We Won't Go Quietly

by C. A. Rudolph

  Lauren tilted her head, pointing ahead. “So is this…or is this not an internment camp?”

  “There’s no way to know for certain, L. And the truth is, it really doesn’t matter. I used to obsess over things like this, but I don’t have time for it anymore—it’s not constructive, and the rabbit hole goes on for as long as you want it to—meaning there’s no real end to it. If you search for it, you’ll find plenty of info to fit any number of narratives. As far as the future is concerned, my mind was made up a long time ago. I used to lose sleep worrying about where this family would end up if and when anything out of the ordinary comes to pass. The more I prepared, the less worrying I did, and the more sleep I got. And I happen to like sleep. It doesn’t matter how plausible any one conspiracy is, or if it’s even a conspiracy at all. Our plans aren’t contingent on a single aspect and whether or not it materializes. We plan for our future, regardless. And the point of doing so is based on one very simple premise.”

  “Freedom,” Lauren said.

  “Damn, you’re smart, kid. Exactly. I do not want us ever to be forced or otherwise compelled to give up our freedoms.” Alan pointed ahead. “When I see a place like this, it’s like looking into the future. A very bleak future—one I can nearly predict, one nearly any catastrophe can set into motion. Who knows why a place like this exists? If it exists for reprehensible reasons, we’ll be ready. If not, we’ll still be ready. The plans I’m working on will damn near come close to guaranteeing it…so long as the shit doesn’t hit the fan tomorrow, that is.”

  “Yeah, that would suck,” said Lauren with a snarky look. “If it does, though, can we just stay at Blackwater Falls?”

  Alan nodded. “I don’t see why not. We might have to do a little foraging, though. I only brought enough peanut butter and jelly for a few days.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  Alan started the car. He reached for Lauren’s hand and brought it close to him, reverently placing a kiss on her knuckles. “After this, I promise I’ll shut up for the rest of the weekend. Altogether, I want us to have more than just a couple of options at our disposal. I don’t want to just have a plan A, a plan B, and a plan C. For us, I want a plan for every letter of the alphabet and then some. Because we’re Americans—citizens of this country, born and bred, flesh and blood. Because we deserve it.

  “Our founding fathers fought for us long ago to have inalienable liberties, and we have every right to retain them. The Bill of Rights spells it all out for us, but it was never intended as a guarantee. We were supposed to be the guarantee, L. Us. The people. And over time, we got complacent. Apathetic. And we let freedom slip right through our fingers.”

  He paused. “The only reason government was ever conceived in the first place was to protect the rights of the people. It wasn’t created to regulate them discriminatorily or declare them inert when convenient, even though that’s exactly what’s being done. I’ll be damned if I’ll ever see the day when a group of overprivileged, wealthy bureaucrats on power trips resolve to take our freedoms away from us because it suits them, or because we’re considered superfluous. I would rather move us all somewhere in the middle of nowhere to practice self-reliance and experience the true meaning of freedom, just as life intended—independent of everything, even government. And I’m in the process of working out a way of making that very thing happen for us.

  “That’s freedom, L. Living life to the fullest, the way we see fit, and I would rather die than be captured and held behind walls and fences like this one. If their purpose is legit, and I’m crazy after all, fine. Sue me. But if it’s the other way around, we’ll have options. I swear to you, I’ll make certain we are taken care of.” Alan paused. “I love my country, L. But I love you more.”

  Chapter 10

  “On the mountains of truth you can never climb in vain: either you will reach a point higher up today, or you will be training your powers so that you will be able to climb higher tomorrow.”

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  Trout Run Valley

  Hardy County, West Virginia

  Thanksgiving. Thursday, November 25th. Present day

  The hours, minutes, and seconds of each day had begun to abbreviate as the fall months in the valley closed the distance to the winter ones. Thanksgiving Day had arrived, but the occasion that had once been a highly anticipated and much-celebrated holiday had ceased to be.

  While the frigid early-morning air that hung between the foothills bit relentlessly into her cheeks and the wind whipped through her hair, pushing it far and away from her face, Lauren Russell focused only on what lay ahead in her field of view. She clenched her fists, and pumping them past her sides, pushed herself to move faster while feeding her momentum and increasing her velocity incrementally with each effort.

  Lauren leaned into the run, allowing her head to lead the way, her frame creating an obtuse angle with the road. With gravity as her guide, her feet made mild contact with the asphalt on each successive step. Her gait was graceful, yet powerful.

  Lauren had been a devoted runner since joining her elementary school’s running club in the fourth grade at the age of nine and had remained so throughout her adolescent years. As she’d progressed into her teens, other hobbies, activities, and distractions had begun taking up more of her time, and as a result, she gradually dissociated herself from the exercise. Her running jaunts had become less frequent as the years moved forward, and had become virtually extinct after the collapse.

