Caravan to Armageddon

By Jil Plummer

The year is 2030. Kendra Savage, 28, a photojournalist, is commissioned to chronicle the journey of thirteen travel trailers, secretly carrying popular celebrities from eleven countries, across the United States. The goal is to prove travel and commerce again safe after the recent devastating worldwide plague. But Kendra finds herself forced closer than her camera lens when "accidents" compel her to discover the saboteur in their midst before everyone is dead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jil Plummer
• Release date: Feb 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301863679

Jil Plummer

I am a red headed Canadian who lives in a town outside San Francisco and enjoys listening to and watching people. My loves are my Border collies, horses, laughing and running in the rain. My novels are set in places where I have lived such as the Yorkshire Dales and softer villages of England, the hills of Jamaica and areas of the U.S. and Canada. Although my characters are flawed we discover, through some traumatic occurrence, the unsuspected reason behind an action or attitude we may have condemned. Teaching a creative writing class for English as a Second language adults, and my husband being a freelance photographer, planted the seed for my new E-book novel "Caravan to Armageddon." This journey across the U.S. by a diverse and often uncooperative group of foreign celebrities has them coming to care for each other and revealing their secrets when faced with an assassin and almost certain death.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Two more brutal killings have shocked our nation’s capital today. Each body, like the twenty nine others these past months, has a large P carved across its face. Authorities do not know... I punched off the car radio. It was getting worse and could happen to anyone. A rash or pimple seen by one of those Xenaphobic anti-plague nuts, and you could be one more mutilated corpse. Couldn’t they understand that the plague was gone? Or didn’t they want to. And who were they?

I braked at the entrance to the field at Bull Run, twenty miles west of Washington D.C., and rested ringless hands along the top of my steering wheel. With trepidation I looked to where a ray of sunlight scorched and probed, picking thirteen Airstream trailers out from the shadows opposite, leaving them naked and exposed like a row of silver bullets. Then a cloud annihilated them all.

That late August afternoon in the year 2030 rested heavy with humidity. Senile leaves clung listlessly to motionless branches and newly mown grass made breathless air thick as honey.

I sighed. At least my new assignment would get me away from this sauna-like heat for a few weeks, even if I did have to live in one of those ghastly tin cans. Still, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be enticed into leaving my apartment, my cave. Much better to stay there buried with my nightmares.

I rammed my car forward, enjoying its roaring destruction of the afternoon’s cloying smugness and I damned everyone who had harped until I had to accept this job to get some peace.

You’re a good photographer, Tom, my murdered husband’s best friend, had said. That’s what they need and when I mentioned you’d been in the Friendship Corps they were really sold.

They’ve not seen my work, I said, settling stubbornly into my chair.

Oh yes, they have! Tom’s wife, Shelley, looked like the proverbial cat, only it was my excuses she was bound to swallow one by one. Tom showed them magazines you’ve been published in. Some of your fashion stuff too, from before, but it was the photo-journalism that got them.

Those. I thought of all the faces. The sick, the blind, the dying. The griefstricken survivors. All caught by my camera lens to chronicle forever the terrible plague that had swept the United States, along with the rest of the world, killing millions. As Myxomutosis had decimated Britain’s rabbits in the 1950s, so had this virus escaped some scientist’s test tube to attack the human population. It had spread so quickly no one could trace the source and each nation had blamed another until, under a pall of rage and fear, all commerce and international exchange ceased.

As suddenly as it began the scourge ended but another had already begun. Consumed by dread of a new outbreak, the world’s people, deaf to the consequences and often in defiance of their more level headed leaders, adamantly refused to resume contact beyond their own boundaries.

That was in 2020. I’ve hardly touched a camera for years! Besides, wouldn’t they want video?

You think we haven’t thought of that? Actors? More lies, they’d say. No, it’s got to be photos carried home in the very hands of their idols. Someone they recognize and can look at over and over again. Tom crouched in front of me, forcing my eyes to meet his. Kendra, this is a dangerous mission but, if successful, it could mean life for millions of people. Countries have got to open their borders, trade must resume for the survival of civilization. We don’t hear much but we know some of them are sinking back into the dark ages, their populations starving. It’s genocide but they’re too crazy-scared and obstinate to change.

His intensity had hypnotized me.

