by A. J. Powers
Clay handed Blake another piece of food and looked down in the bag. “You want to eat the rest tonight? Or start tomorrow with a little food in our stomachs?” Clay asked, giving Blake the choice.
He thought about it for a moment. Even though his stomach was not satisfied after the small portion, Blake knew they would fare much better with some fuel in the morning. “Save the rest for the morning,” Blake said.
“A wise choice,” Clay said as he tied the bag.
Clay turned off the lantern and they both lay down in their beds. A loud slapping sound from across the room broke Clay from his drifting slumber. “Stupid mosquitoes!” Blake said with a hushed voice. After another moment of silence, Blake added, “You still awake?”
“Yeah,” Clay replied groggily.
A silent minute passed. Clay started to wonder if there was a reason Blake had asked, but then he finally spoke. “You remember what happened to my mom before you found me and Courtney?” Blake asked.
He remembered. They were on the brink of starvation and their mother had gone out to find some food. She came back with a fresh-baked loaf of bread and a bullet in her stomach. After handing the bread to Blake, she told them both how much she loved them, then decided to take a nap.
She never woke up.
It was a heartbreaking story—one that was way too common. Clay cleared his throat. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Well,” Blake said, “that was only half the story. I never told you this, but until about a month before my mom died, my dad was with us.”
Clay wasn’t optimistic with where this was going.
“Even though things were hard, I always felt safe knowing both my parents were there for us; that they would protect us. But one night, after Courtney and I had fallen asleep, I woke up to hearing them arguing. I heard my dad say, ‘We’ll have much better odds if we aren’t having to worry about them every day,’ and that’s when I saw Mom burst into tears. I could barely understand what she said, but the more I repeated it to myself, the clearer it became. ‘How could you say that about your own children?’ I ran back to bed after that, and the next morning my dad was gone. Mom told me that he went out to try and find some food, and when he never came back she said that he must have died trying to provide for us or something like that.” A loud sniffle came from Blake’s bed as he battled through the painful memories. “I knew she was lying to protect us more than him, which is why I never said anything about it—to my mom or Courtney.”
Clay was horrified. Tyler had been abandoned, but it was by his aunt, not his parents. After Clay became a “dad” to these kids, he couldn’t fathom how a parent could do such a thing. But especially after Charles was born, Clay would rather face off against a legion of Screamers than leave his children to fend for themselves. “I’m sorry, Blake.” It was all he could say. He wanted to comment on Blake’s father’s cowardice behavior, but regardless of how Blake felt about his own father, it wasn’t Clay’s place to say such things.
“I do love her, Clay,” Blake said. “Lona, I mean. I love her and she loves me, too. I plan on marrying her someday, but I want you to know something first…” Blake’s voice trailed off, then suddenly, a bolder, stronger—if not angry—voice broke the silence of the room. “I will be a better man than my father. I will never abandon her or our kids.”
“I know that, Blake,” Clay responded immediately. “Circumstances reveal the true character of an individual,” he said, a subtle jab at Blake’s father while also acting as a compliment to Blake. “You have already shown me what kind of man you’re going to be and I have no doubt in my mind that you will make a great husband and father someday.”
The room went silent and Clay drifted to sleep. Several minutes later Blake whispered, “Thanks, Clay.”
Chapter 13
Clay departed Northfield a day earlier than he had originally planned so that he could go around the wildlife preserve in lieu of going through it. He justified his decision by identifying several promising spots on the map along the wide path around. He was confident he would have some good luck searching the area, but he knew that was a copout. He just wanted the reason to avoid the eerie forest again. As creepy as the forest was, however, punching straight through was on track to save eight to ten hours of travel time, which had to be factored into Clay’s decision-making on future trips.
Though, this morning, Clay had timed his departure from the pit stop well, a heavy afternoon storm mucked up almost two hours of the day. He considered pushing through the rest of the way, but images of the two bodies he found on the side of the same road earlier that month forced him to abandon the idea.
