Chapter 71
“Ready?” he asked.
They moved north along the river road, the man leading on foot, his stick tapping softly on the pavement ahead of the horses.
Charlotte rode the mare, with Mason’s gelding beside her, while the dog ranged ahead and back in its familiar pattern.
As they left the camp behind, the sounds of the generator humming, occasional voices, and the clatter of metal faded into the forest. The sounds were replaced by the horses’ hooves on the asphalt and the river’s constant presence on their left, visible through the trees as a flowing darkness.
After about a mile, the man turned onto a trail that branched off from the road.
Charlotte would have missed it entirely.
It was just an opening in the underbrush, barely wide enough for the horses.
The trail descended toward the riverbank, surrounded by vegetation that closed in around them, branches scraping against her hazmat suit in the pre-dawn stillness.
The narrow path was worn by foot traffic rather than by vehicles, following the riverbank with the patience of a route established by generations seeking the easiest way through.
Charlotte’s cough came again halfway down the slope.
She turned into the trees, dismounted, and let the spasm work through her while the man waited without speaking.
Mason watched from the gelding’s back, and she could feel his attention.
When she remounted, the world had lightened from black to deep blue, and the river was visible thirty yards to their left, catching what little light the sky offered.
They had gone another quarter mile when the man stopped.
His hand came up, palm flat, the universal gesture for halt.
Charlotte reined the mare to a stop. Mason’s gelding halted beside her.
The man was looking at the ground. She followed his gaze and saw recent footprints.
Multiple sets pressed into the ground at the trail’s edge where it met the riverbank.
Adults and some smaller prints. A group had come through within the past several hours.
“Others,” the man said. “They found the crossing.”
“Could they be SNA?” Charlotte asked.
“SNA moves in vehicles when they can. These are civilians. Families, by the look of the prints. They’re using the same route we are.”
What had once been a local secret was now a route used by anyone who had heard of it through the tattered information network still functioning without phones or the internet.
They continued on their way. The trail narrowed further, forcing the horses into single file.
Charlotte took the lead, her mare carefully navigating over roots and washouts.
Mason’s gelding followed closely behind, and the man brought up the rear, lost in thought as he recalculated odds that had shifted against him.
They encountered the first group at a bend where the trail widened briefly.
A family of five, two adults and three children, had stopped to rest on a fallen log.
The families acknowledged each other with nods, but no words were exchanged.
On a trail that everyone understood was their only viable option, conversation had become a luxury.
They passed two more groups in the next half mile.
A pair of elderly women with walking sticks and three men carrying backpacks that looked like they contained fishing gear.
Each encounter followed the same pattern: a brief assessment, a recognition of shared purpose, and then continued movement without explanation.
As the sky lightened to the gray that precedes sunrise, the trail opened onto a gravel bar that extended partway into the river.
The man stopped at the edge of the gravel bar and pointed.
“There,” he said. “The ford. The water’s shallowest from that gravel bar to the opposite bank.
The current is strongest in the center channel, but if you stay to the right of that submerged rock, the horses can make it across without swimming. ”
Charlotte studied the crossing. The river was wider here than she had expected, perhaps sixty yards from bank to bank, but the man was right about the gravel bar.
It extended twenty yards into the flow, creating a natural ramp that would allow them to enter the water gradually rather than dropping directly into the current.
She could see the opposite shore. West Virginia.
Beyond it lay Mill Gap Road, Route 33, the farm with the red mailbox and the apple tree, and whatever safety still existed.
She turned back toward the trail they had descended.
From the vantage point, she could see the river road winding south toward the broken bridge, and beyond it, the camp where hundreds of people remained stranded, with nowhere to go and limited options for getting there. Smoke rose from the campfires.
Rumors would spread through that camp that the crossing existed.
People were using it. By midday, everyone at the bridge would know there was another way across, and by nightfall, the trail would be carrying more traffic than it had in its history as a local secret.
The man was watching her face. He had delivered what he had promised.
The crossing was there. The far shore was visible.
Whatever happened next was her responsibility, not his.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said.
He nodded. “Go before the light gets any better. The SNA has observation posts on the high ground west of the river. They’ll be active at first light.”