The Unfolding Blackout | Book 2 | A Girl Forsaken

by Aborn, A. L.

  Wait… one?

  Weren’t there two ducks when I put them in there?

  Bending, I peer into the dimness of the plastic crate. One white duck is still crouched inside. Reaching my hand in to coax it out, it flaps it’s wings nervously. “Come on out,” I whisper to it sweetly. Shuffling it’s feet, it tries to press itself even further away from my outstretched hand. As it moves, I can see that it is holding up one of its feet.

  Great.

  Kneeling, I lean in and use both hands to pin its wings to its body and pull it out. It struggles, but weakly. In the afternoon sunlight, the duck looks worse. Keeping the leg tucked up into its body makes it difficult for me to see what’s wrong. Beyond that, there are a few bloodied areas marring the white feathers; one on its neck and two on the body.

  Placing it on the ground, I wait to see what happens. Still favoring one leg, it tries to limp away before lying on the ground.

  Well, that can’t be a good sign.

  I don’t have the time or the resources to deal with this right now. I don’t think the duck is sick, just injured. I think I remember that chickens will gang up and attack a weak one. Maybe the duck injured its foot in the crate somehow and then the chickens kept attacking it? It’s all I can come up with. Right or wrong, why waste food and medicine on something that will probably die anyway?

  Gathering the duck back into my arms, I probe the wounds. I don’t think that there is any infection present. I’m no veterinarian, but it seems like the right answer.

  The duck lies limply on the open truck bed as I put it down. The camping bag that I had packed the night that I had sent Ally away is shoved behind the driver’s seat. It’s Jason’s old frame pack; it feels like it’s from another life. Wrapped in a shirt near the top is the large hunting knife that I had taken off Adam on that fateful night. Testing the edge with my thumb, I’m satisfied with the sharpness.

  Casting a handful of the chicken feed toward the birds, I hope that will be enough to make them stick around. A length of rope, the knife, and the injured duck fill my arms as I walk toward the sound of the river. Looking down at the injured bird, my earlier resolve starts to weaken. A pang of guilt and sadness shoots through me. I squash it quickly; what must be done, must be done.

  As I near the tree line, Meekah catches up with me. Of course, she won’t let me leave her behind. The water is not far away, based on what I can hear. The trees are packed in tightly together until I reach the rocky bank. It’s less a river and more a wide, shallow creek.

  It’s like I’ve stumbled into a fairytale. The rocks and surrounding land are covered in a dense layer of rich, green moss. The trees hang out over the water on both sides, leaving everything in shadow. The scene takes me back to weekends as a teenager. There was a popular spot off the beaten path that looked just like this, though on a much larger scale. Families gathered there to swim and picnic during the day, while teens and twenty-somethings gathered at night to drink beer.

  Panning up and down the waterway, I can see fairly far in either direction before it curves out of sight. There probably won’t be anything big, but I’m sure I can pull some small, native fish out of here. Yes, I think I’ve chosen a good spot.

  The duck squirms a little, bringing me back to reality.

  Crossing to the far side of the water is easy enough; there are plenty of rocks jutting through the surface to choose from. Meekah whines, pacing. Ultimately, she refuses to follow me and sits to keep a close eye on me.

  A large, flat rock is a few feet away. It’s damp from the spray of the moving water, but otherwise clear. I don’t want to think about what I’m doing, so I rush, before it overwhelms me. Setting the rope and duck down on the rock, I use my left hand to cover the eyes of the bird while lowering its head and neck to the rock. The hunting knife is heavy in my right hand. Taking a deep breath, I swing the knife down swiftly and firmly.

  Not only does the knife remove the head in one shot, but it passes through the flesh so easily that it clangs against the rock face. Examining the knife edge, I can see dings in the metal where it hit the rock. I guess next time I should cut it on something else.

  Blood is seeping from the severed neck. It seems strange to me that this should disturb me more than all the surgeries I’ve ever witnessed at the hospital. Funny how life works, sometimes.

