Primitive

by J. F. Gonzalez

  Where we saw that they'd painted a crude caricature of that strange god-like thing on the south wall of the cabin.

  And that they'd built some sort of altar on my front porch.

  An altar consisting of another drawing on the front door, and what looked like more of those weird geometrical drawings on the porch floor...and two severed human heads that sat facing each other on opposite ends of the porch stoop.

  "Jesus," Lori said as I pulled the SUV up to the porch.

  The presence was stronger here. With it was a feeling of dread. I thought we'd be safe here. Thought we would have refuge from the primitives, away from the major urban areas where population had been more plentiful.

  I was wrong.

  "Shit!" I muttered. I was so frustrated, so angry, so scared, I wanted to cry.

  "I don't want to stay here," Tracy said. Her eyes were wide with fright. Emily cowered against her mother.

  I know how she felt. Our retreat, our family hideaway, felt tainted now. The primitives and their strange god had marked it. I knew if we stayed here even overnight that the primitives would zero in on us. We could continue to fight them off with our superior weaponry but they would continue to come until they won.

  We stayed long enough to get more food—canned and dry goods from the pantry, and then we set off again. We left just in time. A large pack of primitives was coming down the mountain. We could hear their collective war cries as we drove away.

  Somehow we made it back onto the main road. We stocked up on more ammo at a sporting good's store in town. Martin and Lori stood guard outside while Wesley and I went in and nabbed a dozen rifles and handguns and several thousand rounds of ammunition. Wesley also snagged a couple of crossbows and arrows and some basic camping equipment—a Bunsen grill, various knives, some canteens, sleeping bags, tents. We piled this material in the back of the SUV and the Jeep, and by the time we peeled away the roar of the primitives was resounding through the valley. I was surprised there weren't any remaining in town when we drove in. Perhaps they'd instinctively left the area, zeroing in on some internal compass, heading on their own mass exodus somewhere only they were being called to.

  We made it down the other end of the mountains and made camp that night in an empty Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of a small town called Grass Valley. It was there, with my laptop sitting on one of the tables in the dining area late on that first evening, that I began this narrative. It was done not only to chronicle the beginning stages of what I've come to call the end of human society, but to eventually document for future ages our struggles as we lurch toward the unknown darkness into the early years of the twenty-first century and the third millennium.

  We'd killed over two hundred primitives in those first few days, and we realized that we would be in constant danger if we were in what were once heavily populated areas. Prior to the collapse of civilization, the least populated areas in North America were the upper west—the areas of Wyoming, Montana, and the Dakotas, along with Alberta, Canada. Wesley had been to that part of the country once and suggested we make that area our goal. "It's still early enough in the summer that we could find a large house or a cabin somewhere and lay claim to it," he told us that night. "We could get firewood and make preparations to hold us over for the winter. I don't know if the primitives will have to relearn how to make fire, but if they have to then I can guarantee that the few that are up there will freeze to death when the first winter chill hits."

  "And what about us?" Tracy asked. She was cradling a sleeping Emily in her arms. "What if we can't make it through the winter? What if we run out of food and heat, what if one of us has a heart attack or gets appendicitis and..." She let the implications trail off, but I think we knew what she was getting at.

  Wesley didn't have an answer for that and neither did I. What I did know was that everything was uncertain now. There were no guarantees that we would make it to our destination alive. There was no guarantee we would even be alive tomorrow.

  So we stayed at that Mexican restaurant that night, each of us taking an evening guard shift, and then the next morning we siphoned some gas from a handful of vehicles in the parking lot and hit the road again.

  And as we headed northeast out of California, crossing into Nevada and eventually through Utah, Wyoming, and into Montana over several days, I began seeing fewer of those strange drawings on the ground, on walls, on rocks and trees. And as we put distance between ourselves and California, I felt the presence grow fainter as we headed into some truly remote areas. Even as we hit secondary roads in Montana, relying on a map we'd picked up at an abandoned gas station somewhere on US 84 north of Casper, Wyoming, I was feeling more confident that we were going to be okay. We would find a place—an abandoned house somewhere, an apartment building, any kind of structure would do—and we would prepare it for the coming winter. We would find a way to harvest the land for our own use. I'd never hunted game before in my life, nor had I ever grown fruits or vegetables for consumption, but I could learn. We all would. Surely we could find an abandoned bookstore somewhere, pilfer a few volumes on gardening and hunting and how to live off the land. And to address the medical concerns that came up, we could pick up medicine, medical tools and books at an abandoned hospital or medical clinic somewhere. None of us were doctors, but we could try.

  And sure enough, we did. On all counts. We learned about a very large custom-built cabin in an abandoned real estate office we camped out at one night while scouting the southern fringes of Montana. It was built for a retired hospital executive and was situated on one hundred and twenty acres of fertile land, complete with a lake. We found the place easily with the help of a map and we were in luck—the place was deserted and had sustained no damage. It was almost as if it was waiting for us to occupy it.

  And it was only accessible through five miles of dirt road, far away from the secondary road, and more than one hundred miles from the nearest interstate.

  That's a good thing.

