by AJ Powers
“Why do you insist on putting me through this every time you go out?” she asked as they walked down the hallway.
Clay didn’t have it in him to argue with her and remained silent except the occasional “I’m sorry.” She continued accosting him about the lack of sleep she’d had the past two nights—something Clay could relate to tenfold, but knew she had no sympathy to offer.
Megan was still talking, but Clay wasn’t processing her words. He felt lightheaded and just wanted to get some sleep. Each time he tried to speak up, she cut him off.
They walked into the lobby, and Clay cut her off midsentence. “Megan, just shut up for one second, would ya?”
They stopped walking; Megan was silent. She gave him a scowling look of incredulity. With her hands on her hips and a clenched jaw, her brown eyes—unlike the baby blues typical in his family—pierced him like daggers. Clay would have been as good as dead if he didn’t have a plan. He reached into his pack and pulled the bottle of milk out. She froze, her anger immediately disarmed. He imagined her expression was similar to how he must have looked back in Watson’s living room. Her mouth dropped open.
“Is that…?” she trailed off.
Clay nodded. “Farm fresh,” he added.
Her eyes were as big as the Texas sky. Suddenly, all the worrying, the anger, the hurt feelings were gone as she grabbed the bottle from his hand. She twisted the lid off, and the snapping pop of the metal lid was like angels playing the harp. She put the bottle up to her mouth, and then looked over at him as if to have permission.
“Go on.”
She took several generous gulps, draining nearly a quarter of the bottle. She slowly pulled it away, a whitish mustache painted across her upper lip. She closed her eyes and sighed with delight. “That,” she paused for several seconds, “was like drinking paradise.”
Clay took a couple of smaller sips. Since it was raw milk, it tasted a bit different, but he couldn’t remember a drink ever tasting so good in his life. He wanted more, but didn’t want to take that away from the kids. He knew he would be returning to Watson’s anyhow.
Megan went to take another swig then suddenly stopped. “Oh the kids!” she said, embarrassed she had nearly forgotten them. She turned to head towards the children’s room where they were getting ready for bed. Clay didn’t budge.
She stopped after a few feet, “Are you coming?”
He wanted to. He couldn’t imagine how their faces would light up drinking such bliss, but he probably wouldn’t even make it to the other side of the building before collapsing. With his energy now completely depleted, it was time for sleep. He would have to hear the details from Megan in the morning.
“You go on. Tell them to enjoy,” he said and turned to go into his room.
He shut the door and closed the blinds on the windows facing the lobby. He placed his rifle on the conference table along with his vest, then tossed his bag over by the bed. He took off his shoes, noticing just how ragged they had become: full of holes, the shoestrings fraying in several spots. He couldn’t remember the last time he found a “new” pair.
Despite his brain’s desire to decompress from the past several days, his body won out, and he fell asleep mere moments after his head hit the pillow.
Chapter 8
Clay woke to laughter and shrieks muffled by the glass separating his room from the lobby. The crippling pain in his head prevented him from getting up. Dehydration had set in long before he and Kelsey reached the ranch, and he hadn’t had anything to drink since the few sips of milk. His mouth felt as dry as the Sahara, and his lips were badly chapped. He stayed in bed for nearly an hour trying to convince himself to go get something to drink, but the thought of walking to the kitchen with all the screams and shrieks was not a pleasant one. And just like that, as if she heard his silent cry for help, Clay heard Megan’s footsteps walking across the lobby to his room.
The door opened, and she came in holding a cup, “Good morning, brother. It’s about time you woke up.”
He gave her a dirty look. Show some compassion, woman. I haven’t slept in days, he thought to himself. She handed him the cup, and he drank it down without pausing to breathe.
Before he could ask, she handed him some pills. “Here, this will help with your head.”
“How did you know?” Clay said in bewilderment.
“Clayton, what have I been doing pretty much every free moment I have had since Mom died?”
