by AJ Powers
“Really?” she said with a genuine glow. “Thank you!”
“I know it’s not much, but hopefully it will provide you with a few extra meals this winter.” He looked over at the double barrel shotgun lying on a table across the room. “You got ammo for that?”
“I got four off the skinny guy, but that’s it.”
He walked over to the shotgun and verified it was a 12 gauge and then quickly picked out the shells from the bag. “Here ya go,” he said and handed her six shells. “The green ones are buckshot, the blue ones are slugs—it’s like one really big bullet.”
She nodded and shoved the shells into her pocket.
Clay walked over to the door leaving the cafeteria and turned around, “I need to keep going east, but on my way back, I can swing by again. I can’t promise the trip would be smooth, but I think you would fit in with the others back home. There are several other girls to play with, it’s relatively warm, and we have food...usually.”
She thought about it for a moment. “You and your family sound very nice, Clay, but the last time I stayed with someone, they stole all the food I owned and left me in the middle of nowhere. Don’t take it personally, but I’m better off alone.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t argue with that. She had been burned, and that’s not something easily forgotten. “Then take this,” he said as he reached into his pack once again and pulled out a bag of crackers and a can of pink salmon. He examined the can, “No bulges or leaks, so it should be good to go. I had one about a month ago. Not the best tasting dish I’ve ever had, but it was pretty filling.”
Dusty was in awe with the generosity, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“We live in a dark world, Dusty. A place where people kill over a can of food,” he began to stammer over his words when he remembered how her parents had been killed. “We live in a time when people need to help one another more than ever. I can’t undo what happened to your parents or what that family did to you, but I can show you that not everyone has crossed that line, yet. And if that gives you even the slightest bit of hope to cling to, then it’s worth it.”
Dusty was choked up but quickly fought back the tears, keeping up with her cold demeanor. “Thank you, Clay. Good luck on the rest of your trip.”
Halfway out the door, Clay turned around. “One more thing,” he said. “If you ever change your mind, I stop by an old library every Wednesday morning around 11:00. If you ever need a place to stay, we’ll take care of you,” he said before giving her directions. “It was nice to meet you, Dusty. Take care.”
The house was still standing, but just barely. The entire structure was slanted; the foundation riddled with cracks. The front half of the roof had caved in from years of heavy snow and no maintenance. With each step closer to the porch, Clay felt less confident he would find Ted. At least not alive.
He stepped up onto the old rickety porch, and his foot went right through the rotting wood, cutting his leg, though not much more than a scratch. Taking his next steps more carefully, Clay reached the front door. Clutching the handle of his rifle with his right hand, he pushed the door open with his left and walked in.
He had to slog through nearly a foot and a half of snow across the living room to get to the other side of the house. He searched for Ted, but his efforts came up empty. Ted was long gone. At first, Clay wondered if perhaps Ted had left for a safer haven already, but then he started to wonder if he was over in the living room, buried beneath the snow. He hoped for the former.
Clay rummaged through the house and found absolutely nothing. He even had a hard time finding any of Ted’s personal effects, which seemed odd. Perhaps he did pack up and leave after all.
He did another pass through the kitchen just to be sure he didn’t miss anything—he didn’t. Tired and feeling defeated, Clay fell back into the wall and slid down until he found himself sitting on the peeled linoleum tile. The whole trip had been a dangerous, fruitless waste of time—though, he did meet Dusty, which made him feel a little better about everything.
Clay stared blankly across the kitchen floor as he contemplated his next move. There were still plenty of areas in the county to search, but he wasn’t feeling too optimistic about his chances. If he left right away to go back home, he would make it back on time, maybe a day early, but then the trip really would have been a waste.
As he weighed his options, something caught his eye beneath the dinner table—a row of linoleum peeling up at an odd place. He crawled on his hands and knees the few feet across the floor and started to pull at the cheap flooring.
It was a door.
There was a combination lock on it. It was thoroughly rusted, but the dials still turned. Clay could probably break it with a couple of good blows from a rock, or if push came to shove, he could shoot it, but the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself. He started spinning the dials: eight-four-four—it was the day Ted’s wife died; it also happened to be the day Clay was born. He gave it a couple of tugs, and it unlatched, sending a small cloud of rust-colored dust into the air. He decided not to move the dinner table, but instead, he opened the door as much as it would go and slithered in. The stairs went down about seven feet.
It wasn’t a storm shelter or even a bomb shelter. It was a safe room, and considering that nobody had discovered it after all these years, it was a good one. Clay looked around the room, his flashlight landing on a clipboard hanging from the wall next to the entrance. It was a log of when Ted would leave the room and when he returned. His last entry was on January 13, 2021. He had last signed out three years ago. There was no return entry.
The room was quite large. It made Clay’s cabin feel like a tuna can. There was a bed, shelves, an ice chest, as well as some cabinets. Up against one of the long walls was a desk made from two-by-fours and plywood. Clay saw an open notebook sitting on top. He skimmed through it, looking at each entry title for anything that might help explain what happened to Ted. The entries were mostly fluff, almost seemed like he was just going out to get experience for the book he had started writing. The last page, dated the same as his last log entry, was short:
Winter has been exceptionally difficult this year. I am down to my last few cans of food and must remedy the situation. For the first time in eleven days, it’s not snowing. I will take advantage of the good fortune and seek out some wild game. I hope luck is on my side, for if not, I believe this winter shall be my last.
