Just the beginning of your problems?
Just the beginning of our problems. Now, fortunately there was another hybrid besides the one we brought, and we were smart 'nuff to avoid four-lane highways, and we planned to take back roads all the way 'till we hit some sort of area we could use as a base, or some secure area not bein' overrun by Zack or refugees. Now, the main problem wi' this was that some other folks had decided that this was a good idea. Some kinda unpleasant folks.
Now, the vans were newer-model hybrids, a bit more electric and a bit less gas, so's they were fairly quiet—which is not t' say "silent" (He makes quotation marks in the air) but near 'nuff. Zack was 'bout twenty miles south of our position, comin' on at about a mile an hour from the reports we were gettin'.
I was in the van with the grandfather, his grandkids—the two teenage girls, and the younger boy—, Mr. Warren, Larry, Rob, Sam, and Logan. As there hadn't been time for introductions back at the dock, we introduced ourselves, and then the refugees reciprocated. The grandfather introduced himself as Tom Delaney, the girls as Jessica and Donna Delaney, and the boy as Henry Delaney.
Anyways, we were drivin', talkin' a bit wit' each other an' the refugees—'specially t' other boys with t' girls, which I kinda stayed out of.
Why?
(He snorts) Imagine a 6-foot-tall, 145 pound, glasses wearin' beanpole, who was a little awkward around folks, especially girls, who he didn't know well. And that leaves aside the fact that I hadn't quite managed t' master my tendency t' lecture, in addition t' my rather argumentative nature.
Anyhow, though we'd passed a couple of small towns on the way we hadn't really halted, 'cause we didn't know what was there. However, we noticed that were runnin' out o' gas, so we began to look around for a gas station. We came upon one that still looked functional right as the vans began runnin' out of fuel—lucky us, right? We checked it out, and there didn't seem t' be any vehicles there 'cept an SUV, and we thought that prob'ly belonged t' the manager, so we headed on down.
We drove on in, but then (He chuckles ruefully) we came to the realization that we might not be able to pay, as the pumps required a credit card t' get the gas flowin'. We decided t' give it a shot, though, and it turned out that the credit cards still worked, and we decided that it was use it or lose it time, so me, Larry, an' Dennis headed into the station t' git some supplies, like gas cans, some of the "food" (He makes quote marks in the air) sold in gas stations, bottled water, some alcoholic beverages to distill down further for tradin' and medicinal purposes(1), and some oil for maintenance—the whole shoppin' list, exceptin' guns and medicine. We'd noticed when we came in that the desk was empty, and we assumed that the feller there just had to use the toilet.
Once we got in, that assumption went out the window, as we caught a whiff of a smell that would become highly familiar t' us over the next decade or so—not t' be melodramatic or anything, but we smelled fresh blood. We looked behind the counter, an' we found out who the car belonged to. It was the station manager, a guy named Oliver Torvaldson. He'd blown the top of his head off wi' a 9mm Glock an' left a note sayin' that there was now nuthin' left for him t' live for because his pregnant wife had miscarried due t' stress an' died. This struck me as unlikely, but what I read next struck me as being exceedingly unlikely. He said that he had placed all his survival gear in his vehicle an' brought it out there, and that anyone who came by was welcome to whatever they could carry from it, or his gas station.
(I must look skeptical, because he laughs softly) I know, an unbelievable story, right? But I can tell you that it's the truth. Besides, what reason do I have t' lie?(2)
(I must still look skeptical). Well, I might have a reason t' lie—image 'n all that. But I'm not. You'll know why.
Anyway, I knelt down, picked up the pistol and checked the magazine, bein' sure t' point it down towards Torvaldson's body. The magazine was at full capacity wi' 17 rounds, and, not surprisingly, there wasn't a bullet in the chamber.
I realize the description is kinda nonchalant, but after the events at the dock, and despite the time passage, things still had an air of unreality to them.
But I digress. Anyways, I was just about to stand up when I heard some motorcycles drive in. Mitch'd told us t' stay down behind something if we were already there if we heard any newcomers show up, so I stuck where I was, while Larry did the same over by the alcohol. Dennis stayed standing behind a display. "They're bikers, Jake," he said, not looking towards me, "four of 'em, and they're loaded for bear."
"What're they doin'?" I asked him, and he replied, "Well, they're talkin' to Mitch, looks like, one of 'em's comin' over here, and…wait, one of 'em just pulled a gun an' pointed it at Mitch!"
As far as I was concerned, that tore it. I took the Glock in both hands 'cause I wanted it steady, and turned towards the door as I stood up. (His voice shifts to a slightly higher-pitch, and he begins to speak faster.) The feller headin' towards the station was holdin' a gun an' dead in my sights an' almost at the door, and I fired three rounds rapid. I forgot 'bout recoil. Lord must have been watchin' over me that day though, 'cause the first round, though it landed in his center o' mass, simply shoved him back a little, but the second round took him in the throat an' spun him, an' the third round took the top off his ear. He fell forward and crashed into the door, forcin' it open.
I froze. I'd just killed a guy myself. An' looking at the blood draining out on the floor, the reality of the situation crashed right in on me at the worst possible time.
