Beyond the Barriers

by Timothy W. Long

  I stopped when the first thing came out of the woods. The road in this location ran straight through the City of Vesper Lake, and ended in the city of Auburn before winding around to the mountains. A pair of cars came from the direction of town and swerved to avoid us. Why didn’t I follow their lead and punch it?

  I opened the door and stepped out. Emptying a box of shells on the seat, I pushed a few into my pockets then reloaded the gun as I followed Lee.

  There was just one at first—a man in his twenties, with a halo of blood dripping from his forehead. It splattered on his bright blue bowling shirt, then cascaded down around a huge wound in his abdomen. This person should have been on the ground howling in pain, or dead.

  One of the men didn’t hesitate. He raised his M-16 and fired a shot that took the guy right between the eyes. His body flopped back and thumped on the ground. Whatever had pulled his strings was now severed.

  A few more broke free of the woods. I felt the hair on the back of my neck come to attention. A chill struck me, like I had just stepped into a freezer. What was I doing here?

  Lee didn’t have any trouble. He raised his hand cannon and blew one of them away.

  Several more came from behind us, in the direction I had driven. My gun was at my chin in a split second, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. Shots echoed all around me. Calls of “Good shot!” and “Nice one.” Didn’t affect me with any sense of peace at what we were doing.

  It horrified me.

  Not so long ago, I had killed to protect. So how was this any different?

  A large man shambled toward me. I had no choice. I aimed low and blew his lower leg back. His knee disappeared as it splattered all over the pavement. He went down hard, but he didn’t stop. He dragged his body along the ground as he kept coming at me. His eyes locked on mine and they were dead—devoid of any kind of life.

  I shook as I lowered the gun and pumped a ball of pain into his head. He flopped so hard that his head bounced back up and came to rest on a smashed nose. Brain and gore stained the ground, but I looked away.

  * * *

  The fight was brief.

  Lee’s men stopped to congratulate each other. Some kept their eyes and weapons trained on the trees. Others went over their weapons while comparing stories of shooting brain-dead people to death. I didn’t feel the fire I had felt earlier. All I felt was empty. I was planning to leave, drive up the road a few miles, then throw up.

  “Are you alright, son?”

  Lee had come up beside me, while I stared at the body of a woman. She lay on her back, one arm at an odd angle over her head. Her other arm hung by stringy sinew.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you move out? I don’t think you have the stomach for this.”

  “No one should have the stomach for this.” My reply caught him off guard.

  Lee stared at the bodies.

  Back in my enlisted days, there was an enemy that wanted to shoot me. Somehow, that justified shooting back, at least in my mind. These were just people. They didn’t understand what they were doing.

  “Tell you what. We have a lot of food. I’ll give you some, and a little water. You head out, and if you think you want to come back and join us, do that. Otherwise it was nice to meet you. Now fuck off and all that stuff.” Lee had a grin on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  I liked Lee from the moment I had met him, but now I wondered at his motivation. Who had given him orders, and why weren’t his men wearing any sort of insignia?

  The car roared to life, and, as I drove off, I caught his stare in the rearview mirror. He didn’t lift his hand to wave. He didn’t smile. He just watched me go.

  I flipped through radio stations. Some of them were running the emergency broadcast system messages. Then announcers came on in prerecorded voices, advising people to get to safe places until things were under control. A list of buildings ran, which included schools, probably for the large auditoriums, and military bases, where people would be let into cleared locations.

  I jumped around some more because I didn’t care for the bad news piling up. I came across a talk radio show where people were calling in and sharing their experiences. It saddened me when a kid no more than nine or ten called in and wanted to know what to do about his father, who was sick but locked in their basement. He wanted to see if his dad was okay.

  The guy on the radio was at a loss for words, and I wondered how often that happened. He told the boy, after a moment, that he had called the police, and when the men in uniform showed up, he should let them in.

  I flipped to a music channel and drove toward the hills.

  The trees grew thicker along the side of the road as I drove on into the night. A fine mist of rain dropped from the sky, but didn’t stick around long enough to get the car wet. I beat at it with the windshield wipers and cranked up the brights as the car hummed along the old highway. I had the window open, and the smell of fresh, clean air with a touch of pine rushed into the car. We drove this way a few years ago, Allison and I, but it looked just like every hilly road I had ever been on.

  A group of motorcycles shot by. They had been drawing closer in my rearview mirror for a few seconds before they caught up and passed me. They slowed for a mile or two then sped up. When I got to the area where they had slowed, I found a big yellow sign with a ‘Falling Rocks’ warning.

  For the next few hours, I drove steadily upward as my car sought the top of the pass. I lost myself in thought, and changed the channel like a kid with ADD. Sometimes I tried to focus on what was being said, really said. There was a virus of unknown origin; it made people sick and most died. Within moments, sometimes seconds, the dead came back to life. It was the stuff of nightmares and late-night B movies. I couldn’t stand to think it was serious, and yet I had killed two men with my own hands in the last six hours.

