Prepper Fiction Collection: Four Books in One

by Susan Gregersen

  “We’ll have to get off and push it through this loose sand,” he said. He held the handlebars and pushed it while steering, and Wilma walked behind, pushing on the sissy bar. They made slow progress and soon sweat was trickling down their backs. When they were through the wash they got back on the motorcycle and Fred started the motor. They had to travel slowly, using their feet for balance as they wound among the rocks, brush, and cactus.

  The dirt on the top of the mesa was a dusty clay and the motorcycle was heavier than the sandaled feet and desert animals that walked the trail. It broke through the crust and sunk in the dirt every few feet. After a couple miles of that, they came to another wash. This one had steep dirt and gravel banks, and the path down into it zig-zagged in short switchbacks.

  “We can’t get the motorcycle down. We’ll have to go along the top and find a place to cross.” Fred wiped his brow with his arm. They got off the motorcycle and Fred said, “Let’s push it over between those rocks where we can get it mostly out of sight.

  Once they pushed the bike off the trail it sunk almost a foot in the soft sandy dirt. With a sigh, Fred suggested they just leave it where it was. They started to walk along the top of the bank, heading uphill with the assumption they might be able to get above the ravine made by rainwater run-off.

  But they both knew they’d never get the motorcycle through the soft dirt. After a while they came to another trail, and without a word Fred led the way down into the wash. They walked in the shade along the bottom until they came to the trail that climbed out the other side.

  “We need water,” said Wilma as they looked at the trail that climbed up the wall of the ravine. “Maybe we should stay in the wash and head downhill. I know it’ll eventually end at the river, but we might find a spring or a pocket of water before we get there.”

  “Yeah, one of those ‘tanks’,” said Fred, referring to the bowl-like places in the rock where rainwater collects and stays for days or weeks. They had learned about them at the nearby Valley of Fire State Park, back when they were in the modern age. “From the top of the bank we’d probably be able to see the red rocks of Valley of Fire. I bet those same springs and tanks are there, even in whatever year this is. That seems safer than the possibility of running into more of those native people by the river.”

  They climbed up the trail and from the bank above the wash they could see the jumble of red rocks in the state park.

  They headed southwest, up and down over knolls and washes until they reached the red rocks. Fred led the way as they climbed over the rough red sandstone, peering down into cracks and holes.

  Wilma stayed close to Fred, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. Once or twice she was sure she heard sand trickle down off rocks behind them, but when she cast a quick look over her shoulder, no one was there.

  With a sigh of relief Fred found what he was looking for. A bowl-shaped dip in the rock was half full of murky greenish water from a recent rainfall.

  “Is it safe to drink like that?” Wilma asked as Fred got down on his hands and knees and prepared to scoop some out.

  “Uhn-oog-dah-bah! Uhn-oog-dah-bah!” came an urgent voice behind them. Wilma let out a yell and spun around. She was looking into the brown eyes of a young man she guessed was in his early teens. He gazed back at her, and she felt like he was more curious than threatening, although he pointed at the water and again muttered the words and shaking his head and upper body.

  Fred jumped up and stepped in front of Wilma, who peered around his shoulder. The boy made scooping motions with his hands, then crossed his arms and brought his hands down sharply.

  “I guess he thinks we shouldn’t drink the water?” Wilma asked. Fred had been fumbling in his pockets, feeling for anything to use as a weapon, while keeping his eyes on the young man. His fingers wrapped around the bic lighter he carried for ‘emergencies’, though he’d never considered it more than a novelty to do so. It was something to make him feel he was at least a bit prepared.

  In a quick movement Fred pulled the lighter out, flicking it as he did, and held out his hand. The lighter was hidden in his palm and the steady flame appeared to rise from his fingers. The boy jumped back, then leaned forward with a look of wonder on his face. He tilted his face this way and that, then reached a tentative finger toward the flame.

  It wasn’t quite the reaction Fred was hoping to get. His mind raced as he analyzed how much threat this boy potentially held. Looking at the childish expression of awe, he had a hard time reminding himself of what the boy was likely capable of.

  A sharp voice came from the rock above them and all three looked up. Another boy jumped and landed next to the first one. His words sounded like a reprimand, and the first boy stepped back and stood taller, raising the sharpened stick he held in one hand in what almost seemed a reluctant move.

  Suddenly there was a bright white flash and both boys’ eyes widened in fear and they turned and ran. Fred spun to see Wilma holding her digital camera in her hand. The flash when she took the picture had frightened the boys.

  “Good thinking!” Fred said in a shaky voice. They leaned on the rocks for a minute, then walked out into the sunshine. “Let’s just head straight back to the uhaul-camper.”

  Wilma nodded her agreement and they headed southeast from the red rocks. They should have been able to see the blue water of Lake Mead in the distance, but there was no sign of it. The Hoover Dam hadn’t been built yet! They came to the deep wash just before the turn-off to where they were camped, but a four-mile walk was still ahead of them. A spring seeped through the wash leaving left damp sand in a trail to the river. They could have stopped to dig a hole and let the water slowly fill it, but they decided to keep walking.

