SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  “Enough?” Rick replied.

  “We know what’s at stake,” the woman replied, “You made your point. All you’re doing now is instilling fear. This is a mixed audience—we have all age groups here—and we’re exhausted. We’re not used to living without power. Most of us are just as frustrated as you. All you’re doing now is pissing everyone off.”

  “If you knew what was at stake,” Rick answered, “none of you would stop for sleep. You’d still be out there, looking for anything that might be of use.”

  “We are not machines,” the woman said. “You can’t expect people to do more than what they’re capable. And, you’ll have a hell of a time getting any more work out us.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The girl folded her arms and bit down on her lower lip. “My name is Kate Hensen.”

  “Did you hear that everyone?” Rick said as he turned to the congregation. “When we’re on the verge of starvation, when we’re so low on supplies we don’t have enough food for even one good meal a day, I want you to think of Kate. On that day, think of what Kate said tonight, and maybe that’ll ease the pains of starvation. Maybe, those thoughts will somehow magically fill your belly with food.” Rick looked back at the lady, his eyes unblinking. “You know Kate, there are worse things than being deprived of air-conditioning and Pinterest—.”

  “—You’re an ass,” Kate said.

  Isaac stuck his head between Rick and Kate. “Ok, so…I think we’ve all had a long day. Remember Proverbs 18:6, ‘A fool’s lips enter into contention.’ The best thing we can do tonight is to get some rest. Come on. It’s late, and we’re all tired. We’ve got another long day of work tomorrow. Gather your things and make your way to your sleeping area.”

  “It’s too hot to sleep,” someone said.

  “If you prefer,” Isaac answered. “I cleared some space down in the basement. I can’t promise you it’s clear of spiders, but it’s a lot cooler.”

  The mention of spiders seemed to kill the offer. Slowly, despondently, the crowd made their way back to their sweaty bedrolls and blankets.

  Rick grabbed a blanket from a pile on the floor and made his way to the basement.

  Isaac grabbed his shoulder. “You’re not actually thinking of sleeping down there, are you?”

  Rick nodded. “I’m not thinking about it; I’m doing it. I might be the only one going to sleep down there right now, but I bet you I won’t be alone by the time the sun rolls up.”

  “Listen, Rick,” Isaac said, “I need to talk to you before you go.”

  Rick’s jaw tightened. “I have something to tell you as well.”

  Isaac nodded towards his Pastor’s office, and the two brothers walked inside. After shutting the door, Isaac rubbed his hands over his eyes, almost as if he was trying to massage the right words into his brain.

  After a few moments, he spoke. “Please have a seat.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then I’ll sit,” Isaac said, his body collapsing into a squeaky chair. His frame looked worn, his eyes tired. “You…I mean we, can’t speak to them like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You talk as if everyone is already on the brink of death. You talk like the only hope we have is a distant flame that can be snuffed out at any moment. We don’t know for sure how things are all going to shake out. We don’t know if other countries might come to our aid.” Isaac raised his hands to defend against a verbal rebuttal. “I believe you—trust me, I do, but what I’m saying is we can’t rule out any sense of hope…yet. And remember all that food that you made me buy before this crisis happened, well, it’s down in the basement—palettes of it, stacked in nice and neat little rows. About half my basement is filled with it. We not only have that food, but we also have the food from everyone’s houses as well as the supplies from the highway. They might not have grabbed exactly all the things you wanted, but those that went to the grocery store sure did. It’s all in the kitchen: stacks of cereal boxes, bags of rice, all kinds of soda pop…”

  “Soda?”

  “My point is,” Isaac continued, “the people put forth an honest effort—it may not have been the best, but it was at least honest. I think that we can both agree that despite all of the adjustments that were made today, the congregation still pulled through. Don’t take people’s hope away from them; people need that now more than ever.”

  “You want me to lie to them?” Rick asked.

  “No, no, of course not, but first come to me if you need something addressed. They know me. I’m friends with every single one of them. I’ve lived side-by-side with these people: I’ve blessed and baptized most of their sons and daughters, some of which have already grown into adulthood.”

  “The sooner a person can accept the reality of the situation, the sooner they’ll be an asset instead of a liability. Misplaced hope can be just as damning in a survival situation as stupidity.”

  Isaac took a deep breath. “I’m not saying don’t tell them the truth. What I’m saying is let me do it. I promise you that there’s a better way to get the results that you want. ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’ If you communicate your sentiments to me, I’ll convey them to the congregation.”

  “All right,” Rick replied, “you get the first crack at motivating them, but if it doesn’t work, then we try it my way.”

  Isaac nodded. “Fair enough. Survival is not all about having enough food to eat or water to drink. A person also needs hope. They need something to live for.”

  Rick smiled, an expression he rarely used. “You know, you’re right, and that’s just the thing I wanted to talk to you about. We need to give these people some hope.”

  Isaac’s eyes widened slightly. “Hmm…what do you mean?”

  “We need to give the congregation something to believe in, and nothing does a better job of that than charity.”

