by Jason Ross
Cameron knew she was right. Isaiah had told all three of them, and it’d made sense at the time. Awash in visions of sweet oats, Cameron had lost track of the big picture. Maybe Ruth was the perfect person to negotiate after all. She had no inclination to get creative in the clutch. She didn’t care that they were hungry. She did what she was told.
But then why was she screwing Cameron? It wasn’t predictable, or even particularly stable.
Ruth stood in the brambles, empty-handed and quiet. Julie was still in her assigned overwatch post, across the path, holding the AR-15 like a wet towel.
“Let’s head back,” he said with a wave. He didn’t bother to explain to Julie and Julie didn’t ask.
“When do we come back, then?” Cameron asked Ruth.
“I dunno. I walked away. We didn’t set up a next meeting.”
Cameron swore and waved the women ahead of him. Trading was their only shot at cheating starvation. The garden vegetables were taking forever to mature, probably because of the shitty winter sunlight. Even if the plants suddenly exploded with life, the truth was slowing dawning on him: at best, the garden greens would offer a few vitamins and almost no calories. The turnips would fill their bellies when at last they matured, but the tubers would be mostly water. Even after planting every seed in the survivalist seed vault, they could expect maybe a few thousand calories from the cold frame garden. They’d invested tens of thousands of calories in the dam, the pipes and the cold frame greenhouses. Without starches, like wheat, rice, oats or corn, they were going to perish long before the skylark days of spring.
Cameron turned around and stumbled back to the tree line to watch for pursuers, as per Isaiah’s instructions. All the cleverness and tactical-whatnot sounded really cool when Isaiah laid out the plan for the trade. Doubling back on “rear security” was a Navy SEAL thing, and Cameron had loved the thought of it. Now, after doing it twice, it already felt like work.
Nothing was easy, not even a simple trade. They’d already wasted hundreds of calories walking back and forth to the highway, and they had absolutely nothing to show for it. Maybe Rockville had nothing to give them but nutritionless buckets of chaff. Maybe they’d been barking up a dead tree from the get-go.
Cameron already knew what Isaiah was going to say, and as much as he wanted to tell the cripple to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, he knew Isaiah would be right: they should come back every morning until a good trade materialized, no matter how long it took. It was either that or death by starvation. They didn’t have a choice at this point.
Two mornings after the trade deal went flat, the truck and the portly man in the cowboy hat returned to the speed limit sign. He brought four buckets—the same two buckets of old wheat and oats, plus a bucket of only-slightly stale rice and another of fresh wheat.
Ruth struck the deal and carried two of the four buckets to the tree line, retrieved the guns and ammo, and delivered them to the Rockville negotiator. He gave her the last two buckets, retreated to the truck and rolled back the way he’d come. The trade finally went down just like Isaiah predicted.
“We’ll meet them again, here, in three days,” Ruth reported at the tree line. “Today’s Saturday, the guy told me. So, ten a.m. Tuesday. He said to bring more guns and ammo if we have them.”
“What’s his name?” Cameron asked.
“He didn’t say.”
Cameron stared up the highway toward Rockville. He couldn’t see the town, but he could imagine it in the distance, curled at the foot of the towering red rock mountains that marked the entrance to Zion National Park.
His brows furrowed. It irked him that the stout man hadn’t given his name, or asked for Ruth’s. Manners counted for something, but Cameron couldn’t say what it meant. He just knew he didn’t like it.
Cam collected two of the buckets and let the ladies trade off with the other two. As was his custom, he left the heavy buckets at the mid-way point, doubled back and “checked their six.”
Starvation, once again, retreated into the ominous shadows, at least for the moment. He’d sleep that night with a full belly and without waking to the moans of his hungry children.
They were probably nearing the middle of January, if Cameron were to guess. It would be a long road to April, when Isaiah said the days would grow longer and the night frosts would meander north.
