Without (18 page)

Giving myself a tiny shred of credit, I did see something.
There wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, but I did see it.

Rolling in the swift current, the limb rose out of the water
like it was the Loch Ness Monster. The problem wasn’t the limb; it was the
giant trunk a few inches beneath the black surface that was the issue. The
Tennessee River version of an iceberg torpedoed my flimsy craft, poking a hole
the size of a bowling ball along the water line. (When I say poke, I mean
ramming me and nearly launching me into the drink.)

My initial reaction from the impact was to reach out with
both hands to steady myself against the rails. When I did, I thought I was
going to cry from the pain of jerking my broken arm away from my chest. Water
was up to my ankles by the time I started laughing.

Of course I’m going to sink.

I worked the oar as best I could to move me a few more feet
closer to the bank before she went under. I still had a good fifty-yard swim
when she did. (At least my vessel was polite enough to stay afloat while I
secured my gear.) I wasn’t worried about going down with the ship because my
pack was designed to float. With two good fins and two good flippers, the swim
ashore would’ve been a piece of cake. I had half a fin and one and a half
flippers. There would be no cake eating today.

I knew the only way I was going to be able to swim was with
a sidestroke. As soon as I extended my left arm, my broken arm caught fire. I
tried rolling onto my back and using my legs for propulsion and steering, but
the pack would have none of that. Every time I leaned, the pack would right
itself, rolling me back onto my stomach. I didn’t like the idea of removing it,
but if I stayed in that position, I was at the mercy of the river. I had time
before the last bridge, but I really wanted to get out of that water. (I didn’t
want to get ripped open from a treeberg like my dinghy.)

As soon as I released the buckle on the right strap, the
river tried to steal my gear, but I was able to hold on to it and roll onto my
back. With a white knuckle grip on the straps, I started kicking. After a few
minutes I paused to get my bearings. There was no wood to knock on – not that
it would’ve helped anyway – but I was making good progress to the bank. It
motivated me to kick harder through the pain.

When I went overboard, the water was warmer than the cold
air above it. Not much warmer, but enough to delay the inevitable hypothermia
that was on its way. There were many reasons why I was concerned about
surviving, but I had to focus on the immediate task of getting onto dry land.
At least I was moving in the right direction. After kicking for what seemed
like hours, I felt my heel hit something solid. At a turn in the river, I was
gently deposited onto a sandbar.

Struggling to get to my feet, I was able to walk the last
ten yards to the riverbank in knee deep water. The personal celebration for
making it to land didn’t last long. I started shivering violently, rattling the
broken bones in my arm. I had no choice but to break protocol and build a fire.
I wasn’t about to die of exposure after working so hard to stay alive.

Gathering kindling and driftwood from along the shoreline, I
ignited the pile of debris. As soon as the first flames reached out, a sense of
calm and accomplishment washed over me. Rubbing my cold hands over the growing
blaze, I exhaled.

With warmth and light working with me to fight off the cold
and darkness, my breathing slowed and the shivering stopped. I sat near it for
a moment before heading into the woods to collect the materials I’d need for
the construction. Breaking and cutting the branches to the right size and using
cordage I carried to lash them together, I built a frame over the fire. I
started with my shirt, laying it over the frame to dry out. (Every stich of
clothing I wore – down to my boxers and socks – were designed to repel moisture
and dry quickly.)

Fire changes everything.

In most, if not all, survival situations on land, fire will
not only save your life but transform desperation into comfort. In my current
state it was preventing hypothermia, drying my wet clothes, giving me light in
the darkness, keeping animals at bay, and entertaining me. (I’d rather watch a
fire than television.) If I desired, it would cook any food I caught in the
river or the woods. The only disadvantage was that it would signal to any
cowards in the area that potential prey was sitting next to it. The pros
outweighed the cons as I stoked it.

