“More rabbit, Mister Calhoun?”
Frank grinned crookedly at Patti Lincoln as she offered him another serving of the game stew she and her husband had cooked up for the gathering. He waved a hand gently, shaking his head.
“I'm good, ma'am. Thank y'kindly for askin', though.” The survivalist smiled at him, and moved on to the next person in the camp.
Almost immediately upon crossing over the river into Ohio, the Murton family and Frank had come upon a clearing with four vehicles on it. A car, two trucks, and an old RV. A man dressed in a combination of faded woodland camouflage and well worn blue jeans had waved them down. Issac had cautiously slowed down; his first instinct, and Jessica's, had been to speed by. Their encounter with the 'count' of Parkersburg had left them jumpy. It clearly still showed on their faces as the man addressed them when Issac rolled down the window.
“Looks like you folk had a run in with those crooks too. If you wanna keep going I understand...but we're gathering here for the day and night. Pooling our resources to make sure everyone has something to eat after that fucking banditry.”
They didn't have to stop. Unlike some of these people, they'd kept most of their supplies. But after dealing with the dead eyed militia back in Parkersburg, the idea of being around (mostly) normal people again was a siren's song, and so they agreed to stop.
It had garnered them their first hot meal that didn't from a can or a MRE pouch in months (Frank was fairly certain he'd just survived on supplies; his memory still wasn't clear on that), and almost as important, human interaction that wasn't over the barrel of a gun.
One of the trucks, a green Isuzu was the property of Rick, a middle aged real estate agent from Maryland who had survived the initial occult disaster that had taken place in Baltimore and had been fleeing westward ever since. The balding Rick had a haunted look to his face, and didn't much want to discuss what had taken place in his home city. “Demons,” he had muttered to Frank over the campfire. “No shit demons.” Talk of the rivalry between his Ravens and Issac's Steelers was a more comfortable subject, however, and the two spoke of happier times.
Times when a sports rivalry actually somehow seemed important.
The car was a beat-up red Geo Metro that seemed to be functioning only through the willpower of its driver, Annie. Tall and slightly awkward, Annie had been a freshman at Georgetown when the madness that now gripped the world had started. “Was majoring in Regional and Comparative Studies,” the brunette told Frank with a wry look as she sipped rabbit stew broth from a plastic cup. “Pretty sure I've gotten my B.A in 'running for my life from things that can't exist.' My folks are from Illinois...hopefully that's still where they are. I really don't know what else to do but keep heading that way.”
Oscar and Betty Patterson (only they and the Lincolns shared their last name) owned the RV. The retired couple had left their home in Florida to travel across the United States, see national parks. Then monsters started walking the land, and alien things had appeared in the skies. “Only by the grace of God,” Oscar had told Frank, shaking his head. “No other explanation as to how we survived.” Betty had nodded firm agreement. “There's only so much luck a pair can have, Mister Calhoun! And I'm pretty sure we have to have used all ours up by now.” Childless, and with the prospects of any surviving family extremely slim, the Pattersons were on their way to Cincinnati as well. And from there?
“Well...we've always wanted to go to California. Maybe it's still safe there.” Oscar didn't sound completely convinced when he said it. Frank didn't blame him. He hadn't seen any of the monsters overrunning the United States right now...but he'd gotten an eyeful of the human kind at Parkersburg.
The last truck, then, belonged to the Lincolns. Their Ford Ranger (and attached trailer) had enough unpainted replacement parts on it that it was really a little bit of every color. Another interesting aesthetic 'touch' the truck had was the trio of bullet-holes in the back fender.
Jeremy Lincoln had given Frank and the Murton family an almost maniacal grin.
“Me and Patti weren't about to pay some God damned toll. So we snuck through Parkersburg at night along the rail line. Drove without our lights. Got to that old rail bridge before someone spotted us. God damn, that was exciting!” They'd stared at the two like they had grown a few extra heads. Patti had waved a hand at them dismissively.
