by Connor Mccoy
He rose from his seat. “Look, you need help?”
“Worry about yourself. You sure you’re not hurt badly?”
Criver rubbed his arm. “Well, I don’t scream when I walk, so I guess that counts as a ‘yes.’”
“You sure took a lot of punishment.” Cheryl emerged from the small kitchen with three paper plates with a mess of chicken on each in hand. “So, what’s your story?”
“I’m just a former security guard.”
“I think I heard that outside. Well, that explains it. I figured you might be an ex-cop.”
Criver watched as Cheryl set down the plates. “I thought you might have been with The Providers, or one of the new gangs popping up,” he said.
Cheryl locked eyes with him. “The Providers are dead.”
The news hit Criver like a ton of bricks. “What?”
“Exterminated. The last of them were taken out last week. Their rivals have been gone for longer than that.”
“Son of a bitch. I visited a camp yesterday and no one said a word. Then who’s in charge?”
Cheryl sat down opposite Criver and started eating the chicken from her plate. “The DIRJ.”
Criver struggled to think of why that was familiar. He had heard those initials before, but not in the past week. “Defiance in Recovery and Justice?”
“The same.” Cheryl cleansed her palate.
“I thought they weren’t even in this area.”
“They’re everywhere. The Coach is their leader in this city.”
Criver slowly brought up a fork of poultry. “Damn.” The Providers had been the dominant force in much of the city since shortly after the Darkness fell. Hearing this news was almost like hearing the president was overthrown.
Besides Criver, Amir stuck his head in his chicken and eagerly tore into it with his open mouth. “Whoa, easy there. C’mon, eat with a fork.” Criver held up one of the forks Cheryl had set down.
Amir eyed it. “I don’t want it,” he said.
“Well, you need to learn to eat like a human being.” Amir’s appearance disturbed Criver already, as well as his savage nature back at the computer building. He didn’t want the boy to act any more like an animal than he already had.
“No!” Amir slammed both hands on the table, giving it a good shake.
Before Criver could retort, Cheryl held out her hand. “Easy. Criver, just let him eat.” Then she lowered her voice. “It’s probably better that he doesn’t hold anything sharp. How long have you known him?”
“I just met him earlier. I don’t know anything about him. The Coach was hunting him.”
“Well, we have to find his family. God knows what’s happening to them if they’re out there looking for him.” Cheryl grabbed a cloth. Amir mostly was done with his dinner, his mouth painted with barbecue sauce. She leaned over the table.
“Here, sweetie.” She wiped his mouth. “You wear your food well.” She pulled back. Amir didn’t smile. “So, would you like to tell us about yourself?” she asked. “How about your full name? Maybe where you live?”
The boy straightened up in his seat. “My name’s Amir Faruq. I’m eight years old. I live in Westown.”
“That’s not too far from here,” Criver said, “We probably can make it there in two hours.”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“Why not?” Cheryl asked.
“They might be waiting for me.”
“The Coach’s men?” Criver asked.
Amir shrank back in his seat. “They—they killed my father.”
“Oh, my God,” Cheryl said in a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
Criver now was kicking himself for bringing up Amir’s parents earlier. He was afraid to ask about the fate of Amir’s mother. “Is there anybody who’s looking for you?” he asked carefully.
Amir shook his head. “My mother died a few days ago. She got sick. No doctors around.”
“So, you’ve been all alone?” Cheryl asked.
“I beg at the camp near my house,” he replied. “I got some soup. It tasted yucky, but I had to eat. I don’t want to die.” He bowed his head. “Then the bad men came. They wanted me to go with them. I ran.”
Criver sank into his chair. That’s probably when he happened upon the boy, running from The Coach’s goons.
Lying on the ground, Amir drew with crayons and pencils on the stack of blank papers. Cheryl and Criver gave him enough space until they were sure he was occupied.
“You can thank my friend, Anna. She just had given birth to her baby boy. She gave me those crayons to encourage me to have my own child.” Cheryl crept down the hall. “I really don’t know what happened to her.” She leaned against the wall. “It’s like the pulse wiped away every link I had to this world.”
