The Smoke Saga
Long before Covid 19, I had an idea for a story of a world-wide pandemic resulting from the virus being released at the Super Bowl. As the story progressed, it changed and grew, until it was nearly a thousand page Word document. At the end of it, there was still an unresolved topic, so after a break from the tale, I added more.
Following close scrutiny, I decided the long document needed to be broken into sections before I went back to work on it.
The first section became Chad Smoke and the Ashen Horse.
www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Ashen-Horse-Saga/dp/1795719974/ref=sr_1_2?crid=2GKI5YFMHT4G5&dchild=1&keywords=bret+w+friend&qid=1633101400&sprefix=bret+w+%2Caps%2C250&sr=8-2I followed that with Chad Smoke Brotherhood
www.amazon.com/Chad-Smoke-Brotherhood-Smokes-Saga/dp/1073321533/ref=sr_1_3?crid=1UQJ0SHQAGLZ1&dchild=1&keywords=bret+w+friend&qid=1633100683&sprefix=bret+W+%2Caps%2C237&sr=8-3Book three is Smoke and Buns
www.amazon.com/Smoke-Burns-Smokes-Saga-Book/dp/B09BYN2W3F/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1UQJ0SHQAGLZ1&dchild=1&keywords=bret+w+friend&qid=1633100683&sprefix=bret+W+%2Caps%2C237&sr=8-1Now, after more than five years, I’ve finished book four: Drifting Smoke
Amazon.com: Drifting Smoke: Smoke’s Saga, Book 4 eBook : Friend, Bret: Kindle Store
I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone who followed Chad’s journey from day one and commented and gave me more to thing about for what would follow.
Special thanks to Solo and Ozarks Tom for their thoughts and suggestions on the final segment.
This will complete the series. (For now, anyway). So I’ll say goodbye to Chad Smoke and his family and start on a new project.
Here is a short preview of Drifting Smoke:
Prologue
The pickup roared away from the small town, bouncing down the potholed highway. Ignoring the jarring impacts, Chad Smoke watched from the back of the vehicle, amazed and confused that he was leaving the way he was. He pulled Carol Burns tight against him as the lone man seeing them off, his brother, diminished in the distance. All too soon, Mat was indistinguishable. Then, Hamilton, Idaho shrank until he no longer recognized the town. He pulled Carol tighter, if that were possible, as the world as he knew it disappeared. Carol was all that remained. And she was only a broken shell of herself.
She let out an indistinguishable sound as he squeezed her. Was it from relief at leaving? Pain from being squeezed too tightly? Discomfort from the rough ride? Pleasure at their closeness?
Regrettably, he dismissed the last possibility and loosened his hold. Whatever sensation she experienced, it certainly wasn’t pleasure. When she wasn’t crying and saying they had to get away, she was all-but catatonic. Her state was the reason they were huddled in the back of a pickup leaving their homes and lives behind.
Chad puzzled over the bizarre turn of events. Seventeen years old with the desires that accompanied his age, he’d yearned for, dreamed of the time he and Carol would be together. After enduring the long winter, Carol was set to move to his house in one or two more days. They’d no longer be separated by thirty miles that he traversed by bicycle in good weather or skis during the winter. Driving was out of the question. The pickup they rode in was a rarity, as no fuel had come into the region for years. Not since their world had been destroyed by the one-two punch of the smallpox pandemic and the nuclear exchange. They’d both been ecstatic about the upcoming move. And then their worlds, their dreams, imploded.
Carol moving into his house wasn’t going to happen as he’d pictured it. Instead, they were both going down a road that would lead to God only knew where, although the group of strangers they rode with was bound for Rock Springs, Wyoming. It was unimaginable. Carol’s state was unimaginable. They were together but it was nothing like he’d dreamed.
Chad’s thoughts drifted to the circumstances that’d brought him and Carol together. If not for the back-to-back catastrophic events, they’d have never met. The worldwide pandemic had been the first shoe to drop, followed in rapid succession by the nukes. His family had been impacted by both. First, his parents had gotten smallpox, thankfully both surviving, and then they’d been forced to flee their home following a deadly gunfight.
The refugee family landed at the home of Chad’s half-brother, Mat Gomez. Following the interminable nuclear winter, Chad and Mat ventured out on a fateful day. That day set the stage for the series of events that would lead him to the back of the pickup. Carol’s grandfather was murdered, and Chad was instrumental in apprehending the assailants, disabling one and killing another. That day had led him to meet not only Carol, but Rory Young, whose actions Chad knew in his heart had caused them to be where they were at the moment.
Aside from her grandpa’s murder, Carol had also been impacted by the weaponized smallpox, although not in the first wave. As life had settled into a new state of normalcy, the disease had returned. Her dad, one of the finest men Chad knew, was taken by the virus. Carol also caught it, surviving with her skin permanently marked by heavy scarring. It’d taken her a long time to come to grips with the loss of her dad and her appearance. Chad hadn’t cared how she looked, only that she was alive.
