I began to question everything: my mental and physical condition, my preparation as a survivalist, even my will to live. I questioned whether this was worth it anymore. I had become a scavenger. A worthless, lowlife scavenger. No better than the thugs downtown who went door-to-door robbing people of everything they owned. But what other option did I have at this point? I was out of food and water. What? Were we supposed to go out in the woods and live off the land? Scenes from a survival show flashed through my head, people who’d been dropped off in the woods, naked no less, with virtually nothing in terms of survival gear. They were expected to survive for 21 days with no food or water. Entertaining? Yes. Something I wanted to do? Not in this lifetime. That was not my kind of survival. My idea of surviving is packing the right stuff in my bugout bag.
Another hunger pang shot through me. I marveled at what a motivator hunger is. Again, thinking about the survival show, I recalled that most of the people on the show pretty much just starved. I doubted I could do that. I don’t think I have 21 days worth of fat on me.
Fuck it, I thought. I have come this far, I wasn’t going to turn back now. I rounded the corner on the master bedroom and raised the ax. There was no one there. Same for the garage.
“It’s me,” I said as I stepped back through the family room. Emma was sitting on the floor, back against the wall. She didn’t even have her gun out. I crossed the room and made my way to the other bedrooms. Opening the door to the last room, I was met with a surprise.
In the center of a dark room sat a little boy on his bed. He looked scared. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Karma had finally come around to bite me in the ass. I dropped the ax outside the door. Then I plastered a fake smile on my face and said, “Hey, buddy.” The boy looked to be about four years old. I called over my shoulder, “Emma?” To the boy, big smile: “Hold on little buddy, I’ll be right back.”
I backed out of the bedroom and came face to face with Emma. I grabbed her and rushed her into the family room. “There’s a fucking kid in there!” I hissed.
“A kid?”
“A fucking kid.”
“Fuck.”
“A boy, like maybe three or four. Fuck, I don’t know. Fuck! Now what are we going to do? Fucking shit. Fuck. I just killed his fucking dad. Fuck. He probably heard me do it.”
“Steen, what the fuck are we going to do?”
Alright, I told myself. I was the adult here. I had to get a hold of myself. “Okay,” I said. “Listen. You go in there and be nice to him. Play with him or something. I’m going to finish what we came here to do and then I’ll figure out something to do with the kid.”
Emma looked shocked. “Steen! You’re not going to—”
“No! I’m not going to kill him! Jesus! We have to get him out of here without him seeing the body. Then we’ll give him to somebody who can take care of him.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know.”
Emma rubbed her face.
I said, “I don’t fucking know! Just go in there and play with him.”
She dropped her hands and gave me a hopeless look.
I added, “And don’t let him come out.”
I went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cabinets. I couldn’t stop thinking about the child. What a fucking nightmare. I could not believe I had just killed some kid’s father. I was a monster. Worse than a monster. I was a monster’s monster. I couldn’t stop with the self-flagellation. The whole thing had gotten out of control. I’ve killed my share of men before – plenty of them. But they all deserved it. Most of them, anyway. Well, some of them did.
There wasn’t much left in the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty and the door was propped open. The sink was full of dirty dishes and there were cockroaches crawling everywhere. Roaches are at the head of the class when it comes to surviving nuclear wars. I found a couple cans of beans and soup, a small can of potted meat, a half-empty bottle of vegetable oil, and some bottled water. I loaded up everything except the oil.
Back in the boy’s bedroom, Emma had managed to put the boy somewhat at ease. They were sitting on the bed and looked at me. I plastered on another fake smile and said, “Okay buddy, we’re going to play a little game now.” My voice was sugary-sweet in that tone I’d heard fathers use with their children. Hearing it typically made me want to puke, but now here I was doing it.
“Come on, buddy,” I said, the smile never leaving my face. I picked him up. “We’re going to play stay the night at the neighbor’s house.” I covered the kid’s eyes and quickly rushed him to the back door. I stopped for a second and turned to Emma who had followed me. I said, “Stay here.”
“Are you fu—? Are you kidding me?”
“Just for a minute. I’ll explain later. It’s important. I’ll be right back.”
She sighed.
Five minutes later I returned to find Emma sitting on the couch staring at the body. She gasped when I came through the door. “What is that on your face?” she asked. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“It’s a balaclava,” I replied. I removed my helmet and the sock-like covering from my face. “Come on,” I urged, “we need to get out of here.”
“Steen!” she protested as I dragged her out the door.
I rushed her around to the front yard and we hit the street in full stride.
Emma stopped. “Steen! Let go of me! Tell me what happened.”
“I will but we have to keep moving.”
She jerked her hand away from me. “No! I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what happened!”
“Will you keep your voice down, please?” I hissed. “I put on a mask and took the kid down the street to a neighbor’s.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“No, I didn’t kill him! Jesus Christ!”
“You promise?”
“Yes, I promise!”
“Are you sure the neighbors were home?”
