Silent Reaping

by P D Platt

  A sudden thought slapped Solomon with a terrifying realization. What if there were scared and helpless children out there all alone? Based on the experience of his own daughter, he could only imagine their torment. He’d been too numb before to think about the plight of others. The thought of a child alone in a house with dead parents sickened him, spurring him to accelerate his plan to search the neighboring houses.

  He tried to think which of their neighbors had young kids. He was disappointed with himself for not knowing more about the families that lived nearby. Even though most of the folk he’d encountered, including their immediate neighbors, were older and retired, he recalled seeing kids on bicycles, freely running up and down the sidewalks on many occasions. Now he realized how much he’d taken the street activity for granted. He made it his mission to locate them all.

  Emily, of course, was too young to play on her own; plus, as she was home-schooled, she hadn’t interacted with many other children. Solomon and Marion had always been over-cautious parents, isolating themselves and their only child from the world, partly due to their over-protectiveness and also because of their introverted personalities. Although always friendly and polite, neither of them had been the type to seek out playgroups or other clubs and organizations. Solomon now tasted the bitter regret of their isolationist natures. The benefits of a support network in such dire times weren’t lost on him.

  He decided all he could do now—what he must do now—was help whoever needed it, trusting in his own human decency. Solomon knew he couldn’t rescue all the children in Sparland but hoped there were more like him, people compassionate enough to care about other survivors. He could at least attempt to aid others in need, people right here in his proverbial backyard.

  He checked his watch: 5:20 a.m. Although too early to wake Emily, he knew she’d want to help in any way she could. Marion would have done the same, and no doubt she would have come up with the idea sooner. Solomon turned a quick smile at the thought of his wife’s compassionate voice as she said, ‘Go help as many people as you can. Especially the children.’

  “I will, my love,” Solomon mumbled before drifting back to sleep.

  Chapter 8—Door to Door

  The power failed sometime during the night, having remained on much longer than he’d predicted. During the morning, the electricity briefly returned, but only in vacillating surges, sparking lights and motors into action, only to jerk away their power once again. This determined struggle lasted less than fifteen minutes, one final whimper before being rendered inert and useless. The electronic blips and the lights’ flickers offered a poignant reminder of a world beyond—a world now in chaos, connected by miles of cables and pipes—as they signaled the simultaneous beginning and end of the modern era.

  The power outage added another layer of urgency, reinforcing that it was time to search house-to-house. Imagining a sobbing child’s increasing terror as the room they cowered in was plunged into darkness brought tears to his eyes and made his heart lurch all the more. It was a desperate call to action.

  After losing Marion, he’d thought he had nothing remaining to hurt, to pity; nothing left to care about besides Emily. But he knew Marion would say this was no time to be selfish, to wrap up in a cocoon and hide from the world. She had been the epitome of compassion. There were scared and lonely people out there; some were likely kids.

  If the team of Solomon and Emily could offer any assistance to those in need, they would. Solomon was excited to share his plan with his daughter, knowing the idea would make her happy as well. Emily had inherited her mom’s compassionate nature and fiery spirit, making her the perfect teammate.

  Once they’d opened all the shades and curtains in the house, taking advantage of the abundant spring sunshine, they readied themselves for the day. The jugs of water had already come in handy. Handwashing, face washing, brushing of teeth—all the little things once taken for granted—now required extra effort. They downed a quick breakfast of cereal, intentionally using the last of the cold milk. Everything in the fridge would soon spoil. They shifted what they could into the freezer, eating the food in there would be the priority today.

  Deciding he’d mark off the houses as they checked them, Solomon needed a map. With her ever-present enthusiasm, Emily fetched her colored pencils while he grabbed a handful of paper from the printer. Solomon drew a rough sketch outlining the streets of their neighborhood as best he could from memory. The rest they would fill in as they went.

  Once he’d pointed out where they lived, Emily drew a tiny house on the map. On this, she wrote HOME before sketching a small rectangle near the lollipop-shaped tree she’d added to the backyard. Solomon’s throat constricted as he watched his little girl draw with care. He knew that special tree represented the dogwood in the backyard.

