“Paint nails?” She cocked her head. “What’s that, Dada?”
“I’ll show you.” He shook the silvery blue glass bottle, making a familiar clicking sound. Once upon a time he had gone through a short goth phase wherein he dressed in all black, wore oversized bondage pants, combat boots, and black nail polish. “It’s to make you look pretty.”
“It’s pretty?” Her hands shook with much excite. “Okay.”
“Sit down, keep your hands still.” He opened the nail polish, set the bottle on the laminate floor, carefully removed the excess on the neck, and took Emily’s right hand. “Hold. Still. Please.”
“Okay!” she replied, hands shaking as if afflicted with Parkinson’s. It would be like shooting the wings off a fly caught in a tornado.
He chuckled, glanced out the window, watching another fork of lightning trace its way across black skies. No albino lion to be seen. “Hold. Still.” The brush came down on her tiny, delicate thumbnail. Her soft skin vibrated in his open fingers as he brushed the nail again, smoothing out the sparkly silver blue polish. A dollop landed on her cuticle, a slash on the side of her thumb. He blew on her nail to dry it quickly, keeping from getting it on everything. Her dress was already dirty enough, it didn’t need polish stains like his The Cure shirt had gotten those many years back.
One at a time the nails were painted, some better than others, depending on still she had been. Emily watched with fascination, never having seen this done before. They exchanged shy smiles and whispers of laughter. Lillian hardly ever painted her own nails, and for whatever reason, had never painted Emily’s. This was a precious opportunity that had almost been missed. Ryan felt honored to have been part of it.
“Aww, so pretty.” He lifted her fingers and blew them one more time. “They look dry enough. I think you’re good.”
“It’s pretty?” She threw her arms around his neck. “Kink you, Dada.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Kink you.” She preened, making a half-curtsy with her filthy pink princess dress and greasy hair. “Pretty.”
“The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he commented. “But, just in case, let’s get you in some clean clothes and try to wash that hair.”
“No bath.”
“Yes bath.”
Despite what might be waiting outside, they took another rain shower, this time wearing swim clothes. He had been prepared for this. The water wasn’t as cold as it had been the previous time, and so when they came back in after rinsing the soap from their hair and pits, they didn’t shiver.
Nothing moved among the tree line caught in the storm.
“Cats don’t care for the rain, right?” he asked Emily, using a clean, yellow beach towel to dry her hair. “I think we’re fine.”
“We’re fine.”
Chapter 50
Ryan took a pull from the remaining dregs of Jim Beam. His lips twisted, eyes watered, whiskey tasting as sour as their situation.
Once again, they were trapped.
The soft dirt around this place, now soaked with rain, would make dragging their wagon on anything but asphalt a nearly insurmountable challenge. Besides, his shoulder and legs was in so much pain, he didn’t think he could go far, or at any great speed, let alone flee a hungry lion at a dead run.
The gentle buzz of alcohol filtered into his muscles, making them numb, while somehow avoiding his agonized shoulder. Story of his life. He held the sloshing bottle up to the light, watching as the fixtures above him browned out and flickered back on. The power reserves in this Green structure were going dead. Darkness was inching up on their squatter’s wallow.
Something had to be done about the lion. There was no way around this. Emily wouldn’t be safe enough in her cage, and he didn’t think he had the strength to fight with their spear. There were other ways to deal with the threat.
Several options came to mind.
Option one: A shovel was laid against the wall. With the soil so soft he could dig a pit, and line its bottom with broken glass or twisted metal. Surely there was enough junk around this place, even as “Green” as it was, to kill or trap a falling lion. How deep would it need to be? Six feet? Eight feet? There was no way he could dig that far. There wasn’t enough Jim Beam to ease the pain.
Option two: Poison? It could work, but he would need bait. Meat preferably. He lacked razor blades this go around, not even one for him to shave his own face; another oversight on planning. He’d need something chemical. There were cleaning supplies in this facility, but the only chemicals at his disposal would make the bait taste so bad, even a lion would likely leave it alone. He could try using iodine in high doses, but he needed that for their water. And the bait? That was their backup food. The ten cans of Spam.
