Last Woman

by Druga, Jacqueline

  It was a peaceful silence.

  When they died, I hated the silence, and it became a hurtful silence.

  But no matter what the circumstances, it was really never silent. There were birds, cars, planes and people making noise outside.

  When they died I replaced that deadening quiet with a television that always played in the background. I fell asleep to the television.

  It was the first time, in my home that I not only was completely alone, I was encompassed by a new silence … a scary one.

  A part of me waited for Dodge or the boys to radio. After all, George said he would. But the radio message never came. I had a shiver of a fear that they got into an accident, then I tapped deep in my gut and felt they just weren’t going to radio. Dodge had made the separation.

  I drank a lot after they left, staring at the half bottle of sleeping pills I intended to take the next day. I wasn’t ready to take them yet. I still had a couple things to do.

  The deck was my nightly routine, but it was different. The whole house had taken a different feel and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

  After my family died, it was a lonely house. For some reason, it felt even lonelier and I couldn’t figure out why.

  Perhaps it was the alcohol.

  With the throw blanket from the couch draped over me, I fell asleep on the deck.

  <><><><>

  I woke the next morning to the sun beating down, an unusually hot day, and a horrendous stench all around me. The bodies left out for trash were permeating the air. They had been there the while time, but for some reason, this morning, it was as if I stood in the middle of a pile.

  The candle had burned to the holder, and I grabbed the blanket and went inside the house.

  Hating the thought of shutting the windows, I knew I had to.

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the edge of the counter, and reached for the tin peculator coffee pot that Dodge had grabbed at the home store.

  But my hand hit air.

  He took the coffee pot? I dismissed my irritation at not having caffeine and being slightly hung over. I still had instant coffee from the local Coffee Shop, and I put water on the Coleman stove to heat.

  While that water boiled, I downed some more water, and noticed Dodge had taken all but two packs. In fact, he took a lot of the supplies he had gathered. Nothing I had prior to his arrival, but he took what he looted from the neighbors and stores. On my counter was a box of supplies. Maybe three days’ worth.

  No sooner did I think about going to find more, that I realized I wouldn’t need to. Dodge took the things because in his mind, it was probably a waste to leave them.

  Soon enough I’d be a corpse in a bed, rotting through to the mattress, only to be found at a later time by looters or maybe not at all.

  Water boiled, coffee ready, I took a moment to enjoy it and allow the coffee to work into my bloodstream. I always thought more clearly after coffee. I pulled up the stool, sat and stared out the kitchen window while I sipped.

  The sun was so bright. What day was it? The date was May 19, it was a Friday. In my previous life I’d be at work, waiting to go take a break, because I just didn’t have the patience to wait until lunch. I only worked while the kids were in school.

  My kids.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and finished my coffee.

  ‘Today is a good enough day as any to die’, I thought. I heard that somewhere, I didn’t know where. Some television show. But it was. It was a good day to die.

  At that point any day was.

  I believed I was ready.

  Ready to take that final step, ready to meet my maker if there was one. Face Him with my decision and hoped there’d be mercy. Surely, there’d be forgiveness.

  Surely, I’d see my family again. After all, that was why I chose to leave the world. There was not enough to hold me to living, too much lay on the other side.

  I stood and looked out the window. What a beautiful and glorious looking day.

  It was almost cruel. God showed beauty among all the death that scattered about.

  Despite the green of life, the sun, all I saw, all I felt was death.

  Or so I thought.

  Setting down my cup, I had a few things I wanted to do, before taking those pills. A few things I had to resolve.

  I always loved the layout of my house. My kitchen led into a nice foyer that actually showed my open living room. I had a split level house. As I walked across the foyer to the stairs, I passed the table in the hall, and immediately saw the little truck Darie had built for me.

  It made me smile and I lifted it. No sooner did I do that, again, the propeller fell off.

  “Damn it,” I bent down and picked it up. I never was any good with Lego’s. Mark used to get so frustrated with me when I …

  That thought made me pause.

  Mark. My son loved Lego’s as soon as he figured out what they were. Taking a breath, holding that toy I walked up the first flight of stairs, it was a small flight to the next level.

  I didn’t notice it the day before, but I did as I passed the den.

  The pictures, the family pictures that spread across Rich’s desk and on the walls... weren’t there.

  Thinking, ‘No’, I stepped in the den. The walls looked bare; I lost my ability to breathe and then immediately filled with anger when I saw the box on the desk.

  Someone, probably Dodge, had packed those pictures.

  How dare he? How dare he touch pictures of my family? I reached into the box and the first one I pulled out was a family photo. One of those cheesy ones I thought was awesome at the time, but really it was just a portrait studio attempt to make us look good. At that second, I laughed at the picture where we all wore white shirts and Mark got a pizza stain on that shirt. I wanted to kill him. I wanted that picture to be perfect.

  It wasn’t, but neither were we as a family. No family was.

  Calming down, I told myself Dodge only removed them to help me and they were only pictures.

  I’d return for the box. Toy still in my grip, I started to leave and stopped again, I first peered slowly over my shoulder, then spun.

