by James Hunt
A handle rested on the left side, but when Charlie pulled, it wouldn’t give way. He knocked on the door, leaning close to the cracks provided. “Amy?” He paused, waiting for a response. “Amy, it’s Charlie Decker, are you down there?”
A few seconds passed, and there was nothing. Then a shuffling noise, and a heavy thunk, and Charlie stepped back as the door in the floor cracked open. A pair of eyes stared at Charlie, and then the door opened the rest of the way.
“Charlie? Thank God.” Amy extended her hand and Charlie helped her up and out of the hole. She wrapped her arms around him, but then quickly pulled back. “Did you see Don?”
“He’s not down there with you?” Charlie asked, glancing into the hole and finding their three boys huddled at the bottom, looking up at him in the darkness.
“No, he-he brought us out here, and locked us inside, and then I heard all of that gunfire and I—” She covered her mouth with her hand and then looked past Charlie and Mario and toward the house.
Before Amy did anything rash, Charlie grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to the present. “You need to stay here with the kids, and I’m going to go and find Don, all right?” He gestured back toward Mario. “I’m going to leave Mario here with you to watch your back. Just stay here with the kids.”
Charlie backed out of the shed, instructing Mario to position himself inside, and then headed toward the house with his rifle raised.
It would have made sense for Don to head for the woods on the backside of his property, but Charlie wasn’t sure if he would have made it that far in an open field. And if he did, then Charlie assumed Don would have returned by now, unless he was still leading the terrorists on a wild goose chase through the trees. Charlie knew he couldn’t cover that much ground, so he decided to search the house and see if Don was inside.
The back screen door groaned when Charlie entered, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness inside.
An old oak table, chairs askew around the imperfect rectangle, sat near the door. Charlie cleared the dining room and then transitioned toward the living room where a long, three-cushioned sofa sat against the far wall with two love seats positioned on either end of the room, giving the open space a sense of structure.
“Don,” Charlie said, whispering. “Don, it’s Charlie.” He stepped lightly over the blue carpet, leaving behind tracks of dirt from his boots. He glanced down, finding other dirtied prints already crushed into the carpet, no doubt left behind from the terrorists when they swarmed inside.
But when Charlie reached the end of the living room that dumped into the foyer by the front door, which was open, he noticed the three bullet holes on the adjacent hall and the Bigelow family picture that lay shattered on the floor.
Moonlight helped guide Charlie’s path as he headed toward the bedrooms of the house, and when the heel of his boot slipped across the wooden floors, he glanced down to find a smear of blood. He frowned, dropping to a knee, and noticed the other droplets that dotted the floor and trailed all the way to the end of the hall.
Charlie stood, adjusting his grip on the rifle, and then hastened his pace down the hall. “Don.” He repeated his neighbor’s name with his harsh whisper, his voice growing louder and bolder the farther he headed down the hall. “Don.”
The blood droplets ended at the end of the hallway to an open door and a bedroom, and Charlie’s heart jumped into his throat as he turned the corner, unsure of what he might find inside. His eyes settled on Don’s body on the floor of the room.
Charlie lowered the rifle, setting it aside as he quickly knelt by Don’s side. “Don?” Blood covered his leg and both hands lay motionless on his stomach. He pressed his fingers against Don’s neck, trying to stop himself from trembling so he could get an accurate reading of the man’s pulse.
Finally, Charlie’s hand steadied and he felt the lightest bump beneath his fingertips, and then Don stirred, his eyes fluttering open in time with a guttural moan from his lips.
“Don, can you hear me?” Charlie repeated the question, but Don’s only reply was the same low growl. He placed his hands over the wound on Don’s leg, then reached for the sheets on the bed. He tore them down and quickly wrapped Don’s leg to help stop the bleeding, smearing crimson over the pale blue sheets.
Charlie turned back toward the door, confident that they were alone in the house and that the terrorists were already long gone down the road. “Mario! Mario, I need help, now!” His voice cracked, and he was surprised by the urgency in his volume and tone. He turned back toward Don. “Just hang on, buddy, we’re gonna get you some help. Just stay with me, okay? Do it for Amy and the kids. They need you, Don.”
