by S. Ison
Janet handed him a hot cup of coffee, and he cradled it in his hands. He would miss the bitter brew when it ran out. For now, he enjoyed it. “I think we can start seedlings in a couple weeks. I was looking at the ice on the lake this morning. It’s getting thinner and starting to melt. Be careful next time you boys go fishing.” Janet sipped her coffee, picking up on the earlier conversation.
“Yeah, I was talking to Alisa. We’ve been looking through an old almanac, and it says the same thing. I was thinking about using fish as fertilizer, making a fishy compost to help grow the garden.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. I don’t know how your soil is, but it couldn’t hurt to add nutrients to the soil,” Janet said, taking another cautious sip of her coffee.
A gunshot sounded in the distance. Mike’s head shot up and around, listening. He started to rise from the table when there came another volley of shots. Mike stumbled to the door, his hands trembling. He looked back at Janet, who looked over at the sleeping baby and then back at Mike, nodding.
Mike burst through the front door and ran. His legs were heavy with dread, and his heart slammed hard into his chest. He had difficulty breathing as his arms pumped hard and his legs stretched out to eat up the distance between Janet’s home and his own. Smoke rose into the air from the direction of the cottage.
He jumped over debris, overturned bikes, trash cans, and empty suitcases. His mind screamed No, no, no! He could hardly breathe, and his mouth was dry as he gasped for air. He pushed his body beyond its limits, and began to see dark spots floating around the periphery of his vision. He felt like he was going to pass out or have a heart attack, but he pushed himself harder.
The cold wetness of tears crystalized in his eyes. He tried to blink away the blur, but it was as though shards of ice were cutting into his eyeballs. A distant part of his brain heard the wretched sobs coming from him. He sounded like a wounded animal.
Mike lost all sense of time, his brain frozen with the remembered sounds of the gunshots. His body wouldn’t listen to him and move faster. Finally! his brain screamed as the cottage came into view.
“Stephen! Alisa!” he screamed, his voice harsh and breathless. His legs began to buckle and he fell to the ground. He vomited his lunch up between his hands. He tried to stand, but couldn’t get to his feet. Pulling himself along the ground with his arms, he continued calling for his friends.
The smoke was pouring out of the front door, which was off its hinges and teetering in the wind coming off the lake. Mike grabbed onto a stout sapling and pulled himself up, then stumbled toward the door.
He stopped just inside the door and looked around. The place was torn to bits, and the floor in front of the fireplace was on fire, along with the coffee table and couch. Behind the couch, he saw legs. Naked legs.
Thrusting himself through the door, he came around the couch and found Stephen lying on the floor, bloodied, with what appeared to be gunshot wounds to the chest. There was also a long ugly cut across his abdomen, and part of his large intestine was pushing out, the gray purplish coils glistening in the firelight.
“Jesus Christ!” Mike screamed in anguish and fell to his knees. He gently lifted Stephen’s head into his lap. Stephen moaned, and Mike laid his head back down onto the floor. “Stephen, it’s me, brother. What happened? Where’s Alisa?” Mike asked, his throat so tight with tears he could barely get the words out.
“Those…” Stephen coughed and swallowed, then moaned low and hard from pain.
“Those…bastards came,” he panted.
“Who? The guys we saw?” Mike asked, his voice hard and shaking.
“Yeah. Those fuckers…” Stephen gasped and clutched at Mike’s arm, digging his nails into Mike’s flesh. Mike watched as his friend gritted his teeth in agony. He could feel Stephen’s body was cold and clammy as tremors ran up and down, causing the man to shake uncontrollably.
“Got Ally, got my wife,” he sobbed, and choked out a cry of desperation, fear, and sorrow.
“I’ll find those bastards and I’ll get Alisa back for you, brother. I’ll get her, and I’ll keep her and Zackary safe, brother,” Mike promised, his voice low and harsh, his teeth bared in a savage grimace of rage and grief.
He placed a dark, shaking hand on Stephen’s pale, bloodless forehead. He could feel the coagulating blood pooled at his knees. He noticed none of it. He was looking into the dying eyes of his best friend. His eyes blurred with unwanted tears.
