Without (15 page)

As I walked up the quarter-mile driveway to the house, my
pain and exhaustion disappeared. It was replaced with a euphoric high as I
anticipated making the last turn on the dirt road that was canopied by trees.
It felt like I had been holding my breath since I saw the mailbox. I exhaled
when the house came into view. It was perfect.

The first thing I noticed was all the windows were intact.
The second thing I noticed was that it was more beautiful than I remembered. My
father and several of his friends built most of the home over a period of three
years. He only used contractors for the electrical and plumbing. Dad was
strong, resourceful, and determined to build my mother’s dream. When he
finished, he had exceeded her wildest expectations.

I stood outside for a moment, taking in the elegance of the
hand-crafted home. My father built most of the house using cedar and spruce for
the exterior that was fully scribed. (As each log was laid, he carved out the
joint by hand on the next for a flawless fit.) It’s the most difficult process
for building, but the end result was worth every hour of labor.

The front of the home was simple in its design. There was no
yard, just a small front porch with stairs that came off the gravel driveway.
It was built on the side of Bootleg Mountain, so the front view was of the upward
slope with no sky. The majesty of the location was revealed once a guest
stepped inside.

From the front it appeared to be a single-story house. There
was a dramatic drop in the slope which hid the lower two levels beneath the
first. I carried one house key in my pocket. When the lock gave way and the
door opened, so did most of the emotion I had been carrying for a very long
time. Everything inside was still in its place.

Familiarity didn’t lower my awareness as I pulled the
shotgun from my pack. As I stepped on the oak floor of the foyer, I scanned
from left to right, looking down the halls leading to the rooms that flanked
the landing. After I cleared them, noticing that nothing had been disturbed, I
returned to stand in the foyer.

In front of me were the stairs that took me down to the main
room that occupied two stories. Looking up from the last stair, I marveled at
the thick wooden beams that crisscrossed the thirty-foot vaulted ceiling. There
were no walls to restrict the panoramic view through the enormous windows that
reached the ceiling. It didn’t matter if you were standing in the spacious
kitchen, the dining room that could accommodate fifteen, or the living room
with every seat pointed toward the windows, the view of the valley was stunning.

I checked every space on the second floor for stowaways.
Finding none, I made my way to the last level. Built as a guest suite, the
third floor was as wide open as the second, but the ceiling was lower. It did
nothing to take away from the view through the bay windows. Once I was
satisfied there was nobody inside, I returned to the main room to gain access
to the place where we spent most of our time as a family.

Opening the French doors, I stepped out onto the massive
deck. Again, I was pleased to see everything intact. The heavy outdoor
furniture had endured Mother Nature’s attacks, sitting defiantly, still facing
east. (My parents preferred the sunrise over the sunset.)

I removed my pack, dropping it to the deck, brushed the
debris off one of the chairs, and collapsed into it. My exhaustion and pain
returned, but not at an intensity that could overwhelm my joy and satisfaction.
Some people believe it’s more about the journey than the destination. I thought
about how very wrong those people were.

Reflection of my life on the road would have to wait.
Looking forward to the best night of rest I’ve had in a while, I started the
process of properly securing my home. In two large storage rooms flanking the
house, there were more than enough materials for the project. My father, ever
resourceful, anticipated being stranded for long periods of time during the
winter months. He knew they’d be cut off from the world below the mountain. If
any repairs needed to be done, he was ready.

Using what strength I had left, I used the heavy lumber to
build hurricane-proof shutters for the windows that could be reached from the
ground and fashioned sturdy bar locks for two of the four doors. The two
remaining doors were sealed shut. It would take a SWAT team with battering rams
several minutes to breach them. That would give me more than enough time to
prepare for a fight or prepare to run. I was tired of running.

When I was satisfied the first line of defense against man –
and nature – was adequate for a good night’s sleep, I started the task of
inventorying weapons and food. If I ever saw my father’s brother again, I’d say
nothing but give him a hug. After my parents died my uncle helped me maintain
the house. His last visit was two months earlier, but he had restocked the
pantries with enough food to last me at least twelve weeks. His was one of the
few faces that would be welcome in my home.

Being an avid hunter, my uncle often used the house for
excursions around Bootleg. When I opened the gun cabinet, my father’s normal
stock of weapons and ammunition was doubled. Along with two scoped rifles, two
shotguns, and two .50-caliber pistols was an AR-15. When I held the weapon I
wasn’t surprised to see a selector switch, allowing the gun to be fired in
single, three-round-burst, or fully automatic mode. (My father never would’ve
allowed an illegal firearm to be stored in his collection, but I don’t think
he’d have a problem with it now.) Opening a drawer at the bottom of the
cabinet, I estimated there were at least 500 rounds of ammunition for the
assault rifle. That would make a big pile of dead cowards if they came calling.

