“Where you from, Mister?” one of the men asked.
“Jes’ came from McDonough,” Winston replied, still walking.
“Woo-wee,” the man said and stopped. Everybody stopped.
“You are a survivor?” the man asked.
Winston nodded his head.
“That’s a cute little doggie,” the woman said. Her face conveyed such a deep feeling of tragedy that Winston felt guilty. “Where you headin’?”
“Johnsonville.”
One of the men shook his head. “Better not. Just come from that way. It’s a bee’s nest a PLA pukes up there.”
“We was six,” the woman said.
“Thank you,” Winston replied, and continued to walk.
“Good luck.”
Winston stopped and said, “they’s plenny a supplies in the building behind the Pentecostal church down the road a ways.”
“God bless you.”
Soon enough, he was back to the lonely dull country road. Unlike Route 75, here the PLA could easily come up on him quickly around a bend or over a hill if he wasn’t vigilant. At the intersection of US 23 and GA-42 in Stockbridge, he skirted along the trees to avoid the openness of the wide highway. Here, it was beginning to feel less safe, but he pushed on, faster and harder the closer he got to home. He was just north of Johnsonville, and would have to turn south and walk along what were usually busy roads, connecting one city to the other, to find the way that would bring him near the old Harris homestead at the end of their road. He determined that he couldn’t bring all of the provisions inside the apartment, and he decided to hide them in the Harris’s old shed — the very same shed he had sent Jimmy to investigate. He could retrieve the provisions when they were needed.
As Winston thought and walked down Flippen Road, he came across an intersection with gas stations on both sides. The droning of generators alerted him that the pumps were being used by the PLA. Sure enough, the gas station was heavily guarded with soldiers most likely from his property and a Russian Tigr troop transport had just finished refueling. The truck pulled out and headed in his direction. He didn’t have time to maneuver the baby stroller into the woods with him, so he pushed it to the ground and dove for cover under the live oaks where he and Muffin watched the truck roll past, south to where he had just come from. He waited five minutes before returning on their journey, and would have to hide several more times before coming to the place in the woods where he could see the Harris property through the trees.
He removed his hoodie and tied the sleeves and hood into a tight knot, effectively creating a sack. He stuffed the shirts and underwear into the small pockets in the hoodie’s shoulders and filled the remaining space with as much food as he could, leaving room to twist the opening shut. He left the makeshift sack in the woods and paced cautiously through the trees, the stroller rolling loudly across a bed of pine needles, and crossed through the Harris’ back yard to the shed. The lock had been shot off, but the door functioned properly. He opened the door slowly, anticipating squeaks. He was so close to his property that he could hear the din of the generators.
He moved a lawn mower aside and pushed the stroller next to it, leaving the food inside, and mounted the Claymore mine that he had acquired from Cole down in McDonough, jamming it between a 2x4 and the wall, and aimed straight at the door. He rigged it so anybody opening the door without first disarming it would get a face full of stainless steel balls. He pushed the arming wire through one of the rust holes in the rear of the shed, closed the door, and wrapped it loosely around a nail head on the outside of the shed. It didn’t have to be tight — it just had to tighten enough when the door opened to engage the firing mechanism. Satisfied, he headed back to where he had stashed the food. Suddenly, an odd whizzing noise interrupted his escape back into the safety of the woods. He looked for the source across the horizon when the shape of a large drone descending into his own back yard caught his eye. Winston thought he saw one of the backpacks currently being stored inside the barn hanging under the drone. And it all made sense.
Back to the Barn
A layer of low-hanging, thick clouds hid the mid-afternoon sun. Winston was cold. He and Muffin bolted across his own street into the blueberry bush field, skirted Little River for several hundred feet, and turned north until he hit the Johnsonville exit off-ramp, the heavy cans in the makeshift hoodie-sack rattling all the way. He kneeled, his breaths labored and short. He looked down at Muffin, who looked up at him. He set down the rifle and the provisions.
“I’m too old for this here shit. This the tick field. I’m a hafta carry yo’ ass lest you wan’ some mo’ ticks.”
Winston shoved the rifle up into his left armpit, and secured Muffin beneath it. He loaded his right arm with the hoodie-sack, and slowly made his way through the field of tall grass. He stopped twenty feet from the road to wait for two Russian Tigrs to roll past. When it felt safe, he poked his head out, saw that the road was clear, and bolted across to the relative safety of the space between the highway overpass and the water treatment plant. He placed Muffin down, his arms prickly and sensitive.
“You gotta stay keepin’ quiet now. Still don’ know what I’m a do with you.”
He and Muffin walked toward the underside of the overpass, his rifle at the ready. As he turned the corner, he was face to face with a standard issue DPRK Type 68 pistol.
“Drop the gun,” the soldier said, “and put your arms up.”
Winston dropped the rifle, bents his knees a bit, and set down the provisions. He put his arms up and recognized the face that belonged to the gun — it was Woo-jin.
“Woo-jin?” Winston asked.
Woo-jin quickly looked from Winston to Muffin and back, his face clearly communicating that he didn’t trust the dog.
“Oh, she’s alright, Woo-jin. Friendliest dog I ever met. Name is Muffin.”
Muffin barked, startling Woo-jin, who took Winston’s rifle, holstered his own weapon, and said, “keep it quiet.”
“May I?” Winston asked, slowly lowering his arms.
“Yes.”
Winston picked Muffin up and stroked her short, unevenly cut, fur.
“Sit,” Woo-jin said.
He and Winston sat under the overpass. Winston set Muffin down between the two men. Though she was quiet and obedient, Woo-jin eyed her cautiously.
“How you been?” Winston asked.
Woo-jin shrugged.
“What’s eatin’ you?”
Woo-jin gave Winston a confused look.
“What’s bothering you?”
“I want go home. I don’t like here anymore.”
“I can empathize with that.”
“Other men treat me bad. Say nobody care about me.”
“I care ‘bout you, bud.”
Woo-jin searched Winston’s face and found signs of compassion.
“Thank you.”
“How’d you like that apple I left you? And the beechnuts?”
“I like very much apple. Not nuts. They taste like sewer.”
Winston smiled, “well, okay then. Maybe I can find you another apple.”
“Yes. I like very much,” and then Woo-jin frowned, “I go. It dangerous. I been gone so long.”