Chapter 6: Gathering for the End

Helmet on, I started the motorcycle and zigzagged down side streets. I spotted an open pharmacy, dashed inside, and swept dozens of medicine boxes, rubbing alcohol, and gauze into my arms. The clerk’s hands shook as she rang me up. I grabbed aspirin, a thermometer, and travel-size soaps—every second counted.

Two hours later, I reached Maple Ridge’s base. Dad’s battered Chevy had just arrived, bed overflowing with sacks and buckets. He leaned against the hood, hat low, scanning for me.

"Dad! Drive up—follow me!" I shouted. I knew a back road up the ridge, straight to the overlook halfway up.

The air cooled as we climbed, sun slicing through red maple branches. The only sounds were our engines and the frantic calls of birds—no other people, just wildlife fleeing the lowlands.

At the overlook, we unloaded the truck: thirty bags of potatoes, the rest wheat. We worked fast, barely speaking, Mom’s face set with worry. The wind rattled the leaves—storm coming.

No time to rest. I left Mom with the axe and the supplies, then Dad and I sped home for a second load.

Mom had already packed everything important: two cast iron pans, bowls, buckets, duffel bags full of quilts and clothes. She debated bringing the family photo albums or Dad’s old hunting knife, then tucked both into a duffel—her practicality steady as ever.

We grabbed whatever else we could—old toys, tools, even the battered family Bible—and hit the road.

Before heading back up, Dad swung by the seed store, buying sacks of seeds and a couple apple saplings. He pressed cash into the clerk’s hand, urging him to get his own family up the ridge.