Jayla found no one. Everyone in the neighborhood of her father's cabin, cabins which were built miles apart from each other, had left, probably returning to civilization when the power went out in the remote locations.
She wanted to do the same, but had found no sign of her sister in three days of searching. She didn't know what to do.
She followed a map she had found, more of a sales brochure than a map, visiting each cabin, knocking on the door, the windows, the attached sheds when there were any, and even, in desperation, had broken into a few. Everyone was gone and there was no sign of Jada.
She traced her sister's likely path down to the lake several times, examining every step of the way, every bush, every tree, hoping to find a clue, but it was as if her sister had simply vanished.
She wondered if it were the Rapture.
She didn't believe in that nonsense. She knew lots of Christians who didn't believe in it either, but aliens had shown up and now lots of people, including the aliens, had just vanished. Maybe it was real.
But, irrational or not, she didn't believe that her sister had been taken to heaven. She believed her sister was out there, in the woods somewhere, and needed her help. She just didn't know where to look anymore.
On the third day after her sister's disappearance, Jayla sat on the shore of the lake Jada had probably hiked to and stared at the water. The skies were cloudy and the air unusually cold for a summer day, even an early summer day. Jayla had worn a sweat jacket, and she pulled it around herself, zipping it up.
In doing so, she almost missed something. She stared back at it again, and wondered if she had just imagined it, as it was gone. She stared at the same spot of sky until she saw spots, and there was no evidence of what she had seen. But she had seen something.
Unless it was just wishful thinking.
She stood up and started running along the lake, heading towards the other side of it, towards what she had seen. Had Jada hiked around the lake? Was she on the other side of it, and was the puff of smoke Jayla saw from a fire lit by her sister?
When a fireplace burned hot, it was impossible to see smoke from it. But often, when a fire first started, little puffs of white or gray smoke would come out, and Jayla had thought she had seen just such a puff of smoke.
She didn't know any cabins were on that side of the lake, they hadn't been marked on her map, but it made sense that people put them up wherever they were allowed. Maybe Jada had broken a leg or something and was holed up in one of them, starting a fire to keep warm or perhaps cook some food on. Could Jayla allow herself that hope?
She ran faster.
The lake was large, and it took her a couple of hours to get around to the other side. She couldn't run the whole way, walking briskly when she was out of breath, and she wondered if Jada had really gone this way on her own. Perhaps there was a path not far away from where Jayla ran, but she didn't want to risk looking for it. She had to get to where she had seen a puff of smoke as soon as possible.
She arrived at a cabin late afternoon and it looked deserted. She didn't see a car, but there was a barn shaped garage near the cabin. There was trash around the cabin, which was unusual. Most people rich enough to own high quality cabins this remote were fastidious.
Jayla knocked on the door and yelled her sister's name. There was no answer. She tried the door knob, but it was locked. She tried to peek through the window next to the door, but the cabin inside was dark and she couldn't see anything. She yelled Jada's name again.
She moved around the side of the cabin and tried to look through the windows. She didn't see anything. She had just decided to break into the cabin when she heard a gruff, "What are you doing?"
She spun around to see a grizzled man in a tank top and dungarees holding the cabin door open. She ran back to him.
"I've lost my sister. Have you seen her?"
"What's she look like?"
"Me, only younger."
He shook his head. "I haven't seen no one."
"Could you help me look for her? Please? She's been lost for days."
"I don't know," the man mumbled.
"Her name is Jada. I'm Jayla." She held her hand out to shake the man's hand, anything to make a connection to him, to get his help.
The man reached out and took her hand limply. "Pleased ta meet ya."
"Will you help me?"
"I s'pose."
"Thank you."
"You wait here. I'll be right out," the man said, heading back into his cabin. Jayla tried to peek through the open door as he made it wider, but it was dark inside and he closed it quickly.
Jayla felt a sense of relief. She didn't have to do this alone. That, in and of itself, made her feel better.
She wandered off the porch of the cabin and looked around. She was surprised the area around the cabin was so littered, and wondered why the man wasn't taking better care of it. She also wondered where his car was. Probably in the barn shaped garage.
