Prepper Mountain

by Chris Bostic

  When the road grew quiet, I slowly raised my trembling body out of the ditch like a turtle poking its head out of its shell. I caught the outline of a big, white vehicle disappearing up the driveway to the church. It was similar in shape to the Feds’ Suburbans, but not black.

  More importantly, there was no way to warn everyone.

  I gripped an exposed rock, scratching my fingers to keep from sliding back to the bottom of the ditch.

  “What to do?” I repeated.

  I heard the faint crunch of gravel on the driveway, but couldn’t make out the red and blue flashing lights through the dense forest.

  I sat a moment longer, drawing ragged breaths like I’d run the mile in gym class. My legs were just as tired, refusing to hold me up.

  I waited for the sound of gunshots. And waited. Not even a shout or a car door slamming.

  When I couldn’t delay anymore, I climbed out the backside of the ditch and took off hiking through the woods along the stream.

  I had no idea where I was going, but I had to try. It was my chance to run away, but I went straight back to them.

  It was a challenge to move quickly through the untamed forest. Brambles pulled at my boots, constantly trying to trip me. I fought off the blackberries that twisted out of thin air to dig spikes into my pant legs. They gouged my hands and scratched my arms like claws, but still I kept powering on, determined to make it back to the church.

  But the hill was every bit as steep as the driveway, and I quickly ran out of gas. After being battered by several limbs, and eventually knocked over, I slumped to the ground.

  The sound of water trickling over rocks was unexpectedly close. I shook my head in disbelief, certain I’d somehow gotten turned around in my diagonal rush up the hill toward the church and ended up somewhere near the stream I’d thought I’d left behind.

  I kept hoping to hear anything else, but the rest of the forest was deathly quiet. Not even a bird chirped as I sat and breathed in gulps of stifling humidity.

  Sweat clung to the hair on my arms like acid, burning into the scratches across them. The brambles made the woods as much a torture chamber as a sanctuary, and water was the only thing to ease the sting.

  I forced myself to stand and headed off for the stream. The bubbling grew louder quickly, and in no time I found the source. There was no indication of a bank or a slope to climb. It was just a straight walk from the trees into the sparkling, clear water.

  The stream was typical Smoky Mountain, steep but mostly straight. It seemed as if a dump truck had let loose a giant load of dark purplish-gray rocks at the mountaintop and let them tumble all the way to the bottom, stopping wherever they had felt like it.

  Water spilled over and around the bigger rocks, running in several streams and coming back together in haphazard fashion, much like the placement of the boulders. Up against the rocky stream, trees crowded the sides. Despite the brilliant sun somewhere overhead, it was shadowy and suddenly cool.

  I climbed over a slippery rock to a deeper pool and plunged a scarred arm into the water. Though I knew how cold it would be, it was still a shock. When I had time to play in the creeks in flip flops or bare feet, the frigid spring water would quickly turn my toes numb—and just as rapidly to an almost frostbitten pink color. Right then, I would’ve settled for numb.

  There was no time to play. I quickly doused both my arms with ice water and scrubbed away the burning. I wasn’t sure where it would take me, but rather than brave the forest again I set off climbing the stream.

  It was much faster. The rocks were arranged like primitive stairs. So long as I kept away from the wet or wobbly ones, it was an easy climb. I dodged back and forth, choosing my footsteps quickly, but carefully. Every so often a big, flat rock would shift, but I successfully avoided planting a foot on the slick ones. Soon, it felt like I was up close to the church in no time.

  Besides not knowing exactly where I was at, I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the splashing water. So, confident that I had to be nearby, I slipped off into the woods.

  It wasn’t twenty paces before I started doubting myself. Everything looked the same. Green leafy forest surrounded me. I couldn’t see the stream despite the close proximity.

  “What now?” I muttered.

  I straightened my back to stretch out the kinks and plowed on ahead. Surprisingly, I hit a narrow dirt trail. It was barely big enough for one person; in several tighter places I had to duck under branches. But it was a welcome relief to find some kind of path, even if it was only used by deer or bears.

