If the Light Escapes: A Braving the Light Novel

by Brenda Marie Smith

“I’ll get you some bedding, Grandpa,” Alma says.

  “See, your little wife has respect.”

  “Her name is Alma. Don’t call her my little wife.”

  He blows out a lungful of air. “Whatever.”

  Alma talks to him with genuine cheerfulness while she makes up his bed. Wish she’d be that cheerful with me. I go to the garage and hide the machete under the lumber pile. Then I go upstairs.

  “I better sleep on the other futon,” I tell Alma, “so I can keep him from leaving again.”

  “Good idea,” she says, like she doesn’t care if I sleep with her or not.

  Grandpa’s already snoring when I get back to him. I make a quick bed and lie there awake for hours before I finally crash.

  Come morning, Grandpa is gone, and so is the fucking machete.

  I can’t put all my energy into worrying about why Alma’s being cold. I need to focus on keeping her healthy while she’s pregnant and nursing. We’re reaching the end of Nana’s stockpiles.

  I hate that we can’t help the hungry people out there, but we barely have enough for ourselves. And we have less to eat every day. More home-canned veggies, maybe, but much less flour and cooking oil. The rice ran out months ago, and we’ll never have more in this climate. We would need rice paddies and canals and shit.

  The old-lady nurses, June and Charlotte, have hollow faces and don’t seem to eat much. I think they’re losing their appetites. A couple of Zizzo kids have sores on their lips that don’t seem to be healing. All the adults have weathered skin, and most appear to be losing more weight.

  Then there’s the added anxiety about keeping Alma’s pregnancy a secret. Everyone’s been so damned sad that we’ve been afraid we’d cause them more worry. But I don’t know enough about it to be responsible for Alma’s health on my own. At least she’s not barfing, but what if she’s malnourished? How would I know? Not to mention that she’s probably three, maybe four months along, and she’s gonna start showing through her clothes any day.

  Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Alma. She’s hungry or malnourished, and on top of being pregnant and grieving, it’s all too much for her. That would make sense, but it hurts me to think of her going through that.

  Plus, I need to know more about this puke Ray. Worrying about him and his camo-guy troop and how to keep us safe from them has me tearing my hair out.

  Grandpa insists we have prowlers that our patrollers are missing, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s right, despite how nutty he is.

  There’s no relief in this apocalypse. We can’t veg out in front of the TV or play a computer game to give our minds a break. We don’t even have music. All we’ve got is the radio, and it’s not exactly entertaining.

  After dinner, Milo’s doing his first nighttime patrol with Uncle Eddie, and Mazie’s hanging out with her mom. I’m helping Alma and Mom repot herbs on the patio.

  Alma’s putting dirt into a big clay pot with some kind of face on it.

  “That’s a cool pot,” I say.

  “It’s my mom’s pot. It’s pretty, right?”

  I stoop down to check out the brick-red pot. “It looks all exotic, but then up close, that face is scary, like some kind of lizard person.” I run my finger over the jagged teeth.

  “That’s Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec god of wind. He’s the winged serpent.”

  “Maybe he’ll protect us. He looks fearsome.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “What kind of plant are you gonna grow in it?” I ask.

  “Lemongrass. If I put it by the back door, it should help keep mosquitoes out of the house. We’ve got way too many mosquitoes, so I’m going to grow more lemongrass. I’ll set it by both outside doors, on the edges of the patio, maybe even in the house.”

  “You’re so smart,” I say. “Got anything for fire ants?”

  “Cayenne pepper. I’ve got some under the live oak tree.”

  “Are you kidding? I need a ton of it. Fire-ant mounds are popping up in a bunch of the gardens.” When those suckers bite you, they sting like fire.

  “Then I’ll grow you a ton of it… eventually,” she says with a smile.

  That’s the only conversation we’ve had since we’ve been out here. No one’s in a talkative mood. After a long silence, I wind up the radio so we can listen to Rick.

  We’ve got some big worries, folks.