  Emily paused and studied her work, then carefully wrote MOM, adding tiny angel wings to both M’s. Once finished, Emily looked up at her dad, eager for his approval.

  He smiled back at her. “I love it. It’s perfect.” Solomon sniffled before clearing his throat. He was not yet strong enough to dwell on the riling anguish. He needed to stay busy; they both did. “You ready to go?”

  Emily hopped to her feet and smacked her dad a high five. “Yep! Ready to go.”

  Clearing five houses was their goal for the day. It was just an estimate, based on the assumption they’d check one house every thirty minutes or so. Solomon decided to start with their adjacent neighbors: the Bisbees and the Malcoms, figuring it would be quicker to cut through their yard and go directly to their doors.

  “We’ll go to Mr. Malcom’s house first. You remember our rules, right?” Solomon asked as he donned a large backpack.

  “Stay quiet, stay close, and listen to Daddy.”

  “Very good, baby girl.”

  Although still early, the morning light was already rushing the day ahead. Having lost the benefit of electricity, Solomon decided to start and end their searches early, making full use of the daylight.

  They slipped through a gap between the squared hedges Mr. Malcom kept immaculately manicured. Solomon had spoken to him occasionally; he seemed to be constantly toiling in his prized yard—planting, clipping, weeding, fertilizing or raking away leaves. He sure loved his yard. But Solomon understood. The old man was alone, had been since his wife’s passing five years ago.

  Solomon could relate to staying busy, doing anything to keep grief and loneliness at bay. It was a daily battle, one he felt would never end. He knew he’d taken his connection with Marion for granted, from sharing the most mundane daily interactions to the deepest of conversations.

  He glanced down at Emily, squeezing her little hand a bit tighter. “Daddy loves you; he always will. You know that, right?” He knew his words were born of sentiment, from thoughts of loss and loneliness, and that most likely Emily wouldn’t understand his random question. But he also knew every moment on this earth was precious, to be cherished. Now more than ever. A long and safe life was far from guaranteed.

  She simply smiled back and dipped her chin.

  The empty backpack flopping on Solomon’s shoulders—waiting to be filled with medicines, canned food, and any other necessities they came across—they walked through the narrow carport to the house’s side door, not knowing if Mr. Malcom was alive or dead. The old man’s Cadillac was parked underneath, where it stayed undriven most of the time. Their neighbor rarely left home.

  Solomon rapped loudly on the outer storm door. If they were going to startle the man, he’d rather do so before they attempted to enter. Any one of his neighbors could own a gun. Everyone who’d heard the news would undoubtedly be on edge, ready to shoot at the slightest disturbance.

  “Mr. Malcom? Mr. Malcom?” Solomon shouted repeatedly. “It’s Solomon Parrish from next door. Are you okay?” His knocking and shouts went unanswered, making an awkward situation even worse.

  How long to wait? Should he break in the door? What if the man had a gun and started firing? />
  These were all questions Solomon didn’t have answers to. What he did know was he wouldn’t risk Emily getting hurt.

  “Sweetie, go hide behind the car. Daddy’s gonna go inside to see if it’s safe.”

  After opening the storm door, he peered through the rectangular glass pane in the entry door. Inside it was dim and quiet, with no sign of movement. Solomon knocked harder and then tapped the back of his hand on the glass, his wedding ring producing loud, sharp raps. Nothing.

  Solomon called out once more for good measure and then took the screwdriver from his back pocket. He struck the glass pane with its metal shank, shattering it after a few attempts. Even now, breaking into someone’s home made him uneasy, knowing he was about to invade their private space. After clearing the jagged glass from the edges of the frame, he folded his arm inside to unlock the deadbolt.

  Glancing back at Emily, he gestured, palm downward. She nodded and shifted lower behind the front end of the car.

  “Mr. Malcom, it’s your neighbor. I’m coming in…” No answer.

