All We Have (The Survivor Journals Book 3)

by Sean Little

  He ditched his bike by stepping over the bar, stepping off the pedal smooth as silk, and letting the bike ghost-ride itself into the grass. It was a cool move, I admit.

  “Where have you been?” There was more vitriol in my voice than I wanted it to have, but I couldn’t help it. “I was—” I choked off the sentence. He didn’t need to know I was worried.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  Twisted slipped his backpack off his shoulders. “Ren, I’ve been thinking—”

  “You don’t have to think.” The words snapped out of my mouth before I could stop them. “You don’t have to stay. I will raise this kid on my own.” Twist looked like I had just slapped him. I immediately felt bad and regretted spouting off like an insecure fool. “I’m sorry. I just…I’m not myself right now.”

  Undaunted, Twist tried again. “I said that I was thinking last night. I thought a lot about being a dad. And I think…I think this is a great thing. I’m really, really happy that you’re…that we…well, you know.” He nodded toward my stomach.

  I almost cried again. God, I hated my emotions going from coast-to-coast like this. I hated what the surges were doing to me. I wanted to be stronger. I did not want to give into those feelings. There was a time and a place, and this was neither. Fight it, Ren. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. “Me, too.”

  “I just…I want to do this right. I want to be a good dad.”

  “You will be.”

  Twist fumbled in his backpack. “No, I mean, if we’re going to do this, then let’s do it all the way.” He pulled out a small, square velvet box. A ring box. He popped the top of the box to reveal a large diamond ring. He dropped to a knee in front of me in the driveway. “Renata Lameda, mother of my future child, would you marry me?”

  Honestly, if I had known pregnancy was going to make me cry this much, I would have reconsidered the whole deal.

  It was a stupid gesture. Marriage was a societal convention, and we were two people without a society. Who would marry us? And a ring? Wholly impractical and ridiculous for a woman who was going to have to labor with her hands a lot. I should have told him he was being stupid, but I was overjoyed at the prospect of being a wife before I was a mother. I know it’s silly to think about that in a wasteland without rules, but I was raised in a strict Catholic household and my parents beat marriage into my head since I was a fetus. I held out my hand and let him slip the ring onto my finger.

  “I had to ride to that little town a few miles away to get the ring. I hope you like it. I think it’s the right size.” Twist smiled at me with that crooked smile of his.

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Then, let’s get married.”

  I laughed. “Where? The nearest church is miles away, and besides, I haven’t had time to figure out who to invite.”

  Twist pointed to the hill overlooking the lake. “There. Let’s do it now.”

  I shook my head. “No. The ring is good enough. Knowing that you want to be married is good enough.”

  Twist would not be dissuaded. He grabbed my hand and started walking, dragging me along with him. “No. This is necessary.”

  “I look like crap.” My protests fell on deaf ears.

  “You look beautiful. You are beautiful.”

  We walked to the top of the hill. Twist picked a bouquet of wildflowers as we walked, passing them to me when we got to the top. He took my hands in his. He shouted out to the empty world around us, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two people in matrimony. If anyone has any objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  He paused, listening to the easy morning wind and the sound of the ducks on the water. He shrugged and winked at me. “Huh. I was sure someone would speak up.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Given how many of our exes are in the audience, you’d think someone would want to break this up.”

  Twist smiled. “Renata Maria Lameda, I, Barnabas James Stickler, do hereby solemnly swear to take you as my wife, for better or for worse, in sickness, health, and pregnancy, until death do we part. Do you, Renata Maria Lameda, take me, Barnabas James Stickler, as your husband, for better or for worse, in sickness, health, and farming, until death do we part?”

  There was something about the earnestness in his face, the smile, and the eyes—there was something about that moment in time, and the silence around us that, if I had not already loved him, would have remedied that situation. I fell in love with him all over again. “I do.”

