He watched the water gushing from an irrigation spigot into the blue eight-gallon jug. Scratching his side through the thick fleece jacket, he raised the bill of his hat and gazed beyond the vacant interstate at the dramatic sunset splashing waves of red and orange across the sky.
A muffled security alarm cut through the noise, drawing his attention to the mass of cars, pickups, RVs, and trailers parked in sectors sprawling over the gigantic hayfield.
“Back when I was your age long before the Meltdown…”
Nate turned toward the jittery man in his late thirties carrying a sleeping six-month-old. Behind them snaked a long line of anxious people clutching plastic containers, glass jars, and water bottles.
The man nudged two empty milk jugs on the ground with his foot and used his free hand to swish a mosquito away from the baby’s face. “Probably sounded like an old geezer just now, but my family really did camp near here one summer on our way up to the San Juans. Course, it was at an RV campground down the road, not a safe haven, and we were tourists then, not refugees. Oh wait, I forgot we’re DPs, not refugees. Don’t know about you, man, but I feel a heck of a lot better knowing I’m a displaced person instead of a plain, old refugee.”
Water poured onto the ground and splashed Nate’s feet. He shut off the spigot, wheeled the container out of the way, and screwed on the filter cap.
Other sounds returned layer by layer—crickets, frogs, children playing, parents yelling, dogs barking.
The man lowered his voice. “Listen, from one DP to another, is there any way you could spare a little cash? My whole family’s been stuck here almost a week trying to get enough together to pay ransom for my cousin.”
Nate scurried away, struggling to keep the container and cart from tipping over as he wove his way along the crowded main road. He scanned the endless rows of camping trailers until he caught sight of the emerald green flag fluttering in the distance.
Young children shouted and chased one another among the vehicles. Adults hauled provisions, talked together in small groups, and peered over their shoulders at the open fields beyond the storm fence topped with concertina wire.
By the time Nate rattled into the campsite, the sun had dipped below the hills.
His mother and Tally bustled around putting food away while Caden cleaned a portable picnic table. Beyond the edge of a propane lantern’s halo, his father leaned against the driver-side door of their SUV, talking to an elderly man idly swinging a golf club back and forth.
Nate parked the water container near his brother. “Who’s that with Dad?”
“Some old dude mooching a beer and learning to play golf.”
“Boys, that gentleman is James, and he used to work with your father. ” Elena handed Nate three eggs. “Take these on over, will you?”
He walked toward the SUV.
“—begging for gas,” Scott groused.
The man shook his head. “This can’t be Natty.”
“Everybody calls me Nate now—except for English Major Mom, of course, and Dad with his whole Natty Bumppo and the Mohicans nickname thing.”
Scott laughed. “At least I took Pigeon and Lap-Ear out of rotation.”
Nate rolled his eyes and held his hands out. “Hard-boiled egg?”
James chuckled and picked one. “Thanks, Nate. Probably don’t remember me, huh?”
“Nope. But you used to work with Dad, right?” He tossed an egg to his father.
“That I did.” He nestled his beer can in the crook of his arm, cracked the egg on the handle of the chipping wedge, and let the pieces of shell drop at his feet. “For just shy of sixteen years before that outfit finally got me to retire with a total of fifty in the business.”
“Son, you’re looking at the best team leader ever.”
James raised his drink. “For auld lang syne.” He bit into the egg and sighed. “So Nate, you were just a little guy the last time I saw you. Got your license yet?”
He tried not to grin. “I wish. Just turned fourteen last month.”
“No way. Guess you inherited your old man’s height along with his good looks. Anyhow, we were just jabbering about the road conditions, so to speak.”
Scott tapped his egg on his knee. “The boy needs to know what we’re facing, James.”
Nate smacked his egg on his own knee and grimaced when it didn’t crack, then resorted to using the front bumper.
James took a sip of beer. “Well, word has it there’s next to no gas stations or charging spots in operation between here and Portland, so we might be running on fumes and our last few kilowatts before we know it. Doesn’t help having the Dirge popping up and raising hell wherever the Guard can’t cover. Course, the fenders are organizing, but they spend more time brawling over turf than taking on the real bad guys—imagine that. Some folks say the whole lot of ’em are bound to try a Hail Mary before the Marines show up.”
Nate took a bite of egg and eyed his father.
Scott drained the last of his beer. “I take it you’re not worried about the freeway getting cut off south of Salem again.”
James shrugged. “The thought does nag at me now and again, but sticking with the inland route still looks like our best option. We’re hoping to stay with Etta’s niece in Keizer before crossing the Columbia and making a beeline to Winthrop where my twin sister moved awhile back. How about you?”
Scott pointed toward the last traces of sunlight. “Heading to the coast, then north.”
“Didn’t you do some surveying over in the Siuslaw once upon a time?”
“You sure haven’t lost that steel trap memory of yours. As a matter of fact, I did spend a couple fine summers on a crew based out of Waldport.”
James smiled. “Good thing since you’ll know how to deal with the leftovers from all that flooding after the latest bomb cyclone. Least we’re past the bank-full stage situation these days. Anyhow, the news is the Guard’s giving the Dirge the what for here and there along the Coast Range so cruise ships can ferry all those refugees streaming into Florence on up to Seattle.”
