Survial Kit Series (Book 1): Survival Kit's Apocalypse

by Williams, Beverly

  “I know exactly where they go,” he said. He addressed the stack of MREs: “Get in my belly!”

  sat alone in the darkness, looking at the landscape beneath me. I loved everything about being up on the lookout cliff. In time, Thom joined me, carrying two mugs of hot cocoa in one hand.

  “Thought you would like this,” he said, handing one over.

  “Absolutely! Thanks!” I burned my tongue in my eagerness to drink it. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  He shook his head. “One of those nights. I’m so damn tired, too.”

  “Stressing about the battery project?”

  Thom had been working on a solution for when our batteries ran out. They wouldn’t last forever. Jeff had assigned some people to help, but Thom would’ve been more comfortable doing all the work himself.

  “Yeah. It’s coming along.” Thom lay down on the sleeping bag I’d left on the ground beside me. “It would be easier to move everything a bit closer, but I don’t trust Brian and the others to not somehow blow up the camp. And we need more solar panels for the central charging station. I’m so tired it takes forever to unwind enough to sleep. And when I do, the dreams are… rough. I can’t drug myself to sleep every night. Well, I could, but it makes the nightmares worse.” Thom rubbed his eyes. “Doesn’t make for good restorative sleep, anyway. You have many nightmares?”

  “No one can protect me from my dreams.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He looked sad.

  “What do you dream about?” I took another sip.

  “History. Can’t talk about it all. Soon, maybe.”

  “Some, then?”

  I tried to take another drink but it was already all gone. I licked the edge of my cup, and Thom tried to hand me his half-full one. I shook my head, not wanting to deprive him of his treat, but he pressed the handle against my fingers, stealing a glance at the glow in my palms.

  “No, really. Take it. I’m good,” Thom assured me.

  I held out a hand so he could look at the muted blue lights in it while I sipped hot cocoa.

  He kept studying my palm and continued, “When I was very young, our father had some sort of accident. Massive head injury. Mom used to talk like he’d been a great guy, once upon a time. Eric even remembers Dad, what he was like before, but I have no memories of him being nice.”

  Eric hadn’t mentioned that.

  Thom continued looking at my hand, trying to connect and make sense of the glowing dots under my skin. “After the accident, he turned mean, stopped giving a damn about us, and took up drinking.”

  Thom paused, and I spoke without meaning to. “From what my mom used to tell me, my real dad was nice. No one ever accused my stepfather of being that way, though. When my dad died, I was too young to know how to tell anyone what happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “The guy who became my stepfather killed him.”

  Thom looked at me and tilted his head. I sounded as guilty as I felt, and he did the math. “You saw it?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “How?”

  “Stabbed. They never caught him. When you’re that young and you see something like that, all you can think is the same thing will happen to you if you speak up.”

  I babbled on, “Anyhow, after Dad died, Mom worried she couldn’t support us, and my stepfather was really well off by then. Mom didn’t have money, but she had a lot of land, and he wanted it—if I had to guess, I’d say that’s probably why he killed my dad. So he swooped in for my mom to lean on. She admitted to me once that she didn’t know what he was really like until after she married him, but then she was too afraid to leave him.”

  I shivered, and Thom wrapped both of my hands around the warm mug, then rolled onto his back to look up at the glittering sky.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cut you off. He took up drinking, then what?” I asked.

  “He got meaner. One day, I had just gotten home from school, and our father was having a fit. I have no idea what set him off, but he was so angry. He’d picked up a choke collar and was beating Eric with it. And that’s what I keep seeing tonight, when I close my eyes.” He was quiet for a minute, then added, “I keep remembering the look on Eric’s face when he saw me in the doorway. It was like he pulled a curtain over the pain. He told me to get started on my homework. I felt so guilty. He got more than his share of thrashings.”

  “He wanted to keep you from getting hurt.”

  “He’s done that plenty,” agreed Thom. “What happened to your mom?” he asked after a few minutes.