  “Charity?”

  “Charity,” Rick repeated. “If people feel like they’re helping others, they have little time to think of themselves. Maybe you’re right; maybe we need to bolster their morale just as much as we need to collect supplies.”

  Isaac folded his arms, “How do you propose we do that?”

  “We gather some of the food we purchased—most likely the foods that’ll go bad first—set up a booth in front of a grocery store, and hold a lottery. People fill out a form, we draw out the names, and the next day we hand out food. It will be good for your congregation; it will give them a sense of purpose. At the same time, it will help out those who are in desperate need of food.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you—you sure this was your idea?”

  “Hopefully, that’ll give you ‘touchy-feely’ types something to smile about.”

  “That sounds more like you.”

  Rick leaned forward. “You’re right. People need hope; let’s give it to them. I think that in times of disaster, people can really be inspired by acts of charity. If we hold a lottery, we can give hope to everyone, while still making sure that we don’t give away too much food. Just the charitable act itself will give hope to people in the city.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  Rick frowned. “I find it slightly offensive that you assume that I’m trying to get something out of it. Besides, I’m sure you already were thinking about doing something similar.”

  Isaac shook his head. “No, I actually had not thought about it, but that’s a great idea. I’m impressed that you can go from yelling like a slave driver to a full-blown philanthropist within the space of a few minutes.”

  “You’d be surprised by what I’m capable of.”

  FOURTEEN

  Day 2

  For Isaac, the night turned out to be an excruciatingly hot and frustrating ordeal. When sleep finally did come, it was always brief and interrupted by violent nightmares. At one point, he awoke to find himself dripping in sweat, his sheets soaked through. His wife did not sweat
nearly as much and overall did not appear bothered by the heat. She slept through most of the night, shifting only slightly each time Isaac woke up. The temperature was only half the problem. The darkness created by the lack of electricity made it near impossible to move through the house without stubbing a toe. Around midnight, the water from the faucet stopped working, which, until then, had been Isaac’s only reprieve from the heat.

  What further added to Isaac’s mounting frustration was that Rick had been right. A group of twenty individuals or so joined Rick in the cool basement. And, despite the group spending nearly half the night hunting down and killing spiders, they still got more sleep than Isaac did. The Pastor briefly contemplated joining his brother in the basement but decided against it. Usually, he did not have any problem admitting he was wrong, but for some reason, this time, he wanted Rick to be wrong. He wanted Rick to wake up alone in the basement with a couple dozen spider bites on his body as evidence of how miserable a night he had.

  Presently, Isaac was standing in front of the Food Mart—a local grocery store that was known for its cheap food as well as its horrible customer service. He had initially planned on traveling to Walmart because, after all, that’s where most people shopped, but his ambition had soon outpaced his physical strength and, after pushing a small handcart full of food half the distance, Isaac settled for the much smaller, but much closer, Food Mart. The pavement was covered in trash, some of it was there before the EMP, but much of it had recently appeared. Everything from bags and newspapers to old milk cartons and shards of glass were scattered across the ground. A strong wind blew across the parking lot, mixing everything up like an invisible blender.

  Food Mart was open and still functioning, much to Isaac’s surprise, but it was overwhelmed by a massive line of people that zigzagged throughout the parking lot. On a window that was next to the front door a large sign read “CASH ONLY.”

  Isaac frowned at the list in his hand. It was written in Rick’s usual, rushed and scratchy handwriting. It was the food lottery signup list. The list had several columns that were obviously necessary, such as the name of the person and the reason the food was needed, but there were several more columns that Isaac felt were not needed and even appeared extreme—like an individual’s address, age, family size, the last four of their social security number, and profession. None of that seemed relevant information for those applying for a food lottery. As Isaac understood the plan, they were going to write the names of people down, pick the winners, and then hand out the food the following day.

  What does it matter if we have their address or their age? Isaac thought. What does their profession have to do with anything? He’s always so anal about everything—even when we were kids. If it was not his way, it was not the right way. He always fought with Mom and Dad over the simplest things.

  The people looked much like Isaac felt: tired, worn, and worried. Isaac looked at the four volunteers that came with him to help. They looked just as beaten down like all the rest but, perhaps, a little less worried. Rick had been right about it bolstering morale. The whole congregation liked the idea; it somehow empowered them to know that they were so well off that they could afford to help others. People were working much harder than the day before. Only one of the four volunteers had a look of genuine concern on his face. His name was Old Pete, a war veteran with a southern accent who never seemed to smile except when he was drunk—a fact that Isaac had learned at more than one church party. He carried an old but reliable Browning Buckmark .22 pistol concealed in his waistband. Isaac was not too keen on the old war Veteran coming along, especially after seeing the half-empty bottle of alcohol tucked away in his sport’s jacket, but Rick insisted that they have some sort of armed escort. He also insisted that Isaac’s wife not go, which was news that almost brought tears to the passionate woman’s eyes.

