Border Crossing
Ever since it all went crazy starting last New Year's Day, everything has been more extreme. The freedom was nice--everyone was too busy dealing with the "End Times" to really care if you were late for work or even showed up at all. On the other hand, getting what you wanted was sometimes next to impossible.
And the weather.
Jeez, the weather.
North Dakota is know for having bad winters. Heck, it's so far north it's next to Canada! A lot of people don't realize that summers are bad, too. Hot, humid, and miserable. Add in all the flooding, and it can be an annoying place to live. In normal times.
But these times are far from normal.
The worst winter ever started off the Rapture. Huge drifts of snow blocked streets for weeks or even months. Colossal ice floes jammed the river, leading to early flooding. Flood water, covering the snow-packed land, then froze during the night, making travel treacherous at best.
And the winter seemed to last forever. It was only a few months, but the ice floes remained until early May, which meant the ice-related flooding continued until then.
Then, almost overnight, summer arrived. You clearly remember wearing a parka one day, and shorts less than a week later. The good news is that the ice all melted. The bad news is that all that extra water caused more flooding.
Without the public works crews, citizen volunteers, and National Guard to help, the flooding was the worst ever. Much worse than the 1897 flood, which has crested at 39.1 feet or the 1997 flood, which topped the record books at 39.5 feet.
Before this point, you decided to escape the flat lands. You didn't go very far, however, traveling over U.S. Highway 10 to Moorhead, Minnesota, just over the Red River. Moorhead offered something Fargo did not--hills. And from these hills, you could watch the flood from a distance. No official measurements were ever available, but you're sure the flood crest was much higher than the previous record. It must have approached 50 feet.
The destruction of Fargo brought mixed emotions. A snide snickering at everyone there you hated, now washed away in the chilly water. A bit of sadness at the loss of something familiar. Annoyance, at having to move.
But with the flood waters rising, you did not have time to mope. After 42 years, something finally motivated you--survival! You hastily threw a few belongings into your Roto-Rooter van, and made for Moorhead.
From the (relative) safety of Minnesota, you watch the destruction of Fargo. You have watched the road; you have even set up a small blockade, just to see if someone moves it to escape the flood. There is no one. It appears that Bill Moore, Jr., is Noah, and the Roto-Rooter van his ark.
Of course, there's no guarantee that flooding will stop. Who knows what's happening up river? And the hills of Moorhead aren't that tall. Yes, it's definitely a good idea to leave this area.
Investigating the roads, you see two options. You can continue on U.S. Highway 10, traveling east out of town. You briefly wonder if "Timerberwolves" is just a Minnesota mascot, or such beasts do lurk in the land of 10,000 lakes. Or, you can take U.S. Highway 75 south out of town. It's close to the river, but somehow has escaped the flooding, at least here in Moorhead.
Both roads are passable, and there's no way to tell which is safer in the long run. You get ready to sleep, knowing it will be your last day in Moorhead, Minnesota. As you drift off to sleep, events of the last weeks float in and out of your mind. Floods. Corpses in the deluge. The bikers. Using up the last of your ammo killing those bikers who thought they'd kill you first. Doritos. Finding several bags of Doritos! You drift off to sleep contentedly. Life is good. Ah, Doritos....
The next morning, you wake fully rested. Nothing bad has happened during the night. You disarm your security system (crude booby traps at the windows and doors of your house), and go out to the van.
Decision time. East or South?
'Ha! Poor Bastards!' yells Bill to a dozen corpses he notices floating downstream, bouncing off lightposts like bumper pool balls. He whistles merrily as he heads toward his white Roto-Rooter van.
A quick mental check of supplys; five 5 gallon plastic gas cans CHECK, Doritos CHECK, empty rifle CHECK, map CHECK, Coronas CHECK, tools CHECK, Playboys... oh, crap, left them on the nightstand...
Heading back inside to reclaim his treasures, four Playboy mags, Bill also grabs the duffel bag of less important things he also forgot. Opening the duffel bag, Bill sees the flashlights, matches, batteries, gas siphon, cans of cream corn (yech!), and extra Coronas (yah!).
