We Won't Go Quietly

by C. A. Rudolph

  Michelle and Lauren followed Norman outside to the rear of the cabin. Once they’d reached the bridge traversing Trout Run, they took a left turn and descended into the ravine, stopping only momentarily when Grace ran up to them in a panic.

  “Damn him! He’s so stubborn! He won’t listen to me…he’s headed up there regardless,” Grace lamented, her finger pointing in the direction of the game trail. “Where are you guys going?”

  Lauren gestured for Grace to follow, and she did so in protest. The group sauntered alongside Trout Run’s sandy eastern bank for a distance until reaching a point where the creek bed nearly became level with the adjacent landscape. It meandered around a turn where it widened into a deep, murky pond, where the water flow rested in a near standstill.

  Norman pointed to the pool and the natural rock barrier that had dammed it in using the aid of fallen timber. “This is one of the sweet spots,” he said. “It’s where I catch most of our…pescatarian fare. We’ve been lucky so far being here, you know. This creek used to be chock-full of fish—brook trout, sunfish, mudfish, perch and the like. People used to come here from all over to fish it. Since the shit hit the fan, there’s been a lot less fishermen pulling from it, and that made for a surplus of fish for us. It’s been a damn epidemic here most times, in terms of fish population, and it’s never failed me. Not once. Until recently.”

  Norman pointed his finger, and Lauren’s eyes followed it. There, lying amidst the rocks on the downstream side, were hundreds of dead, floating fish. Some had even been pushed ashore, carried onto the sandy bank by higher waters.

  “Oh my God,” Grace said, her mouth agape, her hand moving to conceal it.

  Michelle looked on, evidently blindsided by everything she had heard today, and now even more so by what she was seeing.

  Lauren took her leave of the group and approached the rock dam, passing by the bodies of countless other species of dead fish along the way.

  “I didn’t think much of it at first,” Norman continued. “I’ve heard of things like this happening before—where some PhD would offer a scientific explanation for it during a press conference on television—like bacteria or parasites or some communicable disease they were spreading between members of their species. A few days later, the EPA would be all over the place, cleaning up a chemical spill from some factory upstream. I knew I’d have to explain the lack of fish in our diet to everyone eventually—but I guess I was trying to buy some time. I figured there was a chance it would clear up in a few weeks—they’d repopulate after a while and be as good as new.” He paused and looked on. “It pains me to say this, but after hearing what you told us, Lauren, I don’t think there’s a good chance of that happening.”

  “What do you mean by that, Norman?” Michelle quizzed, looking confused.

  Lauren submerged a hand into the water and brought a small sampling of it to her nose, taking a whiff. Then she rose and marched back over to the others, pointing a stiff finger aft. “From here on out, no one drinks water from the creek anymore. Okay? From this moment forward, we don’t touch it. We don’t drink it, we don’t cook with it, we don’t clean with it, and we don’t use it to take showers, either.”

  Grace and Michelle faintly nodded while Norman gazed miserably at Trout Run and to the pool, to what once had been his highly prized fishing hole.

  Michelle looked to Lauren. “L, are you sure that y—”

  “Any game that’s been killed in recent weeks should be thrown out as well,” Lauren continued. “I’m serious, Mom.”

  “Okay, L,” Michelle said, nodding and relenting. “I agree with you. We need to err on the side of caution. We have no idea what caused this, and we should definitely monitor it closely until we know more. It might be a while before we can trust it again.”

  “Try forever,” Lauren spat, moving to stand next to Grace.

  Michelle tilted her head, her eyes trailing her daughter. “Lauren, we don’t know what’s happening here. I agree, we need to be judicious, but this could all be some strange coincidence.”

  “Mom, do you remember Dad’s rants about a premise called normalcy bias? You should go find a mirror…that way, you can see what it looks like.” She paused. “This is no coincidence. This—” Lauren pointed at the scene. “This is all them. Everything Grace and I saw today is all their doing. They’ve threatened us and driven us from our homes and forced us into a new way of life. Then they sent an army of killers in to take us out, and we didn’t budge. And now they’re stepping up their game—again. Now they’re trying to kill us without us even knowing it.”

