by Aborn, A. L.
“I knew she wasn’t alone,” Shay snarls, her gun pointed at me once more. Moving closer, she presses the end of the rifle into my chest. “How many are there?”
Before I can utter one complete word, she drops the rifle, letting the strap carry its weight. In one motion, she’s grabbed a huge hunting knife from her side and has maneuvered it and me until she has the blade against my throat.
It happened so fast that I hadn’t had time to even think about struggling. The metal is cold against my flesh and my pulse is thundering in my ears. Her left hand is tangled painfully into my hair, pulling me up on my toes. Meekah, sensing danger, growls softly at my feet.
Panic floods through me; how do I convince them that there is no one out there? That its only Beau?
The knife is pressed so tightly to my throat that I’m afraid to talk. Breathing through the pain of my awkward position and my terror, a few audible words eke out through my clenched teeth. “Horse. It’s my horse.”
“Did she say, ‘her horse?” Joann asks.
Shay releases the pressure on my hair and eases the knife a scant hair from my skin. I nod emphatically. With her hand still in my hair, the knife is returned to her belt. Raising her gun, she nods for me to turn, before planting it between my shoulder blades, “You first.”
Slowly leading the way into the trees, my feet catch on roots and leaves that are invisible in the growing darkness. As we near Beau’s position, he knickers at me in greeting. “It is a horse!” Joann says excitedly. Pushing past us, she approaches the brown gelding and immediately starts scratching his neck.
“Get his rope,” Shay commands.
Joann is talking under her breath; I can’t tell whether its happy whisperings to my horse or skepticism at Shay’s directions.
Yanking me by the hair, Shay marches all of us back to their campfire. Once in the flickering circle of firelight, she has Joann pat me down. Finding my handgun in the waistband of my pants and the knife on one hip, she drops them unceremoniously to the ground with my rifle. Gesturing with her gun to the ground by the fire, there’s nothing to do but plop down. Meekah curls into my lap, ignorant and comfortable in our current circumstances.
Shay gestures to Joann. The two of them whisper for a moment on the opposite side of the fire; Shay never looks away from me.
When they’re finished, Joann takes up the post across from me with the gun. I watch as the broad-shouldered silhouette of Shay moves to their tent and makes quick work of breaking down their shelter. All of their belongings are packed away into two large backpacks; blanket rolls are neatly stowed in the straps, like they had done this a hundred times.
Well, they probably had.
Anxiety is like a pit of fire in my gut. Will they shoot me? Force me along at gunpoint? Bring me back to a group of their own? It feels like every meal that I’ve ever eaten is roiling forcefully around in my stomach. Should I beg for my life? Will it make a difference?
Shay moves determinedly around the camp, like her mind is already made up. But about what, I’m not sure. Eventually, Shay drops the backpacks at Joann’s feet and stares hard at me over the dying fire.
I don’t want to beg, but I can hear the desperation in my own voice. “Please. I don’t care who you are or where you’re going. Just let me go.”
The only sounds are the evening breeze through the trees and the last pops of the wood burning.
Finally, she answers. “I guess Joann is right; you could have shot us before we knew you were there. I can’t shoot you in cold blood and I don’t reckon it’s worth it to try and drag you and your baggage along with us.”
Her words fill me with reluctant hope. I may get out of this after all.
Before continuing, she bends to pluck up one of the backpacks and swing it over her shoulders. Joann mimics her movements awkwardly; straining to keep her gun trained on me. Her movements are jerky and uncoordinated. Finally, all that remains is the fire and the two of them.
Reaching around, Shay pulls a large water bottle from the side pocket of her pack. In the last light of the glowing coals, her face looks almost haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust you, so we’re going. You go your way, and we’ll go ours. If we hear you follow us, I’ll shoot with no hesitation.”
The coals hiss as she dumps the water over them. Immediately, they both start to back toward one side of the trees, guns still pointed at me, until they finally just melt away into the steam and darkness.
