It was still warm in the cabin. Max let the blanket fall from his shoulders and tossed it onto the cot. Under the sink was a cardboard box with rags. He saw the wooden bin holding the ammunition for the 15 and placed a box on the counter. After wiping the dishes with a clean cloth, he fished the magazines from where Ada had put her wet nightgown and the clothes they’d stripped from Otis.
He thought about burning the bloody clothing, but feared the damp cloth would smoke too much and stink to high heaven. Both conditions might alert someone to his presence.
As he reloaded the mags, his eyes wandered around the cabin and he realized how small the one room actually was, and reassessed his thought about it’s viability for a long term stay for a family of four. He counted the plywood panels on two adjacent walls. The space was only ten-by-twelve feet and was a tight fit for just himself and Ada.
Against one wall, on the opposite side from the stove was a battered dresser. There were no underpants in the drawers but he did find trousers and several oversized tees, sweatshirts and socks.
The excess end of the cord Ada had used for a clothesline provided a belt to hold the baggy pants up. Glad Ada left the fingers of his injured arm free from bindings, he rolled the cuffs to length.
After sawing the ends from the sleeves of a sweatshirt with a kitchen knife, he worked it over the splinted arm and shrugged into it, happy to be dressed for the day.
He moved wood to the stove and then moped around the cabin, bored because there was nothing to occupy his mind. Twice, before lunch, he availed himself of Ada’s wisdom and went outside to distract his mind from going to the wrong place.
He was wary about straying far, always keeping the cabin within view, afraid, in his weakened, confused condition, he’d get lost. As he wandered, he collected fallen limbs, snapping the damp wood with his boot and stacked it on the covered porch. He figured it’d dry by the time he burned the firewood already there.
Lunch was beef stew from the can, warmed on the flat surface of the stove. He drank a bottle of water from the dozen or so on the counter. After eating, he found himself dwelling on the horrific events of the past hours. Forcing himself not to break into tears, he ran the entire history of his family’s plans, and doings from the moment he’d lost his job until his family was murdered.
The equipment they’d moved from the warehouse. Load after load of food and supplies brought the farm. The fuel tanks, the feedstock. In retrospect, he knew they did it too quickly, too openly. Because circumstances hastened their actions, they made themselves targets.
He thought about the farm itself. He should have realized, because of its isolation, but conversely, it’s exposed position, it was non-defensible.
Dorrie and Kelly, mostly Kelly, had tried to impress upon him the absolute seriousness of the dangers they could be facing, but he’d approached the future haphazardly, slovenly. In the back of his mind, he’d denied things could get as bad as they projected. Then, in the blink of an eye, events turned worse than even they thought it would.
It was true, what Ada said. The Dobbs and Simpsons were the instruments of the hell that had visited his family, but he had taken charge of the family without a clue concerning the legitimacy, the credibility of his decisions. He put his loved ones in peril.
He held the demons of grief at bay and relived what he could remember of the attack. He was confused as to how the invaders got into the home with no warning. Dorrie was supposed to wake him for his shift on guard. Had Billy Ray snuck up on her? What of the dogs who were supposed to sound the alarm. Were they too fresh, so new that they were confused?
Three men had attacked him in his sleep. It happened so fast in the darkness that he didn’t get a chance to see Dorrie’s attackers, but he could assume that at least two were on her. He’d heard his children screaming, so at least two more men were present in their rooms. That made the possibility of seven assailants inside the house.
What little he could remember from his dazed condition after being thrown down the stairs did nothing to finalize the number of attackers, but he remembered the face of the man who had ordered Bobby shot, and the face of the man who’d shot him. He hadn’t seen the face of the man who lay on his daughter, but did remember he had a dark, irregular blotch the size of a silver dollar, on his right butt cheek.
This last memory, the man violently raping his precious little girl, broke the barricade he’d built, and his grief burst anew, more powerful than before. Bone shaking sobs wracked his body, cutting his ability to breathe. Tears mixed with snot dripped from his chin.
