Pavement Ends: The Exodus

by Kurt Gepner

  Three hands instantly popped into the air, followed by five more and then another dozen. The woman weighed out the situation and picked herself up. "You can’t get away with this, you stupid fucker!" she spat as she hobbled off to cross the bridge.

  "Go take a bath you raunchy cunt!" He hollered after her. "You stink like a shrimp boat." Then he turned back to the crowd. "Tough luck, folks," Jerry said. "Looks like she had a change of heart. Anyone else in a hurry to get through?" Nobody moved. "Right. Okay, Hank, I got just the thing for you. He snapped his fingers. "Jose’, poker chips."

  Jose’ was as well dressed as anybody Hank had seen before the cataclysm. He wore a navy blue Polo shirt and white slacks, with white deck shoes. His hair was cut tight on the sides and combed back on the top. He looked as if he had just come from the yacht club. His face held an earnest, anticipating expression and he dashed off seemingly before Jerry had given his order. In seconds he had returned with a grungy crew sock that bulged with some contents.

  Jerry took the sock and pulled out a red, plastic, poker chip. He held it up for Hank to see. The numeral 67 was written on it with black marker. "There’s a hundred in here." Hank nodded his understanding and took the sock. "Now," Jerry went on. "Let’s get your contraption through here so I can get my line moving. You’re cuttin’ into my profit," he said with a chuckle.

  Once they got the trailer through, with the help of several of Jerry’s men, Hank left his family and walked back to The Gauntlet. He pulled his shotgun to keep himself from being mobbed again and then had the beggars gather before him. After explaining the significance of the chips, Hank distributed the chips until he had only three remaining.

  With those three chips, Hank returned to the toll booth. Jerry was waiting for him. He took the sock and seemed a little surprised that it held anything. He laid the chips out for Jose’ to put in order and said, "You’re a good guy, Hank. I hope you live."

  "Thanks. Me too," Hank replied and rejoined his family.

  "That was a very fine thing you did," Marissa said.

  "Let’s go," Hank said as he got on his bike.

  Marissa joined him and they pedaled across the bridge. Before they reached the far side, the children began complaining of hunger. Hank told them to drink a soda pop. They did. Then they told him that they were still hungry. He ignored them.

  At the Washington side toll, Hank enquired about Bruce. The bald man came out to greet him. They shared a brief friendly chat, and then Hank asked again if his son had come through. Bruce was certain that no one with a Seahawks tattoo had come through, in either direction. Hank thanked him, then traded a pack of cigarettes for a bag of jerky, a can of corn and a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. He had two packs left and was sorely tempted to trade them off for some more. He decided against it. Ella and Steven all but begged to eat the jerky. Hank told them that it was for dinner and they could drink more soda if they were hungry.

  Pedaling was tough through the off ramp to SR-14. Neither Hank, nor Marissa was accustomed to such rigorous bicycling. They had been pushing for nearly six hours, with only a few short breaks along the way. Both were exhausted when Hank announced that they had another hour to go. They realized that they had been taking the clear roadways for granted. Cars dotted the highway and made some sections nigh impassable. The going would have been difficult without the cars, but having to navigate the carcasses of a dead civilization made it doubly so.

  They passed fewer people as they wound their way toward Camas. Some small groups were scattered along the way, but mostly individuals divided by quarter mile gaps. A few asked for food. When faced with little threat of being overrun, Hank felt okay about being charitable. He told his brother to toss a can of soda pop, to those who asked. They still had more than six cases of soda, even with their generosity and the heavy consumption by the children.

  As they approached the 164th exit, a loud hiss filled the air. Hank felt the drag of a flat tire and looked down to discover that he had just developed two of them after rolling over a patch of broken glass. His head lolled back and he said, "Son of a bitch!"

  "There’s a rubber patch kit somewhere in with the tents," Marissa said.

  Still looking at the sky, Hank said, "That’s all fine and good, but useless at this exact moment." Marissa looked frustrated and discouraged. Hank got off his bike and told Marissa to stay put. He got behind the trailer and began to push. "Let’s go, Marissa!" He grunted at his sister-in-law.

