by N A Broadley
“What do you say we stop early today, set up camp and take a good day of rest?”
Sarah nodded as relief spread across her face.
“Yeah, I agree with you baby girl. I’m tired too.”
With that, she made her decision. Together they built a nice campfire to chase away the chill and dragged a downed log from the woods to use as a backrest. She dug through her pack and pulled out a bag of dehydrated beef noodles with peas and carrots. She decided they were both going to have full portions, and as she cooked it up over the fire, the scent of it filled her nostrils and made her mouth water. Thoughts of pizza and burgers, of potato salad and steak, teased her as she let the noodles simmer. She pushed the thoughts away with a discouraged grunt.
Resting, leaning back up against a log, relaxing, cooking up a decent meal, hydrating with lots of water sounded like just the thing they both needed. The supplies were taking a hit with having an extra mouth to feed, and although they both had been eating the minimal of one meal a day, she desperately needed to try to find some resupply foods.
One meal a day with the strenuous hiking they were doing was not giving either of them the caloric intake they needed, and she could feel this in the way her clothes hung loosely off her body. She’d lost weight and looking at Sarah; she could see that she had too. Even Jessie dog was looking slimmer. At least the weather had cooperated. Dry, warm spring days and cooler nights but not dipping into the downright cold temps they’d been having.
Looking at the wind-up watch, she wore on her left wrist; she saw that today, May 10th, was her late husband’s birthday. God how she missed him and how she missed her daughter. Tears formed like a small bead listing on the bottom lid, waiting for its moment to fall, and with a shaking hand, she wiped them away quickly. That was another life, another lifetime.
After eating, she scouted the woods around them while Sarah dozed by the fire. The first of the spring plants were popping through the cold ground, and she knew of several she could harvest to add with tomorrows meal of dehydrated pasta and cheese.
Early fiddleheads, deep green and leggy sprung up in clusters. Violet, bright purple dotted sunlit grassy areas and bright yellow dandelions, the leaves, stems, and flowers would give them not only fresh food but also pack a punch of vitamins and minerals their bodies needed. Digging her hands into the warm soil, she dug up the dandelions, roots and all. The roots she’d save and dry for tea. Dandelion roots would work well for helping with the diet of dehydrated foods they were on by providing a subtle laxative effect.
While she searched for the spring plants, Jessie dog nosed about the area, digging under fallen logs, chasing squirrels and startling birds. Beth loved the silence of the woods, the earthy aroma that drifted slightly on the breeze. The peacefulness.
And Jessie, full of energy, always happy no matter the situation. At that moment she found herself envying the scrawny shepherd. She wondered what Jessie’s life had been like before the event. Had she had a girl or boy she adored? A family that loved and spoiled her? Did she still think of them? Miss them?
Pulling herself from her thoughts, she moved deeper into the woods. She carried her long gun with her in hopes of scaring up some fresh meat. Although she’d never had squirrel or rabbit, she would be more than happy to try either if she happened to stumble across one. Or even a bird such as a partridge. Beggars could not be picky, and at this point, with her ever-increasing hunger, she certainly felt the part of being a beggar.
Chapter Eight
A gentleman is someone who does not what he wants to do, but what he should do…
Brian Pitman sat back and silently watching as the woman, and the dog roamed through the woods. The younger woman was still back at the camp they’d set up, dozing. He’d been trailing them for the past two days, wondering, watching, and waiting.
He knew he should skirt around them and move on his way, but part of him held back. He was staying behind them. Yesterday he’d thought the dog, the one the woman called Jessie, had spotted him. He’d been ready to put it down if necessary. Thankfully it hadn’t come to that. He liked dogs. Better than most people actually. People had always let him down. Dogs didn’t. They were known for their loyalty and devotion.
Sweating from the heat of the sun, he stripped off his coat revealing muscular arms covered in tattoos. He traced a finger over one of them and grimaced. Too many memories associated with these black and blue ink outlines. Memories that flashed and sizzled choked and burned in the back of his mind.