  With no idea how to begin properly, I just start yanking feathers out. Originally planning on saving them to use for something, that idea gets tossed out quickly. The feathers don’t really want to come out of the skin; it’s a painful, tedious project. In no time, bits of white feather and fluff are floating around me like bloodied snow.

  After what feels like a lifetime of this horrible task, the last of the feathers comes out. I’m so tired that I don’t even care about the impending steps that would normally nauseate me. I just want this to be done so I can go to bed. Using the big hunting knife, I trim the neck down to look more like something you’d buy at the grocery store.

  Examining it closely, I try to envision what the rest of a chicken or duck would look like from the store when all its insides have been removed and placed in a plastic bag. How do I get to those parts?

  It’s not pretty. The scent of the guts practically slaps me in the face, forcing a violent dry heave. It’s like shit and guts, guts and shit. Ugh. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to un-smell that.

  The finished product is right, I think, but definitely something I would have turned my nose up at prior to the power going out. I place the neck, heart, liver, kidneys and random pieces of fat and flesh that suffered from my amateur butchering onto the rock beside me. Anything I don’t recognize, goes on the ground. Grabbing a decent, green stick, I use the knife to shave a quick point. Dragging the stick through the cold, moist earth creates a little hole in no time. The ‘unusable’ parts of the duck, including the head, get pushed into the hole and covered with the overturned dirt. Stomping it down for good measure, I hope nothing big is drawn in by the scent of blood and entrails.

  The rope loops easily around the limp feet of the duck; the other end gets tied to one of the nearby tree branches. The suspended upside-down body seems grotesque. I have no idea if I should be doing this with a duck. Brad always did it with his deer, so I figure it should be okay. Tucking the knife handle carefully under one arm, I gather the duck organs with both hands and start back to camp.

  Meekah is excited when I rejoin her on her side of the water. After washing my hands and the knife, I turn to go back to where the truck is parked. Glancing over my shoulder, I check the placement of the duck once more. I would have liked to hang it a little closer, but at least for now, I’d rather leave all the blood and other bits on the others side of the water. Who knows what predators the smell may bring in?

  Going immediately to the truck, I fish the cookpot out and throw the organs in. A sigh of relief to see the rest of the birds still pleasantly pecking away in the near vicinity lightens the tension in my shoulders. Hopefully, another toss of chicken feed will act as extra insurance to keep them close.

  There are a couple of things that I need to get done by nightfall. First, I need to make a proper coop for the chickens to overnight in. It doesn’t have to be perfect; just keep them in and other animals out. It can always be doctored up later. Second, I need to put up the tent for shelter. And third, I need to cook that duck. For that I’ll need a fire, but I think that the coop is the most important, for now.

  Unhooking the trailer from the truck isn’t too bad: the hitch is already twisted and barely hanging on after the steep descent down the hill. It’s light enough that I can drag it by hand, for short distances at least. Pulling it further into the clearing seems better than tight up against the woods line. Grabbing the hatchet from the truck, I head toward the forest.

  There is a lot of dead wood on the ground, but much of it is rotted or the wrong size. Not suitable for building, but the bigger pieces could be used for firewood. Eventually, I find ten saplings that ar
e about an inch in diameter and taller than me. The hatchet makes quick work of them. Carrying the bunch over one shoulder back to the garden trailer is tiring. I am reminded that I haven’t eaten since who knows when. My stomach involuntarily rumbles. Well, it’s better than feeling sick.

  After stripping each sapling of every spare branch, I’m left with ten slightly crooked limbs with enough flexibility to bend them into a frame for the coop. Placing one end inside the trailer wall, I can flex the other end down far enough to wedge inside the opposite wall. I’m left with something that looks like one of those old-fashioned wagons in the game The Oregon Trail. I’m just missing the white canvas and a group of people with dysentery to create the look.

  My chicken coop construction takes a little longer than I had anticipated. The afternoon light is moving toward early evening. Grabbing the two tarps from the truck, there is just enough room for me to cram one end of the shiny, canvas material between the saplings and the trailer walls. It takes both tarps, but I finally cover the coop to my satisfaction. Lastly, I poke a couple holes in the tarp for ventilation. I hate to ruin the tarp like that, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t leave it like this forever, but it should keep critters out for tonight. Hopefully, with Meekah, the birds, Beau, and I all sleeping in close proximity to a fire, most things will stay away.