  “Then, by the authority of the big Texas sky overhead, and the farm we are building, I declare us husband and wife. What the Flu has joined, let no man tear asunder. Now I get to kiss the bride.”

  I stopped him. “Shouldn’t I have the authority to marry us? After all, I’m the President of the United States.” Last fall, when he and I were in Washington D.C., he swore me in as president in the Oval Office of the White House.

  “Good point,” he agreed. “You should do the honors, Madam President.”

  I tossed the wildflowers over my shoulders and pressed myself against him. “Kiss me, First Husband.”

  And he did.

  For that moment, the world was a perfect place again.

  The reality of being a new wife and mother in a world where we were all alone was not lost on me. I knew that I would not get a lot of the benefits that most pregnant women get in first world, developed countries. No putting my feet up and relaxing while the world revolves around me. I would have to do my fair share around the farm, no matter how house-like my belly became. I could not expect Twist to work himself to the bone, dawn-to-dusk, with me lazing about just because I had a bellyful of baby. Even if I had to do less work, there would always be things I could do. I kept the images of all the strong, tough pioneer women who worked in the fields and the woods alongside their husbands and still made three meals a day for their families, no matter how pregnant they were. I was young, strong, and healthy. There was no reason I could not emulate those women. They would be my role models. If Caroline Ingalls could do it, I could, too.

  I also knew that I was not going to get any of the perks that came with being pregnant. Back in the old neighborhood, when a young wife got pregnant, it was always a big deal. No one in my neighborhood was rich, but we all got by. When a young wife first announced her pregnancy, there was always a party with big cakes and lots of celebrating. Everyone asked how she was. All the old abuelas would come up and rub her belly and make wishes for her to have a strong, healthy son. And then, when she was closer to her due date, there was always a big baby shower. And when the baby came home from the hospital, everyone would turn out with gifts and casseroles and offers to babysit. It was really nice. I was going to get none of that, and it made me a little sad. I knew I couldn’t dwell on that, though. I was going to have my own share of trials and tribulations on this journey, and to get depressed about the things I couldn’t control would waste too much time.

  At least I was given the gift of Twist’s constant attentions. He went to another level of attentiveness. He would check on me often, make sure I was feeling okay. He would bring me water during the day and make sure I was hydrated. He somehow kept his concern and attentions attuned to the precise volume of visits where I felt cared for, but not annoyed.

  What can I say? I married a winner.

  With the acceptance of the situation, I started allowing myself the privilege of looking forward to it. At three months, the thing in my womb was basically a salamander with a human face. It looks human, according to the pregnancy books, but it at the same time, it’s not really human. It’s just a blob floating in fluid. I started to wonder what he would look like. I saw myself carrying a baby in one of those baby backpacks while I worked around the farm. I saw a toddler following me around the farm, or maybe I was pulling him in a wagon.

  Then, I started thinking about everything we would need. I sat down at the table in our kitchen and started penning out a
list. The more I thought, the more extensive the list became. The more extensive the list became, the more I started to stress about it. The more I started to stress about it, the more I started to pick apart the minute details about it. The more I started to pick apart the details, the more I started seeing every possible worst-case scenario. Then, one morning a few days after our wedding, I was out gathering eggs from the chicken coop. I picked one up, and while moving to transfer it to the bowl I used to carry them to the house, I lost my grip on the stupid thing, and it fell and shattered on the floor, a slimy, yolky mess. Right then and there, I started crying. I sank to my knees on the gross coop floor and wept. What was I doing? I wasn’t a mother. I couldn’t even hold an egg! What was I going to do with a baby? What if I dropped him? What if he got sick? What if I got sick and couldn’t take care of him? A million What Ifs… popped into my head at that moment.

  It made me mad that I was that emotional about it, too. I was never one of those girls that cried. I never threw fits, especially after my sister died, and I was left alone in this world. I just dealt with what came, accepted it as it was, and tried to figure out how to do things better afterward. This, though—the gravity of it, the weight on my shoulders, the fear, the uncertainty, the potential for disaster or failure—it was all too much.

