The Last Tribe (9 page)

“Do we care what time it is?”  Paul
said from his couch.  He lay on his back and stretched his arms in front of his
head, letting out a slight groan.  “I have to get up too.  I’m starving and I
have to go to the bathroom.”

“I haven’t slept that well in a
long, long time.  I was warm.  I felt safe.  I knew I couldn’t go anywhere, and
I wasn’t in a hurry to get to the next place.  That was my best night’s sleep
in probably five months, since I read about the flu in Brazil.”  Hank sat on
the hearth in navy long johns and a red waffle shirt.

“Yeah, I know.  Even two nights ago
in Harrisburg, I was antsy to get to Hanover.  I didn’t sleep well.  And, well,
it wasn’t comfortable.  This fireplace is awesome.”  Paul sat up on his couch. 
“I’ll brave the kitchen and light the woodstove.  I made it after you went to
bed, should just take a match.”  He stood and went into the other room.

Hank walked to the front of the
house.  He looked out the bank of windows.  “Holy shit.”  He said to himself. 
The sun was shining, but everything outside was white.  There was at least a
foot of snow on the ground, probably more.  He and Paul were not going to
Hanover today, not on motorcycles.

Paul came back through the door. 
“Fire is on.  The kitchen will be warm soon, and we’ll be eating something
good.”

“I hope we have a lot of food here,
because unless we find a snowcat, or wrecker with a plow, we might be here a
while.  I know I was joking when I said June, but, well, it might be June.” 

Paul was used to Hank exaggerating
and being too serious, “Okay, calm down.  I’m sure we’ll be able to get
going…”  Paul walked across the room to look out the window.  He let out a
small gasp.  “Well, we do have a lot of food in the kitchen, and I mean a lot
of food.”  He picked up a digital thermometer on one of the window sills in the
dining area.  It read 11 degrees.  “Look at the temp.  It dropped 40 degrees
from lunch yesterday.”    Paul let out a small chuckle.  “Hey, no school.” 

Hank was not amused.

“Where the hell are we anyway? 
Rutland?  There has to be a tourist map or info sheet in this place.  It’s a
hotel.  I’m going to investigate while you make breakfast.  I’m sure we can
find a truck to get us over the mountains to Hanover.  Worst case is we’re
stuck here for a while.  It’s 11 outside, but I bet it’s 60 in here, warmer on
the couches.  As long as we have wood, we are going to be warm and dry.”  The
feeling of calm and happiness Hank felt when he woke were gone, replaced by
panic.  He felt trapped.

“Let me give you the good news
then.”  Paul placed his hand on Hank’s shoulder.  “Grab your headlamp.  You have
to see this kitchen.” 

Hank grabbed his headlamp and a
flashlight and followed his brother into the kitchen.  Hank had not been in the
room yet.  He was impressed with how nice a kitchen it was, outfitted in high-end,
restaurant grade appliances.  It was immaculate, and noticeably warmer than the
front room.  The woodstove kept in the corner as a novelty heated the backroom
quickly and efficiently.

“This place is fantastic.”  Hank
said as he looked around.  Hank was an avid cook before the rapture.  “I could
do some damage here.”

Paul’s voice could be heard from
behind a large open door.  “That’s not what I want you to see.  Check out the
pantry I found last night.”  Hank saw a metal door with a large silver handle. 
It looked like a walk in freezer, but was instead a pantry large enough for a
mini cooper or punch buggy.  Hank walked to the other side of the door to inspect
the storage room.  Paul stood in the middle, his arms outstretched to either side
to emphasize the amazing find.

There was more food in the pantry
than either of them could imagine, good canned food in perfect condition. 
There were vegetables, fruits, canned meats, canned fish, broths, and coffees. 
The pantry went from floor to ceiling with shelves eight feet high and two feet
deep.  There appeared to be six to twelve months of food.

“What do you think?  Were these
people preppers?  Did they plan for the apocalypse?”  Paul picked up a can of
salmon.

“I bet they stocked up for the high
season, made sure they had plenty of food for the winter months, maybe used
their cash at the end of the previous year to stock up on things for next year. 
If they bought throughout the summer and kept things in here, they wouldn’t
have to worry about food prices or their winter cash flow as much.  I don’t
know.”  Hank picked up a light blue can, turning the label to show Paul.  “Do
you really think preppers would stock high end organic broth?  People prepping
for the end of the world are about utility, not gourmet.” Hank was impressed
with the quality of the ingredients.  He was also excited to see meat and
fruit.  He had eaten enough soup and instant rice for a while. 

