Siege Fall (Siege of New Hampshire Book 2)

by Mic Roland

  Martin poured some warm water in the dish pan. “Maybe not, but it’s better than not getting a box.”

  “Whatever.” Margaret snatched the dish rag from Martin’s hands. “I’ll wash up. You go get some sleep. Your watch is coming up in a few hours.”

  Martin quietly stepped out of the kitchen. From the overly-zealous scrubbing the dishes were getting, it was clear she wanted to be left alone for awhile.

  Martin awoke with a cold nose. The bedroom air was chilly. Margaret was huddled at the other side of the bed, the fluffy comforter pulled up over her ear. She was feeling cold too. 1:30. He realized he had not properly stoked the stove before going to bed. The thrown food incident and the yelling certainly disrupted whatever passed for a ‘normal’ routine these days. He wrapped his robe around himself to go re-stoke the stove. His turn for watch was coming up soon anyhow.

  With unsteady legs, Martin wobbled down the hallway to the living room. There was no soft orange glow from the wood stove. The living room was solid blackness. The fire had burned down to practically nothing. Working in the dark, more by memory and habit than sight, Martin gathered some kindling from the bucket. He raked around the ashes to find a half-dozen embers. While insufficient to heat the house, he had revived a fire with less.

  The teepee of thin kindling over the coals began to smoke. Martin fished in the wood rack, feeling for thinner splits, or lighter ones. Pine caught a flame eagerly, even if it did not last long. Blowing on the coals a few times had them glowing brightly. The smokey kindling burst into flame. He quickly positioned his lighter sticks on either side. In the faint yellow glow, he could see enough to pick out a couple medium-sized splits.

  Carefully building up his stack, he continued to push and prod with the poker to keep the burning sticks just the right distance apart. The larger logs were too triangular in section to lay nicely. They kept falling together, choking off the airflow passages Martin was trying to build. “No. Not like that,” he said out loud. “I put you over there for a reason. Now stay there. No falling over. And you too. No twisting.”

  “You talk to logs?” came a soft voice behind him.

  “Wha?!” Martin spun around, still on is knees. His heart raced.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Susan quickly. In the faint yellow glow, he could see her at the far end of the couch, knees up, under a blanket. Martin had not seen her there in the darkness.

  “Whoa.” Martin tried to control his rapid breathing. “You did give me quite a start. I didn’t see you there. Why are you out here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and my room was really cold.”

  “Ah, well, I’ll have the fire hot pretty soon. You’ll be fine then.”

  “Okay,” she said softly, as if agreeing to a promise. “So, as I was saying. You talk to logs?”

  “Oh, hehe, yeah, I guess I do,” Martin turned back to managing his fire. “I like to arrange them carefully. You know, to make sure there’s enough airflow between the pieces and get a good long burn. But, they like to fall together sometimes. It chokes off the airflow. Combustion needs the oxygen, of course, but the pieces can’t be too far away from each other either or they don’t stay burning. Being close together keeps them going. They share heat with each other. Sustained slow combustion needs just the right mix of fuel, heat and air. Too much air and they burn too fast. Not enough air and they mostly just cook off their combustible gasses and…”

  Martin stopped. Combustible gasses? Who, in their right mind, makes midnight conversation — with a woman — using words like ‘combustible gasses’?

  “Sorry,” he said. “I was rambling.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I thought it was fascinating.”

  He stared at her skeptically. “No it’s not. It’s boring nerd-speak.”

  “Not the way you tell it,” she said softly.

  Martin felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him. That was not the reaction he usually got when he rambled. People usually said, ‘that’s okay, I wasn’t really listening.’ On the one hand, he was pleased that his nerd-speak had not turned another person into stone. He was even more pleased that it was Susan who had not turned to stone. Yet, on the other hand he felt he had no business being pleased. The door was locked. It should not matter. He sat in his chair and pulled his feet up. The space between couch and chair seemed a safe distance.

  A change of topic was in order. “So why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked. “You have your jar of olives.” As soon as he said, he regretted it. The implications steered him right back to his cold wave.

  “They didn’t help this time,” she said quietly. “But this is much better.”

  “Ahem, well, still. Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Supper,” she said. “I’ve never been around when someone got so upset that they threw food, or yelled, or anything.”

  “Really? You fell asleep during a shootout,” Martin gently teased.

  “That was different.” She looked down and twirled her hair. “I mean, this was different. I’ve been sort of like Ruby’s caretaker the last few days. Sure, she’s a bit fussy sometimes, but deep down she’s okay. And, it’s been kind of nice to have someone to take care of. It’s made me feel useful.”

  “It has helped Margaret that you’ve been taking care of Ruby.”

  The fire had grown bright. Radiant heat began to fill the room. “There,” Martin said with his palms toward the stove. “It’s kicking out the heat again.”

