The Two That Remained

by Mauldin, J Fitzpatrick

  Easing the wagon gently over the lumpy ground, Ryan led them back onto the road, heading north and west, pointing them directly at the river.

  A loud, metallic snap cracked the still woods in half. The wheels of the wagon came to a halt. Then another crack, this one followed up by a roar. Emily’s quiet sobbing ceased. Ryan stopped breathing. He turned back towards the sound, towards the classroom.

  It was the bear traps.

  Wailing sounds of feline agony rolled out over the mist-haunted woods. Squirrels found perches in trees to watch the action. Birds waited on carrion. Ryan sucked in a breath and took off.

  Emily babbled to herself, turning around in her seat to look behind them. Several moments passed before they heard the sound of something dragging through the brush and old leaves.

  “Oh shit,” Ryan said, swallowing his heart.

  The sound of rustling chains on wet foliage intensified. There was a deafening roar, not weak or exhausted. Injured animals were always the most dangerous. He turned around to look, and saw a loping white ball of fur, stark against the deep browns and greens of the forest.

  The albino lion was coming for them.

  Chapter 51

  The bear trap’s chain rattled louder as it snaked its way through the forest, over rocks and deadfall, following along the path of a born killer. Ryan turned back to see, the spear nearly sliding off his shoulder each time. They weren’t moving fast enough.

  There was nowhere to go.

  This was the end of everything, his weakened last stand.

  He had but one chance to fell this creature, to pierce it in the heart as it lunged, bent on tearing out his throat while his daughter watched. The momentum of its forward locomotion might be enough to drive the tip of the propped spear through hide and vessel, muscle and organ. But what’s to stop its dying claws from crashing upon Ryan’s soft throat? Only miracles.

  With all they’d seen since the Event, Ryan thought he would be beyond terror by now. They had faced starvation. Faced harsh weather and stampede. Faced Cerberus and the wild dogs. He thought that by this point, nothing would affect him. This fear was new.

  Air wheezed in and out of Ryan’s dry nose.

  “Dada!” Emily shouted from the wagon, its wheels slicing through damp leaves like rotten fruit. They had run out of road.

  Ryan hadn’t the time or energy to respond.

  He dragged the wagon up a small hill, path wreathed with fallen branches and trees.

  “Fuck.” They were boxed in by limbs.

  Finding the least dense section of fallen trees, he set the wagon brake, shoved the spear haft in the soft soil, and began to clear storm debris. Briars pricked and sliced his fingers to tatters, red running down the tips. He peered back. Emily was fine in the wagon cage, safe within its steel bars for the moment.

  The noise of the dragging chain had ceased.

  He hefted a limb as big around as his head to the left, kicked another on the right. The branches were giving way to an opening. All he had to do was clear a little more and they could squeeze through the breach. He wished Lawrence was here. Together, they could’ve cleared it in no time.

  A warm, throaty noise gurgled over his shoulder. He gripped the nearest limb of sufficient size and pivoted.

  Looming over the wagon cage was a creature so white it looked as if it were made from a block of pure marble. Its great, thick nose was pressed to the bars of the wagon. Emily shrank against the other side of the cage, breathless, eyes darting between the beast and her father. It was taller than Ryan, not yet having gotten off its hind legs. With a paw as big around as a man’s head, it rocked the cage effortlessly. Ryan drew the branch up, realizing how foolish a weapon it was. The animal made a chuffing sound, regarded Ryan, and returned to sampling Emily’s scent through the cage, its one eye in view gleaming from a pitch socket. Battle scars marked its flanks like a banner.

  Ryan’s eyes darted to the spear. It was only three steps away. The beast no more than five. There was no way he could move quickly enough. He checked his belt, found the pistol there, but now seeing the grand scale of this pride animal in its fullness, was convinced two .380 rounds would only piss it off. That was the last thing he needed.

  Terrible visions exploded in his mind, the beast peeling the cage back with its forepaws to get at the soft toddler meat within. Just like Fork.

  It would not be quick. This could not be the end.