***
When the last snaps of twigs underfoot disappear into the night, I climb to my feet and snatch Meekah’s leash and Beau’s lead. Picking up my discarded weapons, I quickly tuck them back into place. Together, we clamber through the underbrush beneath the trees back toward home. The low hanging branches viciously slap at my face; my eyes are watering in the first ten feet. Once into the open air of the field, I consider climbing up on Beau and racing the miles back toward safety. The darkness makes me hesitate though; pushing my horse at night could lead toward a broken leg.
We trudge on by foot.
Meekah is eager to be home, pulling against the leash. Beau, for once, walks easily, having his fill of greens throughout the day. Picking up the trail after the fields is a little tricky, but we eventually find our way through to the mountain road and on to the clearing. The entire journey has my hair standing on end, like someone is watching us. Pausing every few minutes or so to listen for anyone following only adds time to our journey, but I just can’t stop doing it.
In the clearing, all three of us drink deeply from the stream. My chest is heaving deeply; from exertion or anxiety, I’m not sure which. Slowly, my pulse normalizes. I can’t hear anything besides the breeze through the trees and the trickle of the water.
We’re alone. At least, I hope we are.
***
I don’t dare start a fire, not with people potentially so close to camp. Wouldn’t it be ironic to have someone find me by the smell after I had just found them in the same way?
Going to lay in my bed doesn’t appeal to me. I’m tired; both physically and mentally, but the survivor in me is screaming out that we aren’t safe. With Meekah and Beau tucked into the shelter, I leave the canvas behind Beau unzipped halfway. Sitting in the doorway, I prop myself up in a sleeping bag with my rifle in my lap. For what feels like hours, I strain to hear the telltale sound of someone tripping over my fishing line with the tin cans or a word or two carried on the wind.
Hearing nothing out of the ordinary only feeds my conviction that someone’s out there. Taking slow, deep breaths, I don’t let my anxiety get the best of me.
If anyone comes near me tonight, they’re dead.
Chapter Eleven
A Change of Heart
Somewhere off in the distance, my hands are aching, and the sun is warm on my face. Slowly, as I rise toward consciousness, the various pains in my back and neck become obvious. Opening my eyes, I’m confused for a moment. Where am I?
As the grogginess wears off, I realize that I must have nodded off at some point in the early morning hours. I’m cramped from sleeping in this position. Even in sleep, it seems that my hands kept a firm grip on the gun across my knees. Groaning, I stretch my hands, back, and neck.
Calling to Meekah and Beau, who are still obediently in the shelter, we walk to the stream for a drink and to start the day. The water is cold and quickly wipes away the last of the fog from my brain. Still sipping the cool liquid, I consider the events of the night before. Where had Shay and Joann gone? Are they still around the area or had they kept moving throughout the night?
I have to admit a grudging respect for the two of them.
After all, they spared my life, and that of Meekah and Beau. They didn’t take my weapons or anything else from me. Why?
Why hadn’t they just killed me and taken everything?
Maybe because there are still good people left in the world. Could it be as simple as that?
And, if that’s true, that means that I was prepared t
o shoot the only good pair of strangers that I’ve come across since the lights went out. A pang of guilt bounces around in my stomach.
How was I supposed to know that? How was I supposed to risk them finding me here? Or trading information of my whereabouts to save themselves to others, if it came down to it?
I hate that I have become such a skeptic and that I’m capable of these thoughts. The only comfort is that I still believe that these thoughts are those of a survivor. I’d probably be dead if I blindly trusted everyone.
***
I’m not sure whether its smarter to go out and scout or to stay close to camp. Exhaustion and achy muscles beg for me to stay close. Compromising, I only scout a short distance away from camp and spend the rest of the day on chores in the clearing. There’s always cleaning to be done, as well as inspecting the shelter and coop for any weak spots.
The day drags on in typical fashion when there’s a lot of work to be done. Stacking firewood for the coming winter and reinforcing the roof on the coop takes most of the day. Late in the afternoon, a crispness in the wind reminds me that the seasons are changing. The world is moving on toward autumn, whether we are ready for it or not.
