“Do you have any of them?”
“I did. I gathered a whole bunch of stuff for Grandma’s diabetes, but they were all in my big herb bag.” she said. “All we’ve got now are black cohosh root and nettles”
“Where is your herb bag?”
Emma shook her head sadly. “It was on the other travois.”
Horace hobbled up then, leaning on his crutch. Darryl held out a last shred of hope that somehow the old man would have an answer. Maybe he would think of something they’d overlooked.
“Horace, sir, what do you think? How can we help her?”
“The dear lady,” he said, with a shoulder-slumping sigh. “It was just too much. All we can do is let her rest now and hope against hope.”
“That’s not a solution,” Darryl said.
“It is the solution when there is no solution,” Horace replied.
They had no choice but to make camp for the evening. Darryl desperately wanted to keep moving, but he saw no other choice. Tabitha needed to rest. Maybe there was a still a chance for her. Without saying anything, he began setting up camp. He strung a blanket between two small trees to block the wind, then cleared the area of loose rocks. Emma and Marion joined him and not a word passed between them. There was nothing helpful to be said now.
Darryl laid a tarp on the ground to cover the wetness. Then he made a pallet for Grandma. With Marion’s help, he carried her there and laid her down, doing his best to make her comfortable. She continued to breathe, and she had what seemed to be a strong heartbeat, but she didn’t respond to anything.
By the time camp was set up, it was dark. It took Emma almost a full hour to get a fire going. Everything was just so damp. The fire provided a little bit of light and heat, but it didn’t seem like enough. They broke out some food, eating from the last of their MRE pouches. Horace positioned himself beside Tabitha, and periodically, he reached down and laid his hands against her cheek or throat or forehead. Marion, Emma, and Justine sat down, but Darryl was restless. His mind was so fuzzy now, he felt like he was on the verge of going insane, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to keep moving, moving, thinking, acting. Otherwise, everything would be lost.
Justine finally walked up and handed him a cup of water. “At least drink something,” he said. “It’s not rum and Coke, but…”
“No more jokes, please,” he said miserably. “No rum and Coke. No Denisovans. No…nothing…”
Justine nodded sadly. “I understand. I guess I do it to cope.”
“Sorry.”
He raised the cup and took a sip, but even a single gulp of water settled badly in his stomach. He passed the cup back to Justine and resumed pacing. At some point, he must have come to a stop, crawled onto the tarp, and lain down, but he had no memory of it. He remembered walking restless circles around the camp, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his back on the tarp, moving in and out of sleep.
The rain had finally stopped completely, though he heard wind rustling the blanket. Somewhere, the baby was cooing gently, and through it all, Grandma continued to breathe loudly.
Fight it, Grandma. Whatever’s going on in your body, fight it and come back to us. We need you. I don’t know how we go on without you.
Darryl finally drifted into deep sleep, his whole body aching even in dreams.
The next time he opened his eyes, he saw early morning light in the sky, casting a pink-orange nimbus on the underside of the few remaining clouds. He rubbed his face, rolled onto his belly, and pushed himself to his knees. Marion and Emma were sleeping side by side, sharing a sleeping bag. Justine had created a makeshift backrest for herself in the angle of two boxes, and she was leaning back, sleeping, with the baby still somehow in her arms.
And then Darryl saw Horace. The old man was sitting up, gazing off into the distance. His beard had dried into a big, gnarled nest, and his knit cap sat askew on his head. When he realized Darryl was awake, he turned to him with red eyes. Darryl realized then that he was holding Tabitha’s hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.
“I’m sorry, young man,” he said softly. “She’s gone. Quietly slipped away in the night. Couldn’t have been more peaceful.” Horace reached up and brushed away a tear.
Tabitha was on her back, eyes partially open but unfocused, lifeless, her mouth hanging open. Darryl nodded sadly and rose, tears blurring his vision. It wasn’t terribly surprising, but somehow, it just didn’t seem real. After all they’d been through, Tabitha Healy had seemed unbreakable. Indeed, she’d been the core of the family in many ways.
