by B.R. Paulson
***
We took shifts holding John, checking on him. He didn’t get a fever which helped me hold my stress together.
When my turn to watch him came, and Bodey slept, I cried. Flashes of Mom dying in my arms mere days ago bombarded me, overlapping his face and his weight.
Every hour we traded shifts. Minutes blurred into hours.
Bodey stepped out to scavenge some water from the well. I bent my head close to John’s. “It’s too soon, John. Mom already died. You can’t leave us.”
Shadows under his eyes frightened me further. Specks of mud spotted his pale skin.
He coughed, groaning with his eyes fluttering open. His gaze met mine, his voice caught in the fog of sleep. “Kelly? Where’s Bodey?” John tried to sit up, pushing his hand to his head. “I was shot.”
“You what?” I hadn’t seen a bullet hole. “No, it’s just a deep scratch.”
“No, they shot me.” He swallowed, the effort painful. “Can I have some water?”
“Bodey went to get some.” I checked under his dressing, the gash not as deep looking without all the blood weeping from the lines. “Wow, this looks better. How are you feeling?”
I didn’t mention the crazy fear running through me, controlling Bodey, distracting us from gathering resources or getting things checked out.
“I’m fine. I’d just run a long way and bleeding awhile.” He glanced up when Bodey opened the door. A gust of moist wind blustered through the car.
“Dad, you’re up.” Bodey climbed into the front seat, handing over the canteen of water and smiling with relief at both John and me. He shut the door, blocking out the warmth seeking weather.
John smiled at his son, struggling to sit up on the bench seat. “I’m awake. We can go back to the store.”
“What about the soldiers? Can you tell me what happened?” Bodey settled onto his heels, watching as his dad drank thirstily.
“They’re gone. The group after Kelly and her mom came and they killed each other. I think the remaining members of the soldier group headed toward Bayview, so we’ll stay here in Athol.” He looked down at the lip of the canteen. “All of the Monaghans are gone. I…” He swallowed, avoiding our eyes. “I tried, but I couldn’t save them. Not even the twelve-year-old. I forgot his name.”
Bodey’s eyes glistened. “What’s going to happen to us, Dad?” He leaned across the back of the seat and gripped my free hand and John’s shoulder.
John shrugged softly. The patter of the rain as it started up again with a vengeance broke the tension in our silence. He inhaled and then spoke slowly. “We keep surviving, son. Together. We’ll do what’s needed.” He pulled our hands into his, holding us together in a tight group. “As long as we stay together, we’ll be fine.”
Stay together. Another rule I would be forced to break?
Epilogue
Six months later
We still hadn’t made it to Bayview. We’d made it everywhere else in the northwest, I could’ve sworn to that.
I shivered, rubbing my arms briskly. Even all my layers didn’t ward off the flesh freezing wind. “Three… blizzards in… two days?”
Bodey chuckled, pulling me into his arms. “I think we can call it one storm that won’t stop.” He turned his back to the wind, protecting me with my shoulders against a tree. The evergreen branches above held the majority of the snow at bay.
A shrill whistle reached us through the swirling snow. John waved from across the street. He didn’t yell or anything else, just that long piercing signal.
Bodey grabbed my hand and we jogged to John, our backpacks bouncing at our waists, smacking the back bones of our hips. Joining him alongside the boarded building, we huddled under the eaves of the warehouse.
“I can’t believe it, but our stuff hasn’t been touched since we left. We’ll camp here while the weather is rough, but we won’t be able to stay much past that.” John pulled my pack off. He motioned us to the door. “Come on. There might still be some food in here.”
I followed John and Bodey into the flooring and carpet building where we’d started out.
Six months jumping camps and scavenging for survival items took its toll.
We obsessed about food and keeping warm. The last stop before the warehouse, we camped in an old tool shed, sleeping on the dirt floor. The inside hadn’t been warm enough to keep our breath from fogging.
Even though the building was cold, the biting wind couldn’t reach us. I relaxed my shoulders in relief. Always fighting the elements sponged my energy. We had lost the majority of our fat stores as we fought to stay alive.
“Who do you think it was?” Someone followed us, always a step or two behind. I searched the corners, like John hadn’t already conducted a thorough search. Of course he had. One thing about John – his efficiency was never half-way. He accomplished what he set out to do.
The day he decided to go after his wife and daughter, we started our trip across the northern panhandle. I’ve never seen such dogged persistence.
People we spoke to and traded with would give vague hints suggesting they’d seen a mother-daughter duo. We would be excited and then a new person would refute the information from before, sending us into a discouraged spiral.
Every step stung when we didn’t seem any closer.
“I’m not sure who it could be. I thought for sure that gang who chased us from my place had all been killed with the soldiers at the Monaghan place, but maybe not.” John kicked an empty paint can upright and slid it across to the hidden fireplace he’d made so long ago. Pulling rolls of carpet from around the setup, he squatted to the can and blew into the belly of the stove. Ash and dust clouded around him.
Tucking paper and wood chunks into the fireplace, John flicked the lighter he’d found in a previously looted gas station.
Paper caught fire fast and in minutes wood crackled under the heat of the flames.
Warmth reached me in small waves which grew steadier. I edged closer, kneeling beside John as he stared into the heat.
Bodey dropped to his rear, holding his hands up, palms out to the budding flames. “Oh, wow. That’s amazing.” He sighed.
Pushing at the bag he’d dropped beside the wall, John dragged three cans of corn from the top pocket. Bodey and I watched with hunger.
We hadn’t eaten for two days. Water wasn’t hard to come by, but food… ah, food.
I helped open the cans, meeting John’s sunken in gaze. “We’ll get better at this, won’t we?” We’d come full circle, as if we never had left the small town of Athol, never searched for family lost in the bombs or the terror of survival. I’m not sure if we would leave that building or not, but at least we were together. At least I wasn’t alone.
A genuine smile split John’s somber mask. “Either we get better or we die. Nothing too serious.” He winked.
Bodey chuckled and I offered a courtesy laugh.
Wouldn’t it be better to die? How much more did we need to go through to reach the worst?
Hopefully this was the worst. I couldn’t handle something happening to Bodey. Or his dad. I’d grown very fond of them both… okay, I couldn’t lie. I was falling for Bodey and it hurt. Because what if I lost him, too? Losing someone I cared about wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to survive any longer. Losing either of them might break me.
The cost of my survival had reached an all-time high, I’m not sure I could afford the price if it rose any higher.
I took a bite and chewed the firm kernels.
Surviving wasn’t the hard part. Not getting sucked in to the fear was.
I glanced at Bodey. He glanced at me and winked.
With those guys? I could survive a little longer.
The end of Cost of Survival, book #1 of the Worth of Souls series. Stay tuned for Exchange Rate, book #2, and see just what following the rules will cost Kelly, Bodey, and John.
Keep reading for a letter from the author as well as Chapter One of Exchange Rate.
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