***
My back is sore from chopping wood. As the light winds down toward twilight, I decide to call it a day. Clicking my tongue for Beau, I survey the clearing and feel good about the work that I’ve completed. Nothing like a day of physical labor to get your mind right. At least, that’s what my parents used to say. Still say, I firmly remind myself.
As my little family of three crosses the clearing toward the stream to wash up, a sudden movement to my left makes my heart freeze in my chest. Reaching for the handgun shoved into the back of my pants, I aim at the entry to my clearing.
There, perfectly framed under the hanging branches, are Shay and Joann.
We are far enough apart that I’d have to raise my voice to be heard clearly, but there’s no mistaking them. Joann, short and slim, Shay, tall and broad. “What do you want?” My voice breaks the quiet and I’m proud that my voice isn’t shaking.
Meekah is growling at my side as we move toward them, my gun trained on Shay. Why would they be here? Panic is racing through my veins, but I refuse to let them take the advantage in my clearing. Drawing closer, I see that Joann is leaning against Shay, instead of standing a bit behind her, like it had first seemed.
Only twenty feet away now, the sound of my handgun cocking rings menacingly in the silence. “What do you want?” I repeat.
In response, Shay throws her rifle at her feet. Her large hunting knife follows. Still staring at me, she reaches into one boot and pulls out another knife. Their backpacks are placed beside the weapons.
I don’t know what to make of this. I consider shooting them both to be done with them, but horror at that thought quickly pushes the notion away. “I said, what do you want?”
Shay gently helps Joann to the ground where she can rest against the backpacks, the weapons just out of reach. “I don’t want your help,” she says, almost too quietly for me to catch. “But we need it. Last night, before we’d gotten a quarter mile away, Joann tripped and fell in the woods. It’s her ankle. She can’t get far. We need a place to stay, at least until she can heal up a little.”
“How did you find me?” I demand.
“As soon as I realized she wasn’t getting far, I left the supplies with her and turned around to follow you. I had to know if you were going back to a group, like you said, or if you were by yourself. Once I tracked you here, I went back for Joann. It’s taken almost the whole day for us to get here.”
Anger floods through me at this revelation. Why did they have to come here? I guess it’s too late for that thought and the nurse in me surfaces as I consider Joann and her injury. Still training my gun on her, I nod to a space further in the clearing near the woods line. “You can set your tent up there. Leave your weapons.”
Shay nods and bends down to check on Joann. I expect them to whisper to each other, to reveal some hidden game they’re playing to take me by surprise. But, instead, Shay gives Joann a quick squeeze on the shoulder before heading toward the tree line that I’d indicated. A pent-up breath flows out of me, releasing a bit of the tension between my shoulders. Meekah has given up growling; she’s wagging her tail, sniffing at Joann and her backpack. Beau has returned to the stream, munching some grass.
Joann is looking up at me, her face-tinged gray. She looks exhausted, but the ghost of a smile is there. Double checking that she can’t reach any weapons, I squat in front of her outstretched leg. A pair of sturdy, ankle-high boots are on her feet. The one on her injured leg is unlaced, but still in place. Glancing up at her, I find her watching me unsteadily. “I have to take your boot off,” I say softly.
She closes her eyes, swallows, and nods.
Gently inserting my fingers into the top of her boot, she cringes back from my touch. Her skin is hot against the back of my knuckles. Sensing something amiss, Meekah returns to Joann, this time, pressing her muzzle into the hollow of her neck. Her arms wrap around my dog’s neck, searching for comfort.
Hoping Meekah will be enough of a distraction for me to remove the boot, I tug a little harder. Joann lets out a moan into the thick fur that she’s pressed her face to.
I pull a little harder. The boot doesn’t move at all.
Joann is openly crying now.
Calling to Shay, I look up to see her already moving toward us. Without thinking, my right hand moves back to the gun lying on the ground beside me. She sees the movement, stopping in mid-stride, raising her empty hands. After a moment, I nod to signal that she can approach. Still wary, she moves to sit next to her friend on the ground.
“I need you to support her leg. Don’t let her pull away.”
Shay nods. She’s tough.
