The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Tanner said nothing.

  “Please,” she begged, her eyes clouding. “I’d do it myself if I didn’t think it’d damn me to hell for all eternity.”

  “He’s not killing you,” repeated Samantha.

  Gran’s eyes squinted. “Then he’s a damn coward.”

  Tanner recognized the words for what they were.

  “Please,” she said again. “The very thought of takin’ another breath…” Her voice broke, and she began ringing her hands. “It’s like a snake done wrapped around my insides. I can’t take it no longer.”

  Tanner felt the woman’s anguish weighing on him, but still he said nothing.

  “Plus, I’m sick.” She glanced over at Samantha as if hoping it might help to change her mind. “Real sick.”

  Samantha raised an eyebrow. “What kind of sick?”

  “Cancer.” She patted her stomach. “Here in my gut.”

  She turned to Tanner. “Feel it.”

  He didn’t move.

  Gran reached out and pulled his hand to her stomach. Even through the dress, it was warm to the touch. But he felt no lump or abnormality.

  “You feel it?” she said, looking into his eyes.

  “Yeah,” he murmured. “I feel it.”

  “The only thing holdin’ me here was Carl.” She looked over her shoulder at the body bag lying in the grave. “I jes’ wanna be with him now, ’fore all the pain starts. You can understand that, right?”

  Their eyes met once again, and a hint of a smile crept over her face.

  “God bless you, you old—”

  The gun echoed like a clap of thunder as Gran fell back into the grave.

  Samantha hadn’t said a word in nearly an hour. Stunned by the killing, she stood and watched as Tanner filled the grave, never once offering to lend a hand. When he had finished, he picked up the Mare’s Leg and knife and headed toward the house.

  Samantha followed after him, her head hung low.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, pulling open the back door.

  “I can’t believe you killed her. An old woman, Tanner. Why?”

  “Wasn’t my call.”

  “Of course, it was your call. All you had to do was say no.”

  “If I’d have done that, she’d have just ended up getting herself killed by asswipes like the ones who tried to break in earlier. When someone wants to die, they find a way. And if Gran had died at their hands, it would have been painful. Plus, she’d have been left rotting here in this house, not out there with her husband, where she wanted to be.”

  “But there had to be another way.”

  Tanner paused in the doorway. “Let me ask you something, Sam.”

  “What?”

  “Do you think I wanted to kill that old woman? Took any pleasure in it whatsoever?”

  “No,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I know you didn’t.”

  “Then why’d I do it?”

  “Because she was sick and asked you to.”

  “That’s not why. Think harder.”

  She looked up at him. “Out of mercy?”

  Tanner raised an eyebrow. “Would you describe me as a merciful kind of guy?”

  “You couldn’t even spell mercy.”

  “So why then? Why’d I kill an old woman for no good reason other than her asking?”

  Samantha thought long and hard before finally saying, “I know why.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You did it because you believe people should be able to make their own choices, even about dying.”

  He nodded. “It wasn’t up to me or you to decide what was best for Gran. If her last wish was to rest in a grave next to a bag filled with ‘soup à la husband,’ who are we to say different?”

  Samantha looked down at her feet, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Anyone can do the easy stuff. Only the strongest are able to do stuff that makes their guts twist.”

  “I know,” she said, without looking up.

  He reached out and tipped her chin up to face him.

  “One day I might be standing beside a grave, asking you to do the same for me. And you’d better do it.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll try.”

  Tanner smiled. “That’s all anyone can ask.” He ruffled her hair. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go see what goodies Gran left us.”

  Gran’s basement was really nothing more than a large storm shelter made from cement-filled cinder blocks. Measuring twenty feet on a side, the single room was filled with shelves stacked high with an assortment of cans, bottles, glass jars, and boxes. A wood-burning stove sat in one corner, with a black, smoke-stained vent routed out through the wall.

  Samantha lifted a mason jar of green beans from one of the shelves and blew off a little dust from the lid. Underneath, she discovered a circle of sandpaper.

  “What’s this for?” she said, scrubbing her fingernail across the gritty paper.

  Instead of answering, Tanner walked over and picked up a box of wooden matches sitting next to the stove. He returned and flicked one across the sandpaper-covered lid. It immediately flashed to life.

  “Works better than a zipper,” he said, blowing it out.

  “Ah. Gran was pretty clever.”

  “Country folks tend to figure out ways to make life easier.”

  Together, they wandered around the room, marveling at all the food that Gran and her husband had accumulated. If he hadn’t caught the virus, they would have been well positioned to survive the apocalypse.

  “Gran didn’t seem rich,” said Samantha. “This must have been hard for them to afford.”

  “Some folks buy BMWs; others plan for hard times.”

  She picked up a box of potato flakes and gave it a little shake.

  “Plenty of food and water down here, but not much else.”

  “You know what I always say: Survival starts with food, fire, and water.”

  Samantha furrowed her brow. “I don’t remember you ever saying that.”

  “Well, I am now. Besides, I’m sure we can put together a decent bug-out bag with stuff lying around Gran’s house. Just need something to put it in.”