Yet as rocked as she’d been by the disease, she was worse now. And she wouldn’t tell Chad the reason. He was confident he knew the cause but she only panicked when he brought up Rory’s name. Chad wanted to find him and end his miserable existence, but Carol and Mat had convinced him to leave.
Rory was a privileged snot who felt he could do anything he wanted, have anything he wanted. Including Carol. Chad reflected on the contentious relationship he’d had with him from the day they’d met. Their first face-to-face meeting had set the tone for all future interactions.
Rory had ridden into the clearing where Chad was resting, pointed a shotgun at him, and accused him of murder. Chad was in mortal danger, as each time the barrel passed him, Rory could’ve discharged it. A twelve-gauge shotgun at short range would’ve been devastating.
Concealed behind brush, Mat distracted Rory. With Rory’s focus diverted, Chad edged close enough to disarm him with a solid blow from his staff. That moment became etched in Rory’s brain.
Weeks later, Rory lured Chad out at night and ambushed him. With a friend securing him from each side, Rory beat him unmercifully with a two-by-four. The only thing Chad could remember from the incident other than pain, was Rory snarling, “Hit me with a stick, will ya?”
Those events coincided with Chad meeting Carol. Their relationship grew and blossomed. The realization added more fuel to the fire of hatred raging inside Rory.
Carol was present when Chad and Rory met again. Chad returned the drubbing, using his hands instead of a piece of lumber. Chad left him bloody and crying like a baby. It was done in front of a crowd, and to make matters worse, Chad’s younger sisters, Alison and Brooke, thrashed him as well. The experience humiliated Rory.
Chad’s mother would later ask if it was done between them since each had beaten the other. Grudgingly, Chad could let things go but Rory wouldn’t. The humiliation and being spurned by Carol smoldered and burned within him. Consumed by his hatred for Chad, he’d go to any length to strike back.
The opportunity presented itself when Carol announced she was leaving Hamilton to live with Chad’s family. Rory took advantage of the situation and committed the most heinous act of his life. Even though he was repulsed by Carol due to her disfigured skin, he couldn’t accept that she’d choose Chad over him. In a move meant to hurt both of them, he raped Carol, leaving her battered and in shock.
Carol couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell Chad what happened, only that she needed to leave. He was prepared to march to Rory’s house and kill him but Mat counseled him not to. He had to care for Carol. It was imperative he get her away. Rory would be dealt with in time. It was hard, one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his short life, to walk away without confronting Rory. But Mat’s counsel and realizing how damaged Carol was, swayed him. He had to take care of her, to give her the opportunity to heal.
And there he was, huddled with her in the back of a strange pickup truck, roaring down the highway. He glanced at the countryside they were passing through, surprised. As the scenes from his past played through his mind like movie shorts, he’d been oblivious to where they were. He looked across the freeway at the exit sign for Sand Hollow, the exit that led to his old home, the home he and his family had lived in prior to the pandemic. More scenes from his past flashed through his mind. Scenes of life before Mat, Carol, Rory.
Chad strained to see beyond the rolling hills. His former home was as out of sight as it’d been since they’d driven away years earlier.
I wonder what’s left there? He asked himself.
The house? The barn? Anything? The house had already been rendered uninhabitable on the night the family fled.
An unbidden thought entered his consciousness.
What about our new home? How long before Carol’s ready to come back? How much will be different there when we do?
He squeezed the fragile shell of Carol, afraid he might not want to know the answer to any of his questions.
PART ONE: THE LETTERS
Ten Thousand Lakes
Chad Smoke winced in pain. Carol, his newlywed wife, had slipped her jab through his defense and delivered the jarring blow to his kidney region. He hoped he didn’t pee blood afterward. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her to picture him as Rory Young. She was fierce when her face twisted, remembering.
He’d been training her in self-defense when they were able but the sessions had amped up in intensity; after she’d finally told him what Rory had done. Lacking a professional to help her get past her trauma, taking out her pain on anyone willing to practice with her was a healing balm. She threw herself into the training. Chad couldn’t imagine anyone ever getting the best of her again.
Around them, other people worked out, sparring, kicking, punching. The air was pungent with sweat, punctuated by grunts from the efforts, gasps of pain when a punch or kick landed with force.
Like in Hamilton, Idaho, far behind them, good people needed the skills Chad could share. In such troubled territories and trying times, his skills were valuable. A new “coin of the realm”, so to speak. When Chad informed the locals of his plans for training, it was welcomed enthusiastically.
Stepping back from Carol and catching his breath while waiting for the pain in his side to subside, Chad said, “Shall we switch to staffs?”
Minutes later, he’d regret his decision. Carol was getting especially adept with using the staff. More so when he told her to picture Rory Young in her mind. He wished his sisters Alison and Brooke were there to spar with her. His chest, arms, and legs were marred by the bruises where she’d made contact in earlier practices. Maybe the twins could stand up to her but he was no longer sure they could.
