Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 19
Upon arriving at the northwest fighting position under construction, Phil told Payton with a wink, “I don’t recall the last time I saw you doing manual labor!”
“Uggggh,” was the disgruntled reply.
“But seriously, Olive. You’re pregnant—go do something else. Take a break.” Phil started to clamber down the hole, carbon-fiber leg first. The other member with a shovel, Buddy Chadwell, was smirking.
“Dad!” she yelled, annoyed at his presence. “I got it. I’m not due for four months.” She rolled her eyes and pulled the shovel out of his reach.
Thirty going on fifteen, I see… “Alright, alright,” Phil said, hands raised. “Don’t say I didn’t offer.”
He climbed out of the hole and looked at their firing-lanes. Scanning up and down the road and through the brush at the base of the trees, he advised, “This brush here and here will need to go. Maybe this tree, too. I have an old truck canopy at home. We can place it over the hole, throw some roof tar on the seams, and cover it with brush. Then this hole might actually stay dry.” He realized as he started walking away that he was really just talking to himself. It seems like I do that a lot in the “zombie apocalypse”.
17
Waiting.
Tahoma’s Hammer + 7 Days.
A lifetime of societal decay had taken about a week to occur. The guards that the stores had cut deals with were no match for mobs of hungry people. Grocery stores, pharmacies, and super-marts were the first to get overrun, followed by everything else. The more enterprising thieves were organizing themselves with pick-ups, quads, cargo trailers—anything to up the volume of their haul. High-dollar generators, tools, and materials were snatched from the clutches of less than enthused guards at Costcos, Lowe’s, and Home Depots across all of Cascadia.
Police and National Guardsmen were starting to spend the night at fire stations just to protect their own supplies from nighttime theft raids. Gangs were starting to patrol at night, knowing full well that the cops would rather pretend nobody was violating curfew than get into a shootout when there was no back up coming. The gangs were lobbying for turf, scouting for both customers and competition. The inability of the government to enforce the curfew became more apparent with each passing night.
The elderly and sick were starting to die off. Nursing homes looked like zombie movie sets as staff quit coming to work. The mobile geriatric eventually wandered out of their facilities, and those with dementia were actually the fortunate ones. There was nothing fortunate about dying of dehydration and starvation, but at least they were living in happier times in their minds.
I don’t know if I can take this stench much longer, Carmen screamed inside her head. Fear, anxiety, and depression were becoming her biggest threats. She and Stu had planted themselves in the same small set of woods for—What? Three days now? Stu had come down with a case of flu and was laid up in his leaf bag, shivering. They were trying to ride it out just in case Carmen got sick, too. The weather, lack of nutrition, and overall exhaustion were taking a collective toll. Carmen wanted badly to get moving, but she didn’t dare leave behind the one friend—Friend?—she had in the new world. Partner. I’ll settle for that word. It’d been almost two days since the last major aftershock. The small tremblers were almost mundane at this point. Growing up in California, she knew they were still there, just smaller now.
The woods here, called Powell’s by the local homeless residents, smelled like rotten eggs and bad body odor. The trees acted as the southerly wind’s filter for the sewage treatment plant to the north. The heavy rain had come back. During Stu’s puking and fever phase, Carmen had ventured out to find anything of value. She had removed a little cash from his suitcase, intent on buying food or upgrading their gear situation. She had tried building him a fire, but the woods were too wet, and she had no idea how to start fires.
Carmen started to realize that the safest time to go out and handle affairs was first thing at dawn. The criminals seemed to prefer to sleep then. She didn’t like to be out much past mid-day. She’d told Stu that when they finally felt up to travelling again they ought to travel between midnight and late morning. Her logic was that the cover of darkness and late hours might expose them to the least number of opportunists.