  The National Guard in Waco has gone pure-D rogue. They’re actin’ like some militia of bad guys in an apocalypse movie. They’re mean as hell and too damn close, ’specially since they’re spreadin’ out, raidin’ farms outside of town, killin’ anyone who doesn’t fork over all their food, and I mean all of it. How do they expect people to grow more food if they ain’t got food themselves?

  Once they clear out the farms close to Waco, I’m afraid they’ll just keep spreadin’. It won’t take long for them to get to Clifton, since we’re on a main road, less than a two-day march away. Christ Almighty, I don’t know what we’re gonna do.

  On top of all that, rats got into my potatoes. I’m kickin’ myself for lettin’ that happen. They didn’t get all of ’em, but now I’m gonna run out before the next crop is ready. I might start sleepin’ with my food to keep the varmints away.

  Hang on tight, people. Keep your loved ones and your food close. I’ll see ya when I see ya.

  Christ! This shit is relentless. I’ve got to listen to Rick more often. If there’s a militia in Austin, Rick might hear about it with his radio network, and he could tell us. Militias killing people for food? Goddamn it!

  Those camo guys could be a militia. Shit, I need to know what they’re up to. There’s too many of them.

  “I knew those guys in the Waco National Guard weren’t right in the head,” Mom says, her expression steely. “They were pretty shitty to us when they held us hostage. But some of them were just boys. I didn’t think they’d go as far as killing people for food.”

  I wrap my arms around my mother, and she shudders. “I’m so glad you got away from them before they completely lost their minds.”

  “Me, too, honey. You have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Out on patrol this February night, in the deep dark and shivery cold, I’m having trouble staying awake, even though I’m walking—like I’m on cruise control. All this anxiety saps my energy, I swear it does. Alma’s more wide-awake than I am. I’m glad, because without her, when I hit a corner, instead of turning, I might keep going straight off the edge of the world.

  I’ve tried to convince Alma not to patrol while she’s pregnant, but she keeps saying, “I don’t feel bad. No way I’m letting you patrol by yourself.” I’ve offered to get another partner, but she doesn’t believe anyone else will have my back as well as she does.

  So, we’re out here tonight, but she’ll have to stop patrolling sooner or later. I’d like it to be sooner. Alma would like it to be later. We’ve agreed to disagree. I’m not going to push my will on her. That’s what Grandpa did to Nana, and that shit doesn’t work. And it especially won’t work in Alma’s current mystery state of mind.

  After we’ve been out here a couple of hours, the north wind picks up, blowing leaves in the air and freezing us. Random gusts knock over buckets and growing pots to rattle them around. I should be glad it’s keeping me awake, but it’s stressing the shit out of me.

  The wind gusts get stronger. We pull our hats and scarves tighter and cross the street to use the south-facing houses as a windbreak. Chickens squawk here and there, probably spooked by the wind or maybe some animal sneaking around. I wonder if it’s an edible animal.

  “Let’s go check on those chickens in Mr. Bellows’s yard,” I say to Alma. “Last thing we need is some fox or coyote killing chickens.”

  She’s quiet tonight, alert but lost in whatever thoughts are preoccupying her.

  A blast of wind hits us, and s
omething loud bangs behind us. I whip around to see water spilling out of a garbage can that’s still bouncing. These days, we use those cans to store gray water, at least in the cans that don’t leak. We collect mulch and kindling in the leaky ones.

  “Damn. Too late to save the gray water in that can,” I say.

  “That’s too bad,” Alma says, and we head into Mr. Bellows’s backyard.

  The chickens really squawk when they see us.

  “What’s going on with you guys?” I ask the chickens. “Is it too cold and spooky out here? Y’all need to settle down so people can sleep.”

  The chickens protest even louder, especially the tall, scrawny rooster.

  Alma kneels in front of the chicken coop, clucking her tongue, speaking soothingly. “Shh… It’s all right, little chicks. Cuddle up together and get warm. Then you can sleep.” She draws out the word “sleep” like a hypnotist would. She keeps clucking quietly and saying, “Shh… Shh,” until those chickens settle down. Alma, the chicken whisperer.

