The Last Orchard

by James Hunt

  “Around here,” Charlie said, gesturing toward the back.

  When they entered the house, Ellen and Amy were in the kitchen, their conversation whispered and soft spoken. She smiled when she saw Charlie.

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come when we took him over,” Charlie said.

  “I’d like to,” Amy said.

  Mario kept his head bowed. “I’m sorry for your loss, Senora.”

  Amy smiled. “Thank you, Mario.”

  With Don still wrapped in the sheets, Mario grabbed hold of Don’s feet while Charlie took the shoulders. The pair lifted in unison and then started the journey back.

  But almost as a sign of respect, neither man tired. It reminded Charlie of the funeral processions that were escorted by police, never stopping for red lights or stop signs, until they reached the final resting place.

  Barely halfway to the house, and Charlie felt his back and arms burn. His legs wobbled, but he made it a point to never show how much exertion he was putting toward carrying her husband’s body. He didn’t want her to think that it was a burden. She had enough to worry about.

  By the time they reached the house, Charlie couldn’t feel his arms anymore. He was thankful that she wanted to bury him by a tree on the edge of the property. And despite wanting to drop the two hundred pounds of weight, Charlie and Mario set him down gently, and then took a single deep breath. He turned to Amy, unsure of what else he could say, but she spoke before he had a chance.

  “Ellen said that the boys and I could stay at their place,” she said. “I thought it might be best to wait until tomorrow morning to bury him. Maybe at sunrise.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Charlie said.

  “Yes,” Mario replied. “Very beautiful time of day.”

  Amy smiled. “It was always his favorite. Loved to be the first one up to catch the sun rise.” She hugged Charlie and then kissed his cheek. “You’re a good man, Charlie.” She offered the same thanks to Mario, then disappeared toward the house.

  10

  Covered in dirt, and exhausted, both Charlie and Mario lowered Don’s body into the grave, then headed back to the house. Charlie thanked Mario for the help and let the field hand retire to the comfort of his bed. But a light coming from the barn caught Charlie’s attention.

  Charlie wandered back toward the old structure, the sound of static growing stronger the closer he moved. When he entered the barn, he found his father at one of his work benches, fiddling with the tube radio that they’d listened to when they’d been told about the EMP from the President.

  “Dad?” Charlie asked. “What are you doing?”

  Harold sat hunched on a stool, holding the radio with one hand and a screwdriver with the other. He’d torn the back off the radio and was tinkering with the parts inside.

  “I can’t find a channel that works on this damn thing,” Harold said, his attention on the device. “The Emergency Signal stopped.”

  Charlie joined Harold by his side, then peered into the same innards of the radio that his father was looking at, trying to find out what the old bear was doing. “Dad, I don’t think it has anything to do with the radio.”

  “Maybe,” Harold said. “But I’m trying to increase its range.” He gestured to the old walkie-talkie next to some spare parts. “Might come in handy if we can reach someone out there.”

  Charlie nodded, then paused, knowing that his father hadn’t heard the news about their neighbor. “Don didn’t make it, Dad.”

  The tinkering stopped, and Harold leaned back from the radio. He was silent, then finally looked up at his son. “How’s Amy?”

  “She’s taking it as well as anyone could take it,” Charlie answered.

  Harold dropped the screwdriver and wiped his palm down his face. “He’s got three boys.”

  “I know.”

  Charlie crossed his arms, and the Decker men lingered in silence.

  “Dad, I wanted to get your advice on something,” Charlie said.

  “Fire away.” Harold continued tinkering, his ear cocked toward his son.

  Charlie took a seat on a stool on the other side of the table, and his father looked up from behind the radio knowingly while his fingers continued to fiddle with the tubes. The glance was quick.

  “There are three hundred of those terrorists sitting in Mayfield right now,” Charlie said. “Probably even more than that, and with the potential for more on the way.” He reached for one of the spare parts on the table, a slim plastic tubing that he rotated between his fingertips. “If they decide to come back this way, they’ll overwhelm us, no matter how many guns we have.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Harold said.

  Charlie set the plastic tubing down and drummed his fingers on the work bench. So far he’d been able to bury the thought and idea that manifested itself ever since he returned from the town, made even worse by Don’s death, which he figured would haunt him for many nights to come.

  “We should consider leaving,” Charlie said.

  Charlie braced for the mass bravado that his father would bluster his way. He stared at the old wood of the work bench, the boards splintered and splattered with all kinds of paint and veneer from decades of use, chipped away by hammers and chisels that missed the mark for the project he was working on.

  But there was no outburst, no cry of defiance from his father like Charlie had expected. Instead, his father only nodded, continuing his work on the radio.

  “If that’s what you think we need to do,” Harold said.

  Unable to speak, the shock so intense that Charlie wasn’t even sure he’d heard his father correctly, he worked his mouth like a car trying to start, but unable to catch.

  Harold laughed. “Not what you were expecting to hear?”

  “You’d be okay with leaving?” Charlie asked.