Don fluttered his eyelids, then worked his lips as if he were going to speak, but only a raspy breath escaped from the depths of his chest.
Charlie shook his head. “Try not to talk, Don. Just hang on.” He applied firm pressure to the wound on the gut and was about to scream for Mario again when the man came bursting through the door, his eyes widening with a mixture of horror and shock at the scene in front of him. “Get something we can carry him on. We need to take him to Doc’s house.”
Color drained from Mario’s face as he gawked at Don, the rifle gripped lazily in his right hand, the barrel aimed at the floor.
“Mario!” Charlie shouted, pulling the farmhand’s attention toward him, the pair locking eyes. “Something to carry him on, or he’s not going to make it.”
Mario nodded, his body twitching in the same adrenaline-filled spasms that Charlie felt. He stole one last glance at Don before he disappeared down the hall.
Charlie held Don’s hand in his own and gave it a squeeze, as if he could transmit some of the life flowing through his veins into his neighbor. There had already been so much death, and it had spread throughout their community like wildfire. And the longer Charlie sat on the floor with Don dying and bloodied next to him, the angrier Charlie became.
6
Morning arrived quickly, and Charlie rolled uncomfortably in the spare cot that he’d pulled out from the attic. He sat upright and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
When he lowered his hand, he caught sight of the dried blood on his knuckle. He stared at it, thinking of Don.
Mario and Charlie had managed to get Don over to Doc’s house, leaving the old vet to work on another body while Charlie went back for Amy and the kids. But after the kids were secured at the house, Amy went to Doc. He wasn’t sure if she came home during the night and even more unsure if Don had survived.
Doc hadn’t been optimistic about Don’s chances when Charlie and Mario brought him over. He didn’t say it in so many words, but the grave expression didn’t bode well for his neighbor.
Charlie rubbed his face, the stubble along his cheeks scraping against his palm. By the end of the week he’d have the beginnings of a beard, and the prospect of so much hair on his face during the middle of summer was making him sweat just thinking about it.
Charlie’s knees popped as he stood. The violence and recklessness of the past forty-eight hours had ravaged his mind and body, so he descended to the first floor in search of coffee.
Thankfully, Charlie’s mother was already awake and had the old pot belly stove working out back. She had just clanged the door shut, letting the wood inside burn and heat the top.
“Hey, boy,” Martha said, planting a kiss on her son’s cheek. “Hear anything from Doc about Don?” She stepped back inside the kitchen and grabbed a pot, then poured some water she’d already retrieved from the well and placed it on the warming stove top.
“Not yet,” Charlie said. “I was going to get ready to head over there in a minute.”
“Well, your father is already up. He pulled out that damn iron stove from the back of the barn and set it up for me. He’s out passing some bacon and eggs around to the folks that we put on guard duty last night. We’ve got some left if you’re hungry. I ran over to the Bigelows’ chicken coop and grabbed a couple eggs, and the bacon is ac
tually more like jerky, but it does the job.”
“Coffee first,” Charlie said, still struggling to keep his eyelids open.
With her hands planted on her hips, the water boiling for coffee, and the near obliviousness of her attitude toward the danger that was surrounding all of them, Charlie found it hard not to laugh at his mother. But he kept his lips tight and planted a kiss on her cheek once the coffee was done.
The rest of the house was up by the time Charlie headed toward Doc’s house, but he made sure the rest of the farm hands knew which posts they were relieving for the ones still out in the fields.
“How long will we be out there, boss?” Hector asked, one eye squinted shut and his dirty white shirt untucked from his dirt-stained jeans.
“We’re working in eight-hour shifts, that way everyone gets a chance at some sleep,” Charlie answered. “It’ll be a little tricky during the day with some of the chores, but we’ll be all right running a skeleton crew for a while.”