“Look at the pastry section; flour,
yeast, sugar.  I am making bread tonight, oh man, I haven’t had a piece of
bread in three months.”  Hank pointed at the dry goods shelves with excitement. 
He grabbed a box of pancake mix.  “Hey, how about pancakes?  Let’s do
pancakes!”  He was as giddy as a little kid.  It was a wild Maine blueberry pancake
mix.  “We don’t have eggs, but we can do without eggs.  Oh man, real syrup,
pancakes.  Being stranded with you might not be so bad.”  Hank’s mood changed
again.  He was no longer scared and trapped.  He had warmth, shelter, food, and
companionship.  

“Ummm, okay, you’re scaring me a
little.  Are you really that fired up about blueberry pancakes?”  Paul was
excited to find the food, but Hank’s enthusiasm bordered on maniacal.  “You’re
acting like you haven’t eaten real food in months.”

“I haven’t!”  Hank shouted back. 
He left the pantry in search of a bowl to mix his pancakes.  “Pull out that
mini solar radio thing.  Let’s get some music going.  I want a full belly
before I think about being stuck in Rutland, Vermont for the next four
months.”  Hank, having found a bowl, opened drawers looking for measuring cups.

Paul tried the door next to the
pantry and found steps that led to a wine cellar and additional food, including
cured meats and cheeses imported from Italy and France.  The Rutland Inn was a jackpot. 

Hank was right about the owners. 
Their names were Steve and Nicole.  Running the B&B was their second
career.  They left lives in academia at the ages of 50.  The Inn catered to
skiers in the winter and leaf peepers in the fall.  Each spring they used their
cash to purchase food throughout the summer months, whenever high end items were
on sale.  The couple took in a few boarders in the spring and summer months,
but mostly prepared for the high season of October through April.  Every July
and August Steve and Nicole closed the Inn and travelled to Europe.  They did
not make it back to the U.S. this trip, dying in a Venice hotel from the
rapture one day apart.  No one thought to loot a three star bed and breakfast
on a busy street in Rutland.  The Inn remained untouched until Paul and Hank
stumbled into the front door that December, a door left unlocked by the friend
who was collecting packages, fliers, and newspapers.  Rutland was a safe town. 
People seldom locked their doors anyway.

The blueberry pancakes were Nicole’s
favorite brand.  Hank and Paul would never know the story of the people who
saved their lives in Rutland that winter.  They would never know that Nicole
taught psychology at Indiana University, while Steve taught English Literature
at the local community college.  No one was alive to remember how Steve declined
repeated offers to teach at several Universities, believing community colleges filled
an educational void when state colleges decided to compete with private
universities for money and rankings.  Nicole was a trained pastry chef. Steve
was a triathlete.  Their story was gone, like billions of other stories taken
from the world in just five short months by a disease no one saw coming or had
time to understand.  Steve’s favorite picture of the couple hung in the lobby, taken
as they stood on the steps of a random old building in Italy. 

Hank and Paul sat at one of the
tables in the dining area.  The fire was going strong.  They were comfortable
in pants and long-sleeved shirts.  Their empty pancake plates in front of them
as they looked outside at the snow.

“We’re not going anywhere today.” 
Paul said, breaking their silence.  “I’m tired.  Let’s enjoy the day at the
hotel.  We have food.  We’re 50 miles from Hanover.  I say we take a break. 
I’d like a break.  I’ve been stressed out and planning crap for months.  I want
a day off.”

“You know what?  I agree.  I might research
the area with the maps and guide books from the lobby desk, but you’re right. 
Let’s enjoy the day.”  Hank sipped his coffee.  “When was the last time you had
coffee?  It’s been three months for me.  Man, I miss coffee.”

“Seriously?  It’s only been three
days for me.  I had coffee the morning I rode up to see you.  Not all of us
lived in a hole in the ground for two months.  Actually, I lived quite nicely. 
I had food and music.  I read books.  I was lonely and bored, but I had coffee
and some of the finer things in life to keep me comfortable.”