We’re damn lucky here in the US. by comparison, but look at the state of our industry; the unemployment, the shortages. Hell, we can’t even make steel without Africa’s manganese, and can you remember your last banana or cup of real coffee? At least we have nuclear energy but the rest of the world’s falling apart, you know that!

I had watched as he began to pace and although I wanted to wipe sweat from the bridge of my nose the tension in the room wouldn’t let me.

It isn’t as if no one’s tried. There was that Swiss fellow who crossed into France. Got hanged on public T.V. Our own president’s pleaded, reasoned with the American people but they won’t budge. He did get the Friendship Corps, you were part of, into Africa but you know how that ended.

A jagged pain stabbed through me. Tom must have heard the sharp intake of my breath because he stopped and stood looking out the window. I remember a clock ticking somewhere.

When he turned back he was calm. State Department’s Jim Fletcher thought this up and, simplistic as it sounds, it might just work. He wants each country that agrees to cooperate to secretly transport its most popular personality to Washington; someone perhaps unknown to us, but famous where he lives, trusted implicitly and admired above all others. These people will travel through the states, incognito, in a caravan of trailers, just like other clubs are doing these days when there is no chance for vacations abroad. They’ll make friends with each other during the journey and come to realize that there’s no sign of plague either here, nor in their travelling companions’ lands. When they return home they’ll give talks, show your photos and convince their adoring fans that it’s okay to open up to the world again. Tom’s words fell over each other in his excitement. It’s a simple, gut level approach and, Kendra, it could work! But we need you!

And what makes you think the American people will accept this group of Plaguers? They’ll try to kill them, y’know that.

Two steps and Tom was squeezing my upper arms, eyes drilling into mine and cheeks flaming. No one will know. We can get away with something like this here because so many of us are from different backgrounds. We take for granted everyone’s American ‘cause we all know no one wants to come here from outside, even if they could. The film’ll be used for education here too, just like everywhere else. Of course there’ll be stringent health checks before arrival and departure. Leaving impressions of his fingers on my arms, he dropped into the chair opposite me. You will do this, Kendra? He begged and I knew part of the reason was for my own good.

But I didn’t care what happened to me - or the world. All I wanted was my family back, which was impossible. I won’t go.

Why ever not? Shelley looked close to tears.

There’ll be children. You know I couldn’t stand that.

Shelley looked to her husband for assistance. At least they didn’t bug me about seeing a psychiatrist anymore. They’d never understand why I, who’d so dearly loved my own son, should now become hysterical at sight or sound of a child. How could anyone understand unless they’d seen what I’d seen?

Tom stood and towered over me, triumph in his eyes. You’re wrong! There won’t! We’ve been adamant about that from the first, knowing they’d be a distraction. Folks’d be worrying about them instead of interacting with each other. Kids could cause all kinds of problems. No, Kendra there’ll not be any children.

You’re sure?

Positive.

Tom and Shelley stood side by side, willing me to go. I felt trapped and weak. I’ll think it over, I said at last.

Five days later I had agreed. Then I was interviewed by an official who knew more about me than I wanted him to. He made a point of the project being top secret and that we could expect no help if things went awry. There can be no negative incidents. This experience must be thoroughly enjoyable to succeed. He shook my hand upon leaving. Good luck!

I had left him, that day, with a strong sense of foreboding and now here I was in the hot sun kicking myself for giving in.

Chapter 2

The trailers did not improve on proximity and the painful glare as the sun again hit them made me squint and look away.

I parked next to the leader’s reflecting flank and stepped out onto stubble. Heat surged around my ankles and I looked up to meet the unblinking, protuberant eyes of the young woman who stood in the doorway. Short, sandy hair was plastered to a round head and I couldn’t help but notice her breasts fighting to escape the faded pink blouse, and the belly that bulged against buttons of too tight shorts. Even her knees were circles separating swollen thighs from calves.

Hello, I’m Kendra Savage.

Oh, the photographer lady. They told us you’d be here early. Come on in. I’m Donna Parsons. My old man’s the mechanic. Cheeks puffed into a smile as she stepped back. Hot enough for you? We’ve been sleeping outside nights. Throw sleeping bags down on the grass; let bugs walk over us.

I mounted two metal steps and was nearly suffocated by smells of burnt toast and stale sweat. Rivulets trickled down my face as I searched my jeans pockets for a handkerchief, and my white shirt clung to my back.

