A. R. Shaw's Apocalyptic Sampler: Stories of hope when humanity is at its worst

by A. R. Shaw

  “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he asked her.

  Marcy continued to try to put distance between her and this crazed man as she stepped backward. “I think I should g-g-go to my—my dad’s now,” she stuttered, panicked. She turned and ran.

  “No you don’t, you little bitch!” this new persona yelled. He reached behind him to retrieve the hatchet he kept there, hidden from Campos. He aimed for the girl and threw it, overhanded, through the air.

  21

  Torment

  Seeing the girl run, Graham knew he would not make it. It’d take him too much time to get there, considering the distance between them. Then he yelled “No!” as Campos reached behind him and threw the hatchet toward the girl with deadly skill. The girl whirled to look in his direction. He ran toward her, but she’d already fallen. Campos reached for his rifle. Graham stopped in his tracks. He aimed and fired before Campos even wrapped his hand around the barrel of his own weapon.

  Campos fell as the shot struck home. Graham rushed to the fallen girl. She lay on the asphalt, blood running from her leg. “Marcy?” he asked, hoping she’d respond. Her blond locks were now tinged pink with blood. A quick glance back at Campos showed him down, and still; Graham could disregard him for now.

  Graham pulled Marcy’s hair back and saw that she was bleeding from a head wound, a result of hitting the rough pavement, but the worst damage was from the hatchet still embedded squarely in the back of her upper thigh. Blood spread in a radius around the gash.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Graham said. “I have to stop the bleeding.” He pulled out the hatchet and pushed on the wound with the palm of his bare hand, trying to stem the flow. “This is really bad,” he said, looking around for something he could use as a compress. Not seeing anything, he took off his jacket and removed his T-shirt, balling it up and pressing it into the red flowing wound. “She’s going to bleed to death right here, dammit. I’ve got to do something!”

  Looking over at the grocery store in front of him, he snatched Marcy up and carried her inside, searching for towels or anything he could use to help the girl.

  He carefully positioned her on one of the register counters, trying to be careful of her head, and rolled her onto her side so he could see her wound. Grabbing the edges of the blood-soaked denim, he ripped the jeans open to get a better look. Blood seeped out of the wound, but not as much as before.

  In the darkened store, a medium-size market by any real standard, Graham read the aisle signs for supplies that might help in treating the girl. He could not really see much, but he did notice a display rack of paper towels; he grabbed several rolls, ripped off their plastic wrapping, and wound a thick bundle of paper around his arm. He jammed the wad of towels onto Marcy’s wound and applied pressure. With one hand holding that, he directed his attention to her head. She was knocked out cold from the impact. The previous day’s injuries didn’t look too good, either, but this new bump swelled up quickly.

  “I need ice,” he said, again out loud, looking toward the front of the store where it was usually kept. He wished Bang were here to help him. Noticing the blood seeping through the top of the paper towels already, he took hold of the entire remaining roll and pressed it down on top of the first wad. He slid Marcy onto her belly with her head facing away from him so that he could see the side of her face where most of the recent wounds were.

  Looking around, Graham saw nothing that would help hold the pressure on Marcy’s leg so that he would be free to get ice for her head. Giving up, he quickly took off pressure and ran over to the ice cooler and took out a bag, then raced back to her. He applied pressure again on the injury, causing some of the blood to cascade down her leg in streams. It slicked the floor, and he nearly slipped in it.

  With the ice in his left hand, he punched his finger into the plastic, ripped it open, and then grabbed a plastic grocery sack off the dispenser at the end of the checkout counter. The counter was now a bloody, smeared mess, and Graham tried not to notice how much of the blood was covering his arms and bare torso. His stomach turned at the iron-like smell. He’d never seen so much blood before; the girl was soaked in it.

  After reapplying pressure with his right hand, he used his left to open the bag enough to transfer handfuls of blood-covered ice into the grocery bag. He grabbed the loose ends and swirled the bag around to twist its opening closed. Then he laid the bag, dripping with bloody ice water, gently onto Marcy’s head wound.

