WWIV - Hope In The Darkness

by E A Lake

  With every passing week, Hunter saw more and more people on the roads. These people looked hard and miserable. The big cities were out of everything – food, fuel, medical, and safe harbor. Since most governments had failed by now, there was no one left for protection. Police forces were a thing of the past. If you gave up your freedom, you could join a gang. But what kind of life was that? Scavenge for someone else all day, every day. Not Hunter. He needed to take care of himself.

  Then there was that damned militia. They were the law in most places these days. But they were as corrupt and dishonest as the gangs. The eleven individuals up at the house were proof of that. What kind of organization takes five babies, gives them to five girls, and sends them to the middle of nowhere to raise children? What kind of plan was that? This was the kind of plan that only those idiots in the militia could come up with.

  Hunter knew exactly why the militia had agreed with the Church. The Church recognized a need. They needed help in carrying out their plan. The militia was more than happy to oblige. Once the militia stuck a bunch of girls and babies in the middle of nowhere, the Church would be indebted to them. After all, the militia had helped when no one else would or even could.

  The militia told the Church they would keep the new families supplied, for a while at least. They might even send trucks out of the cities a couple of times for supply drops. Most likely empty trucks, that once they left the city would sit on the side of the road until dark. Then the drivers would return and give all sorts of false progress reports from the families. Oh how wonderful everything was working out in the country. Hunter frowned thinking of the cunning of the militia’s plan.

  And one day, in the not so distant future, they would simply tell the Church they were out of fuel and couldn’t make these supply runs any longer. They might even pass along disinformation of how well everyone in the outplaces had adapted. They’d get along fine on their own, and the Church would eat it up with a spoon.

  Since the militia had helped the Church in the greatest hour of need, the Church could now help the militia. That was the militia’s plan all along, since the Church still held so much power. They could tell their parishioners, and even the general population, how wonderful the militia had been. It was like a community service project for the militia that only involved one trip per new family. The militia would be the saviors of the young. They were great servants to the people, in their darkest hour of need. And what better project than to help innocent, helpless babies. For the militia, the situation couldn’t have been better.

  Hunter thought for a moment of Sister Theresa. She looked so betrayed, so guilty when she learned of the militia’s true intentions. Understandably, she was a caring, trusting soul. She believed in good in all people; even Hunter. Crazy girl. She was ready for something different out here in the country. She thought she would have a continuous, albeit small, lifeline back to her parish and her church family.

  Now, here she was with five teenaged girls and five babies all under three months old. Whatever she thought she was going to be doing probably wasn’t her reality any more. She had to serve the role of mother, sister, caretaker, nurse, chef, cleaner – heck, everything. Those five teenagers needed the Sister’s constant help. And somehow, with all the courage she could muster, Sister Theresa took the greatest curveball life could throw at her and came out just fine, so far at least.

  Sister Theresa stood five-five, maybe five-six at best. Hunter figured she weighed all of 110 soaking wet. Maybe even a little less than that. To say she was petite pretty much explained Sister Theresa. She had said she was 27, so Hunter figured she might have been in the church for the past seven or eight years. That meant most of her adult life watching humanity disintegrate. That couldn’t have been easy, even from inside the safety of her church.

  She had a good heart, Sister Theresa that is, thought Hunter. Though he had only known her for a little while, he could already see the goodness that lay inside her. She was what he always pictured a nun should be; kind, gentle and happy, but with a tough spine. For all of her sweetness, she could be quite forward and resourceful. He wondered how long she would keep her gentle attitude. If she were anything like him, it would disappear quickly.

  But what was he thinking? She was nothing like him. She was the complete antithesis of Hunter. That was a good thing. Good for her, that’s for sure. Maybe even a good thing for Hunter.

  He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his crumpled container of cigarettes. He wasn’t doing much hunting this morning it seemed. Hunter’s mind wandered. He allowed himself to become lost in thought as he lit his first smoke of the day.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Recalling the last days before this time, Hunter rocked gently. It didn’t seem possible that almost six years had passed. But that’s how long it had been. Actually five years and nine months. Long enough. And what an awful six years he’d experienced.

