A Cruel and Violent Storm

by Don M. Esquibel

  He is lucky to be alive. Had the bullet struck an inch to the left, he wouldn't be. When I first laid eyes on him moments after the shooting, I thought surely he was dead: everyone surrounding him, face pale and covered in blood. As it is, he will keep his life for the price of an ear. Thank God. Or rather, thank Julia and Felix for their wits and quick action in time of panic. Together, they were able to stop the bleeding and save his life. I don’t know how. They worked behind closed doors, Ted and Richard the only other occupants in the room. Even now, that cold dread is slow to fade. All I could do was think, not again. Please, don’t let another person I love die because of my actions.

  “It’s not your fault, son,” my father said to me. “Nobody’s to blame but the men who did this.”

  Perhaps he’s right. But I know his opinion isn’t shared by all. I’ve become accustomed to Richard’s glares, of his highbrow attitude and general unpleasantness. I expect nothing less from him. But when Ted left the room, the look he gave me was one of pure venom. There was no mistaking the blame in his eyes as he saw me. I won’t soon forget it. The worst part is that despite my father’s words, at least part of me knows I deserve it.

  The screen door creaks open, drawing my focus away from my morose thoughts. Aunt Virginia. She walks past Leon and Emily who sit in the twin rocking chairs beside the door, past Julia and Felix who emerged from the house not twenty minutes ago, desperate for fresh air, all the way to the far corner where Lauren and I sit. She takes a seat beside me with a long sigh, stretching her legs past the edge of the porch. After a minute she reaches into her pocket and withdraws a capped tube, inside of which holds a single cigarette. I watch her uncap the tube and roll the cigarette between her fingers with practiced ease.

  “Still hear it calling your name?” I ask.

  “I did today,” she says, continuing to play with the cigarette. “Came damn close to answering too, if I’m being honest.” She pauses, staring intently at the white stick in her hand. As if finding her resolve, she shakes her head and caps it back inside the tube that has been its home the past six years, ever since she learned she was to be a grandmother. “But then I reminded myself what it would cost me. Decided I couldn’t do that to myself.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Though I doubt anyone would have blamed you. Not after today.”

  “Yeah, it was one hell of a day wasn’t it?” she says.

  I agree, glumly.

  “Grace doing alright?” Lauren asks.

  “She’s fine,” Aunt Virginia assures her. “She’s a sweetheart, your sister. Been talking with Ray most the evening. I think it’s helping him cope with what happened earlier.”

  “That’s good,” Lauren says. “I should check in on her though. Make sure she’s holding up alright, herself.” She squeezes my hand once and then rises to her feet, leaving my side cold in her absence.

  My aunt watches her leave with a smile on her face. “She’s a right sweetheart herself,” she comments.

  The word barely scratches the surface of the girl I love. I would say as much, but even I have difficulty putting it into words. Not only that, there are more pressing questions on my mind.

  “How’s TJ?” I ask.

  “Still asleep,” she says. “Probably a good thing. He’s gonna need a lot of rest in the coming days.”

  “And Jerry? Ray?” I ask. “How are they doing?”

  “Hard to say with Jerry,” she says with a sigh. “He’s been so quiet as it is...this afternoon certainly isn’t doing him any favors. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. As for Ray, I think he’ll be fine given some time. He’s still pretty shook up though.”

  Of course he is. How could he not be given what he went through: assaulted, held at gunpoint, nearly seeing a friend die before his eyes? Not to mention the aftermath—the screams and panic, the smell of blood and death. He wasn’t ready for it. Nobody ever is their first time encountering such things. I think of Grace, of all the dark deeds she’s been victim to since Denver. That she’s weathered it all and still has the capacity to lend strength to others says much about her. My aunt pegged it when she called her a sweetheart, though the girl is so much more than that. She’s a fighter. A survivor, like her sister. Ray is lucky to have her shoulder to lean on.

  “I think the same can be said of most of us,” I say.