  Thinking of bears, I wondered about slowing down. The last thing I wanted to do was run up on one while I jogged along the trail. I wasn’t sure which of us would be more scared. I knew from experience that black bears, though timid, were unpredictable when you surprised them.

  I couldn’t slow down, though. Not until I knew what was going on at the church. I prayed the path would take me somewhere close, and my prayers were soon rewarded. I stumbled up to a spot where I noticed two tarp-covered lumps ahead in the woods. Sunlight streamed into the clearing beyond them, giving me a sudden, heavenly glow.

  Slowing to a crawl, I made my way closer to our Jeep. Flashing lights sprayed through the leaves like a wobbly disco ball, but what I saw out in the clearing was no party.

  CHAPTER 18

  Mr. Clean’s face was pressed up against a white Chevy Tahoe. Two men almost as big stood behind him partially blocking my view, but I could still make out the blood running down the back of his shiny head. A dark stain spread through his white t-shirt from his collar to his shoulder blade. Marisol was sprawled face down in the yard. Another thug in a green uniform sat on her back brandishing a baton. Mom and the rest of my family were nowhere to be seen.

  “How many others?” yelled another green uniformed man at Mr. Clean. He waved a pistol, making his point with words and threats to go along with the beating.

  Mr. Clean grunted something and was rewarded with another shove into the side of the Tahoe. His body sagged, and the two thugs at his sides moved in to roughly hold him up.

  Before I could feel too optimistic about the chance my family had escaped, another uniformed man appeared at the top of the steps to the church. I leaned forward, but couldn’t hear what he was saying. My eyes remained fixed on the church even after he left carrying nothing more than a black military-style rifle. Dad owned a couple like that one, but it wasn’t one of ours.

  Had they made it out?

  They could’ve been tied up inside, or maybe already stuffed inside a Tahoe. But the sound of boots pounding on the ground cut any speculation short.

  Not twenty yards away from me, the tarp ripped off the pick-up truck. I slunk deeper into the woods, going backwards on my belly, trying to put distance between me and the Jeep without stirring the brush.

  The man beating Mr. Clean stopped long enough to growl, “We knows there’s two vehicles here.” He grabbed the big man by the chin and forced him to turn his head. “They’re not both yours!”

  I held my breath, attempting to move as quietly as I could. But it was hard keeping an eye behind me on where I was going and still keeping track of these soldiers or policemen or whatever they were.

  Inevitably, I kicked a bush with my heel and made it worse by shaking it when I jerked my foot back.

  The man about to pull the tarp off our Jeep froze, staring into the forest. I buried my face in my hands and prayed the dark shirt was enough to keep me hidden. The terror mounted as the seconds ticked by. If the guy came in my direction, I knew he’d spot me. It was just a matter of getting close enough.

  Rather than try to melt into the ground, I pulled my legs up under me so I could spring away like a frightened rabbit.

  A stick snapped close. Too close. I couldn’t resist the urge to look up, and spotted the man walking into the woods with his rifle pointed toward my hiding place. But he wasn’t close to where the stick had cracked.

  Out of nowhere, I heard my name.r />
  “Run, Zach!”

  It was Austin.

  He rose off the forest floor in some kind of camouflage made from leaves, and gave a ferocious war whoop. I watched dumbfounded as he chucked a wooden spear at the guy, and took off in a flash.

  That was my cue. I booked it back toward the path, but impulsively chose not to follow it. The sharp, piercing crack of a shot rang out, then another. My knees buckled, but I refused to fall. As the sound rolled through the woods like thunder, I let it spur me on.

  Without looking back, I turned uphill. I ran until I had nothing to give, and kept running farther. I made a racket; I didn’t care. I crashed through brush like a runaway car, fortunate I didn’t wrap myself around a tree.

