Catalyst Page 8

  “Well, JD, you were with someone. Who is taking care of you?”

  “Mister, can I just get some food? I am really hungry.”

  “Absolutely, just need some information first. Who are you with, and what is your last name?”

  Why do they need all this? he wondered. He just wanted a burger. “I was spending the summer with my grandmother, but she wouldn’t wake up. I am pretty sure she was dead. I tried to find help, but then I got lost.”

  He gave the man the information who wrote it all down, then stamped his wrist with something like you might get at an amusement park. “Be ready when the white bus pulls up. You want to take that one. Someone at the camp will help you and get you checked out. Go over to the tent back there and ask for a plate. Show them the stamp.”

  “Is that a Femar camp?” JD asked, remembering the old man. The soldier just smiled and waved the next person in line to come up.

  14

  He wolfed down the burger. It was dry, cold and tasteless, but he was so hungry. The sounds coming from the group on the exit ramp were increasing. An air of nervousness descended as the sounds of a vehicle approaching could now be heard. JD began gathering his few things and stood. He couldn’t see through the crowd of adults but assumed it was one of the white buses coming to take them to the camp. He heard sounds that reminded him of the squeaks and hisses of his school bus back home. An occasional glimpse of white ahead was all he could see.

  People jostled him, and he nearly fell several times. Then a hand rested lightly on his shoulder. He moved to get away from the grip, but it stayed. He had little room to walk, much less escape. His heart began to race.

  A quiet voice said, “Kid, you don’t want to get on that bus.”

  Looking up, he saw the man who was speaking. He was tall, gray-haired and one hand was attempting to steer him to the side of the group. “Why not?”

  “Please just trust me for now. . . . I am not going to hurt you,” he whispered.

  Now JD was really scared. What should he do? He had been taught to listen to policeman and avoid strangers. He struggled to make the man release him. The man pushed him roughly through more of the crowd. No one seemed to notice . . . or care. He started to scream, and the man’s other hand clamped over his mouth. “Gimme five minutes kid, you will understand.” Leaning in closer, he said, “What is your name?”

  The hand moved away from his mouth. “Um . . . JD.”

  They broke free of the group just as someone began speaking near the bus. He was telling everyone to line up and show the stamp on their hand before boarding. The tall man directed him behind some stalled trucks before releasing his grip.

  “JD, you are alone here, right? No family?”

  He nodded, still too scared to speak.

  “Ok, listen . . . ” the man went down to one knee.

  JD could smell the guy’s breath as he leaned in. His heart was pounding. The man was too close.

  “My name is Gerald. I want to help you. Those people there—they aren’t here to help.”

  JD could see the man was old and wearing a dress shirt that was stained and torn. His beige pants ended with what appeared to be a pair of new athletic shoes. While the man’s appearance seemed like an office worker, his tan face and the way he talked didn’t quite fit.

  “Look, mister, I don’t know who you are, but I just need to get home. My Nana died, and those people do want to help.” His eyes were watering, and he felt his legs begin to shake with fear.

  Gerald took his shoulder and turned him to face the bus. Very quietly he stated, “Watch what they do when the people go to get on.”

  JD dried his eyes and focused in on the front of the line waiting to board. One soldier was checking the stamp marking each person as processed. The next was doing a quick search. It reminded him of what the airport security had done to some of the passengers when he flew up a few weeks back. They seemed even more thorough, if that was possible. Everything was removed from pockets and backpacks. Whatever they were carrying was taken and piled near the bus. Angry shouts could be heard coming from the crowd, but the soldiers kept at it. Reluctantly every person in line gave up everything they had and stumbled up the steps to take a seat. “Why are they doing that?”

  The man pulled him back out of sight. “My guess is they are mainly checking to make sure no one is taking a weapon into the camp, which I could sort of agree with. But taking the food, water, spare clothes . . . everything. That can really be only one of two things—they want everyone in the camp to be completely dependent on them for everything, or . . . they won’t be needing any of it again.”

