The Unfolding Blackout | Book 2 | A Girl Forsaken

by Aborn, A. L.

  That night, as we all crawl into our own beds, my heart is full.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Winter Plans

  The days and weeks pass more quickly than I could have imagined. Every day is shorter, darker, and colder, but the thought of spending winter here in the clearing no longer fills me with dread. Thinking back to the months before Shay and Joann arrived, it’s strange to consider all the ways that I tried to busy myself. Though there’s always something to do, the tasks shared between the three of us no longer feel like chores.

  Shay is so full of ideas and strategies to make our home better; I find myself in awe of her almost daily. Shortly after our birthday celebration, she and I clear out the shelter and use tools from the house to build new beds. We are able to build upon the one that I was using to improve it for Joann. We build and raise a platform, creating storage space beneath it. On the opposite wall, we build a rough imitation of bunk beds for ourselves. I was nervous at first, to crawl onto the top bunk, but the trees that we cut down for posts and slats hold my weight easily. All three beds are padded with the couch cushions, pillows, and anything soft from the house. None of the platforms are large enough for us to take mattresses from the house, but they all end up decently comfortable anyway. Each bed has our sleeping bags and every extra blanket we have found. We don’t need the extras yet, but I’m sure we will soon enough.

  The first week of October, Joann and I are awoken by a gunshot. Shay’s excited calling from the clearing twenty minutes later calms my racing heart. She had gone out early to check her snares and shot a deer on her way back to camp. Joann hobbles out of bed and gets the fire built up. I head into the woods with Shay, a tarp, and Meekah. She has already cut the doe from stem to stern; the stink of the entrails spilled onto the earth is almost enough to turn my empty stomach. We muscle the carcass onto the tarp and, with some difficulty, drag it back to camp. Choosing a tree across the clearing from the shelter, Shay throws a rope over a sturdy tree limb. One end is tied tightly around one leg of the deer, the other is tied to a rope connected to a make-shift canvas harness slung around Beau’s chest. It takes some convincing, but we use him to hoist the doe up into the air. When it’s high enough, we tie the rope around a tree trunk.

  To keep away predators, the three of us take shifts day and night over the following forty-eight hours. Shay puts her giant hunting knife to use to skin and butcher the deer. It’s messy work and I let Shay do the majority of it. We feast that evening and discuss how best to store the meat. Expanding the small rack that I had used to smoke the fish allows us to smoke a large amount of thinly cut portions. Double bagging some of the meat in sealable gallon sized bags, Joann and I create shallow, rocky areas in the stream and secure the bags with larger rocks. It’s the most consistent temperature that we can think of, at least, until the snow flies.

  One afternoon a week or two later, Shay returns from yet another excursion to the house with a large roll of plastic, the type that you would unroll to cover a floor when painting. I had seen it months ago in the garage and had considered a use for it but hadn’t been able to come up with a good one. Following her through the woods, she doesn’t speak much as she carefully selects the tallest saplings she can find. My job is to limb each one, creating long, flexible poles and carrying them back to the clearing. It takes three days to collect more than fifty of them, between chores and hunting. Joann and I just shake our heads and smile at Shay’s cryptic nature; who knows what masterpiece she’ll create?

  The day after our collection of the poles is complete, Shay chooses an area almost directly in the center of the clearing. Using the shovel, she digs a narrow trench in a circle, slightly smaller in diameter than the length of the poles. We don’t have much rope left, but a bale of meat twine from under the house sink and a bit of the chicken wire taken from the coop should be enough to secure the poles. At least, that’s what she tells me. A small dome-like structure comes together under her instruction in a matter of hours. The butts of the poles are placed in the trench and then flexed down toward each other. The twine isn’t quite enough to secure them, so she settles for something between a dome and a teepee. It really is amazing to watch her work, but I’m still not sure where she’s going with it.