When the rain stopped, the clouds parted, allowing the last
few hours of daylight to illuminate the mountain. I walked outside to inspect
the large utility shack my father built on the high side of the property. There
were two large tanks inside holding the resources that would provide me many of
the comforts of home.

One held the propane used for cooking, heat, and hot water
for the shower. My uncle must have ordered a delivery of gas on his last visit.
A smile crept across my face, looking at the gauge showing a full tank. Used
sparingly, the thousand-gallon container would last me a year, if not longer.

Holding a more valuable resource, the two-thousand gallon water
tank was also full. It was replenished during every rainstorm by a series of
intakes attached to the gutters around the utility shack. (The oversized roof
on the building was there for a reason.) The entire plumbing system on the
property was gravity fed, requiring no electric pumps.

There were three layers of water filtration starting at the
main feed to the house, removing most of the impurities. A more vigorous system
was attached to the pipes that brought water to the sinks and showers. The most
intense purification equipment was installed in the kitchen, providing safe
drinking water. (Just in case, I planned on boiling anything I was going to
consume.)

Realizing the power provided by the county via an
underground cable would be lost on a regular basis, my father installed two
small diesel generators in the shack. I only spent a few minutes pulling the
starting cords before turning my attention elsewhere. I’d have plenty of time
to figure out the problem in the coming days and weeks; if the problem could be
solved at all.

With the shadows of dusk settling on the mountain, I
returned to the house to prepare dinner. Like the water system, my father made
sure the gas system didn’t require electricity to function. When I saw the tiny
blue flame as I lit the pilot light on the water heater and stove, I knew my
dreams of hot shower and home cooked meal were about to come true.

After the best shower – and canned ham – of my life, I stood
like a kid in a candy store in front of the liquor cabinet. (Oh, yes, my uncle
would get one hell of a hug if I ever saw him again.) It was as well stocked as
everything else in the house.

I poured myself a tall glass and walked around the living
room, taking advantage of the last light of the day. I threw caution to the
wind and built a roaring fire. I envisioned my parents sitting in their plush
chairs holding hands and their drinks, watching another flawless day on Bootleg
come to an end. I smiled, thankful that they weren’t around to see the
beginning of the end of all days. But wherever they were, I imagined they were
smiling as well, knowing their dream home was saving their son’s life.

Standing in front of the mantel of the stone fireplace, I
felt the comfort of seeing their faces in framed photographs. In all but one (their
wedding day), I looked into my own face at different stages of my life. From an
infant to a small child to a teenager, fond memories of my life with them were
displayed in front of me. There weren’t any as I grew into an adult, trying to
find my path in the world. It didn’t matter. They prepared me well for any I
chose. That included the path I was on that I never wanted. My only regret was
that they died before they could meet my girl.

“You look just like him,” said Sam, putting her head on my
shoulder. “And your mother is gorgeous.”

“She was tough like you,” I said, taking a sip. “She had to
be, marrying my father. That guy was a hard nut to crack, but she did it. He’d
do anything for her. He built all this for her.”

“It’s magnificent,” said Sam, turning her gaze up at the
vaulted ceiling. “The view is breathtaking. He must have loved her very much.”

“My bride,” I said. “That’s what he called her. They met in
high school and were married in their junior year in college. They told me
neither one could wait until they graduated.”

“What was it like, growing up as their only child?” asked
Sam.

“I always had their undivided attention,” I answered. “Most
times that was a good thing, but on a few occasions it wasn’t, especially when
I grew older. My dad would get upset with me when I went too long without
visiting his bride. She’d get upset with me when I’d cancel on a fishing trip
with her husband.”

“Did that happen often?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And it happened more often as they got
older,” I said. “It’s the only thing I wish I could’ve changed. You know, my
understanding that they weren’t going to be around forever. At least I was
smart enough to recognize when they were getting sick. I was with both of them
when they died.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” said Sam. “That must have been horrible
to watch.”

“No, the truth is, it wasn’t,” I said. “I mean, knowing they
were hurting, yes. My dad died three months after my mom. In those three
months, we had never been closer. I spent most of those last days right here
with him. They both died peacefully in their sleep. The way I wish you
would’ve.”

She wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace. I put my
glass on the mantel, responding with a squeeze. It became more my home with her
there with me. The weight of the road lifted off my shoulders as I closed my
eyes, feeling the tears dampen my cheeks. I missed her more in that moment than
the day she was taken from me.

