We leave the SUV at the entrance of a long driveway. Oakbrush lines the drive to the left, while to the right lies a large, overgrown lawn, stretching from the county road to the small house at the end of the drive. As we have with the previous two homes, we walk with our hands clearly visible and our weapons tucked away, trying to come across as non-threatening as possible. But the closer we approach, the more I get the sense that the place is abandoned. Anyone still smart enough to be alive would have questioned our presence by now, yet we reach the front door without issue.
“Mr. and Mrs. Begay?” Felix yells, knocking on the front door. “Are you in there? It’s Felix Chavez, Frank and Christina’s nephew from down the road. I just had a couple questions if you have a minute.” Nobody calls back. He looks to us and I nod quickly, guessing the unasked question in his eyes. He removes his Glock, and we do the same as he opens the unlocked door and steps into the house. They are holstered again almost immediately as we learn why our knocks went unanswered.
The Begay’s were a quiet, older couple enjoying their retirement. And then everything went dark. You could almost mistake Mrs. Begay for being asleep if not for the smell of death about her. She looks peaceful, her eyes closed, hand still clutched in her husband's who sits beside her on the loveseat. There is nothing peaceful in Mr. Begay’s death. A bullet has carved through his skull, throwing blood splatters on the couch and wall. It’s not difficult to piece together the sad tale. Prescription bottles made out to a Mrs. E. Begay line the table, all of which are empty. Without her medication, she lost her life. Without his wife, Mr. Begay lost his will to live.
I don’t know these people, but their walls tell a story of a couple who both loved, and were loved in return. Smiles frozen forever in time shine down on us from the many photos laying throughout the living room. Who are they, I wonder. Children? Grandchildren? Friends? Colleagues? All of the above most likely. Are any of them still alive out there, scraping and struggling to survive someplace far from their departed relatives? I’d like to believe so. I’d like to believe that at least part of this vast, smiling family still lives.
We clear the house of anything valuable. A shotgun, two bolt action rifles (a .22 and a .270), and the revolver that took Mr. Begay’s life get added to our growing arsenal, as well as several hundred rounds we find stored in an ammo crate below their bed. These weapons, and more importantly, the ammo, are a huge score for us. Still, it leaves a foul taste in my mouth. The only thing that brings me any sense of peace is knowing they at least fell into our hands instead of others with dark intentions.
Outside of the weapons, we don’t find much. Even with a healthy heart, I don’t know how much longer Mrs. Begay and her husband would have lasted on their own. They kept no garden, grew no crops, and searching their kitchen yielded nothing but a can of green beans and a half-empty can of tomato paste. Perhaps it was kinder this way instead of the slow, grueling torture of starvation. Perhaps her death was painless—like slowly drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep. I at least hope that was the case.
We bury them in the shadow of an old elm tree, its yellow leaves dancing in the breeze that sweeps through. It’s quiet work, no words between us as we plow into the earth. After dumping the bodies and filling the grave, we stand in heavy silence. We didn’t know these people. Even Felix only knew of them in passing. This isn’t our place to be here, but there is no one else to stand in our stead. After a minute, Felix finally speaks.
“I don’t know what comes after this life,” he says. “But I hope you’re happy, and at peace. Rest easy friends. Rest easy.”
Short. To the point. It’s more than fitting in this situation. We leave immediately after, stowing our looted weapons and ammo into the SUV before continuing down the road. It’s only a mile or so to the farm, but the encounter with the Begay’s has left me weary. My legs feel heavier with each step, a sharp stitch cleaving my side. But I push through it. At least I can feel this pain, can have the luxury of feeling exhausted.
As we pull into the farm, it’s to find Vince, Jerry, and Ted dropping off their second vehicle of the day. Vince grins as we roll our SUV to a stop, asking what the holdup was. His grin falls as we recount what happened at the Begay’s.
