Pilgrimage: A Post-Apocalyptic Survival Story Read online

  “What?” James looked at her like a guilty puppy with his paws on the counter.

  “We don’t need a physics lesson right now.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed her wrist. She winced when she touched it. “We need you to get our crap out of the Jeep and lead us, without further incident, to a safe place high off the ground.”

  James looked at her and smiled to himself. He couldn’t believe how calm, how in control she was. In the midst of a life-altering cataclysm, seconds removed from a violent, acrobatic car wreck, she was keeping it together. Without saying anything, he took two steps to her and threw his arms around her, holding her tight and squeezing as her arms found their way around his back.

  “I love you,” he whispered into her ear before kissing her on the cheek and climbing back into the Jeep to grab a trio of backpacks and two rolling duffel bags.

  “Love you too,” she called behind him. “And I need my shoes out of one of those bags, now that we have to hoof it. We all do. I could use a bra too.”

  James emerged with the luggage, assigning a backpack each to wife and son. He gave Max the lighter of the duffels to roll. He took the heaviest pack and the larger duffel.

  “Kinda strange, huh?” James observed as he slung the pack onto his shoulders.

  “What?” Leigh was adjusting the waist strap on her pack. She was having trouble, so her husband helped her.

  “Not a single person came to help us out of the wreck,” he said, nodding his head toward the half-dozen people buzzing their way around their own properties. “You’d think that would be human nature.”

  “What does that say, then?” asked Leigh.

  “It says we’re on our own,” James reasoned and pointed ahead to the north side of the road. “Everybody is on their own.” He took a couple steps ahead of his family and looked back over his shoulder at them. “That’s where we’re headed. We need to move. If you get tired, Sloane, I’ll carry you, okay?”

  “I’m good, Daddy.” She nodded, Noodles swinging back and forth in her hand. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER 6

  EVENT +00:45 Hours

  Peaks Island, Maine

  The ten-minute hike was relatively flat, which made it easier on the Rockwells as they trekked north and east along an extension of Central Avenue. There was debris from the tall trees and brush lining both sides of the road that littered their path, however, which made rolling the duffel bags more challenging for Max and James. They passed a shop that rented kayaks, canoes, and fishing gear. For a moment, James wondered if he should grab one of the kayaks. They were fiberglass, looked light enough to carry, and might come in handy. He decided against it almost as soon as the thought dripped into his mind. They were already overloaded and there was no conceivable way they could manage with the awkward vessel as added weight. So they kept walking. It was more and more exhausting with every step.

  But they managed until James told his family to stop. He dropped the duffel on the road, slipped his thumbs inside his pack straps and stepped off the asphalt and onto a dirt path leading south into the woods.

  “Is this it?” asked Leigh, her wrist wrapped like a cast with a flesh-colored elastic bandage pulled from her pack.

  “I think so,” he turned and nodded, before stepping back to grab the duffel. “Max if you can’t get the bag, I’ll take it from here.” He extended a hand to his son, who refused the help.

  “You okay to keep walking?” Leigh asked Sloane.

  “Yep,” the eight year old was a trooper, well-seasoned from her annual adventures. A short walk was nothing.

  “Okay,” James took a deep breath and yanked the duffel onto the pine-needle-covered dirt path, tugging it through the leaves. “Let’s find this thing.”

  The Rockwells wove their way among the trees for only maybe thirty yards before they saw it; a tall concrete structure rising above the canopy, its tower a full sixty feet in the air.

  “What is that?” Max asked as they approached the base of the tower.

  “It’s a fire control tower,” James explained, dropping the duffel. “I remember seeing there were two of these when we were looking at the GPS map for Battery Steele.”

  “That’s the army thing, right?” Max asked. “The one with the graffiti?” They’d visited the historic military installation just five days ago, walking through its tunnels and admiring the artwork locals and tourists had painted on its walls.

