by Chris Pike
While Ryan and Garrett worked to clear away the junk, James made a visual check of the truck. Surprisingly, it hadn’t rusted that much and the rust he did see didn’t affect the safety of the truck. The tires were flat, though.
“You have a tire pump?” he asked.
“I do,” Garrett replied.
Opening the door, James inspected the interior. The seats were still in fairly good condition, the instrument panels were visible under a coating of dust. Garrett handed James the tire pump. While James pumped up each tire, the other two cleared away more junk. Thankfully, the tires held the air pressure.
“We’re good to go!” James called.
With the path cleared, James sat in the driver’s side and checked for the keys. There were none, so he felt around under the seat. Bingo. He put the truck in neutral then glanced in the review mirror. Ryan and Garrett were standing at the end of the bed, waiting for instruction. James gave a thumbs-up. “Start pushing!”
Placing their hands on each end of the truck bed, Garrett counted. “One, two,” he took a big breath before saying “threeee!” With a steady heave, the truck lurched forward an inch, then a foot, squeaking and moaning, bouncing along the uneven dirt floor of the barn. The wheels protested the movement as if it was awakening from a long, deep slumber.
Slowly, Ryan and Garrett pushed the truck out of the barn and onto the grassy land.
The early morning sun was blinding, and Ryan shaded his eyes, squinting. It took his eyes several seconds to adjust to the bright sun. “If this thing had been a mole, it would be blind about now,” he laughed.
James exited the truck and shut the door. “Good work,” he said, high-fiving each man. “Can we eat breakfast? I’m going to need some fuel before I can work on this. And I’m going to need a can of gas, motor oil, and a battery.”
“I’ll get those for you,” Garrett said.
“Also, for a truck this old, I’ll need a six volt battery.” Looking around, James spied a tractor sitting on the other side of the orchard. “The battery from that tractor will do.”
* * *
After breakfast, the men excused themselves to resume working on the truck. Skeeter and Gumbo trotted along after them, leaving Cassie and Adelaide in the kitchen. Cassie helped clear the dishes while Adelaide scraped the leftover scraps into Gumbo’s food bowl. Filling a large bowl with water, Adelaide washed the plates and tableware, handing the clean dishes to Cassie to dry.
“It’s not any of my business, and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to,” Adelaide said, “but are you and Ryan a couple?”
The question took Cassie by surprise. “No. When you’re trying to survive, there isn’t much time to think about a Saturday night date.”
“Maybe not, but I noticed the way he was looking at you. It’s the way a guy looks at a girl he’s interested in.”
For a while neither said anything. Cassie considered the question. Perhaps in any other circumstance, like having a class together or meeting him via mutual friends, she and Ryan may have been a couple. He had seen her at her worst—dirty, sweaty, hungry, smelly clothes—so if he had been thinking about her in any other way, it would astonish her.
Apocalypse or not, Cassie needed to clean herself up.
“Where can I take a bath?” she asked.
“There’s a spigot and a hose on the side of the pump house,” Adelaide said. “Water’s going to be cold though.”
“I don’t care. I’m so filthy, even if I had to jump in an ice lake to get clean, I’d do it.”
Adelaide gave Cassie a towel, clean clothes to wear, a bar of soap, and a bottle of shampoo.
Walking down the back porch steps on her way to the pump house, Cassie glanced at the guys working on the vintage truck. They had decided over breakfast that if James got the truck working, Garrett would drive them into town so they could get decent camping supplies for the rest of their journey home.
The hood was propped open and James was leaning into the engine. Garrett stood to the side, holding a surplus of tools, while Ryan was the gopher running back and forth into the barn, fetching more tools.
Standing behind the pump house, out of view of everyone, Cassie stripped off her dirty clothes. She set them on the ground, sprinkled them with the hose, then gave them a vigorous scrubbing with the bar of soap. A nearby branch worked well as a clothesline, which was where she hung her clothes to dry. She peeked from around the corner of the pump house to make sure the guys were still busy at the truck.
So far so good. She went about the business of getting clean, scrubbing off a thick layer of Louisiana swamp mud and enough grime to last a lifetime.
At the truck James asked for a bucket of water so he could clean away a half century worth of gunk.
“There’s a bucket inside the barn on the right. You can fill it up with water at the spigot behind the pump house,” Garrett said. “There still should be enough water pressure from the generator running this morning. We needed water for breakfast and washing dishes.”
“I’ll get it,” Ryan replied.
He darted to the barn, grabbed the bucket, and headed to the pump house. When he rounded the corner he stopped dead in his tracks. There was Cassie in her glorious birthday suit, soap bubbles dripping down her back, her clean skin glistening in the sunlight. Her head was at an angle as she ran her fingers through her hair, untangling it.
Ryan knew he should do the gentlemanly thing and leave, but wild horses couldn’t drag him away from taking in the curve of her hips and those long legs that he had imagined being wrapped around him.
