The Lone Man On The Ridge - Episode Twelve: Thirty Five Miles

Thirty five miles can feel like an ocean when the fuel gauge won’t move and the interstate is a museum of dead cars. We follow Jack as he watches his range collapse into a single choice: keep rolling until the truck dies, or get off the road now while he can still pick the ground where he stops. He finds a rural exit, hides the truck in a tight clearing, and lays out every last resource like a case file: food that might stretch a week, water that won’t, ammo that disappears faster than anyone wants to admit, and one small tool that changes everything, a siphon hose.

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Transcript

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This is the Lone Man on the Ridge, Episode 12 35 Miles. The fuel gauge had been sitting just below quarter of a tank for the last twenty or thirty minutes. Jack did the math again. He'd been doing the math every few miles, like checking it one more time every mile might change the answer. Jack calculated thirty five to forty miles. That was it. That was everything between him and walking. He scanned the highway ahead, dead vehicles, overpasses, exit signs faded and leaning, nothing useful, nothing safe. He needed to get off the road, not when the tank was empty, but now, while he still had the ability to choose where he stopped instead of having it chosen for him. Three exits passed before he found what he was looking for. A rural exit. Two lane roads curving off into the trees, no buildings visible from the highway, no signs of camps or barricades, just pavement disappearing into green. Jack took the exit. He followed the two lane road for about a quarter mile before he spotted it. A gravel access road cutting left into the tree line. No gate, no mailbox. Probably a utility road or an old logging trail. Jack turned into it and drove slow, letting the truck creep through the ruts. Branches scraped asides, the road narrowed, curved, and then opened into a small clearing. Enough room for the truck and nothing else. Trees on both sides, invisible from the main road. He killed the engine. For a long moment he just sat there, hands on the wheel, listening. Wind through the canopy, a bird somewhere, mister Rogers lifted his head and then put it back down. Nothing else Jack let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. All right, he said quietly. This is home for the day. Jack stepped out and stretched. His chest still ached where the plate had taken the round, but it was much duller now, more bruised than damage. He dropped the tailgate and started pulling everything out. The totes first, he opened each one of them and laid the contents on the tailgate. Twelve cans of various meats and vegetables, a jar of peanut butter, six packets of instant oatmeal, a hand of protein bars, a bag of rice, two cans of condensed milk, some trail mix, some jerky, but not much else. He had maybe a week's worth of food if he stretched it, less if he was sharing. Two one gallon jugs full of water, a half liter bottle wedged behind the seat, and that was it. He had his Glock, the Scope 308, the Remington eight seventy, and the four AR fifteen's. He counted all the rounds and had roughly eighty five rounds across all the platforms. For tools, a basic socket set, jumper cables, a toe strap, a folding knife, duct tape, paracord, and a small hatchet. And there coiled at the bottom of the toolbox beneath the socket set a six foot length of clear vinyl tubing, a siphon hose. Jack held it up and looked at it for a long moment. Every dead vehicle on this highway still had fuel in its tank. He'd passed hundreds of them, maybe thousands at this point. Each one was a gas station with no attendant. He set the hose on the tailgate with everything else. The chickens were alive and calm in their crate. He gave them some food and water. mister Rogers got a can of meat and a long drink from a collapsible bowl. Jack ate a protein bar and drank exactly half of one of the water jugs. He then repacked everything tight and organized, the way it should have been since Johnson City. Late that afternoon, Jack walked back down the gravel road towards the exit ramp on foot. mister Rogers stayed with the truck. A hand signal and the dog settled into guard mode without protest. Jack carried the siphon hose, two empty gallon jugs, and the Glock on his hip. The exit ramp had three vehicles on it, a sedan nosed into the ditch, a delivery van, rear doors hanging open, and a pickup truck, a newer model. Windows intact, doors closed. Jack went to the pickup first. He unscrewed the gas cap, fed the tubing down into