Tourists of the Apocalypse (19 page)

“You alright,” I exclaim, still accelerating away.

She nods, pulling the shotgun back inside the car. The passenger side of the windshield is painted with cracks. The end of a wrench is sticking through a hole, a thick chain hanging off on the outside, clanging off the fender where it dangles. All I can hear is our heavy breathing then she giggles for some odd reason.

“This funny?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles. “How ya feeling about that warning shot now?”

“Excellent tactical move,” I remark stone faced. “Gold star for the lady.”

She runs a hand over her forehead, pushing her visor up. Ahead there is a crossover; the kind cops use to watch for speeders. I point and she nods her approval. This side is fine, but if a car was coming at us, we might have trouble getting out of the way. I slow moderately, cutting across. The car leans roughly to the side then flies straight up the road.

“How’s our gas?” she mutters, reaching under the seat for a box of shells to reload.

“It says almost three quarters, but how big is the tank? There’s got to be plenty of gas in there.”

“We’re good for now, but we have to get it close to full by nightfall,” she warns.

“I need a coffee,” I whimper, feeling awake from adrenaline now, but knowing at this rate I won’t make it to Texas without a nap.

“Pull over next truck stop and let’s grab some,” suggests sarcastically, shooting me a grin.

“Why not,” I agree in jest. “The truckers seemed nice.”

…

By dusk we have travelled another hundred plus miles and the realization that we will have to sleep in shifts has finally arrived. Just before Vicksburg, Mississippi she pulls over on a rise in the highway and we both climb out to stretch. From this vantage point we can see the road behind us, littered with cars, as well as a fairly clear run ahead. Izzy bends at the waist and grabs her calves, folding in half with ease. I lean on the trunk and rub my neck, leaving the yoga to her.

It’s oppressively hot and my body odor has begun to bother even me. Izzy was driving in her bikini top and jean shorts. She made the shorts by cutting the legs off her only pants.
That says a lot about how hot it is
. She reaches in the car and retrieves her hoodie, putting her arms in it, but not pulling it over her head. When the sun goes down I doubt it will get much colder, but who knows.
We’re not in Florida anymore
.

“It’s getting dark,” I point out. “Is there any chance we can both stay awake for the next ten hours?”

Not me,” she yawns, hands stretched over her head. “And one of us can’t drive and keep an eye out by himself.”

“Agreed, so what’s the third option?”

“Leave the car here and hike off the highway to sleep,” she shrugs, nodding at the woods that run along the interstate. “Take the backpacks; hop that fence, then hole up for the night.”

“And just leave the car here?”

“Push it up there,” she offers, pointing at two dead cars on the side of the road just ahead. “Drive it onto the shoulder and park against them. Pin the driver’s door shut and climb out my side.”

“Why would that stop anyone?”

“It won’t; but this car’s not old enough for anyone to assume it runs,” she points out. “If you make it look like a dead car pile I doubt anyone would even look twice at it.”

“Pretty big gamble. What happens if we come back and it’s gone?”

“Then I’m Wylie Coyote left peddling thin air,” she yawns. “I vote for my plan,” she announces, holding up one hand as if we were in the first grade.

“Why should I vote with you?”

“People that vote for my plan stay a lot warmer at night,” she implies, winking at me.

“It’s ninety degrees out.”

“If you’re not interested in the sleep with Izzy plan,” she starts, but I cut her off.

“I vote for the Izzy plan.”

“Thought you might,” she mumbles wrinkling her nose at me. “I’ll pull out the backpacks, you park the car.”

The woods are thick and we hike about thirty yards along the fence before there’s a break in the foliage. I toss the backpacks over and we move away from the road in the dark. The moon is plenty bright, but it’s slow going. We only travel about ten minutes before it feels like far enough.
No need to get too far away from the car
. Izzy doesn’t seem to notice my slowing down, but once I catch up the reason is obvious. Lighted windows glow from a short distance away. The forest gives way to a mowed yard with a swing set. It’s a country house, two stories with a wraparound porch.

“Hansel and Gretel,” I whisper, getting a bad feeling about the perfect looking dwelling ahead.

