Conflicted Home (The Survivalist Book 9), A American [top android ebook reader TXT] 📗

Sarge was looking out his window and dismissively replied, “Who cares. But I’m glad they did.”

As we passed the Camping World on the left side of the road, I noticed something. “There isn’t a single towable camper over there,” I said.

Sarge looked over. “Makes sense. People with trucks that still ran came up here and cleaned them out. Probably sitting in the Ocala Forest now with dead bodies inside of them.”

“I’m sure some are,” Dalton added. “These woods down here aren’t very hospitable to man or beast.”

The only things on the lot were the RVs, most of which sat with their hoods and doors open to the elements. Doomed to rot away from exposure to wind, rain and critters. I could just imagine bird nests being built in them. Or worse yet, wasp nests in profusion. Waiting on some poor unsuspecting soul to make the mistake of poking their head in.

But there was one with the awning pitched. Maybe someone was living there. Though in the heat of the summer, it would be hell stuck out in the middle of an asphalt lot. But our ideas of comfort had changed. No longer could we so radically alter the environment to suit us. We were now as much a part of the natural world as the wild animals. If it was hot, we sought shade. If it rained, we sought shelter. But there was no air conditioning. We could still make heat, but we could not make cold except in very limited amounts, such as the fridge. The thought of keeping an entire home at seventy-two degrees was as likely as walking on the moon at this point.

After making the turn onto County Highway 484, it wasn’t long before I-75 came into view. The truck-stops lining the approach to the interstate were a sad sight. Trash of every kind filled their parking lots. The doors either stood open or shattered. Sometimes both. Windblown piles of paper and plastic bottles formed heaps at the edges of curbs. Litter was everywhere. I guess the first thing to go in a crisis is the concern for one’s trash. But then, without service to haul it away, where’s it supposed to go? The apparent answer is, wherever you drop it.

I swung onto the on-ramp and looked in the mirror to make sure everyone was still there. Of course, I’d have known if there had been any trouble. I-75 was lined with cars. Fortunately, the drivers of most of them had made their way to the side of the road when their cars stalled and weren’t blocking the travel lanes.

“Keep it at about forty-five,” Sarge said as he leaned back and put his foot up on the dash.

“You know, the only people I’ve seen do that are teenage girls,” I replied.

Sarge grabbed his crotch. “I’ve got your teenage girl right here.”

Then Dalton’s leg shot out between the seats and thumped down on the tunnel cover between the us. The old man cocked an eye at it briefly before seizing the foot under his arm. Dalton nearly kicked me into the windshield when he used the back of my seat as leverage in order to snatch the trapped foot from the old man, all the while laughing uproariously.

When he finally got it free, Sarge said, “Stick it up here again, Gulliver, and I’ll cut it off!”

The radio crackled and Mike said, “We need a piss break.”

“Go ahead and stop,” Sarge said.

I stopped the truck in the middle of the road. Not bothering to pull over. Getting out, I stretched and pulled my poncho on. It was still raining pretty good and I looked back at the MRAP, which was at the rear of the column. I could see the Browning M2 swiveling around as someone inside scanned the road.

“Set up security!” Sarge barked

I walked to the front of the Hummer and leaned against the fender. Rain pelted the poncho as I tried to look out to the tree line at the edge of the road. It was obscured by the rain, low cloud ceiling and dim light. All I could see was a gray haze. But the way I figured it, if I couldn’t see over to it, anyone there couldn’t see me either. But looking up, it was obvious that the odds of anyone being out were slim.

“Saddle up!” Sarge called out.

I looked back to see everyone headed for their trucks and made my way to the driver’s door and pulled the poncho off. Getting in, I wadded it up and laid it on the floor in front of my seat. That’s the problem with these things. When you take them off, they’re soaked and you’re only somewhat drier.

We continued on our way, making decent time. Although, I was continuously doing the math in my head about how far we had to go and how we were doing. It was going to take forever to get there. And that’s provided there were no issues.

And everything was fine until we came to the outskirts of Gainesville. Just south of town on I-75, the interstate is bordered on both sides by a rest area. They sat just past the Paynes Prairie Preserve and made a good buffer for traffic coming north. And it was at this point that we encountered the first roadblock. Several cars were pushed into the travel lanes and some of the trees in the rest areas were dropped to block the shoulder. With guardrails bordering the center median, it made it virtually impassable.

“Stop here,” Sarge said. “Get up on that minime, Gulliver.” Dalton wedged himself up into the turret. Sarge keyed the mic and said, “Teddy, get on that electronic eyeball and let me know what you see.”

On it, boss.

I squinted to see. But it was futile. The rain battered the windshield and the anemic wipers could hardly keep up. Sarge reached over and pushed my face, saying, “Look out there, numb