  In the weeks following the battle with the Marauders, the citizens of Trout Run Valley had been blessed with a period of solace, reflection, and repose. In that time, Lauren had decided to rediscover the running form she had possessed and relished so much in her younger years. She had always preferred to run hard and fast and enjoyed sprinting much more than jogging. Nevertheless, Lauren had chosen to ease into her runs, taking care to be mindful of the recent injury to her ankle. As her ligaments strengthened, her confidence in her joint’s ailment increased, and the easier, gentler runs became less infrequent. Soon, the ratio of sprinting to jogging had begun favoring the speedier of the two.

  Lauren had never considered herself an athlete. Instead, she recognized that she was a competitor, someone who rose to the occasion when opposed, even if the only opposition was herself. There were so many things with regard to running that she truly held dear. She had an appreciation for the struggle and knowing perseverance was the deciding factor between winning and losing.

  It was even simpler than that, though. Running was about putting one foot in front of the other and concentrating only on what lay ahead and moving toward it, while never looking back. It was a journey in itself, one that required discovering an inner boundless energy deep within and learning to exert it on demand. It was about surmounting pain. Developing a sense of mind over matter—and using that belief to fight against and overcome physical and mental setbacks. It was as if the act of running was an overall metaphor for the existence of humankind itself, especially now in this new world.

  As she drew a controlled breath into her nose and exhaled it slowly between her lips, Lauren repeated the motion while recalling a chat she’d had with Dave Graham, the instructor at Point Blank Range, who had become a confidant as well as a friend. It had occurred during a trail run he’d invited her to join him on in the Sleepy Creek portion of the Tuscarora Trail. Lauren had been suffering from iliotibial band syndrome due to overexercising and had wanted to quit about halfway through when the inflammation and pain had become unbearable. Just as he had somehow always managed to do, Dave had gotten through to her and encouraged her to endure the pain and find a way to continue.

  “I know it hurts—I’ve been there. But don’t let yourself be defined by setbacks, Janey,” he had said. “Our enemies are always training to kill us. PT isn’t just a pastime for them—it’s their livelihood. They get out of bed and train hard every single day. They have the luxury of time—we do not. And that means we have to train harder
than they do, better than they do, every day, so if we ever have to, we can extinguish them without breaking a sweat.”

  A combination of anti-inflammatories they’d had on hand, stretches, and the application of therapeutic taping had allowed her to continue through the pain and finish the run.

  Lauren allowed a thin smile to materialize while recollecting another in an extended list of the former Green Beret’s adages. He had made a habit of uttering them ad nauseum whenever she’d connected with him in days past. Lauren had instinctively filed them away in the same manner she had done with the things her dad had bestowed upon her, knowing someday she might need them. So far, the practice had proven worthwhile.

  Trout Run Road was passing under her feet in a blur, and Lauren could hear her feet thumping on the road almost in rhythm with her heart. As she ran the straightaway on the north end of the valley, occasionally Lauren’s eyes would catch sight of a divot or a scratch embedded in the road—a signification of the skirmish that had occurred there last month. It had been a battle of overwhelming odds that she, her family, and the entire community had won. Those cosmetic clues were the only remaining remnants of the skirmish, the aftermath of another tribulation in a dangerous world where no one’s safety was guaranteed.

  Every time she blinked, Lauren’s eyelids acted like camera shutters as she envisioned snapshots of scenes from that day. She could still see the looks on the bikers’ faces—just as they had appeared through her rifle’s sight picture. Once angry, hateful, and ruthless, they had become frozen, desperate, even horrified upon coming to the realization their end was imminent.

  As a whole, that day had felt like a distortion in time to her, the visual recount a blur, but Lauren could recall nearly each moment she had pulled the trigger, sending each threat to meet his or her maker. It didn’t make her feel hurtful this time around, and she didn’t feel sorrow or self-reproach for what she had done. This time she didn’t feel anything except aware—aware she had done what had been necessary.

  Lauren had dispatched many men on that fateful day, and had even put an end to the life of their leader, a vicious, appalling demon of a man, doing so with her own bare hands. She had acted and done just as she’d been trained to by Dave Graham and his unit of militaristic paragons. Self-preservation and the continuance of a post-collapse existence for her and her family, as well as the other habitants of the valley, demanded it so.

  I’ve been lucky so far, Lauren thought while continuing her pain-free running stride. If it was indeed luck that had been the reason she’d remained in one piece thus far, she hoped—even prayed—it would not run out anytime soon. There was still so much to be done. There was still so much to live for.

  Even if her luck expired, Lauren knew her memories—things she’d seen, heard, and done—would reside with her for eternity. Her memory had always been such a powerful implement, highly adept and practically inescapable. Still, as adept as it was, she couldn’t escape the feeling that she had forgotten something today.

  Lauren had been observing her mother in the weeks following the attack, even in their limited time together. Michelle had hardened herself and had somehow moved into a leadership role within the community. She had an ability to act as a catalyst of information and had become proficient with imposing methods of compromise, and had even acted as a counselor. It brought Lauren joy to see her mother was finally finding her place in this world. What brought her more joy, however, was that Michelle had finally made a concerted effort to give her some space.

