Renewal 7 - When the Student Is Ready (8 page)

“Right. You couldn’t get away, since the rest of the pack was waiting to block the only exit... What did you do?”

“I remember thinking I’d had enough. I got pissed off. I remember the beginning of the fight, hitting Joe, and the end of the fight. Everything in the middle was a blur. I can’t remember it.”

“Dusty saw it. He said you were going through them like a tornado. He couldn’t see much of what you did either. He just saw guys falling and you moving too fast to track. Then it was over, and you took off before you got in trouble. I’d bet no one messed with you after that.”

“No, come to think of it. Joe tried to be my best friend after the fight. He still invites me to his family’s house for Christmas.” Terry said.

“Well, Dusty came out and gave us a report. You remember, not long after that, he approached you and told you about the Reclamation Engineers?” Kirk asked.

“Yeah, I do. You know, I’m halfway between flattered and angry right now.” Terry said, taking another chug of his beer.

“I understand. You’re sort of happy that we liked what we saw, and pissed off at having your life manipulated by total strangers.”

“Something like that...” Terry agreed.

“Was it worth it?”

Terry thought through another drink of beer and replied, “Yeah, it was.”

“Excellent, my boy. Let’s get started.”

Chapter 7 – 9

We took everything that wasn’t bolted down. Arturo worked on getting the tractor started while the rest of us packed under Dad’s organizational direction and stacked our collection of worldly goods on the hay wagon. Unless Eugene decided to come right back, we had plenty of time. The July sun was still well above the trees. It struck me how strange it was to watch a still-icy landscape in a long summer sunset.

With the help of two sets of jumper cables, the station wagon, and the battery from George’s old truck, Arturo finally cranked the old diesel engine to life. He sat still as he waited for the idle to smooth out. Dad had warned him that the severe cold may have turned the engine into a fragile collection of parts. After the tractor ran smoothly for a few minutes, Arturo visibly relaxed, and stirred the gearshift lever around until he found a grinding reverse. The tractor leaped into motion. Arturo backed over to George’s fuel storage tank in a weaving pattern through the crusty snow.

Diesel fuel stores well, but there was great concern over what the cold may have done to it. It could have separated into chemical layers, or it might be congealed into some kind of gel. In hopes of a better result, Arturo carefully ran the tractor’s hay spike through the metal loading loops on the tank, and worked the hydraulics up and down to mix whatever was in the tank. He and Dad used the hand pump to pour some out on the ground. They looked and sniffed and decided it was usable. Dad went back to the loading while Arturo filled the tractor’s tank to the brim. The engine continued to idle smoothly by fifty-year-old tractor standards, and once again, we all felt the relief.

Without the tractor, we would have been forced to leave almost everything behind. We would be reduced to whatever we could stuff into our packs and carry on our backs. We had no doubt that anything of value would be gone by this time tomorrow.

Every loose material went on the hay wagon, stacked flat to make a platform for the bulkier items. The stoves were wrestled onto the front edge with the idea that they would make a good heavy wall for looser supplies. We pulled all the extra stoves from the sheds, and even the charred one from the Carroll’s former home. Plastic tarps were used to contain our gear, and more tarps went on top. Dad tried pulling the outside tarps from the hay walls around the barn, but they were too brittle to survive any real motion. When he tugged, they broke into blue plastic flakes and showered to the ground.

When everything from the barn was bundled onto the hay wagon, it looked like the Grinch’s sleigh after he raided Whoville, with one exception. There was still twelve feet of empty wagon on the back. Dad retrieved an old chain from the tack room, and lashed the fuel tank to the hay spike. Arturo put the tractor in first gear, crept across the yard, and lifted the tank high enough to place it right behind our big blue pile of stuff. We were fortunate that George hadn’t filled it right before the Breakdown. There was no way the tractor could have lifted a full tank.

