“We go visit Barry Jacobson,” Kramer said. “I still want to find Vetter, and Barry would know where he is.”
They jumped into the buggy and Kramer looked down once again at the copy of the transfer orders the hospital had been given. Still, nothing jumped out at him as he mentally reviewed all the long-term care facilities and hospital wards that were within a 50-mile range. Shaking his head, he stuffed the papers into his coat pocket and they rocketed off to the Jacobson property, which sat in a rural area a few miles north of town.
With their official identification cards in hand, they didn’t need to worry being stopped by the government, but looters and other ne’er-do-well criminals were still a concern. Trey maintained a constant vigilance as they roared up the northbound lane of the highway. Passing the synagogue, they shot through the small town of Mineola and made their way north.
“Where are we headed?” Trey shouted over the wind that was whipping about in the open compartment.
“We’re taking a right a few miles ahead, then a five-minute drive to the Jacobson’s property.”
They made good time, the road having been clear of stalled cars that were pushed into the open drains on the side of the road.
“I haven’t seen any looters!” Trey shouted.
“Maybe because of this!” Kramer yelled back and pointed ahead.
About a thousand yards ahead, a government roadblock had been set up. Two large military vehicles that looked like armored cars on steroids sat on either side of the road, effectively blocking passage other than through a small space they left between the two vehicles. However, even this opening was blocked by a wooden sawhorse barrier.
Kramer slowed down and looked at Trey.
“What do you make of it?” Kramer asked his companion.
“Those are MRAPs, doc. Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicles. They replaced the HUMVEEs because of all the IEDs that Haji was using on our convoys back in the Middle East.”
As they drew closer, two black-clad men with M4 assault rifles appeared with one man holding up a small handheld stop sign while the other took cover next to their MRAP, aiming his rifle down at them.
“Put both hands up so they can see them.” Trey said as he raised his hands. Kramer kept his grip on the steering wheel at the 10 and 2 position.
Kramer stopped where indicated and was approached by the first agent.
Decked out in full black military gear, one of the officers walked slowly to the side of the car, his right hand gripping his sidearm that was tucked into his holster.
“ID please,” he commanded.
Kramer produced his new laminated hospital card and handed it over to the agent. Trey followed suit and waited for the nervous young man to inspect them. A small clipboard appeared from the agent’s side MOLLE pouch and he jotted down some information, likely logging their names and time.
“State your business.” He said, handing the cards back.
“We’re investigating a report of possible Cholera outbreak out on Route 561, just up the road and to the right.” Kramer said with conviction. “We need to assess the risks to the water table.”
Kramer was about to add more to the story, when he heard the sound of engines coming from behind him.
“OK,” the agent said as he stared down the road behind the buggy. “Just report back when you return.”
The sawhorse was pulled to the side by the other agent, and Kramer gunned the vehicle through the opening. Looking in his rearview mirror, he could see a line of busses pulling up to the roadblock. Kramer moved ahead a few hundred yards and pulled to the side of the road.
“What’s going on?” Trey asked as they came to a stop.
“The convoy behind us, that’s what.” Kramer replied.
Both men craned their heads back and watched as a dozen busses passed through the opening. The first nine were green and grey prison busses, their windows covered by expanded metal or slats of flat iron. Passing by, Kramer couldn’t help but notice that several windows had young kids staring out at him.
“Boy, that sucks having to take a prison bus!” Trey said. “You can’t even open the windows.”
“Yeah,” Kramer replied contemplatively. “But where are they going?”
“Maybe there’s a relocation facility up toward Leesburg.”
“Yeah, but nothing like they have in Orlando.” Kramer retorted.
The nine busses slowly rumbled by and Kramer was about to follow them when three more busses made it through the opening, all of them white with red crosses on the side.
“Didn’t Dr. Chase mention white busses back there?” Trey asked.
“He sure did,” Kramer replied. “Let’s see where they go.”
They accelerated off the side of the road and maintained a bit of distance between them and the medical buses. Further up the road, they passed the entrance to the Lake County Corrections facility, a large prison that handled most of the criminals in that rural area.
“Look up there!” Trey said, pointing up the long road that meandered to the facility a quarter mile from its entrance.
The nine buses could be seen winding their way toward the jail, the last one just disappearing over the crest of the hill that the prison had been built upon.
“What the heck,” Kramer stammered. “Why a prison?”
“Well, they do have backup generators, don’t they?” Trey replied with some trepidation.
“Yeah,” Kramer said in a less-than-convincing voice. “I guess they do.”
Neither man said much as they continued north, passing Route 561 where they were supposed to turn off to the Jacobson property.
A few minutes later, they crested a hill and were immediately stopped by yet another road block. This one, however, was guarded by several Bradley Fighting vehicles, each with a 25mm cannons and two machine guns.
A squad of more black-clad agents manned the post and all weapons were pointed at the little buggy as it slammed on its brakes.