Hector flashed a thumbs up, and his youngest daughter ran up behind him, squeezing his legs, as she smiled up at her father, who picked her up and swung her around in the air.
Charlie appreciated everyone’s positive outlook and the kindred spirit atmosphere, but he knew that the close quarters would eventually wear down on people, which made the prospect of having Doc’s house and even Don’s place as a backup for beds good.
The rest of the kids spilled outside, no doubt thankful for the open space after being cooped up in that house with twenty other people. But while the farm hands’ kids were outside, Charlie noticed that the Bigelow boys weren’t. If Don hadn’t survived the night, then Charlie needed to figure out a plan for Amy and the boys.
The sun had burned away the rest of the grey in the sky, and morning was in full swing by the time Charlie reached Doc’s house. He was about to enter unannounced but stopped himself. He stepped back and then knocked. He wasn’t sure of any rule changes in this new world order, but he decided it best to maintain social etiquette.
Ellen answered the door, still dressed in the same clothes that Charlie had seen her wear yesterday.
“How is he doing?” Charlie asked, stepping inside while Ellen shut the door behind him.
She shook his head, hugging her shoulders. “He did what he could, but Don lost so much blood, even more than Liz. And the two bullet wounds added a lot of trauma. He was able to get the bullets out and stitch him up, but he’s not sure Don is going to make it.” She exhaled. “He’s on borrowed time.”
Charlie’s stomach tightened. “Is Amy still with him?”
“Yeah, poor thing. She stayed up with him all night,” Ellen answered. She nodded toward the hallway with the bedrooms. “You can go and check on her, but she hasn’t said a peep since Doc finished sewing Don up.” She frowned, shaking her head. “I think she’s still in shock.”
Charlie nodded and then took a closer look at Ellen, who hugged herself tightly with a concerned expression glued to her face. The woman looked like she’d slept about as much as Charlie had. “How are you holding up?”
“Hmm?” Ellen arched her eyebrows in surprise, Charlie’s question pulling her from her daydream. “Oh, I’m fine. Just tired. Doc hasn’t been sleeping well, and when he doesn’t sleep well, neither do I. We’re attached at the hip like that.” She smiled sadly, trying to convince Charlie that she really was fine, but it was a mask that Charlie had seen people wear a lot over the past two days. And he imagined that it would be a mask people would grow accustomed to wearing over the coming weeks, or even months, if things remained bad.
“Anything you and Doc need from the orchard you just ask, all right?” Charlie said, placing a firm hand on Ellen’s shoulder. “I mean it.”
Ellen patted Charlie’s arm and nodded. “You’re a good man, Charlie.”
After Ellen disappeared into the kitchen, Charlie headed down the hallway, passing Liz’s room, who he found still fast asleep in her bed, Adelyn curled up by her side. He stopped, watching the pair of them sleep. A sense of purpose flooded through him, knowing that the pair had no one else to depend on save for Charlie. He smiled and then headed toward Don’s room, finding the door cracked open.
Even though the door was open, Charlie knocked softly. “Amy?”
When no one answered, Charlie poked his head though the crack in the door. Amy kneeled at Don’s bedside, elbows planted on the mattress, and her hands clasped together as she stared at her husband.
Charlie pushed his way into the room but didn’t go farther than the threshold, where he got a good look at Don in the bed. His eyes were closed, and his lips were lightly parted. He lay still and unmoving, save for the light rise and fall of his chest. The sheet covering his body was pulled all the way up to his chest, leaving only his shoulder, neck, and head exposed.
Amy didn’t acknowledge Charlie’s presence, but he wasn’t sure if it was because she hadn’t heard him or if she didn’t want to talk.
“Amy?” Charlie asked.
Amy turned, surprised, and then wiped her nose, which was red from crying. “Charlie. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” Charlie said, gesturing for her to stay put as he walked to the foot of the bed. “How’s he doing?”
“Doc says he’s fighting it,” Amy answered, smiling.
“He’s always been stubborn,” Charlie replied.
