Darker Days

by A. J. Powers

  “Megan!” Clay said with a throaty shout, trying to bring his sister out of the deadly trance she was stuck in. “You’ve got to help me, I can’t…I don’t have the strength.”

  She gave him a delirious smile. “Five more minutes…” she replied.

  Lifting Megan’s body from the icy waters might have been possible for Clay under different circumstances, but the added weight from her pack and rifle made the task just out of reach, even with the endless supply of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  Operating on instinct, Clay kicked the steel toes of his boots down into the snow, each kick driving a little deeper than the last. His arms didn’t have the strength, but his legs would. Or, he hoped they would, anyway.

  With the tips of his boots anchored deeply into the snow, Clay didn’t bother testing to see if it would hold. It had to. Using both his legs and arms, he pulled Megan out of the icy waters of the lake—engaging in a grueling game of tug-of-war with the Grim Reaper himself. Inch by inch, Clay snatched his sister away from death’s gripping claw. As he got her upper body out of the water, he moved his feet back and quickly hammered his toes into two new anchor points, allowing him to repeat the process. With the bulk of her weight out of the water, he was more easily able to pull her legs from the water and drag her away from the danger.

  Even though Clay had successfully pulled Megan out of the water, the battle was far from over. He needed to get her out of the cold and next to a raging hot fire. Though it had felt like hours, Clay was sure it had only been a minute or two since the ice had broken. Nevertheless, every second was vital. Clay threw his pack off his shoulders and used the quick detach on his sling, sending his rifle down into the snow. He detached the LaRue from Megan’s sling the same way, and then pulled out his Seal Pup knife. Handling the fixed blade was more challenging than it should have been as he realized there was no feeling in his fingers. But, after a few seconds, he cut both straps, freeing Megan from the backpack.

  With Megan slipping in and out of consciousness, Clay grabbed her arms and pulled her up over his shoulders. With barely enough strength to stand, Clay trudged toward the cabin—toward the shore—praying that the ice would hold their combined weight.

  Clay held his breath as he walked across the crackling ice as fast as he could; despite his effort, his speed didn’t match the urgency of the situation called for. There was no way for him to know when he finally stepped off the lake and onto solid ground, but he breathed a sigh of relief once he nearly tripped over a tree stump firmly rooted in soil.

  The stumble jarred Megan back to consciousness for a moment. “I thought you had to work today, Daddy,” Megan said.

  I have to get her warm, Clay thought to himself, his quads and calves on fire as he covered the last bit of ground to the porch.

  “Hello! I need help out here!” Clay shouted as he took the first step up the porch in the off chance someone was inside. Nobody came to their aid or tried to kill them.

  The rickety porch groaned and trembled as Clay carried Megan to the door. As expected, it was locked, but, with a sharp kick Clay broke the door in, utilizing the extra weight on his shoulders. Shards of the rotted doorframe peppered the floor as Clay stumbled inside.

  Keeping his grip on Megan with one hand, Clay used the other to grab a flashlight from his jacket pocket to illuminate the room. There it is, he thought to himself, moving straight ahead to the back of the cabin. He quickly navigated around the perfectly preserved furniture and around a large dining room table to enter what looked like the cabin’s living room. He knelt down and carefully placed Megan on the floor just in front of the stone façade.

  Clay wasted precious seconds Megan didn’t have deciding which was most important: getting a fire going or getting the wet clothes off. He saw a blanket draped over the back of the couch and made a decision. After grabbing his knife, Clay cut Megan’s shirt off, careful that his trembling hands did not cut her. He quickly unlaced Megan’s boots and pulled them, along with her sopping wet socks, off her feet. He unbuttoned her pants and yanked them off her legs.

  Clay walked on his knees over to the couch and grabbed the blanket. He placed it over Megan’s naked body, and tucked it under her back, making sure to keep her arms and legs out of the covers.

  Fire.

