Fade To Black

A novel by

Doug Kelly

Copyright © 2014 Doug Kelly

This is an original work of fiction by Doug Kelly, who holds the sole rights to all the characters and concepts herein. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved.

No part of this novel may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Edited by Carol Madding.

To my children.

They inspire me in all aspects of my life.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

EPILOGUE

Chapter One

On a late-summer morning, the sun’s rays at daybreak were pouring into an east-facing room at the home of Dylan Smith. He was asleep in this room, finally sleeping in his own bed after so many months away. The newest occupants of the house, Kevin Brown and his wife Mary, were also still sleeping, as were Dylan’s two children, Brad and Jennifer.

The double column of blinds on two adjacent windows did not quite meet, allowing beams of sunshine to enter at the gap. The amber light passed over Dylan’s head and lit up a rectangular space on the opposite wall, where in the center of the bright light, hung a picture of his wife, Cynthia. The picture was just as he remembered her, short blonde hair with emerald green eyes. She had perfectly shaped teeth that were a brilliant white, in a lovely smile framed by full red lips.

After so many months of vacancy, the air trapped inside Dylan’s home had gone stale. He had left the windows open during the night to let the captive air escape. The open windows allowed the fresh nighttime air to invade his home, and as it did, the gentle breeze pushed the slatted blinds rhythmically against the window. The steady clack of the blinds was like a metronome for the orchestra of insects gathering in the unkempt grass surrounding his home and the neighborhood. The harmonic motion of the blinds, gently swinging from the head of the window frame, kept time with the romantic chatter of the crickets and cicadas calling for their mates. The rectangular spot of light on the wall slowly moved downward as the sun rose higher, until it left the picture of Dylan’s wife in shadow. He slept on, ignoring the songbirds of the morning.

The sound of a creaking axle echoed in his room, growing louder and louder as a wheelbarrow rolled close to his window. Upon hearing the noise, he moved restlessly on the bed, but did not wake. A cocoon of fatigue bound his somnolence tightly around his body, and he remained lost in his dreams. The horrible sound stopped briefly, but when the wheelbarrow passed by the window of the quiet bedroom, even extreme fatigue could not enable Dylan to tolerate such an obnoxious noise. He sat up briefly and glanced at the rectangle of light on the wall, trying to guess the time by its position. Slowly, the squeaking of the axle faded away as the wheelbarrow reached the driveway of his neighbor’s house, and Dylan immediately rested his head back on the pillow.

With sleepy eyes, Dylan stared at his wife’s picture on the wall. It slowly came into focus as he woke without her by his side. He blinked a few times, took a deep breath and stretched as he reached over to touch the empty place on the bed where his wife should have been. The sheets felt cool. He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, leaning forward and rubbing his bearded face with his calloused hands. He could feel every tough callus through his beard as his fingers pressed on the tight skin wrapped across his cheekbones. He dropped his hands to his lap and looked at the thick, shiny skin covering his palms. The friction of the oars had polished the thickened flesh. He made fists, tightly pulling his fingers into his palms, and admired the feeling of strength that he had in them. His hands were strong from firmly gripping the oars each day for months, as he rowed over a thousand miles down the river. Standing up, he kissed the fingers of his right hand and touched them to the portrait of his wife as he walked by and left the bedroom, silently promising to himself that he would find her.

Dylan tiptoed down the hallway and stood at the entrance to his son’s bedroom. He leaned his shoulder on the doorframe and put one bare foot on top of the other, working his toes into the carpet fibers. Brad was sleeping in his own bed, where he belonged, and away from greedy strangers. Dylan hoped his son was having pleasant dreams, but he understood the horrors of nightmares, and given what his children had experienced, he expected that the nightmares would come.

As Dylan gazed at his sleeping son, he caught himself smiling. He raised his hand and touched his face to feel the smile. Happiness had become a strange, unfamiliar feeling. It had been so long since he had felt happiness that he had almost forgotten the emotion. He stepped quietly to the next room. He looked in to see his daughter curled on her side, partially covered by a pink blanket, and sleeping serenely with a doll in her arms. Both of his children looked dirty. Their light brown hair, not washed for so long, looked almost brunette. The oil from their scalps had accumulated on their hair, making it appear much darker than it was. All the people in the house needed to use some soap and water on their bodies, and he wanted to rig up a shower or get a bathtub in operation. However, there was something more urgent on his mind right now. He was determined to find his wife. Dylan decided to start his search by talking with his children about her disappearance.

Dylan returned to his son’s room and gently sat on the bed next to him. Brad did not wake. Dylan put his hand on Brad’s shoulder and lightly shook it. He felt bad about waking the boy, but they needed to talk. Dylan wanted information and could not wait any longer. He shook the boy again, and this time Brad stirred. As Brad felt the hand shaking his shoulder, he flinched and pushed away from his father.

“Easy now. It’s just me,” said Dylan, in a soft tone. Then he reached out to pat his son gently on the leg.

Still slightly disoriented, Brad emerged from deep sleep. He nervously glanced around the room, then relaxed and sat up so he could lean forward to hug his father and whisper, “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. You wouldn’t believe what I went through to get back here.”

Brad let go of his father and timidly asked, “Are you going to stay? If you leave, do I have to go back?” Brad lifted his hand and pointed out his bedroom door. “Will I have to go back to them?”

Dylan gently poked his son in the stomach, in a humorous way, and replied, “Never. They are gone. And they aren’t coming back, either. Don’t worry about them.”

Brad smiled and playfully kicked back from his father’s hand, which continued to poke him in the stomach. They both smiled, then laughed, happy to be in each other’s company.

Dylan turned to see that his daughter was awake and standing in the doorway to Brad’s bedroom. She was holding an old doll with tangled and matted hair, dangling it by its ankle with one hand, and holding her pink blanket with the other. Her hair was as frazzled as her doll’s. Jennifer, still groggy, hurried toward her father as he sat on the edge of her brother’s bed. She put the doll and blanket on the bed before climbing up to sit next to her father, and after doing so, leaned her head on his chest and wrapped her small arms around his torso. Dylan patted his daughter’s hair, then stood up, and placed both children on the edge of the bed. They dangled their bare feet as he sat on the floor and talked with them.

“Where is your mother?”

Brad shrugged his shoulders and turned his head to look out his bedroom window. “She’s gone. We must have made her mad at us. Before she left, she was mad all the time and cried a lot.” Brad rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, Mom must have been sad, too. I heard her cry at night after she put us to bed. She cried a lot when she was alone, but I heard her. She couldn’t hide it from me.” He looked back at his father with sheepish eyes and pleaded, “Can you find her and tell her we’re sorry if we made her mad? Tell her to come back.”

Jennifer scooted back on the bed, crossed her legs, and wrapped the blanket over her shoulders. “Daddy, tell her to come back.”

Dylan was disappointed. This was not the information he expected. He thought they would have heard her say something about planning to leave, or mention a place she might go to, or possibly, why she left so abruptly. Any clue, no matter how small, he would have cherished. He looked for a simple explanation and tried to choke back what was haunting him in the deep, dark, recesses of his imagination.

“Did you see her pack any clothes? Take a suitcase? Did you see any strangers?”

Brad thought for a moment and said, “There were some strangers. Sometimes people would knock at the door, and we had to stay in our rooms. She would say, ‘Stay in your rooms and don’t let anybody see you.’ So we did.”

“Who were they?”

“I couldn’t see who they were, but sometimes I recognized their voices. You know, some of our neighbors that live close by.”

“Brad, I need you to concentrate. I’m trying to get a clue about where she went. I need your help.”

“I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

“No, just try to think about what you heard.”

“Before she left, she yelled a lot, like everything we did made her mad. She would yell at Jennifer and me so much, we just stayed away from her.”

“The people that knocked at the door, what did they want?”

“Food. She told me the people wanted food.”

“Did she give them any food? Did you see her let anyone in the house?”

“She gave some food away, and then those people came back for more.”

“And?”

“She told them to go away and not come back.” Brad glanced toward his sister, now lying on her side as she listened to the conversation. “That’s when she started to get mad all the time and be mean to us.”

The young boy slipped off the side of his bed and peered out the window. He cautiously looked to the left, then the right, as if he was peering through a prison window, wishing for parole. When Brad turned back to face his father, Dylan noticed how pale the boy’s skin appeared, as if he had not been in sunlight for months.

“After that, whenever Mom heard a knock at the door, she stopped answering it. I would hear her say, ‘beggars’, and get very angry, and then she yelled at them through the closed door to go away. Then she would scream, ‘I can’t take this anymore!’, and she would do this.” Brad covered his ears with the palms of his hands, shook his head, and bent at the waist, imitating his mother.

“Did you recognize anyone that she let into the house?”

“It was just people from the neighborhood. But when she started making us hide in our rooms, I couldn’t see anybody.” Brad looked away, disappointed. He felt as if he was letting his father down. “But she never let anyone in the house after she started making us hide in our rooms.”

“So, you didn’t see any strangers?”

“No. Can I go play now?” He looked at his sister and she smiled, nodding her head in agreement.

“You two need to eat something first. Go wait for me in the kitchen.”

The two children scurried away. Just as Dylan stood up, his son came back into the room.

“I forgot. One time, right before she went away, Mom let someone in. It was a man.”

“Did you see him? Who was it?”

“It was when she made us hide in our rooms. She was quiet, not yelling. I didn’t hear anything, so I thought he was gone. They were talking so quietly. When I peeked around the corner, I saw his back.”

“Did she give him food?”

“No, he had papers in his hand. I saw him give Mom one of the papers, then he left after they talked a long time.”

“She stopped yelling after that. A few days later, I woke up one morning and she was gone. I was scared. We went outside to look for her and couldn’t find her anywhere. We were hungry, and Jennifer wouldn’t stop crying. That’s when Michael and his wife took us to their house.” Brad clenched his fists. “I hate them.”

Dylan ruffled his son’s hair and gently pushed him toward the hallway. “Go play with your sister, and I’ll get you something to eat. It’ll just be a minute.”

Dylan went back to his room. He had placed his rifle under the bed before he went to sleep. Knowing that it was not a safe place to have a weapon because of the young children in the house, he looked around the room for a better place to hide it and noticed his bow lying on the floor next to the double window. Now that he was home again, he wanted to use the bow as much as possible to save bullets. Dylan took the rifle into the walk-in closet and decided to place it on the top shelf. It was high enough that his young children could not see it or reach it, but he could still grab it in a hurry. At the closet’s entrance, he saw a small stepstool, folded and lying on the floor near his bare feet. With a nudge from his toe, he pushed it out of his way. His wife had used it to get items from the high shelves. Dylan was tall enough that he did not need it. He placed the rifle on the top shelf and pushed it back against the wall. Just as he turned to walk out of the closet, he stopped. Dylan tried to remember if there was a cartridge in the chamber or if he had engaged the safety. Not trusting his memory, he reached up to grab the rifle. As he pulled it forward, a pamphlet slid off the shelf, hit him in the face, and landed on the carpet. He removed the magazine, verified that there was nothing in the chamber, and engaged the rifle’s safety. Dylan slid the rifle onto the shelf again, pushing it to the wall, and placed the magazine beside the weapon. He bent over to pick up the pamphlet, and just as he did, he heard his daughter scream.

Dylan sprinted down the hall and into the living area of his home. The open floor plan connected the family room, dining room, and kitchen into one common space. His son was standing beside the coffee table in front of the dead television. Brad’s hands were in the air, and Jennifer was pointing at him.

“He took my dolly!” Jennifer screamed.

“No, I didn’t,” said Brad. “It was on the floor. So I moved it out of the way, and she screamed at me.”

Dylan shook his head. He took a deep breath and exhaled as he felt his hands shaking from the jolt of adrenalin. “Just cool it. You’re going to wake up the whole neighborhood.”

“Too late,” mumbled Kevin, as he silently came to the top of the stairs from the basement. “We’re all awake now.”

Kevin was on the top step leaning on the railing that guarded the opening to the stairway. He surveyed the inside of the room through the thin morning light that peeked through the blinds on the west side of the house. He kept looking back down the steps, expecting his wife to appear from the darkness of the basement at any moment.

Kevin and Mary had spent the night in the guest room downstairs. Kevin had expected it to be a pleasant change from sleeping outdoors, but the silence of the basement during the night had been deafening to him. After spending so many nights sleeping in the wilderness and growing accustomed to the serenade of nighttime insects, songbirds, the roar of the river, and the rustling of tall grass in the breeze, he had found it difficult to sleep in the quiet of the basement.

Kevin cupped his hands to his mouth, turned toward the basement and announced, “I’ll be up here. They’re all awake.”

“Okay,” replied Mary, with a faint voice that was barely audible upstairs.

Kevin went to the door that opened into the garage, and looked at the food that they had moved there last night. It was everything left from the trip to Dylan’s house, plus all the boxes and canned food that they removed from Michael and Becky’s house during the night. He rubbed his stomach and said, “Let’s dig into this pile of food. I’m starving.”

“Good idea,” said Dylan. “We’re all hungry. I’ll open up this house, let some fresh air and light in, and we’ll get started.”

Dylan went to the sliding patio doors and reached up to pull the drapes to one side so he could slide the glass door completely open. As he reached for the blinds, he realized that he was still holding the pamphlet. Now that he was near a window with light, he could see what it was. It was a flyer for a local temple, or cult, as some people called it. He recognized the address. It was on a county highway, not far away. The county highway traveled east and west, and crossed the north end of a lake near his home.

After Dylan had moved his family into their house, he visited a nursery located on that county highway. The pamphlet made him remember driving by the temple on his way to get plants for landscaping. At the temple, there had been a throng of people in the parking lot and a man with a megaphone, enchanting the crowd. The cult got considerable notoriety from its leader, who proclaimed himself a prophet, predicting the end of the world. He must have been very charismatic because he was at no loss for followers. He had maintained that his group was a religious organization and should have tax-free status. The government disagreed, and there was a lengthy court battle. Dylan was not sure of the outcome, nor did he care at the time.

He recognized the address, knew where it was located, but not why the pamphlet was in his house. Intending to use the pamphlet for kindling, he placed the paper in the top drawer of a hutch in the dining room, and put it out of his mind.

“What’s for breakfast?” asked Mary, as she walked barefoot across the hardwood floor, headed for the kitchen. The air wafting through the windows was cool, so she went to the kitchen with crossed arms, trying to conserve her body heat. She hugged her husband as she walked by, absorbing the warmth from his body and feeling the strength in his arms. Kevin’s body had adapted to the river just as Dylan’s had. Thick calluses were evident on his hands, and his arms and back were like steel springs, coiled and ready for action.

“Daddy, can I have some milk?” asked Jennifer.

“I don’t think I can get that for you right now.”

Dylan was not sure how to answer the question. It would not be true to say there was no more milk. All you needed was a cow, and he knew there were cows with full udders grazing in pastures somewhere. With no electric milking machines, every dairy cow should be teeming with milk. All he needed to grant her wish was a cow, but he knew that was not possible. He simply promised to look for some and let the question go.

There was a loud pounding on the front door. Dylan looked through the peephole and saw that it was Jim. He had come back early, as instructed. With a quick flick of the deadbolt, Dylan unlocked the door. The morning air and sunshine rushed in. The sunlight brought Jim’s body into silhouette, throwing his shadow down in front of him. Jim stood on the front porch with a five-gallon plastic bucket of water from the stream in each hand, heavy at his sides. Dylan had heard the creaky axle of the wheelbarrow, transporting the buckets of water that morning as Jim brought it back from the creek. Jim stood there breathing heavily from carrying the ten gallons of water to Dylan’s house. He sat the buckets down and placed his hands on his hips. He had thick hands with short stubby fingers, a shape that made his hands look strong.

Jim owned a bakery and restaurant with his business partner, Harold, who also lived in the neighborhood. Dylan remembered the stories Jim told him of when he started working at his bakery many years ago. He would knead dough for hours. Dylan wondered if that was how he developed those hands. His fingers looked like sausages resting on his hips. Jim wore a cotton shirt that at one time had been a bright, clean white, but had turned a dingy yellow from sweat and body oil. It was tattered and ragged. His new, more active lifestyle had worn the material so thin that the small amount of sweat from Jim’s body caused it to cling to his torso in a way that made it translucent. Jim had lost so much weight so fast that layers of loose, wrinkled skin were visible underneath the threadbare shirt.

Dylan looked at the buckets of water and asked, “Are those for me?”

“Only if you carry them the rest of the way.”

“Deal.”

Dylan picked up both buckets, resting the metal handles on the thick portion of his callused hands. Carrying them to the kitchen island, he lifted them to its granite countertop.

“I poured it through a towel to get some of the sediment out, but it’s not boiled yet,” said Jim. “I’ve been boiling it with my propane grill. My propane is getting low. I need to scavenge some more tanks for the grill.”

“That’s okay, we can filter it and save the fuel,” said Kevin, as he watched the ripples of the jostled water slowly dissipate inside the buckets.

Mary moved by his side. Jennifer clung to her leg, leaning into her thigh and holding her tightly. Mary placed her hand on the young girl’s hair and tried to weave her fingers through the tangled mess. She could not, and that frustrated her. She gestured to her husband that she was leaving the kitchen to take the children and try to clean them up.

“Jim, if you know the empty houses,” said Dylan, “then let’s go on a scavenger hunt now and get everything we can.”

“Hold on a minute, you aren’t going anywhere,” stated Jim. “You started something last night—”

Dylan interrupted Jim, and said, “I promised you some of that food we got last night and I’m a man of my word. Do you want it now? Don’t you trust me?”

“That’s not what I mean. People are talking about you…that you’re back…they don’t believe it.” Jim changed to a more serious tone and added, “Some are nervous…they think you’re going to start trouble.”

“Trouble? I mind my own business. I’m not a trouble maker.” As Dylan’s body grew tense, his voice got lower and he began to shake his head as he spoke. “But if trouble comes my way…” Dylan pointed to his chest, shaking his head again as he looked away. He turned back around and looked at Jim. “Is this about last night…what I did? You saw what I saw. What was I supposed to do?”

Jim held up his hands and said, “Hold on, you’re preaching to the choir. I’m glad you’re back, and I told people what happened, but Michael does have friends. I told them exactly what happened, but rumors get started, people talk, and the truth gets lost somewhere. I can’t stop anyone from talking. Some of them actually liked that guy.”

“That’s their problem,” Dylan asserted.

“It’s your problem…I mean our problem, now.”

“What?”

Jim took a step closer to Dylan, extending his hand in a gesture of friendship. Dylan accepted the gesture and Jim slowly shook Dylan’s hand as he continued to speak. “You’ve been my neighbor for years, and I’ve considered you a friend since I first met you.”

Dylan dropped Jim’s hand and demanded, “Get to the point.”

“I told them how far you travelled to get back here, and if you could accomplish something like that, we could use your leadership. Some people didn’t like that idea and they’re going to have a meeting later this morning. We need to go.”

Dylan also considered Jim a good neighbor and friend, but he knew that his body language was screaming out how irritated he was right now, and he wondered if Jim could tell, or if he was just ignoring it. Deep down, Dylan did not want to get involved in a meeting. He crossed his arms, tilted his head to the side, and stared at Jim briefly before speaking. “Why do I need to go?”

“To let them see you’re not a demon. Then we’ll leave.”

Dylan skeptically raised an eyebrow.

“We should all go.” Jim pointed to Kevin. “Let them see the new faces, and show them that not everyone is abandoning the subdivision. Bring Mary, too. Ask her if she will go with you.”

Mary heard her name and looked around the corner. She was in the hallway trying to work the tangles out of Jennifer’s hair. Mary shook her head. “Sorry, but I have a lot to do here. You’ll have to go without me.”

“Dylan looked at Kevin and asked, “Are you going?”

“Only if you are.”

Dylan shrugged his shoulders. He really did not want to go. “Okay, I’ll go. But I don’t want to stay long. There are too many things I need to do.”

“Good. That’s good.” Jim broke a smile and moved toward to the front door with Dylan and Kevin. Jim got to the door first and opened it, stepping out on the front porch with the other two men just behind him.

“When and where do we go?” asked Kevin.

“In an hour, go to the Community Center. But that probably doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“That’s right. What’s the Community Center?”

“It’s by the pool,” said Dylan. “You need a tour of the neighborhood. We’ll take a loop through the subdivision on the way there and back. The pool is at the opposite end of the community.”

“See you in about an hour.” Jim turned and began to walk back to his house.

“Wait a minute. How are you judging time?” asked Kevin.

Jim stopped on his front lawn, turned to face them, and spoke loudly to answer the question. “Face the horizon and extend your arms in front of you, then bend your wrists so your palms are facing you. Stack one hand on top of the other from the horizon to the sun. The height of each hand is about an hour. Judge the hour of time by the distance the sun moves.”

“Got it. See you in about an hour.”

Chapter Two

Kevin waited in the driveway while Dylan went back inside the house to open the locked garage doors. The doors, one double and one single, were already disengaged from the automatic openers. The openers’ red plastic emergency release handles dangled freely, since Dylan had pulled them last night. Dylan slid the main door’s galvanized metal lock free of the railing and pulled up the metal handle attached at the center of the door. The doublewide steel door smoothly slid upward, embracing the horizontal rails attached to the garage’s ceiling as its final resting point. Metal cables held the door in place with the tension of two large springs.

The morning sunlight rushed in, and Kevin turned around to see the inside of the garage in full light. He surveyed the garage enthusiastically. He saw many shelves, tools, toolboxes, and bicycles. Near the garage’s third bay, in an alcove, he saw where Dylan practiced his hobby of making primitive bows and arrows. Against that wall was a worktable with a vise bolted to its top. There were bows made from different types of wood and at different stages of creation, against the alcove’s wall. Kevin entered the garage to survey its contents. With the curiosity of a shy child in a toy store during Christmas, he looked at each shelf and inside each cardboard box on the floor, holding his hands behind his back. He nudged a toolbox on the floor with his foot and glanced up at Dylan, almost as if he was waiting for permission to explore. He stopped at the deep alcove to admire the bows and arrows that Dylan had made. His hands gained confidence and swung from behind his back to touch the various pieces of wood. He ran his fingers across the belly of a roughly carved oak sapling, feeling the ridges left behind by the sharp metal blade of a carving knife. His fingers followed the direction of the ridges, parallel with the length of the bow.

“You can have it,” offered Dylan. “Any of them are yours; just take your pick. I have plenty of dry wood to work with, as you can see.” Dylan was leaning against his car, watching Kevin admire the contents of the garage. The car, purchased just this year, was a white sedan with alloy wheels, and he could remember the new car smell permeating its interior, just as it was before he left for Montana.

Kevin leaned the bow against the wall where he had found it. “Mine still works.” Kevin pointed back at the bows. “These could be valuable. Maybe we could trade these for something we don’t have.”

Dylan stroked his head with the hand that was holding his car key, and then began to tap the key against his skull. He was deep in thought. “That’s not a bad idea. Remind me to find out where people are selling and bartering goods. Jim will know. I can finish some bows and we can see what they’re worth.” Dylan dangled the car key with two fingers. “Help me push this thing out on the driveway. It’s wasting space in here.”

Dylan inserted the key into the lock of the driver-side door and turned it. Through the dusty car window, he saw a little black plastic rod escape upward through a small hole from inside the driver’s door, and stand at attention. He opened the door and breathed in deeply. The car still smelled new. Memories of car shopping with his family came rushing back. He sat in the driver’s seat and shut the door, muffling the sounds from outside. Dylan glanced down and opened the glove compartment. He quickly inventoried the contents. Registration, insurance card, a pen, winter gloves, and a pocketknife. He heard Kevin tap on the hood. Dylan slammed the small door to the glove compartment and inserted the key into the steering column. He turned the key, felt the steering wheel unlock, and put the transmission into neutral. He nodded at Kevin to let him know it was time to push.

Kevin leaned forward and began to push against the front of the car. With a grunt, he pressed against the metal, but the car did not budge. Kevin put his hands lower on the front of the car, his foot against the concrete at the base of the garage wall, and used the strength in his legs to help with the task. After a loud groan from Kevin, the car moved backward and rolled onto the driveway. Dylan slammed on the brakes after the car cleared the garage, placed it in park, and pulled the emergency brake handle. After exiting the vehicle, Dylan placed the key on a hook secured to a shelf in the garage and then turned back around to face the neighborhood through the open garage doors. Kevin was sitting on the car’s trunk and Dylan decided to join him. Standing near Kevin and facing away from the house, Dylan pointed to the right, up the gentle slope of the asphalt street that went in front of his house.

“We’ll walk that direction,” said Dylan. “At the top of the hill we’ll turn left; it slopes downward until we get to the Community Center and swimming pool. They’re near the stream. The stream is the eastern boundary of the subdivision. Beyond that is old pastureland that hasn’t been developed yet.” Dylan picked up his bow from the garage floor and returned to stand near Kevin, who was still seated on the car trunk. He strung the bow and flicked the string with his thumb. “I’m taking this with me. Maybe I’ll see a rabbit hopping in and out of the tall grass. We’ll walk back home the other way, following the road that runs parallel with the stream. There are lots of trees that way, and maybe I can get a squirrel, too.”

“Is it very far?” asked Kevin.

“No, not really. Just think of the community as the shape of a square, with the Community Center at the farthest corner.”

Dylan pointed down the street perpendicular to his. “All those houses back up to extensive parkland. The stream at the end of that road goes through the park and feeds the lake. That’s the stream where Jim has been getting water.”

Kevin faced the eastern horizon, extended his arm, and bent his wrist so that his palm was facing him. He put one hand in line with the horizon and tried to judge the distance the sun had moved in comparison to the height of his palm. “I think we should go.”

“Do we have time to eat something?” asked Dylan.

“I’ll run inside and grab some crackers and water. I want to say goodbye to Mary.”

“I’ll get ready,” said Dylan.

Kevin went back into the house. He saw Mary standing where the morning light emerging through an open bedroom door illuminated the hallway. She had found a hairbrush in the hall bathroom and was gently trying to eradicate the tangles from Jennifer’s hair. Mary stroked Jennifer’s hair with the brush, easing it through the knots. When she heard the door open, Mary turned her back. Kevin noticed her turning away and the quick movement of Mary’s forearm across her face. She did not speak. Kevin moved to Mary’s side and touched her back softly, in a way that would ask if she was okay without using words. The moment she felt his strong hand, Mary turned to him and wept quietly, her sobbing muffled by his chest.

Kevin grabbed her shoulder, quickly stepped back to look at her, and asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

Mary turned away from her husband and looked down at the little girl who was affectionately holding on to her leg. When their eyes met, she looked into the young girl’s inquisitive face and tried to smile. It was an attempt to hide the emotional pain from losing her unborn child just months ago.

With the innocence of a young child’s voice, Jennifer said, “You’re okay,” as she stroked Mary’s hand gently.

“Yes, dear, I’m okay. Go into the other room and see what your brother is doing.”

The little girl went to find her brother, but not before she looked back at Mary one more time as she went around the corner.

Mary leaned her face back onto her husband’s shoulder and used his shirt to wipe her tears. She took a deep breath and said, “I would’ve had our baby by now.”

Kevin hugged his wife and whispered into her ear. “It’s not your fault. We still have each other.” He hugged her again. He felt his wife relax as he whispered into her ear.

Mary stepped back and tried to smile once more. She wiped the last remaining tears away and said, “I’m sorry. We haven’t talked about it and something must have been building up inside. When you two went into the garage and left me here alone with the children, it just hit me all at once. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for anything. I love you.” Kevin reached out and touched her shoulder. He wanted to make sure she looked at him and saw the sincerity in his eyes. “And don’t ever forget, we have each other.”

Mary gave her husband a gentle push toward the door. “Get moving so you can hurry back. We need some wood if you want to cook anything.”

Kevin extended his arm and gently pinched the fabric of her shirt, pulling her toward him as he began to walk to the kitchen.

“Not so fast,” said Kevin. “We haven’t eaten anything yet, and I’m starving. Follow me.”

He remembered seeing a box of crackers on the kitchen counter. On the same countertop were the two bottles of water that he had filled this morning from Jim’s buckets. The kitchen was next to the sliding patio door. The patio was concrete and he showed it to Mary, explaining that it was a good location to build a fire and that would be where he will stack any wood that he found.

Kevin took two sleeves of crackers and the bottles of water. He kissed his wife on the forehead and as he turned to go back to the garage, said, “I don’t know how long this will take. Lock the door behind me.”

“Hurry back.”

“I’ll try.”

Kevin heard the door lock just after it shut behind him.

In the garage, Dylan was waiting patiently. He had a bow in one hand, several arrows in the other, and his knife hanging at his right side.

“That took a while. Is everything alright?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, we were just talking. She did mention getting wood for a fire. We’ll need that to do any cooking.”

Dylan looked away for just a second as he subtly nodded, adding that item to his mental checklist, and then moving it to near the top of the list, just below water and food. Then he turned his right side to Kevin and asked, “See anything different?”

“Is that a different sheath for your knife?” asked Kevin.

“No, I adjusted it. See how it hangs lower.” Dylan let his right arm hang freely down and moved his hand back and forth at the level of the knife’s handle. “Just where I want it.” He had also threaded a cord through the hole at the bottom end of the sheath and tied the cord around his right thigh. The sheath was secure on his thigh and in the best position for the knife’s quick removal.

Kevin tossed Dylan a sleeve of crackers and then a bottle of water. Dylan caught them both in quick succession. Dylan put the bow on his shoulder and began to munch on the crackers as they walked. Half the crackers were gone by the end of the driveway. Dylan decided to save the rest for later, and put the remaining crackers on top of the bottle of water in his pocket.

The men turned to the right and began to walk up the hill on their way to the Community Center and pool. At the top of the hill, they turned left. Dylan removed the bow from his shoulder, gripping it and all but one of the arrows with his left hand. Using his right hand, he placed one arrow in the ready position, nocked to the string. As he walked, Dylan traversed from the sidewalk to the asphalt pavement and back. Walking at angles through tall grass where he could find it, he was looking and listening for rabbits. Kevin was just behind him looking for any movement in the grass and ready to give him the signal to shoot.

As they walked east toward the tree-lined stream, the boundary of the subdivision became clearer. Dylan pointed to the trees lining the valley by the stream. “We’ll walk back home that way. I’ll try to get some squirrels that have strayed too far from their nests.”

The men continued their walk, but now the road began to slope downward toward the stream. Several blocks away, to the right at the end of the street before them, they could see the Community Center and pool. Just as the men stopped to look at their destination, Kevin noticed a rabbit devouring a dandelion. It was half-exposed in the tall grass that lined the sidewalk’s edge. Kevin motioned toward the rabbit and Dylan nodded, acknowledging the furry creature. Dylan cautiously crept forward as the rabbit nibbled. From a short distance away, Dylan let the arrow fly, hitting the rabbit on its side and stunning it. The rabbit fell over and began to convulse. He picked the rabbit up and quickly struck its head on the concrete curb, putting it out of its misery. The men continued down the hill to the road that was perpendicular with the stream. At the intersection where the road stopped, they turned to the right and walked the remaining blocks toward the Community Center. The black metal fence surrounding the swimming pool was clearly visible now.

As they got closer to the one-story stucco building, they recognized Jim standing at the double glass doors of its entrance. Jim waved the two men toward him while looking back nervously into the Community Center. When they arrived at the front door, Jim placed his foot on a chair that was being used to prop a door partially open. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his bent knee to rest his tired body.

Jim pointed at the rabbit and asked, “Did you bring enough for everybody?”

Without saying a word, Dylan raised his arm and offered him the rabbit. Jim shook his head.

“Did we miss anything?” asked Kevin.

“Not really. People are talking amongst themselves. This is the first time we’ve had a group meeting in a long time. They haven’t voted yet.”

“For what?” asked Dylan.

“A president, a leader, whatever you want to call it.”

“Who should we vote for?” Dylan inquired.

“I’ll tell you inside,” said Jim, as he pulled the glass door open far enough past the chair so the men could walk through.

Directly ahead and across the room were the double doors that led to the fenced pool area. They were also propped open in a failed attempt to circulate air through the large room. Human odor saturated the air inside the building. The rectangular room extended to their left, terminating near a lectern centered on a parquet wood floor that, in happier times, was the location of wedding receptions, birthday parties, and family gatherings. The lectern was close to the front row of chairs. Most everyone there was already seated and facing it. Dylan, Kevin, and Jim entered the room, apparently unnoticed. One man was at the lectern, leaning on it, glaring across the crowd of several dozen people.

Dylan noticed Jim locking eyes with the man standing behind the lectern for just a brief moment, and then both men nodded and quickly turned away.

“Who’s that?” asked Dylan.

“John Sisk, a friend of Michael’s.”

John Sisk faced the crowd as he leaned forward on the lectern, slowly oscillating his head and surveying all that gathered before him. In the center of the wall behind him was a square window that allowed the bright morning sunshine into the room. The light should have reflected brightly off the wood floor, but dirt, grime, and dust from months of neglect covered it. Looking at him from the seating area, John’s body was directly in the center of the square window and the sunshine illuminated his auburn hair. The summer sun had burned the frayed ends of his hair a lighter shade. A scraggly, thin beard framed his jaw and made his stocky build seem much weaker in contrast. His hazel eyes, under dark brown eyebrows, pierced the crowd and seemed to lash at his wife when he looked at her.

Sandra, his wife, sat at the edge of the crowd talking to no one, just as her husband had instructed. With a blank affect, she sat with her hands on her lap, stared past the wall in front of her, and wished she were away from the monster she had married. Sandra had long dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail that hung freely down the center of her back, and although that narrow column of hair was hiding the bony protrusions of her spine, each rib was visible under her tight cotton shirt. John was eating more than his share of the food and, as he told her on more than one occasion, paybacks are hell.

John’s life had begun to disintegrate before the pulse. He lost his job and desperately tried to find another, to no avail. The bills began to accumulate and his wife had to go to work. Her income alone was not enough. She resented him for causing their troubles. The mortgage payments went into arrears, and then the foreclosure process began. She blamed all their misfortune on him, and began a barrage of physical and verbal abuse against him, all while threatening to call the police and accuse him of the abuse. Despite this, he tried desperately to battle the bank and win back her love, but lost his desire to fight against the world when his wife served him with divorce papers and revealed that she was having an affair. He was a crushed man and went into a state of depression fueled by alcohol. Then, on the Monday morning of the week he was legally supposed to lose his wife and house, his life changed. The institutions that were going to take everything away from him vanished from existence. There was not any knock on the door with an eviction notice. There was not a divorce decree. John quickly shrugged off the gloomy cloud fogging his mind and recaptured a desire for a taste of life, but life now had a different flavor, a flavor of survival, and he wanted to taste sweet revenge, too. He firmly resolved never to drink alcohol again, put all his hard liquor in a cabinet, turned the key, and locked it all away.

Sandra’s life changed, too. The week she was going to use the legal system to finish eviscerating her husband, it vanished from existence. She was helpless now and instantly became dependent on her husband for survival, but after John’s depression waned, anger took its place. She quickly learned there were no institutions at her disposal to crush and control her husband anymore. She was at his mercy. John knew that and relished that part of his new reality because, for him, revenge tasted sweeter than life itself. 

“Do you think anyone here has information about my wife?” asked Dylan.

“I’m sorry, Dylan. I’ve already started to ask around and nobody knows anything. Most of these people are from this side of the subdivision, so there wasn’t a good chance they would have been aware of anything. Some people have left and some people just died. Either way, they’re gone. And since most people are focused on getting by day to day, they don’t care. That’s one good reason that I’m glad this is happening. We need to come together as a community and help each other.” Jim pointed toward John Sisk. “He lives on this side of the community, and this is his crowd.”

Jim pointed to three empty chairs in the back row and motioned for Dylan and Kevin to sit. Kevin took a step toward the chairs. Dylan held his bow forward and placed it at Kevin’s chest level to stop him.

“Hold on,” said Dylan. “I don’t feel like sticking around. This isn’t for me.”

“You hold on,” said Jim, as he pushed Dylan toward the empty chairs with his thick hands. Dylan posted his feet to the floor. His body did not budge. “You have to stay and help me; I mean us, all of us. He’s bad news.”

“Let’s stay,” said Kevin. “I’ll vote for Jim.”

“Okay, Jim, you have my vote,” said Dylan. “You’ve been all over the neighborhood. This should be easy for you.”

Jim closed his eyes in frustration. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose as he tilted his head back and exhaled slowly. “Listen to me. What needs to happen is—”

The sound of knuckles rapping on the oak lectern hushed the crowd and all eyes went to John.

After a moment of silence, John spoke to the crowd. “Let’s get this over with. Anyone else interested in being the president of the Home Owners Association?”

Jim quickly raised his hand to get John’s attention. Seeing this, both Dylan and Kevin smiled encouragingly at Jim, but just as quickly and unexpectedly, Jim pushed Dylan forward and said, “This man, Dylan Smith.” Caught off guard, Dylan stumbled one-step forward and the crowd turned to look at the bearded man holding a dead rabbit in one hand and a bow with arrows, clutched tightly together, in the other hand.

Chapter Three

“You know better than that,” barked John, loudly projecting his voice across the room. “This is for people that live here, not strangers.”

Jim knew him well enough to detect the condescending tone in his voice.

Dylan’s first response was to proclaim his disinterest for the position. “I’m not—” But just as Dylan began to speak, he realized John’s comment was a veiled attack, so he abruptly stopped. He looked at Kevin and realized that he needed to take a stand. This was an attack on his legitimacy in the neighborhood. If Dylan let the crowd turn on him, a long-time property owner, then Kevin would have no chance as an outsider, a complete stranger to the community.

“Stranger?” Dylan retorted. “What do you mean? My home is here, in this subdivision, and I’ve lived here with my family for years.”

John leaned forward on the lectern and sneered. “Really? Where have you been, Dylan?”

Before Dylan had a chance to respond, Jim walked over to him and held up Dylan’s arm, the one that was holding the bow. “Can any of you make one of these? Plenty of you are still scraping by on the charity of others, and some of the lucky ones have guns for hunting. But what are you going to do when you run out of cartridges?”

Just as Jim dropped Dylan’s arm and began to walk back to his chair, John growled, “Robin Hood,” and the crowd snickered. A disgusted expression came over Jim’s face and he sat back down, shaking his head.

“Where have I been?” Dylan asked John. “You wouldn’t have survived what I’ve been through.” Dylan pointed to Kevin, still seated in the back row by Jim. “That man made the trip with me. He watched my back, and I watched his. We rescued his wife on the way here. Now she’s here, too, a part of this community, just like him.”

John sneered and said to the crowd, “Dylan’s wife left him. She wasn’t so convinced he was all that great.” The crowd laughed softly again. John pointed at Kevin and asked, “Who are you?”

“Kevin Brown.”

“Where do you live?” John’s tone was obviously disingenuous.

“Here.”

“Do you own a home here, in my community?”

“My wife and I moved in with Dylan.”

A man shouted from the crowd, “We don’t want any squatters.”

Jim stood up defiantly and yelled, “He’s been through hell and back just to get here. Kevin traveled over a thousand miles and I say he’s earned the right to stay.” Jim jabbed a finger at John and then the crowd. “How many of you could have accomplished that?” Jim paused to feel the reaction of the crowd and then pointed at Kevin again. “Look at him. If he could make that trip, then this man is a survivor. We need people like that.”

“Calm down, Jim,” John retorted condescendingly, “we’re all friends here. I just have a few more questions for Kevin.”

Frustrated, Jim could not sit still. He stood up and walked toward Dylan. Jim could see Dylan’s hands shake with anger as he squeezed the rabbit’s back legs so hard the bones broke. His shaking fist was so tight the skin across the knuckles of the hand holding the bow and arrows had blanched. The rabbit bled from its mouth. The blood dripped onto the floor and mixed with the dirt and dust, forming a coagulated sludge beside Dylan’s shoe.

“Any children?” Kevin felt the sting of the question as he remembered what happened to his unborn child and the sad conversation that he just had with his wife that morning.

Kevin solemnly replied, “No.”

“Just to be clear, let me rephrase the question.” John tilted his head down as he dramatically coughed into his forearm and cleared his throat. “Did you abandon any children, like your good friend Dylan did?”

Dylan dropped what he had been clutching so tightly and lunged forward. John had moved to the side of the lectern and stood there in a way that seemed to invite and incite Dylan’s lunge. Jim dashed in front of Dylan to hold him back. Dylan stopped moving forward when he felt Jim’s palm push into his chest. As Dylan looked through the parting crowd, he noticed that some of the men had moved to stand in front of John. He lunged forward one more time when John gave him a taunting gesture, but this time Kevin was there, helping Jim calm Dylan down.

“Don’t do it,” whispered Kevin, “that’s what he wants.”

Jim took his palm off Dylan’s chest when he felt him relax. Dylan turned and walked away from the back row of chairs. He picked up the rabbit and the bow and arrows, and sat on a folding table near the entrance to the pool. He hoped for a breeze to come through the two open doors that could remove the heat and rage he felt rising from his body. 

“In the interest of democracy,” John looked at Dylan, “we should vote for a leader of the community now.”

“Then let’s get this over with,” Jim grunted as he lifted his left hand toward the end of the room where John was standing. “By a show of hands, who votes for John?” Most people raised their hands. “And who votes for Dylan Smith?” Jim asked, as he raised his right hand in the direction of Dylan. A few people in the back, sitting near Jim, raised their hands and voted for Dylan.

Jim dropped both hands and announced, “John wins the vote.” He turned his head toward Dylan and silently mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Although Dylan had lost the vote, secretly he was glad. He breathed a cathartic sigh. He never considered himself a politician, and was happy to be free of the burden, but sad that the community had selected a megalomaniac as their leader.

Dylan felt a wisp of wind sneak through the doors near him as the crowd began to leave, and turned his head toward the breeze. Someone held the front doors completely open for people to walk out, side by side. As the crowd departed, a few people looked back at Dylan, sitting on the table with a bow across his lap. He did not notice them. Dylan had turned away to look at the community swimming pool, half full with dark green water. He could see insects flying around the mossy water and an occasional frog snatching a meal from the air with a quick flick of its tongue.

Dylan heard the entrance doors slam shut, and he turned back to look across the room. Jim and Kevin were talking to several people who were sitting with them near the back row. Dylan remembered that they were some of the several people who had voted for him. He turned his attention to the victor, the community’s new leader, standing triumphantly at the other end of the room, and talking to some of his new constituents. When their eyes met, John leaned toward a man standing by him, whispered something into his ear, and then began to walk toward Dylan.

Dylan did not feel threatened at John’s approach. He watched the remnants of the crowd part as John walked across the room toward him. Kevin made eye contact with Dylan, and Dylan shook his head in way that meant stay back.

John stopped in front of the table, extended his hand and arrogantly said, “No hard feelings.”

Reluctantly, Dylan accepted the gesture and began to shake his hand.

John leaned forward and whispered, “Second place is the first loser.”

Dylan leaned toward John and whispered in return, “Congratulations, you’re the head fly on a pile of shit.”

Dylan felt the grip around his hand become tight as John smirked and pulled his shoulders back, trying to make his chest puff out as he constricted Dylan’s hand. Then John’s grip became even tighter. Dylan looked down at the man’s forearm to watch the long muscles contract, tendons urgently pulling against bone, trying to strangle Dylan’s hand. He also noticed a strip of clean-shaven skin on John’s forearm. That meant a sharp knife, and a flag of caution went up in his mind, but Dylan met the challenge and clamped down with his vise-like grip, unleashing the strength of a thousand miles of river. John began to gasp from the pain.

Dylan spoke in a low, deep voice through clenched teeth. “You need to understand one thing. Are you listening to me?”

John grimaced and nodded his head.

“We’re not going anywhere. This is our home. Any questions?”

“No.”

Dylan opened his five-finger vise and dropped John’s hand. John quickly stepped back, trying to shake the blood back into his fingers, and glared at Dylan as he repeatedly flexed his hand, testing the movement of each finger. As he turned to walk away, John mumbled, just loud enough for Dylan to hear him say, “This isn’t over.”

John’s wife waited obediently by the front doors. She stared at the floor, hands clasped at waist level with fingers interlocked. He violently pushed the doors open, and the couple exited before the metal frame of the doors came crashing back against the chair that was keeping them ajar. She walked silently behind her husband all the way back home, just as John had instructed.

Dylan turned again to face the green water in the swimming pool and began to snack from the sleeve of crackers he had placed in his pocket earlier that morning. Kevin and Jim went over to him, along with some of the people who had voted for Dylan. Jim brought Dylan out of his trance to make introductions. Dylan turned around to see a young couple. The man stood close to his pregnant wife. A young woman was also there, standing behind the couple and carrying a fussy infant. The child was nearly a year old, wearing a diaper made from a small bath towel, stained and putrid smelling.

“This is David and Amy Taylor. They don’t live too far from us.” Jim moved closer to the young woman holding her fussy infant. “This is Linda Foster. She lives next to David and Amy.” Linda smiled politely, but could not shake hands with Dylan because she was holding her child, trying to stop its crying.

Dylan shook David’s hand as he smiled, with a nod to Amy. She smiled back at Dylan and leaned her tired, pregnant body into her husband. David was touching his wife’s bulging abdomen and had only removed his hand long enough to greet Dylan. He quickly returned his hand back to the budge of his wife’s belly and waited for his unborn child to kick again. David’s hair was dark, and now that it was longer than he liked, it had begun to curl at the ends. Amy had hair that was very light blonde and thin, eyebrows almost nonexistent, and eyelashes that craved for mascara. Her hair was so thin that Dylan wondered if her body was cannibalizing itself for the unborn child.

Only recently had David and Amy moved to the subdivision. Before they moved into the neighborhood, they had one young son, with one more on the way, and they wanted more children in the future. They had made a decision to look for a bigger house outside the city. With her first child, at the beginning of her third trimester, their son was born prematurely via caesarian section after Amy began to hemorrhage. Since his lungs did not have time to fully develop, the baby stayed in neonatal intensive care for two months before he was released. His lungs were fragile, and they had nearly lost him during the first two weeks in the hospital.

A year later she was pregnant again, they had just moved into their new home in this community, and the bitterness of the recent tragic events in their lives had begun to fade away. Then the pulse came, and there was panic and confusion. Their son, their precious first born, ran out of medication for his lungs, and his fragile body became weaker with sickness and hunger. Then came those fateful four words that David heard whispered his pregnant wife’s lips, “He has a fever.” There was no medication. No one could help them. All they had were wet towels for the fever and their prayers to God. As they bowed their heads, they made secret promises and tried to bargain with God, each furtively begging to be taken in his place. They were both by his side when the child stopped breathing. As she lay by her son’s corpse, she felt the first flutter of the unborn child moving in the small bulge of her abdomen. She wondered if it was a sign from God, reminding her there could be life and joy even in the face of death, but bitterness and anger gestated in her husband’s soul. He felt betrayed by God, his prayers ignored. In their backyard, a bulge of brown dirt impaled with a cross was all that remained of his first-born son. David was a broken man.

“Glad to meet you,” David said, as he stared into Dylan’s eyes, trying to imagine what he used to look like. “When Jim told us about you and that you were from our neighborhood…” David paused for a moment and looked at his wife before he finished what he was saying, “…well, I think I can speak for both of us when I say we’re glad to have you back.”

Dylan also stared into the man’s eyes, trying to remember him, but could not. He travelled a lot with his job. When he was home, he focused on his family rather than paying attention to distant neighbors or people moving in and out of the neighborhood.

“We voted for you,” said Amy. “The crowd was stacked against you. They were mostly people from the first phase of the subdivision. They lived here first and had time to get to know each other, bond, and make friends. This is where John lives.” After Amy said John’s name, she made a gesture with her finger as if she was trying to make herself vomit. “We live near you in the second phase and not many of us showed up.”

“Thanks for the vote, but this wasn’t my idea,” admitted Dylan. “Politics aren’t for me. Jim tricked me into coming here. This isn’t something I care about.”

“You don’t care?” Amy inquired.

“I’ve got a family to take care of, and I need to help that man settle in with his.” Dylan gestured at Kevin. “So, no. I don’t care.”

Dylan removed a stale cracker from the plastic sleeve and put it into his mouth. As he began to chew, he noticed the way the pregnant woman, Amy Taylor, stared at the remaining crackers. Then he saw her begin to salivate, so he quickly swallowed what he had just put into his mouth, but she continued to stare. Dylan recognized the look and handed her the remaining crackers.

Amazed, Amy asked, “I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t,” Dylan lied.

Linda Foster, the young woman with the fussy child, saw the crackers and immediately stopped talking with Kevin. Linda looked very young, and her hair, several months ago, had all been bleached blonde, but now her true hair color was obvious. Inches of black roots had grown out, sharply contrasting with the remaining blonde hair, but complimenting her naturally dark eyebrows. With her child on her hip, Linda went directly to Amy, and Amy split the remaining crackers with her. Linda sat on a nearby chair, and everyone watched her as she crushed the crackers in her mouth, created a salty, stale slurry, and extruded it into her child’s mouth. Then she did it again and again until her share of the crackers were gone. She wiped the saliva from her lips with her forearm, and stood up, facing Dylan. She lifted her shirt, baring her breasts, trying to get her child to nurse. If there was not any milk, she thought the act itself might calm the child into a nap, temporally delaying the constant pang of hunger. Dylan saw each of her ribs, protruding like ridges of a clamshell, and her pencil-thin waist. Starvation pulled her skin so tight across her stomach that her navel was flat. Amy moved Linda’s shirt to a more modest position after the child latched on to the nipple.

“I think you’re a good man. Thank you,” said Linda, almost in tears. “I’ve been talking with your friend Kevin. He’s a good man, too.”

“He’s my best friend now. I owe him my life.”

“He told me what you’ve been through and what you’ve seen.” Linda was choking back a waterfall of emotion. “My husband was in California when this happened. He’ll make it back, won’t he? He can make it back home, just like you did.” Tears began to form in her eyes as she rocked the suckling infant. “Look, he has a child, he has to come home. Tell me he’s coming home. Tell me he’s going to make it back.”

Dylan tried to sound convincing when he lied. He told her that her husband would make it back, that it was possible that he was already well on his way toward home. Linda’s tears began to subside. Dylan had tried to give her hope with his lie and wondered if what he had done was worth more than the few stale crackers he had given her.

Amy put her arm around Linda, and the two women walked out of the building to go home. David remained and asked Dylan about the bow.

“I could use one of those,” said David, admiring the bow. “I went to the barter lot looking for food, and I saw one of those. I didn’t have enough to trade for it.”

“What’s a barter lot?” asked Kevin.

“It’s the parking lot of the big grocery store that was on Seventh Street. That’s where people go to trade.”

“I know where that is,” replied Dylan. “This would be worth a lot?” He held up his bow.

“Yeah, it would,” replied David.

“Hey Kevin, you were right. I need to start making these.” Dylan paused for a moment. “Maybe you could take yours to the barter lot and get an idea what it’s worth.”

“I can take him there,” offered David, “but how do I get a bow? I’ve traded everything I could for food. I’ve got nothing left. What do you want for a hunting bow?”

Dylan shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Cooperation.”

“Cooperation?”

“Yeah, cooperation,” repeated Dylan. “Is it a deal?”

“I can’t thank you enough,” David said to Dylan. “Kevin, let me know when you want to go to the barter lot. I’ll show you where it is.”

“Okay.”

David rushed out the door.

“And as for you,” Dylan glared at Jim.

“Oh, what the hell. Do you want me to say I’m sorry again?”

Dylan laughed and said, “Just forget it.”

After the crowd left, the stench of body odor still lingered, and he wanted a breath of fresh air. Dylan went out the doors leading to the pool. Weeds and climbing vines had strangled their way to the top of the metal pickets and had overtaken the black fence surrounding the pool. At the pool’s edge, he looked into the dark-green, mossy water and saw the eyes of a frog peering at him. He knelt down on one knee and thought about snatching the amphibian from its camouflage for something else to eat later that day, but since he had eaten so many frogs recently, he decided to try to get a squirrel on the way home instead. Dylan sat on a chair under the arbor to escape from the sun, and motioned for Kevin and Jim to do the same.

“That smell was horrible,” said Jim, flicking his tongue across his teeth after he spoke. “I can still taste it in my mouth.”

Kevin noticed a showerhead on the outside of the building. He walked over to the wall and turned the chrome lever. Nothing happened.

“What did you think was going to happen?” asked Jim.

Kevin did not answer the question, he just replied, “I’d kill for a warm shower.”

Jim nodded in agreement.

As the two men continued talking about how much they missed showers, a steel door on the opposite end of the building captured Dylan’s attention.

“Hey, Jim, what’s in there?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t know, never cared to swim, so I never came down here.”

The door was closed, but Dylan noticed that the stainless-steel hinges were exposed. After testing the door and confirming it was locked, he picked up his aluminum chair, took the plastic cap off the bottom of a leg, and wedged it under the head of a hinge pin. Dylan pushed the hinge pin up, and it came out. He did the same to the remaining two pins and the steel door fell over, revealing the pump and filter room.

“What now?” asked Kevin.

“Look for anything we can use,” replied Dylan.

Kevin and Jim began the search by opening cabinets and looking in boxes. Dylan walked to the opposite wall where there was a tall stack of cardboard boxes. He read a label. They were boxes of chlorine for purifying water. There had to be hundreds of pounds of it, most likely the new season’s shipment that had gone unused.

“Hey, guys,” Dylan leaned proudly on the stack of boxes. “I just got us closer to that shower you wanted.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Kevin.

Dylan slapped the stack of boxes and replied, “This is the chemical used to purify water for the pool. Without it you get that.” Dylan pointed to the green pool water. “Jim, bring the wheelbarrow over here and take this home, all of it.”

Jim was holding the toolbox and first-aid kit that he had found. “I’ll go home and get it now. If you two are done in here, you can follow me home. I want to introduce you to some more people, good people, not like the crowd this morning. They’ll be on the way back if we take the longer route home, following the street by the stream.”

“Do you know where all the abandoned houses are?” asked Dylan.

“Yes,” replied Jim, as he tried to dodge a mosquito that was buzzing his forehead. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because we’re going to scavenge everything we can from the abandoned houses, like we did in here, before someone else does.”

Jim handed the toolbox to Kevin and was finally able to swat the plump mosquito attacking his forehead. Dylan leaned the door back onto the frame, only partially covering the opening. The men exited through the unlocked gate and walked toward the road beside the stream.

Chapter Four

Halfway down the street, Jim indicated that they needed to turn left and walk up the slope. Up there would be the middle of the subdivision and the highest point in the community. Around that area, he remembered seeing a rain barrel at an abandoned house and he wanted to show it to Dylan and Kevin. At the top of the hill, Jim stopped and so did the other two. They took the opportunity to share Kevin’s remaining crackers and drink the last of their water. Jim looked side to side before he realized that the rain barrel was at the back of the house, concealed by the tall grass. Just as Jim pointed in the direction they should go, a rabbit dashed across the street and into a lot where excavation had begun before the pulse hit. An orange plastic fence, held upright with steel rebar driven vertically into the ground, surrounded the pit’s perimeter. The rabbit ran into the fence and hesitated long enough for Dylan to draw back an arrow, aim, and shoot. The stunned rabbit convulsed on the ground. Dylan pounced on his kill. To put the animal out of its misery, he swung the rabbit by its rear legs, crushing its skull against a pile of excavated limestone. When Dylan got to the edge of the hole, he looked down and saw a jagged wall of bedrock fractured away to make room for the basement of another home. From between the layers of rock, he saw clear water cascading down the vertical surface. On the bottom of the pit was the concrete footing for the foundation walls and corrugated drain tile routed underneath the footing, designed to drain the spring water away.

“Look at that,” said Dylan. He could taste the cool clear water in his mind.

Jim held up the first-aid kit to shade his eyes from the sun as he looked into the hole. “I’ve seen this fence before, but I never thought to look down in there.”

Kevin pulled up a long stem of fescue, put it in his mouth, and used it like a toothpick. “If you don’t mind, I need to get going.” He used the long stem to point toward their houses, still hidden from view by several blocks of homes, some in varying stages of construction and interspersed with empty lots.

“Okay, let’s keep moving,” said Jim. “There are more people I want you to meet on the way home, just at the end of this street where we turn left to get back to our houses.”

“I need to get back to Mary now,” said Kevin. “We’ve been gone for a while. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Kevin turned and walked away, with the other two following him down the sloped street in the direction Jim had pointed. The street ended at the bottom of the small hill, terminating at a road perpendicular to it. From this corner, their houses were visible to the left, at the end of the street. Jim pointed to the home just across the street from where they were standing. It was an earth tone two-story house with a three-car garage, just like so many others in the neighborhood. It faced the street that led directly to Dylan’s driveway. Its backyard ended at the edge of the park property, although the property line now was indistinguishable due to the tall grass.

“This is it,” Jim announced. “Are you sure you don’t want to meet them?”

“I want to get back. Maybe another day,” replied Kevin.

“Here.” Dylan handed Kevin the two rabbits. “Take these back, but save one for me. I want to teach my son how to skin a rabbit.”

“He needs a bow,” said Kevin. “Teach him to hunt.”

“I’ve already made him a bow. It’s hidden in the garage. I was going to wait until he got older to give it to him, but he’s going to grow up a little faster now. I’m going to take him rabbit or squirrel hunting in the next few days.”

“I’ll tell them you’re close by,” said Kevin, as he began to jog clumsily away, holding two dead rabbits and a toolbox.

Dylan cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled toward Kevin. “Don’t tell him about the bow. It’s a surprise.”

Jim was first to notice the opening of the front door of the house they were facing. A tall man, with dark hair and dark eyes to match, had stepped through the door and was standing on his concrete front porch. His skin was pale and that made his dark, bushy eyebrows more pronounced. He was thin, but healthy in appearance, as if he had always been slender, with a slim waist. His unusually narrow waist made his shoulders look broader than they actually were. He was also clean-shaven.

“That’s Joel,” said Jim, as he subtly leaned toward Dylan and spoke in a low voice. “If you look carefully, you can see his wife, Kim, watching us from behind the window curtain.”

“I thought I heard yelling,” said Joel, as he motioned for the men to come closer. “How did the meeting go?”

Dylan and Jim walked to the porch and looked up at Joel.

“John Sisk was elected,” Jim answered.

“Elected for…”

“President of the Home Owners Association.”

Joel laughed. “Isn’t that nice.” He extended his long arm down toward Dylan and introduced himself. “I’m Joel Hales.”

Dylan shook his hand. “I’m Dylan Smith.” Dylan pointed toward his house at the end of the street. “I live right down there, next door to Jim.” As they shook hands, Dylan noticed, past the glare on the glass storm door, Joel’s wife ushering three children away to another room.

“Sure, Dylan, I remember you.”

Dylan was embarrassed again. He met another person from his own neighborhood and could not remember seeing him before today. He tried to fake his familiarity and said, “That’s right; I think our kids rode the same school bus.”

“Oh, no. My wife has been homeschooling from the beginning.”

Embarrassed again, Dylan decided to say nothing further and let the conversation change topics. It did, and Joel invited the men inside.

Dylan followed the others into the home. He looked for a place to set his bow and noticed a trail of dirt across the carpet, marking the path straight ahead. He traced the dirt trail with his eyes, and saw that it ended at the hardwood floor of the kitchen and dining area, across the house. On the far wall, there were four large picture windows. A sliding glass door opened onto the deck. Through the windows and from the deck was a fantastic view of the parkland and stream, all in close proximity to Joel’s back property line. Captivated by the view, Dylan followed the dirt path into the dining room, stood next to the picture windows, and looked out at the tall grass waving in the gentle breeze.

“It’s a nice view.” Startled, Dylan turned around. Joel’s wife, Kim, had walked up behind him, barefoot and silent.

“Dylan, this is my wife, Kim.”

Kim stood behind him, arms crossed. Like her husband, she was tall and had dark, straight hair, but hers was much longer than his was. Her skin was as pale as her husband’s, but her eyes were an almost transparent green. She politely nodded to acknowledge the greeting.

Dylan smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.”

Joel leaned around a corner to look into another room. “I’ve got three boys, Aaron, Jarod, and Levi. They were just down here—”

Kim interrupted, “Oh, the boys, I have them busy with schoolwork. I need to see how they’re doing.”

Kim went back into the family room. Dylan curiously peered into that room to see the children. Continuing their homeschooling, Kim had given the children books to read.

Dylan walked back to the window and noticed what appeared to be a trail through the backyard’s tall grass. He slid the patio door open and asked the other two men to join him. He put his bow on the patio table and leaned forward on the deck railing, looking intently at the trail of worn grass.

“Does that look like a trail to you?” asked Dylan.

“Yes,” said Joel, “it’s a deer trail. When we moved in, the real estate agent told us we would see wildlife in the area. I purchased a salt lick and some field corn to attract the deer, and they created a path through my backyard.”

“Do they still show up?” asked Dylan.

“Yes.”

Joel decided that they would sit at the patio table. Both Dylan and Jim joined him, shaded by the covered deck. Dylan pulled the bow closer to him, but then he decided to remove it from the table and placed it on the deck, near his feet. Jim put the first-aid kit on the table and crossed his hands on top of it.

“That trail is so close you could hunt from your deck. It’s like a huge deer stand,” Dylan explained.

“I’m no hunter. I don’t know how.”

“It’s as simple as this.” Dylan stood up with his bow and one arrow. At the deck railing, he drew back the arrow and aimed for the tree near the back property line. The blunt arrow landed with a thud. Dylan held up the bow and asked, “If I get you one of these, will you hunt for us? Share the meat?”

Joel contemplated the question briefly before he answered. “Yes, I can do that. I’ve given away lots of food to help others already. So if this helps feed people, I’m all for it.”

“He’s right, Dylan,” said Jim, “he helped me tremendously by sharing and trading food with me.”

“We’ve stored food for years,” said Joel, “and we’ve been sharing it with our neighbors.”

“What?”

“He’s a Mormon. They store food,” answered Jim.

“Yes, we’re taught to store food in case of emergencies, and I followed that to the letter.”

“They’ve been helping me take care of Harold, my business partner,” said Jim. “He lives right next door to them.”

Jim slid the first-aid kit across the table. “Here you go. It’s yours. It doesn’t compare to the way you’ve helped me out, but it’s a start.”

Joel took the first-aid kit in his hands and seemed to stare through it. The kit brought back the memory of where he was when the pulse happened.