There was no stemming of the tide. The pain came not from feelings about his loss as it concerned himself, rather from recognition of the terror and fear and hurt his loved ones suffered in their final moments of life. Deprived of oxygen, black spots swimming behind his closed eyelids, he felt he was going to faint and he did.
He woke lying on the floor. The interior of the cabin was dim, lit by the waning sun. He roused himself, struggled to his feet. “God. I’ve got to stop passing out.” A look through the single window beside the door confirmed the sun was indeed, close to setting.
He located a kerosene lamp on the counter and a partially full gallon tin of fuel beside it. After filling the fuel reservoir, he lit it with the lighter Ada had left on the table and used the thumbwheel to adjust the flame low.
Worried about lamplight shining through the curtainless window, he searched for materials to cover it. He found several screws, but no driver for them. Using a stone from outside he hammered the screws into the four corners of a black plastic bag to block the glass.
He used a pan to warm water, made a cup of instant coffee, and brought it to the table. The time spent covering the window allowed him to recover somewhat from the feelings that led to his previous negative episode in dealing with grief.
He thought about Ada and the promise he’d made to her father. Jacob had told Ada, “You’re to stay with him.” He bade Max to treat her right. Jacob made her promise to obey his dying wish, and he’d forced a commitment from Max as well. It felt unreal, but deep down, Max knew he had made a binding promise, and he believed Ada felt the same.
Max tried to visualize Ada, but he realized he had no idea what she looked like. The only mental image he could pull forth was a childishly simple stick figure clothed in a long sack with dark skinned limbs and a head with no face. It seemed impossible to him. They’d interacted only hours ago. She’d served him breakfast.
Chiding himself for being silly, he tried to conjure a vision of her serving him breakfast. All he could pull forth was a moving blur, although the slim brown hand placing his plate before him was clear enough.
“That’s it, damn it. I’ve got to wake up,” he said aloud. His life was shattered, but he needed to make adjustments, to make decisions. Okay. My family is dead, so is hers. We made promises to Jacob, a good, fine man. They rescued me, I don’t know how, but her grandfather, her uncle, and her father died saving me. I owe them and that means I owe her too because of my promise and she was part of saving me.
Thoughts of his family still tried to intrude on his attempt to gain a grip. He forced himself to voice it, to say it aloud. “My family is gone, shot, raped, murdered and it’s done.” Still the overwhelming grief tried to claim him, so he repeated the same sentence with force. Even after that, he had to clinch his body and face to force them from his mind.
A saving memory came to him, something he could us as an anchor. Jacob’s last words, spoken past clots of blood, “Bury our dead and avenge our families. Kill every last one of them.”
This final epitaph, spoken by a dying man took root in Max’s soul. “Kill every last one of them.” The force of those words swelled inside him, layered themselves on his heartbreak, wrapping a cocoon of energy around the memory of his loved ones. Max recognized a change was happening to his basic nature. He felt a hardening of his spirit and reality burst upon him.
The old world was dead. Society had collapsed
. All the established rules were gone. Lawlessness was now the norm. He would avenge his family, and Ada’s.
Max pushed back from the table and began pacing the small cabin, speaking aloud.
“I’ve lived a make believe life. That’s what I do. Dorrie. Oh, Dorrie. She was always there, and I got used to her, loved her, but stopped seeing her. There’s a difference.
“Kelly was born. God, the joy of her, but I got used to her too. Bobby came along, but the newness of birth was spent on Kelly, and I was used to him from the day he was born. I spent my entire time with them, wrapped up in me, using them as props in the play that was my life.”
Max thought about the rifle. One pull of the trigger could end the sorry caricature of the life he’d lived. An urge pushed him toward the doorframe where he’d leaned it. From far below the conscious level a surge of life reborn vanquished the idea of cowardly self-destruction, but he did reach for the rifle. He held it in his hands, feeling the solidity of the object. In turn, he felt the solidity of resolve.
