“Yeah? Well, you wanna know what I think?” he asks. “I think you backed down earlier because you were afraid. Because you weren’t man enough to call their bluff.” He snorts in disgust. “I’ve known you my whole life, cuz. I never would have taken you for a coward.”
I lose it. All the stress, all the anger I’ve felt building inside me the past few hours, weeks, months, boils over. I launch myself at Vince as if he were my enemy and not the man I grew up with—the one who’s had my back since training wheels and who’s always felt more brother than cousin. In this moment, I’m blind to that fact.
I crash into him but he’s ready for me, absorbing the rush and wrapping his arms around me to stop my momentum. We grapple, each trying to bring the other to the ground until I manage to sweep a leg and we both go down in a tangle of flying limbs. First I’m on top, and then him, trading punches back and forth as if we were in a cage match. Leon and Felix don’t interfere as we tear into each other, letting us get on with it.
Insults fly back and forth as breathless grunts, each of us growing winded. I hardly hear him, the rage still riding hot inside me. I don’t know how long it lasts. It’s not until I’m pulled off him and hear my father’s voice that I come to my senses.
“That’s enough!” he seethes. “What’s the matter with you two? You’re cousins for Christ’s sake!” My Uncle Will assists in breaking us apart, holding his own son back.
“What the hell’s going on?” Uncle Will asks.
Vince violently shakes him off. “Ask him!” It’s all he says before picking up his rifle and storming past the small crowd that has gathered.
Uncle Will watches Vince walk off a moment before turning back toward me. Now that I’m no longer resisting, my dad lets me go and looks to me as well, waiting. I shake my head, shame replacing the lingering anger I feel.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Things just got out of hand.” I meet my mother’s eyes and immediately have to look away, the hurt and disappointment too much for me to handle atop everything else.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. I don’t even know who I speak to: my mother, my father, Vince. I suppose it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I let my emotions get the better of me—that I did what I accused Vince of doing and acted with a hot head instead of thinking first. I messed up. Again. And I can blame Vince, and the hunters in the woods, and the bastards who set this all in motion all I like. But the truth is, this is all on me.
That’s the only thing that matters.
Chapter 14: (Lauren)
When it rains, it pours. A cliche, but one I’ve found throughout my life to be true more often than not. Something bad happens and it is immediately followed by something else, something worse. Problem after problem, setback after setback. You try so hard to get ahead, to move past it, only to find it unshakable: your own personal cartoon rain cloud shadowing your every move. Eventually, it begins to take a toll on your psyche. It can make you want to give up, to stop trying: the voice in the back in your head telling you things will never get better. I know better than most.
I grew up hearing those poisonous words. I know that voice as if it were my own. Were it not for Grace I might have lost myself in all that darkness—might have let myself be broken by circumstance and wound up a statistic. She was always the light I needed, the hope I could cling to. But that was back when it was just the two of us, when all my fears and worries revolved around her. That’s no longer the case. And as wonderful and uplifting as it’s been to finally feel the warm embrace of family, it comes with a price. That price is the worry churning inside my stomach, the dark thoughts whispered in the back of my mind. I know better than to listen to that voice, but I find it harder to ignore as the hits keep coming.
Things have been tense for weeks. Given what we’ve been through, that’s hardly surprising. What with being raided, and held hostage, and TJ getting his ear shot off. Factor in our scarce diets and lost greenhouses, and it’s easy to understand the growing worry among us. Sitting here with winter at our doorstep, our outlook has never looked more bleak. But more than the threats circling outside the farm, more than our sparse food supply and approaching season, what has me most concerned is the tension between ourselves.
The close-knit, caring family I first met in Rockridge has fractured. The love among them I once thought unbreakable has collapsed under the weight of outside pressures. It’s been simmering under the surface for a while, but it wasn’t until Morgan and Vince came to blows that it completely boiled over. Now, there is no sense of trust, no unity between us. New grudges arise and blossom daily. Old fights are dug up and brought to light rather than remaining buried. Insults are thrown. Tempers flare. Each day the gulf between us seems to grow. If it weren’t for Mrs. Taylor, everything likely would have fallen apart already.
When arguments escalate and people's voices grow loud and cold, she's there to ensure they don't spin out of control. When the weight of everything becomes too much for someone to carry, she's there to help them through. She's the lone bridge among the family—the one person holding everything together. She reminds me so much of Morgan. Or rather, she reminds me of how he used to be.
I’m worried about him. He’s been off kilter ever since we were raided, but his fight with Vince has only made him retreat further into himself. Before he tried to hide it under false optimism and strained assurances, forcing himself to smile and pretend all was well for our sake. Now he no longer pretends. He wears his heart on his sleeve, all of the worry and stress and fear inside, clear for all to see. Something has broken inside him, and I have no idea how to fix it.
“You need to talk about whatever this is you’re going through,” I said one night.
“What do you want me to say, Lauren? The world’s gone to shit. I can’t keep pretending like it hasn’t.”
“Pretend? So that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time?” I challenged.
