by David Wayne
“We might,” I said.
She nodded. “And probably in a very unpleasant way, right?”
“Maybe,” was all I could think to say. It was honest, and this didn’t feel like a BS moment.
“What do you think really happened? What was the Event?”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “Based on what the science teacher thought, and what the cop said, some type of atmospheric disturbance seems plausible. We may never know.”
“What awaits us in Atlanta? What’s the famous Johnnie-on-the-spot assessment? Or is that cut-to-the-chase Charlie?” she said with a little laugh.
That made me chuckle, but I chewed on her question for a second. It was one that consumed most of my thoughts. “I really don’t know what to expect, Sister.” That was the true answer.
“Do you think the government is organized there?”
I didn’t want to speculate, because whenever I did, my gut only returned ugly scenarios. Sister was a lot of things, but a wallflower was not one of them. She was sensible and pragmatic if nothing else. Still, why provide negative speculation?
“I’d say there’s a decent chance of a friendly settlement,” I said. If I was going to speculate, I saw no harm in erring toward the positive.
“You’re not convinced of that, are you, Max?”
I paused. “No. We’ve lost over ninety-five percent of the population. That’s going to hold true for government and military personnel as well. I doubt there’s much of a government left to organize anything. They’re going to be scattered around the country, with no means of communication or transportation. Maybe something will get pulled together, but not in the immediate future. That’s my best guess.”
She nodded. “So you expect Atlanta will be burning to the ground, like Birmingham?”
“Maybe and maybe not. Based on the government announcement, if a Safe Zone exists, it’s the most likely place. We won’t know until we arrive.”
I watched as the flames bounced around her face, but saw no expression of surprise. I was confirming what she suspected. “I have purposely plotted a course to pass by Anniston Army Depot. It’s a military base. I’m hoping we find activity there, along with some hard intel.” My true belief was Anniston held better odds of providing a safe haven than Atlanta did. If we were lucky, it was spared the Event and would be teeming with an active military contingent.
She started idly poking the fire. The one thing I did enjoy about the woods was campfires. The little embers floating up into the dark night, like mini fireworks. The flames and colors are transfixing—soothing and relaxing. It’s like watching the ocean, without the need for expensive real estate.
“Who knows, maybe we’ll find all the answers there. That’s a bit of luck we could use right now. Wouldn’t that be a first?” I said, trying to lighten the mood but choosing the wrong words.
“So many lost firsts for me,” she said, staring away. “So many things I’ll never experience.” Her words were slurring a bit.
Compared to my world, I could only imagine the sheltered life of a nun, but that didn’t seem the appropriate response.
“I know, let’s run naked through the forest,” she said with wide-eyed abandonment.
From sadness about her family to melancholy about our current predicament to utter excitement, she was flipping through emotions like shuffling a deck of cards—a typical first-time drunk. “I think it’s bedtime,” I said.
Her wicked smile indicated I’d chosen the wrong words once again. “I’m a virgin,” she said. “Will you have sex with me, Max?”
“No. I certainly will not.”
“Why? Am I ugly?”
“No, you’re not. You’re drunk and should go to bed.”
She broke out laughing so hard she almost fell over. “Don’t worry, I’ve been busting your chops. I knew you’d decline,” she said. “But you can be such a prude, don’t you know?”
Well, Max Ryker’s been called many things, but never a prude. “If you say so, Sister,” was the only response I could think of.
She stared at me. “I’m drunk, and from what I’ve seen, that’s a free pass to say or do whatever one wishes—and then be totally forgiven. It feels good.”
I smiled. “Doesn’t always work out that way. I’ve learned that the hard way. Trust me on that one.”
Abruptly she turned serious. “You aren’t really going to dump me somewhere, are you? Desert me?”
“No, I’m not going to desert you. Besides, I’d starve to death.” I laughed, but I wasn't really joking.
As if the spell had suddenly broken, she laughed and, out of the blue, said, “I think it’s cute.”
