Storm Front

by Riley Flynn

  Why the hell am I so angry?

  Alex slammed his palm into doors, hurling them open ahead of him. He knew where Krol would be. This so-called leader. The tiny pantry he’d turned into an office. A throne room. A room without windows. Without food, these days. Just pieces of paper stacked high on a simple desk and Krol in the center on a hard-wooden stool, writing.

  I’m angry at Krol.

  It had to be the answer. Every single thought about the man kindled the fire of fury inside Alex’s mind. It had to be Krol. This leader, this looming figure. The man who’d taken over his house and started handing out orders.

  “Krol!” Alex shouted the name through the house, announcing his arrival. A righteous herald, calling out. “Krol, where are you?”

  He didn’t expect an answer. Not to this question. But Krol had a lot to answer for.

  This is my house, Alex thought, this is my home. Krol can’t just turn people away like that. He can’t ignore them and not help. He can’t tell me what to do.

  The memory of what had just happened swirled through Alex’s mind. It enraged him. It embarrassed him. Thinking about his father, Alex knew he’d never turn away a sick person on their doorstep. Now, this new arrival, this intruder, was turning away those who needed help the most.

  It was an insult to their memories. It was an insult to Alex.

  Krol had to answer.

  “Krol!” Alex shouted again, arriving outside the pantry door. “You’re in there?”

  He hit his fist against the wooden panels. The hinges rattled.

  “Krol, let me in!” Alex could hear the anger in his own voice, could feel it boiling up inside him.

  He hammered the door again. It swung open.

  Krol was sitting at his desk. Stacks of paper were piled all around the room. Most of it had been written on two or three times. Blank spaces were diminishing real estate in the new world.

  With Krol sitting on his stool, a chair had been placed in the middle of the room, just behind him. One of the kitchen table chairs, straight backed with a slight creak.

  Writing, Krol didn’t look up. He lifted up his pen and paused for just a moment.

  “Take a seat.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  Alex stepped into the room. It was cold inside. The room was designed to be better chilled than the rest of the house. It kept the food fresher, his mom had said. Flat plaster lined the walls, stone slabs coated the floor, and the ceiling was high enough that the heat rose up and stayed there.

  “Leave the rifle at the door.”

  Touching the strap of the gun on his shoulder, Alex almost obeyed. The room was too small to swing the rifle around, really. But Krol wouldn’t get everything his own way.

  Alex walked to the center of the room and faced Krol. He wasn’t going to be talked to like a child.

  “You’re going to–”

  “The man was sick,” Krol interrupted, his pen returning to the page. “There was nothing to be done.”

  “Nothing?” This was the kind of attitude which enraged Alex. “Nothing? You could try a bit of humanity.”

  Krol paused. He licked the nib of his pen before speaking.

  “The problem with that, Alexander, is that there is so little humanity left in this world.”

  Alex kicked the kitchen chair. His foot caught it square on the frame, flinging it into the desk and sending scraps of paper flying.

  Still, Krol didn’t turn around. Instead, he put down his pen, reached out, and picked up the chair from the floor. Righting it beside his desk, he thought for a moment and then moved a stack of paper on to the seat.

  “Krol, I’m talking to you. Turn and face me when I’m talking to you.”

  “There is nothing—” Krol spoke slowly. “—that could be done.”

  “You’ve said that. You already said exactly that. But it’s wrong. You’re wrong.”

  Krol turned to his desk and took up his pen. He began to write, his face blank with busywork, as though he’d just arrived at his work station to find a stack of Monday morning bureaucracy.

  Alex felt every muscle in his body tighten.

  “I want answers, Krol!” He was shouting.

  Leaning back from the desk, Krol looked around Alex with tired eyes.

  “The others in the house will hear–”

  “I don’t care! Let them hear. Let them hear you explain yourself.”

  Krol sat back in the chair, blinked, and sighed. “Alex, you will never understand.”

  The rifle was in Alex’s hands before he knew what was happening. The barrel swung around, cutting through the space between the men and resting a few inches from Krol’s nose.

  “Try me.”

  “Put the gun down.” That same measured tone. It only infuriated Alex.

  “Make me.” Alex had stopped shouting. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper.

  Instead of answering, Krol simply wheezed. A rattlesnake wrinkle in every breath. The man sounded like death heated up.

  Keeping his eyes level with Alex’s own, Krol reached out a hand. It was a deliberate move; it knew where it was reaching.

  But Alex didn’t want to look away. In the moment, his rage was burning like a furnace. It felt good to feel this angry. He didn’t trust the man sitting in front of him.

  “Stop it!” He shook the rifle. “Keep your hands still.”

  The hand came back into view. It held the oxygen mask.

  “Would you deny me this?” Krol’s hand began to raise up toward his mouth.

  But something wasn’t right. The hand was in an unnatural position. Holding something. Something other than the mask.

  Alex slapped away the mask, knocking it from Krol’s hand.

  As the old man let go, something slipped and went flying through the air. It caught a glint of the light. Hypnotized, Alex watched the zippo lighter arc through the air. A distraction.