During her venture out, she met an older homeless man who lived in Powell’s year-round. He was probably close to seventy, she figured. A somewhat-sane and toothless black man, everyone at Powell’s called him Blue Jay. She first bumped into Blue Jay at the parking lot for the church over by Sacajawea Middle School. The church members were giving away clothes and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She watched Blue Jay ask for and receive condiment packets—specifically ketchup, salt, and pepper. She wandered behind him near the clothing tables, finally mustering the will to ask him about it. She would later remember this as Lesson Number 1 in being homeless—ketchup soup. Blue Jay explained to her that he had survived countless days of his life on just those items. They were blended with hot water to make a basic red broth. “Look aroun’ you,” he’d told her in his raspy, Southern twang. “People don’t see tha poten-shul o’ things right in front o’ ‘em cuz o’ their own pre-conceived notions.”
She was able to find a decent enough backpack for Stu as well as some more clothes for both of them. She asked for and received the same ketchup soup supplies she’d seen Blue Jay take. She took as much as they would give.
Back in the woods later that day, Blue Jay broke through the brush and strode up to the downed log they’d been using to prop up their decayed tarp. “You two look sadder than a preacher’s kid in a whor’-house,” he mumbled. “Here.” He threw a grocery sack down.
Stu continued to lay there suffering while Carmen picked up the bag and looked. There was a big roll of plastic. It was used and smeared with dried-paint but intact. Under that was a mylar blanket, a one-quart metal can, and a roll of toilet paper.
“Put tha TP into tha can and close it up. Next time you kin scrounge some fuel, put it in tha can, too. Al-cohol, not gas-o-line. It’ll work a lot bettuh than that little stove you been usin’,” he told them. “Once you got your area covered in plastic, stuff tha foil blanket an’ some newspaper into your armpits, shoes, an’ nether-regions. It’ll keep you warm.” He turned and wandered back towards the main camp.
“Thank you, Blue Jay,” Carmen called out, getting only a soft grunt and a quick backwards wave as he continued the two-hundred-foot trek back through the forest. Two days had passed since then.
“I’m sorry I’ve held you up,” Stu said apologetically.
“It’s alright,” Carmen said, shaking her head lightly.
“I’ve been thinking,” Stu continued. “If Tacoma is truly unpassable, maybe we should start going west. Find a marina and barter for a boat ride back up to Bartlett. Get you back to your base in a few days.”
This got Carmen’s hopes up. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! “You think it would be safe?”
“As opposed to what?” Stu coughed a bit as he chuckled. “Starving? Dehydration? Sleeping with drug addicts? Getting murdered if we pass through the wrong neighborhood?” He paused for a minute. “I think we should at least try,” he concluded.
“Okay,” Carmen agreed. “Let’s leave when we think it’s about midnight.”
“Find the next target with your eyes then move the rifle,” Phil instructed. “This will ensure your shot gets follow-through. Too many people copy what they see in movies and tv shows. You want that site-alignment back into place when you prep your trigger, but you will acquire targets faster if you lead with your eyes—especially when they’re spread out like this.”
He was out in Bay 11 running several groups through a condensed version of his tactical rifle classes. People normally paid two hundred dollars a day for Phil’s classes, especially after he’d recovered from “the incident.” He had a long list of classes he’d taken from reputable instructors nationwide as well as a decent ranking in shooting competitions several years earlier. Combined with his time spent in the USMC Security Forces, and he had a lot of experience to draw from.
Brrt… [Jerry: “Tim and Stephanie need to see you at the gate. There’s someone who wants in. NE.”]
This texting thing is awesome, Jerry! The “NE” was something that Phil demanded be added to the end of every text. It meant “Not Emergent.” If NE was missing, the receiver was to assume he or she was needed immediately. Phil was pretty stoked about the GoTenna app as a whole. Not only could they text, but they could share mapping data with each other and do it all privately. The phone batteries also stayed charged a lot longer than the little range-radios, which meant less time running the generator. This was cutting down on radio chatter, which thrilled the tactician in Phil to no end. They still had some people using the little radios, but overall there was a fuel-savings happening.
“Be up in five,” he shot back to Alice, who was in the office. He walked Don through the next set of drills for the group and then made a beeline for the front gate.
