Without (17 page)

After I made sure there was no turning back – ever – I
headed west to the border of Georgia and Alabama. When I reached the Tennessee
River, I’d turn south for Stevenson where my uncle lived on the edge of the
small town. Before I burned my home to the ground, I made sure to grab the maps
from my father’s study. I knew how to get to the river, but once I crossed it
I’d be in unfamiliar territory.

Traveling during the day was no longer safe – if it ever
was. I wasn’t the only person out here with a scoped rifle. In daylight walking
along a road, I’d be an easy target. A person wearing a backpack would have it
filled with the most valuable items they owned. Items everybody else would be
looking to take.

I didn’t mind moving through the countryside at night. With
no blazing sun I’d walk at a quicker pace, using up less of my water. It was
the heaviest, and most valuable, commodity I carried. It was stored in bladders
sewn into my pack to evenly distribute the weight across my back and shoulders.

In the dark my threat circle was much smaller. I was still
fairly easy pickings for an organized ambush, but the odds were even if I came
across stragglers. As long as I stayed smart, vigilant, and silent, I was
confident I’d notice them before they noticed me. What I did after making
contact would be dictated by their intentions and my mood. At the moment,
showing mercy was going to be a problem.

Being hyper-aware and focusing on my immediate surroundings
gave me little time to think about my actions back at the house. But having to
be hyper-aware was in itself a thought. In a strange way it felt good being on
the move, paying attention to my new environment. I had a goal to achieve and a
place to go. It was a nice thought, knowing I’d soon be talking to people who
didn’t live inside my head.

Sam and Earl’s faces would creep into my mind while I
walked, but they were static images. I was hoping they had become what they
should’ve always been. I’d keep those images and moments that had meaning to
me, but I would no longer allow them to plot my course or make decisions I
needed to make. I was the only person on the planet who should be accountable
for my actions. There was no one to blame if things went bad. When I saw the
firelight around a bend in the road, I knew things had just gone bad.

I pulled the AR-15 and dove into a roadside ditch as the air
exploded around me. It took two seconds for me to realize I was caught in
crossfire. The first rounds came from behind me to my left. They were the
closest as I heard two bolts racking more rounds into their chambers.  A second
volley of shots followed, but those were coming from my front to the right. I
recognized the sound as a semi-automatic pistol.

Rolling onto my stomach, I didn’t pull the ripcord that
would release my pack. It was the only protection I had from taking a bullet in
the back from the pistol as I focused on the closer targets. When the two
rifles fired again, I saw both muzzle flashes. The last sound they expected to
hear erupted from my AR after I flipped the switch to fully automatic.

Their ambush was somewhat organized, but as I heard screams,
I figured the two rifles weren’t behind good cover. Thinking they got the jump
on an easy target, they probably stepped out from behind a hidden position to
more accurately aim their weapons. That was a bad idea.

Confident they were either injured, dead – or scared
shitless after hearing a fully automatic assault rifle – I rolled to the other
side of the ditch. I couldn’t see the third shooter, but I emptied the rest of
the magazine in his direction. He should’ve stayed quiet.

After we both reloaded, I switched the selector to a
three-round-burst, waiting for the flash. When it came, I squeezed the trigger
twice, sending six rounds to the pistol. There was no scream, but there were no
more shots fired either. The gun battle lasted fifteen seconds.

Climbing out of the ditch and staying low, I bolted into the
woods beside the road. I circled around to come up behind the two shooters with
rifles. They were both lying on the ground. One was obviously dead, missing
half of his face. The second was still alive, staring at me, holding her neck.
She couldn’t have been older than fourteen.

Since I hit her jugular, I knew there was nothing I could
do. With her pleading eyes still locked onto mine, she exhaled for the last
time. It felt like my soul had just died with her. The earth stood still.

Time didn’t move again until I did. I never heard him coming.
After the shot rang out I was drilled to the ground by the multiple impacts to
the left side of my body. From my ankle to my face, it felt like I was on fire.
Aiming at the silhouette that was reloading the shotgun, I fired. The shooter
dropped like a sack of grain, crumpling down into a ball. I scanned from left
to right looking for more targets. When none appeared, I fell back into the
woods, taking cover in a depression behind a large tree.

Touching my left cheek, I could feel the pellet beneath my
skin up against bone. There were four more holes down the side of my body. Two
in my arm, one in my side, and the fourth lodged in my leg above my boot. (The
shooter must have been firing birdshot from a single barrel shotgun.)

