The After War Page 3

  “It was their choice. They didn’t want to live their remaining years underground. We did all we could.”

  “We should have forced them. And Stanley too. He should have come down with us.”

  “Steve,” Brian said, “you gotta get Stanley out of your head. We’ve been over this a million times. He couldn’t abandon the town back then, he was the deputy.”

  “He was our best friend. We could have saved him, we could have done more.”

  “He was a cop. He was needed. Come on now, we can’t keep talking this over. It was their decision, all of them.”

  “I’m going to Nancy and Ben’s house.” Steven started marching down the sidewalk, going north on Pearl Street.

  “Steve, wait. You know what you’re gonna find if you go there. Don’t do this to yourself. We gotta get on. There’s nothing left for us in Nelson. This ain’t our home any more. Just think of Bethany; she’s been looking at the calendar same as us, she knows we’re late. She’s panicking for sure.”

  Steven stopped in his tracks, gazing down the road.

  Brian continued, “Remember what Uncle Al said? We have to keep course; we can’t be led astray; we can’t get off-kilter.”

  Steven’s Uncle Al had laid out a very careful plot of direction for them and warned against burning through what little resources they had. Side trips were an unnecessary danger. Uncle Al, or rather, Lieutenant General Albert Driscoll, had done everything in his power to secure the safety of the two men, along with Steven’s sister, Bethany, who lived in Aurora, well over half the distance between Nelson and their destination on the East Coast. Far, far away.

  Uncle Al went to great lengths to build them the underground bunker using government funds—quite illegally. But when the cousins asked him about it, he said, in his faded southern accent, “It doesn’t matter, boys. In a few months’ time, money won’t mean a thing. Neither will the United States Government, for that matter. Might as well spend what you got now while you still can and while there are still supplies left to buy. Soon, you’ll be hard-up to find even one bottle of water.”

  Those words had made Brian and Steven quiet.

  Everyone knew that war was inevitable and that it was going to involve the bulk of the world, but Uncle Al was privy to information that was kept hidden from the majority of the population. He knew about the disease.

  Brian and Steven could only imagine the chaos that must have gone on in the big cities like Chicago and New York, where there were far too many people and nowhere for them to hide. Brian had been to New York once, and it was hard to fathom anyone leaving that mess of a city in a time of crisis, unless they got out early—way, way early.

  So, Uncle Al gave Brian and Steven clear objectives. “You stay in that bunker, come hell or high water, and you don’t open the door for nobody. When you get to the date marked on your calendar, you leave. You get Bethany and her husband George, and you boys bring them here.” He pointed to an area circled on the map. “I’ll be waiting for you. I know how strong you boys are, but you’ll have to muster all of your strength. Do not veer from the plan. Do not stray from the marked path. Stay strong, and keep your minds sharp.”

  Steven stood now on Pearl Street, lost in thought. Then he turned around and marched past Brian on the sidewalk. “I don’t want to go to their house anyway. Let’s get on.”

  Brian stood where he was. “Okay. But you were heading in the right direction. We can pick up the trail north of Nelson.”

  Steven turned back around without missing a step. He glanced crosswise at Brian as he passed.

  Brian looked over his shoulder at the bar. They were leaving Nelson, probably forever. Brain had been outside of town several times, but the trips were short, and he always knew he would be returning. The farthest he’d ever gotten was New York that one time, and to Florida and South Carolina making deliveries back when he worked at old Frank Meyer’s farm. But he had always returned. He couldn’t imagine what his cousin was thinking. The man had only ever ventured to the few neighboring towns, and never any farther.

  Brian wanted to tell Steven to take one last look, but he remained quiet. He faced forward, and the men took to the woods as they exited the town.

  As if in congruence with Brian’s thoughts, Steven shook his head and said, “I don’t want to remember Nelson like this.”

  Brian took a shallow breath. “I don’t either.”