#
Nick Robbins saw the horse and rider on the Wilson Creek Road and walked up the ranch’s driveway to intercept him. As he approached, he recognized the teen under the heavy coat and hat; it was Brian Sparks. It didn’t take a lot to figure out where he was headed. Brian had been spending a lot of time with Alison and Brooke Smoke. They were still young but were the only girls nearby close to his age.
Nick remembered all too well when he was Brian’s age and had seen Lori Wood in a new light. His head spun and his heart melted when he was paired with her as biology lab partners. Later, after they’d married, he said the class was named wrong. They’d made chemistry in that class.
Nick flashed Brian a grin as he reined his horse to a stop. “Hey Brian, it’s kind of cold to be out for a ride. Let me guess. You’re going to see Brooke. Or is it Alison?” he asked.
“Hey Nick, well, yeah I hope so,” Brian answered.
“Well, which one?” Nick asked. “Brooke or Ali?”
Brian turned red and said, “I’m not really sure. You know how they are. They mess with me so much that my head’s spinning whenever I’m around them. They’re always switching up on me, and for the life of me, I’m not sure which one I like best. Or which is which, for that matter. But anyway, we’re just friends.”
“Yeah right, so which one kisses best?” Nick asked grinning more.
Brian’s face burned red. “Nick, I said we’re just friends,” he said. “But I wouldn’t mind finding out sometime.”
“I see,” Nick said.
Brian’s face turned a deeper shade of red and Nick laughed at his reaction.
“Well, have a good time visiting your ‘just friends’,” Nick said, accompanied by air quotes.
“I’ll try if we have time. It all depends, I guess. But if I do get time with them, I’m glad my horse knows his way home. My head will be spinning for sure,” Brian said.
“You know, I think that last part is the truest thing you’ve said,” Nick replied. “Now, what do you mean, if you have time? What does it depend on?”
Brian tapped his chest. “I’ve got a letter for the family. It was brought over from Hamilton yesterday afternoon. It’s from Chad and Carol,” Brian said. “I didn’t have time to take it up to them then so I’m going this morning.”
“What? You have a letter from my best friend I haven’t seen in close to three years and you didn’t come right out and tell me? I should knock you off your horse and teach you better manners,” Nick said. “Does it say where they are?”
Brian shrugged and said, “Sorry Nick, I don’t know where they are. And well, my head was kind of spinning thinking about when I get to their place.”
“Oh Brian, you’re sad, dude. Now that those two have seen your weakness, you’ll never stand a chance with them. You’ll get up there, catch one look at them, and you won’t know which end is up. Well, come down to the house while I check in with Lori. Then I’ll saddle my horse and go with you,” Nick said. “I want to hear what Chad wrote, you know.” He turned and trotted back to the ranch house to tell his wife what was going on and ask if she wanted to go along. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. It turned out she didn’t, she’d rather stay in the warm house. Nick could tell her later what the letter said.
As Nick and Brian rode up the Wilson Creek Road, Nick asked, “So, did he use an envelope? Is there any indication of where it came from?” Nick was hoping it was loose papers.
Brian knew what he was alluding to. “Yeah, it’s in a sealed envelope so you can’t read it before we give it to his parents,” he said. “And it doesn’t have anything saying where it came from.”
“Dang! I miss the postmark from the old days. I wonder where they are,” Nick said. They rode on, Nick half-heartedly teasing Brian about the twins. He didn’t give it his best efforts as his thoughts were dominated by the letter. He wished he could open it and read it while they rode but knew he better not. He’d have to be patient, which wasn’t easy. It seemed the horses moved in slow motion and took way too long before the Smoke – Gomez home in the side of the hill came into view.
The dogs, Perro-Feo and Lindy, ran up barking at them, not quieting until Nick spoke. When they recognized the riders, they switched to wagging their tails. Lindy turned and ran back to the shed. Watching her go and stop beside a man, Nick noticed Mat for the first time.
They had to get closer before it became clear what Mat was doing. A wild turkey hung suspended from a rafter of the lean-to, feathers littering the ground beneath it.
“Hi Mat, been hunting I see,” Nick said.
“Yep, it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without turkey, would it? Hi Brian, how are you?” Mat said.
“Thanksgiving?” Nick asked.
“Hi, Mat. I’m good,” Brian said.
Mat chuckled and said, “Yeah, according to our calendar, Thanksgiving is tomorrow. We might be off a day or two after all this time but we’ve kept pretty good track since That Day.”
“That Day”: the day Russia and the United States had destroyed each other with nuclear weapons. Combined with the smallpox pandemic, it’d shattered modern civilization.
“What brings you guys up here, besides your horses?” Mat asked.
Nick had heard the question many times.
Brian tapped his chest and said, “I have a letter from Chad and Carol. It was dropped off at our place yesterday afternoon.”
Mat’s hands froze for an instant before he rubbed them together, brushing feathers off. “Why didn’t you say so? It’s cold enough this bird can wait. Tie your horses and let’s get in the house.”
In a few minutes, everyone was settled around the woodstove, Nick, Brian, and Mat with steaming mugs of rosehip tea in their hands. Hope sat next to her dad, as anxious as everyone else to hear the letter although she didn’t remember her uncle Chad.
