by Aborn, A. L.
My hand is healing well, for what it is. The area at the base of my thumb is numb, but I can still move it back and forth. I can’t make a fist yet, but I gently exercise my fingers, pulling them back and forth to try and retain some sort of dexterity a few times each day.
I haven’t had a panic attack since I hacked into my hand with the axe. I still feel sad and guilty sometimes, but instead of running from it, I let myself feel the pain. If I’m going to survive long-term in this new world, I need to face the choices that I’ve made and make peace with them. If not, I don’t think I’ll make it.
Brad, one of my longest friends and engaged to my best friend, Ally, may have gone off the deep end while we shared a home, but I think about his knowledge and advice every day. I don’t want to take it to the extreme that he did, but he was right about a lot of things.
To quote him directly, “This isn’t a fucking fairy tale.”
***
With Brad’s words of caution and preparation guiding me, I start thinking about the future. If this is my now, my life, what happens down the road? This winter? Next year?
The idea of living alone in this camp for the rest of my life is simply not an option. I realize now how much I’ve been missing the companionship of Ally and Brad. Even if we were all sitting silently in front of the woodstove while the snow piled up outside, it was comforting to share my space with them.
Every day, I try to appreciate the beauty of the landscape, or a type of bird that I’ve never seen, or a mink hopping from rock to rock on the riverbank, or a thousand other things… and the first thing I want to do is turn to Ally and share the experience.
I think I needed to be alone, I needed the solitude to sort myself out in the days after Ally’s parents, Marie and Eugene, had brought me back from their family compound. Terrified of Brad and Marie, worried about Meekah, excited for the move, shocked by the intrusion of Adam and his gang… the deaths, fighting for my life… I couldn’t make sense of what was happening. I didn’t know whom to trust… except myself.
Only eight months ago, if you would have told me the things that I’ve had to do to survive… I would have laughed in your face. But here we are.
***
I’m too afraid to travel, for now. Considering going to Marie’s now leaves me with mixed emotions. Did Ally and Brad make it to their house when I had sent them off that fateful night in the beat-up Bronco? What if Brad had died on the way? Honestly, I don’t think I want to know either way. What if I’m responsible for his death? This is a choice that I am learning to cope with, but I don’t want a definitive answer; just the possibility is enough to leave me shamed and panicked.
Brad had believed that this mass power outage was due to a coordinated attack on the nine largest power supply stations in the United States. It would essentially knock out the power everywhere. As he was interested in prepping before all of this started, this was one of the situations that he had ‘suspected would happen eventually.’ If his guess is true, he had estimated that the parts needed to fix the supply stations, which ironically, can only be bought from overseas, and the labor it would take to repair the stations and restore power would be, at least, fourteen months.
I don’t know if any of this is true, but it’s all I have to go on.
What will happen if the power ever comes back on? Will we all just revert to the way things used to be? Play nice and forget about what we’ve done? In the name of saving our loved ones? Can I do that? Can anyone?
We’ll cross that bridge when we get there, I guess.
Based on the information that I have now, I need to be able to survive at least until next March, which would mark the end of fourteen months since the power went out. So… eight more months. That’s daunting. But I can do it. I have to. Even if the power doesn’t come back on, making it until March will mean that I have survived another winter, and this one, on my own.
Maybe I should plan to leave my little clearing in the woods in March no matter what. If I’m not staying here alone forever, that’s as good a time as any.
***
I can’t help my analytical nature. I think that’s why I chose a career in the operating room: clear steps with technical details. With a theoretical date, no matter how far away, I have something to prepare for. And, not just myself, but Beau, Meekah, and the chickens. What do we need to survive? Shelter, water, warmth, and food. I feel confident in the first three, but food is going to be tricky, especially for Beau. It’s not like he can graze all winter. Hopefully, the books that I took from the barn will have some information about how to prepare.
***
In addition to brainstorming about how best to survive the winter, I think about Brad’s security techniques. How can I use his advice to work here? Can I do it? Alone?
I take stock of my weapons. Six handguns, two rifles, five decent sized knives, and limited ammo. Of course, I can only use one thing at a time, but still, the cache of weapons makes me feel more secure. When I had been riddled with anxiety, I had been slacking in carrying a weapon; all of Brad’s teachings lost in a fog of panic. In some way, I feel like I am paying him homage by sticking to his advice. From now on, I’m keeping a handgun stuck in my pants and a rifle over my shoulder.
***
My shelter is as snug as I can make it. For good measure, I’ve thrown pine boughs over the whole thing, hoping that it will camouflage it… from… I’m not really sure what, but it seems important. The only daylight visible is through the intended gaps in the chimney to direct the smoke out. The far end of the shelter rolls up to allow entry into the makeshift stall for Beau, which I am satisfied with. There’s plenty of room for all of us.
The chickens are another matter. At one point, I had thought to have the entrance to their coop included in Beau’s end of the shelter, but I don’t think it’s possible. As an alternative, I have the trailer-turned-coop parked close to the canvas draped home; my emptied food cans and other metal debris that I have found in the woods (teenagers leave a lot of beer cans in the woods when they party) are strung along some fishing line. Hopefully, if any predator tries to get at the hens and one remaining duck, I’ll hear it.
