A. R. Shaw's Apocalyptic Sampler: Stories of hope when humanity is at its worst

by A. R. Shaw

He put down the items and noticed both girls quietly watching him with four blue eyes. It began to rain outside, which he welcomed because it would help clean away what had taken place earlier.

  Marcy was shaking now, either from shock or the cold, he didn’t know which, but he asked Bang to close the open door.

  “Macy, go look for jackets or blankets; something to wrap her up in,” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said, and wandered off to plunder the aisles.

  “Marcy, I’m Graham. I met your sister and Sheriff early this morning. I tried to help you earlier before . . .” He chose not to continue the thought. He looked up at her that her teeth were now chattering too. “It’s okay. We’re going to get you warmed up and fix your leg. Then we are all going to get out of here,” he said as Macy ran up holding an armload of XXL-size heather gray sweatshirts. She’d found them somewhere in the store. They were huge and bore the logo of the town’s name across the chest.

  “These are all I could find,” she said as she rushed over.

  “They’re perfect,” Graham said, and sat Marcy up to pull one over her. Then he balled up another one and put it under her head as a pillow. He laid the others, layer after layer, over the girl. He overlapped them and tucked them under her sides as if folding a burrito. “We’ll get you warmed up in no time,” he said, then added, “We need to get something warm into her too.” He was afraid Marcy might be going into shock. He looked around for an answer and then remembered that there was a microwave to warm fast food next to the deli.

  “Macy, you and Bang go see if you can find clean cups, bottled water and teabags or hot chocolate. Use the microwave by the deli to make her something warm to drink, but make sure the water’s clean,” he said as he sterilized several sewing needles with the flame of a cigarette lighter. He sat them on a clean paper towel to cool, and then decided that the larger thread would be the best way to go since it was sturdier and had less lint than the other. Luckily, one of the needles had a fairly large eye he hoped the wider thread would fit through.

  He checked under the compression and saw that the hatchet cut had stopped bleeding but the swelling had increased. Graham knew it needed to be cleaned and dressed as soon as possible.

  Bang and Macy must have found something appropriate because he and Marcy could hear the microwave humming. “Looks like they’ve got something for you,” he said to her. She smiled a little, but her teeth continued to chatter.

  “I need to rip your pants leg open more,” he said to her, and she nodded. He grabbed each side and ripped the edges all the way down as cleanly as possible. When he got to the hem, he gave a little more effort and then just slipped it over her shoe. After he had moved the blood-stained excess out of the way, he wetted several paper towels and gently tried to clean off the dried blood from her calf.

  Macy and Bang showed up smiling and bearing a steaming cup of cocoa. Bang carried the remnants of their excursion: a few unopened bottles of water, paper cups, plastic spoons, and an opened package of Swiss Miss. Where they had found water was a mystery to Graham.

  “Perfect,” Graham said as he helped Marcy sit up. They all watched her, so she grinned weakly and a little sheepishly, but she drank it all down.

  “Feel a little better?” Graham asked. At least she’d stopped shaking so much. He took a deep breath and said to the girls, “I’ve got to get this cleaned out and closed. I’m sorry, Marcy, it’s going to hurt.” Both girls looked ready to cry. “It has to be done. The sooner we finish it, the faster we can get out of here,” he said, trying to help them understand.

  Macy reached over to help her sister roll to her side. “Just hold on to me, Marce,” she said.

  Bang appeared silently on the other side of the counter, pulling the makeshift sweater blanket over the girl to help cover her back. Graham nodded at him and the boy reached over and opened the various items they needed for the job, getting them ready for Graham.

  Graham opened one of the water bottles and dampened several more paper towels. He cleaned up around the wound. Bang struggled to open the heavily sealed saline bottle while Graham used the alcohol to clean his own hands. Watching Bang wrestle with the bottle would have been funny in any other situation, but not now.