  Twist was out doing god-knows-what god-knows-where, and I was thankful for that. I didn’t want him seeing me having a breakdown. The last thing I needed was for him to worry more about me. Don’t get me wrong, I liked knowing he cared, but I also liked knowing that I was slightly older than he was, and more experienced, and I wanted to maintain that aura as long as I could.

  I allowed myself the therapy of a good cry, and then I cleaned up the egg, finished gathering eggs, and went back inside to finish my list. At the top of the list, I printed the words: Operation Baby. It made it feel official, like it was a military plan. I was going to do this. I would make it happen. You will be fine. I repeated my mantra over and over in my head. You will be fine. You will be fine. With my list in my pocket, I gathered up my knapsack of supplies and set off for a new house to scavenge.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Necessary Horse

  It feels strange. After Ren’s announcement and our hasty marriage, life just continued to roll on, an eternal ticking clock. There was no honeymoon for us (where would we even go?) and there were too many things that needed to be done around the farm (because maintenance was a never-ending task), so we simply kissed, became husband and wife, and told each other we’d celebrate at dusk. Then, it was business as usual.

  I spent the rest of the day digging post holes to expand a paddock from the barn for the potential addition of a horse. Horses needed a lot of space, and expanding the paddock was mindless, repetitive work. I had never used a post hole digger before hitting Texas. It’s a strange sort of shovel with two sides, each attached to a long handle with a hinge in the middle of them. You stomp the metal end into the earth, scissor apart the handles, and lift out the dirt. It takes a long time to dig out a fence post hole to a sufficient depth for planting a post. Then, you move eight or ten feet down the line and repeat. This is a horrible task on the best of days. Under a hot Texas sun, it was a miserable task. I slathered sunscreen on my neck and face, wore a wide-brimmed jungle hat to keep off the sun, and sweated profusely through my long-sleeved shirt and jeans.

  At one point, I was in something of a daze. I was probably a little dehydrated and definitely tired given how little I had slept the night before. I took a step back from my digging and heard the distinct sound of a maraca being shaken. Given that I was certain there were no bands of roaming Mariachi, I froze. A new, cold, fear-based sweat broke out on my body. I had not been in Texas very long, but I knew the early warning device of a rattlesnake when I heard it. I craned my head around and saw a long, healthy Diamondback curled into strike position. The rattle at the end of its tail was long and as thick around as my thumb. This was a fully grown snake. Even with bottles of antivenin back at the house, a snake bite would put a serious crimp in my style. I knew that snakes were movement hunters. They struck at motion. I also knew that if I didn’t move, it would most likely cease feeling threatened and skitter along on its way. I froze in place and waited.

  I did not have these sorts of problems back in Wisconsin. We had Timber Rattlesnakes, but you literally had to go looking for them. They didn’t just show up behind you while you were digging post holes like some sort of deadly-fanged ninja serpents. I don’t even have a real fear of snakes! If you had a python, I’d touch it. I might even hold it. I don’t dislike them, but the sudden prospect of getting two venom-filled hypodermic needles jacked into my calf made everything in my body start to tremble. The snake seemed to understand that something was wrong in its world. It seemed very disinclined to move along. I couldn’t stay frozen forever. I started to get jittery. The post holer was still in my hands. I tossed it to my left. The movement and sound of it crashing distracted the snake. The second the little devil’s head was turned, I bolted forward. I half-expected to feel the sting of a bite, but I didn’t. I made it well out of strike range and kept running, a burst of adrenaline fueling my panic. It felt like I did a 200-yard dash in about two seconds flat. I flew into the middle of a field and proceeded to have a full-body, shuddering heebie-jeebies session.

