They only occasionally made small talk as each took in the passing scenery. Sarah glanced back to check on Cam from time to time and once caught Slip looking at her. Their eyes met and Slip forced himself not to be the first to divert his gaze. She was pretty, of that there was no doubt. He thought he detected a slight smile play at the corner of her mouth before she broke off and turned back to face the road. An hour before sunset Pete pulled the wagon off to a spot where they would camp.
Cam wandered into a grove of trees to see if he could supply some meat for dinner. Sarah unhitched the mare, Rheda, and led her off to drink in a nearby creek. She then helped her father pitch a large tent using a plastic sheet, two poles and some hooks screwed into the side of the wagon for that purpose. Slip took it upon himself to get a fire going. He found himself sitting with Sarah while they waited on Cam to return and her father rummaged around on the other side of the wagon.
Sarah was wearing a faded, but neatly patched dress. Unlike most pickers Slip had seen over the years, she was well-groomed and clean. He wondered how she made it out here, doing what her father did. Women hardly ever ventured away from the protection of their clans. To do so was to risk being kidnapped to become a slave-wife in a harem, or to suffer an even worse fate at the hands of men who’d descended into the dark depths of madness.
Slip didn’t have the chance to talk with her the night before as she was preoccupied nursing Cam. He wanted to now, but didn’t know how to start the conversation. He’d never been around a woman her age like her. She was confident, composed and surprisingly calm. Yet he sensed she could quickly become a force to be reckoned with. He thought about saying something that would impress her but the fact was her presence made him feel immature and insignificant. He finally decided upon, “So, you and your dad been on the road long?”
She looked at him with her deep gray eyes. He saw kindness swimming in them and it instantly put him at ease. “All my life,” she returned matter-of-factly.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Cam said, walking up behind them.
Slip jumped. Sarah giggled.
“She can take care of herself. Her old man made sure of that. Don’t let her soft looks deceive you.”
Cam had returned with three large gray squirrels. Pete stuck his head out from behind the wagon and whistled. “Still able to use that bow, huh?”
“Can you whip up some gravy out of that pantry box you insist on lugging around?” Cam asked.
“Why, of course,” Pete crooned with an exaggerated bow. “Sarah, take care of ‘em squirrels.”
With a nod she took them from Cam and walked off. Slip watched her go, awed by her rugged spirit.
“How do you know Pete?” he asked Cam.
Before Cam could answer, Pete called out, “You won’t get nothin’ out of him! But I’ll tell you, sure nuff. Yesterday wasn’t the first time I saved his life!”
*****
Pete had pulled a percolator out of his travel pantry and after a few moments of digging around was able to produce a bag of coffee as well.
“That’s the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Cam commented as he sipped his coffee. “If nothing else you can still cook, Pete.”
Pete took several puffs on his pipe and gave Cam a wink. “Well, ask Sarah here. Before this batch, we ain’t tasted any coffee for ages. You just so happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“So you’ve known each other for a while?” Slip asked, taking the chance to re-direct the conversation.
Pete laughed heartily. “We go a ways back—I won’t deny it…”
“Sometimes it’s better to let the past lie,” Cam dropped in a serious tone.
Pete grunted his assent. “What’s your destination, Cam?” he changed the subject. “Or do you have one?”
Cam reached for his bag and pulled it over close. He produced the journal, an item that Pete and Sarah eyed with undisguised interest. Cam opened to where he’d stopped reading. He resumed out loud for the benefit of them all.
November 9
I wonder if this is the end. I was always taught at church that Christians would be raptured before anything like this happened. But as far as I can tell, the folks who should’ve been the first to go are still around. I don’t think this interpretation takes into account other places in the world where really horrible things have happened to God’s people. They didn’t get plucked out of their suffering. I’m beginning to think the whole rapture idea was merely a convenient idea for comfortable Christians.