  Digging deep and finding an auxiliary source of energy to pull from, Clay jumped to his feet and ran out the door. Practically jumping off the porch, he ran around to the side of the cabin, grabbing a couple of logs from the pile. On his way back to the front, he spotted a charcoal grill sitting beneath a cover. He tore off the tattered tarp and spotted the big white bottle on the shelf just beneath. Lighter fluid.

  “Yes!” he said as he shuffled the logs into his right hand and grabbed the bottle with his left—it was nearly full.

  Clay darted back inside, this time clipping several pieces of furniture as he hurried to the fireplace. Wasting no time, he tossed the logs inside and began dousing them with the lighter fluid. He set the bottle off to the side and reached for a lighter in his pack.

  My backpack!

  “Ahhh!” Clay screamed in frustration as he hobbled back to his feet. He looked down at his sister as she lay unconscious on the floor. “Hang in there, Megs,” he said as he made his way to the door.

  Clay sprinted out of the cabin and back to the shoreline. It took a great deal of restraint not to attempt a world record at the hundred-meter dash, but if he were to fall into the water, then both of them were dead. Clay moved with urgency but took great care not to test the ice’s patience.

  Having finally found his pack, Clay also grabbed his ARAK-21 before making his way back to shore. Feeling a bit like groundhog’s day, Clay once again juked around the furniture and back into the living room. Having already retrieved his lighter, Clay dropped the pack and crouched down in front of the fireplace. He flipped the top of the lighter and gave it a flick.

  The fire roared to life as it consumed the flammable liquid Clay had squirted on just a few minutes earlier. The heat was remarkable, and as much as his body fought him on it, Clay stepped out of the way so that Megan could take the brunt of it.

  Her face—her body—was ghostly. He saw her chest rise as she drew in a shallow breath, giving him hope. Though Megan had taught him a few things about cold-water rescue, at this point, he had done everything he knew how to do. She was out of the wet clothes and next to a scorching fire. A scorching fire that started to fade.

  “Don’t you do it,” Clay said as he walked back to the fireplace, hearing the sizzle from the log. “No, no, no…”

  It only took another minute for the fire to finish off what remained of the lighter fluid before snuffing itself out.

  It’s too wet, Clay thought. He could try pouring the rest of the fluid on the logs again, hoping that it would get hot enough to dry the log and keep the flame going, but he wasn’t going to risk the rest of the precious fluid on such a long shot. Clay got to his feet and grabbed some newspapers, books, and a few cardboard boxes and stuffed them inside. He then dragged one of the chairs away from the large dining room table and threw it to the ground. He stomped on the leg, snapping it clean off. He repeated this process until the chair was in nearly a dozen pieces before he stuck it inside on top of the various papers. Using the lighter fluid, but not nearly as much as the first time, Clay got the fire restarted, the paper quickly igniting the rest of the kindling inside.

  While that burned, Clay ran back to the table and demolished a second and third chair. He filled the fireplace as full as he felt comfortable, with several chunks of broken chair to spare. Confident the fire would keep burning, Clay ran back to the log pile outside, and felt around. Grabbing a few smaller logs from the middle of the stack, Clay hauled them inside and began stripping the bark off. By then, the fire quieted down, so he added the rest of the pieces of chair. As he removed the bark from each log, he placed it in front of the fire to dry it out.

  Several distressing minutes passed as
Clay waited for the fire to reach a good temperature. He didn’t want to have to start the process all over again by throwing damp logs on a fire that was not ready to handle such fuel. When it was ready, he carefully positioned each log in the fireplace, as to not disturb the kindling that was already ignited. He winced as he felt his skin sizzle from the heat, but it barely fazed him. All he could focus on was warming up Megan.

  Once again, stepping out of the way, Clay sat down on the floor, his body starting to feel the effects of everything the night had thrown at him. He stared blankly into the fireplace, becoming mesmerized by the dancing flame as he waited to see if the logs would ignite. It felt like an eternity, but the flame finally sunk its fangs into one of the logs. Then another. And before long, the fireplace was burning hot and steady.

  Clay retrieved several more logs from outside and repeated the steps from before: strip the bark and dry by the fire.