Isaiah’s intestines hadn’t been pierced by the bullet or he would’ve died from infection by now. The slug must’ve circled around his belly, slipped through loose flesh and glanced away from the abdomen. On the other hand, Isaiah’s lower leg looked like a hairy salami, hanging from his knee and hardening in an angry, red shank. Where the bullet passed through the bone, a series of porcine lumps had formed around the bone, none of them clearly infected, but not appearing in any way human. The pain had only intensified. Isaiah insisted they carry him to the porch at night, to weather the cold night alone so he wouldn’t wake them with his restless agonizing. Part of Cameron wished Isaiah would die, and the other part knew he would miss the man. Cameron knew he would’ve made a long and dangerous series of mistakes without Isaiah as a second opinion. Even crippled and crushed in a vice of pain, Isaiah saw things in a way Cameron never would. In another befuddling irony of the apocalypse, the two men actually made a pretty good team.
One horrifying truth plagued Cameron, so vomitous that he dare not speak it, and every day the truth stalked closer, like a lion in the tall grass. For a short while, Cameron took courses at the local community college to become a paramedic. He went on some ride-alongs with the ambulance, and discovered that his stomach did barrel rolls every time he saw gross human injury. Guys who puked at the sight of compound fractures and arterial bleeding weren’t a good fit for pararescue, his instructor told him with a hand on his shoulder. Thus ended Cameron’s short time as a paramedic.
Before changing career course, He sat on the edge of his chair during a night class that taught “traction in-line” or TIL as the gleeful instructor called it. TIL wasn’t in the course curriculum, but the teacher described the procedure “in case you have a bone break deep in the wilderness, where there is no surgical center.”
The usual first aid for a bone break was to immobilize it and transport to a trauma center, but in case a trauma center couldn’t be reached in twelve hours, the first responder would need to set the bone before splinting. Leaving a bone crooked for more than twelve hours risked further tissue damage. The instructor had demonstrated the TIL by holding a student’s arm, yanking the shattered bone straight, then setting it back “inline” where it ought to be. “Then, it can be properly splinted,” the instructor pronounced. Cameron felt like he might puke on the linoleum.
The specter of traction in-line had haunted him since he first saw the bone fragments sticking out of Isaiah’s shattered shin, back in the thicket where he’d been shot. Ruth had carefully removed the exposed pieces of bone and they’d hoped the leg would heal on its own. It hadn’t.
It’d been two weeks, and the leg looked like it might require amputation. It simply wasn’t healing. The infection came and went, but the limb would accept no weight or movement without sending jolts of pain into the man. Cameron hadn’t even mentioned traction in-line to Isaiah, but unless he wanted the man to die from gangrene, he would have to reset the leg. With new food in the larder, now would be the time.
By the time Cameron shuttled the buckets to the homestead, Ruth was cooking sweet, fresh rice over the cook fire alongside the porch. Isaiah lay in bed on the porch obviously in pain, but happy the trade had finally come through.
“No trackers?” he asked Cameron.
Cameron shook his head, set the buckets beside Ruth, and climbed the steps to Isaiah’s bed. He lifted the sheet back and smelled the raw, not-quite-rotten odor of the leg. Isaiah had been the brains behind the trade, and he’d sacrificed himself against the marauders. Cameron owed him this much.
“We need to reset the leg,” Cameron said. “Now.”
Isaiah’s eyes widened. “Can I have a bowl of rice first.”
“No.” Cameron shook his head. “You’d probably just puke it up. Let’s do this now while both of us have empty stomachs.”
“Do what, exactly?” Isaiah worried.
“You’re going to have to trust me on this.” Doubt flashed across Isaiah’s face. It made Cameron wonder: does he know about Ruth and I?
Cameron closed his eyes and explained. “I’m going to pull your leg in-line, straighten it out, try to push all the pieces where they belong, then re-splint it straight. I can see that it’s crooked and I doubt it’ll heal like that. It needs to be re-broken and re-set. I’m sorry, bro, but this is your best shot at ever making it out of this bed.”
