TRIBES

by Mia Frances

  Alex smiled sadly at the girl's naive observations about the future. Home was probably an irradiated wasteland, unfit for human habitation for generations to come. It no longer existed, except in Deana's memories. "I wish I was as sure as you are," she said, trying not to sound overly pessimistic. The girl was so hopeful it seemed cruel to try to convince her otherwise, but she had to be prepared for the worst. The camp was not the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow; not a fairy tale castle where everyone lived happily ever after. Their ordeal wasn't over; it was just beginning. As food supplies dwindled and desperation grew, the danger would increase exponentially. Killings becoming commonplace as survivors battled each other for the few supplies that remained. As the violence escalated, people would head into the remotest areas of the mountains to escape it. They were off the beaten track here. But for how long? Their only hope was swift intervention by state and federal authorities: troops and National Guard units to impose order and prevent lawlessness, and relief programs to feed, clothe, and shelter survivors. Alex didn't delude herself into believing it would happen any time soon. Whatever aid was forthcoming would focus on large metropolitan areas first. Cities with the greatest number of casualties and homeless, and where the legions of rotting corpses threatened to spawn deadly epidemics. It would take months before help got to them here. Even that small bit of optimism might be unwarranted. Rescue was predicated on the war being over, on its having been won, on the tattered remnants of government reasserting power and control. There was no way of knowing if any of that had happened until they got to camp. Isolated in the wilderness, all news of the outside world would come to them via the old portable radio she kept there. It could pull in stations from further away than the hand-crank radio she'd bought, which, at the moment, was picking up nothing but static. She prayed that when they turned it on a reassuring voice would come over the airwaves, telling them help was on its way. Realistically, the chances of that happening were nil. Alex feared it would be a long time before stations began broadcasting again. She remembered reading an article that said a single, large-megaton bomb, strategically detonated in the upper atmosphere over a large Midwest city, whose name she couldn't recall, would generate an electromagnetic pulse capable of knocking out the nation's entire communication network. Alex could only hope that government officials had read the same article she had and had developed a contingency plan, which would prevent it from happening.

  Alex couldn't fault Deana for grasping at even the flimsiest threads of hope; she was guilty of the very same thing. She refused to think about what would happen to them if rescue never came, if the destruction and devastation had been so total that nothing remained. She took solace in knowing that some small remnant of mankind had been spared. The world hadn't ended. Life would go on. And somewhere, some time in the not-too-distant future, things would get better. If she didn't believe that, she couldn't go on.

  Her eyes surveyed the leafless trees and withered plants. It was nearly November, and the sky was growing darker every day, the sun shrouded by leaden clouds. Alex feared the aftermath would be worse than the war itself, remembering the prophets of doom who warned that the ozone layer, blown to hell by bombs, would dissipate; decimating certain species of plants; and leaving humanity vulnerable to the killing effects of the sun. What happened when the dust and smoke cleared away? She hoped the worst-case scenarios were wrong and the effects not nearly so disastrous. It would be a cruel joke to survive the radioactive fallout only to die of skin cancer, malignant melanoma, or go blind from cataracts.

  A speck in the sky caught her attention. Alex watched as a lone bird traversed the drab expanse until it disappeared from sight. She was thankful that dire prediction hadn't come to pass. Birds hadn't disappeared like the modern-day oracles said they would. There seemed to be fewer than before, but that didn't necessarily mean they were being killed off by radiation. Many had already migrated south for the winter. Alex feared that some species exposed to the fallout might lay eggs that didn't hatch, but she wouldn't know for sure until next spring. Until then, she took comfort in the sight of them flying overhead.

  "Do you think anybody will be at the camp?" Deana asked, hopefully. "Maybe Mom and Aunt Tori, or Daddy, Uncle Matt, or Uncle Brian?"

  Alex looked uneasy. "I wouldn't get my hopes up sweetie," she warned.

  "You don't think they're coming! You don't think they're still alive do you?" Deana accused.

  "I didn't say that, Deanie! All I meant was that I don't think you should count on it."

