Chapter 2: Nomads

Clymer, Ohio

How quickly fear sinks into places men have abandoned.

-

That afternoon they stopped at a diner somewhere between Cleveland and Columbus for burgers and soda. The plate was barely out of the waitress’s hands before Tyler pounced. The sounds of a ravenous predator devouring defenseless prey ensued.

Ben ignored his food and unfolded his napkin instead. He plucked a crayon from the cup by the wall and began sketching.

“What are you doing?” Tyler asked through a mouthful of diner fries.

“I’m drawing our route.”

“You’re not still trying to convince me you had anything resembling a plan, are you?”

“No,” Ben admitted. “But I’m trying to make one, if you would keep your mouth shut, thank you.”

Tyler shrugged. The burger disappeared quickly.

Ben sketched a rough outline of the lower forty-eight on his napkin and placed a star on the edge of western New York. Several more dots followed across the country. Yellowstone. The Grand Canyon. The Badlands. The Redwoods.

“Nawlins is down there,” Tyler pointed. A dollop of ketchup smudged half the state of Louisiana.

“Thank you for your contribution to the geographical survey.”

“Welcome. What are all those other dots?”

Ben sipped his soda. “Oases of paradise, my friend. The silent solitude of wood and grain, desert and rock. Places you can’t see another soul for a hundred miles around.”

Tyler shuddered. “You skipped all the good parts on the route. Haven’t you ever heard of Atlanta? Austin? San Diego? The girls in San Diego—we gotta go there.”

“There’s girls everywhere,” Ben grunted.

“Not in banjoville, Kentucky,” Tyler retorted.

“We’ve lived in a city all our lives,” Ben replied. “Don’t you want to see the Great Plains? The Mojave? Yellowstone Valley? I want to see Roosevelt’s Elk. I read in a book once they’re over half a ton.”

“Elk are just fat deer.” Tyler thumped a greasy finger on the napkin. “What we don’t have in Rochester is a good time and Cajun food. I say we just get to Louisiana first and plan the rest later. Come on buddy—after a few nights in the land of jazz and jambalaya, you’ll change your tune.”

Ben wrinkled his nose. He eyed a long spine of upside-down V’s marching up the napkin from New Mexico into a grease stain spreading over where Canada would normally begin. He was suddenly uneasy. The Rocky Mountains were a long way. He hadn’t even budgeted for gasoline, let alone days of urban revelry.

“How much money you got?” Ben demanded.

“Enough,” Tyler replied.

“How much?”

“After lunch? ‘Bout eighty bucks.”

“That’s it!?”

“Yeah, dude.”

“Do you realize what gas costs? We’ll burn through half of what I’ve got saved between here and New Orleans. We’ll be broke in two days, Tyler.”

Tyler laughed. “Relax. We’ll get some cushy job at a hotel or a restaurant for a few days, spend half of it on a damn good time, and go on our merry way.”

“Tyler,” Ben fumed, “I’d have been set for months if I wasn’t feeding you and your car.”

“True.” Tyler grinned. “But you’d be lonely. And lame.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, babe. Hey, you gonna eat those fries?”

On the interstate, the farm plains of southern Ohio disappeared like a hazy dream not quite worth remembering. Tyler loved to drive, and the old muscle car was too loud to carry on a conversation, so Ben passed the time staring out the window at the cars passing by.

He was caught in the traveler’s limbo, that emotional daze that occurs when the body and the senses move faster than the mind and the heart. He had been prepared to be thirty miles from his childhood home by late that afternoon, not three hundred. He felt like the captain of a river sloop that had been fitted with a diesel engine—both amazed and bewildered to discover just how fast life can move. All he could do was face the wind and hold on.

He wondered about all the faces in the cars they passed. Some of them met his stare and looked away. Others held it, succumbing to that involuntary impulse that will ignore danger rising at eighty miles an hour for an opportunity to lock eyes with another human being. They were all heroes in their own stories, captains of their own ships, steaming down an asphalt river emptying into a boundless sea called America.