“Oh, it wasn't that bad! I mean, we had our NVGs on, you know.”
The Lincolns were survivalists.
“We prefer 'preppers,'” Jeremy had told the group with a chuckle when the term came up. Preppers, survivalists, or something else, the two had come from rural Virginia and had been staying two steps ahead of disaster.
“Once things started, we knew we had to get out of the state, one way or another. I mean, if this was some kind of attack by the Russians or the Chi-comms, well, there's just too much in Virginia that screams 'nuke me, nuke me now!'”
So they'd left with food, water, medicine. And shotguns. And His and Her assault rifles. And pistols.
And yes, night vision goggles.
Jeremy and Patti knew exactly where they were going. And it wasn't Cincinnati, or any of the other cities listed as safe havens by the new government in Cheyenne Mountain. After spending time with a small colony of like minded men and women in West Virginia, they were headed west as well.
“Wyoming. Definitely Wyoming,” grinned Patti as she cleaned the Ruger she'd nailed one of the rabbits with.
“Why Wyoming? Heh, that's alliterative in kind of a silly way,” Jessica laughed, warming her hands around her cup of stew. “But seriously, that's...way the heck away.”
“It is, and that's kinda the point,” answered Jeremy, nodding. “Lowest population in the country. Folks are spread out. The worst trouble spots in all this? Cities. Lots of people, lots of ways to spread infection from whatever bombs got dropped on us.”
Issac blinked over at Jeremy.
“You think some kind of bomb did all that? Cause, man, the stuff we've seen...”
Jeremy snorted, taking a sip from some coffee that Betty Patterson had brewed up for all of them.
“Of course it's some kind of bomb. And that voice stuff was just some kinda psychotronic weapon. Coulda been the Russians or the Chinese. Hell, could've been the EU or the UN! Whoever it was, the effectiveness of that stuff depends on having a lot of victims in close proximity. Avoid cities? Avoid the problem.”
“Psychowhatic?” Issac blinked in confusion at the rawboned Jeremy. It was the younger Annie who answered, though.
“Parapyschology term,” Annie offered, giving an arch sniff. “During the Cold War some people thought the Russians were coming up with mind control weapons. Some people today still believe in it, but they're mostly...” Annie trailed off, suddenly flushing. Jeremy chuckled.
“Go ahead and say it.”
“...the tin foil hat crowd,” she muttered, trying to sink down but failing due to her height.
“That's right, the tin foil hat crowd! Who had food, though, to give you when you bartered almost all of yours away in Parkersburg, huh college girl?”
The others around the campfire quieted in awkward silence as Annie's flush grew deeper, and her voice pained.
“I was more willing to give food than other things they wanted,” she murmured softly, and Jeremy's laughter came to a faltering halt. As the group sat uncomfortably, and Patti Lincoln gave her husband a look that suggested she was going to find a new home for her rifle and it was likely Jeremy's rectum, Betty Patterson spoke into the silence.
“We're glad you came to us, Annie, and we're happy to share with you. All of us,” the older woman added pointedly. “It's nice to have young people around us again.” Her husband nodded in affirmation.
“It is. And how old is little Andre?” Oscar inquired gently of the Murtons.
With the Pattersons drawing conversation in a more comfortable direction, the circle of refugees started to untense a bit. Jeremy managed to keep his mouth shut for the rest of dinner.
Frank shook his head. It was still good to have human interaction not over the barrel of a gun, but human beings were still human beings, with all their flaws. End of the world or not.
Later, after the hazy, faded light of day gave way to the deep darkness of night, Frank was standing watch when Jeremy came to relieve him. He was carrying an AR-15 with enough rails and attachments to put his old ARTEMIS issue gear to shame, with the NVGs riding high on his forehead. The Virginian nodded into the blackness.
“Anything?”
Frank shook his head, holding his Marlin across his chest at the low ready.
“Nah. S'quiet. Beginnin' t' think we're charmed or somethin'.”