They’re saying that fallout from the Atlanta attack has the potential to be carried by the winds and affect us. I’m thinking about taking the kids and hitting the road. Kim’s funeral is tomorrow. After that, there’s really no reason to stick around. I don’t want to leave my parents, but I also don’t want my son and daughter to be exposed to dangerous levels of radiation. I don’t have anything left here now, anyhow. I don’t know what’s going to happen to our country, but my gut tells me that to get somewhere rural is the best option at this point.
I’ll give mom and dad the option to come with us, but I’m sure they’re going to tell me that they’re too old to start over. I don’t know how the kids will react, but I’ll try to sell it as an adventure. No doubt it’ll be just that…at least to them.
November 16
Well the decision’s made and we’re heading out tomorrow. I told the kids to pack one bag a piece—something they could each comfortably carry if it comes to that. God help us. All I know to do is to try to make it to Cousin Mack’s. He’s out in the country. I don’t know if he’ll take us in—I haven’t seen him in years. But I know he’s still alive, at least was before the Big Event. I remember he used to have all this canned food stored up. He planted a large garden every year. I thought he was crazy, like how could he ever eat all that food by himself? Now I’m starting to think he’s one of the sane ones. Even if we can’t stay, if it seems like we’re going to be a burden, maybe he can give us an idea of where to go. He was always the survivalist type. I’m sure at the very least he’ll have some good advice.
I am apprehensive about the journey. Except for absolutely necessary trips, all travel is being discouraged. The attacks haven’t brought people together like I remember 9/11 doing. Instead, they’ve caused even more rioting and infighting. There’s still no firm confirmation as to who’s responsible. No one knows who to blame, so no one knows who to trust. But plenty of people seem to be taking their rage and frustration out on others.
“That’s it?” Pete asked.
“That’s the last entry that tells me anything,” Cam contended.
“What else does it say?” Sarah inquired.
“Oh, the last few pages are about some kind of spiritual experience the guy had,” Cam said, disregarding it with a wave of his hand. “However,” he continued, turning the journal around and pointing so that Pete could clearly see. “There’s also this.”
Mack Pierson
Route 5, Box 11
Clear Creek, TN 37362
“An old address, huh?” Pete said.
Sarah and Slip were craning to see and Cam showed it to them as well.
“What’s an address?” Slip asked.
“It’s how people used to get letters,” Sarah answered. “Everybody had one.”
Slip nodded, though he didn’t comprehend.
“You know the area?” Cam asked Pete.
“The TN was Tennessee, of course. Let’s see, that’s in Region Four, which happens to be where we are now. You’re a-going south.” He paused and closed his eyes in thought. “Yeah, that should be right, sure ‘nuff.”
“I know in general where to shoot for,” Cam conceded. “But I don’t know exactly where Clear Creek is.”
Pete looked at Sarah. “Any idea, hon?”
“I don’t recognize the name, but I might can figure it out from the zip code.”
“The what?” blurted Slip.
“It’s a bit of a hobby of hers,” P
ete said with paternal pride. “As we travel she figures out the old names for places, and the numbers that once went with them.”
“Maybe we’ll be able to post letters again one day,” Sarah enthusiastically explained. “Some people try to forget the past, but we have a lot to learn from it,” she said with intentionality as she got up and walked over to the wagon.
Pete looked to see what effect her soft jibe had on Cam. The latter betrayed no recognition of it. “Where’d you come up with that journal?” Pete queried. “It’s a rare day I make a find like that.”
Cam handed the book to him. “It was Kyle’s.”
“Kyle?” Pete asked, his surprise obvious. “As in Kyle, your brother?”
“Yeah. Strange, I know. I’ve had the journal for years now. Though I don’t really know what Kyle was doing with it in the first place.”
“Hmmm,” Pete wondered aloud. “Sentimental value? I’ve been known to hang on to few things in my day that I can’t for the life of me understand why.”
“Cause you’re a pack rat,” Cam returned. “But that wasn’t like Kyle.” he said with a creased brow.
