Peter didn’t spend any time at all frozen in place, or grieving over what he’d done. He simply checked to make sure that Elsie, Natasha, and Lang were alright. He looked up for a moment, as if deciding if he should chase the other two bandits into the woods to retrieve the backpacks, but he decided against it. At his age and in his condition, he probably would not catch them, and he’d definitely leave his three friends in danger. If the bandits were working with anyone else, it would not be wise to split his group. In any event, the time lost wouldn’t benefit anyone. The two packs were simply gone. He shook his head as if to apologize.
Peter quickly made a mental rundown of the situation. They’d gained a battle rifle, but at immense cost. He was not sure that he would have made that trade. He worried about the loss of medicines and food, but what was done was done. And they still had Lang’s pack.
Lang’s pack!
“Lang! Where is your backpack, son?”
“Oh! Uh… I left it in the trees when I heard the ruckus. I’ll run back and get it.”
“No. Wait, Lang,” Peter said, firmly. “We’ll go together.”
Walking over to retrieve the pack, Peter checked the weapon, pulled out the clip and felt the heft so he could determine its capacity and estimate how many rounds were likely in it. His mind continued cataloging, prioritizing, and planning. Killing the bandit in self-defense was something he’d had to do, and this was not the time to fret over things that could not be undone.
With the pack retrieved, they walked back to the body of the dead accountant, and Peter knelt and began frisking the corpse. In his pockets, he found a cell phone (dead), car keys (useless), a pen (useful), and a tube of Chapstick (useful). Actually, he thought, the phone and the keys were useful for other things, too, so stuck them into the side pockets of his pants. As he did so, he made a mental note that the man had all of these things with him that were, for someone like him, now useless, but he did not have a lighter or a knife. What kind of man doesn’t carry the simple things that he should have with him at all times? Peter shook his head. But what kind of man lets such a man sneak up on him in broad daylight?
The dead man had no wallet, or, at least he had no wallet on him. As he finished the quick frisk, Peter looked up at Lang when he noticed the wedding ring on the man’s finger. Gold. He slipped it off with some difficulty, and, catching Elsie’s wince, he looked at her without shame on his face. “This will pay for what his friends stole.” He adopted a tone that was not angry or scolding, but was instructional and encouraging. He hoped that she was the kind of person who could take patient instruction.
“Sentimental notions like leaving gold on the ground while thieves run through the forest with our property, those have no place among us anymore. We certainly need to keep our humanity, but humanity has been accompanied with a large dosage of sentimental stupidity of late.” He waved his hand as if in accusation at the world. “All this… this collapse… it is all a part of the result of that kind of madness. We didn’t steal from this man. We didn’t provoke him, or cause him to do evil things. He made me kill him. He would have kept coming at me until I did, which amplifies his guilt.”
Peter studied her face to see how she was taking his words.
“We need to be able to replace our gear at some point, and we’ll need to buy it from someone, since we will not use our guns to steal. This is merely recompense for the trouble he has caused us.”
He looked around again at the faces of the others, scanning for understanding. All three of his friends nodded at him. He might have seen, though he probably did not, that they were even grateful. As they searched their hearts, they found a willingness to let the strongest among them carry not only the heaviest burden, but also the weightiest questions. Peter showed, by his demeanor, that he, too, was grateful. With a sideways smile he indicated that he realized that part of the reason they now found themselves in this predicament, having their food and medicine sprinting away from them in the hands of interlopers, was that he’d allowed himself a moment of all-too human frailty and had relaxed his watch. He tried to reassure them with his eyes that he felt his burden and accepted it, and that he would not let it happen again.
With that, the four turned on their heels, turned back up the mountain, and headed toward the southwest, continuing their climb.
****
An hour after the incident, they stopped for rest and decided to eat some food. They only had Lang’s backpack now, and Natasha carried it so that Peter could wield the rifle more easily. Lang’s arm was beginning to hurt him, and Elsie was wheezing from the long, slow climb up the mountain.
