by Kurt Gepner
When the composite roofing on most homes had caved in upon the internal fire, the incredibly heavy rains of that day had swiftly extinguished the flames. But the metal roof on their house had been cooled on one side by the deluging water and had resisted the flames much longer. Unlike other homes, the fire that swept through his brother’s house had exhausted nearly all of its fuel before the drenching rain had soaked it into extinction.
Their property adjoined a commercial, brick building, which had suffered its own, significant devastation. Recessed along the north side of the commercial building was where their garage stood. Hank couldn't see it from where he was poised and he feared that it had been lost between the two infernos. But he held onto a thread of hope, knowing that the garage had no power running to it, and it drove him to take one step and another toward where it should be.
Just as he was able to see the northwest corner of the garage, whole and sound, he heard a noise that sent a shiver down his spine and stopped his heart cold. The shriek of a young child split the air! Hank closed the space to the garage in a sprint, pulling Whisper free of its holster within three strides. As he skidded to the chained gate, he heard another sound that paralyzed him with joy.
"Ella!" It was the voice of his nephew, Steven. "That hurt!" He was whining at his sister in full sibling form. "Why did you do that?" the boy demanded as he came into Hank's view. Steven was vigorously rubbing the side of his head.
"I told you two to play quietly!" Marissa's voice steamed from inside the garage.
Unbidden and with astonishing speed, tears of relief sprang from Hank's eyes. "Steven!" He cried.
The seven-year-old boy looked up and squealed, "Uncle Henry!" Steven ran to the chained gate. Hank reached over the five-foot barrier and grabbed his nephew’s outstretched hands. In one long hoist, he pulled Steven over the gate and wrapped his arms, double folded, around the child.
"I'm so happy to see you," Hank bawled. The boy's arms were wrapped around his uncle's neck as they pressed their foreheads together.
With a most earnest expression, gazing deep into Hank’s eyes, Steven said, "Uncle Henry, you smell really bad."
Hank laughed and cried and squeezed the boy harder.
"Uncle Henry!" Ella shouted as she ran up to the gate, hopping up and down to be lifted over.
Hank set his barefooted nephew down and reached over to his niece. With a great deal more effort, and grunting, he pulled the nine-year-old girl over the gate. They held each other tightly. Then a friendly voice in front of him said, "Hullo." He opened his eyes and saw his sister-in-law, Marissa, smiling at him. "Where did you come from?" She asked as if they had crossed paths while strolling through the park.
After liberal doses of affection, Hank inquired about his brother. The news was neutral: He had not yet returned from where he worked in Hillsboro. Marissa didn't entertain the subject, instead she guided Hank to the back yard, beneath a crabapple tree. They sat in a pair of sturdy lawn chairs, the ones Hank had built for their tenth wedding anniversary. Hank dropped his pack, peeled off his Drover’s coat and sank gratefully into the blissful relaxation of tree shade on a blistering hot day. Marissa retrieved a pair of water bottles and a first aid kit from the garage.
"Let's dress you in some clean bandages, while we're catching up," Marissa said and she flipped open the clasp of her mid-sized kit. "Shall we?" Hank finished guzzling his bottle of water, then nodded with a big sigh of satisfaction. Marissa chuckled softly and handed him the other bottle.
As Marissa redressed Hank’s wounds, he related a few highlights of the events that led him there. When his telling got to the bridge, he couldn’t bear to speak of the woman he killed. Marissa encouraged him to go on, but it took him a very long moment to find his voice. Then he finished his story with news of the police and gang activity.
When Marissa began her tale it was nearly identical to his, but then they immediately diverged. Marissa had instantly rushed her children outside, and when she saw the arcing power lines, they took shelter in their unpowered garage. The eighty-year-old building protected them from the worst of the storm, but they couldn't avoid choking on the billowing black smoke. As soon as they were able, they went out to assess the damage.
