After the Fall: Jason's Tale (8 page)

Jason hiked for two weeks, putting multiple ridges and miles
between him and the Miller farm. The travois was working better, though still
with some difficulty when the path got too rocky. The extra weapons and
ammunition slowed him, but he hiked on, committed to not abandoning those
precious assets. He settled into a routine of hiking until the afternoon and
then stopping with enough time to eat and make a shelter to sleep.

He now felt more in tune with the forest, making good miles
when he was on a trail. And when he didn’t have a good trail, he accepted his
situation and moved more slowly. He stopped resisting the forest, but adjusted
to whatever it presented. This acclimation enabled Jason to see more detail in
his surroundings; the hints of game trails where one could set snares, the
larger openings that aided one’s passage through underbrush, the best way
around rock fields. He was now expending his energy in a more efficient manner,
not trying to force himself through every obstacle. He had a map of the region
and tried to keep his position marked. The further he went, the less accurate
this became, but the map still gave him an overall indication of his
progression into the remote parts of the forest.

He took more time to make a shelter when he stopped. He
would cut a straight pole, lay one end in a tree notch four or five feet up and
the other on the ground. Next he would create a tent shape with branches from
the ridge pole to the ground. He would pile leaves and debris from the forest
floor on the sides and then weave in more branches to hold the filler. All
sides would be enclosed except for a small opening at one end. He insulated the
floor with leaves. On top of everything he would lay his tarp and the shelter
would then be ready for sleeping. It was quite cozy and, when properly
constructed, surprisingly rain proof. If he stopped where a campfire could not
easily be seen, he would start one in the evening and enjoy a warm meal and the
cheer a fire brings to the dark solitude. On many warmer nights, he would
string his cover tarp from a ridge pole, lay down a ground cloth, and put out
his sleeping bag. Every few days he stayed encamped and hunted for food,
setting snares and gathering what edible plants he could find. His plant guide
book got a lot of use; he didn’t want to poison himself.

When he reached open fields, natural or left over from
earlier farming, he stopped to harvest the wood sorrel, kudzu, dandelion and
chicory plants he could find. The wood sorrel could be eaten raw. The entire
kudzu plant was edible and he would make hot drinks later that evening from the
dandelion or chicory he found. Occasionally he would come across clusters of
ramps or wild onions and collect as many as he could carry. Marshy areas provided
a treasure store of plants to harvest; cattails, the katniss plant and
sometimes water lilies.

Since it was still early in the season, Jason could feast on
the fiddle head shoots of ferns which he found in the shadier parts of the
forest. The berries would have to wait until high summer, but Jason noted their
abundance, along with wild grapes, at the edges of fields. For one who knew
where to look, the forests and fields provided a rich store of food to balance
a diet of game meat.

Jason generally awoke with the birds, just before first
light. He would lie still and listen, sniffing the air, testing to see what the
day might offer. Then, stretching and limbering his stiff muscles, he slowly
got going. If he had made a fire the night before it was a simple task to
restart it, putting tinder on the banked embers. Sometimes he treated himself
to a warm wash before breaking camp and loading his gear for the day’s trek.
Jason felt more at home now, but the solitude bore down on him relentlessly.
Often he noticed that he was talking to himself.

 His numbed state of mind gradually eased through the
routine of hiking and camping. Nights, though, often found him in agony. He
began to blame himself for Sam and Judy’s deaths.

If I had left one day later they might still be alive.

He couldn’t shake the thought. The raiding gang would have
found themselves in a crossfire between Sam in the house and Jason in the barn.
They might have won the battle. The thought became ever more firm in Jason’s
mind, increasing his guilt about leaving. He had seen his dad leave and he had
left Hillsboro and now Sam and Judy. Had he become that kind of a man…like his
dad? The thought ate away at him.

Tears came as the human loss pressed down on him—Maggie, and
Sam and Judy. More and more he focused on trying to imagine what he was
searching for—shelter, permanent shelter—trying to visualize it. But something
else was needed. After Sam and Judy, Jason understood how hard it was going to
be to live alone until society got sorted out, if ever. He felt confident that
he could master food and shelter, but the companionship and satisfaction he had
experienced working with the Millers—being helpful, being part of a team—made
him realize how precious that relationship was—like family in so many ways.

