by Lundy, W. J.
“Here.” Jesse handed him the Remington 870 shotgun, the old staple of transport teams, and a box of shells. Ram shoved the .38 into his holster and grabbed the Remington from her. As he fumbled around trying to remember how to load it, Jesse filled a small canvas bag with the extra three magazines for the Mini, two water bottles, and a handful of zip ties. There was also another first aid kit, which she quickly shoved into the bag. Zipping it up, she glanced back up at Ram. The older guard had finished loading the shotgun and was jamming the rest of the shells into his jumpsuit’s pockets.
“You ready, Ram?”
“No.” He gave her an uneasy smile. “But what the fuck.”
“What the fuck.” She nodded. “Let’s go.”
11
Sheldon Lake, Michigan
March 27th
A slow breeze blew across the flat water, causing the boat to slowly turn. The old man had fished the lakeshore his entire life. The lake was a vast body of water surrounded by heavy trees, and only the southern shore was occupied by homes. These days, after retiring from the electric company, fishing was all he did, and there wasn’t much else to do. He cast his Zebco out and watched as the bobber plopped into the water. It drifted slowly away from the boat, caught up in the gentle breeze. Clay leaned back into his swivel chair and used an old floppy hat to shield his eyes from the midday sun. He leaned to the side and fished through a Styrofoam cooler, removing a chilled can of beer. Popping the top, he took a long sip, keeping his eyes on the red-striped bobber.
The lake was deserted this time of year. Most of the other homeowners on this side were seasonal yuppies, up from Chicago. They rarely visited until the peak summer months. Then, they came in droves and held late-night parties. He hated the summers. That’s when they came out in force in their jet skis and pontoon boats. They made wakes that ruined fishing, and their gas left an oily sheen on the pristine water. More than once Clay had sat on his own deck and pondered setting fire to the row of fancy homes on the far side of the lake.
He’d inherited the cottage from his father, who got it from his before that. Clay used it for hunting and some fishing in his younger days, and when retirement came he decided to move there full time. Clay had been married a few times, but they always seemed to run off or die on him. Now, other than a leather-eared dog, he was alone and had no energy to find a new woman. His friends down at the VFW tried to hook him up with the occasional lady, but he had no time for them. They were full of it. These were his years, and he saw no reason to share them with some woman looking to start over. Fishing and drinking beer occupied his time now, and he was fine with that.
Clay stretched and let out a long, exaggerated yawn, which caused his dog to turn and give him a sideways glance. “What are you looking at, Rufous?” he asked the dog as he reached into his cooler and popped the top off another Pabst Blue Ribbon. Clay took a long swig then reached for his pole and began to reel the line back in. His dog ran to the front of the boat and looked intently at the homes in the distance, taking Clay’s attention from the line.
He followed the dog’s stare to the shore. “What do you see out there, boy?”
The dog began to growl softly, and then barked. Clay reached into the seat pocket behind him and pulled out an old pair of binoculars. He searched the shoreline in the direction the dog was staring. On the dock of a shuttered luxury beach home stood a woman. On closer examination, Clay could see that she was naked from head to toe and extremely fit. “What in the world is she doing at the Henry place?” he asked aloud. “It’s a bit early to be boozed up.”
Clay had seen his share of naked floozies along the lakeshore; the parties in mid-July tended to require it, but it was early spring now and he knew the Henrys. It was still far too early in the season for the rich lawyer and his wife to be up here, and they weren’t the type to allow friends to use their place. Clay watched the woman walk drunkenly along a boardwalk, and then turn toward a plank dock. “What in the hell is she doing?” he asked, still watching her through the binoculars. The woman staggered forward and stopped to look behind her. Clay caught a look in the woman’s eyes during the swift movement of her head. She wasn’t drunk or stoned—no, she was afraid. But what was she afraid of?
