by Laeser, Nico
When I returned to the living room, Gary was awake and flicking through the television channels, each one displaying the same static snow and hiss. “Do you have a radio?” he asked.
“My alarm clock,” I said. “I’ll go and get it for you.”
“Thank you, Emily,” he said. “Hey, look, I’m sorry if I came across as an asshole yesterday. I just, well, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole; you tried to help everyone back there, you helped us get out,” I said. “You did what you could.”
Gary winced and looked away. “Yeah, I guess so.”
His reply seemed insincere, and even though I believed what I had said, that we had all done what little we could, it would never be enough to suppress the guilt of having left so many to face what we had escaped.
The expression on the preacher’s face on the way back from the church had hinted at the severity of the situation. In my periphery, I had watched him wipe tears from his eyes and wondered if what he’d seen in the church hall was what had been left of the carcass after the wolves had fled.
***
When I returned to the kitchen, my stomach growled in response to the welcome smells of cooking food. “I grabbed some of my dad’s old clothes for whoever needs them, if they fit.” I put the pile down on a stool and set the alarm clock down on the oak surface of the counter.
“And here’s the radio you wanted, Gary.”
“Thanks,” Gary said and took it to the nearest power outlet.
“You started breakfast,” I said, through an uncontrollable smile.
Powell turned and raised his eyebrows. “Beans, canned tomatoes, and pan-fried hash browns.”
“You had me at anything but watered-down stew,” Gary said over his shoulder as he continued to skip from one radio station to another, each zipping from static to more static.
“Figured a decent breakfast would raise everyone’s spirits, no pun intended,” Powell replied.
“Are you okay, Preacher?” I asked, turning my attention to the end of the breakfast bar where he sat with his head down, seemingly oblivious to all around him.
He looked up from his hands and stared through me. His glassy stare focused somewhere a thousand miles behind me, his eyes framed by deep red and swollen lids. “Randall.”
I frowned and opened my mouth to speak, but he continued before I could ask the question.
“My name is Randall. I’m not worthy to be called a preacher.”
“Is this about Margaret?” I asked.
The preacher’s eyes refocused on mine as he nodded slowly. “Margaret and the rest of them. I hope this is not a test, if it is, then I’ve already failed.”
Powell placed a plate of food and a fork down in front of the preacher. “You need to eat something,” he said. They exchanged a glance before the preacher picked up his fork, and Powell set to serving the rest of us.
Haley and Sean joined the four of us a few minutes later, and although all the stools were full, we ate in relative silence. We each enjoyed the best meal we’d had in some time, and each dealt quietly with our own internal demons. I glanced around at each of their faces. They were all cut and bruised, even the preacher. Although his wounds were below the skin, they were still easily seen and would probably take much longer to heal.
***
“Do you think someone will come to help us?” I asked, looking eagerly around the living room at the rest of the group and awaiting their response.
Gary met my stare. “Eventually, the Army maybe. If the fires broke out everywhere though, then they’ll have their hands full for a while. Small towns like ours won’t be a high priority. Think what’s going on in New York, London, or any major city, Jesus—sorry, Preacher,” Gary shot a glance at the preacher, but Randall didn’t react to the blasphemy, nor the name. He remained lost in his own thoughts.
“Think about what Hong Kong must be going through,” Gary continued.
“We should make a few more supply runs, to make sure we have enough to last until they do get around to us,” Powell said.
Gary nodded. “We should pick up weapons and ammunition too.”
Each of us looked back at him, even Randall. He had everyone’s full attention.
“This house is lit up like a Christmas tree, you’ll be able to see it for miles at night. Seeing as it’s the only place with power, you can bet people are going to head this way and try to take what we have,” Gary said.
I wished that I had not eaten all that food with the sudden bout of nervous energy now trembling in my gut. “Would it help if we blocked up the windows?”
“It wouldn’t hurt, but people are going to see smoke from the fire or see the truck on the way back here one day. It’s going to happen, it’s only a matter of when,” Gary said.
“There’s a shotgun in my dad’s closet and a couple boxes of shells, buckshot, I think,” I said.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” came an unfamiliar voice.
I turned as Sean continued in a steady and even tone. It was no longer the frantic tone of a frightened man trying to fight back a malicious mob, but of a gentle and loving father, a tone that reminded me of my own father.
“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for Haley and me. If there’s any way I can repay you, all of you, then let me know,” he said.
Haley held on to her father’s hand as he said his piece and as I daydreamed of my own family, my father, and Sam. I thought about how close Haley had been to losing her father, and the sadness of my own loss crept up into the back of my throat. If we had accomplished nothing else, we had saved Sean and his daughter from the church and whatever madness had followed the gunshots as we drove away.
The look of horror on Haley’s face snapped me awake and away from superimposed memories. I watched her terrified eyes and traced her gaze to Gary’s lips as he continued to outline plans for arming our group and defending the house with lethal force.
