A Brave New World: War's End, #2

by Christine D. Shuck

  Research had been the local medical center and part of it had been turned into a form of housing for orphans and the elderly after so many of the children lost their parents in a series of raids—first from the Western Front and later from bands of starving families holed up in the city. The old folks’ home had been set on fire with most of the occupants inside, but the elderly who had lived on their own were now forced through need to live in the old hospital. In some ways being around so many of the kids had saved many of the senior citizens from fading away to nothing. The kids needed them, after all.

  The last two winters had been hard ones—food shortages in the first winter immediately following the first invasion had taken their toll. With lack of food had come higher susceptibility to illness. The last onslaught of flu had killed all but a handful of the senior citizens and put a serious dent in the younger population as well. Jess had heard the stories and Sarah’s admonition to get the house in order was taken seriously.

  A week later the ripped tarp was pulled away and a handful of the younger men from the militia were hard at work, with a former owner of a local construction company supervising their progress. Two days after that the hole had been completely repaired, including the rotting drywall, patched from intact drywall salvaged from a home a few blocks away that had partially burned in the invasion. Jess had cleaned the room and, after a full-size mattress and box springs mysteriously appeared on their doorstep the next day, she had moved the bed and her meager belongings into the master bedroom. The heat had kept her downstairs, but she knew it wouldn’t always be this hot. Eventually the nights would cool and she would actually have a room to herself, mostly, considering that Jacob would be sharing it with her. It felt strange to take this room that had been her parents’. Looking around it she could see the ghostly shapes of where each piece of furniture had stood, and the shadows of their presence still lingered in outlines on the floor.

  One of the bedroom windows was broken. The former construction company owner, Mr. Kinsey, had offered to find a replacement window but Jess had shook her head and just asked that it be boarded over. She was relieved Sarah wasn’t there to lecture her, or to go above her head and insist that Mr. Kinsey find a window for her. Having the roof intact was good enough and she knew that she was already owed enough for all of the help others had extended to her.

  Jess had been lost in her thoughts for a while. Her back and knees were sore from crouching at the tomato vines and her fingers were rough and chapped from the twine she was using to tie the vines with. As she looked around, Jess found herself feeling almost...safe. Twice in the last month the militia had repelled invaders, killing the ones who were armed, and no one from Belton had been hurt in the process. A small knot of cattle lowed peaceably nearby. The strong smell of them had become something of a comfort. All of her little family were filling out, the bones jutted less, and she had noticed her hair felt thicker and less brittle. Jess could also see the difference in Jacob’s activity level as well as his size. He had begun crawling and gurgled happily, keeping all three of them busy taking turns watching him.

  She had even heard Tina, so serious and quiet for her four years, laugh freely the other day. For that matter, David, too, seemed happier. They were adjusting. It had been nearly a year now, Jess realized suddenly, since she had first met David and Tina. Nearly a year since Jacob had been born in the middle of that storm.

  What had happened to that soldier who had found them that night? She remembered him standing there, ready to fire, the rain soaking him, the wind lashing the trees in the background. He had looked so tired, so sad, when he saw Jacob, naked, covered in afterbirth, his umbilical cord still attached. His young face had been lined with grief at the memory of his own son. “I had a son once. His name was Jacob.”

  She hadn’t thought of the soldier for a long time. Not much at all since that first night, the memory of him lost in the simple and basic struggle for survival in the days, weeks, and months that followed. For the first time she found herself pierced by a sharp curiosity—all the stories, all the lives cut short or forever altered by the events of the past two years. What was Sarah’s story? Where did she and her kids come from? And Grandmother Madge...where were her children now? How could she tell them the story of their mother?

  Jess looked down to find her left hand clenched around a thin long shred of mulch, clutching it as she would a pen. Before it had all come to such a terrible end, her life here in Belton before the invasion had been filled with “scribbles,” as her brother Chris had called them. “When you aren’t reading, you’re scribbling,” he had teased her good-naturedly, “and sometimes it’s both!” For nearly two years she hadn’t written a thing. The journals were gone, and hadn’t mysteriously returned on the stoop like so many other things.

  Suddenly she felt that familiar longing, deep within her, an urge to write that was akin to a thirsty man begging for water. And not just write, but chronicle the stories of others, so that their words and thoughts and experiences would not be lost. A record, Jess decided, of all of those who will speak, for themselves and for others who are gone. So that we will not forget.

  Jess stood up, brushed herself off and went to look for a pen and paper.

  A Hunting Expedition

  “If we deny love that is given to us, if we refuse to give love because we fear pain or loss, then our lives will be empty, our loss greater.” – Author Unknown

  Wes twisted his wedding ring on his finger. It was a simple band, yellow gold, almost a woman’s ring it was so thin. There hadn’t been much in the way of money, and with Cody on the way, there had been no time to save up for more. The mate to it, Sarah’s, hung from his neck, next to Angie’s ring, along with his dog tags. He toyed with taking all of them off, sticking them in a drawer and trying to forget.