Can’t dwell on that. It’ll only make it harder. I’ve made
my bed. Now I must lie in it.
He knew he wouldn’t have lasted in town. He
had seen the militia taking everyone’s freedom away in the name of order and
safety. It was inevitable that he would have clashed with them. There was order
in town, but with strict control. Those in charge wanted to know where you
lived, what you did to survive, where you found food. The questions had grown
increasingly aggressive and came from the assumption that, nine months after
the EMP attack, you were either under the town’s jurisdiction and control or
you were an outlaw, scavenging and looting. The concept of a self-sufficient
person was not part of the thinking.

But this being alone part is going to be damned hard.
He
couldn’t shake feelings of dread about the loneliness that haunted him,
feelings that were outside of his woodsman skills, untouched by his ability to
survive in the woods.

One day Jason came across a small deer herd. They had not
been hunted, this far into the mountains, so they were not skittish. Killing a
deer could give him a good meat supply. It would free him for a few weeks of
setting snares. The extra time could be spent locating long term shelter. He’d
have to smoke the meat to use it over time which worried him. Smoking meant
fire, smoke and smell, all of which would advertise his location, to predators
as well as humans. But it was a chance he felt he had to take.

 In preparation he built a smoker. Away from his camp,
he made a tall cone of straight poles surrounding a fire pit. He tied cross
poles on which to hang the meat and covered the structure with branches to keep
in the smoke. Then he was ready to hunt. Two days passed and the deer didn’t
show.

Did they read his thoughts? What the hell?

But on the third day, the deer showed up and Jason took one.
He field dressed it well away from his camp and smoking area, then, back at the
smoker he quickly butchered the carcass, cutting the meat into strips and
setting them on the poles. The smoke was filled with a rich aroma, inviting and
stimulating. It was quite a signal to all the animals in the forest. Jason
stayed on high alert, hoping he would not have to defend his catch from bears
or worse.

He kept the meat smoking for twelve hours, feeding the fire
with wet wood and leaves. Then he cut the meat into smaller pieces and
carefully wrapped them in ramp leaves he had collected. It was not ideal, but
it was the best he could do. While the smoking was going on, Jason feasted on
venison steaks. He ate heavily for a couple of days, then wrapped the leaf
packages in a tarp, stuffed them into his pack and headed off again.

He was now going to explore the valleys that spread out from
the side of the ridge he was on. It was time to find a permanent place to stay.
It was the beginning of summer and he had much to do to get ready for winter.
With his smoked meat and his gear packed, he set out.

By the third day, Jason had worked his way further north and
then crossed over a ridge to the west of his smoking camp. From this ridge he
spied a fort shaped valley through his binoculars. The valley was enclosed by
ridges on all sides. To the south the rise was gentler. The floor of the valley
was marked by fields, now lying fallow. Numerous small creeks meandered through
the valley floor, draining the ridges and feeding into a stream that had cut
its way through the southern wall of the valley to join a larger river. A
narrow macadam road followed the path of the valley stream through the southern
embankment, ending in a single lane, iron truss bridge. From the narrow gorge
to the south, the road wound up the valley. There were no signs of movement on
it. The roofs of the few farm houses he could see were set quite apart from one
another. From his vantage point, Jason could not tell if they were inhabited or
not. He moved north, on the eastern side of the valley, keeping to higher
elevations.

He worked his way past two farmhouses near the valley
entrance. The grounds looked overgrown, the barn doors were open, there seemed
to be no signs of habitation. They offered possibilities for shelter, but were
too close to the road and bridge for Jason’s comfort. Half way up the valley he
spied a farmhouse that looked promising. It was set back further from the valley
road on a cleared shoulder of the hill. A strip of woods screened the house
from the road. Below the woods the slope flattened into fields bordering the
road. The driveway went gently uphill before a making a switchback to cross a
steeper grade then arriving at the flat area in front of the house. The house
was on the eastern slope, facing south, looking down the valley, with a view
across the valley to the western ridge. There was a barn on the west side of
the house, closer to the tree line. Two fields stretched out behind the house
to the north separated by a row of brush and trees. East of the yard stood the
overgrown remains of an old apple orchard. It ran uphill towards the forest;
the trees looked to be dying and probably bore little fruit.