  “Stepfather.” Two or three more minutes passed, and I realized Thom was willing to out-wait me on this. “She didn’t last long after we moved in with him. A year and a half? A bit longer? I barely remember her.” I traced the rim of my—Thom’s—mug with my finger. “I failed her,” I muttered bitterly. “Won’t ever forget that.”

  “What do you mean? How old were you?”

  “I was six. I… screwed up. One of my stepfather’s tests. He believed firmly in consequences. I failed. She died.”

  “You didn’t fail her,” Thom said into the darkness.

  I couldn’t answer.

  “How did he kill her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. One day she was there, then she was gone—that’s not how it went, but that’s how I remember it. I only have one clear memory from then. She told me, ‘It’s for the best, anyway.’”

  “Maybe she got away from him?”

  “No. People didn’t do that.”

  “You did,” Thom pointed out.

  “Not really.”

  “Do you think she would’ve tried to come back for you?”

  “I hope not, for her sake. He used to tell me different stories about how she died. I figure the truth’s in there somewhere, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Perhaps it’s better not to.”

  “Usually is. Doesn’t keep me from being curious, though. I’d open the door and find out the answer if I could.”

  “Door?” Thom sounded confused.

  “I have these storage compartments in my brain. Memories in hallways of locked doors. Whenever I get a door opened, it’s more fodder for the Tar Pit. I guess it’s easier to leave them locked.”

  “I’ve got a few of those,” Thom admitted. “Can’t block all of it out forever.”

  “No?”

  “No. Takes more energy than you’d think, trying to control all that.” Thom pointed at the sky, and I turned my head just in time to see the last flash of a shooting star. He continued, “I know this is true, but it doesn’t keep me from struggling against remembering, too.”

  “I keep thinking one of these days, I’ll get a door open, and something good and important will be waiting there. The notion’s so stupid. Why would I lock up anything like that?”

  “If you did, your mind probably knows you’re not ready for whatever it is yet.” Thom threw a rock over his head, over the edge of the cliff, and we listened for it to hit the water below. Plunk-splash.

  “Have you ever had a good one unlock?” I asked.

  “One, sort of. It’s more like… wisps of a memory of a dream. A feeling, really. Most of it is still missing, but over time, new pieces have been unveiled. I figure when the time is right, another piece of it will become clear. Or not. But it’s there.”

  “What’s it like? Remembering good?”

  “Remembering wasn’t an easy, happy time, for sure. Some of the pieces attached to the memory were difficult. But that was for the—” Thom stopped himself.

  “For the best, anyway? I know. Gets stuck in your head, doesn’t it? My stepfather’s words had a way of doing that, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I responded.

  “It was necessary. Remembering. Don’t give up hope. If my mind stored away something good for later, I bet yours has too. Let me know when you find it? After processing?”

  “I’ll try. You too?”

  “Yes.” Thom staye
d awhile, then stifled a yawn. “I’m going to try again at bed.”

  “Go forth and dream good dreams!” I told him, placing my hand on his forehead like a mystic.

  He laughed, picked up the empty mugs, and sauntered away down the path.

  I looked out again. All was still except for Thom heading to bed, a shadow in the night.

  Twenty minutes later I saw the same shadow in reverse as Thom returned to me. He shook his head when he arrived, then he lay down on my sleeping bag. I sat beside him, absently stroking his hair as I looked out over the land. Soon, his breathing became slower and deeper. He stayed there, sleeping, until a little after the sun rose.

  Eric’s PW shift followed mine, and I stayed on with him. I lounged on the ground beside him, rearranging pebbles.

  “What do you remember about your dad? Before his accident, I mean,” I asked.

  Eric surveyed the outside lines of the fields for movement. “He was a great guy. He’s the one who got me into carpentry. We built this amazing multi-tree treehouse. Nothing standard on it. One of the ways out of it was a zip line directly to my second-story bedroom window. So cool. We kept adding on to it. Eventually Mattie joined us and tried to help out a bit, but he was too young.

