The man didn’t want any trouble and continued walking as fast as his tired and hurting body would let him.
Again the voice beckoned him, “Son, are you hurt?”
For some reason the man couldn’t explain, he stopped and turned to face the voice. It was an old man.
The man stood there staring at the driver.
Looking back at him from the driver’s window was an older man, he thought about seventy. The driver called out again, “Son, come over here, would ya?”
Although the man definitely had no reason to know it, he somehow felt the old man probably wasn’t a threat. He cautiously made his way back, stopping a few feet short.
Getting a closer look didn’t change the man’s original assessment. He thought the older gentleman was in his late sixties or very earlier seventies. Despite his age he still had a full head of hair, although by this time in life it had turned completely white. He also had a cleanly trimmed beard and like the hair it too had gone white with time. The combination of the old man’s white hair and whiskers, along with the red Harley T-shirt he was wearing reminded him of Old Saint Nick. The man stood there trying his best not to laugh at the surreal thought of it. He was fleeing from the end of the world and ran into Santa Claus.
The older man continued, “I didn’t hurt you did I? You’ve got to be more careful, you could get killed doing that. This is a dangerous road.”
The man just stood there staring and could not find a single word.
The old man on the other hand still had plenty of words in him, “Well, if you’re not hurt, do you want a ride? Do you need a ride somewhere? I can give you one. Where’re you going?”
The man continued to quietly stare at him unable to think of a solitary thing to say. All he could think of at that moment was his rifle. He was expecting to be asked about it any time, brazenly hanging there over his right shoulder. Amazingly, the question didn’t come.
The old man was now clearly becoming frustrated with the decidedly one-way direction that the conversation had, to this point, been going. He halfheartedly asked again, “Do you need a ride? Where are you going?”
At last the man found some words to relieve the older man’s disappointment in their conversation so far. “I’m going to Lexington.”
A large friendly smile now overtook of the older man, now that they were actually talking. “I can’t take you that far. I can take you as far as Haysville though. Get in.”
The man walked around the back of the truck to the passenger side door. As he looked inside the man could see that there was not enough room for the two of them and his gear. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to put his things in back.
Like the old man could read his mind, he told him, “Just put your stuff in the back. It’ll be all right.”
After putting his rifle and pack in the pickup bed right behind him, the man got into the well-loved truck. He then shut the door with it making a distinctive tired metallic groan as it closed. The man just sat there still patiently waiting for the question that still did not come.
Even though he found not one threatening molecule in the old man’s demeanor, given the events of the day, he couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. The man kept taking his hand and checking for the knife in his right front pocket. It was there and it gave him a comforting feeling.
They drove down the lonely highway with the older man doing all the talking. He thought himself to be in some strange dream as the old veteran went on about the weather, his son-in-law’s nearly new riding lawnmower he got for a song, and the challenge of hunting deer with a bow. All the while the man just sat waiting for the question that never came. After untold miles he finally tired of waiting.
“I just came from Nashville. That’s why I’ve got that rifle.”
There wasn’t much of a reaction from the old gentleman, “Hmm.”
The man was irritated at the response. Perhaps the old man wasn’t up on his current events, like the world catching on fire. “Don’t you know what’s going on there?”
“I do have a TV, I do watch the news.”
Hearing that, the man became even more irritated, now wondering if the gentleman wasn’t perhaps senile. After a few moments hoping the old fellow would say something more substantial he finally responded. “Well, aren’t you afraid what’s happening there will spread to here?”
“Oh no, that’s Nashville. They’re crazy down there.”
The veteran was quite sure of his answer and that irritated him most of all. The man just sat there completely sure one of them was insane. He just didn’t know which one.
After a couple of quiet awkward miles, the old man restarted the conversation. “I used to carry one of those in ’Nam.”
The man just nodded.
“I must have humped that heavy S-O-B over half the countryside.” He said it with a throaty laugh.
“Yeah, it is pretty heavy.” The man started to laugh too and his throbbing shoulder wholeheartedly agreed, and for a brief moment the man and veteran both had a good laugh over the same shared joke.
The old man’s mood now became more serious. “You got someone in Lexington waiting for you?”
The man could see the genuine concern in his face and hear it in his voice. “My parents, some family, some friends.” The veteran’s question had brought up his own concerns for their welfare again.
“I hope you find them … and that they’re fine.”
Looking at him the man knew he wasn’t just being polite, that what the old gentleman said was coming from his heart and he meant every word of it. “Thanks.”
The old man then pulled the truck on the shoulder of the deserted highway.
“I’m sorry but this is as far as I can take you. I have someone looking for me too and I’ve got to get home.”
“This is fine, you’ve helped me a lot.” The man opened the truck’s door with it groaning again as he quickly stepped out. He then went to the bed and retrieved his pack, putting it on and lastly picked up his rifle.
Looking through the passenger window he honestly asked the man, “Is there anything else I can do?”
