by JK Franks
He quickly decided not to play games with these people. They may be rural, but unlike stereotypes, that didn’t mean stupid. They were also likely untrusting of all outsiders. “I’m embarrassed to admit, but I was in the woods when I saw them. It was nearly dark, and I fell asleep waiting for them to leave. I’m from South Georgia, and I have a long way to go. The thought of heading back toward . . . well, up there, was more than I could stand.”
The woman gave a brief chuckle. “Can’t blame you there. Bet those people in Atlanta are going nuts by now.”
“It’s a mess alright,” he said. “So . . . I won’t bother you, just wanted any news you might share and if you have any supplies. I have a little cash.” He had lied to the Australian; he always carried a few hundred dollars, two in his wallet and several more folded up under the insoles of his shoes.
“They have mostly cleaned me out already, hon.” The woman said. “Feel free to look around, not sure when we will get another order. I do have a pot of stew on. Had to start cooking off some of the things in the coolers and from home. Cup of that will run you four bucks. Everything else is whatever price is marked.”
“Thanks, just some water and dry food . . . things that I can easily carry I guess.”
The younger man nudged his pack on the floor with a toe of the boot. “Don’t pay for water man, get one of those empty plastic jugs over there and fill up at the tap. We are all on well water here. It’s free.”
“Much obliged, mister.”
“South Georgia, huh? Well, you’re about as out of the way as possible to get there. Where the heck you coming from?”
Steve picked out several bags of rice and pasta from a nearly empty shelf. “I don’t know that you would believe me if I said. I was in Charlotte watching the race.”
“Damn, man, that looked like some mess before the TV cut off. I hope Jr. made it out ok. He looked to be about to take the lead. Wow . . . that’s something. So, you made it all the way from there already? Your car must have been a lot better than all ours.”
“Nah, my car was dead too. I managed to hitch a ride with some folks heading this way. Charlotte was in pretty bad shape; Atlanta was worse. I-85 is a parking lot with thousands of people walking. The scene at Hartsfield was . . . ”—the scene erupted again in his mind—“. . . it was a nightmare, crashed jets stretching back for miles.”
The woman said,“Yeah, we heard a couple crashed over near Carrollton. This is crazy, man. So, it’s this bad all over?”
He put the few items on the counter before answering her. “I think so . . . we have to assume it is. A pilot told me that it must have been a solar flare—something called a CME. The Northern Lights and all. That means the effect could be over most of the country.”
“We pretty much figured the same thing. Douglas here has a ham radio and was passing along a few things he heard last night.”
The younger man seemed like the type that rarely got bothered by anything; the older one was his complete opposite. Douglas put down the Pepsi he had been drinking and slowly responded. “Word is, there is a lot of people dead. Big cities must have just been death traps. Smaller towns are doing a bit better, but most of them are starting to block themselves off just like we are. All of that is just to help in the short term ‘cause no one knows how long it will be before things get better. My wife is a diabetic, and we were supposed to get her more insulin this week. No way to get it now; no way to keep it cold once we do. We can keep refrigerators running off generators until the fuel runs out, but then what?”
Steve just nodded as his attention was captured by the aroma of the stew simmering nearby.
Douglas continued, “One of the guys said it was an EMP or maybe that geomagnetic storm that Newt Gingrich had been warning us about for years.”
Steve knew Gingrich was the former Speaker of the House and was also a native of Georgia. While unaware that he had been prophesizing the possibility of such an event, Steve had a lot of respect for the man’s opinions. The smell of the pot of stew was becoming overwhelming. “Could I get a bowl of that as well?” he said pointing to the crockpot plugged into the extension cord. The owner nodded and went to get him a bowl. “So, have you heard anything more?”
