“What is this?”
“It’s twelve grams of Nembutal.”
“What?!” Why would I want this? Where would you get this?”
“An old friend bought it for me in Mexico, when my wife was sick … before she passed on. I thought maybe … maybe sometime you might need it. If you were somewhere you didn’t want to be, or maybe hurt and dying and you didn’t want to suffer anymore. Please keep it. I’d feel better knowing you have it. I’ve got more.”
After a moment of consideration the man reluctantly opened up his pack and zipped it up inside. The old man seemed comforted when he did.
Finally Mr. Ackermann opened up his tomb and let the man out into the bright sunshine again. He left his gear and rifle and crossed the street with his handmade memorial and a borrowed mallet. He then pounded the marker into the ground of his parents’ front yard and quickly returned to the old man’s house.
As he picked up his gear, ready to get on his way, the man stood on the porch talking to his old neighbor, just like all those years ago. With a full belly and a good night’s rest, his mind started working again and something suddenly occurred to him, something he was too tired to think of the night before. “Mister Ackermann, there’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
“Yes, what’s that?”
“You said that except for the Welchels’ house, and of course the Clawsons’, every other one was firing on those troops and tanks, and that included yours … right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But if you were firing on them wouldn’t they have known you were in here? Why wouldn’t they shoot up this house like all the rest? For that matter, why didn’t they just burn it down around you? I’ve been thinking about it and that doesn’t make sense to me. Looking around at all the damage they did to the other houses …” The man stopped again and took another good look at the devastation all around him. “The Welchels’ house is the only other one not shot up, and even its door is kicked in and has a couple broken windows. So I guess what I’m asking is … if they knew someone was in here shooting at them, why would they leave them alive?”
Mr. Ackermann leaned heavily on his fake broken doorframe. No words came from him and then all of the sudden he avoided the man’s gaze and started staring at the porch floor.
The man’s mind had become completely clear now, “You never fired at them did you? They never even knew you were here, you hid most of the time?”
The old man continued to lean against his house which appeared to be the only thing holding him up. He still wouldn’t look at the man and in scant seconds the tears came again.
“My parents and all these other people, your friends and neighbors … you just hid down there in your hole while all of them were killed, didn’t you?”
He wouldn’t answer and continued to study the floor of his porch, but then for a brief moment he glanced up and the man could see the regret there in his eyes.
“I’m not sure I can blame you. I don’t know if I would have done any more than you. I like to hope I would. But if I’ve learned anything in the last two months it’s that you really don’t know what you would do until it happens to you. I know I’m sorry for you though. You’re going to have to live with this the rest of your life … and I know how that feels.” He walked away leaving the broken old man leaning against his broken old house, blubbering like a child.
The next few days were spent wandering among the ruins of his former hometown. The man traveled mostly by night and kept to himself, avoiding the people he rarely came across. He was searching for two cousins and old friends he hoped might have survived somehow.
Finally he was tired of looking. There wasn’t much to see he hadn’t already, a lot of rotting dead bodies, too many to count. Empty homes and apartments, most damaged, many burned right to the ground.
Twice on the sixteenth, the man saw soldiers like those Mr. Ackermann described and hid when he saw them coming. The first time, very early in the morning, he saw some soldiers in a large military truck and in the back he could count at least fifteen civilians and three armed guards. The second group he saw walking late that same day after he had a few hours sleep in a drainage pipe. There were five soldiers and twelve civilians who were all chained together at their ankles. The soldiers were marching them along at a steady pace southwest out of the city.
Late on the nineteenth, he saw another group of five civilians chained together just as before. There were three soldiers guarding them and this time he was spotted. One of the soldiers started screaming at him and then fired a short burst of rounds in the air with her rifle.
He ran for cover in a looted strip mall and then into the burned remnants of a subdivision behind it. The soldier pursued him but stopped when confronted with the enormity of her search.
The man crouched down behind the shrubs of one of those houses facing the mall, fearfully watching. He had no idea what to do. He had his rifle there ready but didn’t want to use it, or even sure he could use it. He sat there concealed in the bushes, silently praying the soldier would just go away.
After two very long and terrifying minutes, the soldier talked to someone on her radio and then returned to her friends. The man assumed she was calling others to join in the search and crept away as fast as he could while keeping close to cover.
By October 20th, the man acknowledged it was time to go. There was nothing new to be seen and he should leave before he was caught himself. He had been home for six days and traveling for sixty. Although he didn’t want to, at last he accepted that his cousins and friends, like his parents, were gone.
He knew they were either dead or had been sent to that camp near Fort Knox, a place he had no intention of seeing himself. Even though he had only heard rumors from a frightened old man, somehow he knew them to be true. So he made a decision he would never go there on his own.
There was only one place left he had to know about, that was Wyoming where his brother James and his family were.