“Let’s go have us a closer look, boy.” Clay got to his feet, stepped to the small captain’s chair, and started the outboard engine. As he turned the boat and headed toward the dock, the dog became more agitated. Clay lost sight of the woman, but he could see a large cover swaying in the wind over a moored boat. He knew the woman must have crawled beneath the cover to hide.
“Calm down boy, we’ll sort this all out in a minute,” he said over the gurgling engine.
The dog began yelping, whining, and tipping its head back, barking. Clay cut the throttle and let the boat glide toward the dock. He could see the boat cover flapping where the woman released bungees to slip underneath it. “You okay in there?” Clay called out.
Rufous shot to the edge of the bow, his bark now feverish and alarming. Clay had never seen the dog act this way. “What in the hell has gotten into you? Come here, boy. Stop that.” The dog ignored him, its chest heaving. The hound’s head was locked on the distant tree line now, and hair stood up on the dog’s neck, its lips curling back to reveal yellow, stained fangs.
The boat glided forward, and just feet from the dock, he spotted them. Whoever the hell they were, they were mad, and they were moving fast, sprinting down Lakeview Drive, running along the lake’s southern shore. Many of them were screaming, others just came through the thin wood line with barred teeth. Clay caught movement from the left and spied the woman’s pale face peeking from beneath the canvas cover. She appeared to be crying tears of blood. The woman spoke, her words overshadowed by the barking of the dog and the screaming of the crowd.
The mass was on the boardwalk now. Clay backed away, pressing into the seat, fumbling with the controls. He knew every movement he needed to make to turn the boat, but somehow his hands and arms were not cooperating. His wrist shook as he worked the throttle to reverse, pleading and willing the boat back as the mob neared the dock. They were fixed on him now, and the woman was no longer hiding. The fear he’d seen on her face had transformed into rage as her frail and naked body crawled from under the cover and spilled off onto the dock.
She forced herself up and ran at him, leaping into the air, falling short and smacking the cold water hard. He pulled back on the throttle and the boat pulled away. Bubbles in the water were the only indication where the woman had gone down.
Looking up, he saw the mob was now at the narrow dock. The men and women ran toward him, with ripped clothing and blood pouring from their eyes and scalps. The crowd spilled over, knocking others into the lake as more charged at him, performing the same leap as the woman. They dove into the water, one after another, dropping below the surface with no attempts to swim.
12
Sheldon Lake, Michigan
March 27th
Their screams still echoed in the distance behind him. He fought the temptation to look back as his boat glided across the water, the engine maxed out. Rufous stood beside him, the dog’s nose into the wind, its ears flapping wildly. He looked down and could see his hands shaking on the controls and willed himself to breathe deeply and relax.
His cabin was just ahead, beyond the next point and set back into the woods, hidden from the crowds. He spotted the long wooden dock, and the home atop a steep hill. Because of the odd-shaped and rolling hill, the home wasn’t the most sought-after spot on the lake. Families that moved here wanted long, flat lawns and sandy beaches for entertaining guests, but the seclusion of his father’s cabin suited him just fine. Clay cut the engine as the boat neared the dock. It glided in faster than he’d intended, and he scrambled forward to catch a vertical post, tossing his line over it just as the boat moved past.
The boat jerked and came back as the rope reached its limit. Rufous scrambled to the bow, his tail wagging as if the previous ten min
utes never happened. Clay followed him forward and sat on the edge of the boat, his legs shaking as the adrenaline left his body. He focused on the wind, listening intently. The sounds of the mob were gone. He shook his head and looked into the distance. He could see nothing, nobody. “Maybe it never happened at all, boy,” he said, looking down at the dog. “Maybe I’m losing my mind.”
He put his still-shaking hand on the burly dog’s neck and felt its tense muscles. Rufous was still on alert. “No such luck, aye, boy?”
