The Morning Star: The Rocheport Saga, #1

1

MAY 3RD

THE FIRST YEAR AFTER THAT DAY

Today, I killed a man and a woman. I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. It was me or them. This is how it is now. How it has been for not quite eight months. Everyone on his or her own. The quick or the dead. It wasn’t how it used to be, though. We complained about the old days. Now anyone who remains would do anything to return to even the worst of the old days. But they are gone and will not return for a very long time. Maybe never.

I’m driving on I-35, heading south from Minneapolis. There are no cars on the road, although there are plenty off the road. Where they ended up when their drivers took sick and died.

At times I’ve had to stop and siphon gas from these steel, glass, and plastic crypts. I do my best not to look inside. I’m very thankful for tinted glass.

The freeway is still in decent condition. Although I’m amazed at what Nature has reclaimed in seven and a half months. I suppose in another year or two some of the roads may not be recognizable as roads.

Since That Day you know how things have been. I think you understand I’m not a cold-blooded killer. Self-defense, really. I told them straight up the store was mine. I had claimed it. They could have it when I moved on. But they didn’t want to wait. He raised his hunting rifle (a beat-up Ruger Hawkeye in .257 Roberts) and I let him have it with the Thompson. Then the woman charged me, waving her machete. Again the Thompson. I took the rifle and the ammo belt he was wearing. I have no idea where they lived. I was just passing through.

Perhaps the store was theirs, and I was the intruder. Perhaps. But if that was the case, they had left the place. Making it fair game for anybody. That’s how it is these days. If you claim something and want to keep it, you don’t leave it. Most of the time, it’s not a problem. There’s just too few of us left. But you know all this. No sense in me telling you what’s common knowledge.

You may find yourself asking, Why am I heading south on I-35? Good question. Not sure I know myself. Winter is perhaps a good enough reason as any. This past one was a bitch. Snow and more snow and still more snow. But the worst was the cold. No central heating. Even huddled around a fire, your backside became an icicle. And in six months, Old Man Winter will be back and the folks in the Northland will once again be freezing their asses off. I don’t want to put up with another winter. The constant struggle to stay warm. The smoke from your fire, a dead giveaway. And as you know, you don’t want any dead giveaways.

South. Some place warmer in the winter. Maybe southern Missouri or northern Arkansas. Maybe even Texas. For that matter, maybe Mexico. They won’t be speaking English, but there can’t be any more people there than here.

Six, seven billion people one day and a few dozen the next. Of course there hasn’t been a census, but I’d say for every hundred only two or three made it through That Day alive and maybe half of them made it through the crazy time and the winter. I’m one of the unlucky ones. I lived. But you know I made it because I’m writing this.

For years, the Doomsdayers kept saying the world is coming to an end. Too many people. Too few resources. Too much sin. I’m not aware of Elijah, Jesus, or the Mahdi returning. Then again, they may have returned some place other than the former U.S. of A. In which case they haven’t bothered to let us know here.

What I do know is on the morning of the seventeenth of September, I woke up to a world with a whole lot of dead people. With very few exceptions, all I saw were dead people.

The unfortunate episode with which I began today’s entry took place in Osceola, Iowa. At the moment, I’m on the outskirts of Kansas City, Missouri. Time to make a decision. Missouri? Or do I keep on 35 and follow it straight to Texas? Maybe even go on to Monterrey or Saltillo. South Padre Island might be nice. I think Texas. A big state and lots of possibilities. I’ll have to make it through the KC metro area. Hopefully, whoever is here will leave me alone.

The metro area is a big place. Once over two million. Now, in the same space, thirty thousand unlucky souls tops — and probably less. All of them fighting to survive and knowing damn little how to do it. Was the winter here as bad as up north? If it was, a lot died. No way of me really knowing. And then, if they survived the weather, did they survive the gangs? The turf wars?

Small groups and solitaries, like me, usually don’t survive long in a metro area. At least they didn’t in Minneapolis or St. Paul. They’re either exterminated or absorbed by the big urban gangs. I’m figuring KC is no different from the Twin Cities.

How have I managed these nearly eight months? Luck, I guess. At least in part. Some smarts. Some preparation for a breakdown in the government, law and order. But mostly luck and no heroics. Run away and live to see another day.

I’m also a damn good shot. I like shooting. All the target practice I did helped. Didn’t prep me for actually killing somebody. But it helped my aim. Luck, accuracy, and no heroics. Not that I see much good in surviving. Who’d want to live in this brave new world? No one with any sense. Guess there’s a lot of us running around with no sense. Just the goddamn instinct to survive.

Yet, if a bunch of like-minded people got together and worked together, all the information to recreate what we lost is there. We just need to learn the skills and rebuild. The scary part is in finding a group of like-minded people.

