Ferryman

by Jonathon Wise

  He quickly scanned the area around the three men. There were several others standing further away from the flames that were somewhat lost in the shadows. Some appeared to be women and a few looked like children. He couldn’t make out their features or faces, but they all were looking at the three men. He focused the binoculars back on the men. Two of them were standing in attention to the third. The lenses weren’t powerful enough to see any real detail of the third man, but it was easy to see that he was the one barking out orders. It looked like he had long, shoulder length hair and unless the shadows and flickering fire were playing tricks on his eyes—the man was wearing a long, canvas duster like the gunslingers wore in the old westerns. Then Chuck saw him point at something. He followed Duster’s gesture over to the other side of the street and saw a woman standing next to a sedan with her arms spread to the sides. As soon as he adjusted the focus of the binoculars his breath caught midway in his throat. The woman was tied to the door. Her head lurched forward and a split second later he heard her scream. “Please…just let us leave!”

  Chuck swung the binoculars back over and saw Duster holding a bottle with a rag stuck in the top. That wasn’t from any old western—it was a Molotov cocktail. Chuck heard more screams from the woman but kept the binoculars on the man. He saw Duster mumble something as the other two men forced a fourth guy over to him at gun point. As he watched, Duster handed the Molotov cocktail to the guy and drew a pistol on him.

  It was like some morbid nightmare. Duster turned toward the woman and yelled, “Are you the one that will stop me?”

  The woman shook her head and sobbed that she wasn’t. For a second it looked like it might be over. Duster dropped his face to the ground like he was disappointed. He pulled out a lighter and lit the Molotov cocktail. As soon as the rag caught fire, the fourth guy started pleading for mercy as he backed away with the lit bottle. The other two men jumped in and prodded him back over to Duster with their rifles. There was no escape. The guy was either going to throw it at the woman, or they would kill him and throw it themselves. Chuck heard her scream, “Throw it Sam; just throw it and get out of here while you can!”

  They know each other. Chuck slung the rifle off his shoulder and tried to find Duster in the crosshairs. But with the fire flickering in the background, he couldn’t line up the shot. He tried to line up the other two men—they were standing too close to that damn fire. In a panic, he brought the binoculars back up as Duster pressed the barrel of the pistol to Sam’s head. Chuck shared in the gut-wrenching anguish as Sam drew back a shaky arm. For a reason he couldn’t explain, Chuck dropped the binoculars and swung the rifle back on the woman. As soon as he lined her up in the scope—he flinched and drew back. She’s staring at me! She knows I’m here! He quickly put his eye back to the scope and saw her mouth something to him. For a second, he was back in the woods with his dad, taking aim on the buck from behind the sycamore. His dad’s voice drifted past his ears. “Make it clean.” Before he could stop himself, he pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed through the dark, silent caverns between the giant steel and concrete structures. Chuck kept his eye to the scope only long enough to see the woman slam back against the car and then start to slide to the ground. A frenzy of screams and commotion erupted from those cheated of the moment. He yanked the rifle back and ducked behind the car. He couldn’t stop shaking. What have I done? He bit down and started hitting himself in the thigh as he cursed himself.

  A voice echoed up through the streets. “You! You out there with the gun…show yourself.”

  Chuck swallowed as he peeked around the fender at Duster. He was standing next to the fire with his arms raised and turning as he addressed all the streets coming into the intersection. He wasn’t sure without the scope or binoculars, but it looked like Sam was on his knees, crying a few feet away.

  Duster lowered his arms, walked over to Sam and pointed at him. Chuck saw the flash and heard a pop like a firecracker as Sam slumped to his knees and fell over face first. The Molotov cocktail shattered against the road and engulfed his body. The sight had no effect on Duster who was already back addressing his people. He shook his fists in the air and worked them into a fury. At the end, he turned a circle and pointed to the surrounding buildings.

  Chuck dropped back behind the car as the mob started to disperse and spread out in all directions. He heard the loud, banging thumps of the mob hitting everything they came across with bats and pipes. Like the tigers of India, he was being driven toward the hunter. He pushed off the bumper and shot back over to the corner of the building. Once behind the cover of the storefront he ran as fast as he could back toward the truck. They were searching slow and meticulous; he was running as fast as he could—they wouldn’t catch him. Or so he thought before he heard the sound of car engines turning over. For the first time in his life, he knew the taste of real fear.

  The Chevy was eight blocks away, sitting out like a sore thumb among the burnt out and mangled cars around the stadium. If they got there first they would know it was his and wait in the shadows for him to return. He knew they would do that because it’s exactly what he would do. He sprinted and dove into the cover of several decaying corpses as a truck sped through the next intersection. He would make it back—today was not going to be the day he died.