Clay nodded, knowing where she was going with her question.
“I’ve read all of Dad’s medical books, like, three or four times.”
Clay and Megan lost their mom 10 months after the eruption. Once the pharmacies ran out of her medicine, it was just a matter of time; there was no way to save her. Their dad had not returned home, and they suspected he never would. He had gone out to the West Coast to assist in the relief efforts following the initial earthquakes that ravaged many of the major cities. He was still there when Yellowstone erupted. Clay and Megan were left in charge of their sisters Michelle, Alyssa, and Colleen.
Megan took it upon herself to increase her first aid knowledge with some of their father’s medical books that he had collected over the years. As their father prepared to make the switch from police to paramedic, Megan watched and listened to him as he studied. She actually had planned to become a paramedic herself after graduating high school and had already been equipped to handle some basic medical situations.
That knowledge—those books—proved to be invaluable to the group’s survival. She embraced the responsibility, and after doing CPR on Tyler a few years ago, she made everyone take a basic first aid course after their tenth birthday—a course complete with pictures, diagrams, and first aid dummies. Megan was a bit of a geek when it came to presentations but seldom had a reason to make them anymore. So, when she found an excuse to do it, she went all out.
“I knew you were dehydrated when you got home, but I could tell you were going to be too stubborn to stay up for another hour while I helped you rehydrate. You weren’t complaining of a headache at the time, or acting too dizzy, so I figured you weren’t that bad. I decided to let you get some sleep. I checked on you throughout the day, and at one point, you did actually take a few drinks of water before spilling what was left as you fell back to sleep.”
Clay shook his head as if to loosen the cobwebs, “Wow, I don’t remember that at all. In fact I—” Clay paused for a moment and gave her a muddled look. “Wait, did you say all day?”
“Yeah?”
“Today isn’t Wednesday?”
“Nope,” Megan said, “it’s most definitely Thursday. You slept all day and night.”
Clay was staggered, but it made sense. With the exception of the splitting headache, he actually felt pretty good. Well rested, even. He thanked her for the medicine, tossed them in his mouth, and drank the small amount of fluid—mostly backwash—that remained in the cup.
“Aw, crap!” Frustration steeped in Clay’s voice, “I didn’t go to the library yesterday,” he said as he placed his hands on top of his head.
Clay visited a nearby library every Wednesday from eleven to noon. Anytime he or Megan came across children abandoned or orphaned, they told the children when and where to meet up in the event they needed a place to stay. Clay had started doing that a few months after he moved the family into the building. That way, if kids ever found themselves unable to survive alone, they knew they could always go to the library and join Clay’s family. It was a sort of neutral ground that allowed Clay to help those in need without giving away their home address.
The library had been condemned, along with several other nearby buildings. Prior to the eruption, the whole area was being rezoned for a new community of condominiums. Bulldozers and other construction equipment sat around rusting and fading away like so many other things in the world.
Clay felt awful. He hadn’t missed an appointment since he came up with the idea. Even though no one had ever met up with him, h
e felt like the one time he didn’t go would be the first time someone would show up. It also gave him an opportunity to have some quiet time with his thoughts. He used it as time for prayer and reading his Bible.
“Clayton?” Megan inquired calmly, bringing Clay back to their conversation. “It’s okay. Charlie and I went. Nobody showed up.”
He was relieved. He hated the thought of some poor kid looking for help only to find an empty library.
“Speaking of Charlie,” Megan said hesitantly, “he asked me if you had said anything to me about training.”
Clay sighed deeply, “Yeah, I figured he might bring that up.”
“He’s mature enough,” she said. “I hate the idea as much as you do, but he’s ready. Don’t wait too long.”
She said nothing more and walked out. Clay stayed in bed for another hour or so until his grumbling stomach no longer tolerated his semi-vegetative state. He finally rose to his feet and stumbled from his room to the kitchen for some breakfast.
