Chapter 1: Josella

As he approached the curve in the north Georgia trail, it narrowed but still took up much of the space between the cliff face on his left and the knee-deep, swift-flowing creek to his right. He rounded the stark face of the cliff, and in the early morning light, he saw rubble and even a small boulder in his path. His eyes followed the swath of rubble over the narrow grassy strip and into the creek where a maroon minivan, nose dented, lay on its side. He glanced up, and observed part of the narrow road’s guardrail dangling and a slash - the source of the debris now in front of him.

The van did not look like it had tumbled and was facing downstream, the direction of his travels. It had obviously been there for some time. He had started out before dawn, walking the path below and paralleling the road. Mishka hadn’t heard any vehicles pass above him - certainly no crash. It was still close enough to daybreak that most vehicles would have their headlights on, but the van’s headlights were off, meaning a short or a dead battery. Even so, the vehicle might have been traveling in the opposite direction, but that wasn’t a current concern.

Against his better judgment, he took out his phone and turned it on to dial 911. As he expected, there was no answer to the repeated rings, so he sighed and turned it off to conserve the battery. He placed the phone in his pack, and scrambled around the rubble and down the grassy bank next to the vehicle. He looked for an oil or gasoline slick, but the lack of one told little about the timing of the wreck.

Dropping his pack on the ground, he removed his boots and stepped into the icy running water. He struggled to hoist himself up onto the side of the van, but he couldn’t get a grip. He retrieved his hatchet from his pack and waded to the front of the vehicle, the cold water and pebbled creek bottom hurting his feet. The windshield had significant cracks and a corner had popped loose from the frame. Looking through, he could clearly see two dead figures in front and the deflated airbags hanging limp.

The woman’s blonde head was under the water. She had likely drowned, but the cause of the driver’s death was not obvious. His unblinking, sightless eyes looked straight ahead. The early morning light shone though the cracked windshield and side windows, and through his own reflection, a third figure was barely visible in the seat behind the driver. Head lolling, the body hung like a rag doll, supported only by a seatbelt. He thought he saw movement!

Groaning, he first tried to insert the hatchet blade and twist to pry the windshield loose. Without the correct tools and sufficient leverage, he had no success. Taking a deep breath, he backhanded his hatchet, and with difficulty, he finally cleared most of the fractured glass from the windshield. The laminated glass was tough, and he carefully worked around the edges so he could climb through without cutting himself.

Panting from the effort, he paused to take a breather, then returned the hatchet to its holster and hooked it to his belt. He stepped carefully through the opening and wedged his left foot against the passenger door. Crouching, he reached with his right hand to steady himself with the top of the driver’s headrest. He was forced to step on the side of the woman’s seat, but now he could crawl though the two front seats to examine the third passenger.

Her lips were blue, and her breathing was shallow. Having found an unexpected survivor, his actions became more urgent. Thankfully, the rearmost seats were down, and the baggage was piled against the passenger side of the vehicle. Crawling through, he lay on the mess, reached between his legs to release the door’s catch, and heaved with his legs to push the cargo door against the stream’s current. Assisted by the doors pneumatics, he achieved his objective, and the door opened.

He pulled the release on the empty seat next to the girl ... woman? When the seat back tilted forward, he crawled through, released her belt, and dragged her back and out through the water and onto the bank. He needed to get her warmed - fast!

He went to his pack, grabbed the used but dry towel stowed on top, and unrolled his down-filled sleeping bag. Moving her downstream to a wider patch of grass, he stripped the girl - she had nice breasts and a blond landing strip, maybe young, but definitely a woman - and dried her quickly. He rolled her into his sleeping bag, zipped her in, and returned to his pack. He fired up his Sterno camping stove and set a pot of water on it to heat. He placed his canteen, a plastic container with cocoa mix and dried soups, eating utensils, and cup next to the stove. Then shivering from the wet and cold, he returned to the van and hauled the luggage out and away from the creek for future need.