“Yes they were home, I talked to them. Now will you come on?”
She relaxed a bit. “Okay.”
I gently pulled her and she followed.
“What did they say about that thing on your face? The bala—?”
“I made up some bullshit about black ops…special forces…missing child…we’d be back—”
“We’re coming back?”
“No, we’re not coming back. It is what it is. This is war. Think about Nazi Germany, what went on there. You think some crazy shit didn’t happen then? You think those people weren’t fucked up?”
“What—?”
I shook my head and kept moving. We quickly made our way out of the neighborhood. Between myself, Emma, and the kid, I was doing a great job of generating business for the psychiatric profession.
Chapter 27
We walked the main road of the little town and in no time we found ourselves in the town square. I had visited there years earlier, just passing through really. The square had been nicely preserved and it made you feel like you’d stepped back in time. There were quaint little shops like an ice cream parlor, a barber shop, beauty salon, candy store, furniture store, and a dog groomer. Of course they were all closed but what struck me was none of the windows were broken. Also, some people were out on the streets. Not many, but a few. In no time we found ourselves on the receiving end of some less-than-friendly looks. We quickly realized we weren’t welcome there.
“Steen,” Emma said without moving her lips. “Why is everybody staring at us?”
“It’s the gun and the body armor,” I said. “Plus, in a small town everyone knows everyone, so I guess they know we’re not from around here.”
“Well,” she said as she continued talking without moving her lips, a skill I presumed she learned while gossiping about other girls in their presence. “How about we get the fuck out of here before one of these small town freakazoids does something to us?”
I suppressed a laugh. Small town freakaz
oids? I imagined they would have an equally unflattering characterization of us. “Tell you what,” I said, “I’ll lose the guns and the helmet and put my vest under my shirt. Maybe that will help.”
We stepped into an alcove and I pulled the pin from my rifle and broke it down. I managed to fit it inside my backpack although the barrel was sticking out. The bag swallowed up the pistols, too. The helmet wouldn’t go inside so I suspended it beneath the bag by its straps.
Emma studied me. “That looks much better.”
“Thank you. Only thing is, now I’m totally defenseless.”
“Join the club. Besides, I don’t think you have too much to worry about here.”
I didn’t mention the concealed carry pistol in my pocket.
Back out on the street, Emma said, “Please tell me you got something for us to eat back there.”
“Yes.” I told her what was on the menu for the evening.
“It’s fine, whatever. I just need to eat, I’m starving.”
We spotted a married couple across the street coming our way. They were retirement age and had probably been married all their lives. The woman whispered something into her husband’s ear. They glared at us.
I said, “Ix-nay on the armor-nay. It isn’t working.”
Emma said, “What?”
“People are still staring at us.”
After they had passed, Emma called, “Excuse me. Excuse me.” She crossed the street and ran after them.
I trotted along behind her. “What the hell are you doing?” Now I was talking without moving my lips.
“I want to know what their problem is.” She closed in on them and said, “Excuse me. Hey!”
Finally, they stopped and turned to face us. Emma said, “I’m sorry, but I was wondering if I could ask you a question?”
The old man’s eyes were like saucers as he took in Emma’s shirt. He was completely bald save for a few unruly wisps that blew in the breeze. He wore a plain red shirt tucked into a pair of tan khaki pants. His shirt pocket held a black glasses case. He was barely taller than his wife in that way that some people tend to shrink as they age. He said, “Yes?” His voice was weak and uncertain.
Emma asked, “Why were you staring at us back there?”
The woman gave Emma a disapproving look. She had a bushy head of white hair and her entire face was covered with wrinkles. She wore a pale yellow blouse with an ankle-length brown patterned skirt. “Why were we staring at you?” she repeated in a high-pitched voice. “My goodness, young lady. Just look at the way you are dressed. Your filthy teats are on display for the whole world to see. Have you no shame? Shame on you! No daughter of mine would go out dressed like that.”
Emma didn’t hesitate for a second. “You jealous, grandma? At least my tits aren’t bounding off my knees like yours are.”
The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. “Why, I never!”
The man leaned in and shook a finger at Emma. “Now you see here, young lady. Don’t you talk to my wife that way.”
“What’s the matter, grandpa? Leave your little blue pills at home?”
I started pulling at Emma. I said, “I’m sorry folks. She didn’t mean anything. She’s…been under a lot of stress lately.”
Emma lifted her shirt. “See my filthy tits? Want to see my cunt too, grandpa?”
The woman shrieked.
I tugged on Emma’s arm and said, “She’s off her meds. Really, I’m sorry.”
Emma continued, “Probably give you a fucking heart attack.” She laughed and pulled her shirt down.
After I finally managed to pull her away, I said, “You really know how to make friends, don’t you?”
“Fuck them,” Emma said. “I don’t have to take their shit.”
“Look,” I said. “Maybe we can get you another shirt. Something a little less revealing.” I smiled at her, the troubled youth that she was.
