The Last Bastion

by K. W. Callahan

  “You talk kinda funny,” Louise looked up at Marta.

  Marta looked down at the little one, “So do you,” she smiled. “Now let’s wash sand off your hands.”

  “Ooh…the water’s cold,” Louise shivered as she knelt at the river’s edge and dipped her hands into the water, rubbing them together.

  “You should try falling into it,” Marta breathed softly, more as a comment to herself.

  Once Louise had thoroughly rinsed her hands free from sand, Marta took one of the little girl’s hands in hers. Hand-in-hand, they walked together from beneath the deck and up the side of the riverbank beside the roadhouse. Louise was about the only distraction that Marta had found since the Carchar Syndrome outbreak that almost completely took her mind off the situation that had befallen the world. Nothing else, not men, not even alcohol, had the same effect on her over the past few months.

  As the two walked around the corner of the roadhouse through the gravel parking area, still holding hands, Marta noticed the roadhouse’s front door standing wide open. She huffed, shaking her head in dismay. They had agreed that they would keep the door closed. When the door was open, it let cold air inside, which caused them to burn more wood in the woodstove to heat the place. And it was especially frustrating when they were already low on wood to start with. She figured that Brandon, leaving in a huff to find wood after his argument with Cara, had left the door unsecured.

  Louise picked up on Marta’s huffed sigh. “Door open,” she shook her head in dismay. “Not supposed to leave it open.”

  “You know it. I know it. But…” Marta left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to disparage Louise’s parents in front of the little one. But Louise picked up the torch for her.

  “But Mommy and Daddy, well, they don’t listen very good sometimes,” she said matter-of-factly. “They talk good, but they just don’t listen very good.”

  Marta giggled softly, but then caught herself. “Now, now. It’s not nice to say bad things about your parents. They are good people.”

  While Marta agreed with the little one’s observation, she didn’t want to be the cause of any more strife than already existed within the family.

  “Let’s get you warm inside, little one,” Marta led Louise through the door. “Your hands like ice.”

  They entered a quite different roadhouse than the one they’d left. It was very quiet. Gone was the arguing and raised voices they’d left a half hour earlier.

  Marta led Louise over to the swinging door leading into the kitchen. She knocked softly and waited, just in case there were some reconciliatory activities going on inside. Not getting a response, she pushed the door open. Halfway into the kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks, instantly pushing Louise back behind her. She pushed her so hard in fact that Louise stumbled backward several steps and then plopped down on her butt. She sat, dumbfounded on the barroom floor, not having seen what Marta had seen.

  “Stay outside!” Marta commanded Louise, not wanting the little girl to see her parents in their half-eaten state.

  Marta wished that she hadn’t seen what she’d seen either. But there was no denying it was there and it had to be dealt with. From her coat pocket, she pulled one of the two handguns she now carried. Then she aimed and fired at one of four biters crouched over the lifeless and partially eaten corpses of Cara and Brandon. She quickly and accurately fired a round into each of the biters, killing all but one of them instantly. She fired an extra round into the one that remained alive, finishing it off as well.

  Marta stood for a moment, absorbing the entirety of the situation.

  She and Louise were now completely on their own.

  CHAPTER 10

  The dawn arrived with a chilly drizzle of rain and a dense layer of fog that blanketed the river and surrounding landscape.

  During a break in the rain, the Blenders straggled out from inside their tent or from beneath their canoes with the first rays of light. Only the kids had gotten some semblance of a decent night’s sleep. Everyone else woke up stiff as boards from a combination of the prior day’s paddling, sitting in hard-seated boats all day, and sleeping – or at least trying to sleep – on the hard ground all night.

  “That was fun,” Ms. Mary said to Michael sarcastically as he exited the tent. She stood just outside the tent entrance, moving herself slowly, stretching arms, legs, back, neck – just about anything that would or could move – in an effort to work out the kinks.

  “How much sleep did you get?” Michael yawned, stretched, and then recoiled in pain as sore muscles rebuffed his attempt at moving them.

  “Not enough,” Ms. Mary said. “You?”

  “Me neither,” Michael shook his head, walking away slowly to find a private place to relieve himself downriver. “I thought sleeping in the tower was bad. This puts that to shame,” he called back over his shoulder as he walked. “I’m too old for this.”

  “Join the club!” Ms. Mary called back.

  Others piddled out of the tent one or two at a time, each repeating similarly choreographed movements in an effort to loosen stiff muscles.

  For the group, it quickly became apparent that the off-and-on rain meant that it would be a lost day, although, in the grand scheme of things, not all that much was really lost. It wasn’t as though they were in any sort of hurry to reach St. Louis. And life was no longer based on the hustle and bustle of work, shopping, the latest news updates, online banking, and planning for the future. Instead, life was now just that – life, and the art of living. Living to see another day was the main objective. Their “work” wasn’t related to a 9-5 job, but rather keeping things sanitary, scavenging for food and other useable supplies, and focusing on meal preparation. There were no grocery stores to get to. Retirement savings could be counted in the number of canned goods, dried foods, bullets, and fuel that remained. Little more could be planned for than tomorrow’s menu. There was no news other than the occasional check of the radio to see if there was any new signal to pick up, which there never was. They had lost the signal supposedly being transmitted from Saint Louis, but it didn’t matter. Whether there were people there or not, that’s where the Blenders were headed.

