A Trip to Normal

by Ray Wench

  The defenders were quick to realize they were in serious trouble. The surviving attackers fled in whatever direction they could. In the heat of battle, Mark only saw one man escape.

  “Cover me,” Mark said, fully aware he was giving Lincoln orders again, but the need to see if his son was all right outweighed any other concerns. He didn't wait for his friend's response. He stood and ran down the slope toward the defenders’ position.

  The quiet was unnerving. The smell of the battle rose to meet him. He ran between the two lines and called, “Bobby! Elijah!” He stopped to avoid being taken for an enemy.

  “Dad?” Bobby's voice made him go weak in the knees. The intensity of his relief watered his eyes and constricted his throat. Unable to speak, he walked forward. He had a moment to compose himself before Bobby jumped over the car to embrace him. “Wow! I'm glad to see you.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “You okay? Anyone hurt?”

  “Yeah, we lost a few and Elijah is down.”

  “Let's go take a look.”

  They reached Elijah. Darlene had his head cradled in her lap. Tears streamed down her face. Blood spread across his chest. In pain, he was awake and alert. Mark crouched next to him and examined the wound. “Bobby, find something absorbent and some tape.”

  “Mark,” Elijah reached for his arm. “Promise me you'll look after my people and, and my daughter.”

  Darlene moaned. “Daddy!”

  “I won't have to. You'll take care of them yourself. We need to get you to our doctor. She'll get you fixed up. You just hang in there.”

  Bobby came back with a roll of gauze and duct tape. The two men lifted and wrapped Elijah and carried him to one of the cars, placing him in the back seat. Darlene knelt on the floor facing him.

  “We have to get going in case anyone else shows up.”

  “Dad, we took a detour and found that tanker full of gas.”

  Mark nodded. “Okay, but we have to get moving.”

  “The only two who knew how to drive the tanker are either dead or wounded.”

  “If we can't figure it out, we'll have to leave it. We can't risk any more lives. Get your people loaded and up that hill. Use one of the abandoned cars to run through the fence. Get going now.”

  Mark trotted back to his own group. “Does anyone know how to drive a semi?”

  Private Menke said, “I can.”

  “We need that tanker moving like now.”

  Menke looked to Ward who nodded, and he ran toward the semi.

  “Someone should ride shotgun,” Ward said.

  “I'll go,” Lincoln said. He left without looking back.

  Mark felt a pang of sadness but shoved it aside. “Let's get everyone back in their cars and get out of here.”

  “You heard the man,” Ward shouted. “Let's roll.”

  The defenders had propped up the fence but it wasn't nearly as strong as the first time they'd busted through. It took Bobby several attempts but the fence went down. One-by-one, the cars ascended the hill and took up positions on the expressway. The tanker took some maneuvering to get into position to get up enough speed to make the climb. The jeep brought up the rear. With the convoy on the road, they drove in pairs at a steady seventy miles per hour, exiting at the ramp closest to the farmhouse.

  From there, it was a twenty-minute drive home. With so many vehicles they were forced to park along the street. They backed up the tanker on the far side of the property, near the garage and the two gas storage tanks.

  The entire community had gathered, waiting for the return of their loved ones. The surgery in the barn was in full function. Doc and the assorted nurses and assistants were all busy. The six wounded were brought in and prioritized. Elijah was first.

  Mark entered the recovery room to find Becca and Lynn, surprised to see the number of recovering patients. Stricken by guilt again, the sight was a reminder of the folly of his actions. Had he not been so set on his fishing trip, none of these people would be hurt and the dead would still be here. The burden of his decisions weighed on him like the anchor on the freighter. It took all his will to make his feet move.

  He stood between the beds where Becca and Lynn lay. Both were asleep, though only Becca had an IV in. He looked from one face to the other. He loved them both, yet he was responsible for their pain. He touched his daughter's cheek and slid his fingers around her hand. Her left arm wore a cast. Too numb for emotion, he stared blankly at her serene face.