  A stagnant odor swirled in the dim kitchen: a mixture of old coffee and pungent pine fragrance. Already creating a yellowing stain on the worn vinyl floor, a puddle of water radiated from the refrigerator. Solomon called out several more times before signaling Emily to join him inside, not wanting her out of his sight for too long.

  Without looking back, Solomon gathered Emily close as they headed down a short hall that opened into two larger rooms. Just as they broke the plane of the den and dining areas, a large pile of magazines spilled from a narrow sofa table and fell into a sliding heap in front of them. Emily screamed as both froze in their tracks.

  Solomon shielded Emily, concealing her behind him as he gazed around the crowded room filled with paintings and photographs on every wall, shelf, and table. The only illumination came from sunlight seeping around the heavy velvet drapes.

  Out of nowhere, a shadow of movement appeared near their feet. Something bumped into Solomon’s leg, causing him to lurch sideways and push Emily off-balance. Once he realized what it was, Solomon exhaled in relief.

  “We’re fine; it’s just a scared cat. Are you okay?” Solomon studied her face, trying to ascertain how well she was coping with all this fear and surprise.

  With a grin, she nodded back at him. “I’m not afraid of a cat.”

  After instructing Emily to stay in the den, Solomon headed to the back of the house to check the remaining rooms. A modest home, which didn’t appear to have been updated for several decades, the furniture and carpet showed their age. He passed a small bathroom and a bedroom that looked untouched, complete with a neatly made bed stacked high with throw pillows. At the end of the long hall stood the final unexplored room, presumably the master bedroom. Solomon steeled himself for what he felt certain he’d discover.

  The old walnut-stained door eased open, as it no doubt had tens of thousands of times before, releasing a biting stench of mustiness and decay. There lay Mr. Malcom in bed, covered and undisturbed, looking as if he might easily awaken at any moment to start a new day.

  Admittedly, if one could choose, it was a peaceful way to go. But the real tragedy for these poor souls was that they’d been given no warning, no indication that they wouldn’t live to see another day. Nothing to encourage them to finish important works or to say the final meaningful, heartfelt words to those they loved.

  Peaceful? Yes. But still, a life stolen too soon.

  Leaving the man to his eternal rest, Solomon closed the door and returned to Emily. They searched the remainder of the house, with him mentioning nothing of what he’d found in the bedroom. He sensed she knew anyway—the closed bedroom door and his scowl divulging the answer to her unasked question.

  They loaded their backpack with canned beans and fruits, an unopened bag of brown rice, several cans of protein shake, and packets of instant oatmeal. Emily hung a bag of tangerines over her shoulder and filled her arms with boxes of cereal.

  “Dad,” she said on their way out the door, “what about the cat? Won’t it be hungry?”

  “Well, maybe we can take care of it for Mr. Malcom.”

  In the laundry room, Solomon found a bag of dry food and the cat’s empty food and water bowls. Emily helped fill the bowls for the ravenous cat, who lost all fear once the food clanged into its dish.

  “We can check on it tomorrow, okay? Let’s take this stuff home and then try another house.”

  The thought of having a pet to take care of made Emily smile. As they left, she stopped to mark a red crayon X over the little square representing their neighbor’s house on her makeshift neighborhood map.

  “On to the next one!” she said, waving the map triumphantly over her head.

  Chapter 9—Contact

  After adding the new items to their stockpile at home, they went to the neighbors on their left. Solomon was ashamed to admit that he couldn’t remember much about his adjacent neighbors. Harold Bisbee—at least he thought that was the man’s first name—had only interacted with him in passing, usually while they were both were doing yardwork or when rolling their trash bins to the curb.

  A retired civil engineer who kept to himself, Harold had always been cordial whenever their paths crossed. Solomon knew he’d recently divorced his first wife and quickly remarried, a noticeably younger woman if his memory served him correctly. Solomon had scarcely seen her around.