Joel had worked as an orthopedic surgeon at a large urban hospital near the city’s downtown. For Joel, the lights went out during his first surgery on that Monday morning, the day of the pulse. He was replacing the knee of a geriatric patient when the operating room fell dark and silent. The backup generator and battery-powered emergency lighting system also failed. Both were computer controlled, and after the pulse destroyed the hospital’s sensitive electronics, the surgical team was effectively in a cave.

The patient was under a general anesthetic, intubated, and relying on a ventilator to breathe for him. Joel had just started to remove the distal portion of the femur when everything stopped. The electric saw was not quite through the bone. The respiratory therapist was quick to respond. She disconnected the ventilator tubing from the patient, and attached a manually-inflatable bag to the tube in his trachea. In the darkness, she began to compress the bag and moved her fingers to the man’s chest so she could feel it rise and fall with each compression of the bag. Joel was still holding the man’s leg with one hand and the electric saw in the other, waiting for the lights to come back on, when he heard screams echo in the hallway, screams for help with the ventilators that had failed simultaneously. All of them failed, and staff needed to manually breathe for all those patients. He realized that something was incredibly wrong and gently placed the leg and the saw back down. His eyes could not adjust to the darkness in the windowless room. It was pitch black. Joel asked everyone to remain still as he slowly felt his way to the doors to the hallway. His right hand was forward, reaching in front of him as he walked in the direction of the exit. He thought he was close to help when he touched the cold stainless steel doors leading into the hallway. He pushed the hinged doors open and stepped into a windowless hallway, just as dark as the operating room.

Orthopedic surgery was located in the basement, and it was all completely dark. He heard voices, people bumping into each other and obstructions in the hallway. Then he saw a reflection of light flickering off the glossy tiled walls, and it was coming from around the corner. He realized that it was a flashlight and began to yell desperately for help. The man with the flashlight followed Joel’s voice and shined the light on him. As the man walked toward Joel, he moved the light around the hallway and saw a person unconscious on the floor and bleeding from the head. Joel saw that the man with the flashlight was wearing a maintenance uniform. He asked him what was happening and told him that he desperately needed power to finish the surgery. The man could not explain what was wrong, and told Joel that he needed to help the injured person lying on the floor. Joel begged for the flashlight. The man agreed and gave it to him, then pulled the injured person away. Joel thanked him, returned to the operating room, and shined the light around the room to see if everyone had stood in place. As he shined the light across each person’s face to verify who was in the room, he saw the panic in their eyes. He shined the light on the equipment table and located a handsaw. He knew that he could not continue the operation, therefore he decided to cut through the rest of the femur manually, close the patient’s incision, wait for the power to come back on, and finish the job later.

Then he started to remember his training for disaster emergencies. He had read the Continuity of Operation Plan, and although he did not remember all the details, he did remember one protocol. According to that protocol, he needed to stabilize the patient and wait for direction from management. Blood covered his latex gloves and the flashlight. Joel was contaminated and needed to get sterile gloves to continue. He handed the flashlight to an assistant, washed and gloved again, and began to push and pull the handsaw’s serrated edge through the bone. He packed the wound, wrapped it in sterile dressing, and, with the help of all in the room, slowly moved the patient up the stairs to the recovery area on the floor above. On the first floor, there were windows. All drapes and shades had been opened to allow the morning light inside. He left the patient with the respiratory therapist still compressing the bag, breathing for the old man, one hand still resting on his chest. He remembered how quiet it was as he left that area. Normally, phones would be ringing and the noise from all the electric equipment would be annoying. That was when he realized the truth behind the saying, “You really do not realize what you have until you do not have it anymore.” He removed the surgical gown and began to move through the hospital, looking for any possible way he could help.

He started on the cardiovascular recovery floor, helping to manually breathe for the patients on ventilators. After several hours, the hospital’s disaster recovery plan seemed to start falling into place. People were directed to help according to their skill level, and Joel was quickly relieved from the mundane task of squeezing the bag. A secretary replaced him. He showed her how to use the bag, counting twenty breaths per minute or one squeeze on the bag every three seconds. The electric clocks had stopped working, so they counted silently to time the intervals of compression on the bags. Joel reported to the emergency department and stayed there for days, barely getting any sleep. People ate cold food in the cafeteria when they got a chance. For Joel, that was also sporadic.

Then the water stopped flowing from the faucets. People did the best they could and tried to wash their hands with gelled alcohol sanitizer. The staff distributed bottles of emergency water, but when drinking water got scarce, they started abandoning the hospital. At the same time that the hospital’s staff began to disappear, the remaining patients began to die at a faster rate, and there was no place to store the bodies. The morgue was full, and the bodies began to putrefy.

Throughout the nightmare, patients’ families showed loyalty and dedication to their trapped loved ones, those patients who could not leave. As the few remaining batteries died, the devoted families brought in what batteries they could to help their loved ones, but it was not enough. After the batteries were gone, people used candles. It started with candles stolen from the gift shop, and then those loving family members brought more candles to the hospital. In spite of their best intentions, the final disaster occurred when someone brought a candle too close to a patient under an oxygen tent, which caused an explosion. The mattress ignited. There were no fire alarms and no fire trucks, so the fire quickly spread. It started on a lower floor of the hospital and the smoke trapped everyone on the upper floors as the fire spread, sealing their doom. In acts of desperation, staff and patients jumped out of windows from all floors of the hospital. Remaining volunteers and staff brought the survivors to the emergency department. Joel was an orthopedic surgeon, so all those patients came to him. The parking lot was full of people with smoke inhalation and broken bones. After days without sleep, he still tried to do the best he could. He crudely set fractured bone after fractured bone, but the fatigue caught up with him. He began to hallucinate that he was in a graveyard and the corpses were coming back to life. Then Joel had a panic attack. He had a sudden overwhelming feeling of hopelessness and a crushing pain in his chest. His confused mind told him to run, and he did. He tripped over a body, struck his head on the ground, and lost consciousness. When he awoke, he saw the entire hospital engulfed in flames. He was lying in a plethora of burnt flesh and crushed bones. Joel staggered away in a daze, hungry, thirsty, and confused. He turned in the direction that he thought was toward home, and kept walking. He found an abandoned bicycle and took it, then went looking for a familiar road. Joel realized that he was peddling through a bad part of town. He always drove to work on the highway in order to avoid this area, and now he felt trapped, desperate. It was getting dark when he felt himself shoved off the bike, landing on a scruffy front lawn full of refuse. He submitted to the attack by remaining on the ground, and the young thieves took the bicycle from him and laughed at the pain they had caused. He did not get up until they were out of sight. Joel walked for hours through miles of unfamiliar territory in the dark. He ducked for cover every time he thought he heard someone nearby. He heard occasional screams, cries for help, and sometimes glass breaking. He moved as fast as he could, pushing past his physical fatigue and lack of sleep.

Finally, as the sun was rising, he stepped onto his own front lawn. He dropped to his knees in the soft grass and closed his eyes as he began to thank God for his home and family. After he knelt forward and closed his eyes, Joel slipped into unconsciousness from total exhaustion. He woke later to the soft touch of his wife’s hand. When he opened his eyes and found himself lying in the grass of his front yard, he realized that what had just happened was not a dream. He felt a knot of fear replace the pain of hunger in his stomach. His wife had been holding a first-aid kit just like the one Jim had given him.

“You’re a good neighbor, Jim,” Joel said, as he placed the kit under his chair and leaned his long arms forward to rest his elbows on the table. He rubbed his face with his hands and looked away, toward the tall grass of the park, the deer trail, and the tall line of trees hugging the stream as it flowed toward the lake. Joel gestured toward Dylan’s bow and asked, “Is that one for me?”

“No, you’re a tall man. I’ll get you a longer one that’ll be easier for you to handle.” He paused and looked back down at the bow. “On second thought, I’ll leave this one and these arrows with you. You can practice with it while I make yours.”

Joel took an arrow in his hand, touched the blunt tip, and asked, “How does this kill a deer?”

“That won’t, but it will stun a rabbit or squirrel. It’ll be good for target practice. I have some arrows with razor points, and that’s what we’ll use for the big game.” Dylan pointed to the arrow. “I made these from a plant that grows near water. It’s a type of reed. If you could, go down to the stream or the lake and see if you can get more of this. Tie it in a bundle and let it dry. But I still have to figure out a way to make sharp arrowheads. What I have now won’t last forever.”

Kim came through the patio door with her oldest son, Aaron, right behind her. Aaron was ten and looked just like his parents, his dark hair contrasting with fair skin.

“Can he shoot your bow?” asked Kim. “He saw your bow and hasn’t stopped asking about it.”

Dylan handed Aaron the bow and two blunt arrows. He pointed toward the shade tree near their back property line and said, “Let’s see what you can do.”

Aaron did not respond. He quickly pulled back the arrow and released it, but it fell short of the tree. He looked back at Dylan.

“Point it a little higher next time,” Dylan advised.

Aaron did not respond. He quickly shot the arrow and it fell short again.

“Higher next time,” said Dylan, trying to speak with greater enthusiasm and encouragement in his voice.

Aaron looked at Dylan strangely when he was speaking, then at both of his parents quickly before he ran down the steps to retrieve the arrows.

Dylan quickly stood up and yelled to Aaron as he was sifting through the tall grass for the spent arrows, “There’s another arrow down there. Look for three arrows.”

Aaron did not turn around. Dylan cupped his hands to his mouth and, just as he started to yell, he felt Kim’s hand on his back.

“Dylan, Aaron is deaf. He can’t hear you, and he has trouble reading lips through a beard.”

Aaron had been born deaf. After they realized that he had special needs, they decided that Kim would quit her job as a nurse so she could stay at home with Aaron and homeschool him. Several years ago, they made the decision to get him cochlear implants. He had already learned sign language and lip reading, but they wanted to give him every opportunity they could. Aaron got the implants and could finally hear the sounds around him. He could also detect the difference in his speech compared to others. He became self-conscious of his voice and pronunciation, and told his parents about the way he felt. They encouraged him to continue trying, and he had made improvements in his speech, but he was always uncomfortable speaking unless absolutely necessary.

Aaron had left his implants attached the night before the pulse. That morning, Kim awoke to the sound of her son screaming. As the pulse ruined the sensitive electronics in his implants, they released a terrible screeching noise through his skull and he quickly ripped them off. The pulse destroyed his implants, and he was completely deaf again.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s quite alright, Dylan. I think you just made his day.” Kim pointed at her son standing by the tree and waving the three arrows that he just found.”

Dylan smiled and waved back. He turned to Joel and said, “It’ll be a few days before I’m done making yours. Practice as much as you can.” Dylan then went to Jim and nudged him on the shoulder, an indication that he was ready to leave. Jim understood this, stood up from his chair, and stretched his tired body.

“One more thing,” said Dylan, “Jim and I were talking about the food we got last night. The food we took back from Michael. He stole and stockpiled a lot of food. I thought that what I should do is give it back to the community, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. From what Jim told me and from what you’ve said, you’ve given away a lot of food, your own food. After that meeting this morning, I don’t feel like giving it to anybody but you.”

Jim nodded and smiled, adding, “It’s at Dylan’s house. We’ll split it up and you can come over to get your share anytime.”

Joel’s eyes seemed to glow as if the fire hidden deep in his soul was stoked back to life, illuminating the depth of his humanity.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Then Joel put a flat hand to his lips, fingers pointing upward. He quickly moved the hand away from his face, toward Dylan, and repeated the gesture several times.

“Joel,” said Kim, almost scolding her husband. “He doesn’t know what that means.”

“Ah, not so fast.” Dylan returned the gesture. “That has to mean, ‘Thank you.’ Am I correct?”

“You’re a quick study, Dylan,” said Kim.

“Maybe next time I can learn something else.” He motioned toward the door. “We should be going.”

Dylan and Jim showed themselves to the door and, after they left, husband and wife shared a silent moment of happiness on the deck. Joel gestured the sign for “I love you,” to his wife and she returned the gesture as she mouthed the words, “I love you,” back to her soul mate.

Chapter Five

Jim’s business partner, Harold Halleck, lived next door to Joel and Kim Hales. He lived in the same type of house as his neighbors; only the paint and roofline were different, camouflaging the cookie-cutter home construction of the neighborhood. The home was nice, but the view was priceless and that was the reason everyone on that side of the street had selected those homes. Endless acres of nature connected to their backyards.

Jim cautiously held his hand up and almost knocked on the door. He pulled his hand back and thought quietly to himself for a moment. After noticing that the front windows were open, he whispered into Dylan’s ear. “I should warn you now. He has always been difficult to get along with, but now he’s unbearable. I’m used to it. Don’t let him get to you.”

Jim knocked two quick times on the door and they heard Harold bark, “What do you want?”

“It’s me,” said Jim, as he opened the front door and stepped inside with Dylan following close behind.

“I didn’t say you could come in.” Harold glared at Jim, and then focused his attention on Dylan. “And who the hell are you?”

Harold was sitting on a black leather reclining chair that faced the front door. He had pulled up the chair’s wooden handle to raise the footrest, and was leaning as far back as the chair would let him. To his left, against a wall of shelves that held pictures from times past, were birdcages enclosing an assortment of active, exotic birds. Harold had his hands behind his head with his fingers interlaced, and squinted to see the men in front of him. His flesh was loose and a light gray color that looked darker in the folds of his excess skin. He had lost weight so fast from gastric bypass surgery that the fat disappeared before the body had time to assimilate all the excess skin. It hung on his body like curtains in the wind. His eyes were set deep into his skull, surrounded by dark circles. He was thin, unhealthy appearing, and he was balding, but not in the normal way a man loses his hair. It reminded Dylan of pictures he had seen of what radiation poisoning looked like.

Years ago, Jim and Harold had started a small bakery that grew into a successful business. Jim focused on food preparation and stayed in the backroom. Harold was the numbers man and ran the business. Their arrangement worked out well for them over the years. They eventually expanded the business by purchasing a chain of local restaurants. Both Jim and Harold worked countless hours to make the business prosperous, and then they kept working the same hectic schedule to maintain their success. The years caught up with them, and neither man had married or started a family. Their work life was brutal to their health. Constantly exposed to rich foods and continually tasting new menu items, each man’s health gradually began to fail. Both men became morbidly obese, hypertensive, and diabetic. Although both were aware of their health problems, they were workaholics and chose to take pills to mitigate the problems from their lifestyle instead of changing it. However, just before the pulse, Harold decided to take a step toward better health. He chose a quick fix and underwent gastric bypass surgery. Harold could eat relentlessly and still lose weight. He actually had to eat frequently after the surgery to get enough calories. Because of the radical surgery, he would never be able to absorb enough nutrients from any amount of food he ate. His surgeon had prescribed vitamins that he would have to take the rest of his life. Then the pulse came. Jim had used Harold’s old restored El Camino to get to all their bakery and restaurant food to storage before the looters came and stole everything from the businesses. Unfortunately, there were not any more vitamin supplements to be found. Even though he ate every day, Harold was still withering away, dying of malnutrition.

In contrast, Jim’s health actually improved. He walked everywhere, no longer had type II diabetes, lost all his excess body fat, and his hypertension disappeared along with the world’s junk food.

“Shut up, Harold,” snapped Jim, as he walked past Harold into the kitchen. “He’s my neighbor.” Jim disappeared behind the kitchen wall, but they could hear him opening and closing cabinet doors.

Harold looked at Dylan curiously, blinked three times slowly, and then asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Dylan.”

“What do you want from me, Dylan?”

“Nothing.”

Jim yelled from behind the kitchen wall, “Leave him alone, Harold. He’s with me.” Then he slammed a cabinet door shut.

When Harold heard the cabinet door slam, he leaned forward and aggressively began to fumble with, and try to pull on, the wooden handle at the side of the recliner. As he was unsuccessfully trying to lower his legs, he unleashed a flurry of curses at Jim and demanded to know what Jim was doing. Seeing Harold flopping around like a fish out of water, Dylan went over to the chair and gave a quick pull on the wooden handle, quickly dropping Harold’s legs down as the chair’s back sprung into the upright position.

“I don’t need your help, damn it!” Harold scolded Dylan.

Dylan held up his hands and symbolically gestured surrender. He turned away from Harold and looked at the caged birds.

Harold used his cane to stand, but not before Jim was out of the kitchen and had opened the door to Harold’s garage.

“Look in here, Dylan,” said Jim, as he pointed at the restored El Camino parked in the main garage bay. “This baby still works.”

Harold pushed the door with the tip of his cane and it banged shut.

“Oh, the hell with you,” said Jim. “I’m going to check on your supplies.” He opened the door to the basement stairs and went down the steps.

Harold got close to Dylan, face to face, and jutted his chin out as if he was looking down his nose. “You want my car, don’t you?”

“Sure, name your price. I’ll write you a check for as much as you want.”

Harold scowled back, “You’re not funny. Besides, I’ve hidden the key. You’ll have to carry it away.”

“Does anything make you happy?”

“Yes, my money, my business, and that beautifully restored vehicle parked in my garage. Which one of those three items still exists?”

Harold limped over with his cane and stood near his birdcages. He made affectionate noises toward his birds and opened each cage to get them food from a large, open bag leaning against the wall.

“You should appreciate what people are doing for you,” said Dylan. “Jim and your neighbors have done nothing but help you.”

Harold was bent over the bag of bird food, leaning on the sack with the palm of his hand, when Dylan spoke. Still bent over the bag, he twisted his neck to look back at Dylan, and then he stood again with the help of his cane.

“They help me like I help my birds. My birds are trapped in cages, and I give them food and water. They’re trapped until they die…or I die. Sure, Jim and my neighbors next door come by and help me with food and water, but I’m not stupid. I’m their bird just like these are mine. I’m stuck here in this cage just waiting to die.” Harold got a serious look on his face and leaned forward on his cane. “That car in the garage, it’s like my wings. Those wings might just let me fly out of here one day and escape my cage.” Harold's legs began to shake. He slowly and unsteadily moved back toward his recliner. Dylan met him at the chair and helped him sit down. Harold was shocked at the gesture.

“You’re too nice, Dylan. Nice guys finish last, isn’t that the saying?”

“Maybe I’m just better than you.”

Harold scoffed at the remark.

Dylan pointed toward the garage door. “So, if you took your wings out of the garage, where would you fly?”

“Don’t patronize me.” He leaned back on the black leather and exhaled dramatically. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to die. I’ll never leave this cage.” After a moment of silence Harold added, “You see what I mean? You’re too nice. Why don’t you just look me in the eye and tell me I’m going to die?”

Dylan crouched down by Harold's side and looked him in the eye. “We’re all going to die. Life isn’t about how you die; it’s about how you live.”

Harold became unusually quiet, just as Jim emerged from the basement.

“Good to see you’re in one piece, Dylan,” said Jim. “He didn’t kill you?” Jim was astonished at Harold's despondent affect. He should have been berating Jim by now.

Jim stood by the front door, ready to leave, so Dylan got up and went to the door. Before leaving, Dylan turned around and said, “There is a difference between you and these birds. The difference is that you put yourself in the cage.”

Jim opened the door and the men started to walk out.

“Hold on,” said Harold, using a kind voice, “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.”

Jim looked at Dylan, mystified, and replied to Harold, “Glad to help. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Dylan and Jim turned to leave.

“Dylan, wait,” said Harold.

“What?”

“Earlier you asked me about happiness.”

“Yes?”

“I just want you to know my happiness is in there. It’s my birds.” He stretched an arm and tapped a birdcage with his cane.

“I’ll remember that,” Dylan responded.

“Now get the hell out of here!” ordered Harold.

“That’s the Harold I know,” said Jim, as he pushed Dylan out the door.

As the two men walked toward Dylan’s house, the smell of wood smoke became stronger. Dylan suspected that Kevin had cooked a rabbit and he hoped Kevin had remembered to save one of them so Dylan could show his son how to skin it. They walked behind Dylan’s house to see that Kevin had started a small fire on the concrete patio. Concrete cinder blocks surrounded the small fire. Centered on the four blocks were the four corners of a metal cooking grid from a gas barbeque grill. Only some dark burnt flesh was left, hardened by the flame and stuck to the metal grid. His children turned around when they heard Dylan approach. With wide eyes, he looked at his children and blinked in astonishment. Mary had neatly combed and trimmed the children’s hair. She had washed it free of the heavy scalp oils, and it moved in unison with the gentle breeze. They were dressed in clean clothes, and best of all, they were smiling broadly.

“Look at you,” said Dylan.

Jennifer touched the barrettes holding her bangs in place. “Do you like it? Mary said she gave me a makeover.”

“Of course I like it. You’re beautiful.”

Jim picked up a small ball and gently threw it to Brad. The two went away from the house and into the tall grass of the backyard to play a game of catch.

Mary slid the patio door open. Dylan could see that she was looking for some recognition and approval of her labors.

“Mary,” said Dylan, as he stood in front of the patio door looking at his own reflection in the glass and running his fingers through his dirty hair. “I think I could use a makeover, too.”

“I don’t think that would be enjoyable for either of us,” said Mary, and they both laughed.

Kevin walked up behind his wife, opened the patio door all the way, and used his hand to encourage his wife to step outside onto the concrete patio. After exiting the house, Kevin stood beside Dylan and compared their reflections in the glass patio door.

“Well, then,” said Kevin, as he stroked his beard. “How about one for your husband?”

“Okay, wait here. I do have something for you.” Mary disappeared into the house but quickly returned with two buckets, handing one to her husband and one to Dylan.

“What?” Kevin asked.

“It’s not a riddle,” said Mary. “We’re out of water.” She went back inside.

Jim was close enough to hear the conversation. “I’ll get it.” He handed the ball to Jennifer and told her to continue the game of catch with her brother. With buckets in hand, Jim went directly to the wheelbarrow. Only a few steps into his task, Jim turned around and yelled back to Dylan. “You better save me some of that rabbit. If it’s not cooked by the time I get back, I’ll eat it raw.”

Dylan waved him on. The rhythmic sound of the creaking axle slowly faded in the distance.

“I’ll get something ready to eat while I wait for the water,” said Mary, as she went back into the house.

“Did you eat the rabbits, already?” asked Dylan.

Kevin held up one finger. “Just one. I was starving. I couldn’t wait, so we ate one and I saved the other one for you. You said you wanted to show Brad how to skin a rabbit.”

“Where’s the other rabbit?” asked Dylan.

Kevin pointed to a cardboard box in the corner, under the shade of the covered patio.

“Good, I’ll get Brad and let him watch me do this.”

Dylan walked toward his children. It was Jennifer’s turn to throw the ball. She awkwardly threw it toward her brother, completely missing him. The ball landed in the tall grass of the backyard, near the garden. Dylan called for his son to come to the patio and Jennifer went to retrieve the ball. Just as Dylan turned to walk back to the patio, he saw a streak of black fur dart out of the grass and heard his daughter scream. Instinctively, he quickly unsheathed his knife and spun back around to lunge toward his daughter and protect her, raising the blade to attack. It only took a split second for the image in front of him to register, and he immediately relaxed. It was the family’s cat, and it had playfully attacked the ball. The cat had short, black hair with white paws that resembled socks. That is how the cat got its name, Socks. Jennifer tried to touch the cat, but it leapt into the garden, meowing as it did.

Dylan sheathed his knife and called for his daughter to return to the patio. He began calling to the cat by snapping his fingers and making clicking noises with his tongue. He realized that the cat must be hungry. It must have smelled the rabbit that Kevin cooked earlier. During these past few months, the cat he has known for years had gone feral. It ignored his calls and only answered to nature now.

Then, of its own volition, the lean black cat came sneaking out of the garden and crept through the tall grass to the end of the patio. It leaped silently up to the patio and sneaked toward them. It came to a place just out of their reach, sat down, and stretched its tail flat. The cat looked off past the tall grass and garden in the backyard, beyond the hedgerow of boxwood bushes, past the big walnut tree on the back property line, and slowly blinked its squinted eyes.

Mary saw the cat through the patio door and slid it just enough to reach through the opening. She put out her hand, but the cat leaped away, out of reach, sat down again, and licked the pads of its lifted paw. Mary beckoned Jennifer to come inside and opened the door for the young girl to do so.

The cat then crept close to them again, dragging its tail flat to the ground. The sun was getting lower in the western horizon of the backyard, illuminating the seed heads of the tall fescue. The cat reached out a white questioning paw and touched the cardboard box in the corner.

“I better get that rabbit,” said Dylan.

In doing so, the cat’s feral nature arose, and it quickly jumped and darted away. In a short time, it stealthily came back, joining them on the patio. The black cat seated itself near them again. It blinked slowly. The skin over its shoulders jerked forward under an insect, and then it lifted a rear paw to scratch the nuisance away. The cat lifted a front paw and inspected it, flicked its claws out, and licked its pads with a rough tongue, again.

Dylan reached for the dead rabbit and scared the cat again. The black cat slipped away toward the tall grass and disappeared like a shadow inside a boxwood bush by the walnut tree.

“Okay Brad, this is how you skin a rabbit. Ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Dylan lifted the skin off the back of the rabbit, slit it with his knife, put his fingers in the hole, and tore the skin off. It slid off like a sock, slipped off the body to the neck, and off the legs to the paws. Dylan picked up the knife again and cut off its head and feet. He laid the skin down, slit the rabbit along the ribs, shook out the intestines onto the skin, and then threw the mess off into the tall grass, near the large boxwood bush the cat had disappeared into. After he skinned the lean, muscular body, Dylan cut off the legs and cut the meaty back into two pieces. The flesh sizzled as it touched the stainless steel grid suspended over the fire. He added some wood, and tiny, cherry-colored embers swirled about as the fire’s heat lifted the glowing ashes into the air.

“You’ll do the next one by yourself,” said Dylan.

“Can I use your knife?”

“Only if I help you with it.”

“Okay. I want to tell Kevin I can skin rabbits now.”

“Tell them it’s cooking.”

He scampered away.

The black cat came out of the large boxwood bush and scurried toward the fire as it meowed with hunger. Suddenly, it turned and went directly to the pile of rabbit entrails on the ground. It chewed and swallowed, and the entrails hung from its mouth.

Dylan positioned a chair near the sizzling flesh. He leaned back in the chair and tried to relax. As he stared into the fire, his mind slipped away into a trancelike state. After his mind wandered, he began to create a mental list of priorities. The first priority was water. They had the stream, the lake, and a good filter. With a filter, there was no need to boil. Good, he thought. That will save wood. Oh, but we will need more wood for cooking, and during winter, we’ll need to stay warm. I can’t burn wood in the house, no fireplace. Great, I need to get more blankets. Don’t forget about food. He closed his eyes and his thoughts continued to race through his mind. We have food stored that should last until next year. Expand the garden; we need to grow our own food. No, think bigger, we need more than just a garden. We need a small farm to feed everyone and a way to store food over next winter. Oh, don’t forget about hygiene, we need to bathe and wash clothes. Great, I’m back to water again. Not enough water.

Still in a trance, he opened his eyes and stared into the fire, listening to the fresh meat sizzle, and then he began to think aloud. He was repeating, “Not enough water.” In his daze, he did not hear Jim approach, carrying two buckets of water.

“Not enough water?” asked Jim. “I’ve got two buckets here. How much do you need?”

“Huh?” Dylan realized what he had done and snapped back to reality.

“No. I was just thinking aloud.” Dylan rubbed his tired face. “There are a lot of us here now. We need a lot of water.” Dylan pointed at the buckets. “There has to be a better way.”

“When you figure it out, let me know.” Jim set the buckets down, went to the fire, and inhaled the smell of cooking rabbit.

Dylan turned the rabbit over and wafted the aroma toward Jim’s face with the palm of his hand. Jim began to salivate.

“Cut me off a piece of that now, Dylan.”

“It’s almost ready. Can’t take a chance with rabbit. Get that water inside, and I’ll be in directly.”

When it was thoroughly cooked, Dylan skewered the rabbit with his knife, carried it inside, and put it on a plate that Mary had ready for that purpose. They ate red ripe tomatoes from the garden, rabbit, and a can of green beans.

Finished with his meal, Jim quickly left with the wheelbarrow to retrieve the boxes of chlorine tablets from the swimming pool filter room at the Community Center. Inside the house, Dylan opened a drawer to find a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. He wanted to show his children how to play a game of tic-tac-toe. He pushed the plates and cups out of the way and put the paper on the tabletop. As he drew each grid, explained the rules, and offered strategic hints to his children, he watched Kevin pouring water through a towel into buckets to strain it, then through the filter to purify it. His mind began to wander, thinking about water again.

Then his son shouted, “I win,” and Dylan snapped back to consciousness.

Dylan slid the paper closer to his son and said, “Teach your sister,” and handed him the pencil.

Dylan looked at the cups that he had just pushed aside on the table. Each still contained a small amount of water. Dylan took each cup and poured the contents into one, nearly filing it. He put the cup of water to his lips, tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and slowly drained the glass. With his last gulp of clean water, his thoughts crescendoed into an epiphany. He sat the cup heavily back on the table, banging the tabletop. Everyone turned just as Dylan announced, “I know how we can get running water.”

“You’ve been in the sun too long,” said Kevin, laughing.

While Kevin was still laughing, Jim appeared back at the patio door. Through the screen door, he told them the boxes of chlorine were on the driveway. Dylan told Kevin to go to the patio, and there, the three men stood by the embers of the fire.

“I can get running water back in my house,” said Dylan

“What in the hell are you talking about?” asked Jim.

“Do you remember the excavated foundation at the top of the hill? The one with the spring water leaking into it?”

Kevin and Jim nodded their heads.

“They poured the footings for the foundation wall, installed the drain tile, and routed the water away.”

“Yes, I remember. How does that get us water in the house?” asked Kevin.

“That pit is at the top of the hill and we’re at the end of the street, the lowest point,” explained Dylan.

“Get to the good part,” demanded Jim.

Dylan held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I’m almost there. We destroy the drain tile and use concrete to plug it, so it can’t drain.”

“And?” Kevin was motioning impatiently with his hands, wanting Dylan to speed the story up.

“We need to get all the garden hoses we can find and siphon the spring water to this house when the pit fills up. We’ll dig a shallow trench and run the hose down to my spigot by the patio. All I have to do is remove the back flow valve and the water will flow into this house’s plumbing system.”

Jim interjected, “Why not my house? It’s closer.”

“It is closer, but it’s also a two-story on higher elevation. Dylan pointed to his house. “Mine is a little lower so I’ll get more water pressure, maybe enough for a shower.”

The word “shower” reverberated in their minds. Kevin and Jim stood there, wide-eyed. They looked at the spigot and traced with their eyes up the hill to the orange fence surrounding the open pit. Each man imagined the path of the hose down the hill and the feeling of showering again.

“And the toilets would flush?” asked Kevin.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Dylan responded.

“Say no more,” said Jim, “I know where there’s concrete. Is it sacks of concrete you need?”

“Yes, sack concrete should work,” answered Dylan. “The water is already there. I guess we could pour it where the water drains away and wait for it to cure.”

“I know where there are sacks of concrete close to that pit,” said Jim. “I want to get started now. It’ll take days for that pit to fill, so we better get moving.” Jim walked away, not waiting for the other two men.

Kevin knocked on the patio door to get his wife’s attention. Mary came to the screen, and Kevin explained that he needed to go. He blew a kiss to Mary through the screen, and then Dylan and Kevin ran up the slope to catch up with Jim.

Jim showed the two men a house with sacks of concrete stacked in the garage. The partially constructed house had a roof, so the sacks had not gotten wet from rain. Dylan put a sack of concrete on his shoulder and carried it to the pit. He repeated the process until he had enough bags of concrete. Kevin found an extension ladder, carried it to the pit, and placed it against a pit wall. Dylan climbed down the ladder, destroyed the drain tile, and poured sack after sack of concrete at strategic locations in the pit. When he was done, Dylan put his dirty hands in the sheet of water draining down the jagged limestone wall to wash off the concrete powder. He climbed out of the pit, replaced the orange plastic safety fence, and went home.

The three men walked triumphantly back to Dylan’s house, with Kevin in the lead. Kevin was anxious to brag to his wife about what they had done. As he got close to the patio door, he saw a man inside that he did not know. Kevin froze. He turned quickly and gestured for Dylan to hurry. On the patio, Kevin slid the screen door open with a heavy hand and quickly entered the house. The man sitting at the table jumped back. Kevin noticed his wife’s expression and quickly realized that he had overreacted to the stranger’s presence.

“Kevin, I want you to meet Joel Hales,” announced Mary. “He’s our neighbor.”

Embarrassed at his entrance, Kevin tried to be overly polite in the way he shook Joel’s hand, and kindly said, “Nice to meet you.”

Dylan entered the room quickly and asked, “What is it?”

“Joel is here,” said Kevin.

“Hi, Dylan. I brought the bow and arrows back.” Joel pointed to the weapons on the floor. “These were a big hit with my son.”

“Good. Give me a few days, and I’ll have some bows made for you and your son. Arrows will take longer.”

“I didn’t forget,” said Joel. “I’ll get some of those reeds from the stream and get them to you.”

“As many as you can?”

“As many as I can.”

“Dad?” Brad summoned his father.

Dylan turned to see his son with a sad expression on his face. “What about me? Can I have a bow?”

“Of course you can. I’ll teach you to hunt rabbits and squirrels.”

His son smiled and quietly returned his attention to the tic-tac-toe game, already in progress with his sister. Brad drew another X on the paper and then drew a line through the three identical letters in a row before announcing that he had won again.

“That’s not fair,” exclaimed Jennifer, as he she leaned forward and slammed her pencil on the table.

“Relax, it’s just a game,” said Dylan.

Joel went to Jennifer’s chair, rubbed his chin, and said, “Do you want me to play your brother? I bet I can beat him for you.”

”Yes,” said Jennifer, as she crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue at Brad.

Joel picked Jennifer up and placed her on his lap as he sat on the chair. He picked up the pencil to draw a new grid for the next game and realized that the paper was full. He turned it over, but the other side was not blank. He read the other side of the paper and held it up to show Dylan what it was. “When did you get this?”

Dylan immediately recognized the paper. It was the pamphlet he had found in his closet, when he put his rifle away. “I don’t know. It was lying around, and I thought I could use it to help start a fire. Scrap paper would be good for that.”

“They came by my house,” said Joel. “There were two of them. They wanted to share their prophet’s revelation. They said he predicted this, and he was the pathway to Heaven.” Joel dropped the paper back on the table. “They even offered me food.”

“How did they get over here?” asked Dylan.

“They were on foot. They walked all over the neighborhood with these pamphlets. I saw them leave when they finished. They walked away through the field, toward the lake.”

Dylan took the paper and stared at it with intense curiosity. He then placed it back in the drawer. He removed another piece of paper for the game to continue, and placed it on the table.

Joel curiously lifted that paper up to see its underneath and said, “Map.”

“Map?’ asked Dylan.

“See for yourself.” Joel turned it over.

Dylan ran his fingers across the surface, studying the details. “It’s a small map of the surrounding area. Come here, Kevin, look at this.”

Dylan pushed the map closer to Kevin for him to study it. He did so with quick movements of his eyes, darting north and south, east and west. He traced the outline of the lake with his fingers, noticed a bike trail around its perimeter and railroad tracks farther away, and finally followed the water upstream, away from the lake, to the edge of the map.

“This map makes me wonder,” said Kevin. “What’s going on around us?”

Joel shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t left this neighborhood.”

Kevin looked at Dylan, pushing the map back toward him, and said, “We should look around more. I’ll get David to take me to the bartering lot. After that, you and I will go upstream, and maybe to the end of the lake.”

Dylan rubbed his face with his hands and then ran his tired fingers through his dirty hair. He quickly thought about a shower again and the comfort of washing the smell of a thousand miles of river off his body and out of his clothes. It would be days before the pit filled, so he thought it would be a good timing to explore the area now.

“Okay, let’s do it.” Dylan looked at Joel. “Are you in?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for that. I should stay here.”

“I’m going,” said Kevin.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed Mary. “Where do you think you’re going? I really don’t feel like being left alone, again.”

“Mary,” said Jim, “I’m not cut out for that, either. We’ll be here, so you really won’t be alone.”

Mary appreciated the sincerity in his voice, and agreed to stay and watch Dylan’s children.

“Mary, come back home with me and meet my wife,” Joel offered. “She’s been homeschooling our three children and they should be done for the day. Bring the kids and let them play for a while. I think it would be good for them.”

Mary looked at Dylan, and he nodded with approval.

“I was a school teacher,” said Mary.

“If you’re offering, I’m sure my wife would love the help.”

“I miss it,” Mary admitted.

“Go ahead, Mary,” said Kevin, “I’ll do your dishes.”

Mary playfully slapped her husband across the head. “There’re not my dishes, and I’m not your dishwasher.”

Kevin held his hands up mockingly to protect his skull and said, “Okay, I understand. I just wanted to help.”

“Feisty, isn’t she,” said Jim, trying not to laugh.

“That she is. That’s why I love her.”

Mary playfully kissed her husband on the head and left with Joel and the children to meet Kim, Joel’s wife.

Jim sat at the table and all three men stared at each other for a brief moment before Dylan pulled the map close and studied the locations of Kevin’s three targets. Sequentially, he placed his index finger over the intersection where he thought the bartering lot was, and then he traced the stream up current, off the edge of the torn map, and finally slapped his hand on the diagram of the lake and the road that crossed its far end. He looked up at Kevin and asked, “Where to first?”

Kevin took possession of the map and smoothed its wrinkles on the flat tabletop with the palm of his hand. Imitating Dylan, he first placed his finger where Dylan had indicated the probable location of the bartering lot. “Here. David already said he would show me where it is. You stay here and finish up whatever project is next. This shouldn’t take me more than a day.” He traced the stream with his finger. “Maybe the next day we could walk the stream, but not so far that we can’t make it back by nightfall.” Then he pointed to the lake and whistled. “That’s a lot of area to cover. Scouting just one side could take a while.” He scratched his head and stared at the map, squinting his eyes, deep in thought.

Dylan pointed to the bike trail and said, “We’ll go on the east side of the lake. It’s closest to the bike trail and that connects to the road over the dam. It will be easier to cover ground if we use that trail.”

“Then that’s the plan,” affirmed Kevin.

“Jim, I need you to get that rain barrel you mentioned,” said Dylan. “I’ve got another project.”

“Oh, Dylan.” Jim stood up, leaned on the back of his chair, and hung his head low. “I’m dead tired. Can’t it wait?”

“I’ll help you get the rain barrel tonight, and I can work on it tomorrow,” Dylan suggested.

“Deal, but you don’t have to help me get it. I think I can manage rolling an empty rain barrel down the street. I’ll leave now.” Jim started to walk backward toward the patio.

“And tell David he’s going to the bartering lot with Kevin,” said Dylan.

“I’ll tell him right after I get that rain barrel.” Jim walked through the patio door and turned back around when his feet met the concrete. “Kevin, when do you want to leave with David?”

Kevin simply replied, “Tomorrow.”

Chapter Six

Dylan woke up early the next morning, anxious to get the next project started. He raised the garage door to a rush of cool morning air. Dew still clung to the long blades of fescue. The rain barrel that Jim had scavenged for him the previous day was lying on the concrete driveway. On top of the rain barrel was a coil of dark-green garden hose. Dylan dragged both items into the garage and pulled down on a cord attached to the attic’s folding access stairs. The creaking ladder unfolded, releasing dust and fragments of insulation downward.

With a tape measure, Dylan estimated on a wall of the garage where the kitchen sink was located on the opposite side. He cut a rectangular opening in the drywall, removed the oblong section of sheetrock, moved the fiberglass insulation aside to expose the plumbing, and located the hot water pipe. The builder had plumbed the house with plastic tubing, and the hot water lines were red.

With a quick push from Kevin, the door from the house to the garage swung open just as Dylan knelt down to inspect the red pipe. Unknowingly, the barrel hid Dylan when he knelt down. When Dylan raised his head and peered over the top of the barrel, his ascending movement startled Kevin.

“Were you hiding from me?” asked Kevin.

Dylan stepped back and moved the rain barrel away so that Kevin could see what he had done to the wall.

“No, but I could use a hand if you have some time.”

Kevin stretched his tired body and tried to rub the fatigue from his eyes. “You got it, Boss. Maybe you should explain what you’re doing first.”

“If we get this barrel up into the attic and place it on the cross beam, we can use it like a water tower. Gravity will bring the water into the pipes. The drawback is that we have to carry buckets of water up the attic steps to fill the barrel. The advantage would be that we get warm water until the season changes.”

Kevin pointed to the rectangular opening in the drywall. “And you connect it to the plumbing here?”

“That’s right. I can splice my plumbing to some tubing we’ll get from an empty house, and use that to connect the hose coming down from the attic.”

Kevin was deep in thought. He imagined the barrel in the attic, supported on the crossbeam, the hose coming through a hole in the ceiling, and all that connected to the spliced tubing in the garage wall, directly behind the kitchen sink. He rubbed his beard and said, “I think that’ll work. I suppose you need me to find some tubing.”

Dylan pointed to a hacksaw and knife on the floor. “If you don’t mind.”

Kevin wasted no time. He picked up the tools. “So you don’t think it will freeze up there in the winter?”

“Yes, I expect it would freeze at some point, and the spring water that I plan to connect to the outside spigot would surely freeze during winter.” Dylan tapped on the barrel with his fingers. “But when it gets that cold at either location or inside the house, I’ll disconnect the lines and drain the system. Then it’ll have to be buckets of melting snow and stream water for us again.”

“Could the water up there get stagnant?” asked Kevin.

Dylan went to the stack of cardboard boxes against the farthest wall and proclaimed triumphantly, “Chlorine.”

“You’ve thought of everything, Dylan. I better go earn my keep.” With tools in hand, Kevin went toward the driveway, and then spoke as he walked slowly backwards. “When this is done, I’ll go to the bartering lot with David. You should come, too.”

Dylan shook his head. “When this is done, I’m going to give my son his new bow and work on the other bows that I have already promised to people in the neighborhood. I’ll teach him to shoot it as soon as he’s awake.”

“Okay, just us two then. Should I take the rifle?”

“I think you should take the pistol. Don’t draw any attention to yourself. Just see what’s going on.”

Kevin waved, turned, and walked away.

Dylan looked around to see that his son had silently crept into the garage and was standing by the hole in the drywall, staring at the plumbing and loose insulation. Curiosity had frozen the young boy in place.

“Where’s your sister?”

“Mary is brushing her hair.” Brad was transfixed on the insulation, pink like cotton candy. He extended his hand to touch it.

“Hold on. That’ll make you itch.”

He retracted his hand and stepped back, not comprehending the risk of touching something that looks so much like a delicious treat. He balled his hands into little fists, put his fists under his armpits, and looked up at his father for approval of his actions.

“That’s fiberglass. Don’t touch that stuff.” Dylan placed his hands on his son’s shoulders and turned him toward the alcove at the end of the garage’s third bay. Brad’s eyes grew wide with excitement when Dylan retrieved a bow that was just the right size for him.

“This is something you can touch.” He handed Brad the bow.

“Is this for me? Is it mine?”

“Yes, it is. I want you to hunt for rabbits and squirrels while I’m busy doing other things. Sound okay to you?”

Brad smiled wide as he held the new bow like a trophy. “Yes. Can I go now?”

“Hold on, I want you to practice first.” Dylan showed him how to string the bow and then he handed him three blunt-tipped arrows. “Go to the big walnut tree in the backyard. Shoot at the tree for a while until I’m ready.” The young boy ran to the backyard with his new bow and the arrows in hand.

Dylan moved the rain barrel up the steps and into the attic. There was a large sheet of plywood already up there, and he moved it to rest on the crossbeam where a vertical post, bolted to the concrete garage floor, supported it. He attached the hose to the bottom of the barrel, threaded the hose through a hole in the ceiling and let it dangle freely, ready for attachment.

Kevin returned with several lengths of plastic tubing, cut free from a partially constructed home in the neighborhood, and a handful of copper connecting inserts and clamps for securing the tubes. Dylan cut, spliced, and clamped the tubing together. Finally, he wet the plumbing and it slid into the hose that was attached to the barrel in the attic. After he dropped two chlorine tablets into the empty barrel and placed a large funnel through the opening on top, the project was completed.

Dylan took the rectangular piece of drywall he had removed and positioned it to cover the spliced tubing and loose insulation. He screwed the drywall onto the exposed studs to hold everything in place.

“That’s it.” Dylan rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Go get Jim and have him show you where David lives.” Kevin nodded and picked up his bow to take to the bartering lot. “Do you have the pistol?” asked Dylan. Kevin nodded and slapped his right front pocket. Dylan returned the nod and said, “Stay out of trouble.”

“I plan to do that.” Kevin stepped onto the driveway and looked to his right and left, hoping to find Jim easily. He looked back at Dylan.

Dylan pointed upward. “When you find him, ask him nicely to get some water in that rain barrel.”

“I think he’s sick of hauling water for us.”

“Tell him what we just did.” Dylan began to laugh. “Tell him he can take a hot shower, and I guarantee you that you’ll never see him move faster in your life.”

The laughter was contagious, and Kevin laughed harder when he imagined Jim running through the field, pushing the wheelbarrow across the bumpy terrain as he did, and cutting through the tall grass toward the stream, faster than he ever had. He kept laughing as he walked away.

Dylan found his son at the far end of the backyard, shooting at the trunk of the tall walnut tree.

Dylan yelled, “Are you ready?”

The young boy ran to his father.

“Let’s walk to the field and find some squirrels,” said Dylan. “They should be around the nut trees.”

Brad smiled, then enthusiastically darted toward the field.

“Slow down, wait for me,” yelled Dylan.

Dylan caught up to his son and, standing behind him, grabbed under his armpits and sat his son upon his shoulders. The boy felt too light. Dylan held each ankle tightly as they dangled in front of his chest. Brad was bouncing with each of Dylan’s steps through the prairie grass, as he dodged thistles and rabbit holes. He stopped at an oak tree on the forest’s edge. He was close to where the bike trail crossed the stream and continued under the tree canopy. Then Dylan lifted his son back off his shoulders, placing him on the ground.

“This is an oak tree.” Dylan pointed to the tree and made eye contact with his son. He looked at Brad in a way that his son understood to mean what he was going to say was important. “And these are acorns.” Dylan pointed to the ground and kicked up the acorns and leaf litter. “They are nuts, and squirrels love to eat them, so that’s why I brought you here.” Dylan walked closer to the trunk and looked up into the tree canopy. His eyes shifted from branch to branch and stopped when he saw a clump of brown leaves high in the branches. Dylan pointed to the cluster of dry leaves. “Look, that’s a squirrel’s nest.” Brad strained his eyes and nodded when he saw it. When the boy brought his eyes lower, he noticed a thick rope tied to a low branch, worn and weathered, the frayed end tied into a large knot.

Brad pointed at the rope. “What’s that?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was a rope swing.” The finding jogged his memory. “I think I have a swing in the garage. I bought it when you were too young.” Dylan scratched his head. “I’ll look for it and attach it to our tree if I can find it. Do you want a swing?”

“Sure!”

Dylan began to walk backwards, away from his son. “Are you going to get a squirrel?”

“Yes.”

Dylan was farther away, still edging backwards. “A big one?”

“Yes.”

“You better, because I’m getting hungry.”

Dylan could see Brad trying to puff his chest out, feeling confident.

“How about two?” Dylan was farther away and speaking louder.

“Three!” Brad held up the three blunt arrows given to him by his father.

“That’s my boy.”

Kevin and David walked the length of the road to the lot of the abandoned grocery store that was now a place of barter. They paused at the intersection of the four-lane road and the highway to observe their surroundings. Kevin was wearing a light backpack. He hooked one thumb under a strap, pulling it forward, and held his bow with the other hand. The pack had binoculars, a can of peaches, and a quart plastic jug that originally contained milk. The jug’s label had peeled away a long time ago, and it held his water now. David only had a bottle of water that he held in his hands, passing it from palm to palm, sipping occasionally to keep something in his stomach to quench the burning fire of hunger.

“Hey, Kevin, do you care if we sit for a minute,” asked David.

“Are you okay?”

“My stomach is in a knot.” He twisted the cap off his bottle and sipped the water.

Kevin heard David’s stomach growl from hunger and watched in pity as the man clutched his stomach and winced.

“You better sit down.” Kevin put his hand on David’s shoulder and directed him to the curb.

David sipped again. “That’s a lot of walking. I feel a little weak, kind of dizzy.”

Kevin dropped the backpack, retrieved the can of peaches, and handed it to him. David hooked the tab on the can’s lid and quickly pulled it back. He licked the syrup from the bottom of the lid and drank the thick liquid inside. He jerked his head back and, with the open can to his lips, devoured each slice of peach whole. When all of the sliced fruit was gone, David poured water into the can, swirled the mixture, and drank it completely empty. Holding the empty can with both hands, he leaned forward as he sat on the curb, head tilted down and eyes closed. The only thing left in the can was the sweet odor of peaches, and he sat there quietly and consumed that, too.

Kevin looked through the binoculars at the crowd ahead of him. He saw the undulating mass of people pulsating with life around each table, flatbed trailer, pickup truck bed, and open car trunk. He watched the people trading, transacting, and negotiating fervently. Hands flailing in the air, heads shaking, fiery eyes filled with desperate emotion. Sometimes, all of this concluded in a handshake and an exchange of goods.

“Feel better?”

David quickly opened his eyes and came back to reality. After taking a deep breath, he leaned forward to maintain his balance as his body straightened. Still feeling weak, he pushed on what remained of his thigh muscles with the palms of his hands and completed the process. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get moving.”

Kevin put the backpack on, holding the bow with one hand and his jug of water with the other. They crossed the street and stopped at the first table. A man sat next to a folding card table beside a flatbed trailer that was attached to the hitch of an old truck. He displayed his goods for trade, but at this moment, no takers were near him. The man’s eyes quickly shifted over all the merchandise and back to the open truck door, constantly looking for business and at the person sitting in the truck. Sitting near the truck’s open passenger-side door, there was another man who looked like a younger version of him. They both wore denim overalls. The younger man was petting a goat tied to the passenger door’s side-view mirror. Kevin moved a little closer to the table, unaware that the man was intently watching Kevin’s jug of water, dangling on one finger. The man stood up and nervously began to run his thumbs up and down the straps of his overalls as he tried to wet his cracked lips with a dry tongue.

“Excuse me,” said the man behind the table. He hands stopped moving, and he gripped the straps of his overalls tightly as he spoke. His eyes narrowed at Kevin’s jug of water.

“Yeah?” Kevin replied.

“Could I bother you for a taste of that water?”

Kevin moved closer to the other side of the table to face the man.

“You see, my son over there, bless his heart, he’s a good person.” The man tilted his head toward his son, sitting near the truck and petting the goat. “But he just don’t think right sometimes.”

When the son noticed that they were talking about him, he stood, and he was enormous. He brought his giant body over next to his father and imitated the way his dad was standing. The younger man grasped each one of the straps on his overalls, just like his father.

“This here boy, when I asked him to give that goat some water, well, what do you think he did?” He only paused a moment, never really intending for Kevin to answer. “That’s right; he gave that damn goat all our water.”

“All our water,” repeated his son.

He slapped his son on the back and his son did the same to his father, imitating every gesture. His father smiled, revealing a gold-capped incisor, and the son smiled in return, revealing enormous teeth. That was when Kevin realized there was something different with the son’s appearance.

Kevin began to twist the lid off his jug of water. He looked around for a cup and then quickly changed his mind. “I think you want more than a taste, don’t you?”

“Somethin’ to cut the dust. We’s parched.”

“Somethin’ to cut the dust. We’s parched,” repeated his son.

David sat in an empty chair, still fatigued, and watched the two men talk.

Kevin held up the jug, hanging from a single finger, and swung it back and forth.

“Are we trading here?” asked the man.

“Are we trading here?” repeated his son.

“I think we ought to.”

“Damn, I was hoping for some charity, mister.”

“Some charity, mister,” repeated the son.

“It’s Kevin.”

The man extended his hand. Kevin put the jug on the table and shook his hand.

“I’m Pete, and this here’s my son, Pete, Jr. He goes by Junior most of the time. Since he was born, I’ve been goin’ by Ol’ Pete on occasion, but mostly by kinfolk.” Pete dropped Kevin’s hand and hooked his thumbs back under the straps of his overalls. “I don’t care what ya call us, but just don’t call neither of us late for supper.” Pete grinned, and Junior did the same.

Junior, the first-born, was tall, large, and strange, always with a calm but puzzled look on his face. He had never been angry in his life. He looked in wonder at angry people, wonder and uneasiness, as normal people look at the insane. Junior moved slowly and spoke rarely. When he did speak, it was so slowly that people who did not know him often thought he was stupid. He was mentally challenged, but he worked hard and never complained. He cared deeply for his father, and imitated him in the clothes he wore and the way he spoke. He repeated everything his father said. It was so common for Junior to duplicate his father’s words that his schoolmates gave him the nickname, “Repeat.”

Junior seemed misshapen because his head was not normal. It appeared awkward and off balance, positioned on the summit of a large body between his broad, muscular shoulders. Pete thought he knew why Junior was strange, but Pete was ashamed and never talked about it. On the night that Junior was born, Pete, living out in the country with his laboring wife, became overwhelmed with his wife’s screams of pain. They had no health insurance, but it was too late to get her to a hospital anyway. Using his hands, his strong fingers as forceps, he pulled and twisted the baby through his wife’s birth canal. When they did arrive at the hospital, postpartum, the obstetrician found that the baby's head was pulled out of shape, his neck stretched, his body warped, and that is what Pete always remembered. The memory haunted him. He was kinder to Junior than to his other children. In Junior's broad face, with eyes too far apart, and long protruding jaw, Pete always saw the twisted, warped skull of the baby he had pulled into this world.

Academically, Junior could barely do that which was required of him. He had trouble reading and writing, but worked devotedly for his father. He did not seem to care about anything. There was apathy in him toward the things that normal people wanted and needed. His misshapen skull, balanced at the peak of his large body, trapped his silent intellect. He was a stranger to the entire world, but he was not lonely because he had his father

Kevin scanned all his goods. He went through the flatbed trailer, the open trunk, and the pile of junk under the card table. Kevin was ready to make an offer and he wanted to see how far he could push his luck.

“How about that goat?”

“Think again,” said Pete.

“Think again,” repeated Junior.

“Take another look. I’m sure we’ve got something you fancy.” Pete kicked at the pile of junk under the card table, knocking the pile forward and revealing a bag of eating utensils that Kevin had not noticed before.

“We’ve got something you fancy,” repeated Junior.

“Maybe you do.” Kevin picked up the plastic bag of metal spoons, forks, and knives. “I’ll take the spoons.”

“Spoons? Take the whole damn bag. Nobody’s got food. Hell, I couldn’t give those away.”

Junior did not repeat anything that time. He heard his father say, “food,” and remembered his father talking about the goat being food. He liked the goat, understood what that meant, and went back to the passenger seat to pet his animal friend.

Kevin poured his water into Pete’s container and, when it was full, said, “Deal.” Kevin put the plastic bag into his backpack and then held up his bow. “How much is this worth?”

“I’ve never traded for one of those. What people really want is food, medicine, guns, and ammunition. But if you could get me some liquor, and I don’t care if it’s moonshine or factory liquor, we’d make a killing.”

“You can get food with this. Isn’t that worth something?” asked Kevin.

“You’re preaching to the choir. I’m following where you’re going with that, but I’m telling you what I’ve seen. People are scared. I’ve seen ‘em trade everything for a shitty rifle and a handful of cartridges.” Pete’s eyes went up and down the bow. “When they come back to me with a gun and no cartridges, I know they don’t have a damn thing left, and I can get it back for nothin’. They’ll trade their world for a can of beans or a bottle of hooch.”

“If they’re that desperate, what stops them from taking it from you?” asked Kevin.

“There’s militia in that crowd. They make us pay for protection, but I don’t want it. They get a cut from everybody, but they don’t take everything, just enough to piss you off.” He sat back down in his chair and took a slow drink of water from his container. “It’s the cost of doing business.”

Kevin cast his eyes across the bustling crowd. “Where are they?”

Pete put the palm of his hand on his upper arm and said, “Look for the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?”

“They tattoo each other with the number thirteen.”

“What if they’re not around when something happens?”

“I don’t care for them. I can handle myself.” Pete shifted his body in the chair, put his hand into his front pocket, and pulled out a pistol for Kevin to see.

“Where do they come from?” Kevin asked.

“The story I heard was a crazy man and his cronies took over a food warehouse on the outskirts of town. Armed to the brim, they used that food to bribe people into joining them. I’ve seen what hungry people will do, so I don’t doubt it a bit.” Pete looked into the crowd and his expression changed. He quickly grabbed a jeweled broach from the table near him and inconspicuously placed it into his pocket. “Don’t turn around. The militia is here. If you’re done trading, you two should walk back across the street and go home. I think they’re going to shake me down a little.”

Kevin nodded. He did not turn around, and gestured for David to follow him.

A block away David asked, “Spoons? I don’t get it.”

Kevin stopped and retrieved one of the metal spoons from his backpack. He handed it to David and explained that Dylan needed arrowheads. He thought if they heated the spoons in a fire, they could smash them flat on the concrete patio using a sledgehammer. Then all they would have to do is use a metal file to put a sharp double edge on it. David walked beside Kevin as he listened to the explanation. He held a metal spoon in his hand and caressed its curves with his fingers. He began to imagine how it could be changed into a weapon for killing deer, and he started to salivate.

Chapter Seven

TEN DAYS AFTER THE PULSE

Rex Wilson fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in the front pocket of his shirt as he walked out of the Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse. He had worked there for decades. It was the only type of work he knew, and he had planned to retire this year. At the end of the parking lot, he stopped and looked down the road toward the highway. He lit the cigarette. It was the last cigarette of the carton he had purchased on a Monday morning ten days ago. He was a pack-a-day smoker and had just realized that it had been ten days since everything had fallen apart.

He inhaled the last drag of the cigarette into his lungs and held it in deeply, knowing that was the last of his carton. He flicked the filter as far as he could, crumpled the empty pack, and dropped it onto the concrete near his steel-toed work boot. He had just broken a company rule, and he knew it. He had littered on company property, and breaking a company rule is something he had never done, until then. Rex knew all the standard operating procedures for the warehouse and had established most of them over the last twenty years of his career. He had been in charge of the entire facility during the past ten. Rex was a stickler for following the rules. He knew them all and never hesitated to fire anyone who disobeyed.

The only thing between him and the highway was an apartment complex and a gas station with a convenience store. He could see people gathering at the gas station. An unorganized group of people circled it like sharks. First, he heard the glass windows break. Then he saw the undisciplined throng of people coalesce into a line and, in unison, rush straight inside the small building. A few moments passed, then suddenly there was gunfire and the crowd dispersed. People ran clumsily, arms loaded with loot.

We’re going to be next, Rex thought. He went back into the warehouse and stood behind the metal door as it closed. Looking through the small pane of glass in its center, he threw the bolt and tested the door. This won’t hold long. He felt the pangs of hunger again and went to a large bin of damaged goods, the unsalable items already written off. He grabbed a dented can that had a missing label and took it to the break room. As he entered the break room, the door slammed shut behind him and woke a man who was sleeping on the couch. Others, the ones who had stayed, were scattered around the warehouse, sleeping in corners, on stacks of discarded cardboard. He opened the can and removed the lid. Damn it, dog food again! He left it on the counter. The trashcan was full. Back at the damaged goods bin, he grabbed a box of crackers and a dented can of juice. He decided to go to his office on the second floor, which overlooked the warehouse. He climbed the metal stairs, walked along the wrought-iron deck to his office, and from behind his office window, he watched the silent floor of the warehouse. As he caught his breath from the short climb to his office, he wondered once more about what had happened ten days ago that had made the world surrounding him collapse so fast. He tilted his head back and drained the last drop of liquid out of the can. He went to his desk and tried to toss the empty can into a metal wastebasket. He missed, and it landed on a pile in the corner with the rest of the trash that never made it.

Rex heard footsteps coming up the metal stairs and moving across the wrought-iron deck to his door. The door was open, and he did not raise his head until he heard his name.

“Hey, Rex.”

“Yeah.”

“Sam is out front.”

“What?”

“It’s Sammy Deville. He wants to talk to you.”

“What the hell for?” asked Rex.

“I don’t know.”

“I fired him weeks ago.” Rex thought for a moment, pondering what had happened several weeks ago. He knew Sam lived close, in the apartment complex just down the street, and was probably coming to ask for his job back. “Oh, what the hell. Let him in, but he can’t stay. I’ll get rid of him as fast as I can.”

Sam Deville had worked at the warehouse for years. Rex had hired him, trained him, and tried to be his mentor. Over a period of several years, Sam’s personality had begun to change. It affected his work performance, and eventually, his work-performance evaluations. Sam considered his poor evaluations to be a personal attack, and started to harbor feelings of anger and resentment toward his work and Rex. As his evaluations became worse, his friendships with coworkers faded, so he formed new friendships away from the warehouse. His new friends shared the same bitter outlook on life and felt that they were misunderstood, unappreciated outcasts. As his new relationships grew in this group of men, each man began to feel more loyalty to the group than to anything else. Feeling persecuted, the men found comfort in their common interests, one of which was weaponry. They had stockpiled weapons and ammunition. Considering themselves a militia, they took weekend trips to the woods and studied survival techniques. Sam had read about and familiarized himself with potential apocalyptic events. When the pulse hit, he understood what had happened and what it meant, and he was prepared. According to the group’s plan, when everything started to fall apart they would meet at the rally point, Sam’s apartment, and decide what to do. The men had voted for Sam as the leader, and their leader was ready, willing, and able to do anything for his group. The group did not judge or criticize him. The group was loyal to him, and he returned his complete loyalty to the group.

Under the cover of night and near the apartment complex, he had dug up one cache of long-term food storage that he had buried in the ground for his hungry men. He waited patiently in his apartment for the five men of his militia to arrive. As he waited, he passed the time by looking through his binoculars. He was trying to catch a glimpse of his old boss, Rex Wilson, at Allied Grocery Distribution. That morning, he had watched his former boss smoke his last cigarette in the company parking lot and throw the cigarette butt on the ground. Rex had littered, which was a clear violation of company policy, and that breech of policy made Sam laugh sadistically to himself. At that moment Sam believed that Rex had given up, no longer a company man.

Through his window, Sam saw his five friends arriving at the apartment complex’s parking lot, riding in an old Jeep. He put the binoculars down to his chest. The men looked up into his window, and he waved them up. He brought the binoculars back up to his eyes and studied the man who was walking back into the warehouse. Sam heard a familiar knock on his door and, before he put the binoculars down, angrily mumbled to himself, “Paybacks are hell.”

