by Aborn, A. L.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes and make a wet trail down my face. My pillow is damp and uncomfortable. The faces of my mother, brothers, sister, and their families dwell before me. I never got in touch with them yesterday. If what Brad said is true, I may never speak to them again. This sinks in slowly; it feels like my chest is being crushed by a huge weight. I let myself feel the pain without trying to fight it. In a way it seems right, like I am mourning them.
A part of me knows that I will have to go on like they are dead if I am to survive. If I don’t, I won’t be able to go on. I will drown in the longing to find them. And I can’t.
***
My eyes open to the bright sunlight streaming through the one loft window. It looks to be a clear day. When I get downstairs, Ally and Brad are already there. I smell coffee and bacon. This feels like a luxury hotel after my house with no heat or food. Ally pours me a cup of coffee without saying anything. It tastes like heaven.
It’s Monday morning. I should be at the hospital. Pushing the guilt away, it’s easier to focus on something physical; the warmth of the coffee in my belly and the caffeine giving me a little kickstart.
I feel restless. The thought of doing nothing stretches before me and threatens to pull me down. Better to stay busy.
“So. I’ve been thinking,” I say. Both Ally and Brad look up from their coffee. “If you what you say is true, about the substations, I mean, then we should start preparing for the long term.”
Brad nods immediately. I knew that he would already be thinking the same thing.
“As long as, you know, it’s cool for me to stay here,” I say lamely. I feel my face heat. These are my two oldest friends in the world. I assume it’s okay for me to stay here, that they will share what they have. It’s awkward to bring it up, but I must.
“Of course, you can stay here!” Ally exclaims. “Don’t even think for a moment that you can’t!”
Brad nods in agreement.
It’s ironic really, to be here and to be having this conversation. How many evenings have the three of us shared a few drinks and joked about the end of the known world? We pictured it like this, the three of us making a go of it. It’s a logical conversation. Brad has always been keenly interested in end of the world stories and has regaled us with his speculations about what will happen and when. I always thought it was a joke; never gave it a second thought. Yet, here we are. I am swept with a wave of feeling that I can only describe as dreamlike. Well, maybe a nightmare.
It’s only taken seconds to consider this.
“How much gas do you have?” I ask.
“Not much,” Brad answers. “Maybe twenty-five gallons left in cans, plus whatever I can siphon from the cars.”
“Maybe we should take advantage of the snow. And our supplies.”
“What do you mean?” Ally asks.
“Right now, we are wasting gas on the generator. For what? Lights and a fridge? We could pack the food in the snow out back, even keep some in the fridge in containers for smaller items. We have candles, flashlights, and batteries. But what happens this summer? We are much more likely to need the power to keep the fridge and freezers cool this summer. If… we’re still here. Ya know?”
Brad is nodding in agreement. “We also need to think about protection.” He says this while looking around at the several windows. “And start looking at our food supply.”
We discuss our options for a while. While we talk business, the intensity from the night before returns to Brad’s face. I don’t want to say that he’s enjoying this; it’s almost like he’s… vindicated or something, for always believing this would happen. I hope it’s just his excitement that’s turning him into this new version of himself. The way he is talking and directing us is so unlike the Brad that we have always known.
In the short term, we decide to raid Brad’s wood pile behind the shed. We find random sheets of plywood, lengths of wood, and pieces of aluminum roofing. Brad used the aluminum to cover the wood, so it’s mostly dry. It doesn’t take long before all the windows on the first floor are covered with wood. Necessity aside, it still feels like sacrilege to nail pieces of wood into Ally’s recently painted trim. Brad leaves a small, three by three-inch space in each window so that we can see out, if we need to. There are only two windows in the loft: one overlooks the front yard and the road, the other over the backyard. We leave them uncovered. It would be impossible for someone to gain access through them without alerting us or the dogs. I’m just glad there is still somewhere in the house that has light. The downstairs feels like a tomb to me now.