“She… I… I love her… I love...Zack...you… you…I...” Stephen gagged and retched blood and bile onto his naked chest, though he seemed completely unaware of the mess he was in. His deep blue eyes burned into Mike’s darker eyes. “I... I…love… you...I...I...” Stephen wheezed hard and cried out in pain. Then he seemed to relax, his eyes remaining on Mike’s as though magnets held them there.
Mike waited, his breath held, and then exploded it from his chest as he realized his friend was dead. He pulled Stephen’s head to his chest and screamed long and loud, rocking back and forth as he cradled the dead man. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, and kept screaming until he was out of breath.
Spit slid from his slack mouth, his eyes wide and blank as he shook his head in denial. Then he felt the flames licking closer, starting to scorch his clothes and skin. As though coming out of a trance, he stood and looked down at the shell that had been his friend. Then he turned and walked to Zackary’s room, and began gathering clothing and baby items. He filled up a pillowcase, and then went to the kitchen. There wasn’t much left there.
Mike found an old blanket and, taking it to the lake, dipped it into the fishing hole they’d used just that morning. Going back to the cottage, he went down into the root cellar and placed it over the canned jars there. Then he pulled the old mattress in the basement to the door of the hidden root cellar. Mike picked up a bucket and filled it with water, then soaked the mattress. Once done, he laid the mattress against the cellar door. Most of the root cellar was surrounded by dirt. He hoped the wet mattress would protect the precious food within.
From above, Mike could hear the crackle and pop of the fire consuming his home, and the smell of burning wood and smoke filled his lungs. He could feel the heat, and knew that the house and all in it was destroyed. He would come back to bury his friend’s, his brother’s, bones. He would avenge and kill all who had declared war on his family.
CHAPTER SIX
San Gabriel Mountains, California
Larry went to the sink and filled the canteens. Charmain had said she wasn’t sure how long the recon mission would take, but wanted to be prepared for anything. She’d packed homemade energy bars, a heavy-duty thermos filled with hot coffee, flashlights, several bundles of paracord, and other odds and ends she thought they might need.
“There won’t be any fires, so make sure you layer up. You want to make sure you bring extra socks too. And TP. Bring your own roll, I don’t share,” she laughed.
Larry smiled and shook his head. Her confidence and pure brass always astounded him. They were getting ready to go out and find a band of bad people, and she was laughing? He wondered if she feared anything. The scar that ran down her face told its own story. Maybe surviving a bear attack changed a person somehow.
The hell he had lived through had changed him, he knew that to the marrow of his bones. He placed extra boxes of ammo in his pack. He was to carry the Winchester and the Beretta, while she had her baby, a SIG Sauer, and an AR15 she called Hanna. She had bedazzled Hanna with small jeweled flowers. Very feminine and deadly, she called Hanna.
Larry would have laughed, but she had been serious and so he’d kept a sober face. “A well-stocked survivor is a happy survivor,” she had said when she’d shown him her arsenal of rifles, handguns, knives, and a very sharp and lethal-looking machete. She doesn’t seem crazy, he thought, but she is dangerous. He would hate to be on the wrong side of Charmain and Hanna.
Charmain came into the kitchen with her pack. It was like his – which
he’d got from her – dull browns and greens. Perfect for blending in. She had a tactical vest on, with several magazines of hollow .223 Remington ammo. Hanna was slung across her chest, the jeweled flowers catching the light.
Grinning at Larry, she nodded toward his pack. “You ready?”
“Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be. Where are we going?” He grinned back, trying to control the trembling in his lips.
“We’re going to head due east, then south. We’ll be ahead of them, so can gauge for ourselves what we are up against. Because it’s a big group, they’ll be easy to hear and spot, well before they can see us,” she said confidently.
“Do you think they’ll have anyone scouting ahead?” Larry asked as he tightened the straps on the pack and slung it over and onto his shoulders. Then he took his rifle and slung it across his chest like Charmain’s. She had made a makeshift strap for it the night before.
