by A. R. Shaw
Her glance hovered over Nicole now, whose eyelids she continued a lazy war with. She was failing slowly to keep them open and trained on Sloane. She’d noticed that Nicole did this before she slept. Perhaps she was afraid she and her girls would leave her and run off somewhere. Keeping her eyes on Sloane meant she couldn’t go anywhere. Not a chance, kiddo.
With her Glock in her lap she continued to nibble her energy bar and watch her surroundings, guarding her children. Then her eye caught movement along the shadows of the wall—not only dancing flames but the silhouette of a cat coming her way as well. Her breath sucked in, as she tried to make sense of its direction. “Kitty?”
And then it stood at the edge of the couch, looking at her with its green eyes.
“Hey, where’ve you been?”
The gray cat rubbed against the dusty tapestry of the couch. “Come here, mister,” she said, patting her leg.
The cat didn’t hesitate; it soon slinked onto her lap without hesitation and curled up into a donut between her crossed legs. “Well, make yourself at home,” she said.
As she petted the cat’s long gray fur, the purring began almost immediately. “You’re sure a strange guy. I thought you might be feral but you seem totally tame.” His green eyes, in dreamy ecstasy, acknowledged her words momentarily. She glanced at her girls to see if their eyes were open and debated briefly whether or not to wake them, then priority won out and she let them sleep. There was time tomorrow for the cat to bring up their spirits.
As she pulled her fingers through his fur, there was hardly a snarl in his long mane, as if he’d been cared for daily. “You must be someone’s house-cat. Let’s see, no tags and you’re not skinny. How did you get here? You must have come through the broken window but how did you get through the woods in such good condition?” He didn’t give her an answer but continued to purr.
She leaned back against the wall and soon, with the warmth of the house coupled with petting the cat and feeling his vibration in her lap, Sloane closed her eyes and fell asleep.
29
Worries
The next morning Sloane was first aware of the muffled chatter of her girls. Their voices sounded farther away than Sloane was comfortable with and then she heard the bing, dong, dinging sounds coming from what her consciousness told her was the piano in the far corner. What harm could it do? Let the girls live a little, her mind kept telling her. But in the end her practical side broke free from the side of her brain longing to fall into another sleep cycle. She lifted her hand to her eyes, rubbing them, then stretched.
Her knees ached from staying in the same crossed position all night and having slept in a sitting position, leaned against a brick wall, her muscles screamed at her for not finding a more comfortable position. Survival in middle age meant even more pain than normal.
The girls soon recognized their mom’s yawns and they hurriedly paced back to her side.
“Good morning, Mom,” Mae said, her voice husky and raw still.
She peeked at them kneeling in front of her. She smiled to see them somewhat happy, a clear difference from yesterday morning where they had to run for their lives at dawn. Sloane glanced at the fireplace and saw that someone had placed another log on the glowing embers.
“I put another log on,” Wren said.
“Good,” Sloane said and sat up, leaning forward away from the wall. She ached all over. Then she remembered the gray cat. Looking around the room, she asked, “Did you guys see the cat when you woke?”
They looked at each other. “No Mom,” they said, shaking their heads. She was beginning to think they thought she was crazy.
“I swear that same gray cat came over and sat in my lap last night. He was purring and I fell asleep with him right here,” she said pointing to her lap.
“No, we haven’t seen a cat. Maybe he took off before we woke up?” Nicole offered.
“Yeah, maybe.” She was starting to think the cat was a figment of her imagination. Perhaps she was that tired.
“What are we going to do today, Mom?” Wren asked.
“Well, I want you girls to remain inside while I check out the grounds and the other buildings,” Sloane said.
“Cough…cough.” Nicole coughed.
“And that’s why,” Sloane said and ran her hand over Nicole’s forehead to check for fever. Immediately she knew by the scorching touch of her skin that she did in fact have a fever running.
“Lie down, Nicole. Have you had water this morning?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Then Sloane glanced at the other girls, knowing they too might be running temperatures. Wren looked fine but Mae’s eyes were glossy and she knew right away that she too ran a temperature. God, please help them, she prayed to herself. Fevers were known to her now as the hallmarks of death after dealing with the pandemic, and it frightened her like nothing else.
After checking Wren as well, she was thankful she seemed to have escaped the grip of whatever it was the younger two were fighting. “You two need to relax and rest. Wren, let’s see what we can find in the packs for breakfast and I’ll start them on a fever reducer from our med kits. Thank God we still have that.” She pulled the red med kit from her own pack while Wren riffled around in the girl’s identical packs for another bottle of water and something suitable for breakfast.
“Mom, can we heat water over the fire to make the oatmeal packs?”
“Yes, let me see if I can find a kettle or something in the kitchen to heat the water in instead of using our little campfire pot.”
She got up and stretched her legs, then reached for the ceiling and suddenly had the urge to go to the restroom. Then it dawned on her, “Did you guys go to the bathroom?”
Wren nodded and pursed her lips.
“Where?”
“In the bathroom,” she pointed. “The way we did at home. I put a pot in there with a lid. I didn’t think you’d want us going outside. How old is this place? The commode tank is near the ceiling.”