Approaching a semi he had spotted just off the road, Clay hopped up onto the aluminum frame step and opened the door. After pulling himself inside and locking the doors, Clay climbed into the sleeper area and yanked the privacy curtain shut. The cramped space was efficiently designed to maximize every millimeter of space. After a quick search, Clay settled in for the evening. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his dinner—smoked rabbit and a chunk of cheese—which was the last of the food he had brought with him. As he popped the morsels of food into his mouth, Clay wondered if he had enough bartering goods to make a deal with Smith for some food. He would be leaving straight from the camp to head to Liberty, since it didn’t make sense to walk all the way back to Northfield only to get on a wagon and head straight back out for the festival. And since Liberty was barely a three-day hike from where he was—if he went around the forest—Clay only needed a little bit of food to sustain him for the trip. Looking through the items he had brought, especially the ten stripper clips of 7.62x39 ready to feed into the SKS, Clay was optimistic they would work something out.
After getting to know him, Clay realized that as intimidating as he looked, Smith was just another man. Someone who had suffered greatly over the last decade and found the strength to power through. Smith was a fighter, which is why Clay planned on extending an invite for the man to join the Northfield clan. Smith had a nice little fortress setup—there was no doubting that—but what good was a fortress if there wasn’t anything worth protecting? Being isolated out in the sticks wasn’t doing the man any good and, based on their last exchange, he could benefit from some time around a few friendly people. Of course, the added muscle to Northfield’s roster wouldn’t hurt, either.
Amidst the rush to get everything prepared for his journey, Clay had forgotten to pack any form of entertainment; namely, a book to read. He found two paranormal romance novels beneath the bed—an odd find in a trucker’s cab—but had no interest in opening them. However, since Lona was a fan of such fiction, he stashed them in his backpack anyway. He would have to take extra precautions to prevent Smith from seeing them in his possession or the man would rib him relentlessly.
As Clay lay in bed, he began to reflect on the week he and Blake had spent out in the woods. It was astounding how seriously Blake took the opportunity and how fast he picked up on everything Clay had to teach. The boy exceled so much so that about halfway through the week Clay had run out of things to go over—the things he had planned for, anyway—and became more of a spectator. He merely observed the young man in action, only offering corrections or tips as issues crept up.
More than just developing survival skills, Clay witnessed a maturing in Blake’s attitude as well. He suspected that that had more to do with the conversation they had on the night of their arrival than anything Clay had taught him out in the field.
The trip had gone as planned except for one aspect: hunting. Though they had had some luck fishing and a few successful rabbit snares, Clay was discouraged when they failed to spot a single deer the entire week. The spontaneous drop in the deer population was worrisome, and it made Clay even more concerned with their food situation for the coming year. But then, about halfway through their journey back to the farm, they spotted a doe traveling through the field they were in. Clay had pointed it out to Blake, who slowly took the rifle off his shoulder an
d raised the scope up to his eye. Blake was no stranger to taking down a deer, but the doe was at least 200 yards out, which easily doubled Blake’s longest shot to date. Following Clay’s tips and advice, Blake brought the deer down with a single shot.
After waiting the typical fifteen minutes, the two made their way over to the kill. Once they arrived, Clay wasted no time getting to work, pulling everything he would need out of his pack and laying it on a small plastic tarp next to the body. The field, pockmarked with trees and overflowing with tall grass, provided decent protection from being spotted while they field dressed the animal. Though Blake was familiar with shooting deer, he had never been too involved with the butchering process, so Clay took his time explaining each step. Clay grabbed a heavy cotton sack and soaked it with his bottle of drinking water. Knowing they were only about six hours from home, he was willing to risk losing precious water. With each cut of meat he removed from the carcass, Clay placed it in the wet sack. The sack, or a game bag as it was called in the past, would keep the meat protected from flies and other insects that would quickly ruin the food given an opportunity. And the water-soaked cotton, along with the small amount of blood from the cuts, would act as a sort of fabric refrigerator to keep the meat from spoiling during the rest of the trip. Clay suspected it wasn’t quite warm enough to spoil the meat in that amount of time, but he didn’t want to take any chances. In the past, a few hours of walking could quickly turn into a couple of days for any number of reasons. Having the meat in a bag like this would keep it reasonably safe to eat for a few days as long as it stayed wet. It might be difficult to convince a health inspector to eat meat stored in such a way, but Clay was more concerned with keeping his family fed over the winter months. The cloth bag was worth its weight in gold, a gift he had received from Shelton a few years back.