“Yeah, they might, but they are probably feeling pretty cocky and sure of themselves with their numbers. We’ll go in slow and quiet.”
Going to the cupboard, she opened it and pulled out a small green tarp. She tossed it to him and he caught it neatly.
“Wrap your rifle in that. I don’t think we’ll see much action over the next couple days, so we don’t need our weapons getting wet. My SIG will be fine.” She smiled and patted her hip, where she carried her other love. “No fires, and no unnecessary talking once we leave. There may be others out there besides this group, and I don’t want to be surprised.”
“Okay, Charmain. You’re the boss,” he said, and grinned good-naturedly.
Charmain smiled at him and rolled her eyes. She turned off the lights and they both exited the cabin. Turning, he noticed that the windows had been secured and boarded up. Charmain started to pull a heavy beam across the door, and he helped her lift it into place. She then placed a large chain and lock on the beam, securing the entrance to the cabin.
He hoped she didn’t lose the key, as they’d never get back in if she did. He sighed as he watched her place the key under a rock some fifty feet away from the door. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he followed behind her, listening, and watching her every move.
Topsfield, Maine
It had been a few days and touch and go, but the kitten seemed to be hanging on. Kelly was feeding her goat’s milk from Lonesome. Though Lonesome barely put out milk now, Kelly had canned quite a few pints before winter had set in. She had Tim go out daily to squeeze a little from her, then she would use one of her pints to supplement the daily squirts.
As she held the mewing kitten in her hand, Schrodinger’s Cat snuffled at the kitten and tried to lick it. Kelly used her elbow to push the dog’s big head away as she tried to feed the kitten. The small syringe held less than an ounce, and Kelly was careful not to over- or under-feed the kitten.
Tim was on the radio, talking to Kenny. She couldn’t understand a word Kenny said face-to-face, and over the radio it was simply impossible. It still boggled her mind that Tim could comprehend the incomprehensible. She heard Tim laugh at something and rolled her eyes at Schrodinger’s Cat, who in turn cocked her head, her doggy eyebrow raised in query.
“I think Tim pretends to understand that man,” Kelly whispered to the dog.
“Rawrrowr,” Schrodinger’s Cat replied, causing Kelly to snigger, her eyes cutting over to Tim at the kitchen table.
She hadn’t come up with a name for the kitten yet. If she was honest, she was afraid to, afraid that if she did, it would die. Once finished feeding the nearly white puffball, she opened the palm of her hand and Schrodinger’s Cat gently took the kitten in her mouth and walked over to the wood stove. The kitten now had pale gray ears and an even lighter gray mask on her face. It had only been a little over a week since Tim had found it, and it was changing and growing rapidly. Its markings reminded Kelly of a Siamese. She hoped the kitten’s eyes were blue.
Placing the kitten between her large paws, the dog began to lick the kitten with her enormous tongue, lifting the kitten up, over and over. She licked the poor thing from head to tail. Afterward, the sopping wet kitten clumsily crawled into the crook of Schrodinger’s Cat’s chest and promptly fell asleep. The dog laid her massive head on her paws and shut her eyes to join the kitten in slumber.
Kelly shook her head. A symbiotic relationship if she ever saw. Schrodinger’s Cat wouldn’t let the two pups anywhere near the kitten. For now, Chance and Hope could be heard playing outside, where it was a balmy twenty-five degrees.
Tim walked over to the couch and slumped next to Kelly, sighing heavily. Reaching his long arm over, he pulled her to his chest and kissed her on the top of her dark head. She could hear him inhale deeply, and she smiled secretly. She’d used his favorite shampoo, the kind that made her hair smell like lemons.
“Kenny said that the ‘govment’ is starting to show movement. He’s getting word that they’re reaching out farther afield to isolated homesteads, looking for supplies.”
“That isn’t government, and I sure as hell don’t recognize them as such. They’re common thieves,” Kelly said, her blood pressure starting to rise.
“You’re right about that. He said they’re bullying people into giving them supplies or services,” Tim said. He scratched his beard under his jaw, and Kelly watched the small colorful braids wiggle. He hadn’t taken his beard out of their colorful elastic bands.
