Dead Reckoning (25 page)

Salt Lake City, UT: Extremely low humidity coupled with hot winds and tinder dry forests created the perfect conditions for the latest terrorist strike across the western U.S. on Sunday. Armed with flame throwers, terrorists drove along interstates, highways, and rural roads setting fire to millions of acres of forest across six western states.

Further down the stack another headline described the result: 100 million acres burned, 17 towns destroyed, more threatened.

I kept reading, and it just kept getting worse. The virus spread without restraint and was determined to have been purposely engineered by terrorists.
Communication was next to impossible. Commerce stopped. Grocery stores emptied. Israel bombed Iranian Nuclear Facilities. Wildfires raged out of control across the west, and there was no relief in sight. India and Pakistan squared off. Lawlessness prevailed, and the government was helpless to stem the tide. For the first time in its history, “the United States of America, indeed the entire civilized world, teetered on the brink of total collapse” said one editorial.

I suddenly realized that the behavior of all of the world, outside my own little sphere, was as unpredictable as the weather and just as potentially malevolent.

A crashing sound shook the entire house and startled me back to the present. I involuntarily dropped to my knees. Something crashed through the living room window and sent me sprawling for cover from the shattering glass. I cowered in the corner of the dining room. The sound died down as the shards of glass came to rest, and then all was quiet. I peered cautiously around the wall into the living room. A giant tree branch lay motionless, wedged through the window frame and against the floor. I crept to the window and peered through. Nothing moved.

             
Satisfied that the falling tree had been a natural occurrence, I returned to the table and dug through the remaining papers looking for anything positive. I found one headline: Leaders Ponder Future Of Regional Light Rail. On the margin a small headline told of how the Mariners had swept the NY Yankees and were then in first place in the American League West. A small story toward the bottom of page one said: Experts Warn of Danger Of Bioterrorism. The paper was dated before Kate and the kids even left Kwaj, which got me moving again.

On my way back through the kitchen, I checked the cupboards for food. A variety of canned goods lined the shelves, but I already had all I could carry. I pocketed a couple of granola bars and chugged a room temperature bottle of
water. I opened the refrigerator, and due to the smell, quickly closed it again. The perishables were so far past their shelf lives that they probably would have smelled even if the refrigerator still had power.

Back in the garage, I tried the keys in the vehicle. It turned over a few times and then sat dead. As I suspected, the gas gauge sat on E. I glanced around for a gas can, but obviously any gas cans would have been easier targets than the gas in the car’s tank. I wondered why they took the gas but left the car.

The garage contained the usual supplies: camping stove, tent, tools, a broom, a rake—stuff that could be found in most garages—things I thought I could probably use but couldn’t carry. Then I noticed an old bicycle hanging from the rafters. I found a step ladder and lifted the bike down. The tires were flat. I rummaged around and located a tire pump and re-inflated the tires.

It suddenly occurred to me that Paul’s house had not been rummaged, and, on a whim, I ran back inside. I looked through all the closets, behind picture frames, and under rugs. I finally found a small, portable safe in the closet of the room that served as his office. It was not a gun safe, and I didn’t really even know if Paul had owned a gun, but it was worth a try in my estimation.

I took the safe back down to the garage, found a pry bar, hammer, and chisel and spent a few minutes ruining, but not opening, the locking mechanism. I was sure I would never regret having another firearm or more ammunition or money, but it was no use.

I jumped on the bike and road cautiously out into the street. I peddled up the hill as fast as I could, thinking that speed would reduce my chances of being seen, which, in hindsight, was probably about as logical as running through a rainstorm to avoid some of the drops or driving faster to get to a service station before you run out of gas—as if time, not miles, were the enemy. I reached the top of the hill just as the tires went flat again. I cursed myself for not bringing the pump. My legs felt like lead and my head began a new round of pounding, so I jettisoned the bike.

I paused to look out over the water. From atop the hill, I could see the RY motoring south through the channel. I fished out my binoculars. Sonny had Jeff’s scope and swept back and forth in my direction. Jill looked through binoculars and seemed to be staring right at me. I waved and she didn’t respond. They were only a half mile off shore, but it might as well have been a million—I was a needle in a haystack now. I watched as Jill lowered the binoculars and sat down. She put her head in her hands.