  The following day, rocks are placed between the butts to hold them in place, and then both the rocks and pole ends are buried. It’s clumsy work with my heavy gloves on, but the soil is so cold that my fingers get stiff without them. When the earth has been tightly packed in, Shay retrieves the roll of plastic. Slowly, she wraps the plastic around each pole at the base, slowly working her way up. The plastic lasts just long enough to reach two feet below the top. Out of her bag, which at this point is reminiscent of the magical bag in Mary Poppins, she grabs a tube of… plastic wrap?

  A space just wide and tall enough for us to crawl through has been left open between two poles. Standing on a stump inside, Shay fenagles the thin wrap that my mother would have covered all her leftovers with, around and through the poles, leaving about eight inches open. As she crawls out to us, one of her rare grins splits her face. Crawling to her feet, she turns to admire her handiwork. Holding her arms out she asks, “Well? What do you think?”

  “What is it?” Joann asks.

  “A greenhouse, obviously.” She states matter-of-factly.

  I turn back to the plastic-wrapped teepee with fresh eyes. A greenhouse? Again, I think that Shay is a genius.

  Over the next few days, Shay insulates the floor of the greenhouse with layers of pine boughs. She sets me to work building rough shelves out of stumps and a few pieces of old lumber stripped from an outbuilding at the house. The little plastic planters that I had brought from Ally and Brad’s house get filled with soil and are placed in a row on the shelves. An old tin washbasin that used to be a flower planter in front of the house goes into the center of the small round building.

  Weeks before, when we picked the final harvest of corn, cucumbers, and tomatoes from my garden, the three of us had spent hours harvesting every seed possible. We also had saved seeds from the berry bushes that we had come across in the wild. Since we were still experimenting, we plant only a fraction of our seeds into the containers that go into the greenhouse. No sense wasting them all if it doesn’t work out. Finally, Shay fills a bucket with water and places it and an old beat-up ladle inside. She had commissioned Joann to weave one of her grass mats to act as the door; when she hangs it, I can see that it is much larger than the actual opening, blocking most of the cold air from getting in.

  On the day that we finally planted and placed the seeds inside, Shay grabbed a five-gallon bucket with a handle and lined it with tinfoil. From the fire, she plucked several large stones out with tongs and placed them into the foil-lined bucket. In the greenhouse, some of the hot stones go into the washbasin and she ladles water over them. Hot steam fills the small area immediately. I can’t believe it.

  Over the course of the next week, Shay spends almost all her time in the greenhouse. She says that she is experimenting with how long it will hold heat. Her explanations of how the sunlight affect the warmth inside combined with the rocks at specific points in time are somewhat lost on me, but I appreciate them all the same. When her week of monitoring the greenhouse is over, she shows Joann and me a schedule of rock placement for both day and night. Apparently, the three of us are going to rotate days; when it’s my turn, I will be responsible to keep the fire going and rotate the rocks. Joann and I playfully roll our eyes at the task, but we both know that Shay’s innovation and food sourcing could be the difference between life and death.

  ***

  Though I probably would have forgotten about Halloween if I had still been in the clearing alone at the end of October, Joann does not let us forget. She presents us with masks that she has created from squirrel skins, bones, and thin strips of hide used to tie it all together. We play along and put them on and even participate in the scary story telling after dinner.

  I can’t
help but think that we are living the scariest story I can think of.

  ***

  Another one of Shay’s contributions is her discovery of the natural clay packed into sections of the riverbank. I remember playing with it as a kid, but it had never occurred to me to bring it back to camp and use it. The fireplace and chimney in the shelter are now sealed with the grey clay; no more drafts pouring in between poorly placed stones. Using it to patch two of the larger rips in the canvas roof of the shelter, from both inside and out, have made a big difference as well.

  ***

  It’s funny really, how the mind works.

  With companionship, warmth, food, and water, most of my immediate concerns have been removed. Though still exhausted most nights when I crawl into bed, my mind races more than ever. Where will I go in the spring? Should I stay with Joann and Shay and travel north, to find Joann’s daughter? From there, can I make it even further north and find my dad in his cabin? How long will that take?

