75 Miles by Robyn VanDerSys

Author:Robyn VanDerSys [VanDerSys, Robyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Doomsday Press
Published: 2021-04-14T22:00:00+00:00

I’d followed the dirt bike tracks all the way to where the logging road turned to gravel for the rest of the way to Three Forks, but by the grace of God, the tracks veered left onto an off-road trail. The rain had now diminished to a drizzle. And by the time I was within sight of the town, it stopped altogether.

My feet were getting sore by this point, and my hair was soaked. If I could find a safe spot in Three Forks, I’d take a ten or fifteen minute break before the homestretch to Roger’s cabin. I’d been watching for both horseshoe and dirt bike tire tracks, and none were evident, so I felt it would be safe to give myself a rest. As I neared the dilapidated town, I smelled woodsmoke and some sort of meat curing in a smoker. It smelled heavenly, and I thought that these were the kind of people who could survive an EMP. They were the older generation who believed in hard work and the old way of doing things. Because of the taxidermy shop, I knew most or all of them were hunters and were probably armed to the teeth. These were not the kind of people who would ever give up their Second Amendment rights or pay five dollars for a latte. They drank their Folgers black and flew American and POW flags from their porches. They gardened and canned and didn’t run to Walmart every day for things they thought they needed. They were a generation of independence and grit.

The odds of anything bad happening to me here were slim, but as I walked up to the first house, I still kept my shooting hand free and my pistol unconcealed. I would not take any chances.

As I entered the town, the road changed abruptly from gravel to concrete, and it felt foreign to my feet after days of gravel and dirt logging roads and trails. I stomped off the last of the mud clinging to my boots and gave a silent thanks to Mary for her expensive taste in hiking boots. My boots were muddy, but my feet were still bone dry.

The town was quiet other than the two old men and one old woman sitting on the porch of the general store that came into view when I rounded the corner. I could hear them arguing over the best way to preserve trout, and smoking it seemed to be winning out over canning it. All three were sitting on a long bench running across the porch of the store, and all three had rifles leaned up against the bench within reach or across a lap. When the woman saw me, her jaw dropped open, and she abruptly stopped arguing. The old men turned to see what she was staring at, and their mouths froze too. It would have been comical, but the man in the Korean vet hat moved his hand to his rifle and took the humor out of the situation.

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