Ben thought of home. His parents or his brothers would discover the note sometime that evening. Maybe the next morning. He was rarely home, and they wouldn’t be looking. Even once they knew he was missing, no one would know where he’d gone.

Unexpectedly, Ben felt small and a little afraid. It sure was a big sea, after all.

--- 

The sun was low in the sky when they pulled off the highway for the night. The Ohio flatlands had rumpled into rolling hills near the Kentucky border. A nearby gas station promised by the exit signs turned out to be several miles off the interstate. A grey, sunfaded road passed through fields of bluegrass punctuated with brief tangles of forest and agricultural processing towers. The road terminated in a one-street town boasting a row of houses; a concrete convenience store attached to the gas station; and several grain silos. The shadows of the silos reached across the street, blanketing the gas station and its single pump in premature dusk.

 Ben got out of the car with Tyler. A few dim lights were on in the store, but no one greeted them.

“Spooky,” Tyler said. “Where is everybody?”

“Maybe they’re all eating dinner with their families.”

“Yeah, all twelve of them,” Tyler replied. “What are the odds there’s a motel around here?”

“Even if there was, we drove here in the only motel we can afford. We’re sleeping in the car tonight, Ty.”

“Here?”

“Where else?”

“Someplace with fewer serial killers lurking in the wheat fields, maybe.”

“What about that old factory we passed on the way in?”

“The one down in that hollow that looked like it’d been bombed?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh good, ’cause that looked safe. You think it’s abandoned?”

“Wait a minute. You’re not scared are you? Is big, brawny Tyler Fox worried about lonely little country town boogiemen?”

“I’m not scared of anything,” Tyler growled. The pump clunked, and he replaced the nozzle.

“I just don’t want to have to kill any lonely little farmers who mistake me for their favorite pig tonight.”

“Right. Let’s check out that factory.”

--

Ten minutes later, looking down the hill at the mass of crumbling masonry and broken glass they were supposed to sleep in that night, Ben had second thoughts. A network of decrepit concrete arches supported the brick ruin rising out of the gloom below them. Several stories up, berry brambles and trees grew out of a yawning hole spreading from the center of the roof. A formidable smokestack rose high over the building. Graffiti and vines blanketed the lower stories. The sun was fading fast.

Ben eyed the steep slope leading into the hollow. “Maybe we better leave the car up here,” he said.

“I’m not leaving my baby alone up here,” Tyler said. “She goes where I go. Plus,” he added, “We might have to leave in a hurry.”

Ben shrugged. “Then let’s check out our rooms, shall we?”

Gravel crunched under the Mustang’s tires as Tyler eased it down the slope, weaving between potholes and loose chunks of pavement. The sun sank behind the smokestack. Despite his unease, Ben felt a cold thrill. That morning, they had been warehouse grunts. Tonight, they were explorers squatting on the ruins of another world.

Tyler parked the car in the buckled asphalt lot and cut the engine. They grabbed their bags, locked the doors, and faced the building.

Their accommodation had been placed on a peninsula created by a shallow creek. The sound of water tumbling over stones whispered through the scrub snarling over either side of a narrow path leading toward the factory. Inky darkness spilled out of the open tunnels leading inside, the kind that had no place in a building made by human hands. It grew and shifted like a thing alive.

Ben shivered and briefly considered sprinting back up the hill. Tyler looked at him.

“You scared?”

“Nah,” Ben lied.

“Me neither.” Tyler squared his shoulders, snapped on a flashlight, and strode toward the maw of the beast.

It was cold inside. The air had the smell of mold and stone dust. The bottom floor was a network of low rooms with arched openings. If not for the rampant graffiti and piles of trash, Ben would have believed he was walking through a Roman ruin, a forgotten colosseum built on a conquered outpost of the Empire. The ghosts of gladiators glowered from the shadows behind concrete pillars. Scarred beasts prowled between overturned shopping carts and mounds of scrap metal.

“Whoa.”

Ben snapped his head forward, following Tyler’s voice. Ahead, an archway led into a cavernous open square—the killing grounds, perhaps, where the specters lurking in the tunnels had long ago been separated from life. Not far from the entrance, a forklift lay half-buried in an avalanche of bricks leading to the floor above. The remains of a metal staircase were twisted into the masonry, and the scent of a dead fire rose out of the rubble.