Sam pounded loudly again on the locked steel door of the Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse as he waited impatiently to be let inside. When a man went downstairs to let Sam in, Rex quickly followed and saw Sam on the other side of the small rectangular window in the front door. Rex quickly went to the bin of damaged goods and selected an armful of the damaged dog food cans, making sure that he removed all the labels. He dashed back up the steps to his office and put the cans on his desk. He reclined in his chair and watched Sam Deville’s profile move past the large glass windows of his office and stop in the open doorway. After Sam had come into the building the man that had opened the front door for him unwisely forgot got to lock it.

“Morning, Rex.”

“Morning, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam, and always has been.” He became irritated when people called him Sammy. It sounded juvenile, and he considered himself the alpha male.

“What can I do for you? How about some canned goods? They’re damaged, so we can waste them. That’s what the rules say.”

Sam did not say anything. He went over to the desk and picked up a can, closely inspecting it.

“I can’t give you your job back,” said Rex. “Sorry, Sammy, it’s a done deal.”

Sam heard the way Rex said his name again, with a tone of disrespect and condescension.

Sam slammed the can onto the desk and yelled, “It’s Sam! My damn name is Sam!”

Startled, Rex pushed with his feet and the wheeled chair rolled back. “Just take the cans and go. There’s nothing for you here.”

Sam leaned forward, palms on the desk, and asked coldly, “With my cans of dog food? Do you think I’m a dog, Rexy?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? I saw the labels for dog food on the floor by the bin of damaged goods. It’s right by the stairs. Don’t forget, I used to work here. I know the codes stamped on the bottom of these cans. Do you think I’m stupid, Rexy?”

Sam walked around the desk and toward Rex, who was still seated in his leather recliner. Rex pushed against the floor, and the chair rolled back until it met the wall. Sam stood menacingly, directly in front of him. Rex looked up at Sam’s flared nostrils and angry, narrowed eyes. He realized that he had made a mistake by allowing him back into the building. Sam reached into his jacket pocket and removed a folding knife. With one hand, he flicked the blade open. Rex’s eyes grew wide, and he pushed his body back into the cushioned chair as Sam brought the blade closer.

“Get away from me!” Rex’s voice began to tremble.

“Am I violating one of your precious rules?”

“I did the right thing when I fired you. You’re a troublemaker.”

Sam dropped the knife onto Rex’s lap and went to the other side of the desk again. He picked up a can of dog food and tossed it onto Rex’s lap.

“Eat it. Use that knife to open the can, and eat it. Tell me what it tastes like. Tell me if you think it’s funny.”

Rex threw the knife and can across the room. “The hell I am.”

“Then hell it is for you, Rexy.” Sam went to the wall that had an outside window, turned a metal handle, and the window moved on its hinges. Sam whistled out the window and moments later the boots of five men could be heard coming up the steps, their profiles seen going uniformly past the office window. They assembled in the office.

Sam threw another can of dog food at him and commanded, “Eat it!”

Rex, in shock and with his mouth hanging open, just shook his head.

Sam moved his jacket to the side and pulled out a semi-automatic pistol.

“Rex, as you are in violation of my policies and procedures, I’m afraid I have no other choice but to terminate you.” The bullet went through Rex’s chest and was stopped by the concrete wall. Sam nodded toward the corpse, and his men knew to clean it up. “Take his fat ass out of here and throw him in the field, down by that stream,” Sam ordered.

They moved the limp body onto an area rug and rolled the carpet into the shape of a tube with the corpse inside so they could carry the gruesome mess away. A circle of blood expanded on the rolled carpet.

The noise from the pistol had captured the attention of all who remained in the warehouse. Sam took the opportunity to go to the wrought-iron balcony in front of the office to see all who had gathered. They recognized Sam, and Sam recognized them. They saw the armed men carry away the roll of bloodstained rug and understood what had just happened.

Sam cupped his hands to his mouth to project his voice and spoke to the men below. “Rex isn’t with us anymore. Anyone who wants to stay…can stay. If you don’t want to stay…” He finished what he was saying with a gesture to the door and walked back into his new office. He saw the chair that he had sat in several weeks ago when Rex fired him, and decided to put it behind the desk. He sat in it, looking around the room. There was a picture on the desk of Rex with his hunting dog. Sam threw it toward a trashcan against the wall, leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his head, and put his feet on the desk.

One of his men walked into the room. “Hey, Boss, it’s done.”

“Any takers?”

“Yup.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

“Ah, that’s a lucky number.”

The man smiled when he saw that Sam was happy.

Sam stood up and walked back to the balcony to survey the floor and the remaining men. He gripped the metal railing and leaned on it. The other man stood by his side.

“We’ve got a lot of food here, but we still need to ration it. I don’t want anybody getting soft on me.”

“Do you want me to give any of the new guys a weapon?”

“Not yet, we need to feel them out first. Check their loyalty. Keep the weapons up here, in the office. There’s only one way into this room, and we’ll keep it guarded for now.”

“Sure, Boss.” There was a moment of silence, and then the man asked, “Do we have a name? Somethin’ to go by?”

“What do you mean?”

“The group, what do we call ourselves?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” said Sam, as he tapped his skull.

Sam walked back into the office and laid full length on the sofa. “How many of us are there now?”

“If you count everyone in the warehouse…like we were one group…that would be… thirteen.”

“Ah, that’s an unlucky number.”

The man frowned when he saw that Sam was unhappy.

“Should I kill one of ‘em? I could round that number down to a nice even twelve.”

Sam sat up, buried his face in his hands, and shook his head. “No, no, no. I wasn’t serious. That’s superstition. Bad luck isn’t real. Don’t kill anybody.” He looked up at the man and said, “But we’ll call ourselves the Lucky Thirteen. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good, Boss.”

“Are you going to kill any of them?”

“No.”

“Not unless I tell you to.”

“Not unless you tell me to.”

Chapter Eight

Days ago, Michael and Becky had sprinted away into the night, hiding under the tree canopy that lined the stream feeding the lake near the neighborhood. Their exodus, after Dylan had violently evicted them from the neighborhood, had taken them upstream, away from the subdivision. As each day passed, the speed of their escape decreased and then their retreat concluded with listless stumbling in the night, until they could walk no further. Weak with hunger, they stopped at a clearing, drank the stream water, and huddled close to one another in an attempt to share their body heat as darkness fell. The cool air invaded the valley and they shivered throughout the night as they suffered from bouts of diarrhea. Finally, the couple gave up. They sprawled on the ground, too hungry, too weak, and too tired to move. Then, as they lay in the darkness, each subsequent bout of diarrhea covered them further in their own filth, their guts wrenched upwards until the last drop of saliva was gone. Michael had faded in and out of consciousness throughout the night. When his eyes opened again, he noticed that he had crawled closer to the stream bank. The babbling water beckoned him and he summoned the strength to extend his hand into the stream. Michael brought a handful to his mouth and lapped up the cool water with the little remaining energy he had. Finally, his intestines quit convulsing; he drank more, and fell asleep again.

The eight hairy legs of a wolf spider woke him as it crawled across his face. Prone on the ground, he did not move. He did not care, and only opened one eye to watch the spider dart across the dirt and leaf litter scattered about under the trees. Finally, he realized that he could see the spider, so it must be morning. He summoned the energy to turn over, and when he did, he looked up through the clearing in the forest. The trees surrounded them like tombstones in a graveyard. Michael saw morning light escaping the horizon. The red light looked like a bloody rag had been squeezed across the skyline. He put his hand on his abdomen. It was silent, the spasms having ceased. On hands and knees, he crawled forward to the water, put his lips to a still portion near the bank, and filled his stomach. He crawled to a tree trunk, and seated on the dirt, leaned his back against the rough bark. His eyes darted back and forth, observing the ground that they had slept on during the dark, moonless night. His wife was still there, half cocooned by leaf litter in a failed attempt to insulate herself from the cold ground, and now, Becky was too weak to even shiver as she slept.

A gray squirrel scampered across her body and she woke, but did not move. Michael watched the squirrel scurry about on the ground as it clawed at the dirt. When the squirrel found an acorn, it climbed back up a tree and disappeared. Michael looked up and realized that it was an oak tree, then looked back down at the ground, squinting in the filtered light. On his hands and knees, he went forward to feel for the acorns. He found one, then another, and soon he had a handful. Michael smashed the nuts between two rocks and ate the bitter pulp. He found more and smashed them for his wife. She leaned back on a rotten log and put hand to mouth, gagging at the bitterness of the smashed acorns. Her mouth was so dry that she choked on the thickness as it went down her throat. She too crawled down to the water and drank from the stillness at the bank. When she moved away from the log, some bark had fallen off it. Michael could see plump grubs slowly crawling around their destroyed home. He took splinters of the wood, skewered each albino larvae, and assembled them on a sheet of rotten bark like hors d'oeuvres. When Becky returned from the water, he placed the bark in front of her. Her contact lenses having been lost days ago, she could not discern what they were. She believed her husband when he told her that they were mushrooms.

The pair reclined on the ground and looked up at the blue sky as full morning dawned and the twinkling stars became just another memory from the night. They waited for the sickness to come back, but it did not. A large bird flew overhead, but for Becky, it was just a dark smudge on a blue background. Michael watched the bird soaring high above and realized that it was circling, floating on an invisible column of air. He strained his eyes to see that it was a buzzard and he thought about his own demise. He wondered if that bird would soon be pecking the flesh from his bones and taking his eyes back to the nest for its hatchlings. He sat up when he realized that the bird was not circling him, but some other carrion nearby. He stood on shaky legs, crossed the stream, and kept walking forward. Nearly under the circling bird, he began to look around and heard a faint rustling in the grass before him. Moving forward a short distance, he found an area of matted grass that a herd of sleeping deer had flattened to the ground. Near a discarded roll of carpet, stained with drying blood, he watched a coyote ravaging the limp corpse of a fawn. After a doe had left her sleeping offspring to get water from the stream, the coyote had taken the opportunity for the kill.

The coyote spun around when it sensed Michael’s presence. Still devouring the tender flesh in its jaws, it growled. The fur arched high across its spine and the coyote turned a little to the side to make itself look bigger, ready to fight for its kill. Michael went back to the stream and desperately looked about for anything he could use as a weapon. He picked up several rocks and started to go back for the fawn. Looking down at the handful of rocks, he realized that once he had thrown them all, the coyote would almost certainly come back to reclaim its meal. Michael dropped the rocks and continued looking for a weapon. He wanted a club. He parted the tall grass, desperately moving his head left and right. Behind a hedge tree, he found a metal fence post, gripped it with both hands, and ran back at the coyote, screaming and swinging it violently. The coyote cowered and moved away with bloody saliva still dripping from its jaws. Michael dragged the fawn to the edge of the babbling water and then crossed the stream. The coyote followed Michael, and he could see it peering through the tall grass, almost perfectly camouflaged by its brown fur.

The fawn was limp and warm. It was a fresh kill. This was fresh meat, and Michael desperately wanted to eat it. The coyote had torn away the soft underbelly, eviscerating the fawn. After taking it across the stream, Michael clawed at the hide with his short fingernails and could not get to the flesh. Becky tried her long fake fingernails, but they quickly broke. Michael tried to bite into the fawn and failed, only getting a mouthful of bristly fur. With a stick and rock, he tried to rub a point onto the end of the wood and use it to pierce the hide. That failed, too. Frustrated, he threw the stick at the water and noticed that it landed near something shiny. It was a discarded, empty liquor bottle. He broke the bottle with a rock and used the sharp, serrated glass to slice away the raw flesh. They ate until their stomachs bulged.

Becky sat back down and leaned against the rotten log again. Michael, with fence post in hand, went back to the water’s edge and looked into the tall grass. As he got closer, he heard the low growl of the coyote, still stalking its prey. Michael crossed the water and clubbed at the coyote. It hastily moved back, but not away. The coyote temporarily retreated, to hide and wait in the fescue and the tall weeds which encapsulated and cloaked the predator. Michael turned back, looked at the trees lining the stream, and then looked ahead in the direction they had been traveling. He could see a large building in the distance, and began to stumble toward it. He got close enough that he could read the sign. In capital letters, he saw, ALLIED GROCERY DISTRIBUTION. Running back to his wife, he dropped the fencepost and forgot about the coyote.

From the other side of the stream he yelled, “Becky!”

Still leaning against the log, she only turned her head toward the sound of his voice and lethargically asked, “What?”

“Come here, quick! I want to show you something.”

Michael gestured for his wife to come toward him, but she could only see a blurry outline of his body.

She crawled to the stream’s edge and stood up. His image was still hazy. She could smell him better than she could see him.

Michael pointed upstream. “Look, that building. It’s a food warehouse.”

Becky looked, even though she knew she would not be able to see it. She glanced back down and grasped the shard of glass tighter in her hand. After she crossed the stream, she said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

Michael saw the glass in her hand. “What do you mean?”

She held the sharp glass up to show her husband. “This is my ticket out. I can’t live like this.”

“Suicide?” asked Michael.

“Call it what you want. I prefer escape. Escape from hell.” Her weak arm collapsed to her side. “Do you believe in karma?” asked Becky.

“No.”

“You better believe it now. We just got a big dose of payback, and the universe is laughing at us.”

Michael was shocked at his wife’s confession. When she was telling him how nothing mattered anymore and how she was ready to go, his vision began to tunnel. He lost contact with his immediate surroundings and his consciousness began to escape him. He did not hear three men approaching, and Becky, with her poor vision, could not see them. By the time Michael came back to reality, the three men had come close and were standing in the matted grass where he had found the fawn. Even then, the men still had not noticed the married couple. Michael and Becky were standing still next to the trees, partially camouflaged by the tall grass. They stood motionless.

Two men had escorted another through the field, hands tied behind his back. They stopped in the bloody grass where Michael had found the fawn. In the clearing, the men told the bound man to stop, and he began to visibly tremble. The first escort told the captive to turn around and drop to his knees. The captive rested his knees on the roll of bloodstained carpet, then began to cry and beg for mercy. The second escort handed the first one a pistol and then took a step back. Without hesitation, the first man racked the slide, raised the pistol to the back of the kneeling man’s head, and only a second after he squinted one eye, pulled the trigger.

“Good. You didn’t hesitate,” said the second man, as he took the pistol back. He turned to survey the landscape and finally noticed Michael and Becky, standing frozen with fear. The man with the pistol slapped his accomplice in the chest with the back of his hand. Not taking his eyes off the couple, he went toward them, his accomplice right beside him. He stopped a few feet away and raised the pistol, pointing it at Michael’s skull, and demanded, “Who are you?”

“My name is Michael.” He quickly engaged his fake smile, a wide, tight-lipped smile to hide the gap in his front teeth.

Becky nervously answered, “My name is Becky.” She dropped the jagged glass and felt a renewed desire for self-preservation. Suddenly, she did not want to die.

“Shut up, bitch, I wasn’t talking to you.” He lowered the pistol. “Are you from the apartment complex?”

Michael responded. “No, we had a house, but decided to leave. We’ve been walking.” Michael noticed that one of the men wore a shirt embroidered with the name of the food warehouse. It was completely unbuttoned in the front, and he was wearing it over a dingy yellow undershirt. They looked healthy, as if they had enough to eat. He quickly deduced that the warehouse was where the men had come from, and they must have plenty of food.

The man with the pistol motioned for his friend to step back so they could speak privately with each other. The man with the pistol, still watching the couple, asked his partner, “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Boss says we’re down too many men.”

“So?”

“We bring him back, let Sam check him out.”

“Think so?” He rubbed his chin as he stared at the couple. “Think they’ll come along?”

“They look desperate to me. Desperate people will do anything for food, and they’re easy to control.”

“How do we coax them along? A carrot and a stick?” He laughed to himself.

“No, a carrot and a pistol.”

Both men laughed loudly, and they walked back to the couple.

The man with the pistol nodded at Michael. “You want a job?”

Michael smiled broadly, his lips separating from his teeth, and the two men instantly roared with laughter at the large gap in Michael’s smile. The beating Dylan had given him had knocked out a perfectly veneered front tooth.

“But what about me?” Becky pleaded.

“Michael, you better muzzle that bitch. Is she your wife?”

“Yeah, we’re married.”

“You’re going to need to act like a man if you’re going to talk to the boss. If he thinks you’re a pussy…” The man paused, looked back in the direction of the corpse in the grass, and then looked at Michael and shook his head.

Becky hung her head low and looked at the blurry ground around her feet. She understood.

“Now tell her to shut up.”

“Becky, be quiet. I’ll do the talking.”

“That’s not what I said. I said, ‘Tell her to shut up.’ You better get serious about this.”

“Shut up, Becky.”

“Good, now say it like you mean it.”

“Shut up, Becky!”

“Good. You better keep her in check.” He looked across the stream and saw the ravaged fawn carcass. “What in the hell happened here?”

“I was hungry. I took it from a coyote.”

The man whistled and looked back at Michael. He tried to see if there was something in Michael’s eyes. Something he had not noticed before. He narrowed one eye and thought he might have seen it at that moment, something people with no soul share with one another.

“We’ll tell the boss about this. He’ll like your enthusiasm.” As he said that, he realized that the blood around Michael’s mouth was from the fawn. He took his shirt off and handed it to Michael to wipe his face. As he did, Michael saw the number thirteen tattooed on the man’s arm. The man pointed to the warehouse and they began to walk, with Michael and Becky in the lead. She walked in silence.

Hidden within the foliage, the coyote slipped through the tall grass, each paw falling silently in front of the other. It peered into the area of trampled grass, where the fawn had been, and found another meal. It smelled the blood that had gushed out of the fractured skull of the executed man and was pooled and coagulating on the grass. Gray brain matter lay exposed, and the coyote quickly devoured it. Finally, the coyote was replete and satisfied; its pink tongue licked the blood from around its mouth. After sniffing the air for danger, she called her litter of pups. The coyote reclined on her side and each small pup took a nipple.

Chapter Nine

Michael and Becky walked through the field and away from the stream, toward the warehouse. If their paced slowed, one of the men following would prod them with the pistol. No one spoke during the short trek to the warehouse parking lot. When they stepped out of the grass and onto the blacktop, they were facing the front of the large two-story concrete building. A few stalled cars were in the parking lot. Michael saw some semi-trucks backed up to loading bays behind the building. He also noticed railroad tracks near the building and a large lot behind the warehouse for loading and unloading railcars.

Michael nudged his wife, pointed to the sign on the front of the warehouse, and whispered in her ear, “Allied Grocery Distribution. How’s that for your karma?”

Becky squinted. The big letters were barely large enough for her to see. She wanted to smile, thinking she might have been wrong, but it still sounded too good to be true. It just did not make sense, all that food in a warehouse, and they were just going to walk right into it. Instead of smiling, she shook her head gently and hung her head low. She remembered what the man behind her had said, and the words, “You better muzzle that bitch,” still rang in her ears.

They felt another prod at their backs and walked toward the steel door at the front of the building. Two armed men were at the door. They were large men who looked like bulldogs, one with a rifle and the other with a shotgun.

At the front door, one of the escorting soldiers behind the couple said, “Stop here.”

The guard with the shotgun walked around the couple and slowly looked them up and down. He stopped behind them and spoke with the other two men. Michael and Becky did not turn or try to join the conversation. They faced the steel door and tried to look through the small glass window. They listened to the men speak as they strained for any sight of food inside the building.

“Fresh meat?” asked the man with the shotgun.

“Ha! Can’t you smell ‘em? I wouldn’t call that fresh.”

The soldiers laughed.

“Are you going to take them to Sam?” asked the man with the shotgun.

“Yeah, we’re down a man.”

The guard at the door tried not to laugh about the man the two soldiers had just executed in the field, but the others roared aloud. Morbid humor was popular.

“They look hungry. Sam likes ‘em hungry. He says they’re easier to train that way,” said the man with the shotgun, as he returned to his post. He reached into a bag by the door and retrieved a pair of sunglasses from it. When the man stretched his arm to reach into the bag, his shirtsleeve had pulled back, and Michael noticed another number thirteen tattooed on an arm. One of the guards pushed the door open, went inside, and held it open for Michael, Becky, and the two soldiers to enter behind him.

“Sam’s a little busy right now with some inventory problems. Do you want to clean them up before you send them upstairs?”

“Nope. If Sam don’t want ‘em, I’m not wastin’ my time.”

The guard went back to his post. The door closed with a metallic click that echoed inside. One of their escorts walked away without saying a word.

The remaining man tucked the pistol into his belt, pointed to the wrought-iron deck near Sam’s office on the second level, and then spoke to the couple. “I’m going to go up there and tell Sam, the boss, that I found some recruits. He’ll look you over and ask you some questions. If he likes what he sees, you can stick around…as long as you follow the rules.”

“What are the rules?” asked Michael.

“The rules are simple. Do whatever you’re told to do.”

“What happens if you break the rules?”

The man frowned and shrugged his shoulders, tilting his head toward the direction of the field that they just came from. Michael understood the gesture.

“You wait here. I’ll go upstairs and tell him there are two new people to interview. If I wave you up, come up and wait on the deck until he calls you into his office. Any questions?”

“What if you don’t wave us up?”

“Then you turn right around and get your ass out of here. You’re stinking up my warehouse.”

The man marched across the concrete floor and climbed the stairs. Each heavy step on the iron stairs echoed in the warehouse. An older man waited outside Sam’s office. He nervously paced across the deck. His shaking hand clutched a roll of papers. Their escort opened the door and entered the office just long enough to inform Sam of the couple’s presence. When the soldier left Sam’s office, he motioned for the older man to go in. As the man entered, his shoulders dropped, and he slowly and submissively moved forward. While their escort came down the stairs, Michael and Becky became tense with anticipation, which increased with each step down.

She whispered, “Has he waved yet?”

“No, he’s still walking.”

“What’s his expression? Can you tell?”

“No, I can’t tell anything. Just wait.”

The man stepped onto the ground-floor landing and suddenly grabbed the banister to swing his body around as he exited the stairs and walked away. Michael’s heart dropped. Then just as suddenly, the soldier spun around again, gave the couple a quick wave, and pointed to the metal deck at the top of the steps.

“This is it,” said Michael.

“He waved?” asked Becky.

“Yeah, follow me.”

They walked up the stairs and waited on the deck. They could see into the office through the large glass windows. Sam was behind his desk and the older man was sitting in front of it. He appeared to be nervously answering a barrage of questions. The windows were single pane, and someone had left the door cracked open. They watched and listened as Sam interrogated the man.

“Clarence, do you understand why you’re here?” Sam asked the older man seated before him.

“Yes, there’s a misunderstanding,” Clarence answered. Sweat was soaking his shirt under his arms.

“Misunderstanding?” Sam asked, with a tone of disbelief.

“Yes, sir.”

“How many pencils are in this cup?” Sam took a plastic cup that contained pencils off the desk and held it up for the man to see. Clarence’s eyes quickly scanned the pencils. “Twelve.”

“Yes, twelve. I would agree with you. There are twelve. No misunderstanding. You don’t need glasses, correct?”

“Yes, sir, correct.”

Sam used a toothpick to skewer a large, black olive out of a glass jar, ate it, then held up the open jar of olives for the man to see. “How many?”

“I can’t tell, sir. They’re in the jar and the fluid is dark. I can’t see them.”

Sam chuckled. “That was a trick question. The answer is one. You would only count one jar of olives. Correct?”

“Oh. Yes, sir, I understand.”

“You don’t need glasses, do you, Clarence?” Sam asked again.

“Yes, sir, that is right.”

“And you can count?” asked Sam, with a condescending tone in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

Sam stabbed another dark olive with a toothpick and put it in his mouth. He slowly chewed the olive, swallowed, and left the toothpick hanging at the corner of his mouth. After a moment of silently staring at the man, he said, “You know why you’re here.”

“No, sir.”

Sam violently slapped his hand on the desk and yelled, “The hell you don’t!” He then leaned back in his chair and began to speak in a calmer tone. “I gave you a chance to work for me. You didn’t have to go work at the bartering lot and hassle the traders for my cut. I didn’t ask you to be an enforcer and put bullets in people’s heads.” Sam opened the top drawer of his desk, removed a pistol, and put it on the desktop. Clarence’s eyes grew wide with fear. “All I wanted you to do was track my inventory. Just count what comes and goes, but you decided to steal from me. You betrayed my trust and took from me.”

The man whimpered, “I can recount, maybe if I count again the inventory numbers will bounce back.”

“I’ve already counted again. Do you think you’re the only person here who can count boxes?” Sam pushed a pile of papers forward. Penciled across them were the real and accurate inventory numbers. Clarence looked away.

“Do you have some sweet young thing at the apartment complex? Did she tell you she loves you? Maybe you thought you could impress her with some goodies from the warehouse?” Clarence looked farther away, out the window, wishing to be anywhere but here. “Your sweet little thing has a big mouth. She’s busted, too.” Sam put his hand on the pistol. “I gave her to my boys. She’s not so pretty anymore.”

Clarence collapsed to his knees in front of the desk and dropped the papers that he had been clutching so tightly in his hands. “Please, don’t kill me. Please, just give me another chance.” He looked up, eyes bloodshot and tear-filled, barely peering over the top of Sam’s desk. Snot poured out of his nostrils as he cried for mercy.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you,” Clarence said profusely.

“You owe me.”

“Of course, anything.”

Sam stood up, walked out his office door, and onto the metal deck. He ignored the couple standing there, looking through them as if they did not exist. Sam scanned the warehouse floor and whistled as loud as he could to get the attention of one of the men who had escorted the couple to the warehouse. He waved the man up to his office and then he returned to sit behind his desk. The man entered the office, leaving the door wide open, and stood there.

“Clarence just let me know that he’s very sorry for stealing from me, and he won’t do it again.”

“That so? How’s he going to pay you back?”

“Well…I never thought about that.” Sam rubbed his chin. “We could use him as an example. Show people that we have a system of justice around here.”

“Seems fair,” said the man, now sitting back in his chair.

“Good!” said Sam. He picked up a large bolt cutter that he had hidden behind the desk.

Clarence’s eyes grew wide again. “No, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes. Hold your left hand out. If you flinch, I’ll throw you off the steps.”

Shaking, the man held up his hand, turned his head away, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Sam snipped away Clarence’s little finger. The old man’s hand began to bleed, and he screamed when he looked at the missing digit. It had fallen to the cold concrete floor, and Sam kicked it out of his office, where it fell to the first level through the gaps of the metal decking.

“Now leave, before I quit feeling so generous.”

Sam tilted his head at the married couple, and the soldier understood that the nod meant for him to stay. Clarence scurried away, clutching his injured hand close to his body. As the he passed the couple, Becky whispered to her husband, “Karma.” Michael swallowed hard.

“Next!” Sam skewered another black olive and savored the rich flavor as the couple entered the room. “What have we here?”

“Found them in the field, Boss. They look like they want some work.”

Sam stared at the couple until he had eaten the last of the olives from the glass jar. He held the jar over a trashcan beside his desk and started to pour out the juice. He noticed Michael’s face, his open mouth, and the saliva running down his chin. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Michael nodded.

Sam put the jar of olive juice near the edge of the table. Michael grabbed it, tilted his head back, and drank it all.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael, and this is my wife, Becky.”

“Becky, have a seat.” She sat in the chair, and her husband stood behind her.

“Michael. Do you want to work for me?”

Michael nodded.

“What did you do before all this happened?”

“Sold cars.”

“Used cars?”

“Yeah.”

“Good!” Sam lifted an eyebrow. “A con man. I bet you don’t mind taking things from people.” Sam made a grasping motion at the air, then spoke to the soldier. “What do you think? The bartering lot?”

“Sounds like a good fit. Maybe he could help the crew get a piece of the traders’ profits.”

“Yes, exactly what I was thinking.”

“What about my wife? Anything for her?”

“Maybe. She looks young enough.”

“I’ll do anything,” said Becky, as she felt her opportunity slipping away.

Sam inclined his head to the side and narrowed one eye. “Oh, I’m sure you will. But there’s not a lot of opportunity for women, and my vetting process is difficult for couples.”

“We’re ready,” said Michael.

“Alright, then,” said Sam as he enthusiastically slapped both palms on his desk. He put his hand on the pistol lying on his desktop and nodded at the escort. The escort removed his pistol.

“Cover them,” Sam ordered the soldier.

Michael held up his hands and said, “There must be a misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding.” Sam handed Michael the pistol.

“What?”

“Can you shoot a pistol?”

“Yes.”

“Good! You passed the first test.” Michael smiled, and Sam circled behind him.

“Now for the final test. A test of loyalty. Put the pistol to her head and pull the trigger.”

“What?” Michael gasped.

Michael felt the muzzle of a pistol prod his back.

“What if I don’t?”

“You have to go. That would be a bleak future for you if you don’t. Maybe you could go sell some used cars?” Sam laughed sadistically, then leaned to Becky’s ear and whispered, “If you so much as squeak while you’re in that chair, the man that brought you out of that field is going to put you six feet under it.” Becky nodded. Tears had already begun to fall from her cheek.

“Here we are, Michael. It’s go time. I’m going to count down from five, and you better make a decision.”

“Five, four, three…”

Michael raised the pistol.

“Two.”

His hands shook and he closed his eyes.

“One!”

Michael pulled the trigger. The sound of the firing pin plunging into an empty chamber was deafening in his mind.

Becky gasped for air and opened her eyes. I’m alive!

Michael, as stunned as his wife, tossed the empty pistol on the desk and stared at his shaking hands.

“Congratulations, you’re hired.”

Still stunned, Michael did not say anything.

“You might be surprised how many times it happens this way,” Sam professed, as he gestured for the escort to remove Becky.

The escort grasped her arm. She stood up, still shaking and in shock. He walked her out the door and down the stairs.

“What about her? Doesn’t she go with me?”

“She’s going to get cleaned up and work in the brothel.”

“That’s my wife. We’re married.”

“I guess you didn’t realize it, but you just got divorced. Trust me, it’s better this way. Couples never make it through one of my therapy sessions.” Sam laughed sadistically again.

Chapter Ten

After a quick look at the ragged map, Dylan and Kevin started their trek out of the neighborhood, following the creek upstream. Dylan had left the rifle at the house, tucked away on the top shelf of the walk-in closet, opting to bring his bow and arrows instead. Kevin donned the backpack, and after deciding to travel light, only brought a few items. He carried the pistol in his front pocket and Dylan’s arrows in the backpack. They did not plan for this to be a long trip. Just long enough to see what a day’s walk upstream would reveal.

The morning sun broke through the low gray clouds and tried to bring some warmth to the start of the day. Dew still hung on the blades of grass. The Community Center, surrounded by the vine-covered black metal fence, came into view in the distance. When they got close to the swimming pool, the creaking sound of the fence’s gate caught their attention. John Sisk was exiting the pool area and walking toward Dylan and Kevin. John was looking down, not noticing the two men, and trying to adjust his bandolier of shotgun shells with one hand while holding a shotgun with the other. Before John got any closer, Dylan cleared his throat. The noise startled John, bringing his senses back to attention. John reacted by grasping the shotgun with both hands and quickly raising it to his shoulder. Then he just as swiftly lowered it when he saw Dylan and Kevin. He stared in silence at the two men, irritated at their presence.

Dylan broke the silence by asking, “Where’s your entourage?”

John did not answer the question. He hooked the shotgun with his right arm and let the barrel swing straight down. He spread his legs and stood with a wide stance on the sidewalk. “Somebody broke into the pool’s filter room. The door is clean off its hinges. Know anything about that?”

“Not a clue,” answered Dylan. He pointed a thumb at Kevin. “I’ve been looking out for squatters.”

Kevin laughed.

“You’re funny, asshole.” John looked around the neighborhood, quickly surveying the landscape.

“Are you going to get that pool fixed?” Dylan asked sarcastically.

Ignoring the question, John asked, “Where the hell are you going?”

“Away.”

“That’s a good direction for you,” John retorted.

“Then, if you don’t mind…” Dylan bowed mockingly and continued toward the trees that lined the stream at the neighborhood’s edge.

A clearing was visible in the trees just a short distance up the stream. They decided to cross the stream there and continue walking. Just before they crossed, Kevin looked back and saw John still standing there, watching them. Kevin tapped Dylan’s shoulder and pointed back at John. Dylan saw John standing there with the bandolier of shotgun shells and the shotgun in his hand, looking for trouble.

“He’s got nothing better to do?” Dylan asked rhetorically.

They emerged from the trees on the other side of the stream. Undeveloped land appeared in front of them. It looked like acres of pastureland, just as Dylan’s neighborhood had been not many years before. About fifty yards away, there was an old two-story farmhouse with peeling white paint and crooked shutters. To their left, a small barn with a sliding door stood near the stream. Just like the house, it needed repair. Red paint had peeled away, exposing gray wood to the elements. Positioned between the men and the house, Kevin spotted a hand-pump well on a concrete platform. The weathered metal had a tinge of surface rust. A metal cup hung from a wire, swinging gently in the breeze. Behind the house was a small field of corn, almost tall enough to be mature. Tall grass surrounded most of the house. However, an area of grass had been cleared for a large garden. The weed-free garden gave them a clue that this was not abandoned property, so they understood the need to proceed with caution.

“I sure would like to get a taste of that well water. I bet it’s nice and cold.” Kevin removed the backpack and rummaged through it to find his bottle of filtered stream water.

“Let’s not go past the well. We’ll just get some of that cold well water and continue. I don’t want to stumble across somebody’s itchy trigger finger.” Dylan quickly looked around for any other hints of habitation. “Somebody’s been taking care of that garden. We aren’t alone here.”

The garden had neat rows of a variety of vegetables. A small goat stood tethered to a metal fence post. The post was far enough away that the long rope would not allow the goat to nibble on the garden plants. It seemed as if someone had moved the post periodically, allowing the goat to eat grass in alternating sections of the yard.

The men cautiously advanced to the hand pump. Kevin placed his backpack next to the pump’s concrete platform and grasped the cold metal handle. He could see that the metal grip had a different patina than the rest of the metal. It was an indication that someone was still using the pump for water. Both men cautiously looked around again, but saw no one. Kevin pulled the handle up and down quickly. It creaked, and water came gushing out of the spout. Dylan held the bottles under the stream of water and replaced what had been in the bottles with the cool well water. When he finished pumping, Kevin dropped the handle, causing a loud clank. A short moment later, they heard a screen door slam, and they looked up toward the house. On the porch, a man stood holding a rifle, not in a threatening way, but as a visible warning. Dylan and Kevin stood there, frozen in place, nervously holding their bottles of water.

“What do we do?” asked Kevin.

“Don’t run. He’ll think we’re up to no good. Besides, that’s a rifle. He could pick us off before we got back to the trees.” Dylan took the bow off his back and sat it on the backpack. “Wave and smile.”

“Okay, but he’s not smiling back,” said Kevin.

“Put the water down and walk over to him,” said Dylan. “Walk slowly and keep your hands up.”

“You really want to do this?” asked Kevin.

“Look at all that corn.” Dylan nodded to the field while he kept smiling, hands held high. “We’re going to have to grow our own food. He might have equipment we can use, and there sure is enough land.”

“I still don’t like this.”

“Okay, you stay here,” said Dylan. “I want to try and talk to this guy.”

“Go ahead,” Kevin responded. “I’ll wait here.” Kevin stood by the pump and felt the weight of the pistol in his front pocket. He knew that he did not stand a chance against a rifle at that distance. They were at the man’s mercy.

Dylan stopped in front of the wooden porch where the man stood. The man had not moved as he watched Dylan advance. He stood there like a statue, with legs spread wide, holding a rifle. From the height of the porch, he looked down at Dylan without any expression of emotion. The man had curly, dark hair and bushy eyebrows on top of prominent brow ridges. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his gray chest hair. Dylan could see that the man’s nose had one distinguishing characteristic; it had been broken. He had the crooked nose of a boxer. Dylan glanced down and saw the man’s strong hands with heavy knuckles, calloused and scraped. This man, built for action, reminded Dylan of a human pit bull.

“Morning,” said Dylan, uncomfortably trying to initiate a conversation.

“What do you want?” the man grumbled.

“Just some water. We don’t mean any harm.”

The man stood silently and looked at Dylan suspiciously. “You from around here?”

“Yeah, the neighborhood behind me.”

The man stood silently again, looked Dylan over, and then looked around his land and deep into the trees that lined the stream. “The name’s Tom Rigby. Who are you?”

“Dylan Smith.”

“Does your friend have any weapons?”

“He’s got a pistol.”

“How about you?”

“Nothing. My bow is by your well.”

“Well, Dylan, wave your buddy over here.”

Dylan gestured for Kevin to walk over to them. Tom stared at Kevin, looking him up and down cautiously as he approached.

“I know you have a pistol,” announced Tom.

Kevin, hands still in the air, nodded and remained quiet.

“Put your hands down,” said Tom. “I’m locked and loaded here, so don’t do anything stupid. Got that?”

“This is Kevin Brown. He’s staying with me.”

Tom looked around again, surveying the land once more while groaning with displeasure. “Who’s your friend?”

Dylan repeated himself, louder this time, “Kevin Brown.”

“No, I mean your other friend.” He pointed behind them toward the clearing in the trees. Behind them, standing in the clearing by the stream, was John Sisk. He had followed them and was now staring at the trio. Tom held up the rifle and looked through the scope at John. “Yep, that’s a shotgun.” He lowered the scope from his eye. “What the hell do you want?”

“He’s not with us,” said Kevin.

“Do you know him?”

Dylan hesitated, trying to think of the best way to answer the question. “He’s from the neighborhood, too. They elected him as their leader. I think it went to his head.” He looked back at John and then turned around again. “He doesn’t like us and the feeling is mutual.”

Tom whistled loudly and waved John to come over. “Maybe we need to have a big group hug here?”

“I’ll pass on that,” said Dylan.

Tom chuckled, finally showing a bit of emotion.

When John reached the well, Tom yelled toward him, instructing him to drop the shotgun. John placed it on the concrete. On John’s approach, Dylan and Kevin moved and stood farther apart from each other. John stood between them, but further away from Tom, who was still poised on the porch.

John spoke arrogantly to Tom, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Tom’s bushy eyebrows shot upwards. “Listen, asshole, this is my land. What do you want?”

“Just keeping an eye on these two.”

Dylan and Kevin rolled their eyes and sighed at the comment.

Tom shook his head. He walked backwards a few steps and sat on a rusty metal chair on the porch. He leaned back in the chair, the front legs rising off the porch, and let back of his head rest on the ivy climbing the side of his house. The rifle was across his lap. His head tilted back as he looked at the three men down the crooked bridge of his nose. “Last chance…what do you want?”

“We just wanted some water, honest,” Dylan answered. “Then I saw the field of corn you have, and that caught my eye—”

The front legs of the metal chair slammed down on the porch. “That’s what I thought! You want to take from me, don’t you?”

Dylan bowed his head, closed his eyes and softly said, “No.” With his palms in the air again, Dylan continued to speak. “We need food and we’ll have to grow it. It’s too late to plant another crop now, but in the spring…is there any way you could share your land? Help us plant something?” Dylan pointed to the field. “If you have working equipment, you could help feed a lot of hungry people. We could help you in some way; maybe help bring the corn in from the field.” Dylan put his hands down by his sides. “I honestly didn’t know this was here. We just stumbled across it, but now that we’re here, and I can see how much you have…let’s face it, Tom…you have more than enough for yourself. Can we help you and get a share of that grain?”

“So, you want a cut of the crop?” Tom leaned back in the chair.

“We can help,” Dylan replied. “I can find people to work the land. Are you alone here? It looks like too much for one person.”

Tom’s expression changed, appearing to soften. He glanced toward a tall tree by the barn, and the two mounds of black dirt under the shade of the tree’s canopy. Each mound had a crude cross, made of tree branches held together with twisted barbwire. “My parents, rest in peace. This was their land.” Tom reached for his hat to put it across his chest. Realizing that he was not wearing one, he lowered his hand and then grabbed the rifle stock instead.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” said Dylan, remorsefully.

“I was a contractor in Springfield. I came up here to help my parents when they told me they were selling the land. It was going to take a year for the deal to go through, so I planted one last crop of corn for my dad. The deer loved that corn and he just loved to watch the deer eat it, and they would, all winter long. My mom, bless her heart, wanted to grow one more garden. So I got the tiller out and doubled the size of it for her.” Tom cleared his throat. “Then the shit hit the fan. My father had cancer and ran out of medicine. He didn’t last long, and my mother went right after he did.”

“Tom, if we could use that tractor and tiller,” Dylan gasped at the thought, “we could break up more of this field and plant food for the community. And that tiller could tear up some lawns for small gardens.”

“It’s gone. I sold it all. I came up to help them liquidate everything. All I have left is a little plow to pull behind a small tractor, plus a broken-down pickup.”

Dylan’s heart dropped and the men remained silent for a moment.

Tom brought the chair back down on four legs, stood up, jumped off the porch, and started to walk to his barn. “Follow me.”

The men followed Tom to the barn. He slid the ragged door open. The morning light filtered its way through the dusty air. Inside the barn, near the back, was a partition made of plywood and canvas. The plywood was pristine, as were the sheets of canvas secured to the framework as a barrier. Inside the barn sat an old pickup truck with the hood open. “Let’s see if we can work out a deal,” said Tom, spryly.

“What kind of deal?” asked Dylan.

“Now, hold on,” John interjected. “I was elected by a majority vote, so all deals have to go through me.”

“John,” Dylan tried to speak calmly, but his irritation was obvious. “Take a look around and tell me which one of us voted for you.”

John clenched his teeth and took a step back behind Dylan and Kevin. He leaned into the bed of the pickup and picked at a flake of rust with a long, dirty fingernail.

Tom moved to stand in front of the open engine bay and said, “I need this truck to run. It sputters, and then it dies. You get this truck to run, and I’ll give whoever helps pick the corn a cut of the harvest.”

John’s ears perked up. “What did you say?”

“Get this here engine runnin’.”

John went to the front of the truck. “I see the problem. Distributer cap is gone.”

“I know the distributer cap is gone. I took it off to make it hard to steal.”

“Then it’s the fuel line. You got some dirty gas.”

Tom’s head turned to the wall of the barn, looking at an old metal gas can with paint worn off the handle and the remaining red paint mostly faded away.

“Oh,” said John. “You didn’t use the gas that was in that old thing, did you?”

“Afraid so.”

John brought the gas can into the sunlight, opened the top, and tilted the can around to see the round circle of sunlight move about the bottom of the can.”

“Sludge. It’s got to be in the fuel tank, too.”

“Bad?”

“I’ll have to drop the tank, but I can fix it.”

“Then I’ll need some good gas, too. Fix this truck and get me some good gas, and I’ll give you a share of the corn.” Tom took a quick glance at the partitioned section of his barn and added, “Firewood, I’ll need firewood, too.”

“Are you thinking about leaving if we get you enough gas?” John asked. “Maybe go back to Springfield?”

“Hell, no. Where I lived has probably burned to the ground. My roots are here now.”

“I saw a huge pile of old trees, rough cut and piled high,” said Kevin. “Where they were starting the new phase of the subdivision. It looks like they clear cut several acres to get it ready to develop, and just bulldozed all those old trees into a pile.”

Dylan nodded his head. He had seen the trees, too.

“That wood is dry by now,” said John. “I’ve got a chainsaw. We could cut up a bunch of those logs.” John tapped the truck. “We’d need this truck to haul it back here.”

“Sounds like you better get busy fixin’ my truck. I’ll get my tools.” Tom walked to the back of the barn and pulled a sheet of canvas to the side. John had followed him, silently. When Tom noticed that John was behind him, he stopped, put his hand up, and said, “Go back.”

John obeyed, but stared at the partitioned section of barn with intense curiosity as he went back to the truck.

After returning from behind the partitioned section of the barn, Tom set two toolboxes on the gravel floor and stood with his hand on his hips. “Is it a deal?”

Kevin nodded to Dylan and Dylan nodded to John.

“Deal,” said John, “But we’ll have to work on getting the fuel.”

Tom seemed to relax, showing the hint of a smile, and came close to the three men with an extended hand. Each man shook Tom’s hand in turn.

Dylan, the last to shake his hand, looked him in the eye as he did. He noticed a crude tattoo of a teardrop below Tom’s left eye and thought that seemed rather uncharacteristic for a contractor, a businessman. “What kind of contracting work did you do? Home building? Heavy construction?”

“All kinds.”

Dylan watched Tom’s body language and did not think he had gotten an honest answer, but it was too soon to judge a man he had just met.

The large shadow of a blue heron went across the tall grass like a dark spirit. Dylan looked up at the clearing sky and saw the large bird flying away from the lake, in the direction they were heading before the detour at Tom’s house. It reminded Dylan of their plan to walk upstream.

Dylan nudged Kevin. “We need to get on our way.”

John heard Dylan’s cue and offered his hand. Reluctantly, Dylan shook John’s hand, and then Dylan started to walk away with Kevin.

“Thanks for the water,” said Dylan.

“Stay in touch.” Tom was standing in the barn with his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, smashing his curly hair flat to his scalp.

The men gathered their belongings at the well and left to continue their journey upstream. When they were safely out of earshot, Kevin stopped to adjust the backpack. Dylan looked back at the barn and asked, “Did you notice that tattoo?”

“The teardrop?”

“Yeah, I thought that was only something a convict got?”

“I don’t know a lot about that.”

They followed the curves of the stream for hours. They stopped at a cluster of trees on the stream bank where they judged their location to be half a day’s walk from home. They thought this would be a good location to stop so they could spend the second half of the day walking back, hopefully before dark. The men went into the trees for shade and found a large, fallen tree. They sat on the rotten log to rest their tired feet. In front of them were the remains of a fawn, eviscerated and with portions of flesh sliced away.

“That little fawn didn’t stand a chance,” said Kevin. “What do you think got it? Dogs?”

“Probably.” Dylan knelt by it for a closer look and saw the bloody, broken glass on the dirt. “Or maybe not. I don’t think a dog would use broken glass to slice its meal.” Dylan stood up. “Let’s move into the grass and take a look around before we go any farther.”

After they crossed the stream, Kevin removed the backpack and took out the binoculars. He could see a building in the distance, and with the binoculars, he could read the sign. In large capital letters, he saw, ALLIED GROCERY DISTRIBUTION.

“Food warehouse, straight ahead.” He handed Dylan the binoculars.

Dylan took the binoculars and walked farther into the grass to get a different angle. He walked until he found a clearing of matted grass. In that clearing, he saw a corpse with its hands still tied behind its back and its skull partially gone. The body was next to a roll of bloodstained carpet.

Kevin kicked the carpet. It unrolled, revealing the decomposing corpse that was inside the tube. The shirt was intact, and Kevin could see a name embroidered on a patch near a bullet wound, Rex Wilson. It was an Allied Grocery Distribution uniform.

“Militia did this,” said Kevin.

“Militia?”

“When I went to the barter lot with David, a man warned me about the militia. He told me the militia took over a food warehouse and used that food to bribe people into joining them. He said they are heavily armed.”

Dylan looked around with the binoculars. He saw the railroad tracks that went close to the empty loading bay. Two trailers were still by the truck loading dock on the black asphalt parking lot. He lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Kevin. He looked at the corpses and then back up to the building. “I knew it was too good to be true,” said Dylan. He kicked the tied and bound corpse over to see that it was also wearing an Allied Grocery Distribution uniform. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Eleven

Over the next week, Dylan spent his time finishing several more bows. He had promised them to men in the neighborhood, and he was a man of his word. Dylan had made some more arrows and created arrowheads from Kevin’s metal spoons by heating them in a fire to soften the metal and then smashing them flat on the concrete patio with a sledgehammer. The sharp tips were fashioned with a metal file. The arrowheads were crude. He really needed razor-tipped arrows, the kind that used to be produced in a factory. He was concerned with how close he would need to be to kill a deer with his untested arrowheads. To help Dylan with the time-consuming process, Mary had kept the children occupied, and so did Kevin, when he was not hunting. With the blunt-tipped arrows, they were only able to get small game, like rabbits and squirrels. Getting a deer and sharing the venison would do more than appease hungry people. Dylan thought that hunting and sharing the meat might bring people together and entice cooperation. He distributed the crude, metal-tipped arrows to his neighbors, and hoped for the best.

During the same timeframe in which Dylan had created the homemade arrowheads, the water in the attic’s rain barrel had warmed from the heat radiating from the asphalt shingles, just as planned. Up the hill from Dylan’s house, the spring water had seeped through the jagged rock of the abandoned foundation and filled the pit. They siphoned the water down the hill to Dylan’s house, and connected the hose to his spigot. They used the warm water from the rain barrel, carrying an odor of chlorine, to wash clothes and bathe, and filtered the cold spring water for drinking.

Dylan was standing in his driveway, ready to deliver another newly made bow to a promised recipient, when he saw a lone figure walking down the street in his direction. As the figure grew larger, he could see that it was a man carrying something in each hand, dangling by his sides. Then he recognized John, and realized that he was carrying two five-gallon gas cans, obviously empty from the way they bounced freely off his thighs. John walked up the driveway and set them at the rear of Dylan’s car.

“I did my part,” said John, smugly. “You better come up with some gas.”

Dylan saw the dirt and grease caked into the skin of John’s hands. Dylan did not doubt him and believed the job was completed.

“Did you have fun playing with your toys while I was working?” John glared at the new bow on the concrete next to Dylan’s feet.

“It’s not a toy, and I was working,” Dylan snapped.

Dylan glared back at John, then looked at the empty gas cans. He realized that there was fuel in his car’s gas tank, and John wanted it.

“You want what’s in the tank, don’t you?” Dylan inquired.

John smirked and nodded.

“How are you going to get it out?”

“Get a small screwdriver and a hammer,” replied John. “If you have a gas can for a lawn mower, get that too.”

John removed the car’s gas cap and positioned himself behind the rear of the car. He placed the screwdriver’s tip low on the gas tank and punctured it with a quick strike of the hammer. He covered the hole with one finger, slid the small gas can under the plugged hole, and then removed his finger to let the thin stream of gasoline enter the can. When the small can was almost full, Dylan put his finger over the hole and John put that fuel into a five-gallon container. There was only enough fuel to fill both large cans and part of the smaller one.

“This won’t be enough,” said John. “His truck is going to take about twenty gallons to fill, and I’m going to need gas to cut firewood.” John tested the weight of each can by picking them up from the driveway and setting them quickly back down.

Dylan shrugged his shoulders. “You got all my gas, and I don’t have a chainsaw.”

“I’m cutting wood tomorrow morning. You and your friend can help me load it into his truck and take it to Tom.”

“We’re busy tomorrow.”

“Busy? With what?” John looked scornfully at Dylan. “With your toys?”

“Again, they’re not toys.” Dylan strained to maintain his composure. “We’re going to patrol past the north end of the community, to the end of the lake, and see what’s out there.”

“Have fun on your nature walk,” John snorted. “The real men will stick around and get the work done.” He picked up the two gas cans and abruptly marched away. His shadow cast long in front of him as he walked back down the street, away from the setting sun.

The next morning Dylan and Kevin stood shoulder to shoulder and faced the open field that bordered the subdivision. Each man had a backpack and plenty of water. They left the filter at home after deciding to walk only as far as half their water would last them, and then they would return. They might spend the night in the woods, so each man had a tightly wrapped blanket tied to the backpack. Dylan strapped his rifle across his shoulder and sheathed his knife over his right thigh. They looked back to see Mary with Dylan’s two children, waving from a bedroom window. They waved back and strode away.

The sun had already dried the morning dew. It was a beautifully clear day and the morning air slowly warmed in the sunshine. There was a distinct foot trail through the narrow band of saplings, shrubs, and tall grass that stretched between the subdivision and the stream. Jim and others from the neighborhood had made this trail with daily visits to gather water. The area past the stream and towards the lake consisted of a variety of trees. The vegetation was so thick, that in the height of summer, it was difficult to walk through it in certain areas. The path wound around bushes and dense foliage and finally came to the stream. The stream, which fed the manmade lake, turned slightly to the west and gained speed as it went to a lower elevation and rushed into the lake. At this point, where the steam turned west, there was a bridge crossing it. The steel bridge connected the bike trail that circled the lake to both sides of the stream.

Large stones and the bridge’s concrete foundation broke the current into eddies. An old hedge tree, with strong wood for bow making, spread the shadow of its branches across the water. The branches, heavy with hedge balls, did not bend. Aquatic plant life partly hid the muddy bank on the farther and shallower side. On that side of the stream, a dog was lapping the water to quench its thirst, and timidly watched the men walk along the trail. The moment they made eye contact, the dog ran back into the undergrowth of the woods, tail tucked neatly between its legs.

A mourning dove called in the forest not far away. Then a quail flew away suddenly with a loud clapping of wings. Dylan listened. His hunter instinct told him that something was moving there. His eyes quickly shifted about the forest vegetation and tried to focus just past the glossy leaves of a holly bush. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the bush and walked slowly towards it. He was relieved to see that the glossy leaves had created a mirage of someone’s eyes watching him. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued down the trail.

Songbirds flew a little way back from the path as they passed, and began to sing again on their new perches. The whistling of other birds came from farther away, and the melody of the morning songbirds became louder as they advanced along the trail. For a distance, the paved bike trail seemed broader than it really was because someone had cut down the large trees that had lined the trail. The remains of their rotten trunks disintegrated where they stood, as nature reclaimed the timber back into the soil of the woods.

Farther on, they passed through thickets of brush, trees with dense and tangled undergrowth, and twisted, thorny bushes. Under the foliage, they could hear squirrels, rabbits, and other furry creatures of the woods scratching at the dead leaves and twigs scattered on the ground.

The green shoots of late-summer vegetation were still pushing their way through the dead foliage of the previous year. Out from these bushes, a rabbit occasionally ran and bounded across to the other side. In certain spots, where there were few trees and the forest chiefly consisted of bush, they could see some distance away on both sides, and also the blue sky above. The trees grew so close together in some areas that they destroyed themselves. The lower branches rubbed together and died, allowing the two travelers to see between the trunks and past the woods into the surrounding parkland.

Kevin removed his backpack and took the binoculars from it. He looked through the gap in the trees and saw a sheet-metal building, a parking lot, and some playground equipment. The men decided to get a closer look at the building. Rather than carry their heavy backpacks up the hill, they hid their equipment under a willow bush and walked through the clearing. A fleet of pickup trucks came into view, parked neatly in a row beside the metal building. The playground equipment was next to the fairway of a small golf course. The fairway grass was still relatively short in comparison to the meadow and had not yet become infested with weeds.

Dylan pointed to a sign at the parking lot’s entrance. They were at a county maintenance building for the Parks and Recreation Department. It was a one-story building with a gable roof. The corrugated metal siding was a glossy white, and the building appeared new. The roof was also metal, but a light blue color. There were three garage doors, all closed, and the building only had one window beside the entrance. The entrance was a gray metal door with three stainless steel hinges on the right side of the doorframe.

Approaching the building, Kevin tested the door and window. Someone had locked them. Dylan noticed that the steel door had the same type of hinges as the door by the swimming pool at the Community Center. They rummaged through the beds of the parked trucks and found a tire iron. They used this to remove the door’s hinge pins and the door came off the frame. Light from a skylight illuminated the building’s interior, and the men went cautiously inside. In front of them was a truck elevated by a hydraulic lift. On the wall was a photo of a scantily clad woman on a calendar advertising a certain brand of tools. Beside the calendar was a clock with its hands frozen in time at the exact moment the pulse had blanketed the Earth.

Dylan looked to his right and froze in disbelief. Parked in the far corner was a small tractor. Dylan’s jaw hung open as he thought about the plow that was still in Tom’s barn and how, with the two pieces of machinery, they could begin farming next year. Dylan silently lifted a finger and pointed to the tractor as he looked at Kevin.

“I see it,” Kevin answered.

Dylan’s disbelief broke. He smiled and dashed for the tractor. Laying down his rifle, he leaped onto the dusty seat and found the key in the ignition. He searched for the clutch, made sure the transmission was in neutral, and turned the key. The motor sputtered. He quickly pushed down on the accelerator and turned the key again. The motor sputtered, ran roughly for a moment, and then died.

“Can you open one of the garage doors?” asked Dylan. “I need some more light.”

Kevin went to the closest door, unlocked it, and threw it upwards. Light rushed in.

With the additional light, Dylan found the choke and pulled back on the plastic knob. On the third try, the motor came to life. Steel-blue smoke hovered over the vertical exhaust pipe. Ecstatic, Dylan turned the key to kill the motor. He removed the key from the ignition and jumped from the tractor. Dust billowed about his shoes.

“What do you want to do?” asked Kevin.

“We have to take it. We can store it in Tom’s barn.” Dylan paused as he remembered what John had told him yesterday. We need fuel. Dylan took the key he had clutched so tightly, and thrust it deep into his front pocket for safekeeping. “Look for gas cans. Anything we can put fuel in.”

“Where’s the gas?”

“We’ll get it from the trucks in the parking lot.”

Kevin exited the building to search the perimeter.

Dylan began to survey the building, searching in drawers and under tables. Suddenly, from behind the building, he heard Kevin scream, “Dylan, come quick!” Dylan grabbed his rifle and sprinted through the open garage bay, nearly slipping when he turning the corner too fast. Behind the building, he saw Kevin pointing in disbelief at what he saw. It was a fuel pump. Dylan lowered the rifle.

“Fuel,” said Dylan, almost not believing what he was looking at.

“There has to be an underground tank,” said Kevin.

“Yeah, maybe hundreds of gallons.”

The men scoured the ground with eager eyes; their minds hungered for fuel like their stomachs hungered for food. They noticed a small round steel cover on the asphalt parking lot. Using the same tire iron, Dylan lifted the cover and vapors of petroleum filled the air. He slid the cover back over the hole and it went flat with the asphalt.

“We’ll get that tractor and as much fuel as we can carry on the way back. I have the key. If anybody else finds it while we’re gone, it’ll be that much harder for them to steal.” Dylan scattered some dirt on the underground tank’s metal cover to camouflage it. “Let’s get that door back on the building and get out of here.”

They sat the door back into its hinges and pounded the hinge pins back into position to secure the door. Dylan hid the tire iron in a shrub, and the men walked back to the willow bush where they had hidden their backpacks.

Kevin tilted his head back and took a drink of water while keeping a watchful eye on his surroundings, scanning for unseen dangers. The wind had picked up from the morning and some young sapling trees, closer to the shoreline, swayed in the breeze. From the corner of his eye, Kevin caught a flash of white from behind a swaying sapling. He turned to look more closely, tapping Dylan on the shoulder and pointing toward the lake. The young tree swayed once more, and Dylan saw it. A large, brilliantly white object was behind the trees on the shoreline of the lake.

With backpacks secured, they traversed to the shoreline. They passed bushes and low branches, ankle deep in soft, decaying wood, hidden from sight by thick vegetation. Birds flew away from their roosts with a loud flapping of wings. Their calls resounded continually as they flew on. It was apparent that a large flock of them nested there.

Near the lake, the forest changed into a different variety of trees. Blackberry bushes covered the ground in the open places. Rabbits, which they saw occasionally, leaped into their burrows, and the passing of a skunk momentarily halted their travel.

They stopped at the shoreline to find a small boat with twin hulls. It was a catamaran, stuck in a cove. Quickly growing aquatic vegetation held it in place. The fiberglass boat was glossy white. A metal framework held the double hulls together under a deck of netting, and the mast rose from the center of it all. The sail was wrapped tightly around the mast, and the boom swung perpendicular to it.

“This doesn’t take gas,” said Kevin.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Let’s cut it free. We can save a hell of a lot of time using this thing.”

“I don’t know how to sail.”

“How hard could it be?”

Dylan pondered the question as he looked at the boat. It was a simple design, one sail and a rudder. How hard could it be? Dylan held a finger to the air. “Not much wind down here.”

“Good, it’ll give us time to figure this out.”

“Here goes nothing.” Dylan tossed his backpack onto the deck netting and began to slash away the cattails and reeds that held the craft in place in the shallow water. Kevin climbed onto the boat to lift the rudder from the water. He pulled it toward himself, causing the rudder to pivot on a hinge and come up out of the lake. Kevin unfurled the sail, and Dylan pushed with all his might. Slowly, the light boat began to slide off the muddy bank and into deeper water.

By the shore, it was so calm that the trees reflected perfectly in the water and the few fallen willow leaves floated in place. On the lake beyond them, there was a ripple where a faint breeze touched the surface. The opposite shoreline reflected the day’s sunlight, and swallows skimmed the water along it. Dylan’s mind went to the beauty of the water’s graceful expanse.

When Dylan felt the boat move on its own, he climbed a hull, pulled himself onto the netting, and sprawled across the boat’s deck. It was made of netting like a hammock, and felt very comfortable to his weary bones. Dylan’s final push had launched the vessel, and they left solid ground for the beauty of the water. Kevin hoisted the sail. The gentle breeze filled it, the sharp hulls began to divide the ripples, a bubbling sound arose, and as Kevin steered due north, straight out to the open water, a soft breeze carried them away.

The ducks saw the boat coming and hardly moved at first, but when the boat continued to bear down on them, they flew up and far away, descending to the other side of the lake. After they had sailed past the spot where the birds had floated, they felt as if the lake was their own.

The opposite shoreline teemed with life. Crows came down for mussels, and waterfowl swam in and out among the plant life. Muskrats nibbled at the cattails, and bass basked at the edge of the weeds. Spotted sandpipers ran along the shore. A snapping turtle waited by a log for the morning sun to rise higher and warm its body.

The boat moved more rapidly as the wind came now with its full force over the trees and into the valley of the lake. Although just a light, southerly breeze, it impelled the nimble, fiberglass vessel more swiftly than expected. The shoals and inlets passed by.

Reclining in the stern, with his hand on the rudder, Kevin’s consciousness drifted away. Physically awake, he was aware of the boat, the lake, the sunshine, and the sky, but he mentally slumbered. It was rest for a tired man, after the misery, exertion, and excitement of his recent journey, and acclimation into a new home. It was rest, intense rest, for body and mind. He could not believe that he was back on the water, and it was too soon for any nostalgic reflections from the river. The pressure of the water against the rudder’s handle and the slight vibration of the fiberglass were all that kept him from really falling asleep. He knew better than to leave the rudder unattended. It required a firm grasp, and that effort restrained his drowsiness.

Dylan stood with one hand firmly grasping the mast, the sail in front of him completely unfurled and swollen with the breeze. He stood scanning the shoreline with the binoculars in his other hand, feet spread wide for stability on the netting underneath him.

