We trudged down the middle of the road, which resembled more of a long narrow field, or a stream which had frozen over. With a break in the clouds, the bare trees hemming the road on both sides cast dark thorny shadows in the afternoon sun.
The trees thinned out on the left as the land rose up a gentle slope revealing a few more houses, which were part of a development.
“That’s Oak Hill Estates,” Mr. Wheeler said. “Jim Pauley, a guy I use to know had a house there. A wife and a boy and a girl. Sweet kids.” He smiled, faintly, but the smile went away, leaving a red, wind-lashed face.
A quiet numbness tingled in the air like you would find at a funeral home, as you waited in line to meet the bereaved. The kids Mr. Wheeler spoke of were phantoms of memory. For me, being a kid, riding my bike on the sidewalk, going to school, suffering through Algebra class were gone also. The transition being completed when Uncle Ray arrived at the house and we filled the truck to overflowing, stuffing anything from blankets to canned food into every open space. In a flash of atomic light and the ravages of plague I grew up.
The pace slowed as we broke the surface of the fresh snow and neared the point where the smoke rose from some location ahead. Oak Hill Estates, the housing development with its well organized and planned community, came into view. Past the two fieldstone pillars which marked either side of the main access road, the community was a ghost town as haunting and uninhabited as a forgotten boomtown of the Old West when the last of the gold played out.
“Man, it’s getting cold,” Mr. Hansel said. His black leather gloves squeaked as he rubbed them together. “We’re gonna need shelter soon, just to thaw out a little.”
“Yeah,” Uncle Ray said, “but first . . .” He pointed with the rifle, gripped in one hand, through a patch of short, leafless maples. A small two-story house stood nestled in among some trees. Gray smoke rose from a narrow cinderblock chimney.
“I’ll go check it out,” Mr. Hansel said, edging up.
“No,” Uncle Ray said. “I’m going and so are you.” He looked at me.
I nodded, and swallowed. Echoes of that morning’s gunfight reverberated.
“Here’s my rifle, Dan,” Uncle Ray said. “I don’t want to look like trouble but . . .”
“We’ll follow at a discreet distance,” Mr. Wheeler said.
“I just hope there’s no hoof prints around here,” Mr. Hansel said, slinging Uncle Ray’s rifle over a shoulder.
“Still, I have this,” my uncle patted the bulge the automatic made in a right jacket pocket.
We started toward the house, covering the last few hundred feet of snowy road. With a look back, I returned Mr. Wheeler’s wave. His full white beard and mustache bristled. He resembled Santa Claus, but on safari, his shotgun ready in hand.
“We’ll go right to the front door,” said Uncle Ray. “We’ll even introduce ourselves and everything will be just wonderful.” He winked, trying to be hopeful. “And if not . . .”
“We’ve got back up,” I said.
“Yeah.” He heaved in a deep breath.
The cold made the walk longer. Not knowing what to expect and expecting the worst didn’t help as we neared the house. The wind rushed along the road like a smoky wave. The smoldering yellow light of the sun came through the low hanging clouds.
We reached the driveway, which led up to a two-car garage attached to the house. Smoke from the chimney shifted with the wind. Heavy dark curtains covered the large window facing the road. We went up the driveway. Near the garage, footprints marred the snow, trailing from around the corner of the garage across the yard to the front door.
Uncle Ray went first, following the tracks.
The dark fabric of the curtain fluttered at the left side of the picture window.
“See that?” I resisted the urge to tap Uncle Ray on the back, but he didn’t reply.
A man with deep set eyes peered out.
Uncle Ray stopped at the top of the single concrete step fronting the door.
I turned to spot Mr. Wheeler and Dan Hansel standing at the end of the driveway.
My uncle knocked on the door as if he was visiting someone for the first time or looking for directions like nothing mattered, life or death.
No one answered.
Uncle Ray knocked again, louder.
A sound came from behind the door, sounding like the clack of a door bolt.
My insides tightened, and Uncle Ray straightened up, his hand slipped into the pocket holding the automatic.