Peter hiked out a few hundred feet into the woods and picked a good place to hide himself so that he could stand guard while the others rested and ate. The other three did not sit clumped together in a group despite the fact that Peter stood guard over them. They kept themselves spread out by several yards, just far enough apart so that they could still talk and interact while minimizing the likelihood that a sniper or attacker, should there be one out there somewhere, could get to them all at once. They opened up the bag and pulled out some foil packs of tuna, and Natasha went through the process of starting a small fire to warm them and to boil and purify more water.
After a half hour, Lang went and took the rifle and replaced Peter so that Peter could eat and rest awhile. Before the two men parted, Lang stopped Peter and indicated that they should both squat down so that they could maintain cover while they spoke. Lang winced a little when he knelt down, and Peter noticed it.
“How are you doing, Lang?”
“I’m alright. Just a little sore and tired.” He wiped a sleeve across his face. “I’ll make it.”
“We’re going to have to stop at some point and take a look at that wound.”
“I know, but listen, that’s not why I want to speak to you.”
“Oh? Is something wrong?” Peter asked.
“Peter…” Lang started. He paused and thought for a second as he looked around, his head on a swivel, remaining vigilant even while they spoke. Peter did the same, but at this point, their eyes met. “Peter, I know you blame yourself for what happened back there – us falling into the hands of those bandits. I know you do—”
Peter tried to interrupt him, but Lang stopped him with a raised hand.
“Listen to me, Peter, and I’ll say what I want to say. We need to keep this short. I don’t expect a reply or an argument.”
Lang was only eighteen, but he had matured more in the last few days than in all of the previous years of his life combined. Peter recognized this, nodded, and looked downwards for a second.
“I know you blame yourself for that, and, well, wedo need to be more vigilant if we want to survive. I get all of that. Nevertheless, no man can keep us perfectly safe in this new world. No man. There are four of us, and in these woods, and now this country - there are simply too many people to expect we won’t run across someone. Starving people, angry people, criminal people, lonely people,” he paused again, giving his statement some weight. “The best team of Special Forces soldiers in the world couldn’t guarantee that they won’t stumble into a firefight or an ambush. No amount of being alert is going to guarantee that. Nor can anyone guarantee that we won’t die out here. In fact, just the opposite is true. We will all die some time. We can’t cover this team the way it should be covered, and we don’t know the terrain. The hostile forces out there outnumber us by the millions. Let’s not fall prey to this notion that just because we have guns and a little training there will be no mistakes, or that we can’t be surprised and overwhelmed.”
Peter looked up at him, nodding, but did not speak, so Lang continued.
“I just want you to know that none of us expects you to be God. You’re not qualified for that job. We need to learn from our mistakes and get better, but only a fool would think that anyone could do much better than you’ve done. After all, and I mean this with the utmost in love and respect, Peter, but, after all, you are
a middle-aged man who has been out of practice for a decade or more. And you’re shepherding three people who have little more than desk training and theory. Natasha and I? Our training was in spy craft and deception, not in wilderness survival or unit defense tactics. So don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”
Peter looked at him and closed his eyes for a moment. He was very thankful to hear Lang’s words, like a man given permission to be human, with all his frailties intact. He reached out, grabbed Lang’s hand, and allowed the young man to lift him as he stood and shook out his creaky bones. “Okay, my son.” He smiled into the eyes of his young friend. He lightly patted Lang on his good shoulder, then walked back toward the camp and left Lang to watch and guard.
****
While he lay down to sleep for a short nap, Natasha and Elsie talked more about their situation, what they hoped to find if they succeeded in reaching Amish country, telling the small tales of life that had led them to this point, branching off into the wilderness of conversation as old friends might. Each of them encouraged the other to stay strong, to be more vigilant, and to persevere.