There was barely a cloud in the sky, nothing but wisps of cirrus clouds at the highest altitude. Kevin peered hypnotically into the dark water for any glimpse of fish. If there were any fish, he could not see them through the waves, which were sufficiently large, though the wind was light, to make the double hulls gently rise and fall. To see fish, a calm surface was necessary. Kevin stopped looking into the water, and cast his gaze to the unfamiliar shoreline.

Dylan pondered what they would do at the end of the lake and what they should do if they came upon anyone inhabiting the area they explored. Dylan stopped debating these questions in his mind when he realized the wind was falling.

As the sun went past its zenith, the wind fell to a weak breeze. The breeze became so faint and intermittent that Kevin let the rudder go. The sail hung low and no longer bellied out, as small ripples from the hulls rolled under the netting. The sun bore straight down and made the heat on the water feel intolerable, and the light reflected from the water increased that sensation. They made some shelter from the sun by partly lowering the sail, so that the canvas could act as an awning, and gradually, the waves weakened in volume and frequency until the surface was almost still.

“Did we make a mistake?” asked Dylan.

“Just wait for a breeze,” replied Kevin.

“How long will that take?”

“Couldn’t tell ya.” Kevin shaded his eyes with one hand and judged the distance to the closest shore. “I can tie a rope to my waist, get in the water, and swim towards the shore.”

Dylan groaned. “I don’t know about that.” He lifted a wet finger to the air and felt how still it was. “Shit, go ahead. The east shore looks closer, and that’s where we were walking anyway.”

Kevin stripped to his underwear and tied a rope from the front of the boat around his waist. He plunged into the dark water and began to swim toward the shore. His hands pulled at the water and his feet kicked. The boat’s movement was barely perceptible. Dylan tried moving the boom to reposition the sail, but it remained limp. He tried to use the stock of his rifle as a paddle, but his effort was mostly symbolic. Kevin gasped for air as he flailed in the water. It became more than Dylan could stand.

“Kevin, you’re tired. Bring it in.”

Dylan extended his hand downward when Kevin got close to the boat, and helped lift his friend’s tired body onto the netting. Kevin sprawled in the sunlight to warm and dry himself. While Kevin was face down on the netting, he stared at the surface of the water and noticed small ripples coming back. He got up and dressed, realizing that the sail had begun to lift with a small breeze. Dylan had fallen asleep. Kevin shook
Dylan’s shoulder, and he quickly snapped back to consciousness.

Kevin took to the rudder, and Dylan rotated the boom to the position that most inflated the sail. They moved forward slowly. The shoals, inlets, and muddy bank began to move away again. Kevin turned the rudder to steer the craft closer to shore.

More waterfowl swam along the shoreline. Bullfrogs and leopard frogs dove into the reeds. A coyote lapped at the water’s edge, disinterested in the white fiberglass hulls skimming across the water. Finches chirped from the branches near the shore. A field mouse dashed into the undergrowth as the coyote tried to pounce on it. Dragonflies of different sizes and colors darted in the air about them. A snake swam across an inlet, oscillating its head from side to side. Swallows swept over their heads. Just underneath the hull, in the shallow water, carp foraged the muddy bottom for a meal.

They followed the shoreline, only occasionally going more toward the middle, due to the lake’s convoluted shape and the depth they perceived it to be. At some locations, the water seemed shallower, judging by the quantity of reed and cattail, and the distance they protruded from the shoreline.

As the sun sank lower, the breeze increased considerably and sped up the sailing. Not used to the speed, they occasionally grazed the willows near the water and drug a hull on the shoreline’s muddy bottom. Not wanting to crack the hull, and with the wind now gusting, they confidently steered toward the lake’s middle and sped forward with the strong wind now at their backs. They welcomed the wind because it would enable them to make great progress before evening. If the strong breezes continued, they knew they had made the right decision and would cover both shorelines in less than a day.

The sharp prows of the boat cut swiftly through the waves, a light spray occasionally flying in their faces. The wind blew pleasantly. In the cloudless sky, swallows and swifts veered about. On the water, a flock of geese moved aside to let them pass.

In the distance, to the north, they could see the dam come into view. They were near the west shoreline, so they began to maneuver toward the center. The wind increased and the craft seemed to skip across the water. They were very close to the dam. The metal railing, which lined the road’s edge on top of the dam, came into view. At the same time, they saw the boat ramp belonging to a lakeside community appear on the east side of the lake. Houses came into view, and they saw people along the shoreline and around the homes. They needed to avoid contact, only wanting to observe their surroundings. From the mast, Dylan motioned to the shore and shook his head. Then he pointed away, indicating he was ready to turn the boat and tack into the wind to get away from the area. Kevin understood and nodded.

The boom came free from its restraints just as Kevin abruptly turned the rudder. The sail went limp as it changed position, but then it quickly snapped full in the quick breeze. The boom had swung away from Dylan’s control, and with the abrupt change in the rudder, the catamaran began to tip. As it turned, the wind pushed against the sail harder, and the boat tilted more. Simultaneously, Dylan and Kevin felt the craft lift from the water. They grabbed their backpacks, jumped onto the airborne hull, and tried to hold it down with their weight, but it was too late. The mast of the swift craft hit the water, abruptly stopping it and thrusting them overboard, and then the boat completely tipped over. The inverted hulls bobbed in the waves. Dylan and Kevin emerged from underwater and began to swim for the boat ramp. They heard three shrill whistles that summoned a flat-bottom boat from the dock. Two armed men leaned forward at the prow of the boat as two oarsmen rowed it toward Dylan and Kevin.

Chapter Twelve

Dylan and Kevin struggled in the murky lake. They desperately tried to stay afloat, flailing in the water, while holding their submerged backpacks with one arm. The flat-bottom boat cut between Dylan and Kevin. From the prow, each armed man extended a hand to pull them close to the boat.

A man at the prow commanded, “Hand me your gear,” and then hoisted the waterlogged backpacks into the boat. Dylan and Kevin hooked their arms over each side of the boat, and the oarsmen turned around and rowed back to the boat ramp. When Dylan and Kevin felt their knees drag on the submerged section of ramp, they let go of the boat, waded out of the water, and collapsed onto the dry concrete while panting for oxygen. Dylan’s rifle had slipped off his back and lay at his side. In a few minutes, a semi-circle of armed men surrounded the two strangers, and Dylan’s rifle was immediately confiscated.

The crowd parted for a tall man with large, gray eyes. He was wearing a red, plastic whistle around his neck. When Dylan and Kevin caught their breath enough to look up and observe their surroundings, they saw the whistle and remembered hearing the shrill noise. It must have been a distress call. Directly in front of Dylan and Kevin, the man went to one knee, removed his broad-brimmed hat, rolled it up, and tucked it under his arm. The men looked up to see a kind face. The face had a large grin and wide, round eyes that seemed to smile as well. The whistle dangled from its lanyard like a pendulum.

“Well, well, well,” said the kneeling man. “Fishing was good today, wasn’t it?” The crowd laughed. He raised his hand without turning around, and then the crowd fell silent. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m Dylan, and he’s Kevin.”

“My name is Dean.” He paused while he continued to observe them. “We have your rifle, Dylan. Any more weapons? Maybe you, Kevin?”

“I have a pistol,” said Kevin.

“I’m going to take that from you.” Dean stood up. With the two men on the ground, he seemed to tower over them like a giant. “Stand up, put the pistol on the ground, and move nice and slow." He pointed to Dylan. “You’ll have to remove the knife, too.”

Dean took two giant strides backward and removed a two-way radio from his back pocket. He twisted a round knob on top of the device, and it hissed static. He pressed a button on the side and whispered into it, “Light ‘em up.” Instantly, a red dot appeared, dancing back and forth from Dylan’s chest to Kevin’s and only hovered briefly over each heart as it did. It was laser sight, and they understood what that meant.

“Your radio…I don’t understand…how could it work?” Kevin stammered, almost in a daze from seeing the red dot from the laser sight and hearing the electric static from the radio. “And a laser sight, how could it be?”

“I had them stashed in a Faraday cage,” he answered. “To say I was prepared for what happened would be an understatement.” He lifted an eyebrow above one of his gray eyes and pointed to the ground by Kevin’s feet. “The pistol? Slowly.”

Kevin slowly pulled the dripping pistol from his pocket and placed it near his feet.

As Dean held the radio and gently bounced it on his thigh, Dylan stared at it, like Kevin, still not believing his eyes and ears. Dean watched Dylan stare at the radio, and then he looked at Dylan and Kevin in an inquisitive way, trying to determine if they were an asset or liability. Still unsure of the two strangers, Dean pointed to the knife strapped to Dylan’s thigh and pointed to the ground again. Dylan emerged from his trance, unbuckled his belt, and the sheath slipped off the wet leather and onto the concrete.

“Good, that was easy. Let’s sit on the dock and have a conversation. I need to know who comes into my community.” He pointed to a short, wooden pier. It had round posts about three feet apart, with thick rope strung through each, for railing. Their backpacks were there, unopened, but the water had drained from inside the packs to form a pool around each one. Their rescuers had hung the soaked blankets on the rope balustrade to dry.

Dean whispered into the radio once more, and the hovering red dot disappeared. Dylan and Kevin looked around, but could not see the camouflaged sniper. Dean turned the knob and it clicked; the radio was silent. He slid it into his back pocket, extended his long arm in a waving gesture, and told the crowd to leave. The crowd dispersed and went about their business, only casting a few curious glances back at the two newcomers.

On the pier, Dylan and Kevin rested beside their backpacks, and Dean’s tall body hovered over them. He bent over to open each pack and dumped out the contents. Spilling from the backpacks were water bottles, an extra magazine for the rifle, two cans of beans, a plastic container of rice soaking in water, the binoculars, and a photograph of Dylan’s wife.

Dean gently picked up the photograph from the puddle of water by pinching it at a corner. He looked at the men, each wearing a wedding ring. Not knowing who owned the picture, he asked, “Anybody special?”

“My wife,” answered Dylan.

“You almost lost her,” replied Dean. He gently put the wet paper down on a dry section of the wood planking.

“I did lose her,” Dylan replied.

“I’m sorry, my condolences.” Dean’s permanent grin seemed to fade slightly.

“No, he means she’s gone,” Kevin interjected. “We don’t know where she is.”

“Oh, I see now,” Dean said softly. “You’re trying to find her?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Dylan looked over at the capsized boat.

“I can tell you this. I know everyone here. I see everyone who passes by, and I have not seen her. She’s not here.” Dean did his best to express his sympathy for the stranger.

“Can we go now?” asked Dylan.

“You’ve almost passed the smell test. Stand up and take your shirts off.”

The men complied, slid the wet fabric off their backs, and wrung the excess water from their shirts back into the lake.

“Turn around.”

The men spun around.

“Good, no tattoos. You look healthy, too.”

“You don’t like tattoos?” asked Kevin.

“If you had the number thirteen tattooed on your arm, you would be at the bottom of the lake by now.”

“I don’t get it,” said Dylan.

Kevin clutched his wrinkled, wet shirt tightly with both hands, as he began to shiver and his teeth chattered, as well.

Dean looked the two men over once more and then looked back toward his house. It was the closest house to the dock. When he had purchased the lot, it was the most expensive lakefront property in the development and he loved how close he was to the water. “You need to dry off. I have a fire pit behind my house. Let’s talk there.”

The shirtless men gathered their items, put them back into their packs, and grabbed their wet blankets. They followed Dean to his house. Walking away from the lake and the boat ramp, they looked up an asphalt street. The street zigzagged up the slope to the top of the hill and away from the community. This road connected the lakeside neighborhood, designed on the slope of the valley, to the lake’s shore. Expensive, custom homes lined the street. Dean’s stucco, ranch-style home had a southwestern design, landscaped with rocks and yucca plants in the front. The center of his front lawn had a three-tiered waterfall that was silent and dry. They followed Dean down the steps beside his house and into the backyard.

The house had a finished walkout basement. A stone paver patio extended from the backdoor and was half the width of his home. In the center of the patio stood a fire ring and a covered table. The chairs that matched the table surrounded a smoldering fire in the pit. Retaining walls, covered with English ivy, projected from the rear corners of the house’s foundation into the backyard.

“Put your wet clothes on the chairs, and I’ll get that fire going,” said Dean. He turned to stoke the embers and placed more wood on the coals of the fire. He turned back around to see that Dylan and Kevin had stripped down to their wet underwear. “Oh, this is awkward,” said Dean, averting his eyes from the men. “I’ll be right back with a couple of dry blankets.

Dean returned with two blankets. They wrapped themselves with the dry fabric and waited for the crackling heat to arise from the pit. He pulled a chair toward the men and positioned it to face them as he spoke.

“We had some trouble a while back,” said Dean. “We sent some people out on a patrol. They followed the railroad tracks and, not too far away, they found a stalled train. The train was packed full of food. With the help of everyone from our community, we spent days getting all that food back here. A couple guys appeared out of nowhere when we were back home one of those evenings. They had followed us home from the stalled train. Both of them waved around automatic weapons and screamed that we had stolen their food. They said something about being part of a militia or gang. I think they called it the Lucky Thirteen.” Dean pulled back his long hair and wrapped an elastic band around it to make a ponytail.

“What happened then?” asked Kevin.

Dean removed the radio from his back pocket and gently bounced it on his thigh. “Like I said, don’t think for a second I wasn’t prepared for all this. They each got a bullet in the head and we took their weapons. My guy is good. He was a sniper in the military.” Dean tossed the radio onto the table, and it slid to the center. “When we threw the bodies into the lake, I saw the tattoos. Each man had the number thirteen tattooed on his arm. That’s why we checked you.”

“They’re in town at the bartering lot,” said Kevin. “We also found them at a food warehouse. We know where they are.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Where is all this?”

Dylan pointed to the opposite end of the lake. “We live at the end of the lake, and the warehouse is several miles past our subdivision.” Dylan stood to readjust his blanket. “We went on a patrol to see what’s around us. We walked up the stream that feeds this lake and stopped near a food warehouse. There were two rotting corpses in the field next to it.”

“Oh, I thought you were strays,” he said with a depressed tone. “I wanted to offer you a place here with us. We take in some strays every now and then. We got a paramedic just last week. He was on the boat that brought you to shore.” Dean’s eyes drifted to the fire and he said, “Damn it,” under his breath. His thoughts took him away for a few moments before he spoke again.

“Our community could use some more healthy men. We’ve had too many crazies come down our street. There’s a cult down the road, you know, not too far from here. For some reason, they thought we would be interested in joining their movement. They had pamphlets to hand out and tried to talk people into leaving this place, but we persuaded them to leave us alone instead. It took a couple visits before they finally got the message.”

“A bullet to the head?” asked Dylan.

“No, no, no. They didn’t threaten us. We had to get a little physical, though.”

Dylan remembered the pamphlet he found in his home. He thought it was the same group, but he kept his story to himself. “How far away are they?”

Dean pointed to the dam. “The road over that dam continues east. Just stay on that road and you’ll see it. It’s not far at all.”

Dylan turned to look at the dam. He remembered the map at his house and now had his bearings straight. He knew where he was, where the bike trail was, and how to get back home. He went to the backpacks, removed the two cans of beans, and placed them in the fire to warm them.

“Hold on a second,” said Dean. “Get those cans out of the fire. I’ll be right back.” Dean’s long legs took him across the patio in a few strides, and he went into his house.

Dylan took the cans out of the fire, but left them near the warm embers.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Dylan.”

“It’s getting late and our clothes are wet,” Dylan replied. “If we leave now, we’ll get hypothermia in this valley.”

“We could keep walking. That would keep us warm.”

“In the dark? He has our weapons. We’re screwed.”

Kevin hung his head low and shook it back and forth.

“Kevin, if he wanted us dead, we’d be dead by now.”

“Is that so?”

When Dylan heard the door slam behind Dean, he whispered back to Kevin, “Be quiet.”

Dean was holding two sealed Mylar pouches of freeze-dried food in one hand and a metal pot in the other. Dean took the pot to the opposite side of a tall boxwood bush and began pumping the handle of the well in his backyard, filling the pot with water. He placed it on a metal grid over the growing fire. “You’ve got to try this. It’s beef stroganoff. All you have to do is add hot water.” Dean sat back down, holding the two pouches on his lap.

“How…how did you get all of this?” Dylan asked.

“What did you say?” asked Dean.

“The radio, the food, the well…all of this stuff?”

“I ran a successful pest control business. I started it when I was young and worked hard at it. The business grew. Before I knew it, I was sitting at a desk while everyone else did the work for me. I was making a killing, but then the economy seemed to be going in the tank, and, with so many wars going on, I thought it would be a good idea to get prepared for the worst. I designed that home, right down to the bulletproof windows. It’s a fortress. My wife hated it. She called me crazy and left. Nevertheless, I stayed busy. I stockpiled a hoard of food and weapons. Who’s crazy now?”

Dean stood to look into the pot of water and noticed small bubbles rising from the bottom. He opened the two pouches, poured about two cups of water into each, and sloshed it about. Dean handed a pouch to each of them, and they held the warm pouches of food and inhaled the aroma of beef stroganoff. It smelled delicious.

“Sorry, I forgot the spoons,” said Dean.

“No problem,” Kevin replied.

The two men tipped the pouches up and let the warm food slide into their mouths.

Dylan swallowed the first mouthful. “It’s delicious.”

“There is more where that came from, Dylan.”

Dylan heard Dean’s comment as another invitation to stay. “I can’t stay here. I have a family, and that is where I need to be.”

Dean turned to Kevin. “And you? The offer is still open.”

“I’m with him, I can’t do it.”

Dean groaned and smoothed the denim fabric around his thighs with the palms of his hands. The evening air had a chill to it, and he was getting cold. “Sleep on it. You can’t travel back tonight with wet clothes. You should stay here. Sleep in my basement. It’s warm in there.”

“Thanks for your hospitality. We accept,” replied Dylan.

The next morning, the men awoke on the carpeted floor of Dean’s basement. Through the large picture window, they could see wafts of smoke rising from last night’s fire. Dylan remembered that he had left the cans of beans by the fire and went outside to get them for breakfast. The cans were warm. He pulled the lids off and poured the warm beans onto the soaking rice. After dressing, he and Kevin ate the mixture and drank fresh water from the well.

Dean walked out the rear door and joined them at the fire pit. “Are you leaving now?”

“We have to go,” replied Dylan.

“I’ll be right back; wait here,” said Dean. He returned with the rifle, pistol, and knife. ”I hope you don’t mind, but I cleaned the rifle and pistol, and touched up the edge of your knife blade on a diamond stone. It’s razor sharp now.” After Dean handed the weapons back to the men, he showed Dylan a section on his forearm shaved smooth of hair.

“We appreciate everything you’ve done,” said Dylan.

“Dylan, Kevin, we can take out that militia. I have the resources. Bring your families here. You can stay with us. All I need is some more good men like you, and we can move on them. Take them out before they get too big.”

Dylan shook his head apologetically. “I’ve seen a lot of killing. All I want to do is keep my head low and stay out of trouble. That would be like kicking a hornet’s nest. I can’t do it.”

“Will you do me a favor?” Dean asked.

“Name it,” Dylan responded.

“You know where I am. Let me know if they are pushing this way. I know this parkland is a good barrier, but if they start coming this way, please get back here and let me know. I like to be prepared.”

The men put on the backpacks, and Dylan slung the rifle over his shoulder. They began to walk away. Dean followed them to where the bike trail entered the neighborhood. Dylan and Kevin extended their hands to bond the new friendship before they went into a thicket of tall trees.

They were about twenty yards down the trail when Dylan turned and shouted back to Dean, “You can keep our boat.”

Dean shouted back, “Where was your sense of humor yesterday?” He laughed and turned toward home.

Soon afterwards, they emerged from under the dark canopy of a cluster of trees and crossed a wide and sloping ground, almost bare of trees, where a fire had cleared away the undergrowth. A lush growth of grass now sprung up. The sunshine poured down, and birds were singing cheerfully. They soon passed the clearing and slowed upon entering the woods again.

Tall trees with round, smooth trunks stood thick and close on the dry and rising ground. Their branches met above the bike trail, forming a continuous green arch that shaded the men. The space between the trees was full of thick, green vegetation, and the trail had moss growing across it intermittently. In the past, bike tires and hiking shoes kept the moss at bay. As they came into this beautiful place, a white-tailed deer, startled by the men as it quietly grazed on vegetation, ran down the trail. Its swift leaps carried it away like silent gusts of wind. Squirrels scurried up tree trunks as they approached. In the distance, they heard woodpeckers drumming against the trees and hunting for a meal of bugs hiding under loose bark.

Kevin saw a groundhog scurry away through the undergrowth, its thick fur impervious to the thorny bushes. They passed several open fields and in one of them, startled a few deer, whose tails were all that could be seen as they bounded into the shade of the tall forest trees. After the open fields, they came to more tall oak trees, a sign that they were close to their destination.

For the third time that morning, Dylan stopped and checked his front pocket to see if the key to the tractor was still there. It was. He dropped the backpack on the trail, and Kevin did the same. Each took a long drink of water and silently, but cautiously, looked at their surrounds.

“Did you hear anything, like we’re being followed?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t think so. It’s pretty barren out here.”

“We’re almost home. I recognize this part of the trail. We’re close to that maintenance building and the tractor. The willow bush where we hid our gear yesterday should be just up ahead.”

Kevin turned a curious eye down the trail. “Okay, then let’s get moving. We can ride the tractor home across that golf course and through the field.”

As they walked down the bike trail, a pheasant rose from behind a bush and flew in front of them, noisily thrashing its wings. Then Dylan, who had been looking very carefully into the trees to his left, suddenly stopped. Kevin, seeing this and understanding the look on Dylan’s face, looked around for any sign of danger.

“What is it?” Kevin whispered, turned, and tightly gripped his pistol.

Dylan was silent. He held a finger to his lips and looked at Kevin in such a way that he understood not to make a noise. Kevin pivoted around, looking deeply into the woods, and watched Dylan shoulder his rifle.

“Somebody has been here,” whispered Dylan, as he chambered a cartridge. “I thought I heard them for a while now, and now I’m sure. Stay here.”

He stepped off the trail and into the trees near the willow bush where they had stored their gear under the day before. Dylan noticed one small branch on the outer part of the bush had been snapped off. It was still green and only hung by the bark. This was not the work of deer. Deer usually did not touch the bitter shoots of willow, especially not when they had all the forest and open fields to graze.

Nothing but a man, or the blow of a heavy stick wielded by a man, could have broken the branch in that way. Walking to the bush, Dylan saw that the break was very recent. The branch was perfectly green, and the bark was still soft with sap. The next thing to catch his eye was a larger branch deeper inside the bush. While not broken, it did have scraped and torn bark, as if done by something sharp. He examined the ground. No stones or rocks, which could have caused the damage, were visible. Looking back at the bark, he concluded that the handle of a hatchet or machete had broken the outside branch and the weapon’s metal edge had struck the inside branch, damaging it, too.

Dylan carefully looked around, but saw nothing else suspicious. There were trees, but not one of them was large enough to hide a man. There was not sufficient foliage to conceal anything. His hunter’s eyes could detect nothing else. There were no footprints on the ground. The tree branches were thin, exposing the sky through them. Whether the person lay in some depression on the ground, had covered himself with dead leaves and pine needles, or had already left, there was nothing to show. Yet Dylan was confident that someone had been there. After hearing Dylan’s explanation of the damage to the willow bush, Kevin agreed as to the cause, saying that they must warn everyone in their community that someone, maybe a drifter, was in the area.

Dylan looked closely under the willow bush and noticed that the dead leaves had been disturbed, seemingly piled on the ground. He pushed the mound of leaves with his shoe and felt it stop, hitting something denser than the leaves. He pulled a black plastic trash bag from the pile and opened it. There was a stack of pamphlets from the cult inside it. He recognized them as the same kind of pamphlet he had found at his house. He showed them to Kevin.

“Was this here yesterday?” asked Dylan.

“Maybe. But it’s not like I was looking for it.”

Dylan suspiciously looked around, tightly clutching the bag in his hand.

“What do you want to do? Do you want to burn them?” asked Kevin.

“No, better not start a fire here,” replied Dylan. “This tinder would explode into an inferno.”

“Come on,” said Kevin. “We don’t need to hide anything in here anyway.” He pointed through the clearing towards the metal building. “Let’s get out of here.”

Dylan, still carrying the black trash bag full of pamphlets, walked towards Kevin. Kevin was thinking of Mary and trying to repress his anxiety from the idea of strangers with unknown intentions being so close to her. Dylan, normally well aware of his surroundings in the forest, suddenly and unexpectedly felt something soft under his feet. Instantly, he jumped back as far as he could and trembled after realizing he had stepped on a copperhead. Lying on the cool forest ground, the camouflaged snake did not care to move when he had stepped on it. Luckily, for Dylan, the snake was still cold from the shadows of the tree canopy and not aggressive. He walked away from the snake and rejoined Kevin who, slightly dazed by the event, wondered if someone was watching them in the forest, hiding like the snake at Dylan’s feet. Kevin shuddered and was the first to break cover of the trees.

Kevin stepped into the full light of the day. Dylan was right behind him. When Dylan was free of the woods and could feel the strong breeze at his back, he began to throw the pamphlets into the air. Casting them to the wind, they scattered and blew away.

At the maintenance building, they found the tire iron that they had hidden in the bush, and removed the entrance door again. Kevin went inside and opened a large garage door. Before Dylan mounted the tractor, he remembered the need for fuel. Both men scavenged for gas cans. After finding four metal five-gallon containers, they went back to the underground tank and removed the camouflaged lid.

“How do we get it out?” asked Kevin.

Dylan stroked his beard and thought. “Do you think we could lower a small bucket with a rope?”

“Maybe if we put a rock in the bucket so it doesn’t float,” answered Kevin.

They found a plastic bucket, a handful of galvanized steel washers to add weight, and a nylon rope to lower the bucket into the tank of fuel.

Kevin volunteered to lower the bucket into the tank and fill the metal cans. Dylan, still suspicious, walked around the property near the edge of the woods. He saw nothing and was thankful that the steel building concealed what they were doing at the underground fuel tank, hiding their actions from the wooded area.

Dylan came back around to Kevin and noticed that he had filled the first can. Dylan went to the tractor and emptied the fuel into the tank. He returned the can to fill it again and repeated the process until the tractor’s tank was full. When they had refilled all the five-gallon canisters, the men replaced the underground tank’s lid and camouflaged it with dirt again.

Dylan mounted the tractor. He pulled the choke back and, with a single turn of the key, the motor roared to life. He put the transmission into reverse and backed out of the building onto the level concrete parking lot. He nimbly jumped down, even with the backpack and rifle still on his back, and helped Kevin lower and lock the garage door. Just as before, they decided to replace the steel front door and its hinge pins, in order to prevent anyone else from taking anything.

On the tractor, Kevin balanced himself behind Dylan. The tractor began to creep forward slowly as Dylan engaged first gear. As soon as he made it to the clearing in the trees, he accelerated on the bike trail and went through all the gears. He went as fast as he could, and soon enough, they were at the bridge spanning the stream. They crossed it and entered the neighborhood. Dylan stopped in front of his house. Kevin jumped down, eager to see his wife. The sound of the tractor had brought Mary and Dylan’s children to the front door. Kevin ran to his wife and embraced her. Mary held the children back, keeping them on the porch and away from the tractor. Jim heard the commotion from his house and went over to speak with Dylan.

Yelling over the noise of the motor, Jim shouted, “Where have you been?”

“Have Kevin tell you, I have to go deliver a present.” Dylan released the clutch, and the tractor jerked into first gear. He turned the tractor’s steering wheel hard to the left and drove away after a quick wave to his children. At the end of the street, Dylan turned to the right and headed to Tom’s house. He planned to cross the stream where it was clear, wide, and shallow, near the community pool at the edge of the subdivision. On his way down the street, he saw John standing in his driveway, chainsaw in hand, staring at the tractor coming down the road. Dylan stopped in front of John’s house.

Over the rumble of the motor, Dylan shouted, “Did you cut any wood?”

John nodded. “A little.”

“I got a fucking tractor and twenty gallons of fuel on my nature walk.” Dylan extended his middle finger and pushed his foot hard onto the accelerator as he released the clutch.

Nobody noticed John’s wife peering from behind the bedroom drapes, laughing at her husband.

The tractor jerked forward, and Dylan steered it toward the clearing. He drove it across the stream and disappeared through the trees onto Tom’s property.

Chapter Thirteen

Dylan bounced on the seat as the tractor crossed the stream onto Tom’s property. On the other side of the stream, Dylan stopped the tractor. He stood up from the uncomfortable seat and looked around for Tom, but did not see him. Driving the tractor slowly forward, he continued to look around, staring deep into the garden and the rows of corn. Just as he parked the tractor by the barn door, he saw the screen door at the rear of Tom’s house swing open. Tom tilted his hat back and Dylan could see Tom’s eyes widen with amazement. He turned the tractor off and jumped to the ground. By the time Dylan removed the four cans of fuel, Tom had walked up behind him. Tom’s eyes filled with wonder as they caressed the tractor and four containers of fuel as if they were a mirage.

Tom pointed to the cans. “Fuel?”

Dylan nodded.

“Full?”

“Yeah, and it’s all for you. Where do you want them?”

“Fill my tank. John got the truck running.” Tom grunted as he gave the barn door a heavy push. The metal rollers screamed for lubricant as the door slid open. “Park that thing in here by my truck.”

Dylan mounted the tractor once more. With a quick turn of the key, it sputtered back to life, and he drove it into the barn. Tom had already begun pouring the precious liquid into Tom’s truck. When the truck’s tank was full, the few gallons that remained topped off the tractor and partially filled one of Tom’s empty containers. When Tom dropped the last empty fuel can on the stack with the others, it made a hollow clank and echoed in the barn.

“Where did you find a tractor?”

“It was just lying around.”

“Was the fuel just lying around, too?”

“Yeah.” Dylan leaned back on the rear wheel of the tractor and crossed his arms.

Tom squinted one eye and looked at Dylan, the tractor, and the empty cans. “I learned a long time ago when to not ask any more questions. Come in the house so we can talk about something else.”

Dylan went into Tom’s house through the screen door on the back porch and entered the kitchen. He sensed the musty smell before he entered the house. Centered in the Formica countertop was the white porcelain sink. Portions of the white enamel had chipped, and beneath the chipped surface was the color of dark metal. The chrome faucet had been rotated back toward the window overlooking the large garden in the backyard. A stainless steel canning pot was sideways in the sink, the likely culprit for many of the surface chips in the sink’s finish. Next to the sink was a galvanized metal bucket full of well water. Dirty plates and eating utensils were scattered about the countertop. The kitchen table, covered with a vinyl tablecloth, was stacked tall with boxes of empty Mason jars. Dylan pulled a chair back from the table and sat down. Tom did the same.

Dylan touched a case of Mason jars, still wrapped in plastic. “Do you think you have enough jars?” he asked sarcastically.

“My mother loved canning from her garden.” Tom took his cap off and put it over his heart. “God bless her soul.” He put the hat on a case of the jars. “You should see my basement. It’s stocked full of canned food. That’s what I’ve been doing with the garden. Canning, just like I watched my mom do years back.” Tom stood up and pointed out the window. “That goat was her idea.” He smirked. “She wanted a goat, said she was going to make cheese.” He shook his head softly and smiled as he sat back down.

“I’ve never tried goat cheese,” said Dylan.

“And you won’t, either. That one has never been pregnant. Never had a chance to get any milk. We got it right before all this happened. I came up here from Joplin to help them get rid of things, and then they buy a goat. Go figure.”

“Joplin? I thought you said you were from Springfield?”

“Yeah, just outside of Springfield, in Joplin.”

“But Joplin isn’t close to Springfield.”

Tom tilted his head back and stared down his crooked nose at Dylan. He narrowed his eyes and his bushy eyebrows wrapped tightly around them. “Now, you listen to me. When I asked you about that tractor and the fuel, you lied to me. I got the hint. I told you I learned a long time ago when to not ask any more questions, and I shut up. You need to do the same.”

Dylan stood up and could see Tom clench his mighty fists. Standing, Dylan was now at eye level with the kitchen window and could see the two crude graves in the backyard. “Are those really your parents, or did you kill somebody to get this house?”

Tom’s face was red with anger. His jaw muscles were visibly flexing and he was grinding his teeth. “You better sit down.”

“You’re not a contractor, are you?”

Tom exhaled, closed his eyes, and tilted his head forward. The tension in his body evaporated. “No, I’m a criminal. I was in prison for years, but I didn’t kill anyone. Those are my parents, and this is my home. My parents loved me, and I loved them. They never judged me for all the mistakes I made. Every time I got out, they brought me back here. I tried to start over, but screwed up every time and went right back behind bars.”

“Alright, I’m not asking anymore questions.” Dylan sat back down.

Tom raised his head and shook it to clear his thoughts. He slid a sealed Mason jar across the table to Dylan.

Dylan looked at the jar of clear liquid and said, “I’m not thirsty.”

“It’s not water.”

“Then what is it?”

“It goes by many names.”

Dylan unscrewed the lid and started to lean forward to smell it, but his head quickly reeled back. “Alcohol!” exclaimed Dylan, as his nostrils curled.

Tom laughed at the reaction and slapped his thick muscular hand on the table. “And that’s what we’re going to turn the corn into. I’ve got a still hidden in the back of that barn.”

Dylan stood up again, visibly angry. “We had a deal! You got what you wanted, and we get a share of that corn.”

“Hold on.” Tom held up his hands. “You’ll get your corn. This is another deal I’m talking about now.”

Dylan sat back down and put the lid back on the jar of alcohol.

“You get me sugar, and I’ll split my moonshine with you. I’ll need a lot of sugar.”

“You’re making a big mistake. We need food, not alcohol. People are starving.”

“Don’t worry about that. You found a tractor. I’ll let you plow up as much of this land as you want. It’s about forty acres. You can feed everybody with that much land, but they just have to wait until next fall’s harvest. We can trade that alcohol for food in the spring, Dylan. That’s when it’ll be worth more. The store-bought liquor should be gone by then.” Tom rubbed his chin and squinted an eye at Dylan. “Just get me sugar, buckets of it.” Tom pushed the small jar closer to Dylan. “Take this to where people are bartering. You’ll see what it can do. It’s better than gold.”

A shadow went across the screen door, and the two men could see the outline of a man’s body coming closer to the screen as he walked across the creaking wood planks of the old porch. When the specter leaned forward to peer through the screen, the men saw that it was John. He had followed Dylan, again.

“Hey, John,” said Tom loudly.

Startled, John jumped back and then fumbled for the door handle. He opened the door, but did not come in.

“Shut the damn door. You’re letting the flies in!” yelled Tom.

John leapt across the threshold. The rusty spring pulled the screen door shut, slamming it behind him.

“What’s going on?” asked John. He leaned back onto the edge of the countertop and knocked over a plastic cup. It rolled off the counter, onto the floor, and landed near Dylan’s foot. Dylan lightly kicked it back toward John, without saying a word to him. They ignored each other.

“We’re talking business.” Tom smiled.

Dylan pushed the Mason jar away.

“The corn? Is that what you’re talking about?” asked John. “I’m ready whenever you are. I just need some time to get a crew together.”

Dylan did not say a word. He was still ignoring John, and John was doing the same to him.

“Something like that,” said Tom, as he threw a look at Dylan across the table.

Tom picked up another small jar of alcohol and handed it to John.

“What’s this?” asked John, as he opened the lid. The fumes invaded his nostrils, and he quickly held the jar away. “Don’t answer; I just figured it out.”

“John, that’s liquid gold,” Tom replied. “We’re in the moonshine business now.”

John knew that he had a problem with alcohol. A little voice, a distant voice in his conscience, whispered an urge for caution and advised him to walk away. He knew that would be the prudent thing to do, but another voice began to beckon. A stronger voice, a closer voice in his mind, shouted a demand stay and drink it. He took a tiny sip of the liquid, his body shuddered, and he twisted the lid back on tightly. He embraced the sensation like a favorite relative at a family reunion. Somewhere in the depths of John’s conscience, a door slammed and the tiny voice of reason was locked away. “Where do I sign up?”

“Hold on. If you don’t have any sugar, then we should just forget about this,” said Dylan.

“You can do whatever you want with your share of the corn,” said Tom.

Dylan pushed his jar a little farther away.

“Just think about it, sleep on it. Take that little jar to the barter lot and see what it can do. After you do all that, come back here and tell me no.”

“Hey, if you go to that barter lot, I want to go with you,” said John. “Tom, do you care if I take your truck?”

“Not at all. Take that jar as a souvenir.”

Dylan pushed himself back from the table and stood up. Tom and John looked at the distance between Dylan and the jar he had left on the table. They both frowned. Dylan took a step forward, hesitated, and then reached for the jar. “Okay, I’ll sleep on it.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” said Tom.

Tom tossed John the key to the truck, and then opened a drawer by the sink to remove the distributer cap he had hidden.

John turned to look out the kitchen window and spoke without looking at Dylan. “How about I pick you up in the morning?”

“The morning it is.” Dylan walked away and the screen door slammed shut by the time the wooden porch began to creak under his feet. He walked to the empty fuel cans, picked them up, and walked home.

In the morning, Dylan took a shower for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. He put on clean clothes that did not smell like lake water. After his shower, he ran a comb through his hair. It was long enough that he could pull it back into a short ponytail, and he pulled it through an elastic band to do so. It was cooler now in the mornings, and Dylan wore a button-up flannel shirt over his cotton undershirt. He left the flannel shirt unbuttoned and untucked.

On the front steps of his porch, Dylan set down the jar that Tom had given him, sat next to it, and removed his knife to clean under his fingernails. He was killing time while he waited for John to arrive with the truck.

Kevin opened the door and leaned over the threshold. “Hey, Brad wants to go with us.”

Dylan did not look up, intently scraping the dirt away under each fingernail. “Not a good idea.”

“He’s really upset, Dylan. You’ve been gone a lot.”

Dylan put the knife back in its sheath, groaned, and said, “Okay, tell him he can come.”

Kevin opened the front door again, and Brad rushed out to sit by his father. Kevin paced across the driveway, waiting for John and the truck to arrive.

Dylan put his arm around his son’s shoulder and leaned toward the boy. “There might be bad people where we’re going. You have to stay right by Kevin or me. Understand?”

“Yes. I stay right by you or Kevin.”

“Good.” Dylan gave him a quick hug with one arm.

“Here he comes,” announced Kevin. He began to walk toward the street, holding up a hand and pointing to the oncoming truck.

John drove the old truck to the end of Dylan’s driveway. With Brad by his side, Dylan slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode to the truck. Kevin jumped into the bed of the pickup. After opening the truck’s passenger door, Dylan stepped back so his son could enter first.

John shook his head and said, “Bad idea,” as he moved his jar of alcohol closer to him to make room for Brad. Dylan sat down and slammed the door shut. Kevin slapped the top of the truck’s cab to signal John that he was ready to leave. John eased it into first gear and drove away. He worked the clutch and the gearshift gently and did not brake or accelerate hastily. Driving ever so carefully, he did not want to pitch the little glass jar of liquid gold off the seat. As they approached the intersection of the four-lane road and the highway, the barter lot came into view. Kevin slapped the roof again, and John stopped the vehicle. Kevin told him to park on the street near the intersection. Remembering that he had already talked with someone at the lot near here, Kevin felt familiar with this area and thought that it was a good place to start.

John went to the intersection and pulled to the curb. After curiously listening to the motor idle roughly, John turned the key and the engine went silent. He wondered to himself if there might be something wrong with the engine.

Kevin leaped out of the truck, landing squarely on his feet. Dylan held the door open for his son, and the young boy slid off the truck seat and into the tall grass by the curb. Dylan adjusted his rifle, concealing the jar of alcohol under a flap of his unbuttoned shirt, and held his son’s hand. They all stared at the swarming throng of people buzzing about the lot.

John slammed his door shut. “Let’s look around.”

Kevin immediately took the lead and walked to Pete’s area. He found him in the same location as his last visit. Junior was near the truck, seated with the door open again, and was attending to three small goats tethered to the vehicle’s side mirror. Pete was standing with his back turned to Kevin’s approach.

Kevin spoke to Pete’s back and asked, “Are you trading for water today?”

Pete, standing with his thumbs hooked under each strap of his overalls, began to shake his head and answered, “No, no, no,” before he completely turned around. When he turned, he immediately recognized Kevin.

“You’re back.” He turned to look at his son, Junior. “I’ve got a handle on him. No spilled water today.”

Junior heard his father and stood up, casting his immense shadow across the ground. He lifted each arm and inquisitively looked down at his torso, from one side to the other, for a handle. Confused by the comment, he dropped his hands, knelt by the bleating goats, and gently scratched their necks.

Brad saw the young goats and stared at them with a child’s curiosity. He tugged on his father’s pants. “Can I pet the goats?”

“Yeah, but keep an eye on me. Just in case we have to leave in a hurry.”

Brad approached the goats and ran his curious fingers across their backs.

John, nervously fondling his jar, leaned over to Dylan and said, “I’m going to take a quick walk around.”

Dylan nodded and John disappeared into the crowd.

“Come here,” said Pete. “I picked up something I think you’ll like.” Pete reached into his truck bed and removed a long, rolled-up bath towel. He put it on the table and unrolled it. He revealed several dozen arrows with razor-sharp tips, all in nearly new condition.

Kevin looked at Dylan, and Dylan confessed; “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

“Then let’s trade,” said Pete.

Dylan removed the jar of clear liquid from under his shirt and placed it on the table.

Pete scoffed and looked at Kevin, “Funny man, I told you I don’t need water today.”

“No, take a swig,” said Dylan, with eager eyes on the jar.

Pete picked up the glass jar, unscrewed the lid, and took a sip of the clear liquid. He contorted his face and proclaimed, “That’s the real deal!” He quickly screwed the lid on tightly and hid the jar in his trunk. “Got to hide that from the militia.” He scanned the parking lot to see if anyone had noticed the trade for alcohol. “We’re supposed to deal with the militia’s liquor if we want to trade here. It’s best to avoid that crowd.” He scanned the mass of people in the lot with his quickly shifting eyes, his thumbs found their way back under the straps of his overalls, and he pulled them tight.

“It’s a trade?” asked Dylan.

“They’re all yours,” replied Pete. He went back to the truck bed and removed a quiver with arrows. “You can have this, too.”

They graciously accepted the arrows, wrapping them all together with the towel as a way to carry them.

“If your friend that just disappeared into the crowd has a bottle of hooch, you better get him quick and tell him to keep it low. The militia doesn’t want any competition.”

Before Dylan and Kevin had a chance to think about finding John in the crowd, an old 1973 Mercedes 200D rumbled to a stop next to their parked truck. The dark exhaust from a diesel engine rose from the tailpipe before the motor went silent. The vehicle looked shiny and spotless. A frail-looking older man emerged from the driver’s seat and shut the door behind him. His baggy clothes hung off his skeleton frame. His hair was thinning. His baldness was not from old age, but malnutrition. He stumbled toward Pete’s vehicle. He stared at the goats as he stood there with his hands deep in the pockets of his black leather trench coat. Brad looked back at his father. Dylan nodded his head in a way his son understood to mean to come to his side, and Brad did.

Pete approached the stranger. “Help you?”

The man turned, and with a weak voice asked, “Are the goats for sale?”

“All three of them.” Pete was beside the goats and bent at the waist to pet one of them.

The man then walked over to Pete’s table and dropped a handful of gold coins across it. “I’ll take them all.”

Pete turned and saw the surprised expressions on everyone’s faces. Then he looked at the table and saw the glitter of gold. He dashed back to the table and tried to cover the coins. Then he desperately looked around to see if anyone noticed the precious metal.

“You fool!” exclaimed Pete. “You can’t flash that around here. Put that back in your pocket. You could get us both killed for that.” He scanned the crowd again for militia. He did not see any, but it was too late. Whispers began to spread through the crowd.

The man’s frail hands picked up the gold coins, and he dropped them back into his pocket. “But I want the goats. I need the goats.”

Pete looked back at the car that the man had driven and remembered how weak and desperate the man seemed. “I’ll make you a deal. Give me your car, and I’ll give you the goats.”

“My car for the goats? That’s it?”

“No, I’ll give you some advice too. Leave quickly.”

The man dropped the key on the table and walked away, his wrist tethered to three nagging goats.

John, unaware of the risk, openly walked around carrying a jar of distilled alcohol that was not from the militia’s inventory. He went from table, to trunk, to trailer, looking for some item to trade for the alcohol. Then he bumped into a man with a number thirteen tattooed to his arm. That brought the attention of another member of the militia who was also on patrol.

“What do you have?” asked the armed man.

“Hooch, moonshine, whatever you want to call it.”

The soldier squinted and looked hard at John. “I don’t know you.”

“The name’s John.” John extended a hand, and the soldier slapped it away.

“You don’t touch anybody in the militia.” He waved for his comrade on patrol to join him. The two soldiers stood side by side in front of John. John began to realize that he was in trouble and all alone.

“What’s he got there?” asked the second soldier.

“He’s trying to sell his own liquor in our lot.”

The second soldier whistled. “Maybe we ought to teach him a lesson?”

“Hold on,” John pleaded. “I’ll leave; I don’t know your rules.”

“No, it’s not that easy,” said the second soldier. “We have rules, and everybody has to follow them.” They stood on either side of John, hooked an arm underneath each of his, and began to walk away with him.

“Hey, where are you taking me?” John pleaded again.

“How about to the new guy?” asked the first soldier. “We could let him do it. Maybe he could get his tattoo that way?”

“Yeah,” said the second soldier. “Let the new guy cap him.”

John’s legs buckled, and he began to whimper. Unable to support his own weight, the two soldiers dragged him away, his shoes scraping the asphalt. John was still clutching the jar tightly when the soldiers stopped walking. He looked up and tried to focus his eyes on the blurry image of the man standing in front of him.

The blurry silhouette asked, “John?”

John blinked quickly, and the fog disappeared. “Michael, is that you?”

Almost simultaneously, the soldier asked Michael, “You know this guy?”

“Yes.”

They dropped him, and he landed hard on his knees, still clutching the jar.

“You deal with this,” ordered the first soldier. They stepped away, looking back into the crowd like lions on the African savannah.

“You’re in a militia?” asked John.

“Yes, they saved my life. I had no other place to go. Dylan Smith chased me out of the neighborhood at gunpoint. Do you remember him?”

“I think so.” He lied.

“I’d like to taste some sweet revenge.” Michael was feeling the gap of his missing front tooth with his tongue. He looked down at John, still on his knees and cradling the jar of alcohol. “Did you make that?” asked Michael.

“No. Is it worth anything?” he handed the jar to Michael.

Michael twisted the lid and sniffed the fumes. He grimaced and said, “Oh, that’s strong.” He put the lid back on the jar. “Can you get more? I can talk to people, and you could supply it to us. Then we could sell it here.”

John nodded his head. “I like that.”

“If you can do this for me,” Michael took a quick glance at the two soldiers, “I could get the tattoo and a weapon. Then I would have some real power.” Michael looked at the jar of alcohol. “I’m going to take this back and show it to Sam. I’ll let him know that I found a potential suppler.”

“Who’s Sam?”

“Sam Deville. He’s our leader. Everything goes through him. We’re at the old Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse.”

John nodded his head. “I’ll do it.”

Someone from the crowd walked up to the soldiers and began to talk to them while pointing back into the crowd. The first soldier turned to Michael and said, “Somebody is flashing gold coins on the other side of the lot. We’re going to go check it out.” Each man mounted a motorcycle and slowly scooted the bikes through the crowd.

“It’s good to see you again, Michael, but I need to get going now.”

“Are you here alone?”

“Yes.” John lied again.

He jogged through the crowd and emerged to see his companions waiting for him at the truck. Kevin was in the back of the truck with the bundle of arrows. John quickly retrieved the keys, got into the truck, and turned the ignition to bring the engine back to life. John eased out on the clutch, put it in first gear, cranked the wheel hard to the left, and turned the truck around to head home.

“What did you get?” Dylan asked John.

“Nothing, I dropped my jar.” He lied again.

John was driving slowly. The engine did not seem to be running as smoothly as it should. He held the gearshift delicately to feel the vibrations emanating from the engine and transmission. It seemed rough to John. As he drove slowly down the road, they saw the old man walking home with his three goats. John passed the man, but stopped shortly thereafter to look at the engine.

“Something’s not right. It’s running rough,” said John, as he pulled the truck to the side of the road. “I’m going to pop the hood and take a look.” John was lifting the hood to look at the motor when everyone heard the rumble of two motorcycle engines coming down the street. John saw the men who had stopped him at the barter lot, and he moved behind the truck to conceal himself. The two soldiers parked their motorcycles beside the old man walking with the goats.

Kevin jumped out of the truck and stood next to John. “That doesn’t look good,” said Kevin.

“None of my business,” replied John.

Dylan turned around in his seat and saw what was getting ready to happen. He realized that the militia was not paying attention to the truck. They were focused on the old man. He quietly got out of the truck and shouldered his rifle. “I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“It’s not our problem.” John came around the truck and grabbed Dylan’s arm. Dylan shrugged him away. He knew he had to act fast. The soldiers had left their weapons on the motorcycles, and their backs were still turned. Dylan walked softly across the street.

“Give me the gold!” The first soldier pushed the man to the ground. When he fell, he lost his grip of the ropes. The goats scattered a few yards away and began eating the tall grass along the sidewalk.

The old man reached into his pocket for the coins.

“Not so fast,” said the second soldier. As he turned to get his weapon from the motorcycle, he saw Dylan pointing the rifle at him.

“Not so fast yourself,” ordered Dylan. “Both of you need to take your shotguns off your bikes and put them on the ground. Nice and easy.”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” proclaimed the first soldier.

“Do you know who we are?” asked the second soldier.

“I don’t care. You better get moving before I change my mind.”

The soldiers cursed, dropped their weapons to the street, and rode away. Kevin ran over and picked up the weapons. He quickly put them into the truck and walked back over to Dylan, who was kneeling by the old man’s side.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asked the frail old man.

The man responded in a hoarse voice. “No. I might as well be dead.” He removed the gold coins from his pocket and tossed them on the concrete sidewalk. “I was wealthy beyond most people’s wildest imaginations. I had everything.” A tear formed in his eye. “I sent my children on a Caribbean vacation. I told them to leave the grandchildren with me, and they did.” The tear dropped down his gray skin and cut a path through the dirt on his face. “They flew away, and this happened. I sent them to their deaths, and half of my grandchildren have already starved. The rest are skeletons like me. Their little bellies are sticking out from the starvation…just starving to death.” He wiped the tear away and looked at the goats.” Right now, I would give all the gold in the world just to get a little milk into their swollen bellies. That’s why I got those goats. I’m going to milk them and try to keep my grandchildren from starving.”

Kevin knelt down and looked underneath the goats. “Sir, these are male goats.”

The man rose to his feet and stumbled away in a daze. He was mumbling, “Oh, dear God, what have I done? What have I done?” to himself as he sulked away.

Dylan picked up the gold coins, and Kevin escorted the goats to the truck.

“You should have shot them,” said John. “Maybe the old man, too. Just put him out of his misery.”

“I’ve done enough killing. And anyway, I wouldn’t do that in front of my son.” He ruffled the young boy’s hair. “Let’s get out of here before trouble comes back. Is this fixed?”

“Yeah, it was a loose spark plug wire.” John slammed the hood shut. “It’s ready now. I’ll get you back home.”

Chapter Fourteen

Autumn arrived and Tom’s field corn was ready. The neat rows of stalks were a golden brown. The once plump kernels of corn, hiding under their husks, were dry, dimpled, and ready to be twisted free of the cob.

After trampling paths through the dew-covered grass on their way to the field’s edge, the harvesters coalesced into a group between the cornfield and Tom’s house. As more people arrived, the clatter increased. Buckets clanged together, and the noise from the gathering brought Tom to a rear window overlooking his acreage. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, grabbed a jacket, and went to his back porch to see hungry people ready to shell their portion of the corn into the buckets and onto the blankets and tarps placed at the edge of the field.

The morning sun just pierced the horizon. The first rays of sunlight pushed the long shadow of the cornfield toward the ragged barn and covered the blankets and tarps spread on the ground. Some of the people huddled close to one another and rubbed their hands together, hoping the friction would provide some warmth. Small children pressed close to their parents.

Tom put on his jacket, zipping it to his chin and flipping the collar upwards. He looked at the crowd and tried to find a familiar face. The dim morning light cast eerie shadows across the strangers’ faces, distorting their features. Then Tom recognized Dylan walking toward him, rifle slung across his shoulder. Behind him was Kevin, and next to Kevin was a woman and two young children that Tom did not recognize. He guessed they were Kevin’s wife and Dylan’s children. All of them carried buckets and blankets. He waved Dylan over to him, and the others followed.

“Morning,” greeted Tom.

“Morning,” replied Dylan.

Tom brought his hands to his mouth and blew hot breath on them.

“Cold?” asked Dylan.

“I’ve always preferred the heat of summer.”

“Seen John yet?” Dylan asked.

“Not yet.” As Tom spoke, his eyes wandered to where he had usually staked his goat. The people were close to that clearing of grass now. He eyes moved to the old barbecue grill on the side of his barn. It was a large one; large enough for competition, and it had a large pile of wood next to it. John had begun to accumulate that wood for Tom as part of their agreement for the corn.

“Dylan, I’ll meet you by the field,” said Tom. “I’m going to get my goat out of that barn and then start a little fire. Maybe I can cut the chill a little bit. Some of these kids look cold.”

Dylan, Kevin, Mary, and the two children went toward the gathering of people and found a place to drop their supplies.

Tom slid the barn door open to an anxious goat, bleating and ready for release. He took it by the rope leash and exited the barn. Just as he stepped out with the goat, John passed by the open barn door.

“Hey, John, where’s your stuff?” asked Tom.

“What stuff?”

“Something to hold your share of the corn.”

John turned his head and looked at the crowd by the cornfield. He looked back at Tom and said, “They think of me as their leader. It wouldn’t look right for me to sling a bucket around with the rest of them.”

Tom scoffed at the comment and shook his head. He started to laugh, but the goat pulled hard at the rope leash and distracted him from the humor of John’s delusion. “Hey, do me a favor,” asked Tom. “Go in the kitchen and get a jar of my finest and a match. I’m going to get a little fire going around the corner. Or is that beneath you, too?”

“No, I’ll be right back,” answered John.

Tom tied the long leash to the frame of the barbeque grill. He lifted its lid, breaking apart many generations of spider webs, and began to stack wood into it.

In the kitchen, John found a full jar and a box of strike-anywhere matches. Jar and matches in hand, he looked out the window. The people huddled tightly while Tom stacked firewood into the grill. John thought of the huddled mass as being subservient to him and his leadership, but he did harbor doubts about his own competence. He looked down at the bottle, and it began to call to him. He put the matches down and heard the jar beckon for him to twist the lid and release it. John had promised himself he would stop drinking because it had nearly killed him. It was a lifelong battle. After recently quitting, John thought he had won his battle with alcohol. He felt his resolve weaken, and then he had a quick thought, Just one drink. Just one sip won’t hurt me. He twisted the lid off and took a small sip. His body shuddered as the alcohol burned on the way down. He looked through the window once more. Liquid courage. The bottle tipped back a little farther this time. It only took minutes to begin feeling the effects of the alcohol on his empty stomach. Full of liquid courage, he pushed the screen door open. It slammed shut behind him as he went to the grill, now stacked with wood ready to burn.

“Find the matches?” asked Tom.

John tossed the box of matches to Tom as he walked toward the grill.

Tom snatched the box out of the air with a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt. John poured some of the alcohol on the wood. Tom touched one lit match to the pile, and a blue flame burst forth. He walked over to the crowd, leaving John with the alcohol. John took the jar of his liquid courage and hid it in the barn.

Tom picked up a metal fencepost and held it high as he approached the crowd. “This is my marker. I’m going to put this by a row of corn and nobody goes past it.” He paused and looked into the hungry eyes of the crowd. “The rest of the corn is yours. I don’t care what you do with it. Just don’t cross this post.” He paused once more and lowered his arm; the tip of the metal fencepost pierced the soft dirt. “Any questions?”

A hand reached up from the crowd. “My name is Joel Hales, and I wanted to thank you for doing this for us. I appreciate your generosity.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Dylan. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have made a deal and maybe we wouldn’t be meeting on such good terms.”

John heard the comment and began to fume with jealousy and rage at Dylan once more. He walked away, and began to brood.

“Could you show us how to shell the corn?” asked Joel.

Tom grabbed the closest ear of corn and snapped it off the stalk. He ripped the husk from the ear and held it horizontally over a bucket for catching the kernels. He twisted his hands in opposite directions, back and forth, until the cob was naked. He held up the bare cob. “That’s all there is to it.” Tom noticed a large feather on the ground, maybe from a pheasant, and pressed its stiff quill into the end of the cob. He threw cob beyond the barn. The feather acted like a rudder, and the cob traveled like a missile to the area of short grass eaten away by the goat. All the young children ran after the missile and began to play in a clearing behind the barn, next to the tall grass of the meadow.

The adults and older children began to work and as Tom began to walk away with his marker, Dylan called for him.

“Yeah?” Tom replied.

“Can I leave the goats I got at the barter lot here? They’re male. If your goat gets pregnant, we could use her for milk.”

“Sure, put them in the barn and let nature take its course.” Tom walked away.

“I’ll go get the goats,” Mary told Dylan. She waved at the children, playing happily together, as she briskly went away.

Dylan saw Joel and his wife standing by their stack of buckets. He walked over to Joel and greeted him.

“Good to see you, Dylan.”

Dylan noticed that Joel had brought his bow along. He pointed to the bow. “Had any luck?”

“I haven’t seen any deer walk past my deck, and I haven’t had any luck with rabbits, either.”

“Get your bow. Let’s go into that field so you can show me what you’re doing.”

“Excuse me,” Kim retorted. “You want me to do this alone?”

Dylan knew she was right. She should not have to work alone. He whistled in Kevin’s direction. When Kevin looked, Dylan gestured for him to come over and bring the supplies. As he explained to Joel’s wife that she should team up with Kevin, he saw David Taylor with his pregnant wife, Amy. At Amy’s side was Linda Foster with her young child. Dylan made eye contact with David and summoned him over, too. Dylan explained to the group that they should all work together while he took Joel across the meadow to see how he used the bow. If they brought any game home, they would divide what they got. The group agreed and Joel left with Dylan, rifle slung across his shoulder. Dylan had given him two razor-tipped arrows. Joel clutched the arrows tightly in his hand as they entered the tall grass. In the distance, Dylan pointed to a tree surrounded by shrubbery. They went toward it, hoping for squirrels. As they walked toward the tree, the grass ahead of them began to rustle. Something was moving in the grass.

Dylan held his arm out to stop Joel. “See that?”

Joel nodded.

“I’ll walk wide around, get behind it, and spook it to you,” whispered Dylan. “Don’t move. Let it come to you.”

“What is it?”

“We’ll find out.”

Dylan took careful steps in the dry grass, trying to be as silent as possible, constantly staring at where he had seen the last bit of motion. When he had gone completely around, he began to walk back toward Joel. The grass began to rustle in the same spot, and Dylan stomped his feet. The grass divided in a line heading directly toward Joel, and Joel’s eyes grew wide as he pulled back the arrow. Something was running toward him. Gasping, Joel let the arrow fly, and the grass stopped moving. Dylan ran forward and saw that the arrow had penetrated the thick, dark fur of a groundhog. Both men knelt by the furry creature, and the expression on Joel’s face changed from trepidation to delight.

Joel exhaled a sigh of relief. “I did it.”

Dylan turned the groundhog over and noticed the tip had gone completely through the ribcage. Dylan inspected the razor tip for damage, and it was still intact. He grasped the arrow’s shaft and pulled it through the animal. Just as the fletching passed free of the body, they heard movement in the grass again. This was different from the groundhog, sounding more like a heavy creature with thumping hooves. Both men rose from their kneeling positions to see a large deer trotting past. The startled deer flipped up its white tail, lunged forward, and exposed its flank. Just as quickly, Dylan shouldered his rifle and swung it about, forcing Joel to duck and dodge the barrel of the rifle. At this close range, Dylan did not take time to aim. As soon as he felt the rifle tucked firmly to his shoulder, he pulled the trigger. The deer continued to run toward Tom’s yard, then collapsed near the cornfield. The bullet had pierced both lungs.

Dylan slapped Joel on the shoulder, “Come on and follow me.” He sprinted toward the fallen deer.

Joel picked up the two arrows and grasped them with the hand holding his bow. With the other, he grabbed a hind leg of the groundhog and followed Dylan to the deer.

The deer had collapsed on its side. It was a doe, no rack of antlers. The short, brown hair almost perfectly matched the dried grass of the field. There was a single small hole behind the shoulder blade. Small trickles of blood oozed from this circle of torn flesh and from its shiny black nostrils. Dylan put his hand on the deer. It felt warm as he moved his hand across its short, bristly fur. The doe looked fat, well fed.

Dylan flicked the retention strap on his knife’s sheath, removed the knife, and handed it to Joel.

“We need to gut it,” stated Dylan.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re no stranger to a knife. You’re a surgeon.”

“This is different.”

“Think of it like a scalpel. We need to remove the contents of the abdominal cavity.”

“But I was an orthopedic surgeon.”

Dylan nudged him “Don’t worry about it. You can’t be sued for malpractice anymore.”

Joel smiled at the humor, then inserted the tip of the blade into the deer and cut it from just below the sternum to the anus. The pressure from inside the deer’s swollen abdominal cavity pushed the contents out onto the ground. He had accidentally pierced the doe’s swollen uterus when he made the incision. A fawn fetus, weakly kicking and gasping for air, fell out. Joel turned away quickly, vomiting in the tall grass. The blood drained from his face and made his already pale skin almost translucent.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t expect that,” said Dylan.

Joel wiped the vomit from his chin with the long sleeve of his shirt.

“Go find Tom and tell him to get the barbeque grill ready for some meat. I’ll take care of all this.”

Joel nodded and headed toward the yard.

Dylan finished separating the intestines from the deer, gutted the groundhog, and severed the deer’s head. He put the groundhog on the deer, pulled them both to the yard, and exited the tall grass in the clearing where the children were playing. The children all stopped what they were doing and watched him drag the bloody carcasses through the short grass. He stopped by the grill and continued to process his kill.

Joel wandered near the edge of the cornfield, peering into the neat rows of brown corn stalks. First, he wanted to tell his wife about the deer, but he did not know where to start looking for her, so he was getting ready to enter a random row when John emerged.