He stripped, dried, crawled into his sleeping bag, and pulled his pack to use as a pillow. Exhausted and cold, he drew the still shivering woman into the curve of his body, hugged her to him so they could share warmth, and zipped the bag closed again. He had not examined her for injuries, and his last thought before sleep overtook him was the hope he wouldn’t wake to find her dead.

He woke to the muffled sound of weeping and the feel of a slight body trembling in his arms. At least it was a warmer if still chilly body!

“Shhh,” he said quietly, “I’m pretty sure you’ll be okay. My name is Mishka Novik.”

“They’re both dead, aren’t they!” she stated rather than asked.

He swallowed, hugging her tight before answering, “I have to tell you they are, and you were close to freezing. You’re lucky to have survived.”

She ignored her lack of clothing and wiggled around in the tight fitting sleeping bag to face him. “Thank you,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, her tears dampening his face. Her eyes were glacier-crystal-blue with flecks of gold. In that moment, he was smitten.

“My name is Jo,” she told him. “Well, Josella Agatha Richards, actually. I tried to ditch that name pretty early with ‘Jo’. The short hair helped when I started school, but my folks were not pleased that I rejected their chosen names for a tomboy’s.” She pointed to the pink hair that, now almost dry, looked like it just might be in a pixie cut. “Now I want to go back to Josella to honor Mom and Dad.”

She seemed resilient, Mishka gave her that, but then resiliency would be a major survival asset if the world were now as screwed up as it appeared.

He glanced at his pot of simmering water. The water level was down quite a bit, so they must have slept an hour or more. He was lucky the pot hadn’t boiled dry. “I’ve got the makings for soup or hot chocolate - Ghirardelli if it matters. I also have the better part of a quart of Booker’s Bourbon if that would help. It’s my all-purpose analgesic and water treatment, plus I like the taste.” He hesitated, “I only have utensils for one - I was hiking alone and wasn’t expecting company - so you’ll have to decide if you want to share.”

“Chocolate, please,” she answered.

Unless they dressed, drinking could be problematic. He pulled his pack over and removed some clothes. They were dirty but dry. He exited the sleeping bag, dressed, prepared a cup of chocolate, handed it to her, and asked, “Which of the bags is yours? I can bring it over, and we can see if anything is dry enough to wear.”

“The pink one”, she whispered, looking down and coloring slightly. He left her to her chocolate and pulled her bag from the pile on the bank. Some level of luck continued to be with the young woman. Her suitcase had been on the driver’s side, and when the minivan landed on the passenger side, her bag was on top of the others, out of the water. Josella had dry clothes.

He picked out what he thought might be appropriate, passed them to her and took the near empty cup. He turned his back as he poured the remaining chocolate. While she dressed, Mishka shut the lid on the Sterno can to conserve his limited fuel and set the can aside to pack when it had cooled. There was dry wood nearby, so he gathered enough and built a small fire.

Dressed in jeans, hiking boots, a flannel shirt, and a down filled vest; Josella sat beside Mishka on a convenient outcropping. They passed the mug with the last of the chocolate back and forth while an open can of stew, retrieved from the van, heated on a flat rock next to the fire. The morning wasn’t particularly cold, but with the residual chill from their ordeal, both welcomed the warmth of the crackling fire as it built up.

For a time, they were quiet, thinking about the recent events and assessing each other. Josella saw a fit, blond young man, in need of a shave and haircut. He was competent, confident, and acted decisively. She was very grateful for those traits. Mishka didn’t appear much older than she was, and though he wasn’t standout handsome, he placed well within her standards. She was particularly grateful for his attentive behavior and concern for her wellbeing.

Mishka, already attracted to the petite young woman, tried to assess her age and failed - even having seen her body. He was not an experienced judge of women’s ages, and he thought she could be anywhere from early teens to early twenties. Oh, but she was cute, and those beautiful blue eyes had come alive. The clothes in her suitcase were mostly practical, and her blush at the pink suitcase may also have said something about her.

After a companionable silence, they started to compare notes.