“Peter saved us yet again,” Natasha whispered, smiling at the man sleeping huddled in the snow with his head propped up by a smooth rock.
“I get the feeling that he is very fond of you and Lang, and that he’s glad to be able to protect you and to take care for you,” Elsie replied.
“He’s a good man,” Natasha said. She looked on him fondly, and wondered how she’d never noticed his gentle side before.
“I see that.”
“He’s lost his family, and we’re all he really has.”
“Oh!” Elsie started, “were they—?”
“No. No. I’m sorry,” Natasha said. “They left long ago. He hasn’t seen them in twenty years.”
“Divorce, then?”
“No. Oh… Listen… Elsie, I’m sorry,” Natasha said, suddenly remembering that, even though they had already passed through a great deal together in a short time, it was not her place to share Peter’s story if he didn’t want it known. “I probably shouldn’t be talking about him. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s his business to tell you about himself as he sees fit. I just…” she stammered, embarrassed for having taken the conversation into more private concerns, “…I just wanted you to know that he is a very good man.”
“I do know. I see that,” Elsie said, smiling. “So, my dear, let’s just leave it at that.” She looked at Natasha and gave her the kind of loving smile that a mother gives a daughter. Natasha noticed it, and she was happy to have seen it.
Just as the two women finished their conversation, they heard the sharp crack of a small-caliber rifle being fired. Peter jumped to his feet, just in time to see Lang sauntering into camp swinging a white rabbit that he’d shot with the .22 Marlin. Without saying a word, Lang tossed the rabbit so that it landed within a few feet of the fire, and, keeping his head on a swivel and his eyes alive, he turned softly and walked back to his station to stand guard.
CHAPTER 25
Peter figured that they were within thirty minutes of reaching the outskirts of Carbondale when, while coming over a low-rising hill, they happened upon three men sitting around a fire. Peter saw them first, and the three men saw Peter’s gun almost immediately.
Two of the men leapt up from the log they were sitting on and sprinted away as though they were acting out of pure instinct. The third, reacting more slowly, sat frozen in place for a moment. He watched the four hikers approach him, and he finally rose to his feet and began backing away while keeping his eyes on them. Peter lowered the weapon, raised up a hand and tried to indicate with his eyes and his actions that he meant no harm.
The man looked uncertain, as if he were about to run after his mates, when Lang said calmly, “Listen, sir, we mean you no harm. You can go peacefully, or call your friends and have them return to your fire. We’re just traveling through. We didn’t see you from further away, due to the hill, or we would have avoided you. We have no desire to hurt anyone. And we’re not bandits. We’re simply passing on.”
“Umm…” the man sputtered, his eyes racing from point to point as his mind flipped through his options and the probabilities attached to each. “Yes. Well, okay then. I’ll just… I’ll just go get them. They won’t have gone far. I’ll be right back.”
The man began to walk nervously away through the trees, almost as if he expected Peter to shoot him in the back at any moment. After a few seconds of this trepidation walking, he broke out into a run as though the anxiety was simply too much.
“Do you think he’ll come back? Elsie asked.
“I don’t know,” Peter replied. He looked at Elsie, then at Natasha and Lang and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “This is what life is like now.”
“What can you do?” Peter said. “Everyone is spooked. And they should be. These people seem harmless enough, but keep your eyes on them and watch their every movement. Watch how they interact with one another. Be looking for clues that perhaps they are not as harmless as they look.”
Before long, the three men came walking back sheepishly through the woods. They did not look malevolent, but they were very nervous, like cattle, hungry but cautious.
Lang spoke first. “We apologize for interrupting you. As I am sure your friend here has told you, we’re just traveling through. We mean no harm at all. We’ve seen our share of death and violence, and we understand your concerns. We’ve lost our homes, and we’re traveling into Pennsylvania to meet up with some friends.”
One of the men, the one who had been too slow to escape at first, shuffled his feet in the snow and then looked up at Peter, and then at Lang. He nodded his head to the two women with them, as if by way of formal greeting.