  Michelle had become a confidante to their recently widowed neighbor, Kristen Perry, after she had tragically lost her husband during the battle with the Marauders. Lauren assumed her mother had chosen the role not just to help Kristen through a tough time, but also due to a certain commonality. Only, there was one distinct difference—Kristen had been present when her husband had died. She had attended his funeral and had time to mourn his passing. Closure was an indulgence that Michelle had not been able to experience, and Lauren theorized it was possible that her mother was trying desperately to do just that—perhaps even vicariously—using Kristen’s bereavement as a guide.

  Lauren didn’t know where her dad was and had no idea what had become of him. If her mother was trying to find closure, Lauren surmised it to mean that Michelle had decided to assume him dead. Maybe it was easier for her that way, but it was a notion Lauren just couldn’t bring herself to go along with. Not a single day went by without him in her thoughts. She heard his voice often and cherished the moments when he spoke to her. As far as the search for answers was concerned, Lauren had opted to file those thoughts away for now. She missed him and she loved him, and she wanted him to be here now more than anything else in the world. But Lauren also knew there was nothing in her power she could do to bring him back into her life.

  Her emotional deliberations concerning her parents triggered Lauren to push herself to run even faster, and she poured herself into her run, fueling it with everything she had.

  Nothing matters now apart from surviving this. She continued to contemplate and daydream as the notions unremittingly swirled around in her mind in random order—that is, until a piercing voice from behind broke the sequence, and the silence. Lauren suddenly snapped back to the present, and to reality.

  “Lauren! Dammit! Slow the hell down, please! For Christ’s sake!”

  Oh shit, Lauren thought. It was Grace. It hit her—Lauren remembered what she had forgotten—that her sister was running with her. She cursed under her breath and adjusted her gait, slowing her running pace down to a trot in a matter of seconds. She looked over her shoulder to where Grace was, stopped now in the middle of the road, keeled over, wheezing and panting audibly.

  Lauren terminated her run instantly, the outsoles of her trail-running shoes chirping from the sudden friction with the road. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, pushed away the hair from her face, and jogged back to her older sister. “I’m so sorry, Grace. That’s my fault. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Sorry? Sorry for what? Didn’t mean to what?” Grace gasped between rapid breaths. “Sorry for my shin splints or cramps in my calves? Didn’t mean to provide me with an effin’ myocardial infarction this morning?”

  Lauren tried hard not to grin, but it couldn’t be helped. Exercising had put her into an agreeable mood. “Sure—for all those things. But mostly, sorry for running so fast. I forgot y—”

  “You forgot? Forgot what? Did you seriously forget I was running with you?”

  “No—it’s not that. Never mind,” Lauren said, shrugging the questions away. “Are you okay?”

  Grace removed one of her hands from her knees and placed it to her chest to gauge her pounding heart. “I think I’m going to die. This is serious—I’m actually going to croak—right here on this stupid road. You might want to call Kristen out here…my heart is beating out of my friggin’ chest. I’ve never felt this way before…this is ridiculous.”

  Lauren cocked her head. “Okay, calm down, Miss Hypochondriac. Stop overexaggerating. It’s not ridiculous, it’s your heart rate. I promise you, you’re not going to die.”

  “It sure as hell feels like it,” Grace panted. “Seriously…put the pads on my chest right now and hit me with that shocker thing they use in ambulances.”

  Lauren giggled. “I’m pretty sure even if Kristen had a defibrillator, it didn’t survive the EMP. You just need to rest. Try controlling your breathing for a few minutes, and you’ll be fine—the first mile is the biggest liar. I know it feels bad at first, but your body eventually gets used to it.”

  “A liar, huh? What about the second or the third mile? Are they just as blatantly dishonest?” Grace continued to breathe tediously.

  Lauren shrugged. “I don’t know, Grace—it’s different for everyone.”

  “I’m not a gazelle. I wasn’t built for this shit.” Grace pointed at herself. “And this body doesn’t ever get used to anything. It fights me every step of the way—always has. This fr
ailty of mine is a curse.”

  “You told me you wanted to do this, remember? You said you wanted to get better. You wanted me to help you train.”

  “Yes—train. Like normal human beings who want to get in better shape. Like two sisters going for a leisurely run down the road together. Something that doesn’t involve chest pains, shortness of breath, spasming muscles and certain horrifying death. I didn’t know we’d be training for an effing Olympic triathlon.”

  “Guess I forgot to tell you about the bike ride I was planning after we get back to the cabin,” Lauren joked.

  “Funny,” Grace said. She tried straightening herself, her hands falling to her petite waistline. “That’s if we make it back to the cabin. How far were you planning on going today, anyway?”

  “Three miles.”

  “Three? Yesterday, it was just one.”

  Lauren shook her head. “No, it was two yesterday, and two the day before. We took a break in between. Last week, it was one. And next week or the week after, we’ll run four. It’s called progression, Grace. Making headway, bettering yourself, stuff like that.”

  “I prefer to call it what it is. Torture. And mind-numbing absurdity. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do this to themselves.”

  “You act like it’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, and I know for a fact that’s not the case.”

  Grace shot her eyes at Lauren. “Sure. Hit me while I’m down with my seamy past. I love when you do that.”