“Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me.”
“Good, that’s what I wanted to do. Get your hands up! Now!” said a firm, female voice.
He was looking into the deep brown eyes of a tall woman, waving the weapon right at his gut. “That’s quite far enough, Buster,” she said to him.
Kurt didn’t move. He looked closely at her and put his hands up slowly, as if in surrender, but more in a gesture of complete helplessness and a “no-fear-from-me” routine.
She didn’t flinch. She just kept staring at him. Nothing was said. Finally she waggled the gun. “Sit down over there on that stump,” she ordered.
He walked over with hands raised and sat down on a stump with tiny branches of new growth at its base. It was about ten feet from the porch. The stump was probably three feet across and a foot off the ground. He sat with his knees hunkered up in front of him. Kurt smiled slightly, hoping to ease the tension. She didn’t respond. He realized he must be a sight to this woman out here in the far country. He’d dressed accordingly for a late fall hike in his tan and pale green hunting outfit, which blended in perfectly with the leaf strewn trail he had been walking. However, he thought he must have looked strange to her, and probably a bit dangerous since he hadn’t shaven in three days. He looked at her again and this time she lowered the gun a bit and spoke.
“What’s your name?” she clearly, but firmly spoke down at him.
“Kurt Sloan,” he quietly responded.
“Sloan? Anglo! Where are you from?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“Sort of out of your bailiwick, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m far from my bailiwick”, Kurt more cheerfully replied. “That’s a word I haven’t heard for quite a while.”
“What are you, some sort of English teacher? Course if you were, I can understand why you’re wandering around these parts. No work for you in Pittsburgh from what I’ve heard. Just what are you doing here?” she said, “at Morgan’s Run?”
“I’m doing research on the old Pittsburgh to Georgetown trail that was called “The Great Allegheny Passage. It was built early in the century. I’ve been walking for almost three days. I just decided to get off for a while, and here I am.”
“Just decided to take a walk and here you are. Just like that. Be serious, Mr. Sloan. These are strange times for an Anglo to be out exploring the countryside or have I heard wrong on the WorldNet?”
“No, you haven’t heard wrong. Look, I’m an old Pittsburgher, born and raised there. When it was Pittsburgh, okay? I just had to get away,” he said with great force, looking her right in the eyes.
Her suspicious look slighty subsided lessened replaced by a softer, crinkled look. There was a quiet for a few seconds as she looked at him. They stared at each other. Far away a crow was cawing. Finally she spoke.
“I used to walk that trail when I was a kid”, she said in a distant, almost dreamy way. “My Dad never let me go anywhere when I was young, but I used to explore the trail in both directions. It was my ‘escape route to the world’ I used to say to myself.” She kept the gun pointed right at him while she spoke. “Security was here about an hour ago. Said some Anglo had escaped along the trail at Indian Creek. If I saw anyone, I was to alert Security in Ohiopyle. I said to them that I never see anyone anymore. So now you come out of blue like some lost sheep. Where the hell do you think you’re going, anyway?”
“I told you. I’m researching the old trail”.
“Bull shit, Sloan. I’m a farm girl. I know shit when I see it”, as anger built up in her tone. “They said you were a security risk to the government. Are you?” Before he could answer, she continued. “If you are, then this country is more screwed up than I thought, if the likes of you are causing it grief. You don’t look too dangerous to me.”
“If realizing that you no longer feel good about your own home is dangerous, then I guess I’m dangerous to this country.”
There was another silence. The crows were now trying to out caw each other high up in the empty branches of a giant oak, which straddled the walk in front of the porch.
“Come on up on the porch, Sloan. You don’t seem too dangerous to me. Don’t make any quick moves. I grew up with this old double barrel. You understand?”
“Yes I do”, he replied.
Kurt walked around to the front and up the steps to a drooping wooden porch. He looked at the woman, who stood pointing the black barreled shotgun at him. She was tall, large boned with golden brown hair tied in back with a band underneath an old black Pirate ball cap. He guessed she was in her early thirties with a clear complexion and penetrating brown eyes that mellowed in the light into the color of root beer. The eyes were what really hit him. He looked at them closely when he first reacted to her call to him. They were very liquid and bright.