“I’m sure it worked fine in its day. Then toilets were upgraded, kind of like your iPhone used to be.”
She’d never considered using the indoor plumbing, assuming it was too old to work properly, and was glad Wren hadn’t tried. Like an antique you only stare at and occasionally regard as a past symbol, you admire the beauty and ingenuity but you don’t actually use it for its intended purpose.
Located in what she first thought was only a closet under the staircase was a tidy bathroom with a toilet and a pedestal sink. The angled room was so tiny she couldn’t imagine having much else inside. She ducked her head as she entered and attempted to flip the old electric switch on the wall but of course nothing happened. It was a habit of times past; in dark rooms your hand automatically sought the switch on the inside wall. Instead, she left the door open a crack as she did her business and then opened it wider. She found it odd, looking at an antique bathroom and yet they were reduced to lesser means. Then she tried the water knob on the sink, doubting anything would happen, and a trickle of brackish water streamed out, staining the white porcelain an orangy rust color. Figuring her hands were cleaner than the water, she opted to use her sanitary wipes in her pack instead.
Her next mission was food. She passed by the room with the girls still hovering near the warmth from the fire. She could almost see her own breath this far into the house, where the heat had not yet penetrated. She checked outside and found that not only was it foggy but the grounds were a mess, strewn with wild branches scattered every where from the storm. The only way she could tell it was from a recent storm was from the gleaming emerald of the pine boughs that lay scattered in every conceivable direction atop the browner debris. She leaned over the kitchen sink to strain her vision through the outside window, hoping to at least come across Ace, even though she knew he was probably gone to them forever.
She backed away from the sink and looked around at the cupboards, wondering if they in fact contained anything at all. “Where would a kettle be?”
she said to herself. Not wanting to disturb personal belongings, she thought perhaps the ones nearest the stove might be the first place to look and when she opened the old-time cupboard doors she found various cast iron pots and pans. Then she found a brass kettle perfect for their needs. “We’re just borrowing this,” she said to no one in particular. She took hold of the handle, and it was heavier than it looked. She brought the kettle into the gray room and found the girls lying on their backs. Mae’s hands were in the air while she formed different shapes with her fingers; she and Nicole were weaving stories together as children their age did. Sloane was thankful that even though their lives were in danger from the outside and from within they still found a glimpse of safe time to be children once again. It was a blessing to see and to hear their little chatter.
“Did you find something, Mom?” Wren asked, even though she saw her mother coming.
“Yes, I think this will work. The fire isn’t really strong right now; we’ll just scoot some of the embers over and fill it halfway with bottled water. We should have warm water in no time.”
“Are there dishes and things in there? Does the stove work too?” Wren asked.
“I don’t know. I’m sure the kitchen fireplace works well but there’s no power. I mean, we could cook in there but I don’t want to start more than one fire. This will work for now.”
“We should put something over the hole in the door to keep the warm air inside,” Wren reasoned.
“I don’t think we can stay here long term, Wren,” Sloane said, wanting to discourage her daughter from getting too settled.
“Why not? We have everything here. Shelter, and safety at least. They can’t find us here,” Wren reasoned.
“I’m not so sure. I hope that’s true but we can’t get too comfortable here. We need to have a plan if anyone comes around. We need a place to hide,” she said as she used the fireplace poker to maneuver the fire around and added a level area to place the kettle on. She poured a whole bottle of water into the kettle, replaced the lid and sat it on the glowing embers, then pushed more of the red hot embers around the kettle and added another smaller log of wood.
“We’ll need to find more water and dry wood. I’ll check if there’s any in the other buildings today.”
“We could go outside and bring in some of the fallen branches in to dry and use,” Nicole offered and then coughed.
Sloane smiled at her. “You are not going anywhere. You’re sick,” she said and felt her forehead that was even more feverish than it had been before. Both Mae and Nicole were beginning to show a fine mist of sweat over their faces.
Wren met her eyes and she had the same worried expression that she knew mirrored her own. They were stuck here for a while, at least until the girls were better. She only hoped they were safe for the time being.
“Let’s remove some of these blankets for a bit,” she said but Mae complained that she was cold and shivered when Sloane pulled them back. “I know, dove, but your fever is making you feel that way. We need to lower your temperature for a little bit and then I’ll give them back to you, okay?”
She nodded her quivering chin and relinquished the covers, and Nicole did the same.
“How much bottled water do we have left?” Sloane asked Wren.
“We only have what’s in our packs. We left most of it there,” Wren said.
“Should we go back and try to get it?” Wren asked.
Sloane shook her head. “No way. I’ll scout around after breakfast and see if there’s a pump or something else we can use here.”
“There’s a tiny bit of water from the sink but it’s orange and rusty,” Nicole said through an increasingly scratchy voice.
“Yeah, maybe there’s a well or a reservoir on the property. I don’t know, I’ll look around.”
“We do have those water purifying tablets,” Wren offered.
“We can also boil water,” Sloane said and preferred that method over the awful taste the tablets left.