  Samantha pointed to a corner stacked with military rucksacks.

  “Those might work, but they look like they’re from World War I.”

  “Old just means proven,” he said, walking over and examining the packs. There were five in total. Two had holes, one was mildewed, but the other two were perfectly serviceable.

  He picked one up, beat out the dust and handed it to Samantha.

  She sniffed the pack. “It smells like gym shoes.”

  Tanner jammed his hand down into the second pack and pressed on the seams.

  “That, darlin’, is the smell of hard work. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

  Samantha wasn’t sure if he was talking about the smell or the hard work. Either way, she didn’t like the sound of it.

  “So, what do we take?” she said, slipping one strap of the empty pack over her shoulder.

  “It depends on the situation. A bug-out bag is most effective if it’s tailored to the threat. If food’s going to be in short supply, you take food. If it’s water, you take water. The key is take enough to get to where you’re going, but not so much as to break your back.”

  “In other words, take only what you need.”

  “Exactly. In our case, there are abandoned houses and businesses all over the place. If we looked hard, it would never take more than a few hours to find a little food. That said, we’ll still want to take enough for a day or two, just in case we take a few wrong turns.”

  “Which we will.” Samantha slid a case of bottled water out from under one of the shelves. It was coated with dust, and rats had eaten through the plastic shrink wrap. “Do you think this is still good?”

  “Of course it is.”

  She cast a doubtful glance his way.

  “How can you be so sure?”

&
nbsp; “Bottled water doesn’t go bad.”

  That surprised her. “Really? You mean I can drink a bottle from say… ten years ago.”

  “As long as it hasn’t been opened, you can.”

  “What about canned food?” she said, eyeing the shelves. “Does that last forever too?”

  “Not forever, but a long time.” He lifted a can of peaches off the shelf and held it out for her to inspect. “If the can isn’t swollen or leaking, you can assume it’s safe to eat.”

  “And if it is swollen?”

  “Toss it. Might give you botulism or some other nasty bug.”

  “What about Gran’s home-canned vegetables? Think they’re safe?”

  “Probably. But not worth the risk, given all this other food.”

  Tanner studied the shelves. There was enough food for many months, if not a year. Unfortunately, nearly all of it was ill suited to hauling in a backpack. Jars tended to break, boxed foods often needed to be rehydrated, and cans did a number on the old backbone.

  He turned a large cardboard box around to see the label. It read Meals, Ready-To-Eat.

  “Bingo.”

  Samantha stepped closer and pointed to a date on the side of the box.

  “It looks like they were packed three years ago. Is that too long?”

  “When it comes to MREs, it’s not the date that matters.” He thumped a small red sticker sitting just below the date. “This is what matters.”

  “It looks like a bulls-eye. What is it?”

  “Time-temperature indicator. Tells you how long and at what temperature the food was stored.” He pointed to the center of the bulls-eye. “If this inner circle is lighter than the outer ring, you’re good to go.”

  “And if it’s darker, the food’s spoiled?”

  “Could be. Or it could be fine. You have to use your nose and eyes to decide for sure.”

  She studied the sticker. The center looked a little lighter than the outside ring.

  “According to this, it should be okay.”

  Tanner drew Gran’s old knife and sliced open the top of the case. Inside were a dozen brown plastic packages. He handed two to Samantha and stuffed four down into his pack.

  “Four?” she said with a disapproving look.

  “What? I’m bigger than you.”

  “True. But if you keep eating like that, pretty soon you’ll be bigger than Dusty.”

  “Bah,” he scoffed. “Being big makes me harder to knock over.” He patted his thick stomach. “Besides, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—this baby’s all muscle.”

  She smiled. It was a dance they had done countless times. Normally, she would have fired back with a few wisecracks about his size, but the image of Gran falling into the grave still weighed on her.

  Instead, Samantha turned and began loading bottles of water into their packs.

  “It’ll be hard to carry enough water for more than a few days.”

  “Which is why we’re taking this.” He lifted out a blue plastic tube from a nearby box. The label on the side read LifeStraw.

  “What is it? A water filter?”

  “Exactly.” He put it to his lips, and she heard the sound of air being sucked through it.

  “Cool. Can you use it to drink from rivers and streams?”

  “You kidding? You could use this thing to drink from a toilet.”

  “Gross.” She leaned sideways to see past him into the box. “Is there one in there for me?”

  “What? We can’t share?”

  Her eyes grew wide, and he chuckled.

  “Don’t get your pantaloons in a wad. There’s one for you, too.” He retrieved a second LifeStraw and passed it to her.

  “What next?” she said, slipping the filter through a little loop on the outside of her pack.

  “Now we go up and see what the house has to offer.”

  Their first stop was in the kitchen. There, they took a can opener, eating utensils, a roll of duct tape, and metal cups that could serve equally well as drinking mugs or cooking pots. Tanner also grabbed a handful of sandwich baggies, as well as some clear plastic garbage bags that could be used for everything from rain coats to solar stills.

