The World On Fire

by Boyd Craven III

  “Do you want a hand?” Randolph asked.

  “I got this,” I told him.

  The girl seemed skittish, but I was probably the least threatening-looking of the group. I followed her across the street and up about a block. We passed a few houses and it was heart-breakingly evident that it hadn’t been an affluent neighborhood, even before the EMP. One of the houses we passed, the curtains were moved and then fell back into place, making me wonder how many people were around, how many people might be shut inside watching. Maybe with rifles pointed at my back….

  “You look like you’re sick,” she told me, “are you ok, mister?” Maria asked me.

  “Oh, I’m ok,: I reassured her. “Which house is yours?”

  “The red one.”

  The red one it was. It was the nicer house on the street. The dark red probably didn’t do much for keeping the house cool, and I wasn’t surprised to see two AC units sitting side by side. The house wasn’t large, but it had been built within the last ten years; the only structure in Spafford that could lay claim to that title by the look of things. Maria walked up to the front door and just pushed it open. I guess crime wasn’t normally a big issue.

  The smell hit me immediately. It smelled like an overflowing trashcan of dirty diapers.

  “Maria,” a weak voice called out.

  “Be right there,” she said, kicking her shoes off by the door.

  Little things I noticed immediately. The house was spotless. It had recently been dusted and it was tastefully decorated with a southwest theme that was somewhat typical of where we live.

  “Who’s with you, baby?” a woman’s voice said from a doorway we’d just walked past.

  I stopped startled and turned. I don’t know who was surprised more, me or the woman. She was surprisingly tall. You could tell that she’d been an absolute knockout, but either hunger or sickness had left her thin and hollow eyed.

  “Who’s this, Maria?” she asked, swaying on her feet.

  “This is Brad, he’s got medicine. He said he can help.”

  “You stay away from my daughter, you sick…”

  I caught her as she slumped, and lowered her to the ground.

  “Maria, go out the door and call for Stu, he’s my friend. He’ll come running.”

  “Is my mom going to be ok?”

  “I think so,” I told her.

  I felt her forehead and she was burning up. I put my arms under her as Maria ran to the front door, screaming for my buddy, and scooped her mother up. She’d been coming out of a bathroom, evidently the source of the house’s smell. The toilet wasn’t overflowing, but it wasn’t pleasant. I made a mental note to get buckets of water from the old sheriff’s house and flush it somehow. I went down the hallway, the woman light in my arms, and pushed open a door with my foot. The bedroom was painted pink and stickers adorned the wall and ceiling. Dora and Boots from Dora the Explorer. Those neon glow in the dark stars were stuck to the ceiling everywhere.

  I went and pushed the next door open and saw I’d found the right room. A bucket had been placed near the bed. Mercifully, it was empty. Her four poster was high up enough I had to pull Marcy close to me and higher to get her onto it. I didn’t bother covering her up; she felt warm. Warm and dry. That’s when I started to worry. Marcy laid there limp and completely out of it.

  “He’s coming Mr. Brad,” Maria said, standing in her mother’s doorway.

  “Get me a washcloth sweetheart,” I called.

  I kept a water bottle clipped to my belt and it had been lukewarm earlier, but it had cooled. I’d topped it off at Joe’s hand pumped well during one of my digging breaks. I uncapped it and tried to pour a little over Marcy’s chapped lips. She moaned and turned to the side.

  “Here you go. Did she fall asleep again?” Maria asked, “She falls down and goes to sleep when it’s really bad.”

  “How long has it been since she’s eaten or drank anything?” I asked.

  “Not today or yesterday. I think she was throwing up the day before. Two or three days, I think? Is my mommy going to be ok?”

  “I think so, trust me. I’ll do everything I can to help her,” I told her, taking the washcloth and tousling her hair the way I’d seen people do to kids on TV.