How can we lose another? Darryl thought, feeling a crushing despair.
Needing something to do, he began to gather stones. Standing still made it a thousand times worse. At some point, Emma and Marion came up beside him and began adding to his pile of stones.
“We’ll bury her under a cairn of rocks,” he said. “She deserves better, but I don’t know what else we can do.”
Emma and Marion both hugged him them, and they cried together for a while. But Darryl wouldn’t wallow. Best to keep working, keep moving, leave the worst of the emotions behind him. Not for the first time, he desperately wished his father were there. Greg would understand exactly how he felt.
He resumed collecting stones. The rest of it seemed so uneventful. How could such an incredible life end in such mundane fashion? They removed her hat and coat, her gloves, emptied her pockets, and laid her on the ground, then folded her hands upon her stomach. Then they piled up the stones over her, one by one, until they’d made a large cairn. Finally, they pried the lid off one of the boxes, and Darryl used a pocket knife to scratch a name on it: Tabitha Healy. He jammed it into the rocks as best he could so that it stood upright.
And then Marion, Emma, and Darryl just stood there beside cairn, and none of them spoke. It seemed there should be something: a eulogy, a prayer, a funny story. Still, quiet minutes passed. Finally, Darryl sighed and said, “Well, that’s it, then. I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m sorry, everyone. We’d better get moving again.”
With that, he turned away and headed back to camp. Horace was sitting beside the travois, hands on his knees, staring off wistfully into the distance. Justine was meandering about, comforting the baby, but she came to Darryl.
“Slow down,” she said to him. “Give everyone a few more minutes. They need it.”
He nodded without meeting her gaze. “Yeah, okay, if you insist, but we can’t wait around all morning.”
When he tried to step past her, she deliberately moved into his way. Then she thrust the baby at him. Confused at first, he just stood there. Then he realized what she wanted, so he took his son in his arms.
“What about Peter?” she said.
“What do you mean? Peter who?” The baby felt so tiny. He fit easily in the crook of Darryl’s arm. He tried to hand the baby back to Justine, but she held up her hands and stepped away. “Who’s Peter?”
Holding the baby wasn’t as intuitive as he’d expected. It felt sort of awkward. The little guy was all floppy and fragile, and Darryl worried that he might drop him. And wouldn’t that just complete his track record of failure if he dropped his own son? Still, the baby was resting contently, so he clearly didn’t mind.
You haven’t failed completely yet, he reminded himself. Get this little guy to the cabin, keep him safe, keep his mother safe, and you will have achieved something.
“As a name for the baby, silly,” Justine said. “What do you think about Peter?”
Darryl tried to settle his mind long enough to consider the possibility. “Eh, it makes me think of Peter Parker. You know, Spider-Man. That’s a little weird, don’t you think?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Well, I don’t read comics books or watch those kinds of movies, so I never…”
Her voice trailed off, and Darryl heard footsteps behind him. Boots on the rocks, crunching and stomping. It sounded like a whole bunch of people. Justine looked past his shoulder, her eyebrows climbing her forehead. When
Darryl turned, he saw them there, a group of people approaching from upslope, stepping past the cows. The woman in the lead was dressed in very nice winter clothes. Darryl was shocked. Though her face was weathered, her hair scraggly and frayed, she was wearing a Canada Goose parka, some really nice ski pants, and what appeared to be an expensive pair of hiking boots. If not for the rough condition of her face, she would have reminded him of the rich city people who crowded the area ski resorts in the winter.
The man walking just behind her was dressed in a weird, handmade outfit of rough leather, like some kind of hippie guru from another decade. Completing the picture, he also had a ridiculous gray beard that was separated into three beaded braids.
“Well, what do you think, Harry?” the woman said to her companion, coming to a stop near the end of the travois. “Isn’t this a sad little scene we have here? I’m afraid we might have interrupted a funeral.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a somber group, boss,” the man replied. “Seems like they could use some help.”