  He had done that once, when he started seeing Angie. She hadn’t said anything, not a word of complaint, but one day he had realized he couldn’t hang on to them and be with her, so he had slipped off his ring, and took Sarah’s ring as well, and placed them in the back of his sock drawer in the box with the note from Sarah saying she was leaving him. They were memories of what could have been...if he had been the man he was supposed to be, a better husband, a better dad.

  Cody would be, what, sixteen next week and Laura fourteen next spring. If they were still alive, that is. And in this crazy world he wondered...he wondered about that every day. Wes pushed his wedding ring back up his finger, until it nestled against his knuckle, a little loose; he had lost a bit of weight over the years, but the ring hung on, a part of his past that he couldn’t let go, no matter that there would most likely never be answers, never be closure. He heard it clink against the metal of the rifle in front of him, currently in pieces, waiting to be cleaned.

  It was nearly Thanksgiving, a time for hunting, and for Tiptonville, a time of terrible memories. Wes forced his mind away from it, focused on the rifle before him, cleaned and oiled it, then re-assembled it. As he did, Wes felt his thoughts turn to the outsider in their midst. Chris Aaronson was the one man in town that no one really knew. They certainly didn’t know what Wes knew—that Chris had been a conscript in the Western Front. They had swallowed Fenton Perdue’s story of Chris being a friend of the family. They had swallowed it hook, line, and sinker, especially after that raid and slaughter of the Austins and Anthony Wilkes.

  And honestly, if Wes were to think on it long enough, he knew Chris had been telling the truth. He had been a conscript, and he had escaped. But the young man was the only one, the only witness to escape the Western Front. It was time they talked, time he learned more about the world outside of Tiptonville, Tennessee.

  Wes slung the rifle over his shoulder over his flak vest. Strapped to his left thigh was his Bowie, the flak vest held an arsenal of shells, blades, and a Magnum .44 was in a right hip holster. He had decided to bring the compound bow as well. As usual, Wes was a walking arsenal. There had been a time when he had not been, but he had
paid for that mistake with tears and blood a hundred times over. He headed out of town, his F150 a dull roar as he passed the patrols and headed toward the Perdue farm.

  The guarded look on Carrie’s face when she greeted him at the door had secretly amused Wes. She ushered him into the house, looking pale and wan, more than a trifle suspicious and sent little Joseph off for Chris. Fenton had been friendlier, but then again, Fenton seemed to have a knack for knowing your intent long before you did yourself.

  “Wes,” Fenton clapped him on the shoulder, “you look ready for war, young man.”

  “Just going hunting for deer, sir; thought I’d ask Chris if he’d like to join me, bring back some venison for Thanksgiving and all.”

  Fenton nodded, “The boy needs a bit of fresh air, been inside too much recently, what with Carrie...er...feelin’ poorly. I prefer y’all bring back a nice tender doe, if you don’t mind.” He winked at Wes, and Wes found his mouth curving in response. He didn’t get the chance to smile much these days, and it felt strange and somewhat uncomfortable.

  Wes was spared any further small talk as the front door opened and some of the chilly air blew in with Joseph and Chris. Joseph was bouncing about, begging to go hunting. After the raid, early in the year, the entire family had made a practice of going out monthly and doing some limited target practice. Mainly it revolved around making sure Joseph knew proper gun safety. The boy was now almost six years old, and had become a crack shot with a .22 caliber Beretta Bobcat. It was an elegant little piece, perfect for the boy’s small hand. He had been attracted at once to the shine of the steel and the black grip. It had taken half of a hog in trade at the Trade Mart, but Chris had watched Carrie and Liza haggle over the deal for nearly an hour before the merchant, sick and tired of arguing, had thrown in two full boxes of ammo to go with it—a heck of a deal pre-war and a testament to the girls’ bargaining skills.

  Joseph had managed to net several squirrels and one skunk. Fenton had drawn the line at eating the skunk, but the rest had ended up in the stewpot with Fenton reminding everyone, “Y’all don’t shoot what you ain’t gonna eat.”

  Liza had rolled her eyes at that, “Sure Gramps, next time a raider comes by and we blow his brains out I’ll bring him to you to dress and prepare for supper.” Fenton had eyed her sternly and grumbled under his breath about little girls getting too big for their britches.

  Joseph was bound and determined to go hunting with Wes and Chris, but Carrie deflated Joseph’s excitement in one fell swoop when she shook her head and said, “You have lessons, Joseph; it’s time we practiced reading.”

  “Awww! Carrie, but I wanna...”

  Carrie eyed him sternly, “You get what you get...”

  The boy pouted, “And you don’t throw a fit. ’Sides I never throw a fit. I’m not a girl!”

  Fenton suppressed a snort of laughter and received an irritable glare from Carrie, all too reminiscent of her mother, as she pointed silently at the den. Now that Chris and Carrie were married, they had moved into her room. The den had been left empty and Liza had pushed to have it turned into a classroom of sorts. Joseph slumped, contemplated rebellion for two short seconds and then slunk into the classroom muttering under his breath.

  Fenton turned to Chris, “Now son, I want a nice pretty doe brought back. She will make a fine addition to our Thanksgiving feast. Think you can manage that?”

