Officer Down

by E. E. Isherwood

  “Angie, you're hurt badly and aren't yourself. Please wait where you are and I'll call a doctor.”

  She considered her options as she pushed herself through her home, understanding that she was likely in mortal danger. Angie was probably infected with heaven-knows-what, though it was beyond her reckoning how anyone sick or healthy could lay there with a broken ankle and not make a peep. Working her cane with her left hand, her free hand was in her pocket holding her rosary. At her age, death was never far away, and the rosary was an important reminder of the faith she always kept close, but this was not how she wanted her story to end. She needed a plan.

  She could easily lock herself in any room of the house—a bathroom would be the best choice for now—but she didn't know how strong Angie might be. If she could survive a broken ankle and not complain, what if she could put her head through the thin wooden doors? The growling sounds of the sick woman behind her spurred her to continue without stopping to consider potential side routes.

  “I'll just be a moment, Angie.”

  She walked into the kitchen at the back of the house, looking around frantically for something to help her. Her heart was beating hard at the effort to simply walk at such a brisk pace. She scanned the kitchen table, the oven area, and the open door to the basement—her great-grandson Liam lived down there, but he was gone for the day to the library. She would never be able to get down all those steps. Her eyes finally fell on her impressive collection of kitchen cutlery, and she chuckled to herself at a funny thought.

  Maybe I could fight her with a knife? Ha!

  Her painfully slow progress brought her near the back door, the only real alternative left. Going into the backyard was a definite option, but that would put her outside her house for who-knows-how-long. What about food, water, her pain medications, the telephone? Could she survive until Liam returned? The shuffling noises entering the kitchen made up her mind.

  She slid out the stout back door, pulling it shut behind her. The exterior screen door slowly followed suit. The concrete porch was a flat, open space with a small awning overhead, providing limited shade for a few chairs and one large freestanding porch swing she kept around mainly for the grandchildren. She liked this flat for a lot of reasons, but the biggest was how few stairs she had to use. The bright-eyed Marty who moved in all those years ago never imagined she'd still be here at 104 with a disdain for steps.

  She hobbled, her back starting to flare up in pain, to the closed window near the back door so she could get a look inside at her friend. She had to put her face up against the glass to see through the glare of the morning sunshine. Her cane, with its four small feet, waited patiently at her side.

  Angie was right up in the window looking back at her.

  Oh, my. Poor Angie.

  She could see Angie had to be standing on her broken foot, banging herself against the window quite forcefully. The interior screen frame was already ripped and bent, but her greatest concern was how much pain poor Angie must be suffering from that injured foot.

  She moved away from the window to consider what to do next. She ran through a Hail Mary prayer, not for herself but for the more endangered soul inside. She sat down in the sturdy armchair. She knew she'd have trouble getting back up, but there was no choice but to take a quick rest. And think.

  A hedge separated her immaculate yard and well-tended flower beds from her less tidy neighbors on both sides She saw none of them outside, which wasn't terribly unusual. Most of the kids and many of the young adults were probably inside playing with their video games or whatever newfangled technology was out these days. Or they could all be inside suffering like Angie. That image hung on the air.

  “Those police called a few hours too late. I let Liam go out today without a care in the world. I need to get back inside, so he has a safe place when he returns.”

  It was time to save her own bacon and prevent her from becoming someone else's problem. She hated asking for help for tasks she could do for herself. Even worse was depending on others for things she had done herself but was physically incapable of doing now. A rescue, for instance.

  I'm starting to feel old. Finally.

  The tiny yard offered nothing regarding weapons—not that she had any desire to hurt Angie. If she could still hold one, a gun might be a useful deterrent. The concept of a cowgirl granny lifting a shotgun, heroically reentering the house, and chasing off the bad guy would have given her a laughing fit on any other day. Today it just made her mad.

  If she were ten years younger she might be able to sneak to the front door, open it, and lure Angie out—then run around the house and through the back door. Today, just walking to the front would probably give her a heart attack, and running from the angry nurse on the return trip would kill her, one way or the other.

  Her eyes fell on the garage.

  Can I get there?

  3

  She had mild difficulty getting out of her chair, but the banging on the window kept her motivated. At the far end of her small yard was her one-car garage. A small wooden structure she seldom visited these days. It had been painted a tidy white, had a sloping black asphalt shingle roof, with a tiny window on the rear wall as well as small portals on each of the sides. The walkway led down the center of the yard but snaked to the right side of the garage. When she reached the service door she made a horrible realization—the key was hanging on a wall inside her house! She had never cussed her whole life; it just wasn't her style. Instead of cursing, she prayed.

  She looked into the garage through the tiny window of the door and saw sunlight. The main garage door was already open. She noticed almost all the garages on her block had their bays open, many with detritus tossed as if sneezed out. She and many of her neighbors had been robbed.

