The Unfolding Blackout | Book 2 | A Girl Forsaken

by Aborn, A. L.

  A Girl Forsaken

  The Unfolding Blackout: Book II

  By A.L. Aborn

  Copyright © 2021 by A.L. Aborn. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2021

  ISBN: 979-8712770168

  This book is a work of fiction. All people, places, things, and occurrences resembling actual persons, living or dead, places, events, or organizations are coincidental. Any survival techniques used in this work are entirely fictional and not recommended without proper training and supervision. The author holds no responsibility for any actions taken from this book.

  Cover Design: A.L. Aborn

  This book is for my husband,

  Jason,

  who lives my favorite story with me

  every day.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE 7

  CHAPTER TWO 30

  CHAPTER THREE 51

  CHAPTER FOUR 76

  CHAPTER FIVE 97

  CHAPTER SIX 111

  CHAPTER SEVEN 131

  CHAPTER EIGHT 148

  CHAPTER NINE 166

  CHAPTER TEN 176

  CHAPTER ELEVEN 192

  CHAPTER TWELVE 209

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN 224

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN 247

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN 257

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN 273

  Chapter One

  Panic

  Well, shit.

  I don’t even know where to start.

  Frowning down at the spatters of blood on my hands and clothes, I can only imagine what my face looks like. Now that the dried smears on my skin have been acknowledged, they begin to itch. Frantically, I feel the insane urge to scratch the blood away; anything to remove the physical reminders of what happened last night.

  My legs become tangled in my sleeping bag in my haste to escape. Meekah yawns up at me from the pile of straw where we made our bed. Finally, I crawl free. The air is cool on my skin, but I see the bright sunlight through the cracks in the barn siding.

  The first order of business is to wash up. My first instinct is to run back to the house, but I’m not sure that’s the smartest thing to do right now.

  The caked-on blood begins to feel heavy, like it’s etching into my skin. Trying to think rationally through my panic, the barn door slides open a few inches beneath my fingers. With no idea if anyone is outside, if those men from the night before are anywhere near, I need to be careful. Peeking through the slot between the doors, I wait a moment before opening it all the way.

  Nothing but silence and a slight breeze greet me. My head is still spinning with the events of the previous night. The traitor, Adam coming back, Brad shot, Ally gone… Part of me wants to curl back into my sleeping bag in the hay and refuse to face any of it.

  There’ll be time for thinking later. Pushing it away, I focus only on the here and now.

  The coast is clear. I rush out the doors and toward the back of the burnt down farmhouse. The stink of smoke hangs heavy in the air. My knee twinges, reminding me of my week-old injury. Meekah tears out of the old wooden building, excited to escape the confines. Forcing myself to a walk, the old hand-pump of the well comes in sight. Pushing the handle down a few times, gushes of clear, cold water reward my efforts. Kneeling, the water cascades over my hands and arms. Using my fingernails, the dried blood and dirt flake off, instantly lost in the tangle of yellow and green growth.

  I scrub until my skin feels raw, but still, I don’t feel clean.

  Soap. I need soap. And a mirror.

  Meekah laps at the water pooling around the base of the pump. That reminds me: I didn’t bring any food for either of us. I don’t feel hungry; instead, I feel like I may never eat again. I mentally do a scan of the night before… what did those men take from the house? And, more importantly, what did they leave behind?

  My mind flashes back to the bodies of the dogs, lying in pools of their own blood. Of Brad, delirious with blood loss, still trying to refuse to leave his home. Of Adam… boldly leading me up the stairs to a supposed rape, only to end in his own death. I shudder. The events of the night before are like a nightmare, nothing that I want to dwell on.

  Focus!

  The leader of Adam’s little group had told him and the others to take the dogs and anything else ‘useful.’ The group that had burned down the farm had taken a random smattering of boxes, but not everything. I don’t think that I have a choice; I have to go back to the house.