The older man, Douglas, answered slowly, “Lots of panicking, people with wild theories. The general perception is that it is going to get worse, a lot worse. Best prepare for the long term. The quicker you react and prepare . . . the better. Within a week, may not be anything left to get. Emergency services are nearly gone, hospitals will be closed once medicine and generator fuel are gone. Anything using microprocessors is probably useless now. Most communications—internet, TV and radio. Power generation and distribution, fuel refineries and, of course, trucks and food distributions system. All toast at this point.”
The younger man looked at him. “Mister, you will still be on the road in a week if you last that long. What will you find once you get there? It’ll be too late to start preparing then. You might just want to find you an abandoned fishing cabin somewhere and hunker down there. Unless whatever you have back home is mighty special . . it isn’t worth the risk.”
Steve nodded glumly. He liked the practicality of people like this. “Believe me, my friend, I have thought the same thing. I have family there, a son, in particular, who needs me. My wife as well, but she . . . well, she is probably doing ok on her own. Like most people out here, I have no idea what I am doing. I have a little water and a couple of granola bars to get me several hundred miles. That’s as close to a plan as I have.”
The young man offered him a plastic spoon from a nearby cup full of them as the woman put the cup of stew in front of him. “Mr. Porter,” the young man asked, “how many of the stalled cars on the road did you try and break into on the way here?”
“None. I’m no thief.”
He nodded. “How many homes or barns did you take shelter in?”
Steve was more focused on the smell of the food at this point. The stew, which looked more like soup, was hot. It seemed to be a mix of a few vegetables, chicken, shrimp and sausage. He decided it must be a gumbo. With his mouth now full, he gestured to the bowl. “Ummm,” after swallowing, “this is the best food I have ever had.” He looked at the young farmer. “None, I told you I slept in the woods.”
“Mr. Porter, you look like an honorable man. Probably successful—expensive watch, decent clothes and shoes . . . or at least they were before you became a hobo. Right now, you assume the same rules apply as a few days ago. Let me tell you, friend—if you want to survive . . . to get home, you are going to have to make some changes.”
“Like what?” Steve asked before taking another spoonful of the gumbo.
“Every car you passed may have had supplies in the trunk. A knife, roadmap, tools, possibly even food and water. It will have some fuel which could operate a motorcycle or an older car maybe. If nothing else, you could use it to easily start your fires. You should be checking before someone else does. Just because they aren’t good for transportation doesn’t mean they are worthless.”
“But they aren’t mine, they belong to someone. Someone who will want them back when this is over.”
“Your car is where . . . in Charlotte? Do you care what is happening to it right now?”
Steven shook his head finally understanding. “No, not at all.”
“Exactly,” said the man. “Cars are easy. Large trucks are even better as they may have food and lots of supplies, but you’ll need to be cautious . . . make sure they are empty. Houses the same way. You seem like a cautious type—watch to make sure no one is around, knock on the door, walk away and watch some more . . . then break in if you have to. It may not seem right, but this will keep you alive.”
Steve finished off the soup but was hanging on the words of the stranger. “That makes a lot of sense. Thank you. By the way, what is your name?”
“I’m Will, this here’s my mom, she runs the place.” The two men shook hands.
“How are you guys going to weather this? You don’t seem too concerned.”
The woman laughed. “Trust in the Lord, Mr. Porter. We didn’t have much before and probably won’t have much after. We’re pretty simple people. Some things will be tougher, but our hogs don’t care if the lights are on. Chickens rarely get upset if the internet goes down.”
“This really just affects us . . . people will have it the worst.”
Doug added, “People will also be the biggest threat, Steve. You can’t trust anyone out there. In a few days, people will kill you for what little bit is in that bag. You are going to need to move fast and avoid people.”
“Already been doing that,” he said with a laugh.
Will picked up the messenger bag and looked in it. “Wow, you don’t have anything. You ok if I add a couple of things to your purchase?”
“Be my guest.”
He grabbed an empty box and wandered into the dark recesses of the store, Coming back minutes later with several new items including a tarp, map, cheap multitool, lighter, candles, headlamp and fishhook and line.