  Standing, I press my knuckles into my lower back. Sore from bending over with the trailer, it feels like I could go to sleep now. Gathering up Meekah, Beau, and a couple of the five-gallon buckets, we all head to the water. Nothing seems to have disturbed the duck in my absence. Beau drinks deeply while I partly fill the buckets with the cold liquid.

  It’s really heading toward dark now. With the duck slung over one shoulder and a bucket in each hand, I cluck my tongue to the animals to get them to follow me back. Rifling through the goods in the truck, I look for something shallow enough for the chickens to drink from. The best I can come up with is an old Styrofoam take-out container from under the front seat. With it folded open and lying flat, each side can hold a decent amount of water. Luring the chickens in with yet more food, I see to it that they all get a turn at the water dish as well. Grabbing one of the larger chunks of wood that I had found earlier, it looks to be a decent fit as a ramp up into the trailer for the birds. Once the water bowl is placed inside, a little more food placed in a trail up the wood block and into the trailer itself draws the first chicken into the coop.

  Whew. Well, at least that part worked.

  Once the six chickens and the now lone duck are accounted for, I tuck the tarp in and check for any access points. Looks good, at least for tonight.

  Not to be forgotten, a warm nose nuzzles my neck. His warm breath comes out in snorts. Taking a moment to rub his neck and gaze into those big brown eyes, I am yet again thankful for finding Beau alive yesterday. Putting some of his grain into a bucket, he is finally appeased and removes his muzzle from my clothes.

  I had originally planned for Meekah and me to eat duck for dinner, but I don’t think I can wait that long. The last few days of minimal food are really catching up with me. A jar of Marie’s homemade stew looks good. Meekah licks her portion up off the grass, hungrily looking for more.

  I eat mine more slowly, savoring each bite. Man, I hope I sleep like a log tonight.

  ***

  Before it gets full dark, I need to take care of this duck. It’s not like I can leave it in the refrigerator overnight.

  Back at the creek, I gather several small to medium rocks. Using my tee shirt as a pouch, I pile the rocks inside. It takes a few trips, but in less than thirty minutes, a neat fire ring is complete. The firewood that I had come across earlier is too big to use as a starter; small tinder is available everywhere, so I grab as many armloads and handfuls as I can and stack it next to my ring of stones.

  I have the flint in the frame pack, another relic of Jason’s, but I don’t have the patience. The lighter is much more convenient. By the time the bright orange flames are licking the air, it’s full dark. The warmth feels good in the evening chill.

  Going to the dog crate, I squeeze the mechanism that unlocks the front door. There is one on each side of the wire grate, making its removal quick and easy. It fits perfectly on a couple of river rocks over the fire, like a little make-shift grill.

  How should I cook it all? I decide to roast the duck and boil the organs. Adding some water from a bucket into the pot and placing it on the grill top only takes a minute. I find myself wishing for salt and herbs, but I guess I should just be thankful for this food. I figure it should feed Meekah and me for a day or two, at least.

  The duck itself fits next to the pot on the grill. The flames are too high, licking the meat through the mesh. Using a stick, I poke at the wood and coals to adjust the fire height. Eventually, I get it to my liking. Already, occasional drips of fat are sizzling onto the embers below. The rich aroma of cooking meat fills my nose. It’s heavenly.

  Looks like I’m going to be here for a while. The air is chilly, but not too cold. Sitting here by the fire is really quite pleasant. Screw the tent; I’m going to sleep right here. It’s hard to stand from my crouched position. While it was easy to forget some of my aches and injuries while staying busy, now that I’ve sat down, it’s like the memory of every pain is crashing in at once.

  I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to just lay down and pass out more than I do right now.

