SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

“Why?”

  “The city is too full of refugees. It’s starting to become a real sanitation problem.”

  “How do I take the water back to my house?”

  “The same way everyone else does—by carrying it yourself.”

  “What about food?”

  “What about it?”

  Jacob frowned, slightly put off by the other man’s tone. “Water is only half the battle. How can I get some food?”

  “That’s another process altogether,” replied the man, “after you’ve donated all of your supplies to the government, and you have been approved for water collection, you’ll need to go down to city hall to ask for a food allocation form F100. Once it’s properly filled and submitted, it will need to be processed, which can take about a day, and then you’ll be given a yellow band with a serial number to wrap around your arm.”

  “And where can I pick up the food?”

  The man looked around carefully and then leaned forward, “Don’t expect much right now, but it’ll get better, I promise. The Federal Government has dispatched several dozen semi-trucks of food specifically destined for our city. Right now, however, the only thing the city has to offer is watery soup—and it’s not that great. Every night and every morning, they serve soup at the parks to everyone that’s wearing a yellow band.”

  “What about the food from the stores?”

  “The Mayor is rationing out supplies. He’s organized everything. Things were turning to hell with the mass looting and the terrorist attacks, but now they’ve settled down.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “Yeah, kid,” the man scoffed, “who did you think took out the power in the first place? They tried to take over a grocery store just last night, but the city security chased them off. The Mayor’s got everything locked down now, but there are still more terrorists out there. They’ve embedded themselves in the city—why do you think I’m standing here with an M4?”

  Jacob nodded. “Hey, I wanted to report something. The retirement home on Kolb road is in bad shape. There are old people sprawled out on the lawn, most of them dead or dying. It’s bad. Real bad. Flies are on everything. I saw a dog chewing on somebody’s leg. Somebody needs to get over there and help them out. The survivors won’t last much longer.”

  “We’re busy here. We don’t have enough people as it is.”

  “There are a whole group of people I saw on my way up here that are doing nothing,” Jacob replied. “Why can’t somebody organize them and send them up there?”

  “That’s why people call this the age of ‘Entitlement.’ The Mayor can’t force people to go up there to bury dead bodies—he’s already got too much on his plate as it is. We’ve got thousands of mouths to feed. We’ve got terrorists that are trying to exploit every opportunity available. We don’t have time to worry about a bunch of old farts.”

  “Somebody has to do something.”

  “If you got a complaint, you need to fill out form 31B, but talking to me won’t get you anything. It will take a day or two before your complaint will be processed and then another day before it’s presented before a special board. Best case scenario, it will be a week before your complaint can be addressed.”

  “Those people are dying.”

  “Why don’t you go help them out then?”

  Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “You just told me about the lengthy process I have to go through to get food to eat. I can’t spend my time digging graves.”

  “That’s my point, kid,” the other man replied. “It’s easy to have compassion for someone else when you don’t have to put in the work yourself; but, it’s a completely different story when you find yourself in the trenches doing all the heavy lifting.”

  Jacob looked down at the ground, unsure of how to continue the conversation.

  The man broke the silence. “Get moving, kid. I’ve got work to do.”

  Jacob was in a state of numbness as he continued walking through the city streets. His mind kept wandering back to the milky white eyes of the older man stuck in the wheelchair. He walked blindly until he found himself in some sort of market. The crowd of people was dense and compact, amplifying the thick smell of body odor. There were all sorts of items that people were selling, from tents and sleeping bags to blankets and empty water bottles. Some of the vendors accepted cash, but most wanted gold or other bartered items. Despite the intense negotiations, it seemed the majority of the bartering was an exercise in futility, since so few individuals could actually agree on a price. One vocal man in particular wanted twenty dollars for each can of food, while another vendor was demanding a gold necklace or diamond ring in exchange for a case of water bottles.

  Jacob pushed through the mess of sweaty bodies and into another mob of people that were surrounding city hall. What he thought was just a crowd of people turned out to be the end of a very long line, which wrapped around the street twice before circling into city hall. People were worn and red-faced, their skin burned by the blazing sun. The crowd was largely subdued by the long wait, and they were relatively quiet. On the other side of the street, there was a group of forty or fifty protestors—all of them wearing brightly colored clothes. Much like the individuals in the line, the demonstrators were by and large quiet, but they held signs of various sizes and shapes that read everything from “STOP THE GOVERNMENT TAKE-OVER” to “LET US BUY FOOD” to “STOP MARTIAL LAW” to “WHAT WOULD GANDHI DO?”

  Jacob watched the line for a long time, almost convinced that it was not even moving until the crowd finally shuffled a few inches forward. By the time I can file my complaint, everyone at the senior center will be dead. They’re probably dead already. But I just can’t leave people out there, suffering in the heat of the day and trapped in their frail and weak bodies. Where are the sons and daughters of those people? Where are the people who are responsible for them? Even if I do wait in this line, who’s to say that this new Mayor will do anything about it. Nobody seems to care.