  Chapter 24

  Chuck barely took his eyes off the rear view mirror as he weaved his way down the interstate toward Madison. There were a few times when he thought he saw headlights coming up behind him, but then a cloud passed overhead and the lights died. Turns out that it was only the moonlight reflecting off one of the wrecks on the interstate. Between the fearful glances in the mirror and trying to navigate his way through the nightmare of mangled cars in front of him, he kept seeing flashes of the woman he shot. Each time he did, he told himself that it was the only option he had. That it was the only chance for at least one of them to live. How was he to know that they would still shoot the man after she was dead? Besides, he had the feeling that she wanted him to shoot, or at least he thought he did. He saw it in her eyes—right before he saw her mouth something to him. What did she say? He could almost remember speaking the words with her. Then he pulled the trigger and they were gone. For some strange reason he felt the words were still with him, sleeping deep inside his soul, waiting for the day when he would speak life back into them.

  In all the times that he prayed to find other survivors, he never imagined that he might stumble on such merciless behavior. What did the couple do to deserve that kind of death? What did the man in the duster mean when he yelled, “Are you the one who will stop me?” He felt the agony and remorse of the guy kneeling and crying. The guy shared some connection with the woman. It could have been that they were husband and wife, brother and sister, or maybe just two survivors who finally found a reason to go on living. Chuck could picture the guy looking up as the man in the duster drew the gun on him, and in his mind he knew the guy just closed his eyes and gave in to the end.

  He eased the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel, pulled his right hand free, and held it in front of his chest. He didn’t need the dim light from the dash to see that he was still shaking. He used the hard plastic surface of the steering wheel to anchor his hand again and whispered once more, “What have I done?”

  He continued to second-guess himself all the way back to Madison. It wasn’t until he turned onto Michigan that he even remembered that he no longer had a house to call home. Of course that knowledge didn’t stop him from turning on the street and driving up to where his house used to be. He parked along the shallow ditch on the opposite side of the street and got out. Only a partial brick shell stood on the burnt lot where his house used to stand. The memory of carrying Becky over the threshold swept over him. He remembered the laughter and the love. It was their first home—meant only as a starter before they could afford something better—yet it was home nonetheless. He let out a deep sigh as he turned from the charred remnants that were
once his walls, ceiling and roof, and climbed back behind the wheel.

  The next morning, he woke up on his side, spread across the bench seat of the Chevy. After taking a moment to moan and acknowledge the pain of a sore back and stiff neck, he opened the door, slid out, raised his arms and stretched so hard that his hands shook. He rubbed the life back in his eyes and the blood back in his face as he pulled in a deep breath of morning air. The smell of smoke took him back to the days of burning raked leaves as a child. Not too bad of a memory by itself, but unfortunately it also reminded him that he no longer had a place to stay. He walked to the ditch, unzipped the fly of his jeans and starting urinating on the weeds as he looked around the neighborhood.

  There was Bill and Rena’s place. Like any other home in the neighborhood, that would mean seeing the remains of his old house every day. Then it came to him. There was really only one choice. He zipped up, climbed back into the truck and headed for downtown.

  He took a right on Main Street and drove past his antique store and further on to where the homes began. He parked in front of the old brick Queen Anne on the left side of the street and walked through the wrought iron gate. Midway to the front door he stopped and looked at the front façade. The house was completely brick except for the covered porches on the front and west sides. The wood was painted and accented in keeping with the tradition of proper Victorian architecture. The house had two full floors and judging by the steep pitch of the roof, a good amount of usable attic space above. A big beautiful elm shaded the front yard, and beneath the thriving weeds under his feet he could feel closely fit stones which made up the walkway to the gate. Becky was right, this place was beautiful—or at least it was on the outside.

  He remembered not finding anyone in the house when he was gathering the dead. But beyond that, he couldn’t remember a single detail about what the interior of the house looked like. That was answered when he walked through the nine-foot oak and beveled glass front door. It still smelled like old people inside—that wasn’t all bad. It made it feel like it could have been his grandmother’s house. He inspected the floors, the trim and the grand staircase. He made his way to each room and tried the faucets in the bathrooms. There was still water pressure. It could be that the roof leaked like a sieve, but he wasn’t going to inspect that now. No…other than the smell of mothballs and a fair coating of dust, the place is actually in pretty good shape. He walked into the parlor and sat on the antique sofa. His rear didn’t sink into it like the one they had back in their house, but he could always swap out furniture—hell, he had an entire town to choose from.

  Before he knew it, he was nodding in recognition of the possibilities as he walked out onto the covered porch. There was even a porch swing. He made himself comfortable on the weathered oak slats as his thoughts shifted to how much this house would have cost before the end. The numbers that came to mind made him smile and shake his head in disbelief. He leaned back in the swing and draped his arms over the back as he looked at the magnificent houses on the other side of Main. This was nice…he could get used to it. He was just beginning to relax when it suddenly dawned on him that he hadn’t seen a garage. He left the swing rocking as he made his way around the side of the house. As expected with the architectural period, there wasn’t a garage to be found. Instead, there was a small carriage house at the rear of the property.