“So much damn death,” he says, shaking his head. “I wish I could have just five minutes with that smug-faced bastard who was on TV that day, talking about saving us and creating a new world and all that crap. I mean, yeah, the world had its problems...but how is this any better? How can anyone justify doing this?”
I’ve pondered the same questions a hundred times over. It never leads to any answers. There is no justification for what they did to the world—for them to decide that billions of lives were worth sacrificing in order for their vision to come to pass. But the world has always known such men: the Hitler’s and the Stalin’s and the Bin Laden’s, whose twisted minds could somehow justify their many acts of evil. The terrorists who did this might have had purer intentions than their peers throughout history, but their actions are every bit as cruel.
“He wouldn’t have any answers for you,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But I could at least beat the pricks face in.”
The response makes me smile. “Yeah. I wouldn’t mind taking a swing or two myself.”
Neither group heads out in search for more vehicles. Instead, the afternoon is spent gutting out the interiors of those we’ve already amassed and constructing the garden beds. It’s hard work, made all the harder without the aid of power tools. We’re only lucky Felix’s uncle was old-school and kept more than enough hand tools to get the job done. His work shed is a craftsman’s dream. Over the years I’ve helped him with a handful of projects around his place, and I can’t remember him ever needing to buy anything but material. Everything we needed for the job was already there. The same holds true now.
Still, it’s slow going. It will be a couple of days before everything’s done—when we’ve collected and gutted all of the vehicles and planted the seeds we’ll attempt to grow. It’s strange to realize our survival may very well depend on the success of this project. It’s just another reminder of how far things have fallen. I remember reading once that an EMP could send the world back to the 1800s in a matter of seconds. I know that now to be true. But until it actually happened, I never gave much thought to what that meant. I never really thought about the people who lived before technology reshaped everything: who never knew the world of supermarkets and fast-food chains and corner stores full of junk-food. All they had was what they could provide themselves. Now we’re in their shoes. There are no soup kitchens or handouts waiting for us if we fail. We have nothing to fall back on. How harsh a world that a handful of seeds taking root could mean the difference between life and death.
As the afternoon cedes to evening, we find cause to celebrate. Two large garden beds have been erected inside the belly of a minivan, the first of our seeds planted into the soil. The significance of it isn’t lost on anyone, and it’s a good minute before we can do anything other than stare at the project. Soon after, we call it a day and retreat to the house. We sit together under the evening sky, at rest for the first time since sunrise. Like everyone else, I’m tired and hungry. What I wouldn’t give for a steak dinner—a thick rib-eye cooked to a perfect medium rare, baked potato with all the fixin’s, and freshly baked garlic-bread slathered in butter. Instead, I’m forced to make do with a meager portion of salvaged vegetables.
That’s not to say I’m not grateful to have the food on my plate. I know how much worse things could be. The days after the wildfire were a raw misery, forcing ourselves along on aching, empty stomachs. It was only a taste of true starvation, but it was enough to last me a lifetime. My hunger will not go away with this food. It will linger inside me for quite some time to come. But my stomach will not be overcome with aches and pangs, nor will my mind be consumed with a desperate mania to find food. I’ll rest, and talk, and spend time with those I love most in this world
. As fragile as things are, I have it better than most. And I know that’s something which must be protected.
As of now, the only line of defense between ourselves and intruders is the barbed wire fence surrounding the property. That needs to change. Richard and Felix spent much of the afternoon scouting the perimeter of the farm, thinking over defensive measures we might be able to apply. I ask them now what they’ve come up with.
“The best thing we have going for us is that we don’t have a huge area to lockdown,” Richard says. “If we fortify the roof of the house and post a lookout, we’ll have eyes on 75% of the farm. Our biggest blind spot is behind the barn. All those trees and brush would make it too easy for a group trying to rush the place. I have a few ideas about some tension traps and some tripwires, but we’re gonna need to clear most of the area out. We’ll need the firewood before too long anyway.”
A twinge of anxiety goes through me at the mention of firewood. I force it away before it can settle. Worrying over the approaching winter won’t delay it. All I can do is stay focused and do everything I can to make sure we’re as ready as we can be.