Everything still hurt, but not as bad. Waiting for my
clothes to dry gave me too much time to think. Drowning and freezing were taken
off the table, but I knew I had just pulled myself out of a stew of bacteria.
Any hopes I had of delaying the infection of my open wounds disappeared with
the boat.

I applied more antibacterial ointment and fresh dressings,
but the damage was done. It would only be a matter of hours before one of the
invisible killers would breach the barrier – and then ferociously multiply –
inside me.

Before my voyage I stuffed everything I needed to keep from
getting wet into my pack. When my clothes were dry, I slid my pistols back into
the holsters on my belt and took my pocket watch out of the waterproof box. I
unfolded the map, trying to figure out my position on the river.

Since leaving Atlanta, I’d known where I was and where I was
going. Most of the routes I took were very familiar. Sitting by the firelight,
looking at the map, I wasn’t sure anymore.

Neither was my compass.

There was no possible way I was sitting on the east bank of
the river. Even through the chaos of being torpedoed, the boat didn’t spin
completely around. I swam to the closest shoreline – the west shoreline. Either
my compass was defective or magnetic north had disappeared. I’d find out soon
enough if I found the road leading to Stevenson that paralleled the river on
the west side. According to the map – and my best guess – it should be a short
hike away.

In spite of the few minor setbacks of being shot, broken,
gashed, capsized, frozen, and infected, I was still on schedule. (Well, close enough.)
After dousing the fire I headed into the woods. Two hundred yards later I found
the road. It confirmed that I could no longer trust my compass to point north.
The discovery did nothing but create more questions I wasn’t smart enough to
answer. Regardless, answers weren’t going to make the last four miles any
easier. I was hoping for something a little less challenging than the previous
four.

Limping along the road, all the pain in my ankle, arm, and
face returned. If I could press through it and keep my pace, I should reach my
uncle’s property shortly before sunrise. I wanted this cluster fuck of a road
trip to end, but I wasn’t willing to risk a daylight stroll through town. I’m
not a fan of towns.

Popping another painkiller, I was determined to make it to the
checkered flag. If I didn’t, then I’d have to hole up somewhere and hide for
twelve hours before completing the last few miles. Twelve hours could kill me.
(As if there weren’t enough opportunities for the Reaper to collect his prize.)

I had neither the time nor the energy to spare on thoughts
of what might happen when I reached my uncle’s house, but as I approached
Stevenson my brain decided otherwise. What if he wasn’t there? What if he were
dead? What if the town had the same policy for strangers as Bridgeport? What if
they were in worse shape than I was? What if he slammed the door in my face?
Where would I go?

Why did I blow up my house again
?
Oh, yeah, I was
trying to kill ghosts and take control of my life. Mission accomplished,
asshole.
Now look at ya’. All banged up, homeless, and looking to be
saved. You’re not in control of shit.

Thanks, me. Great pep talk.

Without electricity for lights, even the smallest fire emits
a telltale glow that can be seen for miles. There’s no other animal on the
planet that can create – or control – fire, other than humans. When I saw the
faint glow from the direction of Stevenson, two things came to mind. Cowards
were burning it to the ground, or the locals were still in control. Either way,
I turned down a road that would avoid the activity. At the turn I was less than
a mile from whatever fate awaited me.

Stevenson, Alabama was much smaller than Lafayette, Georgia,
so there weren’t as many homes or buildings on the outskirts. It didn’t reduce
my level of anxiety or caution when they came into view. They came into view
because the sun was rising. I was too close to stop, so I sucked it up and
began to limp faster. With every impact of my foot to the ground and swing of
my semi-good arm, the pain elevated from bad to excruciating.

As the shadows retreated, exposing the landscape and me, my
uncle’s house was in the same place I remembered as a teenager. I stopped at
the mailbox in front of the white picket fence of the pale yellow
farmhouse-style home.

