by Caryl McAdoo
The Clarksville exit. Highway Eighty-two East. Seeing the sign was almost like a long guzzle of blue Gatorade on a hot summer baseball game day. Man, he was getting close. Didn’t matter much now; he had what? Another two hours before the world woke up and traveling the highway wouldn’t be safe?
The boys took over when the road ran in front of Walmart. He couldn’t even imagine what kind of chaos the giant retailer experienced once everyone realized the power wasn’t coming back on. He shook his head. Across the street a Chicken Express made his mouth water. Oh, for the days when a person could drive through and get a box of fried chicken.
Meems might have some chickens to fry, and no fast food tasted as good as Meems’.
He relieved the guys at the Reno’s city limit sign. An hour or so outside of the little town that bordered the not so big Paris, the eastern horizon grew less gray with each step. Fewer stalled vehicles sat farther and farther apart. Blossom would be coming up next. Almost as he thought it, a sign on the side of the road confirmed his supposition.
Blossom, three; Clarksville, twenty-three.
Excellent.
After Blossom, Detroit—the first town in Red River County.
Paris, Reno, Detroit; like the old folks couldn’t think of something original—well, Blossom might be original, but it didn’t sound like a town. Anyway, guess they took after the guys who named New York or New Orleans. The road curved south, then dropped down and crossed a wet-weather creek before rising again with a pretty steep climb for at least a quarter mile.
He looked both ways then nodded north. “Let’s get off the road and find us a place to rest.”
Took all the others’ help to get the cart over the barbed wire fence and through the tangle of underbrush growing along the creek, but Jackson finally got them deep enough into the trees to where he couldn’t see the road.
McKenzie handed him a hunk of jerky and a plastic bottle of water. “Gracie’s up, so I’ll take the first watch.”
“Okay.” He leaned the rifle against the cart’s wheel, found a spot under a fair-sized oak, slumped down, and leaned against the tree’s trunk. He’d never been so tired or sore in his life. Even two-a-day football practices were nothing compared to pulling that cart. He tried to picture the road from there to Clarksville, but it was all a blur.
Farm fields and cows and woods whizzed by his mind’s eye, but nothing stood out. He loved passing signs that said Clarksville was so many miles away, fewer and fewer with each one. Meems and Pop had to be there.
Trying to figure out exactly how much time it would take to make twenty-three miles and repeating the first mathematical calculation at least three times, his mind gave up and slipped into sweet unconsciousness.
A bray knifed through him.
Had he heard that or had it been in his dream?
Where was McKenzie?
He sat up and shook off the sleep fog, searching the campsite. No donkey, only three still lumps under the patchwork quilt and the nerd resting against a tree with the rifle across his lap. Al smiled.
Jackson nodded then stood.
Every fiber of his being protested, but he ignored the aches and pains. Movement would cure what ailed him, not lying about. He walked deeper into the woods. The sun had maybe another hour, hour and a half at the most. Shortly, Al joined him. Without a word, he handed the rifle over.
“You get any rest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear a donkey earlier?”
“No, sir.”
“Must have been dreaming.”
“Possibly. Could be your subconscious. You know, the incongruity of you pulling the cart.”
Jackson smiled at the nerd’s psycho babble. “Maybe, who knows?”
Al stepped closer. “Sir, I need to apologize.”
Jackson faced the nerd. His fists balled involuntarily, and his eyes bore into the younger boy’s. “What’d you do?”
He held his hands up. “No, no. I haven’t done anything. Well, I did misspeak, but the story about Gracie shocked me. I told Cooper that it wasn’t a good sign.” He shrugged. “I apologize for failing to think things through thoroughly before giving voice to my opinion.”
“Okay, you misspoke. So what do you think? Am I crazy? Or do you believe I really heard the old man talking to me? Telling me she needed me.”
“Sir, the baby is real. That’s all the substantiation I require that you were directed to our little Mercy Grace.”