Heather cleared her throat and started to read.
Spring
Hi everyone. I hope you’re all doing fine. We’re not sure when we’ll make it home but we aren’t ready to head back yet. We’re in Minnesota and you wouldn’t believe it. Water is everywhere; lakes, ponds, marshes. Nothing like home. It’s a lot flatter, too, though there are rolling hills like we had close to our old home. But where our hills were dry and bare, the ones here are covered with hardwood forests. It’s really pretty in the fall. That’s when we got here and stayed since winter was close. Winter is colder than at home with lots of snow.
Because of all the water, they eat a lot of fish, a lot more than we did at home. And they fish year-round. In the winter, they drag shacks onto the ice and cut holes through the ice with augers to fish through.
The area we’re in is a good distance from the cities so it didn’t have too much trouble during the bad times. Some though. There are lots of family farms so it feels a lot like home, although it took a while for them to trust us.
Each little town has its own traditions depending on where the original immigrants came from. It’s pretty educational. We’ve learned a lot about the different groups: Norwegians, Swedes, Germans, Finnish people. That’s sure different than home. Because of that, we hear a lot of different accents, but they say Carol and I are the ones with the accents. But everyone we’ve met are good, hard-working people. Of course, you have to be or you can’t make it. Well, except for the leeches that’ve taken over in most of the cities, so we always avoid them. Everything we hear, the cities are bad. It’s terrible how people are. You’d think between the pox and the nukes and starvation, enough people had died but I guess not.
Mat, you were right to have us take your air rifle. It’s next to impossible to come up with ammo for the AK, so we use the air rifle most of the time. A lot of people use bows too, mostly homemade ones. A guy taught me how to make a longbow, so I made two, and Carol and I have been learning to shoot them. It never hurts to have different weapons out here.
We’ve been here for several months now, helping train the locals. But we’ll be moving on soon. We’re done going east, so when we leave, we’ll swing south before we start towards home. You know, I’ve wanted to see the Ozarks ever since reading Where the Red Fern Grows. If we don’t see that area now, we probably never will. I’ve heard the area fared decently too. Well, I’m out of room on this paper. We’ll write again when we can.
Love you all, Chad and Carol
Spring, two years after they’d left. Yes, the letter had arrived, but nearly a year after Chad had written it. What had happened since. What had they experienced. Were they alive and safe?
Mat was quiet, his mind going over what Chad didn’t say. It was troubling to think of them so far from home, near cities infested with “leeches”. The stories they heard from the rare traveler made it seem like too many parts of the country should be avoided. Maybe he should’ve tried to prevent them from leaving in the first place. But none of them could go back, so all he could do was hope they stayed safe.
Alison broke the reverie. “I’m going outside. Are you coming Brian, Brooke?”
Red-faced, Brian said, “Sure I’ll go outside.”
Nick laughed, receiving questioning looks from Mat and Heather.
Lisa watched the three of them walk down the trail to the shed.
Mat stood, smiled, and said, “You know, this house is going to be pretty tight when Chad and Carol finally get back. We should give thought to what it’ll take to add on or build a complete second house. But it can wait. I’ve got a bird to get ready to cook. Hope, do you want to help me? We have even more to be thankful for now.”
Bob
All right, just a little bit longer, the man called Bob told himself. He remained still despite the stick poking into his side and ants crawling over him.
Patience, just be still and patient and you’ll win the prize.
The man called Bob was peering through the scope on his rifle at two figures approaching on the road. He’d spotted them several minutes earlier when they were mere specks in the distance. As they approached, he decided one was a man, and judging by the stature, the other was either a youth or a woman. The man was pulling an odd cart. That was a good sign. The man called Bob was intent on finding out what the cart contained.
Bob wasn’t the man’s given name. It was a name he’d acquired after the United States had gone to crap following the pandemic and short, efficient nuclear war with Russia. Someone, he couldn’t remember who or where, had pinned the name on him because he was a nomad, a man who bobbed from place to place, never staying long. He liked it. The name was short, easy to remember, and without baggage. Not that he expected to find anyone who knew his real name and past, but stranger things had happened.
Fourteen years had gone by since his photo and the media’s sensational B.S. had dominated the national news. He’d changed with the passing time, only bearing a resemblance to the photos that’d flashed across millions of television screens. During those tremulous years, more pressing matters than recalling old news stories, basic survival first and foremost, had been on everyone’s mind. He doubted he’d ever be recognized. However, he’d never expected to live through a nuclear war, so better to be safe. Thus, he was Bob in the new world.
Few people traveled in the region and most of those did so under cover of darkness. Traveling in the daylight on open roads was foolhardy and a good recipe to end up dead. However, there those two fools were. The silent watcher mentally chuckled. Idiots! But more than regular vagabonds if they had enough wealth to carry in a cart. And in a few minutes, he was going to discover what it was.
