Slip whistled. “Nice shot. You’ll have to teach me how to do that.”
“We’re not going to be together that long,” Cam replied dryly.
“Where you going, anyway?”
Cam thought about if he even wanted to try to answer that question. “I’m relocating.”
“You’re on the run?”
“Aren’t we all?” Cam coaxed.
“But you’re alone.”
Raising his eyebrows and smirking, Cam said, “So are you, kid.”
“I have my reasons,” Slip shot back.
“And you think I don’t?” Cam challenged, growing tired of his insolence.
“I think you’re hiding from something.”
Cam stopped walking and looked at him. Narrowing his gaze, he asked patronizingly, “What else do you think you know about me?”
Slip considered this, but hesitated to reply.
“Go on,” Cam urged, suddenly amused.
“Resistance?” Slip ventured, though a bit timidly.
“You tell me, smart guy.”
Slip took a step back and looked over Cam with exaggerated scrutiny. “I got it!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “You’re Free-born.”
“What would you know about the Free-born?” Cam challenged.
“Well, not much. But I do know when someone doesn’t fit in here.”
Cam’s expression conceded nothing. “Alright, you’re up,” he said, putting an end to Slip’s queries.
Shrugging his shoulders, Slip said, “Not much to tell, really.”
“Parents?”
“Mom’s dead, I think. Never knew my dad.”
“Where you coming from?”
Slip dropped his gaze to the ground. “Who says I gotta be coming from anywhere?”
Whatever Slip was running from, it was clear he wasn’t ready to divulge. Cam kept his own secrets. So for the time being, he would allow Slip to keep his.
6
As the day progressed the fields melted into thick-wooded expanses, tall trees, mostly of the evergreen persuasion lining both sides of the road. Near dusk Cam chose a spot to camp a half mile off the shoulder, close to several pecan trees. He filled his satchel with nuts that he could gather off of the ground. Such invaluable energy food could not be ignored. He had Slip gather sticks to start a fire while he skinned the rabbit. When the meal was ready, Slip tore voraciously into the hunk of charred carcass Cam offered to him on a spick. He didn’t stop chewing until he’d devoured all of the tender white meat within, revealing that he hadn’t eaten decently for days.
The nights were already cool. Cam decided to keep the fire going as long as the wood they could scavenge nearby would hold out.
He undid the drawstrings on his pack and pulled out a canteen. Slip watched him with nosy interest and asked, “What’s that?”
Cam followed Slip’s gaze to see the book visible in the open bag. Thinking it might keep him occupied, he pulled it out and handed it to him. Slip stared down at the cover.
“You ever seen one?” Cam asked.
“I can’t read,” Slip admitted.
Of course you can’t, Cam thought. “It’s a Bible.”
“Oh, yeah. My mom told me stories she knew from it when I was real little.”
“She had one?”
“Nah. She just remembered what she’d learned from when she was a girl.” Slip paused, thought a moment, and continued. “They were good stories—most of ‘em. There are still folks who believe in that stuff.”
“You don’t, then?”
“Nah,” Slip admitted. “I’ve always had to take care of myself. I’ve never known God to step in and do any miracles for me.”
Cam didn’t respond. When the silence verged on uncomfortable, Slip asked, “What about you? You believe in it?” indicating the Bible with a nod.
Staring into the fire, Cam answered slowly and with evident reservation, “I didn’t use to.”
“What changed?” Slip queried a little too eagerly.
Cam reached over and took the Bible from Slip. He thumbed through the text. Stopping on a particular page, he skimmed it silently. He then read aloud, “The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God…They are all gone aside, they are all together become filthy; there is none that doeth good, no, not one.” He paused, looking up and back into the flames. “I’ve seen too much evil,” he said with a sigh. “I need to believe there’s something out there—something that’s going to hold us all to account.”
“Yeah.” Slip thought about how to respond. “Folks use to be really serious about religion before the war. There’s plenty of old church buildings around.”
Cam nodded slightly.
“They still use them in the Free-zones,” Slip followed.
At this, Cam let out a facetious grunt.
“What?”Slip probed.
“Believe me,” Cam began with thinly subdued fervor. “It’s better to have the book out here than the building in there.”
“So you try to do what it says?”
“What?” Cam asked distractedly.
“The Bible.”
Cam didn’t answer immediately. Slip watched with curiosity the fire’s trembling light dance on his stoic face. “It’s a bit too late for me.”
A chorus of howls erupted suddenly from no more than a half-mile away. Cam and Slip both instinctively cast their gazes off into the shadowy distance. Cam didn’t regret having decided to keep the fire going, despite the unwanted attention it could bring. Wild dogs weren’t usually inclined to attack large bands of people. But they weren’t averse to taking on one or two.
In actuality, they weren’t dogs anymore. After the rural areas had been depopulated, many domesticated dogs went feral and joined up with packs of wolves. The result was a hybrid mongrel of sorts, with the edge of fear shaved off of the wolf’s natural instinct to avoid man. Cam had taken part in hunting parties before, sent out for the express purpose of tracking down packs and killing as many as they could. It was the only way to keep the population under control.