  “Dad took us camping a lot. Hiking, too. He was good with cars and tried to teach me about engines, but it wasn’t my thing. Mattie used to hang out with him in the garage, but I don’t know if he remembers any of that.

  “One winter, he took us sledding at a golf course near our house. They had a huge hill. Dad dragged a rowboat over and piled us all into it like it was our sled. He hauled that thing up the hill at least a couple dozen times. Must’ve been exhausting, but he was so happy. The whole family was together, and we had an amazing time.

  “Then we went home and found the power had gone out. We sat by the fireplace and sang and our parents told stories, and we popped corn for supper. That’s the best day we all had together.”

  Eric stood and turned slowly, looking out for threats to the camp. I stood up as well and dusted myself off.

  “Sounds great,” I said wistfully. “Wish I had something like that to remember my parents by.”

  “Well, what about the farmer? I know he never tried to be a father figure to you or anything, but—”

  “No, I get what you mean. It never felt like we were connected as family. He and I did have some fun adventures, though. He liked to tempt fate a bit. He wasn’t exactly law-abiding, but the farmer was a good man.

  “His transgressions were fairly minor. He liked to catch fresh scallops and dig clams, and he never bothered to get a license to do so. He’d take me out scalloping in a boat and tell me, ‘Be ready to dump everything—scallops and supplies; all the evidence—over the side if you see anyone at all!’” I grinned, and Eric laughed.

  “We got stuck out on the water once—threw a cotter pin,” I said.

  Eric had a blank look.

  “A little cylinder of metal, like a nail that’s been sawn off at both ends?” I clarified, and he nodded, understanding the visual. “Need that so the propeller will spin. We were in a fiberglass boat, too, so there were hardly any nails. And we had one oar. I didn’t mind being adrift at sea, though. I knew the farmer would come up with a creative solution. Sure enough, he found a stray nail and somehow bit the end off. Then he put it in and we were on our way again.”

  “He sounds like a really cool guy,” Eric commented.

  “He was. He used to take me bombing across the sand bar in his old truck at low tide. Always said if the truck got stuck, he’d just leave the thing behind. It never did get stuck, but he would’ve been able to get it out if that happened. Farmer could do anything he set his mind to.” I laughed and shuddered at the same time. “He used to take me clamming barefoot. There were gigantic worms in the mud out there. Enormous worms crawling between my toes? That’s a sensation I’ll never forget.”

  I stopped, stood very still, and squinted. I’d seen movement. Eric looked where I was looking, and finally shook his head and turned around. It was probably a squirrel or a bird. We stood arm to arm, facing opposite directions, and we were quiet for a long time. Then Eric spoke.

  “I killed him.” He paused, then tacked on, “Our dad.”

  I saw Eric look my way, in the periphery of my vision. I stood placidly watching the clouds in the distance as they began releasing rain in a grayish diagonal haze.

  He continued, “He hadn’t turned or anything. It was a few years before this shit happened.” Eric kicked his feet around so some of the small rocks on the big ledge rolled downhill. “He had this friend, right? I don’t know how they met or anything. But his friend liked to…” Eric stopped.

  I turned my head to see him staring at the ground. He looked so very far away. I took hold of his hand. His other hand clenched tightly, making a fist. I looked out across the land once more.

  He spoke again. “This guy really liked Thom. Liked him, like… he liked little boys. Mattie and I were too old for him to care about. Hell, we never even met the guy. He’s the one who called off the cops so they wouldn’t look into Mom’s death, and afterward, he repeatedly told Dad, ‘You owe me big time.’ So at some point our dad showed him our pictures, and the guy picked Thommy out and said he was the one. So he had Thom. I don’t know how many times. He raped Thom while Dad watched, and Mattie and me…” He pulled the back of his hand across his face and swiped at the tears, pulling my hand up and down with his in the process. “Mattie and I didn’t know about it. But one day, Dad had passed out drunk in his chair. Thom started crying and he told us about the things that man did to him.

