by Anna Dove
Judith had also recruited the children as the main caretakers for the garden, as the care required less technical skill. A group of about ten youngsters under the age of twelve were responsible for weeding, lugging buckets of water from the lake, and harvesting ripe vegetables. They had proven themselves very much suited to the task, even developing a chain of people to pass water from the lake to the garden more quickly. Judith appreciated their ingenuity and creativity and encouraged them to innovate, finding new and better ways to approach the tasks. The weeds from the garden beds they set aside, at her suggestion, to utilize in stuffing bedding pads. The vegetables harvested they organized into categories, by duration until expiry. They chased off intruding rabbits or groundhogs with glee, laughing as the animals scurried out of harm’s way. The children treated the garden as their own personal business, and Judith encouraged this, knowing that ownership of the tasks would better incentivize them to perform well, over forced labor in a specific dimension or pattern. Their harvest made them feel important and useful, and Judith made sure that the children were allowed time during the day to splash in the lake and play in the pastures as well, taking respite from the labor.
Judith’s friend Gail handled the herd of milk cows as well as one bull. The bull was securely fastened in its own stall where it stayed aloof. It was an old bull and not an irate one; it stood munching most of the day and only looked up with distant interest when a human approached. The cows were situated out of the range of the bull, and wandered on their ropes in the pastures or stood in their stalls, chewing their cud with bored, unperturbed gaze. Gail milked them with the assistance of Lily and her own three daughters. Occasionally the cows, their heads fastened with halters to the edge of the stalls, kicked over the buckets or sent a young milker stumbling back with a bruised shin, but in general the milking was a quick process, for the expert hands of Gail, Lily, and Gail’s daughters soon filled the buckets foaming to the brim. Half the milk was set aside for cheese-making, because cheese kept much longer and could be stored for the winter; half was drunk by the community. Each person received a mug of milk in the morning, along with an egg from the chickens and a bit of fish or venison; for lunch there were vegetables, fish, and rabbit or venison, and for dinner there was the same. Food on the farm was not prepared for flavor, although it usually tasted delicious due to the freshness and absence of pesticides or chemicals; the purpose of food was caloric intake and energy required for survival. Nothing went to waste. Each person ate heartily but did not take more than was needed; all extras were smoked or dried or sealed for the late fall and winter, in which all the members of the community hoped to return to their own houses to weather the temperatures, but could not be sure of being able to do so. By that time, they hoped, much of the violence would have subsided and the return would be safer.
With Dayton in the lead, the party entered the farmhouse and never before in their lives had Haley felt such absolute relief; it was a moment in which she forgot the attack, forgot the proximity of death, of pain, of hunger, of fear. They were alive. They were here.
They walked through the foyer into the living room, which was filling with people, and a commotion burst out, as everyone welcomed them happily, Haley’s brothers and parents embracing Haley and Junetta. They were all there, all four brothers. Elizabeth knew the family already, and introduced Carlos to them, and then more members of the community came, family friends, with wide smiles and welcoming arms. For the first time since the attack, Haley felt safe.
17. The Intruders
“When you're huntin' somepin you're a hunter, an' you're strong. Can't nobody beat a hunter. But when you get hunted - that's different. Somepin happens to you. You ain't strong: maybe you're fierce, but you ain't strong." - Muley”
― John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath
Not quite six in the morning, and the sky was growing lighter in the east. Haley slipped from the farmhouse, wearing a pair of jeans that she had brought from her parents’ house. The month of June had just arrived with its sweet floral bouquet of smells, its pleasant showers of spring rain, its cheerful young shoots of grass and its fledgling birds nesting in the treetops. Breathing in the warmth of the young morning, she stepped barefoot into the pasture that led towards the lake.
Passing the barn on her left with its red slats and concrete shearing station, she made her way down the dirt path that wound for a quarter mile through the cow pasture before ending at the lake. The cows were snug in the barn, ready for their morning milking, and the pasture was deserted save for the black eyed Susan’s that sprang up in little patches. Above her, the stars faded as dawn approached.
She reached the lake as the first beams of true sunlight pierced the heavens, reflecting in little golden ripples on the surface of the water. Wading into the cool water, she bent down and trailed her fingers on its surface, and then wading deeper, dove in with a splash. Swimming forward with long strokes under the water, she held her breath until she needed air and then rose to the surface, breathing deeply and tilting back her head. Treading for a moment, she surveyed the opposite bank, which was lined with a row of maple trees. The, she dipped her head underneath again and swam back towards the shore, relishing the feeling of the water flowing around her. When she climbed out onto the bank, her jeans hung on her hips, weighed down with the water and her linen shirt hung from her shoulders, dripping onto the ground.
Her feet once again trailed the brown path, past the barn, and she sat on the wooden stoop in front of the farmhouse door to dry off. The water dripped off her clothing, forming a puddle on the stoop. Her eyes rested on the pasture, and the woods beyond.
