Chapter 6: Beyond the Mountain

April 10, 2027

It took a few more weeks for spring to nudge away winter. The days were slowly getting longer, and much of their past melted away with the snow. Even the small waterfall at the bathing pool began flowing again making gurgling sounds, and on sunny mornings, Canadian geese were seen flying northward in cunning wedges that split the air, announcing with their trumpeting honks that spring was not far behind and the world was awakening into itself again.

However, the effects of winter were not over yet, and Clark understood the urgency to make preparations to descend the mountain before the end of the month in search of food. By then the snow should have retreated and the weather would be better to journey forth.

He explained to the girls it was critical for him to conserve his energy. For the most part, they romantically cuddled each other in bed and talked themselves to sleep.

Clark’s first priority was to check out the other deserted houses further down the road from the farmhouse for food. He didn’t expect to find much. In the cellar of the farmhouse only a few jars of pears, pickles and red beets remained. No one cared for red beets.

His other goal was to survey the field next to the apple orchard and make plans to prepare the soil to plant the corn and sunflowers seeds they had saved. He also wanted to spade sections in the vegetable garden by the house to plant the seedling potatoes.

April 15, 2027

It was a bright sunny morning when he thought it was safe to embark on his mission. The path down the mountain was still covered in patches of snow trying valiantly to preserve its virginity from the sun’s burning passion. Slicks of mud made it difficult in some spots. However, as he neared the gravel road, the ground was clear of snow and ice. He could hear the birds chirping confidently; the sun was strong and bright, and tiny buds were sprouting on trees. These were definitive signs that spring had arrived, temperatures were getting warmer, and the earth was abuzz with the music of living things. For millions of years, this was the cycle of life, of rebirth and resurrection.

He stopped at the farmhouse toolshed to get a crowbar and other break-in tools before making his way down to the beginning of the gravel road. He wanted to start with the houses closest to the highway and work his way back to the farmhouse.

Lawns and back yards were overgrown with grass from the previous year, and tall weeds were encroaching on driveways. Some houses already showed vines trying to creep their way up along the outside walls. A few windows were cracked either from thermal stress or structural shifts.

He walked up the short driveway of the first house facing the county highway and made his way to the front porch, making sure there was nothing in the tall grass that could trip him up. It was a one-story country-style home with a one-car garage, creamy white vinyl siding and barn-red shutters on the front windows. The garage was closed. As he came closer to the porch, he found shotgun shell casings littering the dusty floor. Unsure whether it was safe to check the doors, Clark decided to abort his search and backtrack to the next house.

Beyond the back yard of the second house was a large grazing area fenced in with white cross rail boards. A small shed stood in one of the corners and housed a horse trailer covered with a tarp. The property looked abandoned. The doors to the house were already broken open and he had no trouble getting inside. The kitchen was a mess as looters had been through trying to find food. Hunger was hard to ignore. The place was empty.

Across the road, an elongated three-acre pasture surrounded by a four-rail horse fence stretched from the highway to the next house, a cozy ranch style structure. The air stirred, making a wind chime hanging from the attached drive-thru carport flirt with the breeze and play its melodious jingle, welcoming him as he walked up the gravel driveway. A double row of fruit trees about to burst into bloom ran alongside the chain link fence that separated the property from the next door neighbor. Clark remembered seeing the trees laden with pears and the fence supporting vines when they wearily plodded their way to the cabin the previous summer.

The back yard extended about 100 feet to a swiftly flowing six-foot wide stream full of vigor where the rippling water flashed silver in the sun. A small garden, overgrown with weeds from a year of neglect, had been laid out parallel to it. It was framed on one side by a red garden tool shed that looked like a miniature barn with its gambrel roof and white trim. On the other side stood a henhouse built onto the backside of a horse shed, both also painted red.

Clark was surprised to find the side door under the carport unlocked. He knocked a couple of times before giving the door a nudge and stepping into a tiny utility room. It led to the kitchen which had an abandoned smell, but appeared to have been spared by looters. It was tidy and tiled in varying shades of cheerful yellow. The white appliances stood in contrast to the oak cabinets. The hardwood floor was spotless as though it had been cleaned that morning.

Hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator was a calendar from a local hardware store. It was open to November 2025, a month before the catastrophic Collapse.

The refrigerator was unplugged and completely empty. Apparently, the occupants were snowbirds who had left for the winter with plans of returning the following spring. It clearly never happened.

A quick check of the cupboards revealed an assortment of food neatly organized and stacked, sending a message of “help yourself.” Clark saw himself as a thief of necessity and scooped up packets of dry soup, tuna, and powdered eggs; pasta, cans of corned beef and tomato sauces; tea, honey, flour, sugar, salt, and Jell-O gelatin, filling three plastic grocery bags. It was more than he had bargained for and he looked forward to slurping a bowl of jiggly strawberry flavored dessert.

To his surprise, the back door to the fourth house was not locked, and he stepped inside. He searched cupboards and rummaged through drawers, but the kitchen was barren of food. Most of the furniture was covered with bedsheets, a sign that the occupants came only during the warm summer months; the summer of 2025 probably being the last time while the world was still intact.

At the next house, he also found the door unlocked and he wondered why he even bothered to bring along his assortment of tools. The place was tidy, family photos hung, books and knickknacks remained on shelves, dishes still in cabinets, beds were made and clothes hung neatly. A green all-terrain vehicle covered in a layer of dust remained parked in the two-car garage. There was no food and it appeared that everyone had left in an insane hurry.

The front door at the last house, a small, white Cape Cod style structure was locked. The distance between it and the farmhouse was the length of two football fields. He went around to the backyard to look for a rear entrance. Set far back from the house and concealed among trees was a dull-green shipping container. Despite its size, it was unnoticeable from the road, yet its presence seemed odd and misplaced. The doors were shut with heavy duty locks.

He wasn’t interested in tools, if that’s what the container held, but food. He quickly turned his attention to the glass storm door under a weathered aluminum awning. Weeds surrounded the doorsteps as well as the bulkhead door to the basement. He reached for the storm door and pulled. It opened with a painful cry.

To his surprise, the inside door was cracked open by a few inches. A rubber boot kept it from closing completely. He gave it a push, but was met with resistance, bumping into something heavy behind it. A nasty odor of rotting flesh hung in the air. From his narrow perspective, the boot was connected to a corpse sprawled on the floor, its withered, moldering head lying in a dry puddle of blood, its boney hand clutching a shotgun. It didn’t look like the kitchen had been ransacked; cabinet doors and drawers were closed; no food containers or wrappings littered the counters or the floor.

He backed away and headed straight for the road. He was in no mood to check what happened and swore he would never return again.

Before heading back to the farmhouse, Clark turned onto a long, narrow gravel road half the length of a football field that cut through the middle of a six-acre meadow towards a stand of trees. There was no house in sight from the main road, but he decided to investigate anyway.

The road continued deep into the woods. The entrance was cut off by a horizontal beam set up as a traffic barrier with a blunt warning sign that read PRIVATE PROPERTY-KEEP OUT-NO TRESSPASSING, all in big capital letters for emphasis. Missing from the sign was Violators Will Be Prosecuted or Violators Will Be Shot, messages often seen on such remote properties. Clark shrugged and swung his legs over the beam.

The woods were silent. The road was carpeted with fallen, undisturbed leaves from the previous autumn, a tell-tale sign that no one had been through this part lately. The fear of being prosecuted or shot seemed unlikely.

As he emerged from the other end of the woods, a four-acre clearing came into view with a brickhouse set off to the left. The clearing showed signs that it was formerly an extensive lawn similar to a golf course. But, without regular maintenance, it was reverting to its original state as a hay field or a meadow for grazing livestock. Even a few tree saplings had set foot close to the edge of the woods.

The house was grandiose; a masterpiece that even Clark, the architect, had to admit was impressive. It was reminiscent of an old European manor with its multiple gabled roofs and rustic looking bricks used for the façade. The front double-doors were of heavy oak and looked impervious like something from a medieval castle. Clark sensed that the well-concealed house was built like a luxury retreat with an eye toward security. It was obvious to him that this piece of real estate belonged to someone wealthy, although to hide it in such a remote and secluded spot made little sense.

