They kept to a road that followed the shoreline. The houses were spread out, their backyards long and broad, ending at the beach. Trees were in full fall color against a cloudless blue sky and for a moment, she could believe it was like every other fall she had ever known. They were far enough away from the main part of town that even in the time before, it would have been quiet here. Maybe there would have been a lawn mower or the rhythmic stroke of someone raking leaves, but otherwise, only the sounds of nature.
Something about the scene didn’t feel right, though. She sniffed. That’s what was wrong. There was no scent of burning leaves. While she wasn’t sure how it was in Wisconsin, she was accustomed to the scent back home in Georgia at this time of year. Relieved she had pinpointed the source of her anxiety, she relaxed and closed her eyes for a moment. She soaked in the sunshine and the sound of the wind rustling the leaves, and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the asphalt. Jake whistled for Buddy, and she glanced over just as Buddy raced into another clump of weeds. Jake shouted, and she swore, but before either of them reached the dog, there was a flurry of feathers and squawks as several birds—chickens—half jumped, half flew out of the thicket.
“What in the world?” She and Jake exchanged looks.
Jake leaped from Red and grabbed a frantically barking Buddy, while the fowl darted away. “Elly, get the chickens!”
She dismounted as quickly as she could but didn’t know what to do with the reins, so she handed them to Jake. “Hang on to the horses!”
For the next five minutes she chased what seemed to be the slowest of the chickens, feeling foolish but her target changed as each bird showed uncanny skill and darting in the opposite direction she predicted. She stopped a moment to catch her breath and swiped hair out of her face. Who knew catching chickens would be so difficult? But then again, if it was easy, these birds wouldn’t have survived on their own for so long. Hands on her knees, she slanted a look at Jake, about to ask for help but the kid had already tied the reins to a scraggly bush, and with Buddy’s help, corralled one of the chickens. Inspired, she charged at one of the remaining birds. Dammit, but they were going to have eggs this winter if she had anything to do with it.
Ignoring Jake’s laughter, she noted the chicken seemed to be heading for a wooded area to her left, just north of the clearing, and when one bird lunged left, she anticipated the move and lunged too, clamping her hands around the middle of the bird. Triumphant, she raised her prize and screamed, “Yes!”
Jake trotted to her, a grin stretching from ear to ear as he cradled his chicken under one arm like a football. With his other hand, he covered the bird’s eyes. “Oh my God, Elly. You should have seen yourself!”
Lowering her prize, she copied Jake’s method of holding the chicken, although hers didn’t cooperate at first. It squawked and flapped as sharp talons scratched along her waist. “Ouch!” Finally, she managed to tuck the bird away. The third bird was gone, but at least they had two.
“Cover her eyes.” Jake tipped his head toward her chicken, and she did as he suggested, breathing out a sigh of relief when the bird settled. “Now what?” He raised an eyebrow in question as he dipped his forehead across his shoulder. “We can’t ride the horses while holding onto them.”
Elly nodded, thinking. An image from a movie entered her head of a man pulling a chicken out of a sack. That’s what they needed—some kind of sack. She gazed around. To her north was the wooded area, but across the street was a small house. The long grass and weeds jutting up from the gutters probably meant the owners were deceased or gone. As a bonus, a small boat sat on a trailer beside the garage. She made a mental note to mention it to Cole. It might be useful to gather as many small boats as they could so they would never be trapped on the island. “Why don’t we head over to that house and see if we can find a sack?”
Jake’s chicken suddenly shifted, and one wing escaped, flapping in Jake’s face. He pulled his head back, spitting a couple of small feathers. She bit back a laugh. He regained his grip and nodded. “Sack? You mean like a pillowcase?”
She grinned. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
The horses had their heads down, grazing, seeming to be content to remain where they were, so they left Buddy to keep an eye on them, knowing he would bark if anyone came near.
They tried to peek in the house, but the windows were too high. They circled the home, but the windows in the back, while low enough, had curtains drawn in front of them.
“I say we go on in.”
Elly eyed the house. It looked abandoned, but there could be bodies inside. They checked the garage and saw it was empty. With no car in the drive, they decided that whoever had lived here must have fled. With any luck, they left a few linens. If they had to, they could tie some sheets to make a bag.
The back door had nine small panes of glass set into the frame, and Elly looked around for something to break the glass with, spotting a plant hanging from a sagging shepherd’s hook stuck in a small flower bed near the back porch. She tried to wrest it from the ground with one hand, but she was too short and the ground too hard. She didn’t dare set the chicken down.
“Here, let me try.” Jake pulled the hook from the earth with ease, and she smiled and shook her head.
“Don’t get too cocky… if I was taller, I could have done it too.”
Jake chuckled. “Cocky? No way—this is a chicken, not a cock.”
She groaned. “That’s bad, Jake. Even for you.”
Laughing, he lifted his mask in place as Elly did the same. She dug in her pocket for gloves, and it took only a moment for them to slip them on, despite the restless fowl they each clutched under their arms. “Ready?”