Curious about her new benefactor, she wandered around, moving closer to the garage. He still hadn't come out of the cabin, so she peeked through a window in the side door. It was dark.
She looked back up at the cabin, but there was no movement, so she opened the garage side door a little and looked in.
There was an old car inside, along with some barn implements. It looked more like a barn on the inside than a garage, albeit a small one, and this stoked Jayla's curiosity.
She looked back at the cabin again. What was keeping him?
She turned back to the garage, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. There was something strange sticking out of the open window of the car. She suddenly had to know what it was, and she entered the door and moved quickly to the car. It was a thick stick, just like her father's hiking staff, and Jayla almost turned to leave the garage. But she reached out instead and grabbed the stick, and even in the dim light, she knew it was her father's.
The side door to the garage opened and the man stepped inside, holding a shotgun. Afterwards, Jayla asked herself why she hadn't thought the man would shoot her immediately, but at the moment she had no such thoughts. She simply lunged forward, jabbing the staff forward and hitting the man on the side of the head.
He stumbled back, dropping his shotgun, and Jayla hit him again. He fell to the ground and she hit once more. He stopped moving. She stepped over him and fled the garage, getting outside the door and realizing how stupid she was.
She went back inside, looked at him to make sure he wasn't moving, stepped back over him and retrieved the shotgun. She ran back outside, breathing heavily, coated in sweat, her hands trembling.
The cabin door was locked, but she hit it several times with the butt of the shotgun and the door opened. She called her sister's name, then turned the shotgun to face forward. What if the old man wasn't alone?
She called out again, then flipped a switch. No light. Idiot. He doesn't have electricity either, she chided herself.
She kept the shotgun ready, holding the hiking staff awkwardly, and searched the cabin, calling Jada's name. Her sister wasn't in the main room or the kitchen area. Jayla opened other doors cautiously, just opening the handle then kicking the door with both hands on the shotgun. The bedroom and a bathroom were empty.
She went back out into the main area and looked around. There was a broom closet. She opened the door cautiously and almost passed out from relief. Jada lay in it, her eyes wide, her mouth duct taped shut, zip ties around her hands and feet. Her hands were also attached to a pole with zip ties.
Jayla dropped the shotgun and staff and fell on her sister, hugging and kissing her. She heard muffled moans, and she pulled back, tearing off the duct tape.
"Baby, are you okay? Are you okay?"
Jada's eyes were still wide and she screamed a little.
Jayla swung around, reaching for the shotgun,
but there was no one behind her. She stood and went into the kitchen, searching through drawers until she found a large, serrated knife. She ran back, the shotgun still in one hand, and sawed at the zip ties around her sister's feet.
Her sister's boots were gone, her hiking shorts gone, her shirt and underwear filthy and torn. It was no secret to Jayla what had happened.
She cut the ties on her hands next and hugged her sister. Jada didn't respond.
"We've got to get you out of here," Jayla said and tried to pick Jada up. Jada wouldn't walk.
What could she do? She couldn't carry Jada and the shotgun and the staff. And she couldn't leave the shotgun here for the man to get it back.
Why had he done this? To a sixteen year old?
Frustration and fear turned to anger and hate, and then Jayla noticed the box of zip ties in the closet. She could make sure he didn't follow them.
Grabbing the box, her staff, and the shotgun, she told Jada she would be right back, and she left the cabin and headed back to the garage.
The man still lay on the ground and Jayla poked him with the shotgun. He didn't react. She poked him harder. He still didn't move.
She set the shotgun down outside the building and took the staff. She had to make sure he didn't try to grab her while she was putting the zip ties on his hands and feet.
She raised the staff in the air and brought it down on his head. To make sure, she hit him a second time.
"How could you do that to that baby?" she screamed at him and hit him again. And again. And again. She couldn't stop, but then she did, sitting on the ground next to him and weeping.
She grabbed his hands, his filthy hands, and pulled them around behind his back, putting the tie on it and zipping it tight. When it was as tight as it would go, she pulled again.