Criver glanced at the few photos hanging on the walls. Most of them showed a young man with short brown hair. Only one or two showed Cheryl, and at very young ages. If this was Cheryl’s husband, it was strange that Cheryl wouldn’t figure in many of these pictures. The pulse couldn’t explain that. “I guess there’s no Mister Cheryl Dennis around?”
“No. Just me. Eight years in the army and all I got to show for it was one awkward make-out session in my first year and a pass by a drunk while I was on leave.” She smiled. “I broke his hand.”
“Guess I should be careful offering you a drink in the future.”
“Only if you ask nicely.” She managed a brief smile. “So, what about you? Anybody looking for Thomas Criver today?”
For an instant, he wondered if perhaps Jessica still was out there, perhaps scouring the streets for him. “Not a chance,” he replied bitterly.
“I’m sorry.” She folded her arms. “That sounded a little…angry. I guess with the world going to Hell I can’t blame you.”
Images flashed before Criver’s eyes – the still form of his son Michael inside his crib, Jessica’s wailing, the horrid aftermath where Jessica wandered his house like a ghost before she faded like a dream. “The world went to Hell for me before the pulse hit.”
Cheryl’s lips opened, but no voice came out. Apparently, even this soldier wasn’t sure what to say. She stopped and turned, all business now.
“It’s not going to get better,” she said, lowering her voice. “Before I ran into you, I was tracking down one of his men. I was trying to find out all I could about their operation. Well, I caught him and I made him talk. The Coach is obsessed with capturing children. God knows how many have been stolen off the streets, and there’s no one to stop them.”
She stole another glance down the hall. Amir’s legs were visible, shifting a bit as he continued his artistic endeavors. “He’ll never be safe if he goes home. I don’t think any of us are. The DIRJ believes any kind of organized authority will just bring the divisions that made everyone fire their nukes in the first place, so they’ll tear down anybody who tries to rebuild.”
“They’re that screwed in the head?” Criver swallowed. “Tell me, Sergeant, that you’re hiding a tank under the house.”
“I wish.” Cheryl smirked. “This town is shattering to pieces. Everybody and anybody that could bring sanity to this city is gone.” She stiffened up. “The only way we live is if we leave. Head to the forest. Lose ourselves out there. It’s a hell of a lot better than staying here.”
“Suits me. It’s not like I have anywhere better to go.”
The pair returned to Amir, who had been one busy artist. “Hey, Leonardo da Vinci,” Criver leaned over. “What do you got for us?”
Amir looked up. “Great, huh?”
Criver explored the drawings. Some of them showed Amir with steel skin. Torn heads of gang members littered the ground beside him. A few depicted Criver and Cheryl.
The drawings were like a mirror into Amir’s soul, to the conflict raging within. There was Amir, the survivor, and Amir, the boy. Criver wondered, had the Darkness pulverized this kid’s innocence this badly?
Criver’s boot crunched the soil near the ro
ws of furrows. “You have a green thumb?” About eight furrows had been cut in the soil, but few crops had sprouted—a few carrots, beans, but nothing else.
“I learned a few things from Iraqi farmers.” Cheryl leaned over her garden. “I actually had my first big haul before winter started.” She looked around her backyard. “I guess I was hoping things wouldn’t fall apart so badly. I’m going to have to make sure I bring enough seeds. Who knows where we’ll have to start over.”
“We’re all going to be farmers or hunters.” Criver stared at the wooden fence. It was pretty high, enough that no one easily could look into the yard and spot Cheryl’s veggies. If they had, the yard would have been raided weeks ago.
Suddenly, Amir whisked by Criver so fast he nearly rammed right into him. “Whoa!” Criver called out. Amir already had reached the other side of the yard, definitely enjoying its freedom, or perhaps its security. There were no savages in this yard to get him, to capture him…or to kill him.