“Do you have an opinion by whom—or should I say what—directed me?”
The nerd smiled. “Your sister makes a powerful argument for the Divine Father, the Creator, God, if you will, sir.”
“Answer the question.”
“Yes, sir. I must confess I am questioning my original skepticism of a higher power.”
Jackson nodded. Maybe he was too, although he wasn’t ready to say it out loud. He looked skyward. “What time is moonrise?”
“Twelve-eleven.”
“I’m up, if you want to lie back down.”
“Yes, sir, I’d like that.” Al smiled then returned to the campsite.
The sun sank into the west as it had done every day of his life and for how many countless millions or billions of years? But right then, in the fifteenth year of his short life, even though the world had gone crazy, sunset and sunrise remained.
He looked skyward. “If you’re up there, why’d you let this happen?”
Of course, no answer came. But did that prove anything? Jackson didn’t know.
What he did know was that he hated this new reality.
The thought of never seeing his parents again was horrible. And it would be even worse for McKenzie and Cooper. At least he hadn’t had to watch his siblings and father get shot like Aria.
The beauty’s image danced across his mind’s photo gallery. Different shots of her face, her silhouette…he smiled…her eyes. Why had she said she loved him? He knew about loving family, but loving a girl? He wasn’t even sure he liked her yet. And she was older, though not a whole year. Still, he didn’t cotton much for it even if it didn’t really make a difference.
He laughed at himself, using the old folks’ corny slang just because he was in the sticks.
A whimper pulled him from his rumination and back to the camp. McKenzie worked in the last of the daylight at changing the baby. “Hey, get my pack, would you? It’s in the cart.”
He didn’t like her bossing him, but did as she asked. She dug around inside, then as though she’d been doing it for years, had a bottle made, and the baby sucking it contentedly. He’d still be on trying to pin Gracie’s diaper right. Girls must have babying implanted in their genes same as boys wanting to play with cars.
“It’s getting chilly. How about building a fire?”
“Okay.” He grinned. “But you’re not the boss of me.”
She returned his smile then kissed the baby’s forehead. “Your Uncle Jackson thinks he’s a stand up comic, yes, he does.”
The evening dragged on. Eating, gathering firewood, playing with the baby, and listening to his little brother and the nerd play chess only distracted Jackson for a small part of the last hours of the fourteenth day. It even amazed him that he’d made it in the two weeks he’d predicted.
How could everything change so drastically in such a short time?
Finally, the eastern sky lightened a bit. By full moonrise, he had his little troupe back on the black top. It proved even more difficult getting the cart back out to the pavement in the darkness. Stickery Texas ivy caught his ankles and even tripped Aria so that she fell once. He hated it taking so long.
One thing to be thankful for though; because of the cooler evenings, everyone had their jackets on. At least the thick, long sleeves kept their arms from getting all scratched up.
After two full turns of pulling the cart, and still well before false dawn, the green ‘Welcome to Red River County’ sign came into view. The Gateway to Texas, it claimed. Then right behind t
hat semi-small fancy one, a bigger, hand-painted one stood high for all to see.
WARNING!!
Red River County is under MARTIAL LAW
By order of our
County Judge, Sheriff, & Commissioners,
Looters, Thieves, and Commies
WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT!
Enter at your own risk.
All Visitors MUST Check In at the Detroit Meat Locker.
NO EXCEPTIONS!!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jackson read then reread the sign. Martial law; no looters running around stealing people’s stuff or Commies. Had the Russians been here? And why would it say Commies instead of Russians? Was China involved, too? His shoulders relaxed a bit.
Law. He loved the law.
Though he’d really never even thought that much about it before, after all that had happened, he prized the law. His eyes teared. What? He was not about to cry. Through a little blur, he read the sign one more time. The County Judge and Sheriff—and whatever a commissioner was—ordered every bad guy shot. And on sight!
Whoa. That’s what he loved about rednecks.