On his way back out, Bill mimes locking the door and patting an invisible dog's head 'Be a good boy, Randy, daddy'll be back soon.'
Reverently placing the dirty mags in the passanger's seat, Bill unceremoniously tosses the duffel bag in the back. He whips out his map and quickly decided to go south on 75 to try to meet up with I-94. Hopefully, he figures, I-94 will take him to the metrpolis of St. Paul where he's sure he'll run into someone. Anyone but those bastard bikers.
'Heck, even if there's no poor bastards left on this pitiful planet, at least I'll find some cool stuff in the Mall of America! Look out Camp Snoopy, here comes friggin' Bill Moore!'
Fergus Falls
Highway 75 remains passable for quite a while. The van is holding up well, and you remembered your precious porno collection. All is good.
Well, as good as it's gonna get in the New Eden.
The big city is certainly enticing, but travel is a lot slower than Before. The stalled and abandoned cars make for slow driving, but the road is never completely blocked.
You pass through the small towns, hoping to get over to the interstate, but it's not to be for now. At Wolverton, Highway 75 gets awfully close to the river, but the route remains drivable. At the miniscule town of Kent, the river once again has flooded dangerously close to the highway, but you manage to get the Roto-Rooter van through the town. Finally, at Wahpeton, the Mighty Mississippi finally stops you. There is no way--short of a boat--to continue on Highway 75.
'Maybe,' you think, 'I can head east and skirt the town, picking up Highway 75 again later.'
Nice try, but it doesn't work out. However, in trying to go around the eastern edge of town, you backtrack up 75 until you get to state road 210. It looks to be in decent shape, though not as nice as Highway 75. Still, it's your only option, short of returning to Moorhead or ditching the van for a boat.
210 isn't so bad. It keeps going straight east--not the direction you wanted to go, but away from the river so that's a plus. Eventually, the road curves a bit to the north. Just slightly, it's irritating to be going away from your eventual stopping point of the Twin Cities. You pass the 'Einer Mickelson Field' (the 'Fergus Falls Municipal Airport') and briefly wonder if any of the planes are still there. And do they work? You also pass signs for the 'Prairie Wetlands Learning Center' but decide you've seen enough wet land to last a lifetime and decide to avoid this educational opportunity.
A few miles later, and you approach the town proper--the biggest city in Otter Tail County (which isn't saying much).
You're getting a bit hungry, but also a bit impatient. It's been slow going since Moorhead. Choices drift in and out of your mind. 'Don't stop? Stop and eat? Scavenge? Look for other survivors?'. So many choice, so much time....
Welcome to Fergus Falls, Minnesota.
Welcome to Fergus Falls! Population 13,471... "My Arse! More like 'population ME'!"thinks Bitter Bill as he speeds down Lincoln Avenue, van near to out of control, heading into the city of Fergus Falls.
Boredom sets in certain inhuman instincts, such as the 'who give a freak if I survive' instinct... a little known instinct that, at present, permeates Bill's soul (or lack there-of he chuckles) as he recklessly careens his Roto-Rooter van east.
"Le's see how far into town I can keep her up ta 80 mph this time! Shees, suppose I could get a freakin' speeding ticket! Where's those pigs when ya need them?! Ha!" he screams another laugh as the van screeches along the side of a black Lexus, sparks flying, leaving a long white blur on its once-perfect paint job
His adrenaline rush is cut short as, out of the corner of his eyes, Bill notes a tattered 'NOW OPEN' banner outside of the 'FERGUS LIQUOR' booze shop.
"SCORE!" he screams excitedly as he whips the van into a handicap spot, tires screeching to a stop. Looking across the street (as his van spun a 180), he notices the large SUNMART bakery and grocery store, "Freakin' Double Score!" he yells again.
Bill steps out of the van, shakes blood down to his legs, and begins to forage for food, booze, gas, and of course, PORN!
Apparently, Bill is not the first person to notice the "Now Open" banner at Fergus Liquor. The door is open and the inside is a mess. There is shattered glass everywhere and no liquor left on the shelves, some of which have been tipped over.
