by Doug Kelly
It was nearly an hour before Ben could walk away from his dog and go to the storefront where Dylan was waiting for him.
Dylan sat on the sidewalk with his knees drawn upward to allow him to wrap his forearms around his knees. He was swinging the bag of antibiotic bottles back and forth, bumping his shins, admiring the heft of the bag and how, even after splitting with Ben, they would leave with an abundance of medication.
Ben walked toward Dylan and sat on the ground near him.
“I’m sorry about your dog,” Dylan softly remarked.
“She was a good dog.” Ben cleared his throat and took several deep breaths before slowly exhaling. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell my son about this.” Ben paused, trying to control his grief. “I do know that she sacrificed her life for ours.” Ben hung his head low and shook it back and forth, trying to suppress his grief.
Dylan shook the bag full of bottles, rattling the capsules inside. “We should go,” he said, shaking the bottles once more.
Ben stood up and brushed the dust from his pants. “Yeah, let’s go. We need to beat sundown.” He adjusted his hat and walked directly toward his horse, not looking back.
Dylan followed in quick succession with the sack of antibiotics in hand.
Both men untied the reins and mounted their horses simultaneously. Ben gently spurred his horse and Dylan’s horse followed. The echo from the rhythmic clack of the horseshoes on the pavement slowly faded away as they got farther from the strip mall. They passed the bank, wrecked from dynamite, and crossed onto the street. They rode into the setting sun as they left the apocalyptic scenery behind them.
After several miles, Ben leaned forward on the saddle horn and adjusted his position. He tilted his hat forward to shade his eyes and looked at Dylan riding next to him.
“Did you ever think your life would be like this?” asked Ben.
“Never. I took everything I had for granted.” Dylan gestured around the horizon with his hand. “The grid went down and took everything with it.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The grid supported our lifestyle and civilization, and now it’s all gone. This is a nightmare I’ll never wake up from.”
Ben tapped his gun. “Think about what you’re going to do when your ammo runs out,” said Ben, as he raised an eyebrow in Dylan’s direction. “How can you protect yourself?”
Dylan only responded with a sigh before Ben ended the conversation with a slap to the rear of his horse. The horse began to trot faster and he assumed the lead. Ben caught himself looking down for his dog running near his horse’s legs. He swallowed his sadness and spurred his horse onward.
They made it back to the small corral before sunset. Dylan was the last to dismount and gave his horse a few pats on the neck before climbing over the wooden rail fence. Ben took his holster off and hung it back on the gate.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I have plenty of work, and we can feed you.”
“No thanks, we have to move on.” Dylan held up the bag of antibiotics. “Ready to split ‘em? They’re all the same. Here’s six of the twelve we got. I’ll keep the bag if you don’t mind,” said Dylan, as he handed Ben the bottles of medication.
Ben held the bottles close to his body with both hands. “I’d shake your hand but…” Ben looked down to his hands holding the large bottles.
Dylan smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “No problem. Thanks for your help.”
Ben tipped his head forward. “Be safe and good luck.” He turned and walked toward his house.
Dylan gripped the bag tight in his hand and ran back into the cornfield, guessing which row that would take him back to their campsite. He ran past endless stalks of corn. The leaves monotonously slapped his face, making it difficult to keep a fast pace through the field. He finally emerged to see Mary and Kevin. Kevin lay listlessly on the ground with his wife at his side. She had placed a wet cloth on his forehead, and was clutching the crucifix necklace with the other hand as she whispered the Lord’s Prayer.
“Hey,” Dylan yelled, announcing his return.
Mary had her back turned and was startled, but visibly happy.
“Is that it? Is it in the bag?” Mary asked, pointing to the white plastic bag wrapped around Dylan’s fist.
“Six bottles,” replied Dylan, holding the bag upward.
Mary knelt back down by her husband. “He’s burning up. How many does he take?”
Dylan looked confused as he read the label. “I honestly don’t know.” He scratched his head, frustrated. “Let’s just give him three or four a day. What do you think?”
Mary agreed to the plan and tried to bring Kevin back to consciousness. Kevin opened his eyes with considerable effort. He was sweating and delirious from the fever. Mary held a pill in one hand and opened her husband’s mouth. She put the pill in his mouth and encouraged him to drink the entire bottle of water. Kevin did so, coughing several times. She placed his head gently back down and he was immediately fast asleep.
Dylan sat by the fire with his rifle across his lap. He stared into the glowing embers and watched the tendrils of white smoke dissipate into the encroaching darkness of the twilight’s night air. The day’s events repeated in his mind. He was obsessing over all the details of the day and what he could have done differently. He realized that it was another day that had almost brought him to the limits of his own mortality. Each time he thought about how close he had come to dying, he unconsciously clutched the rifle tighter. Finally, his hand began to cramp and he realized the manifestation of his obsessive thoughts of death. He resolved to himself that he would remain strong, and he would survive. His family was depending upon him to return, and he needed to do that quickly. He shook the cramp out of his hand and removed the clip from his rifle. With a quick flick of his wrist, he ejected the chambered cartridge from his rifle and watched it arc into the air before hitting the ground. The brass casing made a small click as it hit a pebble in the dirt. He picked the cartridge up and blew the dirt off of it, trying unsuccessfully to see his reflection in the shiny brass, before he inserted it back into the clip. Physically and mentally exhausted, he leaned his torso forward and rested his face in the palms of his dirty hands, trying to forget the day’s events.
