What's Left of My World: A Story of a Family's Survival

by C. A. Rudolph

  With so many negative thoughts encircling her mind, she decided to smoke another cigarette. This wasn’t something she normally did, since cigarettes were so scarce, but it was hard to fight the notion to smoke another, so she just did. Before she knew it, she had smoked three cigarettes back to back. After some time had gone by, Norman walked outside. He noticed that Michelle was shaking. Not knowing exactly what to say and at the same time knowing that something had to be said, Norman opened up.

  “Lauren is a tough kid, Michelle,” he said. “I remember when I first met her after Alan invited me over, just how headstrong and willful she was. She was just a kid but I always thought, damn, that kid has a fire inside her.”

  “She still does,” she said with a half-smile. “I wish I could take the credit for it, but that is all Alan.”

  “That is a fact,” Norman concurred. “Your husband got my respect a long time ago because of that. He never backed down to anyone or anything. He always said what needed to be said and didn’t give two shits what anyone thought about him. He was a fighter, but he did it with his words more than with his fists.”

  Michelle put out her cigarette on the ground beside the other two and Norman noticed there were three butts on the ground just as he continued.

  “Back when I knew Alan, before you two were together, we used to hang out at a bar together and shoot pool and drink tons of beer. The girl he was dating back then was a real stunner. She had guys ogling over her constantly, but it didn’t bother him because he wasn’t a jealous person. One night, a couple guys decided they were gonna mess with her. She did a good job standing up for herself, but Alan was watching the situation closely and didn’t make a move until he needed to. He didn’t do anything until he saw one of them touch her. When he approached them, he told them that she was with him and he didn’t appreciate them disrespecting her. The two guys immediately challenged him and wanted to fight him. Alan just stood his ground. I walked up behind him a minute after, in case he needed some back up, but his mouth would not stop moving. He was a pitbull with his words. It took all of about five minutes for both of the guys to become disinterested and walk away. I don’t know what all he said, but it worked. He was always like that. He could figure out a person in a second, and talk them down in another. He never went looking for trouble, and always managed to make the right decision when trouble came looking for him.”

  “Alan was my rock, Norman,” Michelle said with a broken voice that signified she was on the verge of crying. “I cannot tell you how much I miss him.”

  “Well, he’s my best friend. I can imagine somewhat, because I feel a bit of what you feel every day,” Norman said. “I guess what I’m trying to say is…he has that fight inside him and Lauren inherited it. That’s why I believe she’s ok. I’m absolutely convinced of it. I’ve seen her dad handle quite a lot of situations where he was the underdog and still managed to come out on top. If he can do it, she can.”

  Norman reached out and gave Michelle a hug. Michelle let go for a moment and then quickly dried her eyes, just as a pickup truck pulled up to the gate and honked the horn.

  “It’s been awhile since I’ve heard that noise,” Michelle pointed out.

  “Yeah—looks like my ride is here,” Norman said. He walked back inside to get his rifle and other gear, then started up the driveway, heading to the truck. He turned around and waved. “You guys keep it tight. The radio is on and Lee knows how to use it. Call us if you need us.”

  “Will do,” Michelle said, “and Norman…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, babes. Listen, for what it’s worth, I still believe he’s coming home to you,” Norman said.

  Chapter 11

  Town of Edinburg

  Shenandoah County Virginia

  Present day

  After slamming her near-lifeless body to the floor, Damien Marcel climbed on top of her. Her eyes were beginning to roll into the back of her head. Pinning her arms beneath his legs, he began crashing his calloused fists mercilessly into her young face. What had once been muffled screams had turned into semi-audible whimpers, and had now become grunts. It wasn’t clear to him, but she appeared to be knocked unconscious—he guessed it was possible she had been before he had started hitting her, but he didn’t care. She had lost consciousness several times over the course of his assault on her, which had been ongoing since the previous evening. After the first few punches, damage was starting to show and it worsened every time additional contact was made. Her face began to show bruising, lacerations formed, and blood began to emerge from her eye sockets. Her tender skin was no match for his leathered, hardened knuckles that had been conditioned over the years for doing this kind of physical damage to another human being. His face showed no emotion as he relentlessly mutilated her, and it didn’t take long before she began to choke on her own blood. Satisfied with his work, he stopped striking her and placed his right hand around her throat. He squeezed tightly and waited patiently until she took her last breath. His breathing had remained normal the entire time this had gone on. This was his normal.

