'Til Death Do Us Part

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Mike Journal Entry 12

We traveled for a few miles. I didn’t say too much, only grunting when we came across a small river. I had Azile stop so that I could clean up. I got behind the truck and stripped down, hoping that I could find something to replace my crusted clothes. It wasn’t going to happen. I hopped in, the river was about as warm as I was expecting it to be, which meant I was taking in small sharp breathes as the ice cold daggers of water rolled over my body. I had the clothes I was using secured under a rock a few feet down stream from me.

“I’m washing up in a river in New Jersey,” I said as got down as low as I could. The water was only about two feet deep, so I was nearly in the prone position. Chunks of debris were flowing off of me, I chose to ignore them. I spent at least twenty minutes cleaning myself and another ten getting my clothes into somewhat respectable condition. Well this wasn’t a Tide commercial, and my whites were never going to be clean again. I was not thrilled with the idea of putting them back on wet and probably would have waited until they were dry if I was still with John, but I didn’t think it was fair to expose Azile to that kind of trauma. I laughed at my thought.

“You know I’m not a prude,” Azile told me when I squished onto my seat.

“Well I didn’t, but I am,” I told her back.

“You’re going to catch your death of cold like that.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice if that was how I had to worry about dying?” I asked her, looking wistfully out the window.

“I guess it would be,” she said as she got the truck moving.

***

“Oh what now!” Azile said as she slammed her fist off the dashboard; the truck was losing power. “Whatever was wrong last night, I think is showing up again.”

“Can’t you fix it?” I asked her, my mood had not rebounded quite yet.

“Do I look like a master mechanic?” she asked.

I looked over at her. “I thought all truckers were. Isn’t that part of the job?”

“Have you used a stove?”

“What kind of question is that? And yes, to answer it, I have.”

“Does that make you a master chef? How about that writing in your journal?”

“I get it, I get it. And yes, I’ve written a lot in my journal…and ‘no’ that doesn’t make me a literary genius.”

We were finally back in Massachusetts; we had made decent time down the Mass Pike and had just got onto 495 which skirted around Boston. My fear had been getting back on route 95 and potentially running into Eliza on the open road. That hadn’t worked out so well the first time and I was in no mood to revisit it, although right now that didn’t look like it was going to be a problem.

“Any ideas?” Azile asked as she manhandled the now dead truck to the side of the road.

“We could wait for a good Samaritan,” I told her.

She looked over, trying to ascertain if I was serious, then she smiled. “What about Triple-A?”

“That’s the spirit, let’s get armed up.”

“I hate what this world’s become,” she said as she pushed rounds into her magazines. “I’m more than likely going to need these today,” she said, rattling her rounds, “than this.” She pulled a pen out of her pocket.

“That’s a nice pen.”

“You want it?”

“Sure.”

“At least someone will use it.” She handed it over.

I spent a few more moments taking a look at it before I stuck it in the middle of my rolled up journal, once again wrapping my thoughts and words in a plastic bag and securing it with a rubber band. My present life necessitated this action, I’d lost more than one journal to blood and gore.

“Shit.” Azile shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up and down the roadway.

“Keep a look out, I’m going to ditch this stuff.” Odds were, a family in desperate need of rifles and food was not going to stumble across this truck. The sure bet was a renegade band of some sort of desperados, and with God’s innate sense of humor I could almost guarantee that these would be used against me.

“Just light the damn truck on fire,” Azile said as I was about halfway through emptying the rig.

That did seem way easier, and the groove I was wearing in the ground as I hauled the stuff to the tree line was getting pretty noticeable anyway. “This royally sucks,” I told Azile as I strategically placed the ammunition, my beautiful M-240 and a crate of M-16’s in the back of the truck.

“You say something?” Azile asked peeking her head from around a tree.

I motioned her with a frantic hand waving to hide. I pulled the pin on the grenade I was holding, tossed it into the rear of the truck, and ran. I had just made it to the large tree Azile was hiding behind when the grenade blew; it was a millisecond later when the concussion from the explosion of the grenade and ammunition struck.

Heat from the fire was causing rounds to cook off and randomly fire in all directions.

“Didn’t really think this out, did you?” Azile asked.

“I rarely do.”

It was a lot like waiting for microwave popcorn to finish. There were hundreds of ‘pops’ from the majority of the rounds, then they began to decrease until it was down to the occasional release. This batch, though, we didn’t care if it burned completely. We waited a full ten minutes after the final explosion before we ventured forth. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I noticed bark missing on the tree we had been using for cover, but it still came as a shock to see so much damage to our ‘protector.’

“Thank you,” I told it as I placed my hand against its trunk. I’m glad it wasn’t an Ent; it would have kicked our ass. (Lord of the Rings reference).

I cautiously walked back to the smoking destroyed ruins of Horatio’s truck dismayed to see my M-240 twisted and destroyed.

“You need a minute?” Azile asked, putting her hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll be alright,” I sniffed.

“Now?”

“Now we walk at least for a little while. That blast is going to attract some attention.” I had no idea how prophetic my words were going to be, and from what quarter we were going to receive help. Some shit just can’t be made up.