Survive (Day 2)

by Wise, A. R.

  “Agreed,” said Red.

  “That doesn’t give us much time to get cleaned up,” said June.

  “You’ll have to make it work,” said Porter.

  They gathered their things, and covered up the supplies in the back of the truck with the blanket. Porter took a pear to eat for breakfast, and they were on their way.

  “You should’ve seen the sunrise,” said Red to his brother. “It was incredible. The sun washed away the northern lights. It looked like something out of a fantasy movie, like magic.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a chance tomorrow.”

  “This road goes up to the house, and that’s it,” said June. “There’s no other way to go. We’re going to have to turn around and go back to the other road to get out of here.” She glanced around at the trees and solitude. “I can’t imagine why someone would want to live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I can,” said Porter.

  “Of course you can,” said Red.

  “That’s right,” said June. “Your house was way out in the woods too. I couldn’t live like that. I like being within a block or two of civilization.”

  They turned a corner and the woods dissipated, giving way to a large property. The land wasn’t manicured. Instead, it was left to grow naturally in the arid climate, with resilient weeds and rocks dominating the area. An unpainted wooden fence drew a rough square around a patch of land beside the house, and there was a steel feeding trough by a manual water pump. Porter assumed it was a driven well, which could provide them with fresh water in the likely scenario that the sump pump inside the home was malfunctioning. There was a motor attached to the well, to allow it to produce water without having to be manually pumped.

  “Park here,” said Porter when they were still thirty or forty yards from the home. “If there’s someone inside, we don’t want them to hear us coming before we get a chance to explain we don’t mean any harm. And give me one of the guns.”

  Red did as his brother told him.

  They got out, and Porter led the way. His leg hurt, but didn’t prevent him from walking. His ankle, however, had swollen in the night, and caused a severe limp.

  There was a well-worn mat in front of the door that said, ‘Bless This House.’

  Red pushed the doorbell. Porter smirked at his brother, and then knocked on the door instead.

  “We’re not looking for trouble,” said Porter loud. “Anyone home?” He knocked again with his left hand, the pistol in his right. “Anyone here?”

  After a moment, June said, “I told you. No one’s here. There’s no garage, and there’s no car.”

  Porter tested the handle. The door was unlocked.

  “I’m coming in.”

  He opened it slow, and was immediately greeted by the stench of feces. He cringed and turned away.

  Red smelled it too, and mouthed, ‘What the fuck?’

  “Hello?” asked Porter. “Is there anyone here?”

  “I’m in the bedroom,” called out a weak, rasping voice.

  “Oh no,” said June. She clutched the back of Porter’s jacket as if to pull him away.

  He continued, undeterred. “We don’t mean any harm.”

  “What?” asked the man from the bedroom.

  Porter spoke louder, “Are you okay? Can we come in?”

  “I’m in the bedroom,” shouted the man as loud as his hoarse voice would allow.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said June.

  Porter went in and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “I need some… Are you from hospice?”

  Porter didn’t know how to respond. He offered a white lie, “We’re here to help.”

  The house was well-kept, except that there were boxes on the floor filled with knick-knacks and pictures as if someone had been in the middle of a move. The front door opened to a quaint living room. The plush, faded yellow furniture faced a stone fireplace, and there was a coffee table with pieces of mail and magazines on it. There was no wall separating the kitchen from the den, and a long kitchen table sat against the wall, stacked high with photo albums and more boxes.

  A gun cabinet stood near the kitchen table, and it was open. There was a rifle and a shotgun inside. A framed picture of a yellowed, black and white photo featured a married couple holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. Another framed picture showed the husband proud, young, and handsome in his Army Service uniform. A bottle of whiskey sat opened on the floor beside the kitchen table.

  Crucifixes hung from several spots. A large, weeping, bleeding Christ stared down at the fireplace from his massive cross above the mantle. There was a queen-sized mattress and box spring leaning against the front wall of the den, along with a headboard. The bed blocked sunlight from coming in through the window.

  Porter walked towards the bedroom door. It was open a crack. The smell of feces became stronger the closer he got.

  “I’m here to help. Is it okay for me to come in the bedroom?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve been waiting for someone to get here.”

  He lifted the pistol and aimed it through the crack in the door. He inched the door open, and said, “I’m here to help.”

  A hospital bed was placed in the center of the room. The carpet showed signs of a larger bed having once been in its place. There was a white-haired man in the bed, his sheets pushed down to reveal his skeletal shape. His clothes and bed were stained black from excrement that’d overwhelmed his diaper. He had light blue eyes that grew wide at the sight of the pistol.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, and stiffened. His rigid posture quickly eased. He knew there was nothing he could do to defend himself, and he didn’t care to try.

  Porter sheathed his pistol. “It’s okay. I’m here to help.”

  “Who are you?” He saw Red and June peering in from behind Porter, and asked again, “Who are you people?”

  There was a nightstand beside the bed with medication and a bible on it. Below the stand was a stack of adult diapers and cleansing wipes. Porter spotted a familiar sight. There was a brown bottle with a green and white label on the nightstand beside a needless syringe.

