Outpost 9: An Apocalyptic Memior

by Crane, J. J.

  Outpost 9

  Written by

  J.J. Crane

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I must thank my wife Karen for her support and honest assessments. She is the critical eye I most rely on. I also must thank a longtime friend, John S for his edits and suggestions as well as Beth R., Lynn S., LeeAnn W., Keith C., and Liz C., for their many astute observations.

  You can contact me at jjcrane7@gmail.com

  Please visit me on Facebook – JJ Crane, author

  Cover Photo – iStock. by Getty Images

  Also, by JJ Crane:

  The Jersey Devil

  Just Beyond the Shadows

  Outpost 9

  Copyright © 2018 by J.J. Crane.

  All Rights Reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission except for brief quotation.

  All the characters and situations described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to people or events is purely coincidental.

  Introduction

  My name is Rob Knowles. In the years since the flu pandemic wiped out much of humanity, I’ve slowly assembled my remembrances and notes from those first months.

  Having passed the mantle of leadership on to others who are younger, stronger, and of sharper minds, I felt it important to take some time and write down what happened in those early days. I wanted to write as factual a retelling as I could.

  During the crisis and afterward, I tried to keep a journal. At times, I went for long stretches without making any entries. When you find yourself struggling to survive, writing becomes a luxury. I regret not writing more during various events, but such is life in a time of chaos and disaster.

  Others have contributed to this story as I was not present for everything that is told here. As best I could, I have weaved their recollections into the fabric of my telling.

  We’ve come a long way since the early times of the pandemic, but I highly doubt we will ever see again the age of modernity that we once knew. We have created a new world. In some regard, it is better. In others, worse. Yet, we move forward because that is what we do in our efforts to survive and thrive.

  Prologue: 3 years before the virus

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me,” I said, my voice joining an angry chorus of men, at least a hundred or more, standing in line holding empty gasoline containers.

  A large black pickup truck sped into the only gas station in the region providing fuel. The driver jumped the curb to cut in front of a nearly half-mile long line of cars also waiting to collect gasoline.

  “What’s this guy’s problem?” I heard several men around me grumble.

  Six weeks had passed since losing power due to Super Storm Rebecca. In the wake of the storm, police departments in our county issued a proclamation: Any disruptive behavior at facilities where food distribution, medical supplies or gas rationing occurred would result in an immediate stoppage of services until further notice.

  The actions of the person driving the pickup truck threatened to shut down my ability to get much needed gasoline for our generator. No gas meant my family would go without heat and other minimal amenities until further notice. I did keep some fuel in reserve, but the idea of dipping into it shook me as an act of desperation. As it was, I rationed our heat use to only nights where the autumn chill bit beyond a couple layers of clothing and blankets. However, I knew, one good cold snap could change all that, and I didn’t have any sleeping bags for backup or a fireplace to huddle around.

  “Six weeks of this shit,” I mumbled. No power, rationed food, and limited gas in twenty-first century middle-class America wasn’t anything my neighbors or I were prepared to deal with.

  I stood roughly three hundred feet from the gas pumps on a narrow, well-worn grass path. A feeble metal guardrail separated me and what was usually a busy road that fed into the interstate about a mile away. No traffic flowed now as this portion of the road remained closed due to downed trees and power lines left in the wake of Super Storm Rebecca. The catastrophic weather event crippled over three million square miles of land from Baltimore to Boston. Nearly the entire megalopolis lost power for some stretch of time. Virtually every county in that swath had completely inaccessible areas, our neighborhood included.

  The Federal government designated much of the region a disaster area while scrambling to organize aid. State governments declared martial law, but even that proved ineffective, as local National Guard units had trouble assembling and dispatching personnel. Many members couldn’t get out of their neighborhoods nor did they have the desire to leave their families stranded. This left the federal government to use regular army and National Guard units from the Midwest to help provide aid and order - where they could.

  I stood on my little grassy spot and watched as the passenger door of the truck burst open, a man dressed in gray overalls, with a black bandanna wrapped around his face, jumped out holding a pistol chest high, yelling for everyone to get down. Before he could finish barking his orders, two other men with rifles dressed in similar garb appeared out of the back cab. One man trained his weapon towards the line of men holding empty containers. The other went over to the cars waiting in line.

  The police officer overseeing fuel distribution at the station immediately emerged from his vehicle, weapon drawn, ordering the armed intruders to drop their guns.

  “Not today,” the robber with the pistol shouted. “Drop your gun. If I see you even look like you’re going to call for

  backup that’ll be your last breath.”

  The officer held his position about ten feet from the open door of his patrol car. The robber facing off with the cop didn’t budge from his position. He looked confident, standing tall, his aim square at the officer. My heart pounded as I took refuge behind the guardrail. Many of the men standing or kneeling on the periphery of the gas station’s property made a run for it into the lightly wooded area nearby. Others simply laid down, either terrified or hoping to avoid bringing any attention to themselves. I remained glued, mesmerized by the developing events.