  Rich’s books were gone. Not all, but all his old fiction books that he collected, the classic paperbacks.

  There wasn’t a box. Apparently Dodge took them too,

  Okay at that point, I was mad. I wished for a moment he did radio so I could yell at him.

  No … no, I calmed down. What did I need books for?

  Onward.

  I walked to the next set of stairs and to the level of the house I hadn’t been since the kids had been killed. In fact, I froze on the top step.

  My head spun, I felt a little faint. It seemed as I was walking in a dreamlike state. Even when Mikey used to go to Mark’s room, I never went up, I only hollered for him to come down.

  But it was time.

  I wanted to and needed to go into my children’s rooms.

  Sammy’s room was first, after a brief hesitation, I turned the knob and opened the door. A groan of emotions seeped from me when I stepped in the room that was exactly as she left it three and a half months earlier.

  The blinds were messed up from her peeking out, her bed was badly made like a five year old would do. Shoes everywhere, six or seven changes of clothes were on her chair. She must have flipped through her wardrobe choices before leaving that day. Her dollhouse was on the floor, figures still in position.

  “Oh, baby,” My eyes felt heavy, welling with tears as I reached down for one of the dolls. “I miss you so much.”

  Inhaling deeply through my nostrils, I took in the scent of that room. Maybe it was my imagination or it could have been just sealed in there. I grabbed her pillow from her bed, and walked from the room, leaving the door open.

  Mark’s room. I knew it would be touched, different, because Mikey was up there a lot after Mark died.

  So much of Mark’s room was a contrast of who he was. One side showed the teenager, t
he other the boy.

  Video game controllers were on the bed, clothes scattered, soda cans everywhere.

  It was when I turned clockwise in my examination of the room that I saw it. Sammy’s pillow in my arm, Darie’s truck in the other, I saw the Lego shelf.

  There were shelves all around Mark’s room, a trophy shelf, picture shelf, bookshelf, but this one was his life of Lego models that he had made since he was four years old.

  The same age as Darie.

  They went from good to amazing. He kept the ones he was most proud of.

  Ironically, on the shelf was a vehicle with a propeller.

  “Mom, don’t touch it,” I heard Mark’s young voice. “You’ll break it.”

  “I can fix it,” I said to him.

  “You won’t fix it right. It won’t look the same.”

  “It’s still a truck, right?”

  Then my eyes shifted down to Darie’s toy.

  I heard Darie’s voice, ‘That looks good. Don’t worry if you break it again. Just fix it. It can look different and it’s still the same.’

  Still the same.

  Different package. The idea was the same.

  “Maybe you need a focus,” Dodge said, “How about a kid?”

  I remember when he said that, briefly I was angered, it’s not like a new dog, a new kid wasn’t going to replace my own. But that wasn’t what he meant. A need, a focus, was a focus.

  ‘I lost my life months ago. I have nothing left’

  Instantly, my mind flashed to my last conversation with George.

  “You behave and take care of your brother. You’re all he’s got.”

  “No, I’m not anymore. He has Mr. Doyle, Dodge and you. There’s a lot more people today that I thought we had last week.”

  You’re all he’s got.

  No, I’m not.

  Stop.

  I was getting emotional and it wasn’t over my children. It was time; it was time to end my debate, my suffering, my need to die.

  Another turn to leave Mark’s room and I faced the empty shelf.

  What was on that shelf? What was on there? I struggled to think.

  The games. All those board games of Mark’s.

  Gone? Dodge took them, too?

  Upon seeing that I was furious. He probably took them for the kids, but still. It was my home, my stuff. He looted my home as if it were any other house that belonged to a dead person.

  I screamed out his name loudly in my frustration and anger.

  It was the moment the last bit of his name seeped in a graveling yell from my mouth; I wondered what was wrong with me.

  One moment sad, the next laughing, angry, then happy, missing then furious. Why was I a seesaw of emotions? Why? Because I was alive.

  Dodge stole from me, took from my home as if I were already dead.

  He had every right; I proclaimed to him that I was dead.

  Truth is, I wasn’t.

  ‘You are wrong. You’ll realize it. Then it will be too late.’ Dodge’s voice reverberated in my head.

  “No, Dodge, you’re wrong. It’s not too late.” I said as I rushed from Mark’s room.

  At least I hoped.

  44. Living

  The revelation came and I was grateful. Whether it was too late or not, didn’t matter. I needed that revelation.

  I was so focused on dying, I didn’t see how I was still alive.

  Afraid to care or feel because of losing, only meant I wasn’t as dead inside as I thought. And I’d rather care about someone than not feel at all.

  Caring was a focus. Being needed was a focus. And not only was I going to care for George and Darie, I would be needed by them.

  Sammy and Mark were the loves of my life, they would never be replaced, but they weren’t really gone. They were with me, every breath I took, every memory I had, in my heart and soul they were with me.

  Like Dodge said, memories were mobile.

  I had to be too.

  My hardheadedness caused me to miss the bus on leaving, but perhaps I needed to really come to the decision on my own. Alone, in my house, facing it all.