  I came to the cutoff, and saw the familiar sign for a deer crossing. I took the turn and came to a fence with a big padlock on it. The fence itself was old and rickety, but the lock was shiny and new. On either side of the dirt road, trees reached into the dark. There was no way I could drive around it. I shut off my lights and let my eyes get used to the dark.

  The moon was out, but it was barely visible through the clouds that had rolled in over the past hour. I stared into the night and thought about my day. It ran through my mind in slow motion—the trip to the store, the dealings with the clerk at the gun counter. I wondered if he had taken my advice and gone home to protect his family with the shotgun I pulled out.

  I eased the car forward until the bumper kissed the gate, and then gave it a little gas. The fence, from what I had seen, was an old wooden pair of slats that someone had nailed onto much larger chunks of wood. It may have been a better gate at one point, but now it was just a makeshift barrier that I hoped wouldn’t stand up to much pressure.

  I gave it a little more gas. There was a snap, and I was through. The car gave a little bounce, like I had ridden over something. It sounded loud in the confined space, like I had done some real damage.

  I pulled up about ten feet, hopped out of my Honda, and tried to inspect the underside. The car was sitting flat, so there were no popped tires. I couldn’t see anything underneath, so decided to trust luck rather than spend much time crawling under the car. I would have to get in and dig around in my backpack for a flashlight if I did that.

  I ran back to the fence and inspected the damage. The gate had pulled away on the left side and fallen to the ground. The lock was still in place, so I picked it up, set it on the remains of the old post, and wedged it between two large nails.

  It wouldn’t hold up in a stiff wind, but until I came back to fix it, the jury-rigged thing would have to do. I drove slowly for the next minute, trying to remember how the road curved. It was difficult to see in the dark, so I rolled down my front window and stuck my head out. When I felt like I had made it far enough around a curve for my lights not to be seen, I popped them back on and sped up the h
ill.

  The SUV bumped over the gravel then larger rocks as I got farther from the road. Once I had a clear view, it was just a matter of maneuvering around the larger rocks and branches that lay in the way. No one had been here for a long time. I came to one large branch and got out of the car. I had to drag it, grunting and straining the whole time, until there was a clear path. It looked more like a small tree had fallen down, and it was long and inflexible.

  I drove the car past it, then got out again and dragged it back to its original spot. I was being ultra-paranoid now, but I didn’t know what to expect in the coming weeks. Maybe it would all end with the world back to normal in a few days. All the footage on TV over the last week had led me to believe, at least in the beginning, that the virus was contained and the authorities were taking care of it. Footage leaked out on the web, slowly at first, of attacks all around the globe.

  The ports and airports into the U.S. had been shut down first. A strict policy of checking every arriving passenger had gone into effect. After a day of that, they put a stop to flights altogether. I remembered watching the video, just a few days ago, of a plane landing and the emergency slide opening while men and women streamed out of the plane. Some were bloodied, and when they reached the bottom, one dropped her bag, turned to her companion, and tore his throat out. Then it was chaos, as more of the things went down the slide and poured away from the plane in a full panic.

  “I can’t believe what I am seeing here. Now, this is live footage from Sea-Tac airport where a plane has landed, in distress, and the passengers seem to be attacking each other. Folks, I have never …” then his voice cut off, and one of the newscasters was caught staring to the side in shock. She turned to face the camera again and, in a calm voice, started talking about the sports world. I should have left then. I should have planned this better.

  The road ended in another mile. It came up against a copse of trees that were at least fifty feet tall. I got out and stretched, glad that I had arrived. Assuming no one was in my old friend’s cabin, I had made it to my home of isolation. I took a deep breath of the cool air, which smelled like pine and upturned dirt. It was a clean smell. Earthy. I almost smiled.

  I guess I have always been somewhat of a loner, but now I planned to cut all ties to civilization for a while.

  * * *

  I walked straight past the road until I came to a massive boulder. It looked like a tiny mountain had fallen from the sky and landed here. It was the landmark that told me to cut right and walk about a hundred yards. I had to trust my sense of direction, which was usually pretty good. It kept me in a straight line, until I heard water and knew I was by the tiny lake. My flashlight held up pretty well, although the LED light didn’t seem to be as bright as the halogen one I used to have. I shook it again to charge it, feeling ridiculous as I did, like I was jacking the thing off.

  I almost walked into water. I stopped at the shore, then shone the light up and down the edge of the lake until I saw an upturned boat about thirty feet to the left. It sat there like a beached whale—just a curve in the dark that told me I was close to my destination.

  As I got closer, I saw the edge of the cabin in the woods. A space had been cut in the trees, forming a square around the wooden structure. In the dark of night, they rose like giants into the night sky.

  Ray let me use his place a few years ago. Allison and I had come back from our honeymoon in Belize, but we had a few days left before we had to go back to work—her teaching accounting software at the Payco Inc. and me as a security consultant at Hamnar Enterprises. He gave me the key and a hand-drawn map on a Wednesday, and said we could stay for as long as we wanted. A couple of days turned into a week in which we fished, skinny dipped, and jumped in the sack several times a day.