I had never felt so alone nor so terrified.

I set out on foot. The road wound along through the trees, the tops of which, at times, completely closed in overhead and obscured the sky. I stayed close to the ditch and listened for any sound—in particular, the sound of automobiles. I encountered few houses along the first few miles of Bush Point Road, and I approached the ones I did warily. It slowed my progress greatly, but I spent time observing each house before I passed.

In the long stretches between houses I thought of many things, but mostly I thought of my children. I didn’t truly appreciate the predicament we were in at that time, but it was clear enough that our lives would never be the same. At a time when women were breaking the glass ceilings all around them, even in the good old boys world of politics, I wondered if my daughters had lost their chance to change the world. I wondered if my son would have the chance to fulfill his dream of playing football. I wondered if any of them would have the chance to go to college or even high school. I wondered if any of them were still alive. Despite the fatig
ue, the dizziness, the headache, my pace quickened at such thoughts.

The trees quickly thinned and then disappeared as Bush Point Road passed Mutiny Bay. The clearing was wonderful for the homeowners seeking a view of the bay, but bad for a traveler trying to pass undetected. Even though it slowed me down, I decided to walk in the ditches as much as possible because
I could see everything from the surface of the road and, therefore, everything could see me on it.

My thoughts went to Kate. What had she gone through in these months? What had she seen? Had she and her parents been able to protect the children? If she was still alive, had she given me up for dead? If so, had she taken another lover for protection, or worse, for love? The thought sickened me. I desperately wanted to hold her, or more to the point, to have her hold me. It had been such a long journey, and I was so tired.

My thoughts suddenly came to present as the reality of my worsening symptoms hit home. As a man suddenly becomes aware of his heartbeat when he feels the slightest pain in his chest, I became aware that I was not well. It was a similar to the resignation one feels when it dawns on him that he’s had way too much to drink and that the last two drinks probably aren’t even in his bloodstream yet: loss of control imminent, mitigation unknown.

I felt the back of my head, and just as a tongue easily detects the slightest abnormality in the mouth, so did my hand detect the increased swelling, the tenderness, and the dampness of blood. In a wisp of thought, I wondered if maybe I should have let Sonny come with me. I knew the RY was gone and out of reach. I began to panic at the thought of dying alone.

Despite the desperate urge to press on, I had to rest. I intended to lie down for just a minute, but it must have been longer than that—much longer.

2
0

Whidbey Island, WA

             
As I approached Kate’s parents’ house from along the beach, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Light flooded the house, and smoke rose lazily from the chimney. Kate talked gaily on the phone while her dad sat in his usual chair, watching the Seahawks game. A fully decorated Christmas tree sat in the corner, surrounded by gifts. Waves lapped at the beach, and the sun warmed my skin as I stood there in bewilderment.

             
I ran to the sliding door and threw it open.

             
Kate smiled and held up a finger to stall me and then told her caller that she had to go because “he just walked in.” Her dad did not even turn to look.

             
“Well, it took you long enough!” she said. “Where have you been?”

             
“Where have I been?” I exclaimed. “I’ve been sailing across the Pacific for the last two months.”

             
She threw her arms around me and gave me the hug and kiss I had longed for. “That’s absurd,” she said.

             
“Kids, come out here!” she yelled over my shoulder. “Your dad is here.”

             
The kids! Soothing waves of relief washed over me. I felt as if I floated in the air.

             
“Daddy!” they screamed running to me and gathering for their hugs.

             
I suddenly felt the sensation of falling as a strong, sharp pain rose in the back of my head.

             
“I need something for my head,” I told Kate.

             
“Oh don’t be silly,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Look!”

             
She turned and pointed at the mirror. The entire back of my skull was missing. I touched the back of my head, and it felt like cold tofu. I ran my fingers over the ridges of my soft, spongy brain. My fingers began to pick at it. I couldn’t control them. Walnut size bits of brain dislodged and dropped into my hand.