“Thanks, man, I didn’t even think of anything but food and water.”
“You can only haul so much, but this stuff won’t add much weight and could save your life. You really need to find some better clothes, too. T-shirt and jeans in this weather and probably going to want some extra socks in a few days. I would check clotheslines as you walk. Most people won’t miss a single change of clothes. Don’t worry if they are too big, I added a few nylon Ty-Raps you can use to cinch ‘em up.”
“Wow, I’m overwhelmed. After seeing the craziness in the cities, I was scared to even come in here, but thank you so much. You have undoubtedly saved my life.”
He paid for the items and headed for the door. His bag now full, he carried the rest in the box. If he had a shopping cart to push he would indeed look like a homeless person. The more he thought about it, a cart would be handy. Something else for his wish list.
8
The advice from Will had been spot-on, and he took it to heart. With a good meal in him and a sense of direction again, he was making good time. He stuck to the roads and checked every car he came across. The multitool had a prong to use for easily breaking a car window. By now, he’d already used it several times. On one, he got lucky and found an old bookbag in the trunk. Storing his supplies in that allowed him to discard the small laptop bag and the box. Before he tossed the box, he took note of the label. The food distribution company was a name he recognized and was in the same town as his friend’s dealership. That was still twenty miles ahead, but he was making better time now.
Early afternoon, he scored a change of clothes. Not from a clothesline but from a charity collection box in front of an abandoned store. He had used the multitool to jigger the lock, but once the door was open he had his choice. He only took what he could use and changed right there, putting his expensive slacks and shirt back in the box. Now he wore khaki cargo pants, t-shirt, and he also found a musty windbreaker that went into his pack. Unfortunately, no socks, but he was doing better.
Steven kept walking until well after dark. He was getting accustomed to being outside and felt better moving. It was very late when he stopped to rest. He moved well off the road, keeping a small hill between him and the highway. Spreading out the tarp, he lit one of the candles and started a small campfire. Quickly he realized it gave off too much light. Taking stones, he mounded up a wall on all the sides of the fire to block it from outside view. He had found an old can in the ditch and now cleaned it out to be a cooking pot. Adding water, he set the can over the heat on a couple of stones. The water came to a boil quickly. He added some of the rice and stirred in a cube of chicken bouillon for flavor. No protein and few calories, but he hoped it would fill him up.
The cool ground felt good after two days of walking. He waited on his dinner thinking about how different things were. He was no survivor, but he wasn’t a quitter either. Steve knew that he was a man of action. Sitting around waiting for someone else to do something was just not his style. While it would be nice to find the government was sending FEMA in to rescue stranded travelers, he didn’t think that likely. Unfolding the map that he had gotten at the store, he ignored the risks for a minute and used the small headlamp to plot a course.
He lived in an exclusive community in Arlington which was near Albany, Georgia. He estimated it was 240 miles at least from where he sat. Will was right, that would take weeks. He made note of the roads and shut off the light. Man, what he wouldn’t give for a working car or motorcycle. In his truck, he could have been home in a few hours. Walking, it would be a couple of weeks. What shape will my son be in by then? He felt awful knowing his son would assume he had abandoned him. Barbara was not Trey’s mom, she was Steve’s third wife. Trey was the result of an incredibly brief whirlwind relationship and marriage soon after his first had fallen apart. Steven Porter was not a man who was lucky in love. She had left and taken the boy when he was still an infant. As Trey’s special needs became more recognizable, his ex-wife had suggested joint custody and eventually gave up all her parental rights. His autism, although not severe, had been more of a burden than she could handle.