  JD’s young mind tried to make sense of it but failed. These people were in authority—you had to do what they said. It was the right thing to do. No way they would be out to hurt anyone. They were nice, they fed him, although the burger hadn’t tasted right and it was cold.

  Gerald saw uncertainty on the young boy’s face. He sat all the way down on the ground and looked up at JD. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to look out for this innocent, but something about him had struck a familial chord deep inside. To survive, JD was going to have to grow up very quickly. “Did you ever see any of the old black and white news from World War II?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Ever see the Nazis loading Jews on the trains? Beside those trains would be piles . . . hell, mountains of suitcases, bags, coats. They loaded them onto cattle cars and shipped them off to die. There were so many they tattooed numbers on ‘em to keep track.”

  JD looked down at the inky stamp on his hand. His eyes drifted up to the growing pile of belongings in the weeds. The tears came again; this time he could not stop them. “Those people are going to be killed?” he managed to say.

  The man shrugged. “Killed, die, stay locked up until they starve . . . I don’t know. I am just certain it won’t be good. Whoever is ordering the round-up wants these people off the highway and out of sight. No way FEMA or DHS or whoever it is has the food supplies staged to handle everyone stranded out here. They are simply cleaning house.”

  Gerald stood back up, stooping low to stay hidden. The bus was nearly full now, and they were pushing people away to wait for the next one. “Kid, you have to make up your own mind. I can’t stop you. However…if you want to survive all this, you should come with me.”

  JD wasn't sure. He was still hungry, and he could smell cooking food again, but what the man said had seemed genuine. His mom would be mad if he went with the man. He was so scared and confused but picked up his meager pack and headed off into the tall grass behind the man.

  15

  Steve looked at the remnants of his meal. It was not all that different than other meals he had enjoyed regularly: crackers, imported olives, some hard cheese and various sliced charcuterie including a dry coppa, which was his favorite. He had laid it all out on a gingham napkin and opened a bottle of wine he’d found behind the counter. If he concentrated hard, he could almost ignore the rank of his own body and the stench coming from the other body lying in the shop next door.

  He wanted to keep eating, but his stomach had obviously shrunk over the previous week’s neglect. The shop had a lot of very expensive cookware, knives and kitchen gadgets of which a few would be useful. His main desire had been the small, nearly hidden section of gourmet foods. Besides the cured meats and cheeses, there were exotic coffees with exorbitant price tags. Spices, preserves, nuts and olive oils. While he had never hurt for money, even he would have resisted indulgences of this level on most days. Most . . . normal days. This was anything but normal.

  He wiped his mouth with another of the linens and looked around thinking about what he should take. He wanted to carry it all . . . or just stay, but neither was an option. Trey and Barbara would likely be running low on food by now. Hopefully, the water supply would hold out, but he had to get home. He had room in his pack for some supplies, but much of what he saw would add a lot of weight. He looked through his stash and decided to upgrade sev
eral items. He tossed a couple of the knives he had acquired and replaced them with two top quality Wüsthof carbon steel knives from the shelf. A small pot and pan were also added.

  He scoured the shelves and found several handmade soaps which went into a side pocket. Who knew that soap and toilet paper would be such a valued commodity now? Several tins of canned anchovies, nuts and wax covered cheeses went in as well. Then as many of the cured meats as he could carry. A few baguettes with only slight discoloration from mold. Several candies, sea salt and finally, a couple of the rather heavy but tasty-looking jars of preserves. He hoisted the bulging backpack on and thankfully realized it was not as heavy as he had feared. Eyeing a canvas shopping bag by the counter, he filled it with more of the store's inventory before sighing and heading for the rear door. He felt guilty at what he was doing but admitted he would gladly have paid if an owner had been around . . . and willing to sell. He mentally tallied the total cost and winced. “I’ll stop by one day when all this is over and settle-up,” he said to no one. He may be a rat now, but the businessman still lurked inside him.