  "Well I know they're coming. I think they'll be there," she insisted, stubbornly.

  "Honey, I just don't want to see you get hurt," Alex explained. The chances that they were alive were slim to nonexistent. Alex hardly slept last night. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the cabin. As she and the children approached it, the door would swing open and there would be Matt. But Matt was never coming. He didn't exist anymore. Alex sighed, this was no time for melancholy reflection. It would be hard enough for the children to face the disappointment and sorrow of finding no one there, she didn't need to compound their suffering by burdening them with her own grief.

  Alex agonized over what to say to the kids when they found the cabin empty. How to ease their pain. She'd tell them not to lose hope that their parents might still be alive; but, no matter how many times she rehearsed it, the words came out sounding hollow. The truth was if they weren't here by now, they weren't ever coming. But how could she possibly explain that to the children, some of whom still cried themselves to sleep at night, calling for their mothers? If she stripped away all hope, what would they have left?

  Alex seethed every time she thought of her sisters. She felt immense sorrow at the fate that had befallen Matt, Stan, and Brian. They had no choice in the matter. They were victims of circumstance. But her sisters? She had no sympathy for them at all. Cat and Tori had escaped the devastation; yet chose to go back, abandoning their children in the process. The consequences could have been tragic. Suppose Alex had been killed or injured? What would have become of the kids then? They'd be dead right now! Her sisters put their children in harm's way to go off and indulge their delusions, their insane whims. It was unconscionable! If they were here right now, she'd tear them new assholes! She wouldn't get the opportunity though. Alex never expected to see them again. They were probably lying dead on the road somewhere between North Creek and Albany. Victims not of the war, but their own fucking foolishness!

  "There it is," Deana shouted in excitement, breaking into a run.

  Alex caught her first glimpse of the cabin's weathered, brown shingle roof through the swaying pines. "Deana! Wait!" she yelled. "Come back!" Alex chased after her, hoping to intercept her before she reached the open area around the camp. Though it looked deserted, there was always the chance someone was hiding inside. That squatters had settled in. Her mind raced with visions of desperate strangers, armed and willing to kill to defend what they believed was theirs. "Deana! Goddam it, stop! Stop!!" Her cries of warning echoed through the trees, but the girl refused to heed them. She ran as fast as she could, but at 33, Alex was no match for the 13-year-old. She could do nothing but look on in horror as the girl left the shelter of the trees and recklessly burst into the clearing.

  Deana dashed across the yard, leaped onto the porch, and began pounding on the door, calling for her mother. There was no answer. She frantically twisted the knob, threatening to pull it from its moorings. In a last act of frustration and desperation, Deana started throwing herself against the locked door until she finally collapsed to her knees sobbing, her strength and hope exhausted.

  Alex rushed to the trembling child, huddled against the doorjamb, her hand still weakly banging on it in despair. Deana looked up at her aunt. "There's no one here," she whispered. "They're not coming are they? They didn't survive! They're dead!"

  Kneeling, Alex took Deana in her arms and held her as she wept. Cradling her head against her breast, Alex looked up at the door.
For a second, she could almost see the specter of Matt standing there. Tears welled up in her eyes as he receded back into nothingness. He was lost to her forever. No amount of praying would bring him back. There was no reason to keep waiting, no need to cling to false hopes. They were gone! All of them!

  Chapter 10

  Alex moved the rocking chair closer to the stove, the flames visible through the open door. The wood crackled as fiery tongues of orange, red, and gold danced around the logs, filling the room with sound. Her muscles ached, limbs feeling like leaden weights; her mind called out for rest, yet sleep eluded her. Night after night, she sat here, wondering and despairing of what tomorrow might bring. The cabin was warm if not comfortable, but then the temperatures had yet to drop much below freezing. Before the snow really flew, and the landscape became an arctic wasteland, some provision had to be made to weatherproof the place, sealing the cracks around the windows and doors with dried grass and packing mud between the logs. It was drafty now, but with a little work and sweat they could remedy that. She'd have the children get started on it tomorrow. They'd enjoy making mud, thinking of it as play rather than hard work. There'd been little time for childish pastimes since their arrival here two weeks ago. Life had become a steady round of work, sleep, and more work. Everybody had jobs to do, no matter how seemingly small or inconsequential, and even the most miserable chores were done without complaint.

