The mountains were still topped with snow, although the steadily increasing temperatures had melted most of it away. The white-capped peaks were contrast against a sky so clear and blue it almost didn’t seem real.
April through November, about once-a-month, Wade made the 90-minute drive up to his cabin. The other four months, during the winter when tourism was rampant with snow boarders, skiiers and the like, he avoided the area and relied on a reputable property management company to keep things in order.
Now, winter had given way to spring, meaning most of the tourists would have vacated the mountainous paradise by now. A small amount of excitement grew inside of Wade as he looked forward to the peace and tranquility of his cabin during the town’s off-season.
He merged onto the elevated highway, the city sprawled out beneath him on either side. It was late afternoon and the sun was high in the sky. Wade took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp, clean air as he cruised at 70 miles per hour towards his favorite destination. He always drove with the windows down when he drove up to the mountains. It made him feel alive.
Suddenly, traffic began to slow around him. He quietly cursed under his breath – mad at himself for not leaving earlier to beat the afternoon traffic. He noticed there was more traffic than usual for a Friday afternoon headed toward the mountains, and wondered if it was due to an accident up ahead, or perhaps the breaking news he’d heard about over the last few days.
Wade didn’t watch much TV, but the unrest and recent reports of violence on the news were hard to ignore. As far as he could tell, some political group was upset with the government about God-knows-what and had begun protesting. It was always politics.
Over the last several days it looked like some of those protests had turned violent. At least the violence was isolated to the east coast. Or so he thought.
Wade’s truck, and the traffic around him, slowed even more, to single-digit speeds. He switched lanes, but sighed heavily as he nearly slammed on the brakes, coming to a complete stop directly behind a large, white delivery van. His truck had stopped inches from the van, so he was unable to see much around it. He wasn’t fifteen minutes out of the city and traffic was a mess.
He glanced through his windshield back up at the mountains and willed himself through the gridlock and to his cabin, relaxing with his niece, Chelsey, and her friends. Chelsey was just about the only family he had left and he absolutely adored her.
It had been eight years since his brother – her dad, Jim, had passed away. Wade was trying to stay involved and maintain a relationship with her a s best as a could. She enjoyed the cabin and nature as much as he did, so they made an annual trip out of it.
The truck, a seven-year old Chevy Silverado, light grey with basic black trim, was loaded the way it always was anytime he drove up to his cabin. A large cooler in the bed packed with food and drinks. His fishing and camping gear and an old, military-issued OD green duffel bag full of clothes were packed tightly into the truck bed as well. His go-bag, a trusty black tactical backpack, which Chelsey and her friends had affectionately nicknamed his “paranoia pack”, sat beside him on the passenger seat.
Chelsey had texted him earlier in the morning. She was excited to see him and had asked him if she could bring her two friends again – the same two from last year. Good kids. They were respectful and funny and called him Uncle Wade.
His answer was always the same: “Of course. Bring whoever you want.”
Wade had told Chelsey he would be at the cabin tomorrow. But a combination of excitement and a need to ensure the cabin was clean and serviceable for the girls made him decide to leave a day early.
Wade was happy to host Chelsey and her friends’ Spring Break getaway the last two years. He especially enjoyed the morning tea on the large cabin porch. He loved cooking for them and especially loved the evening campfires when he brought out his guitar and they roasted marshmallows. The memory brought a smile to his face.
The sharp sound of a man cursing snapped Wade out of his daydream. The middle-aged man in the Toyota Tacoma next to him was visibly irritated at the traffic conditions they were sitting in. He wore a baseball cap and sunglasses, but Wade was still able to see the anger in his face. He glanced at Wade and shook his head, clearly dismayed.
Wade looked back at the delivery van in front of him and sighed. He thought about how much fun he’d had teaching the girls how to fish last year – when the girls squealed in horror at the thought of baiting their own hooks. By the week’s end, however, all three girls were able to bait their hooks without help. Wade remembered how proud he was when they caught their first fish.
That evening, as he cleaned and prepared the rainbow trout and catfish they had caught, the girls ran into town to pick up some beer and cocktail ingredients. Together, they enjoyed fresh fish and ice cold drinks by the firepit.
“Goddamnit!” The sunglass and hat guy next to him shouted as he shut his car door loudly, cursing under his breath. He leaned against the grill of his truck and lit a cigarette. He was younger than Wade and looked like he was going to be late for wherever he was going.
Wade leaned to the side and tried to see up the road, but was unable to see anything past the van. He turned on the radio and cycled through the stations. Music, a Spanish talk station, more music. He kept cycling and found a news station.
“…reports of widespread violence and unrest in multiple counties across the state. Authorities are urging residents to stay home and stay off the highways.”
“Great.” Wade mumbled to himself as he opened the truck door and got out to stretch his legs. His knees and back reminded him he was 57 years old. The news radio host continued but he had heard enough. Standing next to his truck he looked down the highway and only saw an endless line of cars that stretched a half mile before disappearing around a bend.
He glanced around. The man next to him nodded at Wade as he took another drag off his cigarette. Wade nodded back but wasn’t interested in chatting with the angry man. Two cars ahead, a woman in a minivan was talking on her phone. Her kids were watching from the backseat trying to see what was going on.
“Do you know what’s going on?” A young man asked Wade from a lane over. He had exited his vehicle and was stretching his back.
“No idea.” Wade replied.
“This is bullshit.” The man said as he turned to look around.
Wade didn’t respond. He was listening.
Somewhere through the ambient noise of idling engines, murmuring people and the slight breeze, there was something coming from behind. A low noise coming from the direction he came from. It was subtle, easy to dismiss as background noise textured in the urban environment. But Wade had spent a significant portion of his adult life learning to listen and to pay attention to the environment around him. That skill had saved his life in Fallujah and Helmand and half a dozen other places throughout the world.
The sound he heard, threading through everything else, was screaming. And it was coming from down the highway.
Wade strained to see down the highway but there wasn’t much to see as the line of vehicles disappeared beyond a curve about three hundred yards back.
This wasn’t the sharp, isolated cry of someone who had been startled.
This was longer. Sustained. Multiple voices.
No one around him was reacting.
That didn’t matter. He moved, walking toward the sound with his hands loose. Weaving between bumpers and side mirrors as he continued. Because of the slight bend in the highway, he was only able to see about two or three hundred yards. Up ahead, Wade could see people beginning to turn and look in the direction he was headed. He passed a woman who was holding her phone up recording.
“What is that?” Someone asked.
“Sounds like and accident,” someone else responded.
The sound was getting louder now. Wade was about ten or twelve vehicles from his truck when he stopped in his tracks.
Two hundred yards back, a man, holding a baby, was running toward him. That didn’t make sense. If it was an accident, why would he be running away from the accident?
Now, Wade could see several people running from something. They weren’t jogging. They were sprinting. Fleeing.
It was the kind of running that is fueled by terror.