The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse (20 page)

I scanned the bushes around me for as far as the IR illuminator would go.  I saw no one.

“I can’t see anyone,” I called out.  “Gary, you come up.  You can use your light but keep it low.”

Gary closed the distance quickly, his Glock held at the ready.  When he reached me he ran his light over the wounded man.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

I put the night vision in Gary’s hand.  “Take a position over there near the trail and keep an eye out with this thing.  We’re going to start packing gear.  I think it’s time to get moving.”

Gary moved toward another clump of bushes to set up a watch.  I removed my headlight and turned it on, aiming it down toward the ground to cut down on how much stray light flew around.  I turned around to head for my gear and ran straight into Randi.  She had been standing immediately behind me, her flashlight glued to the face and chest of the man she’d shot.  She stumbled backward and I reached for her, gripping her arm and steadying her.  She pulled away, twisting, and spraying vomit into the weeds.

I stepped back and gave her a moment.  While she retched and gagged, Walt and Katie approached with another light.

“Get her some water,” I said to them.  “There’s a bottle beside my pack.”

Walt hurried off.

“He’s not dead,” Randi said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

“No,” I said.  “He’s not.”

“I did that,” she said in a low voice.

“You
had
to do that,” I corrected.  “He
made
you do that.”

“He’s my daughter’s age,” she said sadly.

“He’s likely a murderer and he got what he deserved.”

Katie approached with the water bottle Walt had retrieved.  Walt was apparently too scared to come near us.  That was insightful on his part.  This was partly his fault for falling asleep on his watch and I felt like I could hurt him for endangering all our lives.  I took the water bottle and passed it to Randi.  She washed out her mouth and spat in the bushes.  I could see tears in her eyes when she turned back to me.

“What are we going to do with him?” she asked.

“We’re going to leave him,” I said calmly.

“But—”

“But what?” I interrupted.  “There’s no 9-1-1, no ambulances up here, and I’m not carrying a man that tried to kill us.  I’m also not particularly interested in putting a bullet in his head to put him out of his misery.  I’m not so hardened yet that I can do that.”

“You seem like it,” she said, catching my eye.

“Seem how?”

“Like you’re good at this,” she said.  “Like you were ready for this.  Almost like you enjoy it.”

I shook my head.  “I don’t enjoy this.  Things in the world weren’t perfect but they were better than this.  I may be a little bit better prepared than the next guy but that’s because I worked at it.  I read a lot of books, I watched a lot of videos.  I chose to spend money on preparing for things like this rather than wasting it on a boat or a Harley or renting a house at the beach.”

“You weren’t in the military?”

I laughed at that.  To anyone who had been in the military, it would probably be very obvious that I had not been in the military, but Randi was sincere in her question.

“No, I was never in the military,” I told her.  “I am not a soldier.  I am a paranoid hillbilly wanting to get home to my family, and under the right circumstances a determined father is every bit as dangerous as the most highly-trained soldier.”

She took a deep breath and braced herself.  “Then maybe a determined grandmother can survive, too.”

“A determined grandmother may have saved some lives tonight,” I told her.  “Now harden the fuck up, Granny, and let’s get out of here.”

I patted her on the shoulder.  When I did, she dropped the beam of her light from the gasping man on the ground, turned, and went to pack her gear.

Within fifteen minutes, our gear was all packed and we departed camp by flashlight, each of us strolling by the wounded man, his eyes blinking as he watched us go, his mouth moving wordlessly.  When he walked by the wounded man, Gary leaned over and picked up the single shot shotgun from where it lay in the weeds.  He opened the breech and ejected the spent round.  He leaned over and patted the wounded man’s pockets, finding a half-dozen or so shells in a pants pocket.  I waited on a comment from Walt and Katie, but there was none.  The last surprise of the night came about a mile down the trail when we came to an area where the trail was torn up and the bushes were crushed and broken.  It was clear that an ATV had been parked here, probably while our attackers stalked the trail looking for us.  It was also clear that whoever had been parked there had left in a hurry, swinging wide and accelerating too fast, causing the rear end of the four-wheeler to slew about on the muddy trail.  They had grazed a thick cluster of rhododendron in their haste, losing one of the packs we’d noticed on their ATV earlier.  It lay in the dense brush, a single shoulder strap caught on a broken branch and holding the pack upright.

I looked at Gary, who shrugged. 