Late in the afternoon, Meekah and I are behind the house. She is contentedly laying in the snow, chewing on a stray piece of wood. I have shoveled a fair amount of snow into a large mound. My plan is to systematically pack the frozen food from the house. Ally should be going through the food now.
Ally and Brad’s house is small: a two bedroom. One is their bedroom off the living room and the other is the loft. There is a crawl space that you can access through a bulkhead outside. The crawl space is about six feet tall and almost the entire area of the house. A large chest freezer takes up one corner. Beside it are boxes of canned goods that Ally’s mother makes from her own garden and kitchen. Each jar is neatly labeled in Ally’s mom’s telltale script. There is chicken stock, chili, tomato sauce, and several types of veggies. A goldmine of food.
I feel possessive over this food. It’s so vulnerable down here. I feel the irrational urge to bring it all upstairs where we can keep an eye on it. Taking stock of the food in the chest freezer, our inventory includes a fair amount of venison; Brad got two deer this year. A random bag of chicken nuggets and some veggies are on one side. “What if we just pack snow in here before we cut the generator? In the freezer, I mean.” I ask Ally.
“What happens when it melts? It’ll be a bitch to get all the water out.”
“True,” I answer.
Over the course of several trips, the meat is packed into the snow and covered. It feels weird to put most of our food outside. It makes sense in theory, but in reality, I don’t want to leave it out here. What if this is a mistake? It’s vacuum packed and buried, but still, what if someone finds it?
That evening, we sit around the kitchen table. The generator is officially off. Only the light of candles shows me Ally and Brad’s faces. Empty bowls of stew are pushed to one side. Before me is a pad of paper and a pencil. We are trying to list everything we have.
So far, we have all the frozen meat packed away in the snow, the cans from Ally’s mom, and roughly twelve pounds of dog food. There are also nine hens in the coop and four ducks. It pains me to think of the birds as food; Ally and I had picked them out as chicks, and she had raised them in a box indoors until they were old enough to be moved to their perspective houses. I can’t really tell them apart, they’re all white, but we had named them each. Somehow that detail separates them from food. Brad scowls at us when he senses our hesitation.
We have an overabundance of eggs, both chicken and duck. If we ration the dogs to one cup of food a day for each of them, I think that will last about twelve days. That doesn’t seem like enough food. Can dogs eat eggs? I think so. Ugh. I miss Google.
“How much wood do we have?” I wonder aloud. Brad laughs.
“We live on eleven acres of trees; I can get wood.” He sounds confident.
Okay, next?
And so, the night continues.
I feel hopeful, for about the next three weeks. If we start rationing now, we can probably make it through February. You can’t rely on New Hampshire weather; we could have snow until May. It’s unavoidable that we will have to venture out for supplies. But where? And how?
The next six days pass in a slow blur.
Brad spends time out in the woods, bringing down a tree here or there. He drags them back with the four-wheeler when they’re too big for us to drag by hand. After chopping them, he stacks them to season behind the shed.
Ally and I s
pend time preparing food and cleaning. The bathtub has become the spot where we spend the most time. It’s the easiest place for us to bucket in water and wash dishes and clothes. I hate it. There’s a washing machine fifteen feet from us. I switch between sneering at it and longing for it.
The dogs seem to have adjusted to the four of them living under one roof. They also don’t seem to mind the hardboiled eggs that we have started mixing in with their food to bulk it up. What a waste to have that fifty-pound bag of dog food in my car, abandoned on the side of the road.
One thing that I notice is that not one car or person passes the house. There is no sign of life outside of our home. I hope that everyone is hunkered safely down in their homes, waiting for something to change.
At night, when I climb the stairs and Meekah and I lay down for bed, I feel the saddest. During the days, we stay busy and there’s no time to think. But at night, when I’m alone, I cry into my pillow for all that I have lost. Often, I cry for the unknown. What happened at the hospital? To all the patients? Did anyone stay to care for them or were they left to die? And what of Ed? Did he make it home after he dropped me off? I feel more confident in his survival; he was pretty quick with that rifle.