He used the multitool’s pliers to retrieve the hot can from the fire. He had also saved his plastic spoon from lunch. The meal went down better than he expected. It was hot and somewhat nourishing, but that was as much praise as it deserved. Thankfully, he had never been much of a foodie. Eating was more maintenance than anything. When Barbara would drag him to some new swanky gastropub, he would enjoy it, but he was also just as happy picking up a few burgers at the drive-through. They had taken trips to Paris and Italy in the past few years, spending exorbitant amounts for tiny pastries, cured meats and dishes that he could never pronounce. Barbara had been delighted with every mouthful; he had enjoyed watching the joy it brought her. To him, it was just a meal. That was just one of the differences between them . . . somehow indicative of the deeper issues they were having these days.
He doused the campfire with dirt and lay back on the tarp, using the bookbag for a pillow. The trip to Europe was fresh in his mind, so easy it had been to get around the continent. He idly wondered if those countries were having the same kinds of problems. How could things be this bad already? He was not used to looking back, but kept wondering what he should have done, what the country should have done to be ready for a crisis like this. People were dying; many were already gone. While no spring chicken, he knew he was luckier than many. What if he had a small child with him? What if he was old or had a medical condition? In the grand scheme of things, he was relatively close to home; the weather was manageable. Despite his situation seeming dire, he was a lucky one. He had survived the first twenty-four hours. Now his goal was to simply survive the next week.
9
The morning started off innocent and calm, belying the dangers ahead. He had gone to sleep watching the flickering lights dance again in the night sky. The sight left him mentally off-balance. His world, which was normally so orderly and logical, had suddenly shifted out from under him. A light morning fog obscured the road and offered him a rare chance to use the pavement with little fear of being seen. The rat scurrying down another turn in the maze, he thought with morbid amusement.
He heard dogs barking off in the distance. Dogs usually meant people, so his rat senses went on alert. He crept low in the grass near the trees to see if anyone was approaching. He realized he had not seen a working car in two days. He wondered if all the cars on his lots were dead. Rough calculations on the current inventory held at the dealerships he owned outright or was partnered in would be about 2,500 vehicles. The staggering dollar amount that equaled would be financial ruin. His insurer would cover only a small portion. The sudden bark of a dog off to his left caused him to jump. He had to focus better than this—his mind just kept wandering.
He saw the lone dog, a mutt by the looks of it, running off into a pasture on the scent of someth
ing else. If he kept hiding at every little noise he heard, he would die of old age before he made it home. I need a weapon, he thought idly. Didn’t need to be a gun, or even a knife, but something for protection. He remembered reading a book as a teenager about a boy who survived a small plane crash mainly by using a hatchet. He had one when he was a boy scout; he remembered the little leather pouch it fit in. That would be really handy right now, he mused. Seeing nothing else for several minutes more, he began moving again.
Later in the afternoon, he noticed a pickup on the side of the road, more in the ditch than the road. His thoughts had been centered on protection all day. He sat and watched the truck for some time, debating on whether it was abandoned or not. Once he felt confident it was unoccupied, he walked by giving it considerable room. He continued to walk for several hundred feet just to make sure no one was nearby or using the truck as bait. Satisfied, he circled back and began to scout for useable items. The doors were locked, but he was thrilled to find a solid-looking walking stick in the bed along with some old tools. Most of the tools would be nearly useless and too heavy to carry. He peered in the windows—a part of him still hated damaging someone else’s vehicles. There, on the floorboard, though, were some items he could really use: a laundry basket with old clothes and a small bottle of bleach.
He used one of the tools to break a side window, unlocked the door and inspected the find. The clothes all appeared to be kids’ clothes. A girl’s and a boy’s he guessed. The bleach would be good, he thought he remembered it could purify drinking water, so he took that. Looking through the storage compartment, he found a few other items including matches. Behind the seat was where he found his real treasure—a large machete. The blade was dull and the handles well-worn, but it was awesome. He couldn’t believe how happy he was to have this one simple thing. He stowed the large blade in his pack and went back to the bed to look at the tools again. There . . . there it was: he picked up the somewhat rusty flat metal file and added that to his haul and quickly walked off, putting distance between him and the truck.