As he stepped out of the truck, the man noticed the old wool blanket the veteran was covering up his seat with and thought of another use for it. “How about that blanket? Never mind …” The man wished he hadn’t said anything. He had already taken the kind old man’s gasoline and precious time.
“You want this ratty old thing? You really want it?”
“Yeah, I could use it, I’ll trade you something …”
“Son, if I made you pay for this old thing I couldn’t sleep tonight, my conscience wouldn’t let me.” The old gentleman stepped out on his side of the truck and with his weathered hand easily pulled the blanket from the torn, faded seat. He then walked around the back of the truck and the man met him halfway. “Here you go.” The veteran first offered him the blanket and then extended out his hand.
The man took his hand and gratefully shook it. “Thanks, you’ve really helped me a lot. I’ve got to get going …”
The old man pointed down the highway in the direction they had been driving. “Haysville is only a few miles ahead … Wait, you want some tomatoes?”
The man didn’t want to answer although by this time he was quite hungry. “You’ve given me enough, but thanks.”
“No problem at all, I’ve got more than I can eat. I had a great crop tis year!” The old man rummaged through a cardboard box behind the cab of his truck and produced a small white plastic bag just like the ones from the market. He then pulled six of the largest, ripest, most delicious looking tomatoes the man had ever seen and placed them in the bag. Then he graciously handed them to the man.
With only a split second of debate, he took it.
“I know you’ll like them.”
The man simply said, “Thanks,” as it was all he could think of. They then stood there in the road for a moment looking at each other. Both hoping for something to say, knowing their time together was ne
arly gone, that they would probably never see the other again. Finally the two found some words, both saying, “Good luck,” at the exact same time, quickly followed by them both laughing as if they had done it on purpose.
With that, the old veteran got back in his truck, forcing it back into gear again. He then made a U-turn in the middle of the road heading in the direction from where he just came. As he left he waved a friendly good-bye and the man gladly returned it.
As the truck left his sight, the man stood there in the road and said a little prayer thanking God for bringing him some help when he truly needed it, and asking that the old veteran would be all right.
His first thought was to continue walking to Haysville but then he noticed a huge old walnut tree about two hundred feet off the road. All the surrounding countryside looked like farmland but the man couldn’t see any houses nearby. So he decided this was it for the night and limped off towards that impressive old tree.
The first thing he did when he arrived was spread out that blanket on the side away from the road. He then took off his gun and gear and comfortably settled in, sitting back in a nook in the side of that tree. The second he sat down he knew he would be there the rest of the night. He searched through his pockets for his phone and like every other time in the last three days there was no signal, and now he noticed his battery was getting low. He then rummaged through the bag the veteran had given him finding the biggest tomato. He eagerly bit into it, the juice running down his mouth and onto his shirt before catching it with his hand. As he took another large bite he said another prayer, this one that his parents, and everyone else he loved, would be all right.
CHAPTER NINE
It was Friday the 13th, Friday, September 13th, when the man finally understood, finally admitted to himself, that the world he loved would never return.
That man told him, that man on the tree. The man on the tree wasn’t speaking anymore but he really didn’t need to. His dead eyes said it all.
He was stretched there on the tree, putrefied, naked and bloody, and gone for several days now. The flies and maggots had already made a home of his insides. He was nailed to the tree, six metal spikes held him there as a welcome sign to these new modern times. They had been hammered through his shoulders and wrists, his ankles too. The spikes were nailed all the way through him into the tree to make certain he wouldn’t slip off, that he would never come loose from his place of honor. It was agonizingly obvious someone wanted him to stand there for a very long time.
His genitals were gone, cleanly hacked off, the gore running down the inside of his thighs. Something was stuffed down his throat, an obscure bloodied object. The man didn’t bother checking as it didn’t take much of a detective to figure out the mystery he was holding there in his silent gaping mouth.
From the amount of blood he knew the man on the tree had lived through it all, with one exception. Crudely carved in his forehead postmortem, and in tall hateful letters, a single word “RAPIST” stood there both as a verdict and obituary for the man.
It was the crows he first noticed, the frenzied sound of their cawing and the sight of them hopping on the ground and pecking at some object hidden by the tree. When he got his first good look at him, the man didn’t want to believe what he had to say. But standing there looking down on the man his argument could not be denied. What he told the man, and made him accept and finally understand, was that “Your world is gone.”
Until that very second, the man had hoped and prayed that the world he fondly remembered would someday return. He even planned to turn himself into the authorities after he got home. The man knew himself innocent of murder but recognized that in a civilized society he would have to stand before the law. What law? He stood there looking up at the man’s sentence and knew that in this new world, the law, “civilized” society, or even a semblance of human compassion would never be found again.
As he continued north on the lonesome road, he thought about the lesson taught to him by the man on the tree. A lesson he couldn’t possibly forget no matter how long he tried. Walking along, the man appreciated that the blacktop under his feet was just the same as before he stopped, but now felt to him a different world altogether, one he would never truly understand.
