by Aborn, A. L.
I feel like I’m being scolded.
But it’s true.
I hate this.
“So, what should we do?” Ally asks.
“We are going to start doing drills; practicing what you guys need to do if something happens. No, not if, when. There’s no way that no one is going to stop here, eventually. There’s smoke coming out of the chimney, dogs barking, gunshots- It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out someone lives here. We need to be ready.” His words are passionate and serious. He’s right, but his intensity alarms me.
“That doesn’t mean someone will try to hurt us,” Ally interrupts. “There are probably lots of people living just like us.”
“For now,” Brad says firmly. “A lot of people probably have enough food to last this long or gas in their generators. What happens when they run out? What will people do to protect their kids? Someone might not set out to kill for what they need, but it will end that way. Us or them. And you need to be ready for that.” He sounds almost angry.
Ally gets up and walks over to him. I can see the glint of tears in her eyes from the light of the candles. She wraps his arms around his shoulders and buries her face in his neck. I look away. I hear whispers, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. In a moment, Ally returns to her seat.
I hate awkward silence.
“What do you miss the most, right now?” I ask.
Ally smiles. “My heating blanket.”
“Macaroni and cheese,” I say.
Brad just shakes his head, refusing to play along before leaving the table.
She meets my eyes for a minute before rising from her seat to follow him.
***
The next morning is cold and grey. Winter colors are so boring. Everything is white, grey, and brown. It’s only pretty after a snowfall and then, back to ugly. It’s never bothered me before, but I only noticed when I was walking Meekah or driving to work. Now, it’s my only scenery.
Brad is up early (as usual) and chopping wood to stack. Ally and I do our morning chores and then cook breakfast (eggs again). The dogs bounce back and forth between restlessness and sleeping; they’re a good distraction if nothing else. Meekah is never far from me. Right now, she’s laying on the porch next to me. Ah, if only life were as easy as being a dog.
Ally and I join Brad out by the woodpile. It’s cold, but he’s only wearing a sweatshirt and his face is red with exertion. “What’s up?” He asks, looking up from his stack of green wood.
“We are ready to drill,” Ally says. We had discussed this earlier. It really did make sense. People were bound to be running out of everything any day now.
“Give me a few minutes,” Brad said.
Thirty minutes later, the three of us are standing in the darkened kitchen. We figure, if someone approaches the house, they will most likely come from the front. There are acres on either side and behind the house, it’s not impossible, just improbable. Brad dictates our positions. I can tell he’s been considering this for days. He distributes guns to each of us. We are expected to keep them on us at all times: a rifle and a handgun to each of us. A shotgun lives by the front door.
If someone approaches the house, Brad will cover the front. He argues that he is the most accurate with a gun and a man’s voice will be more intimidating than Ally or me. I agree. Ally and I are to slip out the back door together. If we see nothing, then we separate: Ally to the right and me to the left. Each of us is to make our way around to the front of the house and position ourselves at the corners. That way, we can each see up the road and cover Brad, if necessary.
After we have memorized this to Brad’s satisfaction, we go through another drill. This time, Brad covers the front from a small window to the side and Ally and I cover the front and back from the upstairs windows. Ally is the better shot, so she takes the front. We decide that this defense will be the most likely, the other is really an offense. We could only use the latter if we are sure of what is outside. I try to think through things methodically, but it’s hard.
Brad is so matter of fact; like he’s trying to take the horror out of what we are doing.
Essentially, we are positioning ourselves best to kill other people.
No. Don’t think of it like that.
We are positioning ourselves to defend what we have. The end. Push the other thoughts away.
I think it’s a good plan. All bases are covered. It feels good just to have a plan.
Brad takes us through the drills several times. He starts by announcing that we have company (I laugh the first few times, it reminds me of bad movies) and then watches Ally and I proceed through the back door or up the stairs to our perspective perches. After we get his approval, he tells us to wait five minutes and then go through the drills again. Each time, he hides somewhere new: a few times in the backyard, a couple times out front or on the road. We talk throughout the drills, discussing how best to communicate to each other what we each see.
If one of us makes an error, Brad points his gun at us and says “Bang. Your dead.” He may be right, but still, I don’t think he should point a gun at us. Throughout the drills, his frustration builds; we aren’t moving quick enough, I didn’t check the window before passing in front of it, etc. “Are you even thinking? What do you think will happen if you did that in real life?” He yells this up to me from the yard.
I don’t even know how to respond. Kicking at the snow, I can hear him muttering to himself. “Get us all killed. How am I going to defend all this by myself?”
When we sit down to a late lunch (the end of the crackers dipped in the last of Ally’s most recent stew), we chat hesitantly about each of the drills. Trying to lighten the mood, I tell Brad that he should have slipped on a Halloween mask and hid in the trees. That would have really gotten our attention. He only gives me a half-smirk before returning to his food.
Our talk winds down and it grows quiet. At this moment, I am trying to be happy. We have food, each other, the dogs, and warmth and… we are doing this. We are going to live through this. I look at my friends and feel thankful to be here with them.