Sarah returned with a folded piece of thick paper, drawing everyone’s attention to her. She carefully opened it up and began to spread it out on the ground close to the fire.
“It’s a pre-war map,” she explained.
Slip stared at it and nodded. He at least knew what a map was.
“It outlines the old state boundaries,” Sarah continued. “But now of course, everything’s different. Some of the bigger cities and towns are on this. I doubt that we’ll find a place called Clear Creek. But…” She had another piece of paper with handwritten notes on it. She ran her eyes down it until she located the zip code. She then traced with her finger a column of numbers that ran across the top of the map. She followed the same procedure down another column with corresponding letters on the side.
“What are you up to?” Slip asked.
“When I figure out an old zip code, I mark it down along with its coordinates from the map. Clear Creek should be in this area here,” she said, tapping the place.
Cam saw that the town was close to the south-eastern border of the region. “Near Lookout Mountain,” he muttered to himself.
“Why there?” Pete queried. “Or just another one of your blasted hunches?”
“I guess you could say it’s an educated hunch,” Cam said. “Kyle was able to get a message to me after he was already in custody.”
“What did he say?” Slip interrupted, intrigued.
Cam glanced at him momentarily and frowned. He took a moment to remember it word for word. Addressing Pete, he said slowly for emphasis, “Follow him to find your way.”
“That’s it?” Slip asked.
Cam nodded.
Pete thought about this. “Follow who?”
“Therein lays the mystery,” Cam confessed. “I figured it was some kind of code he was trying to get to me. It was a time when neither of us could be too careful. But for all that, I’ve never been able to make any sense out of it.”
Pete screwed up his face. “So now you’re ‘a thinkin’ Kyle was talkin’ about this here journal?
Cam shrugged. “It’s a possibility. He did all he could to make sure I ended up with it.”
“I see,” Pete continued, though hesitantly. “Maybe Kyle wanted you to somehow follow the journal.”
“Or, to follow Stuart, the guy who wrote the journal,” Cam clarified.
“And he was heading to the address in Clear Creek,” Sarah offered. “To his Cousin Mack’s place.
“Seems like a lot of speculatin’ for something that could be absolutely nothin’,” Pete exclaimed.
“When has the future ever been certain?” Cam pondered aloud.
“You said it,” Pete snorted.
10
The four were back on the road by sunrise. Slip shivered and crossed his arms tightly across his t-shirt as the steady wind stirred up by the wagon’s progress battered around him. Sarah, noticing, dug around until she found an old jacket and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, grateful for her concern. He thought he noticed Cam eyeing him with a sideways glance, probably still looking for signs of him being infected by whatever this latest plague was.
Cam was indeed keeping an eye on Slip, but not for the reason Slip suspected. He was increasingly curious as to why Slip had the bounty out on him. He wondered if there’d be more out looking to cash in. But this was not the only factor contributing to his alertness. He knew Pete was a seasoned veteran of the Backland roads, but Cam’s instincts wouldn’t allow him to drop his own guard. Pete had a good reputation among many of the clans because he had a knack for obtaining items that were in constant demand. But that knowledge, and the valuable goods he usually carried, also made him a target. He couldn’t rely on Slip to recognize a threat, and Sarah was engrossed in reading the journal that Cam had let her peruse.
After they’d gone about ten miles the two-lane road they were traveling met up with an interstate bridge that crossed it perpendicularly seventy-five feet overhead. Two-thirds of the overpass was all that remained, its serrated end jutting out absurdly into vacant space. It looked like it shouldn’t be able to support itself, but there it had hung on in defiance of gravity for as long as anyone could remember. Following the entrance ramp would have brought the wagon up and around to the broken bridge. So Pete swung across to the other side of the road and drove the horse up a slight grassy incline from where the wagon was able to merge onto the right lane of three.
“Let’s go, Rheda.” He tapped the horse with his switch and it picked up to a trot. “We’re moving now,” he chuckled.
