Pavement Ends: The Exodus

by Kurt Gepner

  Tugging thoughtfully on his beard, Hank regarded his wife with admiration. "You make a really good point, Evie," he said. She glowed in his appraisal. He cast his eyes toward a distant horizon.

  It was a place Evie had seen him explore a million times during their marriage. He was playing out all of the potential outcomes from this new possibility. It was a dual point of awe and irritation for her. Sometimes he would be trapped, mesmerized, in that world for hours or days or even weeks. So preoccupied with his musings, it seemed as if his mind had left his body. Eventually, he would return with a plan. Rarely, if ever, would he be wrong about what course of action to take. Equally as rare, could he convince anyone to see his vision.

  With relief, Evie saw his mind return from its journey almost immediately. But she was crestfallen when he shook his head. "No," he said and followed a bite of cheese with a sip of wine.

  "Why not?" Evie demanded.

  "Because, I don’t know the route," he said authoritatively.

  "So?" Evie was invested in her proposal. She hated to lose and she was feeling especially motivated to win. "You know those mountain roads really well. Once we got up there, it wouldn’t take you long to find your way."

  "Look, Evie," he said with a clear attempt at being patient. "When you’re in a tough spot, it’s best to go with what you know." She opened her mouth, but Hank put up a hand before his wife could interrupt him. "Besides the fact that I know this route, I’d also like to check on our friends as we pass through Washougal."

  "I knew it!" she snapped.

  Hank was utterly surprised by her changed demeanor. "What does that mean?" he asked.

  She sighed and shook her head. "I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to check on all of our friends," she said with finger quotes around the last word. "I knew that part of the reason you wanted to go this way was so we could check on our friends."

  It took a few moments of blinking and working his jaw before Hank could find his voice. "What did I miss? Who are you avoiding?"

  Evie paused and looked at nothing in particular out the back of the U-haul. "I didn’t want to say anything, because I know you two are friends." Hank’s mouth pressed into a thin line as he gave all of his attention to what was being told. Again Evie paused, and then reluctantly continued. "Haven’t you noticed that I’ve been avoiding Taylor?"

  Hank blinked and pumped his jaw a few more times. "I hadn’t noticed." His eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked slowly.

  "Of course you didn’t notice," she said with a hint of disgust. "You don’t notice anything that’s not…" she cut herself off. Hank pointedly said nothing. "Let’s just say that he got friendly with me some time ago and I would feel uncomfortable seeing him."

  "You seemed pretty happy to see him when he dropped off the plans for our garage," Hank recollected.

  Evie shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Of course I acted that way. You know I hate awkward situations." She took his hand in hers and looked deep into his eyes. "I should have told you about it back then. I’m sorry. But that was a whole world ago. Things have changed, Hank. I’m sure you’d agree." A glazed expression crossed his eyes and Hank slowly nodded. Not understanding the significance of his expression, she went on. "I have changed, too. That’s why I’m going to ask you directly. Can we go a different way?"

  Absently, he stroked and tugged at his beard as he considered what Evie had just told him. Finally he looked at her. With a deep breath, Hank did something that he had never done before. He said, "No" to a direct request from his wife. He said it definitively and without any lengthy explanation. He said it in such a way that left Evie without any doubt that his mind was solidified on the matter. In disgust, she left her husband to finish his breakfast and set about preparing biscuits and gravy for everybody else.

  After the morning meal, Hank rode in the back of the U-haul with Evie and her side-kick, Amanda, while the members of the Caravan came to visit him. When Dale arrived, the two men gazed at one another. Both men lurched out incomprehensible syllables in an effort to speak. Finally, Hank said, "I’m sorry, Dale. I…"

  Dale slumped and turned away. "Dale…" Hank called out, but his neighbor moped around the corner and back into the crew that was moving cars. Hank looked pained. Evie put aside her cooking and sat down next to her husband.

  "It’s going to take a long time, Hank." She squeezed his hand. "It’s not your fault, but he blames you. And until he accepts that it’s not your fault that Jeremy died, he’s going to be confused and angry."