  Marissa shouted back, "I am!" She pedaled and steered, while he pushed, until they got near the 164th onramp. At the most convenient spot, Hank told her to steer to the side of the road and they stopped.

  "They haven’t made it," Hank puffed with a deep worry in his voice.

  "How do you know?" Marissa questioned.

  Hank waved vaguely at the road, while sagging against the trailer. "The cars would be pushed out of the way."

  "Shouldn’t they have got this far?" Matt asked.

  "They should have made it to Washougal by now," Hank answered.

  "How far is Washougal from here?" Marissa asked.

  "About seven or eight miles," Hank told her.

  "Where did you leave them?" Matt asked.

  "On the 205, just before the Mill Plain exit," Hank said. "That’s four or five miles from here."

  "Oh, God," Marissa exclaimed. "What could have happened?"

  "A million things," Hank said. His voice tainted with worry.

  "What are we going to do?" Marissa was displaying a new level of anxiety.

  Hank took a breath and lowered his head. Tugging on his beard, he listened to the silence of his surroundings. For a long time he listened. The silence was full of activity. The buzz of dirt bikes wafted in from far off in the distance. The staccato pop of a semi-automatic weapon was answered by an explosion. All were very far away. Various other motor sounds filled the air, but Hank looked more worried than before.

  "I don’t hear the truck. If they’re running, they’ve got to be more than a mile from here."

  "It shouldn’t take long to make a mile," Marissa said.

  Hank gave her a look of disdain that he masked as quickly as possible. "It took us a whole day to cover ten miles. If conditions are worse…" He let his words trail off.

  "Well, what can we do?" Marissa ignored his degrading attitude.

  Hank was quiet for a moment. "We can wait," he said. "I told them I would wait, if I got here before them."

  "Okay," Marissa said with a rational sounding acceptance of her circumstance.

  "Goddamn it!" Hank bellowed wildly. "I don’t want to wait! That’s my wife and daughters and granddaughters! They should be here by now!"

  Marissa looked at Hank. Ella couldn’t stop herself. She began to cry. Matt wrapped a comforting arm around his daughter. Steven burst into tears and leaned into his sister. Hank stomped off toward the center median and stood there for a long time.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Why aren’t we moving?!" Evie’s shriek was full of spit and rage and distress.

  Stewart stood in the mobile kitchen with his back against the wall. He was palming his hands at her saying, "Now, Evie, calm down."

  "Fuck you, Stew!" She said his name with a measure of derision and disgust that most would reserve for a mixture of feces and vomit. "You told my husband that you’d get us to the meadow! He’s waiting for you on SR-14! It’s dangerous out there!"

  "We don’t know that he’s made it, Evie!" Stewart injected into her tirade. "And you’re right about it being dangerous. That’s why we’re playing it safe."

  "Playing it safe?!" She shrieked incredulously. "You’re not even in the game! You said that you wanted everybody to rest this morning. Fine! They’ve been busting ass. Okay! Then you said that we should have a good meal before we leave. I can accept that… But that was hours ago and we still haven’t moved!"

  "It’s Sunday, Evie. And besides," he added nonchalantly. "You’re the one who said our dogs can’t pull the cart a
nymore."

  "Yeah, because they’re injured from toting your ass around all day!" It hadn’t seemed possible that Evie could get louder, but the subject of her dogs brought a new furor to her throat.

  Stew did not react more than to say, "If your animals weren’t up to the task, you shouldn’t have allowed them to perform the job."

  "Allowed?! Animals?!" Evie’s shouts were like train whistles. She pulled a serving spoon from a pot of beans that was simmering on the woodstove and threatened Stewart with its contents. He hastily retreated from the U-haul. "Everybody out!" She screamed into the back. "Now! Everybody!" The U-haul quickly emptied of its passengers. She rooted through a duffle bag that contained an assortment of Hank’s more useful possessions.