  “Oh, I know this plant! It’s called ‘Mormon tea’, although I don’t remember what it’s real name is. People make tea out of it when they have colds! But I remember reading that you could chew the stems to relieve thirst! It makes you salivate!”

  Wilma reached down and broke off some of the stems. She held them up and looked at them, somewhat skeptically, then shrugged and put one between her teeth and started chewing. She held the bunch toward Fred. He looked at her for a minute, watching her chew, then took one of the needle-like stems and put it in his mouth. They looked at each other for a few minutes, then Fred raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  “Not bad. And I think it’s working. I feel less thirsty already!” said Fred. He turned and they continued across the wash and started the climb up the other side.

  The top of the wall was steep and they used their hands to hold on to rocks and plants. Fred’s face rose over the bank and his gaze landed on several feet. They were brown, dirty feet. Some had what looked like braided sandals, other feet were bare. Without following the feet up the legs he knew what he would see if he looked up.

  “Go back down, Wilma!” Fred shouted as he started to lower his foot back down. Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him over the top and deposited him on the ground. “Run, Wilma!”

  Wilma hesitated for a minute and started to reach into her pocket for the camera, but noise from below made her look down. Climbing up on each side of her and almost to her were two more of the native people. They grabbed her arms and all but carried her the rest of the way up, depositing her next to Fred. The men stood around them, having what appeared to a be a discussion of what to do with them.

  Fred studied them out of the corner of his eyes. They were dressed the same as the first ones they’d encountered, but some of them, at least he was pretty sure, weren’t the same ones from that group. There were six of them, and although a few of them were older, they certainly didn’t appear frail.

  “Psssst! Fred!” Wilma whispered urgently. “I have to ‘go’. I really have to.” Fred nodded so she knew he heard her, and he thought for a minute. Then he stood up. The men raised their sticks threateningly but didn’t speak or stop him.

  “Um…well…it’s like this. My wife needs to, um…to use the bushes.”
The men stared at him without understanding. Fred racked his brains. Then he walked over to a bush and made motions like he was relieving himself, and pointed to his wife, then back to the bush.

  “ahhh, uhngh!” the men murmured and nodded in understanding. One of them pulled Wilma to her feet and motioned toward the bush. They stood there and folded their arms, waiting silently.

  “I’m not going to ‘go’ while they watch!” Wilma protested.

  Fred walked toward the men and stood with them a minute. Then he turned around and faced away and motioned for them to do the same. They made sounds of exasperation but they did the same.

  A few minutes later Wilma called that she was done. Fred and the men turned around, and they motioned for Fred and Wilma to walk with them. Two of the men went ahead and the rest walked behind.

  Fred was angry. He whispered to Wilma “I thought you were going to run for it! I thought you made the whole thing up!”

  “What?!!!” Wilma was stunned. Did Fred really think she could out-run those native people, even with a few seconds head start? “These people don’t have a clue what we’re saying! I could have just told you! And you didn’t say anything about me running! I don‘t want to be by myself, and where would I get help? From Dino?”

  “It might have been worth trying. I wonder how long can dogs survive shut in a camper without water?” Fred said sadly. “Poor Dino.”

  They walked in silence for a while, the hot sun beating down on them. After about an hour they stopped in the shade of a large rock. Wilma slid her shoes off and inspected her feet, rubbing red places that were starting to blister.

  One of the native men watched her, then grunted. He got up and walked over, squatting in front of her and looked at her feet. He walked away then, out among the bushes on the desert floor. In minutes he was back with a flat, almost heart-shaped cactus pad speared on the end of a stick.

  He knelt down and rubbed it in the sand to remove the spines, then broke it open. Using a small sharp-edged stone he scraped some of the pale green center out of the cactus.

  Sitting next to Wilma’s feet he rubbed the slimy, mashed cactus onto Wilma’s feet. Almost immediately her feet felt cooled and soothed. He waved his hands over them as though he was trying to dry the goo.

  Fred, getting nervous about the intimate contact, pushed the native mans hands away and started fanning Wilma’s feet himself. Wilma, worrying the man would take offense, raised her hand in a motion she’d seen them do among each other and interpreted as a greeting or sign of friendliness.

  The brown eyes stared back steadily, then he raised his chin and moved away.

  “Stop trying to speak their language before you do something wrong and make them mad!” Fred hissed to her. “What if that means something different from a woman to a man than it does man-to-man!”

  “You’re right. I’ll be more careful.” Wilma said. She knew these men were curious and suspicious of them, and probably wished she and Fred hadn’t appeared and interrupted their life. She didn’t think they were violent or hostile, though. She and Fred had been to some of the local historical sites but didn’t know much about the native Americans of the area, except at one time they were called “Paiutes”. It seemed as though they weren’t a violent people, from what she recalled.