  My missing items. Dodge didn’t do it to be spiteful or criminal; he did it because over the course of just about two weeks, he learned who I was. He knew that taking my things would spark enough anger in me that I’d realize I wasn’t dead inside or I’d find him just to yell at him.

  In either case, once again, Dodge was right.

  He was so certain I would change my mind, he was cool and callous about it. I half expected when I left, to find him waiting on the road.

  He had my car ready, gas cans stacked on top, a map marked with a route and a radio. Hell, he even had the food and water ready to go.

  I saw it, but it didn’t register until my revelation did.

  There were still things I wanted to take. Photos, toys, clothes, I packed them.

  My house wasn’t being destroyed and I put it in my mind that one day I’d return.

  Prior to the accident and even after, I was scared of everything. Before Rich and the kids died, I was scared of movies, scared to walk to the park, scared to drive at night. After they left me, I was scared to laugh, feel, and to live.

  For some strange reason, when I should have been scared of the prospect of driving the long route to Kentucky, I wasn’t.

  Maybe a little about being the last woman.

  I raided my son’s room for clothes. A baggy baseball shirt, those damn old cargo pants I used to hide and a cap, really did hide my gender.

  As long as I didn’t speak.

  It was already after noon when I finally had everything ready to go. The convoy was leaving the next day. Dodge had the car truly ready, including a sleeping bag and flashlights.

  The map was marked with notes. Dodge noted with a post it, that I had to go east, south, then west. The simple six hundred mile trip had turned into nearly nine hundred. To get there before the convoy I had to go and only stop for gas and going to the bathroom.

  I could do it. I really could.

  As a matter of fact, I only looked back once at my house when I left. Sitting on the front seat was Sammy’s doll, Mark’s baseball trophy and Darie’s truck.

  Immediately, I tried to radio Dodge on his channel seven, then I realized I probably was really out of radio range.

  Mixed emotions and thoughts raced through my mind on the drive.

  What if Dodge was ambushed, what if that man who radioed was lying and held them at gunpoint, What if?

  The worst part of the trip was struggling with those gas cans when I had to pull over to refuel.

  I never saw another person or car. Then again, I wasn’t looking. I was focused on getting to my destination.

  What I didn’t take into account was the fact that the roads would get so dark, I couldn’t travel. Driving was impossible, especially on those back roads.

  Against what I wanted to do, the dark winding roads became more dangerous, and I pulled over with the intent to leave as soon as the sky lightened.

  Stopping where I did was scary. My imagination worked over time; I feared things that weren’t real. Bigfoot, walking dead and an ax murderer. Maybe the latter was a possibility, but considering I hadn’t seen a soul, I doubted some ax wielding madman in a mask was coming out of the trees.

  It was during my overnight stop, the dark wooded area around me, that I started to think about it and doubt myself.

  Was I really meant to find Dodge and the kids? Was it fair to him to have to take me under his wing, especially if I was the last female standing?

  Maybe my fate was to stay back at my house, live my lonely last days until I got enough courage to take those pills.

  Then it hit me … fate.

  I decided that night to leave it to fate.

  Since I woke up on the pile of bodies, everything was a series of signs and instincts.

  Fate.

  Taking those identification cards, led me to the truth about Mikey’s mom. The suitcas
e and the squeaky wheel led me to Dodge. Dodge got me home. His insistence found the boys and so on and so on.

  Everything was fate stepping in and I would place everything in the hands of fate.

  If when I got there, if the convoy was gone, I’d take it as my sign, that fate was telling me I was not meant to go.

  I was prepared for that.

  I was prepared to see Dodge and that glorious RV as well.

  That was my mindset as I left that morning, first light, and I turned off the radio.

  I was going to make it, the convoy would still be there. I was absolutely sure of it.

  The clock had barely hit seven when I crossed into Kentucky and I started to doubt things when I got lost finding the back roads that would lead me to Interstate 70.

  It was marked as cleared, yet, I ran into a road block, and had to look at the map and find another way.

  I made it on the interstate just before it passed through Central City. There was no movement, no people and as I drove farther to the Ford Training facility, I slowed down.

  On a ranch style home to my right, a huge banner made from a bed sheet hung on the house.

  It said, ‘Hashman’.

  I couldn’t drive. I paused in emotions. Something about that sign told me that I was wrong in my initial pessimistic view of the motives of the Kentucky man. It was a simple house, with a swing set and doghouse.

  Signs of Hashman’s life.

  Life.

  I began driving again, not fast because I didn’t want to hit one of the many kids that were supposedly at the training area.

  I saw the sign for it just outside of Central City and then I saw the entrance not far before me and not long after Hashman’s home.

  I was there. I made it.

  Hurriedly and with excitement, I drove to the gate expecting a blocking arm to be down or someone standing post.

  No one was there.

  The base was open.

  Still, it was huge. They had to be there, maybe further back inside the base.

  However, once I pulled inside and started driving around the roads, I knew.

  I was too late.

  They were gone.

  In some ridiculous state of hope, one I hadn’t had since before the accident, I drove around the main area, then finally I stopped the car.