“Easy there, kid. You up for a little tag?” Criver dashed after Amir. The boy had stopped near a ramshackle shed in Cheryl’s yard, then ducked into the sandwiched lane between the fence and the shed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Criver followed after him. “But I warn you, as your personal guard, it’s impossible to get away from me.”
Amir had rounded the corner of the building. Criver followed, but instead of finding Amir running away from the shed, he suddenly was met with a leaping mass that slammed him onto his back on the grass.
He yelped in pain. Amir was wrestling with him, pretty hard. “Hey, ow! Cut it out!” This kid was strong. Criver wasn’t even sure this was play anymore.
“C’mon!” He pulled hard, prying Amir off. The boy squirmed loose and then tumbled onto the grass in front of him.
Criver rubbed his lower right cheek. Blood. Amir had slashed him. Criver couldn’t believe Amir had done that on purpose, or did he?
“Hey. Flag on that play. Five-yard penalty,” Criver quipped.
The boy curled up in the shed’s shadow. His eyes caught Criver’s attention. The fear was still there. The boy probably was not even sure why he did what he did. Amir surely didn’t regard Criver as an enemy, but his body’s instincts may have been cultivated, twisted, turned to think of anybody as a potential threat. The way Amir was crouched, it was like an animal in the jungle, knowing he was surrounded by predators.
Criver wiped his hand on the grass, not wanting to show the blood to Amir. He’d either make the boy feel guilty, or perhaps drive Amir further into his own personal hell. “What do you say we save the roughhousing for another time?”
Amir just nodded.
Criver got up. By now Cheryl had joined them. Just the person Criver wanted to see. If he could, he wanted to restore some normalcy to this boy, and he wondered if his new prepper friend might have the answer.
Chapter Five
The latest bucketful of water splashed hard into the tub, swirling the H20 and bubbles around Amir. Cheryl, standing over him, rubbed shampoo into his hair. Criver let the pail drop from his exhausted fingers. “That should do it,” he said.
Amir waved his arm up and down in the water, giving it a good splash. Criver had been right. In addition to cleaning off days, maybe weeks of filth, giving Amir a bath definitely had lightened the boy’s spirits.
Criver sat next to Cheryl. “Thanks,” he said to her, “This means a lot. I didn’t even know if you had any bathwater. It’s bad enough there’s not enough to drink.”
“I was teaching people around here how to dig wells even before the pulse hit.” Cheryl slicked a washcloth with soap. “Cleaning yourself is not a luxury, trust me.” She started rubbing Amir’s shoulders. “You have to watch for things such as sores or cuts and clean them out, because if you get infected, there’s no hospital out there that’s going to treat you.”
Criver watched Cheryl rub the muck off Amir’s back. She had a steady, yet gentle, hand with the boy. It reminded Criver of what a mother might do. For such a strong lady, she had a warm, tender side.
“You’ve given us so much,” Criver said, “Your food, your time, your home. I don’t even know how to thank you.”
Cheryl turned Amir a little so she could get at his right shoulder. “It’s fine. Whatever I have, if it can help anybody...” She trailed off, then started speaking again. “We’re all in the same fix now. We can’t bullshit around anymore.”
“So, what makes Sergeant Cheryl Dennis the way she is?”
She looked over her shoulder, up at Criver. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“Touché.” Criver realized he hadn’t been forthcoming about his own past. As much as he dreaded reliving his own personal hell, he had been avoiding it long enough. “Alright.”
And so, he laid it out, the tale of a man who had had it all, a career in security that paid good money for a home that would house a family that was never to be. He told of his beautiful and intelligent wife, his infant son, whom Thomas had a lifetime to look forward to raising, and how in one moment it all had gone to Hell, from Michael’s death from SIDS, to a crumbling marriage, followed by Jessica’s disappearance and his own wandering through life, both before and since the Darkness came.
Cheryl’s mouth dropped open. It took a moment before she could speak. “My God. I’m so sorry.”