  On such a rainy day, time crawled by almost imperceptibly. The Blenders tried to make the best of things, reading from what few books they had brought with them, playing games – mostly card games since cards were small, light, and easy to carry – and talking. Ms. Mary, Caroline, Julia, and Josh made another batch of tuna fish salad, and they prepped some other food items for grab-and-go type meals once they were on the river again.

  For lunch, Ms. Mary and her cooking crew offered two options. First, there was peanut butter on crackers with a small serving of canned mandarin oranges. The second option was Ms. Mary’s version of an apocalyptic Reuben sandwich – canned corned beef sliced into tiny squares, placed between saltine crackers with a dab of canned sour kraut and a dollop of Thousand Island dressing on each tiny ‘sandwich’. Five of these small sandwiches were served to each taker along with a couple slices of canned peaches.

  The selection of food options from the group was about fifty-fifty. The kids mostly went with peanut butter crackers. Most of the adults were pleased with Ms. Mary’s take on the Reuben.

  After lunch, during a break in the drizzling rain, Charla and Wendell went to explore the island. During their search, they came to a point on its south end where a large tree had come to rest, floodwaters having deposited it half on the island shore, half still jutting out into the river. The two climbed atop its shore-bound portion to sit.

  They sat in silence for a few moments before Charla asked, “How you holding up?”

  She was referencing Wendell having been out on the open water for the majority of the previous day.

  “Freaking fantastic,” Wendell frowned. “You?”

  “Well, other than a pretty piss-poor sleep last night, and being kind of hungry for something more than appetizers, I’m doing okay,” Charla shrugged. “I mean,
I’m certainly not reveling in this new situation, but I think we’re making the best of it, all things considered.”

  “Huh,” Wendell scoffed. “You really think so?”

  “Well, yeah,” Charla frowned with uncertainty. “I mean, don’t you? I know things aren’t like they used to be, but…”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Wendell snorted. “Nowhere close.”

  “At least this spot is pretty,” Charla conceded, gesturing around them at the serene natural beauty of the river, its gurgling waters swirling around the tree on which they sat.

  “Yeah, lovely day,” Wendell raised his eyes to the sky sarcastically.

  “I suppose the weather could be better, but it’s still pretty,” she took his hand in hers.

  “Can’t imagine the Chicago area weather not cooperating,” Wendell shook his head, laying his sarcasm on even thicker.

  “Listen, I’m trying here,” Charla released his hand.

  “Trying to do what?” Wendell frowned. “Have a picnic in the apocalypse?”

  “Trying to break through to you. You’ve been like this since the outbreak started, so distant, so down, so…pissy,” she blurted out. She didn’t mean to, but she just couldn’t help it. She felt like she was walking on eggshells every time she was around her husband, and she was tired of it. It was exhausting, more exhausting than everything they were going through. The end of the world as they’d known it was bad enough, but somehow, she could bear it if Wendell was by her side. But he wasn’t. He was somewhere else. It was like she didn’t even know who he was anymore.

  “Trying to break through to me? Hell, it seems like I’ve been trying to break through to you for the past few months. It was like once you met Chris, I was dog shit to you. I didn’t even matter anymore.”

  “Wendell, you know that’s not true,” Charla said.

  “If it wasn’t true, or it didn’t feel like it was true, I wouldn’t have said it.”

  “So this is still about Chris?”

  “No,” Wendell said vehemently. “It’s about you. It’s always been about you. I don’t care about Chris. You’re the one I care about…the only one I care about.”

  “So you did let him die,” Charla said softly, almost as if it was a revelation to herself. “You did, didn’t you?”

  Wendell looked at her. “I can’t believe you just asked me that,” he said in wonderment. “What do you think?” he added after a moment. “Do you think I let him die?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked if I knew for sure.”

  “You really still think that I’d let him die on purpose? After all this time, that’s what you think of me? You think that I’m that type of person, that I’m that callous, that uncaring, that shallow?”

  Suddenly it was Charla who was put on the defensive. “Well…I…no, but…” she shook her head. “I just…”

  “You just what? Deep down in your heart you just think that I’m a cold blooded murderer?”

  “No, Wendell,” Charla threw her hands up in exasperation. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, what did you mean?”

  “It’s not the same thing…what you let happen, or what happened to Chris I mean.”

  Wendell snorted. “What I let happen?!” he cried incredulously.

  “I didn’t mean that…I meant…well, I just didn’t know if…” Charla stumbled, confused, not knowing exactly what she meant now.

