Hope

by A. American

  As Hope played with the toys she had brought back, Charlotte sat in silence, her diary next to her.

  “You want to play with me?” Hope asked.

  “No, I’m busy,” Charlotte replied.

  “You don’t look busy,” Hope said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Hope jumped over to her and said, “Tell me now.”

  Charlotte was hard on Hope, even more so since losing their father. She deeply loved her little sister and never had she ever felt jealousy for her. Even when Hope was born, Charlotte rejoiced in having a baby sister and made it her mandate to take care of her.

  Hope wasn’t a planned birth. She happened as a result of making up after a bitter argument, or that was what she heard her parents joke about. Being twice Hope’s age did make the reason seem legit, but if she was an accident, her parents never showed her. Their affection for Hope was poignant and intense.

  “Do you trust me?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So if I say you need to do something and it was very important, you’d do it without asking questions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  Charlotte smiled. If Hope could be described as one thing, it was curious. This, of course, would mean you’d have to negate her being the happiest child ever, but putting aside her happiness, Hope was constantly asking questions. She thirsted for knowledge and had an intellectual curiosity.

  Without asking, Hope gave Charlotte a hug.

  “What was that for?” Charlotte asked.

  “You look unhappy, and remember what Mommy said…”

  “Sometimes a hug is all you need to make it all feel better,” Charlotte said, repeating one of their mother’s common sayings.

  “Do you feel better?” Hope asked.

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now do you want to play with me?” Hope asked innocently.

  Knowing she wouldn’t find the answer that very second, Charlotte decided to just be and play with Hope. Like their mother also said, “Live in the now and appreciate that special moment because once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.”

  El Centro, CA

  Neal lay with his family for hours. He fell asleep several times and woke with the hope they’d be alive and that it was all some horrible nightmare; but it wasn’t a nightmare, it was worse than one. His worst visions had come true. He felt as if someone had ripped his guts out and seared his heart with a hot poker. Death was something he welcomed. He wanted more than anything to have his illness take him too, but deep down he felt he was slowly recovering. Was it because he was stronger than them or that he had only ingested a little juice? Did that matter?

  After all the reading, he knew that the survival rate was fifty percent if left untreated. Was it a numbers game and his family lost? For him death was welcome to come snatch him away. There was nothing to live for now. There was no purpose, no reason to take another breath.

  He lay staring at the ceiling. He kept going over the reasons why they died and he didn’t in a weak attempt to justify what happened, but alas, it was stupid to. His mind then shifted to satisfying his last desire. If his illness wasn’t going to take him, maybe he should do it himself. It would give him back one thing he had lost: his ability to control his life.

  With renewed purpose and a plan, he got up and started the preparations for his final act.

  Guatay, CA

  Charlotte rarely chewed her fingernails, but now was an exception. She paced the back alley behind the barn, watching the sun slowly descend in the west.

  The energy of the compound was increasing with each degree the sun lowered, in anticipation of the evening’s festivities.

  Drew too was especially amped. He had come to the girls’ room earlier and told them he had a surprise he would share later, one that would make them happy.

  Charlotte was curious as to what it was but equally skeptical.

  Drew hadn’t taken away the knife he had given her days before, so she proudly wore it on her hip.

  Bob stepped out into the alley and lit a cigarette. He walked up to her and asked, “You’ll be here at nine, right?”

  “I said yes.”

  “Okay, because this has to happen without a glitch.”

  “I know.”

  Bob adjusted his loose-fitting jeans and with a cracked smile asked, “So whatcha gonna do about pretty boy?”

  Charlotte’s only reply was a movement of her right hand to the hilt of the knife on her hip.

  “Ha, you’re gonna stick him?”

  “Maybe,” she replied, acting cocky.

  “Really? You’re tougher than I thought. You’re one ruthless little bitch.” Bob cackled.

  Charlotte twisted her face in anger and snapped, “You just make sure you’re ready, because we will be.”

  “I will, my plan isn’t foolproof, but if it works, we shouldn’t be hearing from Tony or his guys again.”

  Satisfied, she turned and walked back inside. A heavy feeling hit her. Would she be able to subdue Drew? Would she be capable when it mattered most? It was easy to act tough, another to be tough.

  Lost in her thoughts, she stepped in the room and found Drew kneeling in front of a half-naked Hope. Her emotions went from shock to anger. “What are you doing?”

  Drew turned around, surprised by Charlotte’s abrupt and angry tone. “I, ah.”

  “You’re sick; get your hands off my sister!” Charlotte yelled.

  “I, ah, I was just…” he said, attempting to defend his actions.

  Charlotte’s blood was boiling. She could hear Bob’s voice echoing in her head to prove she was not the entitled little brat he thought she was. “Get away from her!”

  Hope squirmed away and ran to the corner of the room.

  “Hey, I was just helping her,” Drew said, standing, his arms raised in a defensive position.

  Charlotte pulled the knife from the sheath and advanced. “You’re sick, I knew it.”

  “No, you’re misunderstanding; I was just helping her—”

  “You’re sick, sick, sick,” Charlotte screamed and lunged at him.