  One of the riflemen immediately began robbing the people waiting in their cars, pointing his weapon at their faces, threatening to blow them away where they sat. As much as the cop protested, the robber methodically moved from car to car, making sure the occupants threw their belongings into a black garbage bag. The other gunman pointed his rifle at the gas station attendant’s head, ordering him to fill all the fuel containers they brought with them.

  My eyes fixated on the lead gunman holding the pistol. Without any provocation that I could see, he fired two rapid shots. I jumped, my eyes blinking into momentary blindness. When I finally refocused on the scene, the police officer lie face down on the ground, blood oozing out of his head spreading slowly over the concrete pavement of the lot.

  “Anyone else!” the gunman barked. “I just killed a cop. Killing one of you means nothing now.” He demanded those around him to empty their pockets and slide the contents to their left side. He shouted for the gunman by the pumps to help him collect the money and belongings.

  Another minute passed when off in the distance the wail of a police siren cut through the din of silence that blanketed the station.

  “Hurry,” the man who shot the cop screamed.

  As the robbers converged back to their truck, three steady

  shots rang out from an unknown source. Two bullets hit the truck with an echoing metallic thud. The thieves scrambled

  for cover when two more shots rang out, one hitting a rifleman in the leg. The robber let out a raging cry as he stumbled to the ground dropping his weapon.

  I spotted the shooter. The man lay prone
just outside the paved area of the station’s perimeter, hiding behind two large plastic red gas containers. His cover and angle to the gunmen temporarily shielded him until the assailants regrouped and spotted him. Within a few seconds, they returned fire. Watching the exchange unfold, I could only imagine the new shooter had hoped he was more accurate with his aim. With bullets kicking up concrete dust around him, he got up and scrambled for the woods. Others followed, and in the ensuing exchange, several men fell, blood-curdling cries filling the air as they tried to claw and crawl their way to safety.

  My eyes darted around from the robbers to the fleeing people. The driver of the robber’s truck, who never exited the vehicle, yelled for the others to get in as he started to turn it around. Without hesitation, the men piled into the back cab, and within seconds, the truck began to pull away.

  Several more shots rang out from the woods. One of the bullets shattered the glass on the passenger side of the truck while another hit the station attendant who immediately dropped to the ground. The robbers fired back a couple of wild returns as they sped off towards the interstate.

  About ten seconds of calm settled over the scene; absolute silence, just a biting fall breeze smacking me in the face. I stood up wondering what to do next. Before an answer could come to me, I watched as several people, then many people, rush towards the pumps. One man rolled the attendant over and proceeded to rob the corpse, pulling out rolls of cash. Another man went to the police officer and took his pistol and belt while another person yanked the service rifle from the patrol car. I heard the distant siren again. I wondered if it was even heading in our direction.

  The chaos at the pumps continued as fistfights broke out

  over whose turn it was to get gas. A big man tackled a smaller

  man, taking his gasoline then repeatedly punched him in the face before dashing off with the containers. I became nauseated watching this slide into barbarism play out in front of me. I shut my eyes. There would be no gas today. As I leaned over to pick up my empty containers, it dawned on me; I’m moving my family as soon as things get back to normal. The area was no longer safe. It never could be again in my mind.

  The Days

  Before

  Chapter 1

  For me, a hot bowl of oatmeal always made me smile. Of the small things in life, I enjoyed the smell of those oats wafting up into my nose. Whether with a pinch of brown sugar, plain or one of the flavored kinds, I flat out enjoyed it. Oatmeal was my slice of heaven treat for no other reason than ever since I was a kid, I loved it.

  What made eating my favorite treat even more satisfying was sitting out on the back deck of our new home with a cup of coffee looking at the hundreds of acres of woods that connected our yard to a state park. Deer flourished, and occasionally a majestic eight or ten-point buck would make an appearance. They always attracted attention. Neighbors would text or call if they spotted one. Wild Turkeys would also pass through from time to time. Whatever the wildlife, I enjoyed watching it.

  The chaos that took place back in New Jersey during the Rebecca Storm motivated me to move. Call me paranoid; I didn’t care. I stopped feeling safe, and I wasn’t sleeping well.

  Shortly after the power returned and everything went to normal, I felt it was all a mirage. I watched the good and bad unfold during that disaster. Our small neighborhood teamed up and supported each other, sharing resources and generator power. A few of us stayed up nights keeping an eye out in case strangers appeared for no reason. The lack of amenities and technology thrust us to interact, and it was tremendous. We seemed to all laugh more, despite the tragedy caused by the storm. We worked together to help make each other’s lives easier. Conversations about jobs, family, growing up, felt more meaningful. We learned a lot about each other in those couple of weeks. More so than we did in all the years prior.

