Survial Kit Series (Book 1): Survival Kit's Apocalypse

by Williams, Beverly

  “Kitling,” he began gently. Uh-oh. Please, not a lecture. “Can you try not to be so stubborn? We’re here to help you. You need help. If you’d just let us—”

  I cut him off. “I am not here to be a burden!”

  Eric shook his head. “You aren’t.”

  “That,” I said angrily, “is all I am right now.”

  Eric sighed. “Look, if I was hurt and couldn’t get out of bed, you’d help me, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you think of me as a burden?”

  “No, but…” I wouldn’t have to carry you to the bathroom.

  “No buts. You’re not a burden. Ring the bell when you need something. Please. Let us be useful to you.” He held my hand, looking off through the window. “If I could take it for you, I would.”

  “I wouldn’t want that.”

  “I’d do it anyway.”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  He waited, and what I’d meant to tell him got pushed aside by something else I needed to tell him.

  “More than one thing to Tell Of, really, but just the one for now.”

  Damn, Eric was patient with me. He simply waited some more.

  “Those Dangerous People you referred to?” I said.

  He cringed, confirming, “Same group—Jimbo’s.”

  “Yeah, I know. I ran into them way back, before I arrived at camp. I don’t know whether Jimbo was with them at the time. The group was a lot bigger back then.”

  “I was working on picking them off,” Eric mumbled remorsefully. “Wasn’t fast enough.”

  “Well, I hid from them before. They had a bunch of hostages. I waited until they were long gone, and when I got out of hiding, I moved in the opposite direction from them. I couldn’t save the hostages, and was attempting to not become one.”

  Eric swallowed hard and stared at an imperfection in the paint on the wall nearby.

  I assured my husband, “You couldn’t have saved them. No one could have.”

  I pulled him to kiss me, and we talked about easier things. He did ask about the other thing I needed to tell him, but I couldn’t talk about it yet after all.

  Eric pulled a couple of amber bottles from his pocket. “Found some more.” He’d been out all day for this, to help me. He’d already crushed some pills and put them in a medicine cup, letting them dissolve in ginger ale. I hadn’t noticed him set it on the nightstand when he came in, but he determined it was ready now and passed me the tiny cup. “Thom says it’ll work faster this way.”

  “Mmm, yummy,” I joked, grateful. “Thanks.”

  I tipped the disgusting concoction back into my mouth and swallowed, chasing it with more ginger ale and chasing the ginger ale with Coke Eric had found.

  A few minutes later, after the pills had taken a bit of the edge off my pain, Eric surprised me by laughing.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Thommy and Mattie told me something. They knew you heard them when they were outside the old church. They heard what you said.”

  “Hee. They were quiet. I knew they’d arrived, though. I’m tuned in to certain sounds.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” He grinned, still thinking of what I’d told Curr. Then he got quiet and tucked my hair behind my ears. “That’s my girl,” Eric said softly, leaning down to kiss me.

  Not long after Eric left, Thom came in carrying a brown paper bag. He looked like he didn’t know how to say what he had to say, but I knew it wasn’t something I wanted to hear. Everything about the way he held his body told me so.

  “I was thinking this would be better,” Thom said. He held up the bag, still not telling me what was inside it. He wanted to try to explain first. He set the bag in a chair and opened another ginger ale for me, stalling. I watched him rotate the pull tab out over the can’s opening, then slide a straw through its hole. The straw stayed put.

  “Nice trick,” I managed.

  He sat down in the recliner, holding the bag, looking at the floor, or looking at the foot of the bed. I couldn’t tell. Everything was blurry. Clouds floated in my eyes. He sat, staring at nothing, for a long time.

  I was so miserable, I couldn’t bother to ask. Everything hurt. My abdomen was on fire, in spite of the pain meds. And I had to piss again. That’s what made me angriest: needing to go to the bathroom. I hated asking to go, I hated being carried down the hall, and I hated the lack of privacy. I hated how difficult the once-simple process had become, and I hated how weak I was.