Jeremy grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dark.
“Maybe everything knows better than to try.” The survivalist then looked up at the faded moon and starlight coming in through the strange cloud cover that had persisted since Frank woke up in this awful new world.
“I bet if we didn't have the clouds you'd get a great view of the stars. Less light pollution now, since, well. You know.”
Frank grunted. Yes. He knew.
“Could be something like nuclear winter. You've seen the ash, right? Whole lotta places went up like roman candles, I bet,” Jeremy went on as Frank stood there. The man was still on Frank's list of 'not favorite people in the world' for the moment, so Frank said nothing, waiting for him to just finish so he could go back to camp.
“You know, it isn't all bad. For people like you and me. This whole thing? It's an opportunity, not a disaster.”
Frank turned his head, very slowly, to look directly at Jeremy. An opportunity? If Jeremy had managed to see the dangerous look on Frank's face, he didn't heed it.
“Yeah, I mean, think about it! It's less crowded now, less strangling. No fucking government poking into your business and telling you what to do. For those of us who were ready? I tell you, this was the best thing that could have happened to us.”
Jeremy started to pull down the goggles for his shift when Frank touched his arm. He looked over at Frank, blinking.
The dreamscape images of a destroyed London flashed through Frank's head as he gripped the man's arm firmly.
“Listen up, an' listen good. There's a really fuckin' high likelihood that everyone-everyone-I ever loved or care for is dead. Gone. My family, my friends, all of 'em. So don' go tellin' me this is th' best thing that could've happened t' me.”
Perhaps now Jeremy could see the look on Frank's face, the fierce glint in his eyes even in the dark, because the angry retort he had ready died in his throat. He nodded shakily, and pulled free of Frank's grip.
“I...sorry. Sorry. I'll, uh, start my turn now.” He pulled the goggles over his eyes, and crept off to his watch-spot. Shaking his head in disgust, Frank turned and stormed back to the camp.
He wanted to punch Jeremy's damn fool head right off. But why?
The survivalist had clearly contributed to the survival of the others in the camp, having supplies and, more importantly at this juncture, hunting skills. That counted for something.
It wasn't because of his beliefs, Frank didn't think as he walked past Annie, Jessica and Betty at the fire with only a grunted acknowledgment to their waves before sliding into his bedroll, Marlin set beside him. Once upon a time he'd shared some of them; he too had seen the federal government as too intrusive, too grasping. He'd liked the idea of living off the land, away from it all. There was even a spot in Montana he knew he could go to and be more or less free of human contact—if that's what he wanted.
Of course, his views had changed slightly when he came to understand the United States government—and virtually all important world governments—were heavily guided, if not outright controlled by the factions and societies of the Secret World. If one wanted to blame someone for the state of the world, one could more accurately blame them.
And it wasn't entirely because of his belittling of Annie, the student from Georgetown, though that didn't help. Frank had been raised to help those that he could, because it was right, not because he expected something or to lord it over them. You didn't put yourself in the catbird seat. You didn't treat people who needed a hand like that, because if nothing else it might be you someday that needed a hand. Still, it wasn't just because of that, either.
As Frank turned over in the bedroll, stewing in his frustration, he thought back to that flicker-glimpse of a destroyed Ealdwic that had come to him while talking to Jeremy. Exhaling in the darkness, Frank nodded to himself. That's what it was about.
From what he'd gathered from others, London was completely destroyed, and he'd been unable to do anything about it.
Monsters had risen up all over the United States, and likely the world, and he'd been unable to do anything about it.
A Dreamer had woken, and the battle to end all battles might have taken place—and he'd been unable to do anything about it.
On a much smaller, more local scale, he and the Murton family had been at the mercy of the conde's militia, and he had been singularly unable to do anything about it.
His friends and family were, very likely, gone. And that too had been something he could do nothing about.
He couldn't even remember any of it taking place. He couldn't remember a single day of the past five years that had supposedly gone by.
