American Apocalypse Wastelands (35 page)

As he pulled his pack on, I heard him mutter, “This is going to be really interesting.”

 

We headed back. Moving downhill with gear strapped to you is entirely different than going uphill. I had done it before for short bursts, but never for a prolonged period like this.

If anything, it is worse than going uphill. It requires a completely different set of muscles and a lot more attention to what you are doing. Screw up—or just get unlucky—and there goes an ankle or a leg. It didn't stop me from feeling like we were flying compared to the speed we had made going in the opposite direction.

What added to our need for speed was the knowledge that we were racing the clock. Even if that patrol had not been hooked to a command center, or weren't having their vital signs monitored, someone would be expecting them to call home eventually.

Any minute I expected a helicopter to pass overhead, hunting us like some prehistoric predator. I hated them. Soulless dark machines run by mirrored-faced automatons who thought they were actually engaged in combat. They were nothing but button jockeys running a video game—a game in which the humans had become mere images, losing any degree of individuality. In fact, that probably made it even more fun and exciting for the button jockeys. Assholes.

Freya was flying, loving this. Max had to shush her. She laughed as she went down one particularly steep slope, riding it like a downhill skier. After that I quit worrying about her and concentrated on not breaking an ankle
or pitching headfirst down the mountain. Thank God, it hadn't rained lately. The leaves were slippery enough.

We sure as hell were leaving a trail that even a condodwelling grandmother from Boise could follow.

I was beginning to think we might be all right when I heard the helicopter. As soon as the thought hit,
Hey, we might do this
, I should have started expecting trouble. I needed to add that to my mental list of things to never think. Probably right above
Never assume the last few sheets on the roll will be enough when it is time to take a dump
.

We froze in place. I looked over at Max. He wasn't watching the helicopter; he was trying to sense if it was working with anyone on the ground.

Freya and her yellow dress didn't stand out as much as I expected. It was fall, so yellow, gold, brown, and red were the predominant colors. If they had thermal imaging gear, it wouldn't matter anyway. We would just be vaguely human-shaped targets.
They probably always get their limit in deer season
passed through my mind. I had given up wondering where the weird crap that floated across my consciousness came from.

Either they didn't see us or were pretending not to. Whatever, we kept pushing on when they didn't head our way. We had to be getting close to the truck. Max had taught us never to just stroll into a pickup point. Always expect that an ambush may be possible.

Using universal hand gestures, he told Freya to stay. We dumped our packs next to her and split up, approaching the abandoned store from above, moving parallel to each other. I watched Max out of the corner of my eye. When I saw him freeze and take a knee, I did so also.

I didn't have to look. I could feel it. Uninvited guests. Max gave me the sign to pull back. I knew he was pissed. He really liked that truck.

We got back to our packs. Freya looked at us expectantly. We shook our heads, shouldered the packs, and started walking. We had a ways to go before we could chance the road and catch a ride. We made a cold camp and ate the rest of our rations after making sure the kid got enough to eat. She had some bread, which she contributed. It was quite good, with a very subtle taste of honey.

I know I wanted to ask her a few questions and I am sure Max did, too. The primary one being,
Where the hell did you come from?

She didn't have a blanket, so I gave her my bag and used Max's while he was on watch. After I took over the watch and had been sitting there for a while, she began talking in her sleep. It sounded like the same words over and over:
“Elden och svärden har blitt grunda fader.”

I had no clue what language it was, but the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a cold chill ran the length of my body.

 

The next day we kept going. At lunch I dug into the bottom of my pack and gave the kid my reserve, an expired PowerBar. I wasn't the only one holding back. Max came up with a pack of Skittles for her, which I thought was pretty funny. She was pleased.

We heard a helicopter again, but it was some distance away. Max showed us the map, pointing out where we were and where the road was. We were taking the long way home. The helicopter was working the area of the road, so it made sense. It was just a bit inconvenient.

The next day was more of the same until it wasn't. I noticed a pair of hawks had joined us. That was pretty cool. I liked watching hawks.

Years ago there was, or had been, a place off of Route 7 that was not much more than a dirt parking lot. It was there only because it was directly under a raptor flight path. It used to be cool to go there, walk into the woods to where there was an outcropping of rock, and lie back and watch for them. I had taken Tiffany there once. She was not impressed. That may have been when she began to realize I was a bit odd.

We didn't see the hawks constantly. The canopy wasn't thick like a jungle, but we were not hiking in the Great Plains, either. What made it weird was I felt certain that Freya was talking to them; I just had no idea what she was saying.

I caught Max giving her the eye, but she was keeping up and she sure as hell was quiet. She literally made no sound that I could hear. Then again I doubt if she weighed more than ninety pounds. She could step on a stick and it wouldn't break. I would step on the same stick and it would snap, loudly.

We were getting hungry—well, I was. You burned serious calories moving like this. We would have to take a break soon. We still had some tea, and it would be nice to get off our feet. My leg wasn't talking to me as much today, which was a relief.

We came to the edge of a large clearing with a small stream running through it. Max stopped at the end of the tree line after giving us the HALT sign, but the girl kept going. We had been keeping her between us as we moved. I stopped and was trying to keep an eye on the direction
we had come while I waited for Max to figure out what we were doing next.

Max looked at her and pointed for her to move back, but she shook her head and pointed at the sky and the hawks. I could see them both looking up, and then it rained bunnies. Well, only two, but they came thumping down in front of Max and Freya. She looked at Max and smiled. He looked at her, his face expressionless, and just turned and began walking off the trail after giving me the FORM ON ME sign. She ran out, grabbed the bunnies, and joined us.

They were pretty good eating. Max and I exchanged looks over her head while we munched on them. We had worked together for a while now. I didn't feel threatened by her. He did not seem to be either.