She did the same to his feet, trussing him up the same way he had tied up her sister.
She also didn't want him calling for help, in case he had an accomplice or a neighbor who hadn't left yet. She saw an oily rag on a workbench and she went to it, stepping warily over him. Even tied up, he felt dangerous.
She pulled his mouth open, it was hard to do, and stuffed the rag into it, attaching two zip ties together and putting them around his head and over the rag. She pulled one tight and it cut into his lips, dark blood spilling a little out of the side of his mouth.
It repulsed her to be so close to this piece of excrement. She wanted him punished. She hit him again with her staff.
Running back to the cabin, afraid the old man would somehow get himself free, or an accomplice would arrive, Jayla slammed the door open and told her sister she had to get over herself and they had to leave. Now.
Jada just lay where Jayla had left her, her eyes staring glassily at nothing.
Jayla got a cup out of the kitchen and filled it with cold water. She splashed it on her sister's face.
"We have to go!" she screamed, but Jada still didn't move.
Jayla set the shotgun down, keeping herself between it and the door, and picked her sister up under her armpits, dragging the girl across the floor. She could move her, but it was hard and there was no way to get all the way back to their cabin like that. It would take days.
"Jada, please. We are going to die if you don't move."
But Jada didn't move.
What had that man done to her?
A quiet, dark thought formed in Jayla's mind, but she dismissed it. She couldn't kill him. She couldn't take the shotgun out to the garage, place it against the man's head and pull the trigger. She just couldn't do that.
She wished she had the courage to do it. It's what he would have done to them. He would have used them and then killed them, dumping or burying their bodies deep in the woods where they would never be found. Especially in the chaos of war with the aliens, no one would ever have even taken the time to look for them.
For the first time in her life, Jayla felt what the lack of civilization meant. There were no teachers to break up fights, no parents to bring lunches to schools, no police to arrest monsters like the one she had trussed up in the garage. There was no law and order.
She felt fear.
"Jada, we have got to go!" she shrieked, but Jada still lay there.
Jayla went back into the kitchen and started hunting through drawers. She couldn't find what she was looking for. She wasn't even sure the car worked, but then she remembered Jada's staff in it, and that must have meant the man had given her a ride.
What had he done after that? Had he drugged her? Maybe that's why she wasn't responding.
She started slamming drawers open, looking for keys, then she tore things off the walls, looking for a key chain or some evidence of where the man kept his car keys.
And in that moment she knew where they were. She was going to have to go back out to the garage.
With the shotgun in hand, cradling the staff in case she couldn't fire the shotgun, or she dropped it in panic, Jayla left the cabin again, left her sister behind again, and walked slowly to the garage.
If he moved, she'd shoot him. If he made a noise, she'd shoot him. That would be justified.
What would happen if police did come back up here and found the man dead, tied up and executed. They wouldn't care what he had done. They would go after Jayla. She had hit him and tied him up in self-defense. They wouldn't convict her of that. But if she shot the man while he was helpless, that was a different story.
Maybe she should untie him and let him attack again, and then shooting him would be justified. But the thought of untying that monster, of giving him any chance at them, made her legs feel like water. She felt the sweat pooling under her arms. Her whole body felt sweaty, but cold. There was no way she was going to let him go, and there was no way she was going to wait around for him to free himself. She had to get herself and her sister off this mountain.
She used the barrel of the shotgun to nose the door open.
"Don't you move, or I'll shoot," she yelled in. She heard nothing. He didn't look like he had moved. She stepped in, the gun down, pointed at him, and she nudged him with the barrel. He didn't respond.
"You stay still, you hear?"
She bent down, setting the staff against the door frame, and holding the shotgun in her right hand. The long weapon was awkward as she reached forward, and although his hands were still zip tied behind his back, she imagined him twisting and grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling it out of her hands.
"You even breathe I'll shoot you. I swear I will. Don't you believe me?"
The old man didn't breathe.
She hoped he had a key chain on his belt, like a janitor might, but he didn't. The keys would be in one of his pockets.