  She nods. “Yeah. You’re right about that.” She shifts beside me, angling her face toward mine. I remain looking forward, knowing she wouldn’t have sought me out like this without a reason. “That’s why I came out here,” she says. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t beating yourself up too bad.”

  I force a smile. “Of course not,” I lie. “Why would you think that?”

  Her laugh is a soft, tired thing. Genuine, unlike my smile. “Because I held you in my arms the day you were born,” she says. “And because from then on, I’ve watched you grow into the young man you’ve become. You’ve always been harder on yourself than anyone else could be—always took the blame even when it wasn’t yours to carry. Grandma’s vase, Uncle Joe’s Mustang, the gardening shed. You’ve been covering for your sister and cousins your whole life. You think we didn’t know?”

  Each incident she lists plays back in my mind, snapshots of that simpler time when the breaking of a treasured vase brought about a fear to chill your blood, and getting in a fender bender while joyriding an uncle’s car felt like a death sentence. Instances that were never my fault, never my idea, but which I somehow ended up involved with. I don’t know what compelled me to take the fall so often. I never really thought about it before. Everything always happened so fast, so quick, I just did what I thought best. Still, it’s strange to know my actions didn’t fool anyone.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask. “Why didn’t my parents?”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes we did. Mostly though we let you make your own mistakes, your own decisions. You learn from them the best that way. You may have been the one who received the groundings and the docked allowances and what have you, but trust me, that doesn’t mean the others got away unscathed. There’s punishment in watching others suffer because of your actions, a guilt that claws at your insides, knowing you’re to blame for their predicament. Your sister, your cousins, they know that guilt. It’s the same guilt that’s eating away at you, even if you don’t deserve it.”

  She delivers this last line with the air of a teacher arriving at their point. She’s right of course. Whether I deserve it or not, that guilt has settled deep inside me, incessant—constantly reminding me of how bad things could have gone. An inch, maybe less, and I might have seen another person I love die before my eyes. I may not have raided the farm or pulled the trigger, but it was my rage which set the event in motion. Do I really deserve none of the blame? Or is this merely self-pity?

  “It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything,” she says after a long pause in which I struggle to respond. “Just know that what happened wasn’t your fault. It may not feel that way, but it’s the truth. You did what you did for the same reason you do just about everything else—to protect your family. In today’s world, that’s all any of us can do. Don’t apologize or feel guilty for trying to do that.”

  Later that night, I'm awakened by Vince after a few hours of fitful sleep. Sentry duty. Wordlessly, I throw on my boots and make my way to our lookout tower atop the roof. Although nest would be a more appropriate term. It’s a 4’x4’ box made of thick plywood and metal sheeting. It’s not pretty, but it does what we need it to do: provide a fortified space for us to hunker down and keep watch.

  It’s quiet out. Peaceful. The sky freckled with stars which will soon fade as morning draws nearer. A half-moon sits low to the west, casting a ghostly light upon the land. Vapor billows from my mouth with each breath, the cold air welcome after a night in the warm house. The wind rises, slicing through my layers, reminding me of the gales that chased us yesterday morning.

  Yesterday. Hardly any time has passed since we set o
ut, yet things feel so different from then. We knew the odds were against us when we went to the Sawyer’s ranch. The odds haven’t been in our favor for some time. But despite that fact, there was hope, small as it may have been. Try as I might, that same hope cannot be summoned now. Yes, guilt still weighs on my mind despite the assurances of others, but it’s more than that. It’s the fact that we were attacked—that a half dozen men were able to hold my family at their mercy and nearly got away with enough supplies that would have set us back weeks—time we cannot afford with winter drawing closer.

  I dread the rising of the sun, of facing the changes I’ve felt in the air since I saw that blade pushed to Lauren’s throat. Fear. The farm is swathed in it. Not since Rockridge has it gripped my family so thoroughly. In the weeks we’ve been here, that fear has slowly lessened over time. Each greenhouse, each fortification, each effort made to ensure our survival adding to the belief that this place might be the safe haven we’ve all longed for. And then yesterday happened. Not the Animals, but wolves all the same. Now that fear is back. All it took was a fresh reminder.

