Walking in the Rain: Surviving the Fall (3 page)

Amy gave a little squeal of surprise.

“All by yourself?”

I nodded, and then kept my silence for a few minutes as we navigated around some falling down barbed wire fencing.  That gnarled mess appeared likely to give you tetanus from just looking at it.  This patch of overgrown forest might have been a field at some point in the distant past, given the fencing and the immature trees sprouting all about, but that must have been years, or decades, ago.  From my own hiking experience, this kind of terrain offered more hazards than timber company land, or even old growth forest.  Only after we’d successfully navigated through the uneven ground did I pick up the thread of our conversation and continue.  

“Traveling in large groups now just makes you a target.  Unless you got a lot of firepower and people you can trust.  So mainly I’ve come this far by myself.”

While Amy digested this bit of information, I led her to a small side trail meandering down the hill and intersecting with the banks of a fast flowing creek.  When I dropped my pack, Amy took that as a sign to follow suit.  As she stood rubbing her shoulders, I asked her to gather up small pieces of dry wood for a fire while I checked our water source.

The stream ran by us only a few feet from the trail, and I came to a halt by a small stand of cattails to look at the water.  The flow appeared steady, maybe a little high on the banks from the recent rainfall, and likewise the load of sediment washed into the creek made the water a bit murky.  Of course, eyeballing the water like this told me little, so I used my stainless steel pot to scoop up some of the liquid for further scrutiny.

No smell, and cleaner than I had first thought, enough so that we could get by without first pre-filtering.  That would save us time and trouble, anyway.  I worried about chemicals leeching into the water but since I couldn’t do anything about that without running a complete condensation boiler operation, we would have to continue taking our chances.  Heavy metals and PCB pollution had been a big problem even before the world came unhinged.

While Amy gathered sticks and small limbs for fuel, I carved up enough wood shavings to serve as tinder, then I used a gardening shovel normally strapped on the side my pack to gouge out a shallow depression in the dark, loamy soil.  This would do in place of a fire ring and reduced the visible flicker of fire to anyone passing by our waystop.  I placed the sticks and wood shavings in the pit in the approved Boy Scout manner and lit it using a Bic lighter.

Once I had the fire going, I fished out the wire frame stand I’d fabricated to fit the pot and put the water on to boil.  While the pot was heating up, I stepped away from the creek side and quickly skinned the rabbits while Amy looked on curiously.  She seemed to approve as I checked the flesh for lesions and the internal organs for signs of disease before discarding them, along with the skins, in the bushes.  We wouldn’t be here long enough to attract predators, I thought.

Using a pair of metal skewers, I set the two rabbits to roasting over the fire while boiling pot after pot of water to replenish our canteens and bottles, then on the last pot of water after the containers were topped off, I left Amy to watch the fire while I harvested some cattails and other forage greens I recognized near our little patch of forest.  These greens went into the pot, as did one of the roasted rabbits.  I let the stew simmer for a few more minutes while I retrieved the second rabbit and wrapped it in some sterilized aluminum foil scavenged some days ago.

“Why did you do that?”  Amy asked, curious as my routine.  I decided to give her some lessons while we waited for the rabbit to stew to finish.

“Okay, first of all, that is for lunch today.  I use the foil to keep the bugs off it until we can eat it later.  I cleaned up the aluminum the day before yesterday, setting it out over a fire for nearly an hour.  Not enough to melt, but close.  Hopefully that treatment will kill any germs on the foil.

“You saw how careful I was about the rabbits, right?  Making sure they weren’t infected or parasite-ridden.  That is the way I try to do everything out here.  Carefully.  You said before you could hunt, is that true?”

“Yeah.  That’s how I grew up.  Daddy was a trucker but he couldn’t find much work lately and Momma worked odd jobs when she could.  Food prices got really bad there before the lights went out but fortunately we lived out in the country in a brokedown old trailer Daddy inherited.  I killed plenty of squirrels and rabbits with my .22, and cleaned ‘em just like you did.”

I wanted to ask Amy how she came to be in her uncle’s care but bit my tongue.  Not my business, I decided.  Maybe she will be able to trust me with the story later.  I moved the conversation on to other topics.

“Well, we need to keep up the same concept of maintaining sanitation in everything we do.  First and foremost, even more important  than food, is clean drinking water.  That’s why I boiled the water before cooking, because if we had to drop everything at a moment’s notice and haul ass, we filled our water requirements first.  You can live for more than a week with no food, but no more than three days without water.  That is the real deal.”

Amy nodded.  “My uncle, Daddy’s brother, had some chlorine pills he used to purify the water but that stuff tasted horrible.  He said you could boil the water but he didn’t know how long and was afraid the creek water had bugs in it.”

“I’ve got some bleach too, but boiling is usually enough.  There’s other ways of purifying water and there are some things like mercury and other poisons that even boiling or chlorine won’t fix.”

Pure bleach was a valuable barter commodity, and I salvaged it wherever I could.  When money rapidly became worthless, many people realized that certain commodities represented other forms of wealth.  A source of clean drinking water was worth more than gold or guns, which seemed to be the new currency, along with pussy and ammo.

To reinforce my point, I added a drop of chlorine solution to the cap threadings of each canteen and bottle while I stood explaining things to Amy.  I talked about maintaining a low profile, avoiding other travelers, and why we moved before preparing a meal and why we would hit the road soon after as well.  I could tell she got that part right off from her response.

“Yeah, people can smell food cooking a long ways off, even if they can’t see your smoke.  It’s like our sense of smell got better all the sudden after the lights went out.”