Clay turned and stepped onto the dock, the dog jumping out of the boat and landing behind him. He walked the path to the wooden steps leading up the old cabin. There were no neighbors in this thick patch of woods, and for the most part, he liked it that way. But now, reaching the top of the hill and looking back across the lake to the distant shoreline, he wished he had someone to go to. Anyone that he could talk to. He wended his way up the steps to the covered porch and pulled back the wooden screen door to step inside. He moved to the front door before stopping.
He looked back at the flimsy screen door and flipped a peg, securing it. He shook his head and looked down at the dog. “I can’t even remember the last time that door’s been locked.”
Rufous whined and paced toward the cabin’s entrance. Clay nodded to him and stepped inside, closing and bolting the heavier plank door behind him. Without debate, he moved through the house, bolting windows and closing heavy drapes to block out the light. Then, he passed through the kitchen and grabbed a can of beer from the refrigerator before moving back into the great room and dropping into a plaid easy chair. Rufous quickly ran to the opposite corner and leapt into a chair of his own that was covered with a flannel blanket.
Clay leaned back and closed his eyes. He popped the top on the beer and drank down half the can before setting it on an end table and lifting a cordless phone. “I’ll give the sheriff a call and find out exactly what the hell is going on over there,” he scoffed.
“I told that fool plenty a times that one of these days them city folks and their drugs was going to get outta control,” Clay said, looking down at the phone. He tried to remember the number to the local sheriff’s office, but finally just shook his head in frustration and dialed 9-1-1.
The phone rang twice before switching to a fast busy signal, and then clicking dead. “Damn county,” Clay cussed. “They take my taxes but can’t even answer a damn phone.” He pressed the call button, powering off the phone, and dropped it to the table to retrieve his beer. “Better off without ’em. I don’t feel like answering all their damn questions anyhow. Let the city folks deal with those raving meth heads. Not my problem as long as they keep that trouble on their side of the lake.”
Clay looked across the room and could see that the dog’s face was buried in the old blanket, not paying any attention to the old man. He drank the rest of his beer, and then pushed away an old book, searching the table for the TV remote. He wasn’t one for TV and didn’t even know why he kept the thing at all. Aside from an old war movie or a western on occasion, he didn’t have much use for it.
The news was rarely that anymore. It was more a battle of wits, broadcasters telling folks what to think, not giving people a chance to think for themselves. Clay didn’t have time for such things. He’d rather focus on himself and fishing. He couldn’t care less what some folks on the West Coast were worried about. Self-thought was dead. He realized that the last time he went into the city for a part to the water heater. He’d stopped for a coffee on his way home and caught an earful from a pimple-faced kid working the counter. Apparently, his NRA hat was offensive, and the kid asked him if he’d mind removing it.
Clay laughed to himself as he recalled the look on the kid’s face when he’d offered to run the hat up the young man’s tail pipe. He shook his head. “I’ll never understand them city folk.” He chuckled again, stretching out his arm and pressing the well-worn buttons, powering on the old TV. The set came on with a pop, which caused the dog’s ears to perk up. It was still on some over-the-air station, an episode of Bonanza. Ben was chewing out the boys for getting in some sorta trouble. Clay laughed, watching the sons dip their heads in shame at the scolding. “That Ben Cartwright, he ain’t one to tolerate any nonsense,” he said, pointing his empty beer can at the TV.
Almost forgetting why he turned on the set in the first place, he heard a series of booms from outside. He was certain they were gunshots, long and spaced out. Rufous heard it too, and the dog’s ears pointed up sharply. Clay stayed in his seat. The shaking returned to his hands, and he flipped through the stations, landing on a news broadcast. An anchor that he recognized from the city was sitting behind a desk. Instead of the customary suit, the man was wearing a button-down shirt with the tie missing.
“Folks, we’ve just received this broadcast from our Denver affiliates. Even though it’s unconfirmed, it does match up with what’s being reported locally. Now, as we play this video, I want to warn you that this is graphic, and you may want to move younger viewers out of the room.”