All in all, the trip had been positive and Clay was already looking forward to doing the same thing with Tyler when the time came. He felt sixteen was too late, but Charlie had been a bit too young. Maybe fourteen would be the sweet spot. In any event, Clay still had a little time to decide with Tyler, and in the meantime, he would start to slowly introduce some of the same skills to the energetic boy from within the safe confines of the farm.
Clay’s thoughts then shifted to Liberty’s festival. If it was half as nice as the celebration he and Kelsey had attended three years ago, they were all in for a treat. Mayor Shelton seemed quite excited for the event, which was infectious. Clay imagined another night out with Kelsey: tasty food, a romantic setting, and no kids…
In the darkness of the stale semi cab, Clay smiled brightly. A “vacation” from his day-to-day life was long overdue.
****
“Smith!” Clay shouted toward the gates as he looked up at the security camera. “Smith? It’s Clay, open up!”
No response.
Clay waited a while before shouting again. He waved his arms in front of the camera as if he was stranded on an island and saw a low-flying plane passing nearby. But once again, nothing.
The sun had only been up about an hour, so Clay started to wonder if Smith had left before dawn to go hunt. The FEMA campsite was massive, so even if Smith had stayed on the property, it could take hours to find him.
Resigned to the idea that he could be waiting all day, Clay decided to use the gate code Smith had given him on his last visit. Being inside the walls would at least offer Clay protection from a wandering bandit. He would just need to be careful with how he announced his presence to Smith.
“Five-one-three-nine-seven-two,” Clay said aloud as he punched in the code onto the panel.
After three solid beeps, a buzzing sound erupted from the gate’s lock, startling Clay. Then, there was a loud clanking sound. The gate cried out with a hideous screech as it swung open, grating on his already tense nerves. Upon closing the gate Clay heard another, quieter clanking sound. The lock was re-engaged and Clay was safe—as safe as one could be these days.
There were several large, plastic crates lying around the concrete courtyard. Even if there had been anything of value in the crates when the place was abandoned, Clay was certain they were empty now. But he checked them anyway.
Though the concrete walls cut down on the bulk of the wind, the slight breeze that managed to get inside was intensified by the chill of the morning air. After dragging some of the crates over to the wall of the bunker, Clay stacked them two-high and created a little horseshoe fortress. Concealed by the bunker wall and crates, Clay sat down and waited for Smith to return. Boredom struck fast and hard. Clay even considered grabbing one of the paranormal romances in his pack, but the thought of Smith finding him deep in a romance novel kept the book safely hidden away.
Hours went by and Smith was still gone. When Clay had decided he would wait all day, he didn’t actually believe he would need to, but that prospect looked more and more likely with each passing minute. As the afternoon crept closer to the evening, the silence and boredom was shattered by a distant rumble.
With a frustrated sigh, Clay grabbed onto one of the crates and pulled himself up to locate the source of the sound. Pins and needles terrorized his foot as the feeling crept back into his toes. He scanned the horizon, quickly zeroing in on the dark clouds a few miles away. They were headed straight toward the camp.
