Eliot Strange and the Prince of the Resistance

3) Retreat

We don't really have a plan, but we know we can't stay here. We have to find somewhere to do what my dad calls "lick our wounds and regroup." We head towards Dobson, the county seat, that lies less than fifteen miles from Mount Airy. Some of our younger, just-joined-up fighters, Marla and Tommy, have homes there. Dobson is intersected by interstate 77 that runs North and South. Our temporary plan is to decide where to go when we get there. We'll go as far away, as fast as we can, to get out of the way of the One Nation Army - that is our plan.

There's even some talk amongst the original Resistance fighters of hitting 40 West and heading towards Asheville.

"Maybe, we can catch the babies," says Leia a leader in the Resistance.

A few days ago we sent the children with some older adults towards the best idea of safety left - refuge camps in the mountains near UNC Asheville and Western Carolina University. We heard the college students and Red Cross were taking in all kids.

"That sounds like a great idea," says an older lady. "I miss those kids."

"We got to stay and fight," says Tommy. "We got them on the run."

Funny, it feels like we are the ones running now, but Tommy is young and eager to keep fighting. Victory makes the young overconfident and stupid. I am more worried about keeping Prince Torin safe, than risking his life by looking for another fight.

It takes us almost half the morning to get far enough out of town for me to feel safe. Our beat-up vehicles are running better than they look, but the roads between Mount Airy and Dobson are littered with car wrecks and abandoned household items and the occasional group of refuges who don't even bother asking for a ride.

My best friend in the world, Steven, is with us, and we are following the rules he made for us. First, help others and second, leave no man behind. We offer rides to the walking, half-starved refugees. No one takes us up on our offer. The people, walking like a hoard of silent zombies with no particular place to go, are beaten down and defeated and scared. No one knows who to trust now because even ordinary people look like soldiers these days. We smell of gunpowder and blood, so we are definitely soldiers.

These days, soldiers are something to avoid.

Finally, a group of ten heading the opposite way decide to turn around and ride along when we tell them what is happening ahead. One of them has some family in Dobson. They tell us what they have seen.

"We came from Pilot," says an older man named Bob. "It's on fire. That damn army set it on fire."

"The town or the mountain?" asks Marla.

"The mountain. I think they must have went to the top and set the knob on fire. Crazy bastards. Dry as it is, it's gonna look like California around here before long."

There is silence for a few seconds. Like the moment of silence we used to have for school shooting victims. The moment of silence to respect the recently departed. We all know what this means. California has been on fire since the day the world ended. The last we heard, it is still burning. We are reminded of this everyday because of the constant haze that at first made me think my vision was blurry. I am used to it now. Numb. The country is burning and burning for weeks that become months. If this keeps up, they'll be nothing left.

Sure enough, when we round a bend we have a view of Pilot Mountain. The mountain is a landmark and a familiar site, and there are many places it can be seen from all over the county. We can't see the knob now because it is covered in what looks like fog, but we know now is rolling, thick smoke from the fire. The smell assaults us, and I am reminded of sitting too close to a campfire.

"Maybe it will rain soon," says Marla hopefully as she looks up to the sky. "Kind of feels like it, and my gramma says you can tell by the way the leaves turn up."

Who knows these days because there's no daily weather report anymore. A girl can't pick out her outfit in the morning before she heads off to class. A lot of things we have taken for granted are gone now, including predictions based on science. We are living in the old-timers days. Thank goodness some of them are still around, and some of them taught us.

"That's true Marla," I say. "My dad taught me that. Also, clouds are low and casting shadows, and the dew stayed around this morning. Rain for sure in the next twenty-four hours."

Bob looks up at the clouds and says, "Good. We need it. Damn, crazy bastards."

"Damn, crazy bastards," says Cindy Lou who I have noticed is prone to repeat what she hears. I make a mental note to myself to watch my potty mouth. Cindy is an adult with a child's mind, and we all need to remember that.

Torin must have been thinking the same thing because he says, "Yes, they are crazy, Cindy Lou, but we need to watch our language around the children."

"I'm sorry," says Cindy. "Sorry, Tommy, sorry Marla, sorry Steven. I would say sorry to you too Eliot, but you cuss worse than Popeye the sailor man."

"I'll try to do better," I say sarcastically because I don't appreciate being lumped in with the kids.

Torin gives me a look that feels judgmental. Maybe, I am imagining it, but he has been quiet and sort of standoffish this morning. Also, he looks a little pale. It has only been days since I thought he might die from a gunshot wound. I guess it has all taken its toll. He's been through a lot, we all have, and we need to rest. But, there is no rest when you are running for your life.

"What kind of people burn something so beautiful? Trying to scare us, I guess," says Bob who adds, "Too late." He tips his hat to Cindy, "Sorry bout the language, ma'am."

"It's ok," she says, "I'm not a kid. I'm a grown ass woman. Oops, sorry Tommy. Sorry Steven. Sorry Marla. Sorry Eliot, even though you cuss too damn much."

Cindy gives me a hug. "We are going to try to do better Eliot," she whispers to me, "for the kids."

We drop the beaten-down group with Bob off at Turkey Ford Road, but they soon join back up with us with an explanation that "It's all gone."

We don't know what is all gone - people, the house, the supplies - but we can tell from the way the women are crying that something important is "all gone".

"We'll just join up with y'all. Join the fight, if that's all right. Time to make a stand, I guess," says Bob who is practically carrying two of the distraught women.

Torin nods to confirm and says, "Sure, we could use the help."

He's being way too kind because this group of crying women and older men look like more of a liability than any kind of possible help. I think back to what my dad's rules of survival are - stay away from groups, family first, no crying. We are breaking all his rules.

I know my dad, a world famous survivalist, was a fanatic, but he was right about a lot of things, including what was coming - the end of the world. 

If we want to survive, maybe we need to start listening to some of dad's rules.