The next logical step was to use the rest of the space to carry other farm implements. You never know what comes in handy after the end of the world. The process of stacking a plow, a disc harrow, a tractor platform, a hay rake, the front end loader bucket, and some kind of seeder on the back of the wagon was slow and tedious, but seemed balanced enough to travel when they were done. The rest of us stood back and waited for whatever horrible collapse would ensue. To my simultaneous relief and disappointment, everything stayed. To take the Grinch image a little further, the last item Dad took was the ropes we had used as handrails during the endless blizzard. He and Arturo used them to tie the precarious pile of farm implements in place. Now the question was whether the tractor could pull the monstrosity we had built.

Starting the station wagon was difficult. Unlike the diesel tractor, it ran on gasoline, and clearly that fuel was not in peak condition. It would run with some throttle, but it wouldn’t idle at all. Dad proved his mechanical skills again by doing something to the carburetor, something blasphemous from what we could hear, until the car was willing to lump along without someone’s foot on the pedal. The idle was fast enough to make shifting slightly dangerous, as we found out when Arturo used the column shifter.

Dad drove the tractor, and the rest of us piled into the station wagon. The plan was for us to follow him down the road, watching for falling junk. We hoped nothing fell, because using the horn seemed like a bad idea with our new neighbors wandering around. With his foot planted firmly on the brake, Arturo shifted the lever. The car snagged reverse instantly, and lurched backwards. Then, he passed through neutral and the engine revved hard. He dropped it all the way to low gear and the car lurched in the other direction before he finally released the brake and let the tires spin.

Meanwhile, we had loaded the hay wagon pointing in the wrong direction. It was obvious now, but somebody should have thought of it earlier. Because the driveway was behind the tractor, and the ground began sloping down to the ice lake ahead, Dad was forced to turn as hard as he could and to drive right through the ashen remains of the Carroll’s house. For some reason, we were all uncomfortable with it.

By the time he had gotten our tractor moving van lined up with the driveway, we were waiting by the gate. Kirk jumped out and opened it. He waited until Dad made a swaying pass through the snow drifted opening and a wide left turn onto the main road. Then he left the gate open, and jumped back in the car. After the station wagon was on the road, Arturo made him get out and close the gate, to make our departure a little less obvious. Dad was chugging away to the west.

Arturo had a tough job. The car wanted to go much faster than the tractor, even at idle. He spent most of his time working the brakes and shifting in and out of gear. I was surprised to see that the road had plenty of tire tracks on the icy surface. That was good, according to Arturo. If ours were the only tracks, Eugene could follow us without any thought at all.

We came to a fork in the road, and Dad took the right hand leg, which was more or less straight ahead. There were fewer tracks in the snow, but enough to cover our retreat. He turned right at the next road, and headed north. The road changed directions several times, but I’m pretty sure we were heading north again when we passed through a big section of woods. The trees loomed close to the road, but without leaves, failed to keep the sunlight from flickering through the branches as we rode by. When the trees gave way to open fields, Dad found a little road, possibly a driveway. He made a tight left turn and followed the tree line until he spotted a likely place to hide and regroup.

The tractor had no trouble pulling into the trees, but the station wagon almost spun itself into the slight ditch on the edge of the road before Arturo coaxed it across and into the woods. We went as far as we could go, far enough that the naked trees stacked into a thick wall to hide our presence. The chances of being heard by the locals were high, however, and our drivers seemed aware of the problem. They shut down the engines within seconds.  As I sat and listened to the pinging of an abused station wagon, Arturo and Kirk got out of the car. They checked with Dad and headed off in different directions with their rifles.

Twenty minutes later, Dad came back and said we could get out. The camping equipment was placed carefully on the left-hand side of the wagon. We were able to set up our camp without any extra shuffling of gear. After huddling in a barn all winter, the camp felt very exposed. It wasn’t just the weather, it was the wide open threat that could come from any direction. In the barn, it felt like the bad guys would have to come through the door to get us. As a twelve year old kid, the loss of apparent security was a big effect, like being afraid of the dark.

On the plus side, if you want to call it that, we all slept packed into our tents, just like usual. It was surprisingly comforting. Mom made a token effort at supper with some smoked venison jerky she had learned to make in an old metal barrel. We sat around, gnawing on the tough meat, all of us listening for the inevitable approach of danger. It never came. Soon, the wild effort of the day had us all yawning, and no one seemed in the mood for talk. Kirk called the first watch and the rest of us bundled up for the night. I fell asleep listening hard, but only hearing the sound of wind in the bare branches. I wondered again if all the trees were just plain dead.