  Chapter 4

  Beyond the Broken Glass

  The road drove straight and true for miles, then up and over rolling hills and mountains, snaking left and right in large fluid curves. Thick greenery blanketed the earth in every direction, making it easy to feel small and insignificant among the vastness of nature.

  Yet it was the immensity that made Simon feel that he was part of something bigger, something important.

  He drove fast when he could, slowing at times to pass fallen tree branches, but there were none so large that he had to stop completely. Little human litter was evident—soda cans, clothing, candy bar wrappers—and that made Simon happy. Perhaps he would catch a few nights of peaceful sleep before entering the towns and populated cities, the thought of which caused the fear inside him to spread like dark clouds in a storm.

  It was necessary to take deep breaths often and focus his energy on anything positive to combat the darkness. Simon envisioned each breath filling his lungs with clean, white air, and his exhaled breath pushing black smog out through his nostrils. As he focused on his breathing, Simon let his eyes catch trees along the far horizon, or spots of color belonging to flowers on the side of the road, and follow them until they passed by in a blur. The goal was to have his mind stay in a state of perpetual vacancy, yet remain sharp and vigilant—a task he found difficult under the circumstances. His mind longed for the stream by the cabin and the tree that fit his body so well in the crook of its roots. But even these thoughts he tried to push from his mind. Longing for the past only brought about despair.

  Simon approached an intersection along the long road, leading to a highway that would bring him southwest into Montana. He approached the intersection with care, remembering the small ranger station he had passed on his way up. The building was tucked to the side of the four-way stop, surrounded by trees and brush. Easy to overlook. He could see the structure now as he crept forward, slower and slower, until he stopped altogether in the middle of the road and looked to his side. A tan building no larger than the one bedroom in his cabin sat nearly swallowed by the overgrowth.

  He clicked the stereo off.

  There was a pickup truck parked in the gravel lot, and if Simon was correct, that same truck had been parked in that same spot when he passed two years ago. The truck was painted the identical drab, tan color as the office, and both the office and the truck had a logo painted on the side: a white oval with a green border and green lettering. It said BC PARKS, with the outline of a crest resembling mountains.

  “Well, Winston, we have to start somewhere.”

  Simon looked all around him and in the side mirrors of the van, but nothing stirred. He turned into the gravel lot before the station and stopped in front of the building to peer at the one and only window facing the road. It was black as night.

  “All right, Winston,” he said, and let out a breath. “I’ll be back. Stay here, boy.”

  Simon opened the door, grabbed the small backpack from the front seat, holstered the .45, and held the rifle in his hands. He checked the chamber and clicked the safety off. After a deep breath, he began walking toward the station, leaving the car door ajar.

  Maybe there’s a large gas can in there, and I won’t have to stop anywhere else, he thought. And maybe it will be full of gasoline …

  Fat chance.

  He stepped forward on his toes, the gravel underfoot crunching, making his eardrums vibrate. The gravel and the rumble of the van’s engine seemed to be the only two noises in the thicket of wilderness, and they were both terribly loud.

  The two wo
oden steps leading to the front door creaked, and Simon’s heart began to race.

  There’s nothing in there. Go back to the van.

  I have to check. I’d rather find a barrel now than have to stop later.

  You’re not going to find anything now. And you’re not going to find anything later …

  Simon shook the voices out of his head. Negativity was racing through his veins, and he knew the best thing to do was to realize that fear and apprehension are both outward experiences, and it was entirely possible for his mind to remain peaceful even under the most grueling of circumstances.

  My mind is an island. My mind is an island. My mind is an island.

  Simon put his face against the window, cupping his hands to block out the sun. The faint outline of a chair was all he could make out. He walked to the door, gripped the handle, and gritted his teeth.

  Maybe there’s a gas barrel.

  And maybe there’s a monster ready to tear my fucking head off.