Mary walked to his side and he felt her gentle touch on his shoulder.
“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Mary, looking hesitantly at Dylan.
“No.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kevin’s fever gradually began to recede, and then completely dissipated by the second day. On that day, Kevin stood up and tried to walk, encouraged to do so by his wife and Dylan. He was shaky from the illness and lack of food, but he began to regain his appetite after the fever disappeared. Kevin paced back and forth through the campsite trying to restore some steadiness to his legs, and as he was pacing, he felt the empty space in his jaw from the missing molar. Kevin took a final lap around the campsite, and then sat near Dylan, who was taking his turn stoking the campfire.
Dylan sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the fire and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better.”
“You’ve looked better, too.”
Kevin smiled and stared into the fire. He held up one hand to feel the heat. “Be careful what you say, old man. I can still kick your ass.”
“Oh, really?” said Dylan, sarcastically. “Don’t forget, I already knocked one of your teeth out this week.”
At Dylan’s comment, Kevin furrowed his brow as he touched his jawline. “I just don’t remember. I can’t seem to remember the last two days. The fever and that damn snake bite took me down.”
“It’s probably better that way,” said Dylan, as he turned his head to look toward the cornfield. He saw Mary moving through the rows of corn, gathering young ears to prepare for supper. “Did you see any lights at the end of a dark tunnel?”
“I’m not quite ready for that yet,” said Kevin, confidently pointing at his chest with the swolle
n thumb on his right hand. When Kevin shifted his position on the ground, he heard the capsules rattle in the plastic bottle at the bottom of his deep pockets. He remembered Mary mentioning Dylan’s mood on the return from his trip into town. Dylan was withdrawn and did not want to talk about that day. Curiosity prodded Kevin to ask what had happened there.
Kevin tapped the bottle in his pants, rattling the capsules again. “What was it like in town? Did you have to wade through some deep shit?”
Dylan nodded and looked away. He stared at the flames while he collected his thoughts. “Apocalypse,” said Dylan. “Three young kids, barely teenagers, tried to kill us for our horses. “They’re…dead.” Dylan was looking at the campfire, but he saw the images of the people that he and Ben had shot just a few days ago.
Both men jumped up when they heard Mary scream. Ben had come back to the campsite and emerged through the corn, frightening Mary. She had been gathering ears of corn from the field and her arms had been full of at least a dozen ears of corn, which were now scattered on the ground at her feet.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Ben. He took his hat off and smiled at her.
Mary looked down at the ears of corn at her feet and was embarrassed that Ben had caught her taking corn from his field. She looked up, timidly waved, and tried to smile. “Hello again. You scared me.”
“I wondered if you were still here.” Ben walked toward Mary. “Take this. My wife baked it.” Ben handed her a loaf of cornbread. It was in an old plastic bread bag.
Mary opened the bag and smelled the contents. It smelled delicious. She closed her eyes and breathed in the aroma of freshly baked cornbread again, exhaled, and cast a large grin toward Ben. “Thank you. It smells wonderful. Would you like to stay? We have cans of beans. I can warm some up for you.”
“Sorry,” said Ben, apologetically, “I can’t stay long. There are a million things I need to get done.” Ben used his hat and waved it in a broad arc toward Dylan and Kevin. Then Ben began to look intently around. He peered deeply into the rows of corn behind him. Facing the corn, he whistled loudly and, almost instantly, a Labrador retriever puppy came running toward him from the field. It circled his boots, and then darted toward Mary, smelling her ankles and the ears of corn on the ground. Ben walked toward the campfire snapping his fingers. The dog followed closely, greeting Dylan and Kevin with its cold wet nose.
“I thought you might still be here.” Ben looked back at Mary. She was picking the ears of corn up from the ground. “My wife baked some cornbread. Mary has it.”
“We couldn’t leave with an invalid.” Dylan jokingly pointed at Kevin.
Kevin offered his right hand as a greeting. “You must be Ben. It’s good to meet you, again. I can’t remember much from the past two days.”
Ben reached for his hand, but stopped when he noticed the swelling.
“Sorry, pal. Your hand looks terrible.” Ben extended his left hand and gave Kevin a firm handshake.
Dylan pointed toward the puppy. “How’d you come across that thing?”
Ben bent over to scratch the dog’s neck and back. “I finally made it to one of my neighbors. We talked about our problems and decided to work together. He has an old tractor that still works and a storage tank of diesel fuel. We agreed to help each other and share food. I have corn and he has beans. It’s a good combination.” He looked at Mary, remembering her invitation to eat cornbread and beans with them. “I have a place to store the harvest and a grain mill to grind the corn into meal.” He gave the dog a gentle pat and stood up again. “And he gave me a dog. It’s a good dog.” Ben smiled at the puppy.