             
Kate’s dad turned to look at me. He had no face, bleached white bones stared back at me. “Dinner at eighteen hunnerd?” he asked as his bony lower jaw moved mechanically.

             
I looked at Kate as panic washed over me.

             
“See?” She said. “Everything is fine.”

             
“No, really,” I said. Kate and the kids began to fade from my vision.
. .
I desperately tried to hold the image. Confusion and fear turned to dread.

             
“Mommy! What’s wrong with him?” one of the kids asked. I didn’t recognize the voice through the black.

             
“I told you. It’s his head.”

It wasn’t Kate’s voice. The voice was deeper, frightened, frightening. The sounds of their voices echoed as if they were talking through a culvert, but gradually the reflections of sound coalesced as my mind focused.

              “Is he going to be all right?” the child asked.

             
“I don’t know.”

             
I sensed the wetness on the back of my head—like a cold patch of drool on a pillow. I opened my eyes and flickering firelight cast picket-fence-like shadows on the wall next to me. Somewhere a door opened, there was a rustling, and then a dull thud like firewood being dropped echoed through the structure.

             
I quietly tried to move and found that I was tied down. I wriggled against my restraints, and the apparatus upon which I was lying shifted, causing the floor to creak. The people immediately became silent, leaving the irregular crackling of the fire as the only discernible sound.

             
“Get your brother,” the woman whispered.

             
A pitter-patter of footsteps, and then a distant door opened and closed again.

             
I heard a turn and click of a knob on a much nearer door. A plane of firelight slowly opened up and spread across the blanket over me. I closed my eyes and tried desperately not to blink.

             
Realizing that the woman was alone, I began to fight against the restraints and the pain in my head. Light spilled into the room as the woman rushed in with a lantern.

             
“Please don’t do that!” she pleaded. Her long, dirty, frazzled hair made her look like a witch in the light of the lantern.

             
I managed to get one leg free just as a teenage boy entered the room and pointed a shotgun at my face. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

             
I froze.

             
“Where am I? What are you doing to me?” I asked as a younger boy entered.

             
“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said in a tone of voice that was part guilty cry and part remorseful whine. She grabbed the younger boy and rushed out.

             
The older boy stood there and studied me for some time. A handsome boy of maybe seventeen with fine hair clinging in patches to his tightly stretched facial skin—his meager attempt at a beard. I smelled in him more fear than hate.

             
“Well?” I asked.

             
The woman rushed in and pushed down the barrel of the shotgun.

             
“Mother!” exclaimed the boy.

             
“Stop it! We can’t hold him here like this. I’m going to untie him and let him go.”

             
The boy protested that I could be dangerous, that maybe I was one of them.

             
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” I said. “I promise. I just want to get out of here.”

             
She untied my legs first.

             
“You’re sure you’re not going to try anything?” she asked.

             
“Try anything? What have I ever done to make you think I’d try something?”

             
“Nothing. It’s just, well, you know.”

             
“No I don’t, really. By the way, where am I?”

             
“What do you mean?” asked the older boy.

             
“I mean, last thing I remember I was walking along the road, and the next thing I know I’m here.”

             
“No, I mean what do you mean you don’t know?”

             
I explained to them why I didn’t know what they were talking about, how I had been at sea for two months, out of contact. I pleaded again for the woman to finish untying me.

             
“We found you in the ditch,” said the woman. “We brought you here in hopes that…” her voice trailed off. “Oh, I don’t know what we expected.”

             
“You needed help, and you thought maybe I’d help you. Is that it?”

             
She nodded remorsefully.

             
“You thought tying me up and holding me prisoner would put you in my good graces?”

             
“No. No. We… We just don’t know what to do,” said the woman. “We couldn’t just leave you there to die, and we couldn’t trust you.”

             
Apparently satisfied at my sincerity, she untied my hands. The older boy remained vigilant but kept the gun lowered. I sat up and rubbed the tightness out of my wrists and flexed my muscles.

             
“How bad is it?” I asked. “I mean out there.” I pointed randomly, having no sense of direction but knowing which way was out.