Ben glanced behind him and shivered. He hurried into the square. “I vote we go up.” He gestured at the landslide.

“Agreed.” Tyler led the way. As they scrambled up the pile, the sound of tumbling debris broke the spell. If a demon did live here, surely it’d have eaten them by now.

“How cool is this?” Ben blurted. “I wonder what happened here. You think that forklift exploded? Do they do that?”

“Quiet,” Tyler growled. “We still don’t know who else could be here.” He hoisted himself onto the ledge at the top of the landslide, sending a loose brick clattering down as he did. The floor of the square had already disappeared into the dark, but the dull gong of stone striking metal confirmed the brick had reached the bottom.

Ben laughed. “I think we’ve pretty well rung the doorbell, Ty.” He swept his flashlight beam around the floor. As far as he could tell, they were now on the lowest of four levels, not counting the basement. The central well split the structure in two. At the very outer limit of the flashlight’s beam, concrete catwalks spanned the chasm between the two sides of the building, though several had collapsed. Hulking blocks of machinery, conveyor belts, and carts were scattered everywhere. Dust lay thick on the floor.

A brick staircase leading to the top floor had been smashed in several places, but there was a rusty fire escape bolted to one wall. Ben shined his light on it. It appeared to run all the way from the bottom of the well to the roof.

“Age before beauty,” Tyler said. Swallowing his unease, Ben stuffed his flashlight in a pocket, gripped the first rung, and swung out into space. The ladder hummed and swayed, but held. Ben started upward as fast as he dared. He felt Tyler join him on the ladder. As they neared the top floor, Ben’s heart rate began to return to normal.

“This really isn’t so bad!”

“Getting down’s the tricky part,” Tyler grunted.

“Fair enough.” Ben reached the top floor with a sigh of relief. He placed one hand on the concrete ledge—

An object exploded against the wall. Ben yelped, flailed and welded himself to the ladder. A floodlight bracketed them from above.

“Don’t move a muscle,” a voice commanded. “State your business or be bricked. And if your business is bad,” it clarified, “you might be bricked anyway.”

Ben felt the ladder vibrate through his boots as Tyler twisted toward the light. Another brick immediately smashed into the wall. Ben felt fragments of it strike his ankles. The voice’s owner was possessed of deadly accuracy.

“Not one teensy little muscle, turd-brains, or you will quickly become brick-brains.”

“Alright, alright!” Tyler yelled. “Got it!”

“We’re just looking for a place to spend the night,” Ben said into the wall.

“Obviously,” said the voice, “but what else are you up to?”“That’s it. No brickable business.”

 “Are you murderers?”

“What? We’re just travel—”

“Thieves?”

“No!”

“Ravagers!?”

“Definitely not,” Tyler said. “Not any of those things.”

“No sir,” Ben added, “not even a little bit.” He was really scared now. They might have dodged the demons, but they’d fallen into the clutches of a lunatic.

There was a moment of silence. The floodlight never wavered. Sweat ran into Ben’s eye.

“Come on up. Slowly. Slower! Good. That’s it. Hands on your heads. Slowly turn.”

Cold adrenaline spiked Ben’s veins as he swiveled to face the floodlight. A lone silhouette stood directly in front of the light, features invisible inside the glare. Ben was sweating profusely now.

“On the count of three, we charge,” Tyler whispered. “It’s our only chance.” Ben dipped his head in acknowledgment.

“One. Two—”

“Honeybuns? What do you think? Bricks or dinner for these two?”

Tyler stopped the count and held his breath. A woman’s voice floated across the factory floor. She sounded distracted, like a mother answering a babbling child while she scans the grocery list.

“They sound just fine, Christopher. Dinner in an hour.”

“Right you are, Gummie Bear,” their interrogator replied. The silhouette disappeared. There was a momentary scuffle, then the floodlight went out. Footsteps approached and stopped abruptly. Ben tensed. Tyler snapped his light back on.

