Tribulations

by Richard Thomas

  “This isn’t God’s work I’m doing,” Damon said, “this leaking chaos, this black disease that I’ve been spreading.”

  The woods had gone silent, just the popping of the wood in the fire, the shuffling of feet in the dirt, eyes glancing up and then down, waiting for a punch line, sucking down cold beer, and searching their memories for their own dark deeds.

  “Its not my fault, you realize that, right?” Damon asked, to a silent response. “I exist because of you. I don’t want to be here. I’ve been shackled to the shadows for too long now, let me go!” he yelled, fists clenched in rage.

  Somewhere in town a brother replaced his sister’s birth control pills with unflavored baby aspirin—angry with her for growing up too fast, and leaving him behind. Somewhere in town a mother slapped her infant son, the child falling to the ground in tears and a flushed confusion, peeing into his diaper as a tiny knot of blackened flesh knitted around his pounding heart. Somewhere in town a father watched his daughter change her clothes, the bedroom door open a crack, waiting for the right time, waiting for her to develop just a little bit more, sitting in his recliner with the ballgame on, and a twinkle in his eye.

  Damon flickered in the fading light of the fire, a gust of wind pushing smoke in his direction—and he disappeared.

  “So, who wants to play truth or dare?” a voice asked.

  Playing With Fire

  The wolves don’t come out during the day. It’s something that took me a long time to figure out. I would hide in the daytime and then cower in the darkness, high up in a massive oak tree as they ran in circles beneath me. How could I get anything done? How would I survive? Before I knew of their existence, and they knew of mine, I wandered the island without a care in the world, my arms filled with seashells and driftwood—and handfuls of fruit from the orchard by the caves. But then they found me. And I was willing to let this be the end. But when the night fell and the owls hooted from the edge of the forest and the fireflies danced at the edge of the field, I remembered that I did care—that I still loved Isabella. Against all that was holy and pure, I wanted to see her again, to hold her in my arms and nuzzle her neck, to feel her lips on mine, her arms around me—our glossy flesh melting into an eternal, liquid enlightenment.

  And yet, I lived in fear of her return.

  There are things we whisper into a pillow at night, simple requests. Take me, not her. Give me her pain, I can take it. Some prayers are better left unanswered.

  The land was still empty then, the rest of the world just down the road, not under water. There was an endless supply of meat and water, a store for every item I needed, each tool for the job that I wanted at hand. That was then. We are all trapped here now, on this parcel. The hairy beasts, the hooting owls, the google-eyed rats, the shadows in the caves—none of us can escape.

  I was not prepared.

  The research, my dead wife, the disease that tore down the trees and the fruit, the vanishing that slowly worked its way across the land—it was a lightning bolt from the sky and a slow seeping through a frayed, layered bandage. I went to sleep in a canvas tent, and woke up to an ocean of black reflections. For the work I did, there were wrenches and hammers, spikes and shovels, nets and tape. It was a finite and laughable stock of goods, a treasure chest that I would treat as holy manna.

  On the day that I made the saw, the day that I stood on this hill, no roof over my head, no walls to keep the animals away, I asked for many things.

  First, I asked for the rain to stop. And it did. And then I prayed for strength.

  When it stopped raining and there was nothing in sight, no roads off into the distance, the farmlands and prairies gone for as far as I could see, the lone piece of land that stood up to the onslaught—that was where I stood.

  I couldn’t be alone. There must be others—even if I was dead inside.

  The tent had been torn apart and sucked up into the wind on the third day after the flood. I huddled against the sheer rock face that led up to the caves. As the lightning cracked the sky and the moon hung over it all heavy and somber, I stared at the woods that surrounded me and came up with an idea. I had to build a shelter, a cabin, and I had to build it fast.

  The wing of the plane. The wing.

  I took that wing apart one panel at a time, trying to get to the long strip of sheet metal, one piece about six feet long, in order to build the saw I needed. I spent the first day with a wrench and a hammer, loosening the bolts, unhooking the metal, trying to get at the raw sheet that was no longer going to fly anywhere. I flayed my fingertips and cursed the bloody metal. I slowed down, bandaged my fingers, and went back at it again.