The stillness of the day was shattered by the rifle shot. It hit the traveler square in the chest, toppling his lifeless body onto the broken pavement. His companion froze, wide-eyed at the sight, making an easy target for the second shot. Bob remained in place for several more minutes, watching for further movement. At last, he extricated himself from his blind. He walked slowly down the hill, alert for any noise or movement. He didn’t think anyone was near who’d come and investigate but he stayed wary in case he was wrong. His wariness had paid off more than once and had allowed him to live longer than less cautious people in the screwed-up world.
Once he reached the fallen people, he picked up the pace. He wanted off the open road as quickly as possible. He threw the man’s body across the cart and pulled it down an embankment into a brush thicket. The body fell off the cart just inside the thicket but Bob forced the cart deeper, stopping at a clear pocket. Hurrying back to the road, he grabbed the smaller body and dragged it, depositing it near the cart. The long brown hair fell away from the woman’s face, revealing heavily pockmarked features. Jumping back, he studied the results of the pox. The scars were old, thank goodness, not contagious live virus. He hadn’t heard of a new outbreak of the disease in at least two years but it never hurt to be wary with that killer.
He stood, catching his breath, breathing hard from his efforts and the pox-scare. When his breathing was under control, he turned his head slowly, listening. If anyone was drawn by the gunfire, they’d easily find where he’d gone. At least he wasn’t out in the open.
Not hearing anything or anyone coming his way, Bob walked through the brush to the man’s body. The man was young and carrying what the press and lawmakers had loved to call an assault rifle. As if the bolt-action rifle he used and the damage it inflicted wasn’t worthy of the term “assault.” The two corpses could attest to it. Oh well, the politicians and media had all been reactionary idiots. The man’s rifle was worth keeping, at least if he had ammo to go with it, although it hadn’t done the dead man any good in the end. Reaching to grab his arm to pull him into the clearing, he froze at a sound from behind him. A weak cry had come from the cart. Was something in it alive? Was it a child?
Bob stood still and listened, unsure if he’d heard right. He didn’t hear the sound again, but he heard something else that set his heart racing; the metallic clink as horses’ shod hooves hit the paved road, several of them.
He had to move, fast. While the brush concealed him, it didn’t offer cover or a position to defend himself. If the riders came after him, they’d easily take him.
Quickly going through the man’s pockets and pulling the 9mm pistol off his belt, Bob threw the contents into his pack. Flies buzzed around the blood, and the man’s odor was rank as more than just blood exited his body. It was another reason to get away as fast as he could.
He hurried to the second body. It was also attracting flies and emitting rank odors. Turning his head, he sucked in a deep breath. Rank indeed.
He felt no regret at killing the woman. She wasn’t the first, far from it, and undoubtedly would not be the last. But he did regret not being able to take his time killing her like he used to do with those hookers ... and her, his dear mother.
She’d been the first and most satisfying. And though he’d tried for years, he’d never reached the same level of ecstasy, nirvana, as he did while draining the life from her. And her screams, so satisfying, had nearly made up for the years of torment. But in the end, she’d let him down and gave up too soon. Just like she’d let him down his entire life. What a poor excuse for a mother. He’d wanted to draw her pain out for days, for weeks and she couldn’t even give him that. However, despite her giving up too soon, it’d still been exquisite. He’d searched for that feeling countless times but none of the whores ever took him to such heights.
He’d been lost in his thoughts as he looked at the woman, forgetting his urgency. Returning to the present, he stuffed her possessions into his pack, shouldering it and both rifles.
The cart had long handles attached to it, and he knelt between them and stood. He cussed silently at the noise as he pulled it through the brush. It was loud, too loud, but hopefully, the sounds from the horses would cover it. Beyond the brush was a rock landscape. He crossed, avoiding dirt areas as best he could to not leave a visible trail. It’d be better if he could go back and conceal any sign he did leave but he was out of time.
Once across the rocks, Bob paused and listened, hearing snatches of muffled conversation. The riders were closer, though he still had a bit of time. But was it enough? He’d holed up the past few days in a shallow cave and knew if he hurried, he could get to it before the riders were at the site of the ambush. Once in the cave, he’d have cover and be in a defensible position. It was imperative he make it in time.
Bob was panting hard as he dragged the cart over the rocks he’d piled near the cave’s entrance. In a few more seconds he’d be ready. Then, let the riders come. He might get some fun out of the situation. The sound came from the cart again but he couldn’t tell what it was over his labored breathing. He’d check it out later. For the time being, he had to get it out of his way and be ready to fight if the horsemen came after him.
Lying on the ground behind the pile of rocks, he extended his rifle barrel through the opening he’d left for that purpose. From his position, he could see the tops of the riders’ heads but no more. They were at the place the couple had fallen, looking around. From the blood pools and trails, it was obvious what’d taken place. Only catching snatches of what they said, it seemed they were arguing over what to do. He thought one wanted to follow the trail into the brush, but if he heard correctly, the others were against it. He heard the noise from the cart again but remained focused on the riders, neither turning nor trying to determine what might’ve made it. It could wait; it had to wait.
