Chaos

“Dad,” Bri says, the first sounds uttered by her since asking about her mom, “you can’t go without me.”

“Nor me,” Nic chimes in.

I realize they don’t know where their mom is, where the rest of their family is, with the exclusion of my mom, nor their friends. I am the only one left to them. It is at this moment I understand and see that my kids are coming with me.

“Mom?” I ask with the rest of the question left unsaid.

“I think I’m staying here,” she responds understanding the unasked question and not attempting to talk me out of my decision nor reason that the kids should stay as well. She fully understands this is something I have to do and that I want my kids with me.

“I can’t very well leave you here alone.”

“I am not without my own resources and abilities,” she responds back.

“Okay, we’re leaving in the morning and may be gone for up to ten days. I’m not sure we will be able to maintain contact. Robert, let’s go get Michelle.”

Robert heads toward the door again. I start to follow him but turn quickly back to mom and the girls on the couch, “You should probably grab blankets and nails while we’re gone. We should think about covering up the windows at the very least. Maybe bring those pallets up from the shed so we can put some form of barricade up on the windows.”

“You two go. We’ll dig some things up around here,” Mom says giving both Nic and Bri reassuring hugs.

Robert picks the shotgun up and continues toward the door. I pick up the Beretta, holster it, and follow him out.

Outside, on a day where we would normally be gearing up for a hike along the river or on our mountain bikes tearing up and exploring some new trail, I instead tell Robert to put the shotgun in the Jeep and then meet to me back here. He looks at me in askance but heads to do it anyway. I walk around to the side of the front porch, really just a small deck, pick up one of the hoses coiled there and cut off three sections of hose approximately five feet long laying them on the ground beside me. Robert finishes and is back beside me by the time I have finished.

“Go down to the lower shed. There should be two or three metal gas canisters in there. The tall ones. Bring those back up here. Oh, and that big, long-necked funnel on the shelf,” I tell him.

As he heads to the shed, I walk over to my place. Beside my bed, I have two TAC-II Gerber knives. These are double-edged knives with serrations and 6 ? inch blades. I grab both of them and head back out. Robert is lugging two metal five gallon gas cans and funnel up the path from the shed and we meet by the hoses.

“Are they empty?” I ask, handing him one of the knives.

He lifts first one, and then the other shaking them. I hear liquid sloshing around in both. Picking one up, I walk toward the road as Robert picks up the other and follows. Whatever is in there may be old or have condensation so I do not trust the content of the cans. Unscrewing the cap, I dump mine on the gravel road. Robert does the same. I do not feel overly guilty about this as I have the feeling mankind’s carbon footprint is now going to be drastically reduced.

Securing the equipment in the back of the Jeep, we start her up, back out of the drive, and head down the road. “Don’t worry,” I tell him once we get up to speed, “we’ll get her and she’ll be just fine.”

“I know,” he says reaching over to the radio and starts going through the stations. Good idea, I think to myself. After going through all of the stations twice, he leans back into his seat. Nothing. “Try the AM,” I suggest. Again, there is nothing but static.

We make it to the highway with both of us looking out of the windows drifting in our own thoughts. I still have not seen a single living person other than us. Nothing moving but wildlife — I notice I have now put the dog I saw earlier into this category. The roads are still empty and the only thing moving is the sun as it wends its way westward toward the hills. The hills are bald in many places due to the logging in the area. Well, that’s a bonus, I think to myself, at least we’ll have the trees back. Not that I will likely live long enough to see it fully forested again but the thought is reassuring nonetheless.

A gas station sits to our left at the corner of our road and the highway with only a white, newer model Ford F-150 parked in the lot. Newer model means locking gas caps but I pull into the gas station hoping the keys are nearby. Well, hoping the keys are there and not attached to some transformed, crazed owner. We park about ten yards from the pickup and don’t see anything inside. I look at the gas station front and see nothing there except dark windows staring back.

“Okay, let’s get out but keep your eyes peeled,” I say as Robert reaches for the door handle. “Is that thing safetied?” I nod toward the shotgun. He looks at the button on the trigger guard and nods.

We meet in front of the Jeep. “I’m going to go check the truck. You stay here, keep an eye out around us and keep me covered. Get my attention if you see anything moving and be ready to get back into the Jeep quickly,” I tell him taking my gun out of the holster.

“Do you want me to come with you and cover you?”

“No, just stay here. You have my back.”

“Okay, Dad.”

I slide the safety off and check for a round in the chamber as I approach the truck in a semi-crouching, sidling walk, angling to the cab from the rear. I can’t see anyone inside but I don’t want to be surprised by a suddenly opening door slamming into me. About ten feet from the driver’s door, I glance around, checking the gas station store and the drive-up coffee stand in the corner of the lot. This county probably has more of these drive- up coffee stands per capita than anywhere else in the world. Reaching the door, I stand next to it but away from its range of motion. Rising, I peek in the window.

I wasn’t expecting to see anything so the vision that catches my eye sends a small adrenaline shot through my body. Inside, a man is slumped sideways on the front seat with his legs resting on the driver’s side floorboard. The one eye I can see stares blankly at the dash in front and there is a wet mass of something on the seat and floorboard in front of his head. I know what this is from the couple of years I spent as a firefighter/EMT following the military. The adrenaline junkie part of me had not left by then. Those years also taught me that death is never pretty.

“See anything?” I call out to Robert.

“No,” he calls back.

It is a king cab, extra cab, extended cab or whatever they are calling it nowadays. My eyes venture to the back seat. Nothing. Well, at least, nobody is there. A Styrofoam coffee cup on its side and an empty candy bar wrapper are all I see from this vantage point. I look to the steering column and see a patch of leather dangling on the far side.

“No way!” I breathe quietly. I step back, reach for the handle, and pull open the door.

The stench pours out of the door like a physical presence. It is overpowering and I swear the light of the day grows dim.

“Whoa Nelly!” I say waving a hand in front of my face and hold my breath as I stumble backwards a step. Okay, more like two or three steps.

He hasn’t had enough time to decompose much; the smell is a lovely combination of feces, vomit, and who knows what else. Regaining some semblance of composure, I make mental note to self: Have Vaseline handy. That was one thing I disliked when in the fire department or riding along with the ambulance; the call of someone who had died in their sleep or, quite commonly, on the toilet. I didn’t mind death or bodies, have worked many gruesome and messy scenes without being affected, and witnessed and been a part of countless others in the military but it was the smell of bowels letting go that bothered me the most. Vaseline under the nose helps some with the smell.

Holding my breath, I walk back up to the truck and pull the keys out of the ignition. I think of pulling the guy out or at least rolling down the window. That way, if we need to use the truck, it won’t smell so bad. But clarity once again comes. If we need a pickup down the road, there are plenty of new ones available, so I just close the door. The sound of the door shutting is unnaturally loud in the stillness. There is indeed a gas key on the key ring and I open up the fuel tank.

Back at the Jeep, I grab the siphoning gear. “Bring that other one over to the truck,” I tell Robert. He grabs the can out of the back and follows. “Do you know how to siphon?”

“Not really.”