“No more living illusions. No more lies to myself. No more taking others for granted. Dorrie, my darling, my love. I’m sorry.”
He replaced the rifle against the doorframe, returned to his chair at the table, bowed his head, and wept cleansing tears.
Later, his thoughts returned to Ada. She’d said it was fifteen miles to her friend’s house. Max remembered reading that the normal walking pace for an adult was three miles per hour. Under the best of circumstances, round trip would be ten hours. He figured three or four more hours at most for her to gather the clothing and other supplies she wanted. That was fourteen hours, given the best of circumstances.
She’d left the cabin shortly after sunrise. Sunrise this time of year was seven. The soonest he could expect her return was nine that evening, figured the latest would be close to midnight. He worried about her being alone and wished he’d insisted on accompanying her. He made a promise to himself, that if she decided to stay with him, she would have to vow not to separate again.
Time passed. Without a watch, Max didn’t know how much. Well after the sun went down, he knew he needed to sleep.
The sun rose and still Ada had not returned. Making his morning coffee, Max tried not to worry. It was a losing battle. By the time the sun was straight up, he was in full blown panic, enhanced by the fact he didn’t know exactly where she’d gone and therefore, had no way to search for her.
Finally, as the sun began the set again, he heard her calling his name from the forest. He rushed into the trees in the direction of her voice and found her.
She was sitting on a stuffed, military type duffle bag. Her face, drawn and haggard indicated sheer exhaustion. Hiking boots on her feet. She wore fitted jeans and a lightweight pullover blouse, a jacket tied to her waist by its sleeves.
“Max, I can’t move another step,” she said by way of greeting. “My legs cramp so badly, I can’t stand.”
“I could carry you to the house and come back for the bag.”
“What do you think I’m saying to you? Take me straight to the cot.”
Max reached for her hands to help her to her feet.
“Christ, Max. I just told you I couldn’t stand. Scoop me up.”
“Doh, I’ve got a broken arm, remember. Okay. I’ll bend so you can put you arms around my neck. Hang on tight while I stand. I think I can scoop you with one arm.”
“Do better than think you can. If you drop me--- Oh shit. You’re about to carry me over the threshold.”
Max laughed. “Doesn’t count, it’s just a cabin and it’s not yours... Is it?”
“Nope, er, sort of. It belongs to grandpa, he built it, but it’s on government land.”
He carried her to the cabin, glad for the shortness of the distance. She cried out a few times as he struggled to place her on the cot without breaking his good arm.
He retrieved the duffle bag, grunting with the weight of it and marveled at the fact she had made it this close to the cabin. He placed it by the bed.
“Ada, I was worried. Are you hungry?”
She smiled at him. “Worried, huh… Told you I’d be back. Thanks for carrying me the rest of the way. Am I hungry? No, I’m starving. A bottle of water too.”
Max brought the water and watched her drain the bottle without breathing. He noticed full lips wrapped around the opening of the bottle and the smooth skin of her face, marred only by healing scratches from their flight through the forest. She lowered the bottle and drew a deep breath. “Good to see you back among the living. Damn, you forehead is swollen. Does it hurt? Have you had any dizzy spells?”
“No, I’m okay except for a bad headache. How are your legs?” Are they still cramped?”
“I can’t straighten them.”
“I could try massaging them.”
Ada shook her head. “I don’t reckon I’ll trust you.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll warm you some stew.”
He was at the counter when she called to him.
“I changed my mind. They really hurt.”
He pulled the tab to peel the top from the can, set it on the stove, and then went to the cot. He was surprised to find her crying.
“I can see why they hurt. The bag must weigh fifty pounds. I can’t believe you carried it fifteen miles.’
“Dragged it mostly, but yeah it was rough.” She sniffed and wiped the tears from her face. Sorry you saw that.”