“Help,” she said, and for some reason, this made her smile. “That’s right. Let’s give them some help.”
27
Daniel was nothing but a nuisance, and Greg had to fight a constant urge to strangle him slowly.
Don’t murder your only bargaining chip, he kept telling himself. Endure his insufferable antics until your family is safe.
Still, every step became an exercise in restraint. At least the rain had finally let up. That was one small mercy. Greg had retied the man’s hands behind his back.
“This really hurts,” Daniel said, for the thousandth time, as they reach another twist in the trail. “My arm is killing me. I can’t believe you tied me up again after you shot me. Show some pity, man.”
“Pity? After you tried to escape and steal my gun?” Greg replied. “I don’t think so. I’ll tell you what, my daughter is an expert on herbal remedies. She’ll be able to recommend some plant or root that will diminish your pain. I guarantee it.”
“I don’t need a plant or root,” he replied. “I need a Percocet and a swig of Jägermeister, and I also need my damn hands untied.”
They’d used a strip of cloth as a makeshift bandage to staunch the flow of blood from Daniel’s wound, but that was all Greg could do for the man. Having his arms pulled behind his back no doubt made the wound hurt worse, but Greg didn’t dare untie him. They were on the trail now. Fortunately, the rain hadn’t completely erased the tracks of the travois. Greg could still make out the faint grooves pointing the way.
“We’ll never catch up to them,” Daniel said, “so what’s the point of all this? They have too much of a head start.”
“Then walk faster,” Greg replied, jabbing him between the shoulder blades with the barrel of his gun. “I keep telling you that, but all you do is whine more.”
Daniel grunted and began walking just a little faster. After that, he fell into a brooding silence, though Greg didn’t doubt that he was still scheming, trying to come up with some way to either escape or kill his captor. Greg had no sense of how fast the caravan was going, but he knew from experience that the cows were slow. Surely, they were closing the gap, though he couldn’t tell from the faded tracks. He’d seen no sign of the bandits.
Around another bend, they found an enormous burned tree trunk lying across the trail. Some of the trees on either side had burned as well, but the rain seemed to have put out the fire. They clambered over the tree. As they did, Greg thought he could still feel heat radiating from it, and the charred trunk cracked and split beneath his feet. It had happened recently.
“Maybe my family chopped this down and set it on fire to block the road,” he mused aloud, “or maybe it was a simple lightning strike. I’d like to believe the former, but it seems farfetched.”
Daniel offered no opinion on the matter. The trail began another ascent up a gradual slope, and up ahead, Greg saw another tree that had fallen onto the path. Indeed, branches were down all over. A fierce wind had torn through this area and done surprising damage.
As they approached the second downed tree, Greg looked down to find the tracks of the travois again, and he was shocked to see them veer suddenly to the side of the trail and then disappear on the rocky slope beyond. As first, he assumed they’d simply circled around the fallen tree, but when he headed into the woods, he saw faint drag marks headed straight down the slope and far into the distance.
They’d left the trail completely. Had they been forced off by the bandits? Had they taken an unexpected route in order to lose them? He didn’t know, but when he glanced at Daniel, his captive had a weird little smile on his face. Clearly, he thought this was Sasha’s doing. Greg restrained the urge to punch the man in the mouth and instead nudged him down the slope.
“You’d better hope to God none of my people have been harmed,” he said.
Daniel said nothing to this, fixing his gaze on the ground ahead. Greg was following the tracks when some large moving shape caught his eye. Looking up, he spotted one of their cows standing a few meters away, nibbling at a small scrub brush. A straggler. It was one of the heifers, not a year old. Greg briefly considered trying to corral the animal and bring it with them, but he knew that would be more trouble than it was worth.
“Since that cow hasn’t been carved to the bone, I assume your people didn’t get hold of it,” he said.
“Harry and Jen are the ones who carve up the carcasses,” Daniel replied, his first words in a while. “They can make quick work of a full-grown moose or elk. It’s impressive, but if Sasha had other work for them, they wouldn’t bother.”
