Prepper Mountain

by Chris Bostic

  I expected to hear sobbing, but she was tough at times. Or maybe the road was just too noisy.

  Dad slowed to make another hard turn. Mom gave him the questioning look again, but didn’t say anything.

  The road we turned onto was even more treacherous than the last. I pictured two wheel ruts with a strip of grass growing up between them, but couldn’t see to confirm that. I’d have asked Maddie, but she had somehow found a way to fall asleep.

  The branches closed in, choking it down to a one-way path. There wasn’t even a spot to pull over to let anyone pass. Then the grass turned to rocks.

  The Jeep’s frame groaned as it lurched over uneven dips, all the while climbing higher onto the mountainside.

  “There used to be some cabins back here,” Dad told Mom. “You know, back when there were actually tourists.”

  “To think the city folk actually drove this road to get there,” Mom remarked.

  We hit another big bump, and I heard the air escape from Dad’s lungs with a whoosh. It took a moment before he replied, “I reckon they took better care of it back then.”

  Mom laughed, and I was surprised how much better it made me feel.

  “Are we staying back here…in the cabins?” I asked, butting into their conversation.

  “No, hon,” Mom said, turning around this time. “But we’re not too much farther, I think.” She’d given up on the map a mile or two back.

  “A couple more turns and across a little ravine,” Dad said. “It’s not far.”

  “Doesn’t sound that close,” I replied, knowing how it could take a long time to cover just a mile on the curvy mountain highways. What we were on was hardly a road.

  “Nah, it’s close,” Dad said. “I promise.”

  “Good, ‘cause I gotta pee,” Austin said. “These bumps are killing me.”

  “On the plus side of the ledger, we’re not leaving a cloud of dust.”

  “That’s ‘cause you’re driving so slow,” Austin said. He winced with every bump and leaned over to hug the bag on his lap. “I’m seriously about to burst.”

  “Oh, gross.” Maddie mumbled into her duffel bag pillow, and failed in trying to scoot over closer to me.

  I stared out the side window and got a better look at my surroundings. Dad had us slowed down to a crawl on an especially steep climb. The pace reminded me of the speed Grandpa used to go when we drove around his farm in his old pick-up truck. We’d bounce over the fields looking at his cattle. He’d made his own road on the farm, much like Dad was doing now. Of course, Grandpa’s road was a rolling pasture in the foothills, while this one was little more than a rocky, near vertical path through a forest.

  Sometimes it was hard to remember my Dad was raised on a farm, especially when he wore his work clothes every day and talked in banker jargon. One time Mom kidded him about that, and he’d said, “T-bills or pork futures, it’s all the same thing.”

  “Not really, is it?” she’d replied.

  “Of course not. T-bills are controlled by the Fed and have nothing to do with commodity prices, but I was just making a comparison.”

  Mom had scratched her head. “How?”

  “Corn prices versus stocks and bonds.” She hadn’t look as confused as I had been, but he’d continued trying to explain. “I’m just saying that farmers watch the reports and read the paper as much as I do. We’re just looking at different sections of the financials.”

  Somewhere in there was supposedly the explanation of how he came to love numbers. It’d never made much sense to me, and I had no desire to learn no matter how hard Dad had tried. I wasn’t too bad at math myself, but going to college to study to be an accountant wasn’t high on my list. Mostly, I wondered if there’d even be colleges in two more years. So many State-run universities had seen their whole teaching staffs replaced by professors friendlier to the new regime, while private colleges were closing by the dozens. My parents seemed genuinely concerned about sending me off to school.

  I didn’t really know what I wanted to do with my life, and I hoped to not have to figure that out for a while. At that moment, I was more interested in finding out where we were going, and why. I settled for an answer to the first question.

  “Hey, Mom? Dad?”

  “Yeah, kiddo?”

  “If it’s not those tourist cabins, where exactly are we going?”