Ryan’s heart pumped about as fast as when the plane took a nosedive. He stood there uncertain what to do. Should he leave and come back, talking loud so Cassie would have warning he was coming? It wasn’t like he’d never seen any naked women before, but the sight of the woman who had been on his mind for the past three days was something he couldn’t turn away from. He sure did like what he saw and—
Without warning, Cassie turned around and locked eyes with him. Her eyes went wide and she made a feeble attempt to cover herself with her hands. “Oh my God!” she shrieked. “Turn around! Now!”
Ryan looked away and covered his eyes with his hand. He turned his back to her. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“How long have you been standing there watching me!” She grabbed the towel and wrapped it around herself.
“I didn’t see anything. I…I…uh…” Ryan stammered with his back to Cassie, unable to get the image of her naked body out of his mind.
“You saw everything!” Cassie screeched. “You can turn around. I’m covered up now.”
Ryan turned around. “I’m sorry. Garrett asked me to get a bucket of water. I swear,” he said putting up a hand, “I didn’t know you were here bathing, uh, naked.” He glanced down and scratched the back of his neck, which was itching for some reason.
“Seriously? How else does somebody take a bath?” Cassie clasped the towel edges together with one hand, while the other hand was planted on her hip.
Ryan burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Cassie demanded.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“What!”
“You should have seen the expression on your face.”
Cassie remained silent, glaring at him.
“And,” Ryan said, dropping his voice, “if you must know, you look really good naked.”
Cassie didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him for being such a dolt. For a long moment they stood there staring at each other until Cassie made the first move. Walking toward him, clasping the towel around her, she brushed his arm with hers. She gave him an approving onceover, letting her eyes settle on his.
Ryan held her resolute gaze.
With one mischievous eyebrow raised, Cassie said, “I bet you look really good naked too.”
Chapter 9
“Dillon,” Holly said, “don’t do this to yourself. Cassie’s gone, and going back into th
e swamp won’t do any good. You’re still not one hundred percent. I saw you nod off several times while riding yesterday, and I hate to say this, but her…body would have been reclaimed by now. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Earth to Earth. You know what I’m talking about, right?”
“I’m not ready to listen to a funeral eulogy. I won’t believe she’s gone until I find her body,” Dillon said. It aggravated him that Holly brought this up. He had held on to fleeting hope and he’d be damned if anyone told him otherwise.
“You had her for twenty-four years, now she belongs to someone else. If it’s any consolation, she’s with her mother and our Heavenly Father.” Holly tried to be as comforting as she could.
Dillon put his hand up to stop her. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Holly opened her mouth to say something else then decided against it. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child. Yet in a way she did, because she had lost a child in her own way. Her child was alive at least, which she couldn’t say to Dillon.
She stretched out in the sleeping bag. The night was dark and the stars were bright in the sky, twinkling in the heavens. Gazing upon them, the immenseness of the galaxy struck her, and she suddenly felt insignificant. Though she couldn’t tell if his eyes were open, Dillon’s breathing was steady and even, and he must be tired to the bone after all he had been through. His bruised body would eventually heal in time, but she had no idea how long it would take for his heart to heal, if it ever would.
His emotional wound was too raw and new, and it would be foolish to try to force any sort of closure on him.
Listening to him breathing comforted Holly, and she felt safe with him, as if nothing could harm her. At her apartment, even with people sleeping on the other side of a shared wall, she rarely got a good night’s sleep. Little noises like a dish clinking in the sink or a book shifting on the bookshelves caused her to wake and listen for other noises.
She’d expected she would feel safer living in the ‘burbs in a house with an alarm system, but she never had.
In the wide open country without walls or a roof, she felt at peace, a peace she had longed for, and Dillon was now part of that.
Holly had tried to persuade Dillon to rest and get stronger for a few more days, to let his body completely heal before undertaking the grueling two day ride back to her ranch. Unfortunately, her words of wisdom fell on deaf ears. He was a strong and stubborn man, and Holly admired him for that, although there were moments it drove her bat-shit crazy.
In the long night a breeze with a hint of salty swamp came through, brushing the land and the trees. An owl hooted long and lonely, and Holly drifted off to sleep.
* * *
A few minutes before daybreak, Dillon woke, startled by a nearby noise. After listening intently, he surmised it had only been a nocturnal animal, possibly an armadillo or a possum. Holly was still sleeping. A brief reluctance came to him and he regretted his surliness the previous evening.
He shrugged out of the sleeping bag. Stretching, he took in the land, listening to the sounds of the world awakening. A dove cooed, songbirds chirped a morning melody, and the low sun reached across the land, casting long fingers of warmth.
Buster lay curled in a tight ball on top of the sleeping bag, his fur dewy and cold from the night. He lazily opened one eye and looked at his owner. The dog had become lean from the long days of trotting beside the horses. The comfortable times of loafing on a cushiony sofa had become a distant memory for the dog, and after spending days together with his pack, studying their body language and voice intonation, he understood them more.
Buster lifted his head and sniffed the air. His owner was experiencing some sort of emotional stress, and his canine instinct told him to stay near.
Dillon stretched his sore muscles and body. He had been restless during the night, turning and tossing while vivid dreams interrupted any sleep. He briefly remembered Amy in one of his dreams, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall what had happened. At the time the dream had seemed profound, as if she was trying to tell him something important, yet the dream was too foggy.