  A soft touch on his arm made him turn. Lynn was awake and watching him.

  He broke, gazing deeply into her eyes. His head bent and the tears came. He tried to speak, but could not form the words. Lynn pulled him close. She placed his head on her chest and let him cry for a moment. Gripping his head with both hands, she lifted him so she could see his face. “Shh! Shh!”

  “I'm so, so sorry, Lynn. This is all my fault.”

  She shushed him and ran a hand through his hair, but offered no comment. After a while, his tears ran dry and he regained his composure. He forced his way through the guilt to look at her. Knowing what had to be done, his decision made, he kissed her forehead. “Forgive me.”

  “We'll talk about it later.” Her voice was soft, but a hard edge shone in her eyes.

  No, he thought. There's nothing left to discuss. He nodded. “I'll let you rest.” He pushed away, leaned over his daughter, planted a kiss on her forehead, and left the room.

  Fifty-Five

  Exhausted physically, Mark's mind denied him sleep. He sat at the picnic tables. How many were there? Eight, he counted, butted end to end like a rural version of a royal dining room table. How many would never again sit at this table to share fellowship, because of stupid, selfish, decisions he had made?

  “Mark, would you like some coffee, or are you getting ready to crash?” He looked up to see Lynn's daughter, Ruth. “You look like you could sleep for a week.”

  He reached out and took her hand. “I'm so sorry about your mother. It's all my fault.”

  Ruth eyed him, uncertainty playing across her face. “I don't think that's true. She didn't have to go after you. You certainly made her mad enough not to, but that's not how she is. If someone's in trouble, she's going to help. You're the same way, only—”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, sometimes it seems you go looking for trouble. I don't really think you mean to, but regardless, it finds you.”

  How old was Ruth now, sixteen? Seventeen? Yet, despite her lack of worldly experience, she could read people pretty well. But, how much of it was insight and how much was from her mother? It didn't matter, the analysis was right on. He had a strange, almost constant urge to keep moving, like a pioneer explorer. Only his wanderings brought death and pain to those he cared about.

  “She loves you, you know!”

  “Yes, and I love her.”

  “But, is it enough for you? I think that's what worries her. That one day you'll just up and go and leave her. Or worse, go off on one of your adventures and get killed, your body never discovered.”

  Yes, smart. That's exactly what he'd been contemplating. Leaving for the sake of all those in the community.

  “I think that's why she's pulled away recently … or had you even noticed? I know that's why she moved out of the house. She doesn't want to get hurt.”

  Mark didn't know what to say and Ruth seemed to understand that. “So, anyway, back to the original question … coffee or sleep?”

  He smiled. “Coffee, please. And Ruth, thank you.”

  “Hey, no problem. That's what Dr. Ruth is for.”

  He laughed to himself, wondering if she had any idea who Dr. Ruth was.

  As Mark sipped his coffee, he watched the camp work. Crews went about their daily chores. Bobby supervised the distribution of the newly acquired food and gas to some of the community members. Everyone was doing something of importance, except for him.

  He glanced across the street and saw Lincoln sitting on the steps of his porch. A six-pa
ck of beer, probably from Bobby's haul, sat next to him, one can open in his hand. Mark thought the beer had to be really warm, perhaps even skunked after all this time on the shelf of a hot building. Lincoln didn't seem to mind and bottomed up the can. He tossed the empty behind him on the porch, pulled another free from its plastic holder and stared back at Mark.

  His heart weighed heavily. He'd not only been responsible for, God, how many deaths? But also for the loss of the woman he loved and his best friend. Even though it would make Ruth's words come true, he believed leaving was the best for everyone. The only question remaining was when to go. Now would be best. With everyone busy, no one would notice he was gone.

  But he couldn't leave without knowing for sure his daughter was all right.