  "What are you doing, Evie?" Stewart asked with great sympathy in his voice. "Come on, Evie, you’re tired and worried. That’s understandable." She shot him a look of daggers and turned back to the duffle bag.

  When she found what she wanted, she stuffed it in her pocket. Then she set the pots and other cooking implements on the floor. Stew and a few others questioned her, but didn’t interfere. "Dad!" She hollered for her father.

  "Right here, Genevieve Renée," he answered from nearby.

  "Bring me the bolt cutters!"

  Camille did as told and when he came back, Stewart stepped in his path. "I don’t know what she has planned, Mr. DuBois, but you should really think twice about supporting her in this."

  Camille grinned at the man and rubbed his sausage-thick fingers over his scruffy cheeks. "All I got to think about," he said in his booming voice, "is that she’s my baby girl and you’re not." He pushed past Stewart and handed the bolt cutters to his daughter.

  Evie stepped out of the U-haul, tossed the bolt cutters inside and drew shut the door. In the span of a heartbeat, Stewart recognized that she was pulling a lock out of her pocket and jumped at her. Camille proved that he was still as stout as any younger man and deflected Stewart from touching Evie. A moment later, she had the heavy-duty lock snapped in place and the four-dial combination completely randomized.

  "There," she said. "That lock was on Hank’s shed. He’s the only one who knows the combination. If you want to eat, you’ll find Hank."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They made camp on a patch of asphalt beside the road. Marissa, her children and Hank brought large stones to line a fire pit in the dirt along the shoulder while Matt did his best to arrange them. Gathering wood was not difficult and it wasn’t long before their dinner was cooking. While Marissa tended to that and Matt occupied the children, Hank proceeded to dismantle the bicycle contraption. When asked why, he told them, "We’ve taken this thing as far as it will go. Whether or not the Caravan arrives, there is no way we can pedal this to where we’re going. If they do arrive, we’ll just hook it on the end. Either way, I need something to do, instead of worry."

  Marissa was worried for her brother-in-law. He did not look well, and she knew they would both be in agony from overtaxing their bodies. Hank needed rest, but her best attempt at dissuading him from further exertion was met with a bearish growl and a plea to leave him be. He was irrational and angry, but only harming himself, so she granted his request and left him alone.

  When their food was prepared, they portioned out the pot of macaroni as equitably as possible. Hank shared most his food with the others, because he was feeling nauseous. Of course, they were still hungry, but even Steven realized that no good would come of complaining.

  Everybody could see that Hank was sick. His eyes were glossy, his cheeks were flush and his forehead glistened with perspiration, even when he finally allowed himself to rest. Hank’s wounds were infected. All of them were looking bad, but the hole in his forearm, where the throwing star had stuck, had the most alarming appearance. It was puckered like a sphincter and weeping a milky, yellow puss. A red line stretched from it toward his elbow.

  Hank was feverish and suffered an aching in all of his joints that only compounded the misery from pushing his body beyond rational limits. But he’d made it clear that even discussing his condition would be counterproductive. "There’re antibiotics in the Caravan," he told his brother and sister-in-law. "For now, the best thing we can do is act like we’ve got bigger problems than my health… namely, everything else."

  "Which everything else should we concentrate on first?" Marissa asked with a vitriolic tang. "The fact that we have no more food, no shelter or no transportation?"

  Hank was too sapped to answer her. He took a deep breath and turned away from his family to expel his sigh.

  "I’m sorry, Hank." Marissa got up from her patch of road and knelt down behind him. With fingers strong from fencing, she kneaded his tense shoulders. "I don’t blame you for anything. I hate our situation and I’m more frightened than I’ve even been in my whole life."

  Moaning his relief, Hank let his head droop forward as his sister-in-law massaged his shoulders. "We’re all scared," he said. "We need to be, if we’re going to survive. When controlled, fear is an incredible asset. It’s like fire."

  "You’re waxing a little too philosophical," Marissa playfully admonished, "given our predicament."