At first, Clay was worried about the approaching storm, but he figured Smith would have heard it, too, and would be rushing back to avoid the downpour. Being out in the rain is never fun and it is particularly dangerous this time of year. Hypothermia from the icy rain would claim its victim faster than being naked in a blizzard. Smith will be back soon, Clay reasoned as he waited.
Clay held out as long as he could, but it only took twenty minutes of rain before he gave in. His shivering had become so violent that he started to feel lightheaded. Of course, not eating in nearly eighteen hours played a significant role in his involuntary shudder, but his body’s natural response to warm itself only made matters worse.
If he was going to survive the night, Clay needed to get out of the freezing rain. With what little energy he had left, Clay repositioned the plastic bins to create makeshift steps up the wall. Once standing on the highest crate, he could grab ahold of the metal railing of the catwalk Smith had used when shooting at the cat.
His biceps felt like they were being fed into a paper shredder as he struggled to pull himself up and over the railing. After several attempts, Clay managed to swing his leg up high enough to hook around the lower bar running along the railing. It gave him the leverage he needed to hoist himself up onto the walkway. He fell onto the catwalk and lay face down on the cold diamond-plated steel. Though the catwalk was covered, the damage from the storm was already done—Clay was soaked and the mercury was still falling. It was a situation Clay had found himself in more times than he cared to remember and each time his saving grace was finding a dry place and getting out of the wet clothes.
Growling through the exhaustion, Clay pushed himself off the catwalk and stumbled over to the door leading to the observation room. He immediately felt relief—albeit just a little—from the protection the room provided from the wind and the rain. The temperature inside, however, was negligibly different from outside. The basement was his only option.
As Clay pressed on the call button, he was both relieved and terrified as the button’s light activated. He kept asking himself What if Smith is down there? It wasn’t unrealistic to think that the security system had malfunctioned and was offline, cutting all video feed and deactivating the motion sensors around the camp. And the sound of the elevator suddenly ascending to the second floor would be cause for more than a little concern for the occupant below.
“Crap,” Clay mumbled between his heavy breaths. There was no turning back now.
The elevator’s pitiful tone sounded and the doors parted. Clay took a deep, painful breath as his lungs started to warm before stepping inside. As if he was venturing a bit too close to a bear’s den, Clay began shouting as loud as
his body would allow.
“Smith! It’s Clay! Don’t shoot!”
The elevator wrenched to a stop, and Clay cut himself off midsentence and held his breath. As the doors opened, he squeezed his eyes shut and prepared for the worse.
Silence.
Clay kept his eyes shut until the doors automatically closed. At last, the relief from being inside the compound boxed out the fear and anxiety of breaking into an ex-Marine’s stronghold. If Smith were here, he would have already announced his presence via multiple .30 caliber bullets.
He reached up and pushed the open button on the panel and the doors parted once more. This time he heard something. CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK.
Chip!
The half-blind dog rounded a corner and darted toward Clay, barking insanely all the while wagging his tail. The high-pitched, almost shrill bark of the little dog made Clay keenly aware of the headache he had developed. What is it with this place and headaches, he thought as he left the elevator.
Despite his body aching, Clay made the effort to kneel down next to the excited dog who only stilled his body once he was scratched behind his ear. The dog seemed eager for attention and was satisfied to get it.
Clay groaned as he stood back up to his feet and stretched his back. The effort had little impact on his tightening muscles. After watching Clay stretch with his head cocked to one side, Chip took off the way he had come, continuing his awful bark—as if inviting Clay to follow.
Clay stumbled down the dimly lit corridor wondering when Smith would be back. It felt wrong to just let himself inside; Clay was breaking and entering. But he had no choice in the matter and once he explained the whole thing to Smith, he knew the burly man wouldn’t fault him for the decision.
Chip darted into Smith’s dining room. As Clay followed him, he felt pebbles under his feet and after studying them as he walked, he realized it was little piles of dog food. Clay started to joke with Chip about his eating habits as he turned the corner into the dining room and had the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for air and his body trembled as the sight in front of him sank in.