  I didn’t realize this until now, but the chickens in our coop at home almost never squawk. Alma must have worked some chicken hoodoo on them.

  We’re heading back to the street when a loud clatter erupts, out of sync with the gusts of wind. Sounds like shit breaking—wood or bamboo.

  Alma and I shoot looks at each other.

  “That way.” I point toward the park. “Stay here. I know you don’t want to, but please.”

  “I’ll follow you partway,” Alma says. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  “’Kay, but hide.” I run toward the park, staying in the grass to make my footsteps quieter. I slow down as I near the park corner, and I peek back to see Alma duck into some bushes in front of Greta’s house.

  I stop still and listen. It’s too quiet, as though the wind is holding its breath. Then footsteps—on the road between our neighborhood and the park. They’re heading this way. I back into the shadows, aiming my rifle toward the road. I slowly cock the bolt to send a round into the chamber.

  “Why’d you step on those bean poles, dumbass?” a deep voice grumbles, getting closer.

  “I couldn’t see shit in that yard.”

  “You always fuck up. Because of you, I only got two chickens!”

  “I got this firewood, Joe.”

  “You can’t eat firewood, shithead!”

  Then I see them. Two big guys wearing camo jackets, but not any guys I’ve seen before. One has a huge curly beard and a mass of frizzy hair. He’s dangling two lifeless chickens by their necks. The other one’s bald with a tatted neck, and his arms are full of chopped firewood. They’ve got to be the same assholes the rabbit-thief warned us about. But they’re camo guys? Do I stop them or just shoot? Shit.

  Breathing fast, trying not to, I let them step deeper into the intersection. I want to peek back and check Alma, but I don’t dare.

  The bearded one is in my sights.

  “Get out of here,” I yell, “or I’ll shoot your ass!”

  “Shit! They’ve got guns!” Whiskers whips around and stares in my direction, and the bald guy crashes into him. They can’t see me in the shadows. I could totally kill them right now, but should I? My mind’s racing a million thoughts per nanosecond. These guys haven’t threatened us exactly, but I want them gone and gone for good.

  “Drop the chickens and firewood and go! Now!”

  They’re not moving. They’re darting their eyes around, looking for me. If I talk again, they’ll find me.

  I need a warning shot. I aim at the street behind the guy with the wood. But I forget about the kick this rifle has, and when I fire, the gun kicks up and to my left.

  Crack! My bullet hits a log in the tatted guy’s arms, and splinters fly everywhere. The bullet ricochets—

  “Shit! My arm!” Whiskers cries, dropping the dead chickens, blood oozing through the upper arm of his jacket. Crap, I didn’t mean to hit him. I duck behind a tree and brace myself for them to shoot back. Seconds pass. I’m holding my breath. But more seconds tick by, and no one fires. Do they even have guns?

  I peek out to see the bad guys halfway down the block with Baldy in the lead.

  “Hey, fuckwads!” I holler. “If you come back here, I’ll kill you.”

  “Go fuck yourself!” Whiskers yells.

  “You hurt bad, Joe?” Baldy calls back to his buddy from the corner of Dittmar, a long block away.

  “Just grazed, but shit!”

  I wince when he says this, but he runs faster. I watch until they turn right on Dittmar Road, heading east, in the direction of the camo-guy neighborhood. Motherfuck!

  “Alma, you all right?” I call out, trying not to be too loud in case those guys circle back.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I didn’t mean to hit that guy,” I say, rushing toward her.

  “Hey! What’s going on? Who’s shooting?”

  I turn back to see Bobby Carlisle running around the corner with his Kalashnikov raised. The big guy is barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and pajama pants.

  “Some intruders tried to rob us,” I say. “I got one in the arm by accident. It ricocheted—the bullet ricocheted off the firewood they were trying to steal.”

  “Shit. Which way’d they go?”

  “Past the park, then east on Dittmar.”

  Greta darts out her front door with a hatchet in her hand. “What happened? Everyone all right?”