She shrugged. “Sure, whatever.” She was suddenly cool and her voice was suddenly flat and emotionless.
We walked to the end of the block and circled back around behind the buildings. We were greeted by dumpsters, weeds, and wooden crates. On the other side of the crates sat an old picnic table which served as a smoking area. We made our way to the table and sat down. I removed a couple of cans from my backpack and opened them with my Leatherman. “Soup or beans?”
She winced and said, “I guess I’ll have the soup.”
I set the can in front of her and handed her a bottled water and a spoon. The soup was beef and barley of the condensed variety. It was packed solidly in the can. I took a bite of my pork & beans. They were cold but I could still taste the familiar flavor.
“Yum,” Emma said.
I looked at her. “Seriously?”
“No.” She laughed. “I was being ironic. It tastes like donkey balls.”
I laughed. “We’ve got to find a better way to get supplies. Breaking into people’s houses is not working.” I shook my head. Probably better not to discuss the fiasco with the boy. I took another bite of beans. “Any suggestions?”
Emma shrugged. “I dunno.” She ate her soup. “You’re the survivalist.”
My eyes fell to her shirt again. Her nipples clearly showed through the thin fabric. Thanks to all the new rips there was more breast than shirt. Emma said, “Are you staring at my tits?”
I adjusted my line of sight and held her gaze. “No, I was just thinking.”
“Hmmm. About what?”
“Tomorrow we need to check out some stores. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something left in a backroom or something. We’re pretty far from the city, you know.”
Emma didn’t respond. I saw a twinkle in her eye and then she lifted her shirt. This girl definitively had exhibitionist issues. “Look,” she said. “This will take your mind off your shitty dinner.” She pinched her nipples. Then she diddled with them and I watched as they stiffened and grew. “Mmm,” she cooed. “I’m making myself horny.” She closed her eyes and dropped a hand beneath the table. “My pussy is getting wet. Wanna see?”
I was speechless, but I was also hard as a rock. How had we gone from talking about our survival to her masturbating? And what was there to spur her mood? The cold food? Being insulted by that old lady? I had always thought – been told actually, by women no less – that a woman’s arousal is a mysterious, mystical thing. That women need certain things to get them in the mood. Love and affection, kindness and commitment, wine and romance, song and dancing, flowers and candy, poetry and jewelry. Even after all that sometimes they still might not be in the mood. Emma seemed to be the exact opposite. Perhaps it could be attributed to teenage hormones. Whatever the reason, she never ceased to amaze me.
I snapped out of it and said, “Emma!”
She laughed and pulled her shirt down. “You dirty old man. You like watching me play with myself.”
I laughed, letting her know that I knew she’d just been teasing. Hadn’t she? My other head didn’t know the difference. We finished our dinner and shuffled back out to the street. A fast food restaurant announced the end of the historic district. A block later the street turned residential. “Let’s go down that road up there.” I pointed. “We need to find a place to spend the night.”
The road led to a neighborhood lined with pristine, well-preserved houses that looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. There were no shattered windows, no broken doors, no scavengers lurking around every bend. We marveled at the peaceful haven that was this little town. Just then, we discovered how it had stayed that way.
“Hold it right there!” I heard somebody say.
“Get them!” someone else shouted.
I wheeled around to see a group of men closing in on us. I reached for the pocket pistol.
I heard, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
When I looked up there was a man pointing a shotgun at my head.
One of the other men demanded, �
�Get your hands where I can see them. Now!”
Chapter 28
Emma and I were surrounded by seven men with guns. We put our hands up.
The men ranged in ages from thirties to sixties. Like those we’d seen at the city limit, they were armed with an assortment of shotguns, hunting rifles, and pistols. They looked like a bunch of regular men who under different circumstances might have been mowing their lawns or enjoying a round of golf. The one with the shotgun trained on my head said, “Check his pockets, Russ.”
I said, “You want to put that thing down? We’re not going anywhere.”
Shotgun said, “Shut up, scumbag.”
Russ frisked me and yelled, “Gun! Gun!” He pulled the tiny pistol out of my pocket and paraded it around as if he’d won a prize.
The gun emboldened a couple of the other men to point their weapons at my head.
“Look,” I said. “We are not scavengers. We’re just a couple of folks passing through. We don’t mean anyone any harm.”
“Really?” one of the men said. “That’s what you said when we stopped you up the road earlier.”
I studied his face, then I recognized him.
He said, “I thought you said you was leaving.”
I didn’t respond.
“How’d you get in here?”
Again, I remained silent.
Someone started pulling off my backpack. I resisted. I got bull-rushed by two men and the next thing I knew I was face down on the pavement with my hands behind my back. Someone pulled off my bag, then they zip-tied my hands together and yanked me to my feet. Emma looked terrified as they tied her hands, too.
“More guns in here,” said the man with my bag.
“Let’s go,” Shotgun said. He appeared to be in charge. He looked at me and pointed to the neighborhood entrance. “March.”
How to Survive a Nuclear War Page 15