  “We’re with hospice,” lied Porter.

  Red walked away, and Porter understood why. June stayed, unaware of the reason the sight of this man affected her boyfriend.

  “Why do you have a gun?”

  “Do you know what’s going on out there? Have you heard about the blackout?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s gotten…” Porter didn’t know how to respond. Should he tell this man the truth about what was going on out there? Clearly there’d been someone here taking care of him recently who wasn’t here now. Porter decided it was better to lie for the time being. “It’s got a lot of people scared is all. Our higher ups make us bring guns with us during times like these.”

  “What the hell for?” asked the man in the bed.

  “Because we’re delivering some pretty strong medication,” said Porter, trying hard to keep up the ruse. “There are a lot of people who’d like to rip us off.”

  The balding, white-haired man nodded and said, “Guess that makes sense.”

  Porter walked in confidently, and got to the edge of the man’s bed. “I’m sorry, but they didn’t tell me your name.”

  June went in as well, but with slow and uncertain steps.

  “Abraham.”

  “Hello, Abraham. I’m Porter, and this is June.”

  “Hello, June,” said Abraham with a wave.

  She gave a mousy response, “Hi.”

  “Hey June, could you give me a minute to get Abraham sorted out?”

  She looked at Porter, confused. He locked eyes with her, and then made a quick glance at Abraham’s soiled bed and clothes.

  “Oh, sure,” she said, embarrassed. “Of course.”

  “Close the door on your way out.”

  She abided, giving them privacy.

  Porter waited for the door to close, and
then said, “What’s say we get you cleaned up?”

  “I’ve made a hell of a mess.”

  “Trust me, I’ve seen worse. Hold on just a minute.” He went to the door, and peeked out. Red and June were near the front door, talking. Red was upset.

  “June, could you get together some food for Abraham?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  He closed the door and walked over to the dresser against the wall. “Any preference on what to wear?”

  “Maggie put my sweaters over by her chair.” Abraham pointed to a rocking chair near the bed, beside a window that looked out on a pond behind the house. There were clothes in a basket beside a box of yarn. “She was sewing patches on a few of them.”

  “Is Maggie your wife?” asked Porter as he went to the chair.

  “My daughter.”

  “And where’s she at?” Porter started to dig through the clothes that Maggie had set aside for her father. He found a few sets of sweaters and sweat pants. Then something else caught his eye behind the clothes, closer to the chair.

  “She went to get a few things,” said Abraham. “She was going to stop by the grocery store and the hardware store. That was last night. I haven’t seen her since. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Leaning against the wall was an orange, reusable grocery bag with butterflies stitched into the corner and a blue patch on the bottom. It was identical to the ones they’d found in the wrecked car that belonged to the woman who attacked Red.

  “I don’t know why she hasn’t come home yet,” said Abraham.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Porter. His heart raced after his discovery. He had to come up with an elaborate lie quickly. “They’ve got the National Guard out there closing down a lot of roads. It doesn’t surprise me that she didn’t make it back yet. You should see the traffic.”

  “You made it here.”

  “Yeah, but…” he struggled to come up with a good excuse. “They give us emergency lights for our cars. That way we can get around traffic easier. Right now the roads are like parking lots, and it’s getting worse. People have been sitting in their cars all night, and they’re starting to run out of gas. The National Guard is gathering people up and taking them to safe shelters. I bet that’s where Maggie is.” He felt sick to his stomach, but forced himself to smile in reassurance.

  Porter put Abraham’s clothes on the rocking chair, and then folded up the grocery bag. He hid it under some of the old man’s clothes to keep June or Red from seeing it.

  “I’m going to get you cleaned up,” said Porter as he got a new set of sheets.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of someone in Abraham’s condition. He’d learned from the hospice nurses who cared for his mother. He took his time, and made sure Abraham was comfortable.

  He saw a chemo port on Abraham’s chest, and the scars from radiation treatment. They looked all too familiar. It was a painful reminder of the dark days before his mother passed.

  “Thanks for the help,” said Abraham as he sat up against the front of the bed while Porter changed the sheets. “I was afraid I’d be sitting in my own filth until… I don’t know when.”

  “Happy to help.” He balled up the sheets and set them by the door.

  Abraham looked Porter over and asked, “What happened to your leg? It looks like you did cartwheels through a briar patch on your way here.”

  “Well, you’re not too far off,” said Porter. “We got in an accident.”

  “On the way here?”

  “Yes. I’ll be all right. Nothing a couple of aspirin can’t fix.”

  Abraham’s suspicion was evident in his squinting eyes. “What office did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t say.” Porter forced a grin, certain the ruse was up. “Hospice has an office in Golden.”

  “Came here all the way from Golden?”

  Porter didn’t reply, and instead opened the door to ask June to bring in the food. She came in with a plate of sliced pear, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a bag of potato chips. Porter found Abraham’s medicine log, and asked, “Did you take your pill this morning?”

  “No,” said Abraham after thanking June for the food. “I can’t read that tiny writing. I didn’t want to take the wrong one.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “When am I not?”

  “What level of pain would you say you’re at now?” asked Porter.

  “A six.”