Behind the counter, someone has ripped all displays off the wall, and written something in big, red letters:
It looks as if a third letter was started, but stopped for some reason.
Leaning over the counter, you see the reason: a large crimson stain on the floor. Not the same color as the writing. A few feet away, you see a small can of paint, overturned, with a paint brush stuck in the spilled paint nearby. So much for the graffiti message system.
The large crimson stain trails off toward the back of the store. You quickly conclude that somebody was attacked and then dragged elsewhere.
No porn here.
The SunMart store is a little better. Not quite as trashed, but just as empty. The store has been thoroughly looted, and in quite an orderly manner (as far as you can tell). No smashed glass. No large blood stains.
But it does have one thing in common with the liquor store. One wall has bright red letters recently painted on it. But this time, someone completed their work.
Whoever left the message, must have gone to the liquor store afterward and met their grisly fate. You have no idea how long ago the message was written. Was there someone already in Brainerd? Or was this person just going there on a hunch? Who cares!
Getting back in the truck, you continue on down Lincoln. Eventually, you find a gas station with some fuel in the pumps. You gas up the van without a problem. And inside the gas station mini mart--PORN! Excited (in more ways than one), you jump over the counter and start pawing through the selections. "Playboy--have it....Playboy--have it....Playgirl--ugh....Playboy--have it. CRAP! This porn is useless!" Dejected (and deflated) you exit the mini mart. Don't need copies of porn you already have....
There's nothing good in the mini mart, but your rumbling stomach reminds you to grab the three cans of SPAM remaining as you exit.
Tossing the SPAM in the van, you continue on your way. After a few blocks, you see another convenience store. The possibility of porn excites you once again, and you pull the van into the parking lot. Inside, you find only more disappointment. Apparently, you have the latest issues of Playboy--and the last. Seems producing porn was not on everyone's mind in the final days. Turning to leave, you hear something from the back of the store. Something is in the storeroom.
Ducking behind a shelf, your heart starts racing. Unfortunately, you knock a jug of wiper fluid over and it falls to the ground with the loudest "THUD!" you've ever heard in your life. Whoever--or whatever--is in the back has surely heard it.
The thought of seeing someone (or something) confuses Bill. He hasn't had contact with anyone for months now; besides those biker punks that wanted him to dress up in a tutu and riverdance like Micheal Flatley. Good thing I shot them before it was too late to save my anal virginity. But this time I have no weapons?!
Bill picks up the three remaining mini-cans of hominy (yech!) to use as potential cranium bruisers, moves behind the empty wire chips rack near the front (in case he needs to make a hasty exit), and yells out a stymied HALLO? Is anyone there? I'm armed and not afraid to shoot!
With a loud 'THUD!' something slams itself against the door separating the store front from the back room. The door creaks in annoyance, but does not break.
THUD! The door groans in agony. A crack appears in the flimsy door, but it holds.
You hear an angry snarl from other other side of the door.
THUD! The crack gets larger and some wood splinters off. The door will not hold it--whatever it is--back much longer.
What the... freakin' eh!
Bill mumbles as he practically trips over his feet, dashing out the store to his van...
I'm no freakin' hero! I'm outta here!
Behind him, the THUD!s continue, now accompanied by the sound of splintering wood.
Getting into the van brings measure of security, and not a moment too soon. With a loud CRACK!, the store room door is no more. A large wolf jumps through the doorway, snarling. It lands in the store and looks through the glass at the van. Jumping over to the door, it can only howl in frustration at the glass door protecting its target.
Getting the van started and in gear, the 'low fuel' warning light reminds Bill that he needs gas. However, more importantly, he needs to get out of here. Gunning the engine, the van roars down the street, leaving the hungry canine behind.
Taking a corner quite fast, the SPAM clatters off the passenger seat and onto the floor. Fergus Falls isn't that big, but it's big enough to have a few more gas stations. Choosing one on the outskirts of town, its wide open layout gives plenting of room to spot any hostiles approaching. Locking the gas pump in the 'on' position, Bill patrols around the van to make sure all directions are covered. It only takes a few minutes to fill the van, but it passes slowly.