  She landed on top of Drew. Her weight and the force she came at him with caused him to fall to the ground.

  “Charlotte, stop this. You’re acting crazy,” Drew said.

  “Bob said you liked little girls. He was right,” Charlotte declared, taking the knife and swinging it down into Drew’s shoulder.

  Drew howled in pain.

  She withdrew the knife and came down again. This time the knife struck him in his chest.

  Drew gasped once then died, his eyes wide open.

  Charlotte pulled the knife out and struck one more time. Her rage had blinded her to the fact he was dead.

  Hope was curled up in the corner, crying.

  Blood began to pool around Drew.

  Charlotte took a deep breath and looked down at what she had done. She pulled the knife from his chest, looked at the thick blood dripping off the blade, and finally realized she had done something horrible. She dropped the knife and leapt off his body. “What have I done?”

  “Why, why did you kill him?” Hope sobbed.

  “He was…um, he was trying to hurt you,” Charlotte replied, rocking back and forth, her legs pulled up tight against her chest.

  “No, he wasn’t. He was helping me put on the dress he got me. He got you one too,” Hope yelled.

  “No, you’re wrong. He was trying to hurt you,” Charlotte said.

  “He was helping me. He got us dresses to wear, our favorites from the house,” Hope screamed, tears flowing heavily down her face.

  “No, he wasn’t, he was a bad person,” Charlotte said. She jumped to her feet and went to Hope. “Take my hand. We have to go.”

  Hope looked at Charlotte’s blood-covered hand and kicked at her. “No, I’m not going with you, you’re crazy!”<
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  Charlotte looked at the grisly scene and knew they had to push up their plans. “Come with me. We have to leave, now!”

  “No!”

  “Come now,” Charlotte barked, grabbing Hope by the arm.

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me!” Hope yelled.

  Charlotte dragged her across the room to a wall locker. She opened the doors and froze when she saw the dresses.

  “Let go of me,” Hope yelled.

  Charlotte reached out and touched the pink pastel dress her parents had bought her just before all the troubles occurred. She touched the silky sleeve then recoiled when the blood from her hand stained it. “You were right.”

  Hope struggled to free herself from Charlotte’s grasp.

  “He was just helping, wasn’t he?” Charlotte said, realizing she had murdered Drew out of anger and without justification. She was never really going to knife him, though she had insinuated that to Bob. She was only going to knock him out and tie him up. Killing someone was too much, even for her.

  Hope tried to pry Charlotte’s hand off her arm, but she couldn’t, so she used the next best thing, her teeth. She bit down on Charlotte’s knuckles.

  “Aww, damn!” Charlotte cried.

  The door to the room burst open, and Bob came rushing in. He opened his mouth to say something then paused when he saw Drew’s body. “Oh, my God, you did it.”

  Hope sprinted past Bob and out the door.

  “You really did it. Girl, you have bigger balls than I do, that’s for sure, but don’t you think you could’ve waited? We’re a bit ahead of schedule.”

  “Stop her,” Charlotte hollered.

  Hope raced out the front door and across the yard.

  Charlotte followed, but Bob grabbed her from behind.

  “Nope, you go out there and it’s over. Once they find out you killed Drew, you’ll be the main event in the fight tonight.”

  “Hope, we’ve got to get Hope,” Charlotte bellowed.

  “You’ll thank me later, I promise.”

  “Hope, we have to get her!” Charlotte began to swing wildly.

  A man entered from the far end of the building and called out, “Bob, what the hell is going on?”

  Bob leaned in close to Charlotte and whispered, “Look what you’ve done.”

  The man walked past the girls’ room and stopped when he saw the bloody mess and Drew’s body. “What happened?”

  “This little bitch, she killed him,” Bob announced.

  Charlotte began to kick and hit him. “You asshole.”

  The man headed for them, a look of rage on his face. “Well, well, looks like we have another contender for the fights tonight.”

  “No, you got it all wrong. He did it; Bob killed Drew. They were fighting over us,” Charlotte declared.

  The man stopped and gave Bob a suspicious look.

  “You can’t really think I would…”

  “You are kind of a shit,” the man said. “Let’s see what Tony says. You both need to come with me.”

  Hope was stopped near the house. Her cries drew a small gathering of men.

  Bob looked at the man, then Charlotte and then towards the group that was gathering outside the main house. He needed to act and act swiftly. “Listen, I didn’t do a damn thing. I heard screaming and came over. I found Drew lying there just like you did.”

  The man took Bob by the arm and said, “Tony will decide who’s telling the truth.”

  “You gotta believe me,” Bob said.

  “I’ve never believed a fucking word that’s ever come out of your mouth from day one, Bob, if that’s even your name. I could tell you weren’t a chef from the first meal. Your cooking sucks.”

  “This little bitch did it,” Bob pleaded.

  “No, I didn’t. He killed Drew, hoping to take us,” Charlotte lied.

  Panicked and afraid, Bob pushed the man away and struck out with several punches to his face.

  Stunned but able to fight back, the man hit Bob with several heavy punches to his stomach.

  Bob keeled over and coughed.