  ***

  Meekah has drunk her fill of the water and is nosing around the barn, intent on finding a suitable place to do her business. My mind skitters from possibility to possibility, trying desperately to figure out what our next steps are.

  A noise startles me from my contemplation.

  Whipping around, I reach for my rifle, only to find that it isn’t there. Am I so stupid and tired to have forgotten my lifeline? To be honest, I can’t remember if I left it in the house the night before or my sleeping stall this morning. Scolding myself harshly only makes me more ashamed about the last fifteen hours.

  These thoughts flash through my mind in hardly a second, before the image across the field begins to take shape.

  … Beau?

  Could it be?

  A knicker breaks the sound of the quiet morning as he increases his speed in my direction from the safety of the woods surrounding the property. Shock ripples through me. Shouldn’t he be… dead? Or… eaten? Or… something? He still doesn’t seem real until his velvety nose is nuzzling into my hands and neck. How? I question him aloud, tears dripping down my cheeks. “How are you alive? How are you here right now?”

  Meekah dances between his feet, a shrill bark of excitement echoing through the field around the farm. Some of my distress is washed away with his warm breath against my face. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I let myself breathe in his earthy, sweet scent. This animal, whom I saved from certain death from neglect, has certainly saved me in kind. He carried me from danger to the arms of safety; I wouldn’t be happier if I had found a member of my own family running to me. In a way, I guess I have.

  Beau and Meekah follow me easily enough to the doors of the barn, both hesitating at the entryway. Of course, they can probably smell the blood much more keenly than I can. It takes some coaxing, but I eventually lead them inside and shut the door behind us. The weak streams of light between the barn rafters show me the way to where the food is kept. An old plastic cup in the barrel of feed lets me spoon the appropriate amount into Beau’s pail.

  Time to plan out my next steps. I think it would be folly not to return to the house to see what I can salvage. Even if there is not much left in the house, I realize that the chickens and ducks were probably left unmolested in the backyard. At least, I hadn’t heard anyone disturb them. It’s worth checking into, no matter how much I dread it.

  With Beau impatiently mowing down on his breakfast, I look at Meekah, sitting at my heels. I can’t take her with me. A part of me is terrified that those men will come back, the other half convinced that they would have come back by now. Either way, my conscience demands that I leave her here. Herding her into the stall that we slept in, I do my best to make her a nest in our recently vacated sleeping bag. Her brown eyes gaze up at me, trusting. “Stay,” I tell her, before closing the stall door.

  With the barn doors closed behind me, I turn to take a slow, careful look around the property. In the distance, I can just make out the r
ed siding of the house through the spring growth on the trees. The world is silent, except for the sounds of birds celebrating spring. Taking a deep breath, I steel my shoulders and take the first step. I am going to reclaim what is mine.

  ***

  The long driveway leading from the farmhouse to the road is muddy. My boots squelch noisily in the wet earth, making me feel like a target in the open. Weaponless, I feel vulnerable. I still can’t believe that I was stupid enough to flee without a gun last night. Chalking it up to exhaustion, I again push the thoughts away.

  One step in front of the other; just focus on getting to the house safely. The walk has never seemed so long.

  Finally reaching the packed dirt road, I strain for any sounds of human activity. Quickening my pace, I decide to go around the rear of the house, through the backyard. The front door seems too dangerous, exposed.

  The sky is clear above me; no clouds at all. The sun is warm against my back and new green shoots of life are everywhere. This perfect spring day is a poor match for my thoughts. As I near the rear of the house, the open door of the chicken coop immediately alarms me. The chickens and ducks start flapping their wings and calling out to me from their pens. Only about half of them are left, but relief floods through me anyway. I at least have the birds as a food source to start with. I know that they’re hungry, but I turn to the house first.

  The window that leads into Ally and Brad’s bedroom is shattered. The wood around the casing is splintered and shards of glass stick into the space haphazardly. Of course, this is how those men broke into the house last night. Adam must have known that surprising them and subduing Brad first would be the only way sure way to defeat us.