His brother was two years younger, they looked alike and both like their father, or so they had been told all of their lives. That is where the similarities ended between the two siblings. Both brothers had been raised together, growing up in the suburbs of Lexington Kentucky. But with that exception the two couldn’t be further apart.
Younger brother James, despite his upbringing, should have been born a country boy. It was often a family joke that he must have been switched at the hospital at birth. James seemed to know all of his life just what he wanted. From an early age he spent every second he could with his grandpa helping on his farm. Beginning in his early teens, he starting saving every cent he could, mowing lawns and any other odd job he could find. Then after high school he got his first “real” job at a factory and until his twenty-third birthday, every free dime was put towards the goal of having his own farm.
But it was not all hard work, scrimping and saving. At his church he was introduced to another member named Bonnie. She became the love of his life and within a year they were married. Only six months later he finally bought his dream, by then hers too. They worked hard at their business and after several lean years, the profits started coming.
Three years into the marriage, a daughter arrived. Tiny Lauren was the man’s only niece and despite being born over two months early she would grow healthy and strong. Over the years his brother James’s farm grew and his family also kept growing. Before long they added an adjoining parcel of land, another ninety acres and two more children, two boys, Andrew and Nathan.
Through the years and despite a few setbacks his brother was mostly successful and happy with his chosen life. But starting in 2000, there came a major change in his brother. First there was Y2K and not two years later 9/11, and after those two events his brother James starting talking like his namesake, his dad’s older brother, more and more.
Then at Christmas of 2006 it happened, he told his parents and friends he was selling his farm and starting over again to
go into the “cattle business” in Wyoming. He said he needed “more space” and felt “hemmed in” where he was. The entire family was shocked at his announcement and some never did really understand why he had to go. Especially the grandparents whose grandchildren they would rarely get to see anymore.
James tried to get his parents and mother-in-law to come with them. He told them he would build them each a “retirement cabin” right next to his own home. A couple years later his wife’s mother finally said yes and she got her own room and saw her grandchildren each and every day.
He offered his own parents again and again that same cabin but his father always politely declined. He said it was cold all the time “way up there” and that he was born in Kentucky and would die there too. James even asked his brother to come along, he was sure he could find work in Casper. It wasn’t “too far,” and while it was mostly back roads, it still wasn’t three hours by car. The man could stay with his brother and sister-in-law on the weekends, see his niece and nephews any time he wanted. Although tempted, the man never did take his brother up on the offer. Like his father, Kentucky was his home and he couldn’t see himself anywhere else.
The man carefully made his way out of the city, vigilant for any danger, inching from building to building, slowly making his way north to Interstate 64. He was heading west to his brother’s, a new life in Wyoming.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In awe, he crouched down and watched it. From behind the cover of an old pickup truck, he carefully removed his gear and set them against the tire, trying his best to not make even the faintest noise. It was grazing and slowly moving along the edge of a thick stand of trees, occasionally looking up, its ears, its entire being alert to any sensation of danger. He carefully pulled his rifle off his shoulder and continued to study it, a slender yearling whitetail very near the tree line, two hundred and fifty yards north of the highway.
The man had been traveling westbound I-64 making his way towards Louisville. They had several bridges there and he knew it would be his best chance to cross the Ohio River.
The roads were jammed with abandoned vehicles but he was now only checking the ones that didn’t look rummaged through before, those that seemed “a good bet” to him. He didn’t have the patience or strength to search through them all.
A few miles west of the Frankfort exit he came around the backside of the truck and saw it standing there, the young “button buck” immediately caught in the corner of his eye. This was only the second deer he had seen on his entire journey and for a brief second he froze when he saw it. After all this time he thought they were all gone, that perhaps they had been hunted to extinction. He remembered it wasn’t too long ago he used to see them everywhere, at times less than a mile from his home in the suburbs. It had been over six weeks since the other and he never had any chance of killing that one, the doe bounding into some undergrowth and then gone before he could even bring his rifle up.
Unzipping his pack, he anxiously searched for his scope and constantly stopped to check if the buck was still in view. So far it didn’t seem to notice the man who was still frantically groping in his pack while trying not to take his eyes off the objective. Suddenly the buck lifted its head from the ground and at a quickened pace began moving away from him back towards the tree line. The man knew if it went into the trees his chance would be gone forever. He had to act now.
He fumbled with the rifle’s rear sight. It seemed a lifetime ago since he took an open shot this far. He knew this would be his only chance to do it right. At once he went prone on the ground, bracing his rifle with his left elbow. It still hadn’t noticed him and continued steadily making its way for the trees, stopping occasionally to lift its head and look around.
The man took the rifle firmly to his shoulder, trying to control his breathing as he carefully took aim at his target. Taking a final sight just behind its front shoulder he held his breath then squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped and slammed into him. He desperately searched for his quarry and after a moment of worry saw it there to his left, running at the edge of the forest. The man pulled the stock hard to his shoulder and took aim again. A second shot rang out from his rifle but this time didn’t seem so loud. The buck continued to run and although the man was sure he missed it again with a few more seconds it slowed and then stumbled. It staggered along and then its front legs buckled, promptly dropping straight to the ground.