***
Three days pass. We run through a drill or two with different scenarios each day. The weight of the handgun and rifle are growing more familiar. Brad makes us practice taking them apart, loading, and unloading them so that we won’t panic if we need to do it in a hurry. He is turning us into a little army of three. As our proficiency grows, he relaxes a little.
On the third evening, chores done, Ally and I decide to play cribbage at the table in the candlelight. Brad is flipping through a hockey magazine for probably the one hundredth time. It’s quiet, with only the occasional pop and snap coming from the woodstove in the corner. One of the dogs, the big black and grey hound, raises his head and stares at the backdoor alertly. The other three dogs mimic his position in seconds. Meekah is growling.
Brad is off the couch in a flash. He peeks through the small hole left in the boards by the window closest to the backdoor. After several seconds, he mutters, “Something is moving out there.” After another second, he tells us to get upstairs.
Without another word, we comply. I am swinging my rifle from the table and into position even as I am moving. My heart is pounding. What’s out there? We didn’t plan for this. We did not plan on Brad being at the backdoor. Shouldn’t one of us be covering the front? What if we are surrounded?
Finally, I reach the window overlooking the backyard. It’s pitch black: I can’t see a thing.
There.
Something moving.
Something… small.
A child?
There, a light. Brad must have grabbed one of our flashlights and is shining it out into the backyard. I hear the dogs whining and moving about restlessly.
There!
There’s something there!
Oh, it’s an animal. A small animal. What is it?
In the next minute, I watch Brad venture out into the yard with the flashlight. He turns and
waves the flashlight so that I can see it from the window. I exhale, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. I motion to Ally, who is looking out the front-facing window. We descend the stairs quickly, but it feels like everything is in slow motion.
Once at the back door, we peer out into the darkness. Following Brad’s progress by the beam of the flashlight moving through the night, I open the door and push Ally out before me, shutting the door behind us. Cold air rushes by us, instantly making my face hurt.
I am blind in the darkness, even after the dim light of the house. The only thing visible is the beam from the flashlight. In the glow, the white snow and brown trees have an eerie cast to them. And there… black. Brad has it backed against a tree; the tree is growing out of an incline, preventing whatever it is from escaping. I can barely hear Brad murmuring soft words of encouragement. I still can’t make out what it is.
“What is it?” Ally calls into the darkness.
Brad doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans forward and picks it up. The flashlight beam swings wildly into the trees with his movement, creating strange shapes against the branches. He makes his way back to us, laughing. As he nears us, he shifts his arms and points the flashlight at his cargo. It’s… a goat.
A goat?
A baby goat. It’s black and white and probably the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. It makes a bleating noise in Brad’s arms. My heart is melting.
“Aww,” Ally echoes my sentiments. We are both stroking it as Brad holds it. “Where do you think it came from?” She asks.
“It probably came from across the street,” he replies. “I told you she probably had more stashed in that barn than a sheep.” He stays quiet for a minute while Ally and I continue to pet it. It’s scrawny; I can feel its ribs. “I’ve never had goat before.”
The fact that he can say that while holding it throws me off balance. I mean, he’s right, but I can’t eat a baby anything!
“Brad!” Ally exclaims. Obviously, she feels the same way as I do.
He giggles. He has a sick sense of humor.
“What? It’s not like I would eat it while it’s still a baby. Not now, anyway. We still have venison and shit, so I wouldn’t want to eat it ‘til it’s older.”
“Can we keep it?” asks Ally, as she is gripping its head and kissing its face. Even in the middle of all of this, she is still the animal-obsessed Ally I’ve always known.
“Where would it live, Ally? Use your head.”
Ally looks miffed at his comment. “So, what are we going to do with it?”
“Let’s bring it across the street, back to the farm.” Brad and Ally look unsure at my suggestion. “Maybe it will get us some goodwill from that old lady. Think about it: we return her goat, tell her there’s a hole in her fence, maybe she rewards us with food or animals or something. At the least, the goat is an introduction. It’s not like we’re going to eat it now, anyway.” I think it’s a good plan. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a friend somewhere?
After another moment, Brad nods.
We discuss a plan and decide to go now. There is nowhere to put the goat and the dogs are going wild inside. Grabbing our jackets, we head into the street in the near black night. It feels strange to step onto the pavement after staying within the boundaries of the yard for the past week and a half. I’m colder and feel exposed. Glad that it’s only a short walk and that we haven’t seen any cars, I readjust my grip on my rifle, snugging it in close to my body. It makes me feel safer.
As we draw closer to the mouth of the driveway in the trees, I see a glow of light in one of the windows in the small house in the distance. The shape of the barn dwarfs the house. No lights on there. The end of the driveway is gated and locked. The wire fence spans from either side of the gate with no opening. We follow the fence a little way into the trees; finally, Brad hands the goat to Ally when the wire fence transitions to a softer nylon netted fence. In short order, he is able to push the material down enough for us to step over it.