“What about the pastures?” I ask. “Both are wide open. Even with a sentry, a group could slip in unseen if it’s dark enough.”
“We thought about that,” Felix says. “Even if they don’t approach through the pastures, it’s a prime location to scope out our operation. All that oakbrush past the fence is perfect camouflage.”
“That’s a lot of brush to clear out,” I say. “Especially if we’re already clearing out the area behind the barn.”
“We won’t have to,” Felix says. “We’ll use it to our advantage, lay down some nasty surprises for anyone sticking their noses where they don’t belong. And if they somehow make it through and into the pasture, we’ll dig out some pit-traps and lay down some tripwires—not like we have any animals to worry about. We can add an extra sentry at night if need be. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
We continue to talk over our defensive measures the remainder of the evening. Overhearing us, most of the family add their ideas and concerns to the conversation. It feels good to talk over this, to know we are taking action to protect ourselves. Since that first morning in Denver, I’ve been all go—constantly worrying and looking over my shoulder. It feels good to have somewhere that’s worth protecting, to feel as if I belong somewhere instead of just passing through. I haven’t had that feeling in a long time.
“Is it just me, or does it feel like we’re building something here?” Lauren says into my ear. I can’t help but smile as she rests her chin against my shoulder and wraps her arms around me from behind. That’s exactly what it feels like.
“I did promise you.”
“You did,” she agrees. “That’s why I’m not surprised that it’s happening.”
Chapter 8: (Lauren)
A week has passed since our arrival on the farm. We’ve been busy. Our days start early and don’t end until evening, the slanted rays of the sun acting as our cue to call it a day. It’s been hard work, but the place is finally starting to resemble a farm again. Whether or not we can call ourselves farmers, on the other hand, is yet to be determined.
“It’s all in God’s hands,” Morgan’s Aunt Virginia told me. “Have faith that He will provide.”
I like the woman, it’s the reason I smile and nod whenever she speaks of having faith in “The Lord,” which is often. God’s not real. He’s a fantasy, made up over the centuries by poor souls desperate for something to believe in. I learned that truth early—through countless nights spent on my knees, praying, pleading for His help, His protection. But always, my prayers went unanswered. So now I no longer kneel. I no longer look to the sky in vain. Anything I’ve ever had in this world was because I made it happen. This is no different. Anything we accomplish here will be because of us, not prayers whispered and disappeared among the wind. And to our credit, it does feel like we’re accomplishing something.
Beside the garden sits our greenhouse experiment. As the only two with any real gardening experience, Virginia and Leah have been put in charge of the operation. Under their guidance, most of the amassed fleet has been gutted, and nearly half have been fitted with raised garden beds. We reference Elroy’s black book frequently, planting the crops which have the best chance to produce this late in the year; beets and carrots and radishes among others. The more variety we plant, the better our chances of something producing. I hope it’s enough, but the truth is, none of us know whether or not these greenhouses will work. But without a better alternative, we’ve no choice but to continue the course we’ve set.
I squat beside a halfway completed garden bed, my left thumb throbbing in pain. I blame the hammer, even though I know it’s my own fault. But in my defense, I wasn’t expecting a damn field mouse to brush within inches of my foot mid-swing. Mice have always been a phobia of mine; what with their dirty fur, and pointed teeth, and nimble bodies that can bend and squeeze through the tiniest openings. My skin crawls just thinking about them. And now I’ve gone and injured myself on account of one of those vile rodents. Emily can’t stop laughing about it. The sound alone almost makes it worth the pain.
Maya’s passing has affected all who knew her. As her best friend, Emily has been affected most of all. Her grief is easy to spot despite her best effort to conceal it. It’s in the puffiness to her eyes and the shadows beneath them. It’s in the hunch to her shoulders and the waver in her voice at times. Not a day has passed that I do not remember that night. Everything happened so fast, yet I remember it all with absolute clarity. I wish it didn’t. All it does is remind me of how much worse things could have been.