  Chris looked at Wes, then back at Fenton. He felt out of his depth. Was this some sort of twisted male bonding experience? Was he supposed to spit and then shake hands? “Uh...sure, Gramps...one doe...I’ll do my best.”

  That earned him a gruff, aborted bark of a laugh from Wes. The jerk actually looked amused. Chris wasn’t sure what was happening here, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. Half an hour later, as the truck bounced along the ruts of something that might have been considered a road one hundred years ago, Chris was more than sure he was out of his element. What did Wes want with him? They had gone through town and taken Highway 78, nodding to the sentries outside of town as they headed toward Wright, now abandoned, hit by raiders long before Chris found his way to Tiptonville. They angled around Reelfoot Lake. Chris wondered how long the dead trees would stand, upright, submerged in water, their leaves and beauty gone. It had been over two hundred years and it appeared that all or most of the trees still stood. It was as if they were waiting for something.

  Wes followed Chris’s gaze. “We cut ’em down every once in a while; more often these days since the Collapse. They make good firewood.”

  Chris looked at the trees, then back at Wes. “What are we doing out here, Wes?”

  “We’re going deer hunting, Aaronson.” The older man spared a glance at Chris and smiled slightly, which caused a large knot to form in Chris’s stomach. “You know, men go huntin’, provide for the family.”

  “I provide for my family,” Chris said evenly, “I help run a farm, if you’ll remember.” He briefly considered opening the door and jumping from the fast-moving truck. An image of him running for his life with Wes armed to the teeth in hot pursuit flashed before his eyes. Wes had pretty much left him alone since the events of last March. Could he have changed his mind?

  Chris turned back to see Wes eyeing him again, Wes barked out a laugh, “Damn, Aaronson, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were lookin’ to jump out of this here truck. What...d’ya think I’m plannin’ on huntin’ you?”

  Chris glared at him, “Yeah, the thought crossed my mind.”

  Wes did laugh then, long and hard, and the truck swerved and heaved over the rough road. “Relax, if I wanted to kill you I would’ve done it a long time ago.” He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, “and I would’ve done it from the woods. Fenton ain’t the only one ’round here with experience in war, you know.”

  Chris relaxed a bit. Not a lot; that was hard to do when you were being tossed about a truck cab like a rag doll, bouncing along what was now a tree-lined hill in the middle of nowhere. Wes seemed to be the old-fashioned type, so Chris figured if Wes did intend to kill him, he’d get some measure of warning. “I heard you were in the second Gulf War.”

  “Yeah, now that was a screwed up war, no winner, and it just dragged on and on. And it would’ve kept dragging on if the bottom hadn’t fallen out of the war machine and every other damned thing here in the good ole United States.” Wes’s mood turned somber again, “It was just another messed up war, another excuse to kill good, honest folks who actually believed they were fighting for something more than sand and oil. What a crap-pie that turned out to be.”

  Chris felt a little more at ease; this guy wasn’t the gung-ho, proud to be an American, gun-toting lunatic he had seemed to be at first, although Chris wasn’t ready to rule out the gun-toting fanatic part of it. “Why are we out here, Wes?”

  Wes eyed him, “You just get right to the point, dontcha, Aaronson?” When Chris didn’t answer, he said, “Maybe I’ve got questions about the Western Front.”

  “After eight months you’ve got questions?”

  Wes switched direction on the road with a spin of his steering wheel, and changed topics just as quickly, “Carrie looked peaked. She have another miscarriage?”

  Chris’s anger surged, “You leave Carrie out of this.”

  “Easy soldier, easy.” Wes’s eyes were glued to the road. That was good, because Chris sure as hell could not see any road at all. They hit a particularly large rut and Chris swore as his head hit the roof of the cab. “I ain’t trying to rile you up, Aaronson.”

  “So you say, Wes. Then you go and call me a soldier again.” Chris ground his teeth, “I’m not, and I never was.”

  “I believe you, Aaronson. Now relax; I’ve got no interest in fighting with you. I wanted someone to go hunting with and I knew you weren’t on watch. Most everyone else is, you know, ’cause of the anniversary.”

  And of course, Chris knew exactly what he was talking about. They called it the Thanksgiving massacre. Just a couple of weeks after his hometown
in Belton, Missouri had been invaded, Tiptonville had seen action. A different faction of the Western Front had smashed through town, toppling the water tower, setting fire to several buildings, including a bank, and killing nearly half of the population, including both of the town doctors. This was the two-year anniversary of the event. The entire town came together and held a communal Thanksgiving dinner; at least, those who weren’t on watch. Then they brought food out to the militia, posted on all of the roads that led into town, and took over the watch for them, standing in the night, armed, until the sun rose and the militia took back over the regular watch rounds again.

  Chris had participated last year, on the first anniversary. The thought had occurred to him at the time that this was what true community and being an American was about. The United States was dead, but its citizens were not. He had been proud to be a part of the groups of townspeople watching out for the town. As an outsider, he hadn’t been considered part of the militia and, until spring, had not been required to stand watch. After the raid by Cooper and his men that had changed dramatically. It was a few days until Thanksgiving, however. Was there some kind of ritual hunting to be done before the anniversary? Knowing little about Wes, he could only imagine what was going on in the older man’s head.