by Joshua Gayou
I was quiet a moment while I worked up the courage to say the next thing. “I don’t know how to say this, really. When I shot that man, I was excited. I felt this intense rush, like, ‘Fuck you! I own you, bitch!’ That feeling, more than anything else, is what scares the hell out of me.”
Billy hefted his shotgun and held it out to me. “Hold onto this a second.”
“What?”
“Just take it a minute for me.”
I did. He went to the truck and dug around in one of the plastic bins. I heard the deep clink of a liquid filled bottle. He came back with two plastic cups and a bottle of some sort of hard liquor. “Jim Beam,” he said, “the cheap kind, sorry. I have some better stuff where we’re going. This’ll have to do for now.”
He sat back down and poured us both some cups. He offered me one and took back his shotgun. He saluted me with his cup and took a drink. I did the same, coughed, and shivered.
“Hijole, that’s nasty,” I gasped.
“You get used to it,” he said. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “What you’re dealing with, what’s bothering you right now? It’s a pretty natural thing. In fact, if it wasn’t eating at you I’d be a little worried. It doesn’t make it any easier for you to deal with, of course, but it’s still a normal reaction.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve got this book in the library of the cabin…”
“You have a library?” I said, giggling.
“Yes, I have a damned library. It’s nothing crazy; just an office with a bunch of books on the wall. May I continue?”
“Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He took another drink and snarled. “Oof. This is pretty horrible. So anyway, this book is called ‘On Killing’ by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman.”
“Ugh, that sounds lovely,” I said.
“Yeah, I know, but stay with me. He spends a lot of time examining the act of killing and how it impacts people; mostly from the perspective of the soldier on the battlefield. His point is that the vast majority of the population, 98% or so, has this instinctive, hard wired resistance to killing its own kind. By and large, unless their life is directly threatened, the act of killing another human is just something they wouldn’t be able to do.
“Now, this makes sense from the perspective of evolution. The ability to easily murder your own kind without any sort of psychological trauma isn’t all that conducive to the preservation of the species. Mother nature has made it so that it’s just really hard to kill something that looks like you.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Ninety-eight percent? How can that be? Our prisons were overflowing with murderers.”
“Well, yes,” he agreed. “But a lot of those murderers came from a culture and society that had been systematically dehumanizing those around them from the time they were able to start watching TV. On top of that, the prisons may have been crowded but the numbers were still well within the limits of Grossman’s data. Look at this: the population of the United States was some 320 million when The Flare hit, right?”
“If you say so,” I said.
“It was. So 98% of that is…uh – three hundred thirteen million, six hundred thousand. Or in other words: six million, four hundred thousand people in the United States were capable of killing without any real remorse or psychological impact, according to Grossman.”
“Well, okay. I’m going to assume all those numbers are correct,” I mumbled and took a drink.
“Oh, they are. I’m good with numbers,” he said, winked, and took a drink of his own. He opened the bottle up and poured some more for himself.
“I thought you said this stuff was horrible?” I asked.
“Yap, just making sure, though. Want some more?”
“Yes, please,” I said while holding out my cup.
“Alright, now the last time I looked up the numbers on this was because I was giving a presentation to the council on this subject in relation to violent crime and some local initiatives to get our youth off the streets – early intervention…that kind of thing. In the whole of the United States, there were 2.3 million people in lock up. That’s everyone: local, state, and federal prisons both convicted and not convicted. Keep in mind; those aren’t all killers. A lot of them were drugs, burglary, assault, and so on.”
“So that means that Grossman’s two percent estimate is a little high versus what reality actually is. The bottom line is that most people have a hard time killing other people without walking away from it psychologically damaged.”
“Are you saying I’m experiencing PTSD?” I asked.
“I’m nowhere near qualified to make that kind of diagnosis,” Billy said seriously. “I am saying that we were in the process of learning that the symptoms of PTSD were much more normal and natural than anyone in history was previously willing to admit. I am also saying that this new world that we find ourselves in is a lot more like what our Neolithic ancestors experienced. Killing is going to become normal again and will become easy if we let it be so. I believe it’s going to be important for all of us to understand that and to understand the psychological impacts that killing has on the killer, especially what happens to a person when they become numb to the act. We need to understand all that if there’s to be any hope of holding onto what little society we have left and not devolving into a bunch of shitheads. Given enough exposure, a human can become used to anything. That’s just basic brain chemistry.”
We both took sips from our cups and exhibited various levels of distaste for the contents.
“So…” I began, looking into my cup at nothing in particular, “what does Mr. Grossman say about coping?”
“He said that mental processing of the killing happens in stages. The killing itself is typically an automatic response, as in something you don’t even think about at the time. Following that is the elation or euphoria you described. Later there is a period of remorse to work through and, if you’re lucky, this will be followed by rationalization and acceptance. Working through these issues, you’ll come to realize that you have a natural, God given right to defend yourself and the lives of your loved ones, which is what you did today.”
