March 15, 2023
FUGITIVES
Eight hours after the blackout, Colvin opened the door to their apartment in Naoma. Clay was eating a sandwich at the kitchen table and looking at his phone. Grabbing a soda from the fridge, he insisted, “We got to get out of here now. The feds will be swarming all over this place.” Colvin asked, “Did you get the new computer?”
“I did.” Grabbing two duffel bags, Clay said, “Grab the other bag, and let’s get. The new computer is in the car.”
“And the burner phone?”
“In the car. I got a poke of groceries, too.”
Colvin lit a cigarette. After taking one drag, he placed the cigarette on the counter, walked over to the stove, and turned all the burners on high. Clay started to put the computer on the table in the backpack.
“Leave it,” Colvin commanded.
They made their way down the stairs and out to the cars. Clay was driving a matte black 485 hp 2018 Dodge Charger Daytona with a modified engine. Colvin was driving a 2018 Ford F-150, V8. A Predator 9000 gas generator sat in the truck bed. Colvin always said, “This bad boy can go anywhere.” They turned onto Coal River Road. Looking in the rearview mirror, Colvin watched a massive explosion.
They turned right on Cedar Cliff Road, two miles down Coal River Road. When the road ended, they drove into the woods on gravel, short grass, and weeds. Stopping, they both got out of their cars. “I’ve got to hide that car of yours, Clay.” Colvin pointed to an area of brush and tightly packed trees. “That will do.”
Clay grabbed the two duffel bags and the poke of groceries from his car and put them in the back of the truck. They then hid the car. Before picking up Clay earlier in the day, Colvin gathered supplies he stored in the truck bed: an outdoor directional antenna, one thousand feet of coaxial cable, and a signal booster. After driving for another fifteen minutes, they arrived at the cabin, the same cabin that he, Asher, and Clay stayed in the year after high school.
The old cabin blended into the hills it sat on. Grey weathered logs framed the one-room cabin and the roof was wood-shingled, with some shingles missing. Green ivy covered one side of the cabin, surrounded by overgrown shrubs. After freeing the jammed door, they entered to see a stone fireplace for warmth and cooking. To the left of the fireplace, three logs were stacked. The smell of dust lingered in the air. Spider webs stretched in all directions. One window provided light. Furnishings were minimal: a table, three chairs, three sleeping cots, and an old cabinet. A deep galvanized metal sink supported a hand water pump. Colvin pulled a chair from the table and directed, “Let’s try to make this place livable.” A chair leg fell onto the floor, and they both laughed. The cabin, located deep in the holler, assured them of isolation. After a couple of hours, they were sitting outside, drinking.
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I'm hooked. Of course, once committed I will read.
My problem is that I like to read, to progress into the viscera of a story--I'm not a fan of these abbreviated bites. You're telling a good story and I resent the interruptions. It is a shame that you feel compelled to pander to the reading habits of our cyber companions, but I understand. It's just that I, Scarlet, don't give a damn.