  Though he was reluctant to leave Megan’s side, losing the LaRue and Megan’s pack would be detrimental to the success of their mission—even their survival—so Clay went back out onto the lake to retrieve both. Once he returned to the cabin, he secured the damaged front door before making his way back to the living room.

  Sitting on the edge of the hearth, Clay warmed himself with the radiant heat as he looked down at his sister, her skin still so pale, and prayed for a miracle. He had done everything within his power to save her—the rest was up to her.

  Chapter 40

  Clay monitored Megan’s condition throughout the night while he continued to feed logs into the fireplace, hoping the fire gods would remain pleased with his offerings. Finally succumbing to his exhaustion, he passed out around 3:00AM.

  Much to his displeasure, Clay woke at sunrise. He kept his eyes closed as he listened to the gentle pops of the dying fire a couple feet away. As a kid, he spent many a Christmas Eve out in the living room with his blanket and pillow, listening to the same soothing sounds as he waited for morning to arrive. The nostalgic memories of better days brought with it a much-needed intermission from the grueling weeks—especially the past twelve hours—that had been battering him.

  Having fallen asleep while sitting on the hearth, Clay’s body was stiff and riddled with muscle spasms. He made an effort to rub the pain out of his back—a throbbing reminder that the past twenty-four hours had not been kind to him. And even less so to Megan.

  Megan!

  With his brain still duking it out with the morning grog, Clay had not yet checked on his sister. The guilt that the thought had not crossed his mind sooner hit hard; she should have been his very first conscious thought. He looked down to see her lying on the floor, almost exactly as she was last night. The color had returned to her skin, and a long, drawn out breath confirmed that she had pulled through. Clay’s head fell back against the fireplace as he thanked God for the fortunate turn of events. And for the first time since they had left Liberty—perhaps even since the first attack—Clay felt a true sense of peace fall upon him. He hadn’t forgotten about the daunting return trip still ahead of them or the looming battles they’d face once they arrived, but Megan had survived something that she shouldn’t have. And that was more than enough reason to find some peace with the day.

  As Clay looked around, he mentally smacked himself for not venturing over to the Lay-Z-Boy across the room before drifting to sleep. After the kind of night he had had, his body could have used some time in the oversized “throne” to heal. That was a mistake Clay would not make again. He had already decided they would be staying in the cabin for at least another day or two; Megan would be in no condition to travel. The added stay was yet another delay in their journey, but they both could use a couple of days to rest before making the trek back. It wasn’t a matter of luxury; it was a necessity.

  Glancing over at the fireplace, Clay smiled as he cherished the life-saving heat flowing out. Even though there was no longer a flame to speak of, the room was still warm, maybe even uncomfortably so. Grabbing the poker, Clay stoked the logs a bit before tossing the last two inside. He would have to venture out into the cold soon to get a few more drying off. But, since the sun was up, he decided to have a quick look around the little cabin first.

  Standing to his feet was a painful endeavor that yielded far more grunts and growls than it should have. It felt as if he had been swallowed in an avalanche halfway down Everest, his body managing to find every tree and boulder along the way. The blinding pain in his legs made each step wobbly and raw, and his shoulders felt as if he had a sack of bowling balls slung over each one. Clay started to wonder if the near constant flow of adrenaline his body had produced lately was as much to blame as the physical punishment he had taken. At that moment, however, it didn’t matter. The pain was real, regardless of its origin.

  The décor of the cabin was expected for a cottage out in middle of the woods in Texas: wood-paneling slapped up in every direction, an abundance of mounted fish and animal heads crammed into the living room, the biggest mounted directly onto the chimney. There was a long, hand-made dinner table sitting almost perfectly in the middle of the cabin, acting as a divider between the four living spaces in the giant open room. Above the table was a tacky deer antler chandelier. The cabin was the epitome of cliché, and if Clay owned the place, there wasn’t a single thing he would have changed about it.