  Looking in, she saw the previously pristine space was a tornadic blast of her belongings. She hadn't driven in twenty-five years and didn't own a car, but Angie's should have been sitting in front of her—it had been taken. So had anything else of value. The boxes of power tools. A couple of the grandkids' fancy bikes. The snowblower.

  It's June, for heaven's sake.

  Looking at what was left, she had to find something which would help her get back in her house. Trash cans. Old lumber scraps. Bags of soil. All manner of car-cleaning products, lawn-care accessories, and pre–World War II shovels, spades, and other old equipment she was unable to categorize. Her late husband never gave up on a good tool.

  At that moment, the emergency tornado sirens began to howl their deep and unmistakable wail. It couldn't be weather—it was a clear day. They were supposed to warn of a tornado, but mostly the trumpets sounded only during their monthly readiness tests. She wasn't quite deaf, and the eardrum-splitting decibels from the siren tower located just around the corner were painful as they continued to wail like the devil’s version of Gabriel’s trumpet.

  Her eye came across something the thieves had overlooked or hadn’t wanted that gave her hope. Thirty feet of her past lay coiled on the floor, in the guise of a stout, braided rope with one end tied in a loop with the famous Honda Knot cowboys used to make their lariats. It was a souvenir from her honeymoon at Table Rock Lake—eons ago. She and Al got the lariat from the aged proprietor of the small lakefront cabin they rented. He liked to pretend he was a cowboy and talked about his time roping steer over in Kansas City. He wanted to give it to “youngin's” like them.

  She used a rake to hook it, so she didn't have to bend down to pick it up. The braids felt good in her hands, and she savored the memories of its origin. She drew strength in the notion her husband was helping her from above. She leaned against the wall of the garage, considering how to advance her cause.

  “I'll only have one chance. I'm already pooped,” she said to herself. Below her snow-white hair, sweat was beading profusely.

  She looked around for the one other tool she thought she might need and found the long handle of a broom without the brush attached. Easily done.

  Slow
ly, she started making her way to the back porch again. The infernal siren continued to blare, adding anxiety to her already desperate plan. At the halfway point, she paused for a rest and wondered whether she shouldn't just go out the front gate, down the narrow path between her flat and the neighboring home, and just keep walking until she found help. Forget about Angie for now and just find assistance. Lots of risks either way.

  “Lord give me strength to make the right choice,” she said to anyone listening. She seldom prayed for herself, but now she allowed herself to ask for help. After a minute's pause, she decided her best chance to see this day to the end was to take charge of her own problems and recapture her home. Even if she didn't live through the night, she wasn't about to spend her final hours on earth sitting on a deck chair listening to Angie claw away at her kitchen window.

  “And, please, Lord, turn off those trumpets!”

  4

  She closed the distance to the back of her house, the rope heavy across her thin shoulders; the broom handle held tightly under the arm not working the cane. She saw herself reflected in the glass of her back window, stooped over and hobbling up the path like some elderly, deranged Calamity Jane.

  She admitted she did not look very intimidating, but she was a survivor in the truest sense. She lost her first daughter in a freak car accident. A son lost to war in Korea. Financial ruin after Al died. And the coup de grace was breaking her hip when she was 99. This, she told herself, was a minor speed bump in comparison.

  So, on she went, pulling up to the door and window. She tied off her rope and took a seat in the same chair she'd used a few minutes before. She was winded now, and her back was fast becoming a major distraction. She almost never consumed pain meds, but using them after such exertion would be justified.

  The plan was simple, as it had to be for a woman of her rapidly declining abilities. She would tap the window with her broom handle to get Angie’s attention and draw her over to the window one more time. She hoped that would give her an opportunity to open the screen door long enough to push the main door, so it would open wide. From there, things would get interesting.

  As with most major events in her life, this one began with a prayer.

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  She tried to stand up and realized her back was nearing its limits. With great effort, she did manage to stand, but this would likely be her last unassisted “up” of the day.

  “As if I don't have enough problems.”

  Standing and wobbling a bit, she righted herself and made for the small segment of brickwork between the door and the rear window. She had the rope looped over her head, the broomstick in her left hand, and the cane in her right. From there, her best guess was she could just reach the window with the stick and still be close enough to the door to open it. She considered whether Angie would even hear her banging on the window over the din of the emergency klaxons.

  Trust in the Lord.

  She let go of her cane and stood unassisted as best she could. With all her strength, she swung the broom handle with both hands. She had feeble arm strength, and her whole body was already taxed to its breaking point—but she did manage to make a satisfying bang on the window glass before the stick slipped out of her hands and rolled into the grass just off the concrete porch. It was now or never. Was it enough?

  She maneuvered herself to open the screen door, and was dismayed to see how far open she needed it so she could gain enough leverage to open the heavier inside door. It was taking too much time! She gave the door a push and was relieved to see it slowly swing open into the kitchen. Now all she had to do was move out of the screen door's path and close it before Angie returned from her attack on the window. It disturbed her deeply to hear such anger and pain, but it also scared her half to death, knowing she didn't have anything between her and the inside of the house but a slowly closing, flimsy aluminum screen door.

