Linus stepped to the opposite side of the road, curling up against a hillside with his rifle resting across his lap. He kept watch that way as long as he could, until exhaustion finally overtook him under the shade of an old oak tree sometime in the early evening, an hour or two before sunset. He had the strangest dream of helicopters.
Chapter 3 – Burying the Hatchet
The axe head rose, sunlight glinting off of its metal head, and then swiftly crashed down into a log, splitting it neatly in two. The sound of the impact echoed through the little valley.
Like gunshots, Matt thought.
Calloused hands grabbed the split wood and tossed them into a nearby pile for stacking later.
Matt stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe a thick coat of sweat from his brow.
He grabbed another log from the pile and laid it squarely on the stump the farmhands used as a chopping block. Again the axe rose and fell, and again the log was split. Two more pieces for the woodpile.
A good supply of firewood was going to be crucial in the coming months. The wood he was splitting now would need to be seasoned for a year or so before it was ready to burn for heat, cooking, or both.
If he was being honest with himself, Matt would admit that he was out here chopping for another reason.
Matt flung his shirt over his shoulder and sat on the ground under a nearby tree a few feet away from the stump. He set the axe safely to the side and held his head in his hands. The images flashed through his mind once more.
They were back in the basement of the residential hall where Thom and those other girls were being kept.
He was firing round after round into the steel door that Dan had hidden behind.
The slow trickle of crimson flowed from under the door, pooling at his feet, letting Matt know he’d found his mark.
On the way out they walked past Dan’s body.
He remembered everything crisply enough to pass for watching a movie in high definition. Four rounds had struck Dan; shoulder, chest, stomach, and head. He remembered the pattern that the blood spray made on the walls. The most vivid and disturbing thing was the sound made by the feet of the girls they’d rescued as they walked up the stairs. It sounded like they were walking through the aisles of a movie theater sticky with spilled soda, only the soda was the rapidly coagulating blood of his former roommate.
His heart pounded with the phantom memory of adrenaline fueling his every action. As much as he hated the memory, as much as it sickened him, it was also strangely exhilarating.
Matt opened his eyes when he heard someone set another log on the stump and was surprised to see Herbie holding the axe.
The old man brought the axe high above his head and down again in one practiced motion. The log split easily, and strong hands chucked the pieces into the pile.
“You stack,” he said.
Matt looked a bit confused.
“Yeah, you, cowboy. Get over here and lend an old man a hand.”
Matt nodded and began to rise. Helping his elders was something that was instilled in him from a young age, and he wasn’t about to back talk this guy.
Herbie once more lifted the axe and brought it down hard, splitting the log. He grabbed one of the larger pieces and split it again, into a more manageable piece for the stove.
“You do much chopping before all of this?”
Matt grinned. “Yes, sir. Plenty.”
“Oh?” Herbie asked.
“Yes, sir. Any time I got in trouble at home Dad would send me out to the woodpile to split and stack. Hated it for the longest time, but when the girls started noticing these,” he said, flexing, “I decided it wasn’t all that bad.”
Herbie laughed. “Bet your daddy had to find a new punishment for you after that.”
Matt shook his head. “I still pretended to hate it.”
Herbie grinned. “Why’s that?”
“Well, being bad is a whole lot less risky if you enjoy the punishment when you get caught.”
Herbie laughed and shook his head. “You sound a lot like me when I was your age. My dad was a musician. Traveled a lot. Mean as the devil himself. Had to try and find a way to stay on his good side. When I couldn’t, it was the belt. So one day, my daddy comes home drunk as a skunk and passes out in bed. I accidentally knock over a glass, and it breaks. Thankfully, he sleeps through it. Now I know when my daddy wakes up, he’s going to whoop me bloody, so what can I do?”
“What did you do?” Matt asked, a silly grin on his boyish face.
“I went and I pawned every single belt he owned.”
Herbie roared, and Matt shared in the laughter.
“What’d he do when he found out?”
Herbie stripped off his own shirt, revealing a patchwork of scars along his back.
“Found something else to use. Turns out belts aren’t the worst thing you can get hit with.”
“Sorry, Herbie.”
Herbie just chuckled.
“No need, son. Old man’s dead and gone now, he can’t hurt me anymore unless I give him the power to do it. When I can laugh at these things, I rob him of that. Get me?”
“I think so,” Matt said, and he continued dutifully to stack wood.
They chopped for a long while before the old man spoke again, the thundering noise of the axe on the logs making Matt flinch slightly with each swing.
“You want to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“The reason you flinch every time the axe hits the wood.”
Matt shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
The old man laid the axe down, then, and placed a hand on each of Matt’s shoulders, getting in his face.
“It is a big deal, young man. The second you start thinking what you did isn’t a big deal is the second I take this belt off and whoop you myself. You hear me?”