The good guys were in charge, and he liked it. No, he loved it. Law and order meant normalcy. He touched the butt of the thirty-eight. Should he put the pistol in his backpack? He thought twice about it. Anyone could paint a sign. He vetoed the idea; he’d stay ready until he knew different for sure.
His cheeks hurt he grinned so hard.
“What are you smiling about?” McKenzie touched his arm. “This is good. Right?”
He winked and nodded. “Real good.” He exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed even more. “We need to find a safe place though. I want to check things out.” He took the cart’s handles and headed east.
A few minutes later, the road bent to the left. Building-shaped shadows came into view against the barely lightening, pre-dawn night sky. They all stood on the right side of the road, the left side still heavy woods. Nothing stirred. Fifty paces or so into town, a two-story round structure of some sort rose on the left. He pulled the cart closer. Had to be a big water tank with what looked to be a pump house in the front of it. “Let’s hole up there.”
He pulled the cart behind the building. A small area between the pump house and the tank seemed to be a perfect hiding spot. Soon the stars vanished, and the sky turned a light gray. Cows took to lowing. How long had it been since he’d seen or heard a cow? Sounded like a fair enough sized herd, too, if he could believe his ears.
The comforting noise seemed to be coming from the middle of the little town though—an unlikely place to keep cattle. He didn’t remember a feed lot.
If memory served, a smattering of houses and businesses lined the two-lane highway. But he could be confusing Detroit with another small town. The few times he’d been this way, the trip so excited him—going deer hunting and all—that he hadn’t paid that much attention to the landscape.
Could be someone was playing some sort of sick trick with the sign. “McKenzie, I want you and Aria to wait here with Gracie. If it’s safe, we’ll come for you.”
His sister threw him a smirk. “Of course it’s safe, dumb bunny. You read the sign, didn’t you? Several times?”
He resisted the urge to respond and refused to give in to an overwhelming desire to lay out the dozen—or hundred, or thousand—things that could go wrong. Instead, he turned to the boys. “Y’all come with me.”
McKenzie turned to Aria, talking loud enough that he couldn’t miss hearing. “Nothing to worry about, girlfriend. I guarantee it.”
Stepping to the edge of the hidey hole, Jackson hefted the rifle. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he handed it to Al. “You know how to use this?”
“Yes, sir. Cooper showed me.”
“Think you can shoot someone if my sister actually turns out to be wrong?”
“Yes, sir. I have steeled my once timid self against such possibilities.”
“Good. You’re the rear guard. Stay where you can see what’s going down, but where you can get back to the girls if anything goes bad.”
Al nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Cooper, keep Boggs with you and stay hidden best you can between me and Al. Guard my north flank.” His little brother nodded but looked like he’d been hurt to the bone that Jackson gave the twenty-two to the nerd. “You got that?”
“Yes, sir, Colonel Jackson.” The boy saluted and held it until he returned the gesture.
“Alright then, guys. Let’s go.” He took a step then turned back. “If y’all have to make a run for it, forget the cart, the packs, everything, and run.” He studied each face. “Stay hidden best you can and head east on the south side of Eighty-two, you got it?”
McKenzie shook her head like he was crazy for saying such negative stuff. “Oh, man, you are being such a drama king. Everything is going to be fine, I know it. We should all go and forget all these army maneuvers.”
The nerd faced her. “Ah, but my fair maiden, your brother’s modus operandi is sound. To employ a cliché, better safe than sorry.”
She smiled at him. “Whatever, dear brainiac.”
Jackson hoped she was absolutely right, but if the law reigned in Red River County, he needed to know it for certain before he put his people at risk. She could call him whatever names she wanted. He intended to play it safe, and as long as she did as she was told, he’d be happy.
He kept to the shadows and posted Al at the post office building then crossed over to the Superette, the first building in the long row that ended with the Meat Locker if he remembered right. It was definitely on a corner. Cooper and Boggs crouched along behind him, hot on his heels.
