“I can’t believe you did that,” I scold Jake playfully.
The smug smile on his face only broadens. “I had to. You were the perfect target.”
I try to manage a look of annoyance at my younger brother, but I don’t even come close. I can’t seem to get the relieved grin off my face. “I’m actually really glad you did that. I was getting worried about you.”
Some of the levity in Jake’s expression fades, but he still looks happier than I’ve seen him in the last couple of days. “I’m still working through this shit, but I’m doing better than I was.”
With a reassuring nod and a smile, I start to stand up and pretend I’m about to get out of the pond, but I opt to splash Jake square in face instead. He poises himself to retaliate, reaching out to pull me back down with him, but we both abruptly stop at the sound of yelling nearby.
“No,” Jake breathes out as he quickly stands up and sprints out of the water before I can even get my footing. I chase after him up the dirt trail, water sloshing off of my drenched clothes and hair with each stride I take. I come to an abrupt halt next to Jake, who’s carefully peering around the side of a large tree.
I follow his gaze, looking farther up the trail to see the source of the sound we heard. A small group of people has surrounded our car, some standing guard with rifles in hand, others sifting greedily through the pathetic remains of our belongings and supplies in the trunk and back seat. The items they don’t care about like clothes and blankets are tossed aside, but they quickly find their way to the good stuff: the full gas can we had in the trunk, the first-aid kit and bottles of medicine we collected just in case, the canned food and few gallons of drinking water we saved specifically for this trip.
I can’t deny the weakening in my resolve at seeing what little we had left being taken away from us. The hopelessness I feel inside is mirrored in my brother’s expression as he turns around to face me, not bothering to watch any more of the painful scene playing out just up the trail. I feel like this is when I’m supposed to say something comforting, both for my own benefit as much as Jake’s, but there are no words that can make this situation better.
“Jake, I—”
“Burn it,” a stern voice commands in the distance, “and find them!”
Jake’s eyes go wide as my hand flies to my mouth in terror. We have to run. We have to move now.
Without a word, Jake grabs my free hand and pulls me along behind him, not taking the worn trail we were on before, but running straight into the thick of the forest. I can hear the distant yelling behind us amidst the whooshing sound of the air rushing by my ears as we run. I don’t dare look behind me, though. I’m not ready to face the threat the follows us.
When we come to a halt at a small creek in our path, Jake and I both take a moment to catch our breath. Jake looks up and down the creek and then across it, evaluating our options.
“This way,” he instructs as he walks into the water and veers upstream, not the direction I was expecting.
The creek is relatively small, but I feel the strength of its flow the moment I step into the cold water. It takes extra effort to move through it to run upstream, even though the water is only shin-high.
After a few minutes of powering against the water, we arrive at a rocky area where the creek widens into a calmer and deeper stretch of water. The terrain is more uneven up here, making the high shoreline mostly inaccessible from the water. I follow Jake along the shallow edge until we’re forced to stop by a huge tree that has fallen into the water, though only half of its length is submerged. The other half still rests on land, propped up by the rocks on the shoreline.
As Jake sinks into the water and ducks down under the fallen tree, I realize what he’s up to. He motions for me to follow, and I quickly join him in his hiding place.
“We should be safe here,” he whispers in the small distance between us as he tries to catch his breath. “They can’t track us in the water, and they’ll think we took the easier route downstream. We just need to wait it out for a while.”
I nod in response. My lungs are burning from the running and the effort it took to get here. We remain silent for some time as our minds and bodies get a chance to recover. The cold water that reaches our shoulders because of how we are positioned under the tree feels good at first, cooling me down from the heat of our run through the forest. Once my heart rate has completely steadied, though, the effect of the cold water mixes with my fear of being found and killed, and it quickly becomes too much. I can’t help the subsequent shivering that overcomes my body.
Jake notices the change in me, and within seconds I’m enveloped in my brother’s embrace. He holds me tightly against him, surrounding me with his warmth and love, helping to ease my worries and give me some relief.
I don’t know how much time goes by while we sit like this, but I’m grateful for every second of it. We lost a lot today, but not everything, and I’m not willing to give up just yet. I don’t think Jake is either.
5
Now
I step out of the room that has been my prison and take in my surroundings. With my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I can make out most of the large living room in the space around me, even though it’s only dimly lit by the glow of lighting from down the hall. It looks strangely normal: a light-colored couch and matching chairs nestled around a dark coffee table in front of a fireplace. There are curtains covering the windows and pieces of framed art on the wall. Beneath my bare feet there’s dark hardwood flooring, cold but smooth against my skin.
It sickens me how normal this room looks when I know the inhabitant of this place is a monster.
The sound of clinking glass draws my attention down the hall toward the source of the light. I quickly recognize the hint of something I haven’t had the pleasure of experiencing in months. The unmistakable aroma of a hot meal beckons me from down the hall, and I cautiously make my way in that direction.
