The county’s survivors still talked of the multiple blasts that shook the earth that memorable day. The explosive power could be heard for miles. The earth rumbled and trembled even more than any earthquake they’d experienced in the past, which were many, living along a major fault line. At the time, the military had indicated that the weapons used were non-nuclear, however, the sudden widespread illness resulting in death and disease persuaded the populace to think otherwise. If it had not been nuclear, it was certainly biological or chemical. The facility had been utterly destroyed, leaving only a few aboveground bunkers unscathed. Rod’s sister, Lula, lived on the protected side of the mountain but her husband worked at the plant as a chemical engineer. When the attack had occurred he was in one of the underground mixing facilities, a series of tunnels connecting vast mechanical machines that prepared the rocket accelerant. Shortly after the explosive attack Rod had traveled with Lula to the plant. They were stopped several miles from the facility by a military blockade. The officer in command, a thin-lipped 20-year-old, with a poor excuse of a mustache, was sympathetic to their cause but could not allow them to go any further. Explosions were still common as the fires that raged below ground were igniting the combustive cocktail of chemicals, blowing giant chunks of concrete into the sky. They were assured that all survivors were accounted for and that those working below ground, as her husband was, were all dead. He’d double-checked the roster of those in hospitals and others that were accounted for, shaking his head in the negative, as he’d looked over his glasses at the distraught pair.
Returning home, their parents had made the difficult decision to send Rod to stay with relatives living in the southern, more remote region of the state. Lula had agreed to tag along and look after her younger brother in the hope a change of scenery would help to mend her broken heart. Although communications were sporadic, their parents had gotten word that illness was uncommon and no military action was apparent near their relative’s home. Leaving was difficult for Rod. He felt that he was abandoning the post he’d been assigned, but he respected the decision of his parents and did as they requested. He’d taken his sister and the few things they could fit into the back of an old Chevrolet truck and left to live with relatives 400 miles away. In his mind’s eye he could still see their parents standing on the small porch of the tiny farmhouse, his mother gently waving a white handkerchief, as his father patted her shoulder with one hand, while waving with the other. Rod never imagined this would be the last time that he would see his aging parents. Over the next year they had intermittent contact with them, generally by letter, hand-delivered by friends or family. The bare bones of the remaining postal service were entirely devoted to military usage and telephone service was unreliable, at best. The Internet had been hit the hardest right from the beginning. Electronic infiltrators had done their best to destroy their opponent’s ability to communicate, with cyber terrorist and counter terrorist specialists knocking out Internet service, first to the public and then to the world at large. Governments and hackers had done what they could to restore some semblance of order and function but they were always short-lived and eventually even the most hardcore computer hackers had given up.
Once Rod was satisfied that he’d done all he could for family in the south, he ventured back home in hopes of assisting his parents. The scene that he’d seen then was the same that spread before him now, as he and Farrell turned down the narrow lane that led to their property. They had both been here before but each time they relived the shock of seeing the house utterly wasted and the ground barren. Farrell stopped the pickup at the end of the drive and looked over at Rod. A look of disbelief and terror showed in the younger man’s eyes.
“I can get out here and walk the rest of the way if you want to stay with the truck.” he said, reaching for the machine gun in anticipation of getting out.
“No, I’m okay. I just can’t get used to seeing the old place like this.”
“This is just the way it was when you came back after being away for those two years, right?” Farrell inquired.
“Exactly! The house was scattered all over the yard. The hot water tank is still over in the middle of that field,” he said, pointing to a white object, partially covered by dirt and weeds, some 150 yards away. “Do you have any idea when we were here last?” Rod asked.
“Must have been almost two and a half years ago. It was right after I found you living with that group over at the Super 8. I can’t believe it’s been that long since we’ve found time to get back here.”
“I remember alright, one of the happiest days of my life. I was pretty sure I was the last man in the Jenson line.”
The two stared out the windshield as the truck inched forward, slowly bringing them to a stop 50 feet from the house’s foundation. A lone willow tree, disfigured from the blast, slowly swayed its few remaining branches in the noonday breeze.
“Anything look different to you other than the added weeds?” the older brother asked, taking his cowboy hat off and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.
“Nope, it looks . . . no, wait a minute. What’s that over there?” he said, motioning in the direction of the barn.
Farrell looked where Rod had indicated, however, nothing seemed amiss. To the left of the truck was the house’s foundation, bits of debris still strewn among the growing weeds as a result of the home’s demise. The brothers had concluded, upon inspecting the location at their last visit, that the structure had exploded from the inside out. Most likely a natural gas explosion, however, there had been no sign of human casualties. No blood, tissue or anything else that would lead them to believe that their parents were at home at the time of the mishap. They had also concluded that the home had not been attacked and that foul play was unlikely. Their vehicles were gone, the root cellar was empty, and the few pieces of farm equipment, which would be of any use to anyone, were no longer on the premises. Granted, they had surmised, all of these items could have been stolen after the farmhouse was destroyed, but they both preferred to believe their parents had vacated the property. The brothers imagined them departing with as many of their possessions as they could carry and were alive and well, living with family or friends someplace beyond their current understanding.