Josella explained that her father had been taking the family to a friend’s isolated vacation retreat. She didn’t know its exact location, but knew it was at least a hundred miles further on. “Just after midnight, Dad made a point of telling us that we only had about three more hours to go. We went off the road only a few minutes later. I’m not sure what happened. It was dark, and suddenly we were flying through the air. I think I hit my head on the window, because I don’t remember anything until I woke naked and cuddled in your arms.”

“I knew, when I woke up, that I wasn’t in a regular bed or a hospital bed, and that you were a stranger. Your hands weren’t meaty enough to be my dad’s, and Mom wouldn’t be poking me with her woody.” She saw his embarrassment and leaned in, kissing him gently on the cheek again. “It speaks volumes. You could have done anything you wanted, but you didn’t. Now you’re concerned about a woody...”

“I...” He began to protest.

“Shh! There’s no sense arguing,” she shushed him. “You could have passed us by. You could have abused me and still left me. Instead, you risked your life to save mine. Now here we are, still alone, on our own, in the wilderness, and you’re giving me the last of your chocolate and sharing your supplies. Put it all together, and that’s how I know I can trust you.”

“It’s hardly the wilderness. We’re only yards from a road.”

“Don’t change the topic.” She giggled. “YOU were a good Samaritan, willing to risk yourself to rescue someone you didn’t know. Plus, you are knowledgeable enough to know what to do to save someone near death and even offered solace. I ... can’t thank you enough.”

He glanced down, taking the moment to remain quiet. “It was the least I could do, given the circumstances.”

He was clearly feeling awkward listening to her praise, so she went back to telling her story. Her family had just begun a vacation in a beach house rental when people started dying. They woke the first morning to news of the mass deaths all over the world. Having just stocked enough groceries for two weeks, they stayed in the house rather than risking exposure. They ventured out late that night, but when they saw bodies in the streets and on the beach, their excursion halted and was not resumed. At some point during their second day, the radio and TV stations went off the air, cable channels ceased live programming, and the power failed.

No friends or family answered their anxious phone calls. They had no way of knowing what had caused the deaths - plague, death ray, or whatever? They were strangers there. Soon, bodies were going to stink. It was clear that they needed to leave, and home was a city that, except for not being complete strangers, was likely to hold similar problems.

Without power, the remaining food would soon spoil. The frozen items were packed into their cooler with perishables on top, and the icemaker’s bucket emptied on top of that. They headed out to a destination several hundred miles away.

Josella had a thought, “You know, my father had a concealed carry permit, and his .38 revolver was in the console between the front seats. We also stopped at a gun show on the way to the beach, and he bought a new hunting rifle. It was by my seat on the floor.” She stopped, before continuing, “I’m not much with a handgun, but I’ve shot competition with a rifle. We should probably find both weapons and take them with us just in case...”

“I’m not exactly sure why,” she continued, “but we avoided Interstates - I would have thought they’d get us there faster. I understand why we stayed away from cities and towns. We had to drive around some wrecks and pile-ups blocking roads and once, a bridge, but there were surprisingly few. Dad kept having Mom reprogram the GPS. Sometimes we saw lights at gas stations, and we stopped at several. Dad was cagey and always turned off the car lights and sorta snuck up to look them over.”

“Even if no one was there, that we could tell, Dad didn’t go inside. He was able to fill up using his credit card at the pump and only let us use the restrooms. Once, there was a dead woman with a little kid in her arms. She was clutching the little one and had evidently died while peeing. I got sick and puked. We had to go off into the bushes to do our business.”

“Yesterday, just before dark he stopped. We were low on water and food, so he went inside and brought out several cases of water and a carton of canned foods and chips. They were on the seat next to me and are probably underwater now.”

“That was our last stop before we went off the road. We had been in our van over twenty-four hours except for getting out for gas and potty breaks. Dad pulled off to sleep once, but it was in the van and wasn’t very long. Dad refused to let Mom drive - and certainly not me. We’ll never know, but he might have gone to sleep at the wheel or he might have been infected with the plague at that last stop.” Her eyes widened and she gasped, backing away. “I may have exposed you! I’m sorry!”