Through the Storm(16)

“Can we go?” the woman asked.

With a wave of the pistol, Neal signaled for them to leave.

They ran out the front door.

For several moments, Neal stood looking at the open door and the body of the old man. What had become of the world? Gradually, he retraced his steps through the ransacked kitchen and out the back door.

The dog stared at him.

“Well, what’s to become of you?”

The animal stood and wagged its tail.

Neal retreated to the kitchen, found two bowls and using one, dipped water from the toilet tank into it. He poured dog food into the other. Then he approached the dog with slow cautious steps and slid the bowls the last few inches. “Here you go. I’ll bet you could use this.”

The animal eagerly drank the water and then consumed the food. Moments later it had licked the last from both bowls and sat.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

“I really don’t need a dog. I already have one at home.” The best thing Neal felt he could do was provide the mutt a chance of survival by releasing it. Neal inched forward. “Good dog.” He ran his hand along the chain. “Are you feeling better?” Sunlight caught a blue tag and it flashed. The dog moved and Neal spotted the name, “Ginger.” He unsnapped the chain.

The dog sprinted into the house, followed by Neal.

In the living room, Ginger sniffed around the body of her master.

“I had nothing to do with his death, Ginger. Sorry.”

Ginger lay near her master while Neal searched the rest of the house for useful items.

In the closet of the master bedroom, Neal found a shotgun and eight loose shells. Staring at the gun, he considered whether he now preyed upon the dead man, as the young couple had done.

No, he had come here to help, not steal food. The gun could do the old man no good and might save Neal during the long and dangerous journey ahead. Perhaps it was a rationalization, but in a world falling apart and going crazy, it was one he could live with.

He slung the shotgun over one shoulder and pocketed the shells. Then he grabbed the quilt from the bed. In the living room, the dog remained beside her master. He had taken longer at the farmhouse than he intended, but before leaving, Neal spread the quilt over the old man. Then he bent down and patted the dog. “Goodbye, Ginger. I hope things go well for you. I’ve got to keep going north to my boys and home.” Neal returned to the kitchen, dropped the bag of dog food on the floor where Ginger could get to it, and then headed out along the road.

A hundred yards from the farm, Ginger galloped up to him and walked alongside.

“Like I said earlier, Ginger, I don’t need a dog.” Neal pointed back toward the house. “Go home!”

The dog’s tongue rolled out and she panted.

“Go home!”

She barked and sat.

“Please, go home.”

She cocked her head and seemed to grin.

Neal sighed. “Okay, you win.” He returned to the house, crammed the half-empty dog food bag into his pack, and headed back out along the country road with Ginger leading the way.

*

Rural Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

Conner imagined his route home. He would follow the Columbia River south to Interstate 90 and head west across the Cascade Mountains, and down into Seattle. Then he would turn south toward home. Easy to say and easy to drive but a long walk. Conner took another bite of burger and turned to Jim. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat and run. Well, walk actually.”

As he chewed on the burger it occurred to Conner that the trip would be quicker if he used a bicycle. “Jim, do you know anyone who would sell or trade with me for a bike?”

“I’ll ask around.” Jim walked toward the first cluster of people, stopped and talked for a moment, and then moved on to the next.

When Conner finished eating, he scanned the area and, within seconds, spotted Jim talking with another man.

With a wave of the arm, Jim signaled for him to come over. “This is Chris. He has a bike.”

The guy was perhaps a few years older than Conner but with a wedding ring on his finger. Conner held out his hand, and they shook.

“I race bikes and have a really good one. It cost me over five thousand dollars.” Chris drew a deep breath. “But I’ll trade it for that rifle you walked in with.”

Conner shook his head. “I’d buy it from you, but I only have about three hundred dollars.”

Chris shook his head. “What’s money worth now?”

Conner shrugged as he pondered the question.

Jim walked away with Chris but returned a moment later. “I have another idea. There’s a strange old guy in town named Randolph. Some say he’s a millionaire. He collects stuff and sells all kinds of things in his thrift store; it’s the largest in town. I’ve seen bikes in there before.”

“Yeah, but do you think he’d be in the store on a day like this?”

“I’ve seen him there on Christmas and Thanksgiving. If people want to buy, he’ll be there.”

After Conner retrieved his rifle from the guards, he followed the directions Jim had written on a scrap of paper into town.

It didn’t take long to find the brick building with a large painted sign, “Randolph Thrift and Gift.”

A bell hanging over the door swayed and dinged as Conner entered. The dark store smelled of dust, old books, and musty clothes. An elderly man with thinning white hair, and wearing a sweater, ambled toward the front.