All We Have (The Survivor Journals Book 3)

by Sean Little

  None of my constant pep-talk was helping me keep down my fears. The pain did, though. When the contractions hit hard, there was literally nothing I could do other than focus on the pain. It was too overwhelming to think about anything else. Each contraction was just an exercise in pain management. When the contraction would finally ebb away, I would collapse back against the cool surface of the tub, sweaty and grateful the pain stopped. I wanted ice chips. I wanted ice chips more than anything, but we had never gotten around to getting the freezer running, not that it would have helped with the solar panels and wiring damaged in the last storm. As it was, I was in the dark with only a pair of LED camping lanterns providing light. Ice was a dream for the future.

  Another contraction brought itself upon me. I wanted them to stop. I wanted them to be over. I could feel things shifting and moving in me. It was unsettling. I knew the time to actually bear down was coming. That was a terrifying prospect in itself. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I was ready to have this baby out of me, certainly. But, I did not feel matronly, yet. I did not feel like someone’s mother. I wondered if it was that way with all mothers. Did they feel unprepared when the baby came? Did they feel like they would fail as a parent?

  I could feel a contraction building. The time had come. There was no more avoiding it. I gripped the edges of the tub, leaned forward, and pushed into the pain. I strained. I felt pressure building in my head and chest. My vision wavered. And then the contraction passed, and I was able to relax for a few moments. I had no idea if the contraction did any good. I had no idea if the baby was making progress. I had to assume he was.

  That’s how the next hour or so progressed. Contraction. Push. Nearly pass out from the strain. Rest. Do it again. It felt like it was taking forever. I started to get scared. Was I doing it right? Was the baby in trouble? The physical and mental stresses of the process took their toll on me. After a contraction passed, I would break down in tears. I was not ready for this. I wanted Twist to be there. I wanted a doctor. I wanted someone to cut this baby out of me C-Section Style. I was too hot, and I wanted to be cool. I just wanted it to be over with. I was too tired, too sore, and too miserable to keep going. I wanted to be one of those strong women who can have a baby and then make dinner for their families, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t. I was done. I wanted to quit. I didn’t want the baby anymore. I was a horrifying jumble of insane emotions and exhaustion.

  And then suddenly, the baby was crowning. Midwives have a name for this point in a natural delivery. They call it the Ring of Fire because it feels like you are actually burning as the baby’s head stretches through the last part of the process. And I felt it. It was impossible not to feel it. It was a bright, searing pain in addition to the wretched, gut-tearing ache of the contractions.

  In between contractions, I reached down and felt the emerging soft dome of a tiny head covered with fine, wet, peach fuzz hair. The baby was coming out in the proper position. It was nearly there. I exhaled a massive sigh of relief. The head was the tough part. Once the head was out, the baby usually slid out in a lump just after that. I was nearly done! I’m not sure what I was overjoyed about more: the baby’s head or the prospect of being done with the whole process.

  With the next contraction, I promised myself I was getting this kid out of me in the next few minutes. I knew it might take more than one contraction, but I wanted to give him everything I had. The crowning gave me a renewed vigor. I could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, which is an idiom that has a particular potency in this situation.

  Two more sessions of pushing, and I felt the head pop through all the way. I continued to push, reaching to grab the baby by the neck and shoulders, and suddenly—there was an entire baby in my hands.

  I fell back against the slope in the tub, trembling and crying. It was not a sad crying, but tears were just leaking from my eyes. I grabbed a towel and started to clear the mucus and fluids off the baby’s face. I used a suction bulb to clear the nostrils and mouth. The tiny little mouth opened, it coughed once, gasped for air, and then a healthy, angry wail sounded. The baby’s high-pitched cries were like music to me. The baby was healthy, breathing, and pissed-off at the whole birth process. I understood that. We were on the same page there.

  As I cleaned the tiny body, I realized quickly that my prophecy of a baby boy had been wrong. I had given birth to a little girl! I had been so certain of her being a boy, that I never even considered the possibility of delivering a girl. She was very small, though. She did not look premature, but she was definitely undersized for a healthy newborn.

