The Last Tribe (8 page)

“I always keep tissues in my
pocket.  You’ll see.  I’ll start to rub off on you, and you’ll be more
prepared.”  She flashed a smile, and walked towards the barn.  The teeny bopper
girl from last night was gone.  Greg realized the frenetic questioning and
apparent helplessness was an act.  The real Rebecca, the girl who kept a
spotless house and tissues in her pocket, was no teeny bopper.  This new girl
acted like an adult trapped in a teen’s body.

Rebecca approached a side door with
a slide bolt lock at the bottom.  A latch door handle, a long piece of metal
slipped into a notch, kept the door shut.  Rebecca undid the bottom bolts,
opened the door, and went inside.  A second later her head popped back out the
door.  “Are you coming or what?”

It smelled like rotting hay
inside.  Greg did not like it, but he followed Rebecca over to a set of lockers
next to the horse stalls.

“I let the horses go two weeks
after the town got sick.  No one could feed or tend to them.  I thought they
might be better out in the wild.  I don’t know if that’s true, but if they
stayed here, well, they were going to starve.”  She opened one of the locker
doors.  It was empty.  She continued opening lockers until she found blankets. 
“Here we go.”  She grabbed an armful, “well, come on, let’s get back before it
starts to rain again.  These smell fine now, but wet wool blankets?  I won’t
hang those in the house.”

“So if you can drive,” Greg started
“why didn’t we bring the truck over here?  Why did I have to ride a bike in the
cold and now balance blankets on my handle bars?”  Greg questioned some of the
girl’s story.

“I have no idea how long gas stays
viable, and as far as I can tell, we have a finite amount of it.  I am not
wasting gas when we can ride to get blankets.  Keeping yourself fit, making
sure you don’t just lay around the house, getting out into the fresh air?  It’s
important.   Plus” she looked at him as they got back on their bikes “I wanted
to go on a bike ride with a cute boy.  It’s been a long time since I have done
that.”  She started back to the house, quicker than she rode over. 

‘Greg and Rebecca’ he thought to
himself.  ‘I like it.’  She was getting ahead of him.  Greg jumped on his bike
and pedaled hard to catch up.

Paul and Hank Dixon left Dayton,
Ohio the day after Paul arrived.  They headed East, travelling as far as
possible during the freakishly warm December.  Hank’s neighbor had two Honda
Goldwing motorcycles with large saddle compartments.  The brothers, despite
their questionable motorcycle capabilities, rode the bikes out of town early
that next morning.  They knew motorcycle riding was more dangerous and colder
than using a car, but taking two bikes meant one could breakdown without
stranding them.  Motorcycles were easier to navigate through potential road
blocks, accidents, and traffic jams. 

They stayed on large four-lane
highways, riding along US 70 the first day.  The roads were clear, and they
kept their speed at a constant 75 miles per hour.  Paul did not have the
confidence to ride faster.  They stopped briefly for lunch and to siphon gas
from abandoned cars.  They finished their day on the north side of Harrisburg,
PA.  The first four houses they searched had the odor of death.  The fifth
smelled clear.  Exhausted, they ate cold beef and noodle soup from cans before
climbing into their sleeping bags just after the sun went down.  Paul and Hank
exchanged no more than 100 words the entire day.

The next morning they turned north towards
Albany, NY.  The clouds rolled in and a light snow began to fall before noon.  They
avoided New York City, and moved into the snow belt of New England.  They adjusted
their speed to safely navigate the dusting of powder and rolled into Rutland,
Vt, in the afternoon.  They were only an hour or so away from Hanover, but on
the wrong side of several large mountains. 

It was the shortest day of the
year, the sun was almost gone, and it was snowing.

The snow melted as it hit the ground
in New York, but Vermont’s streets disappeared under a blanket of white. 
Riding motorcycles, dangerous before because of their novice abilities, was
quickly becoming too great a risk.

Hank slowed his bike to a stop.  Paul
pulled next to him.  “Let’s stop here, I can’t ride anymore.  It’s dark.  I’m
tired and hungry.”  Hank was exhausted.

“We’re an hour away, I think we can
push through and make it.”  Paul was equally tired, but wanted to get to
Hanover.

“Paul”  Hank yelled through the increasing
loud and blowing wind.  “It’s snowing.  We’re in the mountains on motorcycles. 
It’s pitch black.  Best case we get to Hanover in the complete dark.  Let’s
find a place to bunk here, stay out of this mini storm, get up there tomorrow. 
I’m beat, and we may only be 50 miles away, but in this weather, on bikes, it’s
going to take us two hours, maybe more.”

Paul conceded the night.  They stood
over their bikes at the intersection of rural routes 4 and 7.  The roads met at
a ‘T,’ with 4 merging into 7 with a left turn.  In front of them was a concrete
wall with a small hill continuing behind it.  Paul looked down the street, Main
Street conveniently enough.  To their right and slightly up the hill was a
large white house with an enormous wraparound porch.  A sign hung on metal
eyelets off a white wooden sign post.  Paul could not make out the wording
through the falling snow. 