I turn the corner at the end of the hall to find a beautiful candlelit dining room. The long, dark-wood table is perfectly set for two and covered with foods I haven’t seen or eaten in what feels like ages. Lettuce and fresh berries are tossed together in a salad with a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette nearby. There are cooked green beans and mashed potatoes in a divided serving dish next to the highlight of the meal: a platter featuring some kind of steak perfectly sliced over a juicy brown sauce.
“I hope you like venison,” the man says as he appears through a nearby doorway from the kitchen. He’s dressed in dark jeans and white buttoned shirt that make him appear overdressed for the world we now live in. He carries a bottle of red wine and motions me to the table. “Please, sit.”
I make no attempt to move while he circles the table to fill the wine glass at the farthest place setting, then returns to fill the glass at the end of the table near the kitchen doorway. He sets the bottle down and takes a seat.
As much as my stomach is urging me to do what the man says and sit down to eat, I need to focus on finding Jake. “Where is my brother?”
The man takes the white fabric napkin from his place setting and lays it over his lap. “How long has it been?” When I look at him questioningly, he clarifies his inquiry further: “How long has it been since you’ve had a fresh, home-cooked meal?”
I hate that his words make me salivate. I want nothing more than to sit in that chair and devour the food on the table, but I won’t give in to the temptation he’s presenting. “I need to be with my brother,” I manage to get out through almost-gritted teeth.
“Ash, tell me something,” he says out of nowhere, but he’s hit a nerve that I can’t let pass again.
“Don’t call me that.” I feel powerful standing up to him on this point, but he seems unaffected by my demand.
“I’ll call you what I wish while you’re in my house.” He holds my gaze and deliberately draws out the silence between us before continuing, as if my brief moment of defiance never happened. “Ash, I’d like you to tell
me a story.”
“Let me see my brother, and I’ll tell you anything you want.”
He smiles and shakes his head before taking a long drink from his glass of wine. “You’ll get to see him, but not right now. At this moment you’re going to sit down, tell me a story, and enjoy this incredible meal that I’ve prepared for us.”
A mixture of anger and dread swirls inside me, battling to determine my next move. Before I even know that my mind has been made up, my feet are walking me toward the table.
He has Jake. I have no choice.
I reluctantly take a seat at the table and internally work up the courage to jump down the rabbit hole with this madman. “What story do you want to hear?”
“Your hand.” He glances downward at the table, nodding at the area where he knows my hands are in my lap. “Let me see it.”
I stare blankly at him, initially unclear about why he would give a shit about my useless hand until I realize it bears a permanent marking similar to the one on his cheek, though his is not nearly as prominent. We’re both branded by our scars.
Bringing my hand onto the table, I flip it over so that the scar on my palm is fully visible and on display, but I see something else I wasn’t expecting. Even in the limited candlelight, I can easily make out the redness and bruising on my wrist, the visible reminders of my hopeless struggles against the bindings that were hanging me from the ceiling in the dark room.
“Make a fist,” he commands, drawing my attention back to him.
Despite the strange request, I do as he asks, slowly bending my fingers inward as far as they’ll go, though my fingertips don’t make it anywhere close to the skin of my palm.
“And now all the way back. Flatten out your hand.”
With every bit of concentration I have, I lift my fingers up and try to stretch them back. The familiar sharp pain of this movement kicks in when I’m about halfway there. I try to continue the stretch; but my hand begins to shake, and I have to abandon the effort.
The man’s face remains indifferent as he seems to contemplate what I’ve just accomplished or failed to accomplish. With an abrupt squeak of his chair against the hardwood flooring, he stands up and circles the table until he’s right next to me.
He leans down near my face, causing my body to shiver involuntarily at his close proximity. I can smell his cologne and the hint of wine on his breath. My heart races as his eager eyes seem to take me in, plotting their next move, but I’m surprised when all he does is pick up my empty plate from the place setting in front of me.
He begins to fill my plate for me, serving up large portions of the food he’s prepared. “Go on. Tell me the story.”
I shift uneasily in my seat. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“It must be a good story, then.”
“There’s nothing good about my story,” I quickly retort. “It fucked up my entire life. It ruined everything I worked so hard to achieve.”
The deluge of words streaming from my mouth is carried by the tide of anger and frustration and pain I’ve had to deal with since the end of last year. If I’m going to have any chance of getting through this story without losing it completely, I’m going to need some help.
The man places the full plate of food down in front of me and begins to fill his own plate. Instead of picking up my fork and knife, I reach for the glass of wine instead. I bring it to my lips and take large gulps of the blissful red liquid until the entire contents of the glass have been consumed. My eyes remain fixed on the empty glass as I set it down on the table and reluctantly begin to tell my story.
“I used to be a violinist,” I say with more disgust and spite than I’d like to admit as the numbing effects of the alcohol begin to take over my body. “An incredible violinist,” I continue, but the room around me begins to blur.