A small man stood in the pale beam of light. Thick white hair was slicked straight back over a fluffy beard, and he wore an undershirt tucked neatly over a potbelly into baggy cargo pants. Skittering eyes considered the newcomers over the bridge of a sharp nose and a chin slightly raised. He stuck out a hand.

“Sorry about the formalities. You understand, of course. I’m Chris. And you are?”

“Ben.”

“Tyler.”

Their host smiled for the first time, revealing impish teeth tilting inward. He flung his arms wide and embraced them both at the same time. “Welcome to our camp! Allow me to introduce my wife. Come.” He scurried away, fairly skipping across the narrow catwalk spanning the central well.

“We have to get out of here,” Ben whispered as they followed.

“First chance we get. Play along for now.”

They picked their way across the catwalk, inching forward with their backs against the wall in sections where debris from the roof had smashed through it. By now, the moon was rising, and a weak shaft of light fell through the opening. It only seemed to deepen the shadows reaching out of the chasm below.

Chris’s side of the top floor was dominated by the remains of a monstrous crane. A campfire glowed under the open shell of a bucket-claw. A doublewide cot and a folding table were set up next to the fire, and a hammock was slung between the two halves of the claw. A woman sat cross-legged by the fire, tending a bubbling pot that smelled delicious.

She was singing as she worked, and she had a rare gift. When he heard it, Ben nearly tripped. Charged with all the original power of Eve’s tenderness, goodness and grace, hers was the sort of voice that had lulled babes and fighting men to sleep since the dawn of time. Ben’s fears melted away. Someone possessed of so sweet a gift could join herself to an eccentric, perhaps, but never a lunatic.

As if he’d heard Ben’s thoughts, Chris sprang from behind the jaws of the crane and pounced on his wife for a kiss, which she enthusiastically returned, cutting off the melody. Embarrassed, the visitors waited.

And waited.

When they came up for air the woman smiled warmly. “I’m Sharon.”

They smiled back. For the first time, Ben noticed the pink shotgun leaning on the cot behind the woman.

“I hope you don’t mind the bricks. My husband takes his role as my protector very seriously, don’t you darling?” She winked at them. Chris nodded. He picked up a brick and bounced it in his palm.

“Just a formality, really. All sorts of nasty people on the roads these days. Though the dangerous drifters tend to keep more toward the bigger cities. More opportunities to steal, murder and ravage there.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “But if anybody did come after me or my wife, I’d tear out their kidneys.”

“Naturally,” Ben said.

“As one does,” Tyler agreed.

“Course you would, teddy bear, course you would,” Sharon cooed.

Ben cleared his throat. “So um, how long have you been here?”

“Couple of weeks,” Chris said. “Maybe three? Yes. Three.”

“Three weeks? Here?”

“I know. Pretty sweet spot, huh? The reviews did not disappoint on this one.”

“Reviews?”

Chris looked confused. “Of course. On free-campsites-dot-net.”

“You’re kidding,” Tyler said.

“Of course not. It’s a very popular place. How did you not know that?”

Ben and Tyler glanced at each other. “Oh, I don’t know,” Tyler replied. “I mean, it’s cool. I just didn’t think that many people would really dig the vibe.”

“Of course they do. Great location, multiple camping spaces, running water source. Not to mention the disc golf course. We’ve had all sorts of visitors already. A couple and their daughter stayed with us for a few days. They just left. Before that there were two charming young gals from Brazil, some Latino construction workers on their way up to Cincinnati, and three whitebread dudes from Jersey. They were boring though. Hardly worth remembering.”

“Did you throw bricks at all of them?”

“So,” Ben interjected, “are you guys retired?”

 “Not at all. I’m a computer consultant. Sharon’s an accountant.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Chris nodded earnestly.

“How does that work?”

“We’re digital nomads. We keep a solar array on our RV and have a mobile hotspot connection, so we can work anywhere and anyhow we want.”

“So basically, you’ve set up an internet café in the middle of a postapocalyptic ruin.”

“Precisely, without the café.” Chris cocked his head. “Or the ruin. Actually, I’m not sure what you mean at all.”