Matt met the old man’s eyes, saw the sorrow there, and nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good boy. Now chop, I need a break.”
Matt began to chop again while Herbie stacked. This went on for a few minutes.
“You know you did the right thing back there. You saved Anna’s daddy, and those girls.” Herbie sighed, “Wish they’d have come with us.”
Matt nodded, bringing the axe down on a particularly large log. The axe caught, and he pried it loose before taking another swing. The second swing split the log neatly.
“Doesn’t make it much easier though, does it?” Herbie asked, stacking the pieces.
“No, sir.”
Another log on the stump, another swing. More stacking.
“Sir?” Matt questioned after a moment of hesitation.
“Call me Herbie, young man.”
“Matt,” he grinned.
“Matt it is,” Herbie smiled.
“Does it ever get easier? The pain?”
Herbie paused for a moment, really thinking about it.
“You learn to live with it. You share the burden with the right kind of people. You give it control, though, and it’ll wash you away sure as any river.”
Matt nodded. “Makes sense.”
He continued chopping and asked, “How do I keep it from washing me away, Herbie?”
“Good question. I guess you just talk about it. Not to everyone, you understand, but to those people you can trust to share in the burden. You know what you did, and why you did it. You think of those reasons. You think of those girls, and Anna’s daddy, Thom. He’s a good man, and you saved him.”
Matt nodded, a small smile forming on his face.
“That’s not all though,” Herbie continued. “Every now and again something happens that reminds you pretty keenly of what happened. Might be a sound, a picture, a song
. Could be anything, really.”
“What do you do then?”
“Start over. You talk to those you trust. Don’t do what I did. Stay away from alcohol and drugs. It’ll numb things, but the burden is still there.”
Matt placed another log on the stump and took another swing.
“Herbie?”
“Yeah, Matt?”
Matt waited a second, trying to find his words. He was pressing into personal territory now, but he had to ask. “How many burdens do you have?” Another swing of the axe.
“Enough that I had to go and rent out a few mental storage sheds to keep them in.”
Matt nodded.
“You know,” Herbie started, “we could make this job a whole lot easier. We just need an old tire.”
“I think there’s one being used as a planter down the hill a bit. We could use that,” Matt offered.
Herbie nodded, and the two of them began to walk down the hill, their conversation fading with them in the distance.
“You see, we just nail the tire around the base of the stump, and then the split pieces won’t fly off...”
Chapter 4 – Chores
Jackson Farm, as it turned out, was a heritage farm. Part of the land was farmed using modern methods and machinery, but part of the land was reserved for preserving the old ways of doing things. Before the Event, it had been a popular attraction for field trips and families wanting to do something educational with their kids over the summer.
For a small entry fee, guests could watch field hands plow a field with a team of horses, or they could take a turn learning how to milk one of the pygmy goats. Mrs. Jackson led private classes on cheese making, weaving, and dyeing with natural available materials. Mr. Jackson used to lead lessons in wood carving and timber framing, among other things, before he’d passed away several years ago. Now it was just Mrs. Jackson and a few farmhands.
It was a pretty incredible place. The farm had chickens, ducks, pygmy goats, a couple of draft horses, a large vegetable garden, fields of wheat, and a small apple orchard made up of dwarf apple trees for easy picking. There were a few other dwarf fruit trees around, but it would be a year or two before they’d be providing any sort of fruit for harvest. Once they were, though, the farm residents would be up to their armpits in apples, cherries, and pears.
There were countless blueberry and blackberry bushes and a few raspberry plants, and a huge corner of the yard was devoted to strawberries and various varieties of mint and other herbs.
Mrs. Jackson was a firm believer in tinctures and teas and had been growing a wide array of herbs for a number of years. She even dabbled in a bit of brewing, as evidenced by the astounding number of five-gallon jugs in the basement full of different homemade brews. Blackberry wine had been a favorite of Mr. Jackson before his passing.
Along with all of the farm’s amazing features came a laundry list of chores. Typically, Mrs. Jackson’s hired hands took care of the work. They were usually college kids from the agriculture program that Matt was in. He had actually applied to be a hand for the summer, but he had been passed up for the position for some reason. Most of the hands were gone now, however.
The one farmhand that was still at the farm was Nick. Nick was a stocky guy, what some would call overweight, who liked the hard work that life on a farm provided. He was a couple of years older than the others, and he had already arrived at the farm to work over spring break when the lights had gone out.
Presently he was showing Red, Brian, Trinity, Sephi, and Anna how to mend a stretch of fence along the north edge of the property.
“There you go. Now that we’ve strung the wire, you crank that to tighten it. Give it one or two more cranks. Don’t over stretch it…good! That’s fine right there.”
Sephi set down the tool that Nick had called a “come along,” feeling proud of herself.
“Did you see that, Bruce? I strung barbed wire!” she bounced.
