by E. E. Borton
“You didn’t stick around long enough to know for sure,” said Sam, taking my hand again. “You thought you were betraying me, so you left them behind. It broke my heart seeing you walk away.”
“I buried her husband. Was I that crazy thinking it may have been a bit soon to start a relationship with his widow?”
“Like you said, look around, angel. Normal rules don’t apply to anything anymore. All Hope saw is that you have a good heart and a strong will. There are few things more valuable these days. I don’t blame her for wanting to hold on to you.”
“Are you asking me to go back?” I said. “Because if you are, the answer is flat out no. I’m almost there, baby. I’ll be there by dusk. When I climb out of this canyon and stand at the north end of this park, I’ll be able to see Bootleg Mountain. I’ll be able to see home.”
“Whose home? Yours?”
“Um, yes, Sam. It’s kind of the reason why I’ve been walking, dodging bullets, and trying to survive on this fucked up planet for the past two weeks. I’m going home.”
“Let me ask you something, and I want you to be honest, okay?”
“Sure.”
“If I were alive and decided to stay in Atlanta when all this happened, would you be here? Would you be going home?”
This time, I stopped her. I pulled my hand away, staring at her. I couldn’t see my own face, but I’m sure it didn’t look happy. Sam was not only in my head, but she was fucking with it. I didn’t know why, but I seemed to be letting her.
“No,” I said. “I’d be wherever you wanted me to be. It would be a mistake to stay, and we’d be dead in a week, but no. I’d never leave you.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“I know that, but why would you stay with me, knowing we’d be dead in a week? Do you remember what you told me on the swing under the oak at Hope’s house?”
“I do.”
“Then say it to me again.”
“I said you’re my home.”
“Yes, you did. And as much as I love hearing that, it’s not possible anymore. I can never be your home, but someone else can.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” I said. “You made it clear to me that you’re just a memory I’m holding on to with a white knuckle grip. I get it. But that’s all I have right now. Does it matter what I use as long as it gets me where I need to be? What’s the problem with my wanting to stabilize my life by going somewhere familiar? Somewhere I might actually feel safe.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, sweetie,” said Sam. “Of course, I want you to feel, and be, safe. My only fear is that you’re going to be disappointed when you get there. I worry it’s not going to give you the comfort or the answers you’re looking for.”
“Well, I guess that’s a lesson I need to learn,” I said. “And I’ve come a long way to learn it. I’m tired, Sam. Just walk with me for a bit longer. We don’t even have to talk.”
“Okay,” replied Sam. “You know that’s not going to be easy for me, but okay.”
I took her hand and we made our way down to the waterfall. After a brief pause to enjoy the scene, we started up the other side. Having her with me allowed me to ignore the aching in my ribs and throbbing muscles in my legs. (I went through most of my water keeping up a brisk pace.) The thought of seeing Bootleg Mountain fueled my resolve to push forward.
The trail leveled off as we reached the outer rim of the canyon. I felt invigorated, recognizing the last elevated section of the path that would take me to the highest point in the park. From there I’d be able to see my mountain. From there it was only a seven mile walk to my front door.
Not being satisfied as I reached the high point on the trail, I let go of Sam’s hand to climb a boulder that would give me a better view. As I stood tall, I saw Bootleg. It was the second most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. When I reached down for the first, she was gone.
I was doing a better job of understanding why she was leaving me without saying goodbye, but it still took away some of the sweetness of the moment. It wasn’t enough of a loss to remove the smile off my face or the sense of accomplishment from my inflating chest. With everything that had happened to me since I left Atlanta, I couldn’t help but feel I beat the odds.
Four hours. That’s all I had left on this journey.
From that elevation I could see pillars of thick, black smoke rising from several points in the distance. I could also see the dark bands of rain descending from the gray roof above me, heading my way. Both were reminders that Mother Nature and man were out there working on their next sinister plans.
Leaving the park trail, stepping onto the isolated road that would lead me to Bootleg, the rain hit me. It cooled my face and the air around me, allowing me to press on with a determined stride. Three hours later, I found myself standing at the mailbox with my parents’ name burned into the wooden post.
Sam was wrong. I was home.
Chapter 29
Photographs
As I walked up the quarter-mile driveway to the house, my pain and exhaustion disappeared. It was replaced with a euphoric high as I anticipated making the last turn on the dirt road that was canopied by trees. It felt like I had been holding my breath since I saw the mailbox. I exhaled when the house came into view. It was perfect.
The first thing I noticed was all the windows were intact. The second thing I noticed was that it was more beautiful than I remembered. My father and several of his friends built most of the home over a period of three years. He only used contractors for the electrical and plumbing. Dad was strong, resourceful, and determined to build my mother’s dream. When he finished, he had exceeded her wildest expectations.
I stood outside for a moment, taking in the elegance of the hand-crafted home. My father built most of the house using cedar and spruce for the exterior that was fully scribed. (As each log was laid, he carved out the joint by hand on the next for a flawless fit.) It’s the most difficult process for building, but the end result was worth every hour of labor.