  Shortly after the power went down, Hunter and his new wife made a pact that they would survive, no matter what. Hunter hung his head and quietly said her name, “Gwen.” He hadn’t thought of Gwen in over a year, hadn’t said her name out loud in more than two. But now he dared the impossible. The impossible for Hunter at least.

  He and Gwen were so happy. Maybe goofy was a better description. That’s what most of their friends always said. Gwen and her man were goofy in love. That’s what made thinking of her now, remembering everything and anything about her, hurt Hunter so badly.

  They were young when they married. Too young many said but so in love everyone agreed. Their joint youthful optimism kept their love fresh, kept them going. Never in the few years they were married were they ever unhappy with one another. Or life, for that matter. Gwen completed him, and he completed her.

  First the lights went out, and then the trouble started. No, that wasn’t right. First they were married, and then the lights went out. Trouble soon followed in the form of looters. Hunter wanted to leave the city immediately. Not Gwen; she was always more tolerant and willing to help people in need.

  “They’re just looking for what they need to survive, that’s all,” Gwen told him one night as they sat huddled in their tiny apartment. “We just need to be cautious.”

  That was Gwen – loving, caring and compassionate, to a fault, if necessary. And that’s why she made Hunter whole. She was everything he wasn’t.

  Whatever he imagined for their life together died one early afternoon. An explosion rocked and leveled their building. Hunter was out searching for supplies. Supplies she was sure he would find. He had wanted her to come with, but she hadn’t been feeling well. So while Gwen comfortably rested in their apartment, Hunter searched for the objects of her desire.

  He heard the explosion from blocks away, but was sure it wasn’t their place. Still, he ran home as fast as he could, fear gripping his soul. The last time he felt anything was when he dug Gwen’s lifeless body from the rubble. He buried her in a nearby park.

  Hunter left town that same evening and began his aimless journey north. With only the clothes on his body, he wandered without food and only an occasional sip of water. Two weeks later, battered, torn, hungry, thirsty and completely dead inside, he found himself begging for food at an Amish farm some five miles south of where he sat now.

  With the help of the Amish, Hunter got upright again and began working on the numerous farms in the area. He received some cash, some trade, and some food and room for his labor. Within a few months, he began drinking heavily.

  The Amish farmers weren’t fond of employing a man who was constantly drunk, but their choices became limited. Many able-bodied men from the area went south that next summer, the first full summer of darkness, to fight the alleged war. By default, Hunter the drunk became a valued commodity.

  The next three summers passed as a blur for Hunter. When he wasn’t drunk, he was sleeping off a bad hangover. If he wasn’t drunk or sleeping, he made his way to whatever Amish farm required his help. There, the
vicious cycle began anew every two to three weeks. Work, drink, sleep – and repeat.

  He thought again of Gwen. All of the joy they shared died with her. All of the hope and promise of a decent world was buried with her earthly body. Any promise of someday being reunited in some type of afterlife, died with each drinking binge. And that’s the way Hunter wanted it. He needed to remember nothing of his former life. Only pain was found in the past. He’d had enough pain.

  New people meant new friends. New friends opened the possibility of emotions, happiness. New friends also had a way of dying. Dying only brought more pain. Pain was not on Hunter’s list of needs. Neither were friends.

  Perhaps Sister Theresa deserved to know about his past, perhaps not. The story would bring emotions to the young nun. Emotions that Hunter didn’t want to deal with; emotions he couldn’t deal with.

  With his eyes closed tightly, Hunter nodded slightly and tucked Gwen deep away, one more time. He shook his head and wiped away the single tear that managed to escape. He had no plans on opening any old wounds with the Sister. Someday perhaps they could talk about it, but probably not.

  “Sister?” Mary called from the kitchen table. “Are we expecting Hunter again today?”