Apparently, we were back to throwing out random woman thoughts, but at this point, that beat the hell out of our current subject matter. “Huh, what's cute? The rabbit jerky, the campsite, bogarting all my whiskey, the moon? Should I keep guessing, or would you like to just tell me exactly what is cute?” I pointed at the different objects as I spoke them, causing her to laugh the exaggerated laugh of a drunk.
“No, the fact that you couldn’t kill an animal,” she said, smiling.
“What? I told you. I—”
“You gave a bogus story about being a hundred yards away. In this thick forest, you can’t see anything that far away—so you had to be much closer. You possess a million-dollar scope and rifle. You’re a trained sniper. Do the math.” She smiled at me in an odd way, one I hadn’t seen from her before. If nothing else, this was a night of firsts.
“Whatever. You're drunk.” Man, that felt weird saying to a nun.
She was still smiling, but her head was bobbing a tad; she was off-balance. “It doesn’t mean you’re a softie because you couldn’t shoot a deer, Maxie,” she said. Her eyes were droopy, and she was holding back either burps or something worse.
“Good night. I hope you enjoy your first hangover as much as your first drunk,” I said, heading toward my tent. “Go to bed.”
“Ignore me all you want, Max Ryker, but I was deeply touched. You can be sweet. It just hurts you is all.”
I made a nasty face at her in the dark, struggling my way into the small tent. After several minutes, I felt bad and yelled out, “Good night, Sister.”
“Good night, softie,” she said. I could hear her struggling to get in the tent, probably fighting a head that was twirling like a merry-go-round.
I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of a drunk nun. Talk about a oxymoron. Susan was fighting ghosts of her own, that much was clear. But what had she started to tell me about her family? The story she didn’t finish. I’d also picked up on something else. She wasn’t just struggling with the world coming to an end; she seemed to be mourning all that she’d missed in life. But why would a nun feel that way? She’d bathed in the river but insisted on referring to it as skinny-dipping—and then getting drunk? In a way, she was like a child turning eighteen—legal but still childlike, wanting to experience everything at once. I wouldn’t figure all that out tonight, especially based on the limited information I had. But I decided it was time to ease up and become a little more patient with the sister. Why God chose me to guide her through all this was beyond my understanding.
Chapter 17
If she had a hangover, it didn’t show, because she set her normal hiking pace. Neither of us spoke of last night. Around midmorning, I steered us off course, hoping to find a small country store I had earmarked on my map. It was on the outskirts of a place called RenCity. Once again, I was thankful for the hikers guide. Otherwise, there’d be no way of finding these small, out-of-the-way places, in small out-of-the-way towns.
We found a place to camp for the night, several hours before dusk. She was angry that I wouldn’t take her along on the food-gathering trip, but it’s easier to protect one than it is two. She got mad; I got exasperated. I found her to be like a tornado, a frenzy of fury that burns out quickly. I’m more of a hurricane; I stew slowly and it lingers long. I was looking forward to a
couple hours of alone time.
Within forty-five minutes, I found the country store—a little run-down gas station, with a puny shopping area off to the side. After casing it for a short time, I was convinced it was deserted, so I moseyed on over and went in through the broken glass door. Time to shop.
There wasn’t much to pick from. Most everything was gone. I didn’t complain. I was surprised there was anything left at all. The place smelt dank, like stale cigar smoke mixed with gas and oil. It had that musty odor a room gets that hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in a decade. They swept the floor here, that’s it.
I loaded up all the canned goods that were left on the old, dusty shelves, mostly cream of corn, string beans, and several cans of spam. There was also an assortment of random goods, like fake chili and soup. I snagged up a metal box of Band-Aids, a small bottle of peroxide, and a dual salt/pepper shaker. In the garage area, I found some sturdy rope and a small spool of twine. The biggest find was two packs of D4 batteries. Our flashlight had been dead for a week. This was almost a better find than the canned goods.