  Thom got up and locked the bedroom door. Once, I would’ve been alarmed at that. It didn’t bother me, though. And I realized that wasn’t due to my pain’s powers of distraction. I trusted Thom. Even knowing he had something unpleasant in store, I trusted him. I trusted all of them. I tried to remember exactly when I’d started trusting each of them this way. I marveled at the feeling.

  I looked over to Thom. He stood facing the door; his hand was still on the lock.

  “Foley,” he said. He wanted to catheterize me so I wouldn’t need to go down the hall for the bathroom. “It’ll be much easier on you. I’ll be quick. It’s dangerous for you to hold it in so long. People have died…” He broke off, having said as much as he could bear. There was no way for this to not be awkward.

  I thought of Eric. He must’ve known about what Thom was planning. I thought of what Eric would want, and of how Thom was trying to help me, and I answered him.

  “Okay.”

  He’d expected a battle on this, but I didn’t have any fight left. Besides, he was right.

  Thom did the job quickly, trying to distract me by talking about the things he’d seen when he’d gotten to the small hospital where he’d found the supplies. He said that many of the doors there were locked, and most of the accessible items had been looted. He told me how the supply of Foley equipment had been untouched until he got to it.

  “I can’t imagine why no one wants this stuff,” he joked.

  And by then, he was done, and I was covered back up.

  We both still blushed, but we’d gotten through it.

  And the horrible ache in my bladder subsided.

  he next day, Eric lugged me the ten-or-so-mile stretch back to the lean-to. We all wanted to go home. Thom had expressed worry that it was too soon, but he was quickly overruled. Matthew drove the truck back from where they’d left it on their rescue mission; I couldn’t handle riding over the rough road in it. Thom fielded questions from a frantic Jeff as we crossed the edges of the camp’s boundaries. Eric strode through camp as if all those staring people didn’t exist, and deposited me gently on my bed in the lean-to while Matthew drew the curtain-doors closed. The journey must’ve been tiring for Eric, and his damaged hands must’ve hurt tremendously, but he didn’t show it.

  The trip was certainly exhausting for me, even though he did all the work. Despite the care he’d taken, my body hadn’t been up for it. I rested, stayed drugged on inadequate pain pills, and felt grateful that the brothers took turns hanging around outside, turning away nosy campers and concerned acquaintances. They had to send Jeff away repeatedly.

  When I awoke, my suffering was terrific. I hid under my blanket until it nearly suffocated me, and I wished to be released from the pain’s unrelenting grip. I fidgeted in the darkness. The tremors in my hands resumed and spread up my arms.

  Thom woke up early, well before dawn. He glanced at me and looked incredibly concerned. He prepared extra pain medication, tipped it back into my mouth for me, and gave me a sip of Coke. He woke Eric up, and they went outside and had a short, hushed conversation. I heard Thom running off down the trail. He didn’t return to the lean-to until sometime that night.

  Throughout the day, Eric and Matthew took turns staying with me. The day grew long. I hurt too much to ask why Thom wasn’t around. I buried my head in a pile of clothing, trying not to cry. Crying would only make this kind of hurting worse—not just for me.

  Early in the evening, Eric climbed into the shelter with a bag,
sat next to me, and took off his boots.

  “See you in a bit, Kitbit, Trouble,” Matthew told us as he left to go into camp and engage in some sort of minor debauchery. We raised our hands in vague farewells.

  Eric hammered a nail into the wall above my head, and I wondered whether I was dreaming, because it seemed like a weird thing to do. Then I wondered whether wondering about that meant I wasn’t dreaming.

  “Present from Thommy,” he said, tugging at my arm to reposition it.

  He presented a bag of lactated Ringer’s solution, fixings for an IV, and a small bottle whose label was obscured by his fingers. I couldn’t bring myself to ask about it.

  “This should help some,” he told me while setting up his supplies. He hung the bag and bottle from the nail. “I learned how to do this when Ruthie needed it.”