The house and its position in the valley seemed ideal. It
was shielded from the road, yet with a good view of the valley. It was late and
the house was still quite far so he camped on the ridge that night. He lit no
fire.

The next morning Jason found a closer vantage point
providing a good view of the farmhouse. He wanted to observe it before
approaching. A stand of rhododendron bushes shielded him. Lying there
undetected, he settled down to watch.

It wasn’t long before he saw a woman emerge from the house.
Jason experienced a confusing surge of emotions. The house was not empty and
that was a problem for him to use the place for shelter. But seeing another
person made him realized how much he missed human company. The memories from
his time with Sam and Judy came rushing back. A moment later two more figures
emerged from the house. Through his field glasses, Jason could see they were
girls in their teenage years. His mind raced; were they alone?

He watched; no one else emerged. The three females went out
into the field. They looked like they were gathering what they could from the
growth left over from last year’s planting. They moved slowly and after an
hour, drifted, one by one, back into the house with what they had collected.
Later the woman went out to the well pump in the front yard and pumped some
water into a jug. She pumped slowly, tiredly it seemed to
Jason. Then
she went back in. Soon smoke arose from the chimney.

They must be cooking what they’ve gathered
.

Jason crawled back into the trees and sat quietly for a long
time to think.

This won’t work. There has to be a man somewhere and
he’ll shoot without warning to protect his family. I’ve got to move on.

But he couldn’t leave. Something kept him there. It was more
than the valley. It was certainly well set up in its geography. Memories of the
violent encounters he experienced flooded back. This valley looked promising
with its isolation and protection by the ridges. But something more drew him.
He decided to take some time to watch and see what else happened at the
farmhouse before moving on.

There was a broken window on the first floor. Someone had
just tacked a sheet up from the inside to cover the opening. The front porch
was beginning to sag. With a support post broken at one corner, it was yielding
to the inexorable pull of gravity. Below the house, the barn door stood ajar,
grounded from a missing hinge, it would no longer close.

Jason patiently watched for two more days and the routine
stayed similar, the woman getting water from the pump in the yard, foraging for
food, always moving slowly, almost listlessly. Occasionally the metal chimney
would smoke, indicating a fire, probably from a wood stove in the kitchen.
There were no lights at night. He was oddly reluctant to leave and push further
north. He told himself that he needed to be sure about this family before
committing himself to another place.

He began to question what he was seeing at the farm. Their
gleaning of last year’s planting didn’t result in much to eat. He wondered if
they were slowly starving, while he had enough to eat, even in his temporary
camp. Should he get them some food? Jason was surprised at this thought. He
toyed with it for a whole day.

“What are you trying to do? You’ll scare them and blow your
cover,” he said. He had begun talking to himself more and more.
He was
pacing back and forth around his camp area. “You set out to be on your own.
Don’t change the plan. Just move on and let these people be.” Memories of how
he had declined to help the group of young people came flooding back. That
decision felt more painful now after his experience with Sam and Judy. He tried
to talk himself out of helping, but to no avail; he had declined to help one
time and later had been helped. He could not avoid helping this time. That night
he set out multiple snares.

The next morning Jason checked the snares—they were empty.

Crap! Now I’m trying to help someone, I come up empty.

The valley to the east had a stream in it. Jason had crossed
it further south on his way to this ridge. He remembered how thick the cover
was, not good for hiking. Perhaps it held a pond or marshy area? It certainly
looked that way when he crossed it south of his current position. The creek
came from somewhere. It was worth a hike down the east slope of the ridge to
investigate. A marsh or pond would hold the promise of more game.

Maybe there are ducks down there
. He set off with his
rifle. Once committed to the idea, he found himself energized by his new
mission.
The sheepdog,
he thought with a grin.