  “We’re good,” Alma says.

  “I shot a thief,” I say, “by accident.”

  “Well, that oughta screw him up for a while. Shit, Keno. You did good! I’m goin’ back to bed.” Greta ducks into her house, slamming the door.

  Alma rushes up, and I latch on to her. I feel her surging with adrenaline—I am, too, but she’s shaking. I tell Bobby how my shot went wrong and about the dead chickens in the street. The neighbors know about the rabbit-thief’s warning, and now we’ve definitely seen these guys. Have they been sneaking around here all these months? Shit!

  “They had camo jackets, Bobby, and they ran toward the neighborhood where that group of armed guys live.”

  “Yeah, but lots of guys have camo jackets, and didn’t you say that neighborhood is three miles away? They could be part of that group of goons, but they could just be random thieves. They could be going anywhere.”

  “But I’ve seen two other sets of camo guys outside that neighborhood. I think that place is their camp, their headquarters, and they go out looting and wreaking havoc from there. They may be killing people. I heard one say he killed a preacher.”

  “One of these guys who were just here?”

  “No, but…”

  Maybe we’ve scared them off? No, probably not. Shit, I shot a guy and didn’t kill him. Is he gonna retaliate? They must not have guns, or they would’ve fired them. But if they’re part of the camo guys, then they have plenty of guns.

  Bobby lowers his rifle. He’s jumping around to get warm. “Damn it,” he says. “We need to have a meeting about this. We’re sitting ducks over here.”

  “They must’ve come in from one end of the neighborhood while we were patrolling the opposite end.”

  “Geez. I better get home. I’m freezing.” Bobby starts to trot off, then turns around. “So they came from my street?”

  “They did.”

  “Those chickens must be Sandra’s and Mark’s. I’ll take ’em home and give them back in the morning.” He scoops up the dead chickens and hurries away.

  Alma’s still shaking, worrying me to death.

  “Can I please take you home? This shock isn’t good for you or the baby.”

  “I’m not leaving you out here alone.”

  I pull Alma to me. “But what if one of those guys grabbed you? How could I have saved you?”

  “I would’ve shot his head off b
efore I let him touch me.”

  I back away so I can see her eyes and plead with her. “Baby, I know you’re fierce, and you have better aim than I do. I don’t want to smother you, but will you please let me pamper you while you’re building a baby? If you’re out here, I spend all my time worrying about you.”

  “You worry about me all the time anyway.”

  I sigh. “Not as much, though. I’ll wake someone up to help me the rest of the night… Bobby’s already awake. I’ll get him.”

  “It’s not that long until dawn, is it?” She huffs like she’s angry. “Let’s just finish this.”

  I hug Alma to me, but she’s stiff. “I’d die if anything happened to you.”

  “I know,” she says. “I know.”

  CHAPTER 22

  At home, we eat oatmeal, not saying much. Alma heads upstairs, and I tell Uncle Eddie and Phil what happened.

  “We need to have a meeting about these guys,” Eddie says.

  “We need more than a meeting. I feel like an idiot for botching the whole thing.”

  Uncle Eddie looks at me like I’m some cute little boy. “Kiddo, you did your best. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Whether I beat myself up or not, there’s no telling what will happen now that I’ve pissed these guys off.”

  Now, Alma and I are in bed, and she’s angry again, except she’s sitting up and talking, giving me hope.

  “I hate that being pregnant keeps me from doing things I need to do.”

  Is that why she’s been so distant? It seems like more than that.

  “I don’t know what that feels like, but I’m sure it sucks.” I stroke her arm lightly, testing to see if she’s open to some closeness.

  “It does suck!” She pulls away to wrap both arms around herself. “I have to pee all the time, I can’t carry heavy stuff, I’m always tired—”

  “If you’re tired, shouldn’t you sleep more?”

  “There’s too much to do to sleep more.”

  “Well, patrolling all night—”

  “Don’t start,” she says.

  “Alma, I hated how scared I was for you out there.”