  In the midst of my freak out, I saw something that stopped me cold: the bay horse from the day before. I saw her standing on the far edge of the field, near the tree line. She was watching me again. On her rump were several long, ragged, bleeding gashes. Those were new. Something had attacked her, something large. A lion, perhaps, maybe a tiger? A cougar? Something had definitely tried to take her down last night. She saw me watching her. As if she knew that I was good for something like healing wounds, she started to limp toward me. She was clearly in distress. She was clearly hurting. I knew she needed help, and she knew I could give it to her.

  I had no ropes, and I didn’t want to rush back to the barn to get a rope in case she decided I wasn’t worth her time. I waded through the grass toward her and met her halfway. Blood had run down her leg caking thickly in her short, fine coat. She had lost a considerable amount. The skin around the wounds was ragged and flapping. It looked like whatever had attacked her had done some serious muscle damage. I wouldn’t be able to stitch it back together. It would have to be bandaged and allowed to heal. She would have problems walking for a while. She would be vulnerable in the wild, and she seemed to know it.

  When she got to me, there was no hesitation, no concern on her part. She dropped her head and butted her broad face directly into my chest. I lifted my hands to her head and placed them on either side of her neck, up near her ears. The second I touched her, I felt her entire body relax as if she suddenly felt safe.

  I’m not really a spiritual person. My parents weren’t really religious, and my faith in any sort of higher power took a nosedive after the Flu, but at that moment, I felt like I was witnessing something larger than myself. I stood in that field holding that horse’s head and something magical radiated between us. It was as if she understood that I would help her, and that she could trust me. It was a gift, an instant bond between us. It was powerful and brought a lump to my throat. I stroked her neck and told her everything was going to be okay. “C’mon, girl,” I said. “Let’s get you home.” I turned and started walking back to the barn. After a moment, I heard the heavy footfalls in grass behind me, and I knew that she was following.

  The bay walked back to the barn without balking. When I walked through the doors, she did not hesitate. She walked into the relatively cool interior of the barn and headed for the nearest stall without being directed.

  The barn was a relatively newer horse barn. Five stalls stood on either side of the barn with a small tack room at one end. There was a small riding arena that I had repurposed into a night pasture for the cows. The large, sliding doors at either end could be opened during the day to let wind blow through. At night, t
he doors were closed and the cows were safe from predators. It wasn’t an ideal multi-livestock facility, but for the moment, it more than exceeded our needs.

  I closed the door to the bay’s stall, and she almost dropped to the floor out of exhaustion. She was drained. It must have been an extremely eventful night for her. I walked to the large trough I had filled for the cows. I filled two large, rubber buckets with water and carried them to the stall, setting them in one corner. I gathered up a couple of pitchforks’ worth of hay and tossed them through the stall window into a corner for her to munch. Then, I went to get supplies to treat her wounds.

  Thing 1 and Thing 2 regarded me curiously from the pasture beyond the barn doors. “Say hello to your new sister,” I told them. “No fighting. Mom and Dad love you all equally.” The chickens, of course, did not seem to notice or care.

  I ran to the house. I filled a pot with water from our filtering system, and then set it on the grate over the fire in the yard to heat. I got our first aid kit and a large bag of medical gauze Ren and I liberated from a hospital in Florida on our journey to Texas. The kit we assembled had been done under Ren’s knowing gaze. As a trained nurse, she was the de facto doctor and surgeon between us. The first aid kit was stored in a massive toolbox that she had taken from a derelict hardware store solely for the purpose of being our “hospital” box. In it was everything we would need to perform minor surgeries and treat all wounds and illnesses. What it didn’t have was medical supplies for animals. I had some stuff for treating worms and medical conditions for cows, but no horse things. I know that some people might think, “What’s the difference? They’re both big, lumbering beasts.” I would have been one of those people two years ago. However, cows are ruminates, and horses are not. Cows have multiple, specialized stomachs. Horses only have one, like people. This makes them entirely different beasts on many levels. I would have to make a run to the nearest DVM office as soon as possible.