The front of the home was simple in its design. There was no yard, just a small front porch with stairs that came off the gravel driveway. It was built on the side of Bootleg Mountain, so the front view was of the upward slope with no sky. The majesty of the location was revealed once a guest stepped inside.
From the front it appeared to be a single-story house. There was a dramatic drop in the slope which hid the lower two levels beneath the first. I carried one house key in my pocket. When the lock gave way and the door opened, so did most of the emotion I had been carrying for a very long time. Everything inside was still in its place.
Familiarity didn’t lower my awareness as I pulled the shotgun from my pack. As I stepped on the oak floor of the foyer, I scanned from left to right, looking down the halls leading to the rooms that flanked the landing. After I cleared them, noticing that nothing had been disturbed, I returned to stand in the foyer.
In front of me were the stairs that took me down to the main room that occupied two stories. Looking up from the last stair, I marveled at the thick wooden beams that crisscrossed the thirty-foot vaulted ceiling. There were no walls to restrict the panoramic view through the enormous windows that reached the ceiling. It didn’t matter if you were standing in the spacious kitchen, the dining room that could accommodate fifteen, or the living room with every seat pointed toward the windows, the view of the valley was stunning.
I checked every space on the second floor for stowaways. Finding none, I made my way to the last level. Built as a guest suite, the third floor was as wide open as the second, but the ceiling was lower. It did nothing to take away from the view through the bay windows. Once I was satisfied there was nobody inside, I returned to the main room to gain access to the place where we spent most of our time as a family.
Opening the French doors, I stepped out onto the massive deck. Again, I was pleased to see everything intact. The heavy outdoor furniture had endured
Mother Nature’s attacks, sitting defiantly, still facing east. (My parents preferred the sunrise over the sunset.)
I removed my pack, dropping it to the deck, brushed the debris off one of the chairs, and collapsed into it. My exhaustion and pain returned, but not at an intensity that could overwhelm my joy and satisfaction. Some people believe it’s more about the journey than the destination. I thought about how very wrong those people were.
Reflection of my life on the road would have to wait. Looking forward to the best night of rest I’ve had in a while, I started the process of properly securing my home. In two large storage rooms flanking the house, there were more than enough materials for the project. My father, ever resourceful, anticipated being stranded for long periods of time during the winter months. He knew they’d be cut off from the world below the mountain. If any repairs needed to be done, he was ready.
Using what strength I had left, I used the heavy lumber to build hurricane-proof shutters for the windows that could be reached from the ground and fashioned sturdy bar locks for two of the four doors. The two remaining doors were sealed shut. It would take a SWAT team with battering rams several minutes to breach them. That would give me more than enough time to prepare for a fight or prepare to run. I was tired of running.
When I was satisfied the first line of defense against man – and nature – was adequate for a good night’s sleep, I started the task of inventorying weapons and food. If I ever saw my father’s brother again, I’d say nothing but give him a hug. After my parents died my uncle helped me maintain the house. His last visit was two months earlier, but he had restocked the pantries with enough food to last me at least twelve weeks. His was one of the few faces that would be welcome in my home.
Being an avid hunter, my uncle often used the house for excursions around Bootleg. When I opened the gun cabinet, my father’s normal stock of weapons and ammunition was doubled. Along with two scoped rifles, two shotguns, and two .50-caliber pistols was an AR-15. When I held the weapon I wasn’t surprised to see a selector switch, allowing the gun to be fired in single, three-round-burst, or fully automatic mode. (My father never would’ve allowed an illegal firearm to be stored in his collection, but I don’t think he’d have a problem with it now.) Opening a drawer at the bottom of the cabinet, I estimated there were at least 500 rounds of ammunition for the assault rifle. That would make a big pile of dead cowards if they came calling.
When the rain stopped, the clouds parted, allowing the last few hours of daylight to illuminate the mountain. I walked outside to inspect the large utility shack my father built on the high side of the property. There were two large tanks inside holding the resources that would provide me many of the comforts of home.
One held the propane used for cooking, heat, and hot water for the shower. My uncle must have ordered a delivery of gas on his last visit. A smile crept across my face, looking at the gauge showing a full tank. Used sparingly, the thousand-gallon container would last me a year, if not longer.
Holding a more valuable resource, the two-thousand gallon water tank was also full. It was replenished during every rainstorm by a series of intakes attached to the gutters around the utility shack. (The oversized roof on the building was there for a reason.) The entire plumbing system on the property was gravity fed, requiring no electric pumps.
There were three layers of water filtration starting at the main feed to the house, removing most of the impurities. A more vigorous system was attached to the pipes that brought water to the sinks and showers. The most intense purification equipment was installed in the kitchen, providing safe drinking water. (Just in case, I planned on boiling anything I was going to consume.)
Realizing the power provided by the county via an underground cable would be lost on a regular basis, my father installed two small diesel generators in the shack. I only spent a few minutes pulling the starting cords before turning my attention elsewhere. I’d have plenty of time to figure out the problem in the coming days and weeks; if the problem could be solved at all.