The door opened a hand’s width and a bearded face, with those same peering eyes, showed through the opening.
“Hello,” Uncle Ray said.
“Hi,” I said.
We eyed the man, intently, but he didn’t speak. The gray and black beard didn’t conceal the hard pressed lips and the agitation.
“Can we come in?” Uncle Ray asked.
“Who’s keeping you out,” came a reply, signifying not just resignation, but defeat.
Uncle Ray frowned and said, “You . . . you could just say, no, and we’ll leave you alone.”
The man opened the door further, looking to the road where the others still stood. “Them, too?” He gestured with a tilt of his head.
“The decision’s yours,” Uncle Ray said. “I mean it.”
The man studied my uncle’s face like that meant more than words, and then he gazed at me. “Okay.” He gave the door a push and turned away, heading into the living room, before the door even opened all the way.
***
Jerry Senkow sat in a glider chair next to the fireplace, his boney hands in his lap. A low burning fire of thin branches and pieces of wood furniture flickered, making our host appear even more cadaverous. The green sweatshirt hung on him. A number of new holes were punched in the leather belt holding up his pants.
Mr. Hansel, Uncle Ray and I sat on the couch against the wall opposite the front window. Mr. Wheeler took a seat in an armchair in the corner by the window across from Mr. Senkow.
Other than giving his name, he hadn’t said much of anything since we’d arrived.
“Thanks for letting us in,” Uncle Ray said, smiling.
Mr. Senkow nodded, just slightly as if he didn’t have the energy to do more. His unkempt beard didn’t hide the deep lines around his tired, sunken eyes.
“We were looking to get out of the cold,” Uncle Ray said.
“Yes,” he said, in a deep, low voice.
Seeing a starving man filled me with a numbness, and a sorrow about something that shouldn’t be out of my control. “You want something to eat?” I asked. Not waiting for an answer, I rummaged in my pack which lay at my feet, along with my bow and quiver. I unfolded the plastic wrap and set a portion of turkey in his hand.
His eyes stayed on me as I stepped back to the couch. “Thank you,” he said—not in an obligatory way, but as if stunned by something extraordinary.
“I’ll get some wood,” Mr. Hansel said, rising. “Do you have a supply?”
“Some. Around the side of the house,” Mr. Senkow said with a slow gesture of a thin hand.
Warmth filled the room, which was more than the fireplace provided, and on Mr. Hansel’s return, his arms loaded with fuel for the fire, Mr. Senkow cried a tear which ran down his cheek, becoming lost in his beard. “Okay,” he said. “Who are you people?”
A strange silence followed the question. Dumfounded I hadn’t even considered such an idea. Such a simple question had so much weight. More seemed to be required to answer it, then saying, my name is Stanley and this is my uncle, and here, these are our friends.
“Survivors,” I said. “We’re survivors.”
“Yes,” Uncle Ray said. “We’ve come a long way. We happened on your home and we’re glad to meet you.” He set a hand on my shoulder and told Mr. Senkow our story, from foraging to farming, how we buried my brother, when Sara’s mother died, and about the raiders who roamed the land and hopefully came to a final end with a last battle that very morning.
Mr. Senkow intently gazed and listened as if he were hearing some great adventure story. He nodded vigorously now, that bit of food renewing him.
“I’m happy to hear those bastards on horseback got what was coming to them,” Mr. Senkow said. “After weeks and weeks they finally took everything I had . . .”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Hansel said, “but I’m also surprised they didn’t just kill you.” He tossed a couple pieces of maple onto the fire. Flames rose and sparks shot up the flue.
“In some perverse way, I think they thought the situation was funny.” Mr. Senkow ate the remainder of the turkey, savoring each bite.
“So, you’re a survivor, too,” I said.
“A survivor?” He carefully picked a crumb which had fallen from his mouth, landing on his sweatshirt, and popped it into his mouth. “Well, you know, there were the bombs, and the plague out west moved so fast. It was, what, world-wide in just a few weeks?” He stared off, as if seeing into the past, reviewing every detail, and recalling those days.