He lay on his left side, and Jayla prayed he was right-handed. She tried to remember how he held the shotgun and thought maybe he had held the trigger with his right hand and the pump action on the barrel with his left.
"I'm reaching my hand into your pocket right now. Don't you get no funny ideas or I swear I'll blow your head off. You'd better believe me."
She reached her hand forward, and her skin touched his jeans. She pulled back in revulsion, took a deep breath, and tried again. She touched the cloth of his pocket and looked at him to make sure he didn't move. She poked into the pocket with her finger, but she didn't feel anything.
She shivered and pulled her hand away. He had curled up, and if the keys had been in that pocket, they probably would be at the bottom, and she was going to have to dig them out. She wanted to throw up.
She set the shotgun down, leaning the barrel on his legs where she could grab it quickly, and reached into his pocket with her right hand, digging deep into it. She was rewarded with the touch of metal and she pulled the keys out, grabbed the shotgun, and fled the garage. She bent over and threw up.
She ran back into the cabin, sp
itting bile out of her mouth on the way, and set her weapons down, picked up Jada's torso again, grabbing under her arms, and dragged her sister out to the porch. She ran back in and got the shotgun and hiking staff, and brought them back out.
"You hold this," she said and set the staff across Jada's bare legs. She didn't know where the man had hid her shorts or her boots, but she didn't care. She wasn't going to look for them.
She ran back to the garage and stepped around the tied up man and went to the main door. It opened easily and she ran around to the driver's side of the car, then paranoia kicked in. She opened the back doors and made sure no one was there, and then she used the key to pop the trunk. It held nothing but a fuel can and some tools.
She slammed the trunk and half expected the man to be standing there, watching her, but he wasn't. He still lay unmoving on the ground.
She got in the car, started it, and gunned it out of the garage, swinging it as close to the porch as she could. She left the engine running, opened the passenger side door, and dragged her sister off the porch and on to the front seat. It was hard, and it hurt her back when she pulled Jada up to the seat. This girl had to recover, she thought.
Jayla threw the hiking stick into the back, slammed her sister's door shut, and ran around to the driver's side, jumping in and tearing away from the cabin as fast as she could, the vehicle careening around the bend as she got on to the road, leaving behind the old man who had started dying the first time she had hit him, and who had been dead by the third strike.
Eva awoke one morning and her apartment, her Agency safe house, was still dark.
She switched on her battery powered lantern, not knowing how long her batteries would last. There was a stack of them in the storage room, but they wouldn't last forever. She knew there had to be some kind of air handling system that still functioned, since the safe house hadn't begun to smell stale. Perhaps it was solar powered. The Agency thought of those kinds of things, but it still bothered her to use the kerosene lamps because of the fumes. She didn't want to asphyxiate.
She went through her daily routine on this morning; yoga, a light workout, cold cereal with powdered milk for breakfast, kickboxing on the punching bag, another workout session with weights, then running in place for an hour, the treadmill didn't work without power either, just like the tanning bed, a sponge bath with bottled water, and finally, dressing for lunch.
But this day was different.
She couldn't tell what changed, but as soon as it did, she felt it while she dressed, she knew what she had to do.
The oppressive darkness overcame her, and she couldn't take it any longer. No matter what her instructions, or lack of instructions, no matter what her fears of what had occurred or was occurring outside, she couldn't take another minute in her safe house. The walls felt like they were closing in on her and ghosts were hiding around every dark corner. Every fear she'd had as a child, every inadequacy she'd ever felt as a person, all returned in one sudden moment as she dressed, and she changed what she was putting on.
Instead of comfortable clothes for sitting on her couch or lying on her bunk and reading, she put on baggy camo pants over shorts, a tank top with a long sleeve shirt over it, thick socks and hiking boots. She picked up a backpack from the storage room and began filling it. Extra clothes, protein bars, water, a 9 mm Glock, extra magazines, flashlight, batteries. The pack filled quickly and she remembered the thought problems about what to bring with you if you were stuck on a desert island.
