by JK Franks
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, another twinge of sharp pain behind his left eye. No, no, no . . . not now. “This is a lot to take in, as someone who has normally followed the rules and assumed our government had our best interest at heart. It seems impossible, but I do accept that something more is going on.”
Gerald studied him for a moment. “You feeling okay, Steve? You are grimacing a bit.”
“Yeah, just a headache, I hope. Probably from lack of sleep. I occasionally get migraines. I hope this isn’t one coming on. Now that you have scared the shit out of me, not sure I will ever sleep well again.”
Gerald patted his leg. “Sorry, buddy.”
Steve struggled to focus but wanted one more answer: “I gathered something in that speech last night convinced you that this plan was now in place. What was that?”
“Several small clues, one is the emergency orders that were issued. Not martial law, mind you. Through those emergency orders, and especially the exclusionary rules, our constitutional rights have been put on hold. They can imprison us without due process, presume us guilty, even execute us on sight if they wanted. Second, FEMA and the Transportation Department being out front and working together. Those two agencies have a lot of money and people at their disposal. FEMA especially can set-up these . . . these,”—he struggled for the right word—“I don’t know . . . ‘relocation or resettlement’ camps, and Transportation can clear roads and man them with its own agents. Just seems the plans all came together very quickly, yet no sign of aid coming into any areas that I have seen. So, who are they benefiting? “
It really was too much. Steve lay back on the hay using his pack for a pillow. He massaged the bridge of his nose hoping to keep the pain at bay. Gerald noticed, but continued laying out more of the conclusions that he had come to.
“Think of it like this. When the ship is going down, are you going to try and fix the ship, or are you going to gather your friends and find a life raft?”
“Find a raft,” Steve said through slitted eyes.
“Exactly. I think they have got their cronies holed-up somewhere safe to ride this storm out. Then they can come out and start over.”
Steve struggled to stay awake and focused, but something the man said didn’t fit. “There is a problem with that plan, Gerald. It assumes no other country would be in a position to do anything as well. We have allies who would try to render aid as well as enemies who would love to come conquer us while we were knocked down. This blackout maybe is worldwide, I don’t know, but I feel sure it didn’t decimate every country as badly as us.”
“Yeah, friend, that’s the rub. Haven’t figured out the rest of it yet. Somehow, they would have needed to keep the Russians and Chinese and ISIS, among others, all out of the mix. As it is right now, Iceland could probably come conquer us.”
Steve didn’t hear the rest. He was out. His tortured head now also dwelling on the possibility that his country had abandoned its people in its greatest time of need. Gerald picked up his leather notebook and began writing again, some new thought occurring to him.
25
Steve awoke to dark clouds and a light rain falling. The mental fog he always felt from a migraine was overpowering. Some sufferers called it a halo effect. He had always dreaded it as much as the actual headache; it was debilitating, like having the flu while suffering the worst hangover of your life. He had no immediate idea of where he was or who he was with. This inability to put rational thoughts together always reminded him that this could be what Trey went through all the time.
He reached a hand out searching for something familiar. Rough, scratchy. Was he lying on the ground? He was definitely outside—the rain told him that much. After what seemed an eternity, he managed to sit up and waited for his eyes to begin focusing. The remnants of the migraine were still there lurking in the shadows. He could feel them ready to unleash a dark tide that would take him back under again. The cool rain felt good, and he opened his mouth to let the drops quench his overpowering thirst.
Finally, after several minutes, he was able to see his surroundings and recall where he was. He realized he was alone. Gerald and JD were nowhere to be seen, nor was any of their gear. The clouds in his mind refused to clear entirely. Had they said they were leaving? Am I ,on my own again?
He couldn’t recall any of that. Just like his last one back in Charlotte, it left him oblivious to the real world. At least there he had his meds which helped a little. He crawled to the edge of the bales but saw no one. He couldn’t blame them for leaving him—he was weak, he would just slow them down.
He retreated back across the wet hay and retrieved his pack, then gingerly dropped off the bales and back onto solid ground. Staring across the field, he could see nothing clearly due to the misting rain. He should probably head south, but with his head still throbbing, he knew he wouldn’t get far. Heading to the backside of the bales he would be sheltered somewhat by the trees. As soon as he moved in that direction, he heard JD’s voice calling out to him. He then saw both of his traveling companions tucked up under an overhanging bale of hay in a relatively dry spot.
“Sorry man, we couldn’t move you, and I figured you needed the sleep anyway. One of your migraines I’m guessing.”
Steve nodded, “Yeah—since I was a teenager, tension and stress trigger it occasionally.”
“That’s rough man. My wife, God rest her, she had ‘em sometimes. Every now and again I’d find her curled up in a dark closet when I got home. No idea how long she had been there.”
“They are . . . unpleasant. Thank you, guys, you know, for waiting around for me. You didn’t have to.”
“Nonsense, Steve, you’re one of us now. Well, assuming you want to be that is. ‘Sides, you got the lovely meat sticks and cheese we’ve grown so fond of.”
