by Aborn, A. L.
***
We wake up to a snowstorm. There’s at least ten inches on the ground and it’s still coming down fast. It’s kind of strange to wake up to a storm you didn’t know was coming. Just add the weather forecast to the list of things I miss.
The snow adds a new dimension to our chores. After breakfast, we ride the four-wheeler across the street. If no one has been driving around in good weather, we figure it’s safe. Yesterday, when Brad found the truck keys, he also found the key that unlocks the padlock holding the gate closed. He makes quick work of opening the gate, so we can drive right up to the house.
The mucking of the stalls goes much faster today. In less than an hour, all the animals are clean, fed, and watered. We are back in the house and hanging our wet clothes in front of the woodstove before my feet have time to freeze in the pair of muck boots Ally lent me.
It snows heavily for a day and a half. There is almost three feet of snow on the ground making everything difficult. It’s cold and bright for a few days and then it starts to snow again. We have fallen into an easy routine: get up, morning chores, across the street to care for the animals, back to the house, and then an evening trip back to the animals before bed. There’s a lot of downtime, but we spend it talking, playing games, and planning. Ally has some books that we read and discuss in front of the woodstove.
The more ‘efficient’ Ally and I become with our routine, the more relaxed Brad gets. Maybe he was only acting like that because he was worried? Did he think we were a liability? I don’t like to think about that; instead focusing on my relief that he seems to be mostly back to normal.
Ally and I reminisce about our childhoods, but we also cry. We cry for our parents, families, and friends and whatever fate they have met. How did people live like this? Without quick communication to check in with whoever you want, whenever you want? How did they stand the not knowing? That is what eats me up when I find myself idle. The not knowing. I try to reassure myself that anything I am imagining is probably worse than what actually happened. The difference between then and now: they didn’t know what they were missing. We have been plunged into the dark ages after having the luxury of modern technology. It’s hard not to dwell on what we’re missing.
***
It’s the afternoon of day forty-seven. The only way we know is because a few weeks back, Ally and I started tallying days on a calendar. As far as we can tell, it’s March 1st. Or a day or two in either direction. Close enough. The days are getting longer and warmer. There are still days that will take your breath away with the cold, but there are also days where it’s in the mid-thirties and not bad at all. I am looking forward to the warmer days, even though I know that they will prove to be a different sort of challenge.
With the food surplus from the other house (we have nicknamed it ‘the farm’), we’re doing okay. The dogs are on tight rations; often getting just eggs or with a spoonful of whatever we are eating added in. The three of us are eating small portions of our canned goods and a lot of meat. A buck over at the farm was no match for Brad’s rifle. He also got a decent sized bear with the piglets and the deer entrails in his bait barrel. I wanted to do something with the hide, but we didn’t really know how. It’s basically stretched on the outside of the chicken coop with nails. We tried putting it in the barn, but the smell of it made the animals uneasy.
The animals over at the farm are also on rations. If the snow doesn’t melt soon for them to graze, I’m not sure how we are going to feed them. The goats have grown some and the horses have filled out a little. Overall, I’d say we are doing well raising animals in the apocalypse. Brad even used the truck to drive around and make some paths for them through the snow, until the truck got stuck. We’ll be waiting until spring to get that out. We’ve been letting the farm animals out for a couple hours in the afternoon since we checked the fence. It’s a huge area and I wish we could fence in a smaller area for them. Maybe this summer.
The most memorable thing that we have done was trying to trim the horses’ hooves. That was a real bitch. Barely beginning to trust us, they didn’t know what to think when the three of us crowded into each stall. Slowly, taking little by little off each hoof at a time, we finally got them to a manageable length.
The books in the barn office turned out to be a combination of doomsday prepper and farming instruction. The farming books haven’t been too helpful yet, but one of the prepper books talks about owning horses for transportation and has a nice section on DIY care. What we would have done without the book is totally beyond me, but I’m sure we would have figured something out.