  “It’s really close now,” Dad said. He kept his eyes on the road, since the drop-offs seemed to get as steep as canyons the higher we climbed. “I’ve just gotta jump on the highway for a minute. Need to use the bridge to get across the creek.”

  “Okay, but what is it?”

  “There’s a clearing with an old, abandoned church up ahead,” she said. “It’s not gonna be so bad.”

  I assumed that it couldn’t be much worse than anywhere we’d camped before. I’d spent a lot of nights in a tent in the Smokies previously, although nothing I’d seen so far looked familiar. Then again, it was nothing but the same trees everywhere around there. The slopes of the mountains were as woody green as the valleys. Rocks poked out on some of the taller, steeper peaks, but mostly they were covered with pines, spruce, and other hardwoods.

  We took a hard turn to the right, and Dad brought the Jeep to a gravel-crunching halt. Mom’s hand shot to the dashboard, her eyes suddenly bulging.

  Dad turned back to Austin and said, “If you gotta pee, you’d better get out now. We might be here a while.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Seriously?” Austin didn’t wait for the answer. He flew out of the Jeep and disappeared behind us.

  “What is it?” I asked while my brother was still outside. I knew from past experience it would take him a while. The boy’s bladder could hold water like a camel.

  Mom pointed through the windshield. “Flashing lights below us…on the highway.”

  “Probably a roadblock,” Dad added, tilting his head to the side to apparently get a better look. “That’s the main road from Gatlinburg to Cherokee, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Just our luck, Harold.”

  Mom reached for the map. Once she had it unfolded, Dad said, “I’d better see that.”

  She slumped in her seat to get a look in the rear view mirror. “We’re gonna need lights if that boy doesn’t hurry up.”

  “Not if I can help it.” Dad ran a finger over the map, tracing a route I couldn’t make out from the backseat. “I think this might work.”

  “It’s about time,” Mom said when Austin finally returned.

  “When you gotta go, you gotta go,” he replied.

  “Now we gotta go,” Dad said. “Hold on tight.”

  The road was too narrow to turn around, so he put the Jeep in reverse. My stomach knotted, and I gripped the duffel bag on my lap tightly. My mind flashed images of a car flying off the side of a mountain, crashing to the ground in a burning heap.

  When branches slapped against my window, beads of sweat on my brow built to a full blown trickle. Impossibly, Dad used the mirrors to keep us mostly on the road. He made it back to the turnoff to the cabins without throwing a wheel off the road, and spun us around.

  Mom was right about needing lights, though. We had maybe a half hour before the pale blue glow of the instrument panel would be all the light we had inside the Jeep. Outside, I could still make out the forest mere inches away from my window, but it was turning to shadows, soon to give me nothing to look at but dark lumps.

  “It’s really gonna get dark quick,” Mom said, echoing my thoughts.

  I looked to Maddie, expecting to see her quivering. Instead, she was head down on the duffel bag again, somehow finding a way to sleep through Dad’s masterful, though rough, bit of backwards driving.

  “I’m starving,” Austin announced. “When’s dinner?”

  Food was the last thing on my mind. My stomach was busy eating itself.

  “Not any time soon,” Dad answered.

  “What about this overlook, Harold?” Mom pointed to the map, holding it cl
ose to the clock for extra light. “The kids would probably like to stretch their legs.”

  He sighed, almost imperceptibly. “I guess.”

  We headed back to a gravel crossroad, and Dad took a right this time. Surprisingly, the road was wider than the one we’d been on. A grassy ditch separated what seemed like two narrow lanes from the forest. It was a little lighter without a tight canopy overhead, but the sun had obviously set.

  Every so often, there was a spot to pull over along the side of the road. Some were big enough patches of gravel that two or three cars could park there.

  We passed a trailhead on the left, which had an even larger parking area. A faded brown sign tilted to the side. I couldn’t make out any of the words, and the condition of the brush clogging the start of the trail made it seem like no one had hiked it in years.