Maybe with some law in force, the little community grocery store might even still stock some food items. He looked back to Al’s position then held his hand palm out to stop his brother. Coop nodded, remaining at the far corner of the building. He held a thumbs-up to the nerd then kneeled next to Boggs with his hands wrapped around the dog’s neck.
Jackson walked out to Eighty-two and turned right toward the one-sided downtown. He passed an art gallery. A man riding a horse from the other direction thumbed the brim of his cowboy hat as though it was just the start of another ordinary day with nothing unusual going on.
Throwing a nod back, he smiled. McKenzie could be right.
The sky grew lighter. Up the way on the left side of the highway—just past the row of old time buildings joined side by side—on the opposite side, several large pens held cows. Some cowboys had made the enclosures from moveable metal panels like his grandfather’s. So, those were the cows he’d been hearing.
They milled about. Some ate hay; others stood looking—probably waiting for a rancher to bring grain.
He remembered riding with Uncle Roy to feed his herd. All his cows stood back a little from the gate like they’d recognized the sound of his truck long before he came into view.
A little farther down, one of the makeshift corrals held horses, some donkeys, and at least one long-eared mule. Behind the cattle pens, wooden racks with strips of what looked to be meat were getting liberal doses of smoke. Several ladies tended the fires and a bunch of little kids ran all around.
Farther he went, better he liked it.
Looking back over his shoulder, he caught sight of Cooper. On his right, he passed Bennet’s Mercantile—at least that’s what the sign still said. At the far end of the long row of storefronts, most of them vacant, a sign indicated the location of the Detroit Meat Market just like he remembered.
The concrete walk in front of all the stores stood a foot or two higher than the little side street that ran parallel to the highway. Jackson crossed over toward the market then made his way to the steps.
A uniformed sheriff’s deputy sat behind a table on the store’s porch. He sipped on a steaming cup and chatted with an old guy who sat next to him. Neither of them took notice of him or acted like there was any hitch with him being in Detroit.
Jackson stepped closer, but stayed out far enou
gh for Cooper to see him. “Morning, sir. This where I need to check in?”
The man looked down at him. “Sure is. Step on up here and give me your name.”
He held his ground. “Jackson James Allison, sir.”
“What brung ya up’ere to Red River County, son?”
“Oh, you know. Aliens landed, sucked up all the electricity.” He shrugged and smiled. “I’m trying to get to my Uncle’s Roy’s ranch.”
“Your uncle got a last name?”
“Buckmeyer, sir, Roy B.”
The guy sitting next to the deputy whacked his leg. “Well, I’ll be!”
The officer squared his shoulders. “Judge Buckmeyer is your uncle?”
“Well, no one told me he got himself elected judge, and he’s really our great-uncle, but we just call him Uncle Roy.” He looked back, didn’t see Cooper or the dog. He whistled the all clear, and the boy came running toward him with Boggs at his side. “That’s my little brother, Cooper. The rest of them should be here shortly.”
“Rest of them?” The deputy laughed. “How many kids you got?”
“Four more, six of us total.”
Wasn’t long before his little troupe marched up in its entirety. The girls pulled the cart, and Al walked a bit behind and to the side carrying the rifle like he’d done it all his life.
Jackson introduced McKenzie then Cooper nodded toward the nerd. “Hey Al, you gotta give the policeman your full name.”
“Certainly.” He turned toward the officer and almost bowed. “Albert Einstein Hawking, sir, at your service.”
The deputy looked up from his form. “Yeah, right, kid. What’s your real name?”
“That is my actual moniker, sir. My father is—or was—somewhat of a practical joker as well as a world class scientist, but I still can’t believe my mother conceded to his initiative.”
While the old guy next to him sat with his lower jaw hanging like a puppet’s whose ventriloquist had gone to Cabo San Lucas for the winter, the lawman filled out his form. “Close your mouth Toad, Steven Hawking is that genius scientist who’s paralyzed. You’ve heard of him, probably seen him on TV.”