  “Mmm. It does feel better now.” Susan stretched, extending her bare legs out from under her blanket. She stretched her arms high over her head to revel in the warmth. The blanket fell to one side. She wore only a long T-shirt as pajamas.

  Martin was momentarily shocked. He had no business looking at her slender legs, but he also realized he was staring at them. “What are you doing?” he gasped.

  “Stretching?” Her eyes were shut tight. Her arms quivered at the apex of her stretch.

  Martin jumped up and threw the blanket back over her legs. “You can’t do that!” His voice had a hint of desperation.

  “Do what?” She sat up, startled.

  “Go around like…like that!” he said in a hoarse whisper. He pointed at her legs — safely back under the blanket again.

  “But, this is what I always wear to bed.” She looked down at her T-shirt, sincerely confused.

  Martin’s shoulders slumped as he stepped back. He did not need to know that. He shook his head to deny entry to the information. “Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…you can’t…what I mean is…I’m sure there’s some of Lindsey’s old pajama pants in the dresser: nice flannel pajama pants.”

  Susan pulled her knees back up onto the couch. “You want me to wear pajama pants?”

  Martin nodded. “Yes.” He suddenly realized what his request sounded like. “But it’s nothing like that Mark guy,” he added hurriedly, “Telling you to wear socks all the time. No. Nothing like that. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with your legs at all. You have very nice legs…Whoa. That didn’t sound right. Never mind that part. Forget I said that. What I mean is, winter’s coming and the house is going to get colder. I don’t want you to get cold.”

  She studied his eyes for a long pause. “Okay. If you want me to,” she whispered.

  “I do.” Martin collapsed back into his chair. He felt exhausted. The day had too many stresses. The fire flared brighter as a log fell against the stove door window. “The house will be warming up soon. You should go back and get some sleep,” he said.

  “Okay.” She began to toss the blanket off so she could stand up.

  Martin quickly sat up. “No, no, no. Wrap the blanket around you…um…so you don’t get cold.”

  Susan smiled. “Okay. I don’t want to get cold.” She wrapped the blanket around herself, a velour sarong.

  “Thank you.” Martin flopped back into his chair. Susan floated down the hallway, a silent shadow. Martin rubbed his eyes with his palms. Why doe
s life have to get so complicated — in the middle of the night!

  “What was she doing up?” Margaret stood near the wood stove.

  Martin’s eyes flashed open. “What? Oh man. Is everyone out to startle me?”

  “Huh?”

  “I woke up because the house was cold. I came out to throw on a couple more logs, and she was out here because her room was cold, but I didn’t see her in the dark. Startled the snot out of me.”

  “You guys’ talking woke me up,” Margaret said. “What were you talking about?”

  Martin sank in his chair. He knew that bare legs was the last topic to mention — if ever. After all, it was now just water under the bridge. Susan would be wearing nice, safe, conservative pajama pants from now on. No need to even bring it up.

  “She said she couldn’t sleep because of…well, when Ruby got all upset. I think it upset her.”

  “Me too,” said Margaret as she sat on the couch. “I really shouldn’t have yelled at Ruby. I just lost it for a moment. But we can’t just eat whatever we want.”

  “I already agreed with you. It’s not like I can talk about not losing our cool. I just did that with Judy. But, we’re all under stress, having to adapt to each other, a full house and having to do without a lot of things we’re used to. That said, we can’t let this turn us into angry brawlers. We need each other.”

  Margaret’s face showed skepticism. “Even Ruby?”

  “I know, I know. She hasn’t been much help for anything right now, but maybe she will. After all, she grew up poor in Maine all those years. She probably knows tips and tricks we could use. We just have to keep her focused on those memories and not her usual story cycle of catching-frogs-for-toys, shampoo bottles, or never-got-ice-cream, and such.”

  Margaret resigned with a sigh. “I know you’re right, but I just don’t know if I have it in me.”

  “Tomorrow’s a new day, as they say. Let’s try to all start over tomorrow.”

  Margaret sighed again. “Oh, okay. I’ll try. Are you coming back to bed?”

  “No. My turn is coming up soon. I’m sure Dustin is cold and tired.”

  Margaret walked back down the dark hallway. Martin set the 9mm on the table and started pulling on his insulated coveralls.

  Chapter 8: Dark Day

  The day dawned slowly through a heavy overcast. The few birds that stayed for the winter were awake and chattering. That was the only sound Martin heard all night. He imagined that he could have heard a mouse fart, if one had, but there was nothing.

  The world had become very quiet after the power went out. The regular hiss and hum of tire noise from the highway over the hill used to be so regular that it was easy to ignore. The absence of highway noise meant that even a leaf rustle sounded like a drum solo.

  Martin tossed back the heavy blanket. It was time for the next watch. Susan was up next. He preferred to have the women take day watches. There would be less surprise and more backup available. They were not expected to fight off threats, just spot them and alert the others.

  After one last look around from the front porch, Martin stepped inside. Susan and Margaret were standing side-by-side at the dining room table. Both their eyes were wide, their faces pale.