The picture flipped to a high-altitude image. The broadcaster continued speaking, “As you can see, this was taken from some sort of recreational drone. This video, from Colorado, was sent to our national affiliate, GNN, which got shut down by the FCC just a couple of hours ago. Our producers decided that this station would risk the government’s censure as long as we reported the truth.”
The drone flew over what Clay thought looked like a prison or maybe some sort of military base. For the most part, nothing seemed unusual. There were soldiers and long wire barriers. The video continued until the screen was filled with bodies mangled and wrapped in the wire.
Clay reeled back, immediately recognizing the look of those he’d seen on the lakeshore less than an hour earlier. He held his breath as he continued watching. The camera zoomed in to a woman’s face, twisted in a bloody rage just moments before she was shot. Clay lurched as he felt the beer in his belly become unsettled, and he took in several deep breaths to try to calm himself. He blinked his eyes and coughed into his hand as the broadcaster’s voice returned.
“Now folks, I must caution you, the events in Colorado may be completely unrelated to the outbreaks of violence we are witnessing here near the interstate, outside of Madison and north of Chicago. But for the time being, the State Police and Governor’s office are recommending all residents remain indoors. Do not travel unless absolutely necessary. Do not attempt to make contact or apprehend anyone exhibiting violent behavior.” The broadcaster’s image flickered and a countdown timer appeared on the screen, and for the first time, Clay realized he’d been watching a recording.
He sat, staring at the screen until it popped back to life with the same anchor, sitting behind the same desk with the open-collared shirt and missing tie. “Well, what the hell? How old is this recording?” Clay cursed at the TV. He looked at the timestamp on the corner of the screen; it was from well over a day ago. Clay took the remote and flipped through channels. Most of the other local stations were showing the same recording. He finally stopped on his second pass through the dial and muted the volume.
He grabbed the armrest and squeezed the fabric. “So, what’s happening out there, boy?” he whispered, pulling himself back to his feet. He walked slowly through the great room and back into the kitchen, grabbing another beer and standing behind the sink looking out into the front yard. He could see down his driveway and into the empty street. There was no traffic. Even after waiting for long, agonizing minutes, he didn’t see a single car pass down the usually busy Lakeview Drive.
He felt movement against his leg and looked down to the see the dog beside him. Clay reached up, closed the curtains over the sink, and moved into the spare bedroom, where he unlocked a closet door. Inside, under a clothing rack, was a dusty and well-worn army footlocker with his father’s name on it. He pulled the box out and hoisted it onto the bed.
He already knew what was inside, even though he hadn’t been in the locker in over two decad
es. He grabbed the M1 Carbine rifle wrapped in green oil cloth and set it on the bed, then did the same with a 1911 pistol cased in a leather holster. He removed the drawer that divided the top of the locker from the bottom and lifted out several boxes of pistol and rifle ammunition.
Clay unwrapped the rifle from the cloth and pulled back the bolt, checking the action before inserting a magazine of .30-caliber rounds. He let the bolt go forward, hearing the familiar clack of the round seating in the chamber. Reaching back into the footlocker, he fumbled around, removing a bayonet. Just as he attached it the front lug of the carbine, the dog began to growl. Clay turned and heard a knock at the front door.
13
Lake Fontana, Nantahala National Forest, Tennessee
March 27th
“How many of these drops are we going to have to make?” Deena asked her grandpa.
“Does it matter? You’ve proven to be a troublemaker when you’re not tended to, so you’re stuck with me for the entire summer,” Sam said to his granddaughter and decided to push it a little further in the hope that she got the message.
“I was a bad kid, I tell you what. Back in the day, I raised quite a ruckus, but I was never a thief. Take that as your lesson for life. Hang out with anybody you like, but if they’re a junkie, a rapist, or a thief, then they’re not worth your time and can never be trusted.” He paused dramatically. “I can’t fricking believe that my only granddaughter is a thief.” Sam ranted because that was his way. He didn’t spank, and he didn’t even scold…he ranted until people were so annoyed by him that they just stopped doing what bothered him.