  I want to lay down and cry as the memories of last night crash over me again. Overwhelmed with emotion, my heart is pounding, and it feels like I can’t get enough air. Sudden dizziness leaves me nauseous, forcing me to sit on the wet ground. Hands shaking, my fingers drag through my hair distractedly.

  Brad, Ally, Adam, blood, a bookend, a gun, the force of slamming a heavy object into soft flesh… the images are scrambled and flashing in rapid succession. I can’t see the physical things in front of me; my mind’s eye is consuming me.

  Brad, Ally, Adam, blood…bradallyadamblood…bradallyadamblood… all merging together. My chest hurts with the force of my pulse. Am I having a heart attack? Gasping for air, I think I might faint.

  Bradallyadamblood… Meekah.

  Focus on Meekah.

  Meekah is alive.

  Meekah needs me.

  I put my head between my knees and close my eyes. Inhaling slowly… exhaling to the count of ten. Over and over, attempting to slow the panicked rhythm of my body. Opening my eyes, I try to focus on a single blade of grass. It’s yellowed and stands feebly against the world. Anything could crush it at any time; rain or a random footprint… but, still. It stands.

  My heartbeat slows and the rush in my head is diminishing. I haven’t had a panic attack in years; too bad I don’t have any Xanax. Slowly, crawling to my knees and then standing, I do a mental check of my body. The back of my head, my lips and chin, and my knee are all in various degrees of pain from the beating I took last night. Other generalized aches are there in the background, but overall, I’m okay.

  I will be okay.

  Thank goodness no one is in the house; sitting on the ground having a panic attack would have been an easy target for the poorest shot. Time to focus on getting in and out of the house unscathed. Staying busy always helped me battle anxiety, and this is no time to be lolling around.

  The back door is locked when I reach for it. Sighing, I eye the broken window. Still feeling shaky, it’s hard to find a safe place to put my hands and feet around the bits of glass. As soon as I lean in, the coppery scent of blood fills my senses. Fighting the urge to gag, it’s no easy feat to force myself up and through the window.

  The inside of the house is dark and gloomy. Blood stains mar the carpeted bedroom floor, showing the place where Brad was shot. Two of the three dogs still lay where they fell. Averting my eyes, I press on to the living room.

  I am not here to mourn them. I am not here to cry. I need to get what I need and get the hell out of here.

  Proceeding to the bathroom, I shut the door behind me. It blocks out the worst of the stench. Leaning over the sink, it seems scary to look myself in the eye in the mirror. Finally raising my eyes, my appearance startles me. My eyes are red-rimmed; my bottom lip swollen and cracked. There is blood in my disheveled hair and splattered across my neck.

  Grabbing a bucket of water from beside the tub, I drag it over to the sink. It’s cool, but I don’t care. The last bar of soap, only a small wedge now, is slippery between my fingers. It takes a few minutes until I’m satisfied that all the blood is gone. Feeling marginally better, I move on to brushing my teeth and throwing my hair up into a ponytail.

  Bracing myself before opening the bathroom door, a mental list of resources starts to form. Picking my way between the blood and bodies on the living room floor, I rush up the stairs to my bedroom. Most of my clothes are already packed and at the barn, but these stiff, bloody clothes are screaming to come off. Discarding them on the floor, a sweatshirt and clean jeans are soothing against my abused body.

  I carefully avoid looking at Adam’s dead face, staring into nothing.

  Next, all the weapons in the house need to be gathered. Having already stripped Adam of his buck knife the night before, I walk away from his body and the bedroom without checking him.

  I don’t ever want to go back in that room.

  Downstairs, a random assortment of weapons are scattered across the floor. In our haste to pack up Brad and the rush of the attack, Ally and I had left everything where it had fallen. Searching and bending, stripping the bodies of the men of anything useful, I soon find myself with a pile of various knives and guns. There’s no ammo, though. Only what’s already loaded.