Kramer didn’t see any way of avoiding the sentry that was approaching, rifle pointed at the doctor’s head. In the distance, Kramer saw the three busses cresting over yet another rise in the road, apparently untouched and given immediate passage through the barrier.
“DON’T MOVE!” The sentry shouted.
“Please,” Kramer said. “We’re from the hospital. We were sent up here to investigate a possible Cholera outbreak just north of here.”
“Identifications, please.”
Trey produced his ID card and handed it over to Dr. Kramer, all the while using his left leg to tuck his AR-15 under the frame of his seat.
The agent read the cards, and before he could say anything, Kramer jumped in.
“This is an emergency,” Kramer stated. “You can call the hospital and ask for Dr. Chase’s office. He’s the director of the facility.”
“Sorry sir,” The agent said, relaxing his demeanor but maintaining his right hand grip on his automatic rifle. “But you need a pass to go beyond this point.”
“But sir,” Kramer began. “This is time sensitive and if…”
“Stop right there, doctor. This is not negotiable. No one gets by here unless they have a DHS-approved pass. Now I would suggest that if this is “time sensitive,” you beat feet back to the hospital and get the appropriate form from DHS”
Kramer, seeing no other alternative, agreed and turned around to head back toward Clermont.
“What now?” Trey asked.
“Let’s stop at Jacobson’s house, then we can go home.”
They drove south and turned on 561, heading east toward the Jacobson ranch.
“So, tell me about Barry Jacobson,” Trey said.
Kramer slowed the vehicle a bit, reducing the wind and noise from the old Volkswagen
engine.
“Barry is an ‘old soul’ who moved here after World War II. He was a child, living in Poland and survived the holocaust. He lost both parents in the concentration camp and came to Orlando after the war to live with some relatives. After high school, he moved out to this area and saved enough to buy some land. By the time he was 40, he had one of the largest groves in Central Florida.”
Kramer turned down a dirt driveway, adjacent to a new housing development that had stalled when the power went out.
“He sold a lot of his property during the 1990’s and kept this last parcel of land. He sold it about two years ago and has lived in this old farm house since he moved to the county.”
They came up to a stockade fence, the gates open and an old white farmhouse nestled on the shore of a small, circular lake. The oak trees surrounding the house had to be over a hundred years old, and the grounds still kept their stately appearance other than the goats roaming about, acting like a natural grass-cutting service.
A big old dog, mostly mutt with some German Shepherd in it, came charging up to the loud buggy. Kramer hadn’t been to Barry’s house in over three years, but when they shut down the engine, the dog immediately recognized the doctor and waited patiently for him to crawl out of the driver’s side opening.
Grabbing the roll bar above him, Kramer hoisted himself out and onto the grass. The dog, its tail swishing in a rapid side-to-side motion, nuzzled the doctor’s hand, demanding some attention.
Gerry was squatted down, rubbing the old mutts neck and head, when he heard the front screen door slam shut.
“Well, Gerry Kramer!” Barry Jacobson said. “I always knew that damn dog didn’t have any taste! Look at him loving on you!”
Kramer smiled at his old friend, and jogged up on the farmer’s porch, giving his old companion a hug.
“Good to see you, Barry.” Kramer said as they separated.
“You too!” Jacobson replied. “These are bad times we’re living in.”
Kramer turned to find Trey, who stood silently next to the buggy. The dog stood quietly as well, staring at the “intruder” that had arrived as well.
“Barry, this is Trey Williams. Trey and his friend moved in with me and Ed Grafton. The two of them saved my life last week. He’s a good man.”
Jacobson walked down the front porch steps and up to the Marine. After assessing the young man, Jacobson stuck out his hand and Trey quickly shook it. The dog instantly lost interest in removing some body part from this new interloper and slowly lumbered under a nearby oak tree and plopped itself onto the ground.
“Don’t mind Ben!” Barry said of the dog. “He’s just protective of me.”
“Thanks,” Trey said. “He’s got some German Shepherd in him. We used those in the Marines and you don’t mess with them.”
The three made their way up onto the front porch and sat down. “
Don’t have much power,” Barry said. “Just a solar pump for my well. So I can’t offer you much other than some sun tea I’ve been brewing.”
The two men gratefully took a glass, and adding some sugar and lemon from one of the trees in the yard, sat on the porch’s chairs and relaxed for the first time that day.
Kramer filled Jacobson in on his life since the power went off. From his days at the office to their encounter at the roadblock, Kramer detailed everything.
Jacobson, for his part, had little to say. Other than going into town on his horse, he hadn’t noticed or seen anything other than the mass migration of the new residents just up the road.
“Darned if it wasn’t like the Exodus,” Barry said. “All those people walking into Orlando.”
“Wait!” Kramer stopped his friend. “Why Orlando? They’ve got a relocation center just up the road at the county prison.”
“Nope!” Jacobson corrected his friend. “They were told to go to Orlando. Either the Fairgrounds or they were going to set something up at Disney.”
“Then what’s going on at the prison?” Kramer said, almost to himself.
“Beats me,” Jacobson said. “But it isn’t anyone from the homes around here.”