It was obvious to Marissa that some great disaster had struck the city when she discovered that all of the homes around her block had suffered the same fate. She quickly inventoried her garage and found a mixed bag. They had just packed their trailer for a Renaissance Fair that was scheduled for that weekend. Renaissance Fairs showcased costumes and skills from different times ranging from the late Roman Empire to the Early Classical period. Her family was heavily involved in historical reenactments, so they had an abundance of medieval equipment, which was entirely housed in their garage.
Among that equipment were two, very large, weatherized tents. One was a pavilion, capable of sheltering more than twenty people. The other could comfortably house eight people. There was a full complement of cooking equipment, including modern propane burners. Several cases of bottled water had also been packed, for which Hank was imminently grateful.
The last bundle in the trailer was the family's combat gear. This included authentic armor and combat ready swords. Marissa was, among a variety of eclectic talents, an expert fencer with the rapier. Presently she had the one that had been custom-made for her, with a rosewood handle, belted to her waist.
What they did not find in their inventory was anything resembling food. Before the cinders had cooled, Marissa had armed herself and gone down to the convenience store with her terrified children in tow.
The store was already being raided when she arrived. A determined mother, wielding a sword, was apparently enough incentive for the other looters to give Marissa clear access to what was left. She pulled what she could into the three canvas bags that she had brought. Presently, she told him, they had already consumed half of their groceries. Conservatively, there was only enough for a couple more days.
When Marissa and her children returned to their home, a man was rummaging through their garage. Although she had a weapon, real confrontation frightened her to the point of nausea. The man hadn’t noticed them and she thought to hide with her children behind the garage, but then Steven asked, "Who is that in our garage, Mommy?"
The man was startled and before he could react, Marissa ordered the siblings out of the way and drew her sword. "Drop everything and get out of there!" Marissa demanded.
"This is my stuff, Lady," the man complained.
"Not anymore," Marissa replied. The man tried to open the sliding bay door. "It’s locked from the outside," Marissa said. "This is the only way out."
"Listen…," the man began.
"OUT! NOW!!!" Marissa savagely screamed.
The man looked as if he were weighing his options, giving consideration to the weapon, the woman and the situation. Finally, he decided to set down his load and hold up his hands. "Okay," he said. "Just let me out of here."
Clearing the doorway, Marissa stood close. When the man got through, he looked at the blade and said, "That’s not even sharp." Marissa thought to poke him, because although the edges were dulled for safety, the tip was not. During combat reenactments, the sword tips were capped to render them harmless. She had removed that particular safety feature. But it didn’t matter, she couldn’t bring herself to actually stab him.
She must have looked as frightened as she felt, because the man grabbed the blade with his right hand and jerked her forward. He pinned the blade against the door jam and punched her in the face.
At that point of relating her experiences, Marissa stopped her narration to roll her bottom lip down for Hank to see. The pulpy sore that she had acquired in that exchange was turning white around its jagged edges. Hank winced with suitable empathy and then she went on with her story.
"Something snapped inside me, Hank." She spoke with a vacant, distant look in her eye. "I swore I wasn't going to hold back." Calling on her expertise in fencing, Maris
sa brought the hilt of her rapier high and snapped his head back with a blow to his chin. The man had not counted on the fact that a rapier is made of spring steel, which allowed the blade to bend to an extraordinary curve and then return to its original, rigid, straight form. Right after she knocked his head back, she put her palm right on his sternum and pushed. He sprawled hard on his spine.
She didn’t wait for him to stand. Keeping her distance she stabbed him through his right calf. He screamed and pulled his leg back. Then she stabbed him in the left calf. He started to cry and beg for his life.
"I’m not going to kill you," she told him. "Just get out of here!"
The man started crawling away, so she stabbed him in the buttock and told him to "Get moving!" He ran away, limping. After that she barricaded her yard and chained the gates.
It didn’t matter, however, that she’d taken those precautions. On the first night some people tried to break into the garage. They beat on the door and broke out her window. She stabbed blindly through the shattered panes and felt her blade sink into flesh.