Ben frowned. “Did you mention frisbee golf?”

“Disc golf.” Chris grinned fiendishly. Moonlight was now pouring in through the roof. “It’s light enough now. Would you men like to play a game?”

“Go on boys,” Sharon urged. “You’ve got some time before dinner.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little unsafe?”

Chris looked confused. “Of course it’s not safe. This is disc golf we’re talking about.”

Tyler laughed. The sound reverberated in the vault, knocking off chunks of loneliness and doom from the crumbling walls like icicles falling in the sun. “We’re in.”

Chris jumped for joy and scurried off into the gloom. “Follow me!”

---

Chris didn’t play disc golf like anybody Ben knew.

In place of baskets, the targets were steel drums, cairns of smashed masonry, and piles of glass bottles. They were placed in shattered window wells; on twisted conveyor belts; and atop crippled machinery. Instead of discs, he’d collected a stack of paint lids and old saw blades pilfered from around the factory. The game ranged all over the building, even to the roof, and extra points were awarded for an exceptionally loud target strike.

As an extra twist, Chris had set up a moonrise course, where many of the targets were only visible for a few minutes as the moon passed over the factory’s accidental oculus. There was no taking turns, either. It was a race.

As Ben dashed across catwalks, scurried down fire escapes, and vaulted over holes in the floor, flinging his ‘discs’ at fantastically smashable piles of trash, he forgot all about nearly being brained. Chris was alright.

Hot on Tyler’s heels, Ben heaved himself onto the top floor, both of them intent on the final target. Tyler whipped his last paint lid across the chasm at a steel drum balanced on one tine of a derelict forklift. It struck the drum dead center with a satisfying gong. The drum wobbled but held fast. Tyler swore.

Ben laughed and chucked his own lid. It missed, but he didn’t care. He’d already lost, but Tyler and Chris were neck and neck—if only because Tyler was faster. He missed more targets, but he always got there first. Chris huffed up the ladder and bent over his knees before lining up his final shot.

“Young man,” he wheezed, “You’ve made a critical error. You used a putter on the heaviest target, when you should have saved a driver.” He grinned ferociously and brandished his final disc, a large saw blade.

“And then,” he said, taking aim, “you really gotta huck that sucker!” The veteran golfer let fly. The drum crashed into the abyss, banging all the way down. Ben cheered. Tyler threw up his hands in defeat. Chris pumped both their hands.

“Well played, men. Well played. Let’s go see what the missus has cooking.”

Sharon had a hearty stew that left everyone satisfied and ready for sleep. The night was well underway, and stars could be seen through the ceiling. After helping with the cleanup, Tyler and Ben thanked the couple for the meal and went hunting for their own berths.

“Try across the way there,” Sharon offered. “The construction workers built a sort of shelter out of an old tarp and debris they found. You can sort of see it across the gap. It looked pretty cozy to me.”

The shelter was a huge metal crate that looked like it’d been dropped on its side by the crane. A dusty but sturdy tarp hung across the opening, secured by chunks of masonry placed on the top of the crate. It was large enough to accommodate both of them with a little room to spare. Ben spread out his blanket and rolled up his sweatshirt for a pillow as Tyler pulled the tarp closed and secured the bottom with a brick.

Ben lay down with a sigh and looked up into the dark inside the container.

“Good thing we didn’t charge him.”

“Yeah. I can’t believe the old fart beat me. I was this close.”

“Next time.” Ben smiled. “Pretty good motel for free-ninety-five, huh?”

Tyler yawned. “It could use a shower and a couple of girls in the lobby, but I guess it’s ok.”

“We’re really doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. This life, Ty. This is the beginning of something totally new.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We can go anywhere. Nobody knows where we are. We’re about to see things we’ve always dreamed of. For years.”

“Mm.”

The faintest whisper of air brushed over Ben’s chest as the cool of the night began to sink into the factory. He could hear water, just barely, slipping over stones in the creek bed. The loudest sound in the crate was his own breathing. The only movement, the rise and fall of his own chest. Tyler was already asleep.

“We’re free,” Ben whispered to the dark.