Soon, the kettle began to whistle, so Sloane used a t-shirt from her bag to wrap around the wooden handle and was careful since she injured the hand trying to punch the window pane open the day before. It still hurt but she didn’t think anything was broken. It was the small miracles that helped her every day. She poured the contents of their oatmeal packets into four of the tin mugs from their packs and then poured inside a bit of the steaming water, just enough to reconstitute the oatmeal. Then she opted to use their plastic spoons and pulled out four of them. After a few minutes she stirred the goop that smelled a bit like brown sugar and maple syrup.
Handing one to each girl, Mae said, “Mmm…”
Even with their sore throats the oatmeal was a welcome treat. She hoped their stomachs could keep it down. So far it seemed to be just a throat ailment with a fever, probably brought on by the gas canisters the men used in their shelter. What we’ve come to is this, the gassing of children to force them into a lie of compassion. There is no greater treachery than an entity marauding as saviors and perpetrators of anything but amnesty.
After their meals were done, she cleaned up the dirty dishes by simply wiping them out with a damp towel.
Mae and Nicole’s eyelids were dipping in a drowsy cadence. She hoped the meal and fever reducers would make them feel better but she needed to locate fresh water as soon as possible and for that she needed to explore the grounds.
“Are you okay to watch them, Wren, while I go look around?”
“Yes Mom, but please be careful. What would we do if you didn’t come back?”
The question was an honest one; she needed to answer her. As she strapped on her weapon and zipped up her jacket she tried to formulate an answer. Though nothing came to her she decided to be as honest as possible. “Wren, if I knew the answer to that, we’d be doing it. So far, this is the safest place I can think of now. We’re relatively hidden and the girls are sick; they can’t run through the woods or make it long distances out in the elements.” She shook her head. “No, we stay here for now unless something happens. Then we leave and look for another safe place to hide and bide our time. There is no scenario where I won’t come back to you. Nothing will keep me away. Okay?” she said to her daughter, and it seemed good enough at least for now.
“Okay Mom.”
Before she left, she let the girls have the thinest blanket to keep them covered. They were both fast asleep.
“I won’t be gone long,” she reassured her daughter, “and I’ll look for something to cover the broken pane too.” She took her backpack with all the empty bottles they had in hopes of finding a source of clean water. Wren locked the door behind her, though anyone could reach through and undo the lock.
“I’ll be back to you soon,” she said again and with her weapon drawn, Sloane stepped off the rickety wooden porch steps and down onto the soggy ground. She looked back at the door and Wren gave her a little farewell wave.
Sloane kept her index finger along the slide of her Glock, out and ready. She headed toward the largest of the outer buildings, what looked to her like an ancient barn built in the old way with the peaked roof, though even now, when most of these designs one saw far off in fields showed signs of sagging and dilapidation, from storms taking their toll, not so here. Somehow the building looked as if it could even be used today. Possibly built in the thirties or forties—she had no idea—surely there was a water source in a barn such as this? It must have at one time housed animals, she reasoned.
With each step her boots sank into the mud at least a quarter inch. The resent storms made the earth soggy and mucky. A few times she lifted her boot to squelching sounds and if she wasn’t careful the wild grass would give way and she would slide a little. So while keeping a look out for any dangers she also had to leap at times from grass clump to grass clump in order to remain upright. The barn was situated on an incline and her thigh muscles ached a little by the time she reached the northwest corner.
The weathered barn’s clapboard shingles
looked as if they needed a few new coats of stain, though the structure was as solid as any built today. She peeked around the building and then looked back to the house and saw no one, nothing around, so she walked toward the barn door entrance and attempted to pull the door back. It was locked. “Great,” she said out loud.
Then she walked toward the east side and found that there was an addition she couldn’t see before, built onto the side of the barn in the same style. There was a white front door and chimney and two windows on the front. “Does someone live here?” It certainly looked like living quarters, perhaps for the caretaker.
“Anyone here?” she called out low. There was no answer to her call. She walked up and opened the screened front door, knocked loudly and waited; no one came.
She let the screen door creak back into its latch and stepped off the stone step and looked at the ground. Her own footsteps were clear in the mud.
She continued to walk around, looking for a source of water and finding none. Then she heard, “MOM!” Wren was yelling out the back door and her heart lept in fear. She heeded no safety for herself but ran in the direction of Wren’s scream. Something terrible was happening and as she descended the hill, she slid in the mud and landed on her rump but hastily made her self get up and run toward her children.
“What? What is it?” she asked, running up the steps.
“It’s Nicole. I don’t know…hurry!” Wren yelled in tears.
With her muddy boots on she ran through the kitchen and into the gray room to find Nicole shaking in convulsions. Mae sat by her side crying and holding Nicole’s hand as she shook, unable to stop.
“It’s okay, baby,” Sloane said as she knelt by Nicole and pulled the girl to her side. She wiped her hair away from her face and felt how her fever raged.
“Oh God, please help her.”
“What is it, Mom? What’s making her do that?”
“She having convulsions, probably from the high fever. Quick, get some water and that t-shirt. Let’s strip her clothes off and cool her down as quickly as we can.”