  “What?” he said.

  Margaret said quietly, “It’s Ruby. She’s cold.”

  “So? I’m cold too.” Martin pulled off his gloves.

  “No. I mean. She’s cold…in there.” Margaret pointed down the hallway.

  Martin’s heart sank. “Oh no.” He ran down the hall and into the bedroom. The air was stale and acrid with the smell of urine. One of the women had pulled the sheet over Ruby’s head earlier. Martin pulled it back. Ruby lay on her side, face away from the door. Martin felt her neck for a pulse, but from her cold, clammy skin, there was little point.

  He tried to turn her on her back, but she had grown stiff. Her body was stuck in an open fetal position. She felt light and frail, like she was made of coat-hangers and paper mache. One eye was stuck shut, but the other eye was open halfway. Martin tried to close it, but would not close. He did not want to press too firmly.

  The sheet beneath her was wet. The pillow case stuck to the side of her face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Margaret and Susan in the doorway, as if they dared not enter the room.

  “She must have died in her sleep hours ago,” Martin said. He finally got that one eye to stay shut.

  “But why?” Susan said with a catch in her voice.

  “I don’t know. I’m no doctor. She has been on blood thinners and heart pills for years. You know how she was always talking about her Coumadin levels and all.” He slowly peeled the pillow case off her cheek. “If I had to guess, I’d say she died of a stroke while she slept. She looks kind of relaxed and peaceful, don’t you think?”

  He turned to the two women for agreement, but neither nodded or said anything. Both had tears welling up in their eyes.

  “Well, that’s my guess, anyhow. I prefer to think she went quietly in her sleep.”

  “But what do we do now?” Margaret asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Martin straightened up. What DO they do now? He had never had to deal with someone dying in his home. That might have been more commonplace a hundred years ago, but the ‘progress’ of the twentieth century was to remove death from peoples’ lives. People were sequestered away in hospitals or nursing homes to die: surrounded by cool professional caretakers and easy-to-clean surfaces, out of sight.

  All those tidy solutions were no longer available. The hospitals were operating on minimal systems, if at all. They could not help with the dead. Would funeral homes even be in business? They could not even call for an ambulance to take Ruby away.

  “I think we’ll have to do some things ourselves,” Martin said gravely.

  “Like what?” Margaret asked.

  “Well, like clean her up. Regardless of whoever we get ahold of, for what we should do, we can’t leave her like this.”

  Dustin and Judy peeked between Margaret and Susan. “What’s going on?” Dustin asked.

  Margaret started to explain, but choked up. Susan took over. “Ruby died last night.”

  Judy gasped and quickly looked away.

  “What do we do?” Dustin asked.

  “I don’t know,” answered Martin. “I’ll ride the bike up to Town Hall and ask them.”

  The four in the hallway stared at Martin, expecting more. “Dustin, go fill up two of the buckets from the well. Judy, we’ll need those two big pots for on top of the stove. Go make sure they’re empty and clean. Susan, there’s a dishpan under the kitchen sink. Fetch that, some soap and some old washcloths from the cabinet downstairs.”

  One by one, they peeled away to tend to their tasks. Margaret remained. “What about me?” She barely got out the words.f

  Martin took her by the hand and led her into their bedroom. He closed the door behind them and hugged her. She burst into silent sobs and clutched him in her arms as if afraid she would fall off a cliff. Her tears ran down his neck.

  “I have the pots cleaned out,” came Judy’s voice from behind the door.

  “Fill them half way with Dustin’s water and put them on the stove,” said Martin, without letting go of Margaret.

  “I yelled at her,” Margaret sobbed. “That’s the last thing she heard from me. I was just upset. I don’t…I didn’t hate her. Why did that have to be the last thing she heard?”

  Martin pulled her head gently back down onto his shoulder. “Ruby knew you cared for her. You’ve shown it for years by what you did for her. You took her to all those doctor appointments. You helped her move — twice, and clean. She always thanked you profusely, remember?” Margaret nodded but sobbed deeper. “Lots of people say they care, but you showed her that you cared by spending all those hours with her. She knew.”

  “But she said…” Margaret started.

  “Pfft. Don’t put too much into that. She had been out of sorts all day: tired from walking, miffed abo
ut not getting a box. It could have been her meds imbalanced. She wasn’t feeling well. I’m sure she didn’t mean…”

  “But I can never take that back!” Margaret squeaked. “I’ll never get a chance to tell her that I…” She returned to sobs. “I can never apologize. Why did I yell at her? It was just a stupid supper. I don’t know why I yelled at her.”

  Martin stroked her hair and held her tight. “Don’t dwell on it. A few harsh words don’t cancel years of service. She knew you cared.” He pushed her back off his shoulder so he could see her face. Even with puffy red eyes and tear-matted hair, she had a vulnerable beauty: a lost little girl. He kissed her forehead.