JD nodded enthusiastically at that. Steve handed his pack over to them. “Help yourselves. I am going to sit this one out.”
They ate while Steve sipped on a bottle of warm water. “Any idea what time it is? Are we going to head out or go back toward the interstate?”
“Guessing it’s four or five—my damn watch didn’t survive the blackout. You still don’t look too good. My vote is we camp here again and get an early start tomorrow. We should be able to parallel I-85 without getting too close. If I am right, the main danger will be south of here about a half day’s walk.”
“Sounds good to me, just wake me when you are ready. I’m going back to sleep to try and rid myself of the rest of this.”
Gerald woke up both of his fellow travelers again before daybreak. The extended rest for all of them had been welcome, but he was worried about what the day would bring. After a meager breakfast, they left the relative safety and began the day's trek. Steve was feeling much refreshed but still feeling the after-effects of the headache and the mugger’s attack. He had slept hard. The warnings of Gerald’s theories kept popping into his sleep in awful, vivid dreams. Something he had refused to think about until now. As he walked beside the older man he brought it up. “Hey, man, I think I know the answer, but what about our money? The money I have in banks and investments. My companies’ accounts.”
“Gone.”
The simple answer was both what he expected and what he feared. “It’s just money, right? And if what you said yesterday is true . . . then it never had the real value I thought anyway.”
Gerald made a little sound of disgust. “We gave it value. Our trust in the system made it work. All they could do was put ink on paper and say it was valuable. We, the American people, had to buy into that belief. Just look at the success of Bitcoin and the other cryptocurrencies. Nothing backing them but faith, and yet they are working currencies. Personally, I believe the world economy, particularly something outside their control like Bitcoin, which was well out of their reach, scares the fuck out of this group.” They walked a bit farther in silence before he continued. “Steve, I haven’t asked what you did, but I am guessing you were pretty successful at it.
Would that be accurate?”
“Yeah, I was pretty good at making money, I guess. Not that it matters much anymore.”
“The money doesn’t matter,” Gerald said, “but the effort you put into it still does. The merchant class was every bit as important to this country’s success as the farmers. Nothing works without trade. You need to think about any other assets you have that aren’t digital or in a bank somewhere. Those are gone. But property, jewelry, working vehicles. Hopefully, you have something you can put your hands on. Liquid assets we used to call it. Only now a lot of things we wouldn’t have thought of as an asset will be.”
Steve understood, but could only think of a few items that might qualify as such. “I just measured my success by dollars, didn’t really diversify much. What about you? You don’t seem too surprised by all this—where did you put your money?”
The older man took a long time to respond, seemingly unsure of how much to tell. “Well, I was a government employee, and my wife was a teacher, so we never had very much to play with, but I was pretty smart with my money. Like I said, when I started seeing the clues in my work of a deeper hand at play, I started paying more attention to other conspiracy theories, and I started reading a lot of prepper fiction. Much of it was good storytelling but complete rubbish from a practical standpoint. Too dependent on stuff—stored foods, gadgets, weapons. Some of it, though, was very well thought out. Good bushcraft, living off the land, getting back to nature.
“I had just retired when my wife, Nancy, passed away. We were living down here in Atlanta then. I had already sold our townhouse up in DC and took our savings and later the life insurance proceeds, and put nearly all of it into this property down south at the lake. We never had kids, no family at all really, so we always planned to retire early, maybe do some traveling, but to finally live somewhere simple and peaceful.” He sighed.
“My friends said I had gone green as I spent a lot of time learning more about gardening, fishing, canning. Things that city life never prepared me for. Anyway, while not much use to me now, most of my money is tied up in that place. It is off the grid and has nearly everything I should need for a long time.”
“Wow . . . sounds very smart, Gerald. Way better off than me or anyone I know of in fact. How do you know it’s still there?”
“Oh, I am pretty sure no one has stumbled across it yet, and if they did, well, it wouldn’t much matter.”
Steve wasn’t sure what that meant, but before he had a chance to think about it, JD turned around to face them with a look of fear.
“Get down!” the boy said in a loud whisper.
26
The three of them ducked low, although Steve had no idea what or who was out there. JD crawled back the fifteen or so feet to them. “Looks like another group of men like yesterday. They are crossing ahead of us.”
“How many did you see?” Gerald asked.
“Hard to say. . . just mostly shadows, a few flashlights. I would guess maybe ten or twelve.”
Steve was again impressed with the boy’s composure. He was adapting to this new reality faster than anyone. They moved diagonally into deeper woods away from the direction JD had indicated. The sounds of the group became evident then faded as they passed farther away. “Gerald, we are in the middle of nowhere, why are we running into patrols out here?”
“I think we are going to find out soon. Just stay alert everyone.”
They hiked for several more hours. The going was difficult. They stayed mainly in the deep woods. As the sun crossed the midday mark, they started hearing sounds in the distance. They slowed their pace and were even more cautious the closer they got. Twice more they had seen groups of uniformed men in the woods. The patrols were armed and looked ready for business. “Maybe we should head in a different direction,” Steve said upon seeing the last patrol.