  Theresa strolled in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a plain beige towel. She nodded at Mary’s question. “Yes. He said he was going to hunt a little first thing this morning. He’s planning on securing the fencing better for the garden after that.” Sheila walked through, singing a lullaby to Virginia. The tiny girl’s eyes fluttered as the soft song continued. Theresa looked back at the pair, satisfied. “Why do you ask, Mary?”

  Mary lifted her shoulders and then her eyes. “He just hasn’t been real dependable so far. That’s all. So I was just wondering.” She played with the burnt edges of her toast before looking back up at Theresa. “Do you like him, Sister?”

  Theresa’s head moved slightly from side to side. “I haven’t really made up my mind what kind of man he is yet. I see glimpses of hope from time to time. But those seem to be followed by periods of great disappointment.” Mary’s eyes narrowed not fully understanding the answer. “Let’s just say,” Theresa continued, “that the jury is still out on him. Do you understand that expression?”

  Mary nodded. “My mother was an attorney, Sister. So that makes perfect sense to me.”

  Karen walked through and stopped next to Mary. She cast a harsh glare at the younger teen. “Mary, you didn’t make your bed again. You need to get to that.” Popping up from her chair, Mary headed for the steep narrow stairway. “Mary,” Karen called out again. “Your dishes, really?” Karen glanced at the table.

  Mary let out an exasperated gasp and picked up her dishes. “Mary do this, Mary do that,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re not the boss of me, Karen.”

  Karen opened her mouth to chastise Mary’s sassiness. but saw a wry smile on Sister Theresa’s face. “Just let it be for now, Karen. She’s doing her best.” Both ladies left the dining room headed for separate chores elsewhere.

  Three young men made their way carefully along the tree line that separated the Mueller’s from Sister Theresa’s farm. Their leader held up a single hand and motioned for the group to kneel. Peering carefully over the thin spring brush, one of the men looked back at his gang.

  “Okay, that’s the house,” he whispered while pointing in the direction of the large white home. His two companions snuck a quick peek as well.

  “And you’re sure there’s girls there?” One of the group asked the leader. The third quiet man focused on the others now.

  The leader swung his face their way. “Of course there’s girls there. I checked it out, know all about it.” He watched small grins form on his companion’s lips. “And they’re cute. Every last one of them.” He nodded as he got more serious. “So they’re worth the risk.” He reached for his axe as the group carefully rose.

  “Okay. I just don’t want this to go all wrong, you know,” the second man added as they began their cautious walk again.

  “Yeah,” the third, shyer man finally chimed in. “I don’t want anyone knowing that I was involved if this goes bad.” He stared at the others. “We all agree on that, right?” They all nodded. This was their big chance to really make their mark in the area. They’d do whatever it took to succeed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Henry guided the wagon carefully down the road. His trade was valuable, yet fragile. Jonah, his middle son, sat next to him; his eyes glued on the road searching for signs of trouble. Cradled in his arms was his father’s old 12-gauge shotgun.

  “Pa,” Jonah began. “Did we steal back there? Take something that wasn’t ours?” His young eyes remained fixed on the road.

  Smiling slightly, Henry shrugged off the question. “Jonah. The women need food. Hunter has, or should I say had, what this man wants to trade for food. An abundant amount of food.” He removed a worn red handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped his brow. Two hours had passed since they loaded the trade material and Henry was still sweating in the morning sun. “Hunter knows what we have done. He’s not happy, but he is aware.”

  Finally, Jonah turned to face his father. “So why did we wait until he left this morning to come and take his alcohol?”

  Henry chuckled and patted his son’s knee twice. “I never said Hunter was willing, son. I just said he’s aware.” Henry refocused his attention on the road. “It’s best for all, son – the girls, the babies, the Sister.” He paused briefly. “And most of all, best for Hunter.”