He polished off the murky whiskey, wondering how so much backwash had ended up in the bottle.
The lights went out.
There was a crash so loud and sudden he felt it in his bones.
“Emily?” Ryan called into the dark, forks of lightening flashing outside. She’d wandered off again but couldn’t go far. Unlike last time.
He ran for the wagon, flipped on the rope lights and fished out the flashlight, winding it up. He searched the room. “Emily?”
“Dada,” a weak word came from down the hall.
Ryan found her in a side room, just off the lavatory, holding a palm against the back of her head before a bookshelf. The floor was scattered with open books.
“What were you up to, bad girl?” he asked, checking her head for injuries.
“I climb.”
“I can see that. And you fall, too. You have to be careful. This isn’t safe.”
“No. I climb.” She waved his probing hands off. “I fine. No help. I do this.”
“Okay.” He raised his hands, light swinging onto the wall. “Miss Independent, I see. Don’t mind me.”
Lightning flashed twice more, and something caught Ryan’s attention. He wound the flashlight, flicking it to lantern mode. Hanging on hooks in the corner of the room were a half dozen ancient, iron devices. Jaw-like hoops, with flat springs on their ends. Chains hung down to the floor, casting shadows with each boom of nature’s fury.
Emily pointed. “Oh, what’s that? Like the movie?”
“Just like the movie,” referring to a cartoon Emily had been watching recently.
“Movie?”
“Bear traps,” Ryan whispered, removing one of them from its hook. It was rusted and old, much larger than he’d expected, nearly three and a half feet in length spring to spring. A placard was positioned above them. “19th century Bear Traps. Made of hammered iron. Origin: Portland, Oregon.”
They went back into the main room, now illuminated by colored rope lights. The sight was comforting.
“Emily, sit in the wagon. Okay? Can you do that for Daddy?”
She nodded, curious what he was up to. He closed the door and lowered the latch. Her eyes didn’t leave him for an instant.
The tables and chairs of the classroom were pushed against the opposite wall, feet screeching. He set the rusty trap in the center of the room and began to puzzle over it. He’d never used anything like it before. Hunting was certainly not his field of study, academic or otherwise.
The center of the bear trap was a hinged pair of half-circle jaws, teeth on the inside. The ends of the trap, the springs, were bowed sections of flat iron with hoops at their ends that attached to the jaws of the trap. Ryan figured that when the two springs were under tension, the hoops kept the hinged jaw lying flat, exposing the trigger plate at the center. When the trigger plate was depressed, the hoops would be released, slinging free to force the hinged half-circles inward and close the trap. Seemed simple enough. He had a mechanical mind, and this was a mechanical device.
He pressed down on one of the springs, trying to set that side first. It didn’t budge. He put his weight on the spring. It didn’t budge much more. The metal wouldn’t bend. He screamed in pain, grabbing his shoulder a
nd alarming Emily. He jumped, slammed down a heavy sheet of granite from out of a nature display, set a heavy desk on it, nothing worked. There was no way he could create enough torque to set the springs.
“Be right back,” he told Emily.
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.”
He returned a moment later with a pair of c-clamps longer than one of his hands. He tightened down the first spring. It was nearly impossible to turn the tension bar once the spring protested, but with a groan of old metal it eventually gave way. He prayed it wouldn’t snap from all the rust. The hoop slid down the side of the jaw, trap set on one side. He repeated the action, and the hinged jaw lowered. With care as great as disarming bricks of C-4 rigged to a dead man's switch, he set the tongue to the trigger plate, then removed the c-clamps. The rust painted trap groaned in response but did not trigger.
“Close your eyes, Emme.”
From across the room in her wagon, she followed his instructions. Thunder boomed, rattling the windows.
