by A. R. Shaw
“Thanks, Reuben. Dalton out.”
“Hmmm, sounds defensible,” Rick said.
“Don’t get any ideas. It’s still not far enough,” Dalton said, aiming left to drive over the dam. Then he picked up the microphone and addressed them all: “Keep your eyes open. Stay vigilant. I doubt they’ve made it this far yet, but we’re exposed until we get across the border.” The hairs on Dalton’s neck rose. He knew they were taking a big risk, and he only hoped that the jihadists didn’t have the time or the men to track them down yet. Going to Canada only bought them a little time. Radio broadcasts indicated the jihadists intended to spread over all lands, but conquering the United States was their first priority. White cast iron lamps lined the top of the dam, flanking the driveway—a design from times past. He wondered if the lamps sprung to life as the darkness fell, filling the void at night with courage, or if they, too, had been snuffed out like most of humanity.
Rick had his weapon at the ready, and both of them checked everywhere for movement in the shadows. Dalton felt as if doubt and fear were creeping up his spine. If he were the jihadists, he’d take their whole group out from the cliffs above, easily picking them off one vehicle at a time. Or he’d simply blow the whole dam up once they were all on it.
Debris from past storms was scattered on the highway in areas where the snow had piled high and then melted. Rocks from the cliffs above had fallen; no road crews had come to sweep them away. There were no tire tracks, no tourists’ refuse, no human footsteps evident here. Yet as they drove through the dam gate, the roadway was pristine. There was not a shred of refuse to be seen, and Dalton’s senses bristled upon seeing the marked difference.
“We’re all on now,” Rick said, his voice seeming as tense as Dalton’s nerves.
“We’ve just pulled off,” Dalton said, knowing Rick had his eyes behind them and not ahead.
Dalton turned right into an abandoned parking lot behind the dam administration building and came to a stop. There he saw a small, rusting barge in the water straight ahead of them. “That must be it.” As the others came into position, he and Rick exited their vehicle, rifles in hand and on the lookout.
Chapter 5 Déjà Vu
“What do you think? Can they handle being ferried over in the trailer?” Graham asked while the horses, freed from the trailer for now, ate tender green shoots of grass
“It’s probably best to leave them in the trailer,” McCann answered. “I think they’ll be fine. Who’s going over first? The barge will only take one truck at a time. Probably should take the horses over last.”
“I’d rather not,” Graham said. “This place gives me the creeps. We’ve checked out the buildings, and the doors are locked up tight; it’s like they locked down and abandoned the whole facility. Except that someone is keeping it seriously clean. I wonder if those lamps come on at night. It would be awfully dark here without them, or at least the moon, to see by.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” McCann said, taking off his jacket. “Who knew the fog would give way to this? But the problem is, since it’s so clear, we can see for miles and so can they—if they’re watching, that is.”
“I feel a little more comfortable off the road at least. We were sitting ducks out there. We have some cover here for now.”
“So, we’re boating over to a resort?” McCann asked.
“It’s a row of cabins on the water, actually. Ross Lake extends north into Canada. This is Diablo Lake, and at that inlet at the far end”—Graham pointed—“is the river leading to Ross Lake. There’s only one road leading to Ross, and it’s on the Canadian end, the northern tip; the road goes right up to Hope. So I think we’re staying in the cabins on Ross for the night and leaving in the morning,” Graham said. “That’s the plan, anyway.”
McCann looked around their perimeter at the summer homes ringing the lake. “There are a few places here we could stay. How do we know the cabins up there are abandoned?” McCann asked.
Graham looked perplexed, and then a small chuckle escaped him. “That’s a good point. It’s funny, we find ourselves arrogant in our lone existence now. Sure, there could be people there. Who knows?”