“Paw-paw!” he heard from his right. Payton and Savannah were returning from Bay 10, where the group had parked the newly-built chicken run. She was followed closely by Dakota, who was on a leash while they were conducting live-fire training.
“Hey, Peaches!” Phil said, scooping up his granddaughter and continuing his march. He looked at Payton.
“Only two eggs,” she said, reading his mind.
“Yeah, well… they’re just adjusting to their new surroundings.” Like the rest of us.
Phil set Savannah down near the front of the rifle line where she and her mother continued towards the chow hall.
“Olive,” Phil called as their distance apart grew. “Payton!” he called out, getting her attention the second time. “Come find me when you get a chance.” She nodded. He reached the gate area a few seconds later. “What’s up, guys?” he asked Jay and Stephanie Webster, who were currently standing watch.
“Hi, Phil,” Jay started. “This is Paige. She wants to know if we’ll let her and her kids come in.” There was a disheveled lady with two pre-teen children standing there.
“Please! Please!” she started to plead. “We’ll work, we aren’t dangerous. Please!”
Phil tried to reassure her. “Whoa, whoa. Calm down. Listen—are you a range member? Can you present a current membership card?”
“No. But I am a successful business-woman. I’ve owned and operated two drive-thru latte shops. Please! We won’t eat much!”
Phil had been dreading this. He and the other range officers and board members were drafting a list of skills they should consider letting in if the opportunity arose. “Espresso entrepreneur” wasn’t on there. They also hadn’t run the idea through the entire club yet. He’d known this scenario was coming—and it would only get worse. We need to finish that discussion—tonight.
“I’m sorry. We’re just trying to survive ourselves. We don’t have anything to give. And we can’t let you in.” His heart hurt, but he couldn’t save everyone at the expense of those who’d earned the right to be there.
“Please!” It was turning into begging, which really bothered him.
“I’m sorry, no.” He was trying to sound sincere and apologetic.
The lady and her two children started to sob. She grabbed her kids and turned. She led them back to the edge of the driveway and then turned back around. “You!” she screamed at Phil at full-volume. “Whatever happens to us—it is your fault!”
Phil stood there with a lump in his throat, speechless. He let out an audible sigh after they had walked behind the berm-sized shoulder between the highway and the range parking area. It was then that he realized that if someone came from the woods across the highway just a few yards north of there, none of the three foxholes on the west side would catch it. We’ll have to address that.
“You should’ve let them in,” Stephanie said coldly.
“Steph…” Tim started but his wife cut him off.
“No! I knew you would think that way, Tim. But you,” she said looking at Phil. “I expected better from you. With your wife’s passing…and the leg! You should have compassion. And understanding!”
She’s upset and clearly needs to calm down before I try to explain myself. “We’ll have another meeting tonight so we can get all the facts out. To everyone. Once. One discussion,” Phil stated, holding up his index finger. “Excuse me. I need to go find my daughter for a moment.” Phil was pissed that she’d judged him so harshly. Better leave before I say something I regret.
He caught Payton as she was leaving the chow hall/former classroom. She had left Savannah there to help Teresa prepare some food for the group. They were going to make a few crusted-stews in Dutch ovens over the range’s big firepit that evening. “Walk with me, honey,” he told his daughter.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” They were slowly strolling towards the foxhole she’d helped dig a few days earlier. Phil wanted to make sure he saw the lady pass by.
“Nothing specific. I’m just trying to get a read on how you and Peaches are doing. That’s all.”
“Okay, I guess,” she lied. He knew. “It’s just…hard to believe. A week ago, my biggest issue was paying rent and dealing with the break up. Now I don’t even know—” Tears came out of nowhere, interrupting her speech.
You don’t know if he’s alive. I know, honey. I get it. “It’s okay, Olive. Let it out.” She wrapped her arms around herself. Phil pulled her in to hold her. They hadn’t been close in many years, so she held her wrapped arms in place, sobbing into her dad’s chest.