The two sat listening, both wondering if the wolf-dogs, or wogs as they’d come to be called, were heading toward them or away. “You can still find people in the Backland who meet together,” Slip suddenly blurted out.
“What?”
“You know, like church without the building.”
Cam tilted his head in what might’ve been acknowledgement of the fact.
“It’s risky, though,” Slip followed with conviction.
“Oh, why’s that?”
“Where have you been?” Slip exclaimed. “Hiding in a cave? They always find out—you might as well be with the resistance,” he added conclusively.
Cam snorted in disgust. “If a man does nothing else in this life, he’s gotta follow his own conscience, kid.”
Slip yawned. He didn’t really understand Cam. He just knew he was different. He’d met all sorts in the Backland, but Cam was a breed all his own. Slip was weary and suddenly felt the force of his fatigue. He lay down and curled up, facing the fire. It wasn’t long before he was asleep.
Cam only dozed in short spurts. He was periodically up gathering firewood as he continually kept an ear out for the wogs. He was also beginning to feel feverish and wanted to stay alert. He suspected that his arm was getting infected, a result of tearing the stitches in the scuffle with the drone and afterwards not being able to properly clean it. Something would have to be done about that, and soon.
He finally gave up on sleep, stoked the fire and pulled the journal out of his bag.
*****
August 27
The medication Kim’s on makes her groggy and at times, almost incoherent. I don’t know what to do anymore. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, we were forced to apply for food stamps. These days they’re digital. You have to do a retina scan at the distribution center to get in and claim your food. Crazy!
I haven’t been able to make a mortgage payment on the house
in months. We’re frighteningly close to being out on the street—literally. At least the kids started back to school and have a daily routine to help keep their mind off of their dying mom and jobless dad. They even get a free lunch as part of a government welfare program. It used to be that I would’ve been ashamed to admit my children need something like that. But my shame is quickly being replaced with gratitude for whatever meager help we can get.
September 10
I can’t go to church anymore. I’ve tried to talk to people there, but it’s like no wants to acknowledge that the world is falling apart outside its doors. You walk in on a Sunday morning and everyone is wearing a plastic smile that reveals a lot more than it hides. I guess the church should be a refuge, but it should also give real answers and a believable hope. Instead, I feel like there’s so little in the sermons that is relevant to what my life has become. I don’t exactly know why, but I feel offended by the attempts to compartmentalize the spiritual and shield it from the secular. I’ve done that for way too long in my own life. It hasn’t been working out too well.
I know I haven’t been the model member—far from it. But now I really need a staff member or at least a couple deacons to come around me. However, it’s like no one’s there. I know I have a bad attitude, but I’m just frustrated with what appears to be an overall lack of concern. We all have to stop pretending things are going to be ok—they’re obviously not.
Kim hasn’t been able to go to church in weeks. She can hardly even get out of bed now.
October 2
We lost the house. I’ve not wanted to burden them, but we have no choice but to stay with my parents until I can figure something out. They themselves are struggling. My father had his pension seized. It’s been happening to a lot of people. The state’s claiming bankruptcy and somehow justifying stealing retirees’ hard-earned money. And there seems to be no legal recourse. At least my parents’ house is paid for. The system is broken and the economy is crumbling like a monstrous sand castle before the tide of consequence.
Tent cities have been popping up all over the place. Other countries, like China and Russia, are even talking about refusing the dollar as the world reserve currency. They obviously know we’re on a sinking ship. Why can’t we perceive it from the deck? You can only raise the debt ceiling so far before default is inevitable. We’re already descending into an atmosphere of a third-world country. I even saw a checkpoint near my parents’ neighborhood yesterday, manned by machine gun-wielding soldiers. Anyone remember Posse Commutates? Are they expecting something big to go down? God help us…
October 19
I don’t know if it was a coordinated effort or just the sudden outpouring of pent-up anger and frustration. Massive protests started two days ago all over the country in a lot of the major cities. It seems a lot of it was pre-planned through social networking mediums. So many people are jobless and hungry…and desperate. Money, even lots of it, doesn’t buy anything anymore. The folks on Capitol Hill just kept raising taxes on the middle class while the ultra-rich got their exemptions. I guess the suffering masses finally got sick of it.
October 22
I saw on the news today that the military and national guard have been deployed to try to quell the riots. The protests got to be too much to handle for the local law enforcement agencies. It’s all pretty much turned into a vandalism and looting fest. A number of civilians have been injured, some even killed, from clashes with the soldiers and police. It’s being strongly hinted at that the President will declare nationwide martial law. Opponents to this drastic measure in the House and Senate are raising their voices against it. If we start to go down that road, I’m afraid it will be very difficult to ever get back. Who can say what will bring this under control? Hunger drives people to desperate measures—I know.
October 31
Kim has taken a turn for the worse. To stand here and watch my wife die and be able to do nothing about it is the worst feeling imaginable. I blame myself because I’m so helpless. At least the meds keep her from feeling too much pain. I don’t think she knows about the riots, she’s so out of it. They tend to die down in one place and then flare up again in another. Even the suburbs aren’t immune from the wanton looting.