It had been two weeks since I walked through the front door
of my house. I woke up this morning earlier than usual, stepping onto the deck
with a cup of coffee and no plans for the day. I had learned much since I came
home. The lesson repeating itself in my head was how devastatingly quiet and
isolated my world had become. They say to be careful what you wish for. If
“they” were standing here in front of me, I’d probably put a few rounds through
the shotgun.

Staying focused and busy during the first week was no
problem. After securing the house, building a network of tripwires around the
property, and constructing booby-traps at both entry points, I started the
gardens. There were no flat clearings of earth within a mile of the cabin, so I
had to create them on the driveway.

I built two twenty-by-twenty wooden frames – with plans to
build more – that held nearly two feet of soil. (At first I attempted to till
the road, but after digging up layers of gravel, I hit rock.) After filling
them with soil, I made a varmint fence with chicken wire. Using the seeds my
mother stored for her smaller version beside the utility shack, I finished the
job in a grueling three days. I was glad to find her copy of the Farmer’s
Almanac to determine which seeds to plant. I had never attempted to grow a
garden of this magnitude – or importance – in my life. I wouldn’t know if I
succeeded until early fall. That was at least two months away.

It was a difficult decision, but I obstructed most of the
breathtaking view from the main room with plywood and lumber. It was too easy
for a coward to break the large windows from the deck, gaining easy access to
the entire house. I felt more secure inside, but I managed to quickly transform
something beautiful into something ugly. I could feel my parents’ displeasure
with every swing of the hammer. I did my best to put as few nails in the walls
as possible. It was as if I still held on to a glimmer of hope that I’d be able
to remove them if 8:14 came to pass.

There was plenty of canned and dehydrated food in the
pantries, but I wanted to consume it as sparingly as possible. On the early
evening of the fifth day home, dinner walked right up the mountain, standing
fifty yards downhill from the deck. (I was hoping it wasn’t my friend Buck from
the flashflood, but I couldn’t pass up the easy opportunity.) I was surprised
to see him standing in the same spot after I went inside to retrieve a rifle.
As if he were offering himself to me, he turned slightly to give me a perfect
profile shot. After squeezing the trigger, the powerful weapon did its job
well.

After processing the meat, I prepared the equipment to
preserve as much of it as possible. My mother was an expert canner, leaving me
all the necessary tools and reference materials I needed for the task. If I
followed the instructions in proper order, the venison would be safe to store
at room temperature until I needed it. (My mother’s canning books informed me
the meat would remain fresh for years, but I didn’t plan on pushing it that
long.)

It didn’t take me long to fall into a daily ritual. After
taking care of personal hygiene, I’d tidy up any disturbances I had created in
the house the day before. If weather permitted, it was followed by coffee on
the deck and a mental checklist of things I needed to accomplish before sunset.
When the plan was agreed upon, I’d walk the property, looking for any signs of
visitors – both indigenous game and human. At various clearings I’d also spend
a little time peering through my scope, searching for signs of trouble.

When I finished my patrol I’d tend to the garden – or at
least the soil. It stayed pristine as I fell into a Zen-like state, removing
any debris falling into the boxes from the trees flanking them. The chicken
wire seemed to be working well, but I decided to use more to form a bird and
squirrel-proof cage. Waiting for the first sprouts became my obsession.

Completing my chores, I’d return to the house for afternoon
reading. My parents had an affinity for classic books, populating an entire
wall of the main room with titles. I had read most as a younger man, but
decided to start from the beginning on the top shelf. I’d sit in silence for
hours until I found myself squinting in the fading light of early evening. The
stories became my only contact with a world other than the tiny one in which I
existed. It didn’t take long for me to start believing I was the last man on
earth.

As I stood on the deck with my cup on day twenty-eight since
8:13, I was thinking about places on the other side of my property line. I
wondered how Emma and her frying pan were faring against the evil trying to get
inside; I wondered about Marcus and his two boys, hoping they completed their
mission and found their mother, taking her home; I wondered if the rangers were
strong enough to weather the storms and fend off the cowards. But most of my
thoughts – the ones that affected me more than the others – were of Hope and
the girls. I not only wondered if they were okay, I wanted to know for sure.

For longer than I felt comfortable, I contemplated about how
I could verify they were safe, but without letting them knowing I was near. I
mentally planned a route that would avoid any of the towns – or trouble – I
came across on the road up from Atlanta. It would take me at least a week to
complete the round trip. I figured I could spend one day with the rangers to
see if they had gathered any new information about the world from stragglers.
For longer than I felt comfortable, it made sense to put my eyes on all of
them.

I shook off the suicidal thoughts and started my daily
patrol of the property. By the time I reached the first clearing, Hope had
crept back into my mind. It was the start of a much more dangerous obsession
than waiting for sprouts.

“I’m not going to say I told you so, but I did,” said Sam,
joining me on the patrol.