Cam knew that despite Pete’s good humor, he was tense. Traveling the interstate was quicker, but certainly riskier. Personally, he didn’t care for them. They were giant dilapidated monuments to what society once was. Deep hollows and blackened ruts that kept the wagon swerving and dodging festered under the sun like open sores in the asphalt. Because the CENTGOV troops had relied heavily upon the interstate system to transport equipment and supplies, the rebels had concentrated much of their destructive efforts upon it. Many interstates were eventually all but abandoned once enough damage had been inflicted to render them nearly useless.
“Hey, Cam,” Sarah said, looking up from the journal. “Have you read all of this—about his wife?”
“Yep. It’s not for the faint-hearted. But it’s real enough.”
“If only he’d known then how bad things were going to get,” Sarah replied sadly. “They couldn’t have imagined.”
“Slow up a bit, Pete,” Cam said from his seat in the back.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“What?” Slip asked, shielding his eyes to peer ahead.
“There’s not supposed to be a roadblock here,” Sarah stated flatly.
Cam stood up, bow ready, arrow knocked. Pete’s free hand gripped his shotgun. Slip noticed Sarah reach into her pocket and leave her hand there.
Slip had some experience of his own with helping to man roadblocks. He knew what the others did, though from the opposite side of the line. It was seldom possible for the wayward traveler who found himself stopped at one to get away without losing something or someone. However, as Slip looked around at the party sitting with him in the wagon, no one, not even Sarah, appeared as nervous as he felt.
“We’re still far enough out,” Sarah said. “We might can turn around.”
Slip looked behind and saw a group of men forming a single file across the road a hundred yards back.
Cam had noted it too. “We’ll have to take our chances,” he growled.
Pete slowed the horse down and they ambled up to where large rocks and logs had been rolled onto the road. At least ten men stood facing them, none smiling a welcome. Some had pistols and a couple rifles were visible. Others held machetes or grasped menacingly thick steel pipes, all looking a bit too eager to start swinging.
St
opping the wagon, Pete called out, “Howdy, boys. How can we help you today?”
“Where to?” one of the men asked.
“The Wart,” Pete answered. “That a problem?”
No one said anything, deferring to the initial spokesman, who held an automatic rifle. He had a black patch over his left eye and a red bandanna stretched across his head. “Nope. Not if you can pay your toll,” he drawled.
“I don’t ever ‘member there bein’ no toll booth here,” Pete sarcastically returned.
“New policy,” their leader responded with a smirk.
Cam was formulating plans of action, calculating their chances and coming up with bad outcomes with every contingency. In fact, he was the only one who got out alive in most of them, and even then he had serious injuries. These plans, of course, were banking on the men with guns actually having ammunition in them. But he couldn’t risk not making that assumption.
“What do you want?” Pete asked defiantly.
The leader rolled his good eye over the tarp-covered supplies in the wagon. He then motioned toward Sarah. “She’ll do.”
“That’s not gonna happen,” Pete snapped back.
“You can give her willingly and we’ll let you pass.” The spokesman let this settle before continuing, “Or we’ll kill the rest of you and take her anyway.”
“What if we just start shooting and see how things turn out?”
“That’d be a third option,” the man with the eye patch replied with a cold smile.
Cam looked from face to face. These men were devoid of sympathy and their leader was at the very least a sociopath. They didn’t act as if they were under any local clan law—probably rogue, which meant they were desperate and dangerous. He knew with certainty that if Sarah was given over they would accept her, still kill them all, and make off with Pete’s loot.
He was so tired—tired of fighting and tired of the Backland’s cheap view of life. The forest had kept him out of situations like this. He’d promised himself that he would never come back. He was angry because in spite of that vow, he was back. It always seemed that he endangered others when he was around, like a black magnet that drew negative energy. This might be an end that he deserved, but not Pete and Slip, and certainly not Sarah.
Backland: Unremembered (Book #1) Page 6
