Alone, Book 3: The Journey (25 page)

     Dave used to joke that the gym would get a lot more business if they left a bowl of chocolates at the counter for people to eat when they signed out.

     Sarah, on the other hand, used to tell him to shut up and punch him in the arm.

     He missed her now more than ever. He even missed the punches in the arm.

     “I’m not afraid of you,” he’d say when she tried to be tough. “You hit like a girl, and I can run faster than you.”

     She’d smile and respond, “Maybe. But you can’t run faster than a bullet.”

     If she was particularly angry about something, she might say, “Honey, you look very tired. Why don’t you go upstairs and go to sleep?”

     There was something about the way she said the last part, “go to sleep,” that made him wonder. If he did go upstairs and go to sleep, would he ever wake up again?”

     When Sarah pulled that particular stunt, Dave always went out of his way to make amends for whatever transgression he’d done. And all the while he’d be reminding her how beautiful she was.

     And how nonviolent.

     And how the girls sure did love their father and would miss him terribly if something happened to him.

     She once responded, “Only until my next husband came along.”

     That stopped Dave short in his tracks.

     “You’re kidding, right?”

     “Maybe. I don’t know. It depends on what
you’re
making for dinner tonight.”

     Dave remembered swallowing hard and then replying, “chicken spaghetti, I guess.”

     It was one of the few things Dave could make without screwing up, and that the whole family liked.

     “I don’t know,” Sarah had replied. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for chicken spaghetti tonight. I think I’d rather go out to Le Madeline’s. Then, and only then, will I be kidding about my next husband.”

     Another time, Dave decided to turn the tables on her. When she was being particularly grumpy, he stated nonchalantly, “You know, I think I’ll marry a blonde next time around.”

     Before he said so, though, he walked around to the other side of their dining room table.

     It wasn’t that he was afraid of her, necessarily. It was just that, well, two hundred pounds of heavy oak would do an excellent job of protecting the family jewels.

     Sarah, for her part, didn’t skip a beat or draw a breath.

     She simply pointed and said, “There’s the door.”

     Dave was enjoying the trip down memory lane. It seemed that every fun moment he remembered with Sarah generated another.

     He actually smiled when he recalled the time he and Sarah had had a vicious argument. He couldn’t recall what it was about. Probably something insignificant or stupid. They almost always were.

     After the dust settled, though, he walked into the dining room to find Sarah sitting there with a legal pad and a pen. She was closely examining a letter he’d written to her while he was in Iraq, and was attempting to copy his handwriting style.

     “Whatcha doing, honey?”

     “Writing your suicide note.”

     It so happened that was a week before the annual Halloween costume party they hosted every year.

     That year, Sarah was a fairy princess.

     Dave was a pirate, who went around the room telling everyone he knew, and even those he didn’t, the same lame joke.

     “What’s a pirate’s favorite letter of the alphabet?”

     “Gee, Dave, I don’t know. What?”

     “Arrrr…”

     On that particular evening, Sarah had her own story to tell, and it was much funnier than Dave’s.

     Sarah told the story of the suicide note.

     And how Dave had turned white as a sheet.

     And volunteered to do the dishes for five straight nights.

     He shook his head. As much fun as it was to relive old memories, he needed to put his game face on. How he approached the farm, and how he assessed the situation once he was there, was critical not only for his survival, but for the safety of his family as well.

     He knew, for example, that his in-laws were preppers.

     As preppers, security would be a key element of their survival.

     It was entirely possible that they’d allow some friends or neighbors to join them on their farm after the blackout.

     More people meant the food and water would be consumed at a faster rate, sure.

     But with more people to help raise the food, and to gather the water, there would be much more available.

     So that part of the equation should be a wash.

     Security was another issue. Each additional person in the group was another person who could keep watch against looters or other aggressors.

     So it was entirely conceivable that his in-laws might bring others into their group to make them all more secure.

     The problem, as Dave saw it, was that the friends or neighbors would not know Dave from Adam, and might not believe that he meant them no harm.

     In a world where hardened criminals roamed, a policy of “shoot first, ask questions later” might well be the order of the day.

     And Dave had come too far, had been through too much, to be killed by friendly fire.

     He formulated what he thought would be a foolproof plan.

     First, he would scout out the farm in the daytime, from a distance. He would go in unarmed and shirtless, so that if he was spotted, he’d be deemed of no danger to anyone.

     He’d also leave his backpack behind.

     All he would have with him would be his binoculars, and he would drop them instantly if challenged.

     In the daytime, even from a quarter mile away, he’d be able to get a good look at the lay of the land. Where the guard posts were, which route the sentries walked, and anything else pertinent to the second part of his plan.

     The second part of the plan would be to come back at night, wearing his night vision goggles, and to plant a marker where he knew for sure they’d find it. Say, on the path he saw them take to collect water. Or on the path the daytime sentries walked several times a day.