Donna kept talking. We’ve been here five days. Al’s had to check out all the trailers. Cars are supposed to come tomorrow then I guess he’ll have to work on them. Everything’s so old, you know, ‘though they got the best they could find. You’re pretty.

What?

You’re pretty. I always wanted black hair cut with a fringe like yours. Dyed it once but I looked like a witch. Hey, Al, here’s the photographer.

At first all I saw was a clutter of newspapers piled on a table, then the husky, bald, baby-faced man who sat looking at me with startled blue eyes as though this was the first he’d heard of my arrival. Quickly but carefully he folded the paper he‘d been reading and placed it to one side, then he flashed a mischievous grin, the kind that intimates you share one heck of a joke. Glad to meet you, he said. You look hot. Park yourself while Donna gets us lemonade. I’m lucky, heat don’t bother me none.

His mouth twitched at this humorous quirk of his and I realized that what I had taken for baldness was, in reality, fair strands that strayed in airy whisps about his head. He was probably no older than thirty, though he’d not look much different at sixty.

What do you think? he asked.

About what? I sat on the couch and prayed for Donna to hurry so I could get out of there.

About this trip. Off with a pack of Plaguers to save the world. Craziest thing I ever heard.

Al, don’t call them that! Donna voice was sharp as a whip, and when I looked up to take the glass she offered I was startled by the anger in her face.

You’re right. Sorry, these are real nice folks, I’m sure. It’s just been a long time. Anyway, what do you think?

I took a gulp of the yellow liquid, not caring about the murky state of the glass as coldness snaked blessed relief into the pit of my stomach. I sucked in a deep breath. As long as there’s a chance, it’s worth trying I guess. Something’s got to be done.

Guess you’re right. We’ll just do our best.Al emptied his glass and held it out for more. Bet you’re wondering why they picked me, he said as Donna, after filling his, refilled mine. Al was standing now, short legs giving the lie to a tall man’s torso. So happens I’m the best mechanic in Washington. Sticking grease ingrained thumbs into the chest of his pea green t-shirt he strutted in mock conceit. Looked after all the biggees cars for years and I know where to get parts. That’s terrible important these days, y’know, when they’re not makin’ any. First sign of trouble and they come to me. For this they made an offer I couldn’t refuse, even though it means leaving my business to manage itself. Doin’ the right thing, ain’t we, Donna?

Sure thing, Al, you bet. Donna fidgeted and I had the feeling she wanted me gone as much as I wanted to go.

What about you? Why are you here? Al’s blue eyes pried at my privacy.

Questions. Sooner or later they were bound to come but I didn’t need to answer. Just the best photojournalist in Washington. I mimicked, then stood up. Can I have my keys, please?

For a moment there was silence then Al laughed and took down a bundle hanging from a hook on the wall. He selected one and handed it to me. Last trailer on the end.

I looked through the window in dismay. But it’s so far from you! I’m leaving valuable camera and computer gear there tonight. They said it’d be safe!

And it will be. Don’t you worry.Al slid open a drawer under the table and pulled out a gleaming blue-black pistol. Nothin’s gonna happen around here I don’t know about. As long as you’re a friend you’ve no reason for concern, so rest easy. Security’s another reason they hired me.

His rascally expression made it all a joke. Donna’ll show you out.

I felt my elbow taken as though to rush my exit and a door slammed somewhere behind us.

Sounds like a breeze, I said hopefully.

Could be, said Donna, jumping down the trailer steps behind me and closing the screen firmly behind her. You’re there.

I looked to where her stubby, nail bitten finger pointed.

They said you’d be alone but you’d need a medium size. Not married?

Damn her and damn the trailer to which I was about to commit myself and my equipment. I strode to my car and got in, trying not to wince as I sat on the hot seat.

Divorcee I’ll bet. Too good looking not to be. Kids?

The stupid woman had followed me and peered in, trying to see what was on my back seat.

No, nothing, I snapped, and as my engine rumbled into life all the nothingness reached for me and I accelerated away, raising dust to smother Donna and her hurtful questions.

The snub-nosed trailer I stopped in front of squatted blindly and when I unlocked the door heat gushed as from a furnace. I waited a moment before rushing in to dash about opening windows and skinning knuckles. Panting, I sat on the step outside and waited for the place to become bearable.