“Well, if you are traveling into Pennsylvania, you’ll be glad to know that you’ve been there for some time. We came from Carbondale, just over that hill. You can see it from up-top there.” He pointed along a ridgeline to the southwest and squinted into the sun.
Lang nodded at the man, thanking him. “We don’t intend to go there—not into town—but if you have any news you’d be willing to share, we’d appreciate it. At some point we’re going to have to find some supplies or—at the very least—some way to find out what’s in front of us.” He left a kind of open-ended invitation hanging in the air for the men to tell them anything they found to be appropriate.
“I’ll tell you,” the man said, with a bitterness that verged on anger barely disguised in his voice. His visceral passion was surprising to the four hikers. “You don’t want to go anywherenear Carbondale. In fact, we’re still too close to it for my own comfort.” He looked sideways at his colleagues, and Peter judged that their proximity to the city had been a matter of some debate as they’d sat around their campfire. “And as for supplies, I think you’re gonna be out of luck, man.”
“What’s going on in Carbondale?”
The three men exchanged looks that betrayed a shared experience, and in their looks, Peter saw what he could only call fear. The air between them dripped with anxiety and concern.
“The town’s been taken over by the National Guard.” One of the men snorted at the mention of that name. “Supposedly,” the man said, making quotes around the word with his fingers, “they did it to help feed and shelter refugees pouring into the area from New York and the surrounding area. A couple of weeks ago, the town had about 9,000 people living in it. It was nice. We grew up there,” the man said, making a little waving motion with his fingers, pointing back and forth between his mates. “Industrial town, but nice. Anyway, it was a little outlying suburb of Scranton. But…” the man’s voice halted a bit, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds before he started talking again. “Scranton is gone. It’s just gone. Burned to the ground. And now there are over 100,000 people in what can only be called an internment camp. A death camp. Something like out of the war.” He didn’t say which war, but, judging by their age, Peter guessed that he probably meant the
one their grandfathers had likely fought in, the Second World War. “There are thousands more arriving by day and by night. It’s a hellhole.”
“What do you mean? How so?” Lang asked. He reached up and soothed his aching shoulder as he did, feeling the heat of the wound radiate along his arm.
Another man picked up the conversation and answered. There was anger in his voice as well. “The place has turned into nothing more than a prison camp. The National Guard unit running the place was up from Missouri to help in the emergency following Hurricane Sandy and the Nor’easter. They were working in New York, I believe. When all the power went out and the authority structure broke down—whatever that was that knocked out all the lights—they just took control. Rolled through here and began knocking people around. They supply the camp by doing raids in the surrounding area. They rob farms, loot whatever stores are left, kill people in their homes.” The man relayed this information as though he himself couldn’t quite believe it, emphasizing at the end of each phrase a kind of incredulity, as though there had been something sacred in the very mention of such places.
“It’s hard to know how it all got started. People were standing around outside the main grocery in my neighborhood bumming cigarettes and sharing news, when these trucks just rolled into town. From a distance, we thought it was the power company. Hell, everybody cheered! But no one is cheering anymore.”
One of his mates kicked a rock and looked off in the distance, over the ridge, toward the city. “Ain’t that the truth,” he muttered, under his breath, to no one in particular.
“There was a group of homesteaders… whaddya call’em? Survivalists? They lived in this little community back in the woods a bit. The Guard just wiped that place out. We saw that with our own eyes as we were hiking out this way. They came in and commandeered all the supplies, fuel, goods… even the people. In the first few days, they interrogated people, treating them like prisoners. They asked and prodded and even tortured people until they found out where these end of the world types were, you know, the people who had stored up food and supplies. Then the guardsman sent out the word that people who did that were ‘hoarders.’ That’s what they called them. Then they outlawed hoarding and announced the death penalty as a punishment. I’m telling you,” the man shook his head, “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”
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