Journal (27 page)

The
advantage of this choice was safety.  The disadvantage — it would be a less
direct route and would take more time to negotiate.

After
a breakfast of canned fruit and canned Vienna sausages (not the tastiness me;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4tifal
we’ve had), we started south, staying well away from the outskirts of Orson. 
In less than an hour, we struck a road that went east and followed that for
about an hour and a half, maybe a bit more, until we reached the intersection
with Road P and turned south.

I
know I’ve said this before, but let me again explain that when I write of Road
P, I’m really talking about what used to be a road.  Now, it’s just a strip of
land about thirty feet wide that was only recognizable for what it used to be
because it was less overgrown with vegetation than the areas on either side of
it.  The terrain through which this road was built was essentially flat and had
obviously at one time been well farmed.  On either side of the road the land
had been fenced off into large blocks.  It was within these blocks that the earth
had been cultivated.  Irrigation equipment was plainly observable in some of
these fields — big wheeled affairs with aluminum piping attached, still dime
bright in spite of its exposure.  Not as visible, were dirt, single lane
service roads that hinted themselves only by the different type of vegetation
that surrounded the perimeter of the fields in a grid like pattern.

Had
we more time, it would have been worth our effort to explore these fields for fresh
food.  Many times in the past, I’ve found vegetables that have re-seeded and
are available for picking or, in the case of potatoes and carrots, digging.

As
we moved, every once in a while we also passed homes close to the road or seen
in the distance.  These often included large barns and garages as well.  We
didn’t take the time to stop to scavenge on these occasions, even though it’s
these out-of-the-way structures that often yield material of good use.  Since we
were equipped well enough to reach our objective, and time was more important
than comfort, we continued on.

As
we progressed, we more than once also passed over minor streams flowing at
capacity.  In this area, finding fresh water wasn’t difficult, so we were able
to keep our water bottles filled.  Where banks were muddy, we frequently also
saw tracks from wildlife, usually deer, but sometimes dogs or smaller animals as
well.

Three
times in the first four or five hours, we crossed intersecting roads that ran
east and west.  We were unable to find any of them on the map in order to take
measure of our progress, so I reasoned they were minor ones that didn’t lead to
anywhere but other farms and fields.  We took our first break at one of these
intersections, inside a weathered roadside vegetable stand with “Field Fresh”
hand-painted in faded green letters on its walls and offering a bench where undoubtedly
the operators had at one time sat.  It seemed a strange place for such a shop,
unless in good times this Road P we were on was more traveled than I suspect.

After
splitting cans of green beans and tuna, Anna, Gabriel, and I took inventory of
our remaining food and determined a five day rationing plan to make it last. 
While so engaged, I periodically watched Petra and saw her pick white and
yellow flowers from nearby bushes and imagined her with other girls her age
playing tea party or some such thing.  I wish that for her.  Children should
have that time to pretend a world where the worst was a disagreement over who
pours and who passes out the imaginary cookies.

We
marched on and continued to make good progress.  The weather was pleasantly
warm, and I noted things were drying out nicely.  This part of the state was
more arid than that to the west, a fact apparent by the type of vegetation in
growth.

We
stopped near dark, perhaps twelve hours after starting and at least twenty
miles farther south, considering the first of our many steps were spent going
east until we reached Road P.  The place we choose to stop was a house perhaps
a quarter mile from the road.

The
house was built long and low, in the shape of a V, much like geese in flight. 
On one end was an attached garage and set apart was a large combination shop
and barn.  Italian Cypress, fifty feet tall, stood shoulder to shoulder on both
sides and closed off the back yard, which included an algae laden pool, so
thick with green goo it looked like a giant pot of split pea soup.  A wooden
jungle gym, including a fiberglass slide with a sandbox at the bottom, occupied
one corner of the yard.

Anna,
Gabriel, and Petra decided to explore the house while I went to take a look at
the shop.

The
shop was one of those prefab metal types, with a concrete slab floor and
foundation, common to farms in the area.  It had two roll up doors in front and
a single, standard swing door on the side.  As I approached it to investigate,
something else caught my attention and prompted me to postpone my investigation.

It
was a grave yard; a small one, fenced off with pointed white pickets three feet
high and a gate in the middle.  Inside were five graves, each marked with a simple
white cross bearing the name, date of birth, and date of death of the person
buried beneath it.  Planted behind each marker was a flowering plant of some
sort that was just starting to bud but offered no hint as to fragrance or type. 
Three of the markers were easy to read while standing outside the enclosure:
Margaret Thompson (Jan. 20, 2017 to March 9, 2051), Henry “Hank” Thompson (Aug. 3, 2042 to March 27, 2051), Abigail Thompson (November 1, 2044 to April 6, 2051).  A fourth marker, which was on my far right, was obscured by the branches
of the plant rooted behind it.  The fifth grave, well I suppose it wasn’t
really a grave at all, was just an empty hole with the dirt piled next to it
along its length.  The marker at the head of this one read: Hank Thompson Sr. (February 15, 2015 to …) the date of death blank.

I
opened the gate and approached the grave with the marker I couldn’t clearly
read.  I moved the obscuring branch to behind the cross and read Naomi Thompson
(Aug. 10, 2048 to April 4, 2051).  She wasn’t yet three years old when she
died.  Except for one, I supposed it was the entire family, and they all died
within the period of about a month.  I figure it had to be the sickness that
took them.  A lot of families went that way.  My family went that way, though
we were separated by three thousand miles.  Anna’s family went that way. 
Gabriel’s too?  Maybe, but he has yet to talk about it with me.

