I sent a mental thank you out to my dad for providing me and my friends with food, safety, and defense. I pray he’s safe at his cottage in North Carolina.
Ashley and Janice finished putting the things we weren’t taking on our journey into a cardboard box. Ashley hefted her stash and carried it outside to her red wagon, taking these cans and bags of food items to add to their own growing pantry.
It has always been difficult for me to break into homes and take the food that had been left behind. We discussed this when we got to my dad’s house, and all of us agreed to minimize any damage in entering the homes. We also decided to only take food and a limited amount of clothing. Even though the country had been turned upside down, my conscience struggled against our immediate needs when it came to scavenging from the houses nearby. I was glad to see that the group felt the same way.
The Rikers had a nice one-story home on a cul-de-sac one street over. The houses at the bottom of their street were lakefront, and made up the southern boundary of the three-road homeowner association. Their location gave them some security since no one would be passing through on their way to somewhere else. If someone came down to their part of the neighborhood, they were there on purpose—a purpose that was, at this point, likely nefarious.
Their concrete block home was well built with heavy hurricane shutters attached to the street-facing windows, which provided some safety from the average burglar. I thought it gave them a false sense of security, especially seeing what damage the AR-15 had done to the house we had just left.
Harley and Ashley have adamantly refused to join us when we leave. They are comfortable here—frankly, too comfortable given the chaos beyond the neighborhood. I hope they reconsider. With my first-hand knowledge of the evil that I know will someday visit itself on this neighborhood, I fear for their safety.
“Let’s get together at our place for tonight for dinner,” Ashley said as she came back to the kitchen. “I’ve got some canned meat I’m going to put on the grill, and I can whip up some pasta and make bread in our gas oven.”
“I’m up for that,” Jorge said. “When do you want us over there?”
“Come on a little before sundown,” she replied. “That’ll give me time to make the bread.”
I smiled a little. With the power off, we were weaning ourselves from technology and using nature as our guide. Before, it would have been “seven o’clock,” or “after work.” Now, our lives were marked by the position of the sun.
It was still winter, but the days were slowly getting longer. Typical of Florida, it hadn’t rained lately, and the clear afternoon sky promised more of the same. The daytime was very comfortable, but the night air was downright cold. Layering clothes was the norm this time of year, and tonight would be no exception. We would be eating on the patio using a gas heater for both warmth and light. Despite the promise of gas heat, I had some new Mechanix gloves that I kept in my emergency bug-out bag, and I’d be wearing them tonight.
We had learned to carry one of these “go bags” wherever we went, each of us keeping a minimal amount of survival necessities on us at all times in case we needed to make a sudden exit.
I had attached some MOLLE straps and carabiners to my dad’s old Wolfman duffel bag. The clips let me attach the bug-out bag to any other backpack I was toting, or I could hook it directly to my battle belt at the small of my back next to my dump pouch.
Along with the Mechanix gloves, my bag held a fire starter kit—which included some cotton balls saturated with petroleum jelly and wrapped in aluminum foil—along with a pack of matches and a Bic lighter. I packed feminine products, a spare pair of socks, and a change of clothes in a large Ziploc bag. There was a basic first aid kit along with the narcotics that Dr. Kramer had given me and Janice the first days after the EMP attack. My food supply was minimal, with just a few energy bars, a couple balls of pemmican, and some chicken bouillon cubes and hot chocolate powder. A vial of unscented Clorox was there if I couldn’t start a fire—just eight drops would sterilize a gallon of water. I had also packed one of the woven cotton blankets that my step-mom used to keep in a wicker basket by the family room couch.
The clothes, food, medicine, and toiletries were wrapped in couple of black, contractor-sized trash bags, which could double as a rain poncho or ground cover. I had a lightweight two-quart aluminum pot stuffed on top, straining the zipper of the bag that I could use to boil water or cook some broth. The aluminum was light weight and would heat quickly on an open flame. Finally, I carried a pocket knife and always had my handgun on my hip and my rifle at arm’s length. If I had to, I could grab the bag and rifle and be out the door in less than thirty seconds. With these minimal items, I would be self-sufficient for days.
I was as prepared as I was going to be—and now I wasn’t sure what to do. Janice was sitting at the large round table sewing one of Garrett’s shirts, which he had torn a few days earlier. Garrett sat next to her as usual, his handgun disassembled as he cleaned and lubricated it. Their chairs had been scooted together so that their shoulders touched as they did their chores. I heard murmuring from the adjoining family room where Jorge and Maria were sitting on the couch, snuggled next to each other. I watched in silence as they spoke quietly, both smiling and gazing into each other’s eyes.
For almost a minute, I stood there while the other two couples were immersed in each other, and I suddenly felt very alone. I didn’t realize until just then how isolated I was. Janice had Garrett, while Maria had Jorge. Me, I had nothing but my rifle and the memories of an embarrassingly small number of guys that had passed through my life over the last few years.
Depressed, I went to my dad’s study and plopped down in his leather chair. I gazed around the room and saw his life story played out in the many framed pictures he’d displayed throughout the room. Absent were any pictures of my mom, which I fully understood. Instead, over a dozen black and white prints were interspersed with smaller color pictures on the wall and in desktop frames.