Isaiah hesitated, then nodded. Cameron hurried to remove the splint around his leg—a hasty amalgam of boards and rope. He needed to do this fast, before he lost the nerve.
“Ruth!” Isaiah shouted. “My bride. Come hold my hand. Gosh darn it.” Even the removal of the splint caused Isaiah’s eyes to roll back in his head.
Cameron steeled himself for the big moment. He’d be lucky if he didn’t faint. Ruth ran to her husband’s side and glanced from one man to another, confused.
“Just hold my hand, please,” Isaiah repeated. “Cam’s going to fix my leg.”
Cameron wrapped one hand around the lower calf and the other hand around the ankle. Then he pulled hard and steady toward the foot of the bed.
The rotten flesh and chips of bone tore free. The lumpy meat around the wound undulated like a troubled sea. Isaiah shrieked to raise the rafters and the children rushed in from the pasture. The boneless leg popped and ground, shattered bone against gristle. Hidden cysts of watery blood and pus gave way inside the wound and on the surface. The sound of evulsing tissue didn’t so much reach Cameron’s ears but radiate up through his hands. Wet bone, scarcely healed in a gnarled caricature of a leg, tore apart like cooked sockets of barbecue ribs.
Cameron swooned.
Isaiah went suddenly silent.
Cameron watched in a fugue state as his hands shoved knotty lumps back into place. His hands worked on their own recognizance, reshaping his friend’s shin bone. They finished, as best they could, and went to work re-tying the splint. His hands cinched the compression rope tighter than before, but hopefully not so tight as to cut off circulation.
With the operation complete, and Isaiah passed out, Cameron staggered down from the porch, around the corner of the homestead, and retched. His head lolled on his shoulders and his stomach heaved, over and over and over. He puked up a thin, acrid bile that burned his throat on the way up. It felt like the bile had been with him a long time, maybe since escaping Los Angeles three and a half months before.
Eventually, his stomach quieted. Cameron wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood upright.
The clouds overhead had thinned, and some slight blue sifted through the gaps. The sun was still obscured by the rainless gray, but a little color filtered down upon the ghost town and its desperate, barely-living guests.
17
Sage Ross
Border of Union County and Wallowa County
Wallowa, Oregon
* * *
Sage led The Five into Wallowa County on the same route he’d used before. He could even see his old snowshoe dimples from the last time under the new-fallen snow. The six men waded across the Minam River, dried their feet, replaced their socks and cut across the foothills of Sacajawea Mountain. It wasn’t long before they ran into trouble.
All wore snowshoes, and Sage compacted the trail ahead of the group. Depending on the freshness and structure of the snow, cutting trail meant about thirty percent more work, but it left a much easier path for the rest. Even so, on the first big rise out of Minam River, Sage dropped all five behind. The fattest guy, Reggie, fell back more than a hundred yards. He heaved for air with his hands on his knees.
Captain Chambers had called their visit into Wallowa a “look-see” but every man carried an AR-15 on his back, except for Sage, who carried his 30-30. The plan was to scout the southern edge of Wallowa Valley to prepare for a snatch-and-grab mission in the near future. The solution to their woes would be to kidnap Commissioner Pete. With Pete out of the way, safely locked up in La Grande, Captain Chambers could roll Union and Wallowa counties up into one, big, happy family.
Captain Chambers caught up with Sage, on the rise overlooking Minam Canyon.
“Sorry about this,” he apologized to Sage, which seemed a strange thing to do. “Too much coffee and donuts.” He looked back over the struggling men on the climb.
Chambers had climbed the hill without a struggle. His deputies looked like they might have coronaries. Sage had seen Captain Chambers jogging the streets of La Grande, just as the sun came up, many times on his way to work. The captain had been breathing heavy on the slog up the mountainside, but he’d kept within a few dozen yards of Sage. His respiration recovered within a couple of minutes. It reminded Sage: this was a formidable man. He had the force-of-will to stay in shape, even late into his forties. This “look-see” would undoubtedly turn into something more serious. If not today, then soon.