  Despite my misgivings, daybreak will not be held at bay. First to disappear is the moon, it’s trajectory finally sinking past the mountains to the west. Next goes the stars, thousands of sparkling lights petering out one by one until the sky unfurls into a curtain of cerulean blue. Light spills from the east, spreading all along the horizon. Our lone rooster crows it’s morning song as activity stirs in the house beneath me. Paul, Leon’s father, climbs the ladder and joins me.

  “Morgan,” he says in greeting.

  “Mr. T,” I reply. Were this the world before I might have asked him which fool he pitied today. He would have chuckled and answered with some reference I didn’t understand, and I’d have smiled and laughed all the same, not because of what was said, but because I’ve always found humor in the nickname—at the vast difference between him and the A-Team star. Mr. T is thick with muscle, bearded, hair combed into an iconic mohawk. Mr. Thomas is of middling height, lean, bespeckled with a shaved head. Still, I haven’t called him by his proper name in years. Leon’s mother is Mrs. Thomas. But his father will always be Mr. T to me.

  “How’s Ray doing?” I ask instead.

  “He’s still pretty shell-shocked by the whole ordeal,” he says. He sounds as tired as he looks. No doubt last night was a restless one. “We’ve talked, though. I think he’ll be alright given some time.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” I say. “It’s a lot to deal with. Especially being so young.”

  He looks away for a moment, the early morning sunlight deepening the worry lines on his face, making him seem years older. “That’s one of the worst parts about all this,” he says. “My wife and I, your parents, we’re already old. We’ve lived and loved, raised families, experienced what this world has to offer.” He shakes his head solemnly. “But Ray? Leon? You?” He splays out his hands as if reaching a conclusion he can’t put into words. “You’re all so young...so young. You have so much life ahead of you. But with things the way they are, I’m afraid of what those lives will be like...afraid they might not be any longer than my own.”

  His words are proof of the fear I’ve felt spreading among us. Worse, it’s warranted. I wish I could say something, do something to convince him all will be alright. But I can’t even convince myself.

  “We’re here now,” I say. “That’s the important thing. We just have to take things a day at a time.”

  My words ring hollow in the air between us, my attempt at comfort falling flat with my lack of conviction. Mr. T nods all the same, averting his eyes as if embarrassed at having admitted his fears aloud. Awkwardly, I excuse myself from the conversation, suddenly eager to escape the roof. I hit the ground and make my way toward Lauren who’s taken the liberty of collecting my morning ration.

  “Thank’s,” I say. “How’d you sleep?” Despite her assurances, I’m still worried about her. The image of her at that asshole’s mercy, terrified and trembling, won’t soon fade from my memory.

  “Better than you,” she replies.

  I force a smile. “That’s not saying much.” Indeed. Last night was filled with nightmares, all variations on yesterday's attack. I watched Lauren’s throat slit open a dozen times. Watched bullets explode through the skulls of my family. Felt their blood soak through my jeans and stain my hands as I fell to my knees. My fault. All my fault. Twice I woke up, sweaty, confused, heart thrashing wildly against my chest. And then, like so many nights before, it was a gentle hand which calmed me—her fingers tracing along my jaw and weaving through my hair, her breath warm against my neck as soft words were whispered.

  She reaches out that same hand now and draws my face to hers. “Get out of that head of yours,” she says. “I’m alright.”

  I nod, accepting what she says with a deep breath. I’ve been wound so tightly the past 24 hours. I need to calm myself. Things can’t be as bad as I’ve made them out to be. Another deep breath and I manage a smile, small but genuine.