Meekah’s warm body curls into mine. I stroke her soft fur absently while I try not to envision horrible things happening to my family. No, no, I know that they are all okay. I have no evidence that something bad happened, so I shouldn’t assume that.
And Jason? Is he safe somewhere? With his family? Looking for me? At times, I comfort myself, imagining him coming up the driveway one day to rescue me. I dream of my him almost nightly. In a way, it feels like we broke up forever ago, but it was only a few weeks. We broke up for stupid reasons, things that don’t seem to matter anymore. I wish that he was here. I hope that he is okay and that someday, we find our way back to each other.
Chapter Six
The Neighbor
It’s been cold, freezing. The woodstove does a good job of heating the house, if we keep it fed. One morning, after about a week at Ally’s, the cold snap breaks and the thermometer hanging on a tree out front reads thirty-five. Alright, above freezing!
It’s my turn to take the dogs out; I bundle up and take them out the backdoor. There’s been nothing exciting for the dogs in days and they don’t like the cold. Typically, they go out, do their business, and they whine to go back inside. Today, they seem distracted. Their wet noses periodically stretch up in the air. I catch Meekah staring off through the trees.
What was that?
There it is again.
A noise so faint I am straining to hear it again.
One of Ally’s dogs lets out a bark. Before I know it, all four of them are barking. Ally and Brad come flying out the backdoor at the sudden noise. It takes us a few minutes to herd them back through the door. I hope the noise didn’t attract any attention.
“What were they barking at?” Ally asks after we get them quieted down.
“I’m not sure. I think I heard a noise coming from across the street. It was really faint, but I think it sounded like… a sheep or something?”
Ally and Brad exchange a look. “You mean, where the farm is?” Brad suggests.
About an eighth of a mile down the road and across the street, there is a small house set really far back from the road. It’s bizarre; the house sits in the middle of a large clearing that is surrounded by woods and a fence. A barn, much larger than the house, is the only other building on the land. You can barely make it out from the road; I only know what it looks like because Ally and I once walked up to the gate and a little beyond when we noticed that part of the fence was down, and a few alpacas had escaped into the road. We were shooed away by a woman in her sixties as soon as our message was delivered.
Months ago, Ally had told me that police and animal control had spent a whole day rounding up dogs, cats, alpacas, pigs, and chickens. Apparently, she was an animal hoarder.
“Do you think she got some more animals?” I ask. “Has she been just hiding over there with them since the power went out?”
“Probably,” Brad replies. “She seemed kinda crazy every time I’ve talked to her.”
“Aww, she’s probably lonely, if she’s over there all by herself,” says Ally.
“Not if she’s hiding a bunch of animals,” Brad responds. “I had read in the paper that there’s a court order stating she can’t have more than one animal at a time for the rest of her life. But I’ve heard a dog barking over there, so if you heard a sheep, who knows what else she’s hiding.”
“We should go help her,” Ally says, as she bends down to pet one of her dogs. She holds his face gently, kissing his nose. The dog’s tail thumps in response.
Brad and I lock eyes over Ally’s bent posture. He doesn’t seem to share Ally’s optimism in this potential neighbor.
Neither do I.
***
For the rest of the day, business carries on as usual. Feed the birds, collect the eggs, boil some eggs, make lunch, clean, make dinner, clean, and throughout all of it, try not to think about the neighbor and what it could mean.
My own thoughts disturb me.
Whereas before I would have been intrigued to see the inside of the farm across the street or to pet some animals, now, I can only see it as a potential food or goods source. What is happening to me? Am I becoming more like Brad? Already every man for himself?
The next morning shines brightly again. After breakfast, sitting on the porch with my eyes closed; the sun is warm against my cheeks. A mug of hot, block coffee is gripped between both of my hands. There’s very little coffee left, maybe enough for another two days. It’s instant: gross. But still, it’s comforting to hold.