  When we arrived at the cabin we checked out the structure and the surrounding grounds and quickly pronounced it safe. The cabin was huge—constructed of thick logs, it was a large two-story, with a great room on the first floor with a stone fireplace, a large country kitchen and adjoining dining room, and a den with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Apparently the guy who owned the place was a reader in addition to being a technophile, for just off the den there was a room crammed to the hilt with computers and ham radio equipment. There were so many computer monitors and equipment in there that you could probably launch the space shuttle with the stuff.

  Upstairs there was what amounted to two separate wings—both left and right wings consisted of large bedrooms with their own baths. The middle section that joined them had two bedrooms with an adjoining bath. Tracy and I claimed the right wing for Emily and ourselves while Wesley took the left. Martin and Lori took the middle section, sharing the bathroom.

  For the first few days, we made camp. I had not felt the presence for days. It grew fainter the farther northeast we drove, and by the time we crossed the Montana state line I didn't feel it at all. I voiced this to Wesley, who nodded. "I don't feel it either."

  The others chimed in that they didn't feel it, either. Likewise, during our drive through Nevada, Utah, and into Wyoming, we came across fewer primitives. If there were any normal people in that barren stretch of land, we saw no signs of them.

  The area around the cabin was rich and fertile with deep woods, a stream a hundred yards behind the property, and a meadow located a mile away. Right off the front porch and beyond the large dirt circular drive lay a field that eventually blended into woods. One day, Martin, Wesley, and I took a ten-mile hike around the property, noting the terrain. Wildlife was plentiful. Wesley saw evidence that the area was lush with deer; he pointed out some spoor to Martin and me on what seemed to be a hiking trail. "We'll have plenty of good eatin'," he said with a grin.

  About a week into our stay at the cabin we were sitting o
utside, on the large porch that stretched along the front of the house. I had found a bunch of toys in an abandoned (and looted) general store in town the other day when Martin and I drove in to pilfer supplies, and Emily was playing with one of them—a large Barbie house. The summer night was pleasant, warm with a cool breeze.

  "I haven't felt the presence in a good while," Martin said. He was sitting in a rocking chair. "What about any of you?"

  "I haven't either," Lori said.

  The rest of us chimed in. Tracy and I traded a glance, and I looked down at Emily, who'd stopped playing with her Barbies and was regarding the grownups with such a look of seriousness that was far advanced for a girl her age. I felt an instinctual urge to steer the conversation in a different direction in an attempt to shield her from the nightmares that were to come, but Emily beat me to it. "You mean that thing?" she asked. "The thing that flies?"

  "What thing are you talking about honey?" Tracy asked. She leaned forward, and while she was obviously trying to be the caring mom, I could see from her body language that she was spooked by what Emily had just said.

  "The thing that flies," Emily said, looking up at Tracy. "I see it sometimes."

  "When do you see it, Emily?" I asked. My hand reached for the glass of scotch I was nursing.

  Emily looked at me. Her expression was hard to describe. The only way I can describe it now is she looked far older than her four and a half years. "I see it in my mind. Sometimes I see it when I sleep."

  We were silent for a moment. I glanced around at the others, trying not to let my fear shine through.

  "Do you see it a lot, honey?" Lori asked.

  Emily shook her head. "Not all the time. When I sleep mostly. But sometimes if I think about it, I'll see it. Is it the devil?"

  "Why do you ask that, honey?" Tracy asked.

  "Because it flies...and it...has horns. It looks bad!"

  I thought back to that drawing Wesley sketched out in California. With what looked like wings, what appeared to be horns sprouting from its head, and that evil visage...it did look like what we, as a culture comprised of Judeo-Christian Americans, would consider the devil. I was not a Christian—before the world ended, I was a strict agnostic, my spiritual beliefs leaning more toward those of my Native American ancestors. Those beliefs had dwindled since the days of my late teens and early twenties when I'd embraced my heritage and participated in powwows and tribal gatherings, and they made more sense to me than the strict regimen of Christianity. Tracy, on the other hand, had been raised in a Christian household, and while she had not been a practicing Christian in the traditional sense of going to church every Sunday, she was a believer. We were raising Emily with an open mind toward religion. We wanted Emily to develop a spiritual faith on own terms, to find a path that was right for her. We'd talked to her about some basic concepts of Christianity and Judaism, told her about God, Jesus Christ, and the Devil. She also knew about Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny, and The Tooth Fairy. She believed in all of them. She was four.

  What a smart-ass thing to think. If I only knew then...

  "Emily," Wesley began. He was taking keen interest in what Emily was saying. He leaned forward in his chair, his demeanor totally disarming. In the days we'd been on the road Wesley had allowed Emily to get to know him on her terms and our own, and that made me feel good. He was a father too, and I know he was grieving for his wife and son. He didn't talk about it much, but late at night when he wasn't on guard shift he would retreat to his quarters with a bottle of scotch and we wouldn't see him until the following morning when he would emerge tired, eyes red from crying and worry, and soldier on. The few times I asked if he was okay, if there was anything I could do, he would politely turn down my offer of help and say he was doing as well as he could under the circumstances. I no longer held reservations against him from a few weeks before, when he'd been forced to kill Heather.