  Eric wiped my skin with alcohol (not bothering with a tourniquet), then carefully slid the IV needle into my arm. A backflash of blood showed in the plastic. He removed the needle, leaving the small, flexible tube inside my vein, and he secured it to my arm with tape. He flushed the IV with saline. A metallic taste and smell registered to my senses. It always did with saline flushes. I hadn’t expected to have those sensations ever again.

  “Viable,” I confirmed, then mumbled on, trying to tell him about the way it smelled and tasted, but the words got jammed up.

  Eric started the IV flowing and the mystery fluid dripped, being released by gravity from its container and into my system. He packed the supplies back into a small bag.

  “Fentanyl,” he said. “Got some Dilaudid and morphine, too.”

  Bit by bit, the pain began to ease.

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  And then I was actually drifting between sleep and wakefulness. So this is what it’s like, I thought foggily. Drifting. I hadn’t even done this in the hospital.

  “We’ve got enough to keep you fairly comfortable,” I heard Eric say. “You still need to focus on trying to drink more, though.”

  He handed me a juice box. I had no desire to touch it, but I forced down a sip. I owed it to him to make the effort.

  “Where’d Thom find it all?” My voice sounded strange.

  “Don’t know. He said to tell you he got some of the doors opened, whatever that means.”

  “At the hospital,” was the best I could give for explanation. “I am so in debt,” I murmured sleepily.

  “No, honey,” he soothed. “Rest now.”

  “Thank him for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  I repeated the request, trying to focus my eyes. Everything was even blurrier, but I could hear Eric promising me he would.

  A murky curtain fell over reality again, pulling me back to that sweet drifting. I was on a sea, riding in a rowboat. It bobbed in the calm water. Waves lapped at the wood. Don’t ever end, I begged the vision.

  Eric stayed with me, letting me rest, trying to keep me comfortable. It must’ve been terribly boring, keeping watch over me. Every time I opened my eyes, he was there, though, waiting to tend to any need I had.

  I don’t know how long they kept me drifting. Several days. I had something to tell them, and I didn’t know how. In my fentanyl-and-Dilaudid-and-morphine-induced stupor, I’d apparently tried to tell it, unable to form the words properly.

  Jeff came in to check on me during my immensely drugged days. SammyJo did, too. They sat with me for a few short visits when Eric would allow it. I had trouble enunciating, so Jeff and Sammy carried most of the conversations. Jeff even brought his family at one point. James had (with some help from Amy) made a poster in appreciation of how we’d protected the camp. The artwork depicted a group of “bad guys” and a cluster of rotters, all being mowed down in a cloud of red crayon by our superior firepower. Where our likenesses had acquired bazookas was a mystery. Eric was impressively and accurately bemuscled, however. I didn’t want the reminder, but the poster’s sentiment was endearing. Matthew displayed it on the lean-to’s wall, and James looked enormously proud that their work had taken a place of honor in our home.

  Sam eventually even sent Eric away, assuring him she could handle me. I was too drugged to get up and go anywhere, and she knew Eric needed a bit of a breather. Eric kissed me and headed out. Sam produced a small box.

  “Henna,” she told me. She lightly applied a design to my mostly unmarred left foot. It was cool and it tickled a little, and I enjoyed letting her make this minor decision and perform the task. She wrapped my foot in fabric tape and plastic wrap afterward, telling me it would have to sit awhile.

  Eventually, Thom and Eric returned together, and Sam removed my foot’s wrappings, wiping the skin clean. The stained henna design was intricate and adorable: swirls of paisley with complex centers depicting alpacas and pangolins.

  Matthew arrived, complimenting my temporary new decoration. Sam looked pleased with herself. Rightly so: her work was beautiful.

  I was sitting up against the lean-to’s wall, pleased I’d healed enough to move around on my own again. And the Foley catheter was out. I was happy to have it gone, and I missed it at the same time. I’d removed it myself, following Thom’s instructions, and it hadn’t been bad. It was a relief to save Thom and me the embarrassment of going through the process in reverse.

