A Cruel and Violent Storm

by Don M. Esquibel

  “What else can we do?”

  It’s the question asked whenever I’ve brought it up: a question, admittedly, I don’t have an answer to. Perhaps there isn’t one. Perhaps making a stand behind our walls is our best option given the circumstances surrounding us. I don’t know. And if I’m being honest, my biggest concern isn’t so much our plans, but Richard’s overwhelming influence in them. Since we were attacked