She laughed and it lightened her mood. Recalling those lessons, she added matches, toilet paper, feminine pads, a map, a compass, a combat knife, sunglasses, a baseball hat, sunscreen, although after days in the dark she wanted sun on her skin again, a small notepad, and a pencil. She looked around the storage area, shining her lantern in the corners and in the closet to see if there was anything else that inspired her that she should bring.
She looked longingly at the MP23 rifle. It and its ammunition would be heavy. If she had to walk a long distance she could never bring it. But if she found a ride, she could come back for it.
Then she started packing more bags. There were backpacks and duffel bags in the closet, and she pulled them out, filling a duffel bag with the MP23, two more pistols, and all the ammunition and grenades the bag could hold. There were two kinds of grenades in storage, hand thrown and ones that launched from the MP23. She brought both.
She carried the bag out and set it near the door.
Eva filled a second duffel with more food, water, vitamins, sanitizer, medicine, bandages, and other first aid supplies. It went next to the first bag.
She stared at the two bags, and if she were able to bring both of them she wondered which would safe her life. The bag that sustained life or the one that took it.
There was only one way to find out.
She filled two more backpacks with supplies, not having any idea of how she would get back into the safe house or what circumstances would allow her to carry this much gear, but she felt a need to be prepared.
She went into the bathroom and checked the tank behind the toilet. It was over half full. She added some water from the bathtub using a pitcher she kept there for that purpose. She kept the bathroom drain plugged and reused any water left over from washing for the toilet.
As she sat on the toilet, she looked around the bathroom lit only by her tiny lantern. Relief at having made the decision to leave overwhelmed her. She didn't know why it had taken so long for her to come to that conclusion, but she knew it was the right thing to do. She was proud of herself for what she had accomplished, living in the safe house, keeping herself sane and prepared, motivated and alert, while alone and in the dark.
She had succeeded.
And now it was time to move on.
She reached behind her and flushed the toilet, thinking about what it was going to be like, relieving herself in the woods while hiking, she still didn't know where she was headed but she didn't care, and Eva remembered that she should add a small shovel to her main backpack. She'd seen such a shovel in the storage area but hadn't fathomed what she could use it for. Now she realized why it was there and she was embarrassed she hadn't thought of it before.
As she left the bathroom, she heard a spitting sound, almost like coughing, behind her. She whirled around, something gripping her heart, and she held the lantern up to see what was happening.
The noise was muffled, and she realized it was in the toilet tank. She took the lid off and water was spluttering out of the nozzle, as if the plumbing was working itself up to try to refill the toilet.
She put the lid back on and turned on the faucet. It coughed and spluttered, and initially a brownish water came out. But as she watched it, the water turned clear.
The water was back on!
She didn't plan on staying, but a survival instinct kicked in. Besides, someone else might need this refuge.
She turned the water on in the bathtub, then went into the kitchen and began filling the empty bottles she had carefully stacked in the corner. She wasn't sure if the water was drinkable yet, but it could be used for bathing and flushing. After filling a couple of dozen bottles, she ran back into the bathroom and checked on the tub. It was full enough, so she turned the faucet off.
She finished filling bottles in the kitchen and felt good. She could leave now, having stocked the safe house for the next agent, should anyone ever need it.
She grabbed the shovel out of the storage room and added it to her backpack.
Eva shouldered the backpack, looked at her extra bags and wondered how she was going to carry all that gear, and put her hand on the door. It was the first time she had done so since she had entered the safe house, and a fear of what lay on the other side of the door crossed over her.
She took a cleansing breath and turned the handle.
It wouldn't move.
&nb
sp; Eva tried the door for over thirty minutes, then went into the storage room to find the manual for the door. The Agency had manuals for everything, and when she found the one for the lock and learned that it wouldn't open without power, she cried for the first time since she was twelve.
Wolfgang awoke, his head on his wife's cot. He had slumped over on the stool he sat on and fallen asleep.
Something felt wrong.