After an interminable period punctuated by raised voices from the riders, they continued down the road. Bob watched them, four men, briefly considering adding them to the day’s tally. He decided against it. On horseback, one could easily escape and return with more men than he could face. It was better to let them go on their way, though he wouldn’t mind having a horse. But it was alright. He’d eventually find a single rider.
Making certain the riders weren’t pulling a ruse, he stayed in place for two hours, watching. Patience had paid off more than once, so despite stiffness and discomfort, he persevered. Finally, he moved. It was time to see what he’d gotten for his labors, starting with the cart and whatever made those noises.
Pulling the cover back carefully, he peered inside and grinned. From the noises, he’d wondered if a brat was in the cart. But wonder of wonders, it was better, it was valuable. The grin turned into a broad smile. A cat was nestled on a laid-out coat with four kittens nursing. Those cats were worth more than the man’s assault rifle to the right people. Mice and rats were always a problem, worse than they’d been before the modern world ended. Grain and stored food were more precious than ever and it was a constant battle keeping rodents out. Bob knew of a compound not far away that’d treat him royally for those cats.
Looking past the cats, Bob saw clothing. It appeared to be rough homespun fabric, as most people wore. Factory-made clothing of the past was becoming rarer and rarer, and most of what was seen was as holy as the pants women used to pay high dollar for. Opposite the clothing were two bulging water bladders, again, of the modern style. The larger was made from a cow’s bladder. The smaller had most likely come from a sheep. He raised them one at a time and checked their contents. Each contained water.
Bob pulled a cloth bag free of the cart and looked in it. Jackpot, he thought. It was full of dried meat strips, fruit, and vegetable chunks. Trying not to disturb the nursing kittens, he looked further but didn’t see anything of value, especially ammunition. Reaching his hands under the coat the cat was stretched out on, he felt another bladder. “Probably more water,” he muttered but pulled it out anyway.
After smelling the contents, he smiled broader than he had at discovering the cats. He tilted his head back and drank deeply of the wine it contained. It wasn’t the best he’d ever had but wasn’t the worst either. He took another long drink and studied the cart. All in all, it was a decent take, worth the expenditure of two bullets. Whatever the couple had on their persons would be a bonus.
A flat rock that Bob had used as a seat while keeping watch was against one wall of the cave’s entrance. He carried his pack to it, arranged his coat, and sat with his back against the stone wall. Following another long pull on the wine bladder, he opened his pack to learn what he’d acquired.
The first item he pulled out was a leather packet tied with a thong. Bob untied the thong and unrolled it. Needles, loops of fine string, an awl and a short knife were inside. It was the woman’s sewing kit. It was worth keeping even though he was one of the few people who still wore factory-produced clothing.
The next packet held flint, a broken knife, and tinder. It could be traded. He had a fine fire kit and didn’t see any need to carry a spare. Another packet held a fishing kit. Again, Bob thought he’d trade it. Providing his own food could be hard work. It was easier to take what he wanted or trade for it when he had to.
Pulling the man’s pistol from the pack, he turned it over admiringly. It was a keeper, a Browning Hi-Power 9mm. It was much nicer than the Taurus he carried. Regrettably, he’d only found a handful of rounds for it in the man’s pockets but no spare magazines. He pulled out a nice knife, a full magazine for the AK-47, and a bundle of papers. There was nothing else. Bob took another pull from the wineskin and untied the thong from the papers. It appeared to be a packet of letters.
An unofficial mail service had grown out of the ashes of the destroyed country. When asked, travelers carried letters from village to village. Countless letters were sent that never reached their destination. The packet he held would fall into that category.
Bob opened the first letter and squinted at it. The writer had horrible penmanship and grammar. What Bob got out of the letter, the man was trying to find a lost relative. “Good luck with that,” he muttered and added, “I needed more firestarter and this’s a good start.” He dropped it beside him. More of the notes contained the same basic message. A couple were general greetings to relatives saying they missed them. It was all rubbish as far as he was concerned.
He was down to the last letter as the light faded from the sky. After dropping it on his pile of fire-starting paper, he changed his mind and retrieved it. He might as well read it before he burned it. Who knew, it might contain something useful, doubtful as it was, but still a possibility.
The front of the paper had “Smoke – Gomez, Indian Valley, Idaho” written in large letters. Unfolding the paper, Bob read,
Hi Everyone. Hopefully this reaches you. A couple we met were headed for Oregon so it seemed like a good opportunity to write. The route they planned to take is rumored to have trouble spots but hopefully, this letter will get through to you. We plan to skirt those areas when we head home.
John has a little sister now, born here at Philmont. We named her Faith. (You know, now the family has Hope and Faith.) I can’t wait for them to meet you all.