  My stamina gave out eventually. I sank to the ground behind a magnolia tree, letting my clothes blend in with the deep green leaves. My chest heaved. I put my hands behind my head like a marathon runner only to realize I looked more like a prisoner of war.

  My arms dropped back to my sides when I heard leaves rustling. I stayed on my knees, but slunk forward to where I could lift a branch and look out from the tree down the mountainside. The noise continued, soft like a deer stepping through the forest on a cool November morning. Only this time, I was the hunted.

  I caught sight of branches moving, then nothing. Something dark and shadowy was slipping through the woods. I doubted the soldiers, or whatever they were, would be so quiet.

  Against my better judgment, I called out, “Austin?”

  A whippoorwill-sounding whistle came back. I stayed planted in my spot, staring downhill until I saw the leaves move again. The shadow was close when I spoke again, softer that time.

  “Over here.”

  Austin whistled again, probably his way of letting me know I shouldn’t be talking.

  The mass of leaves moved my direction until he was standing in front of the magnolia. If he’d run, he’d done a good job of keeping his camouflage on. Leafy twigs poked from the collar and sleeves of his shirt and from the pockets of his pants. More branches were tied around his chest with twine.

  His face was smeared with mud, completing the disguise. No wonder the guy never saw him. Austin was ready for war, while I was scratched mercilessly, my shirt soaked with sweat. But we were alive.

  “We made it,” I said as I stepped out from underneath the tree.

  Austin gave me a nod before turning his eyes downhill. “Barely.”

  “They shot at us.”

  “Well, duh. You think they wouldn’t?”

  I paused, not sure what to say. I should’ve assumed they would, but still had trouble accepting what had happened. Finally, I blurted, “Who were those guys?”

  “Park Rangers.”

  “Seriously? With guns and batons?”

  “Shhh, keep it down.” Austin dropped to a knee and motioned for me to do the same. “They were rounding up rebels…cleaning out the park.”

  “That’s what we are, rebels?”

  Although I was appalled, he simply chuckled. “Apparently so.”

  Just like that, we weren’t simply some people hiding out anymore. Someone decided we were rebels trying to do God knew what. Maybe start a civil war from our mountain camp. I’d thought maybe we were just hiding, but suddenly wondered if my father actually had bigger plans for us. Other than being annoyingly vague, Mom seemed more likely to curse and hide while Dad was more of the revolutionary when it came to the new regime. Either way, it didn’t look good for us, and I knew it really didn’t look good for Mr. Clean and his wife.

  “I saw Marisol and the big guy getting beaten. Where’s everybody else?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  Austin made me wait, giving me time to start working on a plan to bust our parents and Maddie free from the ranger’s convoy. Finally, without looking away from downhill, he interrupted my unnecessary planning by whispering, “Hiding out here somewhere.”

  “All of them?”

  “I think so.”

  I grabbed him by the wrist to get his attention. “You think?”

  “They’re supposed to be.” He jerked his arm free. “There’s no telling. We need to get moving.”

  He stood and turned to face toward the top of the mountain. It was going to be quite a climb before we made it to the peak. We were fortunate it was more of a rounded knob than some of the rocky, steep ridges like the area of the park over by the Chimney Tops. That section crested in sharp, vertical lines like the blade of a knife. Spiky Fraser firs and spruce trees dominated the upper reaches of those peaks, adding to the challenge.

  “Which way did they go?” I asked as I trailed off behind Austin.

  “Probably uphill, but I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You know Mom, she’ll want to stay close to the supplies, but using the higher ground as an advantage.”

  I nodded. “We packed in all that crap. I’d hate to lose it too.”

  “Good luck. The rangers are probably loading it up now. Or getting ready to burn it all.”

  I cringed at the idea, and the anxiety abruptly turned into anger. After all we went through to pack it up and bring it out here, the thought was horrifying. And then depressing.

  A slight grin crossed my face when I imagined Mom screaming out of the woods, chasing the rangers away with a broom if that’s what it took to save her seeds and water. And the gold coins.