We’ve gone through pretty much the entire house over at the farm at this point. The barn office has turned out to contain far more useful tools and information than the rest of the house, except for the solar power. We have a surplus of useless things like dishes, but all the boxes of old magazines have come in handy as a nice distraction. Worst comes to worse; we could always burn them. I did find an old handheld coffee grinder that I hope will prove useful this summer. Warm clothes and boots were also pilfered from the farm and are tucked away in closets, for now. The animals are the biggest risk, but we don’t want to leave much behind if the farm gets looted. Obviously, all the meat in the freezer would also be a huge loss, but there just isn’t much other choice.
Twice, we’ve heard people. The roads have two feet of snow on them, so we haven’t been too worried about big groups. One great thing about the snow is that it would also be simple to see if anyone was traveling by their tracks. It’s not too unusual if you think about it; this is a back road with three houses on it that turns into a rarely used trail. It never saw much traffic anyway. I think that’s why it scared me so bad to hear people. Once, in the daylight we heard a couple gunshots and yells. Brad thinks it was hunters that had no reason to come our way. The other time was after dark and we just heard yelling. We couldn’t make out any words, it was more like the echoes of yells. Either way, we haven’t seen a thing. I hope it stays that way.
It worries me, that people have been so close. With all the snow, it’s hard to hide the boot and four-wheeler tracks that lead from our driveway to the farm. But just like so many other things, we just don’t have many options. It’s not like someone couldn’t see the smoke rising from the chimney anyway. I hate the feeling that we are just crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. It feels like luck, and I’ve never been particularly lucky.
The afternoon of March 1st is sunny and thirty-five. Ally and I are out back, trying to repair the chicken coop. The damn gray squirrels are everywhere and broke into the coop to steal the chicken feed. Scrap wood from the pile is pretty much just getting nailed over the holes. Brad is across the street with the four-wheeler getting a load of firewood and pulling it back in a sled.
When I first hear the whine of an engine, I don’t even look up. It’s just Brad coming home. Something is nagging at me. The engine sound is coming from the wrong direction! Ally and I look up simultaneously. That’s not a four-wheeler. It’s a snowmobile.
Oh fuck, we didn’t drill for this.
Chapter Eight
The Visitor
“Go upstairs and cover me from the window,” I am already moving as I shout the words to Ally. She’s not far behind me, running for the house. Pulling my whistle from my jacket, I blow as hard and as long as I can. One long blast signals ‘help.’ I only hope Brad can hear the whistle and the snowmobile and figure out what’s happening.
The dogs are going wild. We crash through the back door. I lock it behind me and try to herd all four of the dogs into the bedroom. Ally heads toward the stairs to cover from the front window in the loft. Rushing across the house, it feels almost natural to sling my rifle around on its shoulder strap and grasp it with both hands.
Peering through the three-inch hole in the wood over the window shows me the front porch. The click of the safety is barely audible over the roar of the dogs. My heartrate is raging; I can feel every pulse in every inch of
me. I can’t see anything yet.
There.
A movement across the street in the woods. What is that?
Oh no. Are they coming from more than one direction?
The movement resolves itself into Brad. He waves once before ducking back down into the brush; I can hardly see his outline. He must see Ally in the upstairs window. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders knowing that he’s there. He must have heard the whistle or the snowmobile and come rushing across the farm property.
The whine of the snowmobile draws closer.
I can’t see very far up the road in the direction of the noise; the trees are in the way. Suddenly, a black and green Arctic Cat enters my vision. To my horror, it slows almost to a stop before turning into our driveway with no hesitation.
There are two riders, both wearing black helmets. One is adult sized, one smaller. The smaller is in front, almost cradled by the adult.
A child?
The sound of the snowmobile abruptly stops. The adult rider swings a leg off and stands up. I can’t see any weapons. Brad stands from his hidden perch, rifle at his shoulder. I pull the front door open and step out onto the porch, mimicking Brad’s stance.