  "I know all this, Evie," he said. "But he and I do agree on one point."

  "What’s that?" Evie asked earnestly.

  "We both believe that it is my fault that Jeremy died."

  Evie’s brow furrowed with consternation. "That’s ridiculous! It’s not your fault. Why would you say that?"

  "Because, Evie, I am leading this exodus and I accepted responsibility for Jeremy’s wellbeing," he said. "Dale said it before allowing Jeremy to scout. He knows it and so do I."

  "Yes," she nodded. "But you had no control over him getting loaded. Once he took drugs, he took that responsibility away from you. He made the choice to ignore good judgment." Evie persisted. "For that matter, he and Brody defied your orders. How can you accept responsibility for that?"

  Hank struggled to control his rising frustration and his voice grew loud. "I can, because I am responsible! If I hadn’t sent them out, they wouldn’t have had that chance."

  "Bullshit, Hank!" Evie’s volume grew to match her husband. "Brody knew that place was there and didn’t say anything. He already had the pot. Those boys would have snuck off if they didn’t have the opportunity to just ride over there, and you know it!"

  "Maybe," he consented.

  "Definitely!" Evie asserted. "Listen, Hank," she said with another squeeze of his hand. "I can’t stop you from feeling guilty." She rolled her head with an exaggerated flair. "God knows I can’t affect your feelings about anything. But you’d better figure out how to shove it down into a bitter little pill and just swallow it. These people need to see your confidence."

  Hank shook his head. "You’ve always been good at that, Evie; swallowing down your emotions. But I’ve never been good at ignoring my feelings."

  Evie sighed. "It’s time to learn. There are about forty frightened people looking up to you. You talked most of them into joining you and just to make sure they couldn’t say ‘no,’ you signed away their only refuge to a couple of doctors." She stood up with a painful groan. "You don’t have the luxury of self pity any more. So start acting like you have this whole thing planned out, before you scare the hell out of everybody."

  Giving over her attention to the pots of food that she was preparing, Evie had one more pointed look for her husband and said, "If I were you, I would take a lesson from Stew." She spat out the name with profound derision. "Go sit on the cab of the Duck Truck and look like the big burly man you are. Let people see you watching them. They need to feel approved of. You can’t do anything anyway, so you may as well be a figurehead."

  Hank sat, slumped like a rag doll for a moment. Then as if a spell of animation had given him new life, he sat up, pursed his lips and nodded with a sigh. "You’re right, Evie. About all of it," he said. His wife’s jaw dropped. Hank pushed himself up and climbed out of the U-haul. As he left, he said, "If you need me, I’ll be sitting on the roof of the Duck Truck, looking important." His wife nearly fainted as she watched him take up his walking staff and limp toward the head of the Caravan.

  From the vantage of his new perch, Hank piloted their course and set people in motion. Trying to cover distance wasn’t enough. He could have the men and women pushing the sparse littering of cars out of the way fast enough for the Duck Truck to move along at walking speed, but they needed supplies. It had been a part of his plan, all along, but Stew had taken it to extreme. Unlike the mutinous infiltrator, Hank kept his collections to a tight path, limiting the type of things gathered to what would have an immediate ap
plication for their survival.

  The Caravan’s new addition, the trailer that he and Marissa had pedaled from Portland, was now cleverly connected to the back of the sixteen-foot trailer by means of nylon towing strap. Tom had devised the system. The middle of the strap was wrapped, several times around the tongue of the small trailer and secured with duct tape, a substance that Tom favored even more than Hank. The ends of the strap were doubled over and nailed, one on each side, to the floor boards of the sixteen-foot trailer. This method of attachment even allowed the smaller trailer to articulate without difficulty.

  The Duck Truck was beginning to show the strain of pulling this new caboose. The engine labored loudly when it started the Caravan rolling. Hank was becoming worried that the old beast wouldn’t be able to get them, and all of their possessions, to the Meadow. At their next stop, he called an impromptu meeting.