Criver stiffened up. He’d heard those words many times, from friends and colleagues. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate them, they just didn’t help. But looking into Cheryl’s eyes, he got the feeling it was different with her, though he didn’t know why. Real empathy broke through in her voice. She had gone through something. Had she lost a child, too, or did she just understand loss?
Amir’s back was turned. He was playing in the water, using empty butter dishes as toys. Cheryl leaned against the tub. Criver scooted next to her, sensing her veil was about to fall.
“This house is actually my brother’s.” Cheryl pointed to the ceiling. “He was a fireman. His name was Rory. He was about ten years older than me. Our dad died when I was about ten. My mom remarried. She couldn’t make it on her own, or so she said. But my stepdad, he wasn’t…” She shook her head. “He was nobody you’d ever want to meet. She just needed someone to support her and he said all the right things. But he resented me and Rory. He didn’t want kids.”
She curled up closer to the tub. “He especially didn’t care for me. Guess I was too much of a tomboy for him. He had ideas of what girls should be, and I wasn’t it. He let me know what he thought.”
Criver swallowed. Cheryl didn’t seem to want to elaborate. He wouldn’t push her.
“Finally, I just picked up and left. Rory went with me. My mom didn’t want me to go but…” Cheryl cringed. “The life just had gone out of her. She couldn’t stand up to him. Pretty soon, even being in the same city was too much to take. A few years later, I joined the army.”
Criver dreaded his next question. “Where’s Rory now?”
Cheryl sucked in some air. “When I was serving my second tour, he had been trapped in a burning building. His breathing gear was damaged. He got out, but he inhaled too much smoke. He contracted emphysema.” She brought her legs closer to her chest. “He died not too long ago. He left me this house in his will.”
“I’m sorry.” Criver finally understood this lady. Maybe he didn’t understand her life inside and out, but he knew a wounded soul when he found it.
“When the pulse hit, I went to see my mom. She wasn’t in good shape. Her husband just had bailed on her. God knows where he went, and I don’t care. His fat ass probably is being eaten by vultures on the side of some road by now.” She bowed her head. “I did what I could, but she needed to go to a hospital, a working hospital. She died a few days ago.” Cheryl’s lower lip quivered. “I had to bury her myself in her own backyard.”
Cheryl’s words rendered Criver speechless. His son, his only son, at least had had a funeral and a burial. He could not imagine having to b
ury a loved one, whether it was his son or anyone. In her face, Criver saw an angel, an angel whose wings were broken by a life of heartache.
No, maybe those wings weren’t broken after all. Maybe she flew on those wings away from this city, to the army, just as she had from her home. She was looking for something, too, just as Criver was. A purpose. Perhaps someone to belong to, at last.
A pair of brown-skinned arms snaked around Cheryl’s shoulders. She turned. Amir was hugging her.
“Oh, thank you,” she said, sweetly.
“My parents are dead, too,” he said. “We all came from Syria. We thought we’d find a safe home in America, away from the war.” His hands loosened, his face dropping onto the back of Cheryl’s head. “But we didn’t.”
Criver winced. So, Amir hadn’t even been in the United States long. He was a stranger hoping to become part of the bigger American family. Instead his new home had turned into a war zone, probably even worse than the one he had left.
Criver sat on the bed, with Amir lying under the green blanket. A candle on the dresser, the flame sheathed in a glass beaker.
Cheryl passed by the door to the small bedroom. “Amir, are you warm enough?”
“I’m okay,” he said.
Criver exhaled visible breath. With no working heaters, the cold winter made the nights especially hard. “You sure are made of tough stuff,” he told Amir.
“Where are we going?” the boy asked.
“Away from here, to be sure. But this probably will be the last time we sleep in a house for a while. Think of it as a long camping trip. We’ll pitch our tent, fish by a stream…” He looked at the bedroom closet and found something near and dear to his heart. “Hey, how about I teach you how to throw a football?” He walked over and grabbed it. “Out in the woods, we’ll have all the space we need.”
“That’s not a football,” Amir said.
“What?” Criver almost laughed. “Of course it is. The old pigskin.”