the tank, and drew on the other end until the fuel hit his tongue. He spat, positioned the hose into the first jug, and let gravity do the work. The fuel flow was steady, premium by the smell of it. He filled both jugs, had close to four gallons total, not much, but enough to maybe get him seventy or eighty miles. He checked the sedan as well. Bone dry. Somebody had already hit it. Jack carried the jugs back to the truck, poured them into the tank, and watched the needle climb. It barely moved. It wasn't a full tank, it wasn't even close. But it was time, and time was all he needed right now. Night came slow through the trees. Jack sat on the tailgate with his back against the tote, a glock in his lap, and an AR within arm's reach. mister Rogers laid beside the truck, nose on his paws, one ear turned towards the gravel road. The chickens had gone quiet and roosted. Jack could hear the crickets, an owl somewhere to the north, wind moving through the canopy above him like a slow breath. He thought about Stephen. Three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty miles, it's hard to say. He'd have to figure that out in the morning. He thought about the woman with the toddler, walking north, no pack, no supplies, just exhaustion and a child on her hip. He'd driven past her. He knew why he could justify it six ways to Sunday, the tactical calculus, the risk assessment, the lesson learned at the Dunkin' Donuts, trust no one, stop for no one, keep moving. All valid, all true, and none of it made him feel any better about it. mister Rogers shifted and let out a long breath through his nose. Yeah, I know, boy, I know, Jack said. He closed his eyes, not to sleep, just to stop seeing the road for a while. Eventually, sleep came. Jack opened his eyes at 4 30. No alarm. Just the internal clock that twenty years of shift work had burned into him. The woods were still dark. No bird song yet. Mr. Rogers was already on his feet watching him. Jack moved quietly, repacked the tailgate, secured the crate, checked the rifles, fed Mr. Rogers and the chickens. He ate two spoonfuls of peanut butter and finished the half liter bottle of water. He pulled the truck out onto the clearing, crept back toward the gravel road, and turned towards the exit ramp. By the time he merged back onto I eighty one North, the first gray light was showing at the horizon behind him. The gas gauge was well under quarter of a tank. He'd have to siphon again when he ran across another vehicle. He settled into his thirty five mile per hour crawl, conserving as much fuel as he could. mister Rogers was in the passenger seat, alert, ears forward, the road stretched north. Jack had been driving for just over one hour when he saw her. Not the same woman. He knew that immediately. Different build, different hair, different clothes, but the shape of it was the same. A woman walking alone. A child older than a toddler, maybe three or four holding her hand and struggling to keep up. The kid's steps were uneven, even stumbling. The child was tired beyond whatever age they should have been. The woman had a backpack. That was different. She prepared at least somewhat, but her pace was slowing. She kept looking over her shoulder, not at Jack's truck, at something behind her, something she'd left, or something that she was afraid was following her. Jack's foot came off the gas. The truck slowed. His hands tightened on the wheel. Every lesson, every rule, every instinct he honed over his last several weeks screamed the same thing. Keep moving. Don't stop. You don't know her. You don't know what's behind her. You don't know if something is in the tree line. Keep moving. Jack's foot moved to the brake. The truck rolled to a stop thirty feet behind the lady and the child. The woman turned. The child pressed against her leg, half hiding. The woman's eyes were wide, not hopeful, terrified. She didn't know if the truck was a salvation or the next threat. Jack sat there for a long moment, engine idling, fuel burning. Then he reached across and pushed open the passenger door. Mr. Rogers looked at him, then at the woman, then back at Jack. Yeah, Jack said quietly. I know, I know. He raised his voice just enough to carry. Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you. There's room in the truck if you need it. The woman did not move for a long time. Then the child tugged at her hand and pointed at Mr. Rogers. And something in her face broke, not into tears, not into relief, just into exhaustion it had finally found a place to land. She picked up the child and moved towards the truck. Jack watched the woman settle the child into the middle of the bench seat.

