HOLD

by Duane P. Craig

  Beth and I had anot­her long lo­ok at the map. It’s very de­ta­iled, and we fi­gu­red out mo­re of what the Le­gend on the map iden­ti­fi­ed li­ke the mar­king that sig­ni­fi­ed a ca­ve or ca­vern. Ap­pa­rently ca­ves ha­ve to be rat­her lar­ge or well to­ured or tra­ve­led to be lis­ted ge­og­rap­hi­cal­ly. The ca­ve I had be­en in wasn’t on the map, tho­ugh. That’s a scary tho­ught. What el­se are we go­ing to find that isn’t on this map?

  I fi­nal­ly had the talk with Beth abo­ut the pos­si­bi­lity of a preg­nancy that ne­it­her of us co­uld ima­gi­ne how to de­al with.

  It was very awk­ward. Tho­ugh our at­trac­ti­on for each ot­her may ne­ver truly be con­ta­ined, it do­es pre­sent a re­aso­nab­le ca­use to try and find a box of con­doms. It’s very odd thin­king abo­ut it - that fin­ding a drug sto­re wo­uld be a pri­ority in an apo­calyp­tic sce­na­rio. We co­uld use so­me me­di­ca­ti­ons to stock up on - the­re’s one go­od ex­cu­se. Then Beth wro­te down just two words for me to see - ORAL SEX.

  We’ve be­en la­ug­hing abo­ut it all night. She did bring it up, tho­ugh. Damn, I can’t be­li­eve I’m wri­ting this.

  DAY - 45

  Sid was whi­ning li­ke crazy early this mor­ning. I fi­gu­red it wo­uld be the ro­dents in the wall aga­in, but I was wrong. A hand­ful of de­er we­re just out­si­de the sta­ti­on. Del and I watc­hed them from the win­dow. The­re was a hu­ge Buck with an ele­ven-po­int rack of ant­lers on him and then fo­ur do­es aro­und him. The Buck kept his he­ad high and was tho­ro­ughly stud­ying the area. He co­uld ob­vi­o­usly he­ar Sid’s whi­ning and was trying to pin­po­int it. Del whis­pe­red to me that the way the de­er we­re ac­ting se­emed to be nor­mal be­ha­vi­or. Del then grab­bed his shot­gun with the tho­ught of fo­od ob­vi­o­usly run­ning thro­ugh his he­ad. I ins­tantly ga­ve him what was pro­bably the sa­me lo­ok as a child when I had just se­en the en­ding of Bam­bi. Del qu­ickly to­ok his shot­gun and dar­ted out­si­de in the snow. The de­er be­gan run­ning off. Del aimed at them and fi­red only on­ce. As usu­al, the de­er kept run­ning. Del was su­re that he had fa­tal­ly wo­un­ded one of the do­es, but it wo­uld re­qu­ire trac­king her down to whe­re she fi­nal­ly lay down to die. Del then exp­la­ined he was go­ing out any­way to the red circ­le on the map. I han­ded him the map and com­pass and ga­ve him a kiss go­odb­ye. He lo­oked at me with con­cern, but he sa­id not­hing el­se as he just han­ded me the jo­ur­nal and to­ok off in­to the fo­rest. I sat down in the flo­or and be­gan to pet Sid and scratch his ears.

  By mid­day I was fi­nal­ly ap­pe­ased so­mew­hat from wor­rying abo­ut Del. Sid was whi­ning and scratc­hing at the back wall aga­in. His ro­dent fri­ends we­re back and scur­rying abo­ut in­si­de the wall. The so­unds we­re mo­re dis­tinct to me this ti­me. I think the­re are mo­re of the things than at first.

  They so­und li­ke they are re­al­ly up to so­met­hing too. I co­uld only think to start po­un­ding the wall with my fists to get them to stop ma­king so much no­ise. Af­ter a whi­le it fi­nal­ly wor­ked.

  It was just get­ting dark, and I hap­pe­ned to be lo­oking out the win­dows for Del. I saw him stumb­ling along in the snow. He even fell a few ti­mes. The­re was blo­od all over him, even his fa­ce. I co­uldn’t tell if he was hurt or even if he was tur­ned and ma­king his way back to whe­re he last re­mem­be­red. I grab­bed my shot­gun and went out­si­de to ma­ke su­re. Del lo­oked up at me, and in very lit­tle bre­ath, he sa­id, “ Don’t sho­ot. It’s not my blo­od. It’s from the de­er. “ I ma­de him ta­ke off the blo­ody clot­hes and hel­ped him in­si­de to get warm. I got him mo­re clot­hes to we­ar.