  "We need to revise our strategy," he said to the group that stood around him. They waited respectfully for him to continue. There were so many faces and a few of them he didn’t recognize. Hank suppressed a flash of doubt and concentrated on expressing his thoughts. "Our load is a lot heavier than when we started. The Duck Truck has met its match." Reaching out his hand, Hank fondly stroked the hood of the noble green behemoth. He felt awkward and crowded standing amidst the clustering faces. "It will be more dangerous, as we have learned, but we’re going to have to clear longer stretches of road between hops."

  Andrea spoke up at this point. "My accuracy with the thirty-thirty drops off quite a bit after two-hundred yards. That’s double the distance we’ve been going. I would feel okay with that." Several nods and murmurs of agreement followed her statement.

  Shaking his head Hank said, "That’s not enough. I think we should clear a mile at a time, so long as we can keep in sight of everybody."

  The crowd shuffled with agitation and the murmurs of agreement turned into grumbles of dissent. Silas spoke up. His rumbling baritone voice soothed the crowd as he voiced their communal thought. "I don’t mean to question your judgment, Captain, but I sure would feel safer if we was all stayin’ in shoutin’ distance."

  Hank smiled at his new friend. Silas had a way of making a good idea belong to somebody else. He felt compelled to compromise. "The range of that pistol," he said with a nod toward the weapon holstered at the older man’s side, "is about three-hundred yards. How about we stretch out five-hundred yards at a jump?"

  A certain amount of tension passed from the crowd and Silas’ smile confirmed that a deal had been struck. "Okay, then," Hank said. "Let’s get to it."

  For miles down State Route Fourteen the Caravan threaded its way like a crippled centipede, devouring the carrion of a freshly fallen civilization. Lumber, tools, barrels and other artifacts, which could not be easily carried by pedestrians, composed the majority of the souvenirs collected. So long as it didn’t begin to break traction, Hank felt confident about adding to its burden, but he paid the aging beast close attention.

  Most wayfarers fearfully avoided the Caravan, which now numbered forty-two souls. The few who did come near were desperate for food, or medical aid. Hank traded a can or two of food or some first aide for information, but warned them not to tell anybody what they received and not to follow. Those who were helped were so grateful that they honored his terms.

  What Hank was able to glean from his dealings was that the town of Washougal was organizing. The city was small enough and rural enough that most of its population was inwardly friendly or related. Those bonds, plus some quick thinking and strong leadership from the mayor, had people in the town working together. They weren’t letting strangers in, but they were letting them pass through, so long as they stayed on SR 14. Moreover, they were trading goods with those who had anything worth trading.

  All of this news came with contradictions and embellishments, but Hank sorted out the consistent parts. He felt hopeful, but also concerned. He wasn’t well enough armed to make any sort of stand against the kind of organization that he was hearing about, so if the authorities there wanted to confiscate any of their equipment, or even the Duck Truck, there would be nothing the Caravan could do about it. Also, his route led them directly through town. If Washougal wasn’t allowing anybody in, Hank knew an alternate course, but that would take them miles past the town and force them to double back. That option was definitely not one that he wanted to exercise.

  As they approached a bridge that spanned the water to Lady Island, they encountered an elderly man laboriously rolling himself Westward in a rickety wheelchair that was more twine and tape than anything else. The man beamed a toothless smile and waved at the Car Pushers as they toiled to clear a path for the Caravan, but he did not come near or ask for any help. Hank called for a stop and climbed down from his perch to talk with the old man.

  "Well, hello," the man rasped, breathlessly. His neck seemed to have a permanent crook, causing him to look up at Hank from under his brow. "My name is John. I hoped you would stop and visit."

  Hank tried to mask his despair over John’s condition. He was covered in lesions and his skin and eyes were a sickly shade of yellow. Hank called out over his shoulder. "Get Theresa up here!" Turning back to the man, he said, "Hi John. Are you sick?"

  John chuckled for a moment and then his chuckle grew into an ironic, but full-bellied laugh. Through the phlegm coating his every utterance, he laughed and laughed, until his laughter died in a fit of gurgled coughing. By the time he recovered, Theresa had arrived and immediately began examining him.

  "Hello, Pretty Lady, my name is John."

  "Do you know your condition, John?" She asked him as she took his pulse.