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Rogers sniffed the kid once, then laid his head back down on his paws. The child reached out and touched Mr. Rogers' ear. Mr. Rogers did not care. The woman pulled the door closed and looked at Jack. She opened her mouth to speak. You don't have to explain anything to me right now, Jack said. We're heading north, that's all you need to know. She nodded. Her eyes were wet, but she didn't cry. Jack put the truck in drive and pulled onto the highway. He glanced at the fuel gauge. It had already moved. Every mile he gave her was a mile he didn't have to spare. He kept driving anyway. Nobody spoke. The child fell asleep within the first ten minutes, head against the woman's shoulder, small hand resting on mister Rogers' back. The dog hadn't moved from his spot, just laid there, breathing slowly, letting the child hold on. The woman stared straight ahead, hands in her lap, fingers laced together tight like if she let go she would start shaking. Jack kept his eyes on the road, weaving around dead vehicles, checking mirrors out of habit even though nobody was behind him. The miles clicked by. Five, ten, twenty. The woman shifted once, adjusted to the child's weight, glanced at Jack, then looked away. Jack didn't push. He knew what the silence was. He sat across from enough people in interview rooms to know the difference between someone who had nothing to say and someone who had too much to say, but no idea where to start. She would talk when she was ready, or she wouldn't. Either way, the truck was still moving north. After nearly forty five minutes, the child stirred, whimpered, and settled again. The woman pressed her lips against the top of the child's head and closed her eyes. At the one hour mark, she spoke. How far north are you going? Her voice was hoarse, dry, like she had not used it in a while. As far as I can, Jack said. I got a friend in Northern Virginia, that's the plan. She nodded slowly and processed that. We were in Withville, she said. At a shelter, some church off the highway. Jack glanced at her. The church camp with the armed lookouts he'd passed yesterday morning. I saw that camp, he said. It looked organized. It was for a while. Jack did not ask the next question. He just waited. There were too many people, she said. Not enough food. They started deciding who got to stay and who had to go. And you got told to go, Jack said. She looked at him for the first time. I mean really looked at Jack. Sizing him up the same way she'd been sizing up every stranger for the last several weeks. We didn't get told. We got walked out. Two men with rifles pointed us towards the highway and said, God bless. Jack's jaw tightened. When was that? Yesterday morning very early. We walked all day and most of the night. She looked down at the child. She stopped crying around sunset. That scared me more than the crying. The child's name was Lily. Jack learned that without asking. The woman whispered it when the girl stirred again. Shily, we're gonna be okay. That was more of a prayer than a statement. The woman's name was Rachel. She offered it a few minutes later unprompted, like she'd decided Jack had earned it. I'm Jack, he said. Rachel nodded. More silence, but different now. Is that your dog? Rachel asked. That's Mr. Rogers. For the first time something that might have been a smile crossed her face, brief and gone just as quickly as it had arrived. Of course it is, she said quietly. Mr. Rogers' tail thumped once against the seat. Lily's hand tightened into his fur. Jack checked the mirrors, checked the road, checked the gas gauge. There's peanut butter and some crackers behind the seat if you can get to it. Water too. Help yourself. Rachel hesitated. It's not charity, Jack said, keeping his eyes on the road. If you're in my truck, you eat. She reached behind the seat, found the jar, unscrewed the lid with her shaking hands. She woke Lily up gently, and the girl ate peanut butter off a cracker in small, mechanical bites, eyes barely open, still more asleep than awake. Rachel ate as well, slowly at first, then faster than she probably should have. Jack kept driving. You said Northern Virginia? Rachel said after a while. What's there? A friend, retired military. He's got land, he told me to come up there. Is it safe there? Jack thought about that, thought about what Stephen had told him on the radio, the checkpoints, the groups controlling territories. I don't know, he said. It's safer than the road. Rachel nodded. She didn't ask what would happen when they got there, just accepted the answer and looked back out the windshield. Smart, Jack thought. She's not planning past the next hour. That's how you survive this. Lily had fallen back asleep, peanut butter still on her fingers. Mr. Rogers licked the child's hand clean and settled back onto his paws. They had been driving for another forty to forty five minutes when the road began to climb. A long, gradual rise. Jack could feel the engine working harder. The truck had been running smoothly at thirty five, but the grade pulled the RPMs up and the speed down. The interstate curved left and rose towards a ridge. Jack could not see over the top. A blind hill. He eased off the gas and left the truck crawl ahead. Mr. Rogers lifted his head, eyes forward, on alert. Jack noticed. The dog had been relaxed for the last hour, comfortable with Rachel and Lily in the truck. This was different. Something was wrong. This was the posture that he had when something moved in the tree line on the ridge. What is it, buddy? he murmured. Rachel looked at the dog, then at Jack. She saw his face change and she sat up straighter, instinctively pulling Lily tighter against her chest. What's wrong? I don't know yet, Jack said. The truck crested the hill, and Jack saw it. Three hundred yards ahead, the interstate narrowed into a single lane. Jersey barriers had been dragged across the highway, concrete walls funneling traffic into a choke point. Behind the barriers two vehicles were parked nose to nose, blocking what little gap remained. Men. At least four that Jack could see. Armed long guns. One standing on the roof of a van with what looked like a scoped rifle, a hand painted sign on the nearest barrier. Jack couldn't read it just yet. He was too far. But he didn't have to. Stephen's voice echoed in his head. Jack remembered what he'd said on the radio. Checkpoints. Jack's foot came off the gas, the truck began to slow on the downgrade. Rachel's voice was barely a whisper. Jack? I see it, he said. The man on the roof of the van turned towards them. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun, then reached for his radio. They had been spotted. Jack's hand tightened on the wheel. The fuel gauge was barely above empty. Behind him nothing. Ahead of him a wall. This has been the Loneman on the Ridge, Episode twelve thirty five Miles.