Once Joann’s leg is safely in Shay’s grip, one final yank on the boot pulls it free. Another shriek, and mercifully, she passes out. Shay lowers her gently to the ground.
Not wanting to waste a second of her unconsciousness, I strip the sock off as well and take my first good look at the injured ankle. The ankle is disfigured; already the skin is blackened around the joint and along the outside edge of the sole of her foot. It’s swollen, but the boot had contained most of it. Using the tips of my fingers, I prod around the area, searching for further injuries. Her foot feels cool to the touch: not a good sign.
Joann is starting to stir. Shay plants a hand on her thigh, pinning the leg in place for me to continue my assessment. After another few minutes, Joann asks to sit up. Helping to support her leg, we lean her against her backpack in an effort to find a comfortable position. “What do you think?” she asks, finally.
“Well. It’s not an open wound, so that’s good. It’s definitely broken, but without an x-ray, I can only guess at how bad it is.”
“What else?” she asks after a moment. “Your face looks pretty worried for a broken ankle.”
Sighing, I debate on whether or not to tell the full truth. Eventually, I decide that nothing good will come of lying. “I can’t find a pulse in your foot.”
“What does that mean?” Shay demands.
“Essentially, you aren’t getting blood flow to your foot. I can’t tell if it’s because your foot is too swollen, or if there really isn’t a pulse.”
“What does that mean?” Shay demands again.
“If your foot is just too swollen, then we’re in okay shape. We can try to set the ankle, elevate it, ice it in the stream, and make you a splint…”
“And if the pulse is really gone?”
Mentally, I distance myself from these women. What do I care about them? I don’t know them. I don’t trust them! They could still have a plan to take everything I have. Better if I had never run into them the night before. Or if I had pulled the trigger when I had the chance.
“If there truly isn’t a pulse, then the broken bones probably severed a blood vessel in your foot. Without blood flow, we can’t ice
it, we can’t… really… do anything.”
“How do you know all of this?” Shay’s voice is cold in the wake of my diagnosis.
“I’m a nurse,” I say simply.
“What kind of nurse?” she digs.
“I worked in the operating room.”
“There has to be something you can do,” she pleads.
Joann seems to be in shock, silently absorbing our words.
“I’m not a surgeon!”
“Still! There has to be something!”
“If there’s no blood flow to her foot, it’s going to start to die. Literally. Her body won’t be able to heal any kind of foot wound, she’ll get infected, which will travel to the rest of her body and kill her. Not to mention, the severed vessel in her foot can’t stay that way… she’ll just continue to bleed inside the limb, until it’s able to clot itself off or…”
“Or what?”
“Honestly, I really don’t know. The only thing that I do know is that this is bad.”
We sit in silence for what seems like hours.
It’s getting dark. If we’re going to do anything, it needs to be now.
“Shay, you should finish setting up your tent. We’ll need a place to set Joann up so she can rest.”
Meekah follows Shay over to the pile of poles and canvas. While she works, I take Joann’s hands in mine. “Before we can do anything else, we have to set your ankle. That will make it easier for us to see what we’re dealing with. It’s going to hurt… a lot.”
She nods in response, a lone tear trickling down one cheek.
***
An hour later, their tent is fully set up and Joann is reclined on a sleeping bag with her bad leg elevated on her backpack. My medical bag is beside me, but I’m not sure it’s going to be much use here. With Shay beside her and holding one hand, and Meekah on her other side, I guess there’s nothing left to do but set it the best I can. I have two ace wraps and a couple thick, straight sticks to use as a splint.
Here goes nothing.
Motioning to Shay with a silent nod, I watch as she wraps both hands around her thigh, just above the knee. Grasping her foot with both hands, just below the ankle, I study the disfigured joint. Picturing the bones lying beneath the skin, it’s difficult to envision just how the bones have twisted. Crooning comforting words to get her to relax as much as possible, I decide on my course of action. When her calf muscle become slightly less tense in my hands, a satisfying crunch sounds throughout the small space as my gentle movements culminate in a hard yank.