  Right when I thought we were in a remote area of the park, the road abruptly switched over to asphalt. Not smooth, but a huge improvement compared to gravel. Dad kicked up the speed like we’d made it to a superhighway, punishing the shocks on potholes that were starting to blend in with the rest of the dark pavement.

  “It should be around the curve,” Mom said.

  “We’re not staying long,” Dad replied. “We need to stick to the gravel. It’s a little too, uhm, civilized on the hard road.”

  A fresh shiver gripped me; it had nothing to do with the dropping temperatures.

  Austin leaned forward. “Then why are we stopping?”

  “You were the hungry one,” Mom reminded him.

  “Yeah, but…”

  “I’d like to see Gatlinburg,” Dad said. “But we’re eating in the car. There’s no time to sit around.”

  Maddie lifted her head, and scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Are we getting out?”

  “For a second.”

  “They’ll have to, Harold. All the food’s wedged into the back.”

  The tires hummed on the asphalt as Dad pushed the Jeep as fast as he dared in the twilight. The road curved back and forth, hugging the mountainsides like a coiled serpent. When it cut to the left, Dad let off on the accelerator, and we coasted into a paved lot on the side of the road.

  The trees were pushed back from the road, giving a view over the valley. The mountains at the far end were a deep, hazy gray, losing all of their detail.

  Austin flopped out of the car before everyone else. He moaned and groaned while Maddie and I sat trapped in the back waiting to be let out.

  “Little help, Pops,” I called before Dad had the chance walk away.

  He stuck his head back in the Jeep and peeked behind the seat at us. “Why?”

  “I can’t reach the door handle.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  When he pulled the handle, the door burst open, shoving him a couple steps back. He swayed, and dropped to a knee. While holding onto the door to regain his balance, I threw the first of several duffel bags onto the parking lot.

  “Little crowded back there, huh?”

  “You don’t say.”

  My knees didn’t want to unfold. I eventually got a leg out, despite Maddie’s less than encouraging motivational words. “Move it, Zach,” she whined and threw in other, not so complimentary names.

  “I’m trying, sis.”

  “Try harder. I’m freakin’ dying here.”

  “Hurry up, slowpokes,” Mom said. “We need to keep it quick, remember.”

  My legs wobbled when I tried to stand, and I had to lean on the door like Dad. Maddie squeezed herself over to the opening, and once the jelly feeling left, I was able to give her a yank to pull her out.

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I am not going back in there!”

  “It’s not like you have a choice,” Austin said. “So quit the effing whining.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Mom grabbed Austin by the arm and jerked him toward the rear of the Jeep. “I’m not having that.”

  “Having what, a good time? ‘Cause this is already so awesome.”

  “Your smart mouth, mister.” She pointed at Dad, who was trying to take the world’s most complicated strap system off the tubs. “Go give him a hand. Please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He scuffed his feet on the pavement, mumbling something to himself.

  I went to help out before I was told. As soon as I got a good look at the complex lattice work of rope and tie-downs Dad had used, I knew there was no way we would’ve lost the load on a bump. We could’ve rolled down the hill and it still would’ve stuck tight.

  “Helluva knot you’ve got there, Pops,” Austin said.

  Dad scratched his head like he didn’t even know where to start untying his own creation.

  “You’re quite the Boy Scout,” I said. “Is that a combination half-hitch and sheet bend?”

  “Like you’d know,” Austin said.

  I ignored the jab. He was right. Austin got to join for a couple years, but Mom had decided she could do a better job of teaching her kids wilderness survival.

  “I don’t think we’re eating now, boys,” Dad said. “This is gonna take too long.”

  “Seriously?” Austin rubbed his stomach and groaned. I rubbed my own stomach for an entirely different reason.

  Maddie came shuffling over with her shoulders hunched. Mom had an arm wrapped around her, talking softly so we couldn’t hear.

  “You’ll have to settle for something to drink, Austin,” Dad said. “Babe, you got any water in the Jeep?”

  “About a thousand gallons,” I answered for Mom, and couldn’t help but laugh at my own joke.