  Justin and Charles were busy digging a root cellar beneath the cabin floor. Though their hands blistered and bled, they kept at it, toiling away like industrious moles. They'd taken on the project as a result of a chapter she'd read about indoor, forced gardening of certain plants in winter. She was hopeful that the pale shoots, which grew from the roots of dandelion, dock, and chicory, would provide them with an occasional meal of fresh greens when other food sources grew scarce. They were all readily available in the area, but the best plant for basement gardening according to the book, pokeweed, had yet to be found anywhere in the woods. They hadn't given up on it though, still combing the forest for the elusive plant. If the book was right, they could take one cutting a week from each root for up to three months. That would help to see them through the worst of the winter, so their search for it continued in deadly earnest.

  The major portion of their day was spent scouring the forest for food; the remaining time was used to stockpile enough branches and deadfall to keep their winter fires burning. Food, though at first plentiful, was becoming more difficult to find. The freezing temperatures had withered most of the plant tops, making their identification difficult. But through diligence and hard work, they'd managed to gather a substantial quantity of roots for winter. burdock, Jerusalem artichoke, Queen Anne's lace, evening primrose, and goat's beard, among others. Seeds were easier to find than roots, but harder to collect since each variety had to be kept separate from the others. Clover seeds were the most plentiful; but a half-bushel of dried blossoms only made two loaves of bread, barely enough for a meal. Goosefoot, dock, and pigweed, sometimes called amaranth, the pesky plants she'd spent years plucking out of her flowerbeds, now became desirable for their seeds, as well as the spinach-like greens their leaves would provide come spring. Fruit was harder to come by. They located some wild crab apple trees and had picked quite a few of them, but they were inedible until cooked; and even then, lacking sugar to sweeten them, were sour enough to pucker your mouth. Still, she was grateful to have them. Anything that quieted a rumbling belly was welcome, no matter how bad it tasted.

  They found quite a few berries within walking distance of the cabin: insipid red ones from the thorny hawthorne, tangy cranberries, and even a small patch of wintergreen. Any shriveled fruit still clinging to a branch or vine was carted home. The only ones that looked appetizing were the raisins on the wild grape vines; but since beggars couldn't be choosers, they took the blackened remains of wild cherries and withered berries too. Nut trees were everywhere: there were several varieties of hickory and oak, beech, butternut, black walnut, and hazelnut. The trick was gathering up the nuts before the squirrels got them. There were other things too: wild rose hips and red sumac cones for tart drinks and dried goldenrod, yarrow, and wild strawberry leaves for hot tea. She even collected the seeds of the Queen Anne's lace to use as sprouts. Nothing was being overlooked. Though they worked hard, their efforts fell far short of assuring their survival. They didn't have nearly enough to see them through the coming months of scarcity.

  The most bountiful source of food grew beside the lakes and ponds and in the swampy wetlands. Water plants were their major source of sustenance. They gathered the seeds of the pickerel weed to make bread and mush and dug in the nearly frozen mud for cattail and arrowhead roots. They could continue harvesting the starchy tubers well into the winter, but once the ice became too thick to break they'd have to turn to their last line of defense in staving off starvation, eating tree bark. As unappetizing as it sounded, from what she'd read, it was a staple of many Native American tribes and could keep them alive indefinitely. At least it would buy them time until spring arrived. Their diet, even with everything taken into account, didn't provide adequate nutrition; they needed protein. They'd pressed an old badminton net into service to take eels, shiners, suckers, brown trout, and crayfish from the nearby streams and creeks. The running water seemed to keep the ice from forming. Not so the pond. That was glazed over when they arrived. Unfortunately, it wasn't thick enough to support any weight. That thin sheet of frozen water, so seemingly innocuous, was a greater barrier to them then a wall of solid stone. The fish could swim around in unmolested safety. while they stared on in helpless frustration. There had to be a way to get through it to the perch, bullheads, crappie, trout, and bass below, but she'd be damned if she could think of it. Once the ice froze solid they could chop holes and ice fish, but until then the fish had nothing to fear.