  I swaddled her in a towel, marveling at the tiny limbs and hands and feet. I cleared her eyes gently with the tips of my thumbs. She had bright blue eyes—probably from Twist’s side. My family all had mud-brown eyes. I could see a lot of Twist in her face. I could see a lot of my mother, too.

  As I relaxed with this little life in my arms, I knew I was ready to be a mother. It happened the moment I saw her. All doubt in my mind was erased. I was going to mother the hell out of this little girl, and no one was ever going to stop me from that. I knew she was hungry. Babies needed to eat shortly after birth. I moved her down to my breast, cradling her with my right arm. She latched onto the nipple easily and naturally. I relaxed in the tub, beads of sweat drying on my forehead, grateful to be done with the process.

  I felt a hard twitch low in my belly. I began having another contraction. Was it the afterbirth? I reached down between my legs and felt the soft dome of another tiny head. My heart leapt to my throat. I was having twins.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Last Ten Miles

  When I was unconscious, I have to believe the conscious part of my brain was scrapping to come back to the light. Unconsciousness was simple. It was dark and cool and soothing. It was so good that I have no memory of it. Consciousness is a fight. It’s aware and vigilant. It wants to be there, to protect and defend. Unconsciousness is a cop-out, says the conscious part of my brain. If the unconscious part of my brain had a voice, it would probably tell the conscious part of my brain to shut up, because unconsciousness is so easy. The conscious part of my brain knew that I was in danger, though. It knew that there were packs of feral dogs, wild animals, and dehydration. It knew that I was vulnerable, splayed out on someone’s lawn with zero defenses. My brain knew that I needed to stay alive. Its sole job was to keep me breathing, and thus it somehow dragged me back from the abyss and forced my eyes to open.

  It was still night. A field of stars was arrayed overhead, and without light pollution, it looked like I could see every speck of detail in the galaxy. That was one of the bright spots about the post-Flu world: the heavens always looked amazing now. It wasn’t just the major stars that got through the atmosphere, it was all the stars, a wild, paint-splattered canvas of miniscule pinpoints of light. Trillions of fires burning in space, letting you know simultaneously that you’re not alone in the universe, but yet you are.

  I wanted to sit up, but everything hurt. My muscles were cramping from exertion and dehydration. The infection in my side was bad. The skin I had rubbed raw from crutching was blistered. My entire body felt like one giant raw nerve.

  I heard grass crunch near my head. Something was nearby. Something big. My shotgun was still strapped across my back. I was lying on it. I couldn’t get it without rolling over and getting to my knees. I craned my neck, tilting my head so I could looking behind me. I saw a large shadow near the house. Very large.

  I took the chance and forced myself to roll over, grabbing the stock of the shotgun and spinning it to my hip as I did, pointing the barrel at the shadow. The sudden movement startled the animal, and I saw a head toss, and it side-stepped. Then, unafraid, it walked forward and buried a big, wide head into my chest. I felt tears well into my eyes. Hera had somehow found me. “Hello, stupid horse.”

  I wrapped my arms around her face. I have no idea how she found me. I do not know if horses can track like dogs, but they must have some sort
of ability to find their herd after being separated. I can only imagine that she was heading back toward the farm and stumbled across my scent. Upon finding me passed out in the yard, she must have stuck around to stand watch over me.

  Hera’s arrival had given me my way to get back home. I couldn’t walk, but I could ride. It would not be a comfortable ride, given that the saddle and bridle were still back on the cart on the side of the road, and I’m sure that straddling the horse would really hurt my hip, but it was a far better alternative to trying to limp home.

  Sucking wind through my teeth as the pain lit though me, I struggled to my feet. Hera stood patiently. I grabbed some of her mane with my left hand. I knew it was going to hurt a lot, especially since I needed to launch off my left leg. I tried, but could not get enough power to swing up and onto her back. I had to walk her to a Honda Accord rotting in the street. I climbed onto the hood of the car, then threw myself onto her back bodily, like a sack of potatoes, and spun into a proper riding position.