  Jacob left the long line and started to walk in the opposite direction. He reached the senior center sooner than he thought he would but, already, the sun had begun to set. The smell did not affect him as much this time, but it still forced him to cover his mouth. He approached the older man in the wheelchair, but this time there was no response. He tapped the man on the shoulder—still nothing. He grabbed the man’s hand, carefully picking it up. It was cold. He was dead.

  Jacob’s shoulders sank. He felt helpless—alone. He’s dead. He’s gone. What could I have done? He looked around, hoping to see some sign of life amongst the others. They’re all gone. He then spotted some shovels still leaning against the building. He walked over to one shovel and picked it up. There is one thing I can do.

  ***

  Jacob did not return to the church until long after the sun had set. His hands were blistered and bloody—so much so that they were more red than any other color. He held his fingers carefully apart as if the slightest brush with each other would send a shock of pain up his body. His hands had become so useless that he could not open the front door; instead, he had to pound on it with one of his elbows.

  Isaac opened the door, the lines on his face were tight with worry. He grabbed Jacob forcefully, pulling him into a hug.

  “Easy, Dad,” Jacob said. “I’m fine. I made it back just fine.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Jacob took in a deep breath and was about to speak but Rick interrupted.

  “We better get him inside.”

  Isaac nodded and ushered Jacob through the door. Most of the congregation had gone to sleep, as was apparent by the absence of lantern light. Isaac half-led, half-carried Jacob into his office where he promptly placed him into a chair. “Are you hurt? What happened to you? Why did you come back so late? Did anyone see you?”

  Rick approached Isaac and gently squeezed his shoulder. “Calm down. The boy is fine. But if you keep asking him questions, he’ll never have a chance to answer
them.”

  This gesture seemed to break the line of questioning, but it did not end the intensity in Isaac’s eyes.

  Jacob looked towards his father, his gaze distant. “My hands are a little cut up, but I’m fine. And no one did anything to me; I did it to myself. I was scouting around the city, as were my orders…”

  Isaac leaned forward, “Orders? What are you talking about? Who ordered you to go into the city?”

  Jacob looked to Rick for answers.

  Isaac turned to his brother. “You sent him out there?”

  Rick quickly nodded. “He’s a smart kid. He knew what he was doing.”

  “He’s barely eighteen.”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “That’s a good thing—that means he won’t attract too much attention. I wouldn’t have sent him out there if there was any real danger.”

  “Look at him. Look at his hands. They’re torn to shreds.”

  Jacob stood up. “It’s fine, Dad.”

  Isaac turned back to Jacob, forcing him to sit back down. “What happened to you?”

  “I came across the retirement home near Kolb road. It was horrible—bodies everywhere. They were sunburned and starved, their bodies looking more like skin covered skeletons. It was….the smell was horrible. There was nothing I could do for them—they were all dead. So I started digging graves…but there were too many. My hands could not keep up with the work. I only finished four graves before I couldn’t continue.” Jacob’s voice was distant, devoid of emotion. “They were left there to die—no one would help them. They’re dead now, but most of them are still out there, their bodies left outside to the mercy of the animals.”

  Isaac pulled his son’s face closer with his hands. “You did the right thing son.”

  “We need to go back there to finish the job.”

  Rick shook his head. “No, it will attract too much attention.”

  Jacob looked up at Rick, his jaw taut. “How can you say that? Those are people…real people that led lives—many of them are war veterans. They deserve better than to have their bodies burned by the sun and picked at by animals.”

  “They do deserve better than that,” Rick replied, “but necessity prevents them from getting it. We can do nothing for them except carry their memory with us. If we die—that memory dies, and they’ll be left with nothing. I’m sorry, Jacob, but they’re gone, and no matter how many graves we dig, we can’t ease their suffering.”

  Jacob leaned forward into his hands, tears were starting to appear at the corners of his eyes. “Why is this happening? Everything is changing so fast.”

  Rick put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “What else did you see?”

  Jacob took a few moments to compose himself before he dutifully began relating the condition of the city. Isaac showed the most reaction as the tale progressed, interjecting with questions when there was a pause in the story.

  When it was all finished, Rick sat down in Isaac’s squeaky, leather chair. “That’s more or less what the other scouts conveyed. The city is under tight control, and it’s going to get far worse before it gets any better.”

  Isaac leaned against his desk. “What do you mean?”

  “He means,” Jacob replied, “the world has gone to hell.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Day 5

  The next morning, Rick ran the defensive team ragged with training. The thick smell of unbathed bodies and sweat permeated throughout the chapel as each person attempted to keep up with Rick’s repetitive commands. He had sectioned them off into small teams and trained them on tactical entry into confined spaces.