  He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he had left the others in the woods. Ten minutes? An hour? Everything had happened so fast. Surely by now they were getting concerned that he’d been gone so long.

  He glanced again at Campos’s body. Though he could not see if he still breathed, he certainly did not feel the need to help the man and hoped he was dead; really dead.

  Next he knew he needed to figure out how to close the girl’s hatchet wound. She was unconscious, and he could take advantage of that to sew up the wound, but he knew next to nothing about first aid. Other than having watched a very competent ER doctor sew up his sliced-open finger a year ago, he’d rarely visited hospitals. He’d watched then as the nurse irrigated his cut with saline solution; the young doc sewed it up, leaving the nurse to apply antibiotic ointment and a bandage. This was followed by a tetanus shot on his way out, along with a prescription for oral antibiotics.

  Graham thought there was probably saline solution in the contact lens aisle. Maybe not exactly the same thing, but it should work. He would also need gauze, and maybe a sewing kit could be found somewhere. God, he was not looking forward to that.

  He tried to remember the process as he watched the doctor stitch up his finger. He’d nearly fainted, and he was ashamed to admit it. Thinking of the details, he’d also need a cigarette lighter to sterilize a needle. The whole idea made his stomach roll, but he had to do it. He’d failed this girl twice now, and the weight of it was hard to bear.

  Graham had liked coming in this store back when things were normal. There were not usually many people in line, and the butcher always smiled and asked what you were in the mood for that day. Too bad he was not here now. Graham knew the guy could probably stitch this girl right up without a second thought.

  He had remembered filling a prescription here once and recalled the pharmacy toward the back of the store. Hopefully, the child would not wake up while he gathered the supplies in the dark. Making a mental list of the things he would need and where they were likely found, he checked the wound by lifting his hand. Seeing no increase in flow, Graham carefully left the paper towel roll in place and removed the ice, setting it to the side. He watched the rise and fall of Marcy’s back as she breathed. Then he ran toward the pharmacy department.

  He grabbed several boxes of gauze pads, regardless of their sizes, as well as adhesive tape and several very large Band-Aids. There was Bactine, but he knew he needed something to irrigate the cut as well. He turned around in frustration and finally spied the contact saline solution below the pharmacy window. He grabbed a few bottles, complaining, “This stuff is never where you think it should be.” He went a little farther down, found the painkillers, and then had a stupid thought: How old was she? He tried to see the age requirements on the box in the dark. There was a slight bit of ambient light coming from the back door exit sign, but it made little difference.

  Graham had heard a snap and buzz of electricity and then the lights flickered on, blinding him for a second. He reached for his rifle, only to remember that he’d left it beside the girl. By the time he got to the end of the aisle, he was staring right at the madman, the one he knew as Campos,

  “Get away from her!” Graham yelled, rushing at Campos before he had a chance to move. “You did this to her!” He grabbed the man by his blood-stained shirt and pushed him toward the open doorway. Campos did not put up much of a fight; he was struggling with what Graham said.

  “I would never hurt her,” Campos meekly pleaded. “She’s just a girl. I was going to let h
er stay here,” he said, and began to cry.

  Graham began to doubt himself, but held the man in place. He watched as Campos swung his head back and forth, either out of confusion or pain or both. Graham did not know or care. Only one thing was certain: he’d seen the same man hurt her the night before and had seen him throw the hatchet this morning. Now, faced to face with him, he was convinced the guy was crazy, yet the look in Campos’s pleading eyes showed he cared for the girl. The sentiment appeared genuine.

  Then, before he knew it, Campos looked at Graham’s blood-covered chest and smiled the most chilling smile Graham had ever seen. The hairs on Graham’s arms and neck stood on end and he pushed the Campos out through the doorway.

