Shifting in her seat, she listened as the robocall repeated through the answering machine. She screened everything these days, responding at her leisure, if at all. Despite having many friends and relatives, she seldom had energy for chit-chatting. At 104 years of age, she assured herself it was okay to be picky.
The announcement finally ended with a beep, leaving her to her thoughts.
Well, I'm not going to run for the hills!
She glanced at the two-wheeled walker in the corner, tennis ball-swathed feet fresh and yellow—she hated using that big device. If she were going to chance an escape, which she certainly was not, she'd use the smaller, quad-footed cane sitting by her side. She despised that thing too, but grudgingly admitted it helped her get around more effectively than grasping at walls and furniture while patrolling the cozy single-level flat.
Ignoring the robocall’s instructions, she resumed cross-stitching under the timeless rhythm of the wall clock. Angie would call sooner or later, and then the day would start properly.
It wasn't long after the phone alert when she heard a great banging sound from the front of the apartment. To her hearing-amplified ears, it sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. Over the years, she'd heard many things dropped down those stairs, including many by her grandchildren who just loved playing on them despite her stern warnings. She had also come to know the sound of someone tripping up the stairs or falling down the steep flight. This was a case of the latter.
“Angie, is that you?” she asked, though she knew her raised voice was still too weak to be heard in the front of the house, through a wooden door.
Getting up, she patiently grasped her cane, pushing up on the armchair with her free hand. Normally it was Angie who would come down to help her when she had trouble getting out of her chair after being comfortable for too long. A quick buzz on the intercom was all it took. This time, she was able to make the transition from sit to stand unaided.
She lamented that if someone up front was counting on her to help them quickly, they were in trouble. With her hunched back and sub-five-foot stature her gait was a slow shuffle at best—foot, foot, cane. It was, however, very steady most of the time. That, at least, would give the desperately injured some modicum of hope of eventual rescue.
She hurried—in her own way—to the potential fall victim. At a snail's pace, she passed her curio cabinet and shelves of fine china in her dining room and emerged in her front living room. She steadied herself on a big armchair, then pushed off to the last stop, the interior door in the front foyer of her home.
Lord help me move.
Soft moans and scratching indicated this was indeed an emergency. She steeled herself to see the fallen victim as she opened the door inward.
“Oh my, Angie. Are you all right?”
Angie had bounced down the stairs sure enough, but a mere fall was the least of her problems. Her skin was ashen, and her eyes were bloodshot—or bloody, it was hard to tell—and her usual perfectly manicured hair was sitting in greasy knots. Her light-colored nightgown was soaked with sweat and stained with many red streaks and blotches from top to bottom. The fifty-something nurse looked almost skeletal, and her emotional state wasn't the expected embarrassment or agony from the crash, but instead...anger? Her right foot was unquestionably broken—it was pointing in the wrong direction.
Why isn't she screaming?
While Marty had scoffed at the warning on the phone, she was aware of the panic sweeping the nation and was certainly aware of the mystery Ebola-like sickness which so troubled many of her family members. They were at her flat just last night urging her to stay with them until it all blew over. She demurred, declaring she felt perfectly safe for the time being. She assured them if things got really bad she'd oblige them on their offer. Secretly she felt it couldn't possibly get rotten enough for her to leave. For someone who had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, Vietnam, and the War on Terror, she did not panic or scare easily.
She wasn't panicking now, but she was hasty about shutting the door.
“I'm sorry, Angie. You aren't looking right. I'll call 911 and get you some help.”
Before she could get the door fully closed, Angie stuck her arm and shoulder into the void to reach for her, preventing a good seal.
“My lands!” It was as close as she came to cussing.
2
A woman of 104 wasn’t going to kick or shove a person lying on the floor hard enough to get them back through an open door. It would be difficult for someone half her age, so she released the door and did the only sensible thing she could at that moment—she walked away.
Perhaps it was habit, or maybe just a little bit of panic creeping in, but she went back into her flat rather than step out the front door to the relative safety of her front porch. After several seconds, she realized her mistake and partially turned around to see if she could still slip out—and saw Angie slithering into her flat, blocking escape in that direction. Angie had an evil look she had never seen on her friend's face before, and she was struggling to get off the floor.
“Angie, you're hurt badly and aren't yourself. Please wait where you are, and I'll call a doctor.”
She considered her options as she pushed herself through her home, understanding that she was likely in mortal danger. Angie was probably infected with heaven-knows-what, though it was beyond her reckoning how anyone sick or healthy could lay there with a broken ankle and not make a peep. Working her cane with her left hand, her free hand was in her pocket holding her rosary. At her age, death was never far away, and the rosary was an important reminder of the faith she always kept close, but this was not how she wanted her story to end. She needed a plan.
She could easily lock herself in any room of the house—a bathroom would be the best choice for now—but she didn't know how strong Angie might be. If she could survive a broken ankle and not complain, what if she could put her head through the thin wooden doors? The growling sounds of the sick woman behind her spurred her to continue without stopping to consider potential side routes.
