Saturday, November 2
Central North Carolina
A dog barking incessantly in the distance awoke Peter that morning. He’d passed out sitting up, and eventually during his sleep, he’d slid over on his side, sleeping in a fetal position to ward off the cold. The barking dog might have been his new friend, but when several others joined in, a cacophony of breeds awoke the rural neighborhood just like a rooster might on a farm.
Peter gripped his rifle and forced his sore body to stand. He rolled his eyes as he questioned if it would ever recover. He unstrapped the bungee cords from his bicycle and eased the door open. It was daylight. Well, as much as daylight was allowed to appear during nuclear winter.
The sounds of the dogs barking in the distance were louder now but sufficiently far enough away not to concern him. After he relieved his bladder, he slipped back into the storage building and plotted out his day.
He was beginning to establish a routine after only a few days on the road. He checked his wounds and took his medications. He repacked his duffels and backpacks, reassessing his ammunition supply as he did. Thus far, he’d only expended nine-millimeter rounds from his handgun. He was certain it wouldn’t be the last time.
He also decided to keep extra magazines in his cargo pants pockets for his handgun and the AR-15 rifle he’d taken from the men on the bridge. He would be traveling near a major metropolitan area as he swung to the west of Winston-Salem. The historic city of a quarter million, built during the infancy of America’s tobacco industry, would present challenges if someone approached him.
He’d have to tread lightly and be pleasant to everyone he encountered. He’d also have to be prepared to shoot them just like he’d shot the men on the bridge. His mind was prepared to travel through a kill-or-be-killed environment. It was wholly out of character for him but a necessary consequence of the changing world.
The circuitous route he would have to take to avoid the city would take him to the town of Wilkesboro, sixty-five miles northwest of Charlotte. From that point, Peter believed, after studying the map, he could travel due south through the Carolinas, into Georgia, before entering North Florida. All of the major cities along the way could be avoided.
Peter was a beast that day. Perhaps it was the fact he’d rested his weary body. Maybe it was the fact he began to see more signs of life. Several times along the route, he was passed by vehicles traveling in both directions as he approached Wilkesboro. Only one car slowed down as they approached Peter, and it appeared to be out of courtesy, as they didn’t want to startle him on a sharp curve.
The combination of all the positive things he’d experienced as he rode gave him a second wind. By his prior calculations, he was able to easily ride eighty-plus miles in seven hours. He approached Wilkesboro with several hours of daylight remaining, so he continued on his southerly track.
As he rode closer toward I-40, the number of homes with people appearing outside increased. There was one property near the road frontage that caught his eye. A man and a woman sat in white rocking chairs, slowly easing back and forth with surgical masks over their faces. The older man had an oxygen tank with a breathing mask dangling from the valve by his side. The portable oxygen device must’ve been used by him for a respiratory ailment. Now, despite the horrendous air quality conditions, he was sitting outside.
Peter decided to take a chance. He was starving for information, probably more than he was hungry for food. He turned his bike toward the house and dismounted near their mailbox. He slowly walked it up the sidewalk, which had a dusting of ashy snow.
He stopped short of the porch when he saw an old double-barrel shotgun lying across the lap of the woman, who continued to rock back and forth while maintaining a watchful eye on Peter. He held up his hands to show he hadn’t planned on drawing his weapons on them.
“Hi! I’m Peter Albright. I don’t want to bother you, but I just wondered if you could help me with some information.”
The older man cupped his hand to his ear and looked over at his wife. “What did he say?”
“He has questions.” She shouted her answer to him.
“About what?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Charles. He ain’t asked ’em yet.” She raised her voice so he could hear.
If Peter wasn’t apprehensive, he would’ve found the scene comical. He inched his bike forward until he was just a few feet away from the covered stoop. Neither of the rockers seemed to be concerned with his approach.
“Whatcha wanna know?” she asked, pulling down her mask as she spoke.
Peter kept his face covered. “Hi. Well, ma’am, I was—”
The old man interrupted him, waggling his finger at Peter as he spoke. “You gotta pull that thing down, or I can’t hear ya. Go ahead now. Pull it down.”
Peter glanced around and then pulled down his gaiter. “I was wondering if you could tell me if the power is out around here.”
“Yup, just a couple of days ago,” the old woman replied. “It was on and off for a bit after the bombs dropped. Then it just never came back on.”
Peter decided to tell his story to gain their trust. He hit the high points of where he had been located at the moment of the blast and how he’d managed to survive since. He left out the parts about the gunfights, naturally.
She told him what they’d heard on the radio following the nuclear attacks. Tears poured out of his eyes when he heard about San Francisco. They both noticed that he’d become emotional and exchanged looks. Without saying a word, the old man nodded, and his wife stood up.
“Young man, why don’t you come inside and take a load off your feet. I’m gonna fix up some beans and cornbread. I’ve got some pepper relish to put on top if you like it.”
Peter’s eyes grew wide, and his stomach immediately began to growl. “How? Um, how are you cooking it?”
The woman laughed as she helped her husband out of his rocking chair. “We’re country folk,” she said with a chuckle and then waved her arm around. “This ain’t nothin’ for us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, November 2
Bethlehem, North Carolina
Their names were Charles and Anna Spencer. Both were in their early eighties, having resided in the small community just north of Hickory all their lives. Anna had taught school at nearby Bethlehem Elementary, and Charles had been a trucker working for Freight Concepts just down the road from their home. The company specialized in hauling furniture manufactured by companies in Hickory to warehouse destinations across America. He’d developed respiratory issues from years of smoking cigarettes while on the road.
“Ma’am, I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” said Peter as he wiped his mouth with the paper napkins she provided. Anna had encouraged him to eat all he wanted. There was plenty, she assured him, although he couldn’t imagine where she stored it. The house was full of furniture, but it appeared they only had a limited amount of food. Perhaps that was by design, Peter thought to himself as he offered to clear the dishes.
“Not on your life, young man,” admonished Anna as she raised her hands. “You’re a guest in our home.” She pushed her chair back and immediately grabbed his bowl.
“Young man, have you heard about the farmers’ market tomorrow?” asked Charles.
Peter politely raised his voice so his host could hear him. “Farmers’ market? As in selling their harvest?”
Charles laughed. “Well, it’s something like that. People have been gathering each morning to trade with one another. One man’s bushel of apples is worth another man’s bottle of bleach.”