  Something had to be done, but terror paralyzed him. This wasn’t just some large animal, but one with razor sharp teeth and claws, reflexes as quick as a Shaolin master, and muscles as powerful as a construction crane. One slap, soft by comparison, and Ryan’s assault would be over.

  With care, he eased his way closer to the spear. It was his only chance to put the lion down for good.

  He brushed sweat out of his eyes, his chest tensing. The beast did not budge; in fact, it settled onto the ground and licked a bleeding hind leg. The spear was now in Ryan’s hands. It had been easy to take, too easy. He lowered the point at the beast, gun in his other hand. The lion’s head raised and turned, but it didn’t make eye contact. Ryan’s fear flashed into anger, then confusion as something dawned upon him.

  One half of the creature’s face had been peeled away, revealing bloody tissue beneath white fur. A leathery strip of crimson slapped against its face when it turned. Flies were already beginning to swarm the breach of skin. One of the traps had clipped it. The lion moaned in a low roll, lowered its head, and began to lick the injured leg once again. Its mane, once massive and forbidding, luminous and awe-inspiring at a distance, now sagged with grime and matted filth. But that wasn’t all. The eyes of the lion were what truly told the story. The tilt of its lids, the haze of the iris. There were other signs, too. What should have been hard muscle in the shoulders and hips, were withered strips of youth gone by. No, this was not some hungry predator chasing them down as prey. Not today. This elderly creature had known people, and had followed them out of curiosity, not instinct.

  This was the albino lion he’d read about from the St. Louis Zoo. It had been a cub before the Event. It was an old man now.

  Ryan crouched down on his haunches. “You okay, Emme?”

  She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  “Who was your master?” he asked the lion, voice as gentle and confident as he could muster.

  The lion glanced at him, then returned to tending its wounds.

  “Fuck,” Ryan growled and ran a hand through his hair, length already long again. “What do I do with you? I can’t have you following us. Besides…” His eyes trailed onto the lion’s leg injury. The snapping bear traps were the cause of the albino’s pains. It must have shaken loose the traps on the way here. An unexpected regret filled Ryan. “What was I supposed to do, lion? Huh? What? What was I to do? You’re a wild animal. I had no idea what you were planning next. I had to protect my family, small as we are. I had to protect—”

  Ryan could have sworn the lion nodded in understanding. He felt three things in that moment, each driving him to the same action.

  “Look away, Emme.” He raised the spear in both hands. “I’m sorry, lion, I have to do this.”

  The lion turned away. The spear came down. A moan. A cough. Movement ceased. A long knife slid from Ryan’s belt sheath.

  Chapter 52

  What Ryan had hoped for all along was true. Lion tasted delicious.

  Chapter 53

  Rain was all they knew for days. Sunrise to sunset, it poured. The water level of the Meramec was close to overflowing when they reached the rail bridge. They may have been short on water a few days earlier, trapped by the elderly predator, but that time had passed. Now, they were practically drowning, making it nearly impossible to keep the blood-soaked canvas of meat that hung from the back of the wagon dry. Ditches were like small rivers. Puddles were everywhere. Their gear, the inside of the cage, even covered with a tarp, was soaked. Ryan did his best to keep Emily warm and dry within, but they wer
e forced to press on despite the angry skies. There was no other choice but to reach their destination.

  After crossing the rickety rail bridge, they followed the shores of the river west, keeping to pavement until they reached a state road. In St. Louis, Ryan had dealt with so much gridlock, cars and trash blocking the way, that navigation had been like solving a puzzle. Here, what few vehicles they came across were sitting on the shoulder as if someone had parked them there. He checked a minivan, coupe, full size truck and a bus—skeletal drivers all. No sign anyone had moved these cars other than their original drivers.

  Another peculiarity, was that all the vehicles had a consistent demarcation near the midpoint of their doors which ran parallel to the road, no matter the vehicle's angle. Above this line the paint was faded and dirty, by only a few shades off the original—however, below it the fading was worse. The black cars looked grey, red now almost pink, midnight blue turned to powder. Some of the vehicles in lower shoulders were trapped within blocks of mud, wheel wells engulfed by nature’s mortar. Both these observations became a consistent theme as they entered a working class neighborhood. At about the same height of demarcation on the cars, the ranch and converted double wide dwellings were moldy beneath, with mottled clots of dirt clinging to their siding.