  He walked inside the house, poured another cup of coffee, and went to his room, the room he had once shared with Lynn, and filled a backpack. Ready, he took his cup outside leaving the bag and walked to the barn. Looking at the outside of the building, no one would know the transformation that took place inside. What had once been a dirt floor now had poured concrete. Four walls had been erected to make an operating room and a drop ceiling had been added for lighting and to create a more sterile environment.

  Except for the poured floor, the second section, now utilized as a recovery room, had been left as it was. They’d hung sheets for privacy, but that was as far as they’d gotten with the renovation. The space had never been intended to handle this many patients. A situation Mark was well aware he'd created. The unfinished space added to the already great sense of guilt he carried. He hoped someone would complete the job after he was gone.

  He stood outside the operating room wondering about Elijah. How long had he been in there? Doc must be exhausted working nonstop on the patients he'd sent her. He turned to enter the recovery room, when the operating room door opened and Doc came out.

  She pulled off her mask and flopped into a chair outside the door. She looked as Mark expected, about ready to collapse. Doc looked up and her eyes locked on the mug. “Is that coffee?”

  “Yeah.”

  She held out her hand. Mark gave her the mug. Doc sniffed at the steam, absorbed the aroma; without testing the heat, she drank half of it down. She moaned with pleasure, wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand, closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Please, tell me I'm done.”

  “I think so.”

  “What the hell happened out there?” she raised a hand, “No, don't tell me.”

  “What's the toll?”

  She shrugged. “Final count is still unknown. We lost a few, but most will make it. The one I just finished will be touch-and-go. He could go either way. All the bullet-wound patients, barring runaway infection, should recover. Lynn has a concussion; she just needs rest. Your daughter has some broken bones that should heal in time. She's young and strong, I'm not too worried about those.”

  Mark's internal alarms went off. “But?”

  “Well, I can't see if there's any internal damage. She also took a nasty blow to the head. She could have pressure building inside that I won't know about for a while in this primitive setting. I might have to go in to relieve the pressure and any time you're dealing with opening up the skull, you could create problems. But, even if she does heal, it might be a long time before we know the extent of any brain damage.”

  She opened her eyes and gazed at Mark. “I'm sorry, but I can't tell you any more than that.”

  Mark swayed, feeling light-headed. He took an unsteady step but regained his balance. Doc said something else, but Mark didn't hear. His stomach knotted at the thought of his active and vibrant daughter perhaps being a vegetable or a ghost of her former self. That changed everything, or did it? He couldn't leave with his daughter's survival still in limbo, yet knowing he was the one responsible for her condition made the need to run even stronger.

  He whirled around and hastened from the barn. Outside, he pressed his hands to his face and tried to think. Everything ran through his head, jumbled together in one long unending ball of stress. He walked without knowing where he was going. Soon, he was on the street, running alongside the property, his mind blank, his movements robotic and automatic, with no reference to time or distance.

  A car horn startled him from his trance.

  Mark turned to find a pickup truck bearing down on him. He blinked away his confusion. He stood in the middle of the road. The house and property were nowhere in sight. He stepped to the side of the road as the truck bore down on him. He reached for his gun, suddenly aware of how vulnerable he was, only to find he'd walked off without it. He didn't even have the pocket knife, Darlene still had it.

  He backed up and crouched, ready to spring as the truck pulled up and stopped. Lincoln looked back at him through the open window. They stared at each other in silence for a long uncomfortable minute. “You're not getting off that easy.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can't run from this. You caused it, now you deal with it. If I'm staying, you have to, too. Face the problem like a man and maybe we'll all get through this and be better for it.”

  Mark was dumbstruck.

  “Don't give me that space cadet look. Get your ass in the truck.”

  Mark walked around the front and for a moment thought Lincoln might run him down. He opened the passenger door and climbed in. They eyed each other again without speaking.