Standing well beyond its effective range, the shooter was
lucky to hit me at all. (I was lucky to still have both my eyes.) Each pellet
penetrated less than an inch, missing any vital organs or arteries. The pain
was intense in my face and ankle, but far from life threatening. I was more
pissed that I’d dropped my guard, letting him get that close to me. Then I
remembered I had just killed a fourteen-year-old girl.

The wounds were enough to motivate me to backtrack a few
miles, separating me and the aggressive group. I had no idea how many more were
stationed on the other side of the camp. More than likely at least a few of
them had more powerful weapons that could finish what the others had started.

Walking with a limp, wiping the oozing blood from my face, I
found more reasons to be pissed. As soon as I saw the fire, I knew I had
already entered the kill zone of the group that lit it. If I had kept moving
forward, I would’ve found nobody sitting around it. They were all in position
to shoot once the firelight exposed me. It was a simple trap that I was walking
into because my mind was somewhere else. Sam nearly got me killed again.

When I was a safe distance from pursuit, I tried to pinch
the pellets out of my arm with no success. I became pissed for a new reason. I
had just blown up the one place I could use as an infirmary to extract the lead
in a clean environment.

All others aside, I knew the most dangerous reason I was
pissed was that, the longer the holes were exposed and the foreign objects were
in me, the faster the deadly infection would come. Without proper treatment,
even the smallest cut can become infected and kill the host. I had no choice
but to extend my route around the trouble and keep pressing on to my uncle’s
house.

Reading my map by match light, I saw I had added over six
miles to my trip. With a limp and extra distance, there was no way I’d be
making it to the river by sunrise. I still wasn’t comfortable being so close to
the hornet’s nest I just kicked, so I kept walking, keeping my eye out for
shelter. As the adrenaline faded, so did I. The full force of the pain was
hitting my nerves, especially in my face. With every heartbeat, I felt it
swelling.

After two hours of walking I noticed the black outline of a
rooftop on a ridge. As I moved closer I saw that there were no other houses in
sight. I took my time walking the perimeter, looking for any signs that it was
inhabited. My next round would be close enough to peek into the windows.

The back door gave in without a fight, and I stepped inside
with the shotgun leading the way. (I was relieved not to be met by the odor of
decomposing flesh.) It was a small house with a total of five rooms I needed to
clear. The adrenaline returned as I made my way through the darkness, but
subsided quickly when I finished.

I used one of the handful of ChemLights I had left to
illuminate and dress my wounds. I sat on the couch in the living room, working
my way up from my ankle. I dabbed antibacterial ointment on my finger, pressing
it into the hole. Clenching my teeth from the burning pain, I covered each with
a sterile bandage. I was hoping the first aid I was giving myself would buy me
a few more days before the infection flared.

When – not if – it came, I knew gangrene would soon follow.
After that, parts would start dying and falling off. That’s if the sepsis didn’t
kill me first. In my book, dying by wound infection is one of the worst ways to
go. I was taking my situation very seriously. I had two full doses of a broad-spectrum
antibiotic, but that was only a temporary fix for a problem that would return.
And antibiotics were far too valuable to use as a temporary fix. Bottom line, I
had to get that metal out of me.

Tending to all the holes but one, I walked into the tiny
bathroom. When I held the ChemLight up to my face, I couldn’t help but laugh.
It looked as if somehow I had managed to stuff an entire plum into my cheek.
(And it was damn near the same color.) My upper and lower eyelids were puffing
up like I’d been crying for days. Any hopes I had of digging out that
particular pellet was lost in the swelling. I’d have to find a way to reduce it
before I started cutting on myself to remove it.

After stuffing and covering the hole, I went looking for the
room that would allow me some much needed rest. Each had at least one window
with easy access to the ground. Unfortunately that easy access went both ways.
The best choice was the small room on the back corner of the house. But when I
raised the light to inspect my surroundings, I knew I couldn’t stay in there.

Plastered over every wall were posters of boy bands and
starlets. Pastel colors from the bed sheets to the ceiling made me think of
Easter. When I stood in front of the vanity, I noticed photographs of a young
girl, not so different from the one I just killed. In all of them her smile was
bright and her arms were around her friends – and theirs around her.

I only saw the dying girl’s face for a moment, but it was
burned into my memory with the intensity of the sun. Blood was pouring into her
long, blonde hair as she stared up at me. I leaned in closer to look at a
larger photo of the girl. The chances of it being her were remote, but there
was still a chance. I didn’t care how tired or how much pain I was in, there
was no way I could stay in that house a minute longer.

I’m sorry
.