“That has some chimneys.”  He
pointed at the house.  “Maybe it’s a B&B or an old hotel.  We can get a
fire going.”

“Sounds good.”  Hank nodded and turned
his bike towards the white home.  The snow was accumulating quickly.  They half
rode, half walked their bikes to the bottom of the hill and up the steep
driveway.   Their tires spun in the new snow.  Hank read the sign as he walked passed,
The Rutland Inn.

Paul and Hank pulled their bikes
against the hotel in hopes the overhang would offer some protection from the
snow.  They walked up three steps onto the porch and tried the front door.  It was
unlocked. 

“Hello?”  Paul said loudly into the
pitch black lobby.  He could tell the hotel was empty.  The inside temperature
matched the outdoor temperature.  There was no smell of decaying bodies.  The
white house on the hill appeared to be uninhabited and clean.

“Wow, it’s really coming down
now.”  Hank pointed two flashlights towards the outside.  He pulled out a box
of tea candles and a lighter from his backpack, and began lighting the main
room of the hotel.  “I saw wood under a cover in back.  You want to grab some? 
I’ll light the room and find a fireplace.”

“Got it.”  Paul replied.  They had
been on the road for just two days, and seldom spoke, but found they worked
well together.  He went back outside.  It was colder than it had been just an
hour ago.  The snow was falling much harder.  “Hank made a good call
stopping.”  He mumbled to himself.  Paul found the wood, grabbed an armful, and
went back inside. 

Paul kicked open the door and the
gust of wind that followed him blew out half of Hank’s tea candles.  The few
that remained lit cast enough light to show Hank kneeling inside a large fire
place with one arm stuck up the chimney.  “I think this is our best bet
tonight.  I opened the flue.  We can get it going with a quick light log and your
first armful of wood.” 

Hank and Paul packed synthetic logs
in their motorcycles to start fires quickly and easily.  The quick starting
logs meant not worrying about kindling or paper, and gave them an hour of
steady light and fire to gather additional wood. 

The snow came down harder.  The
wind began to howl through the open front door, pushing through a cloud of
frozen powder.

Paul pushed the door shut.  “You
know I don’t like to feed your ego, but it was the right decision to stop.  You
may have saved us.  Can you imagine getting stuck on Mount Kilington in this
crap?  Who knows how long we would have lasted up there.”  Paul unzipped his
backpack and pulled out soup, a bag of instant rice, and a liter of bottled
water. 

“I wish I could claim intelligence,
but I’m just tired.  There wasn’t thought put into it other than me not being
able to go any further.  Don’t forget, I’m old.” 

“We should move the bikes behind
the hotel.  They are getting pelted next to the building.”  The structure
behind the hotel where Paul found the wood was a four bay carport.

“Good idea.  They might get snowed
in where they are.  Of course, they will get snowed in over there too, but at
least they will be dry.”  Hank agreed, sitting on the hearth and rubbing off
the black ash from the flue now covering his hands. 

Paul went back outside.  He wheeled
his bike towards a bay in the carport.  Firewood was stacked to the ceiling in
one of the bays.  The wood was dry and ready to burn.  “Look at that, nice New
England people ready for the winter.”  Paul said to his brother, walking behind
him and pushing his motorcycle.

“Let’s hope we don’t need much of
it.”  Hank replied as he parked his bike against the back wall. 

Tonight was not about settling down
for the long haul.  Tonight was about eating, getting warm, and sleeping with
as much comfort as possible before they made the final push to Hanover. 

It was their third night together. 
They worked as a well practiced team.  Paul grabbed the quick starting log from
Hank’s saddlebag and went back to the house.  Hank spied a log carrier with
wheels and pulled it over to the stacks of wood.  He filled the roller with as
many logs as he could and pulled it into the house.  Paul lit the synthetic log
and placed three wood logs on top of it to start their fire.  When the fire
caught, Paul searched for a kitchen to locate a pot to warm their rice and
soup. 

The front room was bright with
light from the fire and tea light candles.  Hank snapped on a head lamp before he
moved his bike and gathered wood.  He clicked it to off when he walked into the
hotel lobby with the log carrier.

Paul came back into the room
through a swinging door that led to the kitchen.

“Are you ready for another piece of
Hank Dixon luck?”  Paul was grinning.  “There is a woodstove back there, a
working woodstove.  I don’t want to fire it up tonight, I’m too tired, but
tomorrow morning?  I bet the stove will make the kitchen warm and cozy.”

“Now I am starting to think I’m a
genius for stopping.”  Hank said back.  He stood by the fire with his hands on
his hips to take stock of the lobby.  The hotel was a converted Victorian
Mansion.  Hank and Paul stood in the combination lobby and breakfast eating
area.  The good news was the room had a fireplace.  The bad news was the room
was large and would be difficult to heat from a single fire source.  Hank eyed
two full length couches facing each other in front of the fireplace.