  In time I freed the metal, and started to cut in the blades. First I went over it with a black magic marker that I found in the cockpit of the plane. Then I traced over the black line, the jagged teeth as big as my palms, back and forth, tracing over and over, with the tip of a long, silver screwdriver. I didn’t have any tin snips, no garden sheers, not even a pair of scissors. I traced this line as the screwdriver gouged into it, slowly curling away strips of the metal.

  It was an eternity.

  Maybe this was hell.

  If I focused on a singular line, back and forth, back and forth, I could see my progress, the line deepening, the indentation pushing through the metal. When it looked like I had gone far enough, I bent the metal back and forth, back and forth until it snapped.

  It went on like this for some time. Days. I kept walking back to the caves, resting under the shadow of the oak trees, the open fields unsettling to me. At night I would climb up into its branches.

  I stopped keeping track. I knew what lay in front of me, the wood. At some point the last blade popped loose and I had the saw in its rough form. Now, it needed to be sharp.

  I scoured the beach for rocks, anything that looked like it could hold up to the blade, the raw metal, and carried them back to the hill. I ran them across the edge and the metal started to shine. The black rocks from down by the waterline, they seemed to hold up the best. But it was tricky. They would dissolve over time, once I got a groove started, leaning just this way and that, waiting for the moment when the metal pushed through and ran its fresh teeth across my flesh. It only had to happen one time, in order for me to understand. Eventually the blades were sharp.

  I ate the fruit that I discovered down by the orchard, it looked safe to me, untreated by disease. I thought of Isabelle with every bite, the look on her face when she became swollen with the rotting sickness, trying to forget the way that she expanded.

  I set out whatever buckets and tubs I could find.

  Then, I prayed for it to rain.

  ****

  Down on the beach I pull my boat up on the shore and drop it into the hot sand. I am at the south end, searching for driftwood, to add to the fire pit behind the hut. There is plenty today, some of it worn smooth from the water, other pieces fractured on the rocks. I fill up my arms and take it back to the hut, dumping the wood into the pit.

  It is a dull indentation in the earth, nothing more than a vessel for fire and ash. And yet, the flames have always flickered hypnotic. Easy to fall into them, their heat and lashing tongues, easy to forget the darkness around me.

  Later in the day I stumble across a downed tree at the edge of the small forest that rings the caves. Broken off from the rest of the oak is a massive limb, three or four feet around, and I vow that it will be part of my home. It is not as rotten as the rest of the tree, still solid enough in its six feet of length to resist my every effort to move it. I lift one end and tug at it, pulling it ever so slowly, the hind end gouging out the soft soil, my back straining under the weight.

  Each day I walk to the shadow of the caves, staring at the rocky sheer, looking for handholds, eyeing the cracks and imagining the climb. I envision my certain cold plummet, hands slipping, knees barking off of the stone. If only I could be sure that my spine would be severed, my neck snapped, then maybe I would try to climb to the caves. I was not y
et desperate enough to feel the sharp teeth of the wolves on my skin, tugging, tearing, as I lay beneath them, paralyzed from the fall, but awake to witness their unchecked hunger.

  I have an idea.

  I untie the rope that hangs from the front of the boat, and take it with me off to the limb. If I can find a way to distribute the weight, maybe I can pull this log to my home. From the plane wreckage just north of the woods I snag the last of the in-flight blankets.

  I lay the small blue blanket at the top of the log, and roll the massive timber on to it with a shove and trembling legs. A tear at the top of the blanket is quickly torn even wider, separating the cloth with a slow and painful rip. I tie the loose ends of the blanket around the thick rope, over once, and then again, in a handmade knot that I am certain will not hold. And then I throw the rope over my shoulder. I dig my heels in and slowly lean forward, the fibers digging into my shoulder, my hands gripping the rope with every ounce of strength I can muster, and I slowly began to walk forward.