  “It is,” James answered, looking up at the tower. “Max, help me check for an entrance to this thing. The doorway on this side is filled with concrete.”

  Max dropped his duffel and marched around the left side of the tower. Finding nothing, he circled the side opposite his father. “Dad!” he called. “There’s a ladder!”

  James jogged around to meet his son and, sure enough, there was an aluminum extension ladder leading to a small opening about fifteen feet off the ground. “Good job, Max!” James gave his son a thumbs-up and tousled his sweaty head. “Let’s get Mom and Sloane up there first.”

  They grabbed the duffels and led Leigh, Sloane, and Noodle back to the ladder. James suggested Leigh go first. She reluctantly agreed and climbed the ladder to the opening before sliding herself headfirst into the narrow opening. She reemerged a second later, her head poking through what amounted to a small open-air window.

  “Okay,” she called down, “I’m good here. It looks like there’s a staircase to the top.”

  “Your turn, Sloane,” James told his daughter. “You climb up and I’ll be right behind you.” He turned to Max. “As soon as she’s up there, I’ll come back down. You’re next.”

  Max nodded and tugged on his pack, adjusting it on his shoulders, before sitting down on his duffel. “I’m good,” he said.

  Sloane climbed the ladder like a monkey. James was two rungs behind her, making sure she didn’t fall. She reached the top of the ladder and reached out to her mom, who pulled her through the opening and into the tower.

  “So far, so good,” said Leigh. But James couldn’t hear her. A crack, the sound of snapping wood, was too loud. At first it was a solitary noise, coming from the distant south. But it was followed by another sickly pop. And another. It began sounding like popcorn. And it was getting louder.

  “What is that?” Leigh asked, almost yelling above the growing din.

  James didn’t answer. He was already halfway down the ladder. “Max!” he yelled to his son. “Get up! Hurry!”

  As he reached his son, Max could see the panic in his father’s eyes. He jumped up, and without thinking about it, ran the short distance to the ladder, covering the final steps with a shove from James.

  Max didn't understand what was happening as he grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder and began to climb. James did. The snapping of trees meant the water was coming.

  CHAPTER 7

  EVENT +00:53 Hours

  Peaks Island, Maine

  James was on Max’s heels as they climbed the ladder. Max’s pack bounced on his back as he moved as quickly as he could up the rungs.

  “Start moving,” James yelled to his wife, over the sound of trees yanked from their roots. “Get as high as you can!”

  Leigh’s head disappeared inside the opening just as Max reached the top of the ladder. James waited for his son to climb through the window and he turned to look back.

  He couldn’t see the trees falling, but he could hear them.

  James was on the verge of pulling himself through the hole when he reconsidered. Against the growing roar of the water he knew was racing toward him, he slid down the ladder and hopped to the ground.

  The fifteen feet between him and the larger duffel may as well have been a mile. But James covered the distance and ripped back the zipper at the top of the bag.

  “Dad!” yelled Max. “What are you doing? Dad!” His scream was primal.

  James ignored him and focused on the bag. He knew exactly where he’d stuffed a small pistol. Blindly, he found the weapon and a small box of am
munition. He stuffed the box in his waistband and launched himself back to the ladder.

  “It’s coming, Dad!” Max cried. “Ruuuuunnnnnnn!”

  James grabbed the side rails and pulled himself up two rungs as a wall of water tore through the trees at the edge of the small clearing that surrounded the tower. A large pine, ripped from the ground, slammed into the tower wall. James shimmied up as quickly as he could, but a wall of water slammed into the tower as his right hand grabbed the opening.

  “Dad!” Max said above the deafening surge. “Grab my hands!”

  James felt his shoulder tug as the ladder was washed out from underneath him. His feet were underwater, being pulled in one direction and then another. He was losing his grip when Leigh appeared next to her son.

  “Rock!” She reached out and grabbed onto his wrist with both of her hands, relieving the pressure on his wrist and shoulder. The water was rising. It was at his waist, swirling and tugging.