  Looking back now, it was one of the best times of my life, but it was oddly shadowed, tempered by the feelings I had for her now, which were far from love.

  The cabin was a welcome sight after the madness of the last few days. I walked up the noisy, three stairs to the porch and stopped at the door. I didn’t have a key this time, and wondered how I was supposed to get in. This was the big gap in my plan.

  I tried the doorknob, but it was locked. I pushed on the door, but it was secure. I banged on it and called out “I’m a friend of Ray’s,” but no one answered.

  Praying that no one tried to shoot me, I wandered around the cabin and tried the windows. All of them were shut, but one in the back—a tiny one that allowed a view of the trees from the bathroom—was loose. I shoved it up and caught a pair of splinters in one hand for my effort. The window had budged, however, so I went back to the car and got the pry bar.

  It was just a matter of breaking past some old, dried wood stain, or paint, to get into the room. I pushed the window up, smiling when I found I had to turn nearly sideways to get in. I made an awful racket as I maneuvered into a space that was only a little bigger than the size of my body. I fell into the room, knocking over several plastic bottles and whatever other toiletry items Ray kept in here. I hadn’t seen my friend in a few years. He was an old friend of my father, served in the police force for many years. His dream had always been to live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, but then when he finished the place, he couldn’t give up his job and ended up working another half dozen years past his retirement.

  I landed on the ground in a heap, and felt around for the edge of the old cast iron tub. Something he had paid a small fortune to bring into the woods. When I reoriented myself, based on my memory of the visit years ago, I made it to the door and opened it, but kept low in case someone was waiting outside to blow my brains out.

  “Name’s Erik. I’m a friend of Ray’s. If someone is there, please say something.” Then I waited a full thirty seconds before cracking open the door. I crouched down and waited for shots to echo over my head, or for a very angry person very much within his ‘right to bear arms’ to blow my fool head off.

  No one moved in the room, and after a few seconds where I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest, I moved into it. Shadows coated the place, like relics of the past. I could smell dust and the sure signs of disuse. I clicked on the flashlight and shone it around the cabin’s main room. Unlike in the bad horror movies I liked to watch, there was no masked killer waiting to slice me to pieces with a machete. In fact, everywhere I looked, everything was covered in dust. Some of it sat so thick that I could draw shapes in it.

  It was much as I remembered, but like most places you visit and have fond memories of, it was a lot smaller. There were white sheets over most of the furniture, so I left it alone and went into the kitchen. I found a pantry stuffed with canned goods, like jam and vegetables. I wondered when they were made. I had plenty of time tomorrow to do an investigation. First I would have to start the generator, make sure the cranky thing still worked.

  I propped the front door open, then I went to the car and started hauling things inside. I set most of them by the door, because the events of the day were crashing down on me, as if from a great height.

  I loaded the shotgun with fresh shells, pulled my new camo jacket out of a brown paper bag—the very same field jacket I had grabbed from Walmart that morning. I dragged a white sheet off the couch, curled up with the shotgun on the floor near my feet, and slept until dawn.

  * * *

  Very early in the morning, I woke to a sound I had not heard in a long time. Birds. It seemed like hundreds of them were hanging outside the cabin, and all with the express purpose of bringing me back to the land of the living.

  The land of the living. What an odd thing to think about.

  I rose and looked around the tiny cabin to find it was just as I remembered. A woven rug lay before the fireplace. It was old but very colorful, and done up in a Native American style that gave the place a distinct western flavor. There was a small, hand-carved wooden table next to the kitchen. Four or five thick chunks of maple had been glued together, figures like bears and salmon were etched in, and
then the thing was covered in a thick layer of lacquer.

  A pair of chairs was under the massive table. They were gaudy, having been constructed of thick tree branches. The main area was pretty small, about ten by fifteen, and the old couch barely fit in it. A rocking chair sat opposite, and a small glass table with magazines from the seventies lay between them. I eyed an old copy of Time magazine that had Star Wars on the cover. It was an interesting contrast to the Spartan cabin. I leafed through it, careful of the old paper, but it had held up quite well. I wondered if he found them stuffed in an old box.

  There was a tiny room not much bigger than the small bed it housed. Allison and I had to get very close in order to sleep in it together, which had been just fine with me at the time. I remembered waking to her smiling face one morning and wondering if a man could be much happier in this life.

  I stretched and wished I had a cup of coffee. Too many years in the city made that my first priority. I wandered into the kitchen, which had a bright patch of light shining through the window over the sink, and took another look in the pantry. There was a simple curtain covering the opening, so I slid it aside and considered the contents.

  Jars stood in neat rows. There was jam, vegetables, and fruit. On a lower shelf, I found barley, dried noodles, and beans in larger jars. I pulled one down and checked the date on the top to find the food was almost two years old. I had my doubts that it was still good. I’m sure the dried goods were fine, but the fruit and other perishables were probably spoiled. Then again, they had been stored in a cool place, so some might be salvageable.

  I found a tin marked coffee and pulled it out. A freeze-dried bag of beans was inside, and when I cut it open with my new Gerber knife, the smell hit me with its familiarity, making me feel homesick.