  Ryan wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.

  Without their pursuer, the pace he set was much slower than before. Ryan took greater care with his agonized shoulder. Having had several balanced meals by now, and more meds, it was feeling strong again, if not waterlogged. He coughed into his free hand, feeling his chest rattle. They needed to dry themselves out or face possible pneumonia.

  “Dada, I wet.”

  “We’re both wet, sweetie,” he called back, searching for a place to take shelter. The homes here weren’t in very good condition, several of them having burned out or had their roofs collapse.

  “No it’s potty. I wet.”

  “Oh.”

  Potty training had not been going well. She’d always told him she’d tinkled well after the deed was done. This had left many yellow stains on the My Little Pony sheets inside the wagon. He cleaned them as best as he could, being someone had left nature’s shower on full, but they stank just like her dad-made panties. Even after being washed. His shoes and socks were soaked. His clothes were stuck to his skin from sweat beneath the poncho.

  He coughed again, mucus shifting in his chest. “Shelter.”

  He headed for the next house that looked to be in decent condition—a two floor, white and black farm-style home with wraparound porch, and most of all, intact chimney. Once inside, Ryan was delighted to find dry firewood stacked within a repurposed wine rack. Hanging on the wall above it was a cross made of welded iron with a sign beside it that stated: He will provide.

  They took a quick inspection of the downstairs. Hardwood floors. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. Large kitchen with chopping block island. Lots of red and black checkered deco, framed photorealistic sketches of farms and the Wild West, lots of wagons. A rodeo lasso stapled above the kitchen door. Padded leather saddle sitting in the laundry room. No food. No water. No diapers. Clothes far too big for Emme or Ryan. They made use of a pair of old leather dusters.

  “Nice place,” Ryan said, and let out a long breath. He went through the DVD collection beside the TV: Three seasons of NCIS. Quigley Down Under. Crocodile Dundee. Both the Bonanza and Laramy Box Sets. Then, incongruously, The Day the Earth Stood Still. Ryan slipped the last disk into one of their saddlebags. “A little country for my taste, but beggars can’t be choosers. Right, Emme?”

  “I like. Is dry.”

  “That it is.”

  They kicked off their boots and made themselves at home, starting a fire. It was warm and wonderful. All their clothes, gear, and food were laid out before it in order to dry. The blood-stained canvas cloth of salted lion meat was unrolled. They sat on the floor, wearing nothing but undies and western dusters, playing with a Daniel Boon jigsaw puzzle they found in the coat closet.

  A whimpering noise came from the front door. Ryan took up his pistol and peered out the blinds. He shook his head and let out a noise like a chuckle.

  “Come on in.” The door swung open.

  The spotted dog from Target hurried into the house, floppy ear covered in mud and soaked to the bone. Ryan scratched it on the neck before it found a place in front of the fire. Emily did not seem amused.

  “She won’t bite,” Ryan told her, and tossed a hunk of cooked, salted meat at the dog. “She’s just waterlogged like us. Poor girl.”

  Rain continued to pour, din so loud it was hard to think. They settled in on the floor, using old sheets as a cushion to stay near the fire. Emily was catching flies before Ryan hardly pulled the sleeping bag over them.

  “We have to be getting close,” he told himself. “We have to.”

  He woke early the next morning to find the floor wet. Water was pouring in from beneath the front and back doors. The fire had gone out. The dog seemed uneasy. Ryan put their gear back onto the wagon, woke Emily, and pulled the wagon up the stairs, barely fitting it between the inside wall and bannister. Once on the second floor, he found a set of dry sheets and put them back to bed. It was still too dark to see much outside.

  “Mild flooding, that’s all. Just a little runoff from the river. Maybe a problem since the dams aren’t being maintained, too. It’ll be gone in no time.”

