Shepherd's Pie
"Pff—hahaha!"
Frank burst out laughing at Gunner's suggestion that there might be zombies inside. I laughed with him — but somewhere in the middle of it I had already swung the SIG Rattler off my back and around to the front.
"Opeeen!"
Frank threw his whole weight onto the crowbar as he shouted. Metal shrieked and twisted, a sound that crawled straight up the spine, and the padlock clattered to the ground. I swallowed, dry-throated, without meaning to.
Gunner's shooting stance didn't so much as twitch. He watched the dark gap of the door as it eased open and flicked on the tactical light mounted to his rifle. A single hard blade of light cut the darkness inside the trailer.
Frank must have been wound tight too. He glanced at the interior the light had revealed, then said, a little sheepish:
"Aw, there's nothing in here."
He pulled down the aluminum steps folded against the trailer entrance.
"Looks like a makeshift office. Break room, maybe."
Frank started to climb up first, but Gunner caught him by the shoulder and stopped him.
"Hold up. I go first."
Gunner went in light-first into the dark. A moment later his voice carried out from inside.
"Clear. You can come in."
Only then did Frank and I climb the steps and step inside. Frank took one look around and let out a whoop.
"Holy hell. We just hit the jackpot!"
He wasn't wrong. One glance at the interior of the fifty-three-foot dry van was enough to tell this was no ordinary cargo box.
The front half had been partitioned off with plywood into a small office and break room. A worn sofa and a table, a compact refrigerator and a microwave. Work schedules and blueprints still hung on the walls. On the desk sat a dust-caked CB radio and a charging dock for work handsets.
The back half was a mobile warehouse. Sturdy steel shelves ran the length of both sides, stacked in neat order with toolboxes and parts crates of every kind.
Frank shouted in a voice like a kid who had just found Treasure Island.
"Chan, Gunner. Look at this. This generator alone means we don't have to worry about power. And what's this — an arc welder? Mike's going to pass out when he sees this."
I didn't answer. Frank didn't need the encouragement.
"Whoa — the shelves have chainsaw parts and replacement blades stacked by the box. And that… huh. Four whole drums. What's in those?"
"No kidding, Frank. Another score."
Frank checked the drums and kept going, his voice climbing.
"Ohh, man. Three of the four are packed full of gasoline. A gas generator and the gas to run it, all in one haul. Haha."
He was already moving down the aisle before anyone could get a word in.
"And the generator's a lot higher output than ours. There's even an air compressor. Vehicle maintenance just got a whole lot easier."
Frank was buzzing like a captain who had just opened a treasure hold. He pointed at the shelves and kept on.
"Would you look at that. Engine oil, hydraulic fluid, grease, fuel additives — enough to last us years. This is a treasure vault. A genuine treasure vault. Hahahaha."
Then Gunner, who had been going over the trailer with a fine-tooth comb, spoke in a low voice.
"No need to split all this across our trucks. Hook this trailer up to Tank's tractor and we haul the whole thing. That's another mobile workshop and warehouse, right there."
"That'd be best."
Gunner picked up the radio at once.
While Gunner drove the F-550 over to Tank, Frank flipped through a dust-caked work log and muttered to himself.
"Looks like they were in the middle of a job when they heard the second volcano had blown, then bailed with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Left all the gear right where it was. The dates line up."
Frank and I looked the trailer over more carefully. Sure enough, the break-room cabinets still held several boxes of canned goods with plenty of shelf life left, and a large first-aid kit sitting right where someone had left it. In the corner stood a plastic water tank that had to hold a good hundred and fifty gallons. Left sitting, the water had frozen solid, but it was still about a third full.
Not long after, a heavy engine note rolled in from beyond the forest road. Gunner's pickup came into view, and behind it Tank's blue Peterbilt 389 made its presence known. He stopped in front of the dry van, leaned out the window, and said:
"Felt like something was missing. This'll do."
At that brief joke, Frank grinned and guided the hookup with practiced ease. With a dull, solid clunk, the massive tractor and trailer locked together as one.
We headed back to camp with our new prize in tow, and Mike and Dave met us with wide eyes.
"Wait — where'd you pull that from?"
Frank jumped down from Gunner's truck and answered Dave with a flourish.
"Yours truly, the great Frank, just scored another one!"
He hammed it up as he sidled over to Mike and said, almost in a whisper:
"Mike. There's a pretty decent Miller arc welder in there."
Mike's eyes went wide. He climbed straight into the trailer, looked it over with care, and came back down looking satisfied.
"Heh heh. Now that's a piece of equipment. Better output than the Lincoln I brought — better even than the one we had on the farm. Reinforce the insulation a bit and it'd make a bunkhouse we wouldn't be ashamed of."
He ran his eyes over the trailer again, as if sorting his thoughts.
"First thing, we'll need a way to open and lock the door from the inside. And… if we put a gun nest on the back of this trailer the way you did on your truck, it'd come in handy in more ways than one."