As they continued down the slope over a couple of hours, the forest gradually opened up, and they found themselves on open ground. It appeared to be a broad shelf of rock, a large gap in the trees where nothing could grow. They were making good time, moving fast. Far in the distance, Greg saw another dense line of trees. As he was staring at it, he saw another one of their cows roaming within the trees, as if it had nowhere in particular to go.
Still on the right path, he thought. Did they lose every cow along the way?
He heard a loud clatter of rocks then, and Daniel suddenly tumbled forward. He crashed onto a large pile of loose stones, then rolled off to one side, winding up on his back. This meant his arms were pinned beneath him, and he uttered a hoarse cry of pain.
Greg stooped down and grabbed him under his good arm, hoisting him off the ground. He slid the rifle over his shoulder so both hands were free. Then he set Daniel on his feet again.
“Please, man, you’ve got to untie my hands,” Daniel said, speaking through clenched teeth. “My arm is killing me. I can’t stand it. I’ve behaved, haven’t I? I’m walking fast now. Do me a small mercy.”
“Calm down, Daniel,” Greg said. “We’ll figure something out. I just…”
Something caught his eye then. There were patches of thick mud in the area, and he could see distinct footprints pressed into them. He was no expert on reading tracks, but it didn’t take more than basic observational skills to realize there had been a lot of people wearing a lot of different kinds of footwear in this area.
“People have been here recently,” Greg noted. “Quite a few, by the looks of it. I think we’re finally closing in on your crew.”
“That’s fine. Whatever, man,” Daniel said with a groan. “Make your trade. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. I’m hurting bad.”
“Just hang in there a little longer,” Greg said. “As long as the trade with Sasha goes well, we can part ways without further incident.”
At this, Daniel just rolled his head back on his shoulders and let out a long, shuddering breath. Greg’s gaze went from the obvious footprints to the pile of rocks. He hadn’t thought much of it, at first. Now, however, as he really looked at it, he realized it was not a natural feature. Someone had spent time piling up these stones. A piece of wood was lying beside the pile. As Greg leaned in close, he realized it was the lid
to a wooden box.
He picked up the lid, shook a few loose rocks off of it, and turned it over. And there was the name, scratched into the wood. It appeared to have been hastily scrawled. The letters were crooked and uneven, but clear: Tabitha Healy. For a few seconds, Greg just stared at it, numb. Then he found it hard to breathe, as if the air in his lungs had begun to solidify. The makeshift grave marker fell from his hands and clattered on the rocks.
A cairn, he thought. That’s what it is. A cairn for my mother. And now both of my parents are dead.
The heaviness inside of him spread through his whole body, until he felt pressed down, crushed by the weight of it. He bent over, pressing his hands to his thighs to keep from collapsing. What at first had been a great wave of grief crashing over him quickly turned to panic. They’d hastily buried Tabitha here in the middle of nowhere instead of taking the body with them to the cabin. That meant they’d been in a hurry. On top of that, there were strange prints all around the cairn, which almost certainly meant the bandits had also been present.
“Bad news, pal?” Daniel said.
There was nothing mocking in the tone of his voice, but the question annoyed Greg anyway. He clamped his eyes shut and fought an urge to unleash all of this terrible heaviness in the captive’s direction. What if the bandits had killed Tabitha? It was at least a possibility. What if they’d killed her, given the rest of the family a few minutes to hastily bury her, then dragged them all off somewhere?
“I have to find them now, right now,” he said. “I hope you’re ready to run.”
He rose, clamping a hand to his forehead and taking deep breaths to calm himself. Then he opened his eyes, picked up Tabitha’s crude grave marker, and set it on top of the cairn.
Sorry, Mom. I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you, he thought.
He turned to Daniel, who was standing with a dumb look on his face, as if he scarcely understood what was going on. Maybe it was the pain in his arm. Or maybe he was still playing the idiot.
Survive the Journey (EMP Page 18