  Standing up, he adjusted his pants and then buckled his belt, upon noticing that it was unfastened. He took a look around the room, carefully admiring his work. The bed had been overturned and everything that had once hung on the walls was now on the floor, including a photograph of what appeared to be the girl and her best friends, enjoying a hot summer day at a waterpark. There were several holes in the wall, about the size of his victim’s skull, where he had forcibly smashed her head through the drywall. Her belongings were scattered everywhere. She had put up quite a fight, but it had been all in vain. Damien was a large-framed, muscular man and had a mind fashioned for violence. This was all a part of the game to him. There were winners and losers; and she and her family had lost, just like so many other families before them. In this new world, the possibilities that it offered him it was just beginning. He felt like a god—like he could do whatever he wanted to anyone and had no one single person to answer to. Things like this that he done before the collapse were prosecutable. Now, in this new world, he was the law. The authorities had given him power over others. They had also provided him with total immunity and it felt extraordinary to him. The only edict that existed now was him. It was his world and there was no one who could stop him. He looked down at the body whose life he had just taken. He hocked up a large ball of snot and saliva and spit on the young girl’s now unrecognizable face. Reaching down, he picked up the photo of the girl and her friends and pulled it from the broken frame. He eyed it for a few seconds while rubbing his chin, then folded it and shoved it into his back pocket.

  As he walked out of the bedroom, he slammed the door behind him and stomped into the kitchen, walking past the two dead bodies in the living room, that belonged to the girl’s parents, on the way. Both had their hands bound behind their backs with tie wraps and several bullet wounds in their chest, in addition to quite a few other noticeable injuries that he had inflicted on them. They had bled out overnight and the hardwood floor was a mess, with two separate puddles of blood that had become one big pool. He reached for a nicely folded dishtowel near the sink and began to wipe the blood off of his hands. He tried to turn on the water faucet out of habit and quickly remembered that the water probably hadn’t worked here for quite a while. After wiping off what he could, he grabbed another clean dishtowel and walked to the bathroom. Lifting the top from the commode reservoir to check for water, he found there wasn’t any and dropped the porcelain lid to the ground in disgust. Walking back toward the kitchen, he picked up a nickel-plated pistol off of the dining room table and shoved it in his waistband. He made his way to the front door and walked outside, taking a look around the yard. Noticing a bird feeder that had a good-sized puddle of water in it, he made his way over and began washing his hands off. The water quickly turned crimson as he did so. He dried his hands with the dish towel and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jean
s.

  Just a few doors down in the rural cul-de-sac, he watched as some other men he recognized, wearing black leather vests, dragged a helpless couple from their home as they struggled. The woman had her hands tied behind her back and was screaming for them to let her go. Her husband, who had been hog-tied was begging them to leave his wife alone while they laughed and kicked him. After a few minutes, the group began pummeling the man with their fists until he stopped moving, all while the wife watched in horror. One of the men pulled a revolver from his waist and shot the man in the back of the head. The wife screamed and sobbed—it was all she could do in her predicament. The group began pointing at her and laughing. One of the men yelled, “I’m going first!” and a short back-and-forth argument began between them. A life had been taken and another was about to be changed forever and it was all a joke to them. But it was all a part of the game.

  Damien cleared his throat and said, “You assholes, take that crying bitch inside! Don’t do that shit here—get her inside and shut her the fuck up, for crying out loud!”

  As if they were all codependent children heeding an abusive father’s warning, the men all nodded and began dragging the young woman past her dead husband as she cried and struggled, heading back toward the house. As they pulled her inside the front door and closed it behind them, a motorcycle approached and pulled into the driveway near where Damien stood. A tall man with long dark hair and a black leather vest covered in patches shut off his bike and approached him. The patches on his chest read Marauders and Sgt. At Arms. The man handed Damien a half-full bottle of Wild Turkey 101 bourbon.

  “Here—found this at a house down the road,” the man said. “Thought you might like a pull or two.”

  Damien took several gulps from it and then handed it back without even the slightest wince. He then pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his denim shirt, took out two, lit one and lit the other with the first and handed it to the tall man. Damien noticed the blood splatter on his shirt and shook his head in mild disgust. The tall man noticed and smiled.

  “Looks like you might need another new shirt, boss,” the tall man said as he placed the cigarette in his mouth. Grinning, he said, “What’s that like, the third one this month?”

  “Third one this week,” Damien said gruffly. He pawed at his beard and spit on the ground.

  “I suppose that’s possible,” the tall man said. “We’ve been busy.”

  “Yes, we have. Doing the lord’s work,” Damien said somewhat pompously.

  “Did you learn anything?” the tall man asked.

  Damien looked up at the sky and then back toward the house. “The girl didn’t know much,” he said as he took a puff from the cigarette. “She just took an awfully long and painful time to clue me in to that fact.” He paused and took a couple more drags from the cigarette. “I figured killing her folks would have gotten her attention, but it took a little more than that.”

  “Maybe we should have tortured them a bit longer before we shot them,” the tall man said, again with a grin.

  “He told me everything I needed to know,” Damien said. “Don’t blame him—he was scared for his daughter’s welfare.” He paused. “Either way, I got what I wanted. When the boys get done whatever the fuck they’re doing, bring them here and tell them to drag all the bodies out into the street. It needs a little cleaning inside, but this is the nicest house in the neighborhood I’ve seen so far. There’s a bunch of food here. They got rations and canned goods in the basement. We can hole up here for a few days.”