Marissa paused in her narration to give her brother-in-law a deliberate and awful stare. "I think that I killed somebody, Hank." Her face became flushed and her voice quavered, but no tears came to her eyes. "I think that I killed somebody and I don’t care, because my children are safe."
Hank returned her awful stare with a grim countenance of his own. "You've done nothing wrong, Marissa." He tugged briefly on his beard. "I'd like to say a lot of things to you, but the only things that matters right now are your children, your family and your friends. You can't second-guess yourself where they are concerned. If you do, one of them may end up dead." Hank paused and looked her level in the eye. "You did the right thing, Marissa." He nodded to the two children who were swinging on a play structure not more than twelve feet from the collapsed husk that was once their home. "They're proof that you did the right thing."
Waving her hand in faux nonchalance, Marissa said, "It doesn't really matter, now does it?" Hank gave her a meaningful look, but she was tilting her head back and blinking away whatever emotion that threatened to expose itself. "Anyway," she said with a conversational tone, "I blocked off the windows and doors and stayed awake all night." As if an afterthought she added, "As you might expect."
"The next day I spent barricading the place and digging a toilet, which is in the far corner of the yard, if you should need it." She pointed it out to Hank. "On Friday I tried to salvage some things from around the neighborhood: A few garden tools, a Santa Claus candle, other odds and ends," she said with a flip of her hand.
"Everybody around here has a job, except one eccentric, elderly lady. She either didn't survive or she was away when it happened." In an abrupt non sequitur, Marissa stood and asked Hank, "So, I assume you've come by for my world famous Spam and olive casserole?" With a wry smile she added, "Of course, it won’t technically be a casserole since I have no oven to bake it in."
Hank looked up at her and opened his mouth to speak, but croaked instead. Marissa gave him her undivided attention. He blurted, "I've come to take you and the kids to my Mountain Meadow."
Clapping together her hands, Marissa said, "Sounds great! I'm all for it." Resolution tempered her voice. "You and the children go on ahead... I trust them in your care, like no other... And as soon as Matthew gets here, we'll catch right up to you. Of course, you’ll give me directions…"
The temptation to roll his eyes was greater than Hank could resist. "I'm not leaving you behind, Marissa."
"Well," she countered, "it doesn't make sense to hang out with me, considering the distance and obstacles and so on. I'm not leaving without my husband."
"Be rational, Marissa," Hank implored. "We need those tents and all that gear in your trailer."
"Then take it," she said with a relinquishing wave of her hand.
"There's no way I could pull that thing by myself!" Hank was becoming flustered. "I need your help, even to have a chance of getting it up the overpass."
"I'm not leaving without my husband," Marissa said firmly, lifting her chin defiantly.
Hank tugged on his beard and fought against the pain of what he was about to say. "Look, Marissa. Matt works twenty-five miles..."
"Twenty-six point four," she corrected. "We’ve measured."
Hank brought up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "All right, then. Twenty-six point four. It doesn't matter." Hank's frustration and sense of loss were surfacing. "If he was going to make it, he would have been here by yesterday... At the latest," he added pointedly. Marissa frowned, silently staring at him. "We've got to face it: Matt isn't coming home."
"No, Hank!" Marissa hopped to her feet. "I don't have to face it. There's nothing to face! Matt will be here and I'm waiting for him!"
Hank's patience finally snapped. He jumped to his feet directly in front of his sister-in-law. She was a solidly built woman of five feet and ten inches in height, but Hank was mountainous before her and his temper erupted from its dormancy. "Do you think it's easy for me to say these things?!"
Hank had never before raised his voice in her presence. Marissa's eyes were wide in shock. "Matt is my very best friend and my brother! Do you think it's just a game for me to suggest that he may be dead?!" Tears flooded from Hank's eyes. "I'm here to save your God damned life and YOU need to honor your children, and husband, by packing up your shit and coming with me!"
Marissa dropped into the lawn chair behind her. Her brother-in-law’s rant shocked her out of her resistance. She knew Hank loved her and even more so, her children. And if it were possible, Hank loved his brother above all others, even his own wife and children, it sometimes seemed.