  Eric brought in supper and sat down. “When you were super-drugged,” he said, “you kept trying to tell me something, but all I could make out was the word ‘you.’ Do you remember what that was about?”

  “Don’t remember saying anything,” I told him, chewing some SpaghettiOs.

  He looked crestfallen at the idea of not finding out whatever had seemed so important.

  I hesitantly tacked on, “I do know what it was about, though.”

  “So?” he urged.

  “I… can’t yet. Processing.”

  Thom and Matthew chose that moment to arrive with their suppers. I was glad to have a reprieve.

  Eric tried to ask me about it a few times in the following days, and his brothers also presented me with the same question. I just shook my head.

  About two boring weeks of healing later, I woke up in the middle of the night and Eric was gone from my side. There was no location written on the chalkboard by his initial; he wasn’t out on security detail. Thom and Matthew were asleep.

  Thom’s shoulder jerked. His breathing changed and his eyes moved under their lids. His entire body flinched at some scene playing out in his head. He was crying in his sleep. I took hold of Thom’s hand, wanting to ease the nightmare from him.

  “You’re dreaming, Thom. Find something better to dream,” I whispered in his ear. With my thumbs, I stroked dry the tears that edged his eyes. “Dream of dark, moonless nights.” I kissed the side of his head.

  He settled back down and relaxed, then gave a long sigh without fully waking.

  I waited a few more minutes, but Eric didn’t return. I guessed he wasn’t down at the outhouses.

  I slipped from under my blanket and silently left the lean-to. I stood alone on the deck for a moment, listening and watching and waiting. My feet steered me toward the shack. They knew where he’d be before my brain did. When I arrived, the padlock was off.

  “Just me,” I said, knocking on the mossy, peeling door.

  “You don’t need to knock,” was his way of inviting me in.

  “It’s polite.” I closed the door behind me.

  “All this, and you’re concerned with manners.”

  “Nah. Privacy.”

  My inamorato was sitting in the blue velvet recliner.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Tar Pit,” I said.

  He gave a single, anguished nod.

  I sat on his lap and hung my arms around his neck, kissing him softly. He kissed me back, but his mind was somewhere else.

  “Tell Of.” I waited, nestling my head against his shoulder.

  He leaned his head on mine and his story emerged. “When I was twel
ve…”

  And then he told me about Ruthie. How she tried to drown herself, and turned into a vegetable. She’d left a short note, heartbreaking in its childish bluntness, explicitly blaming her actions on the change in their father. Their father had been beating her. He kept on beating her right up until the end of her life.

  When Eric finished Telling Of, we sat in darkness, lost in our thoughts.

  “Wish I could get it out of my head,” he eventually said, “but it’s been sticking with me lately.”

  I thought about Ruthie being dragged limp from the water. Her frail, tiny body. What it must have been like, pulling her out and bringing her back. I thought about how helpless they must’ve felt, trying to take care of her. And about the agonizing time that stretched from when she stepped into the river until Ruthie finally floated away from them for good so many months later.

  I pushed my fingers up the inside of Eric’s sleeve, feeling barely-scabbed-over cuts he’d carved on top of the old ones.

  “You know—” I started, and he actually cringed. Did he think I was going to give him a hard time about that? “Hey,” I said. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

  “Apologies.”

  “Don’t.” I was losing my resolve to tell him what I’d tried to tell. “I thought we had an understanding.”

  “We do.” He paused. “We never talked about it, but yeah, we do. Sorry.”

  I took a shaky breath. “Okay, then. We don’t need to talk about that.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  I attempted the words, but they wouldn’t come out. So I tried telling him about telling him. “I was going to say something I have to tell you. I didn’t mean for it to take so long, but it’s…” I stopped. Finally the words came out in a rush: “About back at the church.”

  Eric held my head to his, with his fingers combed into my hair.

  “About Jimbo?” he said eventually.

  “Yes.” I stroked a hand idly along the muscles of his upper arm. I loved the feel of him, tried to distract myself with it.

  Outside, morning was arriving in tiny increments.