             
“Ok, you’re free. Now get out!” said the boy.

             
“Jimmy!” snapped his mother. “He seems ok. Come into the kitchen,” she said.

             
“Mother, I don’t think that’s…”

             
She raised her finger, and he stopped talking immediately.

             
Still feeling light-headed, I walked gingerly out into what she called the kitchen in what appeared to be in a barn. Dust kicked up off the dirt floor as she walked and the ribbed wall of uncovered studs provided little barrier to the cold. An old wood stove sat in the corner with firewood stacked next to it and a pot on top. The blackened wood stove looked as if its fire burned on the outside, and its flue extended through a rough hole cut in the roof.

The younger boy skittered over to a built-in ladder, vaulted up the rungs with monkey-like dexterity, and peered back down over the edge. Jimmy leaned against a chair and watched me suspiciously but he held the shotgun pointed toward the ground. The woman immediately set about to filling a coffee pot and placing it on the stove.

“All we have is warm water—no coffee,” she said, embarrassed.

“That will be fine,” I said.

“What has been going on around here?” I pressed.

“Well, see for yourself,” she said indignantly, motioning about the room. “This is what it has come to. We’re living in our barn. A few weeks ago, my husband went out to look for food and get some help. He hasn’t come back yet, but we’re still expecting him at any moment.” She glanced at the little boy and then looked at Jimmy in much the same manner she might have in order to silently forbid him from casting any doubt on Santa Claus.

“A few days later,
they
showed up.”

“They?” I questioned.

“Yes, the zombies. That’s just what we call them since they have no souls. But they’re not real zombies, you know, actual living dead like in the movies. They go around capturing and killing people and God knows what else.”

“Luckily, we were out here working when they showed up and were able to slip into the woods before they found us. They looted our house and then burned it down. Look, see?” She opened a sliding window in the barn, and it was dark out.

“Well, you could see it across the way if it were light out.”

I glanced at the wood stove again.

“They haven’t been back, probably because we’re way out here and they think there’s nothing left.”

“So there is only one band of them?” I asked.

“We don’t know. It’s the only one we’ve ever seen. One band could rule this whole island, you know? There were at least twenty of them.”

“So what else is out there? What else has happened?”

              She sighed. “I don’t even know where to begin. It all started when this virus began to spread around the world.”

             
“Yes, yes, I know about that. I know everything up to the point where someone set off the e-bomb. Oh, and I know that there was a nuclear war. Were there any strikes around here?”

             
She explained that they never saw any evidence of nuclear strikes around there. Her husband, Dan, was a line repairman for Whidbey Island Power, and he made the same assumption we had when the skies clouded up for good. It was bad at first, but the real trouble came after the e-bomb. The lights went out, and people packed up and headed off to God knows where. Police drove up and down the roads telling people to stay in their houses and that marshall law had been declared. They heard that the military took over on the mainland. Most people, including them, became afraid to go out because of the virus, the police, and because of what might happen next. They just hunkered down on their property to wait it out. They had been hunting and fishing, but it wasn’t enough. When they ran out of food, Dan had to go out for help. He left and never returned.

             
“Speaking of which, do you want something to eat?” she asked. “I was fixin’ to cook up the rabbit that Jimmy caught before you woke up.”

             
“No, I’m fine,” I lied. I was actually starving but didn’t have the heart to take any of their food. “I have some food in my pack,” I said. “You’re welcome to some.”

             
“Oh we couldn’t,” the woman started.

             
“Mom!” cried Jimmy.

             
“Well, maybe just something for the kids. I’m all right.”

             
“Your backpack is outside,” yelled the little boy.

“Go get it, Kevin,” said Jimmy.  Kevin raced down the ladder and out the door.

              “So, you don’t know anything about the shape the country’s in?” I asked.

             
“No,” she said. “Once the power went out, nothing worked any more. We haven’t seen anybody alive since the zombies—until now. And it sounds like you don’t know anything either, so I guess we’re all in the same pot.”

             
Kevin returned with my backpack.

             
“Listen,” I said. “What time is it?”