On his desk were the photographs that he held dearest, the ones he looked at when he sat down to work. There were three pictures staring back at me from their brushed chrome frames. One was of him and his new wife on their wedding day. I remembered the ceremony and the mixed emotions I felt when they exchanged their vows. Over the years, my anxiousness has diminished to a point where I am happy that he found peace and joy in someone else. But if I had to be honest, I will always be a little jealous, wondering if he couldn’t have done the same with my mom. But as the old Sheryl Crow song goes, it’s not about getting what you want, it’s about wanting what you’ve got.
The second frame held of my grandparents on their wedding day.
The last picture was my favorite photo from when he and I went fishing in Canada. In the photo, we were standing in front of our boat, holding up our stringers of fish. We both looked so happy, with not a care in the world. I was just eleven years old then, full of possibilities.
I stared at the picture, remembering the warm and happy feelings from that week in the Canadian wilderness. Our guide would take us out each day with a large cooler loaded with goodies to make a “shore” lunch. I remember the three of us pulling up to a small island in the middle of the largest, cleanest lake I had ever seen. We could see thirty feet below us, the glacial water was so clear.
I’ll never forget the man that guided us, nor the train-in trip to the fishing lodge. He was a half white and half Indian, or as the Canadians called them, an Odawa First Nation tribesman. He reminded me of some of the passengers I’d seen on our train ride to the fishing camp in the Ontario outback. Several times during the journey, the train would stop in the middle of the wilderness, and I watched as one or two solitary figures would jump off their car carrying a large backpack and supplies. The stops were little more than a patch of cleared grass with a tall wooden pole as a marker. As the engine began to slowly take us away, I saw these lone figures disappear into the surrounding pine forest, melting into the shadows o
f the thick needle curtains that draped down from the trees. Within moments, they had blended into nature, swallowed by her magnificent embrace. These men were rugged and completely confident as they strode away from the modern iron horse that brought them home.
My only disappointment was when I found out that our guide’s name was Bill. I expected something far more exotic, but I suppose his white mother or father got to pick the name.
A moment of self-pity floated to the surface as I remembered the sunny days on that northern Ontario lake. We cubed a slab of bacon, frying it up in the large iron skillet, making the grease that we would fry our potatoes and fish in. As we cooked the spuds and freshly caught walleye, we chewed on the bacon cubes while a large, open can of baked beans sat at the edge of the fire. We ate like kings while Bill and my dad downed a couple of Labatt’s beers and I drank my Coke.
But now, the fishing isn’t for fun but for survival. And sitting around a fire at night doesn’t carry the same mystique when there’s no electricity to return to. As much as the fondness of those early memories made me feel, it also triggers a sadness when I recognize that life will never be that innocent again.
I don’t know how long I lingered in the room, lost in my memories, but after a bit I got up from the desk. I removed the fishing photo from its frame and put it into my “go” bag before returning to the kitchen.
Garrett and Janice hadn’t moved, still busy with their personal chores. Jorge and Maria were napping on the couch, each with an arm draped over the other.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said. No one noticed.
Our shower was outside. We rigged up a couple of shower curtains surrounding a five-gallon bucket that was hanging from the roof’s eaves. Jorge had cut a quarter-inch hole in the bottom and glued a PVC pipe fitting into it. The end of the pipe had a barbed adapter onto which we shoved a flexible hose. The other end had been fitted with shower head, using another quarter-inch threaded adapter that was glued to the hose’s end. The hose and bucket complex hung from a hook on the wall. A spring clamp squeezed the hose, acting as an off switch.
I brought a change of clothes out to the makeshift shower and retrieved my towel from the clothes line. I set them on a table that sat within arm’s length of the curtains. Nearby, almost forty clear two-liter plastic bottles were sitting in the Florida sun. Harley had told us about this disinfection method, which had the added benefit of providing hot water at the end of the day to scrub off our tired bodies. I dumped eight bottles into the hanging bucket and stripped off my clothes, tossing them through the shower curtain onto the table next to my Glock. I grabbed a bottle of body wash from the ground, a communal stash of the liquid soap sat on the brick patio at my feet. I briefly released the clamp and very warm water began to flow from the shower head, soaking my hair and then spraying my body. I re-clamped the hose to save the rest—four gallons didn’t last long, as I’d quickly learned. I scrubbed myself with lavender soap, leaving the rest of the water in the bucket dangling above my head until I was thoroughly clean.
My hair was becoming a problem, it’s length making personal hygiene a chore. It was taking longer and longer to wash it, and after spending more time on my hair than the rest of my body, I decided that it needed to be cut off when I had a chance. I used to keep my hair short during my high school and college swimming career because it would have to fit under my swim cap. Since then, I’ve grown it out and had pampered myself with endless hours in the hair salon. I really loved my longer hair. It gave me all kinds of options to match my outfit or even my mood. Now, it looked like I’d have to return to my school days and sport a short cut again. It was just another thing to remind me of the world I now had to live in.
