Free The Borrowed World: A Novel of Post-Apocalyptic Collapse by Franklin Horton

something about walking with a pack on always felt very comfortable to me.  I walked ahead of the group, energized by my anger and the fact that I was no longer caged up in the car.  I never was a good car traveler and hated confinement of any sort.  I could hear Rebecca and Alice speaking in low tones behind me.  I heard the words “paranoid” and “concerned” thrown around. 
    To hell with them, I thought.  I was heading home and I was going to make it alive.  They could either go with me or not.  I was not responsible for them and would have preferred not be saddled with them.  Randi was okay but I had little use for the other two.  Let them travel for a while in their little bubble and we’d see how far they made it before it got pricked.
    I knew from years of traveling this road that we were about five miles from the nearest exit.  It was around noon, and the early summer sun was high overheard.  It was not miserable yet, but we were getting warm from the heat reflecting back off the pavement as we plodded down the shoulder of the road.  I had some water in the pack that I wasn’t going to use unless things got desperate, same for food.  I had some energy bars, some ramen and packaged macaroni, a few other items.  I was sure Gary was equally supplied, but neither of us had ever expected we would have to supply a group.  Though we hadn’t discussed it, I expected he felt the same.  There was just not enough in our packs for everyone, so best to keep our preparations low key.
    I pulled out my cellphone and checked for signal.  One bar.  I composed a quick text to my wife and sent it.  Unsure if it went through or not, I left the phone powered on and stuck it back in its holster.  If she got my message and replied, I didn’t want to miss it.
    After three miles, we had passed several abandoned vehicles but no people.  We were passed by an ambulance and a few semis.  The semi-trucks appeared to be holding out longer, since their diesel tanks had a larger capacity.  It would be a little longer before they hit crisis state.  The scary part was that when those trucks quit running, goods would no longer be reaching store shelves, and regular food supplies would be interrupted.  People who had not made preparations would start going hungry.
    I’d travelled a lot of interstate highways in my life and this section was as generic as they got.  Woods on both sides, with occasional glimpses of open field at times.  No houses, no signs of life, no personality.  Just open road.
    At one point, a convoy of armed National Guard troops passed us in the other lane.  They didn’t look very excited.  They were probably concerned about leaving their families behind to this mess, too.  I know I would be.  I wondered how many had not showed up for duty.  Once, Alice had stuck her thumb out when a semi passed but the truck had not even slowed down.
    I started to tell her that under the circumstances it might take a more impressive display to get a trucker to stop, but I didn’t want to hear about what policies I might be violating with my comment.
    I topped a hill and approached another stalled vehicle on the shoulder ahead, and I could see that this one was occupied.  I glanced back and saw the rest of my group was clustered together about fifty yards behind me.  I raised my shirttail so I could put my hand on the grip of my Ruger LCP and carefully approached the car.
    “Hello,” I called once I was close enough to be heard.
    I could see movement in the vehicle as a large man struggled to get out.  He was around seventy, tall, and neatly dressed.  He was red-faced from the heat beating down on his car.
    “Hello, young man,” he said, his booming voice carrying a little weariness at the moment.  He reminded me of my dad. 
    “You alright?” I asked.  “You look a little warm.”
    “Nah, I’m okay,” he said.  “I am a little concerned about my wife.”  The man moved stiffly around the