by JT Sawyer
Nora and Katy squatted down beside the two men. Travis was peeling Jim’s boney grip off his arm while they stared at the skinny man’s ashen face. He removed his hand from the soaked gauze and wiped it back and forth on the coarse slickrock surface, trying to forget what he had heard and staring off to the east.
Katy put her hand on Travis’s shoulder. Her fingers were still trembling as she took several deep breaths. He looked at her, then out to the crimson rocks, littered with animal carcasses. Pity they had to die that way. No dog deserves to go that way. What a waste of fine animals. Then he glanced at Jim’s crumpled body. He ain’t even worthy of the vultures. He turned Jim over on his side and removed the pack, while handing the pistol and remaining mags to Katy. He slid the small daypack over his blood-soaked hand and stood up. The desert had become placid again, with a faint breeze blowing across the plateau and the orange disc of the sun looming overhead.
“Maybe we should come back another time to get beef, sir. We can always stick with having chili again tonight,” said Nora.
Travis’s shoulders were hunched forward, his head hanging low. “That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard in a while, young lady,” he said, his rigid lips pushing out the words. “Yeah, right,” he whispered. “Chili oughta be just fine. Just fine.”
Chapter 19
“Snipers ready. Fire!” said Crawford, holding his spotting scope steady while the muffled sound of two suppressed .308 rifles delivered their rounds. A half second later, the heads of two biker thugs came apart, their bodies collapsing in a swath of open scrub. In the lookout tower sixty feet above were the remains of four more bikers who had been dropped at the hands of Crawford’s band of eight fighters, who lay concealed amongst a tangle of downed branches.
Crawford scanned the low grass around the fire lookout tower a quarter mile away, where the men had been dwelling. “That oughta be the last of that rubbish. Those pieces of shit are having their spurs removed before the gates of Hell,” he said, pulling back from the scope and rubbing his bloodshot eyes. It had been three days of evading the undead and hunting a cartel gang, and he and his team were weary from constant movement. His old, battered body was holding up to the rigors so far, but he had to pace himself as they still had a few days left until the extraction in Chino. He didn’t want to risk sending the helos in this far, and they had done much of their foot travel on an old railroad bed that cut through the backcountry near the Verde River, a few miles to the northwest of their present location.
One of the ranching families they had stopped to check on the day before had been brutally murdered. Crawford still winced at the memory of the carnage they had witnessed: the tortured, disfigured bodies of the rancher, his wife, and two daughters that had been strewn about the house; the barn reduced to smoldering ashes, and the horses lying slaughtered in the meadow; two fine cowboys Crawford had known since they were kids lying dead behind a shack, their bodies revealing bullet and machete wounds.
The family’s brown pickup truck, loaded with water and supplies, was still intact, along with canned goods and tools in the house cupboards. The whole scene reminded him of search and destroy missions he had undertaken during his years leading covert missions, where retrieval of vital intel and elimination of enemy personnel, if deemed necessary, were the sole focus. This was a peaceful family just trying to defend their own. Nothing could justify this, he thought.
Crawford figured the horrific scene had unfolded the night before their arrival. This was the first time he had witnessed such precision and swift brutality in the attacks against other survivors. From his former days as a combat tracker, he determined that there were six shooters involved. The next morning, while making their way back to Chino Valley, they crossed the trail of the bikers and tracked them to the fire watchtower, where they looked to be setting up an observation post. Crawford decided that frontier justice was worth a half-day detour from their original plan.
His wife Clara, who was resting prone on her elbows, scanning with binoculars, tugged on her husband’s dusty sleeve and motioned to the west. “There’s a convoy of twenty or so thugs on the blacktop, driving in the opposite direction.”
From their vantage point on the forested hillside, he could see the ribbon of movement two miles away with his naked eye. “Looks like these vermin are working the region hard. Wonder what the attraction is?”
“Too bad we don’t have a dozen more .50 cals with us,” said one of the three snipers, a skinny man in his late twenties, running his hand over the rifle by his side.
“Don’t worry,” said Crawford, “you’ll get a chance to use my rifle soon enough. The world these days almost makes that a certainty. Besides, we’ve wasted enough good ammo on these sons-a-bitches. Let’s make our way to Chino and get back home. This has been enough huntin’ for one trip.”
Chapter 20
The broad-leafed trees in the canyon beside the line shack had turned from bright green to gold and the orchestra of birds that sang at dawn and dusk had diminished. Daytime temperatures had cooled off to the seventies while nighttime was in the forties. Two weeks had gone by since the episode up top with the rabid dogs. Travis and Nora had taken down a young cow that was hanging around the canyon rim. Otherwise, they avoided long forays back into the slickrock country above. Their ammo reserves had been considerably depleted in that single battle with the feral pack and there wasn’t room for any prolonged firefights.
The group had spent the early days of autumn preparing jerky, practicing the rudiments of trapping small game, and gathering the last of the pine nuts and mesquite pods, along with cactus and yucca fruits from the slopes of the canyon. The fruits had been sliced open, seeds removed, and then left to dry in the sun to make a type of fruit leather which would last for months. One simply needed to rehydrate the fruit segments in the evening broth of bovine soup and it would provide a necessary blend of carbohydrates and vitamins not obtained from a steady diet of meat.