“Everyone here knows what to do except for me,” she revealed. “I’m pregnant. I don’t have much food to contribute. I have no place, Dad—no purpose.” She was opening up a bit about how she felt.
“You’re wrong, Payton. We all have something to contribute. Take it from me—some people have to be on the verge of death before they figure things out.” I know what I’m talking about.
We need to get out of here! Soon, Tony told himself. It had a been a week since it all began and five days since he had arrived at the T-Mobe. It felt like a lifetime ago. Sleep came in small restless doses. At least the kids seem to be keeping their energy and spirits up. He didn’t like feeling this way. Even when he’d been out to sea for months in the Navy there always seemed to be something fun to joke about. People bonded in the misery of deployment, but this wasn’t the same. Despair. That’s what I sense. If despair has a smell, Tony decided, it must be un-brushed teeth, armpits, sweaty socks, and farts.
He was standing in line once again. I woulda never guessed that the end of the world entailed so much standing in line. This one wasn’t for food, water, or access to an overflowing plastic toilet. This line was for information—or the lack of it as it usually turned out. He was performing his daily ritual of trying to learn when there might be a ferry running to get back to Bartlett. Every day before had produced the same result— “Sorry, sir. The state hasn’t given us an update.” Why should today be any different?
“Yes?” the county DEM employee asked.
“Has there been an update on when the ferry may be running?”
The person began the diatribe in their normal fashion and then caught herself as she flipped through the clipboard to the appropriate page. “The state still hasn’t—hold up.” She flipped back and forth for a moment.
I’m sure she’s just as tired as the rest of us, Tony thought.
“This is new. Not much help probably but new. It says that most of the ferry docks were badly damaged, but they may have one here in Seattle operational within one week. There is one in Bartlett as well as two ferries that are operational. One of the ferries will be serving the northern run out of Everett. They will have to off-load stranded cars first. All sailings will be passenger only for the foreseeable future. It cautions people to keep in mind that fuel and power limitations will be limiting factors.”
Tony soaked it in. “So…maybe someday, and then—maybe a limited number of runs…”
“Maybe a week. It’s more than you knew two minutes ago,” she said smugly.
“Thanks,” Tony muttered as he walked off. A week! The thought depressed and angered him. It’s karma. I laughed at all those whack-jobs on “Doomsday Preppers,” and now I’m paying for it. He didn’t really believe that, but like most people in dire situations he was trying bargaining on for size. He went for a stroll around the main level of T-Mobile Park trying to stretch a bit. He was on a mission. He’d started noticing things, and now he was focused on learning if it was his imagination or his instincts.
He first noticed it in the soup and bread line a few days earlier. People that were eating when he and the girls left their tarp were standing in line behind him minutes later. He wrote it off as mistaken identity. But then he noticed it again. He started watching more and more people. He didn’t know what the scam was, but he was sure there was one. It wasn’t in his nature to care one iota about people taking advantage of the system. Then he remembered that the system had a finite amount of food, and it was keeping his babies alive. His first instinct was to grab photos, but his phone was dead. He’d never invested in one of those twenty-dollar back-up batteries that people keep in their purses and backpacks. Now I wish I had three or four of ‘em.
Another thing he noticed was that there was never a shortage of drugged out looking people by the plastic restrooms. Where the hell are they getting their heroin? He was certain there was sex-trafficking happening to pay for the drugs. That was the one currency that everyone possessed and the authorities couldn’t confiscate. That one bothered him—a lot. He wouldn’t hesitate to beat wholesale-ass if the wrong person tried talking to his girls.
Lastly and most disturbingly was the thing he saw just earlier that morning. He was near one of the gates, and he witnessed people being denied the chance to leave. What, are we prisoners now? That went against his intuition. I served this country to ensure people would never be their country’s subjects again. He could only figure that they wanted to keep people penned up to slow the tide of lawlessness that was surely coming. He finished his lap and made his way back to his girls, feeling helpless.