He was groggy, not enough sleep for too many days, and he couldn't think. He looked around for water or something to drink, but there was nothing in the tiny tent. There were no hospitals any more, or they were full, and Wolfgang's wife was lucky to have a cot and a tent and an IV that hydrated her with the water Wolfgang poured into the bag.
He stood and stretched, his back cracking and making him aware of his age, and he shook his head.
The feeling of wrongness didn't go away.
Leah wasn't there. She had probably gone to get food or something. He marveled at the girl. How helpful she was. He guessed she didn't have anywhere else to go, but she was still helpful. He didn't know how he could have taken care of his wife without her. He would have, but he would have had to leave her alone at times and that would have been nearly impossible. With Leah, one of them could always watch over her.
There was talk of shifting winds and the radioactive clouds returning to wash over Kaiserslautern. They would have to move, and Wolfgang would not be able to move his wife on his own. Again he was grateful for Leah.
He looked down at his wife. They had been married seven years, had a three year old daughter who hadn't survived, and they had been happy. Tears came to Wolfgang's eyes as he thought of his little angel. How could a man walk through life, eat food and drink water, talk and laugh, ever again, when his tiny girl had died?
Leah had told him it was like a long hike and all he could do was take one step at a time.
Wolfgang stared at his wife's face and he knew something was seriously wrong. It was a slow realization, but when he finally grasped what his eyes were telling him, he panicked.
He checked the pulse on her neck, put the side of his face over his wife's mouth, and he felt nothing either way.
"No!"
Wolfgang opened her mouth, tilting her head back, and put his mouth on his wife's and blew. He put his head on her chest and heard nothing, then put his hands on the center of her chest and pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed again, counting with each push, until he got to thirty, then stopped, listening for her heart.
He breathed into her mouth again, five quick breaths, then returned to compressions.
He talked to his wife while he worked. He cajoled her not to leave him. She had to live.
A rib cracked, but Wolfgang ignored it, continuing the compressions on her chest, alternating with breaths into her mouth.
His tears dropped onto the ragged nightgown she wore, the same thing she had worn all the days of her radiation induced illness, but he ignored those also and worked on.
Someone came in and then left, but Wolfgang didn't stop what he was doing, crying and talking, begging and pleading his wife not to leave the entire time.
Images of their life together passed through his mind. Meeting her at a church dance, too shy to ask her until one of his friends asked her first, and being embarrassed that she was taller than him.
He had soon quickly passed her in height though, and when they were both sixteen they began dating. She had waited while he spent two years in Russia serving their church, then waited another year while he finished an apprenticeship. At least they could see each other on weekends during the schooling.
Picnics, swimming, vacations to Italian beaches, watching television together, having a baby, feeding and taking care of the tiny expression of their love, loving their child together more than their own lives.
All these memories and more came to Wolfgang as his hands pumped his wife's chest and his mouth blew air between her cold lips.
A gruff American voice, a kindness behind the firm words, intruded on his thoughts.
"She's gone, man. I'm sorry."
Wolfgang finished the breaths and moved back to continue compressions. When he was back into the rhythm he looked up at the American lieutenant colonel from his hiking club. The other two American soldiers stood behind him and Leah stood in front. Her eyes were red and filled with tears.
"No," Wolfgang shouted in German and continued the compressions. Once started, he knew he could never stop until professional help arrived.
As if sensing his thoughts, the American said, "No one is coming. I'm so sorry."
Wolfgang shook his head and yelled, "No," in English this time. The four just watched him.
He finished thirty compressions and bent down beside his wife, tilting her head back again. He counted five breaths.
A hand rested gently on his shoulder but he shrugged it off as he moved to begin compressions.
"Listen, man. Wolfgang." The American pronounced his name wrong, sounding out a long 'a'. "Leah, here, told us you did everything you could. We're really sorry."
Leah reached her hand out and Wolfgang continued compressions until she touched him.
Something in her touch was final.
Wolfgang knew his wife couldn't survive the radiation poisoning. He had known all along, but hadn't admitted it to himself. They'd even stopped purifying the water by boiling it first, because it hadn't mattered any longer.
He collapsed on his wife, crying, and he felt arms around him.
7
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