“Hey, Paul, let’s move these right
next to the fire and facing the heat.  I bet it will be just as cozy tonight as
your kitchen will be tomorrow morning.”  He grabbed one end of a couch.  Paul
grabbed the other.  They faced the first couch towards the fire two feet from
the fire screen.  They moved the other couch in a similar diagonal position. 
The top of each couch touched in the middle four feet away from the fireplace,
creating a ‘V’ shaped wall to trap heat.

Paul pulled the tops off of two
cans of soup, poured the contents into the pot, dumped the instant rice into
the mixture, and placed the pot next to the roaring fire.  “The wood is dry,
it’s burning well.”

Hank unpacked the rolling cart,
stacking the wood on the hearth.  “I’m going to grab another cart of wood so we
have some more inside.  I want to make sure you have some to make my breakfast
tomorrow morning.  Do you think you can find some blankets and sheets upstairs,
or do you want to use our sleeping bags?”

“I’m on it.”  Paul said, jumping up
from next to the fire.  “I want to take my coat and boots off once, let’s get
all our stuff together right now.  I’ll get some bowls and spoons too.”  Paul wore
a headlamp similar to Hank’s.  He turned the headlamp on and grabbed a
flashlight from his backpack.  He walked to a set of stairs on the wall
opposite the front door and followed them to the second floor.  He did not feel
like entering any rooms for fear the rooms were still ‘occupied.’  He stood at
the top of the stairs, pointing his flashlight down a long hallway.  Brass
numbers hung on several doors running down the length of the hall.  Paul
noticed two of the doors did not have numbers, and guessed correctly the doors
were closets.  The first closet held cleaning supplies and paper products.  The
second closet housed sheets and several thick polyester blankets encountered in
modestly priced hotels. 

“Jackpot” Paul said to himself.

He walked back downstairs, dropped
the linen on one of the sofas, and went into the kitchen to retrieve spoons and
bowls.  As he opened cupboards he found a well organized kitchen and an
extremely well stocked pantry.  His hunger prevented him from spending too much
time admiring.  He grabbed a large stirring spoon, two bowls, two soup spoons,
paper towels, and headed back into the living room.  As he came through the
swinging door he noticed a distinct difference in the temperature.  It was cold
in the kitchen, but it was close to tolerable in the living room.  The fire took
the chill and dampness out of the air.

He put the bowls and spoons on the
floor, stirred the soup in the pot, and moved the pot to the other side of the
fireplace so the cooler side faced the heat.  He noticed a coffee table and pulled
it next to the hearth, between the couches and the fire.  They could use it as
a dinner table, allowing the brothers to sit on the large hearth or on the
couches while they enjoyed hot soup and soaked in the warmth of the fire.  Paul
unzipped his jacket, untied his boots, and settled in for the night.

Hank opened the front door and came
in with a third cart of wood.  His shoulders and hair were white with snow from
the 25 yard walk to the carport.

“I bet there’s an inch down
already, and it’s snowing harder.”  Hank did not look happy.  “You think they
have early plow service?  If not, we might be here until June.”

“There’s nothing we can do about it
now.  Let’s eat, sleep, and come up with a plan, if needed, tomorrow.”  Paul poured
potato and bacon soup into each bowl.  The mixture was thick and lumpy with
rice.

Hank unzipped his coat, took off
his boots, and walked over to the hearth.  “Wow, I’m almost ‘not cold’ for the
first time today.  That has to count for something.”  He looked at his bowl. 
“No tiny stars in my soup tonight?”  He still teased his brother for serving
him children’s style chicken noodle soup the first night.

The two men ate in silence, letting
the fire and food warm their bodies.  Hank, utterly exhausted, found the
bathroom, threw two more logs on the fire, and lay down on one of the couches. 
He pulled two of the fuzzy blankets Paul draped over the back of the couch on
top of him.  “If you wake up, throw another log on the fire.”  Hank yawned as
he said fire.  He was asleep before he finished his yawn.

“Sleep well old man.”  Paul
responded in a whisper. 

Before he went to bed Paul proactively
built a fire in the woodstove for the next morning.  He was not far behind Hank
in the exhausted department.  He blew out the few tea lights that remained lit,
and curled up under the blankets on his couch.  Paul’s head was inches from
Hank’s, separated by the arms of their couches at the top of the ‘V’
formation.  Paul ignored Hank’s light snoring, and soon fell fast asleep. 

Hank awoke in the dark.  Embers
from the fire cast flickers of light onto the ceiling and the room.  Paul was
asleep next to him.  All was quiet and safe.  He got up, threw three logs on
the fire, went to the bathroom, and fell back into a deep sleep.  Paul awoke
and had a similar experience later in the morning.  Aside from the single wake,
both men slept soundly throughout the night.

Hank awoke to a bright room.  The
sun was out, shining through a bank of windows on the dining side of the lobby. 
He sat up and stretched his arms.  The fire was still burning.  Red embers
kicked off enough heat to keep the hearth area warm.  The couches, faced
towards the fire, collected heat throughout the night.  Hank slept warmly for
the first time in months.  He stood to put a fresh log on the fire.