  Steve had been on the streets for about an hour before he heard sounds of a vehicle. He panicked and rushed to find a hiding spot. Nestled up behind a boxwood in front of a small cottage-style home, he watched as a large passenger bus passed by. The nondescript white bus had a small logo and official-looking type on the door. “Did that say DHS?” The darkened windows prevented him from seeing any of the passengers, but the sight gave him both hope and dread. He briefly thought about rushing out and trying to flag it down, but that seemed risky. After seeing the sheriff's patrols days earlier blocking roads, he was less confident in any officials being truly interested in his welfare. He was curious about where they were going to and . . . coming from. It had approached from the south. That was where he was heading, so he decided to see what was there.

  16

  Steve’s mind drifted back again to happier days. Like his dad, his business had become his pride and joy. Also like him, success at home had been harder to attain. His son, Trey, could be very challenging, and he found few people to have the patience the boy required. His wife, Barbara, was a caregiver by training, so she seemed to take an interest from the very beginning. In the years since, even her measured enthusiasm had faded. He was under no illusion as to why she was really with him, but the arrangement worked. They did have happy times, but they were rarities these days; he had to work on that when he got back.

  While his son was not overly fond of his wife, he rarely complained about the way she treated him. Still, Steve tended to worry about the boy more when he traveled for business, which was too often. He knew that Trey could get agitated and even violent over the smallest things. The doctors had explained where his son was on the development disorder spectrum, but none of it had ever made sense. Steve loved him and knew there was a bright, happy person locked inside if he could just somehow find a way to reach him. He marveled at his every achievement. Things that most people took for granted could be an impossible hurdle for the boy. Hang in there, Son.

  The houses in the area were becoming more isolated as he finally neared the southern edge of the town. He had seen no other buses and only a few people out since leaving the ritzy neighborhood far behind. The backpack and bag were heavy and made noises with every step as the contents jostled and settled. With his stomach still painfully full, he decided not to camp but to keep walking as long as he could.

  The familiar sights and sounds of a summer night began to unfold. The chirping of crickets faded into the windup of a cicada as distant frogs croaked. Soon, the darkness was punctuated by dozens of fireflies signaling across the horizon. The sight reminded him of his childhood and camping out. Despite all the tragedy, there was a beauty now; something he would have avoided or ignored a week ago. With no cars, no house or street lights, nature was once again center-stage putting on a show for everyone to see.

  Steve shuffled his feet along the road, careful not to catch an unseen rock or another obstacle. Hour after hour he kept at it. The partial moon offered some light, but he wandered off into the weeds each time the straight road curved. If he focused really hard, he could just see the cut in the tree line where the road was. The silhouettes of the tall pines were just slightly darker than the night sky. Several times he thought he heard someone . . . or something in the darkness. Like a roach caught out in the open when the light comes on, he froze in place each time, waiting for confirmation that he wasn’t alone. What had it been? A scuff of a shoe on pebbles? An intake of breath? Someone snoring up in the woods? Each time the sound failed to recur, and he would hurry quietly away.

  The sense of time was hard to gauge. He had tried to use the movement of the stars and moon as a reference but had no idea how long it took them to navigate the heavens. Eventually, it was his weary feet that caused him to take a break. He maneuvered as far into the woods as he dared in the dark and stowed his pack on a limb. Sitting at the base of a large tree, he removed his shoes and socks and drank a bottle of water from the canvas bag. He wasn’t making very good time—not nearly enough miles. That had to change, or he would be months, not weeks, getting home. Where is everyone? he wondered. The roads, which had been busy just days ago, now seemed abandoned. No faces peered out of the houses as he passed. People had to be getting more desperate—more dangerous—but was something else going on? He nodded off wondering once more about the bus.

  The kick knocked all of the wind out of him. “Wake up you fuck,” growled a voice from above.