  “Let’s go home, girl.” I tapped my heels into her side and tugged her mane to the right, away from the car. She wheeled away from the car and started trotting. The up-and-down motion of a trot was like being set on spikes. Every bounce ricocheted pain through my body. I dropped my hips and tugged backward on her mane. She seemed to know what I wanted, because she slowed to a walk. It still hurt, but it wasn’t bright, stinging, electric pain. It was a dull, manageable ache. I could deal with a minor throb. I’d had worse. At that pace, it would take at least two or three hours to get back to the farm. Judging by the night sky and the lack of gray in the east, I would probably get there around dawn, maybe just past.

  Hera plodded along dutifully. I like to believe that she’s smarter than I think. Maybe she understood the importance of getting me home. Maybe she knew I was badly hurt. I don’t know. At the very least, maybe she just wanted to go back to a barn where she knew she could be safe and commit fully to resting. Maybe she’s just a horse, and she was doing what horses do—who knows? I like to believe she and I have a deeper connection, though. We probably don’t, but don’t take this dream from me. It felt like something greater than Fate to wake up and have her standing over me.

  Letting her take the driving duties, I slipped my backpack off my shoulders and rooted through it for the tetracycline bottle. I swallowed more pills and another bottle of water. I drank two more bottles of water. The water was warm, but I didn’t care. It moistened my dry mouth, and I was clearly in need of it. I also tugged down my waistband and changed out the dry, crusty bandage on my hip for a fresh one. I was encouraged that the wound did not start bleeding immediately, but I knew that it was a long way from healing.

  Slow and steady, Hera walked toward home with a machine-like efficiency. Every step was a step closer to home. At least an hour passed. At that speed, I figured we covered three or four miles. She spooked a small pack of coyotes. The little dog-like scamps scattered, knowing full well that they would not do well against a healthy horse, or even an unhealthy horse. Coyotes were scavengers for a reason. I was no stranger to coyotes. They’re all over the wilds of Wisconsin. I would see them on very rare occasions, usually as roadkill, but any time I was at a friend’s bonfire at a house just outside of town, it wasn’t uncommon to hear the yips and angst-ridden howls of the ‘yotes. In Texas, the coyotes were everywhere. I saw them in the daytime and heard them in the nighttime on a near daily basis. They were much braver and bolder than the ones in Wisconsin.

  In the distance, I could hear coyotes howling. Somewhere nearby, I heard a pack of dogs throw back their own howls, a cacophonous challenge, I suppose. The dog pack got Hera’s attention. She twisted her head toward the direction of the howling and her ears went into full alert. I could feel her body tense beneath my legs. I patted her neck, trying to reassure her. “Easy, girl.”

  Another group of dogs threw up their own howls, even closer than the other group, and even louder. Hera wrenched her head to the left, and I felt her start to prance nervously. A large pack of dogs could take down a horse. The horse would let them know they were in a fight, but when they attacked the delicate legs of horse, they could eventually cripple the animal. Once the horse could not run or fight, it was done for. I had my shotgun. I wasn’t about to let dogs take down my horse. I wondered how my firing the shotgun from her back would affect Hera, though. I had not had time to accustom her to gunfire. I know in the old cowboy movies, the heroes were always shooting their Winchesters from the saddle, but those horses had to be trained not to shy away from the sudden blast of a rifle. If it came to me having to shoot at a pack, I could easily see being dumped in a heap when Hera reared up and jumped to a run. I guess I would just have to deal with that if it came to it.

  Beneath me, I could feel Hera getting more anxious and skittish. She started to bounce a little more, moving into a quicker walk that bordered on a slow trot. I felt twinges of pain shoot through my hip, but the rising adrenaline I was getting from the impending trouble negated it. I wrapped my left hand in a knot of mane and held the shotgun where the stock met the receiver with my right. Hera tensed suddenly. I could feel her starting to build for a run. I knew the dogs were closer than I thought.