Finally done, a sense of security washes over Bill. At least he has enough gas to out-run wolves. It's probably not safe to scavenge here, if there are more wolves about. State highway 210 goes to Brainerd, or US Highway 52 / Interstate 94 heads southeast to the Twin Cities. Someone went to Brainerd. Or tried to. What could be there? Something to rival the fun of the Twin Cities?
Sitting on the south side of town, where 210 hits I-94, Bill ponders what to do. Lost in thought, he glances in his rearview mirror. Noticing a large, four-legged creature bounding his way, it's decision time once again. East to Brainerd? Or southeast to the state capital?
Brainerd, Brainerd, Brainerd... someone wrote that all over the walls of a store back there; wonder why? Hmm... Bill pulls out his weathered map, indexes to Brainerd, and checks out its location while speaking to the busty Playboy Playmate in the passanger seat.
Brainerd... sounds kinda freakin' lame to me! What do you think, Samone? I know, I know, you want to go to the Mall but freakin' eh! Okay, chill out girl, don't get yer bra in a wad... well, actually, go ahead, he rambles, stroking the cover of his Playboy mag resting on the passenger seat.
A gray blur brings him from his horny reverie as he notices a huge wolf loping hurriedly toward his van in the rear view mirror.
Ach! Freakin' eh! Sorry toots, we're outta here!
With a squeal, Bill speeds the van out of the parking lot, jumping over an asphalt divider, and peels away towards Brainerd.
The wolf quickly disappears in the rear-view mirror, allowing Bill a small sigh of relief. The relief turns to elation at his
Not only is Bill still alive, he's got a full tank of gas, too. Life is sweet!
The drive east is boring. At least the road isn't long and straight--it curves around a hundred small lakes and through a few small towns, forcing Bill to turn the wheel occassionally, or even brake slightly on the smaller turns.
At the eastern edge of Todd County, the road turns north and merges with U.S. Highway 10 in Staples, MN. TV ads for the office supply store run through Bill's head ('Staples--we have that!'), so he rolls down his window and shouts, 'Staples, we have that--NOT!' Maniacal laughter could be heard trailing from the Roto-Rooter van, if anyone were around to hear it.
A few miles later, just over the county line in Motley MN, US 10 splits off (heading south) while 210 continues east.
Later, signs for 'Pillsbury State Forest' are accompanied by graffiti of the Pillsbury Dough Boy being roasted over a campfire. But even this image does not deter Bill from his desination.
Two miles outside Brainerd, however, the stopped cars do.
Several vehicles are parked diagonally across both sides of the road. The cars touch in the middle, forming a sort of automotive wedge. On your right, Perch Lake blocks any attempt to drive off the road. On the left, a steep drainage ditch prevents an easy solution.
In the distance, you can see what must be the beginnings of the town of Brainerd. And at least one building has smoke rising from the chimney.
C'mon Samone... this isn't a good time for that... I know, I know, at least I'm not driving... I know, ya freakin' want it now but what if a wolf shows up or something... all right, all right...
Half an hour and a cigarette later, Bill puts down his latest Playboy, wipes the fog from the front window, and looks out to see if the cars have moved yet or not.
Freakin' Eh! I know, I know. I don't want to walk any more than you do, Samone. Geesh! But how do you freakin' expect me to get around... THAT?! Bill waves excitedly at the road block.
Hey, what?! I'M not getting out of this van, Toots! What if another freaking wildebeast thingy trys to eat me?! Look Samone... I'm not getting out... ooh... Bill likes it when you get forceful! Stop it... ooh... okay, okay!
Bill rolls down the window, pops his head out, looks and listens for any beasty things. When satisfied all is quiet (leaving the van running), he opens the door, steps out, and trips on his half-looped belt hanging down to his feet.
Getting up and brushing himself off, Bill looks over at the magazine in the dash board, grins, points his finger like a gun, winks, and nods to Samone like he meant to do that all along. He then grabs his tire iron from under his seat.
Bray-Nerd, Bray, Bray, freakin' eh Bray-Nerd; he sings out load in a voice not made for singing. Bill mosies on over to the cars blocking his pass to see if he can throw one or two into neutral and roll them into the lake (or ditch)...
