Through the Storm(32)
Neal nodded. “I’ll filter it before I drink.”
A young man ran up to the boy. “Conner, I told you not to wander off.”
Neal smiled. “I have a son named Conner.” He dipped his last bottle into the pond.
The young man pulled his boy close, but his face relaxed a bit. “My name is Brad. Where’s home?”
“I’m Neal. I live north of here near Riverbank in Washington. Where’s home for you?”
“Here for now. We used to live just outside of Portland, but a fire swept through our neighborhood.”
“I’m glad you got out.”
Brad nodded. “We were packed and ready. There wasn’t any food or water and criminals had looted several nearby homes. The fire just made us leave a few hours earlier.”
Conner’s mother hurried over and took him back to their tent, but Brad stayed and continued to talk with Neal about the looting, violent crime, and lack of food.
Neal shook his head. “Ah, the good old days of peace and plenty, less than a week ago.”
Brad frowned. “Last week I was a lawyer with a good firm. This week I’m a homeless bum. I hope somehow law and order is restored soon.”
“You’re not a bum.” But Neal didn’t expect normality to return soon. “I was a financial planner. Now I’m a traveler trying to reach home. How close is Portland?”
“We’re just north of Wilsonville, about twelve miles from Portland. You could probably walk it in four or five hours.”
“Thanks. I hope you’re able to find a new home.” They shook hands and Neal, with Ginger at his side, continued north.
Just after noon, Neal crested a hill where he could see the freeway stretching into Portland. Thousands of refugees hiked south along the highway out of the city. Bagpipe music reverberated from the throng. In the midst of the refugees, a fat man with thick red hair and wearing a kilt played the instrument. A hundred yards behind him, a dozen bicyclists, in various degrees of undress, pedaled along. Others chanted and sang. The smell of pot floated on the air.
Neal shook his head and stifled a grin. He would soon be in Portland.
In the distance the bang of gunfire sounded.
God, watch over my boys and speed my trip home.
*
Cle Elum, Washington, Thursday, September 8th
Conner spent the night curled in his sleeping bag in the covered entryway of Cle Elum’s Catholic church. The first rays of dawn barely caused him to stir. Only when a shadow deprived him of warmth did he force open his eyes. The silhouette of a person filled his view. His arms flailed as he stumbled to his feet.
“Good morning.”
“Madison?” He gazed at a bruised cheek, puffy eye, and swollen lips. “What happened to your face?”
“You sure know how to greet a girl.” She grinned, but it faded quickly. “Some Neanderthal took my bike.”
“Are you okay? I mean other than—”
“Other than my bruised face and pride? Yeah, I’m okay. He was more interested in the bike than me.” She glanced about. “Where’s your bike?”
“I bent a rim on the hill outside of Ellensburg.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know.” She stared at him for a moment. “Are you cold? Why didn’t you come in?”
“The church had a guard at the door last night. He wouldn’t let me in with my rifle.” Conner frowned. “I wasn’t going to leave it outside.”
“Did you at least get some food?”
He nodded. “Yeah, a woman brought some to me.”
“I’ll talk with Father Dan. Yesterday evening I stumbled in here with a face full of blood and tears. He did some first aid and we talked afterward. I think he’ll be reasonable. Stay here.”
Madison walked inside and returned a few minutes later. “If you promise not to shoot anybody, you can come in.”
“That’s what Father Dan said? If I promise not to shoot anybody?”
Madison grinned and then touched her swollen lip.
“Okay, I promise.” He followed her into the sanctuary crammed with people. Sweat hung heavy in the air. Many slept on the floor or in the pews; others sat or stood in clusters. Blankets, clothing, and camping gear lay scattered among the people.
Madison stopped and faced him. “I’m sorry about leaving you behind.”
“You didn’t know about my bike.”
“I was scared. The fire. All the people running.” She sighed. “I planned to stop at the pass and wait for you, but I never got there.”
“I’m glad we’re back together.” Conner felt like hugging her but stopped at a squeeze of her hand.
A man in his early thirties strode across the room toward them. “Hi. I’m Dan.” Wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, he looked more like a lumberjack than a priest. “I’m sorry about last night, but we need to be careful. Madison told me you’ve been helping her get home.”
“We’ve been helping each other.” Conner smiled at Madison.
“We’re preparing breakfast.” Dan turned and gestured. “Follow me while we talk.”
The mention of food caused Conner’s stomach to growl.
Dan stepped over a sleeping child. “Madison said she was from Olympia. Where’s home for you, Conner?”