  “That’s better,” she says. Her lips find mine and for a brief moment, I don’t have to focus on staying calm or remind myself that things will be alright. In that moment everything is. It’s not until we break apart that I am brought back down to earth. Not immediately. Not until I’ve finished with my morning’s ration and we sit chatting with Felix and Julia do I hear the commotion. Raised voices. Emily’s. Richard’s. Turning heads and gathering bodies outside the kitchen door let us know of the source. I push through until I enter the kitchen.

  “Rash and reckless,” Richard shouts, the first words of his I clearly make out. His eyes find me and his voice turns sharper. “He’s lucky he didn’t get anyone killed!”

  Emily’s back is to me as she lashes back. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. Both of you.” She points between Richard and Ted. “You’re really going to stand there and act like you weren’t as rash? Weren’t as reckless? Ted had to put a gun to your damn head before you came to reason. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I remember, girl,” he snarls. “But ask yourself, did I fire the first shot? Was it me who decided to act without thinking, and nearly got TJ killed? No. It was him!” The eyes throughout the kitchen and those standing outside the door are drawn to me. Ted fixes me with the same cold stare he did last night, his anger and blame directed solely on me. I expected as much. What I did not expect was to see that same coldness reflected in the eyes of so many others. Less perceivable perhaps, but there under the surface.

  It’s not your fault. I’ve heard this repeated from the lips of my mother and father, my Aunt Virginia and Lauren. They would have me believe them because they believe my intentions pure. As if that somehow negates the consequences. Richard’s words echo back to me and I nearly double over with the weight of my guilt. Not because of the words themselves, but because of the harsh truth that the others refuse to tell me.

  I should say something. Defend myself. If I don’t, Richard will take the opportunity to sow seeds of doubt in me. It’s the game he’s been playing since we set out from Rockridge. Only now, he finally has something tangible. Politics. I hated them in the old world and I have no time for them now. So I don’t raise my voice. Don’t speak my case. I turn my back and walk away, those gathered at the kitchen door parting for me without being asked. Lauren makes to come with me but I shake my head, stopping her. She doesn’t understand but allows herself to fall behind. I don’t understand either. All I know is that right now, what I need most is to be left alone.

  Chapter 12: (Lauren)

  The days grow colder, the slanted rays of the sun cooled by harsh winds which sweep through the valley in the late mornings and afternoons. Fires burn in the living room fireplace at night, turning the space into a giant dorm as many forgo privacy for warmth. The nights themselves are bitter things, the cold sharp, and penetrating. Leaves of red and gold litter the ground, the trees they once belonged to nearly stripped bare save for the thin patches desperately holding on again
st the inevitable.

  Deep autumn. The season has settled over us like an overnight snow, the likes of which, I fear, are fast on their way. How long till we wake to a world of frost and ice—when the fiery hues of autumn lay buried under layers of white, and the promise of spring’s first bloom seem impossibly out of sight? Either way, whether it be days or weeks, I can’t help but feel we’re woefully unprepared for what is to come.

  I try to convince myself we will be, and for our part, we’ve done all we can to prepare. We’ve stockpiled a small amount of food and our greenhouses continue to show promise. Already we’ve harvested two vans full of radishes and turnips, and more have been planted in their place. The memory of Grace’s prideful face when she and Virginia announced they were ready for harvest brings a smile to my lips. I only hope the rest of our greenhouses yield similar results. Our lives may soon depend on them.

  Our defenses have been strengthened, both along the farm’s perimeter and closer to the home. The house itself has become a fortress. All of the windows have been boarded up with plywood, strategically placed sniper holes spaced throughout. Guns are carried on us at all times, every magazine we have filled and at the ready. I tell myself it’s enough: that the home’s defenses will hold and keep us safe. We have the firepower. The bodies. Plans for even deeper fortifications. And yet, I’m not so easily assured. I can’t help but feel we’re putting all of our eggs into one basket, relying too heavily on our excess of bullets to keep the wolves at bay. I’ve voiced my concerns, but nothing has come of it.