“Seen Tom anywhere?” asked Joel.

“Sure, he’s in his own section.” John pointed to a metal fence post driven into the ground more than halfway down the rows. “He doesn’t want anybody to go down there.”

“Dylan shot a deer,” said Joel. “I got a groundhog. Dylan wants me to tell Tom to get the grill ready.”

John’s glassy eyes looked into Joel’s. “You don’t look so good. Are you sick?”

“I just need some water.”

“I’ll tell Tom. Go sit down.”

Joel walked away.

John yelled at him before he turned the corner of the cornfield. “There’s already a fire started. Tell Dylan to hurry up with that meat.”

Joel did not turn around. He just raised a hand and kept walking.

John went to the metal fencepost and stopped. He thought about what Tom had said that morning and the way he had said it. John hesitated and wondered if he should cross the barrier. He looked around, did not see anybody, and lifted the metal post from its shallow hole. Then he walked ten yards farther down. He plunged its pointy tip into the soil and began to walk quietly and slowly into the field, stopping every few steps to listen for Tom. After a few more steps, he stopped, closed his eyes, and listened again. There was a rustling of dry cornstalks ahead. He slowly moved forward on the soft dirt. He saw a clearing ahead, much sooner than he expected. He went to where the corn stopped, and he saw a clearing in the middle of the cornfield. The clearing was full of tall marijuana plants. John saw Tom, with his back turned to him, standing at the far end of the clearing. He was harvesting a large marijuana plant. John quickly retreated into the rows and continued to spy on Tom. He watched him for a few more moments and then slowly went back the way he had entered. He hastily grabbed the fencepost and put it back where he had found it. His mind was racing. Now he understood why Tom did not want anyone to go near the far end of the field. John whistled loudly, and Tom emerged from the rows of corn.

“Hey,” said John.

“Hey, what?” asked Tom.

“Dylan got a deer.”

“So?”

“Just thought I ought to tell you.”

“Okay, so you told me.”

John stood there, shifting his glassy eyes around.

“Have you been snooping around my section of corn?” asked Tom.

“Nope.” John moved his head slowly from side to side and began to walk backwards.

“I’ll come out after a while.” Tom licked his lips. “A chunk of that venison sure sounds good.”

“I’ll let him know.” He turned and walked away.

Tom stood there and watched him disappear around the corner of the field.

Dylan found an engine hoist in the junk pile near Tom’s barn and used it to lift the deer carcass off the ground. While the deer hung high, he pulled the skin from the groundhog, quartered its warm body, and pressed its flesh onto the grill’s hot metal grid. The flesh hissed as the flames jumped from the wood and licked the meat. The aroma of cooking meat began to permeate the air.

Joel was sitting on the well’s concrete slab. He splashed water on his face and thought of a better time in his life. He heard the bleating of goats and looked up to see them pulling Mary, her wrist bound to the goats’ rope leashes. She disappeared into the barn. Joel decided it was time to join Dylan at the smoky grill. He smelled the meat cooking.

“Mary is back,” Joel told Dylan. “Your goats are in the barn now.”

“That’s good,” he replied. “She’s going to want this one.” He pointed to the female goat tied to the frame of the barbeque grill. “Help me pull the skin off this deer, and I’ll take her this goat.” He began to wonder what warm goat milk would taste like and then decided cheese might be better.

John was ready for another drink from his hidden stash in the barn. His liquid courage was wearing off. He had begun to walk toward the barn when he smelled the meat. Changing his path, he walked silently on the gravel around the barn, and ended up right behind Dylan and Joel, unnoticed. He heard Dylan and Joel talking about the goat.

“I’ll take it to her,” John volunteered. He wanted an excuse to enter the barn.

Startled, Dylan quickly turned around with the bloody knife in his hand.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Dylan.

“You look disappointed,” stated John. “Who did you expect?”

“I didn’t expect anybody.” He looked at the knife, but did not tell John that he had almost stabbed him. “She just went into the barn.” Dylan untied the goat’s long rope leash and handed it to John. “Tell Mary I’ll come get her when the venison is ready.”

“Will do,” replied John. He walked away with the goat tromping its cloven hooves across the gravel surrounding the barn, and they both disappeared into it.

Mary was inspecting the rear of the barn. The bleating of the fourth goat was indiscernible from the three already there, so she did not notice that John had entered the barn. With one cautious eye on Mary, he reached behind a square bale of hay and removed his jar of stiff liquor. He quickly took a mouthful of the clear liquid and swallowed hard and fast. The alcohol drained down into his empty stomach and began to course through his veins again. Bad thoughts began to swirl through his cloudy mind. Anger and self-pity gripped his consciousness. He stared at Mary, unbeknownst to her, and wondered why he could not get a woman like that. She was young and beautiful. He took another drink and hid the jar. “Why can’t I have someone like that?” whispered a little voice in the dark recesses of his mind. He sneered and emerged from behind a shadow in the barn. Mary was startled and took a step back.

“I know you,” said Mary, squinting her eyes in an attempt to adjust to the dim light.

“John Sisk, at your service,” he said, almost giggling as he did. Mary could see that his eyes were dilated and glassy.

“Are you okay, John? How do you feel?”

“With my fingers, pretty lady.” John snorted at his attempt at humor.

Mary took a step back and looked out the open barn door. She was alone, and John had stepped between her and the exit.

“Don’t mind me, pretty lady. I brought you a goat.”

“My name is Mary. Stop calling me that!”

“Suit yourself.” He kicked the goat gently in the rear, and it trotted forward toward Mary and the other goats.

“I just thought I should help nature take its course.”

“Nature doesn’t need your help.”

“They need some privacy.” John started to push the door shut.

“No!” exclaimed Mary.

John mumbled, “Bitch,” under his breath.

Mary became noticeably angry. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Just sit over there and leave me alone.” She pointed to a square bale of hay on the ground.

John sulked to the bale and sat quietly. He raised his head after a few moments, and his eyes wandered over Mary’s body again.

The three male goats circled the female. With her back to John, Mary watched them as she leaned against a barn pole. The males began to butt heads to determine dominance. After a few confrontations, a leader emerged. The largest of the three males mounted the female.

During the courtship, John had slowly crept toward Mary. She was unaware and thought he was still slouched on the square bale. When the male goat was firmly on top of the female, John whispered lecherously into Mary’s ear. “I sure wish I was doing that.”

She felt John’s sick breath on her shoulder and felt trapped by the barn pole she was leaning on. Anger erupted from the depths of her soul, and it screamed for her to fight back. Mary turned her head, seductively, and replied, “So that’s what you want to do?” She gave a nod to the copulating animals. “I’d sure like to see that.”

“Yeah, I bet you would.” John smiled, took a step back, and moved his eyes across the curves of Mary’s body again.

“You want to do it in here, John, don’t you? Right now?”

“I’m ready, pretty lady.”

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “You better ask Tom first. It’s his goat.”

The demons circling John’s soul moved his arm forward. He grabbed Mary by the arm and grunted, “You bitch!” as he raised his other hand.

She screamed just as a dozen louder screams came from outside the barn. John came back to reality and let go of her arm. Mary sprinted outside and turned the corner of the barn to see a horrific sight unfold before her eyes.

A stray dog had been scavenging through the meadow. The smell of meat permeated the air, and the dog had followed the scent to the deer’s blood trail. It followed the trail to the clearing where the children played. It was a Rottweiler that had hidden in the tall grass, lying in wait for its prey. It had lost a lot of weight, but all its muscle remained and so did its killer instinct, fueled by hunger. The dog, trained for protection, possessed an evil temperament. Its former owners had placed a leather collar, studded with stainless steel spikes, around its neck to make it look more intimidating. The dog lay stealthily in the tall grass, tongue hanging out the side of its jowls and dripping with saliva over its large, crushing teeth. It was ready to lunge forward when its murderous predisposition commanded it to do so.

Dylan heard the children scream and quickly turned to look. Then the adults screamed and rushed toward the children. Reflexively, they stopped and formed a semicircle around the clearing in the grass, feeling helpless against the beast. The dog lunged forward and clamped its large jaws on the neck of a young boy. It was shaking the child and dragging the limp body backward into the field. The adults panicked, frozen with fear. Everyone begged the other to do something. When Dylan saw the animal, he instantly sprinted toward the dog, knife already in hand. His legs pushed against the ground beneath his shoes, as if they were compressed steel springs. He ran as fast as he could, screaming in rage at the black creature. The crowd quickly parted, and Dylan continued to charge forward. He was at the clearing, raising his knife, ready to attack. The dog met his challenge, dropping the child, and raising its muscular body to lunge again. Dylan raised his left arm protectively, and the dog clamped down on his forearm. The weight of the animal knocked him backward, but when the dog had leapt to bite Dylan’s forearm, it had stretched its body and exposed its soft underbelly. Dylan eviscerated the animal before they landed on the ground. Dylan thrust his blade into the dog’s ribs until he felt the animal’s jaws release. It was dead. He pushed the dog off him and turned to look at the mangled child. The Rottweiler had broken his neck and ripped apart his throat.

The boy’s mother and father collapsed beside their only child. The mother bent forward and tried to hug his lifeless body. Her long hair dangled down in front of her face, dragging across the child’s open wounds, and cloaking the young boy like a death veil. She hugged the corpse with a mother’s eternal love while her hair was soaked with blood and tears. The father’s face was expressionless, as if he was in a trance. He gently placed one hand on his wife’s back. Then his hand dropped to his side, and his eyes cast to the ground before he suddenly stood up. He picked up a metal pipe from the junk pile by the barn, went to the dog’s body, and began to beat the dead animal relentlessly. He smashed it with the rage that permeated every fiber of his being. The flesh splattered all around, and the carcass turned to a bloody pulp. He began to cry out in rage, “Why me? Why me?” as he continued to swing the pipe. The circle of people slowly dissipated as the adults took their children away from the carnage.

Dylan wiped his blade on the grass, and sat there, looking for wounds on his body. He noticed that his left forearm was bleeding. He tested his fingers. They all moved. His feet found their way under his body. He stood, covered in blood, and still tightly gripping the knife. He saw the well across the yard and began to walk toward it to wash the blood off his wounds and clothes. The silent crowd parted, as he moved forward, and then closed behind him. They stared with wide eyes as he stoically limped past them.

Dylan pumped the handle to the well, and the cold water poured out. The water poured over his arm and washed away the blood. Multiple puncture wounds from the sharp canine teeth had marked his arm. Then the water poured over the blade of his knife before it went back into its sheath. He took his shirt off and put it under the stream of water. The clear water turned red as it washed the bloodstains away, but the stain on his memory was as permanent as the scars on his arm.

Joel nervously approached Dylan. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You should come back to my house. Let me clean you up. I have a first-aid kit.”

“Yeah.” Dylan nodded softly. “I’ll do that.”

Kevin ran over to Dylan, and close behind, Mary ran, with Dylan’s children, to her husband’s side.

“Go with Joel, let him check you out,” Mary told Dylan. “We’ll get your children back home.” Mary hugged her husband tightly.

“He already offered.” Dylan reached out and grabbed his children, using his good arm. “You stay with Kevin and Mary. I’ll come back after the doctor fixes me.”

“Daddy, are you broken?” asked Jennifer, with the inquisitive, innocent voice of a child.

“No, Honey, I’ll be okay. I’m not broken.” He wiggled his fingers and poked her in the side to tickle her. He ruffled his son’s hair. Then he got his rifle and walked away with Joel.

Mary whispered into Kevin’s ear what had happened with John inside the barn.

Kevin’s face turned red, and he exploded in a furious rage.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything rash, Kevin.”

There was broken axe handle near the well. Kevin picked it up and said, “I’m going to have a talk with that son of a bitch!”

“Please, Kevin, I don’t want you to do anything rash. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“When I’m finished, it won’t be me that regrets anything.”

Kevin gripped the handle tightly with one hand and repeatedly smacked the weathered hickory on the palm of his other hand as he walked to the barn.

In the barn, John sat on a bale of hay, leaning forward with an empty jar on the ground in front of him. He looked up to see Kevin marching toward him.

“Hey, buddy,” said John, with a muddled smile. “What do you want?”

“To knock your teeth out.”

A clumsy hand reached down for the glass jar. “I’ll drink to that.” He tipped his head back and then realized that the jar was empty. “Oh, well, ran out of hooch.” The smell of alcohol overpowered the smell of the musty barn.

Kevin leaned close to John’s face and said, “You’re drunk.”

John lifted a finger and proclaimed, “I’m not as think you drunk I am.”

Kevin pushed the axe handle into John’s chest. He fell backward, hit his head on the ground, and passed out. Kevin dragged his body to the well, pumped cold water on him to wake him, and dragged him to the crowd for everyone to see the leader they had elected.

Kevin whispered into his wife’s ear, “Why couldn’t the dog have gotten that sorry sack of shit instead?”

“Everything happens for a reason,” she replied, and kissed her husband tenderly on the cheek.

Chapter Fifteen

From inside his house, Dylan entered the garage. He strapped his knife’s sheath to his right thigh. Taking the bow in his left hand, his other hand was ready to hold a fistful of arrows. The wounds from the dog bite had healed nicely. He tested the grip of his left hand by making a tight fist and squeezing the bow handle to watch the muscles in his forearm flex.

Kim Hales and Mary were already in Dylan’s garage, waiting for the others to arrive and begin grinding the harvested corn into flour. Kim held the grain mill steady on the edge of Dylan’s workbench while Mary clamped its base securely to the table. At the table’s edge, Mary placed a chair under the mill and then sat a bucket on the chair. They positioned the bucket to catch the flour as it fell from the mill. A tarp with mounds of shelled corn covered the floor of the third garage bay. Jim had transported the grain from Tom’s field with his wheelbarrow.

“Good morning,” said Dylan.

Both women returned the greeting simultaneously.

“Have you seen the kids?” Dylan asked.

Mary stopped working and went to the threshold of the open garage door. She bent at the waist, looked side to side, and noticed that a ball they had been playing with near the garage was gone. “They must be in the backyard.”

“I’m going to ask Brad if he wants to hunt with me.” Dylan gestured toward his bow.

“Joel will be over here soon. He might want to go.” Kim paused for a second, looking upward as she thought, and then continued speaking. “And David Taylor, too. His wife, Amy, said he is going to bring buckets of corn over for them and Linda Foster.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for them. I’m in the back if anybody wants to know.” Dylan placed his arrows on a shelf, exited the garage, and went directly to the backyard.

As he walked, Dylan looked down and plucked at the string of his bow. The string appeared to be fraying at the looped ends and that had captured his attention. He was already in his backyard by the time he looked up. Dylan froze in place. He saw his children seated on the ground under the large walnut tree in his backyard. Brad and Jennifer sat next to each other with their backs to Dylan. A stranger was in front of them. The man was facing Dylan and had already begun to stand when he saw their father. Dylan’s first reaction was to grab for an arrow, but he instantly remembered that he had left them on a shelf in the garage. He quickly dropped the bow. In the same moment, his hand went to his knife’s handle, and he marched forward toward his children.

“Come to me!” exclaimed Dylan.

His children turned, smiled at him, and obeyed. They did not seem concerned about stranger. They continued to smile at their father as they approached him, even though they saw the look of fear and concern on his face.

“Go to the garage now and stay there. Hurry.”

Brad and Jennifer began to run for the garage. Then Brad realized that he had left their ball by the tree and turned back for it. Dylan pointed to the driveway and said, in a commanding voice, “Go!” His son turned back and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Dylan walked toward the man while anxiously gripping his knife, just in case he needed to unsheathe it quickly. The man was tall and skinny, with dark curly hair. He had a large head and sharp facial features. His eyes were set unusually far apart, giving his face a strange appearance. He was thin, but his clothes seemed to fit him as if he always had been thin. His belt did not have any extra length hanging from the buckle like so many other belts that Dylan had seen on ever-shrinking waistlines. To his relief, Dylan did not notice any weapons on the tall stranger.

“Who are you?” Dylan demanded.

“Salvation.”

“Salvation?”

The man crossed his arms defiantly and widened his stance.

“Stay away from my children and stay away from here. We don’t need your salvation.”

The man smirked. “Your children are the innocent ones. They’re caught up in your negative energy.” His sneer widened. “You have an empty soul, Dylan.”

There was a long pause. Dylan was shocked that the stranger knew his name. He stared into the unfamiliar eyes for what seemed like an eternity, trying to recognize the man. “Don’t mention my children again.” Dylan tilted his head forward and seethed with anger.

“I can help your children, and fill your soul.”

“I do have an empty soul,” Dylan growled through clenched teeth. “And it can only be filled with blood and vengeance.”

Even before the tip of Dylan’s knife cleared its sheath, the stranger had reacted. The man’s eyes grew wide. He stepped back and turned to run. His long legs propelled him quickly, but Dylan began to close the gap. By the time the pursuit went into the tall field of grass, Dylan was only a few feet away from the man. Although Dylan was that close, he decided to stop the chase for fear of stepping into a rabbit hole and breaking his ankle. He took a few quick, deep breaths and, after sheathing his knife, cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Don’t come back.”

The stranger heard Dylan, sensed the distance of his voice, and stopped at the edge of the forest. In reply, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled, “You will die for your sins.”

Dylan began to walk angrily toward the stranger, but the man quickly disappeared behind the endless bushes and tree trunks. Dylan went to where the man had stood before he disappeared, and looked into the woods. He did not see anything suspicious, so he closed his eyes and listened for the crackle of dry leaves or the call of forest animals maddened by the intruder. He was gone.

Dylan walked into the thicket and looked about once more. The gentle breeze moved the tree branches, and the colorful leaves rustled in the wind. A red maple leaf drifted from above and landed near his feet. Autumn had arrived, and the falling deciduous leaves formed a colorful palette on the ground. Dylan walked across the leaf litter and felt nodules under his feet. He kicked the leaves away and noticed walnuts, acorns, and pecans had fallen with the leaves. He decided he should get the other men and collect the fallen tree nuts. The hunt would have to wait. He looked hard into the thicket once more before he turned around and went home.

Brad and Jennifer were in their front yard. Countless footsteps had bent down most of the tall grass that his children sat on. Brad was sitting on his soccer ball, and Jennifer was sitting next to her brother. She was carefully observing the anatomy of a tall blade of fescue that had a full head of seeds on the end of its stem. She was plucking the seeds away and flicking them with her small fingers.

“Mary said we can’t play in the backyard,” said Brad.

Dylan was in the front yard, near the end of the driveway. He looked into the garage and saw that it was full now. Joel, David and Amy Taylor, and Linda Foster were all in a circle discussing what had just happened. Kevin saw Dylan and walked over to him after they made eye contact.

“You’re not supposed to talk to strangers,” Dylan said firmly to his children.

“He didn’t scare me,” Brad replied.

“I don’t care.”

“He promised to take us to a place where we could play all the time, be happy, and never be hungry again,” Jennifer added.

The first word that came to Dylan’s mind was abduction. Anger and fear coursed through his body again, his hands began to shake, and he yelled at his children, “Stay where someone can see you!” He walked toward Kevin, meeting him halfway up the driveway.

“Ever seen that guy before?” asked Kevin.

“No, and he’s long gone now.” Dylan pointed to the trees. “Everyone needs to keep their children in sight at all times.”

Inside the garage, Dylan looked at the group and announced, “There’s a lunatic out there. Keep your children close.”

Joel looked at his wife. They had let their oldest son go out on his own to hunt on multiple occasions. They each had a knot in their stomach as they thought about their children possibly getting hurt.

“Any idea which way he went?” asked Kevin.

“No, I went into the woods and saw nothing. He’s gone.”

“Dylan,” said Mary, “I’m sorry. I should’ve watched them more closely. We are just so busy with all the grain.”

“I understand. No one is blaming you for anything. We just have to be more cautious.” Dylan looked at the pile of grain and said, “I’m going to leave you alone. You’re busy.” He picked up an empty bucket. “Alright, gentlemen, grab a bucket. We’re going into the woods. The tree nuts have fallen, and it’s time for another harvest. I saw walnuts, acorns, and pecans.”

“No hunt this morning?” asked Joel.

Dylan thought for a moment. He knew they needed meat, but the falling leaves were covering the tree nuts. It would be better to get them sooner rather than later. “Get your oldest son, and I’ll get Brad. Let them hunt in the woods while we gather the fallen nuts. That way, we can keep an eye on them.”

“I can get him now,” said Joel. “I’ll also bring the other boys so Kim can watch the two youngest.”

Kim nodded.

“We’re on our way,” said Dylan. “Meet us in the woods. Oh, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Find Jim and have him taxi our buckets back and forth with the wheelbarrow.”

“I’m on it.”

Dylan, Kevin, and David left for the woods. Each man carried empty buckets stacked one inside the other, several deep. Brad followed close behind, excited to leave the yard and hunt in the woods. At the edge of the woods, Dylan spread the empty buckets around under the nut trees as David began to work under a large walnut tree, clunking the dark hulls into the bucket one thud at a time. Joel arrived with his son, bow and blunt arrows in hand. Aaron smiled and waved to greet the group. He rarely spoke, self-conscious of his voice because of his profound deafness. Aaron and Brad went to hunt squirrels only after another stern warning to stay close by. Joel settled under an oak tree towering over mounds of fallen acorns. He flicked the top off each one before dropping the little brown spheres into his buckets. Dylan motioned for Kevin to follow him, and they went deeper into the woods and under a pecan tree. They randomly spread their buckets on the ground, and each man crouched down and began to gather the pecans.

“Hey,” said Dylan in a low voice, wanting to keep his conversation with Kevin private.

“Yeah.”

“What do we do with Tom?” Dylan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“He needs sugar for his still, and we don’t have any.”

“You really want to get into that business?” asked Kevin.

Dylan thought for a moment before he answered. Kevin understood the hesitation to mean that his friend had doubts. “Maybe.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“He’s going to let us plow all those acres behind his house,” said Dylan. “If we have enough food, then…why not? It’s not illegal. No laws anymore.”

“Maybe,” Kevin replied.

“Maybe? Now you don’t sound so sure. Do you want to do it or not?” Dylan realized he was speaking loudly and looked up to see if the other two men were listening. They did not appear to have noticed the conversation.

Kevin stood up, flexed his lower back, and shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. We don’t have sugar anyway.”

“You’re right. I’m going to forget about it. Besides, we’d be partnered with that asshole, John. I heard what he did to Mary. You should’ve knocked his teeth out.”

“What I did was better. A guy like that thrives on attention. He has a sociopathic desire for control. When I dragged him out of that barn and dropped him in front of the crowd…well… that was it for him. Everybody saw his true colors. They turned their backs and walked away.”

Dylan stood tall. When he did, he noticed that Jim had arrived with the wheelbarrow. They placed the full buckets in the wheelbarrow and filled the empty spaces around the buckets with loose pecans. They repeated the process throughout the afternoon and stopped when the boys killed their fourth squirrel. The fathers sent their sons home with the squirrels and told them to wait there. They watched the boys walk into the tall weeds and then emerge on the other side at Dylan’s garage. The men sat on their buckets, stacked high with more nuts, and waited for Jim to come back for the final trip.

“When do you want to crack all these open?” asked David, as he inspected his hands, stained black from the walnut hulls.

“Not now, I’m starving,” said Kevin.

Dylan felt his hunger twist a knot in his gut. He could not have agreed more. Dylan stood up, ready to carry the buckets back. Just as he did, Jim parted the tall grass with the wheelbarrow like an icebreaker cutting a path in the Arctic Ocean.

“We’re done,” announced David.

“Good, so am I,” replied Jim. He dropped the wheelbarrow’s handles. “Load me up, and let’s get out of here.”

Jim dropped the handles of the wheelbarrow in the middle of Dylan’s driveway, and it stopped with a thud. He flexed a cramp out of his callused hand and took a long drink of water from a container he had placed on the driveway earlier in the day. He sat down and leaned back, supporting himself with the palms of his hands. The concrete felt warm from a full day of sunshine.

Dylan remembered the bow he had dropped behind his house and hurried to retrieve it. He turned the corner to see John holding the bow, inspecting it curiously.

“Hey!” exclaimed Dylan. “Are your sneaking around my house?”

Startled, John dropped the bow and turned quickly around. “No, just walking around the neighborhood.” John pointed to a small pile of wood by the concrete patio. “Looks a little low. I’ve got extra.”

“You shouldn’t be around here,” warned Dylan.

“Yeah, I figured as much. I’ll be on my way then.”

John went through several backyards before walking back onto the street to make his way home. Dylan picked up his bow and suspiciously looked around his backyard. His eyes went across the garden and stopped at the walnut tree. He did not believe John.

Dylan bent down at the edge of his garden to inspect what remained. Tomato vines had slithered across their rows onto the brown remnants of the bean plants. Mary had picked the last of the red tomatoes days ago. Only green tomatoes remained, and the weather was cool enough to keep them from ripening. He picked an armful of what remained and set them on the concrete patio. A small fire was smoldering there. Delicate tendrils of smoke wrapped around the metal grid above it. Dylan placed a few logs into the fire ring, and tiny red embers jumped free, then slowly floated back to earth as gray ash. He was hungry, and it was time to cook some of the milled corn.

Kevin brought a small pail of the corn flour to Dylan and tipped the edge down for Dylan to see inside. Dylan pinched the yellow powder and rubbed it between his fingers over the fire. The flour quickly flared up the red embers.

“Hungry?” asked Dylan.

“Starving,” replied Kevin.

“Put it in a large pot, fill it with water and bring it to a boil.”

“What’s it called?”

“Mush,” answered Joel. Joel and David had just come from the garage to see where Dylan and Kevin were. “I’ve eaten that before.”

Joel was as hungry as the others were, but had a nostalgic smile on his face. When he was performing missionary work in South America, he lived and ate with the indigenous population. All too often, boiled corn flour was a staple, and he had grown tired of it. Now he understood true hunger and was ready to welcome back the familiar taste of the thick, warm paste.

“Looks like you just volunteered to be the cook tonight, Joel,” Dylan suggested.

“Don’t expect much. It’s just boiled corn flour,” replied Joel.

Dylan unsheathed his knife and handed it to Joel. “What do you think? Slice up the green tomatoes and mix it all together?” asked Dylan.

“It won’t make much of a difference.”

Dylan shrugged his shoulders and picked up two spades. “I need to turn more soil over to expand the garden for next year. Any volunteers?” asked Dylan.

David raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

“I better get busy, too,” said Kevin, handing the pail of flour to Joel. “Yell when it’s ready. I’ll crack some of these nuts open with Jim.”

David followed Dylan to the far edge of the garden. The garden was a rectangular shape and its long dimension was parallel with the back property line. Dylan pointed to the large walnut tree in the distance and explained to David that eventually, the garden needed to go that far back.

“That’s going to take a lot of work, Dylan,” moaned David. He leaned on the spade’s handle and stared at the distance between himself and the tree like it was an enemy.

“I know, and I don’t expect to get it done today. We’ll stop when the food is ready.”

“Alright, I’ll try.” David stopped leaning on the handle. He tested the ground with the tip of the spade.

Dylan walked several paces away to give David room to work and, standing behind David, watched him struggle with the spade. David tried to push the spade into the ground and nothing happened. He put the tip on the ground and, holding the handle vertical, jumped up to land on the footrest of the spade. The spade barely moved. David was too weak to push it through the turf, and his body was too light to do the same. He stopped trying. The spade was vertical again, and he put both hands on the end of the handle and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the back of his hands.

Dylan stopped shoveling and went to David’s side. “You okay? Need some water?”

David had closed his eyes and was still resting his head on the back of his hands. “No. I don’t have anything left. I’m spent.”

Dylan heard David’s stomach roar with hunger. “When was the last time you ate something?”

David did not answer. He remained attached to the spade, balancing against it.

“Anything today?” asked Dylan.

David took in a long breath and slowly exhaled. “I gave it all to Amy. She’s pregnant. I don’t need it, but she does. Way more than I do.” David opened his eyes and stood as straight as he could. “When that baby comes, what am I going to do then? I’ve been living off the charity of others.” He looked toward Joel, thinly slicing the green tomatoes and dropping them into the pot over the fire. “That man probably saved my life. He gave us food.” He looked at Dylan with empty eyes. “Why would he do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“He gave me food,” replied David. “I’m a stranger. I’m nobody to that man.”

“Maybe he sees things differently than most people. Would you have given him any food if you had plenty of it?”

David hung his head low and slowly shook it side to side. “I don’t know.” He raised his head and looked away as if he was ashamed. “But I do know that this kind of hunger changes a man. I used to walk around after dark. I’d tell my wife that I was going out to look for food, but I knew I wasn’t going to find any.” David swallowed hard. “I would just walk around. If there was a candle flickering in a window, I went up to it and looked inside. You’ll never know how many times I stood there and watched people eat. I almost…I almost…oh, Dylan…one night I almost went into a house to take their food. I was going to kill them if I had to.”

Joel walked across the yard, holding Dylan’s knife. He stood between the men and gave the knife back to Dylan. “Flames are higher,” said Joel. “Won’t be long now.”

“Take a break, Dave,” said Dylan. “You’ve worked hard enough, go have a seat.”

David slowly walked away, shoulders hanging low.

“He doesn’t look so good,” said Joel.

“He is starving himself.”

“I’ve given them food,” said Joel.

“He told me that. But he’s been giving his share to his wife. She’s pregnant.”

Joel nodded and looked back down to the patio at David, slumped to his side in a chair by the fire. Joel sighed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dylan.

“They lost their first child,” replied Joel.

“I know.”

“She delivered the first by caesarian.”

“And?”

“What if she needs another?” asked Joel.

“You’re a surgeon.”

“Not anymore.”

“The hell you’re not!”

Joel sighed heavily again. “Look, Dylan, everything that helped me to be a surgeon is gone now. It’s all gone.”

Kevin whistled loudly from the porch. Jim was holding a pail of nuts picked clean from their shells. “It’s ready,” yelled Kevin. The women and Dylan’s children were all around the fire, plates and spoons in hand.

“Don’t tell David what I just said about his wife,” begged Joel, in a hushed tone, even though they were too far from the patio for anyone to hear what he had said.

“I won’t tell,” Dylan assured him. “But you better promise me you’re going to try. If she needs help, you better try to help her. Promise me.”

Joel hesitantly nodded.

Dylan poked him in the chest. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Alright, I promise.” Joel abruptly walked away.

Hungry from all the day’s work, Dylan focused on the metal pot sitting on the grill over the fire and the thick yellow paste simmering in it. He did not notice his children and the Hales’ children playing around the other adults on the porch. Each plate soon held ladles of mush and boiled green tomatoes, sprinkled with nuts. Ready to eat, the children huddled together and the adults circled the fire, plates in hand. At the corner of the patio, Linda Foster sat holding her child. Everyone ate quickly. No one spoke. The only noise was the sound of lips smacking from chewing the pasty meal and the clatter of spoons on the plates. Dylan licked his plate and spoon clean. Then he put them by his feet on the concrete patio and laughed to himself.

“What’s so funny?” asked Linda. Trying to feed her toddler a spoonful of the mush, she was the only person with food still on her plate.

“I used to hate going to fancy restaurants.” Dylan laughed again. “I’m not the kind of guy that ever liked to put on a suit or use a special fork for salad, but look at me now. I think I wouldn’t mind doing that right about now.”

David finally smiled. “What kind of wine goes with mush, Joel?”

“I don’t know, Dave, we don’t drink alcohol.” Joel touched his wife’s shoulder.

“Oh, that’s right, sorry,” David apologized.

Jim quickly licked his lips clean and cleared his throat. He held up a thick finger and said, “Red wine. I’ll take a bottle of red wine. How about you, Dylan? What kind for you?”

“Wine,” Dylan mumbled.

“Yes, what kind?”

Dylan’s mind drifted away. It floated above his house, across the field, and over the tall grass to the golf course. It stopped at the eighteenth hole. In his mind’s eye, he could see a winery at the edge of the golf course. He just remembered, from years ago, seeing a winery and its orchard next to the edge of the fairway.

“Grapes,” Dylan mumbled again, as he came back to reality. “I know where there’s a winery with an orchard of grapes.”

“Dylan,” said Jim. “We were only joking. You don’t want to make wine, do you?”

“No, of course not.” Dylan rubbed his beard. “If those grapes were never picked, though, they’ll be dry on the vine. Raisins. A vineyard full of raisins.”

“It’s not that far away. Right?” asked Kevin.

“Right.”

“You want us to walk there? With buckets like we did for the nuts?” asked David, with a weary voice.

“No. We’ll get a truck and load it up. Raisins will keep over the winter.”

“Tom’s truck?” asked Kevin.

“Yeah, but he won’t go.”

“Harold has an El Camino,” Jim offered. “We’ll take that, too. Really get a load while we’re at it.”

“I’ll go talk to Harold,” said Dylan.

The thought of having to talk with Harold and tolerating his cantankerous attitude put Dylan in a foul mood. He frowned and looked over at the group of children. They had finished eating and gathered in a circle to chatter and play as children do.

“Children,” called Dylan. “Bring your plates here. We need to clean them.”

His children set their dirty plates and utensils beside Dylan’s plate. He curiously looked at his children, just noticing that they were wearing vine necklaces with cross pendants made from sticks held together with the same kind of vine.

He lifted a cross pendant from his son’s chest and rotated it between his fingers. He squinted at the necklace and asked Mary, “Did you make these?”

“No. We’ve all been busy grinding the corn.”

His eyes went back his children. “Did you make these?”

“No,” replied Brad. “Jennifer found them by the house.”

A noise came from deep inside Dylan’s throat. It sounded like a growl. He lifted the other necklace from around his daughter’s neck. He yelled, “No!” as he threw both necklaces as far away as he could, and they landed in a patch of weeds.

“Dylan!” Mary was shocked and gestured for the children to come to her side. Jennifer began to cry.

“That lunatic left them here!” Dylan pointed to his chest, and yelled, “I’m not the bad guy!” He stormed away into his front yard. Kevin followed him.

“Shitty day?” asked Kevin.

“And it’s not over. I’m getting ready to go ask Harold for the keys to his El Camino.”

“Yeah, I heard he’s an ass.”

Dylan looked toward Harold’s house and saw a truck coming their way, from down the street perpendicular to his home. Its headlights were on. It was Tom’s truck, and John was driving it. When John came to the end of the road, he turned the wheel hard, made a U-turn, and backed the truck into Dylan’s driveway. The truck’s bed was full of cut wood. John killed the engine and engaged the parking brake. He exited the truck and stayed on the opposite side of the vehicle.

“Wood,” announced John.

“I can see that,” responded Dylan.

John took a step toward the truck’s tailgate and stopped. He looked up at Kevin. “Are we cool?” he asked sheepishly.

“Yeah, we’re cool,” said Kevin, spitefully.

John dropped the tailgate and began to toss the cut wood onto the driveway.

“We need the truck,” said Dylan.

“It’s not mine. Ask Tom.”

“Tell Tom I think I’ve found sugar, buckets of it.”

John dropped a log on his foot. “Shit!” He jumped back, his toe beginning to throb. “How did you do that?”

“There’s a winery with a grape orchard not far from here. If nobody got to it yet, the grapes will be dry on the vine. Raisins, full of sugar.” He paused for a moment. “That ought to be all Tom needs to get his still back in operation.”

John ran his fingers through his hair and whistled through his teeth. He thought about the task as he stroked his scruffy chin and faintly whispered to himself, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Be back at daybreak,” said Dylan. “I’m going to get an El Camino right now.”

Dylan walked away. He crossed the street and went to the sidewalk that took him to Harold’s front door.

Kevin had thrown all the logs that were on the tailgate onto the driveway and was now leaning forward to get more of the cut wood from the rear of the truck bed. John jumped into the bed of the truck and moved the logs closer to Kevin.

“Here you go, buddy,” said John.

“I’m not your buddy.”

Dylan knocked loudly on Harold’s door. He heard a barely perceptible voice answer.

With a weak, raspy voice, Harold said, “Come in. It’s unlocked.” Harold knew now that he was too weak to waste energy getting out of the chair to unlock the door.

Dylan opened the door to see Harold leaning back in a reclining chair. His gaunt features almost made Dylan gasp. Dark skin circled his sunken eyes. With the exception of a few thin patches of straggly hair, he was bald. There was one drop of fresh blood at the corner of his mouth. Dry blood covered the other cracks on his lips. His jaw was slack, but his lips were pulled tight across his pale gum line, exposing his teeth in a macabre smile. Harold looked like a skeleton covered with a translucent membrane of gray skin. Because of having had gastric bypass surgery, his body could not absorb much Vitamin A and his retinas had started to degenerate as a result. Harold squinted his eyes. His vision was failing him. The moving form of a dark void was all Harold could perceive.

“That you, Jim?” His dry lips cracked again when he spoke, and his dark eyes closed when he winced from the pain.

“It’s Dylan. Do you need a glass of water?”

Harold licked his lips, with a tongue like leather, before answering again. “Yes, a tall one.”

Dylan walked into the kitchen to find a bucket of water and, as he did, noticed that Harold moved his head to track his movement across the room with his ears, not his eyes. Dylan wondered how blind the man was now. He found a tall glass and filled it. When Dylan handed the glass of water to him, its weight made Harold’s hand shake violently and he spilled most of it. After he drank the water, Harold went limp in the recliner and his hand holding the glass fell to his lap.

“More,” asked the raspy voice.

Dylan took the empty glass, filled it once more, and handed it back to the specter. His skull tilted back and the shaky hand rose again, pouring the cold clear liquid past his slack jaw. Harold’s hand collapsed back to his lap, and he was panting from the exertion of raising a glass of water.

“I need a favor,” said Dylan.

“Of course you do. Why else would you be here?” Harold’s sarcasm remained intact.

“We need the keys to your car.”

“We? Ah, that explains it. You’re going to go traipsing across the countryside and leave me here to rot.”

“You’ve got it wrong. We need to find food. Everybody helping you needs to eat.”

“Ha! You’re the first person here all day, and you’re a stranger to me.”

“Harold, I’m not going to your pity party.”

A bird fluttered in its cage and woke the other birds. They began to stretch their wings and ruffle their feathers, preening between the quills with their beaks. The clatter changed to song, and Harold turned an ear toward the cages.

“Do you want me to feed your birds?” asked Dylan.

“Yes.”

Dylan began to scoop the birdseed and pour a small amount into each cage.

“I’m blind now. You know that, don’t you?” asked Harold.

“No.” Dylan lied.

“It’s true. And it won’t be long before I’m dead and gone. You’ll all swarm through my house like a plague of locusts and steal everything. Won’t you?”

Dylan closed the last cage. He turned and went to the door, shaking his head. Just as he grasped the doorknob to leave, he turned back to Harold and said, “You have no idea how much humanity is surrounding you in a world with very little of it left.”

“I’ll give Jim my key. It’s hidden.”

Dylan slammed the door shut.

Chapter Sixteen

The cool morning air created heavy dew on the grass. The horizon was foggy and glowed with an eerie red iridescence that expanded as the sun rose higher. Dylan and Kevin stood shoulder to shoulder on the driveway, hands in their jacket pockets to keep warm. They watched Harold’s garage door rise, and then the black El Camino slowly backed out. Jim drove it to Dylan’s house, parked it on the street, and waited for the others. Dylan and Kevin stacked the trunk of the El Camino with all the tarps and empty buckets they had. After John arrived, Joel and David got into the truck. Jim started the El Camino and pulled in front of John, gesturing at him to follow.

The vehicles exited the subdivision, and the quest began. The side streets took them to a through street that merged with a road that curved toward the lake, and they followed that road the length of the lake to its end, at the dam. They turned right onto the road over the dam and continued, driving on another quiet and vacant road. Dylan and Kevin recognized the lakeside community they were passing and squinted through the haze to see if they could see Dean or any of the others who had helped them get out of the lake. They only saw a stray dog and a smoldering campfire.

Past that community, down the road a few miles, there was an old furniture outlet store. Dylan remembered that the cult had moved into it. He told Jim to slow down. Dylan could see the building from the road, but did not see anyone around it. He wondered if they had abandoned it. Just past the cult’s building, a serpentine cobblestone driveway led to the winery and its vast orchard of grapes that backed up to a golf course. Jim turned onto the driveway and parked next to the building. Kevin exited the vehicle and quickly ran around the building and came back.

“It’s clear all the way back to the orchard,” said Kevin. “Drive around.”

“Is there anything left? Did you see anything on the vines?” asked Dylan.

“Couldn’t tell. I was too far away.”

The El Camino went first and John followed close behind. Jim drove to the side of the orchard farthest from the cult’s property. The vehicles went slowly through the tall grass, bouncing gently on the uneven ground. Kevin walked in front to make sure they did not run over anything concealed in the grass. They stopped at the corner of the orchard. Before them, they saw thick wooden posts that had been sunk deep into the ground and held in place with concrete. Long strands of galvanized wire had been strung tightly from post to post to support the grapevines, which were thick down the length of the rows. The men exited their vehicles and went to the abandoned vines. They were undisturbed. The clusters of grapes had dried on the vine. Raisins and brown leaves were all that remained.

David quickly picked the little pieces of desiccated fruit from their stems and swallowed handful after handful.

“Take it easy,” advised John. “You’ll shit your pants.”

David stopped pushing the raisins into his mouth. He clenched the remaining handful of raisins tightly in his hand and used the same arm to wipe the dark saliva from the corner of his mouth.

After moving his head side to side, observing the expanse of the vineyard, Dylan said, “There’s more here than we can take.”

“I’m not complaining,” said Joel.

“I’m not either.” Dylan shaded his eyes with his hand and looked around once more. “I’m going to walk around.” He shouldered the rifle. “I’ll make one loop and return.”

John removed his bandolier of shotgun shells from the truck and picked up his shotgun. “I’m going with you.”

“I’ve got it. Stay here.”

Dylan’s command infuriated John and he felt humiliated again.

Dylan followed the edge of the grapevines and walked away from the men and toward the cult’s property. On his loop around the orchard, Dylan stopped to look at the cult’s temple, the old furniture store. From the back, he saw that the asphalt parking lot only extended a short width from the rear of the temple. On the back wall, there was one steel door and no windows. Originally, the back of the building was most likely where inventory had been stored, so there was no need for windows. A chimney projected from the flat roof. That appeared odd, but he could remember seeing a sales flyer from when it was still a furniture store. Designed with a rustic appearance, a portion of the sales floor had living-room furniture near a large fireplace to give it a warm, homey appearance.

In the lawn that was past the rear parking lot, there was a large fire ring of oddly sized stones, brick, and cinder blocks. Mismatched patio chairs circled the crudely made fire ring. A little farther from the building, closer to the fairway of the golf course, was what appeared to be a storage shed, constructed of concrete blocks, with two garbage dumpsters next to it.

Dylan stared at the cult’s temple. His eyes went from the rear parking lot to the yard behind it and past the golf course. He imagined how all that was connected to his neighborhood not far away. He wondered if this is where the lunatic came from that he had caught in his yard talking to his children. It remained quiet, with no sign of activity. He moved along and circled back around to the vehicles.

“See anything?” asked John. He appeared eager, ready for any drama or conflict, so he could try to redeem his perception of lost manhood. He felt as though Kevin had emasculated him the day of the corn harvest, as Dylan did just now, by making him stay with the other men. Bitterness permeated his body. Now, with no one as an ally, the group had relegated him to subservient duties.

“Nothing,” replied Dylan.

John appeared disappointed, but the others were relieved.

Dylan put his rifle down to join the men harvesting raisins. He went to the El Camino to get a drink of water before starting. The morning fog had disappeared, and he could see farther down the road. He removed the binoculars from Kevin’s backpack and observed the landscape. He saw something that jarred his memory. It was a nursery. He had been there once, years ago, to get landscaping materials for his house. Dylan returned the binoculars and went back to the men.

“There’s one more place we need to go,” Dylan announced.

John’s head came up above the grapevines. “I’ll go.” John volunteered, with an eager intensity.

Dylan did not immediately respond and tried to ignore John.

“What is it?” asked Kevin.

“I can remember a nursery farther down the road. We should check it out.”

“I don’t need any adventures. I’ll stay,” answered Joel.

David was still hungry and snacking on the raisins. He simply shook his head and kept picking and eating.

“I’ll stay with the El Camino,” said Jim.

Dylan looked at John. He had already put the bandolier on and was behind the steering wheel of the truck.

“Looks like you’re driving,” said Dylan.

Dylan, Kevin, and John drove away in the truck. John guided the wheels to follow the path they had made in the bent grass just a short time ago. The empty open road took them the few miles away to the nursery. In the nursery’s parking lot, there was one old van with Arizona license plates. The van was painted red and rusted around the wheel wells. The paint color partially camouflaged the rusty metal.

The unlocked double doors of the nursery allowed them to walk easily into the building. A single skylight partially illuminated the inside. The men separated and quietly walked up and down the aisles. Dylan turned down an aisle of pesticide, crinkled his nose at the smell, and turned away. He found an empty display stand for local honey and tilted the stand forward. There was one small bottle of the delicious nectar behind it. He grabbed the plastic bottle and put it into his front pocket.

“Hey, guys, come here,” Kevin announced from the farthest aisle. “I found something.”

Dylan and John came down opposite sides of the aisle and then stood shoulder to shoulder, with Kevin in the center. The display in front of them had a multitude of small, wooden drawers. Above the display, a sign with large letters spelled the word, SEEDS.

“You hit the jackpot,” said Dylan.

John swallowed his simmering anger again. He wanted to find some glory in their quest, but Kevin had showed him up. He began to grind his teeth.

“Get some sacks, John. We’re taking all of this,” ordered Dylan. He began to open each drawer and remove all the packages of seeds, stacking them high on the tiled floor.

John found a box of plastic bags under the cash register and kicked them halfway down the aisle to where Dylan and Kevin were mounding the seed packets. John stormed out the exit. The bell above the exit door jingled loudly as it closed behind him.

“What’s got into him?” asked Kevin.

“Who cares? We just need the truck.”

They put the sacks of seed packets on the floorboard of the truck. Dylan shut the truck’s passenger door and looked around. “Where the hell is he?”

“Let’s look around,” replied Kevin.

They walked under a large wooden arbor. A variety of flowering bushes lined the arbor and its gravel pathway. The pathway stopped at the pavement road that circled back around the building to the large parking lot on the other side. Before them, down a slight slope, small buildings and several open enclosures for different kinds of trees stood.

Kevin tapped Dylan on the shoulder. “We should go there. Maybe bring some fruit trees back.”

Dylan looked left and right, but did not see John. They began to walk down the slope. Just as they passed a large, potted evergreen tree, they saw John on the other side, picking the red petals off a rosebush.

“What the hell, John?” said Dylan.

“What?” He did not look up. He was plucking every petal. A section of the bush was denuded.

“You disappeared,” said Dylan.

All John could comprehend was the scolding tone of Dylan’s voice.

“C’mon, we’re going to get some fruit trees,” Dylan commanded. “We need your help.”

“Go ahead, you can handle it,” scoffed John.

John turned and slowly sauntered away. In front of him, a rectangular, red building stood next to the arbor that covered all the flowering bushes. The little red building had a sliding door. It reminded him of a barn. An awning hung over the front of the building. Under the awning, there was a pile of rolled sod, brown and dead long ago. He slowly walked toward it, away from Dylan and Kevin.

Dylan and Kevin circled around the enclosure of fruit trees and found the entire inventory. Behind the buildings with trees, next to the irrigation pond, there was an immense garden, planted with row after row of vegetables. Each row had a different plant, and each row was weed free from recent hoeing. Both men simultaneously froze in their tracks.

“Somebody has already been here,” said Dylan.

“We should go,” said Kevin.

“You read my mind. Let’s grab some trees and get out of here, fast.”

Dylan slung his rifle behind his back and grabbed two small fruit trees by the base of their trunks. Kevin also grabbed two, and both men went back up the slope. John had only made it to the awning of the little red building when Dylan and Kevin caught up with him. John was leaning against a wooden post that supported the arbor. Just as they dropped the trees on the gravel, next to John, the door slid open on the little red building.

A man carrying a hoe came out. He was wearing faded denim jeans tucked into rubber boots, a gray sweatshirt, and a cap pulled down over his ears. The man was startled and stumbled backward onto the rolls of stacked sod. Frightened, he began to yell in Spanish, his native tongue.

John pumped a shell into the chamber and began to raise the shotgun.

Dylan and Kevin quickly looked around, did not see any others, and picked up the trees to run away. Dylan looked over his shoulder to see that John had not moved.

“Let’s go, John,” yelled Dylan. “We’ve got enough.”

Kevin stopped running and turned to see John still slowly raising the shotgun.

“Don’t do it, John. He’s unarmed,” yelled Kevin.

The man screamed more loudly. John could not understand Spanish. He could hear the terrified man’s words, but the rage simmering in the cauldron of his mind distorted reality. It should have been obvious that the man was scared for his life. John shouldered the shotgun and pointed at him. The man only had a hoe, which was not really a weapon compared to a loaded shotgun. If John had understood Spanish, he would have heard the desperate plea for mercy, but all John could hear, as his vision began to tunnel, was his wife yelling at him, Dylan giving him commands, and the humiliating laughter of the crowd as Kevin dragged him from the barn during the corn harvest. The man dropped the hoe and took a step toward John, arms outstretched and palms up, as he begged for mercy. At that moment, the screaming went silent in John’s mind. A voice in his head whispered, “Pull the trigger.” The noise of the shotgun blast erased John’s tunnel vision and brought him back to reality. His ears were ringing and he looked in dismay at the hand that had pulled the trigger, but he could not remember doing it. His hands began to shake. As his mind tried to make sense of the corpse in front of him, a women and small child came across the threshold. She dropped to her knees into the pool of her husband’s blood. The child cried hysterically. The woman’s long, dark hair draped over the hole blasted through her husband’s chest, and soaked in his blood.

In a trance, John began to walk toward Dylan and Kevin. “It was self-defense. You saw it.”

“That was cold-blooded murder, you sick son of a bitch,” growled Kevin.

John turned back around to look at the carnage. His breathing became erratic and he looked down at his hands, shaking violently now. He looked into Dylan’s eyes for sympathy, and saw nothing.

“I had to do it,” John pleaded. “I had to protect us…I have to protect the community.”

Dylan shook his head and snarled, “I’m through with you.”

John tucked the shotgun under his arm, put his hands on his ears and shook his head quickly, trying to erase from his mind the image of what he had done. Still clasping his head, John ran past Dylan and Kevin and into the field across the road.

Dylan and Kevin quickly carried the small trees to the truck and drove away with their plunder. The truck rumbled back down the road to the winery. They remained silent during the short drive back. Both realized that John’s actions had most likely sentenced that woman and young child to death, too. Their eyes scanned the open fields they passed for any sign of John. He had disappeared. Kevin pulled the truck into the vineyard and parked it by the El Camino. The other men had stacked the El Camino with clusters of raisins and were ready to fill the truck.

Jim stood by the rear of the El Camino. “Where’s John?” he asked.

“I’m through with him. He’s not stable,” said Dylan.

Jim looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“John just killed somebody,” answered Kevin. “That’s what he means.”

Joel and David arrived back to the vehicles. Each man was carrying two buckets overflowing with their harvest of dried fruit. A dried framework of stems still held the clusters of raisins together.

“What just happened?” asked Joel, with alarmed concern.

“I’ll explain,” said Dylan. He gestured for everyone to gather around him. “We got to the nursery, and Kevin found a cache of seeds inside it.”

“Garden seeds?” asked David. He was frowning and holding the palm of his hand over his stomach.

“Yes, bags of them. They’re in the truck.” Dylan tilted his head toward the truck. “John got moody and left. We found him outside, picking away at a rose bush. He acted strange and walked away from us. Then we went to get those trees that we have in the truck.” Dylan titled his head again toward the truck. “We saw that someone had started a garden there and realized that we weren’t alone. So we grabbed some trees, went to get John, and that’s when it happened.” Dylan shuddered. “A man walked out of a little building next to where John was standing. They were both startled, but John had a shotgun. The other guy was speaking, but not in English. I think he was Mexican. He was carrying a hoe, but he dropped it as John was raising the shotgun. We told John to walk away, but he stood there as if his mind had gone to another world and then, BANG! He pulled the trigger. Put a hole right through the man. Then John stood there and looked at his hands like he had just woke up from a dream.” Dylan shook his head solemnly. “Then a woman and child came out of the building. She must have seen it. That poor woman went to her knees next to that corpse. Then John walked over to Kevin and me and said it was self-defense.”

“Cold-blooded murder,” said Kevin.

“I told him I was through with him, and he ran away.”

David doubled over and grabbed his stomach with both hands. His eyes grew wide, and he scampered away into the tall weeds.

“Weak stomach?” asked Dylan.

“No, he’s been eating raisins all morning,” answered Joel. “I think they’re going right through him.”

“Somebody please make sure he washes his hands before he picks anymore.” Dylan picked up two empty buckets. “Let’s fill Tom’s truck and get out of here.”

Chapter Seventeen

Days later, Dylan was in his backyard. The first rays of morning light reflected off tiny droplets of dew. The air was crisp. He stood on his patio and looked at all the dried stems and vines from the raisin harvest. As he looked into the tall weeds, he remembered raising his voice in anger at his children and throwing away the crude necklaces that he had found them wearing. He felt remorseful and wanted to make amends. The promise to hang a rope swing from their big walnut tree emerged from his memory, and he went to the garage to find it. Hidden from view on a high shelf was a plastic seat with two long ropes. Dylan took the swing to the walnut tree and looked for a sturdy branch. He chose a thick branch parallel to the ground. He wrapped the ropes around the plastic seat, tucked it all under his sweatshirt, grabbed a low branch, and climbed the tree. He positioned himself above the chosen branch. Then something odd caught his attention. Someone had shaved away a section of the dark furrowed bark, down to the white sapwood, and created a distinctly oval shape on the thick tree branch. Dylan leaned closer to it and thought he could see letters carved into the wood. He ran his fingers across the sapwood and felt the indentations. Dylan removed a piece of brown bark, crushed it into powder with his fingers, and sprinkled the dust onto the carving. The dark powder stained the gouge marks, and Dylan could now read the carving. Under his breath, he muttered each letter individually. “J-O-H-N.” He rubbed more crushed bark over all the exposed sapwood and brushed away the excess. He saw numbers below the letters, and read each one aloud, “Eight-two-four.” That asshole was in my tree. Dylan looked through the branches, and there was a perfect view of the window at the back of his house. He’s been watching us! Dylan was furious. He quickly knotted the ropes of the swing around the chosen branch and stormed into the house. Dylan slammed the door behind himself.

“Shit!” exclaimed Dylan.

Mary was sitting on the living room couch with Brad and Jennifer on either side. The children appeared to be half-asleep. Mary was getting ready to untangle Jennifer’s long hair with a hairbrush. She stood up quickly and shook the hairbrush at Dylan. “Watch your language!”

Dylan looked down and went toward the dining room table. He knew that she was right. He was not being a good example to his children. Mary had become a surrogate mother to them, and he respected what she was trying to do. He sat down at the table, clasped his hands together in front of himself, and tried to regain his composure.

Kevin bounded up the stairs from the basement. “What is it?”

Dylan was not able to restrain his anger at John. He turned toward Kevin, jabbed a finger toward the tree in the backyard and began to say, “That f—” before he bit his tongue.

Mary stopped brushing Jennifer’s hair and shot a sideways glance at Dylan.

“It’s John,” answered Dylan. “He’s been in that tree watching us.”

“How do you know?” asked Kevin.

Mary’s eyes began to volley between Dylan and her husband, listening intently.

“I climbed the tree to hang a rope swing, and I found a section of bark shaved away. John had carved his name and some numbers into the sapwood. And I’m telling you, right where he was in the tree, you can see directly in our back windows.”

Kevin went to a back window, looked toward the tree, and sighed. “I thought he was gone for good.”

“So did I,” replied Dylan.

“You’re sure?” Kevin inquired.

“Positive,” said Dylan.

“What were the numbers?” asked Mary.

“Eight, two, and four.”

Kevin’s mind raced with thoughts after his wife asked the question.

“What does that mean?” Kevin wondered aloud.

The men did not notice Mary slipping away. She went to a pile of her belongings in another room, and began to rummage.

“Some kind of date, maybe?” asked Dylan.

Kevin rubbed his chin and shook his head.

Mary walked quietly toward Dylan and her husband, and stood between them. Dylan saw the Bible in her hand. When she raised it and looked at Dylan, he rolled his eyes.

“Dylan, there is something I need to tell you,” said Mary.

“Not now, Mary. I really don’t feel like a sermon. I’ll watch my mouth in front of the kids. I’m sorry.”

Kevin noticed the slight trembling in her hands. “What’s wrong?”

“That carving is a biblical reference.” She held her Bible higher; pages spread apart, and clasped it tightly with both hands.

“What are you trying to say?” asked Dylan.

“Just listen. I’m going to read John 8:24.” She cleared her throat. “I told you that you would die in your sins; if you do not believe that I am He, you will indeed die in your sins.”

Dylan felt a knot pull so tight in his stomach that it took his breath away. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, then ran his fingers through his hair and gripped his skull tightly before he took in a breath. “It wasn’t John,” moaned Dylan, before he went out the sliding patio door.

He searched through a tall patch of weeds to find the cross necklaces made from sticks held together with vines. Then Dylan sifted through the debris brought back from the vineyard and held one of the crude crosses next to the tangled vines. They matched. Grapevines held the crosses together, and the vineyard was next to the cult’s property. At that moment, the words Mary had just recited from her Bible resonated through his mind and echoed the words of the stranger he had caught in his backyard by the walnut tree, with his children, before the stranger had slithered away into the woods. The epiphany of clues coalesced neatly together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He felt like a shipwrecked sailor floating in a sea of danger, who had just been nudged by a hungry shark.

Dylan went back inside and tossed one of the crosses on the table. “Grapevines.”

Kevin took the stick pendant from the table and rotated it in his hand, closely inspecting it. He remembered that the cult’s property was next to the vineyard.

“I’m going to pay someone a visit,” announced Dylan, as the dry twigs of the other necklace disintegrated under his crushing grip.

“I know where you’re going,” stated Kevin.

“You’re staying here; I’m going alone.”

“But—”

Dylan interrupted. “No. You stay here and keep the doors locked.” Dylan went to get his rifle. “I’m going to put an end to this.”

In the garage, Dylan slung his rifle over his shoulder and strapped his knife tightly to his right thigh. Kevin lifted the garage door.

“What are you planning to do?” asked Kevin.

“I don’t know yet.” He looked toward the open field. “I’ll have plenty of time to think about that on the way there.”

“You should take the El Camino.”

“No, I’m going in quietly. Maybe watch them for a while like they did us.”

“Be safe.”

Dylan nodded, and Kevin pulled the garage door down and locked it.

He started toward the bike trail, but then he changed his mind and decided to continue through the field and cut across the golf course. It would be shorter. He looked back and saw Joel on his deck holding the bow, still waiting for a deer to walk through his backyard. He waved and walked on, the dry brown vegetation crunching under his shoes. The few remaining grasshoppers occasionally jumped and flew away when he disturbed them. On the fairway, the grass was shorter, and he traveled faster. He counted each flag and stopped at number eighteen. From this location, he could see the cult’s temple in front of him. Cautiously looking about, he crouched lower as he advanced toward the building. He crept closer and could see the details of the small building that was near the cult’s rear property line. It was a white cinderblock building with a gable roof. On one side of the structure, an extension ladder lay on a coil of rope next to an old push lawnmower. A concrete partition that hid two large, steel garbage bins was on the other side of the building. A torn and weathered couch sat next to the garbage bins.

To get to the outbuilding, Dylan walked around a patch of wild daisies. He walked past the white petals, remembering that they were his wife’s favorite flower. The beautiful blossoms were so dear to her that she gave her daughter the middle name, Daisy. The light-colored petals had reminded her of her daughter’s hair.

He hid behind the structure and peeked around the corner. There was a terrible stench, and he wondered if it was the weathered couch or something decaying in the garbage bins. He tried to breathe through his mouth to avoid the smell. He crept to the front of the small building. Above the two steel double doors, he saw “PURGATORY” painted in large, red letters. The smell was even stronger now. He put his hand on the doorknob and began to turn it, then he heard the cult’s backdoor begin to creak open. He hid behind the little building again and watched a woman, wearing something like a toga, look out the backdoor. A long, black ponytail hung down the side of her neck. She placed a brick in the threshold to keep the door from locking shut behind her. The woman picked up an armful of cut wood and went back into the building. Dylan noticed faint wisps of smoke wafting from the temple’s chimney. The door remained propped open. He ran for the door and peeked through the dark, narrow slit of the doorjamb. He saw nothing, and it was just as silent. The door creaked again as he slowly opened it and once again as it shut behind him.

A single candle flickered beside the door that led to the main room of the temple. The solid-wood door opened on metal hinges designed to swing in either direction when pushed. The center of the door had a rectangular window. Light from the main room came through the small window and mixed with the flickering candlelight. He put one eye to the window and looked into the room. Folding chairs sat in multiple rows in front of a wooden lectern. The lectern was on top of a broad, but shallow, podium.

A small fire crackled in the large stone fireplace that Dylan remembered from the old furniture store’s advertisements. Cozy furniture had been arranged around the large marble hearth to give it a comfortable and warm appearance in the store’s commercials, now nothing more than a memory.

He pressed against the door and walked into the main room. To his right, an open stairwell led to the basement. Galvanized metal pipes used as balusters and handrails surrounded the opening to the concrete steps leading below.

On the wall to his left, a large poster hung. It pictured the man Dylan had caught talking to his children. A golden circle of light surrounded his head, illuminating his dark hair, large head, and sharp facial features. The man’s eyes gazed upward while his hands clasped tightly near his chin. His thin smile appeared more like a sneer.

Echoing from the basement, Dylan heard a cry for mercy, and then it became muffled behind a door that slammed shut. A lone person’s footsteps reverberated from the open stairwell. Dylan hid behind the lectern and listened to the ascending noise emerge from below. Light footsteps passed by him and, from a reflection off the large glass window of an empty office, he could see the image of the woman with the long, black ponytail. She was walking toward the rear exit. As she passed by, Dylan sprang from behind the lectern.

“Don’t move,” Dylan commanded. He only partially raised his rifle.

The woman screamed, stepped back, and gasped as she put a hand over her mouth.

“Where is that man?” Dylan demanded. He raised his left arm to point at the poster and kept his eyes on the woman.

She answered only with wide, terror-filled eyes.

He raised the rifle and repeated, “Where is that man?”