It was his twenty-third day on the road and he was just over halfway home. On his motorcycle or in his car, the trip would have only taken hours, but by foot, and under these trying circumstances, it was laboriously slow.
The weather also stopped him more than a few times, the man wasting the good part of several days trying to stay out of the heavy rain. As he traveled the minor roads, it was rare he would see anyone else. Gasoline was scarce before he left and from the fewer vehicles he met along the way he supposed it was now nearly gone. Walking along the deserted back highways he was almost in his own little world protected from the ugliness of the large cities. In just over three weeks he only saw twenty or so other people, some in vehicles or on bicycles, but most of them on foot like him and none of them sociable. He didn’t mind that they kept their distance as he was happy to be alone. The man only wanted to get home without any more trouble.
His trip back so far had been mostly peaceful and quiet, a complete contradiction to what happened while escaping Nashville. The very few vehicles he had seen didn’t bother him or even make an effort to stop. The occasional person he met roadside just kept walking, at most offering an obligatory “Hi” or “How you doing” before quickly on their way again.
Occasionally he would see an old house within sight of the road and could feel strange eyes on him. He was being watched although he was never bothered. It was in this bubble the man was traveling and it gave him a false hope for his and the country’s future.
By the twenty-third day, he had talked himself into believing that he had overreacted. That it wasn’t so bad out here. That law and order could be restored. But the man nailed to the tree finally made him accept the truth that until then he had somehow managed to deny.
The only real concerns in those first three weeks were his provisions, food being the major one. Water was not much of a problem. It rained several times and traveling through northern Tennessee into Kentucky there always seemed to be another river or creek to cross. If not, he could count on a pond or even a puddle to stumble upon. Among his camping gear was a ceramic Katadyn water filter that made nearly any water he found potable.
Water wasn’t the problem, the problem was food. The only food he brought along was a few freeze-dried camping meals and a handful of protein bars. When he left his apartment that warm August morning, it was on a journey that should have only lasted hours. But by this time he had been traveling over three weeks and had finished the last of his food. He stretched it out as long as he could, supplementing his pre-packaged meals and energy bars with three rabbits and a squirrel.
It was the hunting that slowed him down most. He wasted one full day sitting under a tall stand of trees hoping for a clear shot at a squirrel, a shot that never did come. The game had suddenly become scarce for some reason and he might spend hours trying to find something to eat, often finding nothing at all. He hadn’t hunted in years and it took him some time to relearn that skill too. He even cut his hand more than once learning how to skin again, his favorite pocket knife not the best tool for the job.
Coming across so many streams and ponds he naturally tried his hand at fishing, although he didn’t have a rod, or any line or hooks. With a simple spear he fashioned, he squandered countless hours trying to impale some dinner but finally gave up. The man grudgingly decided to concentrate his efforts on hunting, where he had the best luck.
Two days before the food was at last gone. Now all he could do was drink more water trying to contain the hunger pains that only seemed to worsen each day.
As he walked along the shoulder of the highway, he noticed a small patch of trees very near the road. One of trees, short and plump, caught his eye. There was something about it that brought back a forgotten memor
y from his childhood. He looked it over and could see hidden in the leaves a pale green fruit that finally roused a faded memory. It was a pawpaw tree!
The man immediately leapt from the road and bounded the shallow ditch separating him from the tree with two sizeable steps. He then scrambled up the steep embankment until finally he could reach out taking hold of the precious fruit hanging there on the lower branches. Pulling off the largest one, he carefully cut it open with his knife. The man hungrily bit into the soft pulp taking a large portion into his mouth then spitting out the seeds he found inside. The flavor wasn’t too unlike a banana and the taste of it on his tongue finally freed the memory trapped there in the back of his mind.
He could now remember himself, a six-year-old boy with his grandpa walking along the farm their family once owned. He recalled his “Papaw” pointing out the strange looking fruit and taking it from the tree, then offering it to the dubious child. He laughed remembering his at first upturned nose and how his grandpa had to eat some before he would try.
The man sat there on top of the embankment staring down over the road below him like he was studying his kingdom. He took a second one from the tree and cut it open. This time he made an extra effort to delight in it, enjoying the delicious treat and the wonderful memory of a time long gone. After a short while he savored yet another but then thought to not make a pig of himself, to save the rest for when they were needed. He gently picked each priceless fruit from the tree and with care packed them in his bag.
Sitting there enjoying his first full meal in days he climbed back down and was shortly once more walking down the road, still weary but for now satisfied.
As he continued north on State Highway 337, and as he got closer to Lexington, the traffic on the road dramatically increased. These vehicles were not like the occasional random car or truck he had seen before. They were traveling together and moving with a purpose.
Having learned his lesson from the man on the tree, he hid as the convoys roared by. It didn’t take much of an effort as the silence of the road was broken long before the cars arrived.
Joshua (Book 1) Page 9