With the shadows of dusk settling on the mountain, I returned to the house to prepare dinner. Like the water system, my father made sure the gas system didn’t require electricity to function. When I saw the tiny blue flame as I lit the pilot light on the water heater and stove, I knew my dreams of hot shower and home cooked meal were about to come true.
After the best shower – and canned ham – of my life, I stood like a kid in a candy store in front of the liquor cabinet. (Oh, yes, my uncle would get one hell of a hug if I ever saw him again.) It was as well stocked as everything else in the house.
I poured myself a tall glass and walked around the living room, taking advantage of the last light of the day. I threw caution to the wind and built a roaring fire. I envisioned my parents sitting in their plush chairs holding hands and their drinks, watching another flawless day on Bootleg come to an end. I smiled, thankful that they weren’t around to see the beginning of the end of all days. But wherever they were, I imagined they were smiling as well, knowing their dream home was saving their son’s life.
Standing in front of the mantel of the stone fireplace, I felt the comfort of seeing their faces in framed photographs. In all but one (their wedding day), I looked into my own face at different stages of my life. From an infant to a small child to a teenager, fond memories of my life with them were displayed in front of me. There weren’t any as I grew into an adult, trying to find my path in the world. It didn’t matter. They prepared me well for any I chose. That included the path I was on that I never wanted. My only regret was that they died before they could meet my girl.
“You look just like him,” said Sam, putting her head on my shoulder. “And your mother is gorgeous.”
“She was tough like you,” I said, taking a sip. “She had to be, marrying my father. That guy was a hard nut to crack, but she did it. He’d do anything for her. He built all this for her.”
“It’s magnificent,” said Sam, turning her gaze up at the vaulted ceiling. “The view is breathtaking. He must have loved her very much.”
“My bride,” I said. “That’s what he called her. They met in high school and were married in their junior year in college. They told me neither one could wait until they graduated.”
“What was it like, growing up as their only child?” asked Sam.
“I always had their undivided attention,” I answered. “Most times that was a good thing, but on a few occasions it wasn’t, especially when I grew older. My dad would get upset with me when I went too long without visiting his bride. She’d get upset with me when I’d cancel on a fishing trip with her husband.”
“Did that happen often?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And it happened more often as they got older,” I said. “It’s the only thing I wish I could’ve changed. You know, my understanding that they weren’t going to be around forever. At least I was smart enough to recognize when they were getting sick. I was with both of them when they died.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” said Sam. “That must have been horrible to watch.”
“No, the truth is, it wasn’t,” I said. “I mean, knowing they were hurting, yes. My dad died three months after my mom. In those three months, we had never been closer. I spent most of those last days right here with him. They both died peacefully in their sleep. The way I wish you would’ve.”
She wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace. I put my glass on the mantel, responding with a squeeze. It became more my home with her there with me. The weight of the road lifted off my shoulders as I closed my eyes, feeling the tears dampen my cheeks. I missed her more in that moment than the day she was taken from me.
Chapter 30
(Day 28)
Epiphany
It had been two weeks since I walked through the front door of my house. I woke up this morning earlier than usual, stepping onto the deck with a cup of coffee and no plans for the day. I had learned much since I came home. The lesson repeating itself in
my head was how devastatingly quiet and isolated my world had become. They say to be careful what you wish for. If “they” were standing here in front of me, I’d probably put a few rounds through the shotgun.
Staying focused and busy during the first week was no problem. After securing the house, building a network of tripwires around the property, and constructing booby-traps at both entry points, I started the gardens. There were no flat clearings of earth within a mile of the cabin, so I had to create them on the driveway.
I built two twenty-by-twenty wooden frames – with plans to build more – that held nearly two feet of soil. (At first I attempted to till the road, but after digging up layers of gravel, I hit rock.) After filling them with soil, I made a varmint fence with chicken wire. Using the seeds my mother stored for her smaller version beside the utility shack, I finished the job in a grueling three days. I was glad to find her copy of the Farmer’s Almanac to determine which seeds to plant. I had never attempted to grow a garden of this magnitude – or importance – in my life. I wouldn’t know if I succeeded until early fall. That was at least two months away.
It was a difficult decision, but I obstructed most of the breathtaking view from the main room with plywood and lumber. It was too easy for a coward to break the large windows from the deck, gaining easy access to the entire house. I felt more secure inside, but I managed to quickly transform something beautiful into something ugly. I could feel my parents’ displeasure with every swing of the hammer. I did my best to put as few nails in the walls as possible. It was as if I still held on to a glimmer of hope that I’d be able to remove them if 8:14 came to pass.
There was plenty of canned and dehydrated food in the pantries, but I wanted to consume it as sparingly as possible. On the early evening of the fifth day home, dinner walked right up the mountain, standing fifty yards downhill from the deck. (I was hoping it wasn’t my friend Buck from the flashflood, but I couldn’t pass up the easy opportunity.) I was surprised to see him standing in the same spot after I went inside to retrieve a rifle. As if he were offering himself to me, he turned slightly to give me a perfect profile shot. After squeezing the trigger, the powerful weapon did its job well.