Max sat on the edge of the cot and reached for a calf that was bent almost to her thigh. She screamed when he attempted to straighten it.
“Okay Ada. I’m going to start massaging your legs where they’re at. We’ll take it slow straightening them.”
“Can I have the stew before you start? I don’t care if it’s warm or not.”
It took nearly a half hour to work the kinks from the first leg. She ate from the can as he worked. The other leg loosened easier, possibly because it had time to warm.
He helped her to her feet. She used a chair as a prop to stretch and do partial knee bends.
She finished the exercises and stood holding onto the back of the chair.
“Still trying to cramp, but it’s much better. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“I need one more favor. Walk me to the privy out back. I’m not sure I can make it without help.”
“I could try to carry you again,”
“No thanks. The first time was needed, but your one arm carrying technique needs some work.”
“If you weren’t so lanky, it would have been easier.”
Ada made a face at him. “I am not lanky. Well, maybe tall, but I’m well proportioned for my height, thank you.”
With her arm around his neck and his around her waist, she limped to the small outhouse behind the cabin. She entered and closed the door. After a moment, she called out. “Are you still by the door?”
“Yes.”
“Jeez, Max, do you have half a brain? Go away so you can’t hear me doing my business. I’ll call you when I’m done. Lord, help me Jesus. I’ve spent my life training grown men.”
Max supported her back to the cabin. The sun was set by then. She went to the counter and poured a small amount of water onto a rag to wash her hands. “I’d like some coffee, how about you?”
Max agreed he could drink a cup.
Ada poured water into the pan and set it on the stove. “We’re going to need more water. We can refill our bottles from a spring near here, thirty or forty yards back of the cabin. She went to the table and sat, motioning for Max to join her. How are you doing? The truth.”
Max paused a moment to think before speaking. “I’ve come to terms with the death of my family. I don’t say that lightly. I cried so hard once today that I passed out. I also came to some realizations.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“You said Dorrie’s and my children’s deaths weren’t my fault, but in a big way I contributed to it. I made some bad decisions. Showed a modicum of wea
lth, brought in huge quantities of supplies without attempting to hide or disguise the loads. I moved my family into a place that couldn’t be defended.”
Ada nodded her head. “Made friends with the wrong family too, but you were no dumber than we were.”
“That’s right, I wasn’t. Do you know why? Me, you, your brothers, King, my family, we were nice people. We weren’t prepared for packs of human animals run amok.”
“I agree,” she replied.
“Notice I said we were nice, but nice is gone. As you said, it was Billy Ray Dobbs’ bunch and the Simpsons who killed our families. Your father asked with his dying breath for vengeance. I intend to give it. I intend to kill every one of those son’s-a-bitches.”
“No, Max. We intend to kill those bastards.”
“Forgive me. That’s what I meant to say.”
Ada laughed. “You sure are polite for a city slicker. Listen Max. I’ve got some things to tell you too, but first I want to talk about what my father said to us.”
“I think we should.”
“First of all, there is no longer any form of legal authority as far as I could tell up in Toccoa, nor, from what I heard, in Clarksville or Cornelia. I’ll get into that later, but it has to do with my father’s words.
Ada tensed as she began to talk. “Max, I’m going to speak for myself and then you will have to do the same. Daddy gave me to you. He did that because he respected you and trusted you. Odd as it may seem, I’m willing to abide by his wish, but only so far. Partners would be my word for our situation. Your turn.”
“How old are you Ada?”
“Twenty-six... Twenty-seven in three days.”
“I’ve thought about you. Actually, I was terrified while you were gone. Afraid you wouldn’t come back. Worried the whole time that you were in trouble or hurt, and me with no idea where you’d gone or how to find you. I made a promise to your father, but more than that, I need you. Because of your family, I respect you, and I trust you.”
“I agree,” Ada replied. “I like and respect you too.”
“Okay then,” Max said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Do you feel a little weird?”
DISASTER: Too Late to Prep Page 12