Speaking of the duck, I’m not sure what to do with it. It’s been sort of mopey since I had to put the other one down. She keeps to herself while following the hens around the yard at a distance. I haven’t collected any duck eggs, so unless she’s hiding them in the woods, she’s not laying. At some point, I think I’ll have to eat it, like the other, but not quite yet.
Another food source tallied up on my mental list. Meekah and I might benefit, but I still am not sure about what to feed Beau.
***
Since my shelter is winter proof, at least, in my mind it is, I move on to my next task: food and security. Water is covered with the stream nearby; in the winter, I can melt snow or ice. Warmth will be provided by the firewood that I pilfered from the mountain house and anything that I can scrounge between now and then. I try to dedicate at least an hour each day to gathering dry wood or using the axe to fell a small to medium sized tree. If I cut it now, it will be decently seasoned by the time winter rolls through.
All the canned goods should be saved for emergencies, for obvious reasons. I decide to focus on fishing for the time being. Meekah and I follow the creek up through the woods, where we find that it widens and eventually meets a larger stream of water. Wrapping my line around a hunk of wood that I have whittled into a handheld spool allows me to cast the line out by hand and in turn, wind it back up, similar to a traditional fishing rod.
Thank God for all those survival shows that Jason made me sit through.
My first attempt yields three small trout, maybe the size of my hand. I decide to smoke them over my fire. The next day, I try again, but only get one of the small trout. Maybe I would have more luck in a larger body of water? With no idea where the nearest lake or pond is, I add a trip to the stream either in the morning or at dusk to my daily routine. Being able to sm
oke the fish will let me store some nutrients toward our winter stores.
It’s Beau that keeps stumping me. There’s hardly any grain left, so I stop giving it to him. Dumping the remains into a plastic bag for emergencies, I place his precious food in the storage area in my shelter, protected in a plastic container. With the big barrel empty, I set it aside for some future use. In these times, I can’t throw anything away.
***
The key to my sanity is to keep busy.
Securing the chicken coop with more than a tarp takes up almost two whole days. Another pallet, taken from the mountain house, provides the wood to create a more permanent roof. The roll of wire that I had previously taken from the house creates a barrier between the slats. I tuck the tarp under the coop in case I need it to keep the birds dry in bad weather. A stolen milk crate, stuffed with grass, and tucked in the corner makes a nice little nesting area for the hens. They seem to like it and, at least half the time, they lay their eggs there, instead of having to find them all over the clearing.
With that task completed to my liking, I decide to make good on my earlier ideas about scouting the area. It seems like that should be how I devote the majority of my afternoons; not only to discover anyone who might be living or moving through the area, but also to scout for some more food sources.
Waking with the sun comes easily now. Tending the animals, scooping manure, throwing in a line, and general clean-up of the camp now come by rote. Talking to Meekah and Beau while doing my chores, or even singing some of my favorite songs, passes the time. Strange to say, it’s comforting to hear another voice, even if it’s my own.
Following my chores, we’re off. Meekah and Beau follow along, though when Beau stops to munch for too long, I have to halter him to keep him moving. I always carry a bottle of water in a fair-sized reusable container that I took from the house. Both guns, a hunting knife, enough food for Meekah and me to have a meal, and the lighter, for an emergency fire, are packed into my backpack. One of the prepper books, taken from the farm, is also packed in the bag; it has an excellent section with pictures of edible plants and mushrooms. I’m too nervous to harvest any mushrooms… at least for now.
Berries, plants, and various grasses that I come across are carefully packed on top of my supplies in my bag. Once home, I take them out and separate them into their respective storage areas. The grasses I leave in the sun to dry, usually on top of the chicken coop to keep Beau away from it. As it dries, I pack it into the large barrel that previously held grain. The barrel cover seems to keep the elements out; I throw the cover from the tent over it for good measure.
It’s comforting to be working toward the future instead of wallowing in the now. Just keep moving forward… it’s all I can do.
***
Each day, as long as it isn’t pouring rain, we venture a little further out from camp. After ten days of scouting, I feel like I know the land immediately surrounding our shelter. Working in a wide circle around the clearing, I follow the old logging roads and game trails until I feel like I could draw a map of the intersecting lines.
As we move through the woods, we spook various small animals. A close call with a porcupine and Meekah left my heart pounding with relief that it didn’t end in my having to pull quills out of her face. Birds, squirrels, and chipmunks are the most common. I find fresh scat, from a deer, I think, a few times. Trying to mentally take note of which game trails are marked with the droppings, I dream of venison roasting over the fire.
One afternoon, Meekah is in the lead on a narrow trail through the woods that heads in the general direction of the distant town center. The ever-hungry Beau is being pulled along behind me as he has been stopping at every green leaf to eat all morning. Purely by chance, as I readjust the strap of my rifle with the lead rope tucked under one arm, Meekah spooks a pheasant out of its hiding place. With the gun already in my hands, I somehow manage to get a shot off. And to my amazement… I hit it.
Not a clean kill.