It was larger than I remembered, but what confused me was
its condition. There was debris in clumps from the windstorm, but other than
that, it was pristine. Even the lawn was manicured with flower beds blooming
along the walkway to the wrap-around front porch. There were no boards on the
intact windows, and the glass door was still on its hinges. It didn’t make
sense.

When I turned to look down the street I had just traveled,
dawn revealed all of them in the same condition. There were no abandoned cars
in the streets frozen in time since 8:13. All of them were in their driveways.
I was the only thing out of place here.

Trying to wrap my head around the surreal scene, I wondered
if the violence of the new world skipped over this town like a tornado bouncing
over a church. Was Stevenson an island sanctuary or just sitting on the edge of
hell? Was the rest of the world intact beyond the line I just crossed? I
reached out to steady myself on the gate, feeling dizzy from the revelation that
Atlanta and north Georgia might be isolated events. Looking down at my watch, I
held my breath.

It was still 8:13.

For some reason I thought it would be rude to pull my
shotgun and start the normal process of checking the perimeter. Besides, if I
went up peeking through a window, I had a feeling I’d catch a bullet in the
face. Or at least scare the shit out of anybody inside. That was no way to
announce the presence of a nephew. So I opened the gate and strolled up to the
front door like I was the milkman.

They were probably asleep (if it
was
them), but it
seemed like a good idea to start knocking lightly. After no response I looked
around and gave it a more vigorous rapping. I took a step back and pulled at
the tail of my jacket as if removing a wrinkle or two would improve my
appearance. This was ridiculous. This was dangerous.

This time, I did see it coming.

Putting my hands in the air, I saw movement coming from both
corners of the house. I didn’t want to make any sudden moves, so I shifted my
eyes from left to right. Both times I focused on the barrels of the assault
rifles. Hearing the gate open behind me, I knew more guns were aimed at my
back. I didn’t knock on a door; I kicked a hornet’s nest…again.

“Those hands go anywhere near your guns, and I’ll put one in
your ear, dipshit,” said the gun on the left.

“They won’t,” I replied. “I’m looking for my uncle. His name
is Perry Dawson. I haven’t been here in a while, but I was pretty sure this was
his house.”

“Holy Mother of God,” said Uncle Perry, standing on the left
corner. “I knew it! I knew you’d make it.”

I kept my hands in the air as he approached. I wasn’t going
to feel comfortable about anything until the others lowered their rifles. When
I heard him walk up the porch steps, I slowly turned around. Uncle Perry is a
big man. I forgot that he gives big hugs.

“My arm’s broken,” I said, wincing in pain from the squeeze.

“Damn. Sorry, son,” said Perry, taking a step back, putting
his hands on my shoulders. “You look like shit. What the hell happened to your
face?”

“It’s been a rough couple of days,” I said. “I’ve had a few
setbacks.”

“Stan!” yelled Uncle Perry. “Go get Doc Hammond. Tell him my
nephew’s hurt.”

“Will do,” replied Stan from the gate.

“Stan!”

“Yeah?”

“Tell him to bring the big bag,” said Perry, looking me up
and down.

“This is my cousin?” asked the gun on the right, walking up
the stairs.

“It is, Joey,” said Perry. “I told you he’d make it.”

“All the way from Atlanta?” asked Joey.

“What’s left of it,” I said.

“Let’s get you inside,” said Perry. “Donna’s going to flip.”

Taking me inside, his wife and daughter were standing in the
hallway with shotguns pointing my way. “I don’t believe it,” said his wife,
Donna, lowering her gun. Laying it on a table, she slowly walked toward me.

“His arm’s broke,” said Perry, sensing her intent.

“I’ll be gentle,” said Donna, squeezing my neck. “I’m so
happy you’re here.”

“Not as happy as I am that you are here,” I said. “I didn’t
know for sure.”

“Well, you know now.”

“What happened to you?” asked his daughter, River.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“I bet,” said River. “Is Doc coming?”

“Yep,” said Perry. “He’ll be here shortly. I’m going to take
him upstairs to get cleaned up. Why don’t you two get some breakfast going.”

