Without

by E. E. Borton

  After processing the meat, I prepared the equipment to preserve as much of it as possible. My mother was an expert canner, leaving me all the necessary tools and reference materials I needed for the task. If I followed the instructions in proper order, the venison would be safe to store at room temperature until I needed it. (My mother’s canning books informed me the meat would remain fresh for years, but I didn’t plan on pushing it that long.)

  It didn’t take me long to fall into a daily ritual. After taking care of personal hygiene, I’d tidy up any disturbances I had created in the house the day before. If weather permitted, it was followed by coffee on the deck and a mental checklist of things I needed to accomplish before sunset. When the plan was agreed upon, I’d walk the property, looking for any signs of visitors – both indigenous game and human. At various clearings I’d also spend a little time peering through my scope, searching for signs of trouble.

  When I finished my patrol I’d tend to the garden – or at least the soil. It stayed pristine as I fell into a Zen-like state, removing any debris falling into the boxes from the trees flanking them. The chicken wire seemed to be working well, but I decided to use more to form a bird and squirrel-proof cage. Waiting for the first sprouts became my obsession.

  Completing my chores, I’d return to the house for afternoon reading. My parents had an affinity for classic books, populating an entire wall of the main room with titles. I had read most as a younger man, but decided to start from the beginning on the top shelf. I’d sit in silence for hours until I found myself squinting in the fading light of early evening. The stories became my only contact with a world other than the tiny one in which I existed. It didn’t take long for me to start believing I was the last man on earth.

  As I stood on the deck with my cup on day twenty-eight since 8:13, I was thinking about places on the other side of my property line. I wondered how Emma and her frying pan were faring against the evil trying to get inside; I wondered about Marcus and his two boys, hoping they completed their mission and found their mother, taking her home; I wondered if the rangers were strong enough to weather the storms and fend off the cowards. But most of my thoughts – the ones that affected me more than the others – were of Hope and the girls. I not only wondered if they were okay, I wanted to know for sure.

  For longer than I felt comfortable, I contemplated about how I could verify they were safe, but without letting them knowing I was near. I mentally planned a route that would avoid any of the towns – or trouble – I came across on the road up from Atlanta. It would take me at least a week to complete the round trip. I figured I could spend one day with the rangers to see if they had gathered any new information about the world from stragglers. For longer than I felt comfortable, it made sense to put my eyes on all of them.

  I shook off the suicidal thoughts and started my daily patrol of the property. By the time I reached the first clearing, Hope had crept back into my mind. It was the start of a much more dangerous obsession than waiting for sprouts.

  “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I did,” said Sam, joining me on the patrol.

  Turning to continue my walk without responding was enough of an answer. I knew my premature declaration that she was wrong, and that I was home, just came back to bite me on the ass. I didn’t think the pain of that realization would come so soon.

  “You want to cut me some slack here?” I said, ducking under a branch on the path. “This is all kind of new for me. I’ll adjust. It’s only been a few weeks.”

  “What do you have to look forward to here?”

  “Sam, come on. You’re acting as if I have a choice.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said, turning to face her. “Unless you want to see me die?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Sam, walking past me.

  “Sam, wait. Please, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”

  “It was,” said Sam, pausing, lowering her head. “All I want is for you to be happy again. I don’t think you’re happy here. I know you’re not.”

  “If I knew where happy was, I’d be there in a heartbeat,” I said. “But I don’t. So the best thing for me to do is stay where I am and try to make the best of it.”

  “It’s okay that you want to go to her,” said Sam, walking back to me. “You could bring them back here. I don’t think she’d argue with you. You’ve made this a good, safe place to start over.”

  “Do I bring her dead husband’s brother?” I asked. “And I’m not trying to be a jerk.”

  “I don’t know. I guess that would be up to him.”

  “You see now, Sam? There are just too many variables that could go wrong. I need to stay put.”

  “No, you need to find other people.”

  “People are dangerous,” I said. “It only takes one to make trouble.”

  “We’re social animals, baby. You’re a social animal. Getting as far away from the cities was a good idea, but completely cutting yourself off from your species isn’t.”

  “It’s worked out fine for me so far,” I said. “I’m good here. Even Mother Nature is easing up a bit on me. There hasn’t been a light storm for five days. No, the best plan is to wait things out a little longer. Maybe in the fall after my first harvest I’ll venture out and visit the rangers. If anyone has a chance of making it in a group, it’s them. But I plan on coming right back here.”

  “I don’t think you’ll last that long,” said Sam. “And I’m not being a jerk either. Why do you shave every morning?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” said Sam, smiling. “You get yourself ready every morning as if you were expecting company. If you were truly happy here, you wouldn’t give a crap how you looked.”

  “You are an odd woman,” I said. “The crazy thoughts that go through your head.”

  “They’re going through your head, sweetie,” said Sam. “That’s why I’m worried about you.”