  No one spoke.

  Lauren continued. “The apples we saw—the ones that were brought into the forest by someone—were poisoned. That’s the explanation. That’s why all those animals are dead. They were put there deliberately—to kill off whatever wildlife we use for food.”

  Michelle held her arms aloft. “Lauren—”

  Lauren’s words rattled off furiously. “They poisoned our food supply, and now they’ve poisoned our water—the water we catch and eat fish from. The water we and every human being like us requires—like the blood in our veins—to stay alive. Water we can no longer depend on or use, else we end up like the fish.”

  “I think she’s on the right track, Michelle,” added Norman. “We’ve seen our share of pure nastiness out of the feds. I wouldn’t be so quick to put this past them.”

  Lauren pointed to Grace’s backpack. “Do you still have that radio in there?”

  Grace slid her pack from her shoulders. “Yeah, it’s there. Do you want me to call someone?”

  Lauren stomped away along the creek bank in the direction of home. “No, Grace. I want you to call everyone.”

  Chapter 14

  The cabin

  Trout Run Valley

  Thanksgiving. Thursday, November 25th. Late afternoon. Present day

  His snowy-white hair wild and unkempt, the Brady family’s patriarch stomped up to Fred with his Stetson under his arm. He rested his colossal 10-gauge shotgun on his shoulder and hung his other hand from the suspender on his coveralls. “We’re fine,” he said, his voice coated with backwoods-accented indignance. “Dammit all, Mason…I must’ve told you a thousand times. We don’t drink from the creek. Fish screw in that water, for heaven’s sake. We don’t have no well, neither. We got a cistern for that. On the rare occasion it runs dry, we use the sulphur spring. It’s artesian water, you see? The boys say it smells a little like rotten eggs, and they don’t like it too much, neither does Elisabeth. But it’ll keep you alive, and it tastes just fine to me. Anyway, I don’t need to be hearin’ about no tainted water, ours is fine. And so are we.”

  Fred turned away, unwilling to continue the conversation. He had been through enough confrontations with the eldest Brady to know when he was winning, losing, or if a draw had been called. He sighed disgustedly, watching the members of the Brady family who had responded to Grace’s call leave just as quickly as they had showed up. He gestured to Michelle. “It’s your property, Michelle. And you’ve been known to elicit a better response from him than I can. You want to go after them? Ask them if they’ll reconsider?”

  Michelle shook her head. “Don’t get worked up about it, Fred. That man is the most hardheaded person I’ve ever met,” she said. “If he wants to leave, let him.”

  “Speaking of hardheaded,” Fred began, “where’s Lauren at?” He rotated his view around the Russells’ property, receiving anticipative stares from each of the attending neighbors. “She should be here—she’s the one who called this impromptu meeting, after all.”

  Grace raised a hand. “Actually, Fred, I was the one who requested the meeting.”

  “At your sister’s request, was it not?”

  Grace shrugged. “I’m not going to quibble over details with you. I’m just making sure you get your facts straight.”

  “Roger that. Sounds like a splendid idea,” Fred said. “Let’s do that. Let’s get all our facts straight today.”


  “Lauren is inside,” Michelle added, pointing to the cabin. “Studying.”

  “Studying what? She learning a foreign language now, or something?” Fred chortled.

  Michelle shook her head.

  “Okay, whatever. Would someone like to go and fetch her, then?” inquired Fred. “So we can solve this little crisis?”

  Norman shuffled up to Michelle’s flank. “Fred, it’s not a little crisis, I’m afraid. From what we’re finding out, we might have ourselves a big problem here.”

  “Agreed,” said Michelle. “And need I remind you, Fred…Lauren hasn’t exactly made a habit of being wrong lately.”