I
pulled a few weeds that were sprouting on Naomi’s grave, cast them aside,
smoothed the disturbed earth back in place and stood up, wondering about the
man, Hank Sr.  What happened to him?  And suddenly it struck me.  Why hadn’t I
seen it before?  A chill washed over my body.  I felt so stupid.  The graves, they
were tend sister in San Antonioged and ed.  So were the flowers planted near the markers.  The paint didn’t
look weathered, either, at least not like it had been exposed to the elements
for what, a little over three years now.

I
had just started to turn, to warn Anna and Gabriel, when I heard a low down, unfamiliar
voice, “I knew someone like you would be along.”

Behind
me, not three feet away, stood a man holding an axe handle in one hand, his
other tucked inside the pocket of a tan, heavy canvas barn coat.  He looked my
age and was just under six feet tall, with a full beard and blond hair that
reached his shoulders.  The face was leathery and wrinkled, especially around
the eyes, which were pale blue and possessed a sadness of someone who had born
much tragedy.  He looked well fed and healthy enough, though.

My
first thought: what a strange thing to say; I knew someone like you would be
along.  My second thought: Could I get the shotgun up, safety off, and pull the
trigger before he hit me with that axe handle?

He
motioned with the end of the axe handle toward my shotgun and said, “You have
no need for that.  If I’d wanted to, I could have laid you out long ago, and if
I’ve judged you right, you’re not wanting to hurt anyone either.  Not everyone
who comes through here is like you, though.  They’re buried out there.”  He motioned
again with the end of the axe handle out toward the field beyond the graves. 
At that, he turned his back on me and said, “Let’s go find your people.  Close
the gate behind you.”  He walked off in the direction of the house.

I
caught up with him and told him I better go first, thinking that Anna or
Gabriel might not wait to say hello before shooting.  I also asked him if he
was Hank Sr., and he told me he was.

We
found them going through his kitchen cupboards, which, I have to say, made me a
little embarrassed.  After they got over the initial shock, I told Gabriel and
Anna it was all right, that this was his house, and he willed us no harm.  I
could tell Gabriel wasn’t too sure about that, however.  In fact, over the
course of the next several hours, I noticed that he kept his hand, his gun
hand, not too far from the pistol tucked in his waistband.  I think Hank
noticed this, too, but as far as I could tell, no offense was taken.

He
cooked us dinner, venison and boiled carrots, over an alcohol stove of his own design. 
We talked as he did it, co-mingling our various stories with small talk.  It
was a cautious exchange, though.  I know
we
held back, being vague as to
our destination and giving only scant detail of the trouble we’d had with
Ponytail.   I can only assume he did the same.  I didn’t find this odd in any
way what-so-ever.  We were taking his measure and he ours.  It’s what you do
now-a-days when you meet a stranger; either that or, I suppose, try to kill
each other.

As
far as his particular story goes, at least as much as he told us, rather than
write it out in a he said - I said manner, I’m going to do my best to lay it
all out as if it were one continuous narration.  I think it will be easier to
understand that way.  So here goes.

He
told us that when the sister in San Antonioged and first virus wave struck, and it became clear through all
the news reports that it was going to be deadly, he and his family simply put
themselves into quarantine.  They really had everything that they needed on the
farm, and they communicated with their children’s school by computer and phone,
so the kids didn’t miss out on any of their lessons.  As the weeks turned into
months, things got worse.  There were frequent power outages that sometimes
lasted for days, the computers were hit and miss, and eventually the only news
was through government run broadcasts on the emergency channel and even those
were only once in a while.

On
one particular evening, he was walking from the house to the shop, and he saw this
huge flash in the sky.  It lit things up from horizon to horizon for what
seemed like a good four or five minutes and slowly faded to dark.  He continued
on to the shop where he discovered that the lights weren’t working.  At first,
he thought it was just another power failure.  In the past, when that happened,
he would just use the headlights from the truck for light, do whatever it was
he had to do, and shut them off after.  But this time, when he tried to start
the truck it wouldn’t work.  He went back into the house and tried a battery
operated radio they had and couldn’t even get static.  It was the same story
with his PCD (portable communication device).  In fact, everything with micro
circuitry no-longer worked.

Hank
said that at that point, he knew exactly what happened.  He explained that he
read an article in a magazine several years before about electromagnetic pulse
bombs and how when detonated high above the earth’s atmosphere they could make
everything that used modern electrical circuitry to essentially burn out and
stop working.  The article warned of dire consequences in the event our enemies
used one or more of these devices against us.  It said that our whole way of
life would be changed for a very long time.  In an instant, everything that we
had come to rely on would be taken away from us because just about everything
ran with or by micro circuitry.  The author of the article also wrote how the
United States wasn’t prepared to deal with such an event except to have their
own such devices that, it was thought, would act as a deterrent.  Hank kind of laughed
at that and called them fools.

He
went on to say that even without power, communication, transportation, and the
full array of goods and services that had once been available to them, things
were still bearable.  They grew their own food and hand pumped water, so they
had plenty to eat and drink.  They preserved fruits and vegetables during the
summer for use in the winter.  They hunted and raised chickens for meat, burned
wood for heat, and re-invented alcohol lamps for light.  They also continued to
home school their children and entertained themselves with board games, reading,
drawing, and things like that.  In short, they did okay.

Things
continued to change for the worse, though.  People would occasionally stop by
looking for food.  Others would just help themselves to what was growing in his
fields.  Most of these people were from the cities.  Apparently, once the
grocery stores were empty, they decided to look for food elsewhere.  When he
came across someone trying to steal food, he’d usually just run them off with a
little bird shot from his shotgun.  The ones with small kids, though, he’d give
some food to as long as they promised to move along.