Frankly, Winston had forgotten about the beechnuts as he scoured the ground searching for them. It was still a little early for the trees to release them, but it had gotten cold enough a few nights for some younger trees to release their nuts. Winston filled his hoodie’s pockets with the jagged nuts, and emptied them near a tree that was a Johnsonville landmark. All around its smooth bark were carvings of expressions of love that dated back some four or five decades. Winston scrutinized the tree’s skin — though the expressions of love varied from pierced hearts with initials inside to plain words and phrases, the hearts proliferated. He found his own heart, one that he had carved the day before shipping out to Vietnam: WS + MS TRUE LOVE 4 EVA was inside. He traced a finger along the heart’s faded curves and beamed. He remembered thinking that he’d never see May or Johnsonville again on that frightening flight over to Vietnam. But he did make it home, in almost one piece, and the two of them created a beautiful world together. He found Mayor Wellbeloved’s simple carving: LW + MW, and he choked up when he read the newest carving: MICK N JULIE 4 ALWAYS.
He sat with his back against the tree and shelled the beechnuts. For every four that he shelled, he tossed one into his mouth. They were bitter, but provided him with a much-needed amount of fat, protein, and carbs. Two hours later, after scrounging the forest floor for as many nuts as he could find, he set off once again to the north, his pockets laden with the life-giving nuts. The railroad tracks that connected Atlanta’s southern suburbs with the metropolis were a scant quarter mile from the carved beechnut tree, and Winston soon found himself walking along the tracks, keeping close to the tree line. Morrow, Johnsonville’s sister city, was a three-mile hike from here, and he was curious as to its current state.
It took a solid hour of trekking for Winston to make it to Morrow’s city limits. He thought at the very least that by now, he’d meet up with other survivors or an enemy patrol or two, but he then reasoned that it was probably unrealistic to expect the PLA to occupy every square foot of America, or even Georgia. He stopped to rest, one foot perched on a slick iron track, and wondered — are we all dead or are we just cowards? Certainly, there must be survivors, resourceful men and women like he and May who had found a way to endure the occupation. Or maybe they were nothing more than fools for not fleeing when they could have — for not simply driving as far from the front lines when they had the chance. Regardless, it was too late now to switch survival strategies. They were both stuck in that barn for the foreseeable future.
Rifle ready, he crept slowly toward the Morrow train station and past the sign that read Your Future is to-Morrow. The town was empty — save for the remnants of a firefight. Just like Med and his small band of Johnsonville insurgents, the good people of Morrow put up a good fight, though ultimately paying the price for their patriotism. Corpses, mostly Morrow citizens, littered the streets, their bodies giving life to the turkey vultures and other scavengers that feasted upon them. He pressed on, skirting the buildings of their small downtown. It was an apocalyptic sight, like one out of a highly-produced war movie, every window blown out and blackened by fire, exteriors pockmarked by mortars, and cars burned and still smoking. The scene wrenched his gut.
Suddenly, a convoy of four PLA vehicles turned the corner and headed Winston’s way, west toward Morrow’s own Plug’s Pond. He hit the ground, lying motionless next to several sour-smelling, rotting corpses, and prayed that he went unnoticed. He didn’t dare to look up and kept his face hidden while the convoy passed by, dangerously close. When the convoy turned the corner, he sprung to his feet and followed it, staying brazenly close but out of sight. Winston smiled when he heard May’s voice in his head, “stop being such a dumbass, Winston.”
It was getting late in the afternoon, and he would soon have to head back home if he wanted to cross the fence during the soldiers’ dinnertime. He darted across Morrow’s Main Street, cut through a hamlet of seasonal homes, and made it to the edge of Plug’s Pond to where Little River began as a runoff that fed Robin Lake. Approximately double the size of Robin Lake, Plug’s Pond was more of a local summertime destination with a small beach Winston had never visited, but he heard that it was a pleasant place to lounge and grill burgers on its built-in hibachis. The homes on Plug’s Pond were similar to those of Winston’s neighborhood, occupied mostly by longtime residents of the area. He hugged the shoreline for a quarter mile until he saw — on the opposite side of the lake — a large home with an even larger barn than his. The very same type of razor-wire fence that currently enclosed his property also surrounded this one. It was as if this house on Plug’s Pond was a duplicate of his own on Robin Lake.
Suddenly, a bullet whistled inches from his left ear and split open a red oak behind him — then another and another. The soldiers guarding the house across the lake had seen Winston and opened fire. Though he didn’t see them, the convoy of trucks that had just pulled into the Plug’s Pond compound turned around to intercept him as he bolted back into the woods. Instead of crossing through the hamlet, he doubled back and ran along the water’s edge to Little River, scampering along its bank for a mile or so before stopping to catch his breath. His heart raced, his breaths were shallow, his lungs hurt, and Winston had never felt older in his life — or so alive.
“Fuck you!” he screeched, and then giggled. It was quite unexpected, the giggling, but there it was as plain as day. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, and chomped on a handful of beechnuts. He had lost many running, but his pockets were deep and there were still plenty of them left. After a moment, he continued his journey back to Johnsonville at a casual pace, thinking about what he had seen in Morrow. He arrived back at Calef’s apple orchard just as the sun’s last rays bloodied the sky in a brilliant swath of crimson ribbons. He slinked back inside the McIntosh apple tree that had been so bountiful before and plucked nine more of the ripe fruit, and he crept stealthily to the fenced cell where Ben and the others were being held. Winston found Ben still slumped in the same spot that he had left him in days earlier. He looked the same — a weakened and broken old man waiting for Death to visit.