  “Michelle, your daughter is the voice of chaos in my world of reason,” Fred jeered. “But I’ll give you that, she wouldn’t conjure up fallacies. God knows, we could surely use a break right now. Looks like we’re not going to get one. That being said, let’s get down to brass tacks. What exactly did she find?”

  Norman and Michelle explained the state of affairs to Fred and the others while Grace threw in infrequent, yet colorful commentary along with her eyewitness account. When asked if Christian thought what they’d concluded was plausible, Michelle informed the group that he’d felt obligated to go up the mountain in search of answers.

  At first, neighbors were disbelieving, but when confronted by Grace’s distressing petitions as an eyewitness, they ultimately conceded and chose to err on the side of caution. When the story found its end, Fred requested to see the scene at the fishing hole, and Norman took him on the guided tour, along with several others in tow.

  Kristen Perry remained standing in place, along with Michelle, Grace, and several random members of the Brady family. She was despondent at best, her eyes swollen and sunken, her body weary from depression and withered from lack of caloric intake.

  She didn’t appear conversational, but Michelle went to her first. “Kristen, if this turns out to be bona fide, and we were indeed poisoned…how would we know? What symptoms should we be looking for?”

  Kristen looked away at first. She spoke, her voice lacking the flair it once had. “I have no earthly idea, Michelle. Without knowing what exactly caused this—the spectrum is just too broad. I could only speculate.”

  “Speculation is better than what we have now,” said Grace. “Which is nothing, mind you.”

  Kristen nodded her head. “Fine. Are we talking initial or long term?”

  Michelle and Grace agreed the best answer included both options.

  “There is only one long-term symptom of poisoning,” the veteran paramedic crooned. “Death.”

  Grace shuddered and looked over her shoulder to see if Christian had returned.

  Kristen continued. “Initial symptoms—probably resemble something along the lines of the flu. Fever. Nausea. Aches and pains. Fatigue. Shortness of breath. Things along those lines. I’m not a doctor, of course, so don’t hold me to all this.” She paused. “The body responds similarly to infections—antibodies, an increased white blood cell count, and a fever high enough to kill the invader.”

  Inside the cabin, Lauren thumbed through the pages of her father’s only self-published book, one she had read before years ago, word for word—one that foretold of nightmarish catastrophes, possible environments and aftermaths of a world lost, and the irrevocable, yet wholly conceivable regression of a modern society. She held the book’s binding open to the pages within a chapter regarding chemical and biological warfare, paying specific attention to a section titled ‘weaponized biological agents’.

  Lauren studied her father’s indelicate prose with a finger to the page, searching for an explanation and hoping for insight. Soon, she stumbled onto a paragraph she had remembered ever since first analyzing its words.

  Her father’s book wasn’t an encyclopedia of factual data by any means, but it spoke about what had occurred before in the course of human history. Lauren began reading how biological pathogens could be used to contaminate a community’s water supply. Bacteria such as anthrax, tularemia, brucellosis, and cholera were mentioned, as were waterborne viruses such as hepatitis A.

  Lauren wasn’t aware Lee was in the cabin with her, but was alerted to his presence when he jarred his bedroom door open. She turned, watching him stagger out, pale-faced, sweaty, his hands using the hallway walls for support. His cheeks, ordinarily flushed and rosy, had turned ghostly white.

  She looked to him urgently. “Lee? Jesus, Lee—are you all right?”

  Lee’s eyes were teary, outlined with rheum, and could barely open beyond slits. “Yeah. I think so, anyway.” He placed a hand to his belly. “My stomach is killing me—I can’t keep any food down. I think I caught a cold or a stomach bug or something.”

  Lauren stood and went to him. “You should go back to bed if you’re not feeling well. Do you need me to get you anything?”

  Lee shook his head and blinked rapidly over his irritated eyes. “No. I’m fine. I just need to go outside where it’s cooler—I need some fresh air.”