  Maybe the children could come up with something; they were quite inventive. As a hedge against the day when they'd run out of matches, Charles had devised a fireboard, a bow and drill apparatus like the ones the Indians had used to make fire in the old days. He'd seen a picture of it in a book; and, with nothing more than that to guide him, had set out to make one, What amazed her most, was that it worked. Though a tedious process, the end result was a smoking wad of tinder that, when fanned, would burst into flame. She actually had several fire starter kits, the kind with magnesium rods, someplace in the cabin. She remembered buying them a couple of years ago, but she'd be damned if she could find them.

  Alex had to shake her head at the doubt and uncertainty she'd first felt when it came to Charles and Jasmine. Meeting up with those kids had proved to be a blessing. Jasmine was a sweet little thing, quiet and shy, who never gave her a moment's trouble; and Charles, well Charles was incredible. A tireless worker, he did everything that was expected of him and more. He hadn't been lying when he said he knew how to make snares. He'd booby trapped the surrounding woods with them, using every piece of twine and wire he could find. But except for one rather mangy-looking squirrel, so tough as to be almost inedible, they hadn't caught anything yet. She had to admire the kid though, he didn't give up. He checked them every day, making slight adjustments to the nooses, repositioning a stick here and there, sure that someday soon his effort would be rewarded. He'd also begun work on a bola. It looked like a short cat-o'-nine-tails. A piece of wood functioned as the handle. Attached to it were 20 or so strings on whose ends were tied marble-sized stones. It was thrown at birds and small animals, momentarily stunning them and tangling around their feet or wings, rendering them incapable of escape. It sounded promising; now if it only worked!

  She was proud of all the children. The youngsters had lined the walls with storage baskets they'd made from cattails. Justin and Deana had fashioned bows from saplings, strung with fishing line, and arrows tipped with chipped stone. Seth's specialty was spears with charred points, while Lindsey amused herself making tomahawks of wood and rock. Alex had to smile when she thought of he
r little tribe. Like pint-sized Indians, they stalked the woods with their primitive weapons, the only thing missing, was the war paint and feathers. They treated their new life as an adventure, a game, rather than a struggle for existence. Perhaps that was for the best. Only Alex realized that the game was in earnest.

  She'd have given her right arm for a real weapon: a rifle, shotgun, or pistol, but there were none to be found. She'd torn the Freedman place apart looking for his gun, but they must have taken it with them when they closed up the camp for the season. She'd done the same at Callahan's, but if they'd ever owned a gun, it wasn't there now. She'd found an old bow though and a few steel-tipped target arrows. That was better than nothing. She practiced until her arms were stiff and her shoulders ached, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't hit the target. Unless her technique greatly improved, it would be a cold day in hell before she could bag a deer, or rabbit, or even a slow-moving woodchuck. Her forays to the other camps had been fruitful. Like a vulture, she'd swooped down on them, carrying off nearly everything that wasn't nailed down: mattresses, bedding, tools, cooking utensils, clothing, medicines, soaps, candles, propane tanks, and all the canned food she could find. When she'd finished, there was nothing left but a few sticks of furniture. It had taken her the better part of two weeks to transport it all, dragging it piled behind her on an old toboggan. They might very well starve, but with all the axes, saws, and mauls they had to cut and split firewood, and the extra clothing, blankets, and sleeping bags they'd acquired, they weren't going to freeze.

  Primitive and packed to the rafters, this was home now. Alex couldn't have envisioned any of this when she bought the place nine years ago. It belonged to a co-worker's grandfather. Knowing how much Alex enjoyed her weekend hiking and camping trips to the Adirondacks, the family offered to sell her the place cheap when the old man died. Her parents thought she was crazy to saddle herself with a rundown hunting shack, but Alex bought it anyway. Where would they be now without it?