It had been a little over a week since the lights had gone out and already the city looked completely different. Many of the houses had boards over the windows, others were burned out.
The fires he knew weren’t all from vandals and thugs. Millions of people all over had likely turned to candles. After the first few days, some of them would have become careless and that was when fires started. Without any firefighters, buildings that went up in flames would have suffered the same fate as the ones on Willow Creek and the surrounding neighborhoods.
The memory of seeing Al’s house with the bodies of him and his wife still inside, burnt to a crisp, was still fresh in John’s mind.
Sad how long it took to build something worthwhile and how quickly all that hard work could be turned to ash. It was true for Willow Creek as much as it was true for the country as a whole.
Cumberland Avenue led to an interstate on-ramp. They were far enough on the outskirts of Knoxville that John guessed the highway would be relatively clear. If their current location was any indication, then they would be fine. John had kept a hand on the pistol that was resting in the console’s cupholder, releasing it every so often when he needed both hands to navigate around a car blocking his path. Up to this point, however, he hadn’t seen a soul. Surely the noise of Betsy’s diesel engine was attracting attention, but if faces had popped out of doorways after they sped by, John hadn’t seen them.
The on-ramp appeared on his right and John went up it. Just as he suspected, the traffic leaving the city was light, giving him plenty of room to bob and weave between the few stalled cars that were there.
The lanes in the opposite direction were another story entirely. Those were packed to the gills and many of the vehicles had open doors where drivers and passengers had simply decided to continue on foot. So far he hadn’t seen anyone in cars or along the highway’s shoulder. But it was only a question of time. He’d seen plenty of dead in his combat tours and plenty more over the last twenty-four hours. Soldier or not, the sight was never one you relished, not unless you were missing the important parts God gave you.
The Mack family continued their trek to the cabin, driving for another thirty minutes before they finally saw another soul. Two people actually, a man and a woman, walking along the interstate pushing a shopping cart packed with supplies covered by a blue tarp. Predictably, one of the cart’s front wheels was doing a merry jig, probably giving the man pushing the thing a terrible time.
As they approached, Diane lowered the window and held the pistol against the outside of the passenger door. The point was to send them a clear message—we’re armed and ready to shoot, but not if you mind your own business. Gun-barrel diplomacy. Who knew that the way you held a gun could say so much?
The couple stood still and watched as the Blazer approached, as though they were observing a mirage or something divine. The woman used her hand to block out the sun, low in the early-morning sky, squinting at the truck and its lucky occupants.
Diane nodded to them and they waved back. They seemed like nice enough people. John hoped they would stay safe.
Soon enough they came upon another group. This one consisted of five people, a real mishmash, making it difficult to tell if they were from the same family or had banded together to travel. Safety in numbers was surely the new law of the land.
“They’re all heading into the country,” Diane exclaimed.
“The legendary golden horde,” John murmured. “And right on time, too. Most of the preppers woulda left within a day or two. Normal folks expecting FEMA or the local government to swoop in and save the day would have waited much longer before running out of food and realizing they’d been wrong. When they slowly realized that no one was coming to save them, and with empty cupboards and bare shelves in the grocery store, what other options did they have?”
“They’re going where the food is.”
John shook his head. “They’re going where they think the food is. But these stragglers are going to be disappointed. The folks in the country will be struggling to manage their crops. They also rely on automated systems and vehicles, all of which don’t work anymore. They’ll be better off than the urban elites, no doubt about that. But it certainly won’t be the bountiful harvest these refugees are expecting.”
It wasn’t long before they came to an even larger group walking along the interstate’s shoulder. This time, hearing them approach, a few began moving toward them, shaking their clasped hands together. It was a sight more common in the streets of India as beggars rushed to car windows in search of a handout.
“Tell them to back off,” John told her.
Diane raised the pistol, but didn’t fire. With her free hand she was motioning for the few rushing to cut them off to back away. John stepped on the pedal and accelerated past them.
“That could have turned ugly,” Diane said. She hadn’t ever killed another human being. He’d always appreciated her compassion, but in the current climate he needed to know she could drop someone if the situation called for it. He told her as much.
She didn’t like the comment since it questioned her commitment.
“I just need to know if push comes to shove, you’d be willing to kill a man.”
“Or a woman,” she added.
The point was true. He’d always assumed that if there was an aggressor it would be a man, a target he wouldn’t have as much difficulty dispatching. Proof of his resolve lay dead in the street of their old neighborhood and in combat zones around the world. He was trained for such things, she wasn’t. Sure, he’d taught her all the important skill sets, but making it over that final hump was another matter entirely. Right now that was the question mark.
“I’d do it,” Gregory said from the back seat.
“I know you would, son,” John answered.
Emma didn’t say a word. She wasn’t interested in proving herself nearly as much as Gregory was. He was becoming more like his dad every day. The cleft in his chin, the strong jaw and cheekbones. His son was still at the age where he idolized his father.
Then in the distance, John caught sight of something which froze the blood in his veins. A huge mass of refugees moving northwest. This was likely the vanguard of the golden horde. A city on the move, an exodus toward the perceived safety of the lush countryside. But these guys weren’t only on the shoulder. They were spread all over and John wasn’t entirely sure they’d be quick to move out of his way. If a crowd like this got angry, things could turn deadly in a heartbeat.
A few of them turned and pointed as the truck approached. Maybe they thought it was FEMA coming to save them. If so, they were in for a nasty disappointment. John began to accelerate and honk the horn. A few began to move away, afraid of being run over.
But the bulk of them kept marching on.
“You’re gonna need to give them some encouragement, honey,” John said. “If anyone gets aggressive, shoot them.”
She swallowed hard, raised the pistol and fired three shots into the air. That got their attention and the crowd began to disperse in a giant wave, some moving to the shoulder, others jumping the median and scattering onto the other side of the highway. A handful of John Wayne types were feeling stubborn. John lowered the window, aimed his pistol about six feet over their heads and laid off three more shots. Betsy charged forward, barely slowing down. At the very last minute they jumped out of the way. If those people thought their lives held such little value, John had no compunction about separating them from it.
They rocketed past the crowd, which had parted for them like the Red Sea for Moses.