  So­on eno­ugh, Del fell as­le­ep. I was then fo­cu­sed on the fact that he had be­en using his shot­gun as a ca­ne. I chec­ked the cham­ber of the gun, and then his blo­ody clot­hes. He sho­uld ha­ve had at le­ast ten or so shells on him, but he had no­ne left. Del had to ha­ve fi­red his shot­gun many ti­mes. If I know Del as well as I think I do, the­re’s no way he wo­uld just sho­ot blindly and was­te his am­mu­ni­ti­on. I did find that he had fol­ded up and kept the map sa­fe. He had sa­fely poc­ke­ted the com­pass, too. So, now, as it stands, all I can do is wa­it for him to wa­ke up and exp­la­in what hap­pe­ned.

  DAY - 46

  I thank you, Beth, for ke­eping the jo­ur­nal cur­rent. I must exp­la­in the pre­vi­o­us day, tho­ugh. The red circ­le on the map is not a sanc­tu­ary. It’s a cle­aring in the fo­rest and a ni­ce le­vel pla­ne on the mo­un­ta­in­si­de that har­bors so­met­hing new. I ha­ve ne­ver se­en ve­ge­ta­ti­on anyw­he­re that com­pa­res to the ve­ge­ta­ti­on that is gro­wing in the cle­aring. If I ha­ve to com­pa­re it - I can only think abo­ut things li­ke the Ve­nus Flytrap - just not that small and much mo­re ag­gres­si­ve. I hap­pe­ned to track the de­er I shot at from simply pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to the dis­tur­bed snow. What I fi­nal­ly wit­nes­sed was that each of the de­er met the­ir end in that cle­aring. Tho­se plants ha­ve thorns lon­ger and thic­ker than what I’ve se­en on Lo­cust tre­es. What’s wor­se is that the plants se­em to mo­ve with ama­zing ref­lex - very qu­ick. I spent all of my am­mo blas­ting a path to­wards one of the de­er to try and free it from the plants. I just en­ded up get­ting messy and damn ne­ar get­ting trap­ped. I tho­ught the worst of the plants was what I saw abo­ve gro­und, but they are de­adly down to the­ir ro­ots, which al­so ha­ve barbs on them. I’ve ne­ver be­en hap­pi­er to ha­ve on hi­king bo­ots. I en­ded up using the shot­gun li­ke a ba­se­ball bat to get free of the cle­aring. The who­le pro­cess had me figh­ting so fi­er­ce that I wo­re myself out. I hadn’t anyt­hing to eat the en­ti­re day, so I got ove­re­xer­ted. I’m surp­ri­sed I ma­de it back, but I gu­aran­tee that I’m de­fi­ni­tely ma­king anot­her trip to the cle­aring so­on. I want to see how tho­se fuc­kers li­ke fi­re. - Back to the pre­sent, tho­ugh, and our mat­ters at hand.

  Our ro­dent fri­ends had be­en dri­ving Sid in­sa­ne aga­in. Even I was at my wits end he­aring them scratch and flit­ter abo­ut in­si­de the back wall. Beth and I de­vi­sed a plan that put to go­od use our old clot­hing. I star­ted by using the butt of my shot­gun to bust a small ho­le in the drywall. Beth to­re strips from the old clot­hes and got them a bit damp with so­me of Sid’s per­so­nal, yel­low snow. Using glo­ves, of co­ur­se, be­ca­use the last thing I want on my hands is the strong smell of Sid’s piss, I stuf­fed se­ve­ral of the so­aked strips in­to the drywall ho­le. I used so­me re­ma­ining dry pi­eces of clot­hing to stuff the ho­le ma­king a plug of sorts. It lo­oks a bit whi­te trash, but I se­ri­o­usly am star­ting to re­la­te to the worst of lo­wer class li­festy­les - I co­uld fuc­king ca­re less. The ro­dents - wha­te­ver they are - ha­ven’t be­en scratc­hing sin­ce. Sid’s piss sa­ved the day.