The power grid began to fail. The rolling blackouts came and finally stayed. In a total blackout, fear struck out at everyone, and that was the time when he found out what his neighbors were made of, and some—most weren’t made of very sturdy stuff. His eyes were wide as if overwhelmed by images of collapse.
“We had—there were fights—fist fights right out there on the road.” He pointed, shaking his head. “Right outside my front door!” He pointed a quivering finger. “And Will Scott, the local cop, had to fire his pistol in the air just to keep a couple guys from killing each other. Amazing!” His hand dropped back into his lap, and he sighed. “Of course, there were people who decided they knew where they wanted to go. And they left. Some drove east. Some north or south. I don’t know . . . They went everywhere. I don’t even know if it mattered then or now, but they left. Those that stayed tried not to panic too much, but we were way past panic and well into despair. Everything was totally out of control anyway.
“And, oh, about a full two weeks had already passed—when a bunch of soldiers drove up in a little convoy of Humvees and trucks, the big ones. Some of the trucks were already filled with people—civilians. This lieutenant gets out of the lead Humvee—like he’s going to plant a flag or something.” Mr. Senkow threw up his hands. “The officer, dressed in green camouflage, starts announcing through a megaphone that by the order of the General of the East-Central District, everyone up to this point is being evacuated from the Demarcation Zone.”
“What?” Incredulous, Uncle Ray leaned forward on the couch, elbows set on his knees.
The crackle of the fire dominated the room. A sudden burst of wind pushed against the house and rattled over the roof.
“Scary,” I said, sitting back. “To think, somebody I never met decided I couldn’t be saved.”
Chapter 25
Months ago, so many people left with the convoy, still, a few remained, maybe the dead woman in her house was one, and then there was Mr. Senkow here, starving.
The picture window strained against a renewed buffeting by the wind. Snow hissed like sand over the glass.
“But why did you stay?” I asked.
Mr. Senkow brushed his hand over his beard, knocking loose a fragment of turkey, which he picked off his pants leg. After studying the morsel, he ate it, and said, “I’m kind of a dead-ender.”
“A dead-ender?” I shook my head, not understanding.
“The military didn’t seem interested in forcing anyone to go. But the transportation was there for all who wanted to leave the Zone. Food, shelter, safety—all of that was supposed to be available in the district. That’s what the pamphlet said . . . Yeah, the soldiers even handed out an information sheet.” Mr. Senkow seemed to drift off.
“But why didn’t you go?” I held out a hand, palm up.
“Oh,” he said, focusing on me again. “My wife Tammy went. She took our son Ben . . .”
He told of the conversation with his wife and how he would stay and wait for their older daughter Samantha who was away at college, out west, in the plague states, but they had no contact with her at all. His wife didn’t want to let go. He knew better. Tammy insisted on staying, but he wouldn’t allow that.
“I stayed behind, and an hour later the convoy left. Talk about an exodus. Weeping and wailing. It was grim. And I watched what was left of my family ride away.”
His loss became my loss. I knew that hollow, ghostly feeling like a poisonous suffocating vapor. Family members who’ve disappeared and the only thing not dead was the hope. But hope faded.
“How far do you have to go east before the Demarcation Zone ends?” Mr. Hansel asked.
Mr. Senkow let out a long heavy sigh, and said, “Sorry, but I could care less. I watched my family leave and I haven’t heard from them, from anyone. And I don’t care.”
Mr. Hansel nodded.
“Dan, is there really any point in finding out?” Uncle Ray asked.
I realized for all we learned we knew less than nothing. I pulled the homemade map from my pack at my feet.
“Ray, let’s go a little further. Say five miles. To the interstate, then we’ll stop,” Mr. Hansel said.
“You weren’t interested in this trip to begin with, and now, you want to go further.” Uncle Ray chuckled.
I slipped the homemade map from the plastic bag and unfolded it across my lap, tilting the paper sheet to catch the firelight.
“And what is that?” Mr. Wheeler asked, leaning forward in his seat.
“A map home.” I pointed from the valley to the red dot where my family’s home was.