Breakfast was venison sausage patties, one of Clay’s favorites. He scarfed them down and was already working on his third glass of water. A combination of the medicine and fluids had made some of the tension in his head ease, and Clay started to feel normal again. He told Megan what he had gotten from Vlad’s while she ate her breakfast, which had long gone cold while she got all of the kids fed. She was thrilled—even about the hydration pack—much to Clay’s surprise. She knew that he pushed himself to the breaking point far too often, and many of those times he wasn’t properly hydrated. At least this way, Megan knew he’d be heading out with a decent amount to drink. The tinge of guilt he had felt since he traded for it disappeared.
Charlie walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Clay!”
“Morning, dude, what are you up to?”
Charlie poured himself a glass of water. “Oh, nothing much. One of the links on the swings broke, so I fixed that for the kids.”
Clay couldn’t help but laugh. Charlie reminded him of the kid in Home Alone when he bought some plastic army men at the grocery store and made sure the cashier knew they were “for the kids.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re a busy man today. Do you think you can squeeze me in around 2:30?”
“I’ll pencil you in,” he said as he walked out of the room.
Clay shook his head and asked Megan, “How does he even know phrases like that?”
Megan laughed as she took the last bite of breakfast. “Must be all the books he reads.”
As Megan cleared the table and washed the dishes, Clay told her what had happened over the past few days. He told her about Kelsey, the Screamers, and Watson’s ranch with the trading opportunities there and how it might even cut down on the frequency of visits to Liberty. Megan was happy that Clay could reduce the long trips to Liberty, but seemed more excited with the prospect of having a regular source of fresh dairy.
“Aren’t you glad I was late?” Clay joked.
She smiled at him as she dried the last plate. “All is forgiven, little brother.”
Afterwards, Clay got to work on some small repairs around the house. He had Charlie help him for a couple of the more routine tasks. Claiming he just needed help, Clay used the opportunities for teaching Charlie. He was a quick learner, and after seeing things done only once or twice, he would know the task as if he had been doing it for years. Charlie’s ability to retain knowledge was impressive.
Clay had finished the repairs so he decided to spend some time with the kids. He hadn’t seen them much over the past week, and he tried to make up for lost time. He played some games with them, then read a few storybooks. He pulled out an old guitar that had once belonged to his father and played some music he had written. The kids danced around the room with glee, enjoying every strum Clay delivered.
After several of the kids had gone down for their afternoon nap, Clay went looking for Charlie again. Alone in the arts and crafts room, Charlie was sitting in a beanbag chair reading an adventure novel.
"Got a sec?” Clay asked.
Charlie dog-eared the page he was on and closed the book. He followed Clay down the long hall and ended up in front of the armory door. Charlie looked at him with bright eyes; he knew what it meant. Though most of the kids knew where the armory was, Clay did not allow them inside.
“Four, twenty-nine, six,” Clay said as he spun the padlock dial right to left to right. He unlocked and opened the door.
“Wow!” was all Charlie could say when they walked in. He looked around at the various firearms hanging from old server racks or leaning up against the wall. “So cool!” he said still in awe.
Clay chuckled. There were quite a few guns in there, but only half as many as he had started with. A couple years into survival, he traded off most of the redundant calibers. He practically gave away his 5.7MM because there was almost no chance of finding ammo for it. Two years ago, he had to trade one that carried a lot of sentiment—his Colt M1911 that his great-grandfather had been issued during World War II. That was one of the hardest trades he had ever made, but Simon—the owner of Short Stop—gave him an incredible deal for the .45 caliber pistol. The trade fed the family for nearly a month.
“Where’d you get them all?” Charlie asked when he finally found his words.
“My father, mostly. A few I found or traded for.”
“Boy, your dad sure liked guns!”
“He did indeed,” Clay said with a smile. “I remember the very first time he took me deer hunting. I didn’t want to go.”
“Why not?” Charlie asked.