We both were at a loss. She was not a threat, and weird had become commonplace. Well, maybe not this kind of weird. I just wondered if she could arrange for an airdrop of pizza.

After lunch Max unfolded the map. We were going to begin the curve toward home.

CHAPTER FORTY

We made it back and we arrived hungry. Coming into town we were greeted as soon as we passed the first handful of houses. People came out, waved, stared, and wanted to hear the story. Some asshole yelled out to me, “Hey, Gardener! How many did you kill this time?” I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Regardless, I filed his face away for future reference.

The girl got her share of attention, too. Hers was of the stare-and-quiet-comment variety. Max traded insults and greetings. A couple of kids started tagging along. It was turning into a parade.

I hate parades, and I really hate this kind of attention. I also hate clowns. Thank God, a patrol car showed up and took us the rest of the way home.

Diesel was driving. It was good to see him. After we rolled a bit and got the “How are you” crap out of the way, he asked Max, “You want to talk about your trip or do you want to hear what happened yesterday?”

“When you put it that way, I guess you should tell me what happened.”

Diesel told us the story of how Old Guy had died. A Chevy Malibu had shown up at the station. Two guys went inside and began asking about Max and me. They told Gunny they were Feds and needed to talk to us about an “ongoing investigation.” He told them that we were in the field.

They got threatening, and Gunny pulled a sawed-off shotgun that he had clipped underneath the desk and asked them to leave. After they left, he called the farm on the CB and told Tommy to expect visitors.

Tommy only had Old Guy, Woof, and the kids there. When the Malibu rolled up to the gate, Old Guy was waiting. Tommy was still rounding up the kids and getting them inside.

“We don't know exactly what happened. Probably they got pushy again. Anyway, Tommy heard shots as he was coming out of the house. He saw the gate up and Old Guy lying there as the car passed through. He hosed the car. The guys are dead. Tommy is fine. Their bodies are in a hole out back, and their car is roasted. Old Guy is going in the ground tomorrow.”

Max sighed. “Damn. He was a good man. Any family?”

“No. According to people at the VFW, the hall and the farm were his life. He has a son somewhere on the West Coast, but nobody has seen him in years.”

“You get IDs off the bodies?”

“Yeah. I didn't recognize the agency, but that don't mean squat.”

“Anything else?”

Diesel looked at me and grinned. “There is a warrant out for G for murdering a dozen or so citizens of the burg down the road. I don't expect they are going to do
anything about it. You probably got a million or so meetings lined up, Max.”

“Lovely,” Max replied.

As far as the warrant went, my attitude was: “Well, fuck them.”

“I knew you two would like that part of the news. So what's the story with the kid? Hey, kid. You got a name?”

She smiled and said, “Freya.”

I told Diesel, “We found her along the way. We're almost at the farm. You might as well wait for the telling of the tale.”

We pulled in and were followed by laughing, running kids and a barking dog after we cleared the gate. Night and Tommy were waiting. It was minor chaos for a bit. It was fun, too.

The kids stared solemnly at Freya, who stared back.

“Alright, everyone. This is Freya. We found her in the woods. You can hear the rest after we clean up and eat.”

What was interesting was Woof's reaction. He stood still when Freya got out of the car. He usually ran up to me and Max to give us the sniff test and get his head patted or his ears scratched. Instead he hung back, standing very close to the kids.

I wasn't the only one to notice how he acted. In fact, I had been curious to see how he would behave toward her. Freya stood there, alone and separated from us by about three feet. I don't know a lot about twelve-year-olds, but I would have been uncomfortable to have everyone staring at me. But she was unfazed. She looked at us and then extended her hand to Woof.

Woof looked at her, whined, and approached her hesitantly. She said something. I have no idea what it was, but it sounded reassuring. Woof moved forward just enough
to lick her extended hand; then he turned quickly and resumed his position next to the kids. He seemed more at ease now. His tongue was hanging out, and I swear he was smiling.

That relaxed everyone. The Woof seal of approval was important—enough so that if Woof didn't like her, she would not have been allowed to stay. No vote or discussion would have been needed.

Max and I flipped to see who would get to use the shower first. I won. Our shower was outside by the garden. We had taken one of the rain barrels, painted it black, and set it on a platform. The shower floor was a wooden pallet, and the water drained into the garden. It worked well during the summer, but we were going to have to come up with a better idea soon. We took navy showers. That meant get wet, turn off the water, soap up, and turn on the water to rinse. It worked.

I went in the trailer. It was weird without Old Guy. The energy in our little tin can of a house had changed. I peeked in his room. Someone had cleaned it out already. Just like that, he was gone. I felt a moment of existential angst, but it passed. Shit happens.

I mentally shrugged and went to see what Night was cooking for dinner. Plus, I just wanted to say hello again. People had started drifting in. Almost everyone was sitting on the porch talking. I stuck my head in the kitchen but she shooed me away. She took cooking seriously. Actually, she took everything seriously. We were definitely a case of opposites attracting each other.

 

The rule was, if you had a story to tell, you had to wait until dinner to tell it. That way everyone got to hear it.
But until then, gossiping and general bullshitting were acceptable.

Freya was sitting in the corner. She was so still that had she been someone else she would have been invisible. But she was one of those people that you found yourself watching, looking away from, and coming back to. She didn't talk. I was beginning to wonder if she spoke English beyond a few simple phrases.

A lot of people in the old days had been like that, especially in the food service business. They would fool you. You would say, “Hello, how you doing?” They would respond. Then you'd ask them something else, and the conversation would flounder. Their entire vocabulary consisted of rudimentary greetings and the menu, and half the time they couldn't get that right.