The chilling words from a dead man renewed Clay’s hope. There was food somewhere in the shelter. He started his search at the front of the room and gradually made his way back, leaving no empty can of beans unturned. He found several useful items along the way, but nothing edible.
He arrived at the freezer chest and hoped the food Ted had mentioned in the journal entry was not in there. Clay held his breath and flipped the lid open. He immediately slammed it shut and heaved—grateful he was operating on a mostly empty stomach. He wasn’t sure what had been in there while the freezer still worked, but it would require a whole team of scientists to identify now.
The awful smell filled every square foot of the room, assaulting his nose with each breath. He went back up the stairs to get some fresh air before continuing his search. He finally had success—a few cans of vegetables that were still good. He was excited when he discovered the can of pineapple but then saw that it was bloated and the outside was crusted with a substance that had oozed out months, possibly years, back.
He hit the jackpot when he searched through one of the tall metal cabinets along the back wall. A wave of euphoria rolled through him like a tsunami as he stared at two #10 cans of freeze-dried meat. The first one he grabbed was seasoned chicken, but it was nearly empty, just enough to feed the whole family for one, maybe two meals if Megan got creative. But the other can—diced turkey—felt heavy when he picked it up. He popped the plastic lid off and was shocked to see it was still sealed. He also found a smaller pantry can of dehydrated corn that also had ye
t to be opened.
It felt as if he had been fishing all day without a single bite, but then, just as he was ready to pack up and head home, he got the monster bite that landed him a catch he would talk about for years. The stress began to ease some. He felt rejuvenated for the first time since he saw Megan emptying the winter’s food from the freezer.
After he finished searching the rest of the room, he put all of his findings on the desk and examined each one. Colloidal silver was the first thing he found. There wasn’t much left in the bottle, and he wasn’t quite sure how to use it, but knew it had some medicinal uses, so he grabbed it. He also found Ted’s .357 Python between the mattress and box springs. There were only two cartridges in it, so Clay took the last three out of his mixed bag of bullets and loaded them up. He also grabbed a single .38 special to give himself a full cylinder. He slammed the cylinder shut and examined the gun. Clay had never been big into revolvers, but this was a beauty of a pistol.
Unfortunately, though, there was no .223 die set. He had conceded that he would never find a replacement, and would need to come up with an alternative plan. Since the neck-sizer still worked on the broken die, he would just have to de-prime the cases manually. It would be much slower, but would still work.
Even though there were several hours of daylight left, Clay decided to call it a night. He had gotten very little sleep the night before—Screamers were living up to their name, keeping Clay on high alert all night long. Even though he had more scavenging to do in the area before heading home, he had already found more food than he realistically expected. He didn’t imagine he would find much else in there—perhaps a few morsels of food here and there—but every bit would help.
He was still in awe with the score he found in the cabinet. The freeze-dried food had a shelf life of 20 or more years, it was very lightweight—especially after Clay had poured the contents into some plastic bags and stuffed them into his pack—and once rehydrated, it was quite filling. He remembered his dad bringing some on a weekend campout. It was one of his fondest memories. Just him and his dad along with a couple of fishing poles and hunting rifles. The fish weren’t biting, and they didn’t see a single animal worth shooting, yet it was a weekend that would remain in Clay’s memory for eternity.
Though physically drained, Clay was mentally very alert and wasn’t ready to go to sleep. He pulled out The Lonely Past from his pack and began reading. After getting through nearly a quarter of the book, his mental fatigue matched his physical exhaustion; he fell asleep.
He awoke to the sounds of cans and bottles falling to the floor. His heart was pounding as he scrambled to find his M4, but he couldn’t remember where he placed it. Panicked, he pulled his knife out of a sheath strapped to his ankle; that’s when he noticed the shaking.
The quake was the biggest he’d felt in a couple years, but he thought that was partly due to the fact he was several feet beneath the ground. Most of the times, he barely noted tremors in the office building, but anything above a three in scale was perceptible. He couldn’t be sure if this was just another tremor or a legitimate earthquake. As suddenly as it began, the trembling stopped, and with the exception of particles of dirt and debris still making their way to the floor, it was quiet.
It was a little after four o’clock in the morning. He felt refreshed enough, so he decided to just pack up and leave instead of going back to sleep. The jolt of adrenaline coursing through his body would have prevented much rest anyhow. Clay slung his pack over his shoulder, grunting with pain as the weight of the pack pulled down on his gunshot wound. He made a mental note to change the bandages later in the day. He climbed up the stairs—they were so steep they were practically a ladder—and made his way to the front door.
He stepped outside and stood still in the vast darkness. The world was deafeningly silent, with not even the whooshing of a distant breeze. With it being difficult to see and the snow absorbing most of the sound, it felt as if he was standing inside a padded meat locker. He felt exposed, but he traveled anyway, keeping his head on swivel and his finger never far from the trigger.