“One strand. We’ve got two more on this stretch of fence. Then we’re digging post holes. Mrs. Jackson wants another bit of pasture for the goats to graze in. She’s thinking with this many mouths we’re going to need to expand the goat herd a bit. We’ll be building a larger run for the chickens, too.” Nick smiled at the others. “I hope you guys don’t mind cleaning up crap. There’s a lot of that on a farm.”
Sephi made a face. “I’ve been cleaning up my brother’s messes for years, Nick. I’m sure this won’t be too much different.”
The others laughed.
Bruce was going to make a bad joke about how his sister was strung tighter than the barbed wire, but he was cut short when the thumping noise of helicopters began to grow closer.
The kids took off at a dead run through the field as the choppers passed overhead. The boys stripped their shirts off and waved them through the air. “Down here!” they screamed. “We’re down here!” They waved their arms, shouting to the pilots, who continued east and north, fading into the distance until finally the whirling blades could no longer even be heard.
…
Herbie held the tire while Matt drove nail after nail through it and into the stump. Finally convinced it was secure enough, Herbie slapped Matt on the shoulders.
“Nice work, Matt. Now, give it a shot,” Herbie said, handing the axe over to the younger man.
Herbie placed a log onto the stump, inside of the tire, and stood back.
Matt swung, and the log split. This time, instead of the pieces flying a few feet away, they hit the tire and remained on the stump. It saved a lot of wasted energy of going to retrieve the pieces. Matt grinned.
“Pretty cool trick, Herbie. Thanks.” Matt stuck his fist out for a fist bump, and Herbie looked at it, slightly bewildered before taking it in his right hand and shaking it firmly.
Matt laughed, “No, no. Like this.”
The two bumped fists, and Herbie grinned.
“You seem pretty comfortable with hard work. You grow up on a farm?”
Matt nodded. “Yeah. Dad was in the reserve as well. Whenever he’d get called up, I’d have to look after things until he got back.”
Herbie nodded thoughtfully. “Must have made it hard to focus on your studies.”
Matt just grinned. “Most of the time he was gone, it was during summer vacation. There was one time when he was on orders for nearly an entire year. That was hard.”
“How’d you manage it?” the old man wondered aloud.
“Didn’t have much choice. My family was depending on me. I just did what I had to do because there wasn’t any other way.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Huh?”
“You’re wrong, Matt. There’s always another way. Always a choice.”
Matt looked skeptical. “What was my choice?”
“To fail.”
“Not a choice.”
Herbie shrugged. “Maybe not to you. For a lot of people, it’s easier to roll over and accept defeat.”
“Something tells me we’re not just talking about farming anymore, are we?”
Herbie’s mouth twisted into a smile, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. “You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, Matt.”
Matt chuckled.
“Thanks? I alw—”
Herbie held his hand up, and Matt quieted mid-word.
His old ears were picking up a very familiar sound. Helicopter blades. He watched as the others ran through the field, waving their arms, and could see Matt’s expression grow hopeful.
The helicopters were black, without any sort of markings to indicate who they were with. Very unusual. He’d heard a lot of hullaballoo about “black helicopters” from his friends on the street who were a little further down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole than he was, but he had never thought they
actually existed.
He watched as the helicopters disappeared into the distance, headed east and north.
“Matt, is Thom still resting?”
“Last I saw, yeah.”
“And Mrs. Jackson, she’s cleaning up from breakfast?”
Matt nodded. “Last I checked.”
“Okay. Round up the others and meet us at the house.”
“Everything okay, Herbie?”
Herbie scratched at the silver stubble on his cheeks, deep in thought. “Yes and no, Matt. Yes and no.”
Chapter 5 – Fiefdom
The guest room Thom was recovering in was packed to the brim with people, chairs, and questions. Conversations buzzed and hummed, filling the air with an energy of nervous excitement.
Herbie stood at the front of the room, shuffling his feet back and forth a bit. When he finally planted his feet to speak, all eyes were on him.
“Good evening, folks,” the old man said, a reassuring smile on his weathered old face.
A chorus of responses greeted him in return.
“Now, I know we’re all excited and have a lot of questions about those helicopters that flew by earlier. I do too. Before we run off and get too excited, though, I think we need to establish a plan for this little farm. It was nice enough for Mrs. Jackson to let us all stay. In fact, I think without at least this many folks working the farm, it wouldn’t be productive enough to feed anyone.” He looked to Mrs. Jackson for confirmation, and she nodded, a wise half-smile on her lips.
“We’re nearly a week into our little situation here. That’s a big landmark for a long-term emergency. Most folks are running low on food, or have run out altogether. Widespread looting will have taken place, and you can bet that grocery store shelves are empty of pretty much everything. Short version – food’s scarce in the cities, suburbs, and even most rural communities.”
Whispers ran rampant among the group.
Breakdown: Episode 6 Page 2