  It is slow—my back strains against the weight of the log. It has to be two hundred pounds, if not more, and the way it digs into the earth, clinging to the moss and wild grasses, it protests my thievery of its great heft.

  As the sun reaches its zenith and the sweat drips off my face, heat baking into my skin, I finally feel something slip. Not my hands, but in my back. A long rubber band, elastic in its terror, unfurls up my spine as a scream escapes my lips. I collapse into the grass, rolling back and forth, trying to push my hands to my spine to rub the pain away. Stars in my black eyelids implode and turn to dust, the fragility of my simple skeleton revealing itself in throbbing wonder. I can’t get up. I can hardly roll over on my back. And then I pass out.

  ****

  Mosquitoes at my neck, stabbing, piercing, and I slap at my skin and moan into the darkness.

  The darkness.

  I try to sit up and a sharp pain shoots up my spine. I cut short the yelp that is pushing through my lips and open my eyes to the night. I have to get up—I have to get home. There’s no reason I can think of that the wolves haven’t found me yet.

  I turn over onto my belly and push up with my hands until I’m on all fours. The irony is not lost on me. I bite into my lower lip as my face flushes red, filling my mouth with copper and heat and my vision dances in front of me. Tiny dots, I cannot see—wait, the dots are still moving.

  A thin line of tiny yellow spheres extends over the grass, up the hill and ends at the front door to my hut.

  Isabelle, my love.

  “Thank you,” I gasp.

  And I start crawling. When the first howl shatters the dark, distorted and filled with echoes, down by the cliff’s edge, I stop and consider the distance. The longer I sit here and think, the closer they get. And yet, I still can’t move. I am submerged in an ocean of pain.

  I lean back onto my knees and my eyes are coated with a thin film, a piercing hot rod running up my spine. I cannot breathe, a stuttering intake, but I know that I have to stand up. I place my hands on my knees and straighten out my back, and the darkness starts to shift at the horizon. I pull one leg forward and, bracing my hands on my knee, push myself into an upright position, standing tall, wobbling, starting to bend, to hunch over, wondering what it will feel like to walk.

  I wonder what it will feel like to run.

  I set one foot in front of me and find that if I focus on the trail of yellow lights, if I focus on my breathing, the traveling heat in the small of my back, now the middle of my back, now a knot of tension in my neck? I can assign it to some other man—it is not my pain right now.

  I walk as if I am a child. But there is no furniture nearby to balance me—padded and safe—sharp edges hidden from soft flesh. I am chubby legs wobbling, made of rubber, eager to bend at the slightest bit of resistance. I bark a laugh. This is how it will be—alpha to omega, womb to womb—all for a stupid piece of wood.

  I don’t dare look up, down towards the cliff’s edge, across the grass that sighs at my ineptitude. I take the steps I need to get to the door, I count the fireflies and inhale their buttery aroma, and I make it to the stone porch. I paw at the door, grabbing for the handle, sweat running down my neck, tears filling my eyes, and when I turn around to slam the door shut, ignoring the heat that is immolating my back, they swarm across the field and wrap around the house, disappearing into the night without a sound. I am still holding the door open wide—I am barely clinging to consciousness, my mouth filled with cotton and glass.

  I close the door and the latch clicks shut. Numb, I ease to the bed, feeling my way in the darkness—and I lie down, glistening, sobbing. I lie down and close my eyes.

  In the morning there is no pain.

  This is how it goes.

  I open the door to sunlight and the distant chirps of angry birds, stepping outside to see what fresh batch of horror awaits me. I walk to the back of the hut to the rain barrel, eager to drink the fresh water. Off into the distance is a long, black, shallow ditch that stretches out over the hill. At my feet sits the log. All up and down the rope are teeth marks buried in the frayed and tormented twine—and in my head, I hear her laughing.