  Doubling his hold on the gun, Alex turned back to Krol.

  “No more distractions!”

  Krol smiled an eerie smile. “Sit down, Alex.”

  “Tell me what I want to know. I’m in charge here!” Alex pushed the gun farther towards Krol’s face.

  The moment of control had passed. The gun did nothing. Alex had swung the rifle, trying to wrestle the situation back in his favor, trying to snatch the reins from Krol’s hand. But the man did not seem to fear death. Not his own, at least. It was terrifying.

  Still smiling, the old man bent his head.

  “Sit down, Alex. We will talk.”

  Alex couldn’t help himself. He had to look. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t look away from the little black eyes. It was a trick. But something about that smile worried him. Krol wasn’t scared.

  Quickly, Alex lowered his eyes. Only for a split second. It was enough.

  Krol held a pistol pointing right at Alex’s gut.

  Alex instinct made him step back. There wasn’t much room. Krol had trapped him, taken him for a ride. Still simmering, threatening to boil over, all that anger and rage was only stoked further by the feeling he’d been cheated. Out-smarted, maybe.

  Krol was playing by different rules.

  “Put it down, Krol.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, Alex.”

  “Like hell I won’t.”

  “I can see it in your face. Put down the rifle and we’ll talk. You can have your answers.”

  Krol was offering Alex everything he wanted. But putting down the gun still felt like losing.

  “You first.”

  Krol widened his eerie smile. What exactly was making him smile? Was it all a game? The man nodded and eased the pistol down.

  “There. Let’s talk.”

  Alex didn’t let go of the gun. He didn’t lower it. But he felt the tension seeping out of his muscles. He relaxed his shoulders.

  “Then talk.”

  Laying his pistol flat on the desk, back beneath the stacks of paper from which it had emerged, Krol tapped hi
s tongue against his rotten teeth and started talking.

  “The man tried to attack me. He was visibly sick, Alex. I am allowing you to speak your mind but these facts cannot be debated.”

  “Allowing me?” Alex flung his arms out in exasperation. “This is my house. Allow me? I’ve seen sick people, Krol. Desperate people. You seen Timmy? Joan? They were sick. They recovered.”

  Still sitting, his pinprick eyes giving away nothing, Krol tapped a finger on his knee.

  “These are anomalous cases.” A dry, uninterested tone. “Miracles, almost. We cannot live our lives according to the whim of miracles.”

  Anger wasn’t working. Alex had a rifle but he knew he wasn’t going to shoot Krol in cold blood. The man was right. He couldn’t even shoot the sick stranger in the courtyard.

  Why? Alex asked himself. Why couldn’t I do it? Why couldn’t I kill Krol right now?

  And then it hit him. Like a silver bullet shot from the darkness, hitting him right in the heart, Alex knew. Pity. He had pitied the sick man. He pitied Krol. He pitied his inability to see humanity in the bleakest of situations.

  But Alex couldn’t leave his anger aside. It felt too good. It felt too righteous.

  “I’ve seen people recover from this virus, Krol.” Alex measured his words but he knew he was still letting emotion slip out. “You can’t treat every victim like an enemy. They’re not weapons sent to hurt you. They’re people. I’ve seen Timmy and Joan live.”

  “They’re alive now, Alexander, but at what cost? Do we know what effect it has had on your friend Joan? And the baby inside her?”

  “No.” Alex laid down his gun and took the seat he’d already been offered. “We don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t help her. It doesn’t mean we should let her die.”

  “You are blind. You fail to see the bigger picture. If I allow a sick person on to this property, allow them to live here for any time, what happens if they pass along their infection? If Nelson or Jenna fall sick – or you, Alex – and they die, what price have we paid for their life? I cannot make that gamble.”

  It took a huge amount of energy to ignore any semblance of truth in Krol’s statement but Alex tried anyway. He had the moral upper hand, the desire to help and to benefit as many people as he could. For weeks and months, he had fought for survival. It wasn’t even the decision – some people couldn’t be saved, he knew that – it was the callousness of it all, reducing people to statistics and likelihoods. Alex knew he was in the right; he was certain.

  “And if they live?”

  “Then they will drain further resources and kill us all in another way.”

  “But you allowed us to stay. We came here and you didn’t turn us away.”

  “Maybe I made a mistake. I will not make the same mistake again.”

  “But it’s worked out. We’re here. We’re helping. We’re–”

  “Consuming resources. Tell me, Alex, do you know how much food we have? How much we need to get through the winter? Through the spring? Do you think it is enough?”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Alex. He ate with everyone else. Thin rations, sometimes taken from the MRE packs he’d brought, sometimes from the tinned food they had on the farm. Since arriving, he’d assumed that there was a stash of food hidden away in the barn or somewhere else.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t think about it?” Krol continued. “I thought you were the leader of your little group.”

  “But we brought food with us.” Alex spoke quickly, compensating for his moment of stupidity. “And the seed bank.”

  “A few boxes of rations and some seeds. Do you know when we’ll be able to harvest those seeds, Alex? Have you considered how long it takes to grow and nurture these crops?”