Ryan lowered the leg of a metal chair onto the trigger plate. The trap snapped shut, chain rattling, rust flakes peppering the floor. As he tried to draw back the chair, he found its leg was now a twisted mess of steel. The trap would not let go of it. Emily looked horrified. He felt sick.
Flatly, he stated, “It’ll work.” And it would inflict untold violence upon another living creature.
Maybe he wasn’t a survivor, after all. Mr. Ryan Sharpe, vegan of the apocalypse.
He gasped.
”What would lion taste like?”
This could this be a way to get fresh meat in them for the first time in months. But what spices did you use? Just salt and pepper? Would it be good as a curry? Should he marinate it in teriyaki sauce before grilling? Or, with all the rice they had, make nigiri out of it.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to butcher Fork even after the attack, but this lion was their enemy, not their family.
His stomach rumbled in agony.
They rested for the night, hoping dawn might make setting traps easier. The room they crammed themselves within was steamy by sunrise. Clouds broke, the power came back on, and with more energy available than the day before. The A/C whirred to life. Cold air rushed out of the vents. Ryan peed himself just a little, and felt ashamed.
He got up, stretched, and entered the classroom to find Emily trying to put her potty on the floor and use it.
“Big girl time?” he asked.
“I potty. Please, Dada. Help?”
“Of course.”
Emily tinkled for the first time in her potty like a big girl, feet with painted toenails kicking up before her. He wished he had had a treat to give her for this, but instead offered a cheer. It was enough. They would need to keep trying. Every hour on the hour. Too bad he didn’t have a watch.
He blew the air horn every morning and every afternoon. Three long bursts. Never a response. Something large and white moved among the brush. It was not human.
He sat on the floor of the classroom cross-legged, playing Barbies with Emily and considered his plan. He could always lay the traps out and hope the lion stumbled into them, but figured that would take some time, and dumb luck.
He went through their dwindling supplies again. Ten cans of Spam. Five meal replacement bars. A small sack of dried mushrooms. One jar of homemade pickles. Five pounds of rice. Two gallons of water. No milk. No rice cookies. No greens. Two diapers.
They were running out.
“No food. No bait. Let’s try the traps by themselves. If we sit near the windows and play, maybe we can be the bait.” He set the traps and placed them, three each, on the sides of the building at the base of the deck stairs in hopes the lion might get curious.
The day went on without any luck. Emily took a poop in her diaper and it had to be thrown away. She ate dinner that night, rice with mushrooms. Ryan did not. Instead of dinner, he ate pain pills.
The following day turned out much the same, though Emily was getting tired of being indoors. She couldn’t understand why they were staying here. Sky was overcast but it did not rain. Emily peed in her toilet, but did not poop. Ryan ate one pickle. Water down to one gallons. A lion glided through the woods nearby.
Day three, Ryan started to get nervous. Despite air conditioning, he was stinking from sweat.
Time was against them.
He was confident that if they could flee this beast, they would find a supermarket on the other side of the Merrimac to raid. Or, with all the rain, procure edible mushrooms by the road. He tried not to think too much of food. Tried not to dream of slow-cooked bar-b-que and slingers piled high.
Emily ate merrily, but still didn’t poop, nor did she pee in her potty. The last diaper was damp with urine. He made her take it off, and while it was sunny outside, tried to dry it on a bannister, careful not to trigger one of his own traps. He couldn’t have her getting a rash, but wasn’t sure what to do.
He rubbed his eyes. So tired.
A trap snapped well into the night, catching no predator.
On day four, Ryan ate a big breakfast along with Emily, a pickle and a half cup of rice each. It made him slightly nauseous to put this much on his stomach after avoiding it for so long. She tinkled in the potty that morning, though, only after having tinkled on the floor. Baby steps.
The sun-dried diaper had been a bad idea. After three hours of wearing the recycled waste catcher, she started to get a rash. Without any other options, Ryan cannibalized a WASHU t-shirt, cutting it into the approximate shape of panties for Emily to wear. He taped the ends across the middle and prayed it would work.
