A Stick of Gum and a TV Remote

Debra dropped to her knees pushing vines and branches aside to crawl under the rock overhang. With a branch, she gently scrubbed the fallen leaves, removing her footprints; pulling the foliage into place, she prayed she was hidden. She would rather die than be found, although being found might easily lead to her death.

She jammed her fist into her mouth, biting down to stifle her sobs, and concentrated on slowing her breathing, willing her body to be still. “In through the nose, hold, exhale through the mouth.” She repeated this mantra several times until, still terrified but feeling somewhat calmer. Something skittered across her legs and she managed to remain motionless, more afraid of the known danger outside than the unknown inside.

Soaked through from the rain, cold and shivering, she was glad of the little protection her shelter provided. Her mind raced unfocused, trying to think of what she had for weapons, seeking an escape route, thinking of defense strategies if they found her, wondering if her family would ever know what happened to her, wishing she hadn’t left in such a rush. She cried silent tears remembering Timmy’s arms stretched out to her for “just one more hug, Mommy.” But she had been frazzled, running late and instead of going back for a hug, she had thrown a careless kiss his way from the cab.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the stomping of men who didn’t care how much noise they made. They had the advantage of size, numbers and guns, thus felt no need for stealth.

“Over here,” one yelled. “No, this way,” another answered. “I see something,” the third man’s call led them away. She tracked their movements by their laughter, the crackling of leaves under their feet, dislodged rocks skittering down the hill. Before hiding she had opened a pack of Kleenex and scattered the tissues over a nearby drop off, hoping to lead the men on a false trail. It seemed to have worked.

The absurdity of her situation was not lost on Debra. For her to be here, miles from home, less than an hour after what she was sure was an EMP strike, was the very definition of irony. Debra, “The Queen of Prep” and her husband had a built their business on teaching others to be prepared for any disaster. They were active on social media and did podcasts from their home, a 20 acre, off the grid homestead, specifically bought and equipped to be their bug-in place of choice. They worked the land, home schooled their children, had a small community of like-minded family and friends around whom their lives revolved.

There was rarely any occasion for them to leave their homestead. Until Debra had written a best selling book on prepping. Despite her many objections, her agent had finally convinced her to leave her Seattle-adjacent, island home to do a book signing in Las Vegas. And that was the beginning of the end.

Debra had overslept that morning, and in racing to leave the house, had forgotten to grab her get-home bag. The bag contained items she considered essential should she ever be in this situation, food bars, some water, first aid, tools, maps were among the items she always told her readers to never leave home without.

She had arrived at the airport just in time to stand and wait in the security line. The man in front of her was acting sketchy and finally the agents had pulled him aside for more intense questioning, allowing her to pass through. She ran to her gate and managed to squeeze in as they were closing the doors. The flight had been miserable, lots of turbulence from an incoming storm and somehow due a mixup in reservations she was crammed between two very large men in coach instead of stretched out in first class with Nia, her agent.

Debra settled in as best she could, her space encroached upon from both sides, her luggage shoved under her crowding her feet whilst turbulence bounced her around in her seat. Just as she thought she could take no more, the pilot came on the intercom.

“Uhhh ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot.” He called for their attention using that miserable patter all pilots use to stall while they think of what to say, how to phrase the bad news to cause the least reaction from the passengers, all the while focusing on flying the plane, yet reminding them who was in charge, ‘your pilot.’ “As you may have noticed, uhhhh, we have been experiencing an unusual amount of turbulence. Uhhhhhhhh, after considerable discussion with air traffic control, uhh we have determined for your safety we will divert to the nearest airport and set down until the after the storm clears. Uhhhhhhhhhhhh, looks like we will be landing in Idaho. Please fasten your seat belts, and cabin crew prepare for landing.”

The flight attendants scrambled to collect drinks and glasses from first class and make sure everyone else’s seat backs and tray tables had been returned to the upright and locked positions. All while politely responding to the passengers' inquiries and outrage.

As soon as they had landed and been allowed to leave the plane, Nia, seasoned traveller, ace problem solver and realist that she was, had run to the car rental desk while other passengers were still standing around confused. Her quick thinking allowed them to get one of the last available cars. “Don’t worry,” she had reassured Debra during their short wait in line, “if there is a car left on the lot, we are getting it. They’d have to kill me to keep us from Vegas.” Soon the two women were driving on unfamiliar roads in a downpour when two words changed their lives forever.

Lights and a jarring alarm from her cell had Debra grabbing her phone and reading aloud: “Incoming missiles.”

Then there was the light, bright enough to pierce the night and the canopy of trees. The car stalled and the lights died. They sat stunned for several long seconds, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. Neither wanted to say anything, as if talking would make it real. Then Debra broke the silence, “We need to find shelter.” Jumping out of the car, pulling her flashlight out of her purse, she ran to the driver’s door.

Nia started to question her, there wasn’t time. Debra grabbed her hand and pulled Nia along with her. Ahead, beyond the reach of their light, they saw faint beams of light cross the road. Debra turned off her own flashlight and tried to lead Nia into the trees, hushing the woman again. She could not explain why those lights drove such fear into her heart, but they did. Call it second sense, maternal instinct, gut feelings, it didn’t matter what it was, she was afraid. Something primal told her those lights meant danger.

Nia stopped suddenly, then it was her turn to pull Debra as she started towards the lights and the mutter of men’s voices.

“No, Nia, it’s not safe. We don’t know who they are or what their intentions are. We are better off to hide until we can do an assessment of our surroundings.” Debra was unaware she had begun to quote one of her own books, but Nia caught on right away.

“Enough!” she hissed, “you take that crap you write too seriously. This isn’t some end of the world nonsense, and those men aren’t evil monsters. Our battery just died and I am going to ask those men for help.”

“No,” Debra whispered.

Nia walked towards the men calling out to them; Debra eased backwards. The beams from their flashlights showed there were at least three of them. When Debra felt her foot leave the pavement, she turned and ran in among the trees. She was fast, fast enough to get a good head start, but not fast enough to not hear the report of the bullets or the wet thud of the body hitting the pavement. She ran faster.

Now she sat alone in a damp hole under a rock, waiting to see if the men would return. She used her sleeve to dry her leaky eyes and then ran it across her dripping nose. Time to take inventory and make a plan. Checking her pants pockets she found a stick of chewing gum and some papers. Her coat yielded a granola bar, a mylar blanket, bic lighter, and the TV remote control (how the hell did that get in there?)

It had been several, long, agonizing minutes, but the men had not returned. Debra hoped they had moved on but wasn’t willing to risk leaving her sanctuary just yet. Instead she curled up in the blanket on the ground, hoping it would keep her dry, if not warm, until morning. Then she would have to face the two hundred plus mile hike home.

Sleep was not the respite she hoped for, each time she reached that elusive state, her mind ran a double bill featuring the heartbreaking Family Lost and the impossibly graphic Death of An Agent.

Awake, she chided herself, her plans were all for naught; she was stranded with no supplies, no weapons, she could think of nothing to save herself, no use for the few resources she had. Clicking on the flashlight, she discovered the batteries were weak, switching the ones from the remote she found they were dead. She flicked the Bic, looked again at her meager supplies and cried. The fable of the grasshopper and the ant came to mind; she had believed herself the ant but was, in fact, the grasshopper.

Outside, the voices of the men returned. In her head a voice kept quoting, “The best laid plans of mice and men…”

Debra wept.

Outside large flakes of snow began to fall. The storm that had forced her plane to land had caught her once again.