to his makeshift brake-lever, lay his long sword, unsheathed. Where Marissa preferred the more nuanced art of rapier, Matt had chosen to specialize in the heavier blade favored
during the crusades. His sword was not fancy. It was well made, with an ebony handle and sharp blade. In Matt’s hand, even in his weakened condition, it was deadly.

  After one last sweep of the premises, they mounted their lateral bicycle machine. Once more, Hank opened his mouth to offer Marissa his apology. He saw the slightest glimmer of expectation in her eyes, as if she were prepared to forgive him. Instead he said, "Just like the test run. Let’s get moving." I’m done apologizing for being right, Hank thought.

  Marissa didn’t hesitate. In the lowest gear, they stepped heavily on the pedals. The extra two-hundred pounds of Matt, coupled with the additional assets from the garage, was quite noticeable. It took considerably more effort to bring their vehicle up to a comfortable speed. The children almost immediately lost any concern for their predicament and began circling the adults with youthful delight.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The pair of adult pedallers were puffing with fatigue by the time they reached the overpass. When they met the incline, their efforts were redoubled. Although their ambitions were nearly undone, they overcame the slope with a single excruciating application of willpower. At the top, Hank called a halt. Nobody complained. As Hank placed a couple of woodblocks on either side of a trailer tires to prevent it from rolling he thought, If it takes this much effort to travel a few blocks, how can we hope to make it all the way across the river?

  He joined Marissa, who was leaning over the railing next to the Coca-Cola machine. Looking down at Interstate 84, they were amazed by the sight and sound of it. A flood of people writhed like a colony of ants, crawling along the freeway according to its original flow. As far as they could see, people doggedly trudged past the corpses of car and kin alike.

  The smell of decay wafted up to them on a lazy breeze. So many people pushed shopping carts heaping with possessions that it looked like a parade of transients. The din of all those wheels rattling over the pavement mingled malevolently with the odor of corruption. "I can almost feel the diseases growing down there," Marissa said.