  “I shave and clean myself up because it makes me feel normal,” I said. “As stupid as that may sound, it gives me something to do. I have to stick to some kind of routine every day, or I will go crazy up here. That’s all that is. It has nothing to do with trying to look good for company.”

  “Whatever,” said Sam. “I think you’re losing it.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me,” I said. “I have everything I need here. My uncle took good care of the house and left me in the best position possible. It would be a mistake to leave.”

  “Your Uncle Perry!” said Sam, beaming at her epiphany. “Doesn’t he live close?”

  “I wouldn’t say close,” I said. “It would be at least a two day walk, maybe three.”

  “You guys get along great, don’t you?”

  “We do,” I said. “He is my father’s brother.”

  “I’m sure he’s doing fine,” said Sam. “Plus he’s family. I bet nothing would make him happier than to see your face at his front door. Baby, you need to go find him.”

  “We get along, but I wouldn’t call us close,” I said. “Besides, I’ve only been to his house twice and not since I was a teenager. He always came here to get away. Even if by some miracle I did find it, there’s no guarantee he still lives there. No. Bad idea, sweetie.”

  “Bullshit,” said Sam. “It’s a wonderful idea and you know it. There’s nothing more important than family, especially now. I bet it would take you five minutes to find something inside your house with his address. Your dad has a ton of maps in his study. Don’t start making excuses before you even try. Yes, this is a good idea. Come on, I’ll help you look for his address.”

  Before I could argue, she bolted up the trail back to the house. When I walked inside she was standing at my father’s desk. Her face was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Start here,” said Sam.

  Once again she was painfully right. My uncle had left several of his hunting magazines in the top drawer. The most recent issue was less than four months
old. Hearing Sam squeal with delight, I unfolded a map. It seemed to be the same area I remembered visiting as a kid.

  “Less than five minutes,” said Sam, sitting in my lap, wrapping her arms around me. “Now you have something to look forward to.”

  “It means I have to go back on the road, Sam. It’s been a month since all this started. It’s going to be worse out there. People who weren’t dangerous before, will be now.”

  “You’re pretty dangerous yourself,” said Sam. “And you’re smart. You’ll do fine. Uncle Perry is the only family you have left. It’s worth the risk trying to find him.”

  “What about my garden?” I asked.

  “I’ll tend to it while you’re gone,” replied Sam. “You just worry about yourself.”

  Chapter 31

  Blood of a Father

  Well, at least I now had a plan for the day.

  When Sam (giddy as a school girl that I decided to find Uncle Perry) left me, I sat at my father’s desk thinking about all the reasons why it was a bad idea. I couldn’t argue with her that the isolation was slowly driving me insane, but the idea of heading back out onto the road seemed more insane.

  Pushing the conflict aside, I grabbed a pen and paper to create a checklist for securing the house while I was gone. Reality set in a few minutes later, reminding me there was nothing I could do to keep people out unless I stayed. The checklist changed directions, showing me the only thing I could do was hide everything I wanted to keep.

  I hated that shovel.

  With blisters still trying to heal from working the soil for the gardens, I started digging again. I needed four holes deep enough to bury three fifty-five gallon drums and a steamer trunk. I chose a spot off the gravel driveway around a bend. In the event somebody – or a group – decided to move into my house, I needed the hiding spot to be well concealed. On the flip side, I wanted the holes to be close enough to move the contents back to the house if I returned and it was still unoccupied.

  A clearing behind a row of trees thirty yards off the driveway seemed like a good spot. Not two strikes into the earth, and I was hitting roots and rocks. It became an exercise in perseverance. I had no choice but to break through the barriers. The chances of bears or hillbillies finding my stash of food and weapons were too great to leave them above ground. After digging all day – dragging the 500 pound shovel behind me – I made my way back to the house.

  After grabbing a bite to eat, I walked through the house taking inventory of the items I’d be stowing inside the uncovered containers in the morning. Room by room, I found myself collecting objects other than food and weapons. As the pile in the main room grew, I was surprised at what I considered valuable – what was important to me – and what wasn’t. I sat next to it, picking up each object, taking myself to a different place and time.

  I held a small wooden box my father helped me build when I was six years old. On the bottom my name was carved. Inside were his wedding ring, pocket watch, whittling knife, and a small laminated photo of my mother when she was seventeen. Those were the four things he always carried with him.

  As a lump formed in my throat, I knew I was embarking on another exercise in perseverance. It wasn’t a pile of objects in front of me. It was a time machine, taking me back to brilliant moments filled with color, warmth, and sincerity. They were reminders of two lives well lived that joined together to create mine. They were also reminders that they were living them long before I came along. In an instant they became more than my parents. They became two people I admired and envied who lived full lives and never had to see what the world – and everyone in it – had become, including me.

  As I looked into my mother’s young eyes and beaming smile, I thought about the men I burned, shot, stabbed, and buried. I wondered if that smile would hold true if she learned about the atrocities committed by her son. Would it hold true if she learned about what I did to Hope? Would it hold true if she learned about the anger and hate that fueled my rage against anything that challenged me? Unable to look her in the face any longer, I returned the photo to the box.