  It latched shut with a satisfying click, but she felt the panic rising as Angie appeared in her blood-stained nightclothes and began flailing at the door.

  My stars!

  She nearly forgot what she was supposed to be doing, but regained her wits enough to pull the rope from around her neck and get it into position. She had no idea what to expect of this plan, as she had absolutely no experience breaking screen doors. Would the whole thing collapse outward? Would Angie kick it open or accidentally hit the latch to open the door like a normal person? So many variables ran through her head as she stood inches away from danger.

  The lining abruptly ripped near the top, and Angie leaned through the broken screen. As Angie's head poked through, Marty—city slicker or not—pulled a simple rope trick that the old proprietor would applaud unabashedly. She circled the lasso over Angie's head and pulled the loop so it cinched around her neck. If Angie noticed it, she gave no indication as she continued trying to push through the door. She grabbed her cane and started walking as fast as her orthopedic shoes would carry her, knowing Angie was going to make it outside—if her plan continued to work.

  The other end of the rope was tied to the only thing of any weight close enough to her back door—her porch swing. It was an awkwardly shaped freestanding model, and she'd seen it moved enough times over the years to know it took pretty good effort on the part of a couple of people to drag it around. If she were really lucky, it would hold Angie long enough so she could walk around front and backtrack through her house to shut the rear door again.

  Lots of ifs.

  5

  Angie came screaming and flailing out the door. She nearly grabbed her before being pulled up short by the rope. Angie stumbled, stood up, and lunged at her again, but Marty was silently lifting and pushing her cane, trundling forward just out of reach. She risked a glance back over her shoulder and was dismayed to see the plague-driven nurse was dragging the swing behind her, an inch or two with every lunge. Angie was slightly above average height and weight for a woman her age, but the sickness seemed to give her some added oomph even as it took away some of her mass.

  She made it through the front gate and started making her way along the forty-foot corridor between her house and her neighbor’s. The effort made her very dizzy, and she had to lean against the brick wall while she regained her bearings and settled her vision. She wasn't very far up the path, and Angie had made it through the gate—Forgot to close it behind me!—dragging the swing behind her. She could hear it slide off the concrete into the grass.

  The fog lifted just enough, and she was able to take one step at a time, constantly leaning against the wall to steady herself. The relentless fury of the sirens was clashing with the angry screams from Angie, making her ears ring. She was definitely panicking now, aware of the danger of falling over and knowing if she did it would be for the last time.

  Angie had made more progress down the narrow corridor, with twenty feet of rope behind her linked to the swing. She realized she was going to lose this slow-motion race and fall prey to whatever it was Angie intended to do to her.

  A “thunk” sound accompanied a wild scream from Angie.

  The porch swing ran up against the gateposts. It wouldn't fit through. Not even close.

  Marty couldn't manage even a little smile at her good luck. She could only focus on her feet below her and her hand on the wall to her right. One foot. Other foot. One hand. Repeat. She seemed to be walking through molasses.

  “Lord, I don't mind if you call me to you today, but please let me make it inside, so Liam doesn't go outside again to look for me,” she said softly, half to herself, half to her Redeemer.

  With enormous effort, she reached the front corner of her house. She leaned to her right to view the front, positioning herself so that over her shoulder she could see Angie furiously thrashing against the rope and the jammed swing. No time to delay. She turned her head back to the front and began her final push to the door,
up the small ramp her grandson had built for her so she could avoid the two steps up to her front porch and entryway.

  The ramp had been constructed with sturdy hand railings, which provided a solid purchase on the incline, but even so, she saw stars when she finally had the door handle in her grasp. She swayed dangerously. The handle was on the left side of the door. This was it. She grabbed the latch and pushed.

  It was locked!

  Of course. Angie did most of the door-locking these days. The keys were inside....

  Maybe I could sit a spell?

  No, you old fool.

  Steeling herself for one more task, she grabbed her cane—no, her cane had fallen somewhere during her escape. She looked down. She was holding her rosary with her free hand, rather than the cane.

  “Now when did that happen?”

  When she thought she was going to die back there, she must have made the switch from the worldly cane to the spiritual talisman to prepare to meet her Maker. She now assumed her time had not yet come and, though she devoutly depended on her faith, she depended on that cane, too.

  “Looks like I'll have to do it the hard way.”

  She propped herself against her door, then dragged herself leftward along a few feet of the brick facade, leaning hard the whole way. Then she was in front of Angie's door. The entry doors for the upstairs and downstairs flats were next to one another. The door handle for the upper flat was on the right side of the door. If Angie's door was unlocked, she knew the interior door was open, and she could reach her own flat. If...

  She pushed the latch and pushed the door.

  Locked.

  Have mercy!

  She considered sitting down and letting the end come. It wasn't suicide—forbidden by her faith—rather an honest end to a hard day.