  Isaac set up the handcart at the opposite corner of the parking lot, a long distance from the entrance to the store. He had chosen this area because he did not want to infringe on the supermarket’s business and then have to endure an embarrassing conversation with a puffed-up manager who might request that they relocate.

  As the members of the congregation began setting up signage, he began to second-guess the location of the food cart. No one is going to see us this far from the store, much less visit. This is going to turn out to be another wasted morning, where most people pretend not even to see us. We could be giving away free money, and still, people would be turned off by the fact that it was coming from a Christian church.

  But by the time they had set up shop, which consisted of unloading a few boxes of food, placing a large bowl on a stool, and putting up several handwritten signs that read the name of the church and the simple phrase “Food Lottery,” a line had already formed.

  Never, not once in his whole career, had Isaac ever seen a line form so quickly and with so many people at a church function. Over the last decade, he had tried all sorts of gimmicks like BBQs and basketball games to encourage people to get involved with religion, but, by and large, these activities always failed. Even when the event was planned with multiple faiths and denominations, the attendance was dismally low. No amount of free hamburgers and hotdogs or pasta and pizza could draw people out of their homes and into a religious setting. It did not matter how much he spent on posters or radio advertising; nothing appeared to make any difference.

  Isaac smiled broadly, greeting each individual in the long line. “Thank you for joining us today. In light of this crisis, our church has come together to take the food from our tables and share it with you. Of course, we would love to feed everyone, but we’re limited in what we have. But what we do have to share, we would like to give away through a free food lottery—”

  “Lottery? Why a lottery?” said a voice in the crowd.

  “What about giving it to the people who need it the most?” A pale-faced man said from the back of the line.

  “Yeah, give it to the people who could use it,” said a black man with a red shirt.

  More voices rose in the crowd.

  Isaac raised his hands. “Please, please calm down. We’re all brothers and sisters here. God does not condone fighting. It says in Titus 3:9 that we should avoid “contention” because it is “unprofitable and vain—”

  “We don’t need Bible verses,” said a balding squat man who was near the side of the wagon. “This is private land. You can’t preach your gospel here.”

  “He’s not preaching!” a voice in the crowd rang out. “You’re just looking for some reason to be offended. Go push your liberal dogma somewhere else.”

  “What about separation of church and state?” said an Asian man. “You come here to intimidate us?” The man pointed a skinny finger towards Old Pete. “That man has a handgun concealed in his waist band—I can see the handgrip.”

  More voices joined the crowd, some of them defending Isaac and his church, most of them attacking him. The conversation quickly turned more volatile as someone in the group began to criticize religion in general, saying that, “this is exactly why religion should be outlawed.” This sentiment quickly gained popularity and spread throughout the line, creating a shouting match between the crowd and Isaac.

  A large man squared off with a thin man in a shirt and tie. “If you want to outlaw religion, you’re gonna have to do it over my dead body. You might as well rip up the constitution.”

  “I find the mention of the word ‘God’ offensive,” cried one lady who was at the front of the line. “We took ‘God’ off the dollar bill, why can’t we eliminate the word entirely? More people have died because of the word of “God” than any other thing.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” screamed, a short, red-faced lady. “How can the word ‘God’ offend you? This is exactly why people came to America in the first place. To escape religious persecution. If you don’t like how it’s set up in America, then move somewhere else.”

  Isaac raised his hands, pleading wi
th the people in front of him. “We’re not here to preach to you, I promise. We’re just trying to help. Please settle down. The food we have here is for you. We don’t have much, but we’re willing to share it with everyone we can—”

  No one was really sure if it was Isaac’s mention of the food, or if the crowd had finally reached their tipping point, but a man rushed towards the cart, his hands greedily outstretched in front of him. More people broke from the line, pushing past others that continued to debate. Isaac was knocked to the ground, and his head was kicked by someone who stepped over him. Pain swelled from the point of contact until it overwhelmed his senses. The first man reached the cart, his hands wrapping around a loaf of bread. He should have been off in seconds with the food, but the pressure from a gun barrel against his forehead put a halt to his plans.

  Rick was now standing in the wagon, his sidearm drawn. The large man pulled a flare from his belt and broke it, sending an arcing flame through the air. The red stream of sparks seemed to stop all conversation, drawing everyone’s focus onto Rick.

  In the silence, Rick straightened up to his full height. “We either do this in an orderly fashion, or we don’t do it at all, which means that either some of you get something, or all of you get nothing.” Rick waited for a response, but none came. “There was someone in the crowd that suggested we give the food to the people who need it the most. I agree with this idea, but we do not have the time or a method for figuring out who needs the food the most—so this is how we’re going to do things.”

  Rick let his words sink in. People in the crowd began to file back into the line. Once everyone had found their places again, Rick continued, “If there are any other complaints, come and address them with me.” He paused for effect before continuing. “All right, then fill out the form and drop your name in the bowl. If you don’t fill out every column on the sheet, you will not qualify for the food lottery. I repeat, every column must be filled. We’ll be drawing out the names in an hour—and somebody help up my brother, he’s the reason his church was willing to do something like this in the first place.”