“Glass half empty for you then,” she elbows me in the shoulder. “I have a theory.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Pensacola was a tourist trap,” she begins. “All motels and beach bars. People were stranded away from home. They didn’t have any pantries with food or neighbors to fall back on.”

“Agreed.”

“So things went downhill fairly quickly. Unless your room was full of food and water you were hosed. Small towns are different. These folks have kitchen shelves and pantries full of dry goods.”

“So you’re saying they won’t be trying to kill us and take our stuff?” I propose quietly, swatting a bug off my ear.

“How long could you and Missy live off the food in your house?”

She has a point. I doubt we would notice for a week or more. After that, we’d be eating canned spaghetti and soup broth, but a month at minimum before it became an issue.

“Are you suggesting we knock on the door?”

“Uh huh,” she declares, dropping her backpack and handing me the shotgun. “Let me knock on the door and see whose home. I’ll yell for you if the coast is clear.”

“That’s a horrible idea,” I object, imagining a dozen bikers behind the door. “What happens if they drag you inside?”

“Then you come in shotgun blazing and save the day,” she shrugs, kissing me on the cheek and starting off to the house. “Just stay out of sight until I call for you.”

I start to argue, but what’s the point. It’s not a bad plan, especially if she’s right about small towns being slower to panic than cities and vacation destinations. She moves slowly to the side of the structure, then slides along, stopping to peek in the window. A glow flickers from candlelight, throwing shadows across her face. The peek must not reveal bad news as she skips around to the front porch and knocks on the door. A brief pause follows before the door opens and Izzy has a conversation with an unseen party. The chat goes on for the better part of five minutes and just before I am ready to storm the porch, she calls out for me to join her. It takes me awhile to drag her backpack and the shotgun to the house by myself, but she has disappeared inside.

The house is occupied by a nice couple in their late forties, Ed and Jessica Spires. Also in attendance are their neighbors Bill and Donna Keats, who seem older. The two couples appear to have pooled their resources. The Keats place is down the road a few miles, but it seems they have moved in here as of this afternoon. Izzy introduces me as her fiancée, which gives me a smile.
I hope this is an omen of the future
. Donna and Jessica warm up to Izzy right off, while their husbands remain non-committal about me.

Apparently there was an exodus from the highway in Vicksburg, about ten miles from their homes. Most of the stranded were absorbed by the people living there, but several groups spread out in search of greener pastures. A small group had come by here yesterday, but their spokesperson got a little pushy with Ed, who asked them leave. For the most part it’s been peaceful, but they agree it will get worse before it gets better. All four are devout Catholics and we pray over dinner, potato stew cooked in a huge pot in the fireplace. There is meat in the stew, but neither Izzy nor I ask from what. We are nearly six days without refrigeration making it likely it was killed recently.

When asked, Izzy tells everyone we have been hiking along the road for days. Her story weaves out of her like a bestselling book. I have to pay close attention to her fictional account in case I am asked about any of it. Around eleven, everyone goes to bed. We get a small room with a single bed, a relic from a son that’s in college up north.
As if these poor people don’t have enough to worry about.
There is talk about a separate place for Izzy to bed down, but after the three women confer she is allowed to stay with me. Once alone, we both partake of a wet wipe shower and crawl into bed exhausted. It might not sound like much, but after the past few days of filth, being marginally clean is heaven.

“I can’t believe they don’t keep watch,” I whisper, amazed no one stayed up to guard the door.

“It’s not like that here yet,” she advises. “Get some sleep. We rest here till tomorrow afternoon then hike back to the car rested and ready to push to Texas.”

I am tempted to ask about the inferred benefits for those who voted for the Izzy plan to leave the car, but sleep is too inviting. I listen to her breathing for several minutes until I can tell she’s dreaming before drifting off.

I awaken slowly, the aroma of coffee wafting under the wooden door. Izzy also awakens, checking her phone to see the time. A shocked look proceeds her turning it in my direction. It reads 11:47 AM.
At least they let us sleep in
. I pull on my jeans and t-shirt, wishing they were clean. Stumbling down the stairs we find Jessica and Donna at the kitchen table sipping coffee and doing a crossword puzzle together. They wave us over and get us each a cup of coffee. Ed makes it out on his barbeque grill, leaving it with some floating grounds, but better than the coffee shop in Pensacola.
I wonder what’s become of Wendy the waitress.