Behind the counter, I found an unopened Diet Pepsi, a half-empty pack of cheap cigars, and a worn 1990s Playboy magazine. I snagged all three. There was a half-smoked stogie in an ashtray. The end was chewed, but I stuck it in my mouth anyway. As I turned to leave, I spied a quarter next to the cash register. I picked it up—it was a double-sided coin, heads on both sides. Cool. I pocketed it.
I walked back leisurely, knowing we were already camped for the night. I fired up the half-burnt stogie, popped the soda top, and thumbed through Heffner’s rag. Apparently, women back then weren’t big on trimming the bushes. The quiet felt good. There was no female chitchat to clog my brain. Just nudies from the 90s, warm Pepsi, and a cheap cigar. Ah, the simple things. What didn’t feel good was the extra weight of the canned foods. I decided I’d load up the sister, maybe tell a few jokes about her being a human mule.
As I approached our site, I moved my marker rock to the right of the trail. My previous life contained a bountiful array of all sorts of covert signals. This one was simple but effective.
I was surprised she wasn’t back from hunting and disappointed that I didn’t smell roasting meat on a spit. Well, she couldn’t be perfect every time. Besides, I kinda relished the idea of beating her back and throwing together some grub. I was thinking how best to mix and match the mismatched foods—when I froze in my tracks. I bolted over to the north trail, the one Sister had wandered off on, and stared in confused shock for a moment. Her stone was pushed right center of the path. That meant trouble.
I thought for a second, pacing back and forth, rubbing my chin. Ideally, the signal should be clearly placed. Experience had taught me, the hard way, whatever sign was used for trouble wasn’t always perfectly placed. In this case, the rock was definitely pushed right of center—but skewed a bit and turned on its side. Almost as if it were kicked, rather than picked up and moved. Let’s face it, one doesn’t necessarily get the opportunity to tell dangerous company, Excuse me for a moment. I need to set a signal for my companion, warning that I’m in danger.
The sister was very cautious, meticulous, and cognizant of the danger we faced. In fact, that was why she’d insisted on traveling with me in the first place. She would not space out something as important as our safety signal. This could only mean one thing—she was in trouble. I packed up in a hurry.
Rushing down the trail, I glanced at my watch, calculating the time. She had obviously returned to the rendezvous, or she couldn’t have moved the rock to the trouble position. I had been shopping a total of two and a half hours. Assuming she hunted for at least an hour, that meant a maximum hour-and-a-half head start. In reality, it was probably an hour, maybe less.
I was no woodsman, but within fifteen minutes, it was obvious there were several people in the party—and at least a couple dogs. I noticed three different shoe sizes and multiple dog paws pushed into the muddy areas of the trail.
As the sun was dropping, casting its shadows in the woods, I still hadn't caught up with them—despite traveling at almost a trot. With only a few sunrays left, I decided to do some surveillance before complete darkness set in. In the woods, nighttime is a thick, dark blanket, augmented by the dense forest. I found a tall tree and climbed to the top. I was deathly afraid of running out of daylight without finding them. That would spell disaster. I quickly scanned the area with my field glasses. I was about to climb down when the faintest grey blurb caught my eye. I focused the glasses on the spot, dialing in the magnification. Sure enough, it was smoke. I looked at the top right corner of the binoculars and noted the distance—eight hundred yards. I slid quickly down the tree, hitting the ground harder than intended.
I set my compass to tick off eight hundred yards and headed toward the smoke, hurrying slowly. I didn’t want to make noise, yet I had to get as close as possible before night set in. When I got within fifty yards of their camp, I found a huge oak and scurried up.
My first stopping point didn’t provide an adequate line of sight, but the next spot higher up did—a full bird’s-eye view of their camp. I dialed in the glasses but was only able to see what was happening near the fire and directly behind it, where a lantern was hanging.
I almost dropped the glasses at what the binoculars showed me.