  Lee moved through the living room and to the front door, barely able to support his own body weight. When he reached for the door handle, his hand fell short and his body started to go limp. Lauren ran to him and used every bit of her strength to catch him before he fell lifelessly to the floor. She held her breath, grunting and straining under his weight and awkward mass, doing all she could to guide him gently down.

  Lauren screamed for John, and seconds later he erupted from his bedroom, Mossberg shotgun in his grasp. Upon seeing his brother, he set the weapon aside and slid on his knees to him.

  “What happened?” John asked, putting the back of his hand to Lee’s forehead.

  Lauren’s hands moved to Lee’s sweat-soaked shoulders. Her lips and chin trembled. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was inside. He walked out of his room, looking like death—and then he just fell. I tried to catch him, John, but he’s so heavy.”

  “It’s okay—you tried. We all know he’s a big oaf,” John said, closely looking his brother over. Lee was breathing, but otherwise unresponsive. John tried repeatedly to wake him to no avail. He moved his hand from Lee’s forehead to his neck and turned his head to Lauren. “Jesus—he’s burning up!”

  Biting her lip, Lauren put the back of her hand to Lee’s temple.

  The worry in John’s eyes was discernable now. “I think he’s unconscious, but I don’t know what else is wrong with him.” He looked to Lauren. “We need to get help.”

  Lauren nodded. “Kristen is just outside, talking to Mom and Grace. I’ll get her.” She took one last look at Lee and disappeared in a flash out the door.

  Chapter 15

  St. James Church

  Trout Run Valley

  Tuesday, November 30th. Present day

  The regular weekly meeting at St. James Church was anything but regular today. The pews were practically empty, the total number of attendees having been cropped by a factor of two. Meetings usually took place each and every Sunday, but with an already critical situation rapidly deteriorating, having recently taken an unexpected turn for the worse, the Sunday meeting had been postponed indefinitely, for the first time since it had been established.

  Ordinarily, Fred Mason, the preordained leader of the community, would be standing solely at the pulpit, where he acted as moderator while all others occupied the benches in the sanctuary. The events of recent days had been unlike anything the community had experienced since the collapse, and today, Fred did not stand unaccompanied. Every attendee, every neighbor, friend and family member stood with him in the forefront of the church as equals, all equally affected by what had become very taxing circumstances.

  An unnerving stillness saturated the primitive wood and antique candle-scented air in the church, the usual whispers, utterances, and opinionated debates having not made the trip in today. The faces of those present bore looks of worry, coupled with anxiousness, distress, and despair. Some watched the entrance doors at the other end of the main aisle with antic
ipation, as if expecting more folks to arrive at any minute. Some looked disappointed, as if grieving the meeting’s lower-than-usual turnout. Others still, held their heads low and had their eyes transfixed at random spots or imperfections on the century-old hardwood floor under their feet. Every minute that passed by seemed to add more weight to an already cumbersome situation.

  When the sound of her ATV pulling up outside was overheard, those waiting for the meeting’s last remaining expected arrival knew that Kristen Perry had finally made it. Their faces perked up, and some of the looks of despair transformed into anticipation. Even the stone-cold, congealed visage of former Army Ranger Fred Mason displayed mild contentment, signifying he, too, was glad she had shown up to the party.

  Kristen wasn’t known for being non-punctual. She was a paramedic, a certified emergency medical first-responder, and had acclimated herself long ago to being where she was needed long before time elapsed. In her line of work, a life always hung in the balance. She was the daughter of a professional firefighter and an emergency room charge nurse, and having two parents who had always excelled at time management both personally and professionally had instilled within her a sense of being prompt and dependable, almost to a fault.

  When Kristen made her way inside, she stepped hesitantly toward the group. She looked tremendously conflicted—her lips were pressed together into a grimace, and she avoided making eye contact with anyone, even though she had always had a thing for doing the opposite.

  Fred ruptured the silence, but the commanding tone he normally conveyed had brought along with it a bit of padding. “Well, Kristen? Are their conditions similar? Are we dealing with more of the same?”