  Under Ally and Brad’s bed, I find the duffel of handguns and ammunition that Brad had shown us so many weeks ago. Most of them are gone; Brad had set aside some that he decided weren’t safe to shoot, due to age. That had left only five guns that we had divvied up between us. There were two left in the duffel, along with the remaining ammo. Choosing a large buck knife and my own rifle, I leave the rest in the bag.

  One box of canned goods is left. My bathroom toiletries go into a plastic bag, which will fit with the weapons. Completely focused on the task at hand, I try to prioritize the most useful items. A couple of pots, some utensils… There’s a lighter in the drawer. Gloves, hat, sleeping bag. The tent!

  Running out to the shed, my heart sinks a little when I see the door is open. Brad always kept it closed. The men from the night before must have broken in. The gas cans are gone, along with the fishing poles and the big tackle box. Fortunately, they left the smaller tackle box that was tucked on a shelf below the work bench. Inside, there are some fishing line and hooks. I take the whole box, gladly. Thankfully, Brad’s tent is still in the bag on the floor against one wall.

  Two tarps are balled up in a corner and a hatchet hangs on the wall. A length of rope is coiled neatly on the bench. Yes! I look around, trying to think clearly; I don’t want to forget anything.

  My arms full, I cross the yard back to the house. Again, the birds in the coop call out to me. How will I transport them? Slaughtering them all doesn’t seem like a good idea. The dog crate! One of Ally’s dogs had used a large dog crate that’s still in the living room.

  The plan is coming together. The biggest question is how I will possibly take everything with me. It’s not like the dog crate will fit on Beau.

  Brad has that little trailer that he used the four-wheeler to tow… Could I somehow have Beau tow it?

  The six chickens and two ducks do not want to crowd into the dog crate. Throwing some of their feed into the back to tempt them only works on two of the chickens. Eventually, rounding them up by hand and pressing them in is the only way they’ll go in
to the small space. Two new gashes on my hands from their talons bleed freely; just add them to my list of wounds. Leaving them outside for the moment, I head back into the house.

  My mind is moving a thousand miles an hour, anxiety forgotten for the moment. The pile of goods in the living room becomes larger, now that I have a plan for transportation in the cart. Kneeling on the floor, I attempt to pack everything as efficiently as possible, either into the bags or the cardboard box of food.

  Something tugs at the corner of my consciousness.

  The clink of the mason jars of food as I rearrange them drowns everything else out for a few seconds. As the sound of glass-against-glass disappears, another sound finally breaks through into my awareness. Is that…?

  An engine!

  The shock is paralyzing for a few precious seconds.

  Getting a grip on myself, I look around. There’s no way that I can take all this stuff. The most important bag is the duffel, full of weapons and ammo, and my rifle. The bag is heavy and awkward from everything that I just crammed into it; using the two small handles, I lift it and swing it ahead of me in short bursts. My rifle is slung around my shoulder, adding to the awkwardness.

  This is crazy. I can’t take this far.

  Why am I surprised? Why am I not more prepared?

  It must be the guys from last night. It has to be. They must have waited for the others to come back and now are coming to see what happened. Maybe they had a few drinks to celebrate their victory last night and that’s why they didn’t come earlier. Who knows?

  Who cares!

  Focus!

  Lifting the bag one last time, I shove it through the broken window and out. Climbing through, I land awkwardly on top of the bag, almost rolling my ankle. Slow down! You can’t afford to get injured right now!

  The whine of the engine grows louder before it cuts off abruptly. They’re here!

  Oh, shit.

  Pulling the zipper open on the duffel, I dig around until I find the rifle ammo. Hurriedly, fingers shaking, I check the gun. Only one bullet is loaded; pressing three more into the slot on the side of the gun while shaking this badly is more difficult than I could have pictured. Brad always called this gun his old ‘Ted Williams,’ but I don’t know what that means. All I know is that I’ll feel a lot better with it fully loaded and squeezed into the crook of my shoulder.