We’re still in Philmont, in northern New Mexico. If Coop didn’t make it to you and explain, you can check your map. It’s between Raton and Taos, where the plains meet the mountains. Before That Day and the pandemic, it was a Boy Scout Adventure Base that was also a working ranch. The man who gave it to the Scouts insisted they keep it as a working ranch. So anyway, when everything happened, the place had cattle, horses, and buffalo, as well as deer, antelope, and elk. They had tent encampments for hundreds of people at a time. When so much was destroyed, a lot of people migrated here. They figured it’d be a good place to live and most of them had a lot of training and skills to pull it off. Over the years, they’ve put solid structures and bunkhouses up in place of the tents. It’s a thriving community with most everything we could want. A lot of good people live here and it’s been a decent place to stay.
Talk about crazy weather. It might be a long way south of home but winter is harsher, and late in the summer they get crazy thunderstorms. It’s supposed to be semi-desert but we’ve seen more rain in an afternoon than we get at home in a month.
We’re determined to get home in the summer or fall. If things go well, we’re sure we can make it. Hopefully, Faith will travel well. We have to have faith.
Well, we have to finish. Our friends are ready to leave. We love and miss you. Chad, Carol, John, and Faith.
“Well wasn’t that sweet,” Bob snorted and added the letter to his stack of firestarter. He stood and walked a few feet away and relieved himself. The wineskin was empty and he didn’t want to eat anything and mess with his buzz. But he should give the cat food and water. She was too valuable not to.
After the cat was taken care of, Bob stretched out in his bed. He was asleep in moments in alcoholic slumber.
Bob jerked awake in a sweat, the nightmare setting him in a panic. He’d been back in the cell on death row, the eight-foot by eight-foot cage tight around him. Just like the danged hole in the rock where he’d slept. He stumbled out into the night. He had to get away and get open space around him.
Out of his bed, it was cold and he started to shake in no time. He looked back at the darkness that was the cave, not wanting to go back in. But he had to, otherwise, he’d freeze. Forcing one foot in front of the other, as he had numerous times returning to his cell, he re-entered the cave. It took an eternity to reach his bed and he was shivering uncontrollably when he slipped beneath the blankets.
As he warmed, he found it impossible to sleep. His mind raced and he recalled the final letter. It wasn’t too far to New Mexico and that Philmont place. The more he dwelled on it, he decided the place held good possibilities. As the letter said, he had to have faith. He grinned in the blackness and told himself, “Yep, I have faith a change of scenery has a lot of possibilities.” He’d start early the next morning.
Bob fell asleep, content with his decision.
Part Two
The Journey Home
Chapter 1
Chad Smoke’s right hand dropped from the drawknife to his holstered 9mm Browning the moment the dogs barked the alarm. He sucked in a breath as his heart rate increased and he felt tightness in his chest. It was a familiar feeling, always coming when he faced potential danger. Automatically, he released the flap and eased the pistol partway out, making sure it moved freely. The action came as naturally as breathing. He’d perfected it over the six years since he’d left home. More times than he liked to remember, he’d drawn the pistol in defense of his family. He longed for the day he didn’t need to be so vigilant.
Looking for the cause of the dogs’ alarm and potential trouble, he checked the position of his rifle through his peripheral vision, inching towards it.
Dang, I wish I was home and that was Perro-Feo and Lindy barking at Nick, he thought wistfully. Perro-Feo and Lindy were the family dogs back home in Idaho. Nick was his best friend, well, aside from Carol, who often rode his horse to their remote home. But he wasn’t home and the dogs’ tone told him they didn’t know who was approaching. They were concentrating on the pot-holed blacktop road leading into the settlement from the north. Still watching where the dogs were focused, he side-stepped to his rifle, scooped it up, and crouched behind the pile of logs near his work area.
Maybe I’m just paranoid, he thought. But as a wise man told me, even if you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean someone’s not out to get you.
The settlement was the most peaceful and secure place he and Carol had been since they’d left home. It hadn’t experienced a single raid in their time there. But he couldn’t help himself.
There’s a first time for everything. Vigilance was ingrained in him after too many close calls during their travels. And before that, his brother Mat had beat it into his head, relax at the wrong time and you’re dead.
With his rifle held firmly, he looked all around. More than once he’d seen a decoy approach a village by the main path, only to have raiders flanking the position. If someone was doing it in the area he was working, he’d have a rude reception waiting. He was at the east side of the settlement, the former Boy Scout Philmont Training Center. The plains stretched out ahead of him to the east and the snow-covered mountains were at his back. Looking across the pasture flanking the compound, he didn’t detect any out-of-place movement. Cattle and sheep grazed peacefully. An Anatolian Shepherd guard dog stood alert near the flock, watching and sniffing the air. Chad was certain if a threat approached on that side the dog would let him know. Thirty yards beyond the sheep, a covey of quail moved nonchalantly through the short grass and brush.
Relaxing slightly, he picked up the nearby water skin. Drinking deep, he grimaced. Though refreshing, the water had an off taste, not like the pure water of home. It was a constant reminder of what he’d left behind and what he longed to return to; what he would return to starting in a few days. It’d be a long journey and it terrified him; the idea of taking his wife Carol, two-year-old son John, and infant daughter Faith into who knew what dangers. But he had to do it. He had to get them back home where they’d be safe.