  I was re­li­eving myself out­si­de be­fo­re eve­ning. A tho­ught sud­denly hit me that just hasn’t oc­cur­red be­fo­re. It ca­me to me as I saw Beth re­tur­ning from do­ing her bu­si­ness as well.

  She grab­bed up so­me snow tos­sing it in­to the air and thro­wing so­me at Sid as he ca­me run­ning up to her. The both of them we­re jum­ping abo­ut in the cold li­ke child­ren. And just yes­ter­day I was figh­ting for my li­fe go­ing ba­na­nas to sur­vi­ve. The prob­lem? Ne­it­her of us has had so much as a snif­fle. Hell, even dogs are known to sne­eze as of­ten as pe­op­le, but ne­it­her of us has do­ne so. I don’t even fe­el fe­ve­rish af­ter all I went thro­ugh yes­ter­day. I don’t even know how to start exp­la­ining this to Beth.

  DAY - 47

  I re­mem­ber li­king kit­tens un­til qu­ite re­cently. I can now say the sa­me thing abo­ut squ­ir­rels. It was squ­ir­rels that had be­en in­si­de the back wall of the sta­ti­on. We fo­und out abo­ut mid­mor­ning to­day. Sid had star­ted go­ing
wild aga­in at the wall, so Beth and I ca­me to lis­ten in on the com­mo­ti­on. Then it hap­pe­ned. A squ­ir­rel che­wed a big­ger chunk of drywall whe­re I had ma­de the ho­le. Sid knew bet­ter of the squ­ir­rel - ob­vi­o­usly sen­sing it was chan­ged. Sid to­ok off to­wards the front ro­om. Beth jum­ped on top of a desk in the ro­om. I ma­de has­te and do­ve in­to the front ro­om for one of the shot­guns. I slid ac­ross the slick flo­or, tho­ugh and hit the do­or. I did ma­na­ge to re­ach my sword, tho­ugh. The squ­ir­rel ca­me scam­pe­ring to­wards Sid and I, but I got up, to­ok a swing at it li­ke a hoc­key puck and cut the lit­tle fuc­ker in half. I must ha­ve lo­oked qu­ite silly in what I did next, but I must ad­mit to it - I apo­lo­gi­zed to my sword and told it I wo­uld ne­ver neg­lect it aga­in.

  By la­te af­ter­no­on, Beth and I had all but comp­le­tely dest­ro­yed the drywall whe­re the squ­ir­rels we­re in­si­de te­aring things up.

  The­re we­re a lot of bla­de-thick and hatc­het thick slits in the drywall whe­re we had be­en trying to kill the ro­dents be­fo­re they co­uld chew the­ir way out to us. A few trick­les of blo­od out of so­me of the slits sho­wed us that we had got­ten so­me of them, but the no­ise of flit­te­ring was star­ting to get lo­uder. It wasn’t so­un­ding to go­od for us.

  Eve­ning had ne­arly set in when one of the squ­ir­rels had ap­pa­rently che­wed thro­ugh the ma­j­or wi­ring in the wall that led to the an­ten­na. We knew be­ca­use a small ball of fi­re shot out from the drywall ins­tantly star­ting a fi­re in­si­de the wall.

  I told Beth to for­get trying to sa­ve the sta­ti­on and to just get all of our things and he­ad out­si­de. We both grab­bed everyt­hing and along with Sid, to­ok off out­si­de and be­gan ma­king our way up the mo­un­ta­in­si­de. I told Beth that our best bet wo­uld be the ca­ve whe­re the hi­ker and the be­ar had be­en. I co­uld tell from her eyes that she was be­yond pa­ra­no­id abo­ut the ca­ve, but for such short no­ti­ce, it was the best I co­uld think of. I kept lo­oking back se­ve­ral ti­mes to the sta­ti­on. It had ca­ught fi­re pretty qu­ickly. I’m gu­es­sing the many strips of clot­hing, by then dry and with fu­mes of am­mo­nia from Sid’s strong piss pro­bably hel­ped the fi­re get go­ing.

  I kept my pro­mi­se to my sword as so­on as we re­ac­hed the ca­ve.