I turned to look at the dead home when I passed their
mailbox. I knew that girl was trying to kill me and take whatever I had. It
didn’t make being the winner any easier. If I had known she was a young girl,
would I have pulled the trigger? The answer came too fast.

Yes
.

I woke up groggy and disoriented from the painkillers I took
before I climbed up into the hay loft of a dilapidated barn. It wasn’t the
Hilton, but it offered good cover from the elements. As soon as I rolled over
onto my left side, the pain returned, reminding me of the events of the night
before.

There was still daylight, but the sun was low in the sky. I
crawled over to a window to scan my surroundings. All was quiet.

After a potluck breakfast of an oatmeal pie, candy bar, and
a handful of trail mix, I lowered the ladder to the barn floor. As soon as my
injured ankle flexed on the rung, a lightning bolt shot up my spine. It was
going to be a long night on the road.

When the last rays of sunlight faded into the shadows, I
opened the door with the AR leading the way. (I was a little more sensitive to
ambush.) After memorizing the route I needed to take to the river, I was
determined to make the six mile hike in good time. It took a few minutes for my
legs to loosen up, but they were responding well to my commands.

It didn’t take long for me to find the railroad tracks that
would lead me to the bridge spanning the Tennessee River. If all my parts
continued to work properly, I’d be crossing it in two hours. After that it was
only ten miles to my uncle’s house.

Well into my journey, looking up at the late evening sky, I
had never seen the stars so bright. Even with only a half moon, the rails and
crossties in front of me were easy to see and avoid tripping over. It was a bit
warmer than the night before, but not enough to slow me down or cause me to
deplete my water supply. In spite of a throbbing ankle and burning face, I was
making good time. I should’ve knocked on some wood.

I heard it before I felt it. It sounded like a million metal
trashcans were being thrown up the tracks from the river. My first thought was
another two-mile-wide tornado. But as I stood there not feeling the slightest
breeze or seeing a single cloud, my theory quickly changed. The recent memory
of being rudely awakened by a flash flood fired through my head. There was no
doubt in my mind I was about to endure another.

If a flood was coming, it had to be biblical. I was still
miles away from the river on the high side of the valley. Whatever Mother
Nature was about to throw at me, she was pulling out all the stops. I was
terrified.

Looking around me, I noticed the only things that could get
me off the ground were the trees. I shot into the woods off the tracks to find
one I could climb. The pain in my ankle wasn’t going to be an issue for this
escape.

My gear was too heavy. Pulling the ripcord to release my
pack, I extended the straps and wrapped it around the tree I was going to
scale. I made quick work of the knots I tied in both the lanyard for the
shotgun and the sling for the AR. I was hoping they would withstand the impact
of the water once it reached them. (If everything was lost, at least I still
had my pistols on my belt.)

With adrenaline giving me a reprieve from the pain of my
injuries and fueling my climb, I headed for the top with haste. Judging by the
sound of the roar, I figured I only had a few seconds before everything beneath
me would be under water. Once again my survival was now out of my hands.

When Mother Nature revealed the source of her rage, I realized
I couldn’t have picked a worse place to ride it out. It wasn’t a huge wave of
water barreling up from the river. It was a wall of freezing wind.

It was as if a lion were an inch from my ear, roaring with
all its might. Instead of hot breath, it exhaled bone chilling air that shocked
any skin that was exposed. It seemed like I was getting pelted by debris from
every direction as the tree was being pushed to the ground.

The initial blast from the wind front had to be moving at
least seventy miles per hour. After ten seconds of straining against the
attack, the tree gave up. All I could do was hang on and ride it down.

Before its base exploded, the large limb I was clinging to
was thirty feet above the ground. I wasn’t concerned about the fall since I was
riding on top of it and not under it. I was hoping the extended branches would
absorb most of the impact.

They didn’t. I did.

Even with the roaring I heard the bone in my arm snap above
the wrist when I hit the ground. It happened at the same time the right side of
my face crashed into the bouncing limb coming back up to kiss my cheek. When
the tree stopped kicking my ass, the wind started again. It came in waves like
an invisible tsunami every ten seconds. All I could do was lie there waiting
for more trees to join the party I took to the ground. They were toppling like
matchsticks in every direction.

The initial chaos lasted five minutes before diminishing
enough for me to stand. It wasn’t easy as the sustained winds were still strong
enough to push me around. As my arm throbbed and blood streamed down the side
of my neck, I found my gear still attached to the base of the tree below the
break. With my injured right arm pressed to my chest, I used my only good
appendage to drag my gear back to the tracks. In both directions downed trees
and debris cluttered my path. Any hopes I had to make good time to the river
were gone with the wind.

