I walk toward the last door in the hallway. This one is closed. It must be the bedroom. Placing my right ear on the door, I try to listen in to pick up any sound that may come from the room.
There is nothing but radio silence. I turn the doorknob slowly with my left hand while holding the spray on the right. I gently push the door.
There is a twin-size bed with a drawer next to it. Whoever the ranger was who lived here, it looks like he or she was not into interior design.
A piece of paper on the drawer gets my attention. More than half of it is missing. There is a header on the remaining piece.
“C19 DEPLOYMENT PLAN”
The date “December 7, 2019” is written in small letters at the right top corner of the page.
This was about six months ago. The world was a better place at that time.
I am not sure what to think about this piece of paper. It’s obviously not an address or map to find the family or uncover a buried treasure.
With the encouragement of my archivist inner voice, I stuff the paper in my pocket. As my mom always says, “It may come in handy one day.”
My protective instinct was wrong after all. There is nothing life-threatening here. There is no sign of the family either. I decide to go back to the road and get to my safe hilltop.
After getting a few yards away from the front door, I look back at the cabin one more time. I wonder about what happened here months ago and where the ranger is now. I hope his or her story finds a place in history books in the future and I come across it somewhere.
I smile at my optimism for thinking that I will live that long.
I walk on the right side of the road going back to my safe place. I see leaves on the side of the road piled on around two lines. It looks like the track of the SUV’s tires. How did I miss it before?
I take out a can of chickpeas from my bag and follow the tracks on the rough dirt road. It feels like one of the hiking trips I used to do in my favorite national park near Lake Norman. Except for this time, I don’t have a home to go back after hiking, and certainly, I am not doing this for fun or exercising.
A thin line of smoke rises in the air. It’s not too far from me. If the family is using fire to cook, they must be poorly educated about surviving after doomsday. They say smoke could be seen from 50 miles on a clear day. It is well in the range of Old Fort. I hope Saviors in the town are too busy loitering and drinking to pay attention to this smoke.
I walk for a few minutes toward the source of the smoke. As it gets bigger, I move slower and make less noise. Even though they seemed to be a reasonable family, people are unpredictable in challenging situations.
I was right. It’s the family. I see the father putting out the fire. There is a big iron container next to him. He probably needed to heat some water. Whatever the reason he used the fire for, I hope I am the only person who saw the smoke.
He carries the container back to the farmhouse and closes the door. I decide to wait before taking any actions.
The sun is going down, painting the sky in red. It will be a golden hour soon. I always love this time of the day. I remember my days doing photoshoots with my friends in front of a city skyline or scenery view before sunset.
I hope this family agrees on helping me to get back to some kind of normalcy.
I think about a way of showing myself to them without alarming them. I can just wait for someone to leave the house so I can say “Hello.” I can knock on the door and wait with my hands in the air. Or I can leave a note to give them a heads-up and express my harmless intentions.
Knocking the door seems to be the least threatening way. They would have a chance to see who is at the door and they can scan the area for threats before deciding whether or not to talk to this stranger. There will be probably at least three guns pointing at me but it’s a risk I am willing to take for my grand plan ahead.
I leave my backpack and spray behind. I approach the door slowly and knock. I raise my hands slightly to show my intent for peace.
I see a small wave in the curtain at the window on the right side of the door. I am pretty sure that there is at least one person pointing a gun at me behind the curtain.
“What do you want?” the father yells.
“I... I am sorry to bother... I’m not here to hurt anybody. I just need help. Can we please talk? I don’t have a gun or anything.” I hope the next thing I hear is not a gunshot.
“How did you find us?” he asks.
I like the logical pattern he follows. He sounds like a person with analytical thinking. The next question will probably be, “Take off your jacket” or “Show me your pockets.” I feel like I can land a good deal with him about exchanging supplies.
“I saw you driving on the country road. I was resting nearby. I just followed the road and then saw the smoke,” I say. I think being honest and straightforward would play to my advantage here.
Recounting that I had come back from a fight with an ultra-aggressive human-like thing was not a detail I wanted to reveal for now.
He unlocks the door and points his rifle at me. He first checks me from bottom to top and then scans the area behind me.
He knows