  The truck is about twelve feet from where I’ve built the fire. With what feels like the last of my energy, I grab the broken hitch and pull the trailer until it sits at a ninety-degree angle from the rear of the truck, almost like a solid corner around the flames. Beau is tied to the sideview mirror of the truck, adding another wall to our pen around the fire. I’m left with a view that looks across the clearing and to the far line of trees. At least, it would if I could see through the darkness.

  My sleeping bag, extra blankets, and pillows fit perfectly between the truck and the fire. I’m not too close to worry about my sleeping bag catching on fire, but I can still feel a little warmth. It also feels safe to be between the two. Before I’m finished arranging my blankets, Meekah is already nestled down with her head on a pillow. I smile at her sweet face.

  Lastly, I place the rifle, a nine-millimeter handgun and the knife within arms-length. I picture the scent of the cooking meat drifting through the forest, drawing in animals and humans alike. Well, sorry guys, tonight I’m not sharing. Snuggling in, I let my mind drift through the list of tasks that will need to be completed over the coming days.

  No matter how far into the woods we go, will I ever feel truly safe again? Is there anywhere I can go where I won’t have to worry about someone hurting me? Or that I might have to hurt them? So many faces flash before me: Ally, Brad, Adam, Marie, Eugene, the men from the house… My throat tightens painfully. Banishing their images, I picture my family instead; each alive and well, surrounded by loved ones and safe. My mom is playing cards with her sisters and my grandma. My dad and Brandy around the kitchen table with my brother, Brian, and his family. My other siblings, curled up somewhere with their husbands and wives, surrounded by my sleeping nieces and nephews. Silently, I wish them well.

  Before giving in to sleep, I tally up the days on my fingers. As far as I can tell, it’s May 1st. In a way, I’m surprised. How can all of this have happened in just four months?

  The night passes with a strange, dream-like quality. I can’t let myself sleep too deeply; the fire needs tending every hour or so. It seems like this single night is days long. Dozing comfortably in my nest of blankets, my internal alarm wakes me periodically to check the grill. My waking periods are by no means even. A couple of times I wake to find the fire mostly out and have to slowly feed it a little more to keep the coals going. Other times, it’s like I’m waking every few minutes. After the first few hours, I push the pot as far to the side as I can and pull most of the coals away. I don’t think the organs need to cook all night, maybe just stay warm at thi
s point. The duck on the other hand is cooking slowly over the coals. I rotate it and move it around the grill as needed.

  As the dawn light creeps through the clearing, I let myself fall fully to sleep. I don’t care if the fire goes out. Meekah and Beau will wake me if something comes. I’m too tired to care.

  ***

  Hours later, I wake feeling better than I have in days. I finally feel like I’ve had enough sleep. While still sore, my face and left knee hurt far less than yesterday. Thank God I’m on the mend.

  As usual, the animals come first. The birds survived the night unscathed; as I pull back the front tarp, they hop eagerly down the makeshift ramp. Beau and Meekah accompany me to the stream. Hmm… some animal was definitely around last night. It dug up the duck scraps completely. Oh well, at least it didn’t come too close to us.

  With buckets half-full and animals watered, we make our way back to the little camp. What a sight.

  Once Beau and the birds get a little feed for breakfast, I turn to the grill. The organs in the pot, along with the fat and other scraps, have made something akin to a broth that has started to congeal. Restarting the fire is no problem; once warm, the soupy concoction loosens up again. Picking out a few of the organs, I toss them to Meekah. Gulping them down, she stares at me for more. She’s never full.

  The duck is charred in places, but who cares. The skin is fatty and crackles as I break through to tear one of the drumsticks off. It’s a little tough and dry, but otherwise delicious. Once the first bite passes my lips, I realize how ravenous I am; unable to help myself, I’m gnawing on the leg in my left hand while my right is tearing at the breast meat. Every few bites, I throw Meekah another chunk. The meat is kind of greasy, but good.

  When we have devoured almost one entire breast, I force myself to stop. My fingers and lips are slick with grease. I don’t want to make myself sick after my minimal food over the last few days. Not knowing what else to do, I put the pot of ‘soup’ on the passenger side of the bench seat in the truck, and the partly picked carcass on the dashboard. At least this will protect it from other animals and insects.