The sun finally crested the horizon about an hour and a half later, and he began to pick up the pace. The snow was no longer soft, and for the most part, supported his weight. Every now and then, however, he would hit a soft patch, and his foot would drill right through causing him to fall. Oh, what Clay would give for a pair of snowshoes, but those were about as common in Texas as surfboards were in Montana.
About three hours later, he found himself walking towards an old two story house in the middle of a field. It wasn’t quite a farmhouse, but it wasn’t a typical suburban residence either.
He walked through a substantial break in the hip-high picket fence and then around some towering oaks that were crusted with snow and ice. The trees groaned under the significant weight of the ice. Clay took heed of the ominous warning and made sure he didn’t walk beneath any of the branches as he approached the house.
He walked into the house and wandered around aimlessly; nobody had lived there in quite some time. He glanced over the various nooks and crannies instead of his usual systematic examination of each room. He knew the house was empty, so he didn’t bother wasting the time. That wasn’t why he was there.
The walls in a few of the rooms were down to nothing but rotting timber. The ceiling had collapsed in multiple places, allowing Clay see through to the second floor. The floor looked as if a garbage truck had exploded in the middle of the house. The carpet—the few places it hadn’t been covered with trash—was caked with mud and in some areas, blood. It no longer had the texture of carpet, but rather closer to hardened paper mache.
He walked into a large room towards the back of the house. French doors that were all but destroyed would have framed the large backyard had it not been blocked off entirely from a big pile of snow sloping in. He turned and walked over to a door frame that lead to the kitchen and saw various lines etched into the wood. It was faint, but still there.
Colleen – Age 3.
Emily – Age 6.
Michelle - Age 7
Clayton – Age 10.
Megan – Age 13.
Chapter 20
Memories played out in front of him as if he were watching a movie. In the kitchen, he saw his mom baking challah with Emily and Michelle. In the living room, he saw himself watching the playoffs with his father. No matter what room he was in, the past came to life and gave Clay some much needed respite from the usual thoughts plaguing his mind.
Despite the fond memories, his mind gradually turned to the last few days before his family left their home. It was still as fresh in his memory as if it had happened last week. It was early September, and there was a nip in the air but still warm enough to go outside without a jacket most days. Clay was in his father’s recliner, dozing off to the soothing crackles from the fire. Megan was sitting on the floor a few feet away from the fireplace, using the light to read. Charlie was making airplane and gunshots sounds while he played with some toys Clay had dug out of the attic.
Michelle was in the kitchen cleaning up from dinner. After Emily had died, she started to withdraw from all unnecessary interactions with the others. She cooked, cleaned, and then typically spent the rest of the time in her room. It concerned Clay quite a bit, but he had no idea how to address the matter. He prayed it was just her way of coping and that she would eventually recover. Unfortunately, she never did and went to her grave under the bondage of depression.
Ryan—a 10 year old boy Clay had found wandering around a grocery store just a few weeks back—woke Clay to tell him about the bug he had just caught upstairs in his room when they heard the front window break.
Michelle shrieked and zoomed into the living room. Clay jumped to his feet, picked up a shotgun, and walked over towards the front door. Though he couldn’t see the door yet, he could hear someone reaching through the broken window to unlock the deadbolt. He pumped the shotgun, the clacking sound was a universal message: “You
best be leavin’ right now.”
Despite the blatant warning, the assailant unlocked the door. The entry opened to a small breezeway with paths on either side. To the right was a small study; to the left was the kitchen. Both directions circled around to the living room where the others were all hiding behind the couch. Clay readied himself.
As the door pushed open, Clay whipped around the corner and fired. To say the aftermath was a mess was an understatement. Clay’s stomach sank at the sight, but the adrenaline suppressed his urge to vomit.
He heard footsteps outside fast approaching and saw out the kitchen window two other men running down the porch towards the front door. He slammed the pump back, then forward, and fired as the second man came in. The buckshot hit the man in the shoulder, causing him to spin around before he fell on top of his departed friend.
In anticipation of the third man, Clay cycled the next round and tightened his grip on the shotgun. He waited, but the man did not enter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man peek through the kitchen window. Clay spun to take a shot, but the long 26 inch barrel bashed into the wall, causing him to accidentally discharge. The bandit took the opportunity to storm through the front door and charge Clay. Though he had chambered the next round already, the man smacked the barrel upwards and plowed into Clay, sending them both into the oven. The man pulled a machete out of a scabbard and drew his hand back.
Clay closed his eyes as he prepared for his death when he heard a single gunshot, followed by eight more. Clay opened one eye and saw Megan standing on the other side of the counter holding a pistol. Even though the slide was locked back, she continued to pull the trigger. He looked down on the ground and saw the attacker lying in front of him, his body peppered with 9MM-sized holes. He looked over at Megan who was still aiming the empty pistol, a terrified expression painted across her face. Charlie and Ryan were bawling behind the couch, Michelle trying her best to sooth them.