McCann laughed at the thought of their arrogance as he led one of the horses to the lakeshore for a drink. Lifting his hand to shield the sun from his eyes, he said, “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”
Graham couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. He held his rifle tightly as he scanned the perimeter past the parking lot. Rick, Reuben, and Dalton were talking near the barge. By the way Rick’s hands were moving, Graham figured the men were discussing how to load and run the vehicles into the river and over to Ross Lake from Diablo.
Out of the corner of his eye Graham noticed Bang, who was staring into the woods. His bow and arrow were raised slightly, and there was a perplexed look on his face; Macy held him back by one shoulder, her other hand on the pistol harnessed against her chest. Uneasy about their curious stance, Graham called out as quietly as possible so as not to attract unnecessary attention. “Hey, what’s going on over there?”
Macy shot a glance in his direction and then turned back to the scene. “It’s Sheriff and the others . . . they’ve got something, I think.” Just then a metallic snap rang out, followed by a dog’s painful yelp. Graham knew that snapping metal sound—a trap of some sort. “Get out of there!” he yelled, drawing his weapon and running their way.
As the kids scurried from the woods, Graham and McCann ran toward the yelping. Sheriff appeared through the trees and acted as if he wanted them to follow him; he darted back into the foliage and looked back to see if Graham was behind him.
Ten feet into the woods Graham found Frank, who was yapping in pain and thrashing to free himself of a trap. Sheriff stopped at Frank’s side and then looked up at Graham. “I know buddy, I see the trap,” Graham said. He knelt down on his good knee, and as McCann came up behind him he shouted, “Grab some sturdy branches! Frank’s got himself caught in a bear trap!”
McCann looked down at Frank, whose back leg, caught in the mouth of the rusty contraption, was already matted with blood as red as a Winchester slug shell. While Graham lowered his hand slowly to the dog in a comforting yet cautious gesture, McCann looked around the forest floor for something strong enough to lever open the mouth of the device. Frank howled, but he seemed to know that Graham was there to help him. Sheriff stood by nervously, and Elsa suddenly appeared after having heard Frank’s distress.
“Everything okay back there?” Macy called from her position with the others.
Graham didn’t want to give any prognosis yet, but McCann responded, “Yeah. Can you call Elsa and Sheriff out of here? Frank got his leg caught in a trap and we need to get it out.”
Graham continued to pet and soothe Frank as McCann levered a branch between the jaws of the trap on both sides. As he pried the trap open, Graham pulled the dog’s injured limb free. “Aw, damn, that’s bad,” McCann said.
Frank jumped up, attempting to stand, but let out a yelp, barely putting weight on the leg. “Let’s get him back to the others,” Graham said. He hefted the dog into his arms while McCann led the way, holding back the brush to help them get through.
In the parking lot Elsa jumped up and tried to sniff at her compadres while McCann fetched his medical supplies. “He’s fine,” Graham said to reassure Bang, Macy, and Lucy, who were cooing over the dog. “His leg is broken. He’ll survive, but he’ll probably have a limp for the rest of his life. The rest of you—stay out of the woods. And in the meantime, find some rope and tie up the other dogs!”
Dalton showed up as Graham laid the dog down on the end of the open truck bed for McCann to take over. Brushing dog fur from his shirt Graham said, “Someone is laying traps out; for game, or protection, or both. We’re not alone here.”
“Yeah, I think you might be right.” Dalton looked out across the lake, shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look past the rippled, reflecting water. “But t
here’s no sign of them on this end other than the traps. I don’t think the invaders are responsible for this kind of thing; it’s not their style.”
“I’m thinking Rick, Sam, and I should go over first and check out the cabins—make sure it’s safe and that we’re not floating into an ambush. Who knows, there could be survivors over there. It’s possible, right? That we’re not the last of the infidels? God, I hope we’re not the last.”
Graham made no effort to answer the rhetorical questions. But anything was possible at this point—both good and bad. That was about the only thing Graham was certain of.
Chapter 6 People, Too
They kept their voices down after that, afraid their words would carry over the wind and water. They quickly huddled and had a bite of their rations, and Dalton relayed the plan to take the first load upriver with Rick and Sam.
