...Before he pulled out onto the highway Jake turned on the radio. The FM band was blank across the board, with nothing but static except for 101.1, a presumed local station that ran a recorded announcement advising listeners to tune to one of the emergency AM frequencies to receive “news and official information”.
“. . . those frequencies in the Shenandoah Valley section 1, 2 and 3 listening areas,” said the digitized male voice, giving away its software manufacture by putting emphasis on the wrong syllables in between crackling bursts of interference, “are 610, 720, 1490, and 1510 on the AM band. Please tune in to these bands. This is KMZL 5-4-1.”
Jake flipped the radio to AM and tuned to 610. He caught the tail end of a recorded message but it replayed itself almost immediately, just like the tunnel traffic reports he used to hear going through the Hampton Roads bridge tunnel in Hampton, Virginia:
“Attention listeners in range of this broadcast,” the dreamy female voice commanded, almost sounding seductive in her delivery as she started her loop again for the umpteenth time. Suddenly reminded what women looked like, Jake sat up and took notice, almost feeling aroused at the sound of a female voice. That certainly was a feeling he never experienced in prison. “The department of Homeland Security, the FCC, the CDC and the United States military would like to remind everyone that admittance into section 1 and section 2 evacuation zones is expressly forbidden until further notice. Attempting to gain admission into either of these zones is prohibited, and could result in arrest and a charge of trespassing.”
Jake wondered why the Center for Disease Control suddenly had authority on admittance into the evacuation zones. Was there a pandemic issue? Were the standers now disease carriers? Shit, he hoped not, after just digging through the pockets of one of them to steal his phone and car keys.
“We appreciate your cooperation!” the female voice continued. “Please understand the safety of our citizens is our highest priority, and your government’s highest priority is to maintain law, order and stability during these unsettled times. Please remember too that it is a federal crime to touch or otherwise engage a standing corpse, either inside a cemetery or in a private burial site. Have a great day!”
Have a great day? Was she kidding? Jake suddenly remembered his shortwave friend and wondered if he was still going on the air every night at 2 AM. He never said “Have a great day”. He spoke the truth, and Jake suddenly missed him. He couldn’t wait to get home and see if he was still around.
Knowing that with helicopters patrolling the sky and gun-freak security manning the checkpoints, Jake was anxious to get off of the major routes and on the back roads. After a cursory check for more snooping choppers, he pulled the Camry out on Route 250 and turned east, driving fast only a half-mile or so before getting off on Route 608. Driving only a short distance he pulled over to look at his map. Jake had forgotten how good it felt to open up a fast car on what turned out to be a desolate stretch of highway.
Looking at his map he devised a route steering clear of Waynesboro and its section 2 evac status, concerned that the guards there may not be as understanding as the ones at the Staunton gate. Route 608 would take him out past the Interstate, where he could take back roads over near the town of Lyndhurst through Sherando, which would then take him either on Route 56 or another narrow route that was marked unpaved over the Blue Ridge mountains, bringing him out well south of the supposed dangerous city of Charlottesville. It looked like a plan.
Folding the map open to his route on the passenger seat, Jake took off down the twisting road, passing the newer housing projects (all sitting empty) and eventually into the country. He passed Tinkling Spring Church, which according to the sign was one of the oldest Presbyterian Churches in the Valley. The hospital across the road appeared empty as well.
The church’s ancient cemetery was filled with equally ancient standers, and as Jake drove past he could see the very old mouths and the skull-like faces and the stooped, gnarled bodies of the ancient, long-forgotten valley residents, who lay for a hundred years or more in peace but were now dragged up out of their dirt beds and protesting loudly about it.
Jake’s shut car windows and blowing a/c drowned out the hoarse screechings of the creaky elders, but Jake saw quite clearly their tattered, shredded burial clothes, their wide-open mouths and unhinged jaws, and their jerking, spasmodic heads and necks. They were not at all happy about being pulled from their resting places, and a shiver of fright raced through Jake as he sped by, glancing at the horrible display as if it were an unfolding car accident that he couldn’t tear away from. He may be becoming a leader among the living, but he had little tolerance for the standing dead.
As the Interstate 64 highway loomed ahead, Jake looked closely, noticing not one car – which was a good thing, as no cars meant there were no security personnel trying to catch them. He zoomed under the bridge and continued on his way toward the town of Stuarts Draft.
After a few more miles, just as the loneliness of the empty road began lulling him into a perpetual state of daydream, Jake startled to see a 1970-style pickup truck in the road ahead, driving slowly toward him. Slowing down, Jake’s heart skipped as he craned to see the driver, worried that it was going to be a security guard or a Black Iron Commander or some such ogre driving an unmarked vehicle. The truck slowed as well, but the driver made no effort to initiate communication. Jake could see it was an older, confused-looking man behind the wheel, and he hesitantly slowed and rolled down his electric window as he pulled alongside of him.
He was an unshaven man, perhaps in his 60s. He looked warily at Jake for a few seconds as they stopped beside each other before he cranked down his window only a couple of inches.
“I ain’t got any food with me.” the man said, obviously startled by Jake’s gaunt and unshaven appearance but somewhat impressed with his immaculate car.
“It’s OK,” Jake answered, “I have food.”
“You with the police?” the man asked, “You gotta say so if you are.”
“I can tell you with all honesty I am not a policeman, nor am I with the military or the government,” Jake answered, relieved that the man seemed to be a plain farmer civilian. He knew, however, that the man was staring at his brilliant, divine eyes.
“Did you come from Staunton or Waynesboro?” the man asked, “Are the roads open?”
“They’re not open, and I suspect they won’t be open for a while,” Jake said, “I was told by the guards at Staunton that I should stay away from the cities, especially Charlottesville, because they’re too dangerous. Where the hell is everybody?”
“Not a clue.” The man said flatly. “Me and my wife, we got a disabled grown daughter, we hid when the army guys come knocking. She needs medicine, but I can’t find none.”
Jake debated telling the man too much, lest he be a spy, or worse.
The man shook his grey head in exasperation. Jake thought he was probably a lot younger than he looked. He too was a survivor, and the wear and tear of living hand-to-mouth in a war zone showed on every line in his weather-beaten face. “World’s gone to shit.” the man said with no fanfare, and probably eager to not give away his life story to Jake either.
“Are there more people around this area?” Jake asked, trying to be friendly but realizing his question sounded suspiciously like he was trolling for more civilians to round up. “I mean, I’m not tryin’ to . . . do you know of any . . .”
The man put his truck in gear and started cranking up his window. “Nice talkin’ to ya.” He muttered as he hurriedly drove off.
We’re breeding suspicion, Jake thought as he watched through his rear view mirror the man drive away.
Coming March 31, 2012
Published by Iron Cauldron Books