  Pulling into the old parking area, the gravel crunched beneath the iron wheels of the weighty wagon. Henry focused on two men, sitting out front of the trading post. Two dirty, shabbily dressed, well-armed men. He noticed Jonah squeeze the shotgun tighter in his palms.

  “Worry not, Jonah,” Henry said as he pulled his team to a stop some 10 yards from the guarded entryway. “These men won’t harm us. They’re just here to protect Mr. MacMillan’s goods.” Almost on cue, the two men rose from their chairs and started for the wagon.

  “Morning Henry,” one of the two called out. The man covered his brow from the bright sun to check out Henry’s rider. “One of your boys?” he asked seeing the man was actually a youth.

  Henry nodded. “This is Jonah.” He paused as he stared at his son’s tense face. The boy needed to learn to relax in situations like this. He looked as if he might, at any second, jump from the wagon and shoot the place up. “Is Mac in this morning?”

  The single man nodded as his comrade went to the back of the wagon. “What’s ya bring, old man?” asked the quieter of the two. Henry tried to recall his name but couldn’t.

  “Something your boss will really like,” he answered, jumping from the buckboard. “Jonah, stay with the wagon until I return. If these men give you any trouble,” he winked at the first man, “just shoot once in the air, and I’ll come out.” The leader laughed and signaled for Henry to pass. Time to dance with the devil, Henry thought as he removed his wide brimmed hat and entered the trading post.

  Inside, it was still mostly dark. The only light came in through the propped open front door. All other windows were still covered by the shutters that were closed each evening at sunset. No lamps burned, so Henry had to pause to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

  Movement from the back of the room caught Henry’s attention. “Morning Henry,” announced a deep gravelly voice. “You out pretty early today.” Slowly the man made his way to the front of the store. Wade MacMillan was a beast of a man. He stood taller than any man Henry knew to live, almost seven feet he was sure. His massive body caused the floor to creak under his weight as he stepped toward his Amish trading partner.

  “What’d you bring me this morning? Or…” Wade lit his pipe with a wooden stick match. “…are you looking for something that only I can provide?”

  Henry first waved away the offensive sulfur smell from the match, and then the reek of whatever it was the Mac smoked in his pipe. He knew
it wasn’t any form of tobacco he was accustomed to. Perhaps it was swamp grass or some type of special herbs. Whatever it was, the smell was foul.

  “I brought a trade, something that may interest you, Mac.” Henry started back for the front door and could hear the lumbering steps follow. “And in return, I’m in need of a pile of food. Enough to fill a wagon.” He turned to discover Mac had stopped grinning at Henry.

  “I’ve got enough Amish goods to last me another lifetime after this crappy one ends already. I don’t need one more jar of pickled beets or side of dried beef anytime soon.” Mac spoke in a soft, yet firm tone, as he and Henry descended the old wooden steps of the post. Henry heard the wood moan under Mac’s massive size.

  Noticing Jonah anxiously waiting for his father’s return, Henry gave him a reassuring nod. Jonah still clutched tightly the old shotgun, as if he was ready for war at any time, Henry’s head shook slightly, hoping his son would understand.

  Rounding the wagon, Mac and Henry were joined by the two post guards. Slowly, Henry pulled back the tarp covering his surprise. Mac cautiously studied the ten cardboard boxes placed carefully amongst a number of shredded bales of hay, used solely to cushion their ride.

  Mac’s expression hardened staring at the boxes like the wagon was full of dynamite. His eyes shifted from the liquor, then to Henry, to the guard on his right, and back to the liquor. Silent moments passed without a word from any of the group.

  Henry turned from Mac and inched toward Jonah in the front of the wagon. Reaching up, he took the gun from Jonah and cradled it precariously in his own thin arms. Mac finally nodded.

  “Okay,” he started, but paused again. Finally turning to Henry, the corners of his mouth curled up a fraction of an inch. “Isn’t this against your religion, Henry? I mean, I know some of your kind over west of here brew their own rotgut to trade with hard-up people, but this looks like the real stuff.”