The concussion from the blast had been significant enough that the nearby barn, which was still upright, had a distinctive tilt to the north. A shed, used for storing the tractor and Oldsmobile that their mother drove to church, was closer to the home and did not survive the explosion. A braced corner still stood with a gas can hidden at the base among the weeds. An old horse-drawn plow, an antique of sorts, was barely visible near the leaning barn, all but consumed by the overgrowth of weeds and thatch. A large dirt mound obscured the view to the southwest from where they sat in the truck. Originally in the backyard of the home, the mound was the top of the underground root cellar where the family had stored bottled goods, potatoes and other produce in the damp, cold recesses of the earth.
The irrigation ditches were still somewhat visible, dividing the acres around the farmhouse into perfect squares. At one time, they had been well groomed with tubing extending over the shoulders of the dirt humps, directing water to the thirsty plants. They were only visible now as weeds, growing in elevated, perfectly straight lines, which sat higher than the rest of the green mass of vegetation.
Farrell strained to see what Rod was talking about, “I don’t see anything different. What are you pointing at?”
“Over there.” He pointed again, this time lining his finger up near his brother’s cheek. “Right next to the left side of the barn. There’s something not covered by weeds and there’s a . . . a . . . I think there’s like a tombstone or something.”
“Well I’ll be, you’re right. That was definitely not there when we were here last and it looks like someone is taking care of it. Grab your AR-15 and let’s take a look. You swing around to the right and I’ll go left. Keep your eye on the barn and I’ll check out the cellar.�
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Chapter 5
A light breeze swirled loose leaves and dust in the old driveway laid before them. The property was as familiar to the brothers as any other spot on earth. It was the playground of their childhood and the place where their friendship had been galvanized. Returning today, armed and looking for missing family members, seemed unfathomable to the hopeful two.
Both men checked the ammo clips that fed their automatic weapons and once assured that they were loaded, they exited the truck, being careful not to close the doors and alert anyone of their presence. Rod stood near the front of the truck, the hood hitting him about mid-torso. His siblings had chided him that he was the runt of the family, standing only five foot eight inches; he was much more his father’s size. Whereas the other boys had inherited the stature of their grandfather, a burly, thick-chested farmer who made up two or maybe even three of Rod. While slender, the youngest Jenson was strong, stronger than one would estimate at first glance, which had played to his advantage while wrestling in high school. The muscles, which he did have, were well-defined and sinewy, brought about by hours in the fields and tossing hay bales on top of moving loaders. The local newspaper had called him ‘tenacious’, when on more than one occasion he’d literally thrown his opponent across the mat, resulting in at least one concussion and two broken arms. For his weight class he was State Champ two years running before Armageddon began, thus eliminating his chance to make it three.
Boyish good looks and an unmistakable gentleman-like charm were virtues that made one feel comfortable in his presence. He was unassuming with a ‘what you see is what you get’ quality that fostered a sense of trust in the young man. When it came to dating their daughters, fathers throughout the community were always relieved when they saw Rod at the doorstep and not Farrell, but those days were gone, along with most of those beautiful young ladies. Rod pulled his Bears baseball hat tight over his straw-colored, coarse hair and thumbed the safety of his short-stocked assault rifle to the off position.
“You ready?” Farrell asked, leaving his cowboy hat lying on the seat where the weapon had been.
“Guess so,” Rod replied, crouching over and trotting to a pile of wooden planks they’d stacked years before.
With Rod covering him from that position, Farrell made his way around the side of the earthen hill in the middle of the yard and prepared to breach the narrow tunneled walkway that descended into the cellar. He snapped his head around to get a quick look into the opening. He saw nothing but the cinderblock steps he’d help construct when he was just a boy and a warped piece of plywood that was being used as a door. He motioned to his brother, without making a sound, to join him at the mound. Rod hustled across the open space, swinging the rifle from side to side as he ran, keeping an eye on the ditch banks and other possible hiding places that might conceal a combatant. Once at the cellar, Farrell indicated that he wanted Rod to stay above ground while he searched the space below.
Quietly he maneuvered the first few steps with ease but then had to duck his head to avoid hitting the beams that acted as supporting structures for the doorway and roof. At the bottom of the narrow entryway he stopped and listened before pushing on the door, holding the black machine gun at the ready. He leaned as close to the door as he dared, without giving his position away, but could hear nothing coming from the other side. With both hands on the rifle, he pushed against the plywood door with his left shoulder, creating a small crack into which a narrow beam of light poured from the outside world. A cool rush of air escaped from the cellar sending Farrell’s mind back in time. The root cellar had always been a great place to hide while playing with his brothers and sisters, and a cool place to escape from the summer’s heat when the sun was scorching the surrounding farmland.