  He rubbed his chin as he thought about the difficulty in running a line from a generator in the carriage house to the main house. It wouldn’t be that bad. Besides it would mean he wouldn’t have to worry about carbon monoxide collecting as he slept. Although it could mean a couple of frigid, late night treks in the snow if he let the generator run dry. He took a moment to think about it. Most of the supplies like gas, tools and food were more prevalent up the hill in the commercial part of town. Still, there was something to be said about this place. Besides, it was Becky’s dream house. He dropped his head as he thought about how excited his wife would have been.

  He walked back around to the middle of the front yard and admired at the house towering over him. “For you Becky—this will be our new house.”

  Chapter 25

  As the deep scarlet leaves fell from the elm in the front yard, Chuck readied the old Victorian for winter. Two bedrooms were stocked as pantries while the third was used as a large walk-in closet. The extra clothes allowed him to minimize the water needed for washing. The oil furnace still had a partial tank of fuel, but most of the heat would come from an old wood stove and a couple of base-board units. The generator was hooked up and the carriage house was stocked with gasoline and batteries. To make sure that he wouldn’t get stuck if the snow really came down, he had a slightly used Ford Bronco parked out on the street and a Suzuki ATV parked in the carriage house.

  With all the preparation done that could be done, he made one last trip to the library to round up some books before it got too cold. Then it was time to settle in for the solitude of winter. His favorite books were those that detailed the mechanical workings of pumps, generators and diesel engines. He started off reading and scribbling ideas down on paper. Working solutions to the problems that were months or even years down the road was good for him. It helped keep his mind occupied during the daylight hours. Though as the winter dragged on, it still left plenty of idle time to think about Becky.

  He began to mimic the way she did things, whether it was the way she would organize the dishes or the odd way she would hold the spoon when she stirred the soup. All the little idiosyncrasies that made up his wife came alive in his actions as he started to live for the both of them. They were the treasures that kept him connected to her.

  One night while he was huddled under a blanket and reading a romance novel on the sofa, he said, “I have to admit sweetie, this isn’t half bad. I can see why you like romance novels. I mean it’s kind of racy.”

  He set the book down and before he realized what he was doing, he responded for his late wife. “When did you take up reading? I thought that unless it was on the boob tube you remained clueless.”

  He grinned. “No…you’d be proud of me. I’ve actually been doing a lot of reading lately.”

  “Great…you wait till I’m dead before you take up something that we’d have in common.”

  He looked at the empty cushion to his side as the grin left his face. “I wish I had taken it up sooner.” He got up and walked to the picture window to stare at the darkness outside as he sucked on his gums. “There’s nothing wrong with talking to yourself. It keeps up your knowledge of the English language. In fact I’d be surprised if talking to yourself isn’t prescribed in the survival manuals that deal with prolonged isolation.” For a second he thought about the survivors he saw in Indianapolis. He wondered if they would make it through the winter. It would be worse there. The average snow for Madison was nothing compared to what usually fell in Indianapolis. And if he hadn’t been prepared, who knows what would happen. It’s conceivable that he wouldn’t survive.

  He turned away from the window and started nodding. “Yeah…talking to yourself is good…means that I’m not alone in all this.”

  One restless night in bed Becky asked, “Do you remember the day we had that argument on the way home from my folks?”

  “Sure”

  “Well, when I got out of the truck by myself, I wanted you to come after me. Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted to.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I guess I was just scared.”

  “Scared of me? Don’t be silly.”

  “No, not you. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “If you really loved me then you should have at least tried.”

  “I could feel us drifting apart…and I just…I…didn’t…” Before he could finish he began to cry. There was so much more that he needed to say, but the words to express what he wanted to tell her were lost to him. There was no taking back what was in the past, no forgiving for not saying what should have been said.
He pulled the blankets up around his neck and prayed that closing his eyes would stop the flood of emotions he felt.

  Even though a chill in the air could still be felt now and then, the winds were coming up from the south more often than not. Winter had lost its life and spring was starting to come into its own. That meant he’d be getting out more. There were the runs necessary to restock his pantries, hunts to find more clothes that fit him, and of course trips to the library to catch up on his reading. One damp spring morning he ended up at the foot of the cement boat ramp on the river. It didn’t really surprise him. He knew he was walking that way—he just hadn’t done it intentionally. As it was every spring, the river was a little more turbulent and murkier than it was the rest of the year. The color was brought about by the mud washing in from the feeder streams. Along with the mud came sticks and trash and the occasional log.

  He spotted a clump of sticks drifting in the middle of the current. If they didn’t get caught on anything they might eventually end up in the gulf. He was watching them roll and bob in the murky water, when he began to picture the dead. The past residents of Madison he set adrift from the boat ramp. They were all there. He saw the pale, bloated face of his best friend break the surface and then slowly sink back down. Then he saw something else. There was no confusion in the small patch of material. He knew it for what it was—it was part of Becky’s favorite quilt. It was his wife. His heart sank as he pictured her there with the others, yet alone in her isolation. She was the only one he set adrift wrapped in anything. The others had the company of one another, but not his Becky…she was the one that none of them could see.