Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (5 page)

After the harrowing escape from Amarillo, he’d finally found the truck stop, relieved that it didn’t seem to be enveloped by either flames or chaos. His fuel gauge had reached the “E” a few mile markers back.

There were just over 20 rigs parked in the murky lot, a smattering of 4-wheelers rounding out the local population. While the high-rise signs and pump islands were completely dark, he was encouraged to see light shining through the greasy spoon’s windows.

After parking the tractor, he cautiously entered the small facility and found himself in a room full of curious faces staring up at him. A diverse assortment of candles was scattered around the space.

A middle-aged woman approached the new arrival, her apron and plastic nametag obviously identifying her as a waitress. “Hello,” she greeted. “Welcome to our little corner of the apocalypse. Did you come in from the east or west?”

“East. And let me tell you, the world has gone completely insane.”

“That’s what we’ve been hearing. We’re all hanging out here until this blows over,” she replied, and then added, “Fernando, one of the cooks, tried to go back to his apartment in Amarillo two days ago. He came back with bullet holes in his windshield. My sister was supposed to pick me up after my shift. She never showed. The last television images we saw before the power went out made everyone decide to stay right here. We’re all trying to huddle together and ride out the storm.”

The electricity had been off three days. Fuel couldn’t be pumped, and the restaurant’s deep freezers had become refrigerators and would soon be cupboards. Everyone was sharing in the feast before it all spoiled. Cole, having not had a meal in a while, wasted no time in ordering up a quarter-pound cheeseburger. One of the cooks used an old BBQ grill out back to prepare the food.

The first few days flew by, frustration and stress filling most of the hours as everyone gathered in the café, chatting and staring out the windows at the empty interstate beyond. People exchanged stories and rumors, milling about from group to group.

Occasionally a car or truck passed by, a few even pulled off and inquired about gasoline. Most went on their way, heading into the distance with few words exchanged. The travelers told one consistent story – the outside world had gone mad.

Cole, procrastinating over preparing the snared bird, decided to inspect the banging tin wall instead. As he approached the makeshift structure, his mind filled with perspective. Ten years ago, only homeless people lived under overpasses. “Those folks weren’t so crazy after all,” he mused.

He had slept in the Kenworth’s bunk until the truck refused to start from lack of fuel. Without air conditioning, the New Mexico heat made those accommodations untenable. His next rack had been inside the restaurant, joining the majority who had taken to sleeping on the floors, booths and even the countertop.

Again, without AC, the interior of the building was stifling. The body odor and stench of spoiled food didn’t help matters, but it was shelter. The days were incredibly hot, the nights bone chilling cold. They were down to drinking the melted freezer ice, the last of bulk dry goods being consumed quickly.  

And then one morning everything changed.

He would never know if it were a toppled candle, careless cigarette, or a stray ember from the grill. All that Cole could remember was waking up and not being able to breathe. He’d been dreaming a bear was sitting on his chest, and that ended up being close to reality.

The diner was completely filled with smoke, the acidic air burning eyes, skin, and lungs. He was confused, unable to remember exactly where the door was. In his mad scramble to get out of the ash-filled coffin, he tripped over another driver, and that saved his life.

Just as every school-aged child learns, heat rises. He found himself able to inhale on the floor, the visibility down low much improved.

He clambered for the door, scooting across the linoleum tile on his belly like a snake after a rat. When he finally managed the parking lot, he found himself alone. There were 50 people still inside the sizzling structure.

Cole located
a shovel and rushed to the front of the building. Flames were now visible along the roofline, the fire spreading quickly. He swung the metal head against the large glass panes of the main windows, shards exploding inward. Immediately, the new openings filled with columns of black smoke tempered with soot.

Again and again, he shattered window glass, hoping the noise would wake some, praying the rush of air would clear the way for others. He knew the oxygen would fuel the flames, but if the people inside could catch a chest full of fresh air, they might make it out.

A few more people managed to stumble through the door, coughing and spitting the foulness from their lungs. Some had made it, but not many.

Taking a few deep breaths, Cole inhaled a final time and rushed back inside. A few feet past the threshold, he fell to his knees and screamed, “Come toward me. The door is at the sound of my voice! Come to me!”

He could see a few pairs of staggering legs, heard someone crying and another coughing violently. He reached out and pulled the nearest person down. “Crawl out! That way!” he instructed.

The smoke was getting worse, the swirling layer of gray and black threatening to occupy the crawl space. Cole found an arm and tugged, pulling the owner down low and motivating them to move out.

The next person he would grab was a woman, but she had already succumbed to the smoke. One deep breath, and Cole lifted her unresponsive body onto his shoulder and retraced his steps to the door. He bumped into two more men now rushing back in to help others. Making it outside into the cool, fresh air, he set his victim down and listened for her to inhale. Within a minute, she was sputtering and coughing – but alive.

Only half of them survived the fire, the population of the truck stop reduced to 24 lost and shattered souls standing back and watching their only shelter and source of food go up in smoke. 

For hours, they could do nothing but gawk. Embers ignited many of the nearby vehicles, including the trailer that now housed the trapped bird. The fire had burned for two days, its eerie glow deepening the darkening shadows under the onlookers’ eyes.

For the next few days, everyone was in a daze. Exhaustion was one of the primary reasons, as sleeping in one’s vehicle wasn’t an option. Oven hot by day and icebox cold at night, the southwestern desert didn’t lend itself to enclosed metal structures. Some of the residents were creative, building sunshades and erecting enclosures from scavenged materials in an attempt to avoid the elements, but they didn’t help much.