I make out the sound of the man’s plate being set on the table just before his towering figure appears next to me. He sighs heavily and says, “You really shouldn’t have done that.”
My mouth tries to form words, but fails at the attempt. My eyelids become heavy, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep them open. I’m enveloped by the darkness again, drifting away into nothing.
6
Before
The only good thing about having our car raided and burned three days ago by the local militia was that we had nothing holding us back from crossing the Connecticut River into Vermont anymore. Once we came out of hiding and managed to hike out of the state park, we made our way on foot westward to the large river that makes up the state line between New Hampshire and Vermont, careful to avoid the militia patrols that seemed to frequent the roads in the area. We found a calm stretch of the river and swam across it with nothing but the clothes on our backs, opting to wait until we were safely on the other side before scavenging for more supplies and a vehicle.
I wish I could say we have a perfectly laid out plan for what comes next, but we’re playing this completely by ear. With the threat of the militia and the unpredictability of people who are struggling to survive, we’ve opted to avoid the cities and towns and travel through the more rural areas instead, where we can move through the forest undetected.
We’re following a small river that seems to be taking us northwest. A road snakes along one side of the river with occasional houses and small businesses, but the other side of the river is nothing but thick trees and brush. We’ve been reluctant to venture much from the safety of the wooded side of the river to search for food and supplies, but we’re becoming more desperate. Jake won’t admit it to me, but I know he’s been feeling the same painful hunger I have, a result of barely eating anything in the last few days.
Today we’re doing something about it. We can’t ignore our hunger forever.
I scan the surrounding area carefully, watching for any sign of movement or anything out of the ordinary as Jake pokes around inside an abandoned black sedan. It’s the last of the abandoned cars at the remains of a small auto shop along the road by the river.
Jake gets up out of the car and shakes his head. “No keys here either.”
I nod to acknowledge the answer I already expected to hear and pick up the small black duffel bag we found inside the auto shop. It’s frustratingly light, the abandoned building having already been thoroughly scavenged before we arrived, but we did have some success. There were no real weapons inside, but we managed to get a couple of screwdrivers that could serve as weapons in a pinch. We took a thin, but warm wool blanket from the back room of the shop. The two chocolate candy bars we found hidden in a filing cabinet were devoured almost instantly, but we managed to refrain from eating the half-empty bag of potato chips that were discarded at the bottom of a trash can, the precious remainder of our food supply safely tucked away in the duffel bag for another day.
“There’s a driveway just up the road there,” I mention casually, knowing Jake isn’t going to like what I have to say. “Maybe we should go—”
“No.” Jake’s answer is firm, his tone decisive. “We have enough for right now. We should go back across the river.”
“We’re only getting weaker,” I argue. “We need more than chips and candy bars to survive.”
My brother’s clearly evident frustration quickly manifests itself as exasperation. “We need real weapons before we can approach houses that could have people waiting inside to kill us.”
I know he’s right, but I also know we need to start taking more risks if we are to have any chance of surviving out here. Reluctantly, I give in to Jake’s wishes and motion toward the river, throwing the duffel bag over my shoulder. “Okay, let’s go back.”
Constantly looking up and down the road, we cross it to the rocky bank of the river on the other side. Jake moves into the water, and I quickly follow him, raising the duffel bag above my head to ensure that it stays dry. The water is only waist-deep at this part of the river, but still takes some effort to walk through.
We’re only halfway across when the dis
tant hum of vehicle engines catches my attention from up the road. A worried glance from Jake is all the silent confirmation I need to know we have to get out of this river immediately, so we push forward as hard and fast as we can against the water, building to a sprint by the time we’re at the shore on the other side. We bolt into the woods and collapse behind a thick bush with just enough cover to peek around it back toward the road.
We see the beginning of a procession of vehicles moving slowly down the road: cars and pickup trucks one after the other being escorted by armed men and women walking on foot alongside the vehicles. Wrapped around each of their upper arms is a piece of white cloth with the emblem of a black circle with some sort of black ornate cross inside of it.
“Another militia,” Jake whispers. “They’re either going to war with the local militia or joining up with them.”
“All the more reason to keep heading north,” I respond, grateful that we’re moving in the opposite direction of this large force. I’m about to sit down and wait for the group to pass by when I hear the distant cracking sound of breaking branches from farther up the river. A small scattered group of men are patrolling the tree line and the area just inside the forest and were within a minute of being right on top of us.
When Jake sees them, he curses under his breath and takes off into the woods away from the river. I throw the duffel bag over my shoulder and follow him, stepping carefully as I run to avoid making too much noise.
By the time we finally come to a stop, Jake and I are both gasping for breath. I collapse onto the dirt and wish desperately that we were still next to the river so I could satisfy my raging thirst and throw myself into the cool liquid as an antidote to the heat. Jake sits down next to me and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His dark brown hair is damp and plastered to his forehead. He looks just as sweaty and exhausted as I feel.
Falling Ash Page 3