He stood there in shock; sure he had failed at his mission but was more than happy to be wrong. With a relieved laugh that he never heard the man picked himself up off the ground. Pulling his gear from the back of the truck, he ran to it carrying everything he owned. With a few minutes running he arrived out of breath and his prey was on the ground struggling to breathe too. The man opened his pack and retrieved his Ruger pistol. A shot to the head ended its suffering.
Wasting no time, he eagerly searched all around before finding the nearest suitable tree. It took all his strength to drag it there under a sturdy branch, and with some rope from his pack and considerable effort strung it up. Standing there studying it with his knife in hand, he tried to remember what to do. It had been twenty-three years since he had seen this done, and even then he was only watching. He never dressed a deer himself.
With his first cut into its breast he could hear the distant rumble of a vehicle approaching. In his excitement all he could think of was eating; it had been eight days since he set out from Lexington, grateful he hadn’t been caught or was forced to kill anyone. He stretched out the food he traded for as long as he could but it was finally all gone the day before.
As the sound of something approached he could now see he was at risk. He stood there exposed on the edge of the forest within clear view of the highway.
He fearfully searched for the sound that was quickly approaching and then he saw it. Traveling west, just like him, it was coming up the highway, a military Humvee slowly moving down the shoulder of the road. It came to a stop at a distance, but within clear sight of the man. In a panic he gathered up his gear and rifle and slipped back into the trees. Then he checked to see if his weapon was loaded although he already knew it was.
The vehicle sat idling for a moment. The man was now hidden but his dinner was sitting there out in the open hanging from a tree and he doubted they could miss it, even though he hoped they would. The laden vehicle then turned off the highway out into the open ground and starting rolling directly at him.
There was no doubt now that it was heading right for him. He got down on the ground again, pulled another three loaded magazines out of his pack and then once more braced the gun with his weak arm, preparing to fire. As it slowly advanced the man wondered if the vehicle was armored and if his bullets would have any effect at all. Although nearly impossible by then he tried to think calmly. At last he decided his best chance was shooting right through the driver’s side windshield and took aim on the shadowy figure inside.
As he braced himself and prepared to fire the vehicle suddenly came to a stop about fifty feet away. It sat there, its engine in a lumpy idle while he continued to study it. In return, it sat there idling, menacing the man.
It was dirty and loaded down. It looked like it had seen many long and hard miles. Standing on the roof were metal fuel cans neatly lined up in several rows and securely lashed down with rope, there were too many to count. Across the two left doors in black spray paint it read “AZ OR BUST.” Without any warning, the motor stopped and the world became deathly quiet again.
After another fearful minute both front doors opened and on the truck’s passenger side the man could see a gun being stuck out. The man tried to mentally prepare himself for killing and was determined not to be taken alive.
As he continued to watch the rifle, he noticed a piece of white cloth tied around its barrel, gently waving in the breeze.
Suddenly a faceless voice called out from the vehicle, “We don’t want a fight. We just want to talk.”
Although the man was
terrified inside he tried his best to sound threatening, the words came out with a bark that surprised even him. “If you don’t want a fight, just turn around and keep driving!”
The anonymous voice answered him again. “We just want to make a deal, we don’t want any trouble. We want some of that deer and maybe we’ve got something you want. Can I come over and talk?”
The man wasn’t sure if this was a trick or not. He nervously checked both his rifle and Ruger again to make sure they were loaded, even though he was still sure they were. He didn’t know how to answer and for a second thought about just running and letting them have it all. But he couldn’t, his food was gone and he knew very shortly he would be starving again. Besides, this was his deer and he was going to keep it, or die trying.
The voice called out to him again, “Sir, can’t I just come over to talk to you?”
For some reason the voice didn’t seem threatening and with no real reason the man could explain he decided to take a chance. “Okay, one of you can come over.”
The rifle came the rest of the way out the door and attached to it was a young soldier dressed in the standard fatigues the man had already seen countless times in the last two months. The man wasn’t taking any chances and he began shouting again, still doing his best to sound intimidating, and still doing a passable job. “Put the rifle on the hood and leave it there, and tell your friends to stay where they are.” The man crawled back further into the trees with his rifle and mags and found a heavy stump to take cover behind. He then took steady aim again.
The soldier took two steps towards the man.
“STOP! Take off your pistol and leave it on the hood too … and then turn around!”
The lone soldier slowly backed up and took off his holster and pistol, he wrapped the belt and holster into a small bundle and placed it on the hood next to his rifle. Then he slowly turned around with his hands in the air.
“Okay, you can come over now. But slowly!”
Joshua (Book 1) Page 14