The sun was slipping down, staining the forest red, and once we had finished setting camp in order we gathered back at the motorhome for dinner.
On the table, besides the stew and bread, two large shepherd's pies sat steaming, baked to a rich, appetizing brown. Melted cheese and a dusting of parsley over mashed potatoes — just looking at it made my mouth water.
"Whoa. What's this?"
Dave's eyes went round as saucers. With everyone's attention on the pies, Sarah smiled and said:
"Mrs. Anderson just brought them over. She said she'd made them for the kids before they left Sacramento, and she wanted to share."
Dave grabbed a fork and declared:
"Then we obviously start with the best stuff."
"Come on, man. You save the good stuff for last."
Frank needled him, and Dave shot right back.
"That way you spend your whole life eating the worst thing first. Special things, you taste first. No exceptions."
Dave's clowning filled the motorhome with laughter. His mother, Eleanor, smiled and said:
"It's not as if there's a law about it. Let's try the good things first, then. Now — a prayer before we begin."
The prayer ended and the meal began. As if they had all agreed in advance, everyone took a big first spoonful of shepherd's pie. The potatoes were soft, the minced meat deep and savory, the sweetness of the vegetables woven through it all, and a sound of pure appreciation rose from every face around the table.
"Wow… Mrs. Anderson can cook."
Everyone nodded at Frank's praise. The meal went on, warm and easy, until Raven, who had been eating her pie in quiet, spoke up.
"I talked with Mrs. Anderson for a bit earlier… I think they want to keep following us."
At Raven's words I set my fork down for a moment.
"We met them on Highway 50, so for a while we'll be heading the same way whether we like it or not. Cooperating in good faith is fine. But they're three families. I think we keep a certain distance."
Once I had finished, the conversation slid — as if the subject had never come up — over to Frank's haul.
"Anyway, if it weren't for yours truly, that treasure vault would have sat rotting in the woods forever."
Frank said it with a swagger, and Gunner snorted a laugh and backed him up.
"Yeah, I'll give him that. The way this guy kept at it — 'a little farther, just a little farther' — that's how we found it, no question."
Gunner's words set the motorhome laughing all over again. It was a hard world, but it was a night where small strokes of luck and the strange expectancy of new faces crossed paths.
We finished the meal, and everyone went back to their own quarters.
The next morning I woke before first light. I got my creaking body up and started the day the way I always did. Ground the beans, poured the hot water, pulled a cup of coffee. A rich aroma filled the trailer.
If I can still drink a cup I brewed myself in the middle of this mess, that's good enough, isn't it?
It was the start of a day filled with a drive I couldn't quite name. After morning exercise, I went for a jog around camp with Wolf.
Along the way we ran into Anderson, Smith, and Walker — the owner of the Skoolie — out as if for a morning walk.
"Good morning."
I returned the greeting.
"The pie last night was excellent. Outstanding cooking."
Anderson was about to smile and answer my thanks when Walker looked at Wolf and his eyes went round.
"Wait a second. Are you… Polar Bear?"
"I am."
At my answer he bowed his head again, looking as if he had just met a figure out of legend.
"So the rumor that he travels with a wolf was true. It's an honor to meet you."
Then Anderson spoke, carefully.
"If you wouldn't mind, could we talk for a moment in our Skoolie?"
I had been curious about the inside of that bus anyway, so I accepted.
The moment I stepped inside, following Walker, I knew the person who had converted this bus was a survivalist. The walls and ceiling showed the marks of thick insulation, and every window had a sturdy ballistic shutter that locked from the inside. The rear emergency exit had a gun port cut so a muzzle could be pushed out toward the outside, and an AR-15 pattern rifle was racked beside it.
Walker caught my look and smiled, a little bitter.
"I spent years getting ready, figuring a day like this would come. I never imagined it would look like this."
He offered coffee. I declined politely, saying I had already had some — though the truth was simpler. Not taking food or drink from someone I had just met was an old habit.
A moment later Anderson got to the point.
"As you can see, we're people heading east, same as you. Back in the wagon-train days, folks moved together in companies. What would you say to us forming a column with yours?"
I had expected the offer, but I took a moment to gather my thoughts before I spoke.
"Traveling together isn't a problem in itself. But there are conditions."
"Name them."
"If we run into raiders, or we have to fight for any other reason, you follow my orders. No exceptions. I need that promise."
"Yes. We'll do that."
The answer came too easily, and I didn't quite trust it. I paused, met each of their eyes in turn, and went on.
"Intent doesn't matter. If I decide you're a threat — no. An obstruction. I can't guarantee anyone's safety."
None of them answered.
That last line was not a warning. It was a declaration: in a world where goodwill was no longer a virtue, if we were going to travel together, a promise had to come before snap judgment.
And before we shared a warm pie, I had to know first whether they had the standing — and the steel — to keep the rules that pie would be shared under.