I hear the door open behind me. Brad and Ally join me on the porch. Brad has three guns; two slung over his shoulders and one in his arms. I think they’re all rifles. Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you. “When’s the last time you shot a gun?” He asks, an impish grin lighting up his face.
I smile in return. “It’s been a while, a few years I guess.”
Ally smiles, too. “Come on, Brad made a range for us to practice.”
Standing, I chug the rest of the disgusting coffee and zip up my jacket. Traipsing behind Brad, we travel up the well-worn path that leads behind the chicken coop and up the hill. Well out of sight of the road, the top of the hill opens into a large flat area. On the far side, an old faded sawhorse supports an array of random objects. A plastic coffee can, an empty water bottle, and a milk jug filled with pink liquid are the only things I can make out. “What’s the pink stuff?” I ask.
“Water and food coloring,” Brad answers. “So, you can get used to shedding blood.” He smiles as he finishes.
That’s just… weird. And kind of disturbing.
“What if someone hears the gunshots?” I ask. “Won’t this tell everyone where we are?”
“We’ll be able to hear anyone coming. Besides, I’d like to see anyone try to take our home with all of these!” he gestures grandly to the guns between us. I guess he’s right, and the pros outweigh the cons. We need to be comfortable handling the guns.
Ally and I take turns with the rifles, Brad coaching us along. I hit something about three out of five shots. Brad only allows us so many bullets for practice, but I’m pretty sure I would have gotten better with more time. After the rifles, we have lunch, but Brad isn’t finished with us yet. He pulls a large duffel bag from under their bed and produces several handguns.
“Where did you get all of these?” I ask, incredulous. Why would anyone need a private armory? Before now, I mean.
“I had quite a few, just for hunting and two handguns for protection. When my grandfather died, he left me all these others. I had planned on selling some of them, but now I’m glad I didn’t.”
Also, in the duffel are several boxes of bullets. I feel ignorant, I have no idea what goes with what. I have a lot to learn.
We return to Brad’s makeshift range to try o
ur hand at target shooting with the handguns. I find that I am better with the handgun; I am less afraid of the recoil, so I am able focus more. When Brad deems our skills acceptable, we go back to the house.
We are limiting our cooking to whatever we can come up with on top of the woodstove. There is a grill outside, but there’s only one propane tank. I’d rather cook on it, but better to wait until this summer when we aren’t running the woodstove. At least, in my mind, that makes sense. When the propane runs out, we can always cook on a campfire in the backyard.
Today, venison steaks pan fried on the stove. I like to add oil and seasoning; Brad likes his plain. Anyway, a little venison and some canned veggies. It’s the new norm.
It’s hard, going back to basics. Every day I am reminded just how dependent I used to be on electricity. I think we’re doing a pretty good job so far. But when I really think about it, we’ve got it pretty easy. With Brad’s guns and interests, the location of their house, and Ally’s mom’s predilection for canning, we probably have it a lot easier than many others. Some of the things that we’re doing are actually… fun. It’s like playing a game: the real-life version of The Oregon Trail or something. But the fun is bound to end. It’s like we’re living in a bubble. As of yet, we are untouched by what is happening. But I know it can’t last.
Later that day, we are seated around the table. More venison steaks in front of us. We’ve been chatty since the shooting range. It kind of feels like old times, the three of us doing something together. Except for the whole, shedding blood of the milk jug thing. That was just weird. Brad’s sense of humor has always been a bit dark, but this really takes the cake. I don’t know whether to laugh it off or be worried about his cynicism. Going with the former, Ally spies my face. “What?”
“Oh nothing. Just thinking about shedding some pink water this afternoon.”
Ally laughs. Brad just smirks.
The smirk only lasts a moment. “It’s true though.” His tone of voice immediately sobers us. “Anything could happen, and you girls need to be ready. This isn’t a camping trip. We need to be ready to protect ourselves.”