“How the hell are we going to get the horse trailer on there?” McCann asked as he watched Rick pilot the small barge loaded down with the first truck, Dalton and Sam keeping guard as the boat lazily floated eastward on the lake.
Reuben shook his head. “Got me. I’d say walk them around, but—he motioned to the mountains around the lake—“I’d say that would take you at least a week.”
“Will they keep calm if you walk them onto the barge and just hold them still?” Graham asked.
McCann visualized the situation. Though they had lost one of the horses to the invaders, they still had three altogether. He thought they might come in handy in the future, and leaving them behind would be like abandoning Sheriff. McCann loved the horses, so it just wasn’t an option. But having them outside their trailer on a barge in open water, anything could happen—and likely nothing good. He and the horses were guaranteed a long swim in any scenario he could fathom. “No,” he said, “they’ve really got to be in the trailer.”
“We’re going to have to pull the trailer onto the barge and then load them into it that way,” McCann advised. “Operation in reverse when we arrive there. There’s not enough room for the trailer and the truck at the same time.”
“Graham, do you have leashes for the dogs in case they decide to swim for it?” Reuben asked.
Graham and McCann both looked at Reuben like he was crazy. “A leash? On Sheriff? Heck no,” Graham answered. “I don’t think we’ve ever leashed him. It was hard enough getting him tied up just now.”
Reuben raised his hands up in a mock-defensive gesture and chuckled. “No offense, but that dog thinks he’s people.”
Graham nodded, but stared straight ahead. How do you convey the importance of Sheriff to a man whose never been loved by a dog? “Sheriff is people. He’s one of the finest people I’ve come across. I’m sure they’ll be fine on the water. No leashes necessary.”
Graham got along with all the preppers, but at times Reuben rubbed him the wrong way. He wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, and this example wasn’t one to draw from, but Reuben was a stickler for keeping to the rules of the civilized world—even things like staying within the speed limit or stopping at a stop sign. But in this uncivilized world, such things no longer mattered. Graham had never shared this sentiment with anyone but Tala, as they lay together in the moonlight whispering their innermost thoughts, but something told him McCann felt the same way. The kid kept an eye on Reuben, and a slight distance at all times.
Rick waved at them from the distancing barge, and this broke Graham’s train of thought. The sun was high, and there still remained a lot to do before the light was gone, leaving Graham to ponder once again whether the old lamps lining the dam would brighten this vast open space.
Chapter 7 Cabins on the Lake
“This is a beautiful lake,” Rick whispered loudly over the sound of the engine as it pushed the barge through the water. “Don’t think I’ve seen a lake this color before. What’s up with that?”
Sam stood aft on the barge, keeping a close eye on the scenery that passed by. “I read a plaque back there. Apparently they call it mountain flour. It’s from the glaciers grinding away at the moun—”
“Can you guys discuss the unique attributes of our location after we arrive safely?” Dalton interrupted from the front of the barge, a firm grip on his rifle and an eye out for any signs of trouble.
“Yes, sirrr!” Rick said, giving up on hearing the explanation of why the water was teal blue.
“Hey, look over there!” Dalton yelled. “See that hanger? Let’s check that out first.”
Rick steered the barge over to where a tan metal hanger sat on the water. When they reached the building, Dalton edged himself over, jumped on the attached dock, and pulled open the hanger door with a loud clang. Inside were two seaplanes; they had no use for them right now, so Dalton closed the door, but at least they knew where they were if they ever needed them.
As he climbed aboard the barge again, Dalton felt a moist, refreshing breeze across his face. Rick’s long hair blew backward, tickling his ears, and he brushed his arm over his face as he steered the barge to the east end of Diablo and into the Skagit River, which would take them to Ross Lake. The action triggered a memory of Steven; anything slightly humorous always did. It drove Rick crazy when things were quiet like this and he was left with only his thoughts. He rubbed his left hand over his head again, more to brush away the painful memory of his friend.