Farrell squinted to see into the manmade hole, trying to take advantage of the small bit of light filtering its way down the narrow stairwell. It was obvious that someone had been using the dugout as shelter and a place to live. Farrell hardly recognized the hole in the earth as the root cellar of his youth. The rustic dirt walls had been framed with what appeared to be wood from the demolished house; tile had been laid over a crudely made floor of plywood, giving the small space a homey feel. Some of the handmade shelves were still present, housing a few scattered food supplies, with three army styled cots arranged side-by-side toward the back of the cellar. A small pile of firewood was neatly stacked in the extreme rear, near a potbelly stove that had been moved from someone’s home and into the space to provide heat in the cold of winter. The renovator had pushed a metal pipe up through the roof of the cellar creating a vent for the stove as well as a source of fresh air when it was not in use. Candles were situated throughout the shelter with a box of matches strategically located next to each. Although the cellar was dug into the earth, the occupants had gone out of their way to keep it clean and free of bugs and other unwanted guests. Blankets and quilts were folded nicely, resting on each cot and there was no stench of human waste or filth. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and carefully examined the interior of the cellar, and once sure there was no threat, he invited Rod to come down the few steps and join him.
“What do you make of it?” Rod asked, taking the flashlight from his brother and moving its bright beam around the interior of the root cellar.
“Well, looks like we’ve got a guest. I’d say at least three but I don’t see any weapons,” the Sergeant noted.
“Whoa, I don’t even recognize the place. Do you think we scared them away when we rolled up?”
“Perhaps, but I think we would’ve seen them moving away from the cellar unless they were watching the roads and picked us up long before we got here.”
“I’m surprised they chose this over any one of the abandoned houses in the area,” Rod said, scanning the shelves with the light. “Looks like they’re starving to death if they’re still living here. There’s not enough food to keep the rats alive.”
“That’s a fact little brother. I ‘spect they thought this bombed out looking place would be avoided by looters. From the street it just looks like a mound of dirt, but they really have everything they need right here. The old pump by the barn, I’m wagering, is still operational and there aren’t many with electricity so they make do with candles. Let’s check out the headstone over by the barn. Keep that rifle ready, they still may be watching us from the field somewhere.” Without saying what was truly on their minds, they exchanged a knowing look, afraid that the stone would be a loved one. They were also heartened to know that someone knew the place and had made it a home. Perhaps their parents had found their way back and were making do with what they had.
Rod handed the flashlight back to his brother and once again checked the safety on his weapon. “I’ll lead,” he asserted, taking the steps from the cellar, two at a time, bringing his head above ground, providing a perfect target for anyone wanting to take it off with an easy shot. This time there was no reverberating sound of a rifle’s crack, however, as soon as his head cleared the lip of the earthen mound, he realized he’d made a mistake and scribbled a mental note not to do that again. Farrell noted the same but held back the urge to scold his younger sibling, while taking the steps more cautiously, bringing his eyes to a point where he could see beyond the crest, without exposing his whole head. There was nothing that presented itself as an immediate threat so the two worked their way to the headstone, covering for one another as they went.
Farrell stood at the corner of the barn, using the wooden beams to support his arm, looking down the sights of the gun as he swept the barrel back and forth over the crop-barren fields. Rod knelt at the handcrafted grave marker, which was supported by a pile of stones at the base. A shallow grave extended beyond the stones that was ringed with a small trail of pebbles, delineating the boundary of the resting place. Rod squinted and pulled the cap further down his forehead to shade his eyes, making it easier to read the headstone.
“Oh no! How can this be?” Rod said, his voice cra
cking in the process.
“What is it? Who is it? Somebody we know?”
“Yeah, John Jeffrey Allen. Do you remember him? Lived about a half a mile down the road to the west, over by those Thompson twins.”
“Well, I certainly remember those twins, but Allen, I can’t say that I remember . . . ” Farrell said, taking his eyes away from the sights long enough to look at Rod and the headstone. “Now wait a minute, is he the guy that cold-cocked Shirt at the church picnic ‘cause he thought Shirt was eyeing his wife?”
“I can just barely remember that; must’ve been only about ten at the time, but that’s the guy. Later on, he and Shirt became pretty good friends. I wonder how he ended up buried in our yard.”
“Just one story of thousands that we’ll likely never hear. His family must be the ones that have been staying here. Do you remember their names?” Farrell said, dropping the assault rifle to his side, wiping his eyes with the back of his right hand.
“Never called his wife anything but Mrs. Allen but I know they had three or four kids. The oldest was a girl, a couple years younger than me. Her name was Elvira or Evelyn or something like that. I can’t be sure,” the younger Jenson thoughtfully expressed, thinking back to a more sane time.
“Alright, let’s try something. Keep that gun ready in case we’re wrong.” Farrell stepped to the edge of the weed-covered field, after taking another look inside the barn to make sure he hadn’t overlooked someone hiding in a corner or behind the rotting hay. “Mrs. Allen, Mrs. Allen . . . if you can hear me, this is Farrell and Rod Jenson, we used to live here and we’ve come to help you. We’re looking for our parents! If you can hear me make your location known to us!” he yelled, cupping his left hand at the side of his mouth while still clasping the machine gun with his right; a finger on the trigger.
The Living Hunger Page 4