  Emily looked at Wesley as he seemed to think of the right words to say. "You not only see this thing in your dreams, but do you still feel its presence...like the way we felt it in California?"

  Emily didn't say anything for a moment. She appeared to truly think about it, then she shook her head. "No. I don't feel it anymore. It used to feel like somebody was looking for us...or seeing us."

  We were all riveted to what that little girl was saying. Several of us nodded in understanding.

  "I don't feel that, but..." She looked from her mother to me, perhaps in an effort to seek our help. "...I still see it in my head sometimes and...it's far away...real far away... but...it has eyes...and they're...searching..."

  I felt myself shiver.

  "Do you know what it's searching for, honey?" Tracy asked.

  "No." For the first time, Emily looked afraid. "It's not looking for us, is it?"

  Martin quickly changed the subject. "If I'm not mistaken, July 4th is coming up real soon. Do you like the Fourth of July, Emily?"

  Emily brightened up quickly. "I love the Fourth of July! I like fireworks!" She clapped her hands in glee.

  Later that night after Tracy laid Emily down to bed, we met outside on the porch again. It was Martin's watch but the warm summer nights were so nice it was hard to not bask in their natural beauty. "Do you think she's really seeing that thing or do you think she's just dreaming about it?" Martin asked Tracy and me.

  "It's hard to say," Tracy said. She was nursing a glass of wine. Our nameless benefactor had a well-stocked bar that was going to be depleted by the end of the year if we didn't restock it soon. "Emily's always been an imaginative child. I'd like to think the dreams are a projection of the stress she's no doubt going through. I don't think she saw that drawing but—"

  "She's seen plenty of them on the drive out here," I said.

  Tracy sighed. "Yeah, she has."

  "The key is, she hasn't felt the presence," Martin said. "Neither have we. I agree that her dreams might be a projection of what she's been going through. She's witnessed far too much for a child her age, and you and David have done remarkably well in shielding her from much of the ugliness we've been through. I think it might be a good idea to encourage her to share with you anything she dreams about, especially when it concerns that thing."

  "You don't think her dreams are psychic visions or something, do you?" I asked.

  Martin shrugged. "No. I really don't know. Just that..." he regarded us all calmly. His Glock rested on an end table near a tall glass of ice tea. He picked up the glass, took a sip. "...I want to keep an open mind. I don't know what that thing is and...we all felt a presence of something. And now we don't feel it. Right?"

  I nodded, as did the rest of us. It was true. I hadn't felt the presence since entering Montana.

  "All I'm saying is we should allow Emily to naturally share her dreams with us as much as possible and without scaring her," Martin continued. "I'm far from being a child psychologist, and I'd like to think that what she's shared with us is simply her subconscious helping her deal with the trauma of the last few weeks."

  "That's what I'd like to think too," Tracy said.

  "But we don't know for sure," I said.

  "Right," Martin intoned.

  I didn't like the idea of using Emily as a conduit to that thing, because that's what Martin was suggesting. I expressed this to Tracy later that night in the sitting room of our wing.

  "I think we might be over-reacting just a little bit," Tracy said. "Emily's an imaginative child and she's gone through a lot the past few weeks. I think it's possible she's connected the presence we felt to that drawing, and even though she no longer feels the presence itself, she's retained the image of whatever that thing is and has dreamed about it. I think her subconscious has pegged it as a symbol for what's happened."

  Tracy's explanation made a lot of sense. And in the days that followed, Tracy researched the subject of childhood trauma and dreams further in a series of books on childhood care and development I'd brought home from our first big expedition into town. Emily's behavio
r didn't change either, a further stamp of approval on Tracy's hypothesis.

  Within a few days we decided to make the cabin our permanent home in this new world. It just felt safe. The remote location, the absence of primitives, much less other people who, to tell you the truth, I did not want to run across, was the deciding factor.

  Our days were spent securing our new home, making sure we had enough provisions. Making sure there were no signs of primitives, or other normal humans. We agreed that if we came across any normal people, either on our trips into town for provisions, or if any came across our territory, that we would have to assume they were hostile until they proved otherwise.

  "It might be a good idea to make only periodic trips to town," Lori said one day during breakfast. "Say one every few months. Both to save on gas, and less exposure for us in case trouble does happen to head this way."

  I thought back to how we found out about this cabin. We had taken a copy of the real estate listing with us when we left the building, but how many other copies were left? I mentioned this casually to the group, then made a mental note that next time we were in town to find all references to the cabin in that real estate office and destroy them. I didn't want to give anybody else the same idea we had.

  Wesley marked down the days with a large calendar the former owner had tacked up on a cork bulletin board in a kitchen alcove. He also made himself responsible for the weapons, securing boxes of various caliber rounds in a utility room off the garage. The guns and more ammunition were stored in two large gun cabinets in the living room that we kept unlocked. Wesley explained this was a necessity in the event we needed to get to them immediately. Because the weapons were already loaded and ready for use, the living room was the only place in the house Emily was not allowed in by herself.