He left early in the morning after saying goodbye to his two parents and took with him something more precious than water and food. In the inner pocket of his long coat was the photograph of him as a child with his parents at the beach. It was a precious memory that he had asked to take with him, which Joël and Amandine had naturally agreed to.
He didn't have a clearly defined goal. All he had to do was go as far west as possible.
He returned to the A13 highway and arrived in Caen by evening, the largest city in Normandy. He didn't enter the city for safety reasons but set up camp behind a rest area on the edge of the highway.
There was only a fairly simple rectangular building there where he could find some snacks. However, part of the shelves had already been emptied, certainly by the hundreds of road-worn travelers who had passed through.
There's almost nothing to take, and the toilets don't work. As I expected. Tss, I'm not even disappointed. I can't even smell my own odor anymore. As for the toilets... I don't know what I'll do when I run out of toilet paper...
Night was falling, and it was still cool at this time of year. For safety, he hadn't tried to make a fire for fear of unnecessarily attracting attention to himself. After eating a bite and drinking some fruit juice, he wrapped himself in a blanket and extinguished the small candle that barely illuminated his tent.
It took him two full days to cross Normandy. He arrived at the Bay of Mont-Saint-Michel without incident, a true architectural gem of France. How many millions of French and foreigners passed by to admire it.
The mount was still there, perched on its rock, and the tide was low. From this distance, the place seemed peaceful as if it had been spared by the crisis, but one element was enough to assert the contrary. An immense blue and green container ship was miserably stranded on the sand, leaning to the left like an unhappy whale. Containers had fallen by the hundreds and concentrated a large number of people who seemed from this distance as small as ants.
They look like they're having fun down there... There must be a lot of interesting things to recover.
Although tempting, Pierre did not deviate from his path and did not try to appropriate any of the cargo. There were two main reasons for this: the first was that his saddlebags were full, and the second was that the tide would certainly have already risen by the time he arrived.
It was said, but perhaps it was exaggerated, that at this place, the sea advanced at the speed of a galloping horse. Pierre didn't want to check if it was true or just a legend.
Looking more closely at the landscape, he saw that other ships were stranded on the French coast. They had broken down at the time of the blackout like everything else with a little electricity and had drifted for days with the currents and winds.
He saw this strange landscape hundreds of times in the following days. The English Channel was indeed one of the most used maritime routes in the world. They came from all over the world to supply all of Europe via the major Dutch ports.
Six days later, twelve days after leaving Paris, Pierre Marchais finally arrived at the Breton tip. He couldn't go further west. It had been seventeen days since the electricity had disappeared along with everything that depended on it to function properly. He had stayed as much as possible on the main roads to avoid getting lost, but even more to avoid people. After so long without electricity, he had come to fear humans a hundred times more than wild animals.
He had encountered many on the way: mostly wild boars, but also dogs. The latter were particularly dangerous because these very docile animals when regularly fed had become predators hunting in packs. One of them had targeted him even though he was on horseback as he had just passed the small town of Morlaix. He had been very surprised because he really didn't expect them to attack. He had managed to kill one of the dogs, a big hungry labrador, and seriously wound another, a sort of German shepherd. Luckily, neither he nor Dakota had been injured.
The place where he had chosen to stop was called Saint-Pabu. This small town, nothing compared to Paris, was located at the mouth of a river and was surrounded by fields. The place was very pretty, and certainly, he would have liked to spend his vacation there before the blackout. He had been very surprised to see that this town did not really form a whole but contained within it a few agricultural parcels. It was enough to destabilize a city dweller like Pierre.
Are we in town now or not? Damn, I don't understand! Just before there were houses, now there are fields!
For a Parisian, he defined himself as such, it was very complicated to find his way in these small streets without the help of Google maps. He didn't know if he was getting closer to the center or moving away from it. In truth, he didn't even know if there was a center as this landscape seemed very foreign to him.
Without knowing how, he arrived in front of the church of Saint-Pabu, which led him to believe that he was in the right place. He imagined indeed that if there was a church, it was because he was in the heart of the town. If that were the case, then it was disappointing since there was not much around. Fortunately, an information sign was located in front of the building as modest as the place.
Let's see, hair salon, town hall, school, library, Roz Avel space, Guenioc room... Damn, what are these hillbilly names?! It's so ugly! Is it Breton?! Well, let's go see the town hall.
If the locals could hear his thoughts, they would certainly have pounced on him. The Bretons were proud people and didn't like disrespect for their culture. It was no wonder that Corsicans didn't attack their cars when there was trouble on their island. In this sense, they were quite similar. Another common point: they didn't like Parisians. They saw them as arrogant, vulgar, and rushed.
The town hall of Saint-Pabu looked like a slightly larger house than the others and had a somewhat modern architecture. It was made of stone and wood with a few large windows. If the word "town hall" had not been inscribed on the facade, he would never have guessed that this building was the one he was looking for. It was somewhat exaggerated because it had the particularity of displaying a tricolor flag unlike the neighboring buildings.
Pierre had been noticed for some time now, and a few people had followed him to the town hall. They all had the same look, filled with defiance.
Without making any sudden movements, he got off his horse and tied it to a metal barrier separating the parking lot from the street.
I don't know what these people want, but it's better to be careful.
Surrounded by about ten individuals, there were also some curious children, Pierre felt threatened.
"I wish to see the mayor. Is he here?"
There was no immediate answer, but a rather corpulent man with long blond hair tied in a ponytail approached cautiously.
"It depends on what you want from him. If you want to see her, you'll have to leave your weapons here."
The other people present seemed to agree with the big man in the blue t-shirt and gray shorts who had just spoken. Pierre didn't like the idea, but because he wasn't looking for trouble, he was ready to cooperate. After all, if he had come this far, it was to find a new home.
Slowly, he drew his sword, which was enough to make all these people back off. To their great relief, he saw him lay his sword on the asphalt warmed by the gentle rays of the sun. He took out a knife with a particularly sharp blade and placed it next to it.
"There. My other weapons are on my horse. May I see your mayor now?"
"I'm here," a dry female voice said behind him. "What do you want from me, sir?"