  I went in alo­ne as far as I co­uld see. Not­hing had ma­de a new ho­me in the­re sin­ce my last ti­me in­si­de. The cold dark­ness of night set in very qu­ickly, and I knew that Beth and I had to act fast. I hel­ped her as we bro­ught our stuff far eno­ugh in­si­de the ca­ve, and then I told her to start get­ting twigs or kind­ling of any type for a fi­re. I to­ok my sword back down to the sta­ti­on, which was easily vi­sib­le whi­le on fi­re. I ma­de it a qu­ick trip. I just grab­bed a long bo­ard from the fi­re glo­wing with ni­ce, oran­ge em­bers. As so­on as I got back to the ca­ve, I was ab­le to get us a fi­re go­ing with the wo­od that Beth had gat­he­red for us. We con­ti­nu­ed to get fi­re­wo­od for a whi­le.

  Now we are hud­dled in front of our com­for­tab­le fi­re in our new, ca­ve ho­me. I’m ac­tu­al­ly mo­re com­for­tab­le and war­mer with the fi­re than we had be­en in the sta­ti­on. Every draft of wind isn’t bloc­ked for us any­mo­re, but the wind has to pass over the fi­re. It’s li­ke ha­ving a he­ater fan. We’re okay for now.

  DAY - 48

  I ha­ve no idea what ti­me I got up this mor­ning, but it struck me to check out the ca­ve mo­re tho­ro­ughly. I used one of our last use­less pi­eces of clot­hing to wrap aro­und a thick pi­ece of wo­od we hadn’t yet used for fi­re­wo­od, and I had ma­de myself a torch. I grab­bed my sword and put it in my belt lo­op and then grab­bed my shot­gun. I don’t know exactly how far I had go­ne in­to the ca­ve, but I know that I was se­arc­hing for a whi­le.

  I fi­nal­ly ca­me to an area of the ca­ve that was only a crawl spa­ce that se­emed to go much furt­her. My conc­lu­si­on was - fuck it! The only thing li­ving be­yond that po­int had to be bats and ca­ve cric­kets. Ne­it­her of tho­se things I fe­el li­ke ever ha­ving to de­al with, es­pe­ci­al­ly bats. They’re just flying mi­ce, and I think I’ve cle­arly ma­de my po­int abo­ut ro­dents.

  Beth didn’t lo­ok very amu­sed at me when I re­tur­ned to her and Sid. She lo­oked rat­her pis­sed and re­li­eved all at on­ce, but she was in no way happy abo­ut me le­aving her be­hind. I apo­lo­gi­zed as best I co­uld, but hell, she’s a wo­man, and I knew it was fully up to her to de­ci­de when she wo­uld no lon­ger be mad. I just let it be, and tri­ed to put mo­re ef­fort in­to re­ading the map of the area. Be­fo­re long Beth jo­ined me. We kept lo­oking over it and nar­ro­wing down which are­as se­emed fit to try and re­lo­ca­te to. The best bet se­ems to be re­ac­hing a ro­ad that winds up to the ne­igh­bo­ring mo­un­ta­in­top. It do­es say LO­OKO­UT PO­INT on the map, and if we’re lucky, the­re just might be a bu­il­ding the­re - a so­uve­nir shop, a rest­ro­oms bu­il­ding or so­met­hing - anyt­hing. We’re not in any po­si­ti­on to be picky. Had I ac­tu­al­ly pa­id at­ten­ti­on to the map ear­li­er on then I might ha­ve al­re­ady ma­de a go for it. I’ve ne­ver be­en that lucky, tho­ugh. Gran­ted, be­ing ali­ve is pretty dam­ned lucky for me, but this se­ems rat­her on track with how my who­le li­fe has pla­yed out. I just ne­ver find out what I ne­ed un­til the last mi­nu­te, and then I ha­ve to bust my ass to get that thing of ne­ed. Anot­her prob­lem was so­on ma­de cle­ar to us. The best, shor­test and only re­aso­nab­le way to get to the ro­ad for us is go­ing to ha­ve us go­ing thro­ugh the red circ­le.

