by Aborn, A. L.
Finally, I decide that there’s no way all of this stuff is getting back to the clearing without the truck. It’ll all have to wait until tomorrow.
***
That night, Meekah and I eat our fill of a large jar of Marie’s chicken, potatoes, and carrots in a thick gravy. Now that I know there’s more food coming, I allow us both a larger portion than I normally would. The flickering of the fire is comforting in the cool dark. I feel carefully optimistic, as long as I can push grim thoughts away.
My sleep is wracked with nightmares. I give up on anything restful before dawn. Wishing that I had at least brought the instant coffee back from the house, I settle for water instead. Anxious to start the day, I feed all the animals and fire up the truck before the sun is fully out.
It’s a tight squeeze in a few areas with the truck. Twice, I’m forced to get out to use the hatchet to hack at the undergrowth and small trees to create enough room to eke by. The branches leave long scratches on the truck sides, squealing as I slide through.
Meekah rides happily along on the passenger seat beside me. Reluctant to leave Beau behind, his lead is once again tied to the rear of the truck. Reaching the house, I find it just how I left it. It looks lonely and forlorn in the early morning light.
With the space in the truck, my hoarder tendencies resurface. Everything from garbage bags to the couch cushions get loaded up. An axe from the shed out back and a large roll of chicken wire also get tossed in. Two small bookcases, random kitchen items, and a broom later, I think I need to rein myself in. Along with all the dry goods I had found in the cabinets the day before, I am thrilled to throw in salt and pepper and a variety of other spices, too.
When everything is packed that I think I can use from the house, I move to the portable garage outside. It seems as though I should be able to dismantle parts of it and break it into manageable pieces. Using every possible tool that I can find in the shed, it takes my literal blood, sweat, and tears and three hours to pry the thing apart. I only hope that I can reassemble it in the clearing.
The green pick-up looks like part of a circus-act, piled high with my stolen goods. Convinced that I have everything I need to make a good start in creating a permanent camp, I jump in the driver’s seat and head back toward the trail. Locking the doors before leaving just feels right, and in the rearview mirror, it seems like we were never there.
***
After deciding not to live in the house, the clearing starts to feel like home. I was eventually able to put the portable shelter back together, but I had to spread the reassembly over three days. My frustration had threatened to boil over into fits of rage several times; I had to take a couple mental breaks and move onto something else.
Finally assembled, the rest of my home setup seems relatively easy. One end of the shelter is butted up against the large boulder in the clearing. My plan is to use the rocks from the old chimney that I had found to create a chimney of my own. The rocks need to be placed just so, to direct the smoke out of the gap between the shelter and the boulder. I might not need it now, but eventually, I’ll need to keep the shelter warm, and I’d prefer if the whole thing didn’t fill with smoke every time I light a fire. With some trial and error, the trickle of smoke makes its way up the chute of rocks and out into the sky beyond.
The inside of the shelter, once erected, quickly comes together. The narrow, short bookcases are placed against the wall on one side. Canned goods and my kitchen products fit nicely on the wooden shelves. Couch cushions on the dirt floor against the other wall serve as a nice bed. My sleeping bag on top, along with the pillows salvaged from Ally’s house make a cozy nest for Meekah and me. My clothes and extra belongings are wadded up on my backpack for now, but that’s only until I decide how best to organize them.
Overall, I’m pretty pleased with myself.
Nights continue to be the hardest time for me. During the daylight hours, I set myself task after task, making it impossible to finish in one day. This helps keep my mind focused. But at night, even if I have worked myself to the bone, my body aching and yearning for sleep… My mind is active with the faces of my past. I cannot unsee Brad’s bloody face… or Ally’s pleading one. The faces of those I killed haunt me as well. I may be able to logically explain away their deaths… but my heart sends me their faces, nonetheless.
***
My days are filled with weather-tightening my new house. Taking apart the shelter left a couple rips in the canvas. I patch them with wadded up trash bags for now. These prove to be somewhat effective as the next week brings a mix of weather. Leave it to New Hampshire to be sunny one day, raining the next, and snowing the following. In May, no less!
Granted, the snow melts in less than a day, but really?
The shelter seems too big for just Meekah and me, so I decide to turn the far end into a makeshift stall for Beau. One of my tarps, slung chest-high between the two sides of the shelter creates a barrier between his area and mine. The night it snowed, I led a very confused horse into the shelter and lowered the canvas door behind him. The small fire quickly warmed the confined space. As I fell asleep, the sweet smell of horse and hay filled my nostrils. In the morning, his manure stank up the joint. There’s no help for it though; as much as I think on it, this is the best shelter I can give him, as well as giving me the opportunity to keep him close.
***
The days pass.
I spend some of the days filling the holes of my shelter with garbage bags, mud, and pine boughs. Bucketing water back and forth for the animals builds the muscles in my arms and back. I am so thankful for the food available to me; I don’t like to think of how building my new home would have turned out without it.
Scouting the area around the camp seems most important. The first time that I had set out I had found the house. Beyond that, I think it’s important to look further away and make sure that no one is close to me. Thoughts of security nag at me; can I set up defenses? Trenches or other traps? Should I be taking advantage of the spring hunting or fishing? What am I missing?