  Hank shrugged off her hands and stood up. She looked up at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He stretched out his hand and helped her up. "You’re right, of course," he assented. "We’ve still got a lot to do, if we want to make it safely through the night."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They worked to prepare their camp until long after darkness had swallowed the land. From the back of the trailer, they stretched out a tarp to form a stout lean-to. They emptied the surrounding area of burnable wood. They gathered more stones to enlarge the fire pit and to outline the border of their camp. Everyone pitched in without complaint.

  Hank told them how they were to conduct watch. In addition to their primary stack, two small piles of wood sat to one side of their shelter. He would take first watch. When the first pile of wood was consumed by the fire, he would wake up Marissa. After her pile was consumed, she would wake up Matt.

  The one on watch was to always hold the shotgun in plain view and remain within ten feet of the fire. They couldn’t sit and, except for when feeding it, they were to always be looking out, away from the fire. Hank wanted them to be able to see in the dark as well as possible. But just as importantly, he wanted their silhouette to be seen. If people saw that they were armed, they might think twice about trying something.

  "Keep a shell chambered in case you have to react quickly, but if someone does come close, pump another shell into the chamber," he told them. "It’s pointless, I know, but everyone knows the sound of a pump-action shotgun from TV. Anyone brave enough to come any closer is just asking to be shot. Once the threat has passed, pick up the shell that you ejected and reload it into the magazine. Finally," Hank insisted. "Whoever is not on watch must keep their eyes closed and be quiet, even if you don't sleep. Rest," he stressed, "is essential for our survival."

  Matt and Marissa did not question Hank. Both trusted that his knowledge of hostile situations, given his military service, was far beyond their own. It didn’t matter that he had been a mechanic, so far as they were concerned the Army was the Army. They took every instruction with deadly seriousness and executed their terms with hyper diligence.

  For his part, Hank spent his watch in motion. Chills wracked his body. He couldn’t control himself except by vigorously pacing around the circle of light that the fire pressed into the darkness. Some people did pass before he burned the last of his wood, but they gave wide berth to the camp. When he handed Whisper over to Marissa, she cupped her palm over his forehead.

  "Hank, you’ve got an awfully high fever," she said with deep concern.

  He ducked his head away and said, "And what do you think I should do about it?"

  "You? Nothing. Maybe I should go looking for the Caravan," she said.

  He nodded though shivers. "In the morning, if they’re not here within an hour of
dawn, we’ll ALL go find them." Hank crawled into the nest abandoned by Marissa, tucked his glasses into their hard-case and shivered himself into a feverish slumber.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  She watched him walk from the front of the Duck Truck, where he was talking with Stewart, to the hood of the U-haul. Quickly and quietly, he scaled up to the roof and walked across to her chair. {Stew sent me to relieve you,} Enrique said. To a trained ear, his Spanish was spoken with an educated accent.

  "I’m fine," Andrea replied in English.

  {Stew said I should take over,} he pressed.

  "Stew says a lot of things," she tersely replied.

  Enrique stood by, quietly looking at the stars. After a long silence, he spoke again. {I have not seen the stars shining so brightly since I was a child.}

  Andrea spoke up, casually, but with complete disregard to his musing. "You two seem awfully buddy-buddy. Where do you know him from?"

  {My landscaping business,} he answered. {Stew was one of my clients. He helped me to bring over my family. He gave them jobs.}

  "It was a lucky thing that we had to take that detour," she observed suspiciously. "Or we might have missed you and your family all together."

  Enrique stuffed his hands in his pockets and said, {Yes. That was fortunate.} He pivoted to get a view of the opposite direction. {I can take over. Really, it is no problem.}

  Andrea rubbed her eyes and yawned. "Where’s Silas?"

  {He is asleep. Stew put him on last watch,} Enrique said.

  "What about Dale?"

  {He just went to sleep,} he answered with a mild tone. {You are the only one who has been on watch all day. You should get some sleep too.}

  "Yeah. You’re probably right," she groggily agreed. "It’s not like we aren’t on the same team. Right?" When Enrique didn’t immediately respond she asked again. "Right? We’re on the same team?"