There were two garage doors at the far end of the house. Neither one budged when he tried to open them. Around the back, Clark found another entrance and a large covered deck accessed from the inside through sliding glass doors. The glass appeared to be shatterproof.

The doorknob to the back entrance didn’t turn, and the extra keyhole above it didn’t give him much optimism. Nevertheless, it was the best option to gain access to the house. With a putty knife Clark was able to slide the latch from the door frame, but there was nothing in his tool bag to retract the deadbolt.

Frustrated, he stepped back and rammed the door with his body several times until it flew open, ripping the deadbolt from the solid wood jamb, slamming the door against a wall; the momentum catapulting him headlong into the house. His shoulder ached from the punishment of battering the door.

He found himself in a utility room with washer, dryer, closet and storage space. It connected to the garage and the kitchen. The garage was empty except for the typical things one would find there like garden tools, ladder, and water hoses.

He made his way into the kitchen where a beautiful tile floor, polished granite countertops, and white, state of the art cabinets greeted him. It was spotless, devoid of the usual clutter found on kitchen countertops.

The place was breathtaking with a hardwood floor, magnificent furnishings and lavish decorations in the dining room. The living room was more like a great room, thickly carpeted, with a large freestanding stone fireplace that dominated the space and separated it from the dining area. A quick scan of the rest of the house revealed a large master bedroom with en suite bathroom, two other bedrooms, and a hallway bathroom. Everything was clean, and the smell of new-house still permeated the air as if the place had been recently completed, but not yet occupied.

Clark felt guilt-ridden for breaking and entering into such a luxuriously elegant, stylish residence. Whoever had lived here was indeed filthy rich and wasn’t apologetic about it.

The den off the living room was stunning like some British gentlemen’s club with a hardwood floor and paneled walls, furnished in a taste of grandeur, of luxury and pleasure. A scent of saddle wax hung in the air. Clark was especially impressed with the heavy mahogany office desk and leather executive chair confirming that someone of great importance owned this place. A thick leather couch, a mini-bar with swivel bar stools, and a competition sized pool table completed the opulence.

He looked through the drawers of the desk hoping to find some clues about the well-off owners. As he pawed through one of the larger drawers containing several thick files, he came across one labeled “Operation Mothball.” In it were documents and correspondence from the NRA-National Restoration Agency marked “Top Secret” and addressed to a W. F. Herschel. He had never heard of such an agency, and could very likely have been one of those politically unaccountable, and potentially rogue, units tucked deep within the government.

The earliest document was dated two months prior to the disruption of electricity and the collapse of society. It spoke about taking advantage of “a coming crisis” to implement a long-held position among academic and political elites to remove people from rural areas and small towns. There were references to “depopulation” of such areas and turning them into “wildland preserves.”

Subsequent correspondence showed that the policy was to return ninety-percent of the country to its indigenous state. Survivors in these areas were to be rounded up and relocated to “zones of cooperation” and “sustainable demographic biospheres” with the promise of food and protection. This Herschel fellow apparently was a government official and part of a scheme to remove people and bring them to “safe areas” in the larger cities.

Clark was confused and questioned himself how this agency knew in advance about the “coming crisis.” The timing of solar storms was unpredictable and it would have taken a mere eight minutes for gamma rays to reach the earth and cause massive electromagnetic destruction.

Unless...

The more he thought about the only other possibility of the cause, the more he became enraged. Far too many politicians and bureaucrats held the average man and woman in secret disdain. There were even some who advocated using punitive measures against people who did not believe in global warming and refused to give up their firearms. They vehemently believed they knew what was best for everyone else and had tricked the people into advancing their agenda. Such experiments always ended in bigger government and eventual failure, harming the very people the smart politicians said they wanted to help. Had they triggered a chain of events that led to death and destruction?

Clark shook his head, trying desperately to push away his growing anger and despair. The devastation appeared to be intentional and the purpose proved anything but a crime against humanity. Cramming people into tight spaces like rats was the surest and fastest way to spread chaos and disease. Clark threw the papers on the floor in disgust. Yet, he realized it was too late to think about anything else other than to survive and protect his family.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten much that morning. He returned to the kitchen. His hopes were quickly dashed when he found the cupboards bare.