“Don’t let yourself get out of shape, son,” the captain advised. “It’s a sonofabitch to get back, especially in your forties.”
Sage had no worries about staying in shape. Unless Cheetos and Taco Bell made a roaring comeback, he wouldn’t probably have to worry about getting fat. Ever.
“There’s a long way to go, still.” Sage watched Reggie stop for the fifth time on the climb. “This is just the first rise. There are five or six more before we reach the valley.”
The captain nodded. “I’m glad we did a dry run. I didn’t realize how out-of-shape the guys were. They used to be monster athletes—every one of them.”
“Have we crossed the county line?” Sage worried.
“Barely. It’s up here somewhere.”
Sage hazarded an opinion. “It seems like a lot of risk.” When the captain didn’t respond, Sage continued, “Hiking all the way to the back of the valley, where Commissioner Pete lives, is going to be a challenge. Getting back out will be even worse. The residents have vehicles and can cover a lot more ground than we can on snowshoes. If we have a prisoner, that’ll make us even slower.”
Again, the captain didn’t answer. He looked lost in thought. The deputies were finally catching up to them.
“Hey-o,” Kevin Tursdale said as he reached them. He choked on the cold air and fell into a coughing fit.
“You’re right,” the captain said, turning to Sage. “This isn’t going to work. We’re going to turn back here. I’d like you to do me a favor. Do you have enough food to continue on for another couple days?”
Sage nodded. “I’m good.”
When he left the room at the Best Western that morning, Sage had loaded up his full survival kit. It made him nervous to be in the wild without it. He’d spent months living out of the bug-out bag.
“Great. Pete Lathrop’s ranch is past Enterprise but before Joseph. It’s close to the airstrip by Hurricane Creek.”
Sage jiggled his backpack. “I have a map.”
“Okay. Do you think you can avoid getting caught?”
Sage nodded. He would circle higher up the mountain where nobody could see him in the pines. It’d be a tougher march, but it was nothing compared to the climb up the Blue Mountains.
“I can make the hike, but it’ll take me a few days. If someone cuts my back trail and puts dogs on me again, there’s nothing I can do about that. But I’ll do my best to avoid detection,” Sage said.
“Good.” Captain Chambers clapped him on the shoulder. “I need to know where there’s a barn full of snow machines nearby Lathrop’s. The ranches along the foothills should have their snow machines out. They’ll be tuning them up for winter. Snow machines are a way-of-life up here once the snow starts to pile up. Find me at least six snowmobiles that look new-ish and ready to run.”
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Sage nodded. “How do I know if they’re good?”
“Should be obvious. They’ll be the snow machines that aren’t all busted up.” The captain smiled. “If we come in here with a team that’s not so damned fat,” he said loud enough for three of his guys to hear, “we can snowshoe in, grab snow machines, then ride out. There’s nothing that can keep up with snow machines other than other snow machines. You locate the machines and we’ll make it happen.”
It sounded like a crazy plan to Sage, with lots of moving parts, but it wasn’t his job to poke holes in the captain’s ideas. So, he nodded agreement and restated his mission.
“You want me to get to the back of the valley, and find a ranch near Lathrop’s with at least six snowmobiles that look well-serviced. How’re we going to get the keys?”
The captain laughed. “In this part of the world, people leave the keys in the ignition. Hell. Half our keys are probably rusted in place. Just find me snow machines and we’ll take it from there.”
“You want me to recon Commissioner Pete’s ranch?” Sage didn’t know which ranch belonged to the Commissioner. He’d yet to see the back half of the valley.
The captain shook his head. “Naw. I’ve been there more times that I can count. His dad used to be the hunter safety instructor when we were kids. We’ve all been to his ranch. Don’t worry about that. Just find me six snow machines. I don’t want to scoop that bastard up and be forced to run around, hunting for a way back out. The Potbelly Patrol and I will go back to La Grande this morning and put together a better assault team. I’ll leave a cruiser for you on the Minam River. We’re running out of time. We need to get this done before big snow falls.”