An X with skull and dagger. He’d earned every single tattoo that adorned his shoulders, arms, and chest. To other prisoners, the tattoos represented power and respect and gave him high ranking status. To him, they represented pain, blood, and death.
How he ended up in Massachusetts was a long and sordid story, one he’d rehashed a thousand times in his mind. Prison had left him plenty of time for that. The long days and even longer nights as he paced back and forth in a 4x8 cell. Cold bars as his hands clasped them in desperation. He could still taste and smell the harsh, bitter, ammonia cleaner they had used on the one metal toilet and the cement floors as they cleaned. With a tug of anger, he pushed these memories away.
He had been born a southern boy from Tennessee. The North East was a cold and unforgiving place. And he hated it.
The event, in his opinion was a Godsend. It helped him get out of prison and be on his way home. Many people died those first few months, but he didn’t care just as no one cared when they locked him away. The taste of these memories was as bitter and as poisonous as the red apple the witch gave to Snow White.
No police or correctional officers were chasing him, hell; most were either dead or worried about their own lives and families to be bothered with him. So, with a light step and home on his mind, he headed out, sticking to back roads and wooded trails and avoiding the small towns and larger cities, thus avoiding conflict.
In prison, he’d been the toughest dog on the cell block, not too many messed with him as they knew his reputation and feared him. Out here, though, it was a different story. He knew there were badasses roaming the streets much worse than he’d seen in prison.
Keeping his eyes on the woman and dog, he pulled a tin of chew from his pocket and stuffed a pinch in his cheek. Bitter, acrid saliva filled his mouth, and he spat onto the ground. He hated the chew but craved it. Checking the tin, he saw that there was only a pinch or two left. Oh well, the withdrawals would be a bitch but nothing he couldn’t handle.
As he looked down at the scars on his arms and hands he realized, the one thing prison had taught him was just how much he could handle, and he found, much to his pain and suffering, he could handle a lot.
He watched as the woman dug up plants, and it piqued his curiosity. She was smart; he’d give her that. Fiddleheads, dandelions, and tiny purple violets. All edible. She carried a long gun across her shoulders. He smiled as he wondered how good of a shot she was. It was a big gun for such a small woman. At best guess he thought her to be 5’2 at the most. She carried a Sako 75 if he wasn’t mistaken.
Smiling, he watched as she pulled the rifle which was slung across her back and raise it to her shoulder. She had a bead on a gray squirrel. Shaking his head, he waited for the boom and laughed softly. That gun would decimate a critter that small. Hell, there’d be nothing left of it. She’d be better off throwing rocks at the damn thing if she wanted it for food, which he suspected she did — getting up from his crouched position cringing as his knees popped loudly, he slowly made his way back to where he set up his camp.
His stomach rumbled noisily as he dug through his pack for a piece of jerky. He too could use some fresh food. Slinging his rifle across his shoulder, he made his way toward the ridgeline and away from the women and their dog. They’d likely hear his shots, but he would put enough distance between himself and them that they would not know from which direction the noise was coming, but it would also serve to scare them.
He noticed in following
them the past few days how oblivious they were danger around them. This, at once, infuriated him. They acted as though they were alone in these woods, a big mistake on their part that could get them hurt or killed. Not that he cared what happened to them, but then again, he didn’t particularly want to see harm come to them either.
These were dangerous times, and there were others out there in the woods that were far more dangerous than him. He wasn’t the only one that had escaped from that prison he’d been confined to. And those others that raced out of there alongside him? Well, some of them were some pretty twisted and nasty animals.
Hiking upward, he let his mind drift. He thought about the two women and the dog. Mother and daughter? Sisters? The one woman looked old enough to be the younger girl’s mother. He thought of his mother, and a tug hit his heart. Cringing, he curled his hands into fists as guilt sang through his veins. He hadn’t seen her in more than ten years. Ten years of a life sentence.
