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Parks?
Parks, designated campgrounds, any place where people thought they’d gone far enough. Dad used to look down on those people, calling them shortsighted and irrational. He said that we were still way too close to population centers and the only way to really make it was to head as far north as we could. Mom would always argue that it wasn’t their fault, that most of them had simply run out of gas. “And whose fault is that,” Dad would say. We had a lot of spare gas cans on the roof of the minivan. Dad had been stocking up since the first days of the Panic. We’d pass a lot of traffic snarls around roadside gas stations, most of which already had these giant signs outside that said NO MORE GAS. Dad drove by them really fast. He drove fast by a lot of things, the stalled cars that needed a jump, or hitchhikers who needed a ride. There were a lot of those, in some cases, walking in lines by the side of the road, looking like the way you think refugees are supposed to look. Every now and then a car would stop to pick up a couple, and suddenly everyone wanted a ride. “See what they got themselves into?” That was Dad.
We did pick up one woman, walking by herself and pulling one of those wheeled airline bags. She looked pretty harmless, all alone in the rain. That’s probably why Mom made Dad stop to pick her up. Her name was Patty, she was from Wi
Like what?
Like the other “hitchhikers,” the ones who didn’t run. There weren’t a lot, remember, we’re talking about the first wave. We encountered half a dozen at most, wandering down the middle of the road, raising their arms when we got close. Dad would weave around them and Mom would tell me to get my head down. I never saw them too close. I had my face against the seat and my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see them. I just kept thinking about mooseburgers and wild berries. It was like heading to the Promised Land. I knew once we headed far enough north, everything would be all right.
For a little while it was. We had this great campsite right on the shore of a lake, not too many people around, but just enough to make us feel “safe,” you know, if any of the dead showed up. Everyone was real friendly, this big, collective vibe of relief. It was kind of like a party at first. There were these big cookouts every night, people all throwing in what they’d hunted or fished, mostly fished. Some guys would throw dynamite in the lake and there’d be this huge bang and all these fish would come floating to the surface. I’ll never forget those sounds, the explosions or the chainsaws as people cut down trees, or the music of car radios and instruments families had brought. We all sang around the campfires at night, these giant bonfires of logs stacked up on one another.
That was when we still had trees, before the second and third waves starting showing up, when people were down to burning leaves and stumps, then finally whatever they could get their hands on. The smell of plastic and rubber got really bad, in your mouth, in your hair. By that time the fish were all gone, and anything left for people to hunt. No one seemed to worry. Everyone was counting on winter freezing the dead.
But once the dead were frozen, how were you going to survive the winter?
Good question. I don’t think most people thought that far ahead. Maybe they figured that the “authorities” would come rescue us or that they could just pack up and head home. I’m sure a lot of people didn’t think about anything except the day in front of them, just grateful that they were finally safe and confident that things would work themselves out. “We’ll all be home before you know it,” people would say. “It’ll all be over by Christmas.”
[She draws my attention to another object in the ice, a Sponge-Bob SquarePants sleeping bag. It is small, and stained brown.]
What do you think this is rated to, a heated bedroom at a sleepover party? Okay, maybe they couldn’t get a proper bag-camping stores were always the first bought out or knocked off-but you can’t believe how ignorant some of these people were. A lot of them were from Sunbelt states, some as far away as southern Mexico. You’d see people getting into their sleeping bags with their boots on, not realizing that it was cutting off their circulation. You’d see them drinking to get warm, not realizing it was actually lowering their temperature by releasing more body heat. You’d see them wearing these big heavy coats with nothing but a T-shirt underneath. They’d do something physical, overheat, take off the coat. Their bodies’d be coated in sweat, a lot of cotton cloth holding in the moisture. The breeze’d come up … a lot of people got sick that first September. Cold and flu. They gave it to the rest of us.
In the begi
But after the first month, when the food started ru
I wasn’t left alone with neighbors anymore, my parents didn’t trust anyone. Things got dangerous, you’d see a lot of fights. I saw two women wrestling over a fur coat, tore it right down the middle. I saw one guy catching another guy trying to steal some stuff out of his car and beat his head in with a tire iron. A lot of it took place at night, scuffling and shouts. Every now and then you’d hear a gunshot, and somebody crying. One time we heard someone moving outside the makeshift tent we’d draped over the minivan. Mom told me to put my head down and cover my ears. Dad went outside. Through my hands I heard shouts. Dad’s gun went off. Someone screamed. Dad came back in, his face was white. I never asked him what happened.