  My mind is an island. My mind—

  He took a deep breath, turned the handle, and opened the door. Light poured in, so that he could see the entire room. It was vacant. A desk with a phone occupied most of the dusty space, along with three chairs, a sad-looking couch, and a filing cabinet. On one wall hung a stock photograph of a mountain from Glacier National Park, with snow capping the peak and the skies a vibrant blue.

  Simon went to the desk and searched each drawer, but all he found were the usual assortment of office supplies. He opened the filing cabinet and flipped through the folders and files on the various trees and wildlife, along with bundles of maps of local roads and trails. He picked up the phone from the cradle, but he knew what to expect. The line was dead.

  He left the station, passing Winston, who had lumbered away from the van despite his command to stay. The old dog was relieving himself in the bushes, so Simon didn’t mind his disobedience. Winston trotted alongside Simon as he approached the pickup truck.

  “There was nothing in the office, buddy.”

  Winston’s tongue bounced out of his mouth, and he looked up adoringly at Simon with big dark eyes. Simon bent and ruffled his head. The dog panted, trying to lick Simon’s moving hand.

  “That’s my good boy, that’s my buddy, that’s my bud-bud.” Simon had an overwhelming longing in his chest to stop everything he was doing and hug his dog tight, let Winston lick his face with abandon. But he kept walking.

  Simon peered into the truck, cupping his hands around his eyes.

  “Well, would you look at that?” Simon pointed to a mounted gun rack above the seats.

  He tried the handle, but it was locked. A few feet away in the gravel yard, Simon found a grapefruit-sized rock.

  “Watch out, boy.” Winston looked at him with a cocked expression. Simon gave a brief high-pitched whistle and motioned Winston back with his hand. Winston trotted away. Simon steadied the rock in his palm and then he threw it straight through the driver’s side window, shattering the glass.

  “Ha! Winston, look at what we have here.”

  He reached in and unlocked the door, looking at a rather clean and well-preserved Winchester twelve-gauge shotgun left attached to the gun rack mounted above the front seats. Simon brushed his fingers over the sleek wood and cold metal, removing it from the rack.

  “I can’t believe someone just left this here. I can’t believe nobody else found it.” He cocked back the forend, and the mechanisms all slid like they were supposed to, but there were no shells in the ejection port or chamber. He pressed his finger into the springy entrance of the magazine loading port, but it too was empty.

  It then dawned on him that the station itself had been left unlocked, and the truck left out front all alone with a gun mounted inside, clearly visible. It was possible that whoever owned this truck had departed in a different car, and expected to return. It was also possible that the ranger went into the woods and never came back. Either way, the office door should have been locked, and the gun should not have been left in the truck. More importantly, it meant that no one else had come this way in a very long time.

  He searched the inside of the truck, but there were no shotgun shells or anything else of use. He flipped the dials and tried the switches on the radio receiver, but it was dead. No lights came on when he flipped the power switch, and no noise came through the speaker when he hit the button on the microphone. He put the microphone down. Who would be listening on the other end? No one.

  Back at the van, he put the shotgun on the seat, and grabbed the red five-gallon gas container and plastic tubing.

  He siphoned what he could from the truck’s tank and took everything back to the van, making two trips to deposit the almost eight gallons of fuel. Winston was in a bush on the edge of the yard, his wrinkled nose pressed deep in the soil.

  “Winston! Winston, come on boy!” Simon gave a high-pitched whistle. Winston came running over to the van and jumped to the front seat. Simon got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and then paused.

  In the far distance, he could hear birds, loud and squawking. The noise cut through the roar of the engine. He put the van in drive, made a wide turn, and was back on the road.

  ***

  Towns along the interstate were few and far between, just dots on a map lost in a sea of green. But Simon could not dodge civilization forever, and he neared the first small town after driving for only a few minutes south toward Montana.

  Desolation and carnage preceded the center of the township by several miles, giving evidence to the state of the world. Cars littered the side of the highway, driven straight into the grassy shoulders and abandoned—many with their engine hoods open, and some with the doors left ajar.