  After smelling the alcohol in the air, Marcy started to whimper a little. “That smells like the doctor’s office,” she said. Macy held onto her sister, trying to soothe her. Graham would almost rather kill another man than do this—but only almost.

  When Bang handed him the opened bottle triumphantly, Graham grinned at him, showing his appreciation.

  “Okay, Marcy, the first thing we have to do is clean this out. It’s going to be cold and it’s going to sting. Just hold onto Macy and breathe. Don’t hold your breath. I’ll go as fast as I can,” he said.

  Marcy didn’t look up or acknowledge him. She only held onto Macy and buried her head into her sister’s neck. Graham began to spread the wound open, as gently as he could with his left hand. She made no sounds of discomfort yet. He popped open the bottle top and squirted a test stream, arching it across the floor. “Okay, Bang, I need you to come over here and hold onto her leg to help keep it still.”

  Macy tightened her hold on her sister as a warning of what was to come. Graham started the stream at the higher end, working as deeply as he could and flushed more blood out of the wound. Marcy moaned and her leg shook involuntarily. “I’m sorry, Marcy,” Graham said to her, hoping she knew it was true.

  He picked up the pace to get it over with quicker. The girl moaned louder and Macy tightened her grip. Big tears streamed down Macy’s face as she repeatedly said, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Graham focused completely on the task at hand. He used up the entire bottle of saline and then took most of Bang’s pile of gauze, pushing on the wound in hopes of stemming the new flow of bright red blood. Graham held the pressure on Marcy’s leg, and her moans subsided a little. He noticed she gulped air now and then, and held her breath. “Don’t do that, Marcy. Breathe normally, or you’ll make it worse. I’m sorry, but we’re halfway there now. You’re a brave girl.”

  The rain outside got heavier and made plunking sounds against the pavement so loud it could be heard inside. Occasionally Sheriff was distracted by it when he wasn’t fixated on the people doing what must be done. Once he whined, when he knew the girl was hurting, but stood where he was, alternating between watching his companions and guarding the door of the store.

  Graham wiped dry the injury and then the area around Marcy on the counter. He put several more paper towels under her leg, getting it ready to sew up. He reapplied alcohol to his hands, hoping this would help keep infection down, then wiped carefully around the wound and let it dry. He threaded the needle, knotting one end, and glanced at Bang, who gave him a sympathetic smile.

  Graham had no idea what he was doing. He’d only seen it done once before, and he hoped that was enough direction to get him started. The gash was about four inches long, with the worst part about an inch and a half deep. He thought it would be best to just start at the right end and pull the sides together as he went along. He would try to space the stitches evenly and use enough of them to close the wound. He wanted to do it right the first time.

  “All right, Marcy,” he said, “We’re almost done. This last part is going to hurt again but then we’ll be done and we can get out of this place. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, just do it,” she cried from under her coverings. Macy nodded at him.

  “Good girl,” he said.

  Graham first held the two ends together and pushed a clean ice cube against the skin to help deaden the nerve cells, then started sewing in the middle. As he pushed the needle through the skin, he worked his way down and then tied it off. He continued from the middle up, again using ice cubes to help numb the pain as much as he could. Marcy began to scream. By the time he pulled the last one through, he was shaking and his eyes were tearing up. He wiped the site clean and applied antibiotic ointment. Bang looked
sheet white as he handed Graham a large bandage to cover it up.

  He pulled Marcy into his arms and held her, whispering, “I’m so sorry I had to hurt you, but it’s over now.” He let her go, and on his way to the pharmacy area wiped away his own tears. He thought he would have to break into the pharmacy, but as it was, the door was already open. Graham tried to remember what he’d been prescribed for the finger incident, but he could only remember it started with a D.