“So I hear. How’re you doing for supplies?”
“Not bad. You?”
“We’re all right.”
James glanced at the narrow strip of dark woods past the fence and tucked the wedge under his arm. “Well, I best get going before that wonderful wife of mine sends a posse after me. Glad I came over to work on my lousy chip game and ran into you. Appreciate the egg and beer. Nate, good to see you again. Best of luck, Finley.”
Scott said, “Same back your way.”
The man finished his beer and set the empty can on the bumper, then shook hands with each one in turn, flipped on a penlight, and moved off into the night.
Scott cupped his hand around his jaw. “Time to hit the sack, Hawkeye.”
Nate stared at the twinkling stars and let the pulse of chirping crickets wash over him.
When the wind shifted, a putrid scent made him gag. Beyond the fence, shadowy hooded figures shuffled among a patch of downed trees.
His father put his other hand on Nate’s shoulder and guided him toward the trailer. “Gotta keep reminding myself we’re lucky enough just to be on this side of the fence. Things might be tough for us, but compared to Zamas, we got it made.”
They climbed into the cramped trailer lit by a dim hurricane lantern.
Nate threaded his way around Caden and Tally washing up at the sink and Elena arranging a comforter on a bunk. He sprinkled baking soda on a toothbrush, put a clear plastic water bottle into his jacket pocket, and stepped back out into the night.
Hushed voices from a nearby trailer stopped him in his tracks. “—nothing else tonight. Gotta save it for breakfast.”
“But Mommy, I’m still hungry.”
“We all are, sweetie, but we’ll find more food tomorrow, I promise.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“I know, I know. Just try and get some sleep now.”
Nate brushed his teeth as he ambled toward the chain-link fence.
In the distance, dull flashes lit up a narrow valley. Crackling sounds punctuated a series of loud thuds. An explosion flared, rumbling like thunder. When it died down, an eerie silence settled in before the crickets and frogs resumed their serenade.
“You all right, son?”
Nate flinched and yanked the toothbrush out of his mouth. “Yeah, Dad. Think the fighting’s gonna come this way?”
“Hope not.” Scott put his hands on the fence and quietly clicked his tongue. “Listen, I’m counting on you to test the walkie-talkies every morning and make sure they stay juiced up. Don’t let ’em run low like you do that Savoy. Batteries are so old they won’t hold a charge for long. But we got one for everybody, including a spare for the stowaway. Keep yours on you twenty-four seven. I’ll take care of the GPS and check for reception since we’re in range again.”
Nate rinsed his mouth with water and spit. “I’m on it, Dad. Sorry about the whole thing with Tally. I mean, now she’s another—”
“I would’ve done the same in her shoes. By the way, I asked the Red Cross here to let McCurdy know she’s all right.”
“I’ll tell her. Hey, is there a little food we can spare? I mean, I heard a kid talking to—”
“Hate to say no, but we can’t take any chances given what we gotta face over the next few days. Speaking of which, I got something for you.” He pushed away from the fence.
Nate scrambled to put the toothbrush into one pocket and the water bottle into another before holding out his hands.
His father hesitated, then placed a sheath knife across both palms.
Nate held it up in the diffused light from the trailers, smiling at the stout deer-bone handle. He unsnapped the leather sheath, slid the knife out, and marveled at the six-inch carbon steel blade.
Scott snickered and kept his voice barely above a whisper. “Careful, it’s sharp. Don’t poke your eye out. Anyhow, Big Paw gave it to me when I turned fifteen. Handle’s made out of antler from his first deer. This might not be a good idea, but whatever you do, don’t let it suffer the same fate as my old Swiss Army knife.”
Nate recoiled at the memory of gawking over the side of the tour boat at the red pocketknife vanishing in the crystal blue water of Crater Lake. “I won’t, Dad, honest.”
“And don’t go telling anybody about it either, especially your brother, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Nate touched the razor-sharp point. “He’s the last one I’d tell.”
Scott looked out over the sea of shimmering lights and lanterns going out one by one across the safe haven. “Like you know, it’s hard telling what’s coming down the pike. If and when something goes sideways, visualize the stress flowing out of your body and count like we practiced. Stay strong. Focus on the moment so you can make the best decisions given the hand you’re dealt, then do whatever it takes to survive.”
Nate put the knife back into the sheath, tucked it into his rope belt, and covered it with his T-shirt and jacket. “I’ll do everything you taught me, Dad, I swear.”
“Keep that blade well hidden. Remember, never pull a weapon on somebody unless your back’s up against the wall and you’re a hundred percent committed to using it like I showed you.”
They both remained silent for a moment, letting the crickets and frogs have free rein while the acrid smell of explosives drifted on the cool evening breeze.
Scott cleared his throat. “I’d give anything to make it not be like this, son, but it is what it is. All we can do is watch each other’s back and pray for the best.”
Nate leaned forward but stopped.
His father headed for the trailer. “You kids gotta grow up too damn fast these days.”