  I was trying to reassure her, but her mother wasn’t sweating and that was a big sign of dehydration, heat stroke or heat exhaustion. She’d probably had a bad stomach bug, food poisoning or drank bad water and got sucked into a vicious cycle. I’d been there once. It hadn’t been pleasant. I’d overdone it on a hunt and, when I collapsed, it had taken an IV bag of fluids to make me feel halfway human again. Throwing up, diarrhea and everything else had plagued me that day.

  Cupping the washcloth in one hand, I wet it down with the water and press it onto her forehead. Marcy stretched and moaned. Rivulets of water from the damp cool cloth ran down the side of her face and she wiggled back and forth a bit, her eyes starting to flutter.

  “Do you have any straws?” I asked Marcy.

  “Yes, in the kitchen.”

  “Get me some.”

  She hurried off and Marcy opened her eyes and looked at me.

  “If you hurt my daughter, I’ll kill you,” she whispered.

  I smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, using my free hand to push the hair out of her eyes.

  “What are you doing?” she asked me.

  “Your daughter found us to help. I promise, I’m not here to hurt you or her.”

  “Mommy!” Maria cried, jumping on the bed, a handful of plastic disposable straws in her hand.

  She’d gone fast enough that I didn’t expect her back so quickly.

  “Here you go, Mister Brad.” She held a pink and white striped plastic straw out to me.

  I put it in the water bottle, pulled on the end and tilted it 90 degrees. When I held it up to Marcy, she turned to look at her daughter. Maria smiled back, happy to see her mother awake, I imagined. Then her eyes turned to me.

  “Thank you,” she said, and took a sip.

  She must have been really dry, because the first sip had her coughing and gasping. I got the bucket and put it up. She held onto one side weakly and just shook her head at me.

  “Brad?” I heard Stu yell from the front of the house.

  “Back here, last door in the hallway.”

  Marcy’s cough subsided and I handed her the water bottle.

  “Take slow sips, or you’re going to throw up,” I told her.

  Marcy nodded. I could tell she was swallowing a little fast, but I didn’t stop her. I had collapsed once and immediately had gotten help, but she had been like this for a day or two… I was surprised she was ok.

  “Oh man,” Stu said coming into the room, “What can I help with?” he said looking around.

  “First things first, I need four or five buckets of water from the Sherriff’s pump to get dumped down the bathroom toilet. She’s been sick and I’m guessing she hasn’t been able to haul water.”

  “No,” Marcy said in a weak voice and then put her free hand on her stomach.

  “Don’t drink so fast, you’ll cramp up,” I told her.

  “Sorry, I…”

  She started heaving and I pulled the water bottle clear and made sure the bucket was close at hand. It was close, but she held everything down. She motioned for the water bottle, but I shook my head.

  “You have to go slow,” I told her, “You’re badly dehydrated. Every time you throw up or use the restroom, you’re making it worse. Trust me. Slow, and in a couple minutes we’ll be able to get you more.”

  “My mouth is so dry,” she rasped.

  I pulled the washcloth down, and she pushed it against her lips. I could hear her sucking.

  “Is there anyone here to take care of you?” I asked her.

  “Man, what are you doing?” Stu, I’d forgotten about him.

  “Stu, can you get those buckets of water for me?” I asked him again.

  “Is she ok?” he asked.

 
“She should be. If you can do those buckets though, maybe use the truck and bring a bunch… I want to get the bathroom ready in case she has to use it once we get some water in her.”

  “Ok, need anybody else?” he asked.

  “No, just some bottles of water, buckets for the bathroom and my big pack. I’ve got some packets of Gatorade in there.”

  “You got it,” he said and left.

  Something had made him stop, hesitate. He was the soldier and he was used to action and orders. I smiled, it was something to razz him about later on. The washcloth was placed back on her head and she looked at me.

  “What day is it?” she asked me.

  “I don’t keep track of that much,” I told her.

  Not that it was necessarily true, but my mind had been thrown for a loop somehow and I couldn’t remember the date or the day of the week.

  “How long have I been,” she paused and looked at her daughter and then back at me, “out of it?”