The rider rips his helmet off, letting it fall to the snow. He holds his hands up, looking from me to Ally in the upstairs window, never catching the threat behind him.
“Adam?” Ally’s voice is incredulous.
I pause. What?
“Adam, what are you doing here?”
I almost don’t recognize him. His hair is longer, and stubble shows where he was always clean shaven. Brad lowers his gun and meets Adam in the driveway. I lower my rifle. What is he doing here? Ally joins me on the front porch, hardly waiting for me before rushing to the driveway. When she reaches him, she swings her arms around his neck.
I am more cautious than Ally.
Why is he here? Why now? And what’s up with the kid? Could that be his son? I had never seen him, but Ally had told me about it when he was born. He would probably be around five by now. Ally, Brad, and I had been close since we were kids, but I hadn’t palled around with their cousins since we were teens.
Brad’s words echo my sentiments. “Are you alone?”
I can’t hear Adam’s response. His back is to me as he takes the kid’s helmet off. I move closer. The child looks unsteady and pale. Adam picks up the boy and cradles him in his arms. He turns, looking for me. “I’m sorry. You’re the only nurse I know. You said you were coming here. I had to try and come find you.” His words sound pleading and anxious.
I stop. “Bring him in the house.”
Brad and Ally share a look but don’t move to stop him.
“Is there anyone else with you? Does anyone else know you’re here?” I ask coldly, before moving aside to let them in. We have to know.
“No. No one. I swear.” I step aside and let him in. Ushering them to the couch, he lays the boy gently onto the cushions. Kneeling, I feel his forehead. He’s burning up. “What’s his name?”
“Jake.”
“Jake,” I croon to him. “Hi, buddy. You don’t feel too good, do you?” The boy’s eyes open briefly. I continue my silent assessment of him. His pulse is racing. I turn to face Adam. “What happened to him?”
“He fell down the stairs. I think he broke his arm.”
Ally and Brad hover behind us quietly.
“When?”
“Three days ago. He cut himself, too. It was bloody, so I wrapped it up. I thought he’d be fine. It’s not like I can bring him to a doctor.” Adam sounds angry.
Gingerly, I unzip the boy’s jacket. His right arm is through the sleeve of the coat, but the left arm is tucked inside against his chest. I try to move the arm, but Jake’s eyes open and he pulls away from me, whimpering. “Hold him,” I say firmly.
Adam sits on the couch next to him and hugs him to his chest, leaving enough room for me to extend the arm toward my middle. He struggles but I am stronger. The bandages look like a ripped-up shirt secured with duct tape. “Did you wash it?”
“I couldn’t! He wouldn’t let me.”
Peeling the cloth back is difficult; the blood has made it stick together and to his skin. Not too much blood though, can’t be much vascular damage. I am analytical in my approach; I cannot let my feelings interfere. Finally, the wound is visible: it’s an open fracture. The wrist looks disfigured, but I can’t see any bone.
“What’s wrong with him? What is it?” Adam is starting to sound frantic.
“His wrist is dislocated; the cut is from the bone. I’ll need to set it. And he needs stitches.” I glance up at Brad and Ally as I say this. They both know that my first aid kit was left behind in my car.
“Can you do it?”
I hesitate before nodding. “But I don’t have any supplies here. They’re in my car. And he’s going to need antibiotics.” I look at all their faces before looking back at Jake. “There isn’t a doctor’s office or hospital for miles. If he doesn’t get the medicine he needs, it won’t matter if I can stitch it or not.”
We sit in silence for a few moments.
“What about… antibiotics for animals?” Brad says quietly.
“Where could we get some?” Adam asks hopefully.
“The farm supply store.”
Hmm. I hadn’t considered this before. There is a mom and pop type farm supply store a few miles from where my car is stuck on the side of the highway. It could work.
“Adam and I will go, you and Ally stay here,” Brad volunteers.