He opened a side door hoping to find a large pantry stocked with food. Instead, it was the entrance down to the basement. Intrigued, Clark descended the steps to a partially lit, cool, dry space. His eyes filled as he surveyed the treasure it held. It looked like Fort Knox with numerous pallets stacked with buckets of survivalist food filled with unbelievable riches. He surmised that each pallet held a year’s supply for four people with three square meals per day.

There were seven pallets, which meant this person was ready, if necessary, to live with his family secluded for seven years or more. The house was comfortable, and with so much survival food, Clark could see himself and the girls move in and never want to leave.

“The selfish bastard,” Clark said to himself no longer feeling guilty of burglarizing the place.

On the top shelf of a well-stocked wine rack, Clark found several canisters of non-hybrid survivalist seeds. Each canister contained a variety of seeds to plant up to one acre of vegetables and grains, including corn, wheat and oats, enough to sustain a family of five for an entire year.

He grabbed a canister of seeds to study its contents and planting instructions. He was no connoisseur of wines and drank only on special occasions, but a rosé seemed a safe bet and grabbed a bottle, too.

Just when they were at their lowest, Clark’s discovery was truly a treasure trove. He had no misgivings looting this house. His earlier condemnation of the “bastard” faded quickly from his mind as he exited the back door excited to return back up the mountain. Along with the three bags from the other house, he took only one bucket of meals, enough to feed him and the girls for nearly a month.

That evening, when Clark returned to the cabin, there was renewed hope which he and the girls celebrated with mouth-watering meals they hadn’t seen or tasted in over a year. The cabin was filled with the luxurious aromas of macaroni and cheese, pasta primavera, and beef stroganoff, and lively conversation.

There was also coffee which Clark thought he would never see again and was eager for a cup. It didn’t matter that it was freeze-dried. The fresh, roasted aroma of Columbian coffee lifted his spirits and boosted his morale. He preferred it hot and black and it filled his mouth with a burst of flavor. He sipped it slowly, sighing and luxuriating in the taste and the warmth of the brew, imagining himself sitting in the coffee shop near his downtown office.

They hadn’t enjoyed eating so much in a long time. They were stuffed as they staggered away from the table to the couch with their hands over their stomachs, groaning. However, images of an old-fashioned breakfast of pancakes with syrup and strawberries filled their minds. They had to lie down, but continued talking about the hot, fresh dish each also wanted for dinner the next day and the days thereafter. Their passion for food soon turned into a different passion that lasted well into the night.

April 28, 2027

The days were gradually getting warmer. Clark and the girls enjoyed sitting on the porch warming their cheeks and bones, soaking up the soothing warmth of the radiant sun, the same celestial body which everyone believed had wreaked havoc over the planet. Even the chickens welcomed going outside like it was a visit to an amusement park, pecking at tender shoots of green grass and scratching for other delicacies.

The small trees around the edge of the clearing were starting to unfurl their budding lime green leaves, bringing fresh clean color to the mountain. All was well with their world and it was a glorious day to make plans.

Clark and the girls poured over the instructions contained in the seed canister as well as pamphlets from the farmhouse library about homesteading. Much of what they learned were simple, basic, common sense skills that were known to previous generations but over time with increased mechanization and commercialization became lost as people no longer relied on themselves. Many tasks were completely foreign to them. Yet, they understood that their long-term survival required becoming farmers, growing their own food, and they were anxious to get busy.

Clark and the girls would muse about going down the mountain to begin preparing the field and garden to plant the precious seeds. The girls were also anxious to see the world beyond their mountain sanctuary, see the elegant brickhouse as if they were going to visit a rich relative, and bring up more buckets of delicious meals.

However, before all three made the descent together, Clark planned on going alone one more time. He wanted to scout out the nearby village of Farrville which they had bypassed months earlier on their journey to the cabin for fear they might be seen and attacked. He wanted to verify what he had read in those government papers if in fact its inhabitants had been removed and relocated to the big cities.