Forget the past. Focus on the future. I repeat my mantra until that night dissolves in my mind.
“Go ahead, laugh it up,” I tell Emily. “But I believe it was you who screamed like a little girl over a baby chipmunk in the tent.”
That shuts her up. Beside her, Julia takes over the laughter. “Really, a baby chipmunk?” She asks her cousin. “I don’t remember you being so squeamish. What happened to the girl who used to force me to hunt lizards and pick nightcrawlers with her?” She waves her finger and shakes her head in mock disappointment. “You’ve turned into a city girl on me.”
“Ok, first off, I didn’t scream,” she says. “It was an involuntary shout of surprise at feeling something crawling up my leg.”
This sets Julia off once more, her laughs occasionally punctured by snorts, which in turn, makes me laugh as well.
“And secondly,” she continues, talking over us. “You’re calling me a city girl?” she asks Julia. “Two words: rubber snake.” The smile drops from Julia’s face as it turns red out of embarrassment.
“Oh, C'mon, you can’t say ‘rubber snake’ and not tell me the story,” I say.
Emily smiles at her cousin and then turns to me, triumphant. “Sorry, Lauren,” she says. “I can’t give you the details. I’m sworn to secrecy. But I can tell you that it ended with me getting grounded for a week.”
“Always the mark of a good story,” I say. Though neither of them will share the rubber snake story, they do share others: stealing makeup from department stores when their mothers said they were too young to wear any; summer slumber parties, playing games, and pigging out on junk food, and falling asleep under a canopy of stars on the backyard trampoline. Born six months apart, they grew up together more sisters than cousins. All the important milestones of youth were shared together. Watching them reminisce now is like watching two best friends reconnect. It makes me wonder what it would be like to have a sister born months apart, instead of years. Would we have been like Emily and Julia? Would we have stories and memories to look back on—a past worth remembering? Likely not. It’s better this way. Not all memories are worth sharing.
Stories and laughter continue as we finish installing our garden bed. Thunder cracks overhead as we carefully plant kale seeds in the soil. It’s threatened rain all day, the sky painted steel-gr
ey with splotches of purple-tinged storm clouds. Nothing has come of it, but as another clap of thunder sounds, it appears to be only a matter of time. I feel an anxious twinge in my stomach even though I know it’s over nothing. Morgan and the boys know how to handle themselves. We’ve weathered storms far worse than this.
“We should be back by sundown,” Morgan said. “But if we’re not, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
But I’m wired to worry over those I care about. Until they make it back, my anxiety will remain. Over the past few days, Morgan and Leon have accompanied Felix in searching for his family. So far, they’ve received no leads or information on their whereabouts. From what I gather, most people in the area seem on edge, fear of intruders and violence evident. More than a few have mentioned at least one encounter with groups raiding their places. Richard has been on a mission to fortify the place since hearing the news, but there is still much to be done. Every time the three of them leave the farm to search, the bitterness on Richard’s face is easy to read. No doubt he believes they are more needed here, and I know he’s not alone in his opinion. The hypocrites. Anyone in Felix’s position would do the same—would cling to the hope that their family was still alive out there. I know I would. And as long as Felix clings onto that hope and continues to search, Morgan and Leon will be right there beside him. It’s how their friendship works.
While they have yet to find any leads, their trips haven’t completely been in vain. Their searching has yielded weapons and ammo, farming supplies, and crazily enough, a dozen egg-laying chickens and a rooster. In each instance, the supplies were taken after finding the deceased remains of their owners. It’s hard to feel grateful for these things given that fact. But we have to be logical, have to put our survival over our discomfort. It’s the only thing that makes looking into Morgan’s haunted eyes bearable, knowing those deaths affect him in a way they don’t the rest of us. He has more empathy than anyone I’ve ever met: a quality that may be more curse than gift in this new world.
A Cruel and Violent Storm Page 8