  Austin pushed his way through another magnolia, and cut sharply to the left to avoid what looked like one of the many species of pine trees. I couldn’t tell the difference between most. There had to be a hundred different types of trees in the Smokies—almost enough for the whole alphabet, from alder and ash to witchhazel and yellow buckeye.

  I considered our options. As much as Mom might want to keep an eye on camp, she’d have to recognize that someone could come looking for us in the woods. She’d want to be somewhere close, but concealed. That meant either down by the driveway where she could watch them leave, or maybe up high like Austin had suggested.

  I turned to look back in the direction of the clearing, but there was obviously nothing to be seen but green. I wondered if it would be easier to get around in the wintertime when the hardwoods dropped their leaves, but couldn’t bear to think that I might still be out there that long. Especially without our meager supplies.

  Austin dropped in front of me. Lost in my nightmarish dreams, I nearly tripped over him.

  “I heard something,” he whispered harshly. “Sounds like an animal wailing.”

  I strained my ears and picked up on a high-pitched squeal from somewhere right above us. “Bear? Bobcat?”

  “Maybe. Could be a fox or coyote. Whatever it is, it’s hurt bad.”

  CHAPTER 19

  When the wailing turned to sobs, I recognized the creature. A fourteen-year-old girl who wanted very badly to go home.

  “Maddie,” Austin and I said at the same time.

  He scowled and added, “She needs to shut up.”

  I left him behind, running as fast as I could manage toward the sound. She didn’t stand to greet me, but two others did.

  “Thank God,” Mom said, and she held open her arms. I fell into them only to be joined by Dad in a group hug. “I was worried they’d gotten you.”

  “Same here.” I breathed a giant sigh of relief and wriggled out of the embrace before it became overly awkward. “How’d you get away?”

  “We owe it all to Marisol really,” Dad said, “and Big Dave. She slowed them down at first, before Dave went out, giving us time to slip out through the cemetery.”

  “I hate like hell that we bailed on ‘em,” Mom said, and I could see that truth in her eyes. No amount of miracle cream was going to reverse the ten years she’d added onto her face in the last hour.

  “We didn’t have a choice,” Austin said, finally arriving to join in the conversation. “There were way too many.”

  “At least you got out,” I said softly.

  “Had to drag this one out the door,” Dad added, pointing at a Madd
ie-sized heap hiding behind a bush. “She’s kind of a wreck.”

  “Harold!”

  I saw the whites of Maddie’s eyes move, but she made no sound other than the occasional sob slipping through her weakened defenses. While Austin talked to Mom and Dad, I went over to sit by her.

  Maddie straightened up a little. She looked like she’d just gotten out of bed. In a way, I guessed she had. She’d probably been sleeping when the nightmare arrived.

  “You okay?” I volunteered a shoulder, but she shrugged.

  She sniffled before offering up a weak, “Not really.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t try. I figured my presence would have to be enough, but it wasn’t. There was nothing positive about the situation. Besides, I barely understood it myself. Plus we had no supplies, no food, and nowhere to run. And Maddie was about to dehydrate from all the crying.

  Before I could ask my parents what they wanted to do next, a foul odor rose up the mountainside. I left Maddie to her tears to go stand by the others. Judging by Dad’s scrunched up nose, I figured he’d already smelled it too.

  It was rotten eggs and scorched paper mixed together in a vile concoction.

  “Smells like burning trash,” Dad said.

  “Our trash, Harold.” Mom gripped a tree like she needed it for support.

  I shot a look at Austin, who nodded in confirmation of our earlier conversation. We really didn’t have any supplies left anymore.

  “So much for being prepared,” Mom muttered. “I knew we should’ve gotten away from that church sooner.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Dad said, but it obviously wasn’t comforting—perhaps because he was the one who’d been in less of a hurry to leave the church.

  Mom paced like a caged tiger from one aspen tree back to another. “They’ll be coming for us next.”