A movement, at the edge of the woods. Straining her eyes, she made out the shapes of four adult figures approaching. Quickly she rose and slipped inside the door, locking it, and ran into the hall adjoining most of the bedrooms.
“Get up,” she shouted, hitting her fists against their doors as she passed. “There are people coming.”
A flurry of doors opening, people passing through the hallways, weapons taken up. She hoped that the sentries in the woods had just missed the intruders, and that there had not been a skirmish. She had heard no shots fired this morning--the sentries must have not seen the intruders.
Silently watching at the windows, the occupants of the farmhouse waited, their guns cocked and loaded. Closer the four others came now, walking in a slow manner with their eyes on the ground before them. Within earshot, the four stopped, and regarded the farmhouse before walking towards the front door. Haley and eight others, including Carlos and Elizabeth and the Monteforte boys, surrounded the door by backing against the walls on either side of the doorframe while the remaining community members remained at the windows to watch for stragglers.
Steps sounded on the stoop heavily, and then stopped, and a knock, three raps evenly spaced.
Carlos, who was the first one to the left of the door, raised his finger to his lips and looked around at the group.
Three more raps, a little more emphatic.
Silence, not even a board creaking, not a breath, not an eyelash batting.
The doorknob jiggled, stopped. Carlos took a deep breath and raised his gun, but before he could move a volley of gunshots split the silence. The group flattened themselves against the wall as bullets tore through the door, leaving gaping holes through which sunshine and smoke poured. The bullets smashed into the china cabinet opposite the door, and teacups, teapots, and the glass behind which they sat shattered into pieces, flying into the air and crashing onto the ground.
Carlos motioned carefully, pointing to the two doorways leading into adjoining rooms. Silently, swiftly the group split and moved into the other rooms, just inside the doorways on the other sides of the wall.
These people were here to kill them and take their resources. This realization sunk into Haley’s stomach like lead. There was a lull in the gunfire, and she prayed that no family members or friends would wander into the room thinking that the fight w
as over.
The door smashed from its hinges, and they heard steps crunching over the broken glass and china, slowly moving into the room.
Carlos motioned with his hand for them all to lay down on the ground, on the sides of the door. He then held his hand up, put up three fingers, then two, then one--then opened fire into the foyer, reaching his gun around the corner. Immediately the shots were echoed from both the attackers and the other group, and the room whizzed with bullets. Windows shattered, and the explosions from the guns in such a small space deafened them all. Several holes pierced through the walls above them, and Haley flattened herself to the ground as she reached her handgun around the corner. With each shot the firearm forced her hand upwards and she focused on steadying it. Soon, the gunshots decreased, and everyone realized that their attackers had stopped shooting.
Carlos leaned to look around the doorframe, but Haley pulled him back. What if the attackers were still alive? He shrugged off her grasp and peered into the other room.
Having been ambushed heavily from both sides, the assailants lay still on the floor in puddles of blood.
Elizabeth inhaled suddenly, and Haley, who lay next to her, saw that Elizabeth’s sleeve had been ripped by a bullet and that blood had soaked the area just below her elbow. While the others inspected the bodies in the other room, Haley sat up and pulled her friend towards her.
Elizabeth, pale, held up her arm wordlessly.
Haley ripped the sleeve away from the flesh, and saw that the bullet had penetrated about half an inch below the elbow; luckily it had not bored deep into the muscle but rather had torn the skin. The layers of skin were visible as well as the forearm muscle. In a flash, Haley pulled the pocketknife from Elizabeth’s belt and cut off the sleeve above the elbow. Tearing the fabric into one long strip, she bound it around the wound and applied pressure by gripping the forearm and pressing the heels of her palms onto the bandage. Her ears rang to the point that she could not hear anyone’s voices, and she concentrated on the task at hand. Elizabeth’s pale face was drawn up in deep pain and she looked away as Haley pressed on the wound.
“Upstairs,” said Haley, her voice sounding very far away, and they both stood shakily. Through the doorway and into the front room--four bullet riddled bodies lay, blood pooling below. The water continued to drop off Haley’s clothes, mixing with the blood in little puddles. Haley’s brothers and Carlos and the others had begun to act, bringing sheets to roll up the bodies and buckets of water to scrub the floors. Haley turned away as she sickened at the sight of the faces drained of blood, the unseeing eyes--one woman, three men, emaciated, just skin and bones, their faces twisted in anger and pain--up billowed the sheets above them and down over their faces, and death was veiled from view. The sheets mixed with the blood as many trembling hands rolled up the bodies. No one spoke, and their ears rang and their stomachs lurched as blood stained their fingers, their knees, their forearms, their feet. Bullet shells and guns were strewn about the room, and Haley and Elizabeth moved towards the staircase mechanically.