“So, what were you laughing at, ’cause I sure couldn’t figure it out,” Kelly asked, her tapered dark brow quirking up.
Tim laughed. “Apparently the govment stopped by his place. Asked what he had in the way of supplies. Kenny told them he had a couple empty coffins and a backhoe at the ready.”
Kelly joined him in laughter, feeling her face going pink. That was rich. “Good. Put those bastards in their place,” Kelly said with immense satisfaction, her fingertips tapping one another.
Tim laughed again. “He said Patsy stood just behind him with a deer rifle pointed straight at Mortimer Chum’s face. Chum had announced himself the new governor of Maine, and how it was important for all citizens to embrace him as their governor. Chum near pissed himself when Patsy stepped out from behind him. You know how small Patsy is, and Kenny’s a fairly good-sized man. Don’t think Chum expected that, since Kenny was unarmed when he answered the door.”
Kelly giggled harder, and clapped her hands, bouncing at the same time. “Oh, I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.”
“Needless to say, Kenny said Chum and his cronies left very quickly, and he hasn’t seen them since.”
“Do you think they’ll come here?” Kelly asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah. Everyone knows where our homesteads are. You can’t live in such a small community and not have word get around. Though Kenny and Patsy are the only ones that know I’m living here with you,” he said.
“Hmmm. Well, guess we should plan on what to do when they show up,” Kelly said, nibbling her lower lip in worry.
Tim pulled her head to him again and kissed it, then pulled her onto his lap. “Don’t worry. When the time comes, we’ll be ready,” he said, nibbling on her neck and working his way to her open shirt collar.
Kelly grinned mischievously and tugged on his braids. “Let’s go to the bedroom, where we won’t be interrupted by nosy dogs.”
Tim lifted her easily and carried her into the bedroom. The last time they had fooled around on the couch, Schrodinger’s Cat had stuck her cold wet nose where it didn’t belong at a crucial juncture, spoiling the moment.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bridgman, Michigan
Mike walked slowly back to Janet’s cabin, the pillowcases of supplies slung over his broad shoulders. He took a circuitous route, afraid the raiders might still be around. He really didn’t want to lead them to Janet and Zack. His body numb from rage and grief, he didn’t feel the bitter wind that whipped through his thin clothes.
He was relieved the raiders hadn’t touched the canned jar
s in the basement. They clearly hadn’t looked very far. The food in the house had been taken, along with the weapons and ammo he and Stephen had gathered. His throat closed once more, and he choked back a sob.
Cold wet tears fell down his face, and he blinked rapidly before they froze. It was still below freezing, and the wind was steady. He’d left his coat at Janet’s when he’d run out.
If only he hadn’t suggested he take Zack to Janet’s. If he’d been there, maybe Stephen would be alive and Alisa safe. Or, he thought grimly, they’d all be dead. It was a no-win situation trying to rewrite it. He was pretty sure it was the men they’d seen a few days back.
So it would seem they’d been followed home, and he had to admit that, as careful as he and Stephen had been, they had taken a straight line home. He cursed under his breath. It was a harsh lesson, a deadly lesson. He couldn’t take that chance with Zack’s life. Zack was all he had left now. And he knew he had to try to find, and hopefully rescue, Alisa.
Going through the woods, Mike stopped for a moment and listened. It was quiet, the wind moving the limbs of the trees around him. His own breath sounded harsh. He heard the plaintive, mournful cry of a blue jay in the distance. Once again, a sob left his chest. He lifted his arm and ran it under his nose, wiping away the tears and snot. He was inconsolable, his soul as cold as the wind.
Motionless, his dark eyes moved, looking carefully for any kind of movement. Any pattern that wasn’t natural. Around him, he smelled crisp air. It was too cold yet to smell the decay that was prevalent during the warm weather.
Turning, he made his way toward Janet’s home, carefully looking around him. When he got to her door, he once more looked around and listened. Nothing. Nothing moved, and he heard nothing but the wind and the long cry of the lonely blue jay.