  Campos jerked him toward the blue firebox, and at once Graham knew his intent. Campos released his arm briefly and slugged him across the jaw, stunning him, but not quite enough; he could not see the nut job reach down and grab his own rifle. Graham had just enough time to grab the barrel in an attempt to wrench it from him, but Campos, though shorter, was much stronger. Campos, with his long sinewy muscles developed through hard labor, could easily overwhelm him.

  Graham knew fear. He wanted to run away from this crazed man, but he tightened his hold on the rifle now in a tug of war. He knew that if he lost his grip, not only would he die but so would all the children. In a rush of adrenaline, he found what he had always believed he lacked, a capacity he had seen deep within his own father. This nameless thing, more than words could convey, enveloped him.

  He can’t win, Graham thought. He cannot be permitted to take the lives of the few who remained living. Graham was not the three children’s father, but their safety, their preservation was a burden he’d accepted. He would see it through to the end and not fail them.

  Campos laughed as he pulled Graham sharply toward him. It was as if he relished this fight, exulted in the chance to prove himself superior. He wrapped his left leg behind Graham’s right, so when Graham pulled back with all his might, Campos began to fall and released his grip on the rifle. Graham grabbed him by the shirt collar instead, twisted to the left, and took the bastard down with him.

  Having landed on his side, Graham rolled over quickly on top of Campos and struggled once again with the rifle between them as Campos wrestled the business end up toward him. Graham knew the danger, but he pulled strength from somewhere inside himself and pushed the rifle upward, sliding it along Campos’s rib cage as he shifted his position to rest high on the man’s chest so Campos could not buck him off.

  Graham pushed the rifle upward, shaking now against the opposing force. Campos kicked and writhed; he tried all his tricks and then, finally, fear appeared in his insane eyes—or perhaps it was resignation.

  Graham had not planned it this way. In fact, he had not planned it at all. Now the realization of what must happen fought within him. He knew there was no other way. Graham pushed on, past Campos’s arm strength, past even his own strength. Instead of pushing the weapon away, Campos pulled it downward, desperately knowing where it was headed.

  Once Graham had the rifle into the recess between Campos’s chin and collar bone, he pushed onward, trying to make quick work of it, but still the insane man struggled, his face going from beet red to purple as he fought for oxygen. Then, suddenly, the madness seemed to go, leaving only the bewildered eyes of a man who knew he was about to die. Though he saw the madness fade, Graham knew he could not stop and maintained the force, all the while fighting the guilt that tried to overtake him. He pushed even harder when his victim stilled his movements, staring at him with glossy purple resignation. With the choking mostly over now, Graham heard movement beyond the door.

  Quickly, he chanced a look up to see Marcy staggering toward him. “Stay back!” he yelled, but she continued.

  Marcy held her head with one hand, steadying herself against the metallic doorjamb. With her right hand Marcy pulled around, dragging Graham’s rifle toward him. Graham wanted her to stay away, not for her own safety but because he wanted to kill the man without bearing the guilt of having a witness.

  Marcy dragged the weapon even closer and put her hand on Graham’s shoulder. She collapsed by his side, not really knowing Graham but recognizing his sense of duty toward her.

  Graham felt Campos’s life lift away. The madness within him could now no longer menace and torture other beings, and death had surely come as a mercy for the kindly portion of him.

  Graham pulled the weapon away and checked Campos’s pulse to make sure this time. He wrapped his aching arms around the sobbing girl and lifted her slight weight up, staggered backward. He carried her several steps, and stood still, not willing to take his eyes off the dead man. Marcy’s shudders interrupted him. She needed caring for now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, “It’s okay now. You’re safe.” He tried to convince himself to some degree. Marcy just sobbed.

  Trying to distract her, he said, “I know your sister, Macy. She’s back there in the woods.” He pointed in that direction, then turned away for a second, still not trusting what his eyes were seeing: Bang and Macy, and their dog companion Sheriff, coming down the hill toward them from their forest haven.

  “They’re coming now, you’ll see her soon. It’s all right, he can’t hurt you again,” Graham said, trying to convince himself along with the girl of the madman’s demise by his own hands.