“In different times I wouldn’t take another man’s gear,” I said to him.  “I think the original owner of this pack is probably dead or long gone and its last owner had no right to it.  I’m not going to leave gear out here that may help us on our journey.”

“I can’t carry that,” Randi said, staring at the large and overstuffed pack.

“You’re not ready for it yet,” I said.  “For now we dump your gear in my pack and you can carry that.  It’s a little smaller.  I’ll carry the Gregory pack and we’ll sort through the gear later and adjust the loads.”

“Works for me,” she said.

She was not quite so sure that it would work for her once she actually slung my pack on her back.  Even though it was only a low-volume weekend pack, it was still pretty heavy.  Her eyes widened for moment and she staggered, adjusting to the weight, but once we got the straps and waist belt adjusted she said that it was in fact more comfortable than the pillowcase pack she’d been wearing.  I started to toss the pillowcase pack, but ended up stuffing it in a side pocket of the Gregory pack for now.

I shouldered the Gregory pack, and it was clear that this was indeed a through-hiker’s pack.  It must have weighed fifty pounds, though the pack’s excellent suspension did a good job of handling the weight.  I quickly adjusted the straps, belt, and load lifters, and had it tuned to my body in a moment.

We started walking again, heading for the Blue Ridge Parkway and my friend Lloyd’s house.

We reached the Blue Ridge Parkway while it was still dark and began following it west.  After the embrace of the deep forest, the open road made me feel exposed and vulnerable.  In the circle illuminated by our flashlights this could have been any road.  By the time the sky lightened and the world became visible we found that our highway was little more than a paved ledge looking out over dozens of rounded peaks and fog-filled valleys.  Under other circumstances, it would have been a breathtaking sight. 

By 6:30 a.m., we’d been walking about four hours and we took a break at a scenic overlook.  There was a picnic shelter and, more importantly, pit toilets, a luxury after what we’d become used to, even though they were really just cinderblock outhouses painted in Park Service Brown.  Under the shelter, we sat on brown log tables watching the sun rise over the horizon. 

After a few moments’ break, and after using the facilities, Walt and Katie stood and gathered their gear.

“We appreciate the help,” Katie said.  “We’re going to take off and find our own way home from here.”

They’d apparently been talking among themselves as we walked and come to some conclusions.  I shrugged.  Gary had no comment, either.

“I appreciate your help, too,” Walt said.  “We’re just going to hit the highway and see if we might be able to catch a ride from there.  It will be faster.”

It was obvious that they were just being polite.  There were philosophical differences between our groups and they didn’t agree with our tactics.  With their lack of information, they had no idea what they were walking into.  They thought things would be better on the road, that they could hitchhike or walk and everything would be okay.  We had tried to tell them differently but you couldn’t make people’s decisions for them.  They would have to find out on their own. 

“Be very careful,” Randi warned.  “And don’t trust anyone.  It’s really bad down there.”

Katie smiled at Randi.  “We appreciate it,” she said.  “We’ll be careful.  We’ll look out for each other.”

“Good luck,” I told them.  “You’ll need it.”

They pulled on their packs, took up their trekking poles, and strode away.  I’m sure they were relieved to be free of us.  I hoped things went well for them.  If they couldn’t handle what they’d seen with us over the last day or two, they would most certainly have a hard time finding their way in the world that awaited them.

“I’m hungry,” Gary said.

We divvied up some of the remaining vending machine loot and tore into it less than enthusiastically.  Holding a granola bar in his teeth, Gary dug in his pack and came up with a flattened cardboard sleeve wrapped in electrical tape.  From the open end, he shook out half a hacksaw blade and began sawing off the barrel of the shotgun he’d taken from the wounded man.  He obviously wanted to reduce the weapon to a more user-friendly and concealable size.  While he did that, I took time to get my own gear reorganized.

Starting with the outside pockets of the Gregory pack, I sorted through the gear inside it.  I unzipped the pocket in the pack lid and came up with a blue nylon wallet.  I opened it and immediately found a drivers license, a little cash, and a credit card all wrapped together with a rubber band.  The license had been issued in Vermont to a Larry Baxter, a 56 year old man with a graying buzz cut and blue eyes.  From the picture I could see that neither of the men on the ATV was Larry Baxter.  I considered whether I should hold onto the wallet and attempt to get it back to Larry Baxter when I made it home – if he was even still alive.  This was outweighed by my concern at being caught with another man’s identification and possibly being accused of theft, or even worse.  I gathered the wallet with all its contents and tossed them in a nearby trash can. 