Chapter 18
The sister was standing, hands behind her back, tied to a tree. Three men stood around taunting her. One was a monster of a man, one short and pudgy, the other tall and skinny. I moved the glasses around, surveying the site, and spied a large, black, wolf-looking dog and a bulky pit bull terrier. Great. I returned my gaze to the sister.
They were still doing their taunting routine, but she wasn’t playing ball. She simply stared straight ahead, as if nothing was happening. They poked, pinched, and otherwise pawed but got no response from her. I watched the skinny one reach into her backpack and then munch on some jerky.
The math was bad. I’m a crack shot, but I can’t take out three men and two dogs. After the first shot, they’d all scram. I might get one man and one dog, but nothing more. It was too dark, my line of vision limited to a twenty-foot circumference of their campfire. All they needed to do was take four large steps from their current location and they’d be shielded by pitch-darkness. Then they would come for me.
Based on their attire, which consisted of overalls and flannel shirts, these dudes were from the area. Probably grew up here and knew the woods like the back of their hands. If I attacked, they would fan out, utilizing the dogs to track and find me. This city boy would never outwit lifelong woodsmen in the woods. I had to admit it. They had the advantage. This was bad, very bad.
I returned to the glasses just in time to watch Monster Man slap the sister. This sent an angry jolt throughout my body, requiring every ounce of self-discipline to force calmness. Otherwise, all would be lost by an angry, premature reaction. I had to plan. Even with a plan, the odds were stacked heavily against me.
I will never shake free the image I saw next. The ape ripped open her flannel shirt, buttons flying every which way—and she spit in his face. He slapped her so hard she fell limp—the restraints holding her semi-upright, like a puppet dangling on strings. I felt like puking.
I put down the field glasses, my body shaking with hopelessness. I felt inadequate and like a failure. I could not save her nor could I watch those savages abuse that sweet, delicate woman. My body surged with uncontrollable rage. Those motherfuckers are as good as dead. The thought brought no release, no comfort. Instead, I cried; heavy, burning tears of anger and outrage streamed down my face. I sobbed in full force—yet in complete silence. I cried for everything she was and I wasn’t. I would do anything to trade places with her.
Professionals are trained at compartmentalizing. To survive and prevail on a dangerous mission, it’s imperative to view circumstances like a video game, with total emotional detachment. Not eating causes physical weakness. Lack of sleep brings fatigue and irration
al thinking. But I couldn’t flip that switch. This was the sister. But her survival demanded that I do so. I forced down a can of chili, which tasted like dog food. Then I closed my eyes and willed sleep to come.
You need a good dressin’ down, boy. That’s what you need, my father slurred, removing his wide leather belt. I noticed the dim overhead light glitter off his chrome buckle.
I had lost the state wrestling championship earlier that night, a three-to-two vote against me. Second place would never cut it with my dad. No matter what I accomplished, I always needed a good dressin’ down. A three-point-eight grade point average was not a four-point-oh; third place in the spelling bee was not first place. “Yep, what you need is a good dressin’ down. You’re a coddled mommy’s boy.” That’s what I heard at least two times a week for almost twelve years—until the night I lost the wrestling championship.
The feeling of falling through the air woke me in a startle. I frantically grabbed a branch, just as I was about to slide off. Sweat was pouring off me like I had just swum in a lake. I looked at my watch. A full two hours had passed—time wasted with a ghost from my past. It was time to go hunting, the kind where I didn’t hesitate when the prey was in my crosshairs.
*
I skirted their campsite and, around two a.m., found the perfect place to set a trap. It was maybe fifteen minutes past their camp—a low clearing to the right of the trail. The expanse was roughly circular, its diameter some twenty feet. Toward the back, a large rock formation formed a small cave. The primary boulder was a huge chunk of black stone, poking out of the earth like a crooked incisor. The base was wide and broad, sloping upward at a forty-five-degree angle, for approximately eight feet. It looked like an arrowhead—a wide base that narrowed at the tip. Both sides were capped with stacks of baby boulders, with a small gap in the middle forming the mouth of a cave.