“I'll just be a moment, Angie.”
She walked into the kitchen at the back of the house, looking around frantically for something to help her. Her heart was beating hard at the effort to simply walk at such a brisk pace. She scanned the kitchen table, the oven area, and the open door to the basement—her great-grandson Liam lived down there, but he was gone for the day to the library. She would never be able to get down all those steps. Her eyes finally fell on her impressive collection of kitchen cutlery, and she chuckled to herself at a funny thought.
Maybe I could fight her with a knife? Ha!
Her painfully slow progress brought her near the back door, the only real alternative left. Going into the backyard was a definite option, but that would put her outside her house for who-knows-how-long. What about food, water, her pain medications, the telephone? Could she survive until Liam returned? The shuffling noises entering the kitchen made up her mind.
She slid out the stout back door, pulling it shut behind her. The exterior screen door slowly followed suit. The concrete porch was a flat, open space with a small awning overhead, providing limited shade for a few chairs and one large freestanding porch swing she kept around mainly for the grandchildren. She liked this flat for a lot of reasons, but the biggest was how few stairs she had to use. The bright-eyed Marty who moved in all those years ago never imagined she'd still be here at 104 with a disdain for steps.
She hobbled, her back starting to flare up in pain, to the closed window near the back door so she could get a look inside at her friend. She had to put her face up against the glass to see through the glare of the morning sunshine. Her cane, with its four small feet, waited patiently at her side.
Angie was right up in the window looking back at her.
Oh, my. Poor Angie.
She could see Angie had to be standing on her broken foot, banging herself against the window quite
forcefully. The interior screen frame was already ripped and bent, but her greatest concern was how much pain the woman must be suffering from that injury.
She moved away from the window to consider what to do next. She ran through a Hail Mary prayer, not for herself but for the more endangered soul inside. She sat down in the sturdy armchair. She knew she'd have trouble getting back up, but there was no choice but to take a quick rest. And think.
A hedge separated her immaculate yard and well-tended flower beds from her less tidy neighbors on both sides. She saw none of them outside, which wasn't terribly unusual. Most of the kids and many of the young adults were probably inside playing with their video games or whatever newfangled technology was out these days. Or they could all be inside suffering like Angie. That image hung on the air.
“Those police called a few hours too late. I let Liam go out today without a care in the world. I need to get back inside, so he has a safe place when he returns.”
It was time to save her own bacon and prevent her from becoming someone else's problem. She hated asking for help for tasks she could do for herself. Even worse was depending on others for things she had done herself but was physically incapable of doing now. A rescue, for instance.
I'm starting to feel old. Finally.
The tiny yard offered nothing regarding weapons—not that she had any desire to hurt Angie. If she could still hold one, a gun might be a useful deterrent. The concept of a cowgirl granny lifting a shotgun, heroically reentering the house, and chasing off the bad guy would have given her a laughing fit on any other day. Today it just made her mad.
If she were ten years younger she might be able to sneak to the front door, open it, and lure Angie out—then move around the house and through the back door. Today, just walking to the front would probably give her a heart attack and running from the angry nurse on the return trip would kill her, one way or the other.
Her eyes fell on the garage.
Can I get there?
3
She had mild difficulty getting out of her chair, but the banging on the window kept her motivated. At the far end of her small yard was her one-car garage. A small wooden structure she seldom visited these days. It had been painted a tidy white, had a sloping black asphalt shingle roof, a tiny window on the rear wall, as well as small portals on each of the sides. The walkway led down the center of the yard but snaked to the right side of the garage. When she reached the service door she made a horrible realization—the key was hanging on a wall inside her house! She had never cussed her whole life; it just wasn't her style. Instead of cursing, she prayed.
She looked into the garage through the tiny window of the door and saw sunlight. The main bay door was already open. As she made her way into the alley and through the front of the garage, she noticed almost all the garages on her block had their fronts open, many with detritus tossed on the ground as if sneezed out. She and many of her neighbors had been robbed.
Looking in, she saw the previously pristine space was a tornadic blast of her belongings. She hadn't driven in twenty-five years and didn't own a car, but Angie's should have been sitting in front of her—it had been taken. So had anything else of value. The boxes of power tools. A couple of the grandkids' fancy bikes. The snowblower.
It's June, for heaven's sake.
Looking at what was left, she had to find something which would help her get back in her house. Trash cans. Old lumber scraps. Bags of soil. All manner of car-cleaning products, lawn-care accessories, and pre–World War II shovels, spades, and other old equipment she was unable to categorize. Her late husband never gave up on a good tool.
At that moment, the emergency tornado sirens began to howl their deep and unmistakable wail. It couldn't be weather—it was a clear day. They were supposed to warn of a tornado, but mostly the trumpets sounded only during their monthly readiness tests. Even with bad hearing, the eardrum-splitting decibels from the siren tower located just around the corner were painful as they continued to wail like the devil’s version of Gabriel’s trumpet.