  “It’s not only about speed, but awareness—360 degree awareness. Today we’ll learn about a technique called ‘contact/cover.’ You will each be assigned to a team of five people. The first two individuals will provide contact to the most immediate problems: They’ll be the ones that’ll address the primary threat and, if needs be, they’ll be the ones who will go hands-on. The next two individuals will provide cover for those addressing the immediate threat by making sure that there are no additional threats in the room. There’s a tendency for untrained individuals to develop ‘tunnel vision’: This is when everyone focuses on only the immediate danger and forgets about everything else—hence, they do not observe other threats. The individuals that’ll be providing cover will make sure to address secondary or tertiary threats that might not be as obvious. The last individual will be providing rear cover to the group. This person makes sure that they’re not flanked. If possible, it’s best to have a concealed sniper who can provide cover for the entire group at a distance.”

  As they drilled, Rick continued instructing them on firearm proficiency and threat assessment. “Before you make entry, you will do what is known as ‘cutting the pie.’ To ‘cut the pie,’ you will slowly side-step around the door frame to expand your field of vision until you have seen as much of the room as possible. If you see a threat during this process, you will address the threat, but at no time will you enter the room until you’re done cutting the pie. Remember, the most dangerous parts of a room are the corners because those are the areas that are most difficult to see. What should your attention be on when you see a threat?”

  “Their eyes?” someone answered.

  “No.”

  “You should see if they have a weapon or not?”

  “Close but not quite. It’s their hands. Hands kill people. Whether they’re holding a knife, a rock, or a gun, it’s their hands that you need to watch. You must always ask to see someone’s hands, even if they’re compliant. And if they don’t show you their hands, it’s because they’re either stupid, or they’re hiding something. If they do not obey your instructions, then do not hesitate to shoot them because they, in a reverse role, would most likely treat you the same. Everything that you do and every instruction that you give must always be putting you in a position of advantage and your opponent into a position of disadvantage. Someone who is kneeling will be easier to deal with than someone who is standing; someone who is sitting will be easier to deal with than someone who is kneeling.

  “A person will typically carry their weapons around their waist because that’s where it’s most readily accessible. Always make sure that their hands are visible and as far from their waist as possible. If you search someone, start your search around the waist and groin.”

  Rick continued to drill the group until lunch, a meal that consisted of flatbread and soup. Then they resumed training, this time at a much more casual pace. It was late in the afternoon when they finished. Before Rick released them, he asked to meet with several individuals, including the people who had been sent out as scouts the day before. Jacob’s name had not been called, but he expectedly approached Rick.

  Rick flinched ever so slightly when he saw Jacob. “Not today, Jacob.”

  “What are you talking about? I gave you good information yesterday. I did my job, and I can do it again. The cuts on my hands don’t bother me much—I’ve got them wrapped up.”

  Rick shook his head. “I’m not sending them scouting today. They’re here to receive special training.”

  Jacob frowned. “I can do that too. What do you need?”

  “Not today, Jacob.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Jacob stared at his uncle for a few moments, his anger forcing him not to blink. He finally broke eye contact and stepped back. “All right, let me know if you need anything.”

  Rick only nodded in response.

  “Rick, Isaac, come quick,” Rosemary said, her voice high pitched and panicked. Her face was flushed red, and it seemed she was on the verge of collapse. Her eyes were wide, like a rabbit in a snare.

  Rick broke from the group and ran towards the voice; Isaac approached from the other direction and the two brothers reached Rosemary at about the same time.

  “It’s bad,” Rosemary said. “I can’t believe this happened.”

  “Calm
down,” Rick said in a low but scolding tone.

  “What’s wrong?” Isaac asked.

  Rosemary did not answer. Instead, she covered her mouth with one hand and pointed towards Isaac’s office with the other. Rick charged forward, Isaac was right behind. Within a moment they had stepped into the dimly lit office. There were three people already inside. Isaac recognized them as being Spencer and Shauna Peterson. The third person was their fourteen-year-old daughter, Sarah. Spencer was a mountain of a man who worked in an underground coal mine. His hands were still black from coal dust. Shauna was a stay at home mother of six children, Sarah being the oldest.

  Spencer turned towards Isaac, his head lowered in defeat. “It’s…it’s…bad.”

  Shauna was hugging her daughter, who was crying uncontrollably.

  “What happened?” Rick asked, his voice sounding harsher than he intended.

  Isaac stepped past his brother. “Is everything all right?”

  Spencer looked down, his hands repeatedly rubbing at the coal dust on his arms. “Sarah, snuck out today. She wanted…to see some of her friends. She was hanging out with a boy she knows from high school…. His name is Tommy…He got her alone somehow….”

  Rick felt anger rising in his chest. “Who let her leave?”

  Spencer shook his head. “I should have been watching better…. I didn’t realize she was gone for a couple of hours.”

  Isaac grabbed Spencer by the shoulder and pulled him into a deep embrace. This simple action seemed to release the man’s emotions like a floodgate had just opened. The large man’s body shook with sobs. After several long moments, Isaac broke the embrace and approached Sarah. The young girl looked down, unable to make eye contact. Gently, ever so gently, the Pastor approached, speaking so softly that Rick and Spencer could not hear. Whatever Isaac said, however, it seemed to work, because after a few minutes the girl’s sobs began to slow. Rick gave a sympathetic nod towards Spencer, who could not quite meet Rick’s gaze.