  The first corpse Simon witnessed sat slumped in the driver’s seat of an abandoned Cadillac, left in a cluster of vehicles involved in a collision.

  The van came within inches of the automobile as he navigated through the wreckage. Simon could have reached out and touched the leathery face of the corpse as he passed and thought he could even smell the staleness of its dried flesh in the air, thought he could taste it in the back of his throat. The corpse’s mouth was agape, the skin stretched tight over the cheekbones. Eyeglasses slid halfway down its face, no longer supported by ears or a nose. The eyes that stared back at him were dark voids. The head of a second body was crammed between the glove box and the splintered windshield, with wisps of long hair still clinging to cracks in the dirty glass.

  A cold chill spiked at the base of Simon’s skull, like a frozen nail whacked into his nerve column. He gripped the handle of the Colt .45.

  Behind the collision, he saw another wrecked car on the side of the road, wrapped around the base of a large tree. That car was a blackened shell of corroded and twisted metal from a long-extinguished fire. The tree was scarred and black, yet patches of healthy bark had started to reclaim the injury. The tree was still alive, but the same could not be said for the driver, who appeared nothing more than smoldered coal and powder. It looked as though a slight gust of wind could dissipate the body into dust.

  He drove fast through that nameless town. The few stores and hotels were all boarded up, with nothing disturbed or trampled upon.

  At the end of the town, which was only a mile or so long, Simon came upon a gas station. A large wooden board tied to the front of the pump said, NO GAS in large painted letters. Cars were lined up before the pump and left where they had run out of fuel. A one-car service station with an attached office was behind the pumps. The glass window in the front was shattered, and the sunlight reflected a million dancing sparkles of light upon the splinters on the sidewalk.

  Simon sat in the van with the engine idling. Shadows beyond the broken window played tricks in his mind, and he thought for a moment that he saw a dash of movement. His hands trembled.

  “Not this one, Winston. Not this one.”

  Chapter 5

  Dreadful Wind and Rain

  It began to drizzle as Brian an
d Steven neared the perimeter of Nelson. As they crossed the town border, the light rain turned into a steady stream that poured from the sky. The wind carried cold air, thick with precipitation that pierced through the men’s clothing. They donned their olive-drab rain ponchos and continued marching onward.

  The two remained vigilant and quiet, mindful to spot litter, old campfires, clearings made in the brush, or any recently trampled soil. There were no other people in sight—no signs at all that humanity might still remain. But the woods around Nelson, near the Smoky Mountains, were thick, and few people lived in these parts or knew how to travel the paths. Towns and cities would be another story.

  Brian looked up through breaks in the canopy of branches overhead. Somewhere high above, the sun was reclining against the hills, yet the sky remained an endless gray canvas of rolling clouds.

  “We should set up camp,” he muttered.

  “I reckon so.”

  They found a gap in the overgrowth and strung up their camouflage tarp, tying the ends to trees and staking them into the ground to form a tent. They dug a shallow hole, maybe a foot deep in the soil, and poked a second exhaust tunnel into the side of the pit with a stick. Steven placed kindling and tinder at the bottom as Brian collected a few dry twigs. They set fire to the wood, not letting the flame rise above the floor of the earth, and went about opening two cans of chili.

  “Don’t take the top completely off,” Brian said.

  Steven kept his eyes on the can. “How many times we done this? I know what I’m doing.”

  “Yeah, and how many times you cut the whole damn top off? You won’t be able to fish your can out of the fire if the top’s not attached and bent. Don’t get yourself riled.”

  “You done got me riled.”

  Brian looked to the fire.

  Steven held a compact military can opener, small enough to fit on a key chain. It was made out of two flimsy pieces of metal on a hinge—one with a hook to catch the rim of the can, and the other with a blade to pierce through the top. The thing was far too small for his hand, and he fumbled with it on the lid, dropping it twice.