He shook off the dream and the morning chill.
During the night Dillon had come to realize the futility in continuing the search for Cassie. If she was alive she would have walked out of the swamp. As her father, he had prepared her for being lost. He had taught her how to make a shelter using low-hanging branches that could be torn from a tree. He had taught her how to make a fire using rudimentary tools of a knife or another sharp instrument, kindling, and a good rock. He had shown her what berries and roots in the wild were edible, not exactly the kind of calories needed for long term survival, but in a pinch, they’d do.
If what the survivor Henri took in had said was true, she might have indeed been a casualty of the plane crash. The chances of her walking out of the swamp alone, and without proper gear, weren’t good either. He had always told Cassie she was made from good stock because with a surname of “Stockdale,” she couldn’t be anything else.
Without any landmarks to guide her, it would be too easy for Cassie to become disoriented in the flat land of Louisiana, especially if clouds obscured the sun.
Dillon still couldn’t bring himself to say she was dead. Casualty sounded softer, less final.
He reached down and picked up a handful of sandy dirt. Walking away from the campsite he followed an animal trail, wending a path through the high grass and around trees for thirty yards or so to a clearing.
Buster padded silently behind, ignoring the smells of the woodland that beckoned to him.
Dillon plucked a stand of late-blooming yellow flowers. The sun streamed through the trees, and a gentle breeze blew. Kneeling on one knee he hung his head and whispered, “Calista Ann Stockdale,” letting the silty dirt sift through his fingers, falling onto the dewy grass.
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust…
Dillon tried in vain to remember the rest of the prayer, and the weight of his grief crashed down upon him. This was the first time he had allowed himself to experience any pain, always being stoic, never letting anyone witness his private agony after his wife died. He put his hand to his forehead and wept openly at the loss of his family.
Sensing the overwhelming grief Dillon was experiencing, Buster came up to him and nudged him with a wet nose. He put his chin on Dillon’s knee. Dillon stroked him long and thoughtfully on the back, from the nape of his neck to his tail, smoothing down the rough fur. The simple connection soothed Dillon, and Buster felt Dillon release a big breath.
“It’s only you and me, boy. Everyone else is gone. I don’t even know how to go on. How to live. I feel old and worn out, like there’s no purpose.”
Buster kept his chin on Dillon’s knee, listening to the sad sounds his owner made. Buster had followed him into the clearing because he sensed there was purpose to the short jaunt, and he sensed his owner shouldn’t be alone.
After the alligator attack, Dillon hadn’t been the same.
His body was slowly healing, and Buster recognized the casual gait that replaced the stiff posture.
Although Buster couldn’t discern the meaning of the lines etched into Dillon’s face, he did sense an inner struggle his owner faced. It had happened after an emotional conversation of loud voices and angry stares at the old man’s fish camp.
Buster smelled Dillon’s muscles rejuvenating and becoming stronger. The limp had disappeared, but the facial lines told an entirely different story, one of sadness and loss.
Though Buster had never met the woman who lived with Dillon, her essence had been left everywhere in the house, and at one time she must have been his mate. A lock of hair, clothes hanging in the closet, shoes neatly stacked in the closet. Buster checked the smell of any female who came to the house, searching for the one who had left so much. He had never been able to identify any female as the one, and after a while, her scent diminished to the point it had disappeared.
Then this new woman had come
home with his owner.
As a dog, his senses alerted him to the unusual pheromones the female released while she talked to Dillon. While Buster kept his head on Dillon’s knee, he was aware that Dillon intermittently released his own male scent. At times it was stronger than others, and Buster had a flash of memory when his owner brought the injured woman home. There had been numerous conflicting signals each gave to the other.
In the end, the humans had remained together, and Buster considered them his pack.
He preferred his new pack, even the new woman, and his canine instinct would protect them and alert them to danger by using his superior scents of sight, sound, and smell.
Dillon cleared his throat and stood up. He blinked several times then wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”
The sun brightened the sky where low clouds floated on the horizon. The horses stood nearby, relaxed, nibbling on grass and the occasional dandelion, clover, and other edible weeds.
Dillon went to the horses and fed them several handfuls of oats.
By now, Holly was up and had prepared breakfast consisting of sliced peaches and deer jerky slapped between two pieces of homemade bread. Dillon broke off a piece of bread and gave it to Buster, who gobbled it like it was his last meal. Afterwards, Dillon gave Buster the last of the dog food. When Holly looked away, Dillon slipped Buster a piece of jerky.
Holly ate in silence on the opposite side of the campfire.
“Let’s get going,” Dillon said after breakfast was eaten.
Holly rounded up the horses and put the saddle and bridle on each of them while Dillon packed their bedrolls and kicked dirt over the fire.
Dillon eased into Cowboy’s saddle and when the horse felt his weight, he stood at attention, waiting patiently for the magic phrase.
“Ride ‘em Cowboy,” Dillon said without much conviction, followed by a quick kick in the flanks.