The rest of the pockets contained bits of gear that a hiker might need during the day:  spare batteries, a headlamp, ibuprofen, moleskin for blisters, a water pump, and a bandana.  There was a cellphone and charger in one of the pockets.  It was dead and I threw it in the trash, along with a copy of Paul Bowles’
The Sheltering Sky,
which was bookmarked about halfway through and showing significant trail wear.  Inside the main compartment of the pack, I found a nice down-filled Marmot sleeping bag, which I kept. 

There was a one-man MSR tent, which I did not keep.  It was a damn good tent and one I’d specifically looked at before when shopping for tents.  I knew it was less versatile, though, than the shelter materials I already carried and my pack was way heavier than I wanted it to be.  Throwing away good gear gave me a pang of guilt, but I still had a long way to go and both my speed and agility would be affected by carrying too much gear.  It also increased the risk of injury.  I’d once strained my IT band – likely from carrying a too heavy pack – and had still had to go twenty-seven more miles on the injured leg.  It made for a very difficult hike and I spent three months limping when I got home.

There was some clothing and I checked a tag for the size; it wouldn’t fit me.  I set aside the shirts and rain gear for Randi.  The pants were too small for any of us so I tossed them onto the pile I had started with the tent.  I would leave that gear here under the shelter, hoping that someone down the road may find it and benefit from it.  I kept two pairs of hiking socks, a pair of light gloves, and a toboggan.  There was a folding twig stove, which cooked food by means of a tiny fire built from twigs.  With the stove was a cook set, which I put in the pile to discard.  I did keep the utensil set, though.  There was no food, no water bottles, and no other personal gear. 

I set about re-packing the pack, taking the majority of my items from my Get Home Bag and finding room for them in the Gregory.  I helped Randi repack my old pack with her gear and made certain that the strap adjustments were working for her.  By that time, Gary had finished removing the barrel from the shotgun.  I knew he was done from the heavy clang of the barrel dropping to the concrete.  It bounced a few times, then rolled across the shelter and off the edge into the grass.

Gary pulled a Leatherman multi-tool from his pack, selected a file, and removed any burrs from the barrel tip.  When he was done with that step, he closed the file blade and unfolded a wood saw blade from the tool, sawing the shotgun’s stock into a crude pistol grip.  Despite the short blade length of the saw, it was extremely sharp and Gary had his weapon done in short order.  It was crudely done, but would pack a devastating punch at close range.  He loaded a live round into the chamber and drew the hammer slightly back to the safe “half-cock” position.

“You gonna carry that thing?” I asked.

“Not in the open,” he said.  “In my pack.  It was too good a weapon to leave behind.”

“I agree,” I said.  “I must have not been thinking clearly up there last night.  I should have thought of it.  We need every asset that may help us get home.  It would have been dumb to leave it.”

“We were all a little rattled,” Gary said.  “Even soldiers have to get used to war.  Our war is just starting.”

I thought about what Gary said.  Since shooting that man who tried to wrap a crowbar around Gary’s head in the gas station parking lot, I had been going through a lot of self-talk about focusing on our mission and not getting hung up on the violence.  We were all still a little in shock from the turn of events of the past few days.  I knew it was a collateral effect of events like the current terror attacks.  I had studied how people react in times of stress and chaos, and had tried to prepare for it.  I thought of my grandfather again, who’d carried a gun and knife every day of his adult life, dropping them in his pockets when he headed out the door like I did with car keys and a cell phone. 

I recalled a story my uncle told me at a family reunion, one of the few he attended.  He was not very social, either.  He told me he’d been riding my grandfather’s truck route with him one evening when he was about twelve.  This would have been in the early 1950s.  It was fall, and my grandfather picked my uncle up when he got out of school so he could ride his route with him to a nearby town.  My grandfather drove a truck for a living, delivering meats and produce to small country stores.

When they finished their route, it was around 7 p.m.  The sun had already gone down and the night had cooled.  They stopped to eat.  There was not much around except for a little beer joint on the side of the road called Buster’s.  It was a classic roadside beer joint with a low ceiling and stained hardwood floors covered in sawdust.  My grandfather ate there whenever he made this late run and assured my uncle that their cheeseburgers were hard to beat.  He was right.  They both had large cheeseburgers and fried potatoes and my uncle said it was one of the best burgers he’d ever had.