  The man then slammed an elbow into Bob’s back, driving him to the floor.

  Bob hacked and coughed. The hits had hurt, but he wasn’t out of the fight. He grabbed the man by his legs and tackled him to the floor then straddled him and began to pepper him with one punch after another.

  Charlotte looked on in shock at the men fighting while simultaneously keeping a watchful eye on Hope and the group who stood encircling her.

  Bob’s relentless barrage of fists knocked the man out. Exhausted but proud of his victory, he rose and looked at Charlotte. “So you’re trying to fuck me over?”

  Charlotte turned to run.

  Bob grabbed her by her long ponytail and yanked her back. Wrapping her hair around his hand, he slammed her against the wall and said, “You tried to fuck me over. Well, guess what? You fucked with the wrong person.” He smashed her face against the wall.

  The pain was agony. She had never experienced such pain before until Bob slammed her head again. She lost consciousness just after he did it a third time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “A leader is a dealer in hope.”

  – Napoleon Bonaparte

  El Centro, CA

  Neal’s hand trembled as he leveled out the freshly dug dirt and patted it down. Sweat and tears dripped from his nose and chin onto the dry earth. As his hand hovered over the dirt, he picked rocks from the dirt and tossed them aside. It had to be perfect, he thought.

  He paused when the shadow of a large falcon cast down. Looking up, he saw the majestic bird and smiled. “Will you watch over them?”

  The falcon seamlessly coursed through the air. For it, the world was no different than it had always been. It went about its days unencumbered by the blackout that had swept the world he knew into chaos and then collapse.

  Fatigue overcame him. Letting gravity work, he sat back heavily and watched the falcon coast; its dark brown feathers provided a contrast to the deep blue southern California sky. A partial grin cracked his bearded face as he continued to think about the bird and its life. He watched until the falcon soared over the neighboring houses and disappeared.

  A gentle breeze washed over him and brought with it the smell of dirt. This brought him back to his reality. Neal’s reality for the past eight months had been nothing short of harrowing. He and his family had survived the initial riots and civil unrest brought on by the blackout, as it had been called. Living in the desert one hundred and eighteen miles east of San Diego gave them immunity from the large-scale troubles, but they still had their own, but none of that mattered now. The fighting, scavenging, and bare-knuckle survival he had dealt with for his family meant nothing anymore. All the work he had done to ensure they would be okay, all the preparations he had made were for naught without his wife and daughter. The question that kept plaguing him was, was it all worth going forward? What was the purpose of life if you didn’t have someone to share it with? The times were hard enough, but before he had purpose, he had them, but in an instant they were taken from him.

  Using what little strength he had, he got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his sweat-dampened clothes. There was more work to be done, but he dreaded the thought. Making burial markers for his wife and daughter was something that needed to be done, so he fought the desire to ignore it.

  Over and over again he replayed when the first symptoms hit them. The dizziness, followed by the slurred speech and crushing fatigue, along with body aches drove them all to their beds, each unable to help the other. Like a skipping record, he repeated, the peaches, the peaches, the damn peaches. He didn’t recall Karen or Beth complaining that they tasted bad, but he had only consumed a small amount. Was that the reason he suffered less? He didn’t have a formal diagnosis; without a professional opinion he’d never know for sure. Whatever it was that killed his family didn’t matter; it hit them all like a semi-truck going a hundred and kept going.

  There w
ere stories of people losing time when something traumatic occurred. When his mind stopped wandering, he realized twelve hours had slipped by in almost an instant.

  The idea of killing himself came right away, but he paused. They needed to be buried. He couldn’t have their bodies lie; they had to be buried. He lifted his body off the ground, grabbed the shovel, and went back to shoveling.

  Another three hours passed in a flash, but it was over finally. They were buried with markers at the heads of their graves. Neal looked towards the horizon to see the sun closing in on the mountains to the west. Would that be his last sunset? He turned and looked at the graves. Tears formed in his eyes and slid gently down his cheeks and into his beard.

  Determined to let it all go, he walked back into the house.

  Inside, he saw the culprit. Jars of unopened peaches sat where they had been last placed by Karen after finding them in the SUV. He cleared the few steps towards the table and in a rage swept the jars off the table. They shattered into a thousand pieces on the tile floor. “Arghh!” he screamed.

  Vertigo hit him hard. He fell into a chair and rested his head on the table.

  A rush of tears came. “Why, God, why?”

  His despair gave way to anger. He lifted his weary head and screamed, “Why, God? What kind of God allows this to happen? All of the death. Why my family? Why my baby girl? What had she done? She was only eight years old! She was innocent! Damn you, God, damn you!” He stood up and raced towards his office.

  The fatigue was crushing, but he made it to the desk chair and plopped down. On his desk was his Sig. He picked it up and cradled it in his hand; his thumb ran over the slide. More tears came down his face. Slowly he raised the pistol and placed it under his chin. His hands shook as he placed his index finger on the trigger. The tears were gushing from his eyes. He gazed up at the ceiling, closed his eyes, and applied pressure to the trigger.

  Karen’s voice screamed in his head. The promise he had made her echoed over and over.

  He kept applying pressure.