  He felt something slam into the back of his leg. The sudden, thickening pain was almost enough to weaken his resolve. But he, somehow, managed to raise his left arm, the gun still in his hand, and reach his son’s grip.

  “Take the gun!” James grunted. “Get it out of my hand before you pull!” The water, halfway up his chest, was cold and angry. A surge slammed him against the concrete wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Max took the gun and checked the safety before putting it down and reaching to grab his dad’s fingertips. He leaned as far as he could from the small opening, trying to grab farther up James’s arm.

  “Max!” warned Leigh. “Don’t fall. Be careful.” She was wedged between the edge of the window and her son, holding onto her husband’s slipping arm. She looked past her husband at the surreal seascape a full thirteen feet above the island. A cascade of timber was bobbing along the bubbling, foaming surface. The roiling water wasn’t rising anymore, she surmised, but it wasn’t receding yet either. And with the branch-laden trees riding the tide toward her husband, she knew there wasn’t much time before she’d lose him. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

  “Max!” she growled with renewed purpose. “When I get to three, pull as hard as you can. Got it?”

  Her son nodded and waited for the count.

  “One,” said Leigh, affixing her grip with both hands, ignoring the growing pain in her wrist. “Two. Three.” She pulled her husband, the love of her life, the father of her children, the man she knew she needed to keep them safe, with everything she could muster. Her stomach tightened, her thighs burned, her neck strained. She could feel the loss of oxygen in her head as she held her breath, tugging against James’s weight. And then, with one last effort, she felt an instant of weightlessness and fell back, losing her grip.

  She caught herself as she flew backward, stopping short of the interior concrete wall. On the edge of the window, his body draped across the opening, James was safe.

  “You’re bleeding, Dad!” said Max, his hand on the small of his father’s back. He looked to his mom for help when James didn’t respond.

  Leigh looked over at Sloane sitting quietly against the wall next to her mother’s pack, took a deep breath, and moved carefully to her husband. “Rock, are you okay? Can you move?”

  James nodded, but he said nothing. His body was racked with pain, exhausted from the fight, he couldn’t bring himself to talk. But he slid himself forward on the window ledge, his wife and son helping him inside.

  He slunk to the floor, lying on his stomach. He knew the back of his leg was injured. He assumed that’s where he was bleeding. Leigh confirmed it.

  “You have a bad gash on the back of your leg,” she said, gently stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. She was kneeling beside him. “I’m gonna have to dress it. I mean, under normal circumstances, you’d probably need stitches.”

  “There’s a sewing kit,” James managed. “It’s in my pack.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Leigh countered. “And since you can talk”—her tone shifted from compassionate to annoyed—“what the hell were you doing?”

  “We needed the gun,” he mumbled.

  “The gun?”

  “Nobody helped us when we wrecked,” James said, wincing as he shifted his torso on the concrete. “Nobody’s going to help us now.”

  “So? You were stupid to go after it. You could have died.” She looked at Max. He was transfixed by what his father was saying.

  “We’re going to need the gun,” he repeated slowly. “It was worth the risk.”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “This is just the beginning, Leigh,” James explained, trying to roll himself onto his side. “It’s going to get worse.”

  CHAPTER 8

  EVENT +02:00 Hours

  Peaks Island, Maine

  The water was receding. It slipped to half its height, though that wasn’t obvious to James as he stood atop the tower, some sixty feet above what used to be Peaks Island. He was looking west, toward Portland. There were boats of varying sizes dotting the bay between Peaks and the mainland. James couldn’t tell, however, how many of them were upright, let alone seaworthy.

  “How’s your leg?” asked Max. He was standing next to his dad, his arms folded identically across his chest.

  “I’m okay,” James reassured his son. “Mom did a great job dressing it. I’ll have a scar to remember this adventure. But I’ll be good.”