  The guilt of sending Brad and Ally away no longer reduces me to an anxiety-riddled mess when I think about them, but I do wonder how they are doing. It seems unavoidable that Brad died; but what of Ally? And Marie? Are they cozied up together right now in their family compound? Did they come look for me? Do they think that I’m dead?

  And what of Jason? And his family? Did he go to the house and look for me after the power went out? Does everyone think that I’m dead? Or worse, is there anyone left out there who knew me, who wonders if I’m alive somewhere?

  ***

  The week before Thanksgiving is marred by the death of all our birds, except the duck and one chicken. The protests of the birds were drowned out by the fire and wind, taking a few precious minutes to wake me up in the middle of the night. By the time that Meekah and I make it to the coop, one of the chickens is missing and the mangled bodies of the others are all that’s left. Scooping up the terrified birds, I hold one under each arm and carry them into Beau’s stall to sleep with him.

  It makes more sense for the birds to stay in the shelter with us; Beau doesn’t seem to mind the company, but it takes us all a few days to get used to the sounds that they make. Meekah is especially distracted by having them so close. I suppose that we’ll all get used to them in time though.

  I have no idea what got the chickens, but Shay guesses that it was probably a weasel or fisher cat. We didn’t find any discernible tracks, so I guess we’ll never know.

  With the birds in the shelter, that frees up the supplies and Brad’s ATV cart that I had used to build their coop. After a good scrubbing, the cart is easily hitched to Beau’s canvas harness. Suddenly carrying firewood isn’t such a daunting task. As long as we gather twice as much as we use each day, we guarantee ourselves another warm day this winter. It’s easy enough to go out and gather or chop fallen trees, then stack it in the cart for Beau to pull home. Our woodpile grows at a much faster rate than before.

  ***

  The use of the cart has been a game changer in a lot of ways. Even cleaning the manure from the clearing is no longer the most dreadful task.

  With the completion of the greenhouse, we’ve been trying to focus on safety as our new project. Joann has the idea to use downed wood as a sort of wall behind the shelter. We would never finish one all the way around the clearing but having one that sits between the shelter and the woods line means that nothing can get to the shelter without us seeing them first. This includes any people or predators, like the one that killed the chickens, or anything bigger sniffing around for an easy meal.

  We start by chopping down trees no bigger than four or five inches in diameter of varying heights. Beau pulls them back to camp for us and then Shay and I use the existing tree line as the vertical posts for the wall. It takes some planning, but the cut trees can be placed between the standing ones, almost like weaving a mat. In addition to security, the green wood can season correctly when it’s stacked like this. When we need more wood to burn, we’ll have a steady supply nearby.

  The wall is almost as tall as I am before we call it quits. The finished project starts about forty feet away, goes behind the shelter, and then wraps around the near corner of the clearing. It takes over a month to stack the wall, but I sleep better knowing it’s there. We move the outdoor fire ring to the space between the shelter and the wall, along with the smoker, and other random supplies we keep outside.

  We went from a shelter in a clearing to what feels like a home with a yard.

  ***

  The day before Thanksgiving, Shay gets a turkey. Joann has been insistent that we at least try to go turkey hunting before the holiday. She says it’s good for all of us to celebrate the holidays. I can’t say that she’s wrong. It has been kind of fun to look forward to something.

  There’s no shortage of turkeys in the area. We see evidence of them everywhere, but they steer clear of the camp. It’s midafternoon when she brings her prize back to the clearing. She cuts the head and feet off and guts it, the organs set aside for Meekah and other insides for bait for the fish trap. Joann and I share the task of plucking the large bird. It’s tedious and takes what feels like days. My fingers are sore from grasping and pulling, grasping and pulling, over and over.

  The morning of Thanksgiving dawns clear and cold. The shelter is snug and warm and makes it hard to get up and go outside. When the morning chores are complete, I set to cooking the bird. Since Shay improved the chimney and the weather turned cold, we’ve been doing most of our cooking in the shelter. Balls of tinfoil in the bottom of the pan hold the turkey up and out of the bit of water I put in the bottom. Rubbing seasonings and a bit of oil both on and under the skin have me reminiscing about past Thanksgivings, cooking with my mother and grandmother.