Turning to continue my walk without responding was enough of
an answer. I knew my premature declaration that she was wrong, and that I was
home, just came back to bite me on the ass. I didn’t think the pain of that
realization would come so soon.

“You want to cut me some slack here?” I said, ducking under
a branch on the path. “This is all kind of new for me. I’ll adjust. It’s only
been a few weeks.”

“What do you have to look forward to here?”

“Sam, come on. You’re acting as if I have a choice.”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, turning to face her. “Unless you want
to see me die?”

“No, I don’t,” said Sam, walking past me.

“Sam, wait. Please, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to
say.”

“It was,” said Sam, pausing, lowering her head. “All I want
is for you to be happy again. I don’t think you’re happy here. I know you’re
not.”

“If I knew where happy was, I’d be there in a heartbeat,” I
said. “But I don’t. So the best thing for me to do is stay where I am and try
to make the best of it.”

“It’s okay that you want to go to her,” said Sam, walking
back to me. “You could bring them back here. I don’t think she’d argue with
you. You’ve made this a good, safe place to start over.”

“Do I bring her dead husband’s brother?” I asked. “And I’m
not trying to be a jerk.”

“I don’t know. I guess that would be up to him.”

“You see now, Sam? There are just too many variables that
could go wrong. I need to stay put.”

“No, you need to find other people.”

“People are dangerous,” I said. “It only takes one to make
trouble.”

“We’re social animals, baby.
You’re
a social animal.
Getting as far away from the cities was a good idea, but completely cutting
yourself off from your species isn’t.”

“It’s worked out fine for me so far,” I said. “I’m good
here. Even Mother Nature is easing up a bit on me. There hasn’t been a light
storm for five days. No, the best plan is to wait things out a little longer.
Maybe in the fall after my first harvest I’ll venture out and visit the
rangers. If anyone has a chance of making it in a group, it’s them. But I plan
on coming right back here.”

“I don’t think you’ll last that long,” said Sam. “And I’m
not being a jerk either. Why do you shave every morning?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” said Sam, smiling. “You get yourself ready
every morning as if you were expecting company. If you were truly happy here,
you wouldn’t give a crap how you looked.”

“You are an odd woman,” I said. “The crazy thoughts that go
through your head.”

“They’re going through
your
head, sweetie,” said Sam.
“That’s why I’m worried about you.”

“I shave and clean myself up because it makes me feel
normal,” I said. “As stupid as that may sound, it gives me something to do. I
have to stick to some kind of routine every day, or I
will
go crazy up
here. That’s all that is. It has nothing to do with trying to look good for
company.”

“Whatever,” said Sam. “I think you’re losing it.”

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” I said. “I have
everything I need here. My uncle took good care of the house and left me in the
best position possible. It would be a mistake to leave.”

“Your Uncle Perry!” said Sam, beaming at her epiphany.
“Doesn’t he live close?”

“I wouldn’t say close,” I said. “It would be at least a two
day walk, maybe three.”

“You guys get along great, don’t you?”

“We do,” I said. “He
is
my father’s brother.”

“I’m sure he’s doing fine,” said Sam. “Plus he’s family. I
bet nothing would make him happier than to see your face at his front door.
Baby, you need to go find him.”

“We get along, but I wouldn’t call us close,” I said.
“Besides, I’ve only been to his house twice and not since I was a teenager. He
always came here to get away. Even if by some miracle I did find it, there’s no
guarantee he still lives there. No. Bad idea, sweetie.”

“Bullshit,” said Sam. “It’s a wonderful idea and you know
it. There’s nothing more important than family, especially now. I bet it would
take you five minutes to find something inside your house with his address.
Your dad has a ton of maps in his study. Don’t start making excuses before you
even try. Yes, this
is
a good idea. Come on, I’ll help you look for his address.”

Before I could argue, she bolted up the trail back to the
house. When I walked inside she was standing at my father’s desk. Her face was
lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Start here,” said Sam.

Once again she was painfully right. My uncle had left several
of his hunting magazines in the top drawer. The most recent issue was less than
four months old. Hearing Sam squeal with delight, I unfolded a map. It seemed
to be the same area I remembered visiting as a kid.

“Less than five minutes,” said Sam, sitting in my lap,
wrapping her arms around me. “Now you have something to look forward to.”

“It means I have to go back on the road, Sam. It’s been a
month since all this started. It’s going to be worse out there. People who
weren’t dangerous before, will be now.”

“You’re pretty dangerous yourself,” said Sam. “And you’re
smart. You’ll do fine. Uncle Perry is the only family you have left. It’s worth
the risk trying to find him.”

“What about my garden?” I asked.

“I’ll tend to it while you’re gone,” replied Sam. “You just
worry about yourself.”