Ed and Bill have trekked back to the Keats house to bring a load of supplies back. Apparently they are making one trip back a day doing this very thing. Jessica gives Izzy a pair of her old jeans that are baggy, but cleaner that the shorts. The girls help Izzy try on a few other items, leaving me to wander out to the porch and relax. There are two wooden rockers out here and I turn mine to face the road. I sip on a second cup of coffee, watching for Ed and Bill to return. Rocking there I notice the quiet. In a pre-EMP world I would have no doubt heard the drone of the highway from here. No radio or televisions are left to fill the air with incessant noise.
It’s like the world just stopped.

I doze off, but Izzy wakes me at two. Bill and Ed are nowhere to be seen, even though their wives assure us they are fine. We eat a Slim Jim and cracker lunch on the porch, offering some to the ladies, who decline. We confer over the disappearance of the menfolk, but Izzy forbids my walking down the road to see what’s become of them. I tell her they are probably smoking cigars or tinkering in the garage, but she’s not convinced. We estimate a 30-minute walk, which she deems too far from the car to allow.

By five she is nagging me to head for the car, but I am concerned about our hosts who have not returned. The wives have now begun to worry. Jessica goes to the garage and comes out with a bike. It’s light blue with a basket hanging off the handlebars. Izzy is slowly shaking her head at me.

“We can’t just leave these gals here alone,” I argue. “If there is a problem down the road how long do you think before it lands on their doorstep?”

“You can’t save everyone,” she growls, then lowers her voice so Donna doesn’t overhear. “Today, tomorrow or next month these people are likely going to be overrun. We can’t get tangled up in every sob story.”

“Says the girl who massacred a half dozen guys over an office princess in bondage.”

“That was wrong,” she admits, looking down at the porch. “It was wrong of me to play judge and jury.”

“Their behavior made it a lot less wrong,” I remark.

“The degree of wrong aside,” she argues. “It was also stupid with regard to our safety.”

Jessica pedals down the drive, putting a foot down and coming to a wobbly stop just before the road. In her clam diggers and sleeveless top, she looks like a Norman Rockwell painting. She peers back at us and flashes a thumbs up to mitigate our reticence to help.
She wants us to go, but is too nice to ask.

“One time,” I announce, stepping past Izzy to the backpacks on the porch and grabbing the shotgun. “You defended the innocent one time so I get a hall pass on this. You don’t have to come. I will be back in a half hour.”

She grabs the shot gun by the long steel barrel and looks me in the eye. We stand there pulling it back and forth like two little leaguers fighting over a baseball bat. When I let go, she marches off the porch toward Jessica. Retrieving the .40 caliber handgun from my backpack, I trail behind her and down the driveway.

“Got another bike?” I ask, drawing a grin from Izzy when she turns around.

“Yes, in the garage,” Jessica answers, pointing at the open rolling door. “You’re sweet to go for me. I’m just worried one of them fell or something.”

Izzy rolls her eyes, clearly indicating that Jessica is seeing the entire situation through rose colored glasses. The odds that this is a slip and fall are very low. Both the ladies assure me that God is looking out for them and this would sort itself out soon.
I wish I believed what they do.
If God is coming to the rescue, I wish he would hurry. This gives me an odd thought.
Does Izzy’s time-travelling tour guide’s story disprove his existence?

The bikes are decent and we pedal down the dirt road, Izzy having put the shot gun down the back of her hoodie, the stock sticking out of her neck hole behind her head. It reminds me of movies where swords are carried over the shoulder. The wives informed us there is a field of evergreens on the right before we get to the house. Apparently Bill was going to do a Christmas tree farm at one point. Unwilling to cut the baby evergreens down, the hippie now owns an out of place pine tree forest. We stop and ditch the bikes, approaching the house from the safety of the woods.

“Maybe they will be out back playing horseshoes?” she mutters sarcastically.