I rinsed off slowly, trying to make the warm water last as long as possible. Finally, when the bucket was dry, I toweled myself off, changed into my clean clothes and refilled the shower jugs with pre-filtered water, then placing them back in the grass to disinfect. We were using the pool as our reservoir, which seemed to be fine even though it was turning a dark green color. The pool provided water right in our backyard and reduced our need for outside trips, minimizing our risks of encountering bad people. With Lake Maitland nearby, we could have lugged water back to the house, but draining the pool minimized that risky journey.
We had set up a second five-gallon food grade bucket on the patio table. The top was covered with several layers of cheesecloth. I poured the pool water through it. The clarified liquid was then transferred into clean, transparent 2-liter bottles—no colored or foggy bottles allowed. After completely filling each bottle, I screwed the top back on and then placed them in the sun to heat up and disinfect. Theoretically, we could also drink the water, as long as it had at least eight hours of non-stop, direct sun exposure. If the sky turned cloudy or the bottles were exposed to less than half the day of direct sunlight, we would have to leave the water to disinfect for at least 48 hours total. In the winter, cloud cover in Florida was minimal, so we hadn’t run into any problems.
For consumption, we were still using either scavenged bottled water or water we boiled over the gas grill. But out of convenience, we drank the water we had found. In a few more weeks, the Zephyr Hills supply would be gone, but I wasn’t planning on being around that long.
I went back into the house. Janet and Garrett had finished with their chores and were now sitting in the living room.
“You going to let your boyfriend know about dinner?” Janice jokingly asked.
Beker and I were now the unofficial fourth couple in our eight-person neighborhood. He had never joined us in my dad’s house, preferring to live in a small one-story block home a few doors down. My lack of a significant other was fodder for their warped sense of humor, but I had convinced them to at least not say anything in front of the poor kid. He was acting strange enough and didn’t need encouragement to slide further away from us—or his sanity.
“You’re a regular cougar!” Garrett chimed in and then grimaced, instantly regretting his attempt at humor.
Janice smacked Garrett on the shoulder to shut him up, but it was too late.
“Oh, and Janice was your high school sweetheart?” I replied. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!”
Janice looked away, and Garrett turned beet red as I reminded him of their nine-year difference.
“I give up!” Garrett begged as Janice pinched him on the arm to further punish him for the faux pas.
I enjoyed that.
“Just don’t say anything like that in front of him,” I admonished. “He’s already been through too much.”
After rescuing Beker from two of the Latino gang members, he had shown himself to be rather tight lipped, declining to join in our conversations and deflecting any questions we asked about his past. I figured it was the trauma of the attack that made him so antisocial, along with witnessing the violent death of his tormentors when Jorge and I each put a bullet into the scumbags.
Janice got up from the couch, purposely punishing Garrett one last time by grinding the heel of her hand into his thigh as she leveraged herself up. She joined me at the table, where I had begun to field strip my own sidearm, using the gun cleaning kit from my dad’s garage.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” My concentration was directed to my Glock, which I was breaking down for a good lube and cleaning.
“Seriously, about Beker,” she began. “Have you spent any time talking to the kid?”
I stopped what I was doing and looked up at her. “No more than you guys.”
“I caught a glimpse of him after his shower yesterday,” she whispered. “He was changing his shirt, and his body was scared by burns and cuts.”
“Burns? Like he was in a fire?”
“No, like he was abused. I worked the emergency room, and he has classic cigarette burns all over his stomach and back.”
Just when I thought humanity had sunk to new lows, I was brutally reminded that we had always been evil to
each other. It’s just that I was experiencing it first-hand and for the first time. If Janice was right, Beker might not think the world we live in now was any worse that the one he left behind. The EMP turned off my world and destroyed it for me. For Beker, our new world wasn’t worse that the old one, just different.
She and I sat quietly while I reassembled my Glock. After replacing the magazine and racking the slide to load a round into the handgun’s chamber, I put the gun back in its holster and sighed.
“What should we do?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Janice said. “I’ve been thinking about this since I saw his scars. In one sense, it’s not our problem. Whoever did that to him isn’t around now. But on the other hand…”
“He is part of our group, and that makes it our problem.” I finished.
“For whatever reason, he seems to gravitate to you more than any of us,” Janice said. “If he’s going to be part of this group, then our lives depend on him. We need to know what makes Beker tick.”
She was right. I needed to learn more about our newest group member. But would he want to talk to me?
CHAPTER 2
MAITLAND, FL
BEKER’S HOUSE
“One can learn from what is not said.”
— C. Kennedy, Slaying Isidore’s Dragons
BEKER LIVED IN A ONE-STORY concrete block home that had yet to see the contractor’s wrecking ball. Surrounded by newer “McMansions,” the house was an original Florida mid-century modern, with a sloping flat roof and large louver windows. As I approached the front door, the living room windows caught my attention. Shimmering in the setting sun, their original leaded glass inserts reflected an oily, rainbow color from the turquoise and orange sky.
Charlie's Requiem: Resistance Page 2