  I leaned in close and brushed the hair out of her face. She flinched back from having a stranger so close, but I was looking at her eyes. They’d been bloodshot. Probably from her throwing up. Petechia, I thought it’s called.

  “Just looking at your eyes.”

  “Why?” Her voice rasped again so I gave her the water bottle back. “Slow sips,”

  She took two sips and pulled it away.

  “How long?”

  “Part of today, maybe some yesterday, according to Maria.”

  Marcy looked at her daughter and smiled.

  “Why are you here again?” she asked.

  “Your daughter found us, asked us to help.”

  “No, why are you in Spafford? This isn’t exactly a place people come to visit.”

  She took another sip, her voice cracking.

  “We were going to visit Joe Green,” I told her.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “He got into a gunfight with some…” I fought for the right words.

  I’m not a racist, and I would never want to be labeled as such… But half everyone down this far south was of Mexican heritage and if I said Mexican as a white white guy, then I’d be called a racist. I didn’t want to give that impression to a sick woman and her daughter who were definitely of Hispanic descent…

  “A coyote was bringing some bad guys up across the border. I think they crossed Joe somehow.”

  “Oh no, is he dead?”

  I just nodded gravely and, as dehydrated as she was, a single tear rolled down her cheek. I looked away and stood.

  “I’ll be right back, I’m going to check and see if…”

  “It’s me,” Stu yelled and I walked to the front door to greet him.

  “How’d you do that so fast?” I asked him.

  “If it’s for flushing, I got it out of the goats’ water trough. We’ll pump them some more. I got more buckets man,” he said, passing me the handle and he walked back to the truck.

  The toilet wasn’t plugged and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It took two buckets of water and we refilled the bowl and then the top up as well. I walked out with the last empty bucket and got my pack out of the truck. Two full buckets were left so I just put them by the front porch and headed inside with my backpack.

  “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” Marcy said, “if you have things to do…”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I’ll leave if you’re uncomfortable, but you can barely get out of bed. All I’ve done is gotten half a liter of water into you. If I left now and something happened…” I looked over to Maria, “There’s only a few people left around here, aren’t there?”

  “This isn’t a place where people flee the cities to come visit,” she said, her eyes getting heavy.

  “Don’t go to sleep just yet,” I told her.

  I had a store bought bottle of water, something that become rare. I opened the cap and then took out a plastic pack of Gatorade from my pack, added it in and shook it up. I handed it to her with a straw.

  She struggled with the cap, proving my point she should not be left alone yet, so I took it back and opened it, putting her straw in. She took a sip and her eyes shot up.

  “Oh God, I forgot how good sugar tastes.” Marcy told me, her eyes wide.

  “Sugar and salt, plus I think that one’s orange flavored.”

  Her eyes locked onto mine and she took another sip.

  “Now, I’ve got some fixings here in my bag. You mind if I get something going for dinner?” I asked her.

  “I haven’t… I don’t have much…”

  “That’s ok, I brought some.”

  The stove was an electric and, despite the lack of running water and electricity, the kitchen was very clean. I took my bag and headed that direction, and paused to talk to Maria.

  “Hey, don’t let your mom gulp that all at once. Ok?”

  “I won’t,” she said, walking over to the side of the bed where I’d been standing moments before.

  “No Mom, Mr. Brad said…”

  I walked out of the room and headed towards the kitchen where I found Stu.

  “Dude,” he said quietly, sitting at a bar stool and a small breakfast nook island-y thing.

  “Hey man,” I told him.

  “You really fixing to play Betty Crocker?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted, “I don’t know what we’re doing. I mean, the whole job’s gone off the rails at this point. I don’t know what Randolph is going to do.”

  “He’s milking the goats, last I saw.”

  “What?” I asked, shocked.

  “Found an old book in the barn. Must have shown it to the kid,” he said, nodding back towards the bedroom.

  “That’s good then. I guess I’ve seen it on TV and could have figured it out but…”

  “Why here? Is it the mom?” Stu asked me.