  Harold set the screwdriver down and transferred the nervous energy he used on the radio onto his hands, squeezing them together tightly, his knuckles swollen from arthritis. “I think I must have told you the story about how your grandfather started this place a thousand times.” He smiled fondly at the story, and Charlie nodded.

  “You said that he forged land documents so he could buy the land with collateral he didn’t have,” Charlie said. “And when the bank found out about it, the loan officer was so embarrassed about the mistake that he didn’t press charges and let him keep the deed to the acreage.”

  “Dad always said that a man is his own worst enemy.” The big smile that spread across Harold’s face slowly disappeared as he bowed his head. “I think that sentence grows truer the older I get.” He sighed and leaned back off the table. He looked past Charlie and out the barn doors toward the house. “I’ve never wanted anything more my whole life than to work this farm and to raise a family. You and your mom were the best things that could have ever happened to me. And however good I thought things could become in my imagination, they were better. Much better.”

  “I thought I’d have to pull you from this place kicking and screaming,” Charlie said. “It was the reason you sent me to school, why I tried so hard to get another loan from the banks, it was the basis of everything that we tried to do.”

  Harold grimaced. “Sometimes I think I let myself get wrapped up too tight with that idea,” he said. “It was like I believed if I lost the farm, then I lost who I was, and that’s just stupid. I know who I am.” His confidence returned the more he spoke, as if he were verbally finding his footing, growing bolder the longer he made it without collapsing into nothing. “And I shouldn’t have passed that burden on to you.”

  “Dad, you didn’t pass on any burden,” Charlie said. “You did so much for me, and for Mom, and for this place. Without you, none of it would even happen, and I sure as hell wouldn’t even exist.”

  “I suppose I did play a small part in your conception,” Harold said, that grin spreading wide across his face. “But I’m not willing to let my family and friends die for something just because I’m afraid of who I’ll bec
ome if I don’t have an orchard to run anymore.” He shook his head, shoulders rounding forward as he exhaled. “No. I’m not going to do that.” He locked eyes with his son. “Stay, fight, it’s up to you.” He stood and then stepped around the table, placing that big bear paw on Charlie’s shoulder. “I told you before that this is your show to run. And I meant it.”

  Charlie stood and hugged his father, burying his face into his dad’s shoulder the way he used to do as a boy whenever he was carried around from being too tired to walk.

  All the while the static from the radio played, spitting out the same white noise. And then it cut out completely, replaced by a single high-pitched beep that lasted for a few seconds, and then stopped.

  Both Charlie and his father broke from their embrace, each of them staring at the radio with a foreboding sense of doom etched on their faces. It had something to do with the sudden noise, and then silence, and then, without warning, a voice echoed through the speaker.

  “My fellow Americans, I speak to those of you fortunate enough to hear my message with a heavy heart.” The president’s voice was weathered and grave. He sounded nothing like the man who’d spoken the day before. It was like someone had stuck a knife in his gut and the life was slowly draining out of him while he spoke. “The terrorist threat to our country has grown more dangerous than previously imagined. We have learned that the insurgents have congregated near or around major utility structures. My advisors believe, as do I, that this is a strategic move to prolong our days without power and communication. Therefore, to expedite our recovery process, I have made it a priority for any active military, reserves, retired, or deactivated men to take up arms and fight to reclaim those facilities. Without them, it could take years for us to pull ourselves out of this mess. But be warned. We’ve already had reports that even after successful breaches into those facilities, they have been wired with explosives to bring the structures down should the enemy be forced to retreat. I repeat that it is imperative that these water plants and power plants must be retaken without catastrophic structural damage. So I ask you, my fellow citizens, that if you have the ability to fight, then do so. We as a nation have always been strongest when we are one people. A united front is what we require to emerge from these desolate and desperate times. God speed. And God bless the United States of Amer—”

  Static returned, cutting short the President’s message in eerie fashion, and continued to play as Charlie and Harold stared at the radio.

  “I guess that means Dixon will be on his way back,” Harold said.

  “Charlie!”

  The scream came from the house, and Charlie quickly stepped from the barn, his father not far behind. He saw his mother coming out of the back door, stumbling toward him in a shambled sprint, and Charlie hurried toward her, cutting her off before she had a chance to distance herself from the house.

  Charlie grabbed hold of her arms, then glanced past her at the door. “What happened?”

  “Doug Collins,” Martha answered, spitting out the words between breaths, then pointed back toward the house. “His father’s hurt, they need Doc.”

  Before his mother could even finish her words, Charlie sprinted into and then through the house, the concerned faces in the living room nothing more than a blur as Charlie rushed past. He spilled out onto the front porch and found Doug with his father in a wheelchair, slouched forward.

  Both of them were covered in blood, though the majority of it looked to be from Mr. Collins, who sat motionless, the only sign that he was even still alive the faint rise and fall of his chest.

  “Charlie—”

  “Doc has all of the supplies,” Charlie said, helping his friend move his father’s wheelchair before he could even finish talking. “How long has he been like this?”

  The pair fell into a steady jog, pushing Mr. Collins as fast as they could without throwing him from his seat.

  “Man, you don’t even know what the hell is coming.” Doug shook his head.