  As if she detected in his voice his own shock that the task was done, even at the innocent’s cost, she patted him with one hand on his chest, as she herself shuddered at the wretched nightmare they’d both endured.

  He could hear Bang and Macy’s footsteps on the damp asphalt now, thumping nearer. Graham felt Marcy shift in his arms and noticed the dampness against his hand. Her wound was bleeding freely again.

  Macy arrived and clung to her twin’s side, unable to say more than, “Marcy, Marcy, Marcy,” a ragged chant filled with anguish.

  Bang sidled up, seeking Graham’s attention; he wrapped his arm around Graham’s long leg and leaned into him. Nothing more needed to be said. Bang and Macy had watched from afar, and they knew that Graham had done what needed to be done.

  Silently, they stood for a moment more and watched as Sheriff sniffed over the body. Graham stepped forward, knowing he needed to pass the man to take Marcy inside to care for her wounds.

  “No, don’t go near him!” Marcy cried, too scared of what might happen and grabbing at Graham.

  “He’s dead, Marcy.”

  “Still, I’m afraid.”

  Without another word Graham lowered the girl to the ground and motioned for Macy to hold her up.

  Sheriff stood over the man. Graham lowered Campos’s lids over his bulging eyes, and then started to drag him away toward the side of the store.

  Marcy broke her silence and yelled, “No, don’t! He does not like bugs. Burn him. He would want that, I think.” Graham understood she meant it for the good man, not the mad one.

  “Turn around, all of you,” Graham said, not wanting an image of what he was to do next to be etched into their young minds. They did, and his only witness was Sheriff; to Graham, a police dog seemed a fitting accomplice. He hoisted Campos’s body into the Dumpster. He retrieved the gas can, poured in the remaining fuel, and reignited the fire.

  “It’s done,” he said as he walked over to retrieve the girl. Macy and Bang collected the rifles along the way and they all walked back into the market together.

  22

  Contrition

  The store looked very different with the lights on. Now Graham could see how few items remained on the shelves and how lucky they’d been to discover the ones he had. He chose another checkout counter to set Marcy down on, since the first was a bloody mess. He covered her shaking body with his jacket. Macy clung by her sister’s side as Sheriff stood guard at the open doorway.

  Graham went over to the first counter and used the uncontaminated ice to clean the blood and sweaty death off as best he could. With the last several minutes
replaying in his mind, the stinging cold of the ice water snapped him out of his own shock. He grabbed a fresh bag of ice and several more rolls of paper towels to clean Marcy, having Macy apply pressure to her twin sister’s leg wound. After Graham had retrieved his rifle, he and Bang gathered the supplies he’d dropped earlier. “Look for anything you think we might need, Bang,” he said, and then searched the store a sewing kit as Bang trailed close behind him. Graham wasn’t looking forward to treating Marcy’s wounds.

  Bang noticed on a low shelf a half dozen juice boxes with happy smiling green apples staring up at him. The boy stopped to pick them up while balancing Campos’s rifle. He managed well enough and then caught up with Graham, who turned and realized he’d left a five-year-old in charge of the heavy weapon. Graham took from him and silently chastised himself for the oversight.

  He’d never again be without his own firearm. If he’d had it earlier, he’d have simply shot the man again. Now, he’d carry the cost of his mistake forever.

  After retrieving a bottle of alcohol and antibiotic ointment, he went to the housewares aisle. Along with bleach, he looked for the sewing kit, something always present when not needed. He found one on a plastic hook, then decided they might need more in the future and took the other three as well. After looking at the dinky thread in the kit, he looked around for something sturdier and found a spool of black upholstery thread. He took that too.

  “Okay, Bang, now we need a lighter,” he said; he remembered they were usually up by the checkout counters near the cigarettes.

  Back at the counter, Macy was still holding pressure on Marcy’s leg wound as she stroked her sister’s hair away from her bruised forehead.

  “Is everything all right, Macy?” Graham asked

  “Yeah, we’re fine,” she said.