Walking upstairs, he took me into one of four bedrooms. I
couldn’t help looking around at how everything was in order. There wasn’t one
thing out of place. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

“Uncle Perry,” I said. “This place is beautiful. How have
you kept it this way?”

“It hasn’t been easy,” said Perry, going into a closet.
“We’ve had our share of trouble, but the entire community has stepped up. We’ve
got a bunch of good folks ‘round here. They’re all doing the best they can.”

“It’s impressive,” I said. “I’ve been through a few towns.
Bridgeport looks like Fort Knox. They’re shooting people before they can cross
the bridge.”

“I know, I know,” said Perry. “I was up there not too long
ago. It’s like a war zone, but they’re our shit screen for looters and drifters
coming down from Chattanooga and Nashville. There’s another town, Scottsboro,
to the south that’s the screen for Birmingham and Atlanta. We used to let folks
pass through, but that all changed about two weeks after it happened.”

“They’re protecting Stevenson?” I asked.

“They are,” replied Perry. “We were more prepared than most.
We started having community meetings after the first blackouts. About a year
ago we came up with the plan to use the natural boundaries of the river to the
east and the mountains to the west. Bridgeport and Scottsboro were the logical
choices for chokepoints. We have a militia that rotates every other week with
Stevenson being the safe zone. I guess we’re getting a little complacent.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Because you’re still alive,” answered Perry. “You never
should’ve made it to my front door unchallenged.”

“Look at me,” I said. “I was challenged. If I hadn’t seen
those bodies at the bridge, I would’ve tried to cross it.”

“I’ll bring that up at the next meeting,” said Perry. “We
need to clear them out. But I had a feeling you were coming. It doesn’t
surprise me that you made it through. You’re a lot like your father.”

“So are you,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”

“You’re home now, kid,” said Perry, handing me fresh
clothes. “We haven’t heated up the water yet, so the shower might be a little
chilly. Get yourself cleaned up; we’ll get some hot food in you and wait for
the Doc. It’ll take him a little while to get here from town.”

“Thank you,” I said, putting out my left hand.

He ignored it, choosing to give me another hug instead. He
went easier on me with the embrace. I walked into the bathroom, looked into the
mirror. I couldn’t believe anybody recognized me. I didn’t.

It was obvious the birdshot wound on my face was infected.
The gash on my right cheek wasn’t far behind, showing signs it was turning as
well. Taking care not to mess up the bathroom, I folded my dirty clothes and
stepped into the shower. Every cut and hole in my body ignited when the soap
and water hit them. Blood and mud mixed together to form a dark brown trail to
the drain. It hurt like hell, but it may have been the best shower of my life.
I felt human again, drying off with a plush towel that smelled like Downy.

Reflected in the mirror, my face was still swollen beyond
recognition, but at least it was clean. I stared into it with a better
understanding of how quickly things can go bad. I then thought about how things
can turn for the better just as quickly. My uncle told me I was home now and I
believed him. When I tried to smile, a red tear fell from the hole in my face,
reminding me that I was still in trouble.

Breakfast was ready by the time I put on the fresh clothes.
They smelled as good as the towel. I felt like an old man trying to dress with
one arm and then limping down the stairs, leaning on the rail. My eyes grew
wide when I hit the last step and the aroma hit my nose.

Holy shit. It can’t be.

Turning the corner into the kitchen, I saw that it was. I
stood mesmerized by the popping and hissing of the bacon in the pan. River was
putting a bowl of scrambled eggs and grits on the table as Perry walked inside
from the deck with a stack of toast and a block of cheddar cheese. Donna was
pouring what looked like fresh squeezed orange juice. It had been a while since
I’d seen orange juice.

“Don’t get used to this,” said River, smiling. “Usually it’s
bread and water.”

“Oh, come on now, River,” said Donna. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s like I’m on another planet,” I said. “This is
amazing.”