Mary walked back to the campfire. She grinned as she held up the plastic bag with cornbread inside that Ben had just given them. Not saying anything to the three men, she set the ears of corn down and found a can of beans to warm by the fire.
“Y’all going to stay long?” asked Ben.
Dylan looked at Kevin and cast a thumb in his direction. “Maybe leave tomorrow if he can handle it.”
Kevin smirked, and then his stomach growled loudly from hunger.
“I’m not going to keep a man from his supper.” Ben put his hat back on. “Best of luck to you,” said Ben, as he turned away. He slapped his leg and the puppy followed him into the field.
The next morning Kevin decided he was strong enough to try to continue downstream. They gathered their belongings and packed the rafts. The rafts were near the riverbank when Dylan decided to look around the campsite once more to make sure they forgot nothing. He picked up an ear of corn and threw it back toward the field. He saw movement inside the cornfield, and then Ben’s puppy ran out, whimpering and limping toward Dylan. The dog had its tail between its legs and began to cower at Dylan’s ankles.
Dylan called out loudly. “Ben…Ben…your dog is over here.”
There was no reply. He looked back toward the river and he knew that Kevin and Mary were waiting. Dylan bent down and touched the dog’s back leg. It howled in pain.
Dylan called out loudly again. “Ben…Ben…I have your dog…it’s hurt.”
“What’s going on?” yelled Kevin from the riverbank.
Dylan motioned for Kevin to come back and showed the injured puppy to him.
“That’s his dog alright and it’s hurt,” said Kevin.
“We can’t just leave him here.” Dylan looked toward the grove of trees that Ben had said was thick with copperheads, and remembered the story of Ben’s old dog that died from a snakebite it got out here. “I’ll do it. I’ll take it back.”
Dylan gently picked up the dog and began to walk into the cornfield. The coarse corn leaves irritated his skin and were blinding as they whipped into his face. He could not block them with his hands because he was carrying an injured dog. As Dylan neared the end of the row of corn, the dog began to whimper loudly.
“Easy now, you’re almost home,” said Dylan, as he gave the puppy gentle pats on the back.
When Dylan stepped out of the corn, the dog tensed, began to growl, and tried to get away. Dylan did the best he could to hold the dog tight and not hurt it. When he looked up from the dog, he noticed an old van near the house. He did not remember the van being there from days before. Dylan thought it might be the neighbor Ben had talked about, but Ben had not mentioned that they had a van that was working. Dylan got nervous. He stopped abruptly and looked around. Quickly, he went back into the cover of the cornfield and watched the house. He put the dog down and stared at the house and its surroundings. He saw no movement, but thought he heard something behind him. He listened closely; it sounded like crying. The dog began to sniff the air and it limped back into the cornfield toward the noise. As they got closer, the sound grew louder. It was someone crying. Curled in the dirt between rows of corn was a young boy. His knees were up and he had wrapped his little arms tightly around his legs. He buried his face into his thighs and he was crying loudly, not hearing Dylan’s or the puppy’s approach. The boy felt the puppy’s cold nose bump his cheek and he sat up. When the boy looked back and saw Dylan approaching, he fell back, shuffling his feet and hands backwards in the dirt, not gaining any traction. Dylan could see the look of terror in his eyes.
Dylan knelt down into a less threatening position. “Are you Ben’s son?”
The boy nodded, with fear in his eyes.
“Are you hurt?”
The boy shook his head. He still had tears running down his face.
“What’s wrong?”
The boy pointed in the direction of his house. “Those men are going to hurt my parents,” said the boy, with a trembling voice. “My dad went to the neighbor’s house, so he wasn’t here when they showed up. They came to the house and wanted food. They said they would leave if my mom gave them something to eat.” The boy’s face contorted as he tried to keep himself from crying. “I was outside and they grabbed me and told her to open the door or they would hurt me. They kicked my puppy. My mom opened the door. When my dad got back, they got him,
too. That’s when I got away.”
Dylan’s heart sank into his stomach. He knew he had to help them.
“How many?
“Two.” The boy held up two trembling fingers.
“Guns?”
The boy nodded.
“Do you know what kind of guns?”
“I think they were shotguns.” The boy closed his eyes as he thought. “They looked like the kind my dad uses to hunt birds.”
Dylan nodded. “Listen to me carefully. I am going to try to help your parents. You need to follow me and hide by the river. I have friends there and they’ll help. Okay?”
The boy nodded and wiped the tears from his face. He stood up, and Dylan could see that the boy was barely eight years old. The boy picked his little dog up and touched his cheek to the dog’s soft fur.
“Follow me. Let’s hurry.”
They ran through the corn back toward the campsite. Curious and concerned looks of both Kevin and Mary met them when they exited the field. Kevin shrugged his shoulders in the distance. He was confused. Why was Dylan running back toward them with a boy and the puppy?
Dylan stopped in front of Kevin and leaned over, resting his hands on his knees and breathing deep. He took a deep breath and spoke. “This is Ben’s son. He told me that two men with shotguns are at his house. His parents are in trouble.”
The curious look on Kevin’s face faded to a distant stare. He clenched his swollen right hand and tried to make a tight fist. He still felt weak and Dylan knew that. “What’s the plan? I owe this guy something.”