Meekah races up to the thrashing body of the bird. Quickly, I snatch up the bird and wrench its neck. Shocked at my own actions, I’m thankful that my instincts kicked in; I’m not sure I could have done that if I had thought about it. Holding it by the neck, we continue with our walk before looping back to camp.
Looks like Meekah and I are having pheasant for dinner.
***
Besides scouting and gathering, it’s time to get serious about security.
What if someone were to find my clearing? Or see me scouting and follow me home? I may eventually have the need for an escape route. Pondering this for a few days on my rounds, it seems clear that I will need more than one way out. Which way is safest? I guess it depends on which way the intruder comes in…
I try to think like Brad and look at the clearing critically. The weakest point is obviously the arched opening leading into the small meadow. Any sort of material used to block the entrance would only point out that it is an entrance to anyone coming by. Besides, that is the way that we most commonly exit the camp to scout. I nix the idea of trying to block it.
The rest of the clearing is surrounded by thick woods. If someone were to find me… it would most likely be by the front opening; coming through the woods would make too much noise. Maybe if I were to make the forest impassible, I could funnel any outsiders to the archway. It makes sense to at least attempt this; the archway is as far from the shelter as anywhere in the clearing.
Using some of my fishing line and whatever trash I’ve come across, as well as the empty food cans, I string up noise makers between likely areas of entry. Hopefully, anyone coming in will hit one of the lines and the jangling metal will alert me to their presence. I have dreams of moats and pits with stakes, but this is the best I can do for a start.
As for escape routes, I finally decide on four, including the mountain house. The first is along the mountain road, facing the direction that eventually leads back to Ally’s house. This is the only path that the truck can traverse, so I stash it in the woods, a bit back from the narrow dirt road. The dark green paint of the truck sort of blends with the surroundings; some branches and other debris camouflage it further. I’m confident that no one will see it from the road, unless they’re looking for it.
Along my travels, I find an interesting tree. I think it’s a pine, but I really don’t know the differences between trees. There are actually a few of them, spread throughout the forest here and there. It has long branches that spread out from the trunk with bunches of green needles at the ends. The weight of the branches pulls the long limbs down until the needles almost brush the ground. The layers of branches keep the ground under the lowest limbs dry, like a little protected dome. With a little tweaking, I think it could be an emergency shelter. It’s straight back from my camp through the woods, probably a quarter mile away. It’s the most likely direction I would go in if someone were to attack through the clearing opening.
The third route of escape is random; cut straight through the trees on the right of the clearing for a few hundred feet before it reaches an old, dry streambed. The rocky bed is easier to run down instead of through the woods, with its branches that seem to smack or snag at every step. A couple hundred feet down the stream bed is a natural formation of rocks, which I can squeeze an escape bag where it stays relatively hidden and dry.
I’ve stashed these safe bags at every escape route. As much as possible, the contents are uniform. Two cans of food (even if one is a can of corn, it’ll fill my belly), a hunting knife, a change of clothes, a way to start a fire, a bottle of water from the mountain house, and something to sleep in. The tent, I left with the random pack by the streambed. The truck, the tree, and the mountain house all offer their own version of shelter.
So, in total, if someone were to attack, I can flee to the mountain house, to the tree shelter, to the random bag in the woods by the streambed, or to the truck. It’s comforting really, to know that I can run in almost any direction and join with one of my
many trails to gather up a bag that may mean the difference between life and death. Meekah can essentially eat whatever I’m eating, but what about Beau?
Always, the food situation comes back to Beau. I shudder from the thought, but I can’t envision an escape that saves the big brown gelding. He’s become family, like Meekah, but by and large, he’s the most difficult to plan and care for. I can only cross my fingers that I will never have to test any of the escape routes.
Chapter Nine
August
The days pass in heat and rain, sunshine and cool mornings. I find comfort in the changing of the forest around me. Never having spent this much time in the woods, it’s no surprise that I’ve never been so keenly aware of the minute details and beauty. The shady glade by the stream, with its moss-covered rocks, still enchants me; the blossoming of the wildflowers on both the mountainside and the surrounding hills add breathtaking bits of color to the green landscape, if only you stop to look.
August, for the most part, is hot and humid. The shelter, while not under full sunshine, seems to trap the heat. Lying on top of my blankets at night, the damp air leaves me tossing and turning. During the day, Meekah, Beau, and I seek refuge from the heat by the stream. Beneath the protection of the tree limbs, the air is still thick, but cooler than either the shelter or the clearing. Whiling away the hours in the shade, I peruse the books taken from the farm, attempting to memorize plants that can be foraged and other handy tips. My fishing lines still bring in the occasional small trout, which I clean by the water and cook over the smallest fire possible. Beau tears at nearby greenery while the pup and I split the fish.
Once the sun sets and the heat becomes somewhat bearable, we venture out and spend our evenings foraging and scouting. I’m running out of room to put the dried plants for Beau’s winter stores, but still, I collect as many as possible. Other edible plants, like dandelion greens, get set aside for my own cookpot. The work is never ending, but I’m glad to keep busy, and honestly, what else would I be doing with my time?