  For sides, we are eating the very last can of potatoes, and a jar of our very own corn, put away just two months before. It’s a full-time job just keeping the heat steady to cook the turkey, but I’m grateful to be inside and out of the cold. Joann busies herself with more grass-weaving; she’s making mats to hang beside each bunk, giving us each a bit of much needed privacy. Shay has gone out for the day on Beau with a promise to be back by dusk. Meekah is curled at our feet while we chat, cook and craft.

  Hours later, a blast of cold air signals Shay’s arrival. She leads Beau into his stall at the far end of the shelter, throwing some of his hay into a bucket for him. Her nose is red from the cold, but she holds up her backpack triumphantly. “Smells great in here!” she says while bending to open the bag.

  “Where’d you go this time?” I ask.

  “Just to the outskirts of town,” she answers nonchalantly.

  “What? So far?” Joann demands.

  “I didn’t see anyone. Besides, I’ve searched everywhere else. Gotta keep going further out.” As she speaks, she starts laying her goods out on our makeshift table. It’s just a few planks of wood laid out on sawhorses, but it works and can be stored in pieces. The first thing that she lays down is a half-empty lighter. But then, out comes two cans of fruit cocktail, a can of beans, a half-empty first aid kit, and a full bottle of coconut rum.

  All in all, it’s a pretty exciting haul.

  The rest of the day is spent cooking, eating, and drinking. Joann has a great idea to cut up the fruit cocktail and mix it with the rum. It’s a fruity, delicious mixture that has us giggling around the table. When the turkey is done, I mix some flour in with the drippings and make a thin gravy. It really does feel like Thanksgiving as we gather around the table. Joining hands, Joann suggests that we each say what we’re thankful for. When it’s my turn, I look around at our snug shelter, my friends, the food on the table, my dog at my feet, and my horse watching from over the blanket that separates him from us. It’s hard for me to put into words what I’m thankful for; how do I say that a year ago, we were sharing this meal with loved ones? That in almost eleven months of our lives being turned upside down, we would come together and find ourselves here in this moment? Compounded with the rum, my emotions get th
e best of me. My throat is tight, and I can’t form the words. The hands grasping mine give a tight squeeze.

  I find that I don’t have to say it. They just get it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Winter Approaches

  In the first week of December, Shay gets another deer, this time a spike horned buck. We go through the same routine as last time; gut, drag to camp, and string it up in a tree. Instead of across the clearing, this time we hang it near the outdoor firepit, protected from the woods by the wall. It’s a little easier to take our nighttime shifts of watching the deer carcass so close to the shelter.

  The temperatures have steadily been hovering around freezing, so storage of the meat won’t be so difficult this time. We’ve had flurries and dustings of snow, but nothing significant that’s stuck to the ground. I know it has to come some time, but I’m glad that we’ve had this time to work on the camp and gather food, rather than being hunkered down.

  Back in September, Shay and I had agreed that the daily forays down to the field to gather a few armloads of grass for Beau’s winter food supply didn’t really make sense. Instead, the two of us had made a few trips until mid-November to the field and cut as much as we could. We left it there in the field to dry in the sun. We had planned on hauling it all back on tarps, but now the use of the cart should make the transportation even easier.

  December eleventh surprises us with a few inches of snow on the ground. It has stopped snowing by the time we get up, but the heavy, grey skies say that more is probably on the way. After breakfast, Shay looks at me and says, “Probably past the time when we should have gone to get that hay.”

  I nod in agreement. “Let’s check the fish trap on the way.”

  Twenty minutes later, Shay and I hitch the cart up to Beau. Joann is staying behind to tend to the fire and the greenhouse. She’s been getting around much better now that her ankle can support her weight, but I still think it’s best if she sticks close to camp. Meekah tags along behind us as we head out of the clearing. Not like anyone could make her stay behind, even if I wanted her to.