  “Good.” Max nodded.

  “You did a great job down there, Max,” James praised his boy. “You helped save my life. Don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.” A grin filled the space between two dimples on Max’s cheeks. “Especially at Christmas time.”

  “That’s a given.” James laughed and then turned back to the horizon. “What’s not a given”—he sighed—“is how we’re going to get off this underwater island.”

  “We need a boat, right?” asked Max.

  “That would be a good start.” James turned toward the east, his back to the mainland, searching for an answer. He found nothing there but the muddied waters of the bay. What had been so clean, so blue a day ago was soiled and murky.

  Leigh was a floor below, sifting through her husband’s pack, reorganizing it after having used some of its contents to salve his wound. She chuckled to herself, remembering the heated discussion she’d had with James about the money she thought he’d wasted on the expensive survival gear.

  “It’s a great deal,” he’d bargained. “It’s the ultimate survivalist backpack.”

  “And we need to spend two hundred dollars on this?” she’d asked. “We take one big trip a year. We’re not preppers, James.”

  “First,” he’d explained, “I got two of them for two hundred dollars. Second, you say preppers like it’s a bad word. There’s nothing wrong with being prepared. We were completely flat-footed six years ago. If we hadn’t been then maybe—”

  “Don’t go there!” she’d warned, her angry finger pointed at his chest. He’d pressed a button he shouldn’t have. “Wasting money on a couple of stupid backpacks would not have saved her. She would not be alive because we now have a portable mosquito hammock, paracord, and a rubber tourniquet.”

  “Look,” he’d said. “That’s not—”

  “She died because she got the flu, James.” Leigh’s fists were clenched tight, her arms straight at her side. “Our oldest child, your parents, my mother”—she’d suppressed the urge to scream at him—“they’re dead because they got the flu. No amount of preparedness, no carpe diem vacations, none of it will bring them back.”

  This was an argument they’d suffered before. They blamed one another. They blamed themselves. They faulted the government and the local hospital. The arguments always escalated until James and Leigh couldn’t stand the sight of one another.

  They’d throw their hands up and walk away. He’d get in the Jeep and drive to the YMCA to burn off the anger. She’d start cleaning the house, ignoring him as she scrubbed and wiped.


  It was a pattern that repeated itself over and again in those six years. Their therapist gave them tools to cope with the pain and with one another. Slowly, the events, as they were, lessened in intensity and in frequency. The therapist told them their relationship was like a muscle, and to make it stronger they had to work hard at it, suffer through pain and difficulty. Their marriage was growing stronger again. They were learning how to cope with the loss, with daily challenges, and with each other.

  So instead of fighting her on the cost/benefit of the Yukon Outfitters Survivalist Alpha Backpack, he’d dropped the gear to the ground and wrapped his arms around her. She’d buried her head in his chest and sobbed. Six years of grieving, of coping, of trying to rationalize the guilt…

  It was that argument that persuaded them to take the relaxing, stress-draining trip she wanted. And here they were, in need of these stupid packs. The irony wasn’t lost on Leigh as she stuffed the two remaining eight-ply, three-by-three gauze pads back into the bag.

  She looked over at Sloane. Her daughter was sleeping on the concrete floor, her head using Noodle as a pillow. She looked peaceful despite the chaos around them. Leigh hoped her daughter was having a good dream, momentarily escaping the nightmare in which they found themselves.

  Leigh zipped the pack quietly and stood to walk over to the window. She pulled her head through the opening and looked out at the apocalyptic landscape. At fifty feet above the ground, she was at the height equal to where the forested canopy should have been.

  Instead, the trees were few and far between. Those left standing were stripped of their branches and foliage below twenty feet. Beyond the smattering of trees was a filthy bay corrupted by the remnants of homes and businesses, their contents, and the bodies of the people who called the island home. Leigh wondered if anyone on the island, other than her family, had survived the tsunami. Had anyone else known what was coming?