The wooden cattle troughs beside the line shack were used for storing the bounties of the desert, and covered with slabs of sandstone and bark to keep out the rodents. A large drying rack of lashed willow branches was erected in the open area in front of the shack. This served to dry meat from butchered cattle and small game. Making jerky in the desert took about six hours on most days, four hours if there was a steady breeze to speed up the drying process. Meat was cut one eighth of an inch or thinner, as this prevented flies from laying their eggs.
Once they were field-dressed, small critters like chipmunks, packrats, and rock squirrels were jerked on the drying racks, bones and all. Once it came time to use the dried critters, the entire carcass, including the ribs, vertebra, and leg bones, were pulverized with a rock and tossed into the evening stew. The rehydrated bones provided necessary nutrients and minerals, which were essential in the long term. This method worked only for small rodents. Larger animals like raccoons and jackrabbits had to be deboned and the meat processed into strips. The two wild game animals that were relished the most were raccoon and squirrel, as they had the greatest concentration of interstitial fat compared to the lanky rabbits in the area. A fat raccoon could sustain one person for four days, and the meat was similar to roast beef.
They had enough wild foods and jerked meat to sustain themselves for at least two months and, with the addition of cattle, they could feed themselves through the coming winter if necessary.
Travis had just finished observing Becka skinning a raccoon, providing some pointers. As she began slicing the meat into fine strips, Travis walked down to the edge of the waterhole to wash his hands. He squatted on the smooth gray rocks and rubbed wet sand over his fingers, then shook them dry.
He looked back at the bustling setting beside the line shack, with figures prepping food, cutting firewood, mending clothes, or cleaning weapons. It reminded him of guerilla encampments he had been a part of in other regions of the world, and he had to shake his head to recall that he was in Arizona. With the arrival
of cooler weather, his thoughts during the past weeks had been focused on preparing the group in the long-term skills of hunting and gathering, along with basic bushcraft.
While the food quest would be never-ending, their immediate needs were taken care of. As Travis sat beside the water his mind darted back to the contents of Jim’s daypack and the cryptic message within the diminutive silver tube.
The day after returning from the dog massacre above, he had taken the pack over by the narrows of the slot canyon to see what clues it contained. Outwardly, the pack resembled an ordinary college book bag. The interior, however, had a ballistic ceramic plate sewn into the backside, and triple-ply stitching and zippers more typical of high-grade military gear designed to stand abuse. The large main compartment was made with expedition-grade polyurethane like a dry bag. Housed inside the waterproof compartment was a phone-book sized metallic container. The rectangular silver case possessed a five-digit numeric keypad below a black handle, and the outside seams of the entire container were sealed with some type of waxy coating.
The case was lightweight and the vials of vaccine inside were evidently padded, from the firm lack of movement. Other than that, the object looked like an expensive piece of travel luggage.
The rest of the items consisted of a pair of socks, t-shirt, water bottle, and crumpled candy-bar wrappers. The contents of the small silver tube that Jim handed Travis before dying weren’t much help. It contained a laminated piece of paper with two rows of typed numbers:
13 S 0745421
4121683, NAD 83
Travis knew these were UTM coordinates, but the location was unknown. UTM coordinates on topo maps were in one-thousand-meter increments, and having studied maps of Arizona over the years, he could discern that the coordinates were somewhere outside of their present location. Without access to a GPS unit or topo maps, there was no way to pinpoint the precise spot. River companies and their guides didn’t travel with GPS units, relying instead on the predetermined travel routes within the narrows confines of the Grand Canyon, along with a rigid trip itinerary. He would have to study a topo map of the Southwest to isolate the coordinates.
He thought back to a municipal airport in Chino Valley that he had flown into years ago. They provided training courses for pilots and had an extensive classroom for teaching celestial- and land-navigation courses. Their facility was replete with topo maps and wall-sized charts of Arizona and the surrounding states. That might do. It’s the nearest place. As long as it’s not filled with zombies, bikers, or militants, he thought.
Travis refocused his thinking on the present as he saw Pete walking towards him. “So how’s the great white cow-hunter doing?” said Pete.
“I’d be doing better if I had some A1 Steak Sauce to accompany all the meat you’re cooking up at each meal.”
“Yeah, let me see what I can do. Would you like me to whip us up some tiramisu for dessert, too?”
“Just a fine cigar, amigo. I’d settle for that as my sole luxury in life right now.”
“That’s all it takes, eh? Who says you’re a hard guy to live with,” said Pete, kneeling down and cupping water in his hands.
Travis stroked his bushy beard. “You know, Pete, I’ve been thinking—maybe we should do a recon of the nearest town and see how things are looking.”
Pete stopped drinking and glanced at Travis with furrowed eyebrows. “I thought we were going to hunker down here and play Jeremiah Johnson for a while longer?”