Thoughts of my family nag at me endlessly. Where is my mom? Is she okay? As Mother’s Day approaches and passes, I silently send her my thoughts over the distance between here and Virginia. I dearly hope that she is holed up with the rest of my family in safety. It hurts too much to consider otherwise, so I stick with this vision.
Last I knew, my dad, my stepmom Brandy, and my brother Brian and his family had retreated up to my dad’s cabin in northern NH. He had left me a note in his house that I had discovered only a few weeks ago. Brad had helped me create a makeshift saddle to ride Beau to my father’s house and to Ally’s mom, Marie’s. I had found that my dad had fled with part of our family and that Ally’s family was thriving. The plan had been to move to Marie’s family compound. We had been packing for the move when Adam had brought a group of men to rape, rob, and kill us.
Adam.
I can’t believe that I trusted him.
But why wouldn’t I?
I had known him since grade school. Why had he betrayed us like that?
His face haunts my dreams, along with the rest.
I try not to dwell on these facts or faces. In fact, I try not to think about them at all. Down that road, I feel pain, guilt, and terrible, terrible anxiety about my choices.
Keeping these thoughts away every evening is a chore in and of itself. While awake, I can almost manage the task… but when sleeping… it’s a whole other ballgame.
Just keep working… just keep working… it’s my silent mantra. I can do it.
***
The first of June finds me snug in my new home. I’ve blocked all the holes that let in the rain and the chimney keeps the smoke away on cold nights. Beau has adjusted to coming in to share my space. He’s almost a puppy, the way he follows me around. I no longer bucket in water for the horse and Meekah; they go to the nearby stream on their own when thirsty. It’s just one less chore for me.
I’m not sure how to spend my
days at this point. Sometimes, I think of some item or other that I need and go to the house to fetch it. It’s like the house on the mountain road is my own personal shopping mall. Eventually, I know my needs will be unanswered by the house, but for now, I’m taking advantage of it.
One load with the truck, and a lot of sweat, brought all the stacks of firewood back to camp. I’m grateful for it and silently thank the family who cut and stacked it every time I feed my fire with it.
The chickens and one remaining duck seem to be okay with the minimal feed I give them. Instead, they seem to enjoy foraging for their own food. Beau also forages for most of his food. Meekah is the only one that I willingly share my meal with. All in all, I think we are doing pretty well.
I hate to say it… but I think I’m… bored.
And this is a very, very bad thing to feel. My chores are minimal, and I do them by rote, with no thought involved. My mind is increasingly crowded with the faces of my family, begging me to come find them. With Ally, asking why I didn’t go with her. And Brad… pleading for help when I withheld it. I think… I think he’s dead by now. The thought makes me feel short of breath.
I can’t keep track of the times I feel short of breath. I haven’t had a panic attack since my early twenties, but I know that familiar tightening in my chest, the frantic feeling of helplessness… It’s a terrible, awful feeling that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Why do I feel this way? I question myself over and over. I’m surviving, I have a safe place to live, my animals are taken care of… So… why? Why is my mind tormenting me?
***
June sixth… my brother Brian’s birthday. Is he celebrating somewhere? I hope so. The thought breaks through my anguish. It’s the first time that I’ve thought of someone else in days. I can only think of my own pain and suffering right now.
***
June seventh… my mind is rallying. It’s time to WAKE UP! Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! You are surviving the apocalypse and doing it well! Just look at the good that you have done! Get out of bed! Do your chores!
It works, for a little while. A renewed vigor has quickened my step around the camp. Instead of skipping breakfast, I try to enjoy the morsels of the spaghetti that I cooked the night before. Meekah is certainly enjoying the plain pasta that I have dumped into a bowl for her. Force-feeding the last few bites into my mouth, I move onto my morning chores.
What can I do to improve my camp? To improve my life?
…
…
…
NOTHING!
My mind screams at me.
It’s so depressing, living alone like this. In the middle of nowhere. Why didn’t I go live with Marie? They had all that they needed, up at her compound. Why didn’t I go with Ally? Why didn’t I save Brad?
The thoughts echo in my mind until I can’t work anymore. Laying down on my soft bed in the shelter feels good after the pressure that my unrelenting brain has pressed on me.
JUST IGNORE EVERYTHING.
I obey and slip into a deep sleep. At least, until the next nightmare wakes me.
***
The next day, I awake, ashamed of myself. Since when do I need to lay down for sleep in the afternoon? Since when do I laze about when there’s work to be done?
After realizing that I skipped dinner the night before, the conclusion that Meekah skipped dinner too further shames me. Scrambling out of my sleeping bag, I hurry to feed her and Beau. I try not to imagine the reproachful look in her eyes as I dump the pasta into her bowl.
***
I need to get out of bed.
Do it.
Come on, just do it.
***
I can’t.
***
Today, I think I can. It’s June eleventh. How did that happen?
I feel more clear-headed than I have in days. Maybe it’s the hunger. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in what feels like forever. What’s wrong with me? I don’t feel that sad… only anxious that my world is ending… that I ended my own world when I sent Ally away with Brad on that dreadful night.