As I chewed on a stalk of grass, I wondered why whoever had mown this field hadn’t gathered it as hay for winter. Everything was needed these days. My thoughts drifted to the wildflowers I could see thickly tangled beneath nearby trees and they reminded me of those wilting in a jam jar on Donna Parson’s drainboard. Did Al or Donna pick them? Both seemed unlikely-but what did I know. Memory brought back bouquets I had gathered for my mother long ago. Pussywillows came first, signaling Spring.

Was that the gurgle of a stream? Temptingly cool sound but no time to explore...damn sun! A famous battle was fought here long ago. Did these same trees, as saplings, hear the cries, the neighs, the guns? Still taste the blood? Did ghosts of agony drift like invisible spiders’ webs through the long nights? Men had discovered more economical ways to kill since then, ways too horrible to think about, that left nothing for the pens of poets.

Thought you might need help.

Donna’s voice jolted me back to the present and I jumped up and went to open my car trunk. No thanks, I said, swinging out a camera bag and laptop computer. I can manage fine.

Still the moon faced creature stared.

Thank you, I don’t need help. I took the equipment inside but she was still standing there when I came out. D’you want something? I asked. Better she learn from the beginning to leave me alone.

Are you staying the night?

No, I told you that before. Why?

Just wanted to make sure. Bye for now then. She walked away, sneakered feet dragging hay strands from their fallen ranks, I wondered why she was so concerned with my staying here and then remembered-part of their job was to protect me.

I carried the rest of my belongings inside and plunked my largest case on the bed. There was a bunk above mine and two across the aisle. Kitchen and living area up front, bathroom in the back with small tub and shower. Not bad really. Nice stove, sink and fridge. With no air conditioning at least I’d have ice, and green and blue curtains lent a cooling touch. Pretty decent all told. As good a place to hide in as any.

I unpacked my clothes, enough to cover any type of weather we might encounter and, last of all, unwrapped the framed photograph from my softest angora sweater.

My own image laughed out at me, one arm around the waist of a thin, bearded young man whose even teeth glinted from the shade of his khaki bush hat. On my other side stood a small tanned, tow haired boy wearing khaki shorts and, though his fingers gripped mine and he leaned against me, his eyes looked eagerly into the distance as though something exciting called to him. He had my wide jaw and mouth, his father’s fair coloring. If I concentrated I could go back...be there in that moment the picture was taken. But not now. There wasn’t time. My darlings, I must leave you, but not for long. We’ll soon be together. I pressed the glass against my cheek, drowning in my well of despair, then with great effort of will reverently placed that remnant of my other life deep in a shelf, hating to leave it there, yet knowing only its presence would ensure me the courage to return.

Day faded. I locked up, testing windows and the door several times.

As I drove past Parson’s trailer I heard Donna’s voice raised in strident scolding and tried to imagine Al taking it with that impish grin of his. It was difficult. I would have expected him to wear the pants in that trailer. The voice shrilled on until I reached the gates and paused, unsettled and nervous, to look back through the stain of night.

The trailers lurked, oddly menacing light spots against dark trees, and I was glad to be heading away instead of toward them.

Chapter 3

At five to three the next afternoon a decrepit cab rattled off, leaving me in front of a large stone government building. To an observer I might have stepped straight from one of those old time soft drink ads portraying youthful enthusiasm; hair bouncing against shoulders of white jacket, matching skirt swinging above my knees, but inwardly I dreaded having to attend this reception, even though I’d assured myself I’d be invisible behind my camera and need have no social contact with the people who were to be my subjects during the coming weeks. Apart from their appearance they would mean nothing to me.

I looked around for the armed guards I had expected for such an important gathering but, of course, that would only bring attention we didn’t want. We would be on our own. I’d been warned of that. The others must have been smuggled in.

I began by shooting the imposing entrance and the familiar click of my Nikon roused that once familiar twinge of anticipation I’d known on beginning other assignments and the desire to do the best job I could.

An elevator took me to the second floor where I hesitated at the opening to a large room in which well dressed men and women talked in subdued voices, sipped champagne and nibbled delicacies from a sumptuously laden table. Thick carpeting and floor to ceiling rose-colored drapes eased the formality, and while impressive crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling small lamps lent their glow to burnished antique tables and cabinets. Famous Americans frowned down from paintings hung on paneled walls, and beside the cavernous fireplace stood a furled American flag. It was a dream from days long gone.