“I will say we don’t normally break out the bacon,” said
Perry, “but this is a very special occasion. This is for you, kid.”

“You shouldn’t have,” I said. “but I’m glad you did.”

“Come sit down before it gets cold,” said Donna.

As I took my seat everyone started piling food on my plate.
All I could do was sit there with my hands in my lap, shaking my head. Maybe
blowing up my house wasn’t such a bad idea. Holding the cheese grater over my
eggs, Perry asked me to say when. He had to stop himself because I couldn’t
speak.

“You okay?” asked River, noticing my distant stare.

“Perfect,” I replied, coming back to them. “It’s been a long
road.”

“I can only imagine,” said Donna. “We’ve heard stories. All
of them are so sad.”

“Not today,” I said. “I consider this a very happy ending to
mine.”

“Eat up, son,” said Perry. “Doc will be here any minute.”

Taking a sip of the orange juice, I discovered a cut on the
inside of my lip. It was a wonderful pain. Setting down my glass, I started in
on everything around my bacon. I was saving that for last. When I took a bite
of the rare treat, I closed my eyes, savoring it for a moment before I chewed.
Joey came inside and joined us.

“Did you stop by your parents’ place?” asked Joey, grabbing
a handful of bacon.

I stopped chewing.

“I did,” I replied after the difficult swallow.

“How’d it look? Dad and I were thinking about heading down
there. Was that the AR we kept there?”

“Yes,” I answered. “The house and the AR saved my life. I
buried everything else of value before I left.”

“I love that place,” said River. “Your dad built a beautiful
home. I hope it’s still there if you guys go back.”

My appetite disappeared.

“I just hope the guns and ammo are still there,” said Joey.
“We need ‘em in Scottsboro.”

“Is it getting worse down there?” asked Donna.

“It is,” said Joey. “It’s like the entire cities of
Huntsville and Birmingham are trying to get in.”

I was thankful for the subject change. “How do you deal with
refugees?”

“We don’t anymore,” replied Perry. “During the first week
after all this crap happened, we’d offer them a little help and shelter for a
day or two. Then we’d have to send them on their way. Some of them started
coming back, looking to stay. After that, things got ugly. They’ve been that
way ever since.”

“I hate that they have to turn people away, especially the
children,” said Donna. “That has to be horrible. Not having anywhere to go, I
mean.”

“We wouldn’t be sitting here right now enjoying this meal if
we didn’t,” said Joey. “It has to be this way or none of us would make it.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said River. “This is a
good day.”

She smiled at me, reaching over and patting my arm. I could
see her pain through the smile. I remembered that she was married with a
daughter. I also knew her other brother wasn’t sitting at the table. Everybody
lost something at 8:13 – some more than others.

After trying to help clear the table but being ordered to
sit and rest, I heard a knock on the door. Grabbing the shotgun off the table,
Perry went to greet the visitors. It was the first obvious sign that things had
changed. A month ago it wasn’t necessary to take a weapon to welcome guests
into a home.

A moment later Perry returned to the kitchen with Doc. A few
seconds later a woman walked in behind them. She had a fresh scar extending
from the corner of her eye to her jaw. It did nothing to take away from her
stunning features. She was breathtaking. When she put a bag as big as the one
Doc was carrying on the ground, she pulled at a wisp of her jet black hair,
trying to cover the scar. I felt a ping of anger, knowing a coward put it
there.

“Christ, son,” said Doc. “What’d the other guy look like?”

“They got the worst of it,” I said, forcing a smile,
thinking about the fourteen-year-old girl I killed.

“Good,” said Doc. “Is there a room where we can make a
mess?”

“Yes, sir,” said Perry. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Damn my manners,” said Doc. “This is Kelly. She’s gonna be
helping us out. She’s the best nurse in the state. You’re in good hands with
this one.”

Kelly smiled. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. River was
right. It was a good day.