“We should stop to talk to him,” Jake suggests, and I immediately shake my head.
“We should keep going. We don’t even know if he’s a real police officer.”
Jake glances at me, gauging my face before returning his attention to the road. “Get the knife ready just in case. It’s worth the chance.” When I make no attempt to do what Jake says, he continues trying to convince me. “If a half-decent person is driving that police car, they can tell us what bridge to take over the river and the safest route to get there.”
The police car is already slowing down in its approach. Jake slows down as well by applying the brakes, and each car rolls to a stop just fifteen feet away from the other. We’re close enough that I can clearly see the man behind the wheel of the police car is wearing a dark blue shirt with a badge pinned near his shoulder. He looks legit, which makes me calm down just a bit, at least until he gets out of his car and I see the gun holstered at his hip. He walks toward us, his left arm swinging naturally with each step he takes, but his right arm doesn’t move, his hand at the ready just inches above his weapon.
“Jake,” I whisper urgently. “He has a gun.”
“Police officers have guns,” he replies confidently, though I hear the tinge of concern in his voice. He glances over at me then locates the large kitchen knife I’ve hidden between the center console and my seat. “We’ll be fine.”
I don’t have time to decide whether I believe him as he pushes the button to lower his window and the police officer steps up to the opening. He peers down inside, looking from Jake to me and glancing around the interior of the car before his cautious expression turns warmer with a small smile.
“Everything okay here?” he asks. His concern seems genuine. He doesn’t seem to pose any imminent threat.
Jake nods, and I follow suit and then Jake proceeds to say exactly what he wants to say. “We’re looking for the safest way across the river. We’re trying to get to New York.”
The officer’s smile begins to fade. “The bridges up here have been taken over by the militia or destroyed. There’s no way across by car unless you go much farther north.”
“I don’t understand,” Jake responds with frustration. “You clearly still have some police presence around here if you’re wearing that uniform. Aren’t the police doing anything about this?”
Jake looks at the man expectantly, but the officer only manages a sarcastic laugh. “You don’t have to be from around here to know the remnants of the local police departments are spread thin. We’re not in any position to take back those bridges.”
Silence takes over the conversation, as none of us know what to say. As much as Jake and I have planned this trip back to Rochester, we never planned for these obstacles.
“I’ll tell you what,” the officer finally says, “why don’t you follow me back to the station? We have a bit of a shelter going there, and it should be safe. We can even get you a hot meal if…”
The officer suddenly stops talking. His face goes blank. Blood splatters out from his body through the open window, and it’s only then that my ears fully recognize the echoing sound of gunfire outside the car.
Jake throws the car into gear as the officer’s lifeless body falls forward, thumping loudly against the car frame before it tumbles awkwardly to the ground as we drive away. The car engine audibly strains in its struggle to keep up with our need to get away as the gunshots continue outside, the bullets eagerly looking for us as their next victims, and all I can do is look forward and try to calm my racing heartbeat.
As the impending threat fades in the distance behind us, Jake lets up on the gas and slows down to avoid the burned remnants of a few cars strewn across both lanes of the road. The whooshing sound of air through the open driver’s side window fills the space between us, mercifully relieving us of the need to verbally acknowledge what just happened.
I see a brown sign on the side of the road ahead and recognize it as one of the signs from the state park where we started our journey this morning. Jake must see it, too, because the car almost immediately picks up in speed again, racing toward the turn just beyond the sign.
The parking area we enter is littered with abandoned cars and debris. With some quick maneuvering, Jake weaves us through the chaotic scene until we’re on the winding road on the other side. It’s mostly clear as Jake accelerates through the straight stretches and takes the turns much more quickly than he should.
I grab the front of the dashboard with my good hand to brace myself as we move through one of the sharper turns, and I’m unable to hold back the gasp of fear and panic that escapes me as the car screeches around the curve.
When we’re safely through the turn, Jake glances at me briefly, but he hardly looks like my brother anymore. His face is pale and painted with the officer’s blood, the speckled remnants of the man in a horrifying display across every inch of his skin. His eyes are open, but his expression is completely blank, as if he’s not taking in what is happening around him anymore.
“Jake.” My voice is tremulous, barely audible. I try again, stronger this time. “Jake. We have to pull over. We have to stop.”
He doesn’t respond. He keeps his hands firmly on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with the force of his grip as he drives us forward, but he doesn’t otherwise move or acknowledge me. I wonder if I’ve lost him completely until I see the quick change in his posture, the relaxing of his shoulders, but as the car begins to slow, his breathing only quickens. He yanks the steering wheel to the side, pulls us off of the road, and comes to an abrupt stop.
The gearshift is barely in park before Jake puts his head in his hands as he leans forward and tries to get his breathing under control. I reach over to wrap my arm around his shoulders, providing silent comfort to him as I do my best to hold in all of the emotions that want to pour out of me just like they’re escaping my brother. His breathing suddenly stops, and I see that he’s removed his hands from his face and is now inspecting the hints of blood splattered across his skin.