  There were rows of white shelves behind the main counter with large bottles in alphabetical order. He found the D’s: Demerol, Depakote, Depo-Provera . . . dopamine, doxazosin, doxycycline. “That’s it, doxycycline!” he said, and then thought to himself, God, this could be dangerous; how much do I give her? He looked around for some kind of guide and saw a stack of rather thick books on the counter; one was titled Merrill’s Drug Encyclopedia. He turned quickly to doxycycline and it read:

  Doxycycline is a tetracycline antibiotic. It kills certain bacteria or stops their growth. It is used to treat many kinds of infections, such as dental, skin, respiratory, and urinary tract infections. It also treats acne, Lyme disease, malaria, and certain sexually transmitted diseases.

  “Bingo!” he said, but then realized it didn’t tell him how much to give her. He remembered taking one twice a day, and thought he’d just go with that for her as well.

  The nonsensical thought of dispensing a few into one of those honey-colored pill bottles occurred to him. But things are different now. I need to think like it, Graham said to himself. Their lives depended on him thinking in this new world, not the old one.

  He grabbed the entire bottle and looked around for ibuprofen too. Then he looked at the book in his hands, and decided it needed to go with him as well. He searched around for something to carry all of this in and found a bright red empty cooler lying against the wall. He laid the jumbo bottle of antibiotics in along with the pharmaceutical encyclopedia. The thought crossed his mind just to take all the drugs on the shelf, but he knew there would be pharmacies along the way. What mattered now was just to get everyone out of here. He grabbed a bottle of Tylenol with codeine, knowing that it could come in handy.

  Graham stopped at the first aid aisle once again and picked up more tubes of Neosporin and their generics and as much gauze and bandages as he could see. Keeping Marcy’s cut clean would be a real problem.

  As he approached the kids he noticed that they looked a little stunned after the morning’s events. “Hey, Bang, let’s all have one of those juice boxes! Here, Marcy, I want you to take one of these. You’ll need to have twice a day. And one of these painkillers”—he handed her the bottles—“every six hours.”

  “I think I need to eat something before I do,” she said.

  “That’s probably a good idea. Macy, see if you can find her some crackers or something to eat. In fact, you and Bang take carts and load up as much on edible food items as you can find. I need to find a truck we can use to load this stuff up. We’ll go to your dad’s apartment first and then make plans from there. I don’t want to stay here tonight and I’m sure you guys don’t want to either.” They all nodded in agreement.

  “Graham, I . . . uh . . . need a bathroom,” Macy said as she pulled one of the oversize sweatshirts on. It fell nearly to her knees.

  “Please hurry and don’t go far,” Graham answered.

  He needed a bathroom too. He picked up his own jacket lying on the table and put it on. “You guys stay right here. I’ll be right back. Sheriff, you stay here and watch these guys.”

  The dog looked up at Graham as if he knew exactly what he meant.

  23

  Scouting Around

  Graham stepped out into the dampness of the empty parking lot. It was past noon, and he was thinking about lunch but, noticing the smoke rising out of the blue garbage bin, he did not have much of an appetite even though he’d not eaten since the day before.

  Graham stood still, one hand on his rifle, scanning the horizon for usable vehicles. He headed across the street where several residences lined the streets and apartment complexes lay beyond. Graham saw a few cars in driveways and along the street, but he saw no trucks. He knew he’d need something with four-wheel drive where he was going. To the right, he noticed a reddish Toyota SUV, but he had no idea if there were keys in it.

  He set off in that direction when he heard a rustling. Farther down the road, he noticed three deer pulling at the green lawn of a yard. It was yet another reminder of encroaching wildlife and the need to get somewhere safe from their predators. Camping out in a festering grocery store held no appeal for him, knowing the smells would bring in more than just the deer looking for tender grass.

  Graham approached the truck and tried the door, but it was locked. He took in a deep breath, knowing he’d have to go inside the home to see if he could find the keys.

  With a peaked roof and matching doorway, the little white house was edged in green. “It must have been built in the forties or fifties,” he said under his breath. These little postwar houses had been put up quickly to accommodate the troops coming home after the Second World War.

  Whoever lived here took pretty good care of the place. Even the concrete walkway had recently been power-washed. He did not bother knocking, but simply tried the door and found it unlocked.