As Kurt stared at her, he began to relax since running from Security even though she still held the long shotgun. She wore brown corduroy pants and a faded pale blue sweat shirt. The sweat shirt had Chatham College across its front in barely readable letters. He had her whole life in his first five minutes with her; farmer’s daughter, college graduate, baseball fan, and a real looker.
“Except for those guys earlier and a few locals, you’re the first person I’ve seen around here in a month. In one hour I’ve had a crowd on this porch all because of you. This place is isolated,” she said somewhat defensively.
“You said Morgan’s Run before. Just exactly where am I?” .
“The whole area around here is called Morgan’s Run. It’s named after my family and has been for years since there’s nobody for miles around here. You have a better name?” she said with a slight smile on her broad face.
“No, no, I was just curious. I’ve hurriedly studied the topo’s for the area when I left the river. I want to make sure this is the course that I need to be on, that’s all. I thought I was closer to Bruner Run”, he said looking down towards the river.
“Not too far from here. It’s over that next ridge. So what do you want? What are you doing wandering around these parts,” she said.
“I told you. I am just walking the trail.”
“Mr. Sloan, why in the hell would those Security goons come from the river to tell me that some Anglo was seen heading in this direction?”
“I don’t know why they are so concerned. All I know is that I am a history buff. My job is history. So I am exploring the old trail, the Great Allegheny Passage. The first part of your question was what do I really want?
What do I really want, to tell you the truth, what I’d really like is some food. I’ll pay you for it. As I said, I’ve been on the trail for almost three days, and if you have any food, I would be grateful. I have food cards, or if you don’t use that, I have some gold coins. All I have had are dried meals, but I was looking for some real food.” He fished into a side pocket of his packet and pulled out some coins. “I have a few gold coins that I could pay you.”
“Gold coins? That’s okay, you keep your coins. I have food. Around these parts we’ve reverted to bartering.
Atlantica’s currency is suspect out here. For example, about two weeks ago I went out to the main road and over towards Dunbar. An old friend of the family had died and I paid my respects. I was representing my family. I arrived at dusk. No one else was there. First time I’d seen a body laid out in years. Everybody gets cremated these days, but anyway, several people there were talking about how difficult things were. The only people around seemed to be in their eighties. The undertaker took apples, potatoes, and peanut butter from the family.
Barter is back, at least in these parts. I don’t need your coins, you may need them.”
“Well, what could I barter for the food,” he asked. “I don’t need anything from you” she quickly responded.
Kurt looked around the porch and asked, “How do you exist here?” he asked.
“The old fashioned way, by growing everything right here. Listen, Sloan. You seem okay, but I’m going to keep this gun near me. Seeming and being are two different things. I got this thing right here, but even with that sun beaming down, it’s cold out here. Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll find something. You can tell me more about what’s going on in Pittsburgh. It’s been so long. I loved that city, went to college there a few years back. Even used to go into town on my power boat, but I haven’t been there in five years. Things are so different,” she said waving him towards the kitchen door using the shotgun as a pointer.
The kitchen was wood and ceramic. At some time, a lot of money had gone into the equipment. Now there were plants growing up against the window sill in small containers with signs on them. He looked closer and saw they were various herbs. The kitchen was cavernous with an old wooden cutting block on a brick island in the middle of the room. A high, deep, and very wide brick fireplace had iron ladles and cooking equipment hung from a rack beside the opening. The kitchen itself was spare now, obviously not used like it had been. There was a rectangular wooden table with two high back chairs next to a framed window that overlooked the side yard.
“Do you want some coffee, tea?” she asked.
“Coffee would be great.”
“I have some vibes working now on you, Sloan. You are what you’re telling me and also what those bozos told me. Means nothing as to reality, yet I base most of my actions on my feelings. Dangerous way to judge, right?”
“A coin has two sides”, he answered.
“That it does. Heads you’re thief and murderer. Tails you’re an old Pittsburgher looking for sanctuary from the authorities. I’ll go with tails”, she laughed and leaned the double barrel against the kitchen island. “Tell me about yourself. How old are you? What’s your background in Pittsburgh? Wait a second, go over to the cellar door and down the steps. Open up the spring house and bring up the large silver can marked coffee. I’ll grind us some real coffee.”
For the next hour, they sat there and talked. They discovered that their backgrounds were very similar, in a way that made it easy for them to understand the other. She ground the coffee beans and told her story. It was after an hour that she said to him, “By the way, I’m Elizabeth Morgan.”