  The attack had come with no warning. Steve struggled to catch his breath, then bile caught in his throat and a torrent of vomit rushed out. His blurred vision vaguely registered a weathered pair of leather boots dance backward out of the spray of his discharge.

  “Watch it, fella. . . . Damn. That’s nasty. What the fuck did you eat?”

  Through watery eyes, Steve could see the man holding the shopping bag he had been using.

  “You got some good shit in here, man.” He held up a meat stick with obvious delight. He ran the delicacy under his nose like a fine cigar, then took a huge bite off of one end. The expensive salami began to disappear into the man’s open maw. “Damn, that’s tasty. What else you got in here?”

  A racking cough followed by a long stream of sputum dropping from the corners of Steve’s mouth. His ribs hurt, but he could focus on the man now. His attacker was skinny, white, mid-forties and was alone. Apparently, his nighttime hiding spot was not sufficient as he could clearly see the road in the gray morning light just as the man had apparently seen him sleeping soundly.

  “I thought you uz dead lying up ‘ere.” The man said kneeling down, still gnawing on the meat. “You was lucky I found you before some of those mean ones did. I just want your food. I know you gots more, whar is it?”

  Steve had stashed his backpack out of reach in a tree when he bedded down. He forced himself not to think about it now. He would hate to lose the nearly full shopping bag now firmly in the man’s grasp but knew that would be minor compared to losing the pack. “Look, you can’t take my food, I’ll die. I need that.” He reached a hand out and the wiry man just laughed. He felt beside him for the walking stick.

  “We all gonna die, friend. Just a matter of how. This here bag is mine. If you want food, just head over to one of dem government camps.”

  “What government camps?”

  “I dunno, State Patrol and National Guard or sumpin started rounding up people out on I-85 and busing ‘em off somewhar. One of ‘em said it was a refugee camp for stranded travelers. Thing is, I saw ‘em also taking some people out of their own houses.”

  Steve was attempting to stand now, and the man backed up a few more steps. Realizing he was a good head taller than the man, he held the wooden stick and approached him with more confidence. “Why did you attack me?”

  “I . . . I wuz hungry.” An edge of fear creeping into his attacker’s voice. He continued taking bites of the meat as he slowly
continued to step backward. Steve took a swing and the stick connected with the man’s knee.

  “Owww, you fuck!” The man rubbed his knee but kept eating and grinning as he stepped back farther.

  “Why don’t you go to the camp if you want food? Maybe get that leg looked at.”

  “Been locked up before, bunch of times. Don’t want that again. I’ll find my own food.” He tipped the ragged end of the salami as if to prove his point. “That bus . . . the way they loaded dem folks up looked like prisoner transport to me. I knows what that trip is like. Gonna have to catch me first to put me back in the pen.”

  Steve was confused but wanted his stuff back. He charged the man who quickly drew a nasty looking knife and waved it. “No, no . . . now you don’t want to do nuttin foolish, mister. You lost this round, just leave it at that.” With that, the man turned and trotted awkwardly away with his stolen bag.

  He started to run after the robber, but with his newly bruised ribs, he barely made it a dozen yards before stopping in agony. He heard the guy laughing as he disappeared up the road. Stumbling back to his unsuccessful hiding spot, he began searching for the tree that held his backpack. He spotted it several minutes later with great relief and pulled it on in a quick motion, wincing from the sharp pain in his side. Cautiously, he began moving south avoiding the road again. Being found so easily had unnerved him, as did losing his bag of supplies. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and the attacker. The man may have friends around.

  Steve had been walking about an hour when he topped a small rise and saw the familiar lines of the interstate a short distance ahead. While abandoned cars still littered the roadway, the lines of people walking was not happening here. Instead, he saw a small cluster of people around an olive-colored tent and several older State Patrol cars and military green Humvees. The smell of cooking meat reached him, triggering fond memories of summer barbecues. He had eaten well the last two days, though, so hunger was not his driving force at the moment. The warning from his attacker earlier still rang in his head. Something about what he was seeing just felt wrong.