  Mr. Bisbee and his first wife had an older daughter together; Solomon recalled seeing the young woman visit in her vivid yellow sports car a couple of times a month. He’d guess she was in her mid-twenties. Harold had once complained to Solomon that ‘Skye spends all her time and money on that damn car.’ Solomon recalled this because it was rare for his neighbor to share anything of a personal nature.

  The garage door stood open, which wasn’t strange; it usually was. Solomon paid attention to such mundane details, noting things like garage doors—who left them up and who kept them closed. Although he didn’t have a garage himself, he was sure if he did, he’d definitely be a door-down type of guy. Such inconsequential minutiae kept his brain active and alert and had provided entertainment for his curious mind all his life.

  As they approached, he took note of the single vehicle in the garage. Mr. Bisbee’s pickup truck; the other spot was vacant.

  Distant echoes of gunfire interrupted the mid-morning stillness. Single shots, randomly spaced. Solomon counted five or six before all grew quiet again. Gunfire was not a familiar sound, and why someone might be shooting propagated a new worry. Although he was more concerned with how far off the shots were than the reason behind the shooting. The ‘why’ was as simple as someone was either attacking or defending. Nothing he could do about either. He judged the distance as best he could—maybe a mile or less—and kept his ears tuned for any change in proximity.

  The scare with the cat had made him recognize the need to carry his own handgun at all times, not knowing what might be encountered in this new, troubled world—a world still trying to figure itself out. Humanity would either become drunk on freedom and chaos or would commence restoring its own natural order. Either way, he refused to allow his little family to become a victim. He patted the bulge under his long-sleeved Henley shirt, relishing the confidence the gun tucked under his belt provided—an equalizer of those less powerful.

  As Solomon and his daughter turned to enter the Bisbee’s garage, a flurry of barks assaulted their ears. A small pack of four dogs ran through the front yard in a frenzy, seeming to run without any real purpose or direction.

  Their leader, a white bull terrier, instantly found a purpose when he eyed the two curious humans standing near the garage. The dog growled low snarls as if communicating new orders to his followers: a young boxer and two other short-haired hounds. As one, the rabid pack ran straight for them.

  Solomon hoisted Emily into the back of the pickup inside the garage then leapt onto the rear step and swung one leg inside the truck’s cargo bed. Before he could
get his right leg to safety, the pack leader cinched down on his pant leg then shook it with powerful jaws.

  Emily screamed in the background while the other three dogs, invigorated by the fear and commotion, barked and jumped wildly at the sides of the pickup. Wanting nothing more than to taste fresh blood, they appeared to be trying to impress each other by being the most aggressive. Solomon yanked his leg free, a patch of his jeans sacrificed to the bull terrier’s mouth.

  The dogs couldn’t quite make the jump into the truck bed, even though it seemed they would die trying. They scratched and flung themselves against the pickup’s smooth metal body, repeatedly knocking themselves backward. Even after slamming hard into the concrete, it seemed they would not be deterred.

  Solomon drew his pistol before turning to his daughter and raising his hands to his ears, mouthing for her to do the same. Aiming the gun toward the front lawn, he fired a single round. Amplified by the enclosed space, the shot rang in his ears. The explosive sound ended the canines’ frenzied attack, sending them running down the street and out of sight.

  He turned to Emily and studied her carefully. “Are you okay?”

  Emily stood, her resilience astounding him once again. “Those dogs were too crazy.” Her brave smile faded as she pointed to her dad’s leg. “Dad, you’re bleeding.”

  In the heat of the moment, Solomon hadn’t realized the pack leader had scraped his skin when his pants ripped away. Solomon jumped down and lowered the tailgate. He propped up the injured leg to survey the wound.

  “It’s not bad, honey. Daddy will be fine. I just need to clean it and put a Band-Aid on it.”

  Although he spoke with confidence, the logical part of his brain expressed more concern. In this new world, any wound had to be taken seriously. Infection was a real threat; a simple visit to the health clinic was no longer an option.

  “Come on, let’s go inside and see if there’s a first aid kit.”