  Lincoln shook his head and drove. “I'm still upset with you, but you're my friend, I'll deal with it. You never intend for things to work out as they do, but for the good of everyone here, you need to think things through. The solution is not to run from your problems but to face them, correct the flaws that cause the problems and become better. These people need you, God help them all, but they do.”

  “I don't know about that.”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up. You ain't going nowhere. You're the one everyone looks to for strength and advice. If you go bananas, how's anyone supposed to survive? Just stop doing stupid things, like cross country fishing trips.”

  “Can they forgive me? Can you?”

  “It'll all pass in time. The question is can you forgive yourself? These people will need to heal. To do that, they need leadership they can rely on. They need routine and consistency. The past few months have shown us we'll never know what to expect or what dangers might come our way. We'll deal with them as they come. But in between those traumatic events, they have to know peace. They have to believe this world is still a place worth living in and that, given time, civilization will have a rebirth.”

  He slapped a can of beer against Mark's chest. “Here, drink this. Nothing like a warm beer to make everything better.”

  Mark opened the can and took a sip. Instantly he spat it out. “That's horrid. How can you drink this piss?”

  “I pretend it's the best beer I've ever had at a better time in my life, and don't let the taste distract me from that memory.”

  Mark tried again, making a nasty face as he swallowed. “Man, I don't know if I've ever been happy enough to drink this.”

  “Don't you waste my good beer, now. Drink up. When we finish this six-pack, I've got another case.”

  Mark's stomach twisted at the thought.

  “I also have a bottle of tequila, but you don't get any of that until the beer’s gone.”

  “Shit!”

  “Oh,” Lincoln laughed, “I have no doubt there’ll be plenty of that after drinking this.”

  Lincoln parked in his driveway across from the farmhouse. “This ain't perfect. You ain't perfect. Hell, even I'm not perfect, but I'm more perfect than you. What I'm saying here is, we've been dealt this new hand and are still learning the rules of the game. Bad things are gonna happen and we'll face them, but we've got enough to deal with here, just trying to survive. We don't need to go looking for more problems. After a while, the burden is too great for the best of us, which means me.”

  He smiled. “I snapped back there at the lake and said some things in the
heat of the moment that maybe I shouldn't have. I'm sorry about the tone, but not about the words. You needed to hear them.”

  Lincoln took a long drink, emptying the can. He crushed it in his hand. “I thought about packing up and leaving. I'd had enough. A lot of the community has had enough of the constant battles. Fortunately, Jenny is the voice of reason. Anyway, I'm not going anywhere, and if I'm not,” he poked Mark in the chest, “you're not. Got it?”

  “Got it.” He finished his beer and opened the door.

  “Give me the can. We're recycling.”

  Mark laughed and handed it over. “Linc, thanks.”

  “For what? Not kicking your ass?”

  “For your friendship. For being there for me, for us. For always having my back, and … for not leaving.”

  Lincoln extended a fist and Mark bumped it. “Yeah, but no more stupid shit, right?”

  Fifty-Six

  Mark found his son sitting next to his sister in the recovery room. Darlene sat next to him and her father, who'd been placed in the cot next to Rebecca. The two leaned close to each other talking in low tones. He stopped to watch them for a while and realized he'd never seen his son spend much time with the other girls in the community. The young had been deprived of so much in their short lives, but even in this new world, nature had to take its course.

  Doc came up and stood at his side. She sipped from a mug of coffee and gazed over the wounded. “It was a long night and day. We won more than we lost, but the cost was still too dear.”

  Another shard of guilt pierced his heart. He cleared his throat. “How many did we lose?”

  “The battle claimed four of ours, five of the new groups, that I know of.” She frowned. “And maybe one or two more from this group.” She nodded at the recovery room inhabitants. “It's still too early to tell.”

  She rolled her head in a circle and moaned as her neck cracked. “I'll say this though, considering the circumstances, the medical team we've assembled and trained does an awesome job. We'd have lost a lot more had it not been for them.”