  The downside drowned out all the good. Witnessing a man get shot and die, weighed heavily on my mind. Stories of looting and rapes a couple of towns over sent a shock through all of us. One of the neighbors up the street stood on line for food at an emergency center set up by the state and witnessed a gunpoint robbery first hand. When some of the patrons decided to take matters of justice into their own hands, shots rang out, and three people were injured. We later heard one of the victims died.

  Stories circulated about how gangs robbed homes. The power of a gun easily paralyzed families while thieves stole bags of jewelry, laptops, tablets, cash, anything that looked to have value.

  After order returned (almost as instant as when the power came back), we learned that a dozen people died at the hands of violence in our county. Our town, which averaged about fifty burglary reports a year from petty ones to full out breaking and entry types, skyrocketed to over one thousand two hundred in a nine-week period. That equals nineteen plus such events a day. It’s a number that grabs your attention. It showed me just how helpless law and order could be in a time of deep crisis. When police can’t provide the safety needed in a tough situation, all hell will take over.

  I had no intention of staying for an encore performance.

  “You can’t run away from everything, Rob,” my friend Frank said to me after I finally put the house up for sale.

  “Not running,” I said. “Leaving this potential madhouse for greener pastures.”

  “And you think rural is better?”

  “Yes,” I said without a shred of doubt.

  When I first suggested moving, June, my wife, balked.

  “Rob Knowles, you are out of your head,” she said.

  I reminded June that it was she who put the bug in my ear about getting away from the crowds and chaos. She was the one who, during the crisis, spotted two men wearing hoodies, faces hidden, meandering through the neighborhood, looking as if they were scouting the area. She was the one who came rushing into the backyard to tell me about them. I remember the terror in her wide, bloodshot eyes, tears of fear streaming down her face.

  When I walked out to my front yard to see for myself, shoulders pulled back, my 6’3”, two hundred and twenty-five pound frame holding a baseball bat and Tom, from across the street, carrying a rifle, the two men quickly turned and walked away. I later encountered two more similar incidents of strangers who looked like they were scouting out the area - faces I had never seen before in my many walks around the neighborhood. Things like that sit in your mind and grow roots.

  After moving, we missed aspects of New Jersey, the state my wife and I grew up in. Our initial intention was to stay in state, yet when we looked at various homes in the more rural regions of Hunterdon County we liked, the prices were out of our affordability range and the taxes ridiculous. Other areas in the state we could afford didn’t fit our educational needs for our two children, Curtis, and Maya.

  After weeks of searching for places to consider a move to, an old friend suggested areas in north central Connecticut to check out. It took a year of looking and investigating before we found a wonderful little town named Chapel, tucked away in a hilly, tree-laden area just over a half hour east of Hartford. It had a charming, ten-block downtown section where locals often strolled and sat outside with coffee and snacks. There were a couple of middle-class to upper middle-class housing developments in the surrounding region. And of course, one stereotypical tall white steepled New England church that harkened its construction back to the early 19th century.

  A county road twisted its way through the forested landscape, feeding into downtown Chapel. Along the route, scattered solitary streets pockmarked the area. Compared to New Jersey, traffic on this road was light with only the occasional big truck passing through to deliver goods to the grocery store in town or supplies to one of several big box stores another ten minutes away.

  We picked a house on a peaceful, lone cul-de-sac of ten homes near the summit of a large hill over two miles from the downtown area. Each piece of property on the block had roughly two acres of mostly wooded land that bordered a state park. The closest neighborhood was a small de
velopment of homes called Circle Estates, a half mile up the county road from our house. Several other neighborhoods of varying size dotted the town’s landscape, the largest being River Run Estates. It was a mile down the county road heading towards the downtown. For me, the entire region offered space. Nothing appeared cramped, and I liked that. Most amenities for everyday life lie within a twenty-minute drive.

  As for our jobs, adjusting was easier than we thought. June, a financial consultant, seamlessly transitioned her practice using the virtual world of video conferencing from our home office. She did lose a couple of clients, but she also attracted new ones in Hartford, Boston and Providence, all locations easily accessible with day trips or short overnights when needed. Myself, I was a freelance magazine article writer, an adjunct literacy teacher at the local community college and occasional lecturer.

  Our four-bedroom Colonial house sat near the end of our charming little cul-de-sac of ten homes. A narrow, well-trodden trail cut through our yard bordering our neighbors, leading to a lake on state park property. The walk from the trail entrance to the small strip of shoreline was roughly five hundred feet. It was quiet there; an area of the park known as the ‘quiet side’ because most of the trails, playgrounds, and ball fields were directly on the opposite side from us near the park’s entrance. A lone trail twisted its way along the circumference of the lake. The path never saw much foot traffic come our way. I enjoyed the solitude of our side. That first spring, I pulled out an old fishing pole and began to take up fishing. My son, Curtis, soon joined in.

  Occasionally, while walking down to the lake, I would spot our neighbors, Jenny and Jason Pinacki foraging in the woods.