(He shifts back to normal.) The only thing I remember about what happened next is hearing a series of cracks but apparently the other three men had turned to look at the gas station when I fired the first shot, an' Mr. Delaney took advantage of this by sucker-punchin' the man closest to him, grabbin' the man's gun as he clutched his stomach, an' shooting the other two men before bashin' the punched man over the head with his weapon.
I remember the silence that fell, unfreezing and beginnin' to shake, and kneelin' down an' puttin' the Glock on the floor. I remember lookin' up and seein' Mr. Delaney walk over my way.
He squatted, looked me square in the face, and said to me, very softly, "Jake, we do not have time for you to go into shell shock. I've been where you are, and I'm going to tell you the same thing my sergeant told me that night in Korea. Get on your feet, soldier, and help, or I will take you out myself, do you understand me?"
That broke through. He was right, y'know? There wasn't time for me t' freak out over this. We needed those supplies, and we needed to get out before Zack showed up. 'Course, I wasn't thinkin' that at the time. I simply said, "Yes, sir," got up, an' got to work.
Mitch an' Mr. Delaney had taken charge at this stage. I got set to work lookin' through Torvaldson's car, 'long with Larry, Jessica, an' Henry. The man had all kinds of stuff in there; MREs, canned food, dried food, lanterns, fuel, shelter buildin' equipment, instruction manuals and books, and weaponry.
What sort of instruction manuals?
Botany, folk medicine, weapon maintenance, an' wilderness survival.
Ah, I see.
Don't knock folk medicine. When that stuff works, it works. An' the manuals provided information on what did and didn't work.
Once we all were done, we took inventory. Weaponry: the pickaxes and Pulaskis we still had from the trail maintenance; Gunderson's weapons, which were a compound bow, the Glock, an' a .30 cal scoped bolt action rifle; an' the bikers' weapons, four knives, an H&K MP5 submachine gun, two 9mm semiautomatic pistols, an M14 rifle, an' a pump-action shotgun. Turns out they'd hit a police vehicle 'long the way to the gas station.
How do you know that?
The last biker—the one Mr. Delaney beat up—told us when he was asked how they acquired the pieces. I guess he figured we'd be more lenient if he spilled his guts, though why I don't know. He claimed not to've done the killin' or come up wi' the idea, but he'd ridin' wi' those boys, so we did the only thing we could do.
What was that?
We zip-tied him four different ways, put him in the back of the station, and put his knife ten feet away from him. Figured it would hold him long 'nough for us to get out, which it did.
Anyways, as to food we had about three days' supply. We were hoping we could make it somewhere safe, like maybe around Twin Falls (3), Missoula(4), or Jackson Hole(5), before it ran out.
Why not Canada?
We didn't know Zack froze up come snowfall, and we knew that most folk were headin' that way. We figured to try an' find a pre-existing enclave behind a mountain pass or somethin' like that. As for myself I was hopin' that the area around Boise had made it out okay, 'cause there was a lot of good farmland there. We'd get tired of potatoes(6), but…
T' continue wi' inventory, we had all the fuel we could safely carry, which was enough to take the vans about a thousand miles. We also tied a motorcycle on top of each of the vans, for recon purposes, 'cause Jeff an' Mr. Warren knew how to ride 'em. We then drained the gas from both of the cycles we left behind us and Gunderson's car and struck out. Yes, I know it was a little hard on the guy we left.
We drove on across Minnesota, everyone in both vans tryin' t' come up wi' various contingency plans just in case it all came apart at some point. We figured out that most of them boiled down to "run for it."
Why?
Our firepower was barely even moderate, our ammunition was low, and our transport redundancy was nil. We were not total idiots. We realized that the only reason none of us had died back at the gas station was pure dumb luck or divine intervention, dependin' on who you asked.
Anyways, we were originally headed in the direction of Grand Forks, until we heard on the radio that there was a major infestation there.
We decided to head north, tryin' to avoid getting' caught in a mass of refugees while tryin' to avoid Zack to the south. This wasn't particularly difficult, but took a bit of thinkin'.
We ended up crossin' into North Dakota after about eight hours of drivin.' The worst part was tryin' to cross under I-29.
Why?
The boneheads who were goin' north like lemmings had spread out down the exit ramps tryin' t' get ahead. We didn't blame them too much though, seein' as we could hear moans and gunfire from the south when we rolled the windows down. Took us thirty minutes t' go a hundred yards. Once we finally got clear, we kept drivin' west until we hit Cavalier.
Did anyone follow you?
No. Lemmings, I said. Thought Canada was the safe place.
Anyhow, we stopped in Cavalier.
Why?
We'd canoed for three hours that morning, driven for eight hours, had shifted mounds of gear, and had nearly gotten killed twice. We were beat, and the town was still inhabited, so we figured we could take shelter there if we needed to.
I took first watch, which, considerin' the time at which we got there meant that I was awake at dawn. This meant that I got to receive our welcoming committee.
1. The kinds of alcoholic beverages permitted to be sold in gas stations, pre-war, were not of high enough proof to be used for disinfectant or getting drunk quickly.
2. A general amnesty was given by President Dean to anyone who committed any crimes of theft or burglary in areas not behind government lines during the war.
3. City in Idaho, held throughout the war.
4. City in Montana, part of the Rocky Mountain Line.
5. City in Wyoming, situated in the middle of the mountains
6. It was not just a stereotype, Idaho was, and still is, one of the United States' leading potato producers.