Chapter 7 – 10

Terry woke to a strange ringing sound. It sounded like an alarm. The light was gray and dim, maybe just before dawn. He stuffed himself into his pants and went running down the stairs. He found the alarm hanging on the wall in the kitchen. It was a yellow telephone. He picked it up and held it to his head like he had seen Bill do.

“Uh, hello?” Terry asked, unsure of the protocol.

“Boss?” the voice said.

“No. It’s Terry speaking...”

“Terry! It’s Jeffry. Listen, I’m up at the front guard. You need to get somebody up here with a truck. Now!” Jeffry was frantic. “Oh, and wake up Sue. We’ll need a doctor.”

Terry found himself holding the dead phone, waiting for his sleepy brain to catch up with reality. He ran upstairs, put on the rest of his clothing and gear. He ran the five steps down the hall to Sally’s room and banged on the door.

“Whaaat?” The irritation was clear even though Sally voice was muffled.

“Sally! It’s Terry. There’s a problem at the front guard. Can you wake up the doctor?”

“What? Yeah. Yes!” Sally sounded more awake with each word.

“Ok. I’m headed up there with the truck!” Terry said and ran back down the stairs. He had passed the opening door to Bill and Aggie’s room as he flew by, but knew that Sally would tell them what she knew.

He sprinted through the empty gravel streets, slammed open the barn door, and had Big Bertha running before he realized he needed the big doors open as well. He leaped from the driver’s seat, pulled the reinforced doors open, and was roaring through them ten seconds later. Judging from Jeffry’s voice, Terry didn’t waste any time circling around through the west gate. He simply drove around the perimeter of  Teeny town and straight up the grassy hill. The front gate was hanging open, and a young man he didn’t recognize was  waving from the house on the left. Terry swung the big truck alongside the back porch, trying to line up the tailgate with the porch steps. Before he came to a complete stop, Jeffry and Nick were carrying a bloody mess in the shape of a man across the porch.

Jeffry slapped the glass behind the truck cab, and yelled, “Go!”

Nick was latching the rear doors as Terry pulled away. He circled the house and drove between two of the houses to get back through the gate. He followed his own tracks down the hill, but instead of circling town, he drove straight through the tiny square in the middle. He hadn’t been to the Teeny Town hospital, but he knew where it was. He drove three buildings past the tavern and turned hard to squeeze Big Bertha into the low hanging awning over the emergency entrance. The bloody man in the back had already been taken from the truck before Terry managed to kill the engine and followed the small crowd through the broad double doors.

One way to know when it’s bad is when the first words out of the doctor’s mouth were, “Oh, shit.”

Sue was one of about ten people in Teeny Town who had the post-Breakdown version of medical training, which meant she knew exactly what she was doing, but had very little in the way of tools to do it.

The emergency room came from another time. Everything was white, or shiny metal, and completely spotless. Terry’s mind was naturally searching for anything to notice, other than the man who was being slid onto a high, flat bed. The wide smears of blood were a stark and distracting contrast to everything else Terry could see.

No one seemed to mind that he was there, less than ten feet from the frantic activity around the man on the table. He finally pulled his eyes to that poor soul. Terry kept a guarded mental distance from that man, until he looked closer. His mind nearly snapped with a deep blast of white noise in his vision. The sound went dead in the room and everything slowed down to a crawl. He had all the time in the world to recognize the man.

It was Dusty Baer.

Chapter 7 – 11

I shivered as I crawled out of my sleeping bag. I would have happily stayed there until the sun did its job and warmed up the woods, but my bladder was calling as it always did in the morning. I unzipped the tent as quietly as possible, and slid out through the narrow slot. The tent had a rain fly, an extra layer to protect against bad weather. Instead of unzipping that door, I opted for the quiet approach and simply wriggled underneath. As I got to my feet, I found myself looking at the biggest dog I had ever seen. He was almost entirely black, except for the brown patches on his head and chest. He looked at me with interest, and I naturally assumed I had the appearance of a tasty morning snack.