  “Will do,” the tall man said. “They’re spread out now looking for supplies and whatever else. But I’ll gather them up when they’re done.”

  Damien took another puff on his cigarette and looked down to his shirt where a couple long blonde hairs hung. He brushed them off with the back of his hand and smiled. “I’ll say something though, Danny, she sure was sweet,” he began in a low, demented tone. “She had to be just a few days over eighteen. Just the way I like them.”

  The tall man laughed and soon, Damien chimed in with a sinister laugh of his own.

  “Damn. Sounds appetizing. Next time, save some for me,” Danny said.

  Damien walked over to a black motorcycle and opened a saddle bag. Inside, he pulled out a pair of ratcheting pipe cutters and handed them to Danny. Danny gave him an emotionless stare. “Funny you would say that, Sarge,” Damien said. “She’s got a nice ring on her finger. It’s a high school class ring, but it’s definitely gold. It will make a nice addition.”

  Danny looked at the cutters which had specks of dried blood on the blades. He had used cutters just like these many times before and was more than familiar with them. “Oh, you’re funny,” he said as he took them from Damien. He looked them over for a bit before letting them fall to his side. “By the way, boss—the guys were wondering, what exactly is the plan?”

  Damien sighed loudly. “Until we hear back from Jesse, Vance, and the others, we are staying put for a while,” Damien said. “There should be plenty of provisions in this town for us—among other things. Something’s happened to those two though, and we need to find out what. Hopefully, the guys who went looking for them will have something for us soon. If we have to send out more patrols to try to find them, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Any idea where they went?”

  “Jesse told me he was heading to the National Forest to see who was hiding about in the campsites,” Damien said. “That’s where we should be looking.”

  “So, if we find them and they’re dead, then what?”

  Damien gave Danny an infuriated look and severely squinted his eyes. After a pause, he said, “That’s my VP you’re talking about. No one takes that life but me. Jesse is my right hand. If he’s dead, then we fucking kill who’s responsible.” He walked back over to his motorcycle and put on his vest, which he had laid across the seat. His vest was fairly weathered and had patches that said Marauders and President on it. He continued, “Another reason we’re staying in this area is because that fuckhead DHS agent is supposed to meet me tomorrow to discuss terms. I’m fine with us being his hired muscle, but the price is gonna go up. I’m tired of being his bitch.”

  “If being his bitch means what I think it means, I have to agree with you,” Danny said.

  “What do you think it means, Danny?”

  “Well—for starters, we shouldn’t have to go looking for food while we’re working for them,” Danny asserted. “Not that I don’t mind the work because it has its perks, but I’m tired of being hungry.”

  “If they want our help, they will give us whatever the hell we want, plain and simple,” Damien said as he looked up and down the street. “If he refuses, then we’ll move on—or maybe I’ll just kill him.”

  Just as Damien finished his sentence, Danny pointed down the street. A man with a shotgun in his hands was walking steadily toward them. They didn’t immediately recognize him and he wasn’t wearing a vest, so they both knew it had to be one of the several people who still lived in the neighborhood. Danny immediately pulled his pistol and drew down on the man. The man saw the muzzle pointed at him and held his hands up.

  “That’s far enough,” Danny said, “unless you want to meet your maker.”

  “What in the hell are you people doing here?” he questioned in a loud voice. “We didn’t do anything to you!”

  “Sure you did,” Damien disagreed.

  “What’s that exactly?” the man huffed.

  “Shit. Are you kidding? All you nice rich folks are sitting here in your pretty houses with lots of food and supplies,” Damien began, “and you’re not sharing it.”

  “What do you mean? We’re doing what’s necessary to survive!” the man exclaimed.

  Danny looked at Damien, who smiled.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Damien said in a voice loud enough for the man to hear him.

  “Well, it looks like you’re doing the exact opposite, to me,” the man said.
He pointed to the house that Damien and Danny were just outside of. “Where are the Andersons? What have you done to them?”

  “The Andersons are—indisposed at the moment,” Damien said. His smile slowly disappeared, along with his patience.

  “Who in the fuck are you supposed to be?” Danny asked, in the voice he preferred to use when talking down to someone. “Neighborhood security?”

  The man lowered his hands and held his shotgun at low-ready. Damien placed his hand on his pistol.

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” the man said as screams had begun to be heard from the house to his right. “I cannot allow this! By God, I cannot allow this!”

  Damien smiled and laughed at the man. The man did not seem amused. “Let me be the first to tell you,” Damien said as he pulled his pistol and aimed at the man. “There is no God.”

  Damien pulled the trigger again and again, and emptied the entire magazine into the man as the man fell backwards to the ground. His Sergeant at Arms lowered his pistol and turned to look at him. Damien dropped the magazine into his other hand and replaced it with one that he had in his vest pocket. He pressed the slide release and slowly put the pistol back in his waist band.