“The men are gone,” she said, with a tremble in her voice. Her eyes locked on the rifle.

Dylan lowered the rifle and asked, “Where did they go? I need to speak with them.”

When Dylan lowered his rifle, the woman’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. She hissed, “The men will deal with you, infidel. When Gabriel finds out—”

The woman stopped speaking when a soft clatter of footsteps rose from the stairwell. At least a dozen women clustered together at the top of the steps and gasped in unison when they saw Dylan.

Dylan quickly shouldered the rifle. “Hands up! Don’t do anything stupid.” He gestured with his rifle for the woman with the long ponytail to go stand with the others.

From the back of the group, he heard a soft familiar voice ask, “Dylan? Is that you?”

Dylan watched the pack divide as a woman walked forward through the widening gap. Her blond hair ended at her shoulders. She had emerald-green eyes and perfectly shaped teeth that were a brilliant white, hiding behind her full red lips. Like the other women, she wore a cloth draped across the shoulders, resembling a toga, and cinched tightly around the waist by a similar swatch of cloth.

Dylan instantly recognized his wife. He lowered his rifle and his jaw went slack. He simultaneously felt like he had been hit in the stomach and a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Cindy,” he gasped.

Silently she stared at him as though he was a window to the past, another lifetime. Her lips formed around silent syllables as she tried to speak again, but she was mute. Her eyes circled his form once more, hovered on the rifle, and then looked into his face, now hard and different to her.

Barely above a whisper, she proclaimed, “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Dylan pounded his chest with a tight fist. “No, I’m alive.” He extended his left arm. “Come back with me.”

The women that had been so still while immersed in the drama now began to edge closer to Cindy.

Dylan’s nostrils flared, and he raised the rifle. “I have a bullet for each one of you.”

Cindy waved with each of her hands, and the other women cautiously dispersed. The group united again at the far end of the big room, and their bodies turned to silhouettes against the large windowpanes.

“We’re leaving now,” he said.

Cindy did not move. He took a step toward her, and she clasped her hands behind her back and looked down. Dylan marched to her side and grabbed her arm. She pulled away.

“They can’t keep you here. They can’t stop me from taking you home.”

She looked up at Dylan with tired, weary eyes. “No, but I can.”

“What?’

“Dylan,” she said desperately, as her eyes began to tear, “I made a dreadful mistake. I did a terrible thing, and I have to live with it. That’s my crown of thorns.” She swallowed hard and continued. “I panicked. I abandoned the children.” Her eyelids closed tightly, and a tear fell on the pale skin of each cheek.

“All is forgiven, Cindy.”

Her eyes, cast downward again, tracing the path he would walk to exit the building, and focused on the door.

“I could take you out of here right now,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t go back, I don’t deserve to.”

“You don’t have any idea what I’ve done to get back to you, or just to stay alive.”

She bowed her head, hands clasped together near her waist. Dylan saw a tear fall to the floor.

“Then this is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Dylan.”

He turned violently and kicked the lectern off the shallow podium. The splintered wood slid across the floor. Dylan took his knife and pried the poster from the wall. The thick adhesive pulled off a section of the drywall with it. Into the wall, he carved with his knife, DYLAN SMITH WAS HERE. With each violent slash and gouge of his knife, a cloud of white dust drifted away from the wall like a ghost.

Taking deep, heavy breaths, Dylan sauntered back to his wife and almost picked her up to drag her away. He stood there silently, wishing she would look up and smile, tell him that she loved him, and then they would leave hand in hand, but it never happened. With angry fingers, he removed his wedding ring, dropped it at her feet, and walked away.

Dylan retraced his steps back home, walking much more slowly on the way back. He replayed the events in his mind; remembering what he said and did, wondering if he could have said anything differently to convince her to leave. He walked slowly with his head hung low, stopped frequently, and tried to think of any excuse to go back for his wife. All the way home, he wondered how to explain this to his children.

Chapter Eighteen

Dylan saw his house in the distance. His first thought was of his children, and he tried to smile. He crossed the bridge over the stream and emerged from the field, but he still had not shrugged off his gloomy mood. The front door was closed, so he tested the doorknob and found that it was locked. Dylan pounded on the door and heard footsteps scurry toward it. Joel moved the blind that covered the sidelight window, looked out, saw Dylan, and then quickly opened the door.

“Hi Joel, what are you—”

Dylan froze when he saw Kevin lying on the couch. There were bruises on his face. Mary was kneeling beside her husband, sobbing.

“Dylan, I came over after it happened,” said Joel.

“What happened?” Dylan yelled, visibly upset.

Kevin tried to sit up and moaned after touching his swollen jaw. Mary stood up, and now Dylan could see that she had a bruised eye.

Exasperated, Dylan again yelled, “What happened?” Then he realized that he did not see Brad or Jennifer. “Where are my children?” He dashed down the hallway. All the rooms were empty. Dylan’s expression changed as he entered the living room again. He had a distant stare, his mind trying to escape his greatest fear.

“Kevin…Mary…talk to me…I need to know what happened and who did this!”

Kevin sat up and leaned back on the couch. Mary sidled over next to him. He clutched his skull, as if he had to hold it together, and moaned. Mary buried her face in the palms of her hands and began to cry hysterically.

“I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry…” cried Mary. “Oh, dear God, we tried to stop them.”

“Somebody, please tell me something, damn it!” exclaimed Dylan.

Kevin tried to stand, lost his balance, and went back down on the couch. Joel went to his side and put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder to keep him in place, and then Joel apprehensively walked over to Dylan, touched his shoulder, and admitted, “They’re gone. I didn’t see who did it.”

“Dylan, there were too many of them,” Kevin moaned. “I tried, but I couldn’t stop them. They took Brad and Jennifer. I’m sorry.” He pointed to the door. “I think they left in a van, a brown van.”

When those words hit Dylan, he fell to his knees. He started to panic, and he began to feel a crushing pain in his chest. His breathing was as erratic as his hands were shaky. Slowly, the veil of confused fog lifted from his consciousness. He gradually came back to reality, and he could hear Mary crying again. Dylan regained his composure, fueled with anger. Dylan grabbed Kevin by the chin and made him look up. “Okay, Kevin, you need to pull it together for me. Who—did—this?”

Kevin solemnly shook his head, looked at Dylan, with one eye that was nearly swollen shut, and said, “They had a key. That’s how they got in.” Kevin put his tongue on his cut lip, tasted blood, and licked it clean.

“Oh, Jesus,” sobbed Mary, “I can still hear them screaming.”

Kevin put a hand on her back, and then he pointed to the key on the coffee table.

“They must have dropped it during the scuffle,” said Joel.

Dylan nodded, really only interested in determining who the culprits were.

“Dylan,” Kevin licked a trickle of blood from his lips again, “before they left, the tall one said, ‘Gabriel was here.’ But I don’t know who that is.”

“I do.” Dylan dropped onto a chair. He leaned forward and rested his face on the palms of his hands. His hair, now the longest it had ever been, swept forward and covered his hands. He sighed with exasperation. “He is the leader of that cult that has been canvassing our neighborhood.”

“How do you know that?” asked Joel.

“I was just at their temple, and that is where my wife is.”

The room went silent. Mary lifted her bruised face and tear-filled eyes. “You have to bring them back, Dylan. Your wife…your children…they’re in danger, you have to bring them back. You don’t have any more time to lose. Hurry!”

“Mary,” said Dylan, before he paused, not knowing exactly what to say. “She’s not—she’s not coming back. She made a decision to stay there.” Dylan stood up. “But if they get between my children and me, they will desperately need God to save their souls.”

Kevin tried to stand, too, but was slow to rise and stumbled when he did. Joel caught his shoulder.

“I’m going with you,” said Kevin.

“Hold on,” ordered Joel. “You’re not fit to go anywhere.”

“I have to.”

Joel put pressure on Kevin’s shoulder and guided him back down.

“It’s for your own good,” said Dylan. “Stay with your wife.”

“Come to my house,” Joel invited the married couple. “I would feel better if my wife and I could watch both of you.”

The couple agreed. Joel helped Kevin limp to the door, and they left together.

Mary stood there with a concerned eye turned toward Dylan. She grasped her crucifix necklace and lifted it over her head. She held it delicately with two fingers and slowly lowered it into the palm of her other hand. The thin gold chain collapsed onto itself into a small heap, and the tiny crucifix lay on top. Mary handed it to Dylan with an outstretched arm. “Take this with you.”

Dylan shook his head and walked over to his rifle leaning against the wall. He picked it up and replied, “No, I’m going to take this.” Dylan put a hand on her shoulder and guided her to the door. They stepped onto the porch. The closing door echoed into an empty house.

Dylan began to walk briskly. “I need to hurry. It’s getting dark.”

Mary matched his pace. “How are you going to get there?”

He stopped in front of Harold’s house. “I’m going to tell him to give me the keys to his El Camino.” He turned to walk up the sidewalk to Harold’s front door.

But when he turned, Mary grabbed the lose fabric of his sweatshirt to stop him. “Dylan, be careful.”

“I’ve been through the gates of Hell before.”

Dylan stood on Harold’s front porch and watched Mary wave at him just before she went into the house next door. Dylan clenched a fist and brought his hand back to pound it like a hammer. Just before he hit the door, he noticed that it was not completely closed. He pushed it open with the tips of his fingers. He saw Harold, completely reclined in the chair, arms crossed on his chest. His head was tilted to the side, eyelids partially open, and mouth agape. The birdcages were empty, and the door on each cage was open.

“Harold?” Dylan mumbled.

Dylan heard a cabinet door slam shut, and Jim peered around the corner from the kitchen.

“He’s dead,” Jim said, sadly. “He knew he was going to die, and he let the birds go.”

“Shit!”

“I didn’t think you cared that much,” said Jim.

“Jim, people from that cult broke into my house, attacked Kevin and Mary, and took my children.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“I was just at their temple. I found my wife. She’s there, too.” Dylan stretched an arm out. “I need the key to the El Camino; hurry!”

“He hid the key. I can’t find it.”

“That bastard knew he was going to die, and he still hid the key?” Frustrated and angry, Dylan stomped a foot on the floor and the empty birdcages rattled. “We have to find it. The sun is going down, and it’ll be dark soon.” Fueled with desperation, he began to tear the living room apart.

“Hold on, he was too clever. You need to go now, because we might not find it today. Don’t waste your time here. Go do what you need to do.”

As Dylan ran out the door, he heard Jim yell, “Good luck.” Outside, he held his hand up to the western skyline to estimate how much time he had before sundown by comparing the width of his palm to the distance of the sun from the horizon. He concluded that it was less than an hour before nightfall. Dylan jogged between the houses and stopped at the remains of an old fire ring that had a heap of charred wood in the center. He rubbed the black charcoal dust on his face for camouflage, hiked through the field, and then began to run when he hit the fairway.

The evening horizon was glowing red when the cult’s temple came into view. He emerged from the weeds as silently as a shadow and went directly to the outbuilding behind the cult’s temple. He pressed his back to its rear wall and looked around. The stench was heavy in the air again. He crouched low to the ground and looked around the corner. The rear wall of the temple was solid concrete, with one door. From the back, that door was his only way in, but it was closed. His mind was racing with frantic thoughts when his eyes drifted to the roof. He saw the chimney and noticed tufts of white smoke curling upward. The smoke gave him an idea. If he could not get into the temple, he would bring them outside it. He noticed the extension ladder next to the outbuilding and estimated that it would reach the temple’s flat roof. Now all he needed was something to plug the chimney. He knew that if he could get the smoke to build up inside the temple, it would force everyone to leave, and that was when he would strike. He walked around the outbuilding, looking for something to plug the chimney with. The cushions were missing from the old couch by the garbage bins. He sliced into the back of the couch, but the stuffing disintegrated into small pieces. He cautiously looked around once more. Seeing no one, he went to the front of the small building. The pungent odor was more powerful by the door. He looked up at the word PURGATORY, painted in red on the building, and wondered if it was a warning. He turned the doorknob, and the steel door creaked open. A pungent odor poured outward. Dylan gagged and stepped back. Inside he saw a tarp hanging over a wire, like a curtain, blocking his view inside. He held his sweatshirt over his nose and went inside. He decided to pull the tarp down and use it to cover the chimney. He pulled the door shut behind him. Swallowed into the darkness, Dylan blindly grasped the edge of the tarp and gave it a quick pull downward. It collapsed to the floor and created a gentle breeze that lifted dust and summoned the horrible smell once more, but inside, the odor was almost unbearable. The dust irritated Dylan’s eyes as much as the pungent smell irritated his nose. He closed his eyes and lifted his sweatshirt to cover his nostrils again. He edged forward in the blackness and stepped over the crumpled tarp. The odor was getting worse and was almost disorienting as it mixed in with the darkness. He removed a lighter from his pocket. Still covering his nostrils, he flicked the lighter and held his arm out. Dylan opened his eyes in the dim light. He gasped when he saw the faces. The severed heads of at least a dozen people had been piked and displayed on tables around the interior perimeter. Eyes closed and jaws slack, all facing the center of the room, and since Dylan was now in the center, they faced him. Morbid faces in varying states of decay, illuminated by the flickering yellow flame. He put the lighter back into his pocket and gagged. In the dark, he bunched the tarp together and quickly retreated outside, to the back of the outbuilding. His stomach tried to heave, but he fought the urge.

Dylan dragged the ladder and tarp across the yard and leaned the ladder against the temple’s rear wall. He extended the ladder to the edge of the roof and climbed onto the roof, tarp in hand. On the rooftop, he pulled the ladder up and then stuffed the tarp into the chimney. He sat low by the chimney, hidden by the roof’s parapet, and waited. It was completely dark now. Late in the year, darkness came earlier every day. The crescent moon barely helped. On the roof, Dylan’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness. He was hoping the cult members would be fire blind as they emerged from the building, disoriented from the darkness and smoke. He was going to shoot Gabriel first and then anyone else standing in his way.

He heard the rear door creak open and a man’s voice say he was going to tie the door to the handrail to keep it open. More voices emerged, and he heard people coughing. Dylan raised his head above the parapet and watched people dash away from the smoke. They wore cloth draped across their shoulders like ceremonial togas. The exodus was not organized, and Dylan sensed their panic. He raised the rifle, pressed it firmly into his shoulder, and aimed into the crowd while looking for his first target. Thankfully, his children were not there. He did not want to shoot wildly into the crowd and risk hitting them. He needed to act fast, because the smoke was building up and they might still be inside. Dylan stood tall and began to scan the crowd quickly. He spotted a tall man waiving a pistol with his right hand and dragging a woman whose hands were bound at her wrists. He lowered the rifle and squinted hard to focus his eyes. The tall man stopped and spun around. It was Gabriel. Dylan raised the rifle and took aim. Suddenly, just as he was ready to pull the trigger, a woman screamed, “Dylan!” The bound woman Gabriel had dragged out of the building was Dylan’s wife. She recognized the dark silhouette of the man with a shouldered rifle standing on the roof. Gabriel jumped behind her, crouched low, and used her as a human shield.

“It looks like trouble runs in your family,” Gabriel yelled tauntingly. “She let some of our newest members go free. For that apostasy, she’s going to be punished.” He pressed the pistol to Cindy’s skull. “You’re a fool, Dylan. What could you promise her that we don’t have?” Gabriel began to laugh sadistically. “I have your children, too.” He then pulled Cindy’s hair back and commanded her to tell Dylan the children were inside.

“He has the children,” she pleaded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen. You have to believe me.”

“Are they safe? Did you see them?” yelled Dylan.

“I heard their voices, but didn’t see them,” Cindy answered. “They didn’t sound hurt.”

“You better stop what you are doing up there,” warned Gabriel, as he pressed the pistol harder against her skull. “She’ll be the first to get it.”

Dylan raised his rifle and tried to sight Gabriel. He could not do it.

“I have your wife and children. If you care about their souls, you will surrender now. Otherwise, I won’t save their souls and they’ll spend eternity in Purgatory.”

The haunting images of the skulls he had seen in the outbuilding flashed back; Dylan dropped the rifle and pulled the tarp out of the chimney. He went back and held up his hands.

“I see our ladder is gone,” said Gabriel. “You must have it hidden up there?”

“Yes.”

“Come down with that ladder and stand on the concrete steps by the rear door. Now!”

Dylan worked his way down the ladder, went to the concrete stairs, and stood on them. Each side had a metal handrail. They tied each of his wrists to the railing so he would face the crowd.

“It’s time for your penance,” announced Gabriel.

Dylan shook his head. “Let my wife and children go. It’s me you want.”

Gabriel shook his head, too. “Dylan, the wages of sin is death.” He forced Cindy to her knees by pulling down her hair with an angry, clenched fist.

“What are you doing?” Dylan screamed.

“You told me your soul was empty,” answered Gabriel. He aimed the pistol at the back of her neck.

“Stop it! It’s me you want!”

“You said that your soul could only be filled with blood and vengeance.” He pulled the pistol’s hammer back with his thumb.

Dylan pulled desperately at his ligatures. The flesh on his wrists broke and began to bleed. He groaned as he frantically pulled. The blood vessels in his neck and face began to bulge. His face turned red under the charcoal dust.

Sadistically, Gabriel announced, “Then here is your first drop of both.” He pulled the trigger and Cindy’s lifeless body slumped forward.

“No!” Dylan collapsed, and he hung by his bindings. The tears welled in his eyes and clouded his vision. He became dizzy and delirious, his world started to spin. He looked up at the crowd walking toward him and saw small, red dots swirling around. Three shrill whistles pierced the darkness, and then he head the crackle of automatic gunfire. It only took a moment before the crowd was horizontal on the ground, lying in a pool of expanding blood.

Silhouettes appeared from around the building, and Dylan tried to make sense of it all. He heard the hiss of radio static and a voice say, “We got a live one at the rear exit. Do you copy?”

A voice responded, “I’ll be right there, over.”

A stranger wearing camouflage approached. He looked at Dylan seriously and asked, “Hey, man, are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. Cut me free.”

The stranger cut Dylan’s bindings and he rushed over to his wife’s body. She was slumped forward. He gently rolled her to her side, then onto her back. Something fell out of her hand. It was his wedding ring; she had been holding it tightly in her hand before she collapsed. Dylan wiped the blood from it on his sweatshirt. His tears cut channels through the charcoal dust on his face as he kneeled by her side.

A voice brought him back to the carnage surrounding him. “Are you hurt?”

Dylan looked up and saw a familiar face ask, “Dylan? Is that you?” It was Dean from the lakeshore community.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Is Kevin in this mess?” Dean looked around.

“No.” His head went low again.

“Some of our people went missing recently. They escaped tonight. Someone named Cindy let them go.”

Dylan pointed to the body by his side. “That’s her.”

Dean bent over to get a closer look. He recognized her face from the picture Dylan was carrying when he had overturned the catamaran. Dean’s eyes went wide, and he looked back at Dylan. “Christ Almighty, that’s your wife. Did we do that?”

“No, he did it.” Dylan pointed to Gabriel’s corpse. “I was going to kill him, but it didn’t work out like I had planned.”

Dean’s radio hissed. “We found two more in the basement.”

“My children!” Dylan exclaimed. “Are they children, a boy and a girl?”

Dean pressed the radio button. “Did you find a young boy and girl?”

Radio static. “Roger that.”

Dylan had trouble forming the words to his next question. “Are they alive?”

Dean held the radio close to his lips and whispered the question, “Are they alive?”

Dylan squeezed his eyes closed tightly while he listened to the radio static. It seemed like an eternity.

“Ask him again,” Dylan begged.

“Are they alive? Do you copy?”

Horrible thoughts and images whirled around the darkest depths of Dylan’s imagination. In his mind, the radio static turned into the screams of his children.

A voice broke the silence. “They’re alive.”

Dylan collapsed forward and begged Dean to keep his children from seeing this.

Dean spoke into the radio. “Take the children out the front door. Don’t let them see what just happened. Their father is here. Do you copy?”

“Roger that, we’ll be in the front, over.”

The radio hissed again and the voice returned. “Dean, do you copy?”

“I copy,” Dean answered.

“The basement is full of food. It’s stacked to the ceiling. You’ve got to see this.”

“Let’s move it out front,” replied Dean. “We’ll load it all up and take it with us.”

Dean turned a little black knob on the radio, and it went silent. He put it into his back pocket and cleared his throat. “Dylan, I’m so sorry about this. Let me know what I can do to help.”

Dylan stood up and shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s over now.”

Dean put a gentle hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “We need to go. They’re going to burn these bodies.”

He swatted Dean’s hand away. “No, they’re not. Not my wife.”

Dean held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you bury her.”

“No, I’m going to do this alone.”

“I understand. Meet me in the front when you are ready. I’ll stay with your children and make sure they don’t see any of this.”

Dylan did not say anything. He picked up his wife’s limp body and placed her gently on the ground beside the patch of wild daisies. He found a shovel in the outbuilding and dug a shallow grave near his wife’s favorite flower. Before he filled the grave, he pressed his ring back into her palm and covered her body with the loose, black dirt.

Dylan met his children at the front of the building. Dean had removed the seal on a bucket of the cult’s long-term food storage and had found some chocolate candy bars for the two children. Dylan kissed his children dearly, smearing their faces with charcoal from his face, and smearing his face with the chocolate covering their lips. He started to wipe their faces with his sweatshirt and noticed his wife’s bloodstains all over it. He took the sweatshirt off and threw it to the ground. Dylan’s lean body began to shiver in the chilled air. Dean took his jacket off and handed it to Dylan.

“My offer is still open, Dylan. Bring Kevin and your families to our community. It will be safer.”

Dylan zipped up the jacket. “I’ve got deep roots where I am. I’m not quite ready to bug out.”

“That’s a shame. We could use you.” Dean signaled one of his men and pointed to a pickup truck. “I’m going to stack a pickup truck full of this food and take you home. Are you ready?”

“More than ready.”

Chapter Nineteen

As the days grew shorter, the leaves changed colors, falling from the trees and leaving the branches bare. Northerly winds prevailed, and the morning dew became frost. The cold air settled across the landscape like an icy blanket. Winter had arrived.

The rhythmic trotting of a large deer awoke a field mouse burrowed deep under the dry brown thatch of the meadow. The mouse emerged from the darkness of its grassy den into the bright sunlight reflecting off the newly fallen snow. The deer trampled a patch of tall brown fescue and bent the dry grass downward, knocking the seed heads into its hoof prints. The mouse scurried across the white snow and found shelter in the deer tracks. A red-tailed hawk, gliding high above, sensed the movement below and circled in the frigid air, waiting to dive. A coyote followed the line of deer tracks in the snow, bending occasionally to test the scent. Its sharp eyes caught the motion of the small dark ball of fur, emerging and then quickly disappearing in the snow ahead. The mouse jumped from hoof print to hoof print, eating the flailed seeds. The coyote crouched low to the ground and pulled its ears back to decrease its profile against the white snow. Each paw moved forward slowly as it gently tested the ground, step by silent step. The hawk folded its wings back and began its dive, like a ghost cutting through the air. The coyote bunched its rear legs under its body and was ready to pounce when the hawk swooped past the coyote’s head, plunging its talons into the snow, and capturing the mouse. The coyote pounced at the same time the hawk clapped its wings to ascend through the cold air. The flutter of its powerful wings brought powdery snow into the air, causing it to float back to the ground like confetti. The hawk lost a few of its feathers in the effort. The coyote shook the snow from its bristled fur, touched its nose to the tracks again, and scurried away.

In the basement, Kevin woke under a heavy blanket. He rolled to the edge of the bed and away from the warmth of his wife’s body. After flipping the blanket back, he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his tired eyes. Then he turned his head and watched the blanket that covered his wife slowly rise and fall with each of her gentle breaths.

A dim column of morning light illuminated the basement staircase, and Kevin quietly moved toward it and ascended the steps. He picked up his jacket, which was draped over the handrail near the top step, and put it on. He opened the blinds, and the bright morning light filled the room. The light was greatly intensified by reflecting off the newly fallen snow. Kevin pulled the patio blinds open to look, trying to estimate how much snow had fallen during the night. Snow covered the handle on the oversized barbeque grill they had recently scavenged, and he estimated it to be at least six inches deep. He looked down and noticed footprints in the snow. They went across the patio and skirted the large grill before disappearing around the back of the house. Kevin went into each room and opened the blinds to peer out the windows. The tracks went around the perimeter of the house. At the patio door, Kevin put on heavy socks, pulled up the hood of his jacket, and slipped on a pair of boots before exiting to investigate the footprints. The tracks were small, and he wondered if they were from a child as he followed them from the direction in which they came. On the driveway, he could see that the tracks circled Dylan’s car and stopped. Snow completely covered the car. Dylan had used the car as a refrigerator and had put the small amount of remaining deer meat inside it.

Kevin hastily swiped his arm across the powdery snow, knocking it off the car’s windows and onto the driveway. It covered the small footprints around the vehicle as it fell. Kevin cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to a rear side window. The thin slices of deer meat were gone and he saw a woman sitting in the backseat, moving away from him and reeling with fear. She looked young, maybe younger than his wife. She had brown hair tucked under a wool cap and thin, brown eyebrows that arched high above her eyes. She shivered from the cold, only wearing a herringbone overcoat, denim jeans, and plastic bags tied around her ankles to keep her shoes dry. Kevin pulled on the door handle to discover that the woman had locked the door. Her eyes widened, and she desperately looked around for a way to escape.

Kevin spoke loudly, so she could hear from inside the locked car. “What are you doing?”

She did not respond.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She edged toward a door on the opposite side from Kevin and put her hand on the handle.

Kevin cupped his hands to his mouth and began to speak even louder. “Are you—?”

Dylan interrupted, “What’s the racket out here?” He had emerged from around the corner wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, arms wrapped around his body to warm his hands under his armpits. His ears and the skin above his beard turned red from the cold air.

Kevin pointed at the car. “Got a visitor.”

The sunlight reflected off the glass at an angle that did not allow Dylan to see inside the car. He walked closer to it.

“She locked herself in,” said Kevin.

“She?” Dylan raised a hand to block the glare and continued to the other side of the car. He looked through the window and saw the woman. “Hey, what are you doing?” asked Dylan. “You’ll freeze out here.” He pulled at the locked door handle; the woman screamed and pulled a serrated kitchen knife from her coat pocket. She pointed it toward the men, and each man took a step back.

“Hey, we’re not going to hurt you. Relax!” said Dylan.

Sitting in the middle of the back seat, she flicked the knife to the left and right at each man on either side of the car.

Mary followed Dylan’s tracks to the driveway. She had his coat in her hands. “I saw you leave without your coat. Are you crazy?”

As Mary reached to give Dylan his coat, she saw the desperate woman locked in the car. “Oh, dear,” she gasped. The woman was holding a knife and twisting it with movements of her wrist. As she did, the shiny blade flashed in the sunlight. Mary moved closer to the car window, and the woman looked into her eyes, seeing only unconditional kindness. Her expression of terror faded, and she lowered the knife.

“This is my husband, and a dear friend,” said Mary. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Leave me alone,” said the woman.

“Lady, just get out of the car,” ordered Dylan.

“You hush!” commanded Mary, as she shook a finger at Dylan. “No, on second thought, you get inside. Both of you. This woman is terrified.”

“She’s got a knife,” said Kevin, with a tone that a man uses when concerned about a loved one.

“She’s terrified. You two brutes have her surrounded.” Mary turned her kind eyes toward the stranger and asked, “Are you going to hurt anyone?”

The woman leaned back in the seat and slowly shook her head.

Mary pushed Dylan’s coat into his arms and yelled, “Get!” to Dylan and her husband.

The men slowly stepped back.

Mary tapped the cold glass window with a knuckle, and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Ruth Miller.”

“My name is Mary. I’m married to Kevin. He was on the other side of the car.” Mary pointed at Dylan. “The other man’s name is Dylan. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

The rear door opened a crack. For a moment, Ruth sat there and looked for reassurance in Mary’s eyes. She found it. The door opened wider, and Ruth got out. She was shorter and more petite than Mary was.

“The knife,” said Kevin.

Ruth lowered her head and dropped the knife into her coat pocket.

“Are you thirsty?” asked Mary.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “and I’m so hungry.”

Mary saw a tear run from the corner of Ruth’s eye down her cheek. It quickly evaporated in the dry air. The salt from her tear left a fine white line that was almost indistinguishable against her fair skin.

“We’re going inside,” said Mary, as she gestured for Dylan and her husband to move.

Dylan and Kevin were shoulder to shoulder at the patio door. Dylan grabbed the handle of the sliding door, ready to open it for the women. Mary had a hand on Ruth’s shoulder and guided her to the door. They paused and waited for Dylan to slide it open. Now that she was closer to him, Dylan looked at her with a suspicious eye.

“Are you sick?” asked Dylan. “Any fever or coughing?”

“No, you don’t have to worry about catching anything from me. I’m healthy.”

Dylan slid the door open, then followed the others inside.

Ruth quickly surveyed the inside of the home. The open floor plan seamlessly connected the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Dylan and Kevin sat on opposite ends of the couch, and Mary stood in the kitchen. Mary leaned a hip on the edge of the countertop and carefully observed their new guest. Ruth sat at the dining room table, still wearing her coat and plastic bags over her shoes. It was warmer inside, and she was glad to be out of the wind.

“Ready for a drink of water?” asked Mary.

“Please,” answered Ruth.

Mary dipped a plastic cup into a white bucket on the countertop and handed the cup of water to Ruth. Ruth tipped her head back and drained the cup of melted snow.

“Another?” asked Mary.

“Yes, please.”

Ruth emptied the cup again and set it next to her on the dining room table.

“I think you have an accent,” said Dylan. “I just can’t place it.”

Kevin nodded.

“I’ve heard that before,” replied Ruth. “I grew up in southern Missouri.”

“It wasn’t quite a southern accent to me,” said Kevin.

“I grew up in an Amish community near the Arkansas border. We speak mostly German when we’re not around people from the city.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Dylan.

“Years ago, I left during my Rumspringa. That’s a period of time when, if you’re old enough, a person can leave the Amish community to see what the rest of the world is like. If I wanted to come back, all I would have to do is get baptized into the Amish church and accept the Amish traditions.” She nervously fumbled with the empty cup on the table. “I wanted to be a school teacher and work with young children, so I came to the city and got a job as a waitress. That was the only job that allowed me a flexible schedule while I went to school. I didn’t have any money, and everything cost so much that I ended up spending more time working than taking classes. My bills began to add up. I had to pay for school, along with rent and a car. School kept dragging on, and I never did finish. I had to work so much that I hardly got back to see my family. And now—” She wiped a tear away. “What am I supposed to do? I’ll never see them again. I just know it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dylan. “I shouldn’t have asked such a personal question.”

“You’re used to living without electricity, aren’t you?” asked Kevin.

“I lived without it for quite some time, but not recently. I had a car and used plenty of electricity.” She removed a small plastic bag, partially filled with something that they just could not quite see, and put it on the table next to the empty cup. The top of the bag was twisted shut. “I do miss my community. It was a simple life. Hard work, but simple. If I had stayed, I’m sure I would have been married by now. I would be married to a farmer, and I would have at least a couple of children.”

“What’s in the little bag?” asked Mary.

“Seeds.” Ruth opened the bag and poured the contents on the table. “I promised myself that I would find a place to live. And when I did, I would plant these seeds and make it my home.” Ruth segregated the seeds and named them all as she did. Holding the final one up on the palm of her hand, she said, “And the big one is a walnut. They are beautiful trees.”

“Did you grow up on a farm?” asked Dylan.

“Something like that. Our land wasn’t next to the house.”

“What did you grow?”

“My father rotated corn and beans, and my four brothers helped him with the land. Oh, and we had a few cattle and goats out there, too.” Ruth started to squirm in the chair. “Excuse me.” She leaned toward Mary and whispered, “Do you have a bathroom that works? I just drank a lot of water and don’t want to go in the cold, if I don’t have to.”

Mary pointed to the hallway. “Just down the hall. If you need to flush, fill the tank with the bucket of water in the bathtub.”

Ruth untied the plastic bags from around her ankles. “This is wonderful. You have plumbing that works.” She stood up.

“That’s nothing,” Mary added. “During the warm weather, these two found a spring up the hill and siphoned water directly to the plumbing. Then they put a rain barrel in the attic, filled it with water, and connected it to the hot water line. Before winter arrived, that rain barrel gave us warm water.” Mary smiled as she reminisced. “I can’t wait to take a warm shower again. Lord knows I need it.”

Ruth turned and went down the hallway.

Mary put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Dylan’s children are still asleep.”

Ruth whispered back, “I’ll be quiet.”

Dylan raised his hand. “Ruth. One more thing. We’re trying to conserve water. So, if it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down.”

Ruth laughed at Dylan’s humor, and felt her tension melt. She removed the knife from her coat pocket, placed it on the kitchen countertop, and quietly tiptoed away.

“What do we do now?” asked Dylan.

“Take her to Dean’s community,” Kevin suggested. “He said they were looking for some strays.”

“I think he was wanting men who can fight. You saw her. That little thing doesn’t look like she weighs more than a sack of potatoes.”

“Then what are you saying, Dylan?”

“Keep her.”

“You mean here?” asked Mary.

“Precisely. She’s the closest thing to a farmer that we’ve got.” Dylan paused. He thought he heard her back in the hallway, but it was actually Ruth fumbling with the bathroom door. “Didn’t you hear her? She has raised goats. And, thanks to Kevin, we have goats in Tom’s barn. The female is pregnant and due to drop a kid in the springtime. Plus, she is used to living without electricity, and look,” Dylan pointed at the seeds on the table, “she’s smart enough to think ahead. That little thing probably eats like a bird anyway, so I say we keep her.”

“It’s your house,” said Kevin.

“No, you and Mary live here, too. We vote on it.”

Dylan immediately raised his hand. Kevin only paused for a moment before raising his. Both men looked at Mary.

“Yes, she can stay,” said Mary.

Ruth emerged from the hallway, pulled the belt of her herringbone trench coat tight, and tied it around her waist. She put the seeds back into the plastic bag. “Thank you for your hospitality. I should be going now.”

“Where are you going? You look a little homeless to me,” said Dylan.

“I don’t know.”

“Ruth, stay here,” said Mary. “We talked about it when you were out of the room. You’re welcome to stay.”

“I…I…I don’t know what to say.”

“C’mon, just say yes. I think we need your help,” said Kevin.

“How’s that?” asked Ruth.

“Kevin is right. We have about forty acres next to us that we can plow. I found a tractor that works, and it’s stored in a barn, waiting for springtime. You help with that, the garden, and anything else around here, you can stay.”

Ruth held her chin higher and spoke confidently, “I’ll earn my keep.”

Dylan clapped his hands together. “That settles it. Welcome to your new home.”

Ruth untied the belt of her coat and removed her wool cap. Her long brown hair fell to the center of her back. She took her coat off and looked around for a place to put it.

Mary pointed toward another room. “Just put it in there. Maybe we can wash it later.”

Dylan stared at Ruth as she walked out of the room. He had not expected to see such a beautiful woman hidden under that gray overcoat. Mary caught his wandering eye and moved toward him.

Mary shook a finger in Dylan’s face. “I saw the way you looked at her. She’s a guest in this house.”

Dylan calmly blinked once, turned his head away, and looked through the blinds at the winter landscape.

“Relax, Mary,” pleaded Kevin. “I’d be more worried if he didn’t notice her.”

Mary slapped her husband on the shoulder and marched away.

A heavy fist pounded on the front door.

Dylan jumped up and went to answer the door. He looked through the peephole to see David Taylor holding the bow he had made for him.

David pounded anxiously on the door again.

Dylan jerked the door open. “What’s the emergency?”

“Oh, man, I need your help. Come with me.” He looked over Dylan’s shoulder and saw Kevin in the room. “You, too, Kevin. Let’s go.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t expect this. I’m telling you, I just can’t believe it.”

Kevin walked over to the door and asked, “Are you in trouble?”

“No, no, no. It’s good. I was out hunting for rabbits. I thought they would be easy to track in the snow. I followed some tracks into the bushes, but they disappeared. Then, while I was standing there thinking I was done, the biggest buck I have ever seen starts running toward me. A coyote was chasing it right to me, but it couldn’t see me behind the bush. I was ready. I pulled my arrow back, right when that buck passed the bush I released it, and the arrow went right through the deer.”

“So, did you come over to brag?”

“No, I thought I was rabbit hunting. I didn’t bring a knife. Shit, Dylan this thing is a monster. There’s no way I can move it by myself. Bring a knife and help me field dress it. Then let’s get it into the barbeque grill on your patio.”

“I heard everything,” said Mary. “Here are your coats.”

Dylan and Kevin put on their coats and went outside. David shut the door. Just before he did, he saw Ruth standing beside Mary.

“Who was that?” asked David.

“A farmer,” replied Dylan.

“She’s awfully small to be a farmer,” David replied.

“I’ll tell you about it on the way.” Dylan nudged David’s shoulder. “Let’s get moving. It’s cold out here.”

Kevin pulled his collar up around his neck and walked behind the others, using them as a wind block.

“How’s the wife?” Dylan asked David. “She’s due any day, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. Linda Foster has been staying with us. It’s good that I don’t have to leave her alone when I do this.” He held up the bow.

“How close is that deer?” asked Kevin.

“Look over there,” said David. “By the bridge. Do you see it?”

“I do now.”

David could not restrain his excitement, and ran through the snow toward his trophy, following the deer’s tracks as he did.

Dylan looked down, saw some red-tailed hawk feathers in the deer tracks, and wondered how they had gotten there.

“Ruth, we need to get a fire ready,” said Mary. “Put wood into the grill on the patio. I’ll be right there.”

Ruth found the handle to the lid of the grill and lifted it. A small avalanche of snow fell behind it. She put small pieces of wood on the bottom of the grill as kindling, set small logs of split wood on top, closed the lid, and waited for Mary. Mary stepped carefully through the snow, holding a small cup of gasoline. At the grill, Ruth lifted the lid, and Mary sprinkled the gas evenly across the logs. She put the cup down and smelled her hand to make sure she had not spilled any gas on it. Mary flicked a lighter, and a small, yellow flame brought the gasoline on the wood to a blaze.

“Shut the lid,” said Mary. “That should do it.”

Back inside, Ruth blew her hot breath across her hands to warm them.

“How about a bath?” asked Mary.

“What do you mean?”

“We have enough water in buckets for you to take a bath and wash those clothes. Think of it like a baptism into your new home.”

“I need a bath more than a baptism.”

“Get every big pot out of the kitchen and fill them with water. We can heat the water on the grill. When you have enough hot water, get in the tub and pour it over you, one cup at a time.”

They filled the hot grill with deep pots of water. After the pots of water got warm enough, they poured the warm water into the empty buckets in the bathroom. Warm, moist air rose from each bucket of water. The condensing vapor looked like steam. Ruth put the palms of her hands across the tops of the buckets to feel the moist heat.

“Mary?”

“Yes.”

“Is Dylan married?”

“No, his wife is dead. He had two children with her. They’re still sleeping in the basement.”

“What happened?”

“Bad people. She was killed.” Mary frowned. “Don’t bring the subject up around him or the children. His children don’t know, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Ruth knelt by the warm buckets of water. “I understand. Sometimes it’s best to leave things unsaid.”

As Ruth stared at her reflection in a bucket of water, Ruth’s sanguine thoughts drifted back to the apartment complex from which she had escaped. After the pulse, she was able to stretch out her food supply longer than most. Her petite body did not require much food. Others in her apartment complex were not as fortunate. They quickly became desperate and went up the street to the Allied Grocery Distribution warehouse. She had heard that Sam Deville had taken it over and was assembling a gang. If the men joined with him, they could stay. If they did not, he evicted them. Therefore, it was not much of a choice and many joined Sam Deville’s gang.

Ruth happened to live in the apartment next to Sam’s, and she thought he was crazy. She had heard his psychopathic ramblings through the thin walls and tried to avoid him. Initially, Sam did not bother the women in the complex. He used the men to create a militia. As time went on, Ruth became more relaxed about the fate of the women in the building, and was nearly ready to approach Sam for help. Her food was about to run out. Then her fears came to fruition. She saw a friend taken away by two of his soldiers, to the building used as the men’s barracks. Her friends all disappeared, one by one.

Days later, she heard a knock at the door. She opened it to see two of Sam’s soldiers. One soldier said, “From Sam,” and handed her a bag of food. They said nothing else, and walked away. She took the food without questioning it. This started to happen regularly, and then stopped just as suddenly. Ruth ran out of food and was ravenous. During the throes of hunger, she heard a knock on the door. She flung the door open, expecting to get food, but was shocked to see a smiling Sam Deville.

“Hello, Ruth. Mind if I come in?”

“No. It’s Sam, isn’t it?”

Sam pushed the door open with one finger. “I think you know who I am. At least you should by now.”

Instinctively, Ruth walked backwards into her apartment, not wanting to turn her back to him. Sam followed her.

“Need anything?” Sam was looking out the window at the winter storm approaching. He knew it was going to be a bad storm, and that would make it a good night for weather that would keep people from leaving, or escaping, his compound.

“Food,” said Ruth. “Where did the food go?”

Sam turned around. “Oh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you might have asked about your friends first. Don’t you miss them?”

“Yes.”

“They know where the food is.”

“Where is that?”

“Let me explain something to you. My men need to feel like they are fighting for something. They need a reason to fight for me and to think of me as their leader and provider. Your friends are with my men now. I’ve paired them up with my best soldiers.” Sam got closer to the window. The bare branches of the trees were moving briskly in the cold wind, and the gray snow clouds were sinking lower in the sky.

“I don’t want to be with any of your soldiers.”

“Of course not. Not you, Ruth.” Sam turned around and sadistically smiled.

Ruth started to breathe a sigh of relief, but as his sadistic smile transformed into a lecherous grin, it choked her from across the room.

“You’re going to be with me!”

When Sam sneered and walked toward her, she became enraged and viciously slapped him across the face. He did not blink. Sam turned to the door, pushed it shut, and locked it.

“What are you doing?” she screamed.

Sam quickly pulled off his belt. The leather flicked through each belt loop and made a sound like snapping fingers as it did. He wrapped the belt around his hand several times and slapped the remaining length across his other palm to test the feel of the cold leather.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

Ruth’s screams echoed through the empty hallway and across the frozen landscape.

“Ruth, are you okay?” asked Mary.

Ruth shook her head. “Sorry, I must have been daydreaming.”

“Let me get you a towel,” said Mary. “I’ll be right back.” Mary lit a candle in the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Ruth removed her clothes and piled them beside the bathtub. She got into the tub and poured cups of the warm water on her body. She winced when the water went down the open wounds on her back. The clear water picked up a tinge of blood as it ran down her body and moved toward the drain.

Mary flung the door open and announced, “Here’s a towel.”

Ruth modestly turned away from the door. Mary gasped at what she saw. Bloody welts the size and shape of belt lashes covered Ruth’s back.

“I’m sorry. I should have knocked.”

“Please don’t tell anybody,” begged Ruth.

“God help you.”

“God didn’t help me.”

“Well, you’re here now. I’ll say a prayer for you.”

“You’re too late for that.”

“Never too late. Let me help you wash. I’ll give you some of my clothes to wear when we’re done here.” Mary carefully poured the remaining water on Ruth. She let the water flow over the open wounds and whispered under her breath, “I now baptize you in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

Chapter Twenty

The full moon broke above the horizon on a clear winter night. In a row of trees by the stream, the naked branches were still in the calm air. Moonlight shone through the trees, bringing them into silhouette. The trees’ dark shadows moved slowly across the white snow as the moon rose higher in the sky. A moonbeam pierced the darkness and brought a rabbit out from the cover of an uprooted maple tree. The hungry rabbit used its teeth to test the thick, rough bark of the old tree and quickly became discouraged with its meal. Still famished, it hopped across an untrodden section of the snow-covered meadow and gnawed the bark of some woody vegetation clustered nearby in the open field.

An owl glided elegantly to a stout branch of a tall oak tree. The bird turned to the open field, then looked and listened with its keen eyes and ears. It observed quietly from its high perch, ready to swoop down and capture its prey. The rabbit’s light brown fur camouflaged it against the shrubbery, but the contrast and movement of its dark shadow, cast long against the pure white snow by the light of the full moon, betrayed it. The owl sensed the motion of the rabbit. It swooped down, talons first, grasping and killing the prey, then flew up to its perch and ripped at the warm flesh with its sharp beak. When the owl finished, it dropped the rabbit’s corpse to the ground. The owl’s call echoed through the trees and into the open field.

Dylan took a candle to the furnace room in his basement. He raised its flickering yellow flame to the thermometer nailed on the wall. To himself, he whispered a comment about the temperature, “Almost sixty degrees. Not bad.” Dylan was glad the house had a deep basement. He remembered the building contractor telling him that the frost line never got below two feet in Missouri. With nine-foot foundation walls, soil of a constant temperature surrounded and insulated the concrete, keeping it cool in the summer and warm in the winter, much like a cave.

“Hey, Dylan, are you down here?” asked Kevin.

Dylan turned around, cupped his hand in front of the flame, and turned to leave the room. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m coming out.”

“What are you doing?” asked Kevin.

“Checking the temperature. It’s almost sixty degrees down here, and it’s freezing outside.”

Kevin tested the heat of the small flame with his palm. The yellow light cast an eerie shadow of his hand on the hallway wall. “It’s nice down here and I’m glad we have a roof over our heads, too.”

Dylan cupped the flame again, and they started up the stairway. They quickened their pace when they heard a pounding on the front door. When they reached the top of the stairs, three more knocks brought everyone to the living room.

Darkness came early during the winter. It was early evening and would have been pitch black without the bright, full moon shining through the clear night sky. Ruth opened the blinds and moonlight poured into the living room, casting a slatted shadow of the blinds onto the floor. Dylan’s children huddled together on the floor, wearing layers of clothing and a blanket draped over their shoulders. Dylan’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see his son yawning in the dim light. Mary stood behind the two children with her arms crossed, cupping her elbows with her hands.

From outside the house, they heard a familiar voice yell, “It’s David Taylor. Open the door!”

“Sounds desperate,” said Kevin.

“Maybe he got another deer,” added Dylan.

Mary yelled across the room, “It’s freezing out there. Just open the door for him!”

“Alright, alright,” Dylan responded. In his two layers of socks, he shuffled silently across the hardwood floor to the front door.

Dylan cracked the door. “What is it? Another deer?” He felt the cold air hit his eyes, and it made him squint. David’s heavy breathing created a vapor that condensed in the cold air. He was not dressed for the weather, only wearing an unzipped jacket. He carried something swaddled in a blanket, held close to his chest. Past him, the bright moonlight reflected off the snow with an iridescent intensity.

David panted anxiously. “No, no, no, it’s my wife.” He took a deep gulp of cold air, and it hurt his lungs.

Kevin, Mary, and Ruth went to the door and huddled behind Dylan.

“Is she alright?” asked Kevin.

Mary found her husband’s hand and gripped it tightly.

“Yes…I mean no…I don’t know…it’s coming. I need help!”

Dylan opened the door, pulled David inside by his loose jacket, and quickly shut the door. David dropped the hood of his jacket to his shoulders, exposing the panic in his eyes.

“Take a breath and calm down,” said Dylan. “What is it?”

David drew in a deep breath.

“It’s the baby, isn’t it?” asked Mary. She clutched her hand tightly again into Kevin’s, and he could feel her fingernails this time.

David exhaled and said, cathartically, “Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Dylan asked, with a scolding tone.

David looked at the bundle in his arms. “Linda Foster is with my wife. This is her baby. We need someone to watch him.”

Mary gasped when she realized that the blanket held a sleeping infant. “Give him to me!” Mary took the bundle, sat on the couch, and held the baby close to her body. Then she covered herself and the baby with a blanket as she gently rocked the child.

When Mary moved away, David saw that Ruth had been behind her. She was short, petite, and quiet as a shadow. He had had no idea that she was standing there. The two strangers’ eyes met, and she recognized the look on his face. It was desperation.

“You don’t need us,” said Dylan.

“I need Joel,” proclaimed David. “I thought I should check here first before I went all the way to his house.”

“He’s not here, but I know where he is.” Dylan opened the door and started to push David back outside. “We’ll get someone to watch Linda’s baby. You get home. Go back to your wife.” David was on the front porch now, his back to the winter landscape.

“Will you get Joel for me? I need him.”

“You need Joel and his wife. She’s a nurse,” Dylan reminded him.

David started to shiver.

“Go! You’re going to freeze to death.”

David turned and jogged back to his house. As a shortcut home, he went through the yards of his neighborhood and soon found himself walking across his own lawn toward the rear of his home. In an undisturbed area in the corner of his backyard, he saw where the newly fallen snow domed over his first child’s grave. Powdery snow balanced on the cross his wife had placed by the mounded tomb. He averted his eyes, and a lump came to his throat. He swallowed hard, and the knot travelled to his stomach. A tear slid down his cheek. He wiped it away and went inside to hear his wife screaming with labor pains.

Dylan pulled the front door shut and walked with the candle to the dining room table. He sat down, pushed the candle to the center of the table, and leaned the side of his head onto one hand. “I’m going to get Joel and his wife. Who else wants to go to David’s house and help?”

Mary and Ruth raised their hands.

Kevin shook his head. “I don’t think I can do anything for them, but I can stay here and watch your kids.”

“Maybe Joel’s children, too?” Dylan asked.

“Of course, if that helps.”

“I’m sure it will.” Dylan put on his heavy winter coat and a knit cap, tucked his hair behind his ears, and went to get Joel and Kim.

Dylan walked briskly through the cold, still air. He stopped in front of Joel’s house and noticed the glow of a kerosene lamp coming through their living room window. Dylan knocked on the door, then stepped back so they could see him from their window. The glow of the kerosene lamp diminished when they turned it down, and he saw Kim peek out the window. He waved, then heard her say, “It’s Dylan.”

Joel opened the door. “Get inside.”

Joel and Kim wore matching sweatshirts and each had a blanket draped over their shoulders.

“So, what can I do for you?” asked Joel. His wife stood beside him.

“It’s not me. Amy Taylor is in labor. David just came to our house. Linda Foster is staying with them. She’s helping, but they really need your help.” Dylan looked at Kim. “Both of you.”

“Dylan, I’m not a doctor anymore.” He felt a disapproving nudge from his wife.

“That’s a crock of shit.” Dylan frowned. “We talked about this. You said you were going to help.”

“What can I do? Give them a false sense of hope?”

Joel felt his wife give him a sharp pinch on his arm. “You took an oath, dear.”

“They need you more than me.” Joel crossed his arms and hid them under the blanket, expecting another pinch from his wife. “You’ve done this before. Remember, on your mission in South America.”

“We’re both going,” ordered Kim.

Joel shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “The children?”

“Kevin is watching mine,” said Dylan. “Bring them over to my house.”

Joel looked at his wife. She nodded.

“Alright, we’ll be right over. I’ll meet you at your house.”

Joel closed the door behind Dylan.

“Kim?”

“Don’t make any more excuses. Get what you need, and let’s go. She needs help.”

“But—”

“That’s enough. I’m going upstairs to see if I can find any old baby blankets. Get the children. We are leaving.”

Joel slowly turned his head toward the door.

“Now!”

“Okay.”

The Hales took their three sons, Aaron, Jarod, and Levi, to Dylan’s house. With sleeping bags under their arms, the children disappeared down the basement stairs with Kevin.

The air was cold and still on the way to the Taylor’s home. Joel set the pace with his long legs, and Dylan walked briskly to keep up. Joel carried a large kerosene lantern in one hand. Mary, Kim, and Ruth, walked shoulder to shoulder several paces behind the men. The women talked amongst themselves, exchanging experiences and ideas. Kim was in the middle, carrying some small knit caps wrapped in baby blankets. They were mementoes from the births of her three children. Although she was very fond of these souvenirs, she was even happier to give them to a friend in need.

The group unknowingly followed David’s tracks to the backyard of his home. Dylan and Joel went inside without knocking. Kim stopped the women on the concrete patio as the backdoor shut behind the men.

Kim pointed to a barbeque grill’s metal grate that rested on concrete blocks with charred wood from an old fire lying in a small pile underneath.

“We’ll need a fire to boil water,” said Kim.

Ruth brushed snow from the top of a small pile of wood. “We should have enough wood.”

“Let’s go inside and find a steel pot and clean water,” Kim suggested.

Mary found a deep stainless steel pot on the countertop. She poured water from a bucket of melted snow into the pot, took the pot outside, and sat it on the metal grid.

Ruth blindly felt in each drawer for matches or a lighter. “I can’t find anything to start a fire,” she said.

“Keep looking,” said Kim. “Mary and I will go check on Amy.”

Ruth nodded in the darkness.

Kim and Mary followed the sound of Amy’s low, anxious moans to the first floor bedroom. Dylan stood uncomfortably outside the bedroom door.

“Dylan?” asked Kim.

“Yes.”

“We need to boil some water, but Ruth is not having any luck finding matches or a lighter to start the fire. Can you help her on the patio?”

“Say no more.” Dylan felt uncomfortable in the presence of a laboring woman and was relieved to find an excuse to remove himself from her agonized moans.

In the kitchen, Dylan heard a cabinet door shut with a tone of frustration.

“Need any help?” offered Dylan.

“Can you help me start a fire?” asked Ruth.

Dylan removed a lighter from his pocket and held it in a beam of moonlight for her to see. “Your wish is my command.”

Ruth opened the backdoor. “After you.”

On the concrete patio, Dylan brushed the old, charred wood out of the way to make room for fresh wood and a new fire. He used his knife to create thin wood shavings, and then he placed thin pieces of wood, like a pyramid, around the kindling. He put his lighter to the tinder and flicked it. A few sparks flew, but there was no flame. He held the clear plastic lighter up to the full moon and light shone through. It was empty.

“Damn it!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Lighter’s empty.”

Ruth bit her lip. “What now?”

“Just give me a second.”

Dylan went into the house and found the clothes dryer. He removed the lint trap, scooped out a handful of lint, and returned outside.

“What is it?” asked Ruth.

“Clothes dryer lint. Watch it burn.”

Dylan tucked the ball of lint under the wood shavings. He flicked the lighter a few times, and the lint caught the sparks. It flamed quickly, catching the wood shavings on fire, which in turn brought the small pieces of wood to a blaze. Dylan leaned a small log across it all and slowly fanned it until the log took the flame, too.

“Where did you learn to do that?” asked Ruth.

“Boy Scouts.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“No, that was a joke.” Dylan smirked. “I’ve been a computer nerd all my life.”

“You don’t look like a computer nerd.”

Dylan chuckled.

“And you don’t look like a farmer.”

The smoke from the fire rose straight up and enveloped the pot of water. Dylan placed another small log on the fire and gestured for Ruth to come inside.

They went to the living room. A small candle flickered on the mantle of a fake fireplace, and another on a small table in front of a large picture window. The yellow flame reflected off the glass. The master bedroom, where Amy and the others were, was just down a short hallway near the living room. Dylan removed his coat and put it on a chair. Ruth did the same. She stood by the window and caught her reflection in it, like a full-length mirror. She removed her knit hat and watched the reflection of her long, brown hair as it dropped past her shoulders to the middle of her back. She looked past her reflection and saw Dylan staring at her in the candle light. She shyly looked away, her blush hidden in the darkness.

“I need to make myself useful now,” said Ruth.

“I wish I could help her, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do.”

“Come on, then.” Her hand pushed into the center of his back. “See if Joel or David need anything.”

Ruth entered the bedroom and approached Amy. Dylan stopped at the threshold. Amy sat at the edge of the bed with her back to the door. She wore a white terrycloth robe and a blanket draped over her shoulders, like a shawl. Mary and Ruth sat on either side of Amy, each rubbing her back with gentle hands.

Linda Foster leaned against the wall in a corner of the room. Fatigued, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. Her hair had grown down to her shoulders. Still blonde at the ends, the black roots had grown to half the length of her hair. She had spent the entire day with Amy, giving her encouragement and support. She was hungry and tired, her body running only on adrenaline.

Kim sat on a chair in front of Amy and offered words of encouragement. Amy bent forward slightly, legs wide, and she circled her swollen abdomen with both nervous hands.

Joel and David stood next to each other at the end of the bed, out of Amy’s view. Joel uncrossed his arms and rubbed his chin, looking at the laboring woman with deep consternation. David’s eyes passed from his wife to Joel and back, as if he was looking for the exact moment a great revelation would occur. The steady light of the kerosene lamp cast an unnatural yellow glow across the room.

Amy’s hands stopped rubbing circles on her abdomen. Her teeth clenched as she grimaced from a painful contraction.

“Stronger this time?” asked Kim.

“Yes,” answered Amy, then she moaned.

“Do you want to try and walk around? Maybe that would help?” asked Kim.

“Yes, I need a hand.”

Mary and Ruth each put a forearm under Amy’s armpits and helped her stand. They stood close to her as she paced the room. She looked up once at her husband and Joel. Her face contorted with pain and fear. David looked away. He felt helpless. Joel took a few long strides to the door and stood in the hallway with Dylan.

“Hey, Doc,” said Dylan, trying to speak softly. “How’s it going?”

“You shouldn’t call me that.”

“I didn’t mean anything by saying that.”

“I understand.” Joel nervously cleared his throat. “Before all this happened, when I had support staff and modern resources, people would look at me and expect me to perform miracles. Patients and their families alike. But the truth is, I can’t perform medical miracles and people don’t want to accept that. They want to think I’m perfect and that I have the answer and a special machine for everything.” Joel leaned forward to peek back into the room. “What allowed me to be a physician and a surgeon is gone, obliterated. If people keep thinking of me as a doctor, I’m going to disappoint them. That’s all I’m saying.”

From the bedroom, they heard a sharp cry erupt from Amy’s throat, then abruptly stop.

“Joel!” cried Kim.

“I have to go.” Joel wore a fake smile as he entered the room, continuing to doubt the efficacy of his presence.

Amy bent over the side of the bed and supported the weight of her swollen body on the palms of her hands while she waited for the next wave of pain. She screamed again with the next sharp contraction. Amy went to her knees, buried her face into the bed sheets, and screamed again. The contractions were growing in intensity and frequency.

All four women circled her. Kim took charge as expected. “Stronger now?” asked Kim.

“Yes!”

“Does it hurt worse than last time?”

Amy pressed her face into the bed sheets. With a muffled voice, she said, “Yes!” Another strong contraction seized her body, and she gasped for air when it ended.

“The contractions are closer together,” Kim said softly. “We need to get her on the bed.”

The women helped her lie down. They pulled on the sheet underneath her, in order to move her to the center of the bed. Kim reached under Amy’s robe and put her cold palm on the distended abdomen. She felt the baby kicking.

“The baby’s kicking. It won’t be long now,” said Kim, as she tried to make eye contact and smile. It was all she could offer to soothe her tension.

“I’m so thirsty.” Another contraction took her breath away, and she clenched her teeth. After it subsided she asked, “Can I have a drink of water?”

“Of course you can.” Kim looked up and nodded at Linda, and Linda left the room to get her a glass of water.

Amy’s lips were cracked and dry. She ran her tongue across them and said, “I didn’t think I was supposed to drink any water before—”

Another contraction seized her, and her face twisted with pain. Kim held her hand and waited for it to stop.

“Before what?” Kim asked.

“Before the baby came.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They didn’t let me last time. They told me not to eat or drink anything.”

Kim’s face went pale. She looked at the women’s abdomen, and her mind began to race. She turned her head quickly toward the men and then looked at the door. They understood to leave and closed the door behind them. Kim opened Amy’s robe and peered directly below Amy’s navel. She saw an old horizontal incision and put a finger on it. Moving her finger across the old wound, she felt the thin line of tough scar tissue under her finger. Her heart sank. Oh no, she had surgery last time.

“I’m going to check on that glass of water,” said Kim as she closed Amy’s robe and put a blanket on her to keep her warm.

Kim hurried into the hallway. Dylan and Joel were standing there. With fear and anger in her eyes, Kim drove a stiff index finger into her husband’s chest.

“Her last child was delivered by cesarean, and you knew that!”

“What’s going on?” asked Dylan.

“They took the last one by C-section for a reason,” said Joel. “Once they do that, usually there is no going back.”

“You mean—”

“I mean, she needs surgery, and that is not going to happen.”

“Kim! Joel! Come back in here!” cried Mary.

Kim rushed to the side of the bed. David and Linda were close behind. David spilled half the cup of water as he ran back to the bedroom.

“She thinks her water broke,” said Mary.

“That’s a good sign, Amy. We’re moving right along.” Kim tried to smile, but was not sure if it was convincing. She held Amy’s head up and tipped the cup of water to her dry lips. Amy took a few sips, and then put her head back on the pillow.

Suddenly, a contraction came and made Amy clench her teeth so strongly she thought her teeth would break. An unnatural wail of pain came from deep inside her. “It hurts so badly.” She cringed again. “Something is wrong.”

Her husband stood helplessly and looked at Joel, waiting for him to do something. Joel saw this and tried to ignore it, but he could not. He felt the impending doom and tried to swallow it into the depth of his soul.

“Come on, man, you need to do something,” David pleaded. “You’re a doctor. Do something.”

“She’s in good hands, Dave. My wife has done this before.” Joel tried to speak reassuringly, but he knew there was not much comfort he could give a man who was pleading for his wife’s life and the life of his unborn child.

Amy raised her head. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. “Something is wrong. I feel funny.” Paleness swept across her face, and her head crashed back to the pillow. Her eyes rolled back, and her hands contorted under the blanket.

“Something is wrong here!” David screamed. He lunged forward, grabbed his wife’s shoulder, and shook it. “Amy! Wake up!” She did not respond.

Her jaw went slack, and her head tilted to the side. Her eyes were still open, but unresponsive, and she turned paler. Kim went to the other side of the bed, threw the blanket back, and opened the robe. Bright red blood pooled between Amy’s legs. Her uterus, engorged with blood, had ruptured along the old surgical scar and was bleeding internally. Amy had thought her water had broken, but it was blood and she was bleeding fast.

Kim put an index finger to Amy’s neck to feel for a pulse. She carefully checked both sides, and then slowly raised her head. “She’s gone. I’m sorry, David.”

David collapsed to his knees at the side of the bed. Horrified and in shock, he tried to speak, but his mouth formed over silent syllables. Linda, Mary, and Ruth went to the corner of the room. Unconsciously trying to distance themselves from the horror, they backed into the wall. They stared silently as the tragedy unfolded.

Joel went to his knee by David’s side. He reached out and touched David’s back. As he did, Joel said, “David, I’m so sorry—”

“Do something!” David snapped.