Thus far, the groups I’ve seen don’t care too much about rebuilding. Just hoarding what they can find, so they have it and you don’t.

Here I am, parked on the freeway just outside the metro area. Thirty thousand crazies might be out and about, especially during the day. I’ve plenty of gas. I can drive through without stopping. Nighttime, though, is probably better. Circling around the metro even better, rather than drive through the cesspool.

It’s all a gamble. Which you already know. But the odds of gang activity during the daylight are greater than at night. When the electricity died, we came to realize very quickly how dark the night is and why our ancestors found it so frightening. The old pattern of living by the sun has returned.

Thanks for listening. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll smoke my pipe and wait for the dark. When night comes, I’ll start the van and swing wide of the metro. Luck, please be a lady tonight.

2

MAY 4TH

Luck was a lady. I’m in a quaint little town south of KC. Hermanville, I believe the name is. Once upon a time, twelve hundred souls lived here, if I remember the number on the sign correctly. Now nobody. The town is vacant. I have the whole place to myself.

Mason’s Bed and Breakfast is where I’m hanging out for now. The bed in this room feels pretty comfy. Hopefully, I’ll have a good night’s sleep. My Dietz lantern provides enough light. Curtains are drawn and shades pulled. Don’t want to advertise I’m here. Just in case someone shows up. Somebody not inclined to share.

My early warning system is my pair of Sussex Spaniels. Bob and Bobbi. Good companions. I’m glad That Day didn’t take them. They also make good watchdogs, barking at any sound they don’t recognize. Sometimes they’re too good, tending to bark at everything. Which in our situation is not always a good thing. They’re not Rottweilers or Dobermans. I don’t need a man-killer. Just sensitive ears to hear what I can’t.

Bob and Bobbi have food and water. In a little while, I’ll take them outside for their night duty and then we’ll hit the hay. In the meantime, I’ll have a pipe and study maps. I suppose the day will come when there’s no pipe tobacco or tea left. Be a damn dull world with no tobacco or tea.

In a way, nights like this, when you’re pretty certain no one is around and you have at least the illusion you can relax, I dread. The part of my mind that’s always looking for something to stew about, to gnaw on like a bone, begins to dredge up That Day and the aftermath. I hate it. I’d like to forget the whole thing. Somehow, I’d like to rip out the part of my brain where those memories are stored. Unfortunately, that bit of mercy the good Lord won’t visit upon me or any of us.

I’ve written out the details so many times and so many times thrown the writing away. What good does it do? It happened, and now it is gone and here we are. The all-day rain which had an odd oily, slippery feel to it. The penetrating, faintly sulfurous odor that reached everywhere. The nausea. The vertigo. The hallucinations. The death. And then the gradually unfolding horror of how much death. The death that came from nowhere and then the death we began inflicting on each other.

The pain is still very real of Freya’s death. The sobbing as I dug a hole and put her in it. The pain is still very real of not knowing the fate of my step-daughter and my parents and siblings, my aunts and uncles, my friends and co-workers.

To this day, I don’t know what happened to them and can only assume they died. If they survived and are still alive, we aren’t aware of the other. I feel such a deep sadness not knowing. Maybe it is my fault. I didn’t look for them. I went into survival mode. I spent every moment I could raiding every store I could find for the things to guarantee my long-term survival.

Others looked. A few found who they were looking for. Usually dead. But not always. I have only myself to blame for my not knowing. My excuse is those first few days were critical. The hoarders were working overtime to get what they could. Then sell the stuff at a premium, if sell it at all. Some died when they didn’t sell. Some died trying to defend their hoards. The winter was one of blood.

Most had no clue. They thought the worst had happened. Little did they know the worst was just beginning. Then the lights went out. I’ve been out in the country away from the city and felt the night in all of its darkness. Anyone who has does not have to wonder why primal man feared the darkness and the forest.

When the electricity failed, I think that was the most difficult for those who still maintained a modicum of hope. No cell phones. No TV. No radio. No internet. No power to run the gas pump to fill your car. No lights. No electronic gadgets. No microwaves. No hot water. No water at all, at least from the tap. No heat. And winter was coming. Those of us who knew something of survival, even we were scared to death.

I never carried a gun before. Now I’m never without one. I never killed anything bigger than a bug before. Now, I kill people. I used to be a heavy sleeper. Now, I hardly sleep. I was never afraid. Now, I’m never without fear.

We, in the neighborhood, who survived, made an attempt to build a little community. We made an attempt to support each other and to keep on going. To try to hold on to a bit of the civilization ripped from us. We buried our dead and scavenged for food and water. We pooled our skills, or the lack thereof. A dozen of us at first and then there were two dozen. Eight men, six women, and fourteen kids. I suppose the seventeen-year-old could’ve been considered an adult. Doesn’t matter. He didn’t last long. He didn’t know anything other than computer games and wouldn’t take orders. Got killed in a firefight with a gang trying to take our goods and women.