“We could use more ammo, batteries, and first-aid supplies, not to mention intel about what’s unfolding in the world. You, me, Katy, and Nora can go. I figure we’d be gone a week with the miles we’d have to cover.”
“You asking for a nod of approval or just bouncing ideas around right now?”
“We need to go. Otherwise we’re just living in a glass bubble in this idyllic canyon, not knowing what outside forces are brewing in the region.”
“Alright,” Pete said, standing up. “When should I arrange for the taxi to be here?”
“Let’s leave tomorrow morning before sunrise. I’ll talk with Nora about the best route. If you and Katy want to prepare some food and water for us, I’ll take care of weapons prep.”
Pete frowned. “There’s no way Rachel is going to be apart that long from her sister. She was all jittery that time you left her behind for a few hours and went up top with Jim, and I haven’t seen her mood lighten any since then. Besides, as much as I could go for a break from this canyon, Katy, you, and I have the most medical experience. She or I should stay behind in case something happens here.”
“Well, you’re right on both accounts,” Travis said, looking back at the others by the line shack. “As much as it pains me to say this, why don’t you stay here. You know canyon country better than the rest of the bunch. If something should happen here and you are forced to leave, it would be best to head west or south as we already know what awaits us in the other direction,” he said, picking up pieces of firewood. “Nora said there is another canyon like this one about eight miles south-southwest of here. We’ll meet up there in case of plan B. Otherwise, come look for us down in Prescott, sipping margaritas at that bar on Main Street we used to frequent in more carefree days.”
Pete nodded and gathered some branches. Then the two made their way back up to the group as a slight breeze dislodged crisp golden leaves from the trees above.
Chapter 21
Cooler weather had swept in, making the trek tolerable and reducing the group’s water consumption. It was approaching midday when Travis motioned to the three women to stop under the shade of a large boulder. They had covered fourteen miles since bidding farewell to their friends at the line shack before sunrise. According to Nora, they were about halfway to Chino Valley.
With the exception of a noticeable lack of trees, the landscape wasn’t much different than the terrain above the canyon where they had been staying. Rachel pulled out several large pieces of beef jerky and passed them around to the others. Travis took his binoculars and scanned each direction. He came to a standstill while looking east, and adjusted the focus dial in the center.
“Hmmm…looks like a small settlement of a few dozen buildings and homes with people bustling about. They’re unloading boxes off a truck that just rolled in past a handful of armed men. It looks like they have a small arsenal and a stockpile of food.”
Nora, Rachel, and Katy scooched alongside him. “What would that be? Not Chino Valley?” he said to Nora, handing her the binos.
“That’s gotta be the outskirts of Paulden. It’s about ten miles north of Chino,” she said. “Before the pandemic, it was a town of around 3500 people. When we were last through there, everything was boarded up and no one was out on the streets.”
Katy and Rachel took a turn and then handed the binos back to Travis.
“My guess would be the virus has died down enough to re-establish some form of makeshift organization,” said Nora. “Paulden is at the headwaters of the Verde River, so they have their own wells coming from the underground aquifer. It looks like a friendly encampment. Maybe we should head down there?” said Rachel.
Travis picked up a tiny stick and started rolling it back and forth between his fingers. “If we go down there and meet up with those folks, there are going to be a lot of questions about us, our camp location, and how we’ve been living. That will just draw attention we don’t need. Better to stay low profile and skirt around them.”
“Low profile, why?” asked Rachel. “We may be able to get supplies there as well as some news. Plus, this is a small town compared to Chino, which could be completely sealed off by now or overflowing with those creatures.”
He flexed the twig until he felt a slight crack. “We’re not going to head into Chino Valley proper. There’s a place on the outskirts that should have what we need.”
“Is this about what Jim told us?” said Katy, with a frustrated look.
He pushed his lower lip forward, ruffling his beard. �
��Yep, sure is,” he said, with a glance towards her.
The corners of Katy’s eyes furrowed. She rested the butt of her AK on the ground and sat down. “Great. More fun stories about Jim Pearson, the master of disaster.”
“I’ve heard you both murmuring things about Jim during the past few weeks. What was his story?” said Nora.
“That will have to wait for another time. Let’s just say that he was more than the social miscreant we all pegged him for. He’s the reason we have to keep moving and avoid the settlements.”
“He’s also the reason I may never see my father again and why the world we knew has turned to shit,” said Katy, shaking her head.
“We don’t have time for this right now,” Travis said, then rose partway and crept along the edge of a massive heap of sandstone to their right. “We’ll keep to the south, hugging this boulder field until we are out of range of the town. Keep an eye out for any sentries atop the surrounding peaks.”
***
After another day of slow hiking around boulder fields and cactus, the group arrived at the beginning of a canyon. Eight miles in the distance, they could see the faint outline of Chino Valley with its spread of burnt-out ranch homes and open grasslands. The trek to this terminal point of the plateau had been grueling. It seemed like nearly every rock in Arizona was found on this stretch, and when they weren’t trying to avoid an ankle twister, they were pushing through knee-high brush and had the frays on their pants to show for it.