  “Doc!” Charlie screamed when they moved closer to the house, and the old vet hurried outside.

  “What happened?”

  “Stab wound,” Doug answered.

  Doc checked his new patient’s pulse, then flashed a light in Mr. Collin’s eyes, who batted him away in frustration. “All right, let’s get him inside.”

  Charlie guided Doug and his father to what had become the operating room in the garage and the same large table that they’d placed Don on, and Charlie prayed that they wouldn’t have similar results.

  “Be careful with him,” Doc said, scrubbing his hands and arms down with disinfectant.

  Charlie and Doug did as they were told, but a gush of blood spurted out over the floor, and Mr. Collins wailed in pain, writhing in defiance on the table. He gritted his teeth, and Doug grabbed his father’s hand, their grip firm and tight and covered in blood.

  “All right,” Doc said, opening some of the supplies that Charlie had brought back. He cut the shirt open along the front and revealed the gnarly gash that had been carved into Mr. Collin’s abdomen.

  Doc stared at the wound with a mixture of fascination and trepidation, but he didn’t let the emotions linger long.

  “What’s his blood type?” Doc asked, cleaning the wound of blood.

  “Uh-um, AB positive, I think?” Doug answered.

  “And what are you?” Doc asked, still continuing his work.

  “I-I don’t know,” Doug replied. “O negative I think.”

  “Ellen!” Doc screamed for his wife, and she appeared almost instantly, already heading to the disinfecting station before Doc told her what he needed. “Get a line going from Doug here and draw blood, we’ll need to do a transfusion.”

  All the while Charlie kept his eyes on Mr. Collins, a man who had been alive and well only a few hours ago, with his biggest complaint being that his knee was swollen and his ankle was sprained. The color had disappeared from Mr. Collins’ lips, and his eyelids started to close.

  Ellen steered Doug away from his father and sat him in a chair, then rolled up his sleeve.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Doug asked, wincing as Ellen pricked his arm with the needle.

  “I don’t know,” Doc answered.

  “Jesus Christ,” Doug replied, his words growing thick with grief.

  Charlie crouched to a knee next to Ellen and pulled Doug’s attention away from the operating table. “Doug, what happened? Did the soldiers come back? Did they see you?”

  “They just started torching everything,” Doug said. “I guess maybe they thought there were still too many survivors from their first sweep, so they wanted to clean house or something, I don’t know.”

  Charlie frowned. “They burned the town?”

  “They went from building to building, dousing them with gas, but eventually the fires caught,” Doug answered. “And then they just sat there and watched the buildings, guns in their hands, and shot anyone that came running out.” The muscles around his eyes twitched. “Some of them were on fire. But the bastards didn’t shoot them. They just let them burn.”

  Charlie leaned back, then looked to Mr. Collins. “How did your dad—”

  “We heard screams coming from one of the houses, so I went in and grabbed a woman who was trapped,” Doug said. “Dad was watching the exit, making sure that none of the bastards snuck up behind me and put a bullet in my head. But when I came out, coughing and hacking, we headed for the woods, where we were surprised by two of the terrorists. The woman ran off and Dad managed to shoot one of them, and the second didn’t have a gun, and he just lunged forward.” He frowned. “I didn’t see what it was at first.” He shrugged. “I just thought maybe he punched my dad. But after I shot him, I turned around and saw Dad on his back—” His lower lip quivered and when he shut his eyes, tears streamed down his face. “He was holding his guts in.”

  While Doug struggled to regain his composure, Charlie tried wrapping his head around the fact that the terrorists had torched Mayf
ield.

  Doug wiped his nose. “The town was up in flames as we were hobbling away. I kept us to the woods for as long as I could, but I knew that he wouldn’t be able to walk all the way here, so I found that wheelchair and shoved him in it and just started pushing as fast as I could.”

  With that much burning, Charlie was surprised he hadn’t seen the smoke or a kind of glow on the horizon, but then again, it wasn’t like it was something he was looking for.

  “I think they’re coming, Charlie,” Doug said, finally looking away from his father and at Charlie. “I think they’re gonna burn anything that’s in the area. We saw clouds on the horizon. They were everywhere.”

  “No power. No communications.” Charlie extended a finger for each one, ticking them off like a list. “No food.” He spoke to himself, the realization washing over him. Farm land was just as much a resource as power.

  “Charlie!” Amy screamed from the front of the house.

  Charlie rushed toward her, finding her in the front doorway, leaning against the frame for support, gazing out into the night.

  “Amy, what are you doing—”

  But when Charlie joined her outside, his jaw dropped.

  The blaze was high, even from the long distance where they stood. It was the Bigelows’ property.

  And from the light of the flames, Charlie saw the darkened figures marching down the road. The terrorist army from Mayfield had made their way toward them, and the next house in their sights was Charlie’s orchard.

  11

  Charlie sprinted for the orchard, turning back to Amy on the run. “Get everyone and tell them to head for the woods!”

  Legs and feet aching, and his lungs burning, Charlie waved his arms, screaming at everyone that stood outside of the house, gazing at the flames in the distance.