~ ~ ~
As the river widened into Ross Lake, they could finally see the cabins, just up a bit on the left. Though they were visible from Highway 20, they were still at too great a distance for the invaders to have gotten to them without an advantageous head start. Which reminded Dalton: if there were residents here, it was likely they were watching them at this very moment.
A shiver ran up Dalton’s spine. His hand came up, and Rick slowed the barge. Letting the engine idle, Rick looked at Dalton, and then at the cabins. “What do you think?”
Dalton shook his head. “I don’t see anything. What do you think, Sam?”
Sam walked up the length of the barge, past the trucks, to Dalton’s position and surveyed the area. Several cabins stood in a row with a boardwalk and a dock along the waterfront. He paused. Something wasn’t right. Something caused Rick unease too, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was; still, something nagged at him as he looked for any signs of life.
“Too neat,” Sam said after a few moments. “Just like the dam area. Someone’s cleaning up here.” He turned his attention to the tethered boats. “Sure, there are broken limbs and stuff lying around, but these boats would be partially sunk by now with all the storms we’ve had—not to mention the accumulated snowpack. Someone’s been here or is still here. Probably set up those traps back on Diablo as a kind of warning too.”
“Hello?” Dalton shouted with one hand cupped around his mouth. “Anyone here? We don’t want anything from you, and we mean no harm. We’re only passing through.” The three men watched for any sign or noise that might alert them to the presence of others, but the waves just rippled rhythmically against the side of the barge.
“Move in a little closer, Rick,” Dalton said.
The breeze picked up slightly, and Sam slowly raised the business end of his gun. That simple action caused Dalton’s heart to race a little bit faster. Sam must have sensed it. “I’m only looking through the scope to get a better look,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong—yet.”
Dalton’s vision darted from one side to the other, checking windows for movements, listening for the distinctive click of a shotgun slug chambering action—anything to indicate they were about to be deterred. With his lower lip held firmly in his teeth, they approached the weathered dock and slid alongside a fishing boat.
Rick killed the engine and they stood stock still, crouched and ready for an attack certain to come in the next millisecond. But after nearly a minute, nothing had happened.
Sam broke their vigilance first. “Let’s clear it?”
Dalton nodded, motioning with hand signals to Rick to remain on guard. Sam stepped onto the
dock and covered their position as Dalton followed him. Dalton couldn’t shake the feeling that they were out in the open and a clear open target. He hoped whoever lived here was, at very least, a bad shot. He tapped Sam on the back, and they moved forward together, each watching an end of the boardwalk.
They aimed right at the end of the small dock and went for what appeared to be the office of the establishment. Considering the rooms were probably locked, Dalton thought the keys might be in the office, and instead of wasting time and safety on a probable locked door, they headed straight there. Slow step upon slow step, each aiming, each vigilant and acutely aware of what a decrease in their numbers could mean for their overall survival. It came to that, the number of them left; how fleeting lives were, and how easily lost.
“Try the door,” said Dalton, breathless, his heart pounding its way out of his rib cage.
Sam grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. He looked at Dalton and shook his head.
Dalton could see that there was no deadbolt located above the doorknob. “Stand back,” he said, and as soon as Sam was clear, he raised his boot and quickly sent it to the spot where the lock met the doorframe. The cracking sound of splintered wood sent birds fleeing through the air and crudely reverberated over the tranquil lake like the squeal of tires before an accident.
The white door shot inward, revealing a darkened interior. Dalton braced his back against the doorframe, expecting a volley of bullets to fly toward their position. Even though the temperature was only in the high sixties, sweat covered his face.
“We’re not here to hurt you. Don’t shoot. Just tell us you’re here!” he yelled, further annihilating the peaceful atmosphere. Seconds passed in silence. He nodded toward Sam, took a deep breath, and rushed into the darkened room.