“Ah, so it’s interesting for you that we’re going in that direction now?” Mr. Wheeler eyed the map.
“At one time, maybe, but now, it’s too cold and dangerous.” I ran my finger from the valley to the town and then along a black line. “The road we walked,” I said. “Now, we are here. Uncle Ray . . .”
“What?” He turned.
The paper released a rattling sound as I tapped the location on the map with a finger. “We just need to go a few more miles like Mr. Hansel said.”
My uncle sighed and said, “Well, Dan, you got another vote.” He looked at me a moment longer, questioning.
“It’s just a few miles. Then we’ll head home,” I said.
“Home?”
I nodded. “Yes, back to the cabin.”
“Good. I’m glad.” He smiled.
So was I, because in some ways I had been much like Mr. Senkow. We both longed for lost love ones, people we knew somewhere deep down were gone. His waiting for the return of his daughter was fruitless. He’d even lost his wife and son because how could he ever find them again. Starvation and death was the final end to that waiting. I didn’t want that. I had my new home, and I wanted to get back there. The sooner. the better. I glanced out the window. All that was left of the day was a deepening red glow in the eastern sky.
We spent the night with Mr. Senkow and slept in the living room in front of the fire. No sheets or blankets were available. The raiders succeeded in taking everything, picking his house clean like a corpse.
I’d taken a spot on the floor at the foot of the couch and lay down so I faced the fireplace, using my pack as a pillow. The flames danced and weaved every time the wind rushed over the chimney and pulled at the smoke rising up the flue. Fatigue from the long journey ached in my bones. Sleep fogged my brain. The smell of the fireplace smoke brought thoughts of the cabin and the comfort there, so much so that the idea of going east, just for a few more miles, seemed too much. I even smiled at the irony, about how going back to my parents’ home had transformed into such a driving force, an end all and be all, but now, seeing myself in Jerry Senkow, in some way saved me. Maybe we could convince him to go with us on our return to the valley which was a place for the living.
***
I awoke when Uncle Ray tapped the sole of my boot with his foot. I rose and sat on the couch. The sun cracked the hori
zon with an orange-red slash of light. My uncle held out a portion of turkey and a couple shriveled carrots on a piece of plastic wrap.
“We’ll eat everything we packed. Tonight I plan on being back at the cabin, eating venison,” he said, smiling. “And drinking corn liquor.”
I chuckled, ate and said good morning to our host. He spent the night in the fireside chair. The fire glinted in his eyes while the morning light slowly flooded in.
In the quiet of the kitchen I put the question about Mr. Senkow coming back to the valley to Uncle Ray.
He gazed out a window at the snowy field, and nodded. “I don’t see a problem, but I don’t know if Jerry will go.”
“Yeah, I know . . .”
The sun was still low on the horizon when we left on the final leg of the trip. No more snow had fallen during the night, but the temperature had gone lower as puffs of vapor curled from our noses.
Mr. Senkow hadn’t given an answer about returning with us, but did thank us for the invitation. He stood on the front stoop and gave a flagging wave as we headed east. Maybe on the way back we’d get an answer.
No wind blew and in the stillness, the exertion from the walk actually warmed me so much that I’d partly unzipped my jacket. The pack rode light on my back, being nearly empty except for wrappers from the food and my map. I’d strung my bow, having it ready. “Just in case,” I said.
“Expecting something?” Mr. Wheeler said, lines crinkling his brow.
“Yes.” I heft the bow and said, “Lunch.”
He grinned, chuckled and tugged on the bill of his red and black checker cap. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
My uncle grinned and Dan Hansel said he had no problem with that.
That was how the morning went like a camping trip with light conversation and joking, not a last long walk.
The snow crunched under my boots as the unbroken white surface gave way with every step. The road went on, snow covered and littered with the occasional abandoned car, monuments to a time long passed. The sight of those vehicles and the knowledge of why no people appeared were no longer unsettling. The Demarcation Zone was another part of the way things were.
Dark Land: An Apocalyptic Novel Page 17