  I stopped and stared at him. “What?”

  “I’ve never seen you treat a lady so… tenderly? I know I’ve been gone for a while man, but you being in the same house with a single mom and her kid… the old Brad would have run screaming.”

  I rubbed my hands through my hair and then opened my bug out bag and got out my mini cooker. It was something I’d built myself using a coffee can and smaller sterno cans full of rubbing alcohol and toilet paper to use as a wick. It wouldn’t bring things up to a hard boil, but it would make it hot enough to dissolve seasonings or make coffee. I’d have to use more of a fire or modify things to make it able to active boil water I guess. But for heating water for some packages of Mountain House, it was good.

  “The mom is in pretty desperate shape. Trust me, it’s not anything like romance.”

  “Huh. Then why?”

  Why? I really wanted to know myself. I’m not a jerk, but this was a bit out of character even for me and it had been obvious to Stu right away. The old me would have just given her a few bottles of water, gave the kid some rations and split like an hour ago. Running.

  “The kid has no one else. If her mom dies…”

  “So you’re here in case the mom dies and you adopt the daughter?”

  “No, it’s not like that… Screw you,” I said, filling my pot with three bottles of water and lighting the sterno can.

  “Dude… Don’t get defensive. Besides, you might freak out the kid.”

  “Hey soldier boy, how about you backtrack and see where that coyote and his three compadres came in from?”

  “Uh huh. Going to get rid of me quickly, eh?”

  “Yeah, probably. I don’t know, man. You’re putting me on the spot and I don’t know why I’m not being me. So instead of me working out why, you’re needling me about it and I just want to help them and…”

  “And what?” he asked, all teasing out of his voice.

  “I don’t know. I guess become a goat farmer back in town.”

  “This town?” he asked, his eyebrows raised comically.

  “No, by our house,” I told him.

  “
Ahhhh…. Makes perfect sense.”

  It didn’t, but I wasn’t going to argue.

  9

  Spafford Texas - Brad

  “You sure you’re ok with this?” Stu asked.

  “I talked to Maria and Marcy, and they’re ok with it. Joe was the one who kept everyone safe. Not that this was a haven of crime until last night.”

  “Ok man; me, Randolph and the kid are going to head back with the goats. We’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up and take Bucky.”

  Watching from the window, the men tried to load the goats into the bed of the pickup truck. Spencer and Randolph each got head butted in the ass to land face first in the muck and manure in the wet part of Bucky’s run. Stu grabbed him in a headlock and barely got Randy away from him before he had to hurt or kill the stupid animal.

  “Since you pacified him, I nominate you to ride in the back with the goat,” I said, snorting.

  “Naw, I think he can ride back there alone. I don’t think Randolph is going to have Spencer come back. This killing has him spooked.”

  “I think you’re right, the kid has every right to be spooked. We don’t know what they were looking for or where they were going… Oh hey, Maria,” I said as the little girl came out of the bedroom and crawled up on the bar stool next to Stu.

  “Momma fell asleep again,” she said, her eyes heavy with exhaustion.

  It had to be close to ten o’clock at night, probably past her bedtime. I was getting tired. I’d spent the afternoon at the house with Stu helping out off and on. Randolph had poked his head in but Spencer wouldn’t come in. He’d told Stu that he didn’t want to meet somebody he was probably going to have to bury. It was morbid.

  “You hungry again?” I asked her.

  “Uh huh,” she said.

  “Are you hungry hungry,” Stu asked, “Or do you want a candy bar?”

  “Candy bar?!” Maria and I chorused.

  “Jinxed,” she shouted, pointing.

  Her quiet demeanor had cracked earlier and she was smiling and joking with us now. If we were going to do anything horrible, she probably figured we already would have done it, not feed her a double adult portion of Mountain House dehydrated beef stew. I got Marcy to eat some as well, but she’d almost thrown it up, so we opted for some bouillon cubes and hot water.