Through the Storm(27)
Drake felt like the pastor had smacked him in the face. Adults sure knew how to play the guilt trip. “Yes, I understand.”
Moments later Ashley returned with a second suitcase and a school backpack. “I left a note for my parents.”
Drake and the pastor each grabbed a case and the three hurried away from the empty house as the sun disappeared below the trees.
Day Four
Lane County, Oregon, Wednesday, September 7th
Major Franklin carefully folded the note and then slid it across the desk along with Neal’s knife.
Neal stared at the address and directions and then at the major. “You’re not heading north?”
The major shook his head. “The militia group we’ve been ordered to … ah, neutralize seems to be moving south. Since you’re heading north, I’m hoping you will pass the letter along for me. The unit established a base camp near the University of Portland.”
Conflicting emotions flooded Neal. He wanted to help the major, but more than anything he wanted to get home to Drake and Conner.
“Of course, we’ll return your weapons.”
“I’ve been to the campus. I’ll try to deliver your message. Can I get some food?”
“If by food you mean MREs.” The major grinned. “We can spare a few.”
Worried that he might change his mind, Neal stashed the three MREs the major offered into his pack and retrieved his shotgun and pistol from the guard. Then he jogged across the meadow.
When Ginger spotted him, she jumped to her feet and barked excitedly.
“Yeah, girl, I’m free and you’ll be in a second.” He untied her while she licked his face and then they hurried out of Lebanon.
Neal avoided Albany and hiked along the quieter rural roads. He soon crossed the South Santiam River and later in the day crossed the north fork. Along the way he saw many dark homes and the occasional barking dog, but no other refugees passed as he continued his northward trek. Only when the darkness became so deep that he had trouble following the road did he stop and sleep in a grove of trees.
Neal awoke to dog breath. As his eyes crept open, Ginger licked his face. “Okay, okay, I’m awake.” Neal pushed the dog back, sat up, and wiped his face. He felt the stubble of his growing beard and imagined he looked like a bum. He slid from the sleeping bag, pulled off his shoes and socks, and rubbed his sore feet. Taking a knife, he popped a few blisters.
Four days. That was all the time necessary to transform him from a well-paid financial planner into a homeless beggar sleeping under a canopy of trees. His former life seemed like a half-forgotten dream.
Neal stood and rubbed his sore back and legs. Perhaps he should stay and rest here today. He leaned against a tree and slid to the ground. “Let’s get some breakfast, girl.”
Ginger wagged her tail.
He fed the dog and then opened an MRE for himself. Nearby a small creek babbled through a culvert under the road. He should rest here for a while more. He slumped to prone position and napped.
It seemed only minutes later that Ginger whined in Neal’s ear. Startled from a dream, he flailed his arms, sat up, and opened his eyes. He was tired, sore, and really wanted a cup of coffee.
Over a hundred miles of hiking remained ahead of him. His feet still hurt. Even with the MREs, he would run out of food before reaching home. Were Drake and Conner okay? Were they alive?
Ginger nudged him.
“You’re right, girl, I need to get off my butt and head home.” He stood, packed his gear, and continued north.
Determination remained tempered by pain in a multitude of places and slowed his pace. Several hours passed before whiffs of smoke hinted that Salem might be near. The road he hiked along widened from two to four lanes and more side roads intersected it.
Neal didn’t want to go through the town and began searching for a way around. He turned east and then onto a two-lane road that paralleled the freeway.
As he hiked north past farms and fields, the smell of noxious smoke increased. A few hundred yards along, the road climbed, causing him to slow. When he reached the crest, thin lines of black smoke swirled into the air beyond a cluster of splintered trees.
What could have broken and charred the trees? The foul smoke caused him to gag. This wasn’t burning trees. Something else smoldered just out of view.
Now curious, Neal jogged toward the next bend in the road.
The noxious smoke increasingly irritated his nose and mouth as he rounded a bend and came to a long straight stretch of road. Neal halted and stared. In the field ahead lay the shattered and charred wreckage of a commercial airplane.
*
Kittitas County, Washington, Wednesday, September 7th
“Wake up,” Madison repeated. “The fire is coming this way.”
Conner bolted to his feet. Most of the world remained dark, but to the east devilish fingers of fire burned toward him along both sides of the freeway.
Shouts and screams mixed with the crackle of flames. Below Conner, hundreds of shadow-like figures ran west along the highway. Some who couldn’t run faster than the flames veered off and plunged into the nearby Yakima River.
“Pack,” Madison commanded as she tossed her bag over a shoulder.
Conner nodded and stuffed gear into his bags.
Madison grabbed her bike but waited nearby until Conner finished packing. Then they both dashed down the slope toward the freeway. Conner struggled to catch up with Madison but couldn’t, so he mounted his bike and, like a skier, flew down the slope. Careening down the hill, Conner caught up with Madison. Then his bike hit a bump that flung him into the air. Hitting the ground with a thud, he rolled to a stop in the dirt.