As I sat on the rail, I knew it was a good sign that I could
move all the fingers on my broken arm. I also knew it was a bad sign I could
see the bone pushing up the skin on my forearm. I couldn’t move my wrist at all
without searing pain.

It must have taken me ten minutes to maneuver the straps of
the pack over my shoulders. I burned another ten immobilizing my right arm with
the sling from the AR. I slapped a bandage over the gash on my right cheek and
popped a couple of painkillers. (I wasn’t worried anymore about being groggy.)
Carrying the rifle with my left hand, I headed down the tracks for the four
longest miles I’ve ever hiked in my life.

Things changed quickly in those days. I had survived a month
in this crazy world since 8:13. I had a few challenges along the way, but for
the most part I had avoided serious injury. In the twenty-four hour period
after I blew up my home, I got shot in the face, left arm, rib, and ankle. I
had just broken my right arm, head-butted a tree, and tore open the only good
side of my face. When it rains, it fucking pours.

The painkillers took off the edge, but the blunt side of my
condition still hurt like hell. With every step on my bad ankle, my bad arm
responded in protest. I didn’t need my fingers to feel my face inflating to the
size of a basketball. My vision was reduced by half from the swelling around
both
of my eyes. Add the temperature dropping by forty degrees in five minutes and
it was a miracle I was still on my feet, let alone putting miles behind me.

The cherry on top of my evening materialized in the form of
a foul stench two hundred yards from the bridge. It was the same smell from the
body decomposing in the cabin, but multiplied several times. I learned my
lesson from the campfire ambush and continued my trek while concealed in the
woods flanking the rail line.

Thirty yards from the edge of the bridge, two bodies were
lying next to each other. They had been there for a while. There were seven
more in various stages of decomposition on the bridge itself. As I maneuvered
to a pile of crossties for cover, I used the scope to survey the other side of
the river.

Through the crosshairs I saw a man sitting in a chair next
to a barrel with a pair of binoculars around his neck. A group of six more men
were a few feet behind him talking in a circle around a fire. (They were probably
conversing about the fit Mother Nature just threw on us.) All seven were armed
with hunting rifles.

After a few minutes the spotter raised the binoculars to his
eyes, scanning for movement in my direction. I read the signs lying on the
ground with perfect clarity. Take a step on that bridge and you’d be dead
before you took another.

I wasn’t surprised there was an armed group at a prominent
chokepoint for foot traffic to enter their town. I was a little surprised that
the fine folks of Bridgeport were so aggressive with their stranger policy. The
people they killed never had a chance to announce their intent or turn around
after a warning. There was no sign posted letting them know to cross the river
somewhere else. They were gunned down before they knew there was trouble on the
other side.

Backing away from my position, I was in no shape to
challenge that policy. My new plan was to skirt the river bank and look for a
boat to borrow. It had to be something small that I could propel and control
with an arm that had two lead pellets in it. I shook my head in disbelief when
it appeared a short walk down the riverside trail.

It was perfect. I looked around trying to spot the angel
that just dropped it in front of me on my path. After a quick inspection to make
sure it was seaworthy, I dragged it to the river’s edge. Before I took the helm
I checked the map, counting the number of bridges I needed to float under
before reaching the road that would take me into Stevenson. At that point I
realized a river route would cut several miles of walking off of the trip. When
my feet hit dry land again, I’d be three miles from my Uncle’s house.

Launching the boat, I positioned myself at the oar. I then
had another favorable realization. I no longer had to worry about propelling
the boat as the more reasonable wind and swift current were doing it for me.
All I had to do was occasionally man the oar and work my yacht to the other
side of the river. It was looking good that the end of my trip was going to
turn out much better than the beginning or the middle. (This time I knocked on
the wooden rail right after the thought.)

It was chilly but no longer to the bone as the wind
decreased as the minutes past. I wasn’t thrilled to be in a tiny rowboat at
night on the mighty Tennessee River, but options were something I didn’t have.
Even through the pain of my injuries, I smiled, knowing I was covering ground
without having to take those painful steps.

Navigation was simple since all I had to do was keep the
stern pointed at the bank I was leaving behind. I’d look over my shoulder every
few minutes for the bridges that would indicate my position on the river. It
was wide, but I had already managed to pass the halfway point across the
middle. I liked the idea of being ahead of schedule for once. I also liked the
idea of moving closer to land just in case something happened.

As usual, I didn’t see it coming.