Elly nodded as Jake held the hook over his shoulder like he was going to cast a spear. He poked the glass out of the frame, swirling the metal around until all shards fell from the opening. He handed her the hook and reached in, opening the door. He looked behind it while Elly went through into the kitchen.
The interior stunk, but what stopped Elly in her tracks was the bucket of water sitting on the kitchen table, a puddle smeared across the top of the wood, a greasy glass, water still in the bottom, rested beside it.
9
Hunter slammed on the brakes, swearing when his dad let out a yelp and then groaned. “Sorry, Dad.”
Just great. The exit was blocked by a jack-knifed semi. He winced as he noted a crushed vehicle beneath the huge truck. He’d made a slight detour to the state park and as his father had said, found a water pump and filled a couple of bottles, but he worried the extra time it took was bad for his father.
His dad opened his eyes and looked around. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Sorry about that.” He pointed. “There’s the exit.”
His dad craned his head, taking in the scene. “There must be another route.”
Hunter was already checking, tracing his finger through the tangle of red and blue lines on the map. “Yeah, there is, but we’ll have to go up a few miles and double-back. It’s going to add some time.”
“We’re in no rush.”
“Dad! We kind of are. You need to get back to the island so Aunt Jenna can look at your shoulder.”
His father sighed. “Listen, Hunter, I doubt we have the supplies she would need—not much more than what we have here, a few bandages, some antibiotic ointment, and tape, so rushing to get back is pointless. A hundred years ago people survived wounds far more serious than this. I’ll survive, too.”
Hunter tried to stare his father down, but his dad won the battle. Not wasting time on arguing with him, Hunter put the truck in gear and continued driving. After several miles, he finally said, “What about infection? Didn’t a ton of people die from infection? I’m pretty damn sure that ointment wasn’t meant to treat gunshot wounds. It’s for minor cuts and scratches.” He recalled a commercial for the product and the injury they had treated had been a tiny scrape on the elbow of a four or five year-old.
His
father launched into the history of medicine before antibiotics and how they were now faced having to get by like people did before the advent of the miracle drugs.
Hunter tuned out most of his father’s history lesson as he took the next exit and found the correct road to get to the town. What good did it do to know the history of the drugs? In ten years, all of it was going to seem like some incredible legend. When his dad paused to sip from the Thermos, Hunter said, “Can we make antibiotics again?”
“Sure, with the right equipment and supplies. Elly and I could probably rig something up, but we haven’t had time to do anything like that.” His dad held the Thermos between his knees as he screwed the top back on, and then closed his eyes, resting his head against the back of the seat. “I really miss the luxury of time.”
Hunter nodded. He did too. Every day they worked from dawn to dusk with little time for tasks outside the scope of immediate survival. “Just think how much we wasted before.” How many hours had he spent getting caught up on videos on the internet, one leading to another. It was like a trail of candy leading into a forest. He could get lost for hours and not watch anything more important than videos of dogs looking guilty, or people doing crazy stunts.
When his dad didn’t reply, Hunter glanced over and saw he was dozing.
With the road to himself, it didn’t take long to find the address. He parked in front of the house. It appeared deceptively normal, barring the high grass. Of course, most of the homes looked normal too, but he had expected to find something like a small shop or parts store, but then again, being in such a small town, it never could have survived on walk-in business. This was a residential neighborhood. If anything, it was borderline rural since there was nothing behind the home but fields and, farther, woods.
He noted the tips of red and white blades of a windmill rising high into the sky behind the house. That was reassuring. Leaving his dad to sleep, he lifted his mask, donned gloves, and checked to make sure he had his gun handy. Hunter had planned to leave him, hoping to return before his dad awoke, but thought better of it, and holding his dad’s gun in one hand, he nudged his father’s leg with the back of his hand.
“Dad.” It took a couple of efforts, but his father blinked, looked around and then dragged a hand down his face.
“Oh. Sorry. We’re here?”
“I think so. I’m going to have a look around.”
His dad made a move for his door handle, but Hunter stopped him. “No. You stay here. I need you to keep an eye out for me. If you see anyone, holler.” Hunter pressed the button to roll down his father’s window. “With all of the abandoned vehicles around, nobody’s going to take note of this one.” He hoped that was the case. If there was still a local person left alive, they would surely notice a truck parked where there hadn’t been one since the virus hit.
His father straightened and felt for his mask around his neck as he accepted the gun Hunter handed him.
Hunter grabbed his flashlight, stuffed it in his back pocket and turned to leave, but hesitated. His father didn’t look so good. White lines bracketed his mouth, his lips compressed into a thin line as his brow furrowed. “Will you be all right, Dad?”
For a brief moment, his dad’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but then it faded. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got your back. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.”
“I know you weren’t.”
Hunter met his dad’s eyes, neither saying anything and finally, Hunter nodded. “I won’t be long.”
He circled the house, finding that the backyard flowed into a clearing on the edge of farmland. The windmill was on the very edge, the blades lazily turning in the breeze. If nothing else, they could come back here and Uncle Sean could get what he needed right off the windmill.
Like everywhere else, the backyard was overgrown, but he didn’t trust that entirely. People in the midst of survival wouldn’t waste time on mowing the lawn. The thick weeds in what appeared to have been a garden put him at ease. Survivors would have been tending a garden as if their lives depended on it.