All three men sat silently, trying to make sense of the new information.
“What about Rabbi Vetter?” Kramer finally asked. “Rick said you ran across him not too long ago.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “I rode my horse into town to see about getting some supplies. I about got run over by all those busses running up and down the highway. Anyway, I stopped at the synagogue because I saw the door open. Rabbi Vetter was in there, waiting for his flock to show up! Silly man, always was short on common sense.”
Both men chuckled at the memory of their rabbi, while Trey respectfully smiled at their humor.
“Anyway, he said he was going over to Brightside and check on them. Other than that, I haven’t been out of the house.”
After a few more minutes of catching up, Jacobson looked quizzically at Kramer.
“What do you make of those white busses?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” Kramer replied. “I can’t think of anything up that way.”
“You know, if Vetter was at the retirement home, I’ll be he’d be on one of those busses. I got to believe they evacuated everyone from the extended living facility since there’s no power.”
“You’re probably right,” Kramer replied. “I just don’t know how to get there. No way I can get a pass without tipping DHS off that I have an ID card.”
“Well, I have an idea,” Jacobson said quickly. “Why don’t we take a horseback ride up there. I can’t think of a better way to travel right now, anyway.”
Kramer thought about it for a moment and the idea began to have merit.
“I only have my horse,” Jacobson said. “Do Claire and Caroline still ride?”
“You bet. That’s a great idea.”
“Why don’t you come by tomorrow morning. I can’t be more than an hour’s ride from your house. We can travel cross country past the roadblock and see where they’re keeping our friend.”
They agreed, and after a temporary farewell, Trey and Kramer returned to the road and drove home.
“You know, doc.” Trey said. “I can’t ride a horse.”
“That’s alright,” Kramer said. “I’ll be fine by myself.”
“Yeah, well you better explain that to your wife. That’s all I’m saying.”
The ride home was uneventful as they were able to take a different route back to the Kramer house, avoiding the main highway altogether. In fact, the two-lane country roads they took were going to be the path Kramer was going to take the next morning to horseback to the Jacobson ranch.
“You will not say a word to anyone!” Kramer said, making Trey promise not to reveal his plans. “I’m going to get up early and leave before anyone can stop me.”
“You mean before Barbara stops you.” Trey retorted.
“Like I said,” the doctor replied with a grin.
They arrived home by dinner, reporting everything other than the planned horseback ride the next day.
The following morning, Dr. Kramer snuck out of the house and into the horse barn. Finding his oldest daughter’s horse in its stall, he tacked up the steed and walked it out of the barn.
The sun hadn’t crested the horizon yet, and the grass covered in dew and a low hanging mist clung to the depression in the field beyond his property’s fence. The frogs and crickets had long since retired, and the promise of a new day was creeping into the air as the light pink sky began to transform. Kramer walked the horse out the side gate of his property, coming down to the road in front of his house.
Mounting the beast, he sat high in the saddle, surveying the homes and fields that surrounded him.
“OK, Buttercup. Let’s move it.”
> He nudged the horse’s side with his heels and the animal began its walk down the side of the road, staying on the grass to avoid the sound of its hooves clicking on the asphalt.
As he drew lateral to the Grafton property, Rob Weeks appeared from behind the built-up berm being used as a sentry post.
“Morning doc!” He said. “Trey told me to expect you.”
“Can’t keep a secret, can he?” Kramer said with a smile.
“Well, he didn’t want me to shoot you, so I guess it was a good thing he said something.”
“I suppose I’ll forgive him. Thanks for holding your fire.”
“Anyway,” Rob continued. “Trey told me to give you this.”
Weeks handed Kramer a long leather scabbard with a leather loop at one end. Inside was a lever action rifle similar to the ones used in the old west movies.
“Trey said even an idiot could shoot this thing. Just rack the lever after each shot.”
“Tell Trey thanks,” Kramer said, hanging the rifle and scabbard over the saddle’s horn. Rob fastened the other end to the hobble strap that attached the stirrups to the rest of the saddle. The rifle now rode just in front of his right leg, easily pulled out and brought up to his shoulder.
“Now don’t fault Trey for using the idiot word,” Rob teased the doctor. “Put me inside someone’s chest and ask me to do surgery and I’ll admit I’m an idiot. Put a doctor inside a 302 V-8 engine, and even the smartest surgeon is an idiot.”
“Well then, tell him that from one idiot to the other, thank you!”
“Be safe, doc. It gets nasty really quick out there. You, of all, should remember that.”
Kramer nodded and adjusted himself in the saddle for the hour-long ride to his friend’s ranch. He hadn’t been on an extended ride in over a year and wasn’t looking forward to the saddle sores he knew he was going to get.
Fortunately, the trip to Jacobson’s house was uneventful. Buttercup managed to navigate most of the journey without incident, and walking at a slower pace while staying off the hard road preserved her energy. When Kramer finally dismounted, both horse and rider were in a groove.
Charlie's Requiem: Democide Page 36