  “Something finally clicked into place. I decided we’d had enough. I grabbed a whiskey bottle and smacked it as hard as I could on the back of our father’s head, like a baseball bat. He crashed from the chair to the floor. I think he was already gone then, but I kept hitting him on the head with the bottle. I wanted to repay him for all the shitty things he’d done to us, especially for what he was doing to Thom. Mattie and I tried to stage it to look like self-defense, like Mom. No one seemed to care. Guess the general apathy of the local police worked in our favor for once.”

  Eric went quiet again.

  We stood, silently keeping watch until our turn was up, then walked to a secluded spot in the woods. We sat beneath a sprawling tree and Eric hugged his knees.

  I finally broke the silence. “You did right.” I put an arm around him and pulled a little, to bring him closer.

  He lay down and put his head on my lap. I stroked his hair.

  “You did a real good thing,” I told him.

  Thom and I were scouting along the near-silent river. We discovered a small, neat house. It was clean inside, mostly empty, and devoid of anything rotting. A vacation cottage, perhaps. And it had a baby grand piano.

  I sat down at the piano and stared at its glossy black surface. I looked over to see Thom gazing out through the sliding glass doors and fingering a small crucifix on the wall. I’ve never liked those. Why would you want a dead man hanging from a cross in your home? So many people had them. I wondered about what the cross and its tiny savior meant to Thom. I watched him, thinking, Rule #10: You can’t completely know another person. I knew he was carrying something heavy; now it looked like he was going to be crushed by its weight. He was ready to talk.

  “Thom?”

  “Hmm?” he answered absently.

  I patted the bench I was sitting on. He pulled the cross from the wall and brought it along, squeezing onto the black lacquered seat beside me.

  I studied the Jesus figure, the placement of the nails in his palms. That wasn’t where the nails belonged. I’d seen a body nailed up like that, and the nails tore through, and the body had fallen. Don’t think about it. Wrists. Those nails belonged through his wrists. Don’t. I read the letters inscribed on a tiny sign at the top of the cross. “INRI.” Just initials—another version of Jesus’ name.

  I reached out to touch one of the tiny C
hrist’s hands, then let my hand fall to my lap. Thom and I sat quietly together, and I waited.

  I nudged him with my elbow.

  Thom spoke. “There are themes, echoes all through my life. I keep thinking I’ve escaped stuff only to find it’d simply been misplaced. It all seems to keep coming back around, even with the world being different. Is that how all lives work?”

  “Perhaps. Mine feels that way.”

  “I remember things I thought I’d forgotten, but I don’t know how I can know I’ve forgotten something if I can’t remember it until I remember it.”

  His words were a bit convoluted, but I could relate.

  “And then there are these things that are always with me. I can’t make them go away.” He spat out a few choice words, punctuating each of his swears by striking a piano key. “Sometimes I wish they would drive me insane just so I could get out of my own head.”

  Thom took a shaky breath, and I nodded. Go on.

  “When I was a little kid, I didn’t understand these.” He lifted the crucifix slightly, then let it fall back down. “I mean, I guess I don’t really get them still. But at least then, they had no meaning for me, until he came along…” Thom continued speaking and both of us stared at the little Jesus on his cross. Thom told me about what had happened to him, every piece he could remember.

  “Eric and Matthew know about that. Well, some of it. But they never had any part of it. They never met him.” Thom looked anguished. “There’s more to remember, and I don’t want to.”

  I was incensed at the people who had hurt Thom. I hated those men as much as I hated my stepfather and his friends. It made me sick, what they had done, and what they’d made Thom do.

  I didn’t feel sickened by Thom, though. He seemed to worry I would. I wrapped my arms around his middle and pulled tight. He put an arm around me hesitantly, as if he couldn’t believe I’d still want to touch him after learning everything he’d told me. His hesitancy didn’t last. Thom put his other arm around me and leaned against me and held on as tightly to me as I’d been holding on to him. I wished I could grow more arms, that I could be like the Hindu deity Durga, so I could hold him and protect him and comfort him with them all.