     The marker would be a sign, made with a sheet of paper from his journal, that said simply, “I am Dave Speer. I am Sarah’s husband. I mean you no harm. If I may be granted entry, simply remove this sign, and I will walk in unarmed around sundown.

     “If you leave this sign in place, I will stay off your property and await further instructions from you on how to proceed.”

     Hopefully the sign would be gone when he came back the following day.

     Despite Red’s warnings that he should always have a backup plan, he couldn’t come up with one in the event they left the sign in place.

     That would mean, in essence, that they didn’t want him around.

     Which would mean… what, exactly?

     Would that mean that Sarah and the girls weren’t there after all?

     That they hadn’t survived?

     Or that they were there but had left?

     Perhaps they already set out themselves, with the intent of returning to San Antonio.

     He hoped that wasn’t the case. He saw how dangerous it was out there. And he couldn’t stand the thought of them making the journey without him.

     He suddenly had a vision of Sarah and the girls stopping in Blanco, Texas and trying to steal food or water from one of the merchants there.

     He shook the vision from his head as quickly as it had come.

     No. They’ll remove his marker. They’ll let him in.

     They just have to.

Chapter 54

     Dave had spent enough time in the field, training with his fellow Marines, to know that personal hygiene sometimes suffers after several long days on the grind.

     In Fallujah, especially, where water was in short supply, he’d learned that men don’t smell very well without showers.

     He once told his lieutenant, when trying to arrange for a portable shower for his men, “Rank isn’t just what you wear on your sleeve. It’s also how you describe a Marine after eight days in the desert.”

     It was funny how a man who hasn’t showered in several days learns to embrace his own funk, or to not notice it. But he notices how bad others smell.

     He chuckled, wondering how Red could bring herself to lying beside him for several days on those narrow bunks.

     It never occurred to him when Red was traveling with him to do something about it.

     But Dave figured he owed it to Sarah, and to his girls, to clean himself before going on the final leg of his mission.

     He wanted his family to embrace him, not to keep him at arm’s length and hold their noses.

     Dave was a good Marine. And the Corps was good for him, in turn.

     It taught him many things that came in handy, either in the desert or in the aftermath of the blackout.

     He learned he could stay relatively cool, even in hundred degree heat, simply by taking his t-shirt off, saturating it with water, and putting it back on.

     It always took his breath away at first. But for an hour or so, until it dried, he was comfortable. It wasn’t air conditioning. But it was pretty darn close.

     He learned he could keep his mouth moist, even in the driest desert conditions, simply by placing a smooth pebble under his tongue to keep his mouth watered.

     He learned that in the absence of lip balm, axle grease from a Hummer or a tank did a darn good job in preventing or soothing chapped lips.

     He learned to watch the color of his urine, for early signs he was getting dehydrated.

     And, he learned that baby wipes are a respectable substitute for a shower when a shower isn’t available.

     When he was in Iraq, he asked Sarah to send him a canister of baby wipes in his next care package.

     “The ones that smell like baby powder,” he’d told her. “I like the way they smell.”

     She complied, and others in his platoon noticed the smell.

     “How come it smells like a baby’s butt in here?” his lieutenant wanted to know at roll call.

     Dave sheepishly replied, “Sorry. That’s me, sir.”

     “Well, I like it. It smells better than funk. Share your secret with these other guys.”

     Before long, Sarah was sending three or four canisters in each care package. Dave would use what he needed and trade the rest for candy bars or sports magazines.

     Apparently over the road truckers also discovered that baby wipes aren’t just for babies’ bottoms.

     Dave spent his last night before trekking out to the farm in a Ford Freightliner on Highway 73.

     On the small shelf beneath a tiny shaving mirror in the sleeper cab was a container of baby wipes, next to a can of spray deodorant.

     Luckily the trucker had the forethought to keep the cap on the container sealed tightly. After a year, the wipes were still moist.

     Dave spent half an hour wiping the toxic fumes from his body, feeling and smelling more like a baby’s butt with every dirty wipe he tossed aside.

     Then he shaved the half inch long beard from his face.

     His hair was dirty and long enough now to put into a ponytail, but he decided to let it hang freely for now. Maybe somebody at the farm could give him a much-needed haircut.

     He couldn’t do anything about his chipped front tooth, or the abrasions on his face that still hadn’t healed.

     But the swelling was gone now, as were most of the bruises.

     He tried to ignore the fact that his nose was now very slightly crooked from having been broken. Maybe if he pretended it wasn’t, others wouldn’t notice it.

     He wondered if he walked around with his head slightly crooked, whether it would make his nose appear straight.

     Probably not.

     When he was finished, examining himself in the tiny mirror, he decided that he didn’t look half bad.

     It was time to go.