He wheeled on me then. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing! Pretending like I knew what the hell I was doing. Pretending that I could keep us safe—that we could all make it through this if we just tried hard enough. It’s all been one giant fucking ball of pretend, make-believe, the desperate wishing of a child! I can’t do it anymore. I won’t. It’s too painful.” He looked away quickly, hiding the tears which leaked from his eyes.
“You’re ‘pretending’ got us home, Morgan,” I said, willing my own tears back. “It’s what lead us here.”
He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said, voice full of cynicism. “And look how well we’re doing. Maya’s dead. TJ’s had his ear blown off. The greenhouses are hanging on by a thread... Shall I continue? Cause I can go on.”
“So that’s it then?” I asked, anger stirring inside me, seeping into my words. “The world’s too harsh a place, so why try and fight it? After everything we’ve been through, everything we’ve done, you’re just going to give up?”
It was as if my question stole the air from his body, he deflated so quickly. “I haven’t given up,” he said quietly. Finally, he turned to face me, his eyes raw and honest. “But I can’t be that guy anymore. I can’t be the one making the plans, and calling the shots, and forcing myself to smile so that the others don’t lose hope...I just can’t.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I still don’t. Somewhere along the line he lost his way, and I don’t know how to help guide him back. I have to find a way though. The tension between the family may have been building for a while, but it was only after we were raided that things were escalated, the same time that Morgan’s guilt and self-doubt robbed him of what made him the man he was. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.
Morgan says he can’t be the one to make the plans, to call the shots. In short, he claims he can’t be the one to lead. But I’ve seen what’s happened with others at the reins, and I see the end they will steer us toward if something doesn’t change. I just have to get Morgan to see it too.
I watch now as Morgan and Felix ste
p off the back porch and begin their rounds. We’ve set dozens of animal traps throughout the area. Most days we at least get something out of them, rabbits and squirrels and such. Not much meat to them, especially once it’s divided among all of us. Still, it’s helped see us through. Although that too is beginning to dry up as critters brace themselves for the approaching season. Something needs to change before they completely burrow away. I watch till they disappear from view before turning back to the task at hand.
“And to think, I used to complain about having to haul my stuff to the laundromat across the street,” Emily says, flexing her fingers. I understand where she’s coming from. I used to hate the four block walk to the laundromat back in Denver. Now I only wish it could be so simple. Like all things, laundry has become a more difficult task in wake of the collapse. There are no more washing machines or dryers, only tubs of steaming water and our bare hands, scrubbing clothes with improvised washing boards and ringing them out the best we can manage. It works the hands something awful. Out of practicality, we’ve limited our washings as much as possible, only doing so when it could no longer be avoided. We’re at that point now, our last wash nearly three weeks ago. I try not to think too much on that fact as I plunge my hands into the soapy water beside Emily and Julia. Somehow the task has fallen on the three of us each time it needs to be done. All women of course. For some reason, I don't’ think that was an accident.
Julia shrugs when I mention it. “It is what it is,” she says. “All the chores around here suck in their own way. At least we don’t have to scavenge or chop wood.”
Emily huffs. “Give me an ax. I’ll chop wood any day over this,” she says, holding a pair of soapy boxers gingerly by her fingertips.
I laugh. “My thoughts exactly,” I say.
Although I must admit, as tedious as hand washing clothing for over two dozen people can be, it has its moments. The long process of scrubbing, and wringing, and rinsing is done so with a constant flow of conversation. Stories are recounted in vivid detail. Idle gossip is passed in low voices and subtle smirks. Laughter is had. Given everything we deal with, all the burdens we carry on our shoulders, it’s uplifting to still find humor in the world. Indeed, there are times I get so lost in stories or my own laughter that I forget our troubles altogether.
Growing up I didn’t have much in the way of friends. I had co-workers, and before that, classmates I would force smiles upon and engage in the kind of polite small talk so popular in the world before. It just wasn’t in the cards for me. I could offer them neither the time nor support required of friendships. Things changed on the trail. That feeling of camaraderie, of belonging, finally took root. Morgan, Emily, Leon, Felix, Maya: they gave me that. Now I feel those roots expand and entwine with others: with Julia, with Vince and Jerry. And though my worry and fear grow alongside them, I know they are more than worth it.
One thing I’ve learned since this all began is that the drive to keep going is as much about the lives around you as it is your own. After all, what does anything in this life matter if there is nobody to share it with?
After hanging the clothes to dry, the remainder of our afternoon is suddenly clear until they’ve done so. I’d sooner be given another task. It feels wrong not having anything to do—to sit idle with so much daylight left. But with our defenses erected and a plan of action in place in should we be attacked, there is less to be done than when we first arrived. We won’t be alone in finishing up early. Sure enough, over the next couple of hours, people finish their tasks and gravitate our way. Most head inside, seeking shelter from the whipping winds that have kicked up. Leon joins us on the porch though, as do Grace and Ray a little while later.