Amy laughed. “Yeah.” She reached for her husband’s arm and squeezed. “Thank you for last night. If you hadn’t come, if you hadn’t gotten him here in time—” She shook her head, fighting back tears. “I don’t know what would have happened.”
Charlie smiled, but looking at Don’s pale complexion, he wasn’t sure if he got the man here soon enough.
Wood groaned by the door, and both Amy and Charlie turned to find Doc standing in the doorway. He wore his blue robe, hands in his pockets, those dark circles under his eyes even deeper than yesterday.
“How are you doing, Amy?” Doc asked.
“I’m fine.”
Doc nodded, then walked over to Don, checking his pulse.
Amy frowned in concern. “Is he okay? Is—”
“He’s fine for now, my dear.” Doc removed his hand from Don’s neck and then looked to Charlie. “Why don’t we let them rest.”
“Sure,” Charlie said, then followed Doc out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
The pair remained silent on their walk into the living room, but Doc crossed his arms and paced nervously with his head down.
“You all right, Doc?” Charlie asked.
“No, Charlie,” Doc answered. “I’m not.” He finally collapsed onto the couch by the front living room window. The same couch where Charlie had passed out that first night back from Seattle when he wasn’t sure if Liz would survive.
Doc rubbed his hands together, thinking. “I don’t have any more antibiotics.” He looked at Charlie. “I gave the last of my dosage to Liz. And while I tried to sterilize everything—” He shook his head, the frustration mounting, and he stood. “I don’t have the necessary equipment to deal with treating humans, Charlie. My knowledge is rudimentary at best.”
“You’ve kept two people alive,” Charlie said. “You’re doing a great job.”
“Well, if I don’t get more supplies, I don’t know if I can keep them that way.”
Charlie turned back toward the hallway where Liz and Don slept, still recovering, still fighting for the chance at tomorrow. He turned back to Doc. “There’s a hospital over in Mayfield. I could get whatever you needed and bring it back.”
Doc shook his head. “Charlie, that’s exactly where those men were headed. It’s too dangerous.”
“If that’s what we need to keep them alive, then that’s what I’ll get,” Charlie said. “Just tell me what you need.”
Doc hesitated for a moment, but the medical professional in him eventually won out.
It didn’t take long for Doc to compile the grocery list of needs and wants, which Ch
arlie made him list separately. The names on the list were so long and so hard to pronounce that Charlie didn’t even try. All he’d need to do was make sure the names on the medications matched up with the ones that Doc had written down.
“Now, they’ll most likely have some kind of lock or security system in place for the medications, but if it’s anything electronic—”
“Then it makes my job easier,” Charlie said. “What’s the likelihood that the hospital staff will still be there?”
“Depends if the generators are working or not,” Doc answered. “Though I can’t imagine they’d still be on after something like this.”
With the list tucked into his back pocket, Charlie walked back through the orchard, the sky still blue and vibrant, though clouds had started to form, foreshadowing rain.
“Charlie!” Harold waved at his son from a few rows up in the trees. “Give me a hand for a second.”
Charlie jogged over to his father, keeping the ladder steady as Harold plucked a few good ones clustered at the top branches.
“Your mother wanted to have the kids help her bake some pies,” Harold said, stretching his big arm up for the last apple, which he plopped into the bucket. “She thought it might help keep their minds off of things.”
Charlie stepped out of the way as his father descended the ladder.
“Plus, we get some pies out of the deal, which will last for a little while.” Harold clapped the dirt from his hands and smiled at the bucket of Honey Crisps.
“It’s a good idea,” Charlie said.
“Yeah.” Harold shifted his attention from the bucket to the rest of the orchard, the long and separate, elevated rows that comprised their property. He smiled. “Nothing like picking fruit straight from the tree. Makes you feel connected to the world.”
Charlie nodded. It was simple but beautiful.
“How’s Don?” Harold asked, popping their peaceful bubble and thrusting them back into reality.
“Doc needs more meds to keep him alive,” Charlie answered. “I’m going to the hospital in Mayfield and see what I can find.”