  When the pack rounded the corner, they were being led by a true monster, a beefy, thick, broad-headed Presa Canario. The dog looked well-fed and heavily muscled. Even in the dim light of the night sky, I could make our scars on its body and face gained from fighting, hunting, and squabbles to establish dominance. His ears were bobbed, so he had once been owned by someone. They stood up sharply on the sides of his head in a way that reminded me of Batman’s cowl. The beast was followed by a cadre of smaller, but equally intimidating dogs. A couple of Staffordshire Bull Terriers, a German Shepherd, and a few motley stragglers of questionable breeding. The dogs were not in “hunt” mode. They seemed to be lollygagging and playing as they came around the corner of a nearby house. For a second, the dogs looked like happy-go-lucky pack that you’d find at a doggy daycare center.

  The pack was not that large, and aside from the Shepherd, was not built for a speed. That made me feel moderately better. If we needed to outrun them, it seemed like a real possibility. They also did not seem to care that a man and a horse were standing within attack range of them. The big Presa in the lead spotted us right off. I saw him swivel his head at the horse, and his ears twitched. There was no heightening of excitement from the dog. He just continued his trot in our general direction. He did not tense or look like he was going to attack.

  At this point, I had two choices: stand or run. Something, call it survival instinct, told me not to escalate the attack. I wasn’t getting the sense that I was in danger. There wasn’t a sense of hunger or challenge from the pack. They seemed to just be out being dogs, doing whatever it is a pack of feral dogs does when they’re not starving. I knew that running would give them the excitement of motion. Dogs were action hunters. That’s why they bolted without thinking when they saw a squirrel or a rabbit out of the corner of their eye.

  Against the horse’s wishes, I sank my hips back and pulled back on her mane. She tossed her head, but stopped walked. I could feel the muscles in her back tensing, readying to run if need be. She was a coiled spring. “Easy, girl.” I patted her neck. “Trust me.”

  The pack was unhurried. It sauntered past us, the majority moving behind the horse, going on to wherever they were heading in their freedom. The Presa deviated from the pack, trotting toward the horse. Hera started to side-step nervously. I tried to soothe her, but Presa Canarios are huge dogs. He was easily more than half as tall as the horse, and probably went at least two-fifty or three hundred pounds. The Presa sniffed at Hera’s rear leg, then sniffed at my boot. His head was massive. It was high enough that I could have given it pat if I wanted. The dog gave my foot a half-hearted lick with a sloppy, flat tongue, decided it didn’t taste good, and returned to leading his pack. He didn’t give me a second glance. They disappeared around the edge of another ho
use.

  I realized that I had been holding my breath. I exhaled, trembling from the exertion of not panicking. The horse was still on alert, her ears following the sound of the dogs. I nudged her with my heels, and she started forward. Her ears continued to twitch from side-to-side for a good mile until she determined that were a safe distance from the pack and let herself relax.

  I slumped forward, leaning against her strong neck and giving her a vigorous rub. “Good horse. Good girl.” She tossed her head as if she knew what I was saying, holding herself in a regal manner. I slapped her neck a few more times. “Let’s go home.”

  With the sun starting to find the edge of the eastern sky, I started to recognize landmarks. We were not too far from the farm. I’m coming, Ren.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  You Will Be Fine

  In my wildest dreams, the idea of being pregnant with twins had not occurred to me. Twins did not run in my family. I have no idea if they ran in Twist’s family, or not. I just…well, I don’t know what I thought. I guess I figured that if I was having twins I would have been twice as big as I was, and I was the size of a hot air balloon to begin with. I guess twins explained why they decided to come early. They ran out of space.

  The labor for the little girl had taken so much out of me, though. It was like running a marathon, crossing the finish line, and then being told that you were going to have to run an additional half-marathon, too. I didn’t know if I had it in me. I was exhausted to the point of crying. I wanted to sleep. I hurt all over. I was gripped by a blood-curdling sense of fear. I did not think I could do it. Horrible images of failing to birth this child swam through my mind. In the worst of the worst-case scenarios, Twist came home to find all three of us dead, me clutching the little girl to my chest, the other baby still stuck, unborn.