by Ike Hamill
Jackson tried to wriggle his hips out from underneath the weight. Something was cutting off his circulation and making his legs useless. If he could restore feeling to the lower half of his body, maybe he could push his way free. Jackson closed his eyes and tried to picture one part of his body at a time, flexing and waiting to see what happened. His patience didn’t last long. After a few seconds of careful trial and error, he started thrashing, desperate for results.
The moose was dead. It seemed obvious when the beast didn’t react to his grunts and spasms.
Deep in the dashboard of the truck, muffled by debris, Jackson heard the radio click. Static was followed by warm silence, and then a thin voice.
“Merle? Is that you? I heard something in the woods,” Amy Lynne said.
Fresh tears spilled from Jackson’s eyes. She was right next to him, pinned in the wreckage the same as he was, but he couldn’t make himself heard.
“I thought I heard an engine and then a crash. Is that you, Merle?”
She sounded worried. Jackson let his eyes drift closed and he imagined her coming out into the night, pulling a jacket tight around herself, and seeing the headlights. She would come and save Merle, and then the two of them would save Jackson.
“No!” he grunted, forcing his eyes back open. If he waited for rescue, he would die and he would never know if Merle was still alive.
He started again, with his feet. Despite the fact that they were numb, he could hear something moving when he tried to flex his ankles. It was subtle over the sound of the wind and dripping fluid, but he could hear it. His foot was rubbing against something. Next, he tried to bend his legs at the knees. Despite the numbness, he felt a sharp jab of pain in his left leg. It was the sweetest feeling he had ever known. In that moment, he was sure that he still had use of his legs.
He bent and pushed his legs, sure that he would be able to free himself. Nothing happened. The only thing he could do was force his left leg into something sharp—it still didn’t help him get out.
Jackson discovered the issue. His body wasn’t so much pinned as he was fit perfectly into an S-shaped prison. If someone lifted him by his shoulders, he would pop right out. None of his limbs were positioned appropriately to move him in that direction though.
Jackson closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself as a snake. He tried to bend his knees up and his feet down, hoping to get leverage that would propel him. After what felt like an hour of agony, he collapsed, panting shallow breaths and sweating.
He closed his eyes again, telling himself that it would only be for a moment.
In his imagination, he pictured the dead moose on top of him. Blood flowed from dozens of wounds on the animal. He had seen rivers of blood pumping from the moose’s neck and side.
“But I didn’t feel any of it,” he told himself. It was an important thought, he knew, even though he couldn’t figure out why.
His eyes flew open.
His lips formed the words even though he didn’t have the breath to voice them. “Because I could be bleeding,” he said.
It made too much sense. He was weak and fading fast. If he didn’t get free, he would bleed out and die, just like the moose.
Jackson focused once more. This time, he didn’t pay attention to individual limbs. He only willed himself upwards and let his body figure out the rest. With his eyes locked on the glassy, dead eyes of the moose, he began to rise.
His body was lifted. Jackson didn’t try to force it—he just let it happen. When his broken arm bumped against the steering wheel, he cursed and dropped an inch or two. That progress came back fast as the upwards motion resumed. Until he looked down and saw the moose and seat below him, he almost didn’t believe it. The rest of his escape from the truck was a grunting, painful grind in comparison. He had his breath back—that was amazing. There was a little pain in his chest that was easy to ignore when he was able to drag air deep into his lungs. The driver’s door was open and Jackson climbed through, holding his left arm to his chest.
The radio chirped again and he heard Amy Lynne’s voice.
“If that’s you, I’m coming out,” she said.
The left side of the truck was jacked up on a tree. Jackson swung his legs and slid down to the ground, dropping several feet. A fresh jolt of pain rang in his arm. His numb legs somehow managed to keep him upright. The feeling was starting to return. Jackson realized, wiping his forehead with his right arm, that the stinging in his eyes wasn’t sweat and tears. It was blood. At least it was sticky and crusty.
“Merle?” he called. After coughing, he called again. This time, he was rewarded with a response.
Jackson and Amy Lynne reached their son at the same time. She was running. Her flashlight danced through the trees. She let out a pained sound at the sight of Merle and then she was all business.
“Open your eyes,” she said to Merle, shining her light into one and then the other. She had worked with Ty and then assisted Dr. Matthew after Merle was born.
“I have to know how to take care of my baby,” she had always told Jackson. Back in those days, she had no stomach for trauma. It was torture for her whenever anyone came in with an injury. Jackson knew that it wasn’t just a thirst for knowledge that made her volunteer. She had a debt to Ty, for when he saved her life. The only way she could pay it back was to offer help to someone else.
Jackson hadn’t seen her treat anyone in years. The training had stuck with her.
Amy Lynne checked his pulse and then moved down Merle’s body, looking for injuries.
Merle was almost fully conscious by the time she was evaluating his neck for the second time.
“I’m fine,” Merle said. His speech was slurred.
“You’re not, now hold still,” she ordered. “How long was he out? How long has he been here?”
Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know. I was pinned for a while.” He gestured down to his broken arm. Amy Lynne had already looked away.
“Stay with him. I have to get something to transport him on.”
She stood up and looked in the direction of her house, then back to the truck, and then down to Merle again.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Merle said. He tried to push himself up.
“Keep him still,” Amy Lynne said to Jackson. Her frustration seemed to be aimed everywhere. “Please.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Jackson said. He lowered himself next to his son and put his right hand on Merle’s shoulder. It was disturbing how easy it was to press his son back down to the ground. All Merle’s fight seemed to be in his voice.
Amy Lynne ran off.
“What happened?” Merle asked when the sound of her footsteps faded.
“You hit a deer. Moose, I mean. We can’t be more than a hundred yards from your mom’s house, too. She ran here. I think I can see her lights through the woods.”
“Moose? Oh. Yeah,” Merle said, like he was trying talk himself into the idea.
“Your truck is done.”
Merle smiled. “Never finished till it’s done.”
Jackson laughed. It was something Jackson always used to say to Merle when he was a kid. The boy had loved to build things—sand castles, treehouses, or dams on the little creek next to the railroad tracks. After building all day, Merle would get a wicked smile on his little face and then run rampage through his creation.
More often then not, Merle would frown and say, “I’ve done and wrecked it.”
“Never finished till it’s done,” Jackson said.
“I better get up before Mom comes back and tries to strap me to a stretcher.”
“You sure?”
“Yup. Just a headache. Besides, all the proper doctors are in the bunker, right? Can’t get checked out until we get back.”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. The headlight of the truck that was still working was shining through a wash of moose blood.
“Your mom have a truck?”
“Of course,” Merle said.
Arms wrapped around
each other for support, they were limping toward Amy Lynne’s house when she caught up to them. She had a pillow, some rope, and she was dragging a stepladder. When she saw them, she dropped everything to run her flashlight over them.
“I told you to wait.”
“We don’t have time,” Jackson said.
“He’s right, Mom. We have to get to the bunker.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You explain,” Jackson said, unthreading himself from under his son’s arm. “That’s the truck?”
“Yeah,” Merle said.
For the first few steps, Jackson was wobbly. He kept his eyes on the lights of the house and tried to straighten himself out. Behind him, he heard Merle trying to explain all the recent developments to his mother. He started with a question.
“You lose power here earlier?”
“Yes?”
“Well, everyone else did too.”
Jackson tried to jog—there was too much grinding and pain in his arm. He settled for a fast shuffle and paused when he reached the truck. Opening the door set the world atilt for a moment. Jackson pulled himself behind the wheel with his right arm and fired up the engine. Putting it in gear, he glanced at the gauge. Merle had been taking care of his mother, that was certain. Amy Lynne couldn’t be trusted to keep more than a quarter tank of fuel in any vehicle, and this one was full. He pulled up to them and stopped the vehicle.
Reaching over himself to pull the door handle, he swiveled and pushed it open with his foot.
“You’re going to have to drive, Amy Lynne,” he said. His foot slipped as he tried to slide to the ground. Jackson clamped his teeth, anticipating a hard landing that would jolt through his arm. He was surprised when his feet touched down almost gracefully.
“Merle explained, but I have to get my stuff together. I need my clothes and photos. I need all my stuff.”
“Essentials only, Mom,” Merle said. Jackson was glad that his son delivered the message. From Jackson, it only would have sparked an argument. “Is my bag still here?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll grab it.”
“No, you stay here and sit down. Your father can get your bag.”
Jackson watched her go and then realized that he had to follow her.
“Be right back,” he said. Merle was already moving toward the driver’s door. Jackson called to him, “You’re not driving.”
She left the front door open for him. When he finally caught up, she was packing books in a big bag on the coffee table in her living room. Jackson glanced around. He had never seen her house, but it all seemed familiar. She had decorated it nearly the same as the house they had shared.
“His room is through there. His bag is under the bed.”
Jackson nodded.
On his knees, Jackson found the bag’s strap with a finger. He managed to pull it out, but the thing was too big for him to carry over a shoulder. When he tried to sling it over his head, wearing it diagonally across his chest, new pain made him gasp. He lowered the thing to the floor and dragged it out to the living room.
“I don’t think I can carry this,” he said. “I’ll get something smaller, if you can carry it.”
She zipped up the bag she was working on and slung it toward the door.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
He didn’t know how to answer at first. The question could have meant so many different things.
“I hurt my arm,” he said, lifting it. He regretted the motion immediately. Pinned to his chest, the arm was a constant throb. When he lifted it, and the bones shifted, the pain was like electricity.
“Jackson!” she said. “Seriously, how could you?”
Her hands landed gently on his wrist and elbow as she looked at the swelling bulge in the middle of his forearm.
“I didn’t really have a choice. It happened during the accident.”
“You know what I mean. How could you run around with this break? What’s wrong with you?”
He shook his head. The question was a riddle. Her fingers started to probe the swelling. Within an instant, she had found the most painful place to press and she was pushing her fingers into it.