“At least they’re clean.”
The lion was not coming close enough to the traps, keeping a cautious distance, standing among the trees for hours on end, lounging under a rusted jeep when it rained. It still wasn’t close enough for him to get a good look at it, but far too close for comfort.
Ryan went to bed hungry. This helped him make his decision.
Just before sunrise on day five, Ryan started opening the cans of Spam. It had worked once before with animals—it could work again. He snuck outside, listening to the air, hearing only light drizzle as it pattered on dense foliage. He carefully laid spoonfuls of Spam atop the trigger plates of the bear traps. His hands shook with fear of setting off one of the rusty traps, snapping it shut on his arm. The springs of the second to last trap were bowed at a severe angle he knew couldn’t be right. He gave extra care, using in lieu of a spoon, two short pieces of wood, one with the Spam on its end, the other used to scrape it off. As soon as the Spam hit the trigger plate, the jaws snapped shut, shearing the length of pine in half, splinters showering. The hunk of Spam now lay on the ground among the mud.
Ryan edged down the steps and reached for the Spam, then saw the lion’s glittering blue eyes hidden beneath the Jeep, not twenty feet off. As the lion licked its lips, Ryan’s out stretched arm trembled. He left the hunk of meat and withdrew slowly, then ran for the safety of the classroom.
“I tinkle, Dada,” Emily told him, standing in a pool of bright yellow liquid.
“Okay,” he replied, and went to find something to clean her up. Even the wipes were getting low.
They waited another day. Ryan made five more pairs of t-shirt panties, using all the spare cloth he had on hand. Within the day, all were soiled with urine, not feces. They would need to be washed before being used again. Emily was constipated, and so was he. Their water supply was nearly empty, food not long behind. The two of them stank so bad they offended themselves.
“I wasted all that Spam,” he berated himself. “All that waste. All that wasted meat. Meat. Glorious, fucking meat.”
Options ran as low as their supplies and morale. Ryan began to consider a few things. The lion hadn’t attacked them on the road. It hadn’t attacked them in the woods of Tyson Research Center, leading up to the classroom. Perhaps, if they took their time, they could make it through the woods to the bridge, crossing the
Meramec and into safety. Then again, the lion hadn’t gone far for days. It had to be hungry like them. Very, very hungry.
“Time to go,” he told Emily.
“Play outside?”
“No. No playing outside. Get in the wagon. Come on.”
She shook her head. “Go away. I no want wagon.” It was the first time she had ever used those words with him. Go away. They cut to the bone.
It was time to be the bad guy. “You will get in this wagon. Do you hear me?” He gave her the dad look.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Go away.”
He lifted her off the floor, kicking and screaming, and forced her inside the wagon. She wrapped her fingers around the bars and shook, metal rattling.
“Want to watch the tablet?” he offered.
“No!” She punched the tablet, spinning it on the mount.
“Fine. Be upset. But when I get done packing you better calm down or Daddy might be eaten alive. Do you want that? Huh? You want to be left alone, by yourself, trapped in that cage until you starve to death? Because that’s what will happen if you don’t quit this shit. We have to be quiet outside so we don’t alert the lion.”
She turned her head. “Go away.”
And he wished he could. He wished he could leave all this behind and transcend to somewhere divine.
By the time he was rolling them outside, parting the traps opposite to where he’d last seen the albino, Emily’s sobs had become quiet. Her shoulders still jerked a little, but she was calming down. Ryan felt guilty for being so hard, so cold, but he just didn’t have the energy to fight like that anymore.
The forest was misty and cool, smelling of mud and muck, like a creek bed. The ground damp and muted, sounding of turning mush against wagon wheels. The wind didn’t blow. So long as the wagon’s bars didn’t rattle too loud, they’d be able to sneak off without a trace. Ryan kept his spear on his left shoulder, pistol tucked in his belt. Two bullets. One aching arm. All he had to defend them in the open.
The Two That Remained Page 31