  He dreamt for the first time in days, of food and endless oceans of fresh water. He dreamt of a field of wildflowers, running with arms wide as butterflies parted, garish colors exploding. He had escaped the grey world he was living in, transported. Emily and he flew a kite. Emily and he rode horses. Emily and he tossed a stick for a grubby little mutt.

  “Dada, come here,” Emily said from her place at the window, waking him from his dreams.

  His eyes creaked open. “What is it?”

  “It’s water.”

  “What?” He rubbed his face and got out of bed, draping a sheet around himself like a cloak. “Crap... Crap. Crap. Crap.” The roads outside the house were submerged. Rain continued to fall from their slate grey reservoirs. They weren’t going anywhere for a while. “Didn’t know I needed to pack a boat. This was definitely not covered in scouts.”

  “Swim?” Emily asked.

  “No, baby. Floodwater is ripe for all sorts of nasties. Your mom would know better.” He glanced back at the Hello Kitty lunch box hanging from the wagon. What would she think of all this?

  Sliding the window open, he blew the air horn in an SOS pattern—dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot. It was doubtful anyone could hear over the falling rain. This new place had turned out to be nothing more than another setback. A trip he thought would take just a few days had stretched out into a couple weeks of terrifying madness. They should have stayed at home.

  Several hours passed, the rain poured, the dog began to bark at the stairs. Unnerved, Ryan went to check.

  The water was rising, now up to the third step. The house was groaning, old wood turning soft when wet.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told Emily.

  “Promise? Right back.”

  He grinned. “Promise.” And climbed out the window onto the roof.

  The wraparound porch on the first floor had a flat grade, making it easy for him to walk around the house. Thunder boomed, lightning making the world turn white. The wind picked up as Ryan watched a huge tree float down the street.

  Approaching the corner of the house, Ryan found the structure was leaning at a severe angle, rushing waters pushing against the eastern face of the structure. He rushed back inside, used a hammer to break out the window, and pulled the wagon onto the roof, setting its brake and tying it down wherever he could.

  The house groaned again, this time, the sideways listing all the more noticeable. It was falling over.

  “Come on, Emme,” he said, crouching in the window frame with open arms. “We have to get onto the roof, now. I don’t think it�
��s safe to be inside.”

  She ran to him, and he threw a makeshift poncho over her. They climbed the steeper grade of the upper roof, feet slipping, until they reached the top of the chimney. From this vantage they could see for miles in every direction. Unprotected, rain pelted them, but there was nothing to be done for it; the house might give way at any moment. If it broke free from the foundation, the first floor would be crushed and flooded. A burgeoning torrent of water rushed against and around the failing construction as wood began to snap. Emily wrapped her arms around her Dada.

  The dog barked from out of sight.

  “Shh, shh. It’s going to be okay.” They clutched one another, heads down, keeping the rain from running off their hoods and into their ponchos. The dog barked twice. Calm was what they needed. “Want to sing, sweetie? That’ll help, right?”

  She nodded. “I sing.”

  “Yeah.” And the worst song came to mind. “The itsy bitsy spider, climbed up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out.” He could feel Emily’s fingers working beneath her poncho to make the motions. She mumbled along with him. “Up came the sun and dried up all the rain—”

  “—Rain.”

  “—and the itsy bitsy spider, climbed up the spout again.”

  They started the song over, singing louder this time. By the third repetition they were shouting into the assaulting winds and rain as if their words could push back the storm. Their whipping ponchos proved otherwise.

  “The itsy bitsy spider! Climbed up the water spout! Down came the rain! And WASHED the spider out! OUT, came the sun and DRIED UP ALL THE RAIN! And the itsy bitsy spider CLIMBED UP THE SPOUT AGAIN!”

  There was a loud crack, and the roof tilted, gentle at first but steadily worsening.

  Ryan watched the wagon fall on its side and slide out of view. The last thing he saw was Lillian’s lunch box urn as it vanished.

  His feet slipped against the asphalt shingles. He pushed back, but only slid farther down and closer to the rushing waters. A noise like a car crash came from out of view, he skidded several feet down the roof tiles, then rushed to the summit. Emily readjusted, trying to reach for the chimney to stabilize them.