  Sidestepping the dinner table, Clay headed straight for the kitchen nook. Whoever built the cabin spared no expense. With granite countertops and slate tile on the ground, this cabin, although decorated in a way most would describe as rustic, if not redneck, was nicer than a lot of homes. Clay laughed when he saw a cute little ceramic bear hanging on the side of one of the cabinets; the bear was holding a sign that said, Please feed the bears.

  Next to the stove was a tall, oak pantry cabinet just begging to be opened. He wasn’t planning on doing a thorough search of the cabin just yet, but his curiosity forced a peek inside.

  Food!

  The small pantry might as well have been a grocery store—there were dozens of cans, boxes and sealed packages neatly placed on three different shelves. Several sealed two-gallon buckets sat on the floor—the contents inside a total mystery—adding to Clay’s curiosity. There was easily more than they could carry back with them, and that was just one small closet.

  Clay could feel his smile reach his ears. He hadn’t found a score like this since the first year—it was just unheard of these days. Fueled by such a success, he decided to take a quick, high-level look around the rest of the cabin before braving the blustery cold outside to prepare more firewood.

  The food in the pantry confirmed Clay’s suspicions that he and Megan were the first to visit the old cabin since the collapse. Whatever the former-occupants had left behind for the following season was still there. And as Clay explored the downstairs a little more, he discovered a glut of miscellaneous goods that he itched to take back home; he was not looking forward to deciding what was essential and what was indulgent.

  As he looked around, his eyes caught several Ugly Stiks stacked neatly in the corner, just waiting to reel in a monster bass. He told himself that it wouldn’t take up much space if he broke the rod in half and fastened it to his pack. But how will that help Liberty, he heard the voice of reason ask, reminding him of the real reason they were at that cabin in the first place. Clay’s personal shopping list would have to wait until he, Geoff, and Dusty could return to the cabin in the spring.

  A narrow staircase sat against the wall just in front of the door. The stairs led up to a loft-like area that covered nearly three-quarters of the cabin. Clay clenched his teeth and winced as he hiked his leg up on to the first step. The turtle-like speed Clay could climb the stairs allowed him to get a good look at the long stretch of family photos following the wall. The first picture was labeled 1988, and had a man holding hands with a very pregnant woman, standing just in front of the same cabin Clay stood in. Each subsequent frame held the same couple, the number of children and fash
ion styles changing every few steps.

  Clay’s emotions pinballed as he saw the family’s story unravel through annual snapshots of their life. By the time he reached the last photo, the year before the eruption, the young couple proudly sported a bit of gray in their hair and some wrinkles around their eyes. The children were mostly grown, with the youngest appearing to be in her late teens. A beautiful woman stood next to the oldest son, a child in her arms. They all looked at the camera with joyful expressions as they looked forward to another year together as a family.

  Clay wanted to believe that this big, happy family managed to safely stay together after the collapse, but experience told him that was just a fairytale. Even if they had all stayed together, he had yet to meet a single person in the last five years who hadn’t lost loved-ones since the ash smothered the earth…and his jaded sense of reality told him this family was no different, whether he wanted to accept it or not.

  But he willingly chose to believe this family was the exception to the rule.

  Clay was out of breath by the time he reached the top stair. He stepped into a small family room with a loveseat and a few beanbag chairs in front of a flat screen. Down a very small hall were three doors, each one opening to cramped bedrooms not much larger than the holding cells back at the FEMA camp. One room had a triple-stacked bunk bed along the wall and the other two had queen-sized accommodations. The third room—which was a little bigger than the others—was decorated with more photos documenting the happy family’s history.

  His eyes immediately landed on the rifle safe on the far side of the room. It wasn’t anything heavy-duty—just a thin-gauged steel with a piano hinge—you could pick up at a department store for a hundred bucks. It was enough to keep inquisitive kids out of trouble or unmotivated thieves from a quick score, but it wasn’t good for much else. Clay didn’t liken himself to a thief, but he was motivated. And if he didn’t find the key lying around the cabin somewhere, he already had in mind a few alternative methods to crack the door.