  Picking up the pocket watch, I was able to clear my mind of the painful thoughts. It was handed down to my father from his. Before mine died, he told me it belonged to me now. He told me everything belonged to me now. When I opened the cover and wound the spring, it was as if I were listening to the sound of a miracle as I held it to my ear. Time was moving again.

  I walked outside to a large flower garden my mother had tended like it was her second child. In the center an ornate brass sundial sat on top of a pedestal. I remember my father telling me it was accurate to within thirty minutes of the actual time. I set the watch to the late afternoon hour and attached it to my shirt, sliding it into its new home in my pocket. With it resting over my heart, I closed my eyes, feeling even closer to the men who had owned it before me.

  Returning to the pile in the main room, I opened one of several thick photograph albums. (My mother was meticulous about having each in chronological order.) Sam was right. I looked exactly like my father when he was my age. It was as if I were looking into a mirror.

  The painful thoughts of what my mother would think of my decisions over the past month were replaced with how I thought my father would feel. I thought of the hell on earth my father would rain down on anyone that attempted to hurt his bride. In my eyes he was the definition of a warrior.

  He was a stoic man with little use for words, determining a man’s worth and character through his actions. As I grew older – and more aware of events taking place around me – I would notice when my dad approved, or disapproved, of someone he was with. He shook everyone’s hand. If he approved, it would be accompanied by a wide smile. If he didn’t, the smile was absent, but I could see the muscles in his forearm flex. He was letting them know his strength was much deeper than the pressure in his grip.

  Flipping through the pages of the album, I noticed there was a period of time when pictures of him were few. The four years of family photos taken during his tours in Vietnam lacked his presence. There were only two pages dedicated to his service of our country. In each there was a forced smile, but the sadness and pain in his eyes wasn’t forced.

  Shortly before he died, he spoke to me about those years. He told me it was easier to think of his death in the jungle than it was thinking about making it home alive. He tried many times to forget my mother’s face, knowing he’d never see it again. When he did make it home, he vowed there wasn’t a force on earth that would ever separate them again. He made a promise to her he never broke. The cause of his death three months after my mother’s was listed as heart failure. I knew he was just keeping that promise. My father was a man of his word.

  My mother died of natural causes. Sam didn’t. She was murdered by three men who were never punished for their crime. I saw those faces whenever a coward crossed my path, thinking they could take from me or anyone else. I didn’t set out looking for them, but they were fucking everywhere. When they made that decision to challenge me, they got punished shortly after. I didn’t think my father would have a problem with that.

  “They were good people, your folks,” said Earl, sitting at my father’s desk. “My pops was a good man, too. All he cared about was takin’ care of his family. You know, providin’ us with more than what he had growin’ up. Did you know he had two other jobs other than tendin’ the greens at the club?”

  “That doesn’t surprise me, Earl. My dad was the same way. Any spare time he had, he’d fill it with work. My mother and I never wanted for anything. I think all she ever really wanted was for him to take it easy and enjoy his life.”

  “Him workin’ to give you a better life and take care of his bride is what he enjoyed, son. It made him feel like a man worth something. His time away from you both during that war helped him to figure out what’s really important. His family and the folks he loved. That’s it. Nothing else matters.”

  “Then what do you do when they’re all gone? All the peopl
e you cared about or loved. What do you do then?”

  “Don’t you mean what do you do?” asked Earl. “That’s who we’re talking about here, ain’t we? You.”

  “You’re very perceptive, old man,” I said, grinning. “Yes, the people I cared about most in my life are dead.”

  “Oh, now, young man,” said Earl, shaking his head. “You got it all mixed up. Those people you loved are dead, all right. But your ability to love isn’t. That’s still there. That makes your life worth livin’. You’ll care about people again. You lose that hope, and then you might as well end it yourself.”

  “I told you that I’m not the suicide type.”

  “I know what you told me,” said Earl, leaning back in my father’s chair. “I know you’re not that type. But let me ask you then. What type are you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I do,” said Earl, ginning wider. “You’re the type that don’t quit.”

  “I agree, buddy. Suicide is quitting. I’m not ready for that.”

  “I’m proud of you,” said Earl, standing and walking over to the window.

  “For what?”

  “Goin’ to look for your kin out there. I think that’s the best idea Sam has had. It’s important that you find your uncle. You’re gonna see a lot of your father in his face. Even more than in your own. You see, he’s connected to him in different ways than you are. He’s got stories and tales goin’ way back with your papa since they was kids. Things you ain’t never heard of or seen before. It’s gonna be good for you, son. Real good.”

  “Okay, let me play devil’s advocate here,” I said. “What if he’s not the type to stroll down memory lane or even give a crap that his nephew showed up at his door? He may look at me as just another straggler begging for food or shelter. He may look at me as a burden.”