  Dad frowned. “I meant a cooler. Is everyone here a comedian?”

  “Some more than others,” I muttered under my breath.

  “The cooler’s behind the back row,” Maddie said softly.

  Mom shrugged. “Probably not the best place to put that, but you’re the one who did the packing, Harold.”

  “Thanks for mentioning that.” Dad waved a hand dismissively at our cargo and walked off toward the overlook. “It’ll have to wait.”

  I stepped over a duffel bag to follow him to the stone wall. A narrow valley spread out below us, revealing a once bustling tourist town.

  I expected to see more lights at dusk, but the streetlights weren’t turned on. Or maybe the City couldn’t afford to keep them lit.

  A steel-framed observation tower poked into the sky at the far end of the valley, but it didn’t come close to challenging the height of the surrounding mountains. Ordinarily, the platform would’ve been lined with tourists, but I noticed even the streets seemed empty. Rather than the gridlock of traffic along the narrow, winding main street through the town, the headlights were few and far between.

  “I’ve never seen it this quiet before,” I whispered.

  Mom was standing behind me. “To think we rarely used to drive through Gatlinburg. It was always so crowded…especially in the summer.”

  “It’s almost time for curfew,” Dad remarked. “People are rushing to their houses. Everyone knows what happens if you get caught out after dark.”

  I watched a car turn off from the main street to disappear behind some buildings. We were too far away to hear the squeal of the tires, but it surely happened judging by the speed.

  There wasn’t much to Gatlinburg off the strip, which was mostly shuttered gift shops and other touristy stuff, so maybe the lack of traffic made some sense. There weren’t a lot of houses in the narrow valley.

  According to Dad, hardly anyone could afford big vacations anymore, or little ones. Maybe long distance travel wasn’t even allowed with the new travel permits. But it still seemed like there should’ve been more people out.

  “It’s weird seeing all the empty hotels,” Maddie said. “There’re so many, but they’re all dark.”

  “This is the new reality, kids. If good people don’t rise up and do something about all this, you’d better get used to it.” Dad wheeled around to head back to the car. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “E
xactly what you expected?” Mom asked him.

  “Yeah. We made the right-”

  A burst of brilliant light shot from deep within the valley, like lightning reaching for the sky. I staggered backwards, clutching at my eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  A punch to the chest sent me to the ground; a sudden breeze rushed at us. The boom contained within the valley was devastating, as though the sound bounced off the distant mountain to punish us one more time.

  I staggered back to my feet. Dad was leaning against the Jeep, pulling Mom up with him. Austin was already at the edge, clamping his hand over a screaming Maddie’s mouth.

  “Shut up, Maddie!” he yelled, over and over until I got to her.

  “Leave her alone!” I fired back and pulled her away from him. Mom was right behind me to console her while she sobbed. I was happy to offer up the shoulder, but Mom was better with the words.

  “What the hell just happened?” Austin said. He stared over the stone wall at a cloud of smoke rising in the air.

  “I don’t know,” Dad replied. “It’s too soon.” He scratched his thinning hair and shot a look at Mom. “We’d better get outta here.”

  “Get to the Jeep,” she commanded, but my boots were rooted to the parking lot.

  The sound of gunshots from the valley floor should’ve made me run, but I found myself staying at the wall to look.

  Flashing lights, blues and reds, cut through the air like the inside of a smoky dance club. It smelled about as bad. My heart pounded in time with a fast, hip-hop beat of gunfire.

  “C’mon,” Dad said, but I was still transfixed, or more like paralyzed.

  The valley was draped in the mountain fog the Smokies were famous for, but this cloud brought a burning, sulfur odor with it. Though it wasn’t unbearable, I pinched my nose shut anyway. It was difficult to suck enough air without choking.

  I tried to find the tip of the observation tower through the haze, but couldn’t see more than the strobe lit wisps.

  “Surely that’s not the start…” Mom caught me looking at her. She shook her head and quickly added, “More rioting, Harold?”