“So I’m doing the remorse phase right now, huh?”
“More or less.”
“How long do these stages last?”
“It’s different for everyone. Some people don’t even make it all the way through to acceptance.” He turned to face me. “The important thing to remember is that you’re not alone. We’re all going through this; learning how to deal with it. We’re here with you and we’re here for you.”
I reached out to squeeze his forearm. It was thicker than I expected it to be. “Thanks,” I said. “How about you? Are you working through all of this okay?”
“Am,” he confirmed. “But, I regret to report that sleep patterns will most likely continue to be effected. Can’t say for how long. I’m pretty new to the whole thing myself.”
I became mildly curious as to how many people Billy had killed since he’d been on the road but didn’t bother asking. It seemed like a pointless and idiotic question.
10 – Road Trip
Amanda
“Ow…”
I woke up the next morning to (or maybe I was awakened by) the sound of Jake just outside our tent signaling his discomfort with a flat and emotionless “ow”. I was disoriented at first. Billy had eventually turned in for a few hours the night before while I stayed outside working through my problems. Sometime later, I heard him moving around inside the tent. He came back out, smacking his lips, and told me to go get some sleep. I was finally able to by then (the whiskey had helped) and I don’t remember very much past laying down that second time. I don’t know what time it was when I did go to sleep but it seemed to me that I had slept only an instant before the sound of Jake’s voice had me up again.
Lying on my back, I reached out with my right hand, ran it over slippery, cold nylon, and felt an elbow. Elizabeth was still there with me asleep
in her bag. I rolled onto my left side and saw the Tavor. Satisfied that all was as I had left it, I sat up, grabbed the rifle, checked the safety, and exited the tent.
Billy and Jake were just outside. They were both sitting in chairs facing each other, with Jake’s hand resting on Billy’s knee. In front of Billy on the ground was a small box with a blue bottle of disinfectant and some bloody cotton swabs. Billy was working on the back of Jake’s hand with a hook needle, needle-nose pliers, and some black suture thread.
“Morning, boys,” I said.
“Hey, Little Sis.”
“Good mor-NING!” Jake said as a new stitch was begun.
“Anything for breakfast?” I asked.
“Sure,” Billy said. “Have a look in the pantry.”
I went to the truck bed, which was looking a lot emptier this morning. I realized Billy must have redistributed some items over to the Jeep, which surprised me because I hadn’t heard anything; I must have really been out. I noticed the gun bag was gone but many of the infamous plastic bins were still there. He must have picked these up sometime after he met Jake but he’d had them for as long as I knew him. They were large, plastic containers about two foot by three foot – the basic three gallon bins that you could find at just about any home store. Billy had a few of these all labeled in black Sharpie as though they were areas in a house. There was one that said “kitchen”, another that said “tool shed”, and even one that said “bathroom”, which is where he kept items like the toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and toilet paper. He’d even managed to pack away different brands of deodorant in this container.
Such things may seem trivial in a survival situation, but I’m here to tell you: we were all grateful Billy had the sense to grab these items when he saw them. We were all pretty close in together at various points of our day to day lives and the ability to not smell like animals was a real bonus. It made it a lot easier for us all to get along. You don’t spend much time thinking about something as basic as a stick of deodorant, but just try going without it for a few days. When your pits start maintaining a base layer of greasy sweat (if they’re not just dripping outright), a speed stick becomes the only thing you can think about.
I pulled the lid off the bin marked “pantry” and dug around in it. The MRE rations were starting to get low, mostly because (I suspected) they were just so convenient. All we had to do was mix in a little water to get that chemical heater fired up and in a few minutes the food was ready to go. Even if some of the meals tasted like boiled cardboard, it was hard to argue with. I pulled out a bag of Maple Sausage breakfast.
“Can I get you two anything?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Nah. We both ate already. You go ahead, Little Sis.”
There was a jug of water on the ground by the guys, probably used to clean Jake’s wound. “Can I steal some of that?” I asked. Billy nodded; he was bent nearly double over Jake’s hand while tying a knot. I got my food pack set up, leaned it against a rock, and claimed a chair (two additional chairs had been put out for when Lizzy and I finally woke up). I messed around with the positioning of the rifle in my lap; it dangled on its sling much more comfortably than it rested on my legs in a narrow chair.
“How you feeling, Jake?” I asked.
“Better,” he said, sounding refreshed. “Standing up can get a little hairy; I get dizzy spells and sometimes a wave of nausea if I move too quickly, but the headache seems to be all gone. My head is still sore and bruised where the guy cracked it but that’s just surface area. It only hurts if I touch it.”
“Any cognitive issues?” Billy asked without looking up.
Jake was quiet for a moment. Then, in answer, he began to recite the alphabet in reverse at slow but regular intervals. “Z…y…x…w…v…u…t…s…r…q – yeah, I think I’m good. I couldn’t get past X when I tried last night.”
“Nice,” Billy said and you could hear the smile in his voice. “Those dizzy spells say you still gotta take it easy but the rest of it is good news.”