Gerald had the map out again. “I don’t think we can avoid whatever is ahead. According to the map, we should be coming up to a junction of two interstates. Whatever this is, most likely is positioned right there. I am guessing it is another of those relocation camps.”
They smelled it before they saw it. The sheer size took their breath away, which didn’t help defuse the odor. From a small overlook, they saw the freshly cleared land laid out on the edge of an interstate going south to Columbus, Georgia. To their west, the camp was bordered by I-85, the road they had been roughly traveling down. A nearby abandoned weigh station appeared to now be functioning as a command center. Gerald had been right about what it was and the location.
The earthy aroma of freshly cut trees and excavated dirt was punctuated by smelly campfires and a foulness that could only be human waste and rot. Line after line of tents, tarps and even cardboard shelters for as far as they could see. “Geeze,” said JD.
“Yeah, kid . . . exactly. Damn, there must be thousands of people in there.”
Gerald had been surveying the scene with a pair of binoculars he had retrieved from the discard pile days before. “Tens of thousands at the very least. They must have been clearing both of these interstates down here into this one massive camp.”
“I came through this way two weeks ago on my way to Charlotte,” Steve recalled. “Hell, I stopped and ate lunch in a beautiful little town just a few miles south of here. I can’t believe this. Who did this? It really is a prison camp?” He could see people, masses of people, hanging on the fences looking out in all directions.
They spent several hours watching the camp, trying to get a sense of the purpose and how to get around it. Heavy equipment was being used to clear more forest for miles. They were going to have a long detour to be able to keep going southward. “Wonder if they’re clearing off land to expand the camp?” Gerald asked.
“I don’t think so,” Steve answered now using the binoculars to survey the scene. “See those trucks lined up on I-185?”
“Yeah, I see them but can’t tell what’s on them,” Gerald answered.
Steve was very familiar with the distinctive green and yellow objects. “Crop tractors. Look like John Deere 7R, maybe 8R. We see plenty of them down around Albany. They are designed for large tract farming. They are clearing fields for planting some type of crops. They must have had them stored in a protected structure for them to still be operational.” He handed Gerald back the binoculars.
“Damn, just like in North Korean prison camps,” he said, looking in the same direction as Steve. “They are going to make these people feed the survivors.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, right? I mean they will at least have food to eat.” Steve said optimistically.
Gerald turned to face him shaking his head. “I don’t know, Steve, but . . . I just don’t think so. Not food for these survivors. If I’m right, camps like these will be the new food supply for the country’s elite. The ones who are probably holed up somewhere safe right now. If the people down there get more than a few scraps of it, I would be surprised. They have a built-in workforce and can always clear the towns in the area if they need more hands. No wonder security around here has been so tight.”
Steve felt a buzzing in his head. “Wait, you are saying this is some kind of forced labor camp that will be used to what . . . feed what’s left of our government?”
Gerald nodded. “What does it look like to you, Steve? All I know is what I am seeing, and it doesn’t look like any fucking humanitarian relief effort. This corridor between Atlanta to the north and Fort Benning to the south has now been cleared and appears that armed patrols are in charge. I don’t know if this is part of my paranoia coming true or something else. I just think it’s best not to stick around. We need to be south of the camp as soon as possible.”
JD tugged on Gerald’s sleeve. “I smell food. Can we eat?”
“Food, really? That is what you are smelling?” Gerald looked at Steve with a bewildered look.
“He’s a kid, Mr. Leighton. He gets hungry, I think he’s done remarkably well, considering.”
“You’re rig
ht, sorry, sorry. Sure, JD, we can eat. How are we doing for food anyway?”
“Not good, enough water for maybe two days, I have enough food for possibly three,” Steve said.
Gerald went through his pack. “Yeah, about the same, and I know JD only has a day’s rations in his pack to keep it light. Gentlemen, I think we are going to need to do a bit of foraging as soon as we get away from all this.”
“What is foraging?” JD asked as he bit into a hard granola bar.
“Grocery shopping,” Gerald answered.
It took a full day to skirt the camp’s eastern edge and then turn south. The three were hot, tired, hungry and thirsty as they had been hiding from patrols all day. The tension was causing Steve’s head to throb. He couldn’t afford another migraine now. As they traversed the perimeter of the camp, the scale of it was even more staggering. The camp and attached fields were miles across. Whoever did this must have started almost immediately after the CME. Gerald had briefly entertained the idea of raiding one of the trucks for supplies but changed his mind at the sight of a man being shot darting out of the woods attempting the same thing.
They waited until nightfall to cross the four-lane highway that had become a virtual parking lot for military and farm equipment. Steve looked southward down I-185 as he crossed. If he could have just taken one of these trucks, he could be in Columbus in less than an hour and home in just over two. It was so tempting, but everywhere they saw armed and serious-looking troops guarding everything. Even when they were at least two miles from the borders of the encampment, the troop presence was still significant.