Hank spun away and screamed his fury and frustration to the charred wreckage that was once a house so full of memories. He looked over at his niece and nephew, who had stopped swinging and sat motionless, mouths agape, staring at him. Hank couldn't look at them. He walked away from their gaze, behind the garage and squatted with his back against the wall.
After a time, Marissa's voice filled the void that had grown between them. "Of course you're right, Hank. I was being irrational. But I suppose you might suffer me to blame our extraordinary circumstances for my behavior…" After the slightest pause, she added, "Won't you?"
Hank chuckled dryly, with a humor that he did not feel, and looked up at Marissa from under the brim of his hat. Her expression was so sincere that he laughed, despite his morbid feelings.
"Mommy?" Ella’s voice was tentative. Marissa looked at her daughter.
"Yes, Ella," inquired Marissa with a most composed voice.
"Is Daddy dead?" The young girl’s voice quavered.
Marissa put out her arms to her daughter, who ran and fell into them. "No, Little Girl," she reassured as she brushed fingers through the blond tangles upon her child’s head.
"But," sobbed the girl, "Uncle Henry said…"
"Shhh…" Marissa stopped Ella from saying the words. "Your Uncle Henry merely presented one of many scenarios." She patted her daughter reassuringly upon her back. "Your daddy is strong, but he worries a lot for other people. He probably spent some time where he works to make sure that all of his friends were cared for. I have no doubt that he'll be along presently."
Ella cuddled into the security of her mother's arms and sniffed away her tears. Marissa kissed the top of her daughter’s head and shot a glance at Hank. The big man frowned and blinked at her. Steven helped himself to a portion of his mother’s lap and she kissed his head, too. Together, they sat in silence for a while.
As most seven-year-old boys are not made to sit quietly, so too was the case with Steven. He became antsy with the silent bonding and began to squirm. Finally, he said, "Ella? Let’s pretend we’re Hobbits climbing a mountain with Gandalf and Aragorn."
"I don’t want to," Ella replied as she pressed her cheek against her mother’s shoulder.
"How about if you’re Gandalf," Steven coaxed, "and I’m Aragorn?"
"I
said, no, Steven." Ella was insistent.
"Okay…" her brother sank, like a deflating balloon.
They were quiet for a while longer. Hank sat his rump down on the ground and stretched out his legs. He allowed some of the tension of the day to drain out of his aching back. For just a moment he permitted himself to be glad that these two children were safe. Hank listened to Steven’s creative scenarios with a private smile.
"What if you’re Arwen and I’m Spiderman and we’re fighting Lord Voldemort in a tower, over a volcano?" Steven enthusiastically temped his sister to play. His earnest exuberance was returned with a smile.
"All right," Ella said. "But I get to be Gallihandra of Dhinnery Cove"
Steven grinned. "Okay," Steven agreed as he bounded from his mother’s lap. Soon the two were scampering over the play structure, slaying evil foes and fighting the powers of darkness, completely unmindful of the burned down home that formed one border of their imaginary world.
CHAPTER THREE
Hank smelled something cooking and realized that he was very hungry. His forehead was resting on his arms, which were folded over his knees. His body ached and his throat was parched. Sudden realization that he had dozed off flooded his mind. He jerked his head up and saw that the shadows had stretched out several feet since he had sat down. He pushed himself erect and stretched mightily, simultaneously enjoying the flood of relief and wincing at the accumulation of pain.
Wandering into the garage, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The interior was dim and the aged, dark wood of the rafters appeared nearly black. A recently refinished, solid-oak door, made a table across a pair of sawhorses. Along the wall opposite from the doorway, shelves had been built to store the many boxes of things that they wanted to keep, but had no use for. A six-foot section, along the middle and bottom of the three shelves, had been cleared for sleeping bags. Many boxes were stacked in front of the loaded trailer that was ready to be pulled out through a side-sliding garage door. Aside from the haphazard box arrangement, which was a function of lacking any better place to keep them, the garage had been tidied up and made into a homey shelter.