“Hey!” he said.
“I’m trying to help.”
“I’ll get that small bag out to the truck and come back. Please hurry,” he said.
Jackson picked up the bag that had slid into the doorway. It was small, but heavy. He grunted as he lifted it and left the house.
Merle was pulling around to get the truck as close to the front door as possible. He put the passenger’s window down.
“I told you to let your mother drive.”
“Fine. I was just getting it closer,” Merle said. He stuck his head through the window. “And I’m fine, by the way. Hey—get some big knives. We can quarter that moose and take some meat to the bunker.”
“No,” Jackson said. “We’re in a hurry, remember?”
“Tell that to her,” Merle said.
With his good arm, Jackson managed to swing the bag into a low arc that landed it in the rear of the truck. Back in the house, Amy Lynne was thumping an even bigger bag down from upstairs.
“What’s in that?”
“It’s my important stuff,” she said.
“There’s a limit, Amy Lynne. You can’t bring everything. You only need a couple of changes of clothes and any food that will keep for a while.”
She stopped on the stairs and studied him from above. “How long are we going to be there?”
Jackson shrugged and jostled his arm. He winced from the pain.
His answer came out a lot angrier than he intended.
“How should I know, Amy Lynne? There’s bad stuff in the air and we have to get underground until it goes away.”
“Underground? This bunker is underground? Wait, are we going into one of those nasty holes that Merle spends all his time in?”
“No. It’s very nice. But, yes, it is underground.”
She bounced her bag down the last few steps and then let it fall over. Stepping over it, she took Jackson’s hand.
“Come on, we have to isolate your arm properly.”
“There’s no time for that. I’ll get someone to look at it in the bunker.”
“You’re always in such a rush and then you complain about things that would have taken five minutes to do,” she said. “Come to the kitchen. It will take a second.”
He let her lead him, but not because of his arm. He just liked the idea that she cared enough to do it.
“We’re going to be bouncing all over the countryside, Jackson. Have you been to Merle’s house? You have to pretty much be a mountain goat to get to it.”
“We’re not going back there,” he said.
“Oh? Denver is already at the bunker? You dropped him off with Merle’s things?” she asked. With a hand on his shoulder, she pressed him into a chair. Jackson turned it a little so he could rest his arm on the table.
“No,” Jackson said. “Merle’s dog is back at the house, I assume.”
“And you thought that he was going to the bunker without bringing Denver?”
“Honestly, I guess I didn’t figure that Denver was still with us. I haven’t seen him a long time, and Merle didn’t mention him.”
From a cabinet, she retrieved a long bandage. Once she unrolled several feet, she gently moved Jackson’s arm against his chest.
“He doesn’t like to talk with you about Denver because of what you said about him.”
“It would have been the humane thing to do.”
“Clearly not. Hold still.”
“That’s not a natural height. My shoulder will wear out trying to hold my arm that high.”
“You’ll protect your arm better here,” she said.
“I barely saw any dogs at the bunker,” he said. He had seen some though.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can guarantee that Merle is headed home.”
Jackson lo
oked away as she secured his arm to his chest.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just sore.”
“That’s not it. What were you thinking about?”
He sighed. She was going to get it out of him. “Robby’s kids found puppies. They’re at my house with their mother. I put out plenty of food and all, but now I’m thinking…”
“So we’re going there, too. You better keep an eye on this swelling, Jackson. And, honestly, I would feel better if Merle was quiet for a bit. Maybe I should go collect the dogs while you two stay here.”
“No,” Jackson said. “We can take it.” He didn’t say what he really wanted to say, because he didn’t want to hear her dispute it. He wanted to say that they were a family and families stuck together. It just wasn’t true, and Amy Lynne would point it out.
“Well, right now you can take what you can carry from that cupboard. I’ll take my bag out.”
“Good,” Jackson said.
In the rear seat of the truck, Jackson leaned against the door and let his eyes drift closed. Amy Lynne was a slow and careful driver. Even when the truck lost power, on the slope down to the valley, she didn’t panic. Merle reached over and helped her steer as she braced herself to press both feet down on the brake. They rolled through the bad patch and the dashboard flickered back to life.
“Is this the bad air you were talking about?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Merle said, answering before Jackson had the chance.
“There’s worse too. Sometimes, you can’t breathe at all,” Jackson added.
Merle glanced back at him.
They woke him up with a knock on the window when they got to his house. They called it his house. He still thought of it as their house. Jackson wanted to ask Amy Lynne if she liked the flowers. It was too dark to really see them though. Half of the good ones were closed for business. The morning glories on the trellis had been eaten by deer at some point. Amy Lynne had cried the first time that had happened. Normally, she loved deer. When they ate her flowers, she had asked, “Can’t you poison them or something?”
“Where are the dogs?”
“I’ll get them,” Jackson said. He didn’t want either of them to see the interior of the house. He had focused most of his attention outside. They would be mad if they saw what the inside looked like. When he had been raising dogs, he had turned most of the house into a giant kennel.