“No. I have to go. I have no idea what type of antibiotics will be there, if any. I’ll go with Adam.” I turn to him. “Will we be able to get to my car?”
He pauses before nodding. “With all the snow, there aren’t many people out. I know most of the people in town. We’ll be okay, I think.”
Well, that inspires confidence.
“We should go now,” I say. I turn to Ally. “Put Jake in the bathtub with warm water, not cold. Keep him warm; don’t let him shiver. We’ll be as fast as we can.”
Adam is staring at me; I think he’s surprised that I’m taking control. Well, surprise Adam, this is the new me. Ally stops me with a hand on my arm. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t either,” I reply. She grabs me around the neck tightly, squeezing until it hurts.
Brad pulls me in for a quick hug and then follows me outside. Adam is comforting Jake on the couch when I get outside. I look up at Brad’s face; a hat hides his close-cropped hair and his eyes are serious on mine. “Can I trust him?” I whisper.
Brad nods hesitantly. He helps me slide my rifle strap over my shoulder. “Do you have your nine-millimeter?” I nod. “And your knife?” I nod again. “Don’t relax. Not for a second. “He may be family, but that doesn’t mean shit. Help him, if you can. Don’t hesitate if you get any weird vibes. It’s you… or him.”
His words send a shiver through the deepest part of me where even the cold doesn’t reach.
“Brad!” I chide in a whisper. “He’s your cousin!”
Adam’s appearance on the porch cuts off his response. Brad turns to me, speaking louder now. “Since you’re going to the farm supply store, get as much feed as you can. Take the sled.” He gestures toward a beat-up black sled that he uses to hall wood. There’s a long rope already tied to it and a handful of bungee cords thrown into the twig strewn bottom.
Of course. The animals need food. We’re going to a food store. Duh. “Good thinking.”
Ally comes out to hug me once more and to hand me a backpack full of food and water before rushing back in to be at Jake’s side. The men tie the sled to the snowmobile and suddenly, we’re ready.
I feel strange. Like, how is this happening so quickly? Hours ago, I was practically bored with our post-apocalyptic lifestyle. Boarding up the holes in the chicken coop while wishing for summer was the highlight of my week. And now… Now I’m climbing onto the back of a snowmobile behind Brad’s cousin. A sense of foreboding is br
ewing in the pit of my stomach.
My mind flashes back to that first night. The cars blocking the highway. The boy with a bullet in his head. And who was there? Adam. I don’t know who else was there that night, but he was. Did he shoot that boy? No, not the Adam I grew up with. He couldn’t. And if I really think he’s capable of it, why am I leaving the only safety that I know to go with him?
Adam stands briefly on the running boards of the snowmobile in front of me. The glint of a gun peeks out between his jacket and snow pants. I guess he is armed. The snowmobile rumbles below me. He sits back down in front of me; there isn’t much room between us. I borrowed one of Brad’s helmets, it’s a little loose but fits well enough. Adam swings the snowmobile around and points us toward the mouth of the driveway. Turning to look over his shoulder, his eyes meet mine. “We’ll go to your car first, while it’s still light out.” I nod.
I don’t know where to put my hands. It feels weird, but I wrap my arms around his middle. This is the closest I have been to another human being in almost two months. It’s strange to think that the other human is Adam, but it feels good: too good to let go or feel awkward.
Over the hum of the snowmobile, I hear barking. I turn to look behind me and see Ally holding Meekah back. I feel a little sick to my stomach to be leaving her; she has been my constant shadow every day. Making a mental promise to come back to her, I turn back to Adam, “Go.”
***
The cold air finds a way to slip between the gaps under my helmet and into the neck of my coat. It’s freezing. The air is like icicles on my skin. I try to hunker behind Adam as we zoom down the middle of the road. The only tracks that I can see are from a single snowmobile; Adam’s path from earlier. He is taking the most direct route to my car, not worried about sticking to the woods and backroads after we turn off Ally’s road.