  “Then let’s get that down for you. Here, let me show you what you’ve got here, and how much to take in case we can’t get back here before you need more. This is your Dilaudid.” He put the orange bottle in Abraham’s hand. “I’m going to color the top of it for you.” He took a pen and started to mark the top of the bottle. “Any time you’re feeling pain, go ahead and take one of these. And I’m sure you know what this is.” He picked up the bottle of morphine.

  “Yeah, I know.” Abraham’s tone had changed since asking which hospice office Porter had come from. He was still cordial, but there was an edge to his voice that hinted distrust.

  “Have you ever taken it by yourself?”

  “No. Maggie took care of that.”

  “Well, let me show you. It’s pretty easy. This is your dropper. All you do is stick this in the bottle and pull the plunger, and then give yourself some drops. Take as much as you think you need.”

  “Not too much though, right?” asked Abraham.

  “Well, you go ahead and take what you think you need. Start with one drop. You’ll feel the effect pretty quick. If you think you need more, take more.”

  Abraham grunted. He eyed the door. June was watching like a hiding child sneaking a peek of her parents.

  “Just take what I need, huh?” asked Abraham. “It’s all about pain management at this point. Isn’t that right?” He sounded disgruntled and fatalistic.

  “I don’t know what you’re dealing with, but I know you’re a long way from done. That’s my expert opinion anyhow.”

  “Expert opinion. All right.” Abraham’s smirk challenged Porter’s dubious claim. “Show’s what you know. At this point I think I’m more cancer than man.”

  “Where did it start?”

  “Lungs,” said Abraham. “Doctors figured it was there for years before it decided to go everywhere else. I was never the complaining sort. Coughed a bit, never thought much about it. Turns out I should’ve been thinking about it a long time ago. I let the cancer run rampant through me. Pretty much head to toe at this point. Guess I shouldn’t complain. Made it to eighty. That’s gotta count for something.”

  “It sure does.”

  Abraham repeated, “Yes, it sure does. Had a good kid and a great wife. What more could a guy ask for?”

  “Not much.”

  Abraham picked up one of the sliced pears, studied it, and then said, “I like salt on my pears.”

  “I’ll go get some,” said June before leaving again.

  “Who in their right mind likes salt on their pears?” asked Abraham with a forced smile. His eyes were suddenly glassy, and his pale brow had begun to redden as he squinted. “I’m an odd, old, dying, dumb bird. Right?”

  Porter sensed a dramatic shift in the old man’s demeanor.

  “Gayle and Maggie used to make fun of me for it,” said Abraham. “They said no one in their right mind would ever put salt on a pear. My mom used to do it. I guess I learned from her. I’ve loved it ever since I was a boy. Salt on my pears. Big dumb old bird.”

  June returned with a salt shaker, and Porter took it before ushering her out. He closed the door behind her. Porter knew that somehow their lie had been revealed.

  “We ran out of pears yesterday,” said Abraham. “They’re the only thing I’ve had an appetite for lately. Salted pears. Maggie went to get some. And here you are.” He set the slice of pear back on the plate. A tear slid quickly across his dry cheek to wet the fresh sheets. “Bringing me pears from your office in Golden. Right?”

  Porter di
dn’t reply.

  “Isn’t that right?” asked Abraham sharply, his anger obvious. His brow had turned scarlet, and his snarl was like something a cornered animal might display.

  “We didn’t hurt your daughter,” said Porter.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Abraham’s voice came with a low growl from wet lungs.

  “I’m not lying to you. I was, but I’m not now. I’m not from Hospice.”

  “Where’s Maggie? What did you do to her? So help me God, if you…” he started to sit up as if he wanted to get out of the bed, but his advanced illness weakened him too much. He began to cough, and then spit before throwing the plate of food to the ground at Porter’s feet. The delicate plate shattered on the wood floor.

  The door opened. Porter held his hand out to stop June from coming in. “It’s okay. Give us a minute.”

  She apprehensively closed the door again.

  “Where’s Maggie?” demanded Abraham as he wiped his lips. His voice was weaker now, but still furious.

  “Listen to me, sir,” said Porter soft and calm. “Maggie sent us here.”

  “Maggie sent… Who are you?”

  “Last night there was an accident. There were three cars. Your daughter was in one of them. She’s okay, don’t worry – just a little banged up. She had to go to the hospital.”

  “What happened?”

  “It wasn’t her fault.” Porter quickly added, “It wasn’t mine either. An oncoming truck swerved and knocked your daughter into a ditch. We went into the ditch too, which is how all this happened.” He motioned to his bandaged leg.

  “And she’s okay? What happened to her? Why’d she have to go to the hospital?”

  “Her leg,” said Porter, crafting a tenuous fantasy he would have to memorize. “It was broken.”

  “Oh no. What about her back? She’s got a slipped disc that’s been giving her trouble for a long time.”

  “She didn’t say anything about her back,” said Porter. “She was too focused on her, you know… Her leg.” He was an awkward liar. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get here. Maggie asked us to come check on you. She was worried about you. But our car… It got messed up in the wreck more than we thought. We walked most of the way here.”