Yep.  When you are so hungry your stomach thinks your throat has been cut, it is amazing how keen your nose can get in this new world.

By the time I finished treating the water containers, I could tell the small stew was simmering and ready.  Using a pair of tongs, I pulled the pot and metal frame together away from the fire and gave the meal a few minutes to cool.  Then I set about rifling my gear and I could tell Amy wanted to ask a question but she held her tongue.  Straightening from my pack, I pulled out a pair of spoons wrapped in plastic from the side pocket.  She glanced at the one pot and the pair of spoons while I gave her a grin.

“Bon Appétit.  You can go first.”

Amy dug into the soup with gusto but I noticed she was careful to save back at least half for me.  I thanked her and ate my share quickly, eager to back on the move.  Out here, staying in one spot too long was an invitation to get attacked.  Once I was finished, I carried the bowl and spoons over to the creek, refilled the container with water, and set the rack back up over the flames. 

This time I let the boil go on for a few minutes before using the tongs to pull the setup off the fire pit.  Once the water cooled a bit, I tipped the small pot over and let the water drain out, then placed the spoons back in their plastic wrappers, careful where I placed my fingers on the hot metal to avoid contamination.  Then I stowed the now cooled pot and wire rack back into their compartment in my pack.

Finally, I used a stick to drag some of the loose soil over from the small pile I’d made gouging out the hole and carefully smothered the fire.  At this point, Amy spoke up, asking why I didn’t use the water instead.

“I used that water to sterilize the pot and spoons, which is always a good idea.  If I’d used the wash water to douse the fire, the heat might have been enough to convert some of that water to steam, like smoke.  Since the fire was relatively smokeless, no sense in making a sign of our presence now.”

“How do you know all this stuff?  Were you in the Army?”

I had to laugh at that, and once I saw the hurt look on Amy’s face, I figured I needed to explain.

“Amy, how old do you think I am?”

She shrugged.  “I don’t know, like twenty five?  Old,” she pronounced.

“Yeah, Amy, I am older than you.  Sixteen years old, anyway.  I wasn’t laughing at you, just the idea that I am old enough to be a soldier, or that experienced.”

“Sixteen?  That’s just two years older than me.  No way, Luke, you’ve got, like, lines on your face.”

I nodded, agreeing.  “Living like this can surely age a person.  Plus, not getting to shave regularly gives me this beard.  I haven’t looked in a mirror lately but I can bet I don’t look the same at all.”

“I guess so.  I don’t know why you would lie about something like that.  Did you have trouble at the beginning, with people thinking you were a kid?  That they could take advantage of you?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to them?”

When I didn’t answer, and instead pulled my pack on, Amy got the message.  Those three men she’d seen me kill were not the first.  Jesus, nowhere near.  I tried to keep a journal of sorts as I traveled, of what I had seen and where, but not a list of the men I had killed.  Sometimes I saw them in my dreams, but not so often any more.  Even after just two months of living in this shit, I’d already learned to process a lot and just let it go.

I hoped Amy would learn how to do the same.  We had a lot of miles to cover in the meantime.  

CHAPTER THREE

Amy and I continued our trek south for nearly a week, following the shallow little creek as it meandered eventually into a swift moving river.  Along the way, we kept our eyes open for any chance to liberate her better footwear and other essentials.  Nothing fruitful came along until shortly after we turned slightly west to parallel the river.  Then we got lucky.

Amy spotted it first, a partially burned two story farmhouse set back in the trees.  With only a long driveway leading out to a narrow dirt road, this location appeared fairly isolated.  And yet as we drew nearer, I could see the windblown trash in the front yard and the glint of broken glass told me even out here, looters had struck.

“Think we should look?”  Amy asked a touch apprehensive.  She was still having trouble getting comfortable with salvaging versus looting, at least how I defined the terms.  “Looting” meant taking from someone either still in residence or likely to return.  So, I had no problem with people shooting looters.

Salvage, on the other hand, is the repurposing of abandoned or lost items for your own use.  If someone was still residing in that house or if I found any sign that indicated the people who lived there might be coming back, we would pass it up.  Unless we were starving, and then all bets are off.  I kept this caveat to myself, not wanting to alarm Amy, but it is a hard, cruel world we live in these days.

However, a quick solo reconnaissance of the house and surrounding out buildings showed the property to be abandoned.  I found no bodies or sign of struggle, just broken dishes and paper trash scattered everywhere.  The kitchen in particular looked to have been attacked with a baseball bat or something similar since all of the glassware looked shattered and most of the metal cooking pots appeared caved in with dents.  Someone, or several someone’s, must have found the cupboard to be empty and taken offense.

“Looks clear,” I told Amy once I found her hiding spot in the barn.  She was getting better at picking good, unexpected places to conceal herself.  This time she used a pair of empty fifty five gallon drums to cover her in front while laying a tattered old horse blanket over the top.  I could tell from the dust on the concrete floor that this time she had not moved the drums, a move that gave her position away before when we played this game.

“See anything good?”  She asked, dusting her hands off on a shop towel she found in the barn.

“That towel for starters,” I said then continued.  “The homeowners had at least one daughter still living at home.  Her room is at the top of the stairs on the left, so you might want to look there first.  I didn’t check anything yet, just made sure we don’t have any surprises.  You know how I hate those.”

“Yep.  Your parents must have hated trying to buy presents for you.”

Fortunately for us, the fire failed to catch more than the curtains and carpet on fire in places so other than a little smoke damage and busted out windows, much of the house looked intact.  From water stains I saw in the smoke trails leading up the walls, I wondered if the looters had tried to set the house on fire in the rain.