Tucking Elizabeth into one of the beds upstairs, Haley instructed her to keep pressure on the wound while she found Judith, who had been a nurse. In a few minutes Judith entered, carrying a bucket of water, a cup, and a clean wrap.
“I need to rinse this,” she said, “to clean out the residue. Grab the bedpost. You’ll need something to hold on to.”
Elizabeth stretched her hand out, but then her eyes rolled back in her head and the color drained from her face and she fell back slowly onto the pillows.
“Fainted, much better,” said Judith, and unwrapping the shirt sleeve, poured water from the cup briefly over the wound, from which fresh blood began to seep. Elizabeth remained unconscious on the covers as Judith bound the wound again, pressing until the blood flow had stopped. Elizabeth would wake up soon, Judith knew, and the wound would heal over time.
“God help us all,” murmured the woman, and picking up the bucket of bloody water, closed the door behind her.
18. What Love Does
“Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is!”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet
Logan Monteforte sat on the branch of the sycamore tree, his eyes scanning the wooded area. He was on duty for the fourth watch, and sat with his handgun strapped to his side. He was a tall boy, lean and towheaded with bright blue eyes. He liked being on guard; it made him feel important and adventurous. He knew he was a good shot, and felt confident as he perched high above the earth.
June was now more than halfway gone, and already the warmth of the summer was in full swing as July neared. Flowers had sprung up from the rich soil, filling the air with their fragrance. Fresh young grass had spread, and the bugs and beetles had appeared. Tadpoles swarmed in shallow waters, and great bullfrogs sang their deep croaks from the marshes.
The warmth was pleasant to Logan. He stretched his fingers and his neck, rolling his head from side to side. A chipmunk scurried down the trunk, and finding itself face to face with Logan, scuttled quickly back to the opposite side of the tree.
It was always the same, being on watch. The oaky smell, the rustling of the leaves, the patches of sunlight, the hard branches to one’s back. Small animals running about. Birds flitting restlessly. Chirping, clicking, croaking. Occasionally a deer with its great brown eyes would wander by, unaware of the human being in the treetops. Logan would hunt when necessary, but there was something particularly special about watching in silence as the beautiful hooved creatures strode by, sometimes with spotted fawns behind them. Deer moved cautiously, until they had reason to believe that they were in danger; then, in the twinkling of an eye, they would disappear white-tailed into the woods.
Logan let one of his legs stretch out onto the branch. He only had one more hour.
A faint noise caught his attention. It sounded from his right, and seemed to be far away, but it seemed out of the ordinary. A crunching, crackling noise, occasionally pausing. Barely discerning it, he strained his ears and turned in that direction, drawing his leg back in. There--now it was a little louder. He could hear more clearly now, sticks breaking and leaves under pressure.
It could only be sound of human steps.
Logan could hear his heart beating in his own ears. The memory of the intruders less than a month ago filled his mind. His hand slipped to his side, and he pulled the handgun from its case. He clicked off the safety, and cocked the gun slowly.
The steps were approaching now quite audibly. They were not evenly spaced as in a march, but rather trailing and sporadic as if the person found walking quite laborious. Logan’s attention was now fully focused as his eyes strained to anticipate the arrival of whomever the woods would reveal.
He was high enough in the tree that he felt sure of seeing the newcomer before the newcomer saw him. Even so, he pressed his back against the trunk in an effort to be less noticeable.
The steps neared closer and closer, and presently into Logan’s view came a man, about thirty yards away. He was very tall and quite thin, emaciated rather. His beard grew short around his chin and he wore stained clothes. His gait was slow, and each step seemed premeditated. His feet dragged, sometimes crunching through a pile of leaves or coming down on twigs. He did not appear very menacing, and Logan relaxed almost imperceptibly, while still training his eyes like a hawk on the approaching figure.
It appeared as though the man would pass directly under Logan’s tree; and so Logan waited patiently until the man was near enough to be within easy shot range before summoning all his nerve and calling out,
“Hey there! Stop!”
The newcomer obeyed, and looked up alertly, locating Logan after a few seconds. He then raised his thin right arm, and standing very straight all of a sudden, saluted. Logan thought this to be very strange.
“Who are you?” called Logan.
“Names Jack.”
“What
are you doing here?”
“Just wandering. Trying to find food and shelter, as I presume you are as well.”
“No, I’m not,” said Logan.
Jack peered up quizzically.
“So what are you doing then?”
“I believe I asked you that, sir,” said Logan. “How do you find yourself here? Where are you from?” He made sure that the firearm was visible to the newcomer, not in a threatening way, but an informative suggestion sort of way.
“Well, I’ve been living in Washington DC, if that’s what you want to know.”
“You’ve come all the way here from there?” Logan was slightly surprised. Washington was no less than two hours by car, and on foot—weeks.
“Sure have.”