Brains-Nerd, Brains-Nerd, Brains, Brains, freakin' Brains-Nerd! he whistles while he works looking back once or twice to grin at Samone as she lays half-nude and beautiful against the window...
You get to the first car and try the door. It's unlocked, and opens easily.
But before you can climb in, you notice someone crouching behind the last car, pointing a rifle at you.
The man with the rifle steps out from behind his cover. As he does so, you see another man step out from behind the other car at the rear of the wedge. He, too, points a gun at you.
The first rifleman hails you with a cheerful tone. 'Hello! Can I help you?' There's a smile on his face, too. But he keeps that gun pointed right at you as he waits for an answer.
Bray-Nerd, Bray-Nerd, freakin' Bray-Nerd...
Freakin' Eh! Wheredjou come from. Ooh Ie!
Bill puts his hands in the air and takes a few steps back. At this point, the dullard realizes his fly is still down, but with his hands in the air he can't pull it up... he twists his torso to try to hide the unzipped fly, making it look like he has to take a leak...
Uh, hello. I suppose I'm tryin' ta get to Brain-Nerd... er, I mean Brainerd, I suppose. Ah, Don't shoot... I'm not armed...
He realizes he still holds his tire iron in his left hand, which he unceremoniously lets drop with an annoying CLANG and attempts a dumb smile at the two men.
Um, me and Samone are just looking for a place to get some food, I suppose. We're starved. Um, don't hurt us, we, I mean, I, er... havn't seen anyone in a long time.
The man who hasn't spoken yet looks at you quizzically, as if wondering 'What's wrong with the newcomer?' Eventually spotting the problem, he snickers and whispers something too quietly for you to hear.
'Where're you from? And who's Samone?'? Though his tone remains cheerful, the Rifleman never relaxes; his gun remains pointed right at you.
His friend saunters over to the Rifelman, his own gun now pointing at the ground. 'Jeesh, get a load of this one! I don't think he'll give us any trouble,' he says to the Rifleman, shaking his head slowly in amusement.
He finally address you directly. 'What do you really want in Brainerd?' All mirth has left his voice; you feel that a wrong answer could be deadly.
Bill's fake smile disapears to be replaced by a queer, detached look. Not having had a two-way conversation with a real person in such a long time catches him off guard. Actually, more like it catches him WAY off guard... after a strange pause, his forehead starts to turn beet red and sweaty... it's not long after that that the dam bursts...
We, er, I, er... been driving around I suppose or something, looking for stuff, like food and porn and ammo and beer and Doritos... we, I, er... driving from Fergus Falls, er, from my home... found a store with a huge freakin' wolf, wanted to eat my head, big wolf chased us away but before that there was this store with blood red paint all over it... before another store where the guy got killed, maybe by the wolf but I dunno becasue he was like freakin' dragged off and I don't think a wolf would have dragged him it would have eaten him there but before that he had written 'Brainerd' all over the walls like an invitation and I freakin' didn't have any where better to go because the wolf beastie was chasing us here so we came here...
Bitter Bill Moore almost swoons from the mental exhaustion of rambling...
The deadly serious look in the face of the Rifleman's companion vanishes, replaced by a combination of sadness and anger. "Crap. They got him."
The Rifleman slowly lowers his gun. The cheerfulness gone from his voice, he intones flatly, "Sorry about the guns. Can't be too careful. We'll get you to Brainerd."
As he says this, his companion walks over to your van, gets in the driver's seat, and waits.
The Rifleman then gets in the cars, one by one, and drives them in reverse, placing them behind one-half of the wedge. It takes few minutes, but he eventually clears the southern (lakeside) lane. When he is done, his compatriot drives your van past the cars and stops. The Rifleman then moves all the cars back in place, reforming the road-blocking wedge.
When he is done, the companion calls out, , "Hey! I found Samone!" Leaning out the window and looking at you, he says, "Hop in, we'll drive you into town." A strange invitation, considering it's your van, but they are the ones with the guns.
The Rifleman opens the side door and hops into the back of the van. He says nothing, but he looks like he's about to cry.
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