His parents were getting up there in age. The trips from Tennessee to Massachusetts were infrequent and hard on them. He wondered if the virus had taken them. Or if not the virus, then something else. At this thought, his eyes filled with tears, and with a shaking hand, he brushed them away. He couldn’t imagine what they’d been through because of him. He should have been there with them.
Both his parents were pretty tough mountain people. His father was an expert marksman with a gun, a tough bastard in his own right — tough, boy how he’d known that growing up. To say his father was not the kindest of people would be putting it lightly. His dad was a bastard. Always had been but he’d also taught Brian to be tough and resilient. He’d taught him many skills, how to do a hard day’s work, how to hunt, fish and fight. Yeah, the old man taught him a lot.
His mom, on the other hand, was a kind, gentle, and tender woman, much to his father’s dismay. He’d been tough on her too, but she had the strength and determination it took to put up with him.
Their family homestead was completely self-sufficient — one hundred acres of wild land. Tall hardwood trees forested the property and surrounded wide open fields. They all worked that land till their hands bled, but he’d learned early on in life not to complain. Home, he just wanted to get home. To see his mom and yes, even the bastard that was his father.
The yearling doe stood in the shadow of the ridgeline. Beautiful and majestic. He concentrated on quieting his breath. Pulling the rifle up to his shoulder, he looked through the scope and picked his spot then aimed and fired, bringing her down quickly. As he stood over her body, he bent his head and sent up a silent prayer of thanks. Not out of reverence for the doe’s life, but rather out of a lifelong habit ingrained in him at a very young age.
He’d get about sixty pounds of meat from the animal. Much of that, he would dry and pack for later meals. But tonight, he would fill himself with fresh meat. His stomach growled as he set about skinning and harvesting the meat, letting the doe’s warm blood run over his hands as he worked expertly with his knife.
Although he concentrated on the task before him, he was also astutely aware of his surroundings. His thoughts once again drifted to the women and the dog. They were hungry too. Desperately hungry, he thought. He could slip some fresh meat into their campsite after dark after they turned in for the night — something to help them out.
But doing so would alert them to his presence in the area. Was it worth the risk? And why should he even care? It wasn’t like they were anything to him. Growling, he shook his head. It angered him that he thought to even bother with them. Those women were not his problem, and he’d be damned if he would make it so.
It took him less than an hour to skin, clean and pack up the meat from the small doe. The remains he left for the scavengers. They’d make quick work of it. He hiked back down to his camp just before the sun sank below the horizon.
He slung his pack onto the ground and stretched the ache from his shoulders. He built a small fire, spit some choice cubes of deer meat onto a green stick, and once the fire burnt down, he set the spits onto the coals and let the meat cook slowly. His eyes roamed the woods, and his ears listened for any sound of predators that he knew smelled the aroma of cooking meat.
While he waited, he took out his knife, grabbed the sharpening stone from his hiking pack, and rubbed it steadily and slowly across the blade. A sharp knife was, to him, one of the most valuable tools he owned.
He was good with a knife, actually very good with a knife. He let his mind drift as the stone, and his hand worked as one. The hiss of the knife blade as it ran across the stone was music to his ears. It was a comforting and familiar sound.
He would bring meat to the women. He couldn’t let them be hungry. He thought of his sister, Talia. She’d been hungry once. Near starvation actually. His stomach curled in anger as he thought of her, and his breath caught in the back of his throat as a dark grimace touched his lips. She had once been an innocent, happy young girl.
When he found her, that girl no longer existed. In her place was a fearful, emaciated, traumatized, and pitiful shadow. They had ruined her. They had destroyed her. And he had destroyed them. And it hadn’t been pretty or easy or merciful. It had been bloody and slow, as he tortured every breath from their bodies. And it satisfied him in an unexplainable way. At a gut level. The screams and cries as they pleaded for their lives. The same way his sister had pleaded with them.
Then he did it again and again to all those that followed. Too many for him to count. But each one had been a masterpiece. And each one caused him no regret — not one ounce of pity for those he had sent to hell. Because of his sister, his heart had turned to cold stone. And he had shown not one iota of mercy to those responsible.