Feeling more confident that the place was abandoned, he glanced at the large garage, but there were no windows and the door had a padlock.
He edged up the porch steps, scanning the area as he did. There were no fences back here, although some homes had hedges separating them, and one had a dog run with a chain link enclosure .
He turned the doorknob, and frowned. Locked. It was a solid wood door with no windows. As he examined the doorframe, he thought he might be able to jimmy the lock, but realized he had no idea how to do it. Ruefully, he cursed his history of being a mostly good kid and his lack of breaking and entering skills. He stepped back and rubbed the back of his neck as he contemplated his options. At least he didn’t have to worry too much about being discovered, and for sure there was no threat of arrest. He just had to get into the house some way.
Jumping off the porch, he scouted the back of the house. The foundation of the home was high, making even the first floor windows start about six feet above the ground, but if he could break one and get the glass out of the way, he should be able climb in. He turned, surveying the yard. A tree in the back, probably just planted this past spring, had a metal bar alongside the thin trunk, bracing it. Cords tied it to the tree while two other ropes were staked, pulling the tree in opposite directions. He pulled out a pocketknife and sliced through the ropes holding the brace. He hefted the metal. It was heavy and should work.
He scoured the area for something to stand on, and found a metal garbage can resting on a couple of cinder blocks behind the garage. The soot coating the can made it obvious that it had been used for burning yard waste. Not trusting the bottom of the scorched can to hold him, he pushed it off the blocks. The blocks would be perfect for giving him the added height he’d need to clear the glass from the frame and climb in the window.
Hunter carried both to the window but realized he’d need only one to stand on, however, the other one was useful, too. He lifted it over his head and flung it with two hands at the glass, tucking his face in the crook of his arm after releasing the block to protect against cuts.
Using the metal pole, he cleared all of remaining pieces of glass, and carefully knocked away any resting on the frame, then tossed the pole in ahead of him. It could come in handy.
In seconds, he was inside the house. He wore his mask with the toothpaste, so he wasn’t aware of any smell of decay, but he did notice the absence of flies. He’d entered into a dining room and, except for a thick coat of dust, everything was neat and tidy. The hutch was filled with dishes, reminding him of the one Aunt Jenna had at her home. Every year, he and his dad had Thanksgiving dinner with them, along with Aunt Jenna’s sister’s family, who usually drove up from Oklahoma for the holiday. It was Hunter’s favorite holiday as it was the closest he ever felt to being part of a family. Sure, he and his dad were a family, but he never felt like it was a real family, like what all of his friends always had—a family with a mom, dad, and brothers and even a sister would have been okay. Almost as long as he could recall, it had just been him and his father.
One of his earliest memories was of a Thanksgiving that must have been the last one with his mom. He’d begged for the drumstick and everyone had laughed and said it was too big for a little guy like him. He remembered being embarrassed, probably for the first time in his life, but his mom had put a huge, roasted turkey leg on his plate. She insisted that Hunter had helped her make the turkey so he could have a drumstick if he wanted one. On the edges of his memory was a fleeting recollection of his mother holding his hand with a big brush, and showing him how to dip the brush in the bottom of the roasting pan and brushing it over the turkey. To this day, turkey was his favorite food, and he claimed a leg every year.
Hunter shook off the memories. Sure, the dining room reminded him of Thanksgiving, but he had a job to do. Moving cautiously in case someone was here despite the evidence from the outside, he entered
the kitchen. Half of the cabinets were open but most of the shelves were empty. A door off the kitchen stood ajar. He crossed to it and peered inside. It was a pantry, but the shelves were bare here too, except for an empty box of crackers and a half full bottle of ketchup. Bending for a cursory check beneath the shelves, he spotted a boxed mix to make a tuna casserole. The box was unopened so he took it. Every bit of food counted and this must have been missed by the home owners. It made no sense letting it go to waste.
He rummaged through kitchen drawers, finding a few spoons, some spices, a kitchen towel, and in one drawer, pens, pencils, an address book and old mail; some of it having to do with the antique business the owner had run. With a sigh, he pocketed the pens and pencils and tossed the mail back in the drawer. At least he had confirmation that he was in the correct house.
Beneath the sink was an assortment of cleaning supplies, none of it of any interest to him. Jammed against the side of the cabinet was a lone white trash bag. That interested him and he grabbed it, throwing in the box of tuna casserole.
The house had two bedrooms on the second floor, both were stripped of all linens and clothing, except for a few mismatched socks and a pair of pantyhose. The pantyhose could serve many uses as a filter, so he took them and hoped to find more. They should have looked for them when they were at the store.
He trotted down the stairs, pausing at the front door to look out the sidelight. His father leaned against the truck but appeared alert as he scanned the street. Satisfied everything was fine, Hunter went to a door he’d seen opposite the back entrance in the kitchen. As he suspected, it led to a basement. Reflexively, he reached for the light switch on the wall and swore when nothing happened. When would that habit die? He shook his head and pulled out the flashlight.
Sympatico Syndrome Trilogy Box Set Page 35