“David, I need to tell you—”

David stood and turned to push Joel to the floor. “Do something! Now! Save her!”

Joel found his balance and stood up. He held his hands forward, toward David. “Let me talk to you. I understand—”

David began to walk aggressively toward Joel. “You don’t understand anything. That’s not your wife lying there. Is it?” He lunged at Joel.

Joel stumbled backward and bumped a dresser. A steak knife intended for cutting the umbilical cord fell off the dresser and onto the floor. David pounced on the knife and quickly pointed it at Joel. Joel raised his hands and backed into the wall.

“I hate you!” screamed David, as he raised the knife above his head.

Dylan sprung from the doorway, grabbed David by the wrist and throat, and took him to the floor. He twisted David’s wrist and shook the knife free. David stopped resisting, curled his body on the floor, and sobbed uncontrollably.

Kim sadly put her hand on the pregnant belly. She felt a faint kick. “Joel?”

He hung his head low. “I’m sorry, dear—”

“Shut up! I felt a kick.”

Joel’s head immediately turned to the knife on the floor. He grabbed it and kneeled by David, still reeling with emotion and curled into the fetal position.

“David!”

David opened his blurry eyes and saw the knife.

“Just kill me. Do it now, I’ve got no reason to live.”

“For God’s sake, man, snap out of it,” Joel barked. “Kim thought she felt the baby kick.”

David held his breath.

“Do you want me to try and take the baby? I need your permission. Is that want you want?”

“Oh, God, yes. Do it now.”

Kim held the kerosene lantern close to the pale corpse stretched long on the bed. Linda, Mary, and Ruth moved the full-length mirror behind the lantern to reflect a column of light onto Amy’s abdomen. Joel’s blade hovered over the old incision. He felt his hand shake, so he gripped the knife handle more tightly and took a deep breath. The knife was not very sharp, and he feared it would tear the flesh open rather than cut it. He made a long horizontal incision and saw the uterus, torn open and bleeding. He cut it open further and pulled out a baby girl. The umbilical cord was healthy and intact on the placenta. He felt it still pulsing. Mucus covered the infant, and the skin was a dark blue color. The little infant girl was not breathing. Joel put his mouth on her nostrils, sucked the mucus out, and swept the baby’s mouth clear with a finger.

Mary’s thoughts turned quickly to the child she had lost. She took the crucifix from around her neck, clutched it tightly, and prayed in a corner of the room. Please, God, don’t take the baby. Please leave us with this beautiful miracle of life.

Joel put the baby on her back. He covered her nose and mouth with his lips, and he tried to breathe life back into the child’s blue body. He felt his gentle breaths make the small rib cage rise and fall. He did not stop. The baby’s color slowly began to change to pink, and then she cried. He tied a string on the umbilical cord, cut it, and wrapped the baby in a tiny blanket. Joel remembered the birth of each of his three children. After each birth, the obstetrician handed the baby to his wife and encouraged her to nurse the newborn child. This mother was dead; he was not sure what to do. He looked at his reflection in the glass of the bedroom window and saw a butcher staring back at him, holding a dead mother’s child that he had just torn from a corpse’s womb. He began to feel sick.

“Joel,” Linda said in a meek voice. “I should take her. I know what to do.”

Joel did not question Linda and handed her the crying baby. She sat down and lifted her shirt. She still had milk, and the infant latched on to her nipple and sucked contentedly.

David went to Linda’s side, sat on the floor, and wept.

Joel went to the other side of the room and found a clean towel. He was wiping his hands with it when Dylan approached.

“Nice work, Doc.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“You saved a life tonight.”

Joel scoffed. “I suppose this is the way it is. We can’t intervene in the natural process of life. Get used to it.”

“What about the body?” asked Dylan.

“We need to get rid of it. The quicker, the better.”

“I’ll go talk to David.”

Dylan covered Amy’s body with the top sheet on his way across the room. He went to David’s side and knelt on one knee to speak with him.

“David, I’m sorry to bring this up, but—”

“The body. My wife’s body?”

“You’ve been through a lot. If you want me to take care of it, I can and will. If it is something you want to be a part of, I’ll wait, but we shouldn’t wait long.”

“No, you do it. I want to remember her the way she was. Do it for me. Okay?”

Dylan patted him on the back. “Okay.” He stood up and went over to Joel.

“Dylan?” David called. He closed his eyes when he lifted his head to speak to Dylan. He tried to avoid looking at the bulge of his wife’s corpse under the sheet. “Say something nice when you do it.”

“I promise.”

Dylan and Joel tried to be as respectful as possible as they rolled the body in the top sheet and then in a thick comforter. They took the body and left the room without saying a word.

They walked past Dylan’s house with the body and put it down on an area of short grass in the field. Dylan went back to his house and found a shovel near the backyard garden. He jogged back again, put the tip of the spade to the ground, and jumped on it. The spade did not move.

“Shit! It’s frozen,” said Dylan.

“Now what?”

Dylan leaned on the shovel and closed his eyes. He tapped the end of the handle on his forehead as he thought.

“I’ll be right back,” said Dylan, as he ran away once more. He put the shovel back and went to the garage. Inside, he found an axe and a can of gasoline. He returned to Joel with both.

“What are you doing?” asked Joel.

“The ground is frozen, so it’ll have to be a funeral pyre.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“We can’t just leave her here, and we can’t bury her.”

“Then let’s get this over with.”

They went to the edge of the trees, cut enough wood to create a bed of logs, and placed her on the wood.

“David wanted me to say something,” said Dylan. “I’m not good at that.”

Joel took off his hat. “Let me do this.” He bowed his head and said, “Lord, Amy was a good woman. She was a good mother and wife. She has left behind a grieving husband and an infant that will never know her. Please take her from this world to a better place. Accept her into Heaven. Let her join the son she already has waiting for her there. Thank you. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

Dylan poured the gasoline onto her body and the wood. He gestured for Joel to step away, and he flicked his empty lighter. A flame erupted upward with a small amount of black smoke. The dry wood quickly took the flame, and the heat became intense. The men kept stepping back from the growing heat and watched it all turn to gray ash. The heat from the flames made the ashes rise high in the calm, cold air, and it spread across the meadow. The snow circling the pyre began to melt into small pools of water. The pools reflected the flames. The men turned to walk their separate ways home, and they heard the call of an owl in the woods echo throughout the neighborhood.

Chapter Twenty One

On a cold winter afternoon, Sandra Sisk opened the front door of her home. Through the glass storm door, she watched the tempestuous winter breeze blow the snow into shifting dunes across the front yard. With an empty plastic bucket in one hand, she gripped the cold metal handle of the outer door and braced for the chill as she opened it. She stepped onto the front porch and went to the nearest snowdrift to fill the small bucket with snow. As she came back inside, the wind slammed the storm door shut behind her. In the living room, she placed the bucket of snow in front of the gas fireplace, on one end of the marble hearth. The window in the living room faced west, and she partially opened the drapes to let in the afternoon sunlight. A column of light fell across the floor and onto the center of the hearth. She moved the bucket to the center of the hearth, and the sunlight captured it. Sandra draped a blanket over her boney shoulders, sat on a chair in the living room, and stared at the slowly melting snow. That small amount of activity exhausted her. She was still trying to recover from the ravages of influenza that had spread throughout the neighborhood.

Desperate people had gone door-to-door begging for help and in doing so, unwittingly spread the virus. The sickness took the weakest and the most malnourished during the winter cull. In a cruel way, nature was taking its course, thinning the herd, and only the strongest survived. Ironically, all the deaths left more food for the survivors, and the survivors had become better nourished. Her husband, John, was lucky. He did not get sick, and took full advantage of nature’s cruel twist of fate. As each family died, he scavenged their pantries and brought home the stolen food, but he shared with no one, barely even with his wife. She was defenseless against his rage and retribution. As she sat watching the snow melt in the bucket, desperate for a cup of water to drink, she wondered if she would be better off dead.

John was upstairs when he heard the front door slam shut from the wind. He came down the stairs to investigate. He wore a gray sweatshirt, denim pants, and thick wool socks that he had confiscated from a neighbor’s corpse. He took slow, deliberate steps as he came down the stairs, carrying a Mason jar half-full of grain alcohol in one hand and its metal lid in the other. Spilling any of the precious fluid that he was growing to depend upon would have been unthinkable. At the bottom of the staircase, he saw the blue plastic bucket of slowly melting snow on the marble hearth and realized that the door slamming shut was a result of his wife retrieving the snow. Nonetheless, he decided to provoke her into conversation.

“What was that noise?” bellowed John. He swirled the glass jar and took a sip as he stood behind his wife.

Sandra did not turn around. She moved her eyes to the glass cover of the gas fireplace and focused on John’s reflection in the glass. She saw the bitterness in his expression, and his resentment toward her. Deep in her heart, Sandra felt the same emotions for her husband and dreaded every day of her existence because of him. Something began to stir inside her soul. She began to feel her hatred bringing energy back to her weak legs, and she stood and turned to face her husband before she realized what she had done.

“You!” snarled Sandra. A weak and crooked finger came from under her blanket. She pointed at John. Her dingy yellow fingernails were long and had dirt underneath them. “This is all your fault.”

John was shocked at his wife’s demeanor. A voice from a dark recess of his mind called out for him to claim retribution for her insolence. He took another sip, screwed the metal lid tightly on the jar, and went into the kitchen to put the jar on a countertop. He removed the dusty cordless phone from its base, blew the dust off it, and marched back to his wife. She still glared at him with deep resentment. John narrowed his eyes and scowled back at his wife as he passed the phone from one hand to another.

Sandra’s anger took over again, and her tongue lashed at her husband. “I hate—”

“Watch your mouth!” warned John.

Resentment energized Sandra to finish her sentence, and she defiantly snarled, “You!”

Stunned at her disobedience, John yelled, “Bitch!” and struck her with the back of his hand. His wife went to the floor, covering her face. She tasted blood at the corner of her mouth. John tossed the phone at his wife, and said tauntingly, “Dial 9-1-1.”

A shadow came through the west window, moved across the living room floor, and quickly disappeared. John left his wife by the hearth and went to the window to see what had just gone by. He saw someone he did not recognize. She was a petite woman with long, brown hair, walking a goat on the street in front of his house. It was Ruth Miller. He looked to his left, where she had come from, and thought about the goats at Tom’s barn. Thoughts raced in his alcohol-fueled mind, and he concluded that the woman was stealing the goat. He thought that if he caught a thief, he might be able to redeem himself in the community. He was going to confront the thief and felt that he needed something to show authority. His shotgun and bandolier were upstairs. John brought them downstairs and put the bandolier across his chest. He put shells in the shotgun, and disregarding the cold temperature, only put on a wool cap. A coat would cover the bandolier of shotgun shells, and he wanted to wear it like a badge of courage for the thief or anyone in the community to see. Before he opened the door, he looked back at his wife and saw her on the floor. He pumped the shotgun and flicked off the safety. Sandra watched him from the corner of her eye as he walked out the door. Her heart was as cold as the slowly melting bucket of snow beside her.

Ruth struggled with the bleating goat that she had volunteered to retrieve from Tom’s barn. She pulled on the rope leash, trying to coax it away from a stand of dry weeds at the end of the street. She was ready to turn left and go back to Dylan’s house. There were three male goats at Tom’s barn, and they had decided to butcher this one as a gift for David and Linda. After losing his wife, David was in a state of lethargic depression and was not able to provide any help for Linda or his newborn daughter. Linda was taking care of David’s daughter, nursing her, and she needed food.

Ruth saw Dylan’s house at the end of the street. In the cold air, she grew impatient with the goat. She pulled once more on the rope and the goat pulled back. Ruth flipped up the collar on her coat and raised her shoulders to keep her neck warm. It did not work. From down the street where she had walked, Ruth saw somebody approaching her that she did not recognize. It was John. He shuffled awkwardly across the icy road. The warmth of the previous day had melted the snow. Overnight, the temperature dipped below freezing and refroze the snowmelt into ice, making it difficult to walk.

As he got closer, she saw that the stranger had a shotgun, and she became anxious. She turned and looked at the end of the street, thinking that Dylan’s house seemed to be getting farther away. Behind the goat, she bent down and quickly flicked the goat’s testicles with her cold fingers. It bucked and jumped away from the weeds in the direction Ruth had hoped. She began to slip across the ice again, back home with the goat.

Cloaked in a drunken stupor, John walked the slick street as fast as he could. His hand tightly gripped the wood stock of the shotgun, for fear of dropping it. Because his bare hands were becoming numb from the cold, his finger unknowingly touched the trigger. John closed the gap.

“Hey,” John called out to Ruth. “You need to stop.”

Hearing John’s voice, the goat stopped walking to turn and look at the man. Ruth tugged at the rope to encourage the goat to keep going, but it did not. John took short, slow steps toward Ruth. The snow crunched under his boots. The cold breeze quickly swept away the condensing vapor of his breath.

When he was close enough for Ruth to see his glassy eyes, she held up a hand and said, “Stop!”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do,” warned John. In that instant, he noticed how beautiful the shivering woman was. Now, regarding her as more than just a thief, he quickly changed his mind. She was beautiful and what he considered as just his type. In addition to her beauty, she was small, very petite, and therefore physically easy to control. If she was a thief, he thought he could offer her refuge. She could stay at his house, and he could dispose of his wife to make the offer more accommodating to the stranger.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked John.

“I’m going to butcher it.” Ruth pulled harder on the rope. The goat bowed its head, spread its legs wide, and planted its hooves firmly into the frozen impressions of footprints. With yesterday’s slush frozen solid today, the goat’s hooves did not budge in the icy craters.

“Come on now,” said John. “There’s no sense in you freezing out here. Come back home with me. I have a place you can stay.”

Ruth saw his finger on the trigger of the shotgun and was very nervous. He was close enough now that, when the wind whipped in her direction, she could smell the alcohol on his breath. She pulled the rope again, harder still, and the goat bleated once more.

John watched her body language after his invitation. He could read the rejection as plain as day. His anger began to surface. John’s eye twitched and he bit his lip.

“Come on now,” repeated John. “It’s cold. Let me help you with that.” He reached for the rope leash, and Ruth quickly stepped back and pulled the rope harder.

She positioned herself so the goat was between John and her. “Get away from me!” ordered Ruth.

Incensed at what he perceived as disrespect, he yelled back, “You stupid bitch, I’m trying to help you!” He took an aggressive step toward Ruth. Scared, Ruth lashed out at John with the long fingernails on her right hand. He felt the slash across his face, tested the stinging pain with his fingertips, and felt the warm blood on his cheek cool in the winter breeze.

“You’re all the same, aren’t you?” said John, rhetorically. He tasted the blood on his lips, and rage filled his body. He lunged to grab her and slipped on a patch of ice. Just as he grabbed for her, the goat went forward, Ruth stumbled back, fell down, and hit her head on the icy curb as she did. When John landed face first on the street, his finger pulled the trigger. His ears rang; the fall and the alcohol disoriented him. He stood up and saw the tangled pile of bloody gore covering Ruth. He looked down at the smoking shotgun and tried to comprehend what he had done.

Joel Hales heard the blast and stumbled down the street to see what had happened. He slowed his approach when he saw the twisted bloody mess and stopped when he recognized Ruth.

“In God’s name,” said Joel. “What have you done?”

John touched his stinging face and began to walk backward. “She attacked me. I was protecting myself.” John looked around to see if any others saw what had happened. “She’s a thief. I caught her stealing a goat.”

“She’s not a thief,” Joel clenched his fists. “Her name is Ruth Miller. She is staying at Dylan’s house. The goat belongs to Dylan. You know that.”

John gasped, and he began to breathe hard. The shotgun was still on the ground. He picked it up, and Joel flinched. John’s eyes began to wander all over the neighborhood as he walked away, mumbling, “I did it again.” He stumbled home, believing he had committed murder for the second time.

Joel went to Ruth and pushed the bloody goat carcass off of her. The goat had absorbed the shotgun blast, and coincidently, protected Ruth. Joel shook her gently, and she woke up, startled, expecting to see John.

“He’s gone,” assured Joel.

“Oh, my head.” Ruth sat up and looked around in a daze. “The goat—” She quickly realized what had happened when she saw the bloody splatter on the front of her coat.

“Yeah, he’s gone,” said Joel. “I’m going to help you home. You’re probably dizzy, and you’ll need help walking.”

As much as he denied being a doctor, he caught himself assessing the way her pupils dilated, a common test for concussion. They appeared fine. He hooked his arm under her shoulder to help her stand. She was still holding the goat’s rope leash and dropped it when she realized this. They both stumbled and slipped on the ice as they made their way to Dylan’s house.

Back home, Mary helped her out of the bloody coat. She put it in the bathtub and filled the tub with melted snow to clean up the gory mess. Ruth quietly told Mary what had happened, wary that Brad and Jennifer might hear. Joel stayed to keep an eye on Ruth, and they all waited for Dylan and Kevin to come back from gathering firewood. Mary winced when she thought of what Dylan and her husband might do.

John thrust the front door of his home open and leaped inside, closing the door just as quickly behind him. He nervously peeked out the living room windows to see if his fate was approaching from down the street. He was in trouble, he knew it, and he needed to leave quickly. He ran up the stairs and found his wife standing in the bedroom by his open closet door. She reminded him of an evil witch as she stood there with a blanket hung over her boney shoulders. Her eyes were sunken into her skull and her long hair was dark and greasy. When he stepped completely into the room, the smell of alcohol was overwhelming.

“I found your stash of booze,” she hissed. “It’s all gone.”

John pivoted around the room and looked into his closet where he had stored a dozen bottles of grain alcohol that he had helped Tom make. A pile of broken glass lay mounded on alcohol-soaked carpet. She had smashed all the glass jars. John slowly dragged his feet across the floor toward his wife. His mind started to drift away again.

Sandra looked at the bloody scratches across his face and snarled, “What have you done now, John?”

He began to raise his shotgun.

Sandra let go of the blanket. It fell to the floor, revealing a kitchen knife held tightly with her bony fingers.

John leveled the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The close range of the blast nearly ripped her body in half. John picked up the ejected shell and tossed it on her corpse. He looked at his hands and noticed that they were not shaking anymore. Amazed at how easy it was to do this time, he said, “Three.”

He packed a suitcase with some of his belongings and put it by the front door. He looked out the window to see if anyone was approaching. The streets were still clear. His plan was to go to Tom’s house and seek refuge. He opened the door and stopped. The half-full jar of alcohol was still on the kitchen counter. In the kitchen, he tipped the jar up, and in his haste to leave, took an unusually large gulp. He put the jar back on the counter and noticed a pack of matches. John picked up the matches with one hand, the jar with the other, and went upstairs. He held the jar at an angle above his wife’s corpse, slowly pouring the alcohol on her, and then poured a thin trail of alcohol into his closet. Taking a few steps back, he flicked a lit match onto the volatile fluid and a blue flame erupted. John left the burning house with a shotgun, the bandolier across his chest, and his suitcase. He dragged the suitcase through the snow and across the frozen stream to Tom’s farm.

Shivering, John stood in front of Tom’s house and felt like a pathetic stray dog. A soft blue light glowed through the front window, and he looked inside. Tom had sat in the living room near a rectangular propane heater element, vertically inset into a wall of the old farmhouse. The stainless steel backing behind the flames reflected the light and heat from the burners. Blue flames illuminated the room with a soft glow. Tom had placed a large blanket over the entrance to the kitchen to contain the room’s heat. Brown paneling covered the walls, and Tom, hypnotically staring into the flickering light, sat on a couch upholstered with blue corduroy fabric. John knocked on the door and when he did, Tom reached for his rifle.

Tom stood up. “Who is it?” he barked. His few visitors normally went to the back door. He thought a knock on the front door was odd, so he was glad to have the rifle in hand.

“It’s John.”

Tom relaxed. “What do you want?”

“Open the damn door. I’m freezing.”

Tom reluctantly opened the door, annoyed at John’s uninvited appearance. “Step inside.”

John felt a trickle of warm air escape through the open door, turned to glance at his suitcase, and hid the scratches on his face as he did. His mind began to race for an explanation of why he was there.

“Hurry up, it’s cold out there.”

John grabbed the handle of his suitcase, went inside, and quickly closed the door. Inside the house, Tom noticed the suitcase and asked what it was for as he moved back to the heater.

“Just some clothes.”

Tom put his rifle on the floor. “Just some clothes? And you carry your shotgun around, with a suitcase of clothes, at sundown?”

John did not know what to say. He turned to look back down at his suitcase, and Tom noticed the scratches on his face.

“I get it,” said Tom. “You got into a fight with your old lady, didn’t you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

Tom leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “I could smell that shit on your breath. You’ve been drinking from your stash.”

“I guess you could say that, too.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re a fool for pissing away a lot of hard work. I hope you’re happy now. Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

Tom shook his head again. “I’m not going to play a guessing game with you.” He turned his head and looked sideways at John. “You want to stay here, don’t you?”

“Yeah, thanks, Tom.” He bent over to pick up his suitcase. “I just need to lay low for a while.”

“Hell, no!”

John sprang to attention. “What?”

“I said no!”

“C’mon man, don’t do me like this. I’ve got no place to go.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you can go to Hell. You’re a fool if you think I’m going to import your drama into my life.”

“But—”

“No!” Tom stood up and crossed his arms. When he stood, he sensed the smell of smoke in the air. His mind swiftly scanned the house, and he swiftly tried to remember if he had left any candles lit.

“Smell that?” asked Tom.

“Smell what?”

Tom did not answer him. He dashed through the blanket covering the kitchen doorway. Through the kitchen window, past the open field of his backyard, Tom saw the orange glow of a house fire dancing behind trees that lined the stream dividing his property from the subdivision. Tom knew where John’s house was and, from the location of the fire, thought John’s house was burning. Tom pushed the hanging blanket to the side and stood in the doorway.

“John, I think your house is on fire!”

John did not react at first, and then he looked down.

Tom only needed to study John’s body language for a moment to understand his reaction. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Mind your own business, asshole.”

John moved the butt of the shotgun closer to his shoulder. Tom’s eyes went to his rifle on the floor, and he suddenly realized that he was in trouble.

“You better go now,” said Tom, trying to speak in a calm tone.

“No,” said John, as he leveled the shotgun. “It’s time for you to check out.”

John did not hesitate to pull the trigger. Tom saw it coming and spun around to run, but the blast caught him in the lower back. He went face down on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. Severely wounded, Tom moaned and writhed on the floor as blood pooled around him.

John said, “Four,” as he stepped over Tom to look out the kitchen window and see the flames growing outside. Then he looked back down at Tom struggling on the floor and thought about how it had become so easy to kill. The violent, orange glow beyond the trees brought him back to reality. He knew the burning house could bring unwanted attention his way, so he decided to escape with the truck. Confused thoughts circled his mind. Where could he go? Then he remembered seeing Michael at the bartering lot and wondered if he could find a place of refuge with him. Michael was in a gang and that meant safety in numbers. He could take Tom’s commodities with him and try to bargain his way into the gang with Michael. He took Tom’s rifle and went to work.

Inside a kitchen drawer, he found the truck’s key and distributor cap. It would be easy to reinstall. After sliding the barn door open, he popped the truck’s hood and put the distributor cap back onto the engine. Three goats bleated inside the barn. He ignored them as he stacked the boxes of liquor-filled Mason jars into the truck’s bed. Then he remembered seeing Tom harvesting marijuana, and went to the basement to find it, too. With the light of a small, dim flashlight, he found black garbage bags stuffed with dried marijuana. In his haste to gather the bags of marijuana, he forgot the flashlight in the kitchen.

John put the bags of marijuana around the boxes of alcohol as padding, covered it with a tarp, and lashed it all down tightly with a rope. John turned on the truck’s headlights, engaged the four-wheel drive, and carefully exited the driveway. His shotgun and Tom’s rifle were by his side. Snow covered the road, and he drove away slowly with his precious cargo secured tightly.

During Tom’s last moments, he summoned the energy to lift his fingers and paint with his warm blood the letters J-O-H-N on the cold linoleum floor.

Chapter Twenty Two

A distinct trail of footsteps marked the path from Dylan’s house to the trees near the lake where Dylan and Kevin routinely gathered firewood. Earlier in the day, the men had gone into the barren timbers to chop wood. After hours in the forest, they were exhausted, so they decided to hide the split logs in a grove of evergreen trees and go home. On their way, with axe and hatchet in hand, Dylan and Kevin followed their trail of footsteps back to the garage and leaned their tools against the wall. Ready to escape the cold wind, they eagerly went inside.

“Daddy!” exclaimed Jennifer. She hugged her father tightly around the legs. Dylan knelt down to kiss her on the forehead.

“Hi, Kevin,” said Jennifer.

“What? No hug for me?”

She wrapped her short arms around his legs as far as she could and hugged him just as tightly.

“Be careful, you’re going to break my legs.”

Jennifer growled like a bear and then released him. “Come here.” Jennifer ushered them down the hall. “I want to show you something.”

The three went down the hallway to the bathroom with Jennifer in the lead. She went inside and pointed to the bathtub. The men saw Ruth’s bloodstained coat soaking in the melted snow. “Ruth got hurt,” announced Jennifer. She saw the expressions change on the men’s faces. She wondered if she had said something wrong and slipped away to her bedroom, afraid she had angered her father and Kevin.

Panic set in. They did not realize that goat’s blood, not human blood, had turned the clear water sanguine. Both men called for Ruth and Mary, and they heard a faint reply from the master bedroom. They ran down the hall to the bedroom, expecting to see the worst. Much to their surprise, Ruth lay in bed, resting comfortably with a pillow behind her head. Mary was on one side of the bed and Joel on the other. Young Brad was at the foot of the bed playing with a toy truck. Kevin went to his wife and gave her a hug. He relaxed.

“You’re okay!” rejoiced Dylan. “The bathtub…your coat…the blood—”

Joel interrupted, “Let me explain.” He quickly glanced at Ruth, and she nodded with approval. “Apparently, Ruth was bringing a goat back home to butcher for David and Linda. John must have seen her walk by his house. He followed her up the street and confronted her.” His eyes went back to Ruth, and she nodded once more. He continued. “One thing led to another, and the confrontation turned physical. He got close, so she scratched his face and apparently enraged him.”

“Good for you,” said Dylan.

“I hope you scratched his eyes out,” added Kevin, as he squeezed his wife’s hand.

“That is when it got bad.” Joel looked once more at Ruth. She closed her eyes this time, emotionally dissociating while listening to Joel continue to explain the details of the event. “Ruth was pulling on the rope around the goat’s neck when John lunged at her. The road was slick, and he slipped at the same time she fell backwards. His shotgun discharged, and the goat took the blunt of the blast.” Ruth nodded her head. The details were correct. “She fell down and hit her head on the curb of the street.” Joel rubbed his chin. “If that goat hadn’t been there, well, I hate to think about that outcome. I heard the blast. I’m glad I came out to see what happened.” Joel touched Ruth’s leg as a cue that the story was finished. She opened her eyes and looked at Dylan. Rage filled his soul. She saw his nostrils flare in the dim evening light as he started to breathe rapidly.

“He’s going to kill somebody,” said Dylan.

“He already has,” Kevin reminded him. “Remember the nursery? The unarmed man he shot?”

“Yeah, I do. I meant that he is going to kill again.” Deep in thought, Dylan looked out the bedroom window before he spoke again. “Brad, go to your room. The adults are going to talk.”

Brad heard and understood the tone in his father’s voice. He immediately complied.

After a few moments of silence, Kevin said, “Well, Dylan, what are you thinking?”

“We’re going to—”

A loud knock at the front door interrupted Dylan.

“That’s Jim,” announced Mary.

“Or maybe not,” said Dylan as he went to get his rifle and answer the door. At the door, Dylan looked through the peephole. It was Jim, so he quickly opened the door.

“What the hell, Dylan? That’s no way to greet your neighbor.” Jim pointed at the rifle.

“Sorry, we had some trouble with John. I didn’t know who was at the door. Come on in. It’s cold out there.”

Jim held up his hands to signal Dylan to stop talking. “Heard all about it while you were out. I found one ibuprofen tablet for Ruth; she has a headache from the fall.”

“Step this way.” Dylan pointed to the bedroom. “I’m glad you’re here. We all need to talk.”

In the bedroom, Jim gave the little pill to Ruth. Mary handed her a cup of melted snow to drink with it. Ruth sat up, swirled the cup in her hand, and created a small vortex in the water. She smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Mary. “I thought you had a headache?”

“Oh, I do.” Ruth swallowed the pill and drank the cup of cold water. “That was melted snow, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, what’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, but it reminded me of something that happened back home, when I was much younger. My little brother tried to get me to eat yellow snow. He told me it tasted like lemonade.” She handed the empty cup back to Mary. “I miss my family.” Tears began to form in her eyes; she closed them and tried not to weep.

Dylan cleared his throat. “We can reminisce some other time. Right now, we need to make a decision.”

“If this is a family matter, I should go,” suggested Joel.

“No, it pertains to everyone in here…maybe everyone in the community.”

“Go ahead, Dylan, we’re all ears,” said Jim.

“Right when you knocked on the door,” said Dylan, as he pointed at Jim. “I started to say that we’re going to have to create a system of justice. The punishment needs to fit the crime.”

“Hold on. What do you mean by that?” asked Joel.

“I think we’ve got a crime here. Don’t you agree?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t think anyone questions that. It was the punishment I was asking about.”

Dylan turned to Mary for support and asked a question in a way he thought might persuade her and influence Joel. “Doesn’t the Bible say an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, or something like that?”

“Yes it does,” said Mary.                                                                         

“And it also says love thy neighbor,” Joel interjected.

Frustrated at the contradiction, Dylan threw his hands in the air.

“But Dylan,” said Mary, “you don’t read the Bible.”

“I don’t read minds either, but I do know what that bastard is thinking right now. He must be thinking he can get away with anything. He has to stop. We have to stop him, permanently.”

“Just say it, Dylan. Say what you’re thinking,” ordered Joel.

“We have to kill him. If we don’t stop him now, well, he’s going to murder someone else.”

“Murder is murder. Count me out,” Joel stated firmly.

“We’ll vote on it. Majority rules,” said Dylan.

“By what authority?” asked Joel.

“This authority,” replied Dylan as he held up the rifle.

“This is anarchy, and I won’t have any part of it,” scoffed Joel. He stood up and crossed his arms.

“Then vote against it. All in favor of executing John Sisk, raise your right hand.” Dylan, Kevin, and Jim raised their hands. Kevin scowled at his wife, and she shook her head.

“There,” said Joel. “Only three; that’s a tie, not a majority.”

“So it is. But that doesn’t stop me from defending myself,” Dylan quickly interjected.

“You’re just as guilty if you provoke him,” replied Joel.

“What? So you’re going to remember your Hippocratic Oath now? Is that what you had trouble remembering when I had to force you to help David’s wife when she went into labor?”

“Maybe somebody needs to stop you.” Joel stormed out of the bedroom and then turned back around to speak to Dylan again. “Look in the mirror and ask yourself who’s out of control.” He shut the door loudly behind him when he left the house.

“Dylan, don’t do this for me,” said Ruth.

“I’m not. He has a history of dangerous behavior. This was bound to happen.” Dylan turned and began to walk out of the room, but stopped at the door and turned back around. “A goat saved your life, but you’re mad at me for trying to stop this from happening again?”

“I’m not mad,” replied Ruth.

“Come on, Kevin. It’s getting dark.” He waved his hand to summon Kevin. “You coming, Jim?”

“Not me, I’m too old for that stuff. I’ll stay here a little longer just in case Ruth needs anything.”

Dylan and Kevin zipped up their winter coats. Dylan slung the rifle across his back, Kevin put the pistol into his front pocket, and they both went to the front door.

Dylan put his hand on the knob and hesitated. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to kick his door down and knock his teeth out,” replied Kevin.

“Great minds think alike.”

He opened the door for Kevin, exited the house after him, and then closed the door as he stood on the front porch. He pursed his lips tightly together; the cold air hurt his teeth.

Moving down the driveway, they immediately noticed an orange glow from the eastern end of the neighborhood and a column of smoke rising from it.

“What do you think?” asked Kevin.

“I think a house is on fire.”

“That’s about where John lives, isn’t it?”

“Looks like we’re going to find out.”

Dylan and Kevin went down the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder. As they passed Joel’s house, they saw him on his front porch looking toward the blaze. They stopped.

Dylan pointed toward the orange glow and spoke loudly. “I bet your friend has been hard at work over there.”

“He’s not my friend,” replied Joel.

“Maybe all he needs is a group hug or therapy?” Dylan asked flippantly.

“Look, Dylan, I’m sorry about what I said at your house. Sometimes I get mad because I can’t help people like I used to. Just do what you need to do. You have my vote.” He went inside.

Dylan looked at Kevin and said, “Majority rules.”

They stopped across the street from the burning house and the previously abandoned homes on either side of it. Flames completely engulfed the house, and the melted snow created a pool of reflecting water as it burned. The men held their hands over their faces to protect themselves from the heat and bright light.

“That’s John’s house, isn’t it?” asked Kevin.

“Yeah. I don’t think you’ll be kicking down his door now.”

“What should we do?”

“Since we’re this close to Tom’s house, let’s tell him what happened.”

As they walked farther away from the heat, the water in the street changed to slush and then ice again. They crossed the frozen stream and walked onto Tom’s property. The orange glow from the fire reflected off the crystals of snow blanketing Tom’s land. As they walked toward the house, they noticed the open barn door. The truck had disappeared, but it had left fresh tire tracks in the snow on the gravel driveway, and the tracks turned to the right when they met the street.

“Do you think Tom would have left the barn door open?” asked Kevin. “The goats are inside.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” replied Dylan. “Tom didn’t want to leave his property. Why would he do it on a night like this?”

“Someone is home. Look,” said Kevin, as he pointed to Tom’s front window. The soft blue glow of the propane heater’s flame escaped through the glass. “Maybe he let John borrow the truck again.”

They followed a set of footprints in the snow to the front window and peeked inside. Kevin was closest to the window.

“See anything?” asked Dylan.

“Heater’s on, so he has to be home. Knock on the door.”

Dylan pounded loudly on Tom’s front door. The house was silent. “Nobody’s home,” said Dylan.

“That heater looks good. Check the door and see if it’s locked.”

Dylan turned the knob. The door was unlocked. “You sure about this?” asked Dylan.

“Yeah, let’s wait awhile and warm up by that heater,” Kevin replied.

“What if he comes back with John?”

“I get John first,” Kevin demanded.

“That’s the spirit.” Dylan opened the door and they both went over to the heater.

“Tom, you in here?” yelled Dylan, as he stood close to the burner and warmed his hands. No response. The only noise was the sound of the wind through the old window frames and the hiss of the gas burner.

“Lucky dog has a heater,” said Kevin, as he leaned his face into its warmth.

“Wait until that big tank of liquid propane runs out,” replied Dylan. “Then he’ll be like the rest of us.”

They stood quietly by the heater and began to warm up. Silent moments passed by, and Dylan wondered how much longer they should wait. He anxiously began to walk around the room, and as he did, noticed a strange odor in the air.

“You smell smoke?” asked Dylan.

“A house is on fire.”

“No, something different. I can’t quite place it.” Dylan tilted his head up and sniffed the air.

“This burner in the wall, maybe,” offered Kevin.

“No.” Dylan sniffed the air again, and then it dawned on him. “It’s gun smoke.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder. Kevin withdrew his pistol. Dylan signaled to Kevin that he was going through the draped blanket covering the kitchen doorway. Kevin nodded. Dylan used the barrel of his rifle to move the blanket to the side as he stepped through the doorway. He looked out the kitchen window as he moved forward. The fire’s orange glow captured his attention. An object tripped him, and the slippery linoleum made him fall. Lying on the floor, he saw Tom’s body beside him. He had slipped in a pool of blood. Kevin heard him fall and rushed to the doorway, holding the blanket to allow the meager light into the kitchen.

Dylan stood up and picked up his rifle. “I found Tom.”

“Shotgun got him,” said Kevin.

Dylan found a flashlight on the counter and shined it around the room. He moved the weak beam of light to the floor and outlined Tom’s corpse. Dylan noticed bloody smudges painted on the floor near Tom’s outstretched arm. Dylan aimed the light near Tom’s right hand and tried to make sense of the markings smeared on the floor. They were letters.

“What do you make of this?” asked Dylan.

“You mean, what do I think it spells?”

“Yeah.”

“J-O-H-N.”

Chapter Twenty Three

John stopped on the highway and looked to his left. At the top of the hill, a few hundred yards away, he recognized his destination. From the highway, he saw the large letters on the front of the building and whispered, “Allied Grocery Distribution,” as he read the sign. Although snow covered the ground, tire tracks had made a path in the road to the top of the hill. He slowly released the clutch, turned left onto the road, and proceeded up the slope in first gear. The gas station to his left, on the corner of the road and the highway, appeared looted and destroyed. After the gas station, he passed an apartment complex, also to his left. The windows were dark with the exception of an occasional glow of candle light. A pile of garbage burned near the complex. The flickering light of the fire cast shifting shadows across the ground, and the snow surrounding the fire reflected the yellow color of the flame. The tire tracks in the snow led him to the building’s parking lot, and the truck bounced across the trenches of frozen slush before it stopped. The truck’s headlights, facing the metal front door, penetrated the door’s small rectangular window and alerted the men inside of his presence.

Rapidly, two shadows emerged from behind the door. Each had a pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other. They separated and cautiously went to each side of the truck. John turned off the truck’s headlights and motor. After he rolled down his window, he raised his hands and tried to remain calm. Two beams of light met at his eyes and blinded him, rendering him unable to see the strangers’ faces.

A deep voice emerged from behind the light on the driver’s side of the truck. “Keep your hands up.”

“Alright,” replied John. “I’m cooperating.”

“He’s got a rifle and shotgun,” the other voice reported.

“I see that.”

John heard the metal barrel of a pistol tap the truck’s door on his left.

“If you move for those weapons, I’ll kill you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.” John felt his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

The man on John’s right pointed the flashlight at the bed of the truck, wondering if there were any other uninvited guests. He only noticed the shape of boxes covered by a tarp secured with rope. “I’m going to look around,” he said, and the person with the deep voice nodded, not taking his eyes off John.

“What do you want?” asked the deep voice.

“I’m looking for Michael,” answered John, as he tried to shade his eyes from the light with one of his raised hands.

“About what?”

“Business.”

“You talk to Sam about business.”

“I don’t know Sam.”

“How do you know Michael?”

“The barter lot. I told him I could get inventory. Valuable inventory.”

“Like what?”

“Hooch and weed.”

The man’s deep voice silenced, and his beam of light moved to the back of the truck. At that moment, John turned his head to catch a glimpse of his detainer. He saw the face of a teenage boy with straggly blonde hair. The voice was deceiving; John could not believe how young he looked. Nevertheless, the boy had a pistol pointed at him, so he quickly looked forward again to avoid eye contact with his juvenile captor.

“Is that what’s in the truck?”

“What do you think?”

The tap of the metal gun barrel on the driver’s door persuaded John not to answer a question with a question.

“Yeah, it’s full of it,” answered John.

After a pause in the conversation, John heard another tap of gunmetal on the truck’s door, and then the command, “Get out.”

John got out of the truck, still blinded by the flashlight. He tried to cover his eyes with his raised hands. “Can I get my key? I don’t want anyone to take my truck.”

“I’ll get the key. Walk toward the metal door. Don’t turn around and keep your hands on your head.”

John heard the side window roll up and the door shut before the crunch of snowy footsteps approached from behind him.

The young man whistled for his partner and yelled into the darkness, “I’m taking him in.”

A whistle echoed back, in reply.

The young captor checked John for weapons, and then the beam of light shined on the doorknob as a prompt for John to open the door and enter the building. A short distance away, Sam’s crew of thieves circled around a large kerosene heater. An oil lamp on a table had a mirror positioned by it. The mirror reflected the lamp’s light into the center of the group. The dark figures wore mostly black. From a distance, individuals were indiscernible from the group. They blended as one, like a pit of vipers on a dark cave floor.

In the center of the group, Michael leaned forward on a chair as he got a tattoo on his upper right arm. The tattoo artist worked with a large sewing needle and a broken magic marker, dipping the needle into the marker’s ink.

This was Michael’s night to get the number thirteen tattooed on his arm as a rite of passage into, The Lucky Thirteen. With the tattoo, Michael earned the right to carry a weapon and had authority over junior members without the tattoo.

“Hey, Mike, you got company.” John’s escort tossed him the key to the truck and slipped away into the shadows of the warehouse.

Michael, with his back turned, could not see who it was. He moved and tried to turn his head.

“Hey,” said the tattoo artist, as he grabbed Michael by the neck. “I said, stop moving! You’re going to mess this up.”

“It’s John.”

“John? What are you doing here?” asked Michael, as he shifted in the chair again.

The tattoo artist leaned back in his chair and threw his hands in the air. “Hey, man, you keep wiggling like a little bitch. You want me to stop?”

“No.” Michael clenched his teeth and braced for the sting and burn.

Each time the needle entered Michael’s flesh, he flinched, irritating his skin and the tattoo artist. His pale skin turned red and swollen around the wound.

“I had to leave,” said John.

“Why?” asked Michael, through clenched teeth.

“Bad things happened. I didn’t want to get into it with Dylan.”

Michael recoiled and exclaimed, “Dylan!”

“That does it. I’m through,” said the tattoo artist, as he stood up in frustration.

Michael turned his head to the right and looked down at the red swollen flesh on his arm. The light was dim, so he moved toward the lamp to inspect the artwork. His face turned red, and he spun around to face the man holding the ink-covered needle. “What is this shit?” barked Michael.

“What?” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s your number thirteen. Congratulations.”

“It’s not a thirteen. Look again, asshole.” Michael turned toward the light and curious eyes from the circle of men took a closer look at his arm. The men laughed.

“Look,” said Michael. “Can’t you see it?”

He threw the needle in a trashcan. “I see a 1 and a 3.”

“Look again. You put the 1 and 3 too close together. They’re touching. It looks like the letter B.”

A voice from the circle asked, “What does the B stand for?”

A voice replied, “Bitch.”

All the men laughed loudly, and Michael became enraged. He withdrew his new pistol from his front pocket and pointed it at the man’s head.

With a shaky voice, the man raised his hands and said, “Hey, just cool it. When the swelling goes down, it’ll look okay.”

“Hey!” yelled Sam Deville. During the commotion, no one had noticed him descending the metal staircase from his office overlooking the warehouse floor.

The pit of vipers turned to look at their leader. They had recognized his voice, cooler heads prevailed, and Michael lowered the pistol.

“What’s going on?” asked Sam.

“Nothing,” answered the tattoo artist.

“Yeah, Sam, it’s cool,” replied Michael.

The audience retreated into the shadows.

Michael pointed at John. “We’ve got a new guy.”

“You know him?” asked Sam.

“Yeah.”

“You can vouch for him?” asked Sam.

“Yes, sir.”

“That so?” Sam looked at John as he did all the other newcomers. Asset or liability was always the first thing that came to his mind. If they could not do anything for him, they were worthless. His eyes pierced the darkness like dark pools of liquid evil. John could feel Sam’s menacing gaze. He looked away, intimidated.

“What’s your name?” asked Sam.

“John Sisk.”

“You know who I am?”

“Yeah, Sam Deville.”

“How do you know me?”

John looked up and met Sam’s eyes. “Reputation.”

Sam smiled. “What brings you here, John?”

“Business.”

“You’ve got business for me?”

“Yeah.” John looked around the huge warehouse. “I need a place to stay, too.”

“Michael,” said Sam.

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Meet me in my office. Bring John with you.”

Sam climbed the metal steps to his office. Inside the office, Sam lit an oil lamp, and the room glowed in yellow light.

Michael and John talked quickly as they slowly ascended the steps to Sam’s office.

“Hey, look at my arm. Does the tattoo look like a number 1 and a 3?” asked Michael, awkwardly bending his neck to try and get a better angle to view the swollen, red skin.

“Sure it does.” John bit his lip to keep from laughing.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Okay, I’m not.”

“What did you bring? Anything valuable?” asked Michael.

“Moonshine and marijuana.”

“That’s good. We can move it. But—”

“But what?”

“It’s the wrong time of the year. People aren’t out and about in the cold. But it’ll move fast when the weather breaks.”

Michael stopped walking up the steps, grabbed John by the shoulder, and asked, “Have you been drinking?”

“A little.”

“You better cut that shit out. If you work for Sam and he finds out your head isn’t screwed on…well…just don’t do it.”

Michael started walking up the steps again, and John kept the pace.

“Stop bitching at me. You remind me of my wife,” said John.

“How’s your wife doing?”

“She doesn’t feel good.”

“Fever?”

“Yeah, she’s burning up.”

They stopped at the open doorway to Sam’s office. He sat behind his desk in a chair turned away from the door. Michael knocked on the doorframe and announced their presence.

Sam spun the chair around. “Come on in, and let’s have a talk.”

Each man sat on a chair in front of Sam’s desk.

Sam leaned back in his padded leather chair, put his feet on the desk, and looked at John. “Let’s cut to the chase. What can you do for me?”

“I’ve got access to a still, and land to plant whatever you want. We used corn to make the alcohol, but there’s plenty of room to grow pot if you want.”

Sam found a toothpick on top of his desk, put it in his mouth, and tilted his head back. As he looked at the ceiling, he probed with the toothpick between his front teeth and contemplated his strategy.

“You said ‘we’. Who else do I have to deal with?”

“Just me. I know how to run the still.”

Sam shook his head. “Corn doesn’t plant itself. You’ll need labor.”

“There’s a tractor in the barn, right by the still. It works, I’ve seen it.”

“A tractor needs fuel. That’s getting hard to come by.” Sam used his tongue to turn the toothpick around in his mouth and looked at John curiously. He began to doubt John, and John sensed that.

“It’s all by a subdivision,” said John. “We could use it as a labor force.”

“What about fuel?” asked Sam.

“There was a guy in the neighborhood. He could always find that stuff, gallons of it. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Who’s that?” asked Michael.

“Dylan Smith.”

Michael cringed at the name and subconsciously put his hand on the pistol in his front pocket.

“What’s wrong, Michael?” asked Sam. “You look like you saw a ghost. Do you know this Dylan Smith?”

“Yeah. I’ve got no love for him.”

“Me, neither,” added John.

“Do you think we could get Dylan behind this? Maybe he could persuade the community to get onboard. We could promise them food.”

Michael and John exchanged glances. Each man turned the possibility over in his mind.

“Maybe you could persuade him,” said John, as he finally got the courage to look Sam directly in the eyes.

Michael smiled at the thought and the way John emphasized the word “persuade.”

Sam spit the toothpick onto the floor and sat upright in the chair. He clenched his hands into fists on the desk as he leaned forward. His eyes narrowed.

“I need to expand my territory,” said Sam. “Would you like it if Dylan worked for you? Maybe tighten the thumbscrews if he gets out of line?”

Each man answered with a mischievous grin.

Sam leaned back in his chair. “Good, that settles it. I’ll have one of my boys pay him a visit in the springtime. We’ll start out nice and see how that works. Maybe give him something special, a token of appreciation.”

John and Michael nodded in agreement.

“Michael,” said Sam with a commanding voice.

“Yes sir.”

“You have to get that tattoo of the letter B on your arm fixed. It just looks stupid.”

Chapter Twenty Four

On an early spring morning, by the stream near Tom’s barn, columns of warm sunlight fell between the shadows of tall trees. As a snake slithered along the dark soil of the bank into a clearing, its black scales agreed with the warmth of the sunshine. Its sinuous body rested there and became more alert as it absorbed the sun’s rays.

A small frog emerged from the streambed. Weak and tired from months of hibernation, the amphibian moved slowly up the bank, away from the cold mud and water. As it crept forward, the frog felt the soil become tepid under a column of yellow light and stopped to absorb the warmth.

There, the two met as predator and prey. The snake’s unblinking eyes, stoic and still, found the small frog within striking distance. Flicking the air, the snake’s forked tongue sensed its prey. The frog flexed its front limbs to elevate its view and looked side to side. The perfectly camouflaged snake used its advantage to strike the unsuspecting creature just as the frog lowered its belly onto the warm ground.

Vicious jaws clamped quickly around their prey. After a short struggle, the frog stopped fighting back, and suffocated inside the serpent. Along the snake’s tubular form, peristaltic waves contracted rhythmically against the frog’s body, pulling it deep inside. Warm and full, the snake had no need to lie exposed while the percussion of heavy boots encroached upon it, so it slithered away, unnoticed by the man that marched by.

Dylan stopped the tractor at the edge of the plowed field. After he engaged the hydraulic lift, the two-bottom plow rose from the last furrows. He turned the tractor and stopped again to look at his accomplishment. The engine sputtered rhythmically as it idled. The tractor was small, with no cab for protection from the weather, and had barely enough power to pull the plow. Dylan stood tall on the tractor as he faced the southern breeze to enjoy its warmth. After sitting back down, he turned off the engine and listened to the same warm breeze that rushed across his body. It flowed through the nearby trees and rustled the leaves majestically. Tired and hungry, Dylan’s thoughts drifted into a daydream while his fatigue tried to pull him directly into sleep. A sharp whistle broke the tranquility of the moment and another whistle in the distance brought him back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw Ruth standing beside Tom’s barn.

They still called it Tom’s barn, even though he was dead. Killed during the winter, they could not bury him in the frozen ground near his parents, as they guessed that he would have wished. Instead, they cremated his body with a funeral pyre. All that remained of Tom was a pile of gray ashes at the edge of the woods, and his parents lay under two piles of dark earth. Those three markers alone were enough reason for the group to keep calling it all, “Tom’s.”

Across the field, Ruth waved eagerly to Dylan. After one quick glance back at the turned soil, he started the tractor and drove toward Ruth and the barn. As the tractor slowly advanced, he watched Ruth move the three goats. She staked them in different locations on the grass to let them graze the first green shoots of springtime. As he drove by, Dylan watched her pay special attention to the pregnant goat, her small hands moving along the swollen underbelly to feel for a kick.

Dylan parked the tractor in the barn and met Ruth on the lawn, walking up behind her as she tended to the goats. Dylan stopped and announced his presence by calling her name.

“Ruth.”

To her side, on the ground, he saw a plastic bag. It was the same bag as yesterday and the day before. He guessed that its contents were also the same as the previous two days. Most likely, a container of corn mush sprinkled with walnuts or pecans, and a bottle of water.

“Yes, Dylan.”

Ruth was not ignoring him, but she did not turn around. Missing her farm life, a moment of reflection had captured her mind. Ruth had tucked her hair under a knit cap, and she felt the refreshing breeze on her bare neck as she stroked the goat’s bristled fur with her hand. Ruth hugged the dumb animal, caressing it once more with the soft skin of her cheek. She truly missed her old way of life and her family’s farm, but missed her family most of all.

“Looks like you’ve got something for me,” said Dylan.

“Oh, of course I do. How rude of me.”

Ruth jumped up and handed Dylan the sack. It was cold, but he was not going to complain. He was hungry and thought the food’s temperature should be the least of his worries.

Dylan tilted his head toward the plowed earth and asked, “Does it look alright to you?”

Ruth considered the question as she surveyed his work, eyes quickly shifting across the rich soil in the distance. During her silent contemplation, Dylan opened the bag and confirmed that the meal was just what he had suspected.

“Yes, it looks alright to me.” She nodded her head. “That’s good soil. We should be able to grow just about anything. Any idea how may acres you plowed?”

“Tom said he had about forty acres. I couldn’t get it all, so I would guess about thirty at the most. That’s more than we could use now, but in the future, who knows what we’ll need. Might as well do it while we have a tractor that works.”

“Now you’re ready to disc and harrow.”

“What?”

“You disc and harrow after you plow. That breaks up the clumps of sod and makes it easier to plant the crops.”

“This is all I’ve got. And I’m lucky to have that. Are you trying to tell me this is not going to work?”

“Well…no…but it would make it easier. You should’ve plowed this in the fall if you couldn’t disc in the spring.”

“Well…no…you should have been here in the fall to tell me that,” Dylan joked. “That would have made all this easier for me.”

“Yes,” she replied. “I should have.”

Ruth understood Dylan’s humor, but the somber tone of her reply to his joke spoke volumes about how much she appreciated what he had done for her and how much better her life was here in this community, away from Sam Deville. And not just Dylan, but all those under his roof and some in the community, had taken a chance and accepted a scared, cold stranger, and she deeply appreciated that kind gesture.

Dylan cast an eye toward the back porch and considered it the best place to sit and eat his cold meal. He held the bag up, raised an eyebrow, pointed to the back porch, and asked, “Care to join me?”

“That’s for you.” She held her hands forward in a halting gesture. “But I can stay while you eat.”

They went to the porch.

“I wish you could’ve brought me a steak,” said Dylan. “That’s something I miss. Steak smothered in mushrooms, medium rare.”

“You won’t have to wait too long,” said Ruth. “That son of yours is out with the other boys. They have the bows you made for them. You just wait, they’ll bring back something.”

“Rabbit steak and squirrel steak isn’t the same as a good T-bone. Not to me.” Dylan laughed and emphasized his statement by poking his thumb into his chest. “And besides, even those little critters are getting hard to come by. It seems like a lot of other people have the same idea.”

“You have a good son.”

“Yes, I do.”

At the porch, Dylan dropped his tired body and crudely sat. A fine cloud of dust rose from the weathered boards. Ruth sat gently by his side. They faced the barn, the gravel driveway, and the clearing to the stream that had become a path for travel from the subdivision.

“Before he left with the other boys, I heard him say that he wanted to be just like you.”

“Just like me?” Dylan asked rhetorically, in a facetious tone. He grasped the spoon with an over-handed grip and plunged it into the mixture of corn mush and nuts. Etiquette be damned. After carefully spooning the mixture to get at least a fragment of tree nut with his first bite, he filled his mouth with the thick, cold paste and swallowed. He thought deeply about what she had said.

Considering the mistakes he had made, Dylan wondered if he was really the best role model for his son. He had taken a job requiring too much travel, in order to chase the almighty dollar, when he should have been chasing baseballs with his son instead. He loved his son and his son loved him, but those decisions had taken him far away all too often and had threatened his ability to make it back home alive. When he did make it home, after the pulse, he had returned to a divided family, and later lost his wife. He blamed himself for all of it.

Even now, his children had adopted Mary as their surrogate mother and spent most of their time with her. She took care of them while he continued to be gone from home. He felt like he had no other choice, but still, the fact remained that he left his children behind too often. Dylan could not forgive himself for letting that happen. He hoped that his son would learn from his mistakes to become a better man.

Three familiar silhouettes appeared on the path across the stream and emerged from the clearing. Kevin, Jim, and Joel approached the ragged porch. With both arms, Jim hugged a sack tightly to his chest. As Jim got closer to the porch, Dylan saw that it was a sack of birdseed. He recognized it from Harold’s house. Jim dropped the bag between Dylan’s dangling feet. The bottom of the sack flattened when it hit the ground, and it stood upright with its top splayed open.

“What?” asked Ruth. “Did you bring him something to eat, too?” She jokingly poked Dylan in the side as she said it, and she caught herself touching him just a moment too long. Ruth casually stood up, but she stayed near Dylan.

“Nope,” said Jim, as he worked the cramps out of his thick fingers. “Read the label. It’s birdseed. That’s bird—seed in that bag.” When Jim put an emphasis on the word “seed,” Dylan understood why they were there.

“What kind of seed are we looking at?” asked Dylan.

“Sunflower,” replied Joel. “Sunflower seeds are high in unsaturated fat calories and essential vitamins and minerals.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t a doctor anymore?”

Joel parried the verbal thrust, and countered with, “No, I guess I’m a farmer now, like you.”

Just as a gust of wind began to tip the open sack, Dylan moved his legs to stand and stretch his tired body. Accidently, his boot bumped the sack and tipped it all the way over, spilling some of the contents. Dylan stepped back and cursed at his clumsiness. After glancing down at the mess of seeds on the ground, he looked up and caught Ruth grinning at his misfortune. He smiled back. Ruth had tucked her hair under a knit cap for the walk to Tom’s house. Now that it was warmer, she decided to remove her hat and enjoy the balmy weather. Her long hair fell down past her shoulders, and then the wind swept it back. She watched Dylan look at her, also just a moment too long, and the pale skin of her cheeks turned a faint shade of red, like an autumn peach. He knelt down and picked up the spilled seeds.

They heard the sound of a motorcycle coming toward them on the road. Dylan sat the bag of seeds upright, leaned it against the porch for stability, and stood to see what loomed their way. A lone rider on a small motorcycle with high suspension and knobby wheels came into view. The rider slowed down as he passed the gravel driveway, and then he turned the bike around and disappeared back in the direction from which he had come.

“Who was that?” asked Kevin. His jacket was unzipped and blown back in the breeze.

Dylan saw the pistol tucked into Kevin’s beltline and felt a sensation of relief. He had not brought his rifle or knife, and now he realized just how naked he felt without them. The sound of the motorcycle returned, but now the sound of a larger vehicle accompanied it. He turned to look at the group, and they were already looking at him.

“Ruth, I want you to get behind that barn and hide,” commanded Dylan. “If this goes bad, go home and warn the others.”

Ruth scurried away and hid behind the barn just as an old pickup truck came into view. In the lead, the motorcycle stopped and turned again after it passed the driveway. This time, the driver stayed there at the side of the road. The old truck slowed down and turned onto the drive, and then it pulled up to the barn door. To their astonishment, it was Tom’s old truck, full of boxes. To their dismay, it blocked their path home.

Kevin removed the pistol, disengaged the safety, and held it behind his back. “This is bad,” Kevin said firmly. “If he comes out of that truck with heavy-duty firepower, we’re screwed.”

“Do you think it’s John?” asked Joel. “I remember what you told me about what he did to Tom.”

The driver’s side door creaked open.

“We’re about to find out,” announced Dylan.

Shockingly, a kid, barely more than a teenager, emerged from the other side of the truck, hands held up high in the air. A young man with thin, blonde hair and sparse, patchy facial hair stood before them.

“Come on,” said Dylan. “Let’s go see what he wants.”

They walked toward the stranger. Dylan took the lead. Kevin trailed in the back of the group, hiding behind the other men to conceal his pistol. There was no need to confront a stranger who was expressing the goodwill of preemptive surrender. However, the stranger was not holding his hands up in fear. His stance appeared more like a protocol, a sign of the new times in which they lived. Nonetheless, it was prudent to be politely cautious, but armed.

Dylan stopped about ten feet away from the trespasser. An uneasy moment of quiet ensued, and then the stranger broke the silence.

“Mind if I put my hands down now?” asked the stranger. His eyes locked with Dylan’s.

The young man wore a shirt about one size too small. Holding up his hands, the shirt rose above his waistline to verify that there was no weapon hidden in the front of his denim pants. Dylan told him to turn around once to see if he had slipped a weapon into the back of his waistband. He saw nothing. Dylan nodded, and the stranger dropped his arms to his sides. His right arm had a tattoo of the number thirteen. He turned so his tattoo, red and swollen, faced the men. He wore it like a badge of honor.

“I know you have a pistol,” announced the young man.

Dylan and the two others side stepped, leaving Kevin in place. Kevin brought the pistol to the front of his body in a non-threatening way, and stood on the gravel with a wide, unyielding stance.

“Yeah, I do. And we have you, both of you, covered with a rifle,” Kevin lied as he pointed at the newcomers.

The young man cast a suspicious look around the property. There were plenty of places to hide with a rifle. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and then pointed at the truck.

“This is a gift of goodwill.” The young man spoke mechanically and unemotionally, as if he had memorized each word. The words proceeded each other like cogs on a rotating gear, uniform and with no feeling. The man-child was like a robot, programmed to behave as instructed. As he continued, he pointed at the boxes in the truck’s bed. “Sam Deville wants you to have all this in consideration for your future cooperation and annexation of the property.”

A flurry of rage arose from the depths of Dylan’s soul. “Let me tell you something, you little son of a bitch.” Dylan slapped the truck with the palm of his hand. The young man took a step back and turned his tattoo toward Dylan, almost like a warning. “This truck belonged to a friend of mine. Someone murdered him in that house, right over there. Do you know anything about that?”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” answered the young man. “I was told you’re going to make liquor for us. That’s all I know.”

Dylan turned around and muttered, “John,” under his breath loud enough for his friends to hear, and then he turned back to the kid. “Shoot you? Maybe I should. All I have to do is wave my hand in the air a certain way.” Dylan raised his hand high and then waved it around. “Just one quick signal to our sniper and both you and your friend on the motorcycle will be dead.”

The young man’s hands went up, and he looked into the line of trees by the stream for a sniper that was not there. Instead, he saw Ruth walking toward them.

“Is that your sniper?” asked the young man. He snickered.

“Ruth, what are you doing?” asked Dylan. “I told you to stay back.”

“I thought you waved at me to come to you.”

Dylan realized his mistake. When he was lying about a sniper, he had waved dramatically as a fake signal to shoot. Ruth saw him and thought he wanted her to come forward.

“Ruth? Ruth Miller? Is that you?” asked the young man.

“Yes, it’s me.”

The men, shocked that she knew the stranger, were stricken with a silence framed with gawking eyes and slack jaws.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

“It’s Clark, right?”

“Yeah, look.” He turned his tattooed arm toward Ruth and pulled up his sleeve farther than necessary to show off the tattoo. “See, I got in. I’m one of them now.”

“Oh, Clark, You’re not like them. You should leave.”

“I’ve got no place to go, Ruth.” He rolled down his sleeve.

Ruth looked at Dylan, and he shook his head.

“Clark, you better leave now,” warned Dylan. “I’m not kidding.”

Clark puffed his chest. “And who are you?”

Dylan moved toward the young man as he spoke. “The name is Dylan Smith, and I’m your worst nightmare.” Dylan quickly extended his right arm. The palm of his hand went directly into Clark’s chest and knocked the wind out of him.

Clark stumbled backward and clenched his fists.

“Don’t do it, boy,” warned Dylan. “I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Clark looked back at the motorcycle driver. The driver revved the motor as a signal to leave.

“Sam isn’t going to like this,” said Clark, walking backwards toward the motorcycle.

Kevin waved him on with the pistol, and Clark left on the back of the motorcycle after lifting his middle finger at Dylan.

“Ruth,” said Dylan, as he looked directly at her. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but how do you know him?”