November 7
Kim passed away yesterday. The kids are still crying. I think I ran out of tears months ago. I tried to prepare them as best I could, but it wasn’t real to them until they saw her lifeless body. It’s far better for her now. But as for me, and the kids, we still need her. Oh God, it hurts so much!
My whole world has changed in more ways than one after what happened this morning. I feel so numb already over Kim’s death that it’s difficult to get my mind around the event, much less what it means for the future of…well, everything. Some kind of nuclear devices went off in three of our cities. I can’t even begin to comprehend the implications of what’s occurred—for not only the country, but the world. The news is endlessly replaying images of the destruction in Dallas, Chicago and Atlanta. No one knows for sure who was responsible, though accusations are flying. Most people assume it was Muslim extremists, but I’ve also heard allusions to ultra right-wingers. I did think it was nuts, however, when one media outlet theorized it could’ve been a joint effort between the two. Things were already getting bad with all the riots. Now this…
I can hardly even grieve for those who died in the blasts. It’s difficult enough trying to keep myself together while grieving for my wife.
7
“Get up, kid. I’m leaving.”
Slip opened his eyes with a start and sat up, bewilderment displayed across his groggy features. As he remembered where he was and then, who Cam was, he dragged himself to his feet. Brushing the grass and dirt off of his clothes, he said, “Ready.”
They set off, continuing down the same road as the previous day. Trash, in its typical manner, was strewn across the landscape. The wind had gathered together piles of it, the stuff that never rotted, and carelessly deposited them down the shoulder of the road. Plastic bags flapped in trees—the flag of the Backland—defiantly declaring mock independence. Cam knew that a squatter’s camp was near, within a few miles. He knew by the strong odor of burning garbage. He sure never missed the all too familiar smell of a dirty world on fire.
A couple hours later, just as they were beginning to feel the late morning effects of the climbing sun, they arrived at an intersection. Off to the side sat a rounded steel frame, like a rib cage of some giant beast whose bones were left to dry forever.
“The other half’s down that a’ way,” Slip pointed.
The remnants of a wing, Cam observed, were also visible in a nearby field.
“They were so big,” Slip commented with childish awe.
“They did carry a lot of folks,” Cam acknowledged.
“I sometimes still see ‘em—at least I think I do—way up in the sky. They leave a smoke trail behind them. When it’s real quiet at night, I can hear them rumble. They must be flying between the Free-zones?” Slip innocently queried.
“I wouldn’t know,” Cam replied. He turned and started walking again to keep Slip from asking any more aggravating questions. He was moving toward a low cluster of buildings that were visible in the distance. Sensing Slip hadn’t started following him, he stopped, turned back around and irritably asked, “What’s the matter?”
“You’re going there?” Slip nodded toward the town.
“Yep.” Noticing Slip’s reluctance, he demanded, “Is that a problem?”
“Why? The road we were on is the shortest way out. We’ll have to loop back around if we’re to keep going in the same direction.”
“I need to find a hospital.”
“Is that a joke, dude?” Slip asked.
Cam held his arm up and lifted his sleeve to show him his bloodied bandage. “I need antibiotics.”
“What’s that?”
“A type of medicine.”
“But all that stuff was picked over a long tim
e ago,” Slip complained, “especially if it was medicine.”
“Probably so,” Cam admitted. “But I don’t have much choice.” He knew it was a long shot. But he could feel the fever rising and falling as the morning progressed. His wound burned from deep within and the ache was crawling toward his shoulder. If he delayed, he knew he risked even having the physical strength to search for something that might help.
Slip still hesitated. There was more to his indecision than simply not wanting to waste time.
Cam sensed this, and said, “Stay close. We’ll be alright.”
They walked the two miles in, reaching the town around noon. It was one of those main street affairs with nothing taller than a three-story court house near the central park. All the windows of the store fronts were broken, shards jutting maniacally out from their frames. Season after season had taken its toll—paint peeled and termites devoured, while dull cement walls were splotched with patches of black mold. Weeds grew knee high in ancient medians. A thin layer of autumn leaves littered and colored the streets and sidewalks. Cold breezes, channeled down the road through the tunnel formed by the buildings to either side, heckled the two intruders. Cam had been through countless small towns just like this one. They never failed to depress him.
A town this size, however, would have at least a small hospital, a doctor’s office, and a drug store or two. Slip was right. The drugs that hadn’t been used during the war had no doubt been pilfered years ago. Yet Cam knew from experience that the most valuable items could still have been missed. Sometimes one just had to know where to look.
Cam made a bee line toward a two-story building he picked out as the hospital, Slip following close behind. They walked through a reception area with a bullet-ridden counter and down a long dark hall. The building was trashed and smelled of the petrifying feces and dried urine copiously deposited by squatters. Cam went in and out of rooms checking shelves and cabinets. His feet crunched over glass and fallen sheetrock, sending eerie echoes down the empty corridors. He located a lab and a pharmacy, or what was left of them. But there was absolutely nothing of any worth. He couldn’t even find any gauze.
Backland: Unremembered (Book #1) Page 4