As I looked, a man who had been talking to a small Asian woman raised his head and, after a questioning lift of scraggly eyebrows, hurried toward me. He was surely a skinny chimpanzee decked out in expensive brown suit, starched white shirt and white on blue, spotted bow tie. Steel wool bristled from his head and poked from ears seeming purposely large for the horn rimmed glasses they supported. His grin showed teeth any horse would have been proud of.

Bud Jones, he shouted, snatching my hand in a boney squeeze. You’re Miss Savage. Wonder how I guessed with that camera around your neck! He gaffawed, wrinkling even more a face that looked as if it had spent years battling deserts until at last becoming one with the sand.

Although shorter than my five foot nine, I guessed he wore lifts in his shoes and I felt my hackles rise at the way his bright, searching eyes ran over me while he talked. Fine thing we’re about to do, don’t y’think? Give these folk a trip they won’t forget. He puffed on the cigarette he held dripping ash by his side, and squinted through the smoke. I’m in charge so come to me if you need anything, always available for a good looking woman. He winked, then turned to the freshly permed grey haired lady with sad eyes who appeared beside him. My wife, Pat, he said, suddenly smaller and quieter.

Mrs. Jones offered a limp hand. You’re not afraid to drive all that way alone?

Not at all. I enjoy solitude. Now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll get to work.

Work? Bud’s bellow made several heads turn. Not today. Goddam have a good time! Drink some champagne!

But I left, hearing Mrs. Jones say, Oh, yes Bud, do get me another glass, that would be nice.

Poor, foolish woman, I knew her husband’s type; aging playboy, irresistible, at least in his imagination, probably impotent, certainly harmless and surely a maddening bore. Well, he’d soon learn to leave me alone. Ah, good, the light was better than I expected. Sharing an alcove with a cherrywood case and its display of antique plates I raised my lens.

It pleased me to find most of my subjects reasonably good looking and those who weren’t exactly handsome appeared photographically interesting. An East Indian couple arrived to be bombarded by Jones’ greeting and I zoomed in on them, clicking unnoticed as the man, short and glisteningly plump, stood patiently under the onslaught, then replied politely through purple lips. But it was his hands which drew my attention for they were smothered in rings. Huge colorful stones glittered on each finger giving the impression of being unbearably heavy rather than beautiful. I moved from them to his wife; a delicate sari’d creature, a turquoise jewel herself, with a red dot on her forehead and raven hair in a heavy braid down her back. Her eyes flashed about nervously and were a mess. She must have been weeping to smudge the kohl like that. Damn, no close ups of her today! Only good things on this trip.

My camera kept on, capturing seemingly happy different couples, not revealing the cold politeness and wary spaces I saw between them. Bud played the affable host, bowing and kissing ladies’ hands, booming voice never silent. Eventually he joined several men in front of the cavernous fireplace and called for attention.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Caravan New Hope. During the weeks to come I trust we’ll all become good friends and have a hell of a fine time. We’re all equal on this journey, I alone having a title and that’s of Trail boss, mainly ‘cause I’m the only one who knows the way.

He grinned and straightened his bow tie to a ripple of laughter.

You know the rules. No rank. No politics. Just tourists travelling westward on the route of the old wagon trains. Now I’ll do the introductions and as I read your names would you please raise a hand. Saddhoo and Maya Dass from India. He boomed it out as though presenting a circus act.

The dust colored arm rose slowly and the jewels flashed.

Two of you have the same name?

Another man, cranelike with small wire rimmed glasses on his beak of a nose waved authoritatively. Non. I am Monsieur Dupuis and I wish a question to know the route we take.

Frowning, Jones rose on his toes. Patience, Monsieur, patience. You will be told later. Security, y’know. Now, seeing as how you’ve already introduced yourself I’ll do the same for your charming wife, Madelaine.

I focused on the French woman’s angular face, skin stretched taut by black hair swept into a tight pony tail ending in a shrub of ravelled curls on the crown of her head. Liner swept upward from blue shadowed eyelids and darkly pencilled eyebrows rose like wings toward pixi ears. The shadow on