Closing his eyes, Frank accepted what this was really about. He felt utterly, completely useless. And he wasn't sure how he was going to change that.
The next morning Frank woke to the smell of cooking pancakes. Rick, who had been almost mute the night before besides talking football, had quietly gotten up and conspired with the early rising Pattersons to make breakfast. Soon enough all were sharing pancakes. Rick admitted with a sheepish grin that the instant pancakes was something he could manage. Eggs and sausage would have been nice, but that simply wasn't something he had available; something none of them really had. But Rick did have the mix, and water. And so they had pancakes.
Andre didn't care a jot whether it was from a mix or not. The curly haired boy dug in with gusto.
“You know how long it's been since we've had pancakes, Mister Mountainman?” he inquired with a mouth full of food.
“How long?” Frank replied, grinning back.
The child spread his arms like a condor's wings.
“Forever!”
Andre's mother laughed to herself, then looked over at Frank.
“It hasn't been that long, but it's been a while. Thank you, Rick,” she added, giving the former real estate agent a grateful smile.
With the warm breakfast—and Jeremy keeping his mouth generally shut—the ten travelers had a morning that could only be called pleasant. If not for the unseasonably chilly temperatures, ill looking sunlight, and the fact most of them were armed, it could have just been a camping trip.
Soon enough, however, it was back to business. For the moment, they agreed to form a convoy and continue on towards Cincinnati—it was only about two hundred miles distant, if their aggregate map skills were on target. A little over three hours along Ohio State Route 32.
If the road was clear. If there were no monsters, no 'squid-heads.' If there were no militia road blocks.
If, if, if.
About forty minutes in, as they were going through a line of forested ridges, the rest of the group noticed the Lincoln's truck had stopped. They'd been traveling several hundred yards ahead to scout for danger, but now they were stationary. One by one, the rest of the vehicles came to a halt. Jeremy and Patti stepped out, looking through their binoculars at something.
“What's going on, baby?” Jessica asked Issac. Issac shook his head, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
“I dunno. They're sure looking at something, though.”
Eyes narrowing, Frank thumped the back of Issac's seat.
“Gonna have a look m'self. Wait here.”
Patti Lincoln turned slightly as Frank arrived.
“Hey, Mister Calhoun. Think we might have a problem.”
“Do tell.”
Jeremy glanced over at him, perhaps hesitant from the previous evening. Grunting softly, he nodded down the road.
“Spotted something that seemed off through the trees when the road curves. Have a look.”
Frank took the proffered set of binoculars and looked for what the Lincolns had spotted. When he saw it, he let loose a low whistle. They had good eyes.
There was another convoy on the other side of the trees—only this one was in vehicles painted olive drab. HMMWVs or 'Humvees,' some heavily armored MRAPs, purpose built to withstand mines and improvised explosive devices, even some older M35 'Deuce and a Half' trucks with canvas tops.
There were soldiers as well, but not infected as far as Frank could see—thank God. What they were, however, was having an argument. Five soldiers in fatigue pants and shirt sleeves were having it out with two others still in all their gear. From the vehicles, other soldiers, and what looked like civilians were watching with apprehension.
“Huh,” mumbled Frank. Next to him, Jeremy shook his head.
“We can re-route. I don't think we want any part of whatever those government troops are squabbling over.” The survivalist looked over at his wife, who gave a more cautious nod.
“Probably best,” she allowed. “After Parkersburg, who knows whose side they're on besides their own?”
Frank stood silently, handing the binoculars back.
“Mister Calhoun? Frank?” asked Patti quietly. Frank took off his knit cap and ran a hand through his tangled hair. Jesus, when was the last time he had a hair cut?
“Well,” he began, “I reckon I oughta go see what's going on. I'm suddenly a lil' curious.”
“Brother, those boys might just start shooting,” warned Jeremy.
Frank snorted as he plopped his hat back on his head.
“Then I'll be all quiet like,” he answered.