  Little Red Wagon

  Rebecca hated her father for what he’d done, refusing to help him dig the grave, arms crossed, tears running down her face, the body under the tarp no longer Grandpa, no more secret conversations when they were alone, just the two of them now—her father the killer, her father and his constant worries, her father convinced that the old man had finally fallen sick. They’d been alone for a long time now, the three of them living off the land, the radio antenna built up tall in the back yard, stretching up into the sky. Nobody ever answered, but she sat in the kitchen, turning the knobs, trying to find a sign of life, anyway. The black box sat on the table, static and interference crackling from the device, the puddle of blood on the floor where her grandfather had fallen, the hammer that killed him still lying there like a sleeping snake. Sitting next to her, the thick, black lab nuzzled her hand, whimpering. Sadie was upset, she didn’t know what to do, and neither did Rebecca. She was a teenager now, but inside, she was still a child, a baby—and she felt helpless.

  One percent, that’s what Grandpa had said—only one percent had survived. This had been several years ago, when one percent meant something. He’d tug on his long, gray beard and stare at the television set as the man on the news rattled on, updates so infrequent, most of the population dead and gone now. Around them, the world had simply disappeared—no cars driving by, no planes overhead, with the farm still functioning, but just barely. Their pantry was filled with canned goods—it had been easy to drive around their small town and fill up the bed of their pickup truck with more. In the beginning the stench had been unbearable, meat going bad, bodies lying everywhere, but over time the animals and elements picked at the bones, leaving little behind but broken, white skeletons. One percent had turned into another one percent, and that’s when it all went quiet, went dark. The second wave erupted, the mutation—airborne or dormant, nobody knew—and then no more frantic man on the television set, hair sticking out in all directions, shouting at the camera. No, there was nothing more after that.

  Grandfather talked about keeping the race alive, that they had to find a female, a woman—that was why they had the radio going, why he’d built the tower, why they constantly scrolled up and down the dial, looking for any survivors. He was a handy man, Grandpa, able to build most anything out in the barn with his tools and charts—his years of engineering so helpful now that the world had moved on. A stack of books sat by his leather recliner—biomechanics, computer programming, artificial intelligence, and bionics.

  “What’s your earliest memory?” Grandpa asked her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think back,” he said, easing into the recliner. “What do you remember, the very first thing you can think of?”

  Rebecca sat on the couch, and pulled her long, brown hair behind her head and into a ponyt
ail, something she did when she was concentrating.

  “Anything?” he nudged, his hands together in a steeple, pressed to his lips.

  “I remember a little red wagon,” Rebecca said, and he nodded. “And inside it are a bunch of puppies—little black bundles of fur. Was that here on the farm?” she asked.

  Grandpa didn’t answer, merely raised his eyebrows and grinned.

  “They’d been born on the farm and I was taking them down to the end of the driveway, there were six of them, and we were going to give them away. You told me I could keep the last one, but only the last one. That must have been Sadie.”

  “What’s two times two, Rebecca?”

  “Four, silly.”

  “What’s four times four?”

  “16.”

  “12 times 12?”

  “144.”

  Grandpa paused, looking at her, as Rebecca focused in on him, her eyes shifting, the pupils getting smaller, then larger, then smaller again.

  “144 times 144?”

  “20,736.”

  “Good girl,” he said.

  Rebecca stood in the kitchen, watching her father dig the grave, out beyond the apple trees, the shovel piercing the dirt, over and over again. She loved her grandfather, and didn’t mind the private examinations. He said it was important, their little secret, and this is what her father had yelled at her about as he stood over her grandfather’s body—but he was wrong, so very wrong. After the world went silent, after they’d filled the pantry with canned goods and planted a new harvest, made sure the pigs still had their slop, the chickens clucking at their feed—all they had was each other. The well wouldn’t run dry, Grandpa assured them, they had water and food, and solar panels lining the roof, as well as the barn, the windmills spinning, always spinning, at the back of their twenty acres, down by the creek—Grandpa said he saw it coming, it was only a matter of time. He said a lot of things when she was lying on the cold metal table, out in the faded red barn.