It was early afternoon when he got to the valley. There was
a pond, as he had hoped. He noticed the soft ground around it was disturbed;
dug up and muddied. Pigs. The mountains contained feral pigs. Their numbers may
have been augmented by domestic stock that had escaped being eaten. The phrase
“pigs gone wild” came to mind and brought a smile to his face.

They’ve gone hog wild!
He sat down chuckling to
himself at the silliness of it all. It was the first real laugh he had since
Sam and Judy.

Pigs were a good sign. They were a valuable resource; every
part of them could be used. Now since some were near, it made this area all the
more attractive to Jason.

There would be time enough to get them after a permanent
camp had been established.
“I’ll get you, you little piggies.”
He
started to chuckle again. The laughter felt good. It had been a long time.

“Get back to work,” he admonished himself.

 
Jason quietly approached the pond and sure
enough, there was a small group of ducks floating at the far end. The pond was an
irregular oval about eighty yards long and 50 yards wide. Jason hid in the
brush at its edge. He would try for two but without a shotgun only one was a
sure bet. He studied the group, working out which one he would shoot and which
direction the others would move to take off. If he planned his second shot, he
might be able to get the second duck as it struggled to get airborne. Take one
shot and quickly point to where he expected the second duck to be.

He fired and then quickly got off two rounds at the second
duck he had targeted. Luck was on his side and it fell into the water. The rest
of the group took to the air in a cacophony of squawking and flapping wings.
Jason quickly ran towards where the ducks were floating, and just like a good
retriever, plunged into the lake. It was only chest deep but he swam instead of
wading. Swimming was faster than sinking his feet in the soft bottom with each
step. He got the ducks before they could sink and made his way back out to his
rifle. Sitting on the ground with his prizes, he felt pretty good about his
shooting, but in his haste to retrieve the ducks before they sank he had not
taken off any clothing.

“Crap, now I’ve got to hike back up over the ridge with wet
boots and clothes,” he said out loud.

It was late that evening when Jason reached his camp above
the farmhouse. His clothes had pretty much dried during the hike back up the
ridge, but his socks were still wet. He spread everything out to dry and
prepared the ducks for delivery.

Jason decided against the direct approach, going up to the
farm house and trying to meet the woman and her girls without panicking them.
He probably looked dangerous and frightening. He would have to use a different
tactic.

Late that night he set out for the house. He would leave the
ducks on the porch to be found in the morning. He tied them together with some
of his line and hung them from one of the porch beams, keeping them safe from
raccoons until morning. With his mission accomplished, Jason hiked back to his
camp and settled into a deep and satisfied sleep.

Back down in the valley to the east four men paused as they
heard the faint report of three shots. “We’re not alone,” one of them said,
almost to himself.

“Shut up,” another replied, as they continued to listen.
They were camped along the creek that came down from the pond where Jason shot
the ducks. They were hiking up the valley with a growing disinterest, still a
couple of days hike away from the pond. The increasing density of foliage and
lack of signs of habitation were dampening their enthusiasm. This group was not
interested in wilderness camping. Now they paused to reconsider their plans.

Three of them, Nate, Randy and Zack, were friends from
Ashland, a small town one hundred miles east of Hillsboro. They were in their
twenties and had been involved in petty crimes from their teenage years. After
the EMP attack, they began looting. There was a shootout with the local police,
from which they barely escaped. Leaving town seemed like a good idea, looters
were being executed on sight.

They picked up Bud shortly after departing. Bud and a friend
had been wandering, looking for food and other resources. Bud’s friend had been
killed in a run-in with a small gang. The encounter scared Bud. He was an easy
going eighteen year old who tried to get along with everyone. But without a
good moral compass he was often willing to do whatever was expedient. Generally
he avoided the worst people and made his way looking for the easy path in life.
His one notable asset was his marksmanship. He had a good eye for shooting and
carried a 30-06 rifle. He quickly proved his worth by his ability to shoot
game.

The problem for these young men was that they were all city
bred. They did not know how to live without the systems a city provided. Communities
now could not provide the infrastructure on which they depended, so they were
struggling to function until the power came back. The towns that had not
descended into chaos were under tight control to allocate the scarce resources.
These men rejected that control and were constantly on the move, becoming
opportunistic scavengers, trying to find food and shelter for the winter.