“I killed him,” he says in a low voice. “That man is dead because of me.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t—”
He shakes his head. “I should have listened to you. If we hadn’t stopped to talk to him, he might still be alive.”
My heart clenches in my chest as Jake looks at me with desperate and hollow eyes, pleading with me to somehow make this right when there’s absolutely nothing I can do to fix it. I can’t put up this facade of strength any longer, and before I have the chance to lose it completely in front of my brother, I reach over to wrap my arms around his back in a tight embrace. It takes a moment, but eventually I feel his arms enclose me, his full acceptance of my support and his attempt to reciprocate it, as I know he can feel the silent tears streaming down my cheeks no matter how quietly I shed them.
These are tears of frustration and helplessness, a sign of lost hope that must be regained. They’re an offering to those who have been lost and to those who still struggle to survive. They feel like all I have left until I remember that not all is lost. I still have my brother with me. We have each other, and as long as we’re together, we have a chance to get through this. He’ll be my strength and my purpose. He’ll be my reason to survive.
3
Now
“Jake.” His name starts out as a whisper from my lips, the word lost to the darkness inside this room, but as I come to fully remember the person I was with when we were taken, my voice quickly finds itself and roars through the room. “Jake! Please say something!”
No response. No movement. Not a sound around me. I briefly struggle at the leather bindings connecting me by chains to the floor and the ceiling, but the effort is pointless and only further aggravates the pain in my wrists from being strung up like this.
A sharp growl escapes my chest as I give one final frustrated yank on the bindings and finally abandon the effort. I hate what I’m going to have to do next, luring out the monster
to see me, but it’s my only way to get information about Jake.
“Hey!” I scream out. “Where is Jake? Where is my brother?”
There’s no response to my cries and no audible sign of movement outside of this room. I wait a full minute before I start to panic at the thought of losing the only person I have left in this fucked-up new world. I’m not even using words anymore, just screaming wildly, letting out all my emotions and frustrations in these desperate attempts to get the attention of the man who took me and strung me up like a piece of meat in this dark room.
My screams are nipped into silence as heavy footsteps approach from outside of the door. As they come to a stop, the door opens slowly to reveal the man just behind it, but he’s not shadowed by a bright backlight this time. His face is fully illuminated by the flickering light of the candle he’s carrying, revealing his tousled dark hair and sharp features with a hint of stubble on his jawline, a mask of perfection if not for the scowl on his face and the thin, faint scar across his left cheek.
The door creaks louder as he opens it completely. I try desperately to look beyond the approaching man to see anything outside of the room, searching for any sign of Jake, but it’s too dark out there. I can’t make out anything beyond the doorway, so my focus turns to the only resource I have left.
“Where is my brother?” I surprise myself with the authority in my voice, but then remember how I’ve drawn my strength from Jake and how I’d do absolutely anything for him. “Where is he?”
The imposing man is only steps away from me now. His eyes appear to be an olive color in the candlelight, but they give me no insight into his thoughts or intentions.
“Where is Jake?” I press further, fully aware that I’m walking a fine line, but unable to hold back from asking the question anyway. I need to see him. I need to know he’s okay.
The man continues to stare at me with his penetrating gaze, and I can’t take this standoff any longer. I scream Jake’s name again in a desperate attempt to let him hear my voice through the open door this time. Over and over I yell for him until my voice is overtaken by the sob that’s building in my throat at the lack of response. I have to stop to swallow it, to close my eyes and regain some control of myself, and the silence that follows is absolutely devastating.
“He can’t hear you,” the man abruptly says, causing my eyes to shoot open.
“Where is he?” I ask again, my voice not nearly as steady this time.
“He’s nearby.”
Hope swells within my chest. “Is he okay? Is he—”
“I want you to join me for dinner,” the man interjects as he steps closer to me. I instinctively cringe and move away as he brings his face close to mine. He reaches up with his free hand to the binding on my left wrist and works to release it.
I feel instant relief as my arm drops to my side, finally returning to its natural resting position, but when I try to rotate my wrist, the pain is too much. I can hardly move the fingers that I was barely able to curl in my hand before, because they had never had the chance to be fully rehabilitated.
At any moment the man should be freeing me from the rest of my bindings, but instead I see him walk away from me, taking the only light source in the room with him.
“Join me for dinner,” he demands. “I’ll be waiting for you.” Without another word, he turns and exits the room, but leaves the door wide open.
I stare at the open doorway for a moment, overjoyed at the thought of getting out of this room but dreading the plans this man has for me. Thoughts of freedom and the potential to see Jake again overshadow my worries, and I immediately reach up to start working at the binding on my right wrist.
Each movement of my left hand is accompanied by a familiar searing pain, but I grit my teeth together and push through it. My fingers make every pathetic attempt possible to work together to pull at the leather strap. But it’s too tight, and my seemingly useless fingers can’t grip it enough to free it from the buckle.