“No, it’s everybody’s business.” She looked away to the tranquility of the babbling stream. Then she looked back, ready to tell them anything they wanted to know. “I lived in an apartment building near the food warehouse that Sam Deville controls. Both Sam and Clark lived in that same apartment building. Sam’s friends are bad, but Sam is worse. He’s crazy. Now, he has a gang…or a militia…I don’t know what you call it, but it’s all the same. They are mean and evil. It looks like he’s coming this way. I thought I had escaped, but I guess not.”

Dylan stroked his beard and looked around as he thought about it all. Then he leaned against the truck and muttered under his breath, “John is there, too. I just know it.”

Curious, Jim and Joel began to look through the boxes stacked in the back of the truck.

“Hey, you should get this stuff home,” suggested Dylan. “We’ll see what’s in it and split it up.” He looked at Ruth. “Let them take you home. I’ll walk back. I want to clear my head.”

“I’m sorry if I caused any problems,” she said.

“No,” replied Dylan. “You didn’t do anything. This isn’t your fault. I’ll see you at the house, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joel’s long, skinny body sprawled on the boxes in the truck’s bed, and Kevin drove them to Dylan’s house.

Dylan put the goats back into the barn and shut the door tightly. He looked around and thought of all their effort and the hope it had produced. He wondered what it would take to keep the fruits of their labor. How much force could they resist? What else would they have to do to survive? His heart sank.

He strode heavily on the ground as he made his way toward the stream. On the path through the clearing, the percussion of his work boots preceded him and warned somnolent creatures of springtime that he approached. A dark snake slithered away, undetected, into the undergrowth.

Chapter Twenty Five

Kevin drove the truck onto Dylan’s driveway and honked the horn. A window curtain moved slightly, and Kevin recognized Mary’s curious eyes staring at him. He pointed to the garage door, and Mary scurried to open it for her husband. Kevin parked the truck on the driveway and went into the garage to make room for it. Dylan’s children, Brad and Jennifer, bolted past him to look in the old truck, expecting to find their father with the returning group. He was not there. After clearing a place for the truck and setting the boxes on the driveway, Kevin drove the truck into the garage for safekeeping.

Mary, curious and confused, fired off three questions in quick succession. “Kevin, what’s in the boxes? Where’s Dylan? Where did this truck come from?”

“Slow down. Dylan is on his way. He wanted to walk back from Tom’s place and clear his head.”

“Explain, ‘clear his head.’ I don’t understand.”

Kevin turned and looked down the street. He saw a lone figure walking in their direction and guessed that it was Dylan.

“We had a little bit of trouble.” He pointed down the street and said, “Look, he’s okay. Don’t worry.”

“Now, I’m worried. You haven’t explained anything yet.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll explain. There’s a guy. His name is Sam Deville, and he wants the land we plowed. Ruth knows him and thinks he’s crazy. Whatever he is, he has taken over a food warehouse and the apartment complex next to it. He has men, armed men, and it looks like he’s going to start pushing his weight around. Maybe in our direction.” Kevin glanced at the truck and paused. “It gets worse.”

“How could it?”

“That’s Tom’s truck. John must have ended up with Sam’s crew after he killed Tom. That’s how they knew where all this was.”

Kevin clearly saw that it was Dylan walking down the street. Dylan waved, and Kevin waved back. He continued explaining. “One of Sam’s little punks who left all this in Tom’s driveway said it was a ‘gift of goodwill,’ but it didn’t take long for him to cross Dylan the wrong way. I thought Dylan was going to kill him.”

As Kevin explained, Mary remembered the story that Ruth had told her about the brutality she had endured, the apartment complex, Sam and his gang of thugs. She felt a heavy knot in her stomach grow tighter as the story continued.

After Kevin concluded his explanation, Mary only responded by sadly saying, “Oh.”

With long fingernails, they picked and scratched at the tape securing the boxes, but to no avail. Beside Dylan’s bow, Kevin found his friend’s knife and made quick work of opening some boxes. Kevin stepped back, and the group attacked the contents inside each box in an uncivilized fashion. They found food, disposable razors, toilet paper, over-the-counter medicine, and more food. All of it lay in piles on the driveway amid smashed cardboard boxes. Kevin did not join the frenzy. He stepped away, head down, admiring Dylan’s knife. Mary saw him detaching from the group and she went over to him.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mary.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t want anything?”

He held up Dylan’s knife. “This is what I need, a good knife.”

Just as he held up the knife, Dylan saw it from across the driveway and yelled, “Toss it over here. There’s a few more boxes to open.”

Kevin slid the knife into its sheath, snapped the retention strap closed, and threw it the short distance to Dylan.

“Hey,” Dylan yelled to Kevin. “I’ll help split up the goodies. Can you break down the boxes and put them by the wood pile?”

Kevin picked up the cardboard boxes and dragged them behind the house. Mary watched him flatten the boxes without a knife, and the emptiness of his hands was heavy on her heart. Their wedding anniversary approached. In the world before, she would have gone to a store and bought her husband a nice hunting knife as an anniversary present. She sadly walked into the house. That world was gone now.

Kevin ripped at the folds of the boxes and stacked the sheets of cardboard for kindling. As he was breaking down a crumpled box, a plastic bag full of candy dropped to the ground. His first reaction was to pick it up and return it to the pile on the driveway, but after a second glance, he recognized it as his wife’s favorite. He took the bag and slipped into the kitchen, unnoticed. Climbing onto the countertop, he hid the sweet treats out of view on top of a cabinet.

Early the next morning, people began to leave the house. Dylan, with rifle in hand, headed to Tom’s barn to look for tools for the truck. Kevin promised he would be there soon to help him with the task. Ruth walked with Dylan, not wanting to walk alone anymore, so she could check on the goats. Brad left to hunt rabbits with a group of young boys. Joel’s wife came early to take Jennifer to her house. She wanted to teach the young girl to read while she homeschooled her sons.

Kevin and Mary were alone in the house, and he summoned her into the kitchen.

“Mary.” He called.

“Yes?”

“I’m in the kitchen. Come here a second.”

“On the way.” Wearing socks, Mary shuffled across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen as she combed her long hair.

Kevin stood there, smiling mysteriously, with his hand behind his back.

“Kevin, what are you doing?”

“Well,” said Kevin, smiling widely now. “It’s that time of year and—”

“What time of year?”

“Okay, here it is, but it’s not much.” He brought his hand from behind his back and put the bag of candy on the countertop, then pushed it toward his wife. “Happy Anniversary.”

“Oh, Kevin.” A tear came to her eye. “But I don’t have anything for you.”

He hugged her. “You don’t need to. Thanks for being my wife.” He kissed her gently and went to the front door. “I have to meet Dylan at the barn. I’ll see you tonight. I love you.”

The sound of the closing door echoed in the empty house and brought sadness to her heart. She should have felt happy with the small anniversary gift from the man she loved, but now, as she stood there alone in the house, anniversary present in hand, sorrow wrapped heavy chains around her ankles and tried to submerge her beneath the lapping waves of the sea of love, and drown her. Before this moment, this single act of kindness, she had so effortlessly floated in an ocean of happiness with her husband’s unconditional love for buoyancy. She took an emotional gasp for air, but aspirated her gloom instead as the heaviness in her heart pulled her under. She wanted to do something for him, to get him something, but all she had to give was her love.

Still standing in the kitchen, she heard the front door open. Mary wiped the tear from her cheek and quickly said, “I love you, too.”

No one answered, but she heard light footsteps coming toward her. It was Dylan’s son, Brad, holding a bow at his side.

“Who are you talking to?” asked Brad.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Kevin.”

“I just saw him run down the street.”

“Oh, he must be trying to catch up with your dad. Why did you come back?” she asked.

“My friends left, and Dad said he didn’t want me to be out alone anymore.”

Mary showed the bag of candy to Brad. “Want some? Kevin gave it to me.”

“Sure!”

Mary tried to rip the bag open, but could not, so she found a kitchen knife to finish the job. She gave a piece to Brad and took one herself. It was her favorite kind, and it was delicious. Another tear came to her eye.

“What’s wrong, Mary? Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, Brad, it’s not that. The candy is wonderful, and so is my husband. He gave this to me. It’s just that…I wish I could get him something, too. Kevin wants a hunting knife like your dad’s. I don’t know what to do.”

“When I went with Dad and Kevin to the big parking lot, where the grocery store used to be, I saw people trading things. I saw knives. Maybe you could get him a knife there. Trade something for it.”

The tears came back. She muttered, “But I don’t have anything.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the countertop. Her head hung low. Then she felt her crucifix pendant dangling from the gold chain around her neck. She grasped it tightly and realized that she did have something.

“Brad, do you know where that parking lot is? Can you help me find it?”

“I remember.”

She passed him another piece of candy.

“Don’t tell anybody. We’re not supposed to go there and I want it to be a surprise for Kevin.”

Brad grinned and put the second piece of candy in his mouth.

Mary got a bicycle out of the garage and attached the bike trailer to it. Brad climbed into it with his bow. He wanted to take the bow along, ever vigilant to get a rabbit, squirrel, or any other small furry creature that got close enough for one of his arrows.

At the bartering lot, Mary parked the bike by a streetlamp and used a metal chain and padlock to secure it there. She held Brad’s hand tightly as they walked toward the crowd. Pete, at the edge of the gathering, came into view. Brad recognized Pete, and told Mary to go to him. Mary went to Pete’s area and began to look at the goods spread around on his tables.

“What can I find for y’all?” asked Pete.

“A knife.”

“For cooking?”

“No, a hunting knife. A big knife.”

Pete hooked his thumbs under his overall straps. “You don’t look like a hunter.”

Pete’s son, Junior, stood up from a chair, hooked his thumbs under the straps of his overalls, and repeated, “You don’t look like a hunter.”

Mary looked at Junior curiously.

“Don’t pay no attention to him,” advised Pete. “He’s harmless.”

Pete noticed Brad standing quietly beside Mary. He thought he recognized the child, but was not sure.

“The knife is for my husband.”

“How about this one?” Pete handed her a knife in a leather sheath. Removing the knife, she inspected the blade, not knowing what a good knife is supposed to look like.

“This here is a KA-BAR. Military issue, used by the Marine Corps,” Pete explained. “If this won’t work, I don’t know what will.”

Junior did not repeat his father’s words this time. He was watching a familiar face in the crowd. It was a face that his father despised, and it was staring at them.

“Is it sharp?”

“I can put an edge on it.” He took the knife back. “But first, what are we trading for? I don’t see you carrying anything.”

Mary took the gold chain from around her neck and held it in front of her. The gold crucifix dangled and twisted on the chain, reflecting the sunlight in quick, bright flashes.

“Pete’s eyes grew wide. “Hold it, lady. You better put that down. I don’t need any attention over here.”

“You don’t want to trade for it?”

“That’s not the problem.” Pete hastily looked around to see if anyone had noticed her jewelry, then he whispered, “You need to hide something like that.”

It was too late. The crowd had seen the glint of gold. A man from Sam’s militia stepped forward like a shark that had sensed blood in the water.

“Pete,” said the man with a disapproving tone.

He wore a dark leather jacket and pulled it open for everyone to see his holstered pistol. His hair was long and red. His sunken eyes sat close together under what appeared to be one long, thick eyebrow. Pete recognized the man and knew him simply as Red. Pete did not know if the nickname was due to his hair color or his reputation for dispensing cruelty and brutality.

“Red, I’m trying to do business here,” Pete replied.

“Pete, how come I get the idea you’ve been holding out?”

“Don’t lean on me like this. It’s bad for business. You’re going to scare people away.”

“No, this is bad for business,” Red remarked, as he lunged toward Mary.

Mary, shocked at the man’s bold approach, had not hidden the necklace. It still dangled in her grip, and Red quickly snatched it. She gasped.

“Give that back!” she cried out.

“Shut up, bitch. You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

Red did not notice Brad circling around behind him.

“Leave her alone!” Brad warned.

Red turned and sneered at the boy. “You had better back off, if you know what’s good for you.”

“That necklace is mine. You stole it from me!”

“Give it back to her!” exclaimed Brad.

Red turned and sneered at the boy again. “I’m going to teach you a lesson that you won’t forget. Now get!”

“Leave him alone,” pleaded Mary. “Just give me back my necklace, please.”

Red pulled up his right sleeve and showed her his tattoo of the number thirteen on his forearm. “I own you, bitch.”

Red yelped when he felt the incredible sting of Brad’s bow striking his thigh. He spun around quickly and tried to hit the boy, but Brad swiftly dodged him. Red sprang toward him again, and Brad fell backward onto the black asphalt parking lot. The back of his head hit the pavement. He was dizzy, lying on his back and still clutching the bow with his left hand.

Enraged, Red straddled the boy and glared at him with wild eyes. Mary screamed when he put his hand on his pistol. Brad blinked and tried to focus his vision. Red removed the pistol from its holster, and the crowd began to recede. Mary screamed for help. He pointed the pistol directly at Brad’s head and racked the slide. Hearing the crowd gasp, he looked back at Mary and saw her kneeling on the ground and begging for mercy. Red took a step back as she bowed her head in submission, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Then suddenly, Red violently stomped on Brad’s left hand, the hand holding the bow, and said, “There, I taught you a lesson.” Under his boot, Red had felt the bones break. He holstered his pistol and disappeared into the crowd.

Mary saw it happen, and it felt like a train hit her when she heard the young boy scream. She rushed to him, and Pete did, too. Pete helped her get Brad into the bike trailer, and then she peddled home as quickly as she could. Brad screamed in pain all the way. While going past Jim’s house, she saw Joel talking to Jim in the front yard. She yelled for help. As she rode onto the driveway, Joel ran toward her and saw Brad’s crushed hand. Although he had seen things like this many times, it was different now. This time, the injured was not only someone he knew, but also an innocent child.

“What happened?” Joel gasped.

Mary, trying to speak as she cried, did her best to answer. She told them everything that had happened at the bartering lot.

“Jim, go get Dylan. Tell him what happened, and I’ll get Brad inside.”

Jim jumped into Tom’s old truck and sped away, grinding the gears during his hasty departure.

When Dylan returned, he was visibly pale, quiet, and in a state of emotional shock. Joel met him at the door.

“Dylan, I’m so sorry,” said Joel.

“Don’t feel sorry, just help him.”

When Joel walked back into Brad’s bedroom, Dylan, still in the foyer, turned to look into the living room and noticed Mary sitting on the couch, face buried deep in her hands. Consoling her, Kevin was at her side. As she looked up, Dylan continued to stare. She mouthed the words, “I’m so sorry,” to him and then turned away. Dylan shook his head and walked toward his son’s room. Joel was standing in the doorway.

“I think I can try to fix it,” said Joel. “I can make a splint and wrap his hand, but—”

“But what?”

“I’ll have to set the bones first, and you don’t want to be here when I do that.” Joel stepped away from the door and spoke more quietly. “I’m saying this as a father. When I set the bones in his hand, your son is going to scream. Believe me; you don’t want to hear that. It’s hard enough when it’s a child, but when it’s your own, well, you shouldn’t be here. His screams will haunt your nightmares forever.” Joel put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Do I have your permission?”

“You do what you have to do. I already know what I have to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Kill somebody. No votes this time.”

“Don’t go back there.”

“Nothing is going to stop me.”

Dylan noticed Joel’s first-aid kit and bag of medical supplies in the doorway. He opened the bag and shuffled the contents. Dylan saw an arm sling and removed it.

“I’m taking this with me.”

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t have time to explain, but I have an idea how I’m going to do it.”

Dylan went into the master bedroom. He opened his sock drawer and fished out the gold coins that the delirious old man from the bartering lot had dropped when he abandoned the goats.

Dylan found Kevin still sitting with his wife, still consoling her. “Kevin, you’re coming with me. Meet me in the garage.”

In the garage, Dylan put the sling on his left arm and hid his knife inside, concealing it behind his forearm. Kevin entered the garage, and Dylan explained his plan. He would go back to Pete’s tables and drop the gold coins to attract the man who had hurt his son. Kevin would take the rifle and stay back to cover him. Kevin felt guilty about his wife’s actions and immediately agreed to help.

Kevin parked the truck a block away from the bartering lot. Walking toward the lot, they split apart. Dylan went to Pete’s area and saw him alone behind his tables. Junior was wandering in the crowd. Due to the recent disturbance, the crowd kept a distance from Pete’s tables. They did not want any undue attention from Sam’s militia. Dylan stood next to a wooden table, not acknowledging Pete’s presence. Pete looked at the man and tested his memory. He thought he might know him, but after witnessing so many people come and go, he was not sure.

Pete looked at Dylan’s sling and said, “I don’t have any medicine, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for.” Dylan dropped a gold coin on the table.

“Hold on now.” Pete waved his arms dramatically. “I don’t need that kind of attention around here. Put that back in your pocket and go, just leave, if you know what’s good for you.”

Dylan dropped another coin on the table. The crowd saw it, and whispers of gold coins spread like wildfire. From a safe distance, close but concealed, Kevin watched the crowd for fiery-red hair. Dylan dropped coin after coin on the table as his eyes swept the crowd. Pete finally recognized Dylan.

“Hey, I remember you. That was your boy here earlier, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was,” Dylan replied, still watching the crowd. “I expect you know what this is all about.”

“Don’t do this here,” Pete begged. “I’m just trying to keep my head low. I don’t want any—”

Pete stopped speaking when he saw the crowd part. Red was back, smelling blood in the water again. Kevin also saw him approach and saw that he had two friends with him. Red’s two comrades stayed back, but just inside the crowd’s edge. Kevin casually walked up behind those two men.

Red confidently advanced toward the wooden table, took a close look at the coins, and smiled. He looked at Dylan and considered him a cripple.

“Business is good for you today, isn’t it, Pete?” asked Red. “So, tell me, what kind of stuff are you moving? Anything we need to know about?”

As Pete answered, his right hand casually brushed across the outside of his hip pocket, hoping to find relief in the bulging outline of a pistol in his overalls. “Nothing’s going on here.” Pete’s pocket was empty, and he was defenseless. He stepped back and raised his hands, yielding to the man’s authority.

Dylan was in arm’s reach of Red. At that moment, Dylan wanted to grab him and strangle him to death, but a quick glance at the crowd revealed Kevin. After they made eye contact, Kevin tilted his head in the direction of the two men in front of him. Dylan understood the nod and nodded back.

Red pulled up his right sleeve to expose the tattoo of the number thirteen on his forearm. Rage immediately flashed through Dylan’s body.

“No,” Red snapped. “It looks like something is going on, and I’m going to take our cut right now.”

Dylan already had his hand on the knife’s handle by the time Red extended his fingers over the gold coins. When Red’s right hand was close to the table, Dylan quickly pulled the knife out of the sling and thrust it directly into the back of Red’s hand. The sharp tip of the blade pierced the hand, sank deeply into the tabletop, and pinned his hand to it. Red reeled back, shocked at the unexpected attack. Pain radiated from his hand. Screaming now, Red tried to pull his hand away as he stumbled backward. His immovable hand made the table tip and fall with him. Dylan flung the fake sling from his arm.

The two men in front of Kevin darted toward their fallen companion. Kevin pounced forward and, with rifle raised high, commanded them to their knees.

Dylan pulled his knife from the upset table and twisted the blade, wounding Red’s hand even more as he did. He kicked away the table. Holding his knife with his right hand, Dylan put his left hand forward and jumped on Red’s torso, knees first. He squeezed Red’s throat. Red’s useless right hand, not much more than a flipper now, left him with only one hand for defense. He used it to hit Dylan. Then Red changed course and clawed at the hand that had started gripping his throat more tightly, choking him. Red’s face turned purple as he tried to gasp for air. After a brief struggle, he stopped fighting back. Dylan released his chokehold, wanting Red conscious for what came next. Dylan put the tip of his knife over the man’s heart and rested it in the valley of two ribs. Leaning forward, Dylan put downward pressure on the knife’s handle, and it began to sink into Red’s flesh. As the knife went deeper, Dylan whispered into Red’s ear, “Now I’m going to teach you a lesson.” The pain brought the man back to consciousness, and he began to scream. When Dylan plunged the knife as far as it would go, the screams abruptly stopped. The blade had found Red’s heart. The freshly severed cardiac muscle began to fibrillate, spasmodically vibrating the knife handle protruding from the dying man’s chest. Blood pooled around Red’s torso until the heart stopped quivering. After it did, Dylan removed the knife and found Mary’s little golden crucifix necklace in Red’s jacket pocket. Dylan saw the pistol holstered to the man’s belt. After cutting the leather belt and removing Red’s pistol, Dylan clipped the holster to his own belt. He stood in front of the two remaining men who knelt on the asphalt. His grip flexed angrily on the bloody knife’s handle as he breathed hard and stared at the two. He wiped the blade on the closest man’s shirt.

The man looked at the blood Dylan had smeared on him, and then he looked at his fallen companion’s corpse and boldly said, “Sam is going to make you bleed for this.”

Dylan slashed the left side of the man’s face and hissed, “You first.” Then he defiantly said, “Tell Sam that I’m looking for him.”

The painful sting of Dylan’s knife had bent the bold man over. Dylan wiped his blade once more, this time on the back of the man’s shirt. Dylan and Kevin took the men’s pistols, and the crowd parted for them as they walked away.

The bold man, disarmed and dishonored, stood up. After tasting the blood dripping from his cheek, he slowly walked over to Pete.

“Pete, you need to come with us. Sam will want to talk with you.”

After taking Pete to the food warehouse and after the two soldiers debriefed Sam Deville on what Dylan had done at the bartering lot, Sam ordered them to remove Pete’s handcuffs and bring him upstairs to the office. They went down the metal staircase outside of Sam’s door to get Pete. They released Pete’s handcuffed wrists from the metal handrail of the stairs and escorted him up the steps. As they entered Sam’s office, Sam gestured for Pete to stay against the wall. Before the two men could get close to the chairs in front of Sam’s desk, he ordered them to summon Michael and John there, too. While they waited for Michael and John to ascend the metal stairs, Sam stacked the gold coins that Dylan had left at the bartering lot on his desk. He leaned back in his reclining leather chair and stared at Pete during the awkward silence. Michael and John came through the doorway, and Sam nodded his head to the right as a signal for Michael and John to stand to the side. The two soldiers took seats in front of Sam’s desk.

Sam, wearing a skeptical expression on his face, was ready to interrogate his two soldiers, and said, “So, a man—”

“Two men,” interjected the bold scar-faced soldier. He sank into his seat when he saw the expression change on Sam’s face.

“Never ever interrupt me, ever, again.”

Both soldiers sitting in front of Sam looked down at their feet.

“So, two men kill Red, incapacitate both of you, and take all three of your weapons. Is that about right?” Sam paused, but did not expect an answer. “And please tell me again who this man is that said he is looking for me?”

The bolder man’s comrade sheepishly turned his head and gave Pete a sideways glance.

Pete caught the look and quickly responded. “His name is Dylan, but I don’t know him.”

Michael and John scowled at the name, and Sam noticed their reactions. Both of them despised the man. Sam turned his glare at Pete. He regarded him as stupid and unthreatening.

“So, Pete,” Sam said sarcastically. “You know who he is, but you don’t know who he is. Does that sound right to you?”

“We traded handshakes, but I don’t know him. I see a lot of people, but I don’t know ‘em all.”

“I think you were trading more than handshakes,” stated Sam. “What was he trying to get you to move?”

“No, no, no,” said Pete, as he flailed his hand in front of himself. “He was asking about liquor, moonshine, but I told him that lot was yours. He moved on.”

“That so?”

Pete nodded eagerly, and then Sam told Pete to wait outside the door and close it behind him.

Sunk deep in their chairs, the two men seated in front of Sam were at the receiving end of his cold stare. Sam wrapped his fingers lightly around the stack of gold coins on his desk. He picked up the column of coins and then let the coins fall back to the table individually, making a new column in the process.

“Let’s play a game,” announced Sam.

The two men raised their stares from their feet and suspiciously looked at Sam. Sam smiled mischievously at them.

“Alright, then,” said Sam, as he grabbed three of the gold coins. “Hold out your hands.” He gave a coin to each man and took one for himself. “We are going to flip for the coins. If you win, you get to keep them. Are you with me so far?” Both men nodded. “We’re going to do this fast and at the same time. Still with me?” Both men nodded again. “As soon as I call it, flip your coins onto the backs of your hands. Ready?” They nodded for the third time, eager to win. Sam raised his eyebrows and quickly said, “Heads I win, tails you lose.” The two men flipped the coins into the air and caught them on the backs of their hands with a slap of their palms. In the moment just after the men realized the trickery of Sam’s wording, Sam quickly pulled a pistol from his top drawer and said, “You see, I always win.” He then shot each man once in the chest and slammed his pistol on top of the desk.

Pete was outside of the double doors to Sam’s office. Each door had a large window, and Pete saw what Sam had just done. Through the glass, Sam gestured for Pete to come back in. With a shaky hand, Pete opened a door and stepped back into the room.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Sam said sadistically. “I’d offer you a seat, but…”

Pete looked down, afraid to make eye contact with his interrogator.

Sam shifted his attention to Michael and John.

“You two. Get over here,” ordered Sam.

They hesitated.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to flip any coins with you just yet.” He sniffed the barrel of the pistol and placed it back into the top drawer. Michael and John relaxed.

“It looks like this Dylan character isn’t going to work out. We need to do something about him.” He looked past the two corpses in front of him, out the door of his office, and focused briefly on the far wall of the warehouse.

“I can’t have somebody going around killing my men and telling people he’s looking for me.” Sam shook his head. “Looking for me.” He clenched his teeth and fists and looked at Michael and John. “And if you two can’t take care of this problem, then I’ll have to do it.” Sam relaxed his hands and put them flat on top of the desk. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before sighing loudly as he exhaled. As he opened his eyes, Sam slightly inclined his head to the side, and turned toward Pete. Sam glared at Pete. The scowl frightened him.

“Pete?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re going to give Dylan a note from me. Okay?”

Pete submissively nodded and said, “Okay.”

After arriving back at his house, Dylan stormed into his son’s room. Mary sat vigilantly at the foot of Brad’s bed while the young boy slept. Dylan looked at her, but did not say a word. She looked back, but could not summon the courage to speak. He tossed the blood-covered necklace onto her lap and walked away. He went into the garage to inspect their three new pistols with Kevin.

Mary looked at the crucifix, but she could only see blood, feel pain, and hear the screams of a young boy’s agony. She picked up the pendant and ran out the backdoor, in no particular direction, until she noticed the big walnut tree on the back property line. She ran toward the tree and threw the bloody piece of metal as far as she could. Back at the patio, she used a bucket of cold spring water to wash the blood off her hands, but she could not wash the horror from her mind.

Chapter Twenty Six

During the night, low gray clouds blanketed the sky. Small wisps of clouds had bunched together as one, smothering the stars and the bright light of the full moon. At daybreak, gentle raindrops fell from the dark clouds and concealed the sun as it rose from the eastern horizon. The calm rain steadily ran across the ragged yards, across the empty sidewalks, and onto the quiet streets. The storm slowly removed the skim of dust and dirt from the sidewalks and roads.

Under the strong branches of the walnut tree behind Dylan’s house, Mary’s necklace lay strewn on the ground next to the tree’s dark furrowed bark. On a thick branch, a child’s swing swayed quietly in the breeze as the soft raindrops hugged the tree and ran swiftly down its trunk. The clear water ran across her pendant, dissolved the caked blood, and washed away the filth. Later that morning, after the clouds broke, a ray of sunshine struck the necklace, and it reflected the light with a quick sparkle through the shadows of tree branches shifting with the wind.

After the rain stopped, Kevin escorted Ruth to Tom’s barn to take care of the goat that they thought was ready to give birth at any moment. Ruth had wanted to check on the animal since daybreak, but the rain had delayed their departure.

Dylan stayed at home with his convalescing son. Sitting at Brad’s bedside, he made a silent promise that harm would never come to him again. His rifle was propped into a corner of the room, like a monument to his new world. The rifle leaned against the wall and his conscience leaned against his heart. Dylan was cynical, bitter, and he hated the things that this new world had forced him to do. Unspeakable acts of violence that he had walked away from, but which met him again every night in his dreams, or rather, nightmares. He hated the things he had to do to survive, but loved his family and friends, and was willing to do anything for them. Even die for them. In his dreams, he was always able to protect his family and friends. The nightmares he hated the most were those in which he died. The act of dying to protect his loved ones did not bother him; it was the fear that death would take him from his children. They were his responsibility to protect. A recurring question haunted his mind. What would happen to the children if he were dead? Fully aware the new world was catching up to him, the answer to that question made him sick.

During the storm, the meandering stream slowly transformed. The spring rain had made the turbulent water rise higher against its banks and had brought an increased swiftness to it. Before Kevin crossed the stream, he threw large rocks in the water and created a cobbled path. Kevin and Ruth walked across it. On the other side of the stream, the first thing they noticed after emerging from the trees was the barn’s open door.

“I don’t like this,” said Kevin. He looked beyond the barn and around the property for anything else that appeared disturbed. Nothing else appeared odd.

“Could the storm have done this?” asked Ruth.

“No chance.” Kevin studied the open door. Then he looked back at the cobbled stones across the stream. “I’m going in there, but first I want you to get back across the stream. If someone is waiting for me, you’ll have a chance to run home and get help.”

Kevin removed his pistol and took cautious steps forward. As Kevin got closer, he heard goats bleating and felt a sense of relief. A goat darted from the shadows and startled him. He stepped into the barn and saw, directly to his right, the female goat with two kids. She had just given birth and was cleaning her young. Kevin began to relax and walked further inside the barn. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he thought he saw the vertical shadow of a man at the rear of the barn, and then quickly realized it was not a shadow. It was a man and, in that same instant of recognition, he noticed that the man’s feet hovered above the ground. Kevin swung his pistol toward the silent silhouette and realized that it was not moving. Then he noticed the rope around the man’s neck. He swallowed hard and walked closer. The body hung from the rafters. When Kevin circled the corpse and saw the face, he recognized the man. It was Pete from the bartering lot. A knife had been stabbed into his chest and through a note, pinning to his overalls a message that read, YOUR EVICTION NOTICE.

Kevin ran from the barn and quickly crossed the stream. Ruth saw the look in his eyes and instantly knew something was wrong.

“What did you see?” asked Ruth.

“A dead man hanging from the rafters.”

Ruth gasped and covered her mouth with the palm of her hand.

“And that’s not all.”

Ruth winced as she braced herself for what was about to follow.

“A knife was stabbed into his chest, pinning a note to his body. The note was our eviction notice.”

Ruth’s hands dropped to her sides. She felt defeated. After escaping the control of a madman, she had thought she was free. Now she knew that was not true. A sense of exasperation overcame her as she stood there.

“I need to run now,” said Kevin. “Can you run with me? I need to hurry and warn the others.”

Ruth nodded her head, silent and sad, and they ran to warn their friends. As Kevin sprinted past Joel’s house, with Ruth close behind, he saw Joel looking out his living room window. Kevin pointed at Dylan’s house, and Joel saw the look on his face and understood what to do.

The garage doors were open at Dylan’s, and Dylan was in the garage. At the threshold to the garage, Kevin stopped and bent forward, resting his hands on his knees. After taking several deep breaths, he told Dylan what he had seen.

“Enough!” Dylan yelled. “I can’t stand any more of this shit!”

Joel heard Dylan yell and quickened his pace across Dylan’s driveway. “What is it?” he asked.

“Ruth, could you go next door and get Jim?” Dylan walked back to the table with the three new pistols lying on top. He turned around and said, “It’s very urgent.”

Dylan put cartridges into each of the magazines and then put the magazines back into each pistol while he waited for Jim.

“What’s the emergency?” Jim asked immediately as he came around the corner.

Kevin explained what he had seen in Tom’s barn, and Ruth relived her feeling of horror once more. She trudged around to the backyard and thought about preparing the garden for planting. Ruth told herself that everything would be fine, but she knew she was lying.

“We stand our ground,” said Dylan, as he handed Jim a pistol.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” asked Jim.

“Protect yourself.”

“Do you really think I’m involved in all this?” Jim felt the weight of the pistol in his hand as he turned it from side to side.

“I really don’t know, but bad things are coming our way.”

He handed the second pistol to Joel. Joel hesitated to take the weapon.

“I’m not a killer,” Joel stated firmly.

“I’m not asking you to be a killer.” Dylan pushed the pistol flat onto Joel’s chest. “Take it and protect your family.” Joel reluctantly accepted the pistol.

Dylan looked at the third weapon and handed it to Jim. “Can you get this to David? He can help us if we get into trouble.”

Jim shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He hasn’t been the same since he lost his wife. I talked with Linda Foster, and she said he is depressed and acting strangely. She heard him say he doesn’t want to live anymore.”

“He might kill himself?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t know. If you give him that pistol, you might find out.”

“Then it’s just us?” asked Kevin. “What can we do? We can’t push back against a man with an entire militia under his control.”

Dylan placed the extra pistol on a shelf high on the garage wall. He turned around and answered Kevin. “You’re right, we can’t…but I know who might help us try.”

“Are you talking about Dean’s community at the other end of the lake?” asked Kevin.

“That’s right. He’s got some firepower. And remember what he said? He wants a warning if they start to come his way.”

“I remember.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Dylan. “Let’s get Dean and his men and put an end to all this.”

Jim took a step away from the group. “Now, Dylan, I appreciate the pistol. I really do. But I’m too old for all of this. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” said Dylan. “Keep the pistol. There’s always more than one way to help a neighbor.”

After reflecting on what Jim just said, Dylan looked at Joel to see if he was ready to back out, too. Joel said nothing after Jim spoke, so Dylan bluntly asked, “Are you going to fight?”

“I’m not a soldier, and I don’t think I could ever be one,” answered Joel.

Kevin looked at Dylan and said, “Looks like it’s just us then.”

“But wait,” said Joel. “Can I go with you? I want to see what it is like in another community. I’ve haven’t been away from here since it all fell apart.”

“Are you looking for a place to run away to?” asked Dylan.

Joel did not answer, but Dylan already knew the response. He accepted that Joel did not want to fight, but he had at least expected him to stay in his community and help in another way. He was disappointed.

“Then go tell your wife you’re heading out with us,” said Dylan. “You too, Kevin. Tell Mary where we’ll be.”

“Do we need fuel?” asked Kevin.

“Yes, you’re right. Let’s take all the cans and fill them up on the way over there.”

Dylan, Kevin, and Joel rode shoulder to shoulder in the truck. Joel, the eternal pacifist, sat between Dylan and Kevin as the truck’s tires hummed along the road. Each man had a holstered pistol attached to his belt. The weapons brought a sense of safety and security to Dylan and Kevin, but for Joel, the pistol felt awkward and uncomfortable. As the truck reached the entrance to the parking lot of the county’s park maintenance building, Kevin slowed the truck to have more time to observe their surroundings before they went completely into it. Careful eyes scanned the landscape and saw no threats. Kevin parked the truck near the underground fuel tank and turned off the engine. They all exited the vehicle. Kevin was the first to notice the shattered glass window in the building’s front door.

“Look,” said Kevin, as he pointed to the broken glass.

“Yeah,” said Dylan. “Now we aren’t the only people that have been here.”

“So, this is where you got all the fuel?” asked Joel.

“Right over there,” said Kevin. He pointed at a weathered mound of dirt they had placed over the lid to the underground fuel tank to camouflage it. Kevin put a finger to his lips as a signal for Joel to understand not to tell anybody. Joel nodded.

Dylan looked under the abandoned trucks, rendered useless after the pulse, and saw the punctured fuel tanks.

“They drained the gas,” announced Dylan. He went behind the building and found the bucket and rope they had used to bail fuel from the underground tank. Both were still there, exactly as they had left them.

“The bucket is still here,” announced Dylan. “I don’t think they found the underground tank.”

Dylan and Kevin repeatedly lowered and raised the bucket, filling the truck’s tank and all the containers with fuel. Joel stood by and watched. The pistol still felt awkward. He tried to hold his arms in different positions and once tried to rest his hand on the pistol. No matter what he did, it felt uncomfortable to him, like a tumor at his side. After getting their fill, they drove directly to Dean’s lake community.

The entrance to the community was at the top of a hill that sloped down toward the water. The winding road to the lake had large, expensive homes on either side. Kevin stopped the truck just as the road began to slope downward.

“What?” asked Dylan.

“Maybe we don’t have to fight,” said Kevin. “What if we just leave, and come here? Dean said we’d be welcome.”

Dylan knew Kevin was talking to him, but he did not answer. He knew Kevin was right. The prudent thing to do was leave. Dylan knew he could not help his family if he ended up dead. But Dylan could still taste sweet revenge, and he was not ready to quit. He wanted vengeance.

“He’s right, Dylan,” said Joel. “There is no shame in staying alive.”

“You’re right; I think Dean would welcome us,” Dylan replied. “But what happens when Sam’s minions march past our little community and come for everybody down here?” Dylan pointed toward the lake. “Who could stop him then?”

“Then we leave again,” said Kevin.

Joel nodded in agreement.

“No,” said Dylan firmly. “I’m not ready to quit just yet.”

“Okay,” said Kevin. “Then I’m still with you, buddy.”

He put the truck into first gear, and it lurched forward. Joel groaned and began to wish he had not come. Kevin sped down the street, expecting to see someone to ask about Dean’s whereabouts. They saw nobody, and he slowed the truck down.

“This is weird,” said Kevin.

“What are you thinking?” asked Dylan.

“I don’t see anybody.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too.”

“Hey, guys, maybe we should leave,” suggested Joel.

“Not a chance, we’re already here,” said Dylan. “Just give it a second, maybe they’re all down by the shore.”

“That’s probably it,” said Kevin.

“Well, okay.” Joel nervously agreed.

They drove to where the street ended at a cul-de-sac of homes on the shoreline.

“Come on. I don’t like this,” Joel pleaded. “We should leave.”

Dylan and Kevin recognized Dean’s home to the right of the truck.

“Hold tight, Joel. This is where he lives,” said Dylan, as he exited the truck. He expected Joel to follow, but he did not. Dylan gave him a stern look and waved him out of the vehicle. Joel inched his way across the seat and finally got out of the truck. Joel and Kevin slammed their doors shut at the same time.

“Now I’m starting to not like this,” admitted Kevin.

“Honk the horn,” said Dylan. “Wake up somebody.”

Kevin reached through the truck’s open driver’s side window and honked the horn three times. The sound echoed around the houses.

Dylan still did not see anybody; he turned in disbelief and looked at Kevin. Just as he did, he saw Kevin’s eyes grow wide. Kevin pointed toward Dean’s house.

“Look, I see somebody,” announced Kevin.

Dylan spun around and expected to see Dean. It was not Dean, and he did not recognize the person. He saw a young man with hair as dark as his expressionless eyes, standing on the walkway at the side of Dean’s home. A small blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak.

“Hey.” Dylan waved a friendly hand to greet the stranger. “Where’s Dean? We’re friends of his.” Dylan gestured for Kevin and Joel to follow him as he walked toward the man.

When Dylan got closer, the man replied with an almost monotonous tone, “He’s gone. Who are you?”

“I’m Dylan, this is Kevin, and the tall guy is Joel.”

Dylan looked past the man, into Dean’s backyard. He saw the familiar fire ring and hand-pump well. A small wooden structure stood next to the well. The rectangular box was a few feet wide and about seven feet tall. It had not been there the last time.

A thin smile emerged from the stranger’s face. “My name is Wayne. It’s good to finally see new people.”

“We really need to talk with Dean. It’s important,” said Dylan. “We’ll wait if we have to.”

“I’m a little thirsty,” said Kevin. Kevin also had looked into the backyard. After noticing the hand-pump well, he moved toward it for a drink of cool water.

“There’s a metal cup to drink with on the handle,” said the man as Kevin slowly walked by him.

“Like I said, he’s gone. He died. Everybody that didn’t die left about a month ago. The same thing happened where I came from, across the lake. I was living there with my parents when the pulse hit. Our neighborhood stuck together. It was rough, but we were making it. Near the end of fall, almost everyone got sick. It was bad. Then they started dying as fast as they got sick. My parents died, too.”

“What was making them sick?” asked Joel. “What were the symptoms?”

“It seemed to start with a headache, and then there was dry coughing, abdominal pain, and swollen lymph nodes. But the worst part was the diarrhea. That was a terrible mess.”

“What are you thinking, Doc?” asked Dylan.

“Are you a doctor?” asked Wayne.

“Not really,” answered Joel. “You said it happened here just like it did where you lived? The same symptoms?”

“Yes,” Wayne replied. “I didn’t want to stay where I was after my parents died, so I left. I just walked away. Dean found me walking past, and he said I could stay here if I worked. So I did everything he asked. I worked hard.” Wayne turned and pointed at the wooden structure near the well. “I dug that latrine for them and built that outhouse.”

“A latrine? By the drinking water?” asked Joel. “That is not sanitary.”

“Yes, but that made it convenient.” Wayne continued. “People got sick, and Dean let the sick ones stay in his basement. It got crowded, so I was glad I had dug one hell of a deep latrine. It was going to last a long time. Then it got really bad. Dean was one of the first to die. The entire place fell apart after that.”

“But you didn’t get sick?” asked Joel.

“Never did. Sometimes I feel guilty. I heard someone call it survivor’s guilt. I never believed in it until now.” He sighed. “I buried a lot of bodies. Then the ground froze and I couldn’t do it anymore. I just stacked them like cordwood. They’re rotting in the backyard right now. Covered with weeds and the coyotes have been eating what is left. I just can’t bury another body. I just can’t do it.”

Joel noticed Kevin at the well. “Kevin! Get back here!” ordered Joel.

“Hey, Doc, why are you yelling?” asked Wayne.

Joel took a step back and tried to smile. “You can call me Joel. Joel is fine by me, Wayne.”

“Why are you getting edgy?” asked Wayne. “I didn’t say anything to piss you off, did I?”

Joel took another step back and called for Kevin again. “Kevin, we have to go! Now!”

Kevin heard the urgency in Joel’s voice and did not hesitate to return to his friends.

Dylan saw the look on Joel’s face and took a step back.

“What’s the rush?” asked Kevin.

“Did you touch anything?” asked Joel.

“Nothing, why?” responded Kevin.

“Good. We’re getting in the truck now,” said Joel. “You, too, Dylan.”

“Now, hold on,” said Wayne, and he tried to close the gap.

Dylan was shocked to see Joel react by putting his hand on the pistol.

“Stop!” commanded Joel. “You’re carrying a disease, but you just don’t know it. It’s some type of plague or possibly typhoid.”

“But I’m not sick,” Wayne insisted.

“You can still be a carrier.”

“You mean this is my fault? All this is my fault?” Wayne asked despondently.

“We can’t risk staying here. We have to leave, now.”

Dylan and Kevin opened the doors to the truck. Kevin got in and started the engine while Dylan slid over to make room for Joel.

“You can’t leave me!” Wayne pleaded. “I can’t be alone anymore. I’m going crazy here all alone.” Wayne dropped the small blanket off his shoulders, pulled at his hair, and walked toward them. Joel yelled, “Stop!” and aimed his pistol directly at Wayne. Dylan saw Joel’s hands shaking, and Joel’s finger on the trigger. Wayne collapsed to his knees.

“Please, you’re a doctor. Give me something, do something for me. Just don’t leave me here.”

“I can’t do anything for you.” Joel lowered the pistol. His hands shook violently.

“Then just kill me. I don’t want to live anymore.” Wayne pounded the asphalt with his fists. “I don’t want to live. Shoot me now!”

Before he shut the truck door, Joel said, “It’s not your fault,” but he did not think Wayne heard him. Kevin put the truck in reverse and drove a block in reverse, up the slope, before turning around and driving away.

When Kevin turned onto the main road, Dylan asked Joel, “Would you have shot him if he had tried to get closer to us?”

Joel felt a lump in his throat trying to impede his answer. “Yes.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

The next morning, Dylan walked over to Tom’s barn. Marching briskly across the gravel driveway, he kicked up a cloud of gray dust and it followed him inside the building. The smell of goats and mildew permeated the air. He forced his gaze to the rear of the barn and saw Pete’s body, suspended by the rope that was tied around his neck. Following the taut rope upward with his eyes, he saw that someone had tied the rope around a rafter. An extension ladder leaned on a support pole next to the rafter and the rope’s knotted end. Placing his rifle against the barn wall, Dylan climbed the ladder. When he reached the top, he removed his knife from its sheath and cut the rope. Pete’s feet hit the ground, and then the rigid corpse fell flat onto the barn floor.

On the shady side of the barn, Dylan dug a shallow grave and dragged Pete’s body into it. He filled the hole with the same dark rich soil, leaving a mound of dirt as the only marker to yet another grave.

Back inside the barn, Dylan directed his anger at the still. A condensing coil made of copper tubing spiraled out of the top of the still and wound downward into the cooling tank. He grabbed the copper tubing, ripped it from the still, and threw it across the barn. The goats bucked and tried to pull away from their rope leashes. After taking the goats outside and staking them to graze, Dylan returned to the barn with an axe he had found by the woodpile. The polished hickory handle slid effortlessly across the shiny calluses on his hands. Each strike of the axe against the still percussed loudly and resonated inside the weathered building. A rat scurried away from the violence and escaped through a small gap in the wall. When Dylan finished, he dropped the axe and stared angrily at the collapsed still’s perforated metal. After a moment of silent contemplation, he took his rifle and headed for home.

Back at his house, the open garage doors revealed that there was no one inside. Dylan went around to the backyard and found everyone on the concrete patio. Kevin sat next to his wife, and Jennifer huddled close to Mary while she affectionately hugged her leg. Sitting on the porch steps, Brad was also near Mary. His swollen hand was in a tightly wrapped splint.

Dylan’s children adored Mary, and she loved them back. Dylan saw the way his young daughter clung to Mary’s leg and the way Mary touched her with such gentle affection. Brad, even after the incident at the bartering lot, held no resentment toward Mary for taking him to such a foul place. Dylan realized that he should do the same and not blame Mary for his son’s crippling injury. Just forgive and forget, he thought to himself. Dylan knew that he was not perfect and had made many mistakes. At that moment, in the echoes of his mind, he forgave Mary.

Jim, with his hands behind his back, leaned against the home’s exterior wall near the patio door. Joel sat on the edge of the concrete patio, touching the new grass of spring. Joel smiled when he saw Dylan approach. Ruth sat on an overturned bucket with a container of garden seeds in front of her. Dylan looked at the garden plot in his backyard and noticed that Ruth had not prepared it yet. It was not ready to accept the seeds lying at Ruth’s feet. Dylan was puzzled. Why had she not planted anything?

“We’ve been talking,” announced Kevin.

“Well, it’s not social hour—” Dylan began sarcastically. Then a moment of quick reflection stopped him. In the same spirit of forgiveness he had just given Mary, he changed his tone. “But I’ll help get these seeds in the ground. This will be nothing compared to getting crops in all the land I plowed.” Dylan rubbed his beard. “We need a plan on how to plot out that land to divide it fairly with everyone who is still in the neighborhood.”

As he finished speaking, he noticed Jim and Joel gently shaking their heads. With a furrowed brow, Dylan glanced at Kevin.

“Dylan, like I said, we’ve been talking.” Kevin paused and tried to choose his next words carefully. “Some of us think it’s not a good idea to stay here any longer.” Kevin paused again, unsure of what to say next, or exactly how to say it.

Dylan took advantage of the interlude and spoke. “Spit it out,” ordered Dylan.

Jim coughed and raised a finger to politely interrupt the conversation. “Dylan, what he’s trying to say is this might not be worth fighting for. It’s time to quit.”

Dylan, visibly angry, glared at Jim. “The hell if I’m a quitter!” Dylan slammed his fist into the palm of his hand. Then he looked at Kevin, and irately asked, “Are you a quitter? Huh? A thousand miles through Hell and back and you just want to give up? Damn it!” Dylan shook a finger at Kevin and continued his tirade. “Where do you think you’re going to go? The other side of the lake? You’ll die. An epidemic already snuffed out everybody over there. That was our only hope. You have no place to go.”

“I’m no quitter,” Kevin retorted. “I’ve been there for you—”

Dylan interrupted. “There is no other place to—”

Kevin stood up, interrupting Dylan in turn, and spoke forcefully. “Shut up!”

Dylan, shocked at what Kevin just said, quickly realized that he had spoken in anger to his best friend. Dylan yielded.

Kevin pointed directly at Dylan, and said sternly, “You are going to listen to what I have to say, and I’m speaking for more than one person here. I know that sometimes a person has to fight. I understand that. But with what we have to face this time, it would be suicide. I’m out, and so is everybody else. It’s over. And by the way, we do have a place to go.”

All eyes shifted to Ruth, and she raised her head.

“Ruth,” said Dylan. “It looks like you have the floor.”

“While you were gone, Kevin found a map. I showed him where I’m from. He did a calculation and thinks we can make it to my family’s community.”

Dylan, with apologetic eyes, did not say anything as he looked at Kevin.

Kevin continued his explanation. “That’s right. We have two vehicles with full tanks of fuel and we just filled the all the gas cans. We can make it.”

Dylan found a bucket, turned it upside down, and sat on it. He closed his eyes and embraced the thought. Leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, he placed his face into the palms of his hands and rubbed his beard.

With one eye closed, he lifted his head, looked at Ruth and said, “But we’re not Amish. Does that matter?”

“No. You’re friends of mine. You will be accepted with open arms.”

Dylan capitulated with a sigh. “Okay, let’s do it. Who’s going?”

“I’m not,” said Joel. “It sounds like a good idea, but the decision wasn’t unanimous in my family. We’ll stick it out here. David Taylor and Linda Foster are going to stay here, too.”

Dylan asked Kevin, “How are we going to take everything with us?”

“I’ve already thought of that. We’ll use the leftover lumber from a partially constructed home to make wooden side panels for the bed of the truck and the El Camino. Then we’ll be able to stack our belongings as high as the paneling.”

“Sounds simple enough,” admitted Dylan.

“Then let’s get busy,” Kevin responded.

Dylan, Kevin, and Jim drove to an abandoned construction lot. Framing lumber and a partially scavenged stack of plywood flooring sat next to the concrete foundation. Dylan and Jim loaded the wood while Kevin searched for nails. He found a large coil of nails for a nail gun. It was made of two parallel strips of wire that attached the nails side by side. Kevin snapped a few nails off the coil and decided that he could still use them with a hammer, so he took them all. In front of Dylan’s house, they designed a wooden frame with paneled sides for each vehicle. By nightfall, the truck and El Camino had wooden cages for holding all their belongings during their journey southward through the Ozark Mountains.

Everyone was awake by sunrise the next morning, and the group spent the early morning hours packing. On the driveway, the soon-to-be travelers laid out their belongings. They prioritized what they would take and loaded the most important items first. With their belongings stacked in the wooden cages, they secured everything with rope. They were ready to start their exodus. Jim suggested that they walk to Joel’s house so the children could say goodbye. Jim also wanted to bid farewell to David and Linda before they left. Dylan waved them on and told them he wanted to be alone to say goodbye to his home. As he watched his son and daughter skip down the sidewalk, Dylan remembered a promise he had made to Brad the night before. He had promised his son that he could take the rope swing, and if their destination had no trees for hanging it, they would plant one. So he grabbed a potted walnut sapling that he and his son had already grown from a nut they had germinated. He decided the little tree should go along, too, so Dylan could keep his promise. He found a place in the truck for the little walnut sapling.

Dylan walked back into his home for one last look. Alone in the house, he heard his footsteps echo as he walked across the hardwood floor. Although the house looked empty, it was full of memories, some good and some bad. Dylan tried to remember a few of the good ones. Draped over the couch he found an old softball shirt with his name printed on the back, and he picked it up. A good memory came back and he smiled as he slid the shirt over his head. It was still comfortable. On the countertop, he found a can of tuna fish and remembered that he had not yet eaten that morning. He picked it up and looked out the open patio door. A fly buzzed inside, and he remembered when it would have infuriated him to let even such a tiny insect in his home. The fly buzzed by his head, circled him, and landed on the countertop. He almost swatted the fly with his hand, but thought about how it really did not matter anymore if a dirty fly got inside the house. Instead, he pardoned the insect, and it disappeared down the hallway. He was leaving; the fly could have it all.

On the patio, Dylan removed the pull-top lid from the can of tuna fish and tossed the lid into the backyard. The strong odor of the fish permeated the air. With dirty fingers, he pinched small bits of fish from the can. He held it far from his nose to help him tolerate its pungent smell. At the far edge of Dylan’s backyard, a black cat with white paws darted from under a large boxwood bush. The bush was at the end of a hedgerow on Jim’s property line and near the old walnut tree in Dylan’s backyard. Dylan saw the feline come toward him and realized that it was his family’s cat, Socks. He was amazed that the feral cat had survived the winter. The cat touched his nose to the discarded lid of tuna. Socks licked it with his rough pink tongue, and then meowed at him. Dylan snapped his fingers, clicked his tongue, and gave the cat an encouraging whistle to come forward. The cat, minding its feral ways, sat on his haunches and licked his whiskers while he watched Dylan eat. Dylan, impressed by the cat’s feat of survival, gave in to his old family pet. Dylan tipped the can of tuna over the far edge of the concrete patio and knocked the remaining tuna out of the can. As Dylan stepped back from his offering, the cat pranced forward and quickly ate the small pile of fish. After the cat devoured his meal, he licked the concrete and then pawed at the empty can. He soon realized that there was nothing left and sprinted back under the boxwood bush by the walnut tree, disappearing into it.

Dylan watched the cat vanish under the bush, then noticed the rope swing he had hung on a low branch of the walnut tree. He went to the tree to get it. As he pulled down on the ropes, he observed the knots that he had tied around the sturdy branch. To preserve the length of rope, he would have to climb the tree and untie the swing. As he grabbed a branch to pull himself up into the tree, he heard leaves rustling behind the bush. He thought the cat was watching him, and he hoped his children would get a chance to see the cat before they left. Once in the tree, he untied the rope’s knots and the swing fell to the ground. Dylan slipped back down the tree. Picking up the swing, he wound the rope around the seat and tucked it under his left arm. He heard the rustling noise again. He started to turn around to coax the cat from its lair, but a golden sparkle at the base of the tree caught his attention. He took a step forward, turning his back to the bush, and saw Mary’s crucifix necklace twinkling in the sunlight. The amazement at what he had just found dulled his senses to the stealthy footsteps stalking behind him. He picked up the necklace by the pendant, the gold chain dragging behind on the tender blades of grass as he pulled it toward him. This reminded Dylan of a toy his cat used to chase, so he started to stand up and turn to tease the cat with it. But as he stood, he realized the stepping noise was too close to be the skittish cat. In that same instant, he felt the tip of a knife pierce his back and plunge into a lung. The wide blade turned, and he felt a rib break. Sharp pains radiated again from the wound as his attacker ripped the knife out of his body at an angle, widening the gash. A heavy palm pushed Dylan forward. His body turned and the wound in his back collided with the rough bark as he collapsed against the walnut tree.

Sam Deville leaned forward and snarled, “I heard you were looking for me.”

As Sam leaned into Dylan’s face and taunted him with the knife, Dylan groaned with pain in between gasps for air. Sam noticed blood pooling at the base of the tree, and then laughed sadistically as he ran away.

Dylan felt a weakness come over his body. His eyelids grew heavy. Each time he closed his eyes, they stayed closed just a little longer. He tried to stand, but he fell back against the tree. The pain made him wince, and he closed his eyes tightly as he tried to breathe with one lung. He heard a scream and lifted a heavy eyelid. He saw a blurry image of Mary running toward him and realized that his vision was failing. His eyelids closed, and he gasped for air again. The darkness seemed to bring tranquility, and he felt that he should leave his eyes closed. He heard another scream, fainter this time, and found the energy to open both eyes. He was surprised to see Mary so close when her scream had seemed so far away, almost an echo. The sound of the wind through the leaves above also had become faint, and he realized that his hearing was failing, too. Her soft hand grasped his clenched right fist. Dylan relaxed his left arm, and the rope swing fell to the ground.

The morning sun was in the eastern sky, creating a halo around Mary’s head as she knelt in front of him. His right hand relaxed, and her gold necklace fell to the ground in Dylan’s pooling blood. He heard nothing now, but felt her tears as she pulled his hand to her cheek. He tried once more to open his eyes, but they barely budged. Only a sliver of light entered the void of darkness. He tried to reach for the light, but his eyes closed and there was only darkness again. He realized that his mind was playing a trick on him. There was no light to guide him, nothing beckoning him to the other side. His mind began to drift into the same darkness. He felt himself fading away. A chill overcame his body, and he felt his consciousness drift away slowly. Then an overwhelming sense of peacefulness replaced the chill. His body went limp, and his consciousness faded to black.

EPILOGUE

On an autumn morning after the harvest, a cool breeze gently blew the leaves of a walnut tree that had grown tall and wide, near the rusted shell of an El Camino. The morning sun cast the tree’s shadow over the abandoned vehicle. Planted decades ago, the tree had spread its roots deep in front of the dead car, and now stood like a tombstone with a long shadow grasping at the metal corpse in front of it.

The car’s windows had long since shattered, and its body had dimpled during the many hailstorms that had pummeled it. The tires had collapsed and its rims rested directly on the dirt. It slowly sank into the ground a little further after each rainstorm. Its once mirrored finish had vanished as the sheet metal rusted underneath and bubbled away the paint. The rusting corpse had been the home to many rodents over the decades. Rats and field mice had drilled holes through the cushions to make nests. Over the years, the hundreds of rodents who had made it their abode left destruction and defecation as evidence of their presence and persistence.

Under the green leaves of spring, walnut hulls in varying stages of decay lay scattered from each generation of squirrels that had inhabited the lone tree. Five squirrels occupied the tree this spring. From a low, sturdy branch projecting nearly parallel to the ground, two adult squirrels looked down at their offspring. The three young squirrels chased each other and further scattered the litter of walnuts, some with hulls and some without. The adult squirrels were encouraging the offspring to move on and build their own nests. Winter always comes too soon.

A small dirt path led to the old car, and its tombstone cast a long shadow with every sunrise. It was a narrow footpath, defined by the tall grass surrounding it. Occasional visitors to the abandoned vehicle, those who gathered walnuts and those who hunted squirrels, had made the trodden path. Some of the older adults in the community had contributed to its creation by taking younger generations to the wreckage of a vehicle that had brought them to their new home, so long ago.

On the dirt path, walking toward the tree, a man carried a young boy over the crest of the hill. The man had black, straight hair down to his shoulders, just like the boy. The boy had tied his hair back with a strip of deer leather, but the man’s hair blew freely in the wind, and on most occasions, draped the sides of his face. Both were barefoot and wore soft leather clothes made from tanned deerskin. The man’s left hand was crippled, but he was still able to carry his son down the dirt trail. The man carried the boy on his shoulders, and the child carried a bundle of rope and two bows. One was a small bow for a child, and the other was a larger bow that the man had used to kill the deer that had provided their clothes. As they got closer to the tree, the young boy wiggled to let his father know he wanted to get down from his shoulders. The man stopped and squatted to release his son, and he took the bundle of rope and bows from him. The young boy started to scurry forward, but stopped and crouched just as quickly. He turned to look back at his smiling father. His son had glanced ahead and noticed the squirrels under the tree. As his son looked back for an approving nod from his dad, the man handed the boy the small bow and a blunt-tipped arrow. From his low position behind the tall grass, the young boy strung the bow. He nocked an arrow, gripped the string firmly with the fingers of his right hand, and held the bow with his left. He looked back at his father for approval once more, and he saw his father smile and nod. The young boy moved silently on bare feet through the tall grass. The grass thinned close to the tree. His camouflage was gone, but he was close enough to try his aim at the squirrels. He focused on the closest of the three squirrels at the base of the tree, lifted his left hand, and slowly pulled his right hand back until he felt the string touch his right cheek. He closed one eye, adjusted his aim, and let go of the string. In an instant, the squirrel in front of him was motionless on its side. It was a direct hit. The boy yelled victoriously and called for his father as the adult squirrels chattered at the invaders. The two younger squirrels scurried into their nest, high in the tree.

“Look, I did it! I did it just like you showed me!”

“Yes, you did.” The man leaned his bow against the tree, in case there was any dew left on the grass, and held onto the bundle of rope. “I think you’re ready to hunt with the men now.”

The boy did not know what to say. Hunting with the men would be his first step to manhood. His father gave him a small slap on the back, and the young boy absorbed the feeling of triumph, however small a victory it actually was. The boy unstrung his bow and leaned it against the tree, just as his father had done, and set the blunt arrows beside it.

“Who taught you to hunt?” asked the boy, in an unusually inquisitive voice.

The man replied, “My father. He also taught me how to do this.” The man loosened his grip on the bundle and let the rope unravel to the ground. His father had given him the rope swing, so many years ago.

“What is it?” asked the boy.

“It’s a swing. I’ll show you how it works.” The man looked at a thick branch parallel to the ground and jumped up, swinging an end of the rope at the two adult squirrels still chattering at them. The squirrels scampered farther up the tree.

On the opposite side of the tree, the barefoot man found a low branch and pulled himself up with a dexterity unexpected from someone with a crippled hand. As a child, he had gotten much tree-climbing practice from harvesting fruit and looting eggs from bird nests. He was young when his hand was hurt, so he had had many years to adapt to the impediment. Climbing above the chosen branch, the man securely tied the rope swing to it and then climbed deftly down.

“There it is,” said the man, as he gave his son a gentle push forward.

“What do I do?”

“Sit on it, and I’ll show you.”

The boy turned his back to the swing and grabbed the ropes. With arms extended high, he took a small jump and landed securely on the seat.

“Hold tight,” warned his father, and he gave the young boy a gentle push forward.

The boy’s eyes grew wide with excitement as the swing began to move higher and faster with each push.

“This is fun. Who taught you how to do this?”

“My father.”

“And he taught you how to hunt, right?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

The man grasped the rope swing to stop it, walked in front of his son, and knelt on one knee to speak with him. He looked into his son’s eyes and began to speak with great compassion. “He is everywhere.”

The man looked at the tree, stood up, went to its trunk, and caressed its rough bark. “When this tree was just a sapling, he gave it to me,” he said, still caressing the tree with a gentle loving touch, “and I can still hear his voice when I’m down here.”

The boy jumped off the swing, and grasping one of the hanging ropes, used it to support himself as he listened to his father speak.

The man knelt down again to be at eye level with his son. “Whenever I have a problem, I close my eyes and think of him. I can hear his voice speaking to me, telling me what he would do. He is with me always. That is where he is. Always with me, wherever I am.”

The boy smiled at the comfort of his father’s words.

“I named you after him. His name was Dylan Smith.”