by Brandon Dean
Finally feeling prepared for what might be ahead, I closed my eyes. I woke up a few short hours later to see my mom waiting on me to rise.
“How long have you been awake?” I asked.
“Not long,” she said, sliding me half a tin can of food.
I ate what could have been my last meal before Mom asked me if we were ready to leave. I nodded. “For the most part. We need to do something about your outfit, though,” I said.
She must’ve been freezing the entire time we’d been down there; the thick blanket she’d used to cover herself almost never left her body. I picked the hunting knife up from the floor and cut a long strip off of the blanket.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked curiously.
“Making you a scarf. You’ll be the talk of the town with this thing on.”
She rolled her eyes with a slight smile.
I began cutting two more strips, smaller in length than the first had been.
“Now what?” she asked.
“You can’t have a brand-new scarf without a pair of boots!” I said by way of explanation.
“Aren’t you just the genius?” she said, surprised.
“Wrap these over your shoes,” I instructed, handing her the fabric along with a roll of duct tape I had found the night before. “Make sure they’re snug,” I said.
As Mom was busy outfitting herself, I did the same, putting on the leather jacket I had picked up and zipping it up to the collar. I placed a gas mask over my head and then handed Mom one, as well.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” she objected.
“You’ll put it on unless you want the baby to be born with a third eye,” I said.
“Fine,” she said with a groan.
I took a good look at Mom. Strips of blanket were tied around her feet and draped over her neck, with the remainder over her shoulders as a cape. With the gas mask over her face to top it off, it was a hilarious sight.
“You look beautiful, Mom.”
“Quit being smart and open that door, will you?” she insisted.
I threw the bag over my left shoulder, with the rifle over my right, and gave a hard kick at the door to dislodge any buildup of snow. “Gonna be a blizzard out there,” I said. I grabbed the door by the handle and pushed it open.
What I was greeted with caught me off guard. Sunlight. The snow had stopped falling, and the sky looked normal. A wave of relief washed over me, and I found myself laughing almost maniacally.
“What on earth is so funny?” Mom asked, clearly confused.
“It stopped! I see the light!” I said.
“Honey, I think you’re going mad,” Mom said in a joking tone, though I could tell she was concerned.
We headed out in a direction opposite the city. The trails and woods had to lead somewhere eventually. Many of the trees closest to home had charred splits and cracks, their outer surfaces burned by the bombs. Mom trudged behind me, shivering the entire way with her arms crossed. The snow was up to our shins.
“Pretty damn cold, huh?” I asked.
“Watch your language, young man,” she scolded through chattering teeth.
I couldn’t tell you how long we walked that day, nor could I tell you how far. Every so often, we would stop to let Mom rest. The baby had been using most of her energy for everyday tasks, and now a sub-zero hike was added to the mix. I cleared a spot for Mom to sit. We used each break to have a drink, wring the frigid water from our drenched clothes, and try to warm ourselves with a small fire we made using twigs splashed with alcohol. We weren’t in the mood for much small talk at these little resting spots; it was much too cold to be bothered with chitchat.
We continued like that for hours. My limbs were going numb, and I’m sure Mom’s were, as well. The only time we really ever spoke was to repeat the declaration of how hungry we were.
Night fell eventually, and we had to find a spot to sleep. We decided to stop underneath an old oak tree, something to help protect us in case it started to snow again. I broke off several twigs, drying them with my coat sleeve, and began hacking at a small part of the ground with the knife. I placed all the twigs into the hole and lit a small fire. These fires were a pain in the ass, especially since we had only rubbing alcohol and damp twigs to work with. We sat with our hands stretched toward the fire, warming ourselves the best we could, the twigs snapping and crackling under the heat, with the flames casting a shadow on the surrounding wilderness.
Mom and I sat against the tree, staring at the stars above through the foliage.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Sure is,” she replied with a yawn.
“I’ve taken these stars for granted all my life. I assumed they’d always be there. Bothers you a lot more than you’d think when they go away one day.”
“What are you going on about?” Mom asked.
I chuckled. “That’s right; you didn’t see it.”
“See what?” she asked.
“The sky. On the day Dad . . . you know.” I took a breath. “Days were like a grayish orange, and the nights were black. Not like normal night black, but pitch black. Not a star in the sky. Only light you had was what you thought was the moon. Crazy how you don’t realize how much lightness there is to night until all the switches up there are flipped off. It’s hard to explain, like the sky was one big cloud, but it wasn’t a cloud. There isn’t a way to describe it, actually. You’d have to see it for yourself, but I hope you never do. I never want to see it again.”
Mom put her arm around me, both of us still looking to the sky. “He’s proud of you, Clint,” she said.
“I sure hope so,” I replied. “It’s all I ever wanted. He was a good man—the best I’ll ever meet. Always took care of you and me. I guess I’m just trying to follow in his footsteps and make him proud. And it’s an honor. If I end up as good a man as he was, then I can go to the grave knowing I’ve lived a life worth living,” I said.
Mom pulled me in closer. “You already are, honey.”