  "You’re so sweet," he said. "You must be a doctor."

  "I’m a registered nurse," she corrected.

  "Oh, I should have known," he playfully admonished himself. "You’re a lot nicer than a doctor. Bet you haven’t seen anyone quite like me before."

  "You’re right, John," she said after looking at the crook of his arms. "I’m guessing that you’re at least a few days overdue for hemodialysis?"

  John’s face pulled into a toothless grin and he looked up a Hank. His gums were pale and covered with sores. "She’s smart." He looked back at Theresa. "What’s your name, Darling?" She answered him. John took her left hand in his own palsied paw and eyeballed it critically. Then he asked, "Will you marry me, Theresa?"

  Hank couldn’t repress a smile at the old man’s antics. Theresa smiled too. "No, John, I have a fiancé."

  "Heh? No, you say? He’s lucky," John said with a snicker.

  She knelt before him, holding his hands in her own. "John, I don’t know how to say this, but you should be in horrible pain… Are you on medication?" Theresa asked.

  John gave her a crooked smile and slowly shook his head. "Oh… It’s not so bad."

  A long moment passed as the two regarded each other. Finally, Theresa stood and got behind John. Taking the handles of his wheelchair, she pushed him to the U-haul. "Come on, John," she said. "I can make you comfortable."

  John let a childish giggle escape and asked, "Are we going on our honeymoon?"

  Rolling her eyes, Theresa laughed and said, "No, John. You don’t have much time. We’re going to get you a hot meal and make you comfortable." Over her shoulder she asked, "Hank, do you still have some honey?"

  Hank was already climbing into the bed of the Duck Truck as he said, "I’ll bring you some, right away."

  "Wait a minute," TJ spoke up. "You’ve got honey? And you’re going to just give it to that guy?" TJ’s tone bloomed increasingly indignant. "Look at him! He’s going to be dead by tomorrow!" Lexi, Jessie and Phim were standing behind TJ, clearly in solidarity with him.

  Hank ignored the younger man. "Hank!" TJ barked in demand of attention. "I’m serious. Why are you wasting something as valuable as that?"

  After relocating a heavy toolbox, Hank turned toward TJ. Most of the Caravan community had gathered and Hank scanned the crowd as he gathered his thoughts. "
Tell you what, TJ, if you find yourself knocking on death’s door, I’ll keep in mind that you don’t want us to waste any compassion or precious supplies on your comfort. But don’t project your selfishness on me."

  "It’s not the same, Hank, and you know it! You’ve turned away dozens of people asking for handouts. Sure," TJ folded his arms high across his chest, "you traded some for a little information. At least you got something out of it. What’s he going to do? Eat and die, that’s what." The answer TJ gave to his own rhetorical question sounded as if he were speaking of a stray dog. "We don’t know him from Joe Shmoe."

  "We don’t know him," Hank repeated TJ’s words. "Let’s see here, I’ve known you for… What?" Hank thoughtfully tugged on his beard. "Almost a week?" He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That’s a long time. You’re practically family."

  "Dad!" Lexi stepped forward, beside TJ. "That’s not fair!"

  Hank raised his brows at his daughter. "Lexi… Do you seriously think that it’s right to turn away a dying person for no reason?"

  "We’re running off to the mountains because of the end of the world as we know it," she replied with arms crossed identically to TJ. "That’s a pretty good reason!"

  Looking around at the landscape, Hank saw a few people ahead on the road and nobody behind them. Pursing his lips and slowly shaking his head, he said. "Are you really telling me that your mother and I have raised you to believe that a little bit of honey is more valuable than easing the pain of an old dying man?"

  Lexi turned and looked TJ in the eye. Then she lowered her eyes to the ground and walked away without a word.

  TJ was not so easily cowed and he stood firm. "Hank, you invited us to join the Caravan. Now we’re in this together." He unfolded his arms and beseeched Hank with his hands. "We should have a vote for things like this."

  Hank said, "No" and gave his attention back to digging out the honey.

  "No?" TJ was dumbfounded. "But…. We…. You…." he faltered.