  The darkness of the interior seemed daunting. He opened the door farther, but slowly, as if someone might come to meet him, which Graham knew was not likely. The only smells he encountered were mild, musty and moldy but not of death or decay. It was just like some grandmother’s closet or basement filled with mothballed coats.

  He had looked first by the door before he stepped in, hoping there would be a set of keys on a nearby table or on the wall. He looked around the small living room as the light shone in and revealed a brown moleskin sofa facing the blackened screen of a TV no longer needed. The back of the sofa created a hallway that extended beyond to what Graham figured must be the kitchen.

  Graham stepped onto the chestnut parquet flooring. “The real stuff, not the fake kind. Must be the original,” he said absentmindedly.

  Still with his hand on the door, he said, “Anybody home?” When no one answered he left the door open, looking back across the street, feeling tethered to the kids. It was as if they were his own, or at least like he needed them to feel like his own. Who else’s would they be? he thought. He released the doorknob and began walking through the strange home and into the kitchen. He hoped the kitchen would be the next likely place someone would leave their keys, possibly on the counter or on a hook by the garage door.

  Graham peered around the well-lit kitchen, which was clean and tidy right down to a candle placed in the center of a small island. This is a redone kitchen for sure, he thought. No way this cabinetry is original. They’d been redone with raised panel oak, and the countertops themselves were a light peach laminate, obviously not up to date but definitely not harking back to the 1940s, either. The place was oddly neat as a pin. Had someone been home when they died, their stuff, in the haste of disorderly living, would be everywhere. He looked around the countertops and a small oak square kitchen table beyond for keys, but with no luck.

  “Maybe the bedroom,” he said aloud and looked to the short hallway he’d already passed that must lead there. Graham held his jacket up to his nose and mouth. He expected the worst as he turned the doorknob. He opened the door an inch, then two, but what he saw was only a neatly made chenille-covered bed.

  “Nobody’s home,” he said to no one in particular. Just behind him was the door leading to the garage, possibly the last hiding place for the keys.

  He opened the unlocked metal door, thinking it was surely a replacement and not the original to the old house. He then peered inside the darkness of the one-car garage, reached for the likely light switch, and flipped it up. By accident, in the process of his search, he dislodged what sounded like keys, sending them jangling to the floor.

  As his eyes adjusted to the new light, Gra
ham was surprised to see an older but well-maintained gold and white International Harvester Scout, probably a 1975. It had two rows of seats and a decent cargo area in the back for supplies. He could probably load the bikes up on the top, tying them to the rack. He located the keys he’d dropped and examined them. The ring only contained the keys for the Scout, not the Toyota out front. He hoped this thing was a four-by-four. Graham hit the garage door opener and heard a familiar racket as the door lifted.

  He walked over to the driver’s side and opened the locked door. He inspected it for the necessary conversion to switch over to four-wheel drive for rough terrain, which to his surprise it had. He started the vehicle up and laid his rifle in the passenger’s seat area. It smelled clean and there was no litter lying around. He was happy to see it registered a full tank of fuel.

  It dawned on Graham that this must have been Campos’s doing: he must have gone house to house, getting them ready for the new residents he expected. He truly wished he hadn’t had to kill the man; part of Graham would always feel guilty about it, because the truth was that part of Campos had been good—the part of him that wanted to make this town clean again and the part that had cared for Marcy. Graham knew that part of him, too, because he’d seen it just before he died in the look he gave Marcy. But the other parts of Campos just couldn’t have been allowed to remain. Graham knew all lives were especially precious in this new world, and that made his guilt even more so. He laid his forehead onto the steering wheel for a minute while he let the engine run and idle down.

  It was only late afternoon, but already Graham felt spent. It’s time to get the kids out of here, he thought before backing out of the skinny driveway and onto the main road. He left the vehicle running and parked right outside the market to warm up the inside. The kids already had two carts full of boxed food ready to load. Graham walked over to Marcy.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her.