Yes, he would bring the women some meat. He wouldn’t let them feel the hunger that Talia had felt.
Chapter Nine
Beth woke just as the sky had turned from an inky black to a wispy gray. She rubbed her eyes with her fists, itching away the grit and grime. Crawling from the tent, she stretched and yawned. Her body protested with twinges of pain, and she worked the stiffness from her joints.
Yesterday’s rest day had done both her and Sarah good, and although they ate of fresh greens and noodles, they hadn’t had any protein. That would soon become a problem for them if she didn’t find a way to get them some meat.
Shrugging away the worry, she made her way to the cold fire pit. A warm fire would take away the morning chill and also heat water for coffee. She thought of the real coffee she’d had at Jim’s farm and sighed. God how she wished for real coffee. The dark, smooth taste of it. The coffee she would soon be drinking was not real. Instant. Bitter tasting and weak. But it was better than none at all.
As she broke twigs to start the campfire, her eye caught on a bundle sitting on a rock nearby of what looked to be bloodied rags. Curious and hesitant, she approached the rock. A chill tickled its icy fingers down her spine. Bloody rags? Where had they come from? Had Sarah hurt herself during the night and not wake her? Walking closer to it, she bent over for a closer look. Picking up a stick, she lifted one corner of the rag to find two large hunks of meat.
“What in the hell?”
Confusion, disbelief, and fear ran like an electric current through her chest.
“Meat? Where did this come from?”
She was still muttering to herself when Sarah quietly moved up behind her, scaring her half to death and she stifled a scream. She hadn’t heard her come out of the tent. Turning, she looked at her with a scowl.
“Sarah? Did you hear anyone in our campsite last night?”
Sarah shook her head, and Beth grimaced.
“Shit!”
Someone had brought them meat. That meant someone had seen her hunting yesterday; someone had been watching her as she picked the plants. The thought of this made her heart thud fearfully, and her breath stop. She’d been careless, once again. Jessie, by her side, whined as if she sensed her nervousness, and she reached down and softly stroked the do
gs head.
She murmured. “It’s okay girl. I didn’t hear anyone either.”
Turning to Sarah, she smiled, trying to hide her fear. “Okay, well I guess we’ll be having fresh meat for breakfast then hustling our butts out of here.”
She picked the bloody package up off of the rock and carried it to the fire pit. Her gun, the handgun she wore on her side, was still in the tent and she asked Sarah to get it for her. She also instructed Sarah to grab her own as well.
“We both need to be locked and loaded baby girl,” she whispered as she began to cook the meat. A trembling smile touched her lips as she saw Sarah nod solemnly in response. She didn’t want the young girl to know how terrified she was.
The meat sizzled and popped over the fire and her mouth watered as she waited. The aroma sent her belly into a chorus of growls. Sarah, crouching beside her, eyed the meat hungrily.
“Almost done baby girl,” Beth said softly.
After breakfast, they broke camp and hiked hard and steady, only stopping for a few brief minutes every few hours for a quick drink. She pushed both Sarah and Jessie forward with quick, sharp words. She was nervously alert and jumping at every little noise in the woods along either side of the trail. Worry gnawed at her stomach. Whoever had left them the gift of the meat that morning was following them. Or near them. Or watching them. Her hand stayed resting on the butt of her gun, and her fingers teased the cool, smooth wood. How could she have not heard anyone entering their camp last night? How had Jessie not heard anyone entering? She felt her face flush with guilt and shame. She had to do better to keep herself and Sarah safe.
Shaking her head in frustration, she pushed herself harder as she wound her way up a steep and rocky hill. She muttered out loud every few feet, drawing curious glances from Sarah.
“Keep your head on a swivel, push hard, put the miles between you and them. Keep your eye out for cover. Run if you have to.” All great advice from the authors. Dorene Stalter's voice rang softly in her mind.