Clay shook his head and laughed, “Well, I didn’t want to get up that early. Plus I’d miss watching my Saturday morning cartoons.”
Charlie nodded as if he understood the serious business that was Saturday morning television. He was only five years old when the tremors hit, but like most kids, cartoons had already become a weekend ritual.
“I remember complaining about it as he woke me up at five in the morning. But once we got outside and started walking, I just looked up and gazed at the stars. And just like that,” Clay snapped his finger, “my attitude did a 180, and I let myself enjoy the opportunity to bond with my father. I grew to appreciate those times. Being in a house with my mom and four sisters, my dad and I were severely outnumbered.”
Charlie knew that feeling. Including Clay, the boys living in the tower were outnumbered two-to-one. “So, did you get one?” Charlie asked with enthusiasm.
Clay shook his head, “Nope. We were in a tree stand and up comes this big ol’ deer—a buck, at least eight points. I swear, I had the thing right in my sights, but I missed him by a mile. I thought I had let my dad down, but he just looked at me and smiled, then said,” Clay deepened his voice mimicking his dad’s, “‘That was a great try. I know you will get him next time.’”
Charlie looked at him with eagerness to hear the end of the story, “Well? Did you get him?”
Clay nodded. “The very next time we went out. My dad told me it was the same buck. I didn’t think it was, but I still like to think he was right.”
Like he was listening to his favorite author speak, Charlie was genuinely interested in hearing about Clay’s past and was hanging on every word he had to say. To Charlie, it was the same opportunity for bonding that Clay had with his father.
Charlie’s focus eventually turned to the firearms in the room. He asked about the different guns so Clay went through them all, telling him the name, caliber, and how he had acquired it.
“What about that one?” Charlie asked, pointing to a small rifle over on the reloading bench.
Clay walked over and picked it up, “This is an M1 Carbine.” He unfolded the stock and made sure the chamber was cleared. “This used to belong to my great-grandfather. He used this very gun to fight the Nazis in World War II. He was a paratrooper.”
Charlie looked at him quizzically, “What’s a paratrooper?”
“Paratroopers were soldiers who would go into battle by jumping out of a
irplanes. He was part of a group called the 101st Airborne, one of the most well-known divisions of the United States Armed Forces.”
“Whoa!” Charlie replied enthusiastically.
“This gun,” Clay said holding the rifle up, “was what he carried in almost every battle. It’s small and light. The stock folds to make it even smaller…He used this to defend his country, and now you will have it to defend your family.”
Charlie lit up like the Fourth of July, a grin from ear to ear. He leaned in close and examined the rifle from muzzle to buttplate. “This is mine?” he asked.
Clay nodded.
After showing Charlie a bit more about the gun, Clay went over the four golden rules to shooting. “Keep your finger off the trigger until you are ready to fire; never point at anything you don’t intend to shoot; know your target and beyond; and treat every gun as if it was loaded.”
Clay paused for a moment and channeled his father’s stern voice again. “And remember, there’s no such thing as firearm accidents, only negligence.”
Charlie listened and repeated the rules after Clay finished speaking.
“You ready to go to the range?”
“Oh yeah!” Charlie squealed, letting the kid in him slip through his mature façade.
Less than a half mile away was an indoor shooting range. Clay was particularly excited to find it when they moved in. Most of the brass had been picked clean, but he dug out several pounds of lead from the backstop that he was able to trade. Clay usually went there once a year to make sure all the guns remained properly sighted. The structure was built to muffle the sound of the shots, and unless someone was within 100 yards of it, no one would ever know anyone was shooting. It was a lot safer than target practice outside.
It only took about 10 minutes to get there. Charlie, trying to keep his excitement in check, had to force himself to walk and not run. They walked around back to a small alley and got in through the rear entrance—the front had been boarded up by the owners before being abandoned. Clay shut the door and tied one end of a bungee cord around the handle, then stretched the other end of the cord to a nearby eye-hook anchored into the cinderblock wall.