  Next came the bathroom. Rifling through the medicine cabinet yielded toothbrushes and paste, a hairbrush, a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, and a roll of dental floss, which Tanner claimed was nearly as useful as the duct tape. It was only when he began smearing petroleum jelly on cotton balls that Samantha started to ask questions.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Good for the skin,” he said, stuffing the sticky balls into a baggie and zipping it up.

  “Since when did you start worrying about your skin?”

  “I’m married now, darlin’. A man’s gotta do his part too, you know.”

  She tipped her head to the side, clearly not buying it.

  “Fine,” he said with a chuckle. “These little babies are great for starting a fire.”

  She picked up the baggie and squeezed the cotton balls through the plastic.

  “They look like those squishy eyeballs you buy for Halloween.”

  “Wouldn’t know. Halloween was always my least favorite holiday.”

  “Why?”

  “Hated to see kids learning to beg for food. When they came to my door, I’d tell them if they wanted candy, I had some grass that needed cutting.”

  She shook her head. “I bet you did. I really do.”

  Tanner pointed toward the hall. “Onward.”

  Gran’s bedroom was exactly what Samantha had envisioned—a faded handmade quilt draped over a saggy double bed, an antique dresser and nightstand with chew marks around the bottom, and a standup mirror with a spider web trailing off to a nearby light fixture. The door to the room’s only closet sat partially open, the knob broken off to leave only the spindle poking out.

  “It’s like someplace a vampire might live,” she said, eyeing the dusty burgundy curtains hanging in front of the window.

  “Don’t start.” Tanner knew better than to let Samantha’s imagination run wild. He pulled out one of the nightstand drawers. Inside, he discovered a box of .45 Long Colt ammunition. “Lookie here,” he said, passing it to Samantha. “Better load up.”

  She drew the derringer and dumped out the two spent cartridges.

  “Does Gran’s pistol-rifle thingy use the same ammo?”

  He pulled the Mare’s Leg from its holster and ejected a round.

  “We’re in luck,” he said, holding up a matching cartridge.

  “That’s good at least.” Samantha opened the box. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “Not many left.” She counted the cartridges. “Seven.”

  “Give me one to top off, and you keep the rest.”

  She handed a cartridge to him, loaded two into the derringer, and put the rest in her front pocket. Four spare rounds didn’t seem like enough for much of anything.

  They went next to the closet. Inside, they found Gran’s clothes hanging to one side and her husband Carl’s to the other. Above them was a shelf with a pair of dress shoes for each, along with hats for Sunday morning. There was also a stack of blankets and two pillows. Beside the blankets was a small, leather-clad flask, which Tanner immediately grabbed.

  He unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Single malt scotch by the smell of it. He took a quick sip. There was a smoky heat to the liquor as well as an unmistakable peat flavor, probably something from the Islay region of Scotland.

  “Tanner…” Her tone was disapproving.

  “What?”

  “You said we needed fire and water, not firewater.”

  “Think of it like my grape Kool-Aid,” he said, stuffing it down into his pack.

  She glared at him, but when that did no good, said, “Fine. But don’t get drunk.”

  “I haven’t been drunk since I was eleven years old and broke into my mother’s wine cabinet.”

  “Eleven!”

  �
��What? I got thirsty.”

  Unable to decide if he was pulling her leg, Samantha reached up and patted one of the pillows.

  “Mind if we take these and the blankets? We can roll everything into a bundle and tie it to the horses the way cowboys did.”

  He lifted down the pile and draped it across his shoulder.

  “Kids these days are too soft.”

  “And I suppose when you were a kid you had to sleep on cold cement.”

  He shrugged. “It was only cold in the winter.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  As he moved to close the closet, Tanner spotted a flashlight hanging on the back of the door. He tested it before handing it to Samantha.

  “In case we end up someplace dark.”

  “In case? You’re kidding, right? I can’t count the number of spooky places you’ve dragged me into.”

  Tanner couldn’t argue with that. They had been in some pretty dark, dreary places, including abandoned subway tunnels and boarded-up insane asylums. A good flashlight was right up there with a good knife.

  “We need to hit the road,” he said, starting for the door.

  As they made their way out, loaded packs slung over their shoulders, Samantha said, “I feel sort of like a robber, taking all this stuff.”

  “I’d say we earned it.”

  “I guess.”

  “But?”

  “But I just can’t help but think of Gran lying out there, dirt and bugs all around her. It doesn’t seem right what happened here.”

  “Did you forget what I told you?”

  “No, I get it. People have the choice to decide when and how they die. I even get that some folks have to do hard things when others can’t.”

  “Okay, so?”

  She shrugged. “So, I just wonder why we always have to be the ones to do them.”

  “Welcome to my world, Sam.” He paused as if taking a moment to appreciate the profoundness of his words. “Welcome to my world.”

  Chapter 13

  Beebie’s shoulder hurt almost as much as his pride. Even with a few days to heal, clear pus still oozed from between the stitches. His right arm was nearly useless, and according to the doctors, would remain that way for at least another month. They had recommended that he use that time for a little R&R, but other things now demanded his attention.