  The leader of the group rose to his feet and barked an order. Everyone got up. Wilma quickly shoved her socks and shoes back on her feet and stood. They continued walking north, back toward the valley and the village.

  “I wonder what they’ll do to us when we get there?” Fred wondered. “They’re not cannibals, are they? I wonder if they’ll tie us to a pole and build a fire under us?”

  “I don’t think any of the American Indians were cannibals! At least not when they weren’t starving, and these people look well-fed,” Wilma answered.

  They climbed down into the wash near where the motorcycle was abandoned and walked down-slope toward the river. Around a bend they came across two young native men having a mock-fight with their spear sticks. The whole group walking toward them stopped and stared.

  The boys were dressed in the sparse native clothing and trimmings, but their heads were covered with shiny black balls. Wilma’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Fred shot her a warning glance, but in seconds they were both laughing at the sight of the primitive young men in their native attire wearing motorcycle helmets on their heads.

  The men who’d been escorting Fred and Wilma turned to look at them and glared. The boys yanked the helmets off their heads and threw them away, standing with sheepish looks on their faces. The leader walked over to them and began to speak.

  The boys were very animated and they kept holding up their hands in a fist, then pointing at Fred. The leader walked over to Fred and took his hand. He turned Fred’s hand over and looked at all sides of it, then spoke to the boys behind him. One of the boys walked over and rolled Fred’s fingers into a ball and held the hand up and made a sound that in English would have sounded like “Ta Da!”

  Everyone looked expectantly at Fred’s hand, but nothing happened. Fred figured out what was going on.

  “Ahhh!” he said in a comprehending tone. He slipped his hand into his pocket and grabbed the lighter. Using his other hand he waved it over his pocket like a magician would, looking straight into the eyes of the leader, saying “wait…for…it” as though they were magic words. He knew the leader had no idea what he was saying. Then he brought his hand up as he flicked the bic and cried “Abra-ca-dabra!”

  The men all drew back with “ooohs” and “ahhhhs”, and the young men jumped up and down and made noises like “I told you so!”

  “Abba-cadabah?” said one of the men hesitantly.

  Slowly Fred said “Abra-ca-dabra!” and the men practiced it slowly, looking at Fred for approval. After several practice tries, they had it right. One of the men held his hand up in a fist and cried “ABRA-CA-DABRA!” and looked with pride at his hand and waited. And waited. His face crumbled. He walked sadly over by Fred and looked at the flame, then at Fred, and said quietly “Abra-ca-dabra?”

  Fred opened his hand and let them see the bright orange plastic lighter. He let the flame go out, then showed them how to touch the little plastic pad that caused the flint-and-steel action which lighted the butane fluid inside the plastic tube, and the flame reappeared. They watched with intense curiosity, then Fred held it out toward the man who’d tried to light his hand with magic words.

  The leader stepped in front of him and grabbed the lighter. He played with it for several minutes, pushing the little pad, but not quick and sharp like it takes to light it. Fred reached for it to show him again, and the leader pulled his hand away with a growl and kept trying. Finally in frustration he flicked it fast and it lit. He howled in joy and jumped around. The others cheered with him.

  Then as quickly as he’d become interested in it, the leader’s face got a bored look and he handed it to the man who’d wanted it in the first place, and he spun and barked an order. They began walking again. The man with the lighter played with it as they walked along, lighting it over and over. The leader glared at him and the lighter disappeared somewhere on his person among his clothing and other belongings.

  Soon they came to the muddy flats along the river and turned north. They passed small cultivated fields with young squash and corn plants. Palm trees and mesquite trees grew along the river valley, and the brush was thick. They wound along at the base of the bluffs, just above the mud, and came to the clearing that Fred and Wilma had seen from the hill above.

  People of all sizes and both genders gathered around. Words flew thick and fast but none that Fred and Wilma understood. They sat quietly where the men motioned them to sit, near one of the larger fire rings. Someone brought a large stake and it was driven into the ground with what looked remarkably like a sledge hammer, but was a stone lashed to a pole. Men took turned pounding until the stake was firmly into the ground, with about 2’ sticking up.

&nbs
p; Suddenly their feet were grabbed and a soft twine rope tied to each ankle. They were hobbled, with a short rope between their feet, and a rope about 3’ long tied to the stake. The rope appeared to be braided and twisted from some kind of plant fibers.

  Fred sat studying the ropes and knots. It was almost amusing, like an old cartoon. He mumbled to Wilma “yeah, like I can’t just take out my pocket knife and cut this stuff!”

  “Well, at least wait until they’re not looking!” she replied. She looked around at several buildings built out of poles and thatched with palm fronds. There were a half-dozen buildings, most about the size of garden sheds. One was larger than the others. Flat rocks were stacked tightly to make storage ‘boxes’ in front of each of the huts and were covered with poles and then fronds.