  He hadn’t. But there was no need to admit it.

  “But you have food. You have it stored somewhere.”

  “And every person that arrives, we have less. For those close to death, what good would it do to share our precious resources? Would you starve so that a dying man can live a few days more?”

  Alex didn’t have an answer. His mind began working overtime, trying to find a solution to the problem. It was like swimming against a tide. Just as he’d worked hard to keep his friends safe from danger, Krol was doing the same. Now, the man was whittling down the list of reasonable objections, making far too much sense.

  It was a painful realization and Alex began lashing out desperately, searching for a handle on the situation, anything which might provide him with validation or justification.

  “What about the church people? Levine and all of them? We can get food from them.”

  Krol tapped his tongue against his teeth again.

  “You really know so little about those people. What makes you think they want to share?”

  “We can trade. Barter.”

  “And what do we have to offer?”

  Alex sat in silence.

  “We have so little, Alex. Do you know what they value? Are you will to pay that price? To make that decision?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know Levine, Alex. I know the man. If we had anything he wanted, he would simply take it.”

  “I thought they were supposed to be Christians?”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Alex. You don’t know how Levine operates.”

  The only sound was Krol’s wheezing. The rifle grew heavy in Alex’s hands. He laid it on the floor.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “Would you have acted differently? Or were you too concerned with being a man of action? They have a saying, Alex, in China or somewhere as equally ancient: May you live in interesting times.”

  Alex shook his head.

  “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know what this is that you’re telling me.”

  “It’s not a blessing, you see. It’s a curse. We are living in interesting times, Alex. But they are not easy.”

  “I didn’t say that–”

  “Yet you burst into this room, wielding your gun and demanding answers. You are hot-headed, Alex.”

  The anger was rising up inside Alex. He pushed it back down, determined not to prove Krol’s point for him.

  “You burst in here and demanded answers and I have given them. But you are asking the wrong questions. Rather than spending so much of your time resenting me – hating me – you should be asking whether you are prepared to make the most important decisions. What do you want from your life, Alex? What do you want most in the world?”

  “I want to help people. My friends.” Alex didn’t hesitate in answering. “I want to keep them safe.”

  “And you think killing me will accomplish this?”

  “You stole my house. You threw me in a cell.”

  “I have fed you. Provided water. Security.”

  “But this isn’t your house!”

  “It isn’t the house you covet, Alex.”

  Quiet, simple words. Softly spoken. They stabbed like knives.

  “Then leave!” The anger was returning.

  The rage was returning, fury creeping into Alex’s thoughts, filling his heart with anger. Gritting his teeth, clenching his fists, he fought to drive it away. Even if it felt good, it wasn’t helping.

  Alex wasn’t an angry person. For years, he’d been dull. Muted. Boring. He’d hardly felt anything ever since he had moved to Detroit, just careening through life with hardly a care. This fury, whatever was enveloping him now, it felt raw. It felt powerful. With everything collapsing around him, it felt right.

  Calm down. Joan’s words calling out from his memories. Stop acting like an idiot. She never suffered fools. She would tell him he was being stupid. Had she? Alex couldn’t remember. He could hardly remember a word anyone had said to him since he arrived. In his mind, he could imagine all three of his friends staring at him, astonished at his anger. Calm down, man. We can’t afford to make enemies, my friend. Even Finn, lying down, trying to cover his ears while Ale
x shouted. He could see it all. It hurt to think of them like this.

  “You covet the responsibility.” Krol continued, indifferent to Alex’s revelation. “The head of the household. You have returned to your childhood home and found a new authority figure in charge. It is natural that you hate me.”

  “Leave your dime store psychology at the door, Krol.”

  The old man sighed, a sound hurtling through his throat like ripping cardboard.

  “These are your interesting times, Alex. That is your curse. But you have failed to see the blessing before you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

  “You do not need to make decisions, Alex. I will decide. I will act. And you can hate me. You can lecture me about morality. You can swing around your rifle and threaten to remove my head.”

  “I can.” Alex leaned out and stroked the gun.

  “But then what will you do? Who will you blame? Who will you rail against?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Then kill me now. If it pleases you, pick up your gun and shoot me. I won’t stop you.”

  Krol turned around quickly and, in one motion, plucked the pistol from his desk and placed it on the floor in front of Alex.

  “Pick it up.”

  Alex obeyed. An old pistol. Ancient. Close to rust.

  “Decide, Alex. Make your choice. The world is full of difficult decisions. Times are interesting.”

  Alex held the pistol out in front of him. That was the easy part.

  They sat together for a minute, neither saying a word. Around them, the house grew louder. Voices. Footsteps. Louder and quicker. People were moving all around them.

  “I could kill you now.” Alex spoke slowly. “You couldn’t stop me.”

  “You could kill me this instant.”

  Alex could feel his wrist threatening to tremble. He held it firm.

  “I’d get my farm back.”

  “You would.”

  The shouts and footsteps were louder, growing by the second. People were coming.

  “You wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

  “No.”

  “I could protect my friends. I could protect people.”