It was purely by accident that one of the drivers discovered the comforts provided by the structure of the overpass. Anything consumable was gone, hunger gnawing at every stomach. The old trucker had been sitting in his cab when he noticed two rabbits nibbling at the weeds now dominating the exit ramps. Sensing a meal, his journey took him under the bridge where the air temperature was several degrees cooler. He’d moved in permanently by the end of the day.

One by one, the entire community had joined him, building barricades to keep out the blowing sands and searing sun, relocating anything salvageable to the ever-expanding concrete condominiums.

Cole identified the malfunctioning nail, the head rusted off and providing no grip. He couldn’t remember where he’d left the other nails.

The condos, as everyone called them, had gradually become quite the complex structure. Foraging construction materials wherever they could be found, the residents of the overpass had spent the seemingly never-ending days trying to improve their existence. The result was an architectural wonder.

One of the many benefits to living under a bridge was temperature control. The overhead deck provided shade and absorbed heat during the scorching days. That heat radiated through the concrete structure to provide some warmth during the cold nights. It was probably an accident of design, but the occasional desert breeze seemed to channel under the bridge as well. Anything beat living in a car or out in the open under a lean-to. Both alternatives had been tried and had been determined to offer substandard accommodations.

But the best feature of all was defense, and the community had needed it.

He would never understand it. They had nothing, yet the raiders came. The people of the overpass were starving and possessed nothing of value, but the thieves, looters and thugs harassed them anyway.

Cole shook his head, glancing up at a series of bullet holes in a nearby wall. He couldn’t remember which attack that had been, but it didn’t matter.

They had welcomed the first carload of men, the rare sound of a running engine drawing everyone’s attention. Four of them had exited the luxury sedan, all brandishing rifles and acting like bad-asses. Cole and the others had waved and greeted with friendly smiles, anxious for any news from the outside world.

When it became clear to the visitors that the people of the overpass were a docile group, the encroachers had taken to searching the area. They found nothing of interest but the youngest waitress. She didn’t resist going with them at first, thoughts of fleeing the overpass filling her mind. Cole tried to warn her – an effort that earned him a rifle butt in the stomach. When she reconsidered her escape plan, they had dragged her, kicking and screaming into the car and driven off.

After that first incident, the residents realized security was important and inventoried their resources. A few of the truckers carried pistols in their cabs. Another man had a 30-06 hunting rifle, purchased along with two boxes of shells from a Fort Worth pawnshop for his brother-in-law.

The raids were random and unpredictable. Two men on dirt bikes traveling through the desert. Another bunch driving a class-A motorhome down I-40.

Not every encounter involved conflict. A family from the Mid-west, returning from an extended camping trip in the mountains north of Santa Fe, had joined the community. They had brought a book describing assorted uses of local plants and wildlife - a godsend for the community. Those folks had easily assimilated into the fledgling municipality. Another morning, Cole woke to find three horsemen sitting on their mounts right outside his condo. Fortunately, they had only been looking for water.

It quickly became obvious that surprise was the worst enemy to their collective survival. They had set about trying to devise traps and warning devices. It had worked, probably saving a few lives in the process.   

Cole glanced around, trying to remember where he’d left the nails. He had spent an entire afternoon with a hammer, pounding out the connectors from the charred timbers of the truck stop. A small outbuilding had survived the fire. It had been quickly disassembled for condo raw materials.

The nails were over by one of the traps
, he remembered. The last storm had washed out part of the intersecting state highway. They had covered the newly created ditch with a tarp, driving the nails into the pavement to hold the mat’s cover in place. They had covered the canvas with a thin layer of sand, making it appear as a drift – a sight now common given the absence of road crews. He made a mental note to retrieve the connectors and fix the thumping tin wall.

“Those were optimistic times,” he mumbled, thinking about building the traps. “We had purpose and energy. We cared about survival then. Now, I’m not so sure I give a shit.”

The semi-trailers had been scavenged next. Most of the truckers carried tool kits inside of the rigs, so there wasn’t a shortage of equipment. Trailer panels had been disassembled, tarps and rope utilized for snares and shelter.
We are like the buzzards
, Cole’s thoughts repeating.
We scavenge the dead.

Seats were removed from cars, some of the creative residents configuring quite comfortable living and sleeping spaces. The waitresses even had curtains over a small opening in their condo. A window, they called it. He thought it still looked like a hole.

Most of the drivers had bunks in their cabs, the cushions soon relocated to overpass cubbyholes. Spare sheets and pillows became contentious bartering items those first few months.

Firewood for cooking and warmth hadn’t been an issue at first. The remnants of the truck stop had provided an ample supply. But that eventually ran out, leading to foraging excursions in the surrounding desert. Dead cactus did burn, but it took armloads to keep a fire going overnight. They didn’t have any choice. When the first residents had died, they’d made markers for the graves. Firewood became a higher priority, so the burial yard was now marked with small piles of desert stones. There were too many monuments.

The population of the truck stop had been just over 60 people when Cole had pulled in that first night. They had lost 20 to fire, another 6 to sickness and infection. Four had taken the walk to nowhere. Seven had been lost to raiders. Two more had just decided life was no longer worth living.

The buzzard fussed again, almost as if it were aware of its fate. Cole returned his attention to the task at hand, moving toward the trap and the grisly job ahead.

Texas – New Mexico border

July 23

The two-lane highway was heading mostly north, occasionally bending to the west. The New Mexico desert was practically void of vegetation here, only the occasional clump of growth appearing in the pickup’s headlights.