“Asshole.  I didn’t have coffee.  I
drank dirty water most of the time.  It was purified, but it had dirt in it.”

Paul stared at his brother, “I’m
sorry about your family, Hank.   I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help.”

“You lost too, Paul.  We both lost
everything.  I won’t forget, but I have to move on.”  He took another sip of
coffee.  “I cried a lot.  I still hurt, but I have to fight forward.”

“Yeah, I know. “  Paul nodded and
looked down at his feet.  “So,” he said, looking back up.  “Why, exactly, were
you living in a hole for two months?  What the hell were you thinking?”  Paul was
dying to ask Hank the question for the last three days, but they never had the
time to talk.  Riding motorcycles tandem across the country was not conducive
to long conversations.

“I was trying to lose weight.  If I
had stayed in my house, like you did, I would have continued to live my
unhealthy lifestyle.  Think of my hole as a self imposed eating intervention.” 
Hank’s wry smile emphasized his sarcasm. 

“I’m all for the new trimmer Hank,
but seriously, were there government roundups in Dayton or something?  Was the
military patrolling?  What’s up?”  Paul did not have issues in Cincinnati.  His
house was off the beaten path.  Hank’s house was two blocks from a hospital,
next to a school, near a highway, near stores.  Hank was not downtown Washington
DC, but his house was more conspicuous than most.

“You know the golf course was my
social network, right?”  Hank started.

“Yeah, and a few work people.” 
Paul replied.

“Yeah, but work was pretty far
away.  When all the crap hit the fan, I was in Dayton.  There were five of us
that weren’t getting sick.  Panic was pretty much everywhere.  Cell phones
still worked.  The five of us would keep in touch.”  He paused.  “The girls
were sick.  I spent my time caring for them, although as you know, there wasn’t
much to do.  They didn’t eat anything, or hardly anything, and they weren’t
uncomfortable.  I was more or less just spending time with them, trying to
nurse them back to health, keep them alive for a cure.  Enjoying my last days
with them.”  Hank sighed.

“Anyway, I would keep tabs on my
friends, who was sick, who was already dead, what people planned to do.  Like I
said, there were five of us that were healthy, or at least five of us that
weren’t sick yet.  We were conferencing in with each other, three of the guys
hadn’t eaten in a day or so, but they didn’t have fevers.  They were telling us
they were okay, just not hungry from all the excitement and worry.  I knew they
were dead, I’m sure they knew too, but you tell yourself whatever you need to
tell yourself to get up the next morning.”  He took another sip of coffee.

“So Fritzie is one of these five
people, and we’re all on the phone together.  He is talking about how he is
eating, he’s not sick, he’s been out and about recently, went to one of the
government meetings going on every night.  He asked me to go, but I stayed home
with the girls.  He said they had scanners you walked through when you came
into the hall, checking body temps, seeing if anyone was contagious.  He is
literally the only person that pops a 98.6, everyone else is 100 degrees or
more.  He was laughing about it to us, how funny it was.”  Hank set his cup
down.

“He’s on the phone and his doorbell
rings.  He slips his phone into his pocket.  The rest of us can hear what’s
happening.  We hear him answering the door.  I’m screaming, don’t answer the
door, hide, run, don’t get the door, but he ignores my screams.  All we hear is
him saying ‘yes officers’ and then we hear a scuffle and the phone is dead.  He
was gone.”

Paul looked at his brother. 
“You’re kidding.”

“I waited for the girls to die.  I
buried them.  I burned the house.  I was nervous about talking on the phone
with all of you after Fritzie was taken, but I had to know the plan.  I had to
know where to go.” 

“I can’t believe the government, as
desperate as it was, would snatch people up like you describe.  It had to be
something else.”

“I went to his house a day later,
late at night, like some fat ninja dressed in black sweats.  His front door was
still open and his cell phone was on the ground, smashed.  You believe what you
want to believe, but I know what happened.  I crawled into a hole I made for
myself and drank muddy water for two months.  It was a better alternative to
being grabbed by the Feds.”

“Did you hear the stats on how many
they thought would live?”  Paul asked.  “You had a radio, right?  Something to
stay connected?”

“I monitored the broadcasts a
little.  I tried to make my batteries last.  I didn’t have the radio on all the
time.”