  “Listen, there was obviously no love lost between me and Chris. That much was obvious. Of course, at the time, I was operating under the assumption that he was into you, and apparently vice versa, so there was going to be tension. But if anything, I wasn’t upset with him, I was upset with you. How could I blame him for being attracted to you? It wasn’t his fault you are beautiful, charming, witty, intelligent, funny, and sweet. How could I blame him for being attracted to a woman that’s all that…the whole package? I was upset with you for the reciprocal feelings you so blatantly exhibited. Sure, I didn’t like him. Who would like having to see their wife prancing around with the guy they assumed was the rival for his wife’s affections all day? You can’t blame me for that. But I would never sacrifice a human life because of it. I want you to be happy. And if someone else makes you happier than I do, then that’s what you deserve. Why would I want to stand in the way of that? It wouldn’t be good for anyone. You’d end up resenting me for the misery you felt at not being with your true love. I’d end up full of animosity for the person I wanted to love but who didn’t love me. And Chris would have been denied a chance at love with the most wonderful woman on the face of the planet. Or at least that’s what I thought before I knew he was gay. All of us would have suffered, rather than just me. You know I’m a realist. Why compound the misery of one person three fold? I saved Chris once before when I could have let him die. And I would have done it again had I been able to get a clear shot. But what if I had taken that shot and hit Chris. What would you have thought then?”

  Charla nodded, silently considering.

  “Right,” Wendell went on. “You see, I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. If Chris died, you’d blame me either way. I knew that. Pair that uncertainty with the chaotic situation down there in the basement, and before I had a shot that I was sure wouldn’t hit Chris, he was already dead.”

  Charla had never considered the situation this way before. And now that she did, she could totally see Wendell’s point of view.

  “But now that you know that Chris was gay, you’re still like this. Still moping around dejectedly. Why?” Charla asked.

  “Because I knew that this was in you. That you secretly harbored some sort of resentment or blame for my part in Chris’ death. Knowing that you felt this way was probably what hurt me more than anything…or at least as much as all the rest of it. After our years together, that we hadn’t built a strong enough relationship for you to know me better than that. That’s what truly hurt. It’s like you were taking his side, even after his death, rather than taking mine and helping me to cope with what happened in the tower basement that day. It hasn’t been easy, you know. Seeing someone die like that is horrible enough. Having your wife blame you for it is something else altogether.”

  The revelation startled Charla. Not only to find out that Wendell didn’t want Chris to die, but that Charla holding him responsible for Chris’ death had affected him in this way, surprised and saddened her.

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” she looked away, her mouth open as she pondered a better response.

  The realization that how she viewed Wendell’s feelings toward Chris were as much to blame for Chris’ death as Wendell’s inaction itself, hit her hard. And Wendell was right. She should have known her own husband better than that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said more determinedly this time. She reached over and took Wendell’s hand again. “I am. And I’m going to prove it to you. I’ve been extremely selfish, and I realize that now. You deserved better…deserve better. And I’m going to show you just how much I appreciate you…if you’ll let me that is.”

  “It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Wendell turned to smile at her. “When we’re together and on the same page, we make such a great team…an undefeatable team. Feeling as though you were against me was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. It’s worse than the apocalypse,” he gave a little laugh. “I could deal with all this. I might not like it, but I can deal with it, as long as you’re by my side. Without you, without your love, your trust, your understanding, what’s the point?”

  Charla couldn’t help but smile hearing Wendell’s words. Her heart ached from the pain she’d apparently caused him, but at the same time, it swelled with pride that after it all, the man she loved continued to love her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said once more. She knew it wasn’t enough, but for Wendell, it was all he needed to hear.

  * * *

  “You all right over there?” Michael called to Patrick where he was bent beside a tree, heaving his lunch onto the
island sand.

  “Ugh,” Patrick groaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know if some of that corned beef in our sandwiches was spoiled or what, but something definitely didn’t agree with me.”

  “Obviously,” his dad retorted with a snort. “Looks like it’s still not agreeing with you. Waste of food,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t see anybody else spewing their food all over the ground.”

  “Believe me, it’s not intentional,” Patrick gave a couple more dry heaves and then righted himself from his bent position. He took a couple deep breaths and then nodded and said, “That feels better. Hopefully I’m good to go now. Kind of hungry, though.”

  “Too bad,” Michael said. “Dinner isn’t for a few more hours.”

  “Awww,” Patrick moaned, hanging his head dejectedly.

  Michael felt a soft tug at the bottom of his coat. He turned to see a worried looking Justin Justak standing behind him.

  “Is Patrick going to be okay?” Justin nodded toward where Patrick stood.

  “Ah, he’ll be fine. Something he ate didn’t agree with him is all,” Michael explained to the boy. Michael found young Justin’s concern for Patrick sweet. “I’m sure he’ll be feeling right as rain come dinner tonight. Hard to kill that boy’s appetite. I’ve seen him raid our refrigerator enough to know.”

  “Oh, okay,” Justin perked up, sounding relieved by Michael’s assurance that his friend and playmate was indeed going to be all right.

  CHAPTER 11

  It dawned sunny and bright. The Blenders had been on the island for nearly a week. It had continued raining on and off regularly for their entire stay, making river travel impossible. But the weather wasn’t the only issue keeping the Blenders off the water.

  It had soon become apparent later in the afternoon on the day of Patrick’s illness that his throwing up of his lunch was not food related. This became obvious when one of the Franko boys, Jack, who had eaten the peanut butter cracker lunch option, also became sick.