Silent tears dampen my cheeks as my body works through the pain and frustration to which I’ve grown accustomed, frustration with using the hand that has not regained full functionality since the incident that changed the course of my life. Anger seeps into my emotions as I realize that the man did this on purpose, fully knowing from the scar on my left palm that I would struggle to release myself using that hand. The heated emotions become too much and erupt in a desperate cry of frustration that pours out of me, surely heard by the man who put me in this position and who is probably enjoying every moment of my pathetic struggle to break free.
A sob escapes me, and for a moment I want nothing more than to give up, but thoughts of Jake remain at the forefront of my mind, refocusing my efforts and reminding me that I have more than my life to save right now. I slowly and meticulously begin to work at the binding again, concentrating on each individual movement of my fingers to get a firm hold on the leather strap. With every ounce of strength and determination left in me, I yank the strap down just enough to free it from the buckle.
I’m not ready for the sudden loss of the support that was keeping my body vertical, and as soon as my right wrist falls free from the binding, I go crashing forward and down to the floor. My knees take the brunt of the fall against the hard cement, but my hands instinctively move out in front of my chest to brace the rest of my body. The full weight of my impact crashes onto my hands, causing my left wrist to give out and my head to hit the floor.
I lie still for a moment, dazed from the fall, before I realize how close I am to getting out of this room. My thoughts immediately turn to releasing the bindings at my ankles, a process which takes only seconds with my sore, but functional, right hand. The sound of the chain falling against the cement as I throw the last binding to the side causes the most liberating feeling within me that I almost imagine myself free, until I glance at the open doorway and realize how far I am from being free of this place and the man who took me and my brother.
There’s no other option, though. I have to walk through that door and play into this sick man’s games if I am to have any chance of seeing my brother again. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure Jake’s safety.
Before I have enough time to let my thoughts linger on what’s coming next, I struggle to my feet and walk unsteadily across the threshold to whatever awaits me on the other side.
4
Before
Out of all the hardships we’ve endured lately, the last two days since the police officer was killed have been particularly difficult. I feel like I’m watching the slow destruction of my brother who has shown such strength and resilience over the last few months. No matter what I say, he won’t stop blaming himself for the officer’s death. He’s also feeling guilty for the subsequent engine issues we’ve had with the Subaru since he pushed the car to its limits trying to get us away from the gunfire.
We’ve opted to stay in the confines of the state park for now until we can get the car fully functional again. Jake has remained completely focused on trying to fix the car, even though he has no mechanical background. My sole priority has been to keep my brother sane, doing anything I can to keep his spirits up, trying desperately to make him understand that none of this is his fault. My efforts to accomplish these goals seem just as fruitless as Jake’s attempts to fix the car, though, because Jake continues to be miserable. Plus, we’re still stuck here on this dirt trail in the middle of the forest.
I’ve spent the last couple of hours trying to indulge Jake’s anxiety by looking under the hood of the car with him, checking tubes and wires and making adjustments with our limited tools, doing anything that could possibly help to get this car moving for long distances again. I worry that it may be a lost cause, but I’m not ready to tell that to Jake yet. I can’t squash his last remaining hopes while he’s already feeling defeated by the events that led us here.
Despite the tree cover above, the heat of the afternoon sun bakes me as I take a break, sitting on a fallen log lost in my
thoughts. Jake’s nearby, still fully engaged under the hood of the car. I look down at my hands and arms that are covered in dirt and grease and opt to make a quick trip to the small pond that’s farther down the dirt trail.
It’s hard not to appreciate the beauty and serenity of the forest even though we’re essentially trapped here. The water at the pond is completely calm when I arrive, not even a ripple disturbing its surface. I kneel down in the grass at the edge of the pond and lean over the water, catching a glance of my face reflected back at me—my dirty and exhausted face—before I quickly dip my hands in to splash the water onto my arms.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually I’ve rubbed the majority of the dirt and grime off of my arms and hands. When I’m convinced they’re clean enough, I move on to bending down close to the pond’s surface to hold my hair back and splash water on my face. Over and over, I bring the refreshing cold water to my skin to wash away the dirt and sweat until all of a sudden, I’m falling forward into the water. My entire body is engulfed by the cold liquid as I struggle to get to my feet in the knee-deep water.
When I finally upright myself, I brush the wet strands of my long, dark hair away from my eyes to see Jake standing at the edge of the pond with the tiniest smirk on his face.
“You…” I begin to say as Jake bursts into a triumphant laugh. As he’s basking in his accomplishment, I take the opportunity to charge him, wrapping my arms around his midsection and pulling him backward with me until we’re both submerged in the water this time.
Jake’s still laughing hysterically as he comes up for air, and I can’t prevent myself from joining him in the jollity, enjoying this light and entertaining moment between us, even though it’s mostly at my expense. When our laughter has calmed down some, we both orient ourselves upright again and sit next to each other in the water.
Falling Ash Page 2