  We co­uld go aro­und, but it will ha­ve us ta­king twi­ce as much ti­me. The days are still short, so ti­me isn’t much of a vir­tue right now. I’m just go­ing to get my wish and try to burn tho­se bas­tard thorn-plant-fuc­kers to dust. It sho­uld pro­bably be do­ne any­way if only to pre­vent the dam­ned things from bre­eding furt­her and spre­ading out in the fo­rest. Beth se­emed ap­pre­hen­si­ve when I told her that fi­re wo­uld ta­ke ca­re of them for go­od. I pro­mi­sed her that fi­re is al­ways right. She lo­oked li­ke she didn’t be­li­eve me too much, so I as­ked her if she ever tri­ed to tell a fi­re, NO - to which she just ga­ve me a smug lo­ok and slap­ped my sho­ul­der. She did end up la­ug­hing, tho­ugh.

  It was the first ti­me I had se­en her smi­le to­day, and I ne­eded it. It’s bad eno­ugh thin­king abo­ut ha­ving to get clo­se to tho­se plants aga­in. Now I ha­ve to get us all sa­fely past them. I’ll al­so ma­ke su­re we eat so­met­hing be­fo­re we set out - not eating last ti­me al­most cost me.

  DAY - 49

  I was right abo­ut the pos­si­bi­lity of a bu­il­ding atop the lo­oko­ut po­int of the mo­un­ta­in. It’s no big­ger than a rest stop li­ke tho­se along ma­j­or high­ways, but it has a three-story plat­form bu­ilt aro­und it that pe­op­le se­emingly pa­id to walk up on for a bet­ter vi­ew. Alt­ho­ugh we got her well past night­fall, I fo­und a small bre­aker ro­om and res­to­red the elect­ri­city. Mis­si­on: suc­ces­sful.

  We we­re all up by first light this mor­ning and qu­ickly pac­ked our things. I to­ok no­ti­ce that our fo­od supply is dwind­ling, but I still ma­de su­re we ate eno­ugh that we wo­uld be re­ady for the chal­len­ge ahe­ad of us. We then he­aded out. I had Beth hold Sid on his cha­in le­ash. I re­al­ly didn’t want him wan­de­ring too far ahe­ad of us, but most im­por­tantly I was we­aring our new back­pack full of so­me of our things, my sword in my belt lo­op, a shot­gun in my left hand and a ma­kes­hift torch in my right hand. I think it was mo­re than a fa­ir tra­de of du­ti­es.

  It was pro­bably se­ve­ral ho­urs la­ter that I be­gan to re­cog­ni­ze so­me of the sce­nery as be­ing clo­se to the cle­aring - the red circ­le - so­met­hing hard to for­get. I ma­de Beth stop, and we do­ub­le-chec­ked that our shot­guns we­
re fully lo­aded. I re­ali­zed that we are al­so dwind­ling down on am­mo. As so­on as Beth con­vin­ced me that she was re­ady, we be­gan to slowly ad­van­ce to the cle­aring. On­ce the­re, Beth lo­oked ama­zed at how the plants we­re ab­le to mo­ve at will. Sid didn’t li­ke them at all, and his bar­king and whi­ning ma­de the plants act an­xi­o­us in the­ir mo­ve­ments. I told Beth that they wo­uld pro­bably burn easi­er if they we­ren’t mo­ving so much. She qu­ickly to­ok to un­lo­ading her shot­gun on the plants. I then tos­sed the torch on the ones she had torn up well eno­ugh. The ro­ots of the plants be­gan to start sprin­ging up from the so­il and star­ted ac­ting li­ke sna­kes wrap­ping aro­und the plants on fi­re. They we­re const­ric­ting each ot­her trying to suf­fo­ca­te the fi­re.

  That’s when I be­gan sho­oting - aiming only for tho­se ro­ots.

  Beth and I we­re so­on out am­mo. Ins­te­ad of re­lo­ading with the few shells we had left, I told Beth to just se­cu­re her hold on Sid and her shot­gun. I used so­me of the ext­ra straps to fas­ten my shot­gun to it in a si­de­ways fas­hi­on to my back­pack, re­adi­ed my sword and told Beth to stay clo­se. I to­ok off swin­ging and cut­ting a path thro­ugh the ro­ots and to­wards the plants well lit with fi­re. I was even chop­ping away a pi­eces on fi­re sen­ding them to­wards the ot­her plants. I don’t even think it to­ok very long to get thro­ugh, but it felt li­ke it to­ok fo­re­ver.