I heard more movement from our tent. Elizabeth was stirring.
“So what are the plans for today?” I asked.
“Road trip,” Billy said promptly. “If it’s all the same to everyone else, I’m reversing my earlier position about taking our time. I’d like to avoid encounters with any more assholes if at all possible.”
“We do know how to help protect against that, now…” Jake said.
Billy sighed and looked up from his work. “You’re correct that we should have cleared the warehouse. You’re wrong that it was your fault.” The exchange had the sound of an argument that they had worn out before I woke up.
“Agree to disagree,” Jake returned.
“Stubborn…” Billy muttered under his breath. He cut the thread with his pocket knife, put his tools aside, and disinfected the area. He began to wrap the hand up in a bandage and said, “You’re pretty damned lucky this was just skin. There’s plenty of tendon back there; she could have crippled your hand.”
“Can I make a suggestion before we hit the road?” I asked.
“Sure,” Jake said. “What’s up?”
“I know this area. There’s a Walmart just down the way, maybe five or ten minutes.” I pointed south down the 15 to emphasize. “We have a long way to drive. We need some tunes.”
Jake’s mouth quirked in what I could have sworn was the shadow of a smile.
Billy grimaced: “Uh, well, I dunno. I don’t want us to split up anymore and I don’t want to leave the vehicles alone outside. Anyone could just walk up to the truck and help themselves. It’s risky. We don’t know if there’s anyone in the store…”
“Billy…” Jake said. Billy stopped talking and looked to Jake. “Music is necessary.”
I realize now how correct that statement is. We came pretty close to being wiped out as a species – I guess we still could be. Vaccines don’t exist anymore so something could come along and finish us off, I suppose. The winters up here are pretty touch-and-go sometimes, too.
Even so, after two years our little community has slowly grown and is beginning to thrive, which gives me hope and tells me that humans aren’t done. The Plague wiped out whatever was left over after the Flare did its damage and only a very small percentage remains, which means that creative expression was effectively halted. The development of the arts (as in music, movies, writing, or visual work such as paintings) was at a full stop in those early days. Now obviously, these things aren’t at an end - humans have been creating music, telling stories, and doodling on cave walls ever since we learned how to make fire. But at that time, as we all sat out in our camp site, the world might never see the composition of a new song, as far as we could tell. I think Jake and I both were a little homesick for our culture, not because we had been without it for so long but because we knew we would have to be without it for so long.
“Music…is necessary, yes,” Billy finally agreed having been infected.
“It’s not just the music,” I added. When they both looked at me, I elaborated. “You’ve done a fine job covering all the essentials in your kit, Billy, but those essentials apply mostly to men. There are some…uh…gaps to fill.” I grimaced and rolled my eyes at the unfortunate choice of wording.
Billy slapped his forehead. “Of course you need…I’m sorry. That never even occurred to me.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Aside from that, I was thinking we could grab some things for Lizzy to keep her entertained. Maybe some toys or coloring books if we can find them.”
They both nodded and Billy said, “Absolutely.”
“This time,” Jake said, “You’ll go with Lizzy and Amanda into the store and I’ll stay with the trucks. I think we’ve seen that Amanda is more than capable of handling herself…more capable than me, really. I seem to get soundly beat up every time I get into a fight.”
“You sure you can handle that?” Billy asked, pointing to his temple and gesturing over to Jake’s head in the same motion.
>
It sounded a little condescending to my ears but Jake didn’t seem to take it that way at all. “Yes, I’m good. I’m actually doing better right now if I can stay in one place rather than walking around. I don’t think my inner ear is quite right yet. We’ll move all the critical items like food and water from the truck to the back of the Jeep where they can be locked inside. I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Lizzy picked that time to emerge from the tent. Her hair stuck out in wild directions. She slept hard as a general rule and yesterday had been rough. “Hey, everyone,” she said and floated into the last empty chair.
“Good morning, Girly!” Billy said.
“Kiddo…” Jake added.
I got up and started doing what Elizabeth calls “Momming”. I got some plates and forks out of the “kitchen” and a bottle of water to share between us. “Here, Mija, have some breakfast.” I divided the meal equally between us (I have a hard time finishing off a whole MRE by myself; there’s a lot more in them than you’d think).
While we ate, Billy hauled the duffel bag out of the back of the Jeep and set it on the ground in front of him.
“Losing the van was a bummer but we’re not entirely bereft,” he said as he unzipped it. He reached in a pulled out one of the rifles.
“What all is in there?” Jake asked, leaning forward to look in.
“There’re four rifles: three AR types and an AK. We have more ammo for the ARs than we do the AK; I almost didn’t grab the AK because I didn’t want to lug an extra type of ammo on the road but the rifle is so damned reliable that I couldn’t pass it up. Aside from that we have a few assorted pistols in 9 mm and some essential accessories.”
“More reliable than these other rifles, huh?” Jake said.