Her eye came across something the thieves had overlooked or hadn’t wanted that gave her hope. Thirty feet of her past lay coiled on the floor, in the guise of a stout, braided rope with one end tied in a loop with the famous Honda Knot cowboys used to make their lariats. It was a souvenir from her honeymoon at Marvel Cave—eons ago. She and Al got the lariat from the aged proprietor of the small river cabin they rented. He liked to pretend he was a cowboy and talked about his time roping steer over in Kansas City. He wanted to give it to “youngin's” like them.
She used a rake to hook it, so she didn't have to bend down to pick it up. The braids felt good in her hands, and she savored the memories of its origin. She drew strength in the notion her husband was helping her from above. She leaned against the wall of the garage, considering how to advance her cause.
“I'll only have one chance. I'm already pooped,” she said to herself. Sweat beaded profusely under her snow-white hair.
She looked around for the one other tool she thought she might need and found the long handle of a broom without the brush attached. Easily done.
Slowly, she started making her way to the back porch again. The infernal siren continued to blare, adding anxiety to her already desperate plan. At the halfway point, she paused for a rest and wondered whether she shouldn't just go out the front gate, down the narrow path between her flat and the neighboring home, and just keep walking until she found help. Forget about Angie for now and just find assistance. Lots of risks either way.
“Lord give me strength to make the right choice,” she said to anyone listening. She seldom prayed for herself, but now she allowed herself to ask for help. After a minute's pause, she decided her best chance to see this day to the end was to take charge of her own problems and recapture her home. Even if she didn't live through the night, she wasn't about to spend her final hours on earth sitting on a deck chair listening to Angie claw away at her kitchen window.
“And, please, Lord, turn off those trumpets!”
4
She closed the distance to the back of her house, the rope heavy across her thin shoulders; the broom handle held tightly under the arm not working the cane. She saw herself reflected in the glass of her back window, stooped over and hobbling up the path like some elderly, deranged Calamity Jane.
She admitted she did not look very intimidating, but she was a survivor in the truest sense. She lost her first daughter in a freak car accident. A son lost to war in Korea. Financial ruin after Al died. And the coup de grace was breaking her hip when she was 99. This, she told herself, was a minor speed bump in comparison.
So, on she went, pulling up to the door and window. She tied off her rope and took a seat in the same chair she'd used a few minutes before. She was winded now, and her back was fast becoming a major distraction. She almost never consumed pain meds but using them after such exertion would be justified.
The plan was simple, as it had to be for a woman of her rapidly declining abilities. She would tap the window with her broom handle to get Angie’s attention and draw her over there one more time. She hoped that would give her an opportunity to open the screen door long enough to push the main door, so it would open wide. From there, things would get interesting.
As with most major events in her life, this one began with a prayer.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
She tried to stand up and realized her back was nearing its limits. With great effort, she did manage to stand, but this would likely be her last unassisted “up” of the day.
“As if I don't have enough problems.”
Standing and wobbling a bit, she righted herself and made for the small segment of brickwork between the door and the rear window. She had the rope looped over her head, the broomstick in her left hand, and the cane in her right. Her best guess was she could just reach t
he window with the stick and still be close enough to the door to open it. She considered whether Angie would even hear her banging on the window over the din of the emergency klaxons.
I’ll have to trust God on this one.
She let go of her cane and stood unassisted as best she could. With all her strength, she swung the broom handle with both hands. She had feeble arm strength, and her whole body was already taxed to its breaking point—but she did manage to make a satisfying bang on the window glass before the stick slipped out of her hands and rolled into the grass just off the concrete porch. It was now or never. Was it enough?
She maneuvered herself to the screen door and was dismayed to see how far open she needed it, so she could gain enough leverage to push the heavier inside door. It was taking too much time! She gave the door a push and was relieved to see it slowly swing open into the kitchen. Now all she had to do was move out of the screen door's path and close it before Angie returned from her attack on the window. It disturbed her deeply to hear such anger and pain, but it also scared her half to death, knowing she didn't have anything between her and the inside of the house but a slowly closing, flimsy aluminum screen door.
It latched shut with a satisfying click, but she felt the panic rising as Angie appeared in her blood-stained nightclothes and began flailing at the door.
My stars!
She nearly forgot what she was supposed to be doing but regained her wits enough to pull the rope from around her neck and get it into position. She had no idea what to expect of this plan, as she had absolutely no experience breaking screen doors. Would the whole thing collapse outward? Would Angie kick it open or accidentally hit the latch to open the door like a normal person? So many variables ran through her head as she stood inches away from danger.
The lining abruptly ripped near the top, and Angie leaned through the broken screen. As Angie's head poked out, Marty—city slicker or not—pulled a simple rope trick that the old proprietor would applaud unabashedly. She circled the lasso over Angie's head and pulled the loop, so it cinched around her neck. If Angie noticed it, she gave no indication as she continued trying to push through the door. She grabbed her cane and started walking as fast as her orthopedic shoes would carry her, knowing Angie was going to make it outside—if her plan continued to work.
Since The Sirens Box Set | Books 1-7 Page 2