Not much time passed and the adults began pairing up. They were all in their twenties and thirties, save for me. Which was all right. I didn’t need a partner then. And I had Bob and Bobbi.

The problem with our group was nobody wanted to follow orders and nobody wanted to lead. At least lead responsibly. I stayed with them until early November and then said to hell with it and left. I stayed in the area for a while. Around Thanksgiving, a gang raid, probably from Saint Paul, did them in. Men and kids were killed. The women and older girls were carted off. And that was that.

I moved around until the snow and cold in December made travel pretty much impossible. There was some safety in the cold and snow. If I couldn’t drive around, pretty much no one else could either.

When the snow sufficiently melted in the spring, I hit the road looking for a place I can call home. Maybe I’ll find it in Texas. Maybe not. As long as I can find gas, I can keep on driving until I find my Shangri-La or die trying. I’ve been able to make it this far, maybe because I’m just old enough to have experienced life before the pixel age. A shame to see people younger and stronger than I am die because they don’t know how anything works. They don’t know how to live outside of their iPods and Blackberries. The gadgets are smart and the users are dumb. A pity what our Western technology has done to eviscerate humans.

Enough. Enough chewing on the past. Time to let Bob and Bobbi do their business and then hit the hay. Hopefully tomorrow will be a good day.

3

MAY 5TH

I slept well, thank you. I feel kind of dumb talking to a blank book, but what the hell. Any port in a storm.

Reminds me of the old Twilight Zone episode where the guy on the desert planet penal colony was given a gynoid for company. In the end, his loneliness had him believing she was a real woman. Hope I don’t start thinking this book is breathing.

The night passed without major disturbance. A pack of dogs came through, which set off Bob and Bobbi. Once I got them quieted down, the dogs left and we could get back to sleep.

A half-hour after sunrise, I got up and rummaged around in the kitchen. Found some oatmeal and about a third of a box of tea bags. A real treat that. Even found about a third of a fifty-pound bag of dog food. I like it when I don’t have to break into my food stores.

Where the people were or their dog, I couldn’t say. If they survived, they must’ve just up and left. But why not take these comestibles with them? Unless they left in a hurry. Or maybe they wandered off during the sickness. Or maybe they were out looking for stuff and didn’t make it back. Who knows?

The problem this morning wasn’t food, but water. No electricity, no water from the well. I took a look around and finally found the wellhead, which someone before me had pried off. There was a bucket and line. Open wellhead, though, means the water could be contaminated. I filled my five-gallon carboy and dropped in chlorine tablets. I filled a couple of pots from the B and B and several other containers. Enough for me to cook with and wash up.

There was a gas stove in the kitchen, but the propane tank must’ve been empty because there was no gas when I turned the knob. I built a fire to boil the water. I hate washing with cold water. Just hate it. Besides, I needed to sanitize it anyway. The hot tea was a real luxury. All-in-all, a good start to my day.

I-35 is empty. Not a single car on it, other than mine. Moving, that is. I’m jotting these notes while driving. Have no traffic to worry about. I have the cruise on. My Ford van, with all my worldly possessions, is tooling down the highway at sixty. Which is a good, manageable speed.

I still find myself surprised at an empty freeway. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. But I’m not. Guess some expectations just linger longer than others. Kind of weird, in a way. Just like every now and then, I turn on the radio. Of course, there is nothing there. The air waves are silent.

Life is down to the basics. Food, clothing, shelter, protection. Guns and ammo are prized possessions, when you find them.

Back there in Hermanville, I picked up a couple rifles and handguns and boxes of ammo. Why they were still there is a mystery. They are the first to go. Always. Guns, ammo, food, water, and matches are perhaps the most valuable commodities.

Money is worthless. The paper burns, which comes in handy. But the coins are just scrap metal. Those who have gold or silver or precious stones are lucky. Someday they might have real value.

Right now, though, you can’t eat them or protect yourself from wild dogs with them. You can wear them, but they don’t keep you warm. Still, I have some for the day when once again they have value. They just aren’t my focal point.

Now take that Ruger, chambered in .257 Roberts, or the .40 caliber H&K I found in Hermanville, those weapons and ammo are more valuable than piles of gold. Pretty tough to stop a rabid ‘coon with a Canadian Maple Leaf.

We are down to the basics. Although I still find myself flipping the occasional electric switch.

Those who won’t shoot first, basically barter. Often in a group, it’s the I owe you one system. I suppose I’m singing to the choir. You know all this. Just lonely, I guess. Kinda like talking to myself. Just rambling on.

Then again, maybe we who survived are all a little nuts. Once in a while, a generous soul will just give you something. Not too often. More likely try to steal something. But generosity does happen.

One night I happened upon a small group. I gave them some matches for a meal and the pleasure of