“Wait! Wait.” I loudly whisper into the darkness. “We can’t just show up and knock on her door in the dark. We have to announce ourselves somehow.”
Brad immediately starts walking up the driveway, waving the flashlight in front of him like he’s waving in an airplane for landing. “Hello?” he yells loudly. We are maybe two hundred feet from the front door.
Ally and I hang back, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement from the house.
Nothing.
“Hello?” he calls again. “We live nearby. We think we have your goat!” Inching closer to the house, he continues to call loudly, still waving his light.
Just when I think there’s no one in the house, there is movement in the window by the door. The door opens slowly. A woman in a bathrobe steps out. Red curly hair is standing up on her head. It isn’t that late; did we wake her? A shotgun is pulled into her shoulder, the barrel pointed straight down the driveway.
I raise my rifle. Ally’s hands are full of the wiggling goat. It continues to bleat, louder now.
The woman is silent, still aiming her gun at us.
“A goat wandered into our yard. Is it yours?” Brad has ceased his forward movement.
“What color is it?” she calls back.
“Black and white.”
“Could be. Bring it closer.”
Ally and I walk forward. I keep my rifle aimed right back at her.
When we are fifty feet from the house, we join Brad. He takes the goat from Ally.
“That’s far enough,” she calls. “Put your guns down.”
I lower my rifle barrel.
“All the way down to the ground.”
Brad nods at me. Ally and I swing our rifles off our shoulders and place them on the ground. There’s no way I’m telling her that I have a nine-millimeter stuffed into the waistband of my pants. Awkwardly, I hold my hands up.
“Bring it closer,” she says.
Brad breaks away from us, carrying the squirming animal. He draws within fifteen feet of her.
“Yeah. That’s mine.”
He stops, waiting.
Abruptly, she comes off the porch and grabs the goat roughly; one hand wrapped around it’s middle. Without saying anything, she turns and goes back into the small house, leaving the door wide open.
After a minute, Ally and I walk up to Brad. The doorway looks like it leads to a kitchen. Is the open door an invitation to come in?
Slowly, I walk up to the porch. “Hello? We were hoping we could work together, since we live so close. What do you think?”
No response.
“Hello?” I call, again.
Suddenly, she’s in the doorway. Her shotgun pointed at my face.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold on.” The words stumble out of me as I scramble to back up a few feet.
“What do you want?” she asks angrily.
“Um… We just brought your goat back. Remember? Just a minute ago.”
I am close enough now to see the details of her face. Her bathrobe is filthy and ripped. The reddish hair has a fair amount of gray in it. It’s more than just sticking upright; it seems to be matted in areas. Her eyes are foggy with no look of recognition. She’s also much older than I would have guessed from afar.
My heart softens. I am a nurse after all.
“Hi,” I begin again, softly. I relax my body posture and make sure that she sees my hands are empty. I try to slyly motion Brad and Ally to stay back. “These are my friends and we live across the street. We came to see if you need anything. Are you okay?”
I see her considering this. Her face softens a bit before nodding. She lowers the shotgun and turns back into the house without a word. Looking back at Brad and Ally, I follow her into the house.
***
The rank smell of something rancid slams me in the face as I cross the threshold and turn into the kitchen. Stacks of boxes and totes line every wall, making the small space feel almost claustrophobic. Layers of dust line everything; I can actually
see mouse shit on top of some of the boxes. The sink is overflowing with dishes. It smells like something has died in here.
The goat that we brought over is standing in the kitchen relieving itself.
Okay. That’s disgusting.
I hear a noise and look back. My friends have crossed the threshold, their disgusted faces showing in the dim kitchen light.
Light?
I was so distracted by the smell that it hadn’t even registered. How is it powered? I can’t hear a generator running. My next thought makes me feel guilty: she has power, something that I need.
“Hello?” I call softly. I don’t want to startle her and have her shoot me in the damn living room. I wish I knew her name to call instead.
The kitchen ends in an arch that leads to the living room. There she is; sitting in a padded armchair with the shotgun across her lap. Her back is to me. She is facing a dark television screen. “Hey,” I croon familiarly. “What are you doing in here?”
She looks up at me and I smile encouragingly.
“Did you bring my son?” Her fingers creep back up to the shotgun.
Just go with it.
“I didn’t bring him, but I just talked to him. He wanted me to come and check on you.”
My heart is pounding. I do not want to die in this smelly house.
“Where is he?” her voice is shaky, and she looks around the room, like she’s expecting to find him standing there.
“He’s… home.”
Looking around, I take stock of our surroundings. There is a cold woodstove in one corner but it’s not freezing in here. She must have let it go out recently. It’s cluttered and dirty in here too. A basket of yarn and knitting needles sit by her chair. There are several plants long dead. Everything looks like it’s covered in a year’s worth of grime. I swallow my grimace and sit down on the couch. No sign of Brad and Ally; they must be waiting in the kitchen. “Are you hungry?” Despite my nervousness and disgust, my heart aches to think that she’s been sitting in this house for the past two weeks by herself.