Despite my best efforts, I can’t help but glance their way curiously. The two of them have clicked since Rockridge, and they only grow closer as the weeks pass by. I watch them now as they rock together on the porch swing, a Rubix-cube held between them. They’ve been trying to solve it for the past two weeks, never managing to fill more than one side a solid color. Not that they seem to mind all that much, smiles and suppressed laughter echoing between them as they work. A strange apprehension fills me the longer I watch them, my eyes zeroing in on their body language: at Ray’s hand sliding over her’s, of Grace brushing the hair from her eyes and stealing an appraising look while he focuses on the cube. There’s an attraction between them, and I don’t know how to feel about it. This is uncharted territory for me.
I continue to steal glances their way until Morgan and Felix emerge from behind the barn, drawing my focus onto them. Even from this distance, I can tell they didn’t have any luck with the traps. If the empty sacks on their hips didn’t give it away, the slump of their shoulders and grim expressions certainly would. I’m not the only one to notice.
“Nothing?” Leon asks as they reach us.
“Not a thing,” Felix answers. “Empty. Every single one of them.”
It’s a blow, one which we all feel. Our only shot at a halfway decent meal tonight now depends on the success of Richard’s hunting party. He left early with Vince, and Jerry. They’ve yet to return but given the hour, they should be back soon. All of us are aware of the danger of staying out past dark. Richard, for all of his flaws, knows not to take such a risk in the wake of everything else.
“Need a hand?” Morgan asks me.
“Sure,” I reply, gauging that the clothes are dry enough.
We wave off Julia and Emily as they rise to help, insisting we got it. Morgan is even worse with idle time than I am. The least I can do is provide him with a tedious chore like folding clothes, forcing him to focus on a single task and keeping his mind from wandering.
“Any tracks at least?” I ask
He shrugs. “A few,” he says. “There’s still small game in the area, we’re just having a bad streak right now. We’re bound to get something sooner or later, though. Just have to keep at it.”
He tells me what he thinks I need to hear. But what I take away most isn’t the words he says, but the doubt with which he speaks them. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. Only I don’t think either of us are fooled. He opens his mouth to add something only to immediately close it, his body tensing. I don’t ask for an explanation. I hear it too. We move with practiced efficiency, wordlessly drawing our guns and seeking cover while Grace and Ray enter the house to alert the others. We’re lucky nearly everyone has finished for the day. Only Richard and his hunting party are unaccounted for.
We wait as the commotion dies down, the quiet heavy in its absence. Behind us, I hear those inside getting into position—windows sliding open, muffled curses, bullets chambering. The prelude to battle. I can practically feel the fear reverberating through the wall, our last attack still vivid in people’s memories. But we’re prepared in ways we weren’t then. Our fortifications will hold. They have to.
“Hold Fire!” calls a familiar voice from the brush. Still, the voice alone does little to put us at ease. It’s not until they emerge, safe and unbound do we finally lower our weapons. Yet there is still cause for unease. With them are two men, one in his early forties with overgrown hair and bushy beard, and the other maybe fifteen or sixteen, his eyes hidden behind thick glasses and his face riddled with acne. It’s they who lead the procession, their hands bound behind their backs where Richard and Vince aim their pistols.
“Found them lurking in the brush,” Richard says as he reaches us. Most of the family has assembled around us by now. Though they are bound, there is no mistaking the fear still radiating amid the family—the apprehensive staring as if the men were rabid animals, snapping and snarling against their restraints.
“Were they armed?” asks Mr. Taylor.
“Had a .22 rifle and a couple knives,” Vince answers. “They’re about out of ammo though. Everything else was just camping gear.” At that, Jerry produces two hiking packs for us to see.
“What does this mean?” Virginia asks, looking to Richard. “They can’t have
meant to attack the farm, could they?”
Before Richard can answer the bearded captive answers. “We weren’t trying to attack anyone,” he says. “We were just...” His voice fades mid-sentence as if suddenly losing the nerve that made him speak out in the first place.
“You were just what?” Richard presses.
The man averts his gaze, hiding his face behind a curtain of dirty, matted hair. “We were just scoping the place out...seeing if there might be some food we could nick.” His voice quivers as he answers, as much out of shame as out of fear.
“Oh, is that all?” asks Will scathingly. “Well no harm, no foul. As long as you were only trying to steal what little food we have from our mouths, it’s all good. Can’t imagine there’s a problem with that.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how shitty that is to do to you...but what else am I supposed to do? We were camping out inside the hospital, about a dozen of us. We didn’t have much, but we were carrying on. But last week we were attacked. They came at night, fast like, guns blazing. Me and my boy were the only ones who made it out alive, nothing but the .22 and the clothes on our backs. But it’s been rough going. Neither of us has had anything to eat in over three days...like I said, we’re desperate. Desperate enough to resort to this...” His voice breaks on that last bit, a deep sob wracking his entire body. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “But I couldn’t just sit by and watch my boy starve to death.”
Beside him, his son cries freely. Not in mournful sobs as his father does, but quietly, his head hung in resignation. It’s as if he’s been read a death sentence. It’s a sad sight, one which makes me both realize how much we have to lose, and how fine a line it is between us and the two captives—that we are not immune to the kind of misfortune they’ve suffered. I can’t find it in my heart to hate. All I feel is pity. Pity, and worry that we might one day be in their position. But not all feel as I do.
A Cruel and Violent Storm Page 15