Minutes went by, and Mom was fast asleep. I took my coat off to cover her exposed skin and stayed awake to keep watch over her. I heard a rustling in the bushes far off in the distance. I dismissed it, however, assuming some snow had fallen off a branch. Then, almost immediately, I heard it again, closer than before. I gripped the hunting rifle in my hands firmly, and then I heard it: a menacing howl. I looked over to Mom, but she didn’t stir.
I took one hand off the rifle and tried to shake Mom awake, trying my best not to make any sound. “Mom . . . Mom, wake up,” I whispered. I heard a deep growling noise inching toward me, presumably attracted by the fire. “Mom, wake up!” I said, this time more adamantly.
She turned her head and groaned. “What is it?”
“We have to go!” I said with fear in my voice as I removed my mask to get a better view of my surroundings.
“Why? What’s going on?” she asked nervously, rising to an upright position. Before I could answer her question, I saw a glint out of the corner of my eye. Just beyond the campfire was a set of glowing eyes, increasing in size as the creature they belonged to stepped closer toward me. I was expecting a coyote, but I was wrong. A large brute of a dog came from the bushes, baring its teeth. It looked to be a mix of a Rottweiler and a mastiff.
Mom noticed it, too. “Is it rabid?” she asked.
Judging by the lack of foam coming from its mouth, the dog wasn’t rabid but had gone feral and reverted back to its natural animalistic instincts. This wasn’t like what had gone down at the pharmacy, though; I didn’t have anyone to help me this time. Instead, I had a gun I’d never fired before, I had a sickly, pregnant woman by my side, and I had the knowledge of a dog’s pack mentality. There was no telling how many others might be closing in on us or even if there really were any others. All I knew was that there was no way I was going to win a
hand-to-muzzle fight with an animal bred for killing. And the sound of gunfire—the only high card I had to play at this point—might actually have been dangerous under the current circumstances. After all, it would have alerted other people of our presence.
“Good dog . . . good dog,” I said, trying to talk it down from its bloodthirsty hunt. It kept inching slowly toward me, waiting for the right moment to pounce on me and tear me to shreds. I noticed a flash of metal coming from the dog’s neck as the glow of the campfire illuminated the dog’s massive frame. It was a tag buckled to a collar—this menacing creature had once been somebody’s pet. I had to think of something to do. Mom was of no help to me; she was frozen with fear, and she’d covered her face—whether in an attempt to shield herself from an attack or because she didn’t want to be a witness to a massacre, I wasn’t sure.
The beast was standing mere feet ahead of me now. I slowly raised the rifle to my eye, making sure not to make any sudden movement that might provoke the dog. I readied a cartridge in the chamber and gripped the rifle tightly as I slowly began to push the bolt forward. The faint grinding noise of the small parts interacting made my heart sink into my stomach.
The bolt was mere millimeters from the back of the barrel now as the dog planted its hind feet firmly. It had made its mind up; it was going to strike. The only decision it had left to make was when. As the bolt came flush against the end of the barrel, it emitted a metallic ting. The dog’s ears flattened back behind its head as its gums became visible and an aggressive snarl erupted from its throat. Too suddenly for me to react, it leaped through the air; and before I could move my hand back to the trigger and fire, the dog was on top of me.
Mom screamed in panic as the dog sank its sharp teeth into my right forearm. I desperately punched its rib cage with my left fist, but it wasn’t budging. No amount of physical pain could deter the dog from its desire to attack. I felt around on the ground for the hunting knife before noticing out of the corner of my eye that I had left it near the fire. Even if I could reach it, it would be too hot to grip. I could feel my muscles tear as the dog twisted its head around, trying to free any loose meat it could. The dog raised its head, licking my blood from its lips; and as it eyed my throat and bared its teeth to take another bite, two gunshots rippled through the air. One entered the dog’s side and exited the other with a mist of bone fragments; the other, taking a path through the side of its head, sprayed my eyes and mouth with blood.
I used my free arm to push the dog’s warm corpse off of me and turned my head toward Mom. She was holding the handgun that had been inside the duffel bag, smoke still rising from the hot barrel.
I stood up, holding my arm. “Way to go, Mom,” I said inan exhausted gasp.
She threw the gun down and rushed over to look at my wound; two small craters filled with rushing blood shimmered in the firelight. “Are you okay?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, I’ll live,” I said.
Another howl came from the distance, then another shortly after. There were at least two more of them stalking us in the woods. I didn’t care what breed they were—I didn’t want to know; I didn’t want to ever see them.
“Let’s go!” I urged Mom, and she more than willingly agreed. We took off running as fast as we could, leaving all of our supplies behind and stomping our way through the thick snow. It was like the day the bombs had fallen all over again, but this time, we were targets and not just consolation prizes.
I heard Mom yelp behind me and turned to find that she had stumbled over a tree root concealed in the snow. I ran back to her and looked up to see two sets of glowing eyes coming toward us. I picked Mom up, the same way Dad had several days ago, and pain shot through my right arm as my wounds opened from the strain. I cringed, but I couldn’t let my own physical limits hold me back. I sprinted as fast as I could through the trees and plants, weaving back and forth to avoid obstacles.