On their way out, my grandfather lit a cigarette and smoked as they walked across the dark parking lot to his refrigerated truck.  Their path took them across the front of the building and by a shed that housed the refrigeration equipment for the restaurant.  When they passed that shed, a man stepped out of the shadows.  My uncle said he could see the glint of a knife in the man’s hand and he froze.

“I need some money,” the man rasped.  “And you’re going to gimme your goddamn money.”

My uncle said he peed in his pants right there, but my grandfather had his hand in and out of his pocket in a second, coming out with a Schrade pocket knife and opening the blade.  In those days, they didn’t have all those fancy lock blade knives, tactical knives, and knives with pocket clips like we do now.  It was just a plain old pocket knife with a long blade that my grandfather kept razor sharp.  There was no further discussion, no threats, and no warning.  My grandfather lashed out at the man, slashing him across the face, then stabbing him in the chest as the man staggered backward and dropped his own knife.  The man continued to stagger backward, grasping his chest, trying to contain the dark ooze that seeped around his fingers.  My grandfather stepped toward him, lashed out again, the knife flashing across the man’s throat before the man finally fell. 

My uncle said that my grandfather stood there over the fallen man, his shoulders heaving as he sucked in air around the cigarette he hadn’t even dropped in the scuffle.  He’d acted so quickly and with such finality that he seemed like a man not of that time but instead like a warrior of some distant culture brought forward to a modern time.

Immediately behind the restaurant was a steep bank that dropped to the lead-colored Tug Fork River.  It was here where the restaurant threw their trash.  It was also where the sinks and toilets of all the local homes emptied.  It was into this river that everyone in the county threw their old tires and appliances.  And it was where my grandfather threw the drunken, bleeding, and dying man who’d dared pull a knife on him and his son.  He rolled the body and listened to the splash, watching the reflection in the water to see that it was moving downstream as it should and was not hung up on a root or rusting car frame.

“Get in the truck,” he’d said to my uncle.

My grandfather pulled a greasy rag from under his truck seat and cleaned his knife, then his hands.  The rag was thrown out the window on the way home.  They drove on, and not a word was said about it.  Not then.  Not ever.

That was the kind of man I was going to have to be to make it home to my family, the kind of man who acted without hesitation during life and death situations.  I was going to have to harden the fuck up.  Sixty years ago this might have been the kind of country where a man could travel home and get help along the way from decent, trusting people.  It was not that same America.  For every good man in America, there was a drug addict wanting to steal from you.  For every good woman, there was a deadbeat too lazy to work and waiting for a handout.  For every child, there was a gang member, a sex offender, or a carjacker.  This was not a group of coworkers coming home from a business trip anymore.  This was war, and getting home was our mission.

Gary’s pack had a long pocket between the main load compartment and the padded back plate.  It was for carrying a hydration bladder, which Gary did not bring on this trip.  He doubled a piece of paracord and tied a single point sling around the grip of the sawed-off shotgun, then shoved the shotgun into the hydration bladder pocket, where it was completely concealed from view.  He tied the other end of the paracord sling to a D-ring on the shoulder strap of his pack.  It was clear that his intent was to be able to use the sling to draw the weapon from his pack without having to remove his pack.  The success of that would depend on how stuffed his pack was and how much friction the contents of his pack placed on that sleeve.

He must have read my mind, or my look, which I have never been very good at masking.

“We’ll see how it works,” he said.  “Hopefully I can yank it out of there without shooting myself or someone else.”

I powered up my GPS.  While I waited for it to sync up with the satellite network, I double checked my weapon and made sure the magazine was full.  It was then that it occurred to me that I had not replenished Randi’s magazine from when she emptied it last night. 

“Randi, pass me that pistol.”

She removed it from her back pocket and offered it to me.  I pressed the magazine release and dropped the magazine into my palm.  Empty.  I was glad I’d thought of this before she needed the weapon.  The hollow point rounds for this weapon came in boxes of twenty-five rounds and I refilled the magazine from the partial box of Critical Defense rounds in my pack.  When I ran out of these, I still had a full box of fifty rounds of .380 ball ammo.  It would still punch holes, just considerably less damaging ones than the hollow points.