“Gary,” I called and gestured toward the little girl clutching her father’s hand. “I think we’re scaring her.”
Confusion spread across his face, his expression clearly defining a single thought, but she’s deaf, and then the realization set in that she was staring at his lips, had heard his fears, his plans, heard how dire our situation was and how deadly it would become, just a matter of when.
He looked down at his hands, “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
I waited for Haley’s eyes to find me. “Are you okay, do you need anything?”
She pulled a small notepad from her pocket and scribbled a message before handing it to Sean.
“She says, thank you for helping us and for letting us stay at your house,” Sean said.
“You’re welcome,” I mouthed and offered a smile.
“She wants to know what happened to her mom, where she went,” Sean continued.
The rest of us each looked at the next, wondering who, if any of us, could answer. It was the preacher, Randall, who spoke.
“Your mom’s safe. She's somewhere that the wolves can never get to her.”
13 | New world ordinance
Gary and Sean left early. They had gone in search of HAM radio equipment, fuel, and even though it was not mentioned again to the group, I assumed firearms and ammunition had also been added to their list.
The house felt almost empty. Only two members of our number were gone, but of those who remained were a girl unable to hear, who used her hands to speak, a preacher with nothing left to preach, and Powell, a paramedic who had been beaten to unconsciousness by the people he had tried to heal. We were strangers to each other, forced together by circumstance, and with potentially little in common. Over the first few days in the house, those circumstances had forced us to re-evaluate our living arrangements, our sleeping arrangements, and our daily habits. We would have to adhere to new schedules, new routines, and to the rationing of food and supplies. The priority now was security and survival, and a large part of both relie
d on accepting the dangers of being alone and the equal or greater dangers of being around people.
I had suggested Haley share my room, Sean and the preacher take Sam’s bedroom, and Gary and Powell share my dad’s old room. Gary opted for the couch instead and suggested we sleep in shifts, just in case. Our roles were defined quickly and organically. Gary was to take control of security. Powell offered to cook and to ration food and supplies. We would follow a rotating schedule for who would pair up for supply runs, giving each of us time away from the house, and from the rest of the group. We would each have our place and our responsibilities. Even Haley had volunteered to share the housework—making beds, hand-washing clothes, cleaning, and performing daily kitchen chores.
While Randall and Powell worked outside, using whatever material they could find to black out or cover the windows, Haley and I finished up the inside work. If I’d stopped to think about it, I may have gotten mad over the only two females of the group being left to do housework, but it was my house and a job that had always been mine. For most, the housework didn’t seem to factor as a high priority, although Powell seemed to know his way around a kitchen and would help until summoned for more pressing security matters. To be honest, it was somewhat therapeutic to lose myself in old routines, to switch off and let my mind replay old memories.
I stood at the sink, rinsing the morning’s dishes that had been left to soak, while Haley dried them and put them away. We shared no words, only the occasional smile, and I finished the dishes in a half-daze, a memory triggered by the sight of my dad’s favorite mug. When I looked up, a dark shape pressed to the window over the sink. I jumped back with a gasp, dropping my father’s mug to the tiled floor, where it smashed into pieces.
Haley remained oblivious to the shattered mug but turned as the trapezoid of light, let in through the kitchen window, shrank to a line and then to nothing. I lit a candle and pointed to the porcelain fragments at our feet, mouthing for Haley to wait for me in the living room while I swept up the shards. As the men outside hammered the plywood in place over the window, I tipped the dust pan and let its contents, now only sentimental remnants, slide off and into the waiting garbage bag.
I picked up the candle and Haley’s notepad and pen from the breakfast bar and joined her in the living room. I touched her shoulder as I sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’m sorry, I should have lit a candle in here for you; I didn’t mean for you to sit in the dark.”
Haley shook her head and offered a thin smile.
I handed the notepad and pen to her and waited while she scribbled in the low light.
She turned the notepad to face me. Why did the people at the church try to hurt us?
“They were confused and scared. People act in ways they wouldn’t normally act when they’re scared,” I said.
Are you scared?
I nodded. “Yes, but it won’t be like this for long. People will come to help us, and then everything will go back to normal.”
Even as I spoke the words, I didn’t truly believe everything would go back the way it was. How could it? So many family homes had been lost to fire. Those families would have nowhere to go, and if the incident at the church were any indicator, some would not last until help finally arrived.
As though reading my mind instead of my lips, she shook her head and wrote, We can’t go back. Our house is gone. It burned down.
“You can stay here for as long as you need to, or want to,” I said and offered her a smile.
Do you think my mom will find us here?
“If she found you once, she’ll find you again.”
Mom said that there were other ghosts in the church, but I couldn’t see them.
“Others?”
Haley nodded and began writing again. She said that they were see-through, like us, but she could hear them.
“Like us?”
Haley nodded. She said that I was see-through, like a ghost, that we all were. I told her that was how she looked to us.
While I sat thinking over what she had said, wondering what, if anything, it had meant, she began to write again.
Where is my dad, and Gary? They’ve been gone for hours.
“They went to find radio equipment,” I said.
And guns?
I nodded, feeling a little ashamed, perhaps reading too much into those two words.
My dad says it’s wrong to steal.
I looked at the message and frowned. “Are you talking about the food and supplies?”
Haley nodded and looked down at her knees.
I waited for her to look up at me. “I left all the money I had at the store when I took the food. It wasn’t enough to pay for all of it, but—if you had more food than you could eat and there were people like us who had none, wouldn’t you want to share your food?”
She shrugged and nodded.
“Things are a little different right now. Look at what Gary did back at the church. He brought sleeping bags and camping supplies from his own store to share with the group.”
This seemed to satisfy her. Her frown dissolved and a wry smile crept across her face.
Is Paul your boyfriend?
I read the message and my face grew hot. “Powell? No, he’s not my boyfriend ...”
The front door opened. Powell and the preacher walked into the house. I shot a nervous glance back at Haley and saw the cheeky, mischievous smile of a nine-year-old girl. An unexpected laugh escaped through the hand cupped over my almost certainly reddened face, and Haley began to laugh. Her laugh was infectious, a dull squeak punctuated by an occasional snort that made me laugh even harder.
“What’s going on in here?” Powell asked.
“It’s girl talk; you wouldn’t understand,” I managed and winked at Haley.
“No boys allowed, I get it.” He gave a smile and continued through to the kitchen, shaking his head, with Randall in tow.
In Haley’s notepad, I wrote, His name is Powell, and handed it back. She read the name, circled it with a heart, and wrote Emily underneath.
My initial expression of shock and embarrassment quickly relaxed into an uncontrollable and mischievous smile, mirroring Haley’s expression as she teased further, raising her eyebrows, turning the pictogram into a question.
I shook my head at her, although not in response to the implied question, and leaned toward her, pulling her into my arms. The hug seemed to provide as much comfort for me as it did for her, reminding me of the necessity for human contact, for family. This small group was now the closest thing I would have to a family.
As we pulled apart, I ripped the top leaf from the notepad, screwed it up into a tight ball, and feigned placing the crumpled evidence into my mouth. I mimed a hard swallow and slipped the balled-up note into my pocket for permanent disposal at the earliest opportunity.
When I entered the kitchen, Powell placed a cup down on the breakfast bar. “Coffee?”
I nodded, smiled, and tried to ignore the lingering embarrassment brought on by Haley’s note.
“You know, there’s what, four guys and only two girls in our group? And I still feel that we’re somehow outnumbered,” Powell said with a smirk.
“Did you manage to find enough plywood to cover all the windows?” I asked, changing the subject before any further inquiry into our girl talk.
“Yeah, it’s not pretty, but they’re all covered,” he replied, “The catch is that we have to use fuel or candles to light this place during the daytime now. Maybe Gary can figure something out, camping lights or oil lamps or something.”
“There are boxes of candles at the church,” Randall said and winced at his own words. “Perhaps Gary’s store would have something more suitable for ...” He stopped and craned his head to one side, holding a finger up to his lips.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Listen. It sounds like they’re back,” Randall said.
Partially masked by the low rumble of the generator, another engine roared to climb the hill. T
he three of us went out to meet the truck. It was my dad’s truck, trailed by a cloud of dust as it crunched the dirt road, spitting the loose rocks out behind it to be covered again once the dust settled.
The truck pulled up, but only Gary got out.
“Where’s Sean?” I asked. “What happened?”
“He’s okay; he’s not too far behind,” Gary said, his palms held out in a calming gesture, in response to the obvious panic in my voice. He continued before I could speak. “We found a working van. Sean’s driving it back full of supplies. He was right behind me until we hit the dirt roads.”
Powell wore an uneasy expression as he moved to the truck bed.
“Let’s get this stuff inside,” Gary said and pulled back the olive drab tarp.
I stared at the exposed cargo. What filled the bed of the truck, aside from the filled gas and diesel cans, was enough weaponry and ammunition to fight a war.
“Where did you find all of this?” Powell asked.
Gary smirked and tapped the side of his nose.
“There are more guns than we have hands for,” I said.
“We don’t know how long this is going to last, how long we are going to have to survive until the Army or whoever shows up to fix it, if they ever do. It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Gary said.
The preacher’s eyes darted left and right as he scanned the contents of the truck bed before he closed them and let out a breathy sigh. He lifted two of the gas cans out and walked them around the house toward the barn, while Powell and I followed Gary’s lead, relocating the newly acquired armory piece by piece to one corner of the living room.