I could hear heavy breathing creeping closer to me; it wasn’t my own, and it wasn’t Mom’s. It wasn’t even human. I heard one of the dogs lunge at me with a growl as it narrowly missed my calf, and felt its teeth brush against me, followed by its cold, wet snout. Goosebumps covered my skin, and the hairs on my body stood on end. I took a quick glance back to see the dog collect itself and shake the debris off its body.
My legs and arms were about to give out, and I had only run a half mile or so at that point. Dad had made this look so easy when he’d done it, but, of course, he’d had about thirty pounds of muscle on me. The fact that I had barely slept or eaten in days was taking its toll, and light-headedness started to overtake me.
“What is that? Up ahead!” Mom shouted.
It was a field with massive, round bales of hay scattered about it. And in the distance was a large eggshell-white farmhouse, seemingly unaffected by nuclear devastation. There was a light coming from a window of the bottom floor, casting the shadow of what seemed to be a person in a rocking chair on the front porch.
“Please! Help us!” Mom screamed in desperation.
“What are you doing?” I asked, panicked.
“The only thing we can do!” she replied.
The figure stood, alert now as we approached. I looked back to see how close the dogs were to us, and, to my dismay, I could see their glowing eyes still on our trail.
“Clint! Watch out!” Mom screamed.
I looked ahead, and at my eye level was a thick branch sticking out from where the woods ended and the field began. I heard a loud thud from inside my head and felt a surge of pain as I hit the ground and blacked out. That was my last memory of the night.
Chapter 8
I felt my eyes adjust to the light as they twitched slightly and crept open. I was in a bed, with a thick white comforter and sheets pulled over my body as my head rested on a fluffed pillow. I had no idea where I was or how long I’d been out, but I did know I hadn’t felt this rested in days—apart from my body feeling like it had been hit by a bus.
I grabbed the blanket with my right arm and noticed a white bandage tightly wrapped around my forearm, a small, reddish-brown spot in the area I’d been bit. I tossed the bedspread off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, looking around at my surroundings. The walls were painted in a color that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be pink or white, resulting in a shade that rested somewhere between the two. The posts of the bed, along with the dresser near the door and the chest at the foot of the bed, were a dark-brown oak with intricate designs carved into them. This wasn’t the cheap stuff you would find sitting on a sales floor. I dipped my bare feet down to the carpeted floor, wiggling my toes into its softness. It felt good; I’d never realized how good carpet could feel until then. I stood, and the soreness from my legs made an unwelcome visit. I got caught off guard by the pulse of pain running up my body and fell flat on my face.
I groaned as I grabbed the side of the bed and pulled myself up. I noticed a glare of light on the satin walls and turned to face a mirror standing in the far corner of the room, the frame matching the rest of the furniture. I stumbled over to it to get a better look at myself. I looked like hell. Forget Cleveland; it looked like they had dropped the atom bomb directly on top of me. Much like my arm, my head was wrapped in bandages, and a large knot protruded under the wrap. My left eye was black and slightly swollen, as was my bottom lip. I had bruises all over my arms and face. That’s when I noticed the clothes I was wearing. I had never seen them before—dark-blue pajamas. I lifted the shirt to examine the rest of my body, seeing various cuts and scrapes, with one side of my rib cage almost black from bruising. I was clean, too, as though someone had bathed me. And I certainly smelled better than I had the last time I’d checked.
“Are you okay?” A soft voice startled me as the bedroom door creaked open.
I turned around to see a small, elderly woman in an apron covered by white dust. “Yeah,” I said, confused. “Where am I?”
“Oh, young man, how rude of me—I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Beverly Maxwell,” she said. “My granddaughter saw you and your mother out in that field, and it looked like you needed some help. So, here you are.”
“Thanks for saving our skin. My name is—”
“Clint, Clint Brodsky. Your mother has told me so much about you,” she said, curling her wrinkled lips into a warm smile. “Now, where are my manners? You must be starving! I mean, you were conked out for two days, after all.”
I knew my face must have shown shock. “Two days?”
“Yes, two days. Well—give or take a few hours.”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d known I was tired, but two days? What had Mom been up to while I was playing Rip Van Winkle?
“Where is my mom?” I asked.
“She’s right in the kitchen having breakfast. There’s some waiting for you, too, if you’re hungry.”
I smiled at the thought. Breakfast. “Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure. We’ll be waiting on you downstairs. You best get going before it gets cold,” she said before heading out of the room.
I was beginning to think maybe I had died in those woods and gone to heaven—it all seemed too good to be true. I stepped out of the bedroom and into the main hall. The floors were a beautiful shade of brown, so well polished and spic-and-span that I could see my own reflection. Paintings hung upon the walls between the doors of other rooms in the hallway, and at the end was a winding staircase. The white wooden railing was perfectly crafted, and not a single board on the tread of the stairs made a noise under the weight of my feet. Not one creak or groan. I was starting to think it was some kind of setup; everything was too neat and perfect—or maybe it had just been so long since I’d seen a real home that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be inside of one.