***
I feel a little better today. Why?
I have no idea.
All I know is that the animals are hungry, and I haven’t been paying much attention to them. Do the birds have water? Have Beau and Meekah eaten? When is the last time that I ate?
I honestly don’t remember.
Get up. Get up and STOP FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF!
I push away the faces of Ally and Brad as I crawl out of my sleeping bag. I get a whiff of myself… after all this time, I’m even stinking myself out of the confined space. How long have I been just laying around?
I disgust myself.
Maybe I should just lay back down and let it pass. Maybe I should just starve to death and let it end.
…
…
NO!
Fine if you want to kill yourself but you are NOT going to let your dog and horse die!
The thought stirs something in me; guilt, I think.
The voice is right. Why should my animals have to die for my craziness?
Peeling myself out of my dirty clothes, I painfully slide on some clean ones.
Out in the fresh air, I find the day sunny and probably in the mid-fifties, if I had a thermometer. Brushing my teeth at the stream, I make myself a plan for the day. I need some firewood for my evening warmth, check on my seedlings, and think about making the birds a more permanent coop.
Feeling the surge of energy from my to-do plan, I grab the axe from beside the shelter and head toward my stack of firewood salvaged from the house up the road. Needing kindling, I set up one of the larger hunks of wood and take a swing with the axe. I miss it entirely.
What can I say? Brad always did this shit.
I am immediately angry at this fucking stupid piece of wood.
Swinging again, I hit the corner, causing the wood to tip over and hit the ground.
“God damn’t!”
I HATE THIS CHORE! WHAT THE FUCK? WHY IS IT SO HARD TO CHOP FUCKING WOOD?
Standing the wood up again, I take a swing with all my might. Again, I swing wide of the target and miss it completely.
My rage comes gurgling out in a roar of frustration.
Swinging the axe up on my shoulder, I use my left hand to try and straighten the chunk of wood. My right hand tries to control the axe as I swing it down to the piece of wood steadied by my other hand.
The edge of the axe skips off the wood with my pitiful swing and into the soft flesh of my left hand.
I scream.
Blood spreads out from the wound almost immediately. What have I done?
It takes a moment for it to set in, but the pain snaps me back to reality. Dropping the axe, I grip my left hand in my right. Bright red blood oozes over the fingers of my right hand.
I need to wash the wound out right away to evaluate the damage. Stumbling toward the creek, I wince at the pain in my hand, tears streaming down my face. My brain is doing a decent job at segmenting the pain; it feels separate, like someone else is feeling it, but I am horrified at the implications.
Reaching the edge of the water, I drop to my knees and plunge my injured hand into the crystal depths. The cool water feels good at first, numbing. Until I can feel my severed piece of skin flapping in the current. My stomach turns at the sensation. This is more serious than I thought.
Peering into the water, the flap of skin becomes evident.
My gag reflex surprises me.
When the wave of nausea has passed, I pull my hand from the water. The bleeding seems to have slowed, at least. Inspecting the wound, it definitely needs stitches. Holding my hand above my heart, my canvas-covered home seems miles away. Inside, it’s a struggle to not drip blood everywhere while pulling my first-aid kit from a pile of rumpled clothes. I pull an appropriately sized suture with attached needle out of the bag, as well as a gauze patch and wrap.
At the bottom of my backpack, I find t
he two last nips of alcohol. One of a dark, liquorish flavored alcohol and another of clear, brown whiskey. The black licorice goes down in one swallow. I immediately feel the warmth spread through my chest and head. My right-hand fumbles for the needle driver.
Without having to think, like some other being is driving me, I start suturing the wound on my left hand closed. It hurts… like it FUCKING HURTS. Both of my hands are shaking, but I focus closely on the injured flesh. Fighting the urge to scream in frustration and pain while inspecting the wound, I don’t see any major vascular damage. Hopefully, it’s all soft tissue.
My head is buzzing from the shot. I wish I had a huge bottle to drown myself in. Thank God it was my left hand that was injured; I can’t imagine trying to sew with my left hand. Every throw of the needle is a new scream of agony. Continuing, I grit my teeth while forcing the tip of the needle through each fold of skin, pulling it tight to make both sides meet.
It’s almost an out of body experience to be both sewing and feeling the needle. I don’t like it.
Cutting off the black suture with my scissors, I tie a knot that rests above the smooth skin of my hand. Thinking back to my days of assist school, or even the days of being a nurse in the operating room, I’m not impressed with my handiwork. Tying a knot one-handed is no easy feat. I suppose I should just be glad that I’m capable; anyone else may have just had to wrap it.
The suturing job may be finished, but what of the rest of it? What’s going to happen to me now?
***
The pain sends a dull wave of aching through me. The jagged line of sutured skin on my hand is a constant distraction. I wish I had an ice pack to put on it periodically, but I don’t. Swallowing a mouthful of Tylenol and some of the antibiotics that I had taken from the feed store, I glance around at the sorry state of my camp. My neglect has left it a mess.
The sharp edge of the pain seems to have renewed my vigor to live.
THIS WILL NOT BE THE END OF ME!
Chapter Seven