Unconsciously, he rubbed the spot on his chest where he’d been shot. He had other bullet scars, but the one on his chest, though fully healed for years, was the most troubling. It’d been close, too close. If the bullet had been one inch to the right, he’d have been killed that day and Carol would’ve been stranded in the freezing, hostile country. And John and Faith would have never been born.
Thinking of Faith gave him a familiar twinge of regret they weren’t already home, safe in the hills above Indian Valley, Idaho. They’d been traveling in the direction of home, and unbeknownst to him, Carol was pregnant with twins. It was hard going, the road was always hard, and although they’d stopped at Philmont, only one baby, Faith, had survived. Chad blamed himself for the loss, knowing in his heart the rigors of travel had weakened Carol and the babies too much. They’d lost one baby and he vowed not to let anything happen to the rest of his family. He had to get them home, he HAD TO!
They’d been drifting for six long years. Though he’d seen a lot and cherished every moment with Carol, he was sick and tired of being a nomad. He wanted to be home, to have the stability it offered and the support of his family. Nothing terrified him more than the possibility of being killed and leaving Carol and the kids stranded and alone on the wrong side of the Rockies.
Chad was a young man in old-world ideals, in the twenty-third year of life. But in the new world, the world after That Day, he was old and seasoned. He’d been young enough when it all happened, he’d adapted easily to the primitive conditions; much easier than people who’d had decades of reliance on modern conveniences.
His time following the nuclear exchange, the day-to-day survival, finding his half-brother Mat, his dad getting shot, dealing with Rory Young and Carol’s duplicitous mother, had been harsh. He’d thought it’d prepared him for what they’d face on the road. But he was wrong, very wrong. He and Carol were ill-prepared. His imagination hadn’t come close to the horrors they’d seen and experienced. Life was cheap on the east side of the Rockies and the years of roaming had left their mark on him.
It wasn’t all bad, however. He’d met good people everywhere they went, and he and Carol had been blessed with two wonderful children. But he wanted to get home and raise those children in a safer environment filled with love; in a home with their grandparents, their cousin Hope, and the rest of the family. He just had to get them there.
The dogs drew his attention back towards the settlement gates. He looked further out where a lone man was trudging up the road. He came in and out of view as he passed behind the tall cottonwood trees flanking the roadway. It was hard to tell due to the distance, but he appeared to be dressed in camouflage clothing and carrying a pack and rifle as all prudent travelers did. Chad watched a while longer as the dogs settled down on orders from men closer to them, then checked the dog guarding the flock again. The Anatolian was still alert, he always was, but didn’t indicate any danger. Chad lowered his rifle, grimaced after another pull on the water skin, and picked up the drawknife to get back to work on the pine log. The activity was welcome. The temperature wasn’t much above freezing and he’d cooled considerably while watching.
He shivered, and worked fast to warm back up while remaining vigilant. It could be a delayed attack; he’d experienced those as well. Aunt Heather’s words from so long ago came back to him.
Make sure it’s not a Trojan horse. Sending one or two people in to draw defenders’ attention seemed to be a favored tactic of the plains marauders. It was yet another aspect of his travels he wanted to be finished with, one of many. He’d witnessed too much brutality since he and Carol left home and he was sick of it all.
Although his attention was split, Chad pulled the drawknife with ease, shaving off long strips of bark. He was average height, 5’ 10” tall, and lean, with toned muscles from years of hard work. He paused and brushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead, checked the guard dog, and redirected his attention to the stranger. Men from the settlement approached him and must’ve decided he didn’t pose a threat. They began to escort him up the road towards The Villa, the settlement’s headquarters.
Chad would look the man up later as he did with all newcomers to the settlement. He mined new arrivals for information of where they’d come from and what conditions were like, especially in the direction he planned to travel. He’d amassed copious notes and always wanted the latest information. But talking to the man would have to wait; he had work to do. He dismissed the traveler from his mind.
Since arriving at the settlement, he and Carol had worked hard to earn their keep. Once able, Carol worked in the communal kitchen, while Chad worked primarily with the pine building logs. He also pulled guard duty and worked with the livestock, but the logs were his principal duty. Building materials were in high demand due to the surging population and Chad had an adept hand at peeling logs. Although a sawmill had been established on the Cimarron River a few miles to the north, a fair amount of construction was still done with peeled pine logs. The stacked logs were fifteen feet long and eight inches in diameter at the butt end, tapering down from there. He liked the work and it kept him busy and close by if Carol needed him.
Chad finished peeling the log he’d been working on, and one end at a time, lifted it out of the wooden horses it was cradled in. It was heavy work, but utilizing leverage points, he was able to handle the log alone. After maneuvering it onto the stack of peeled logs, he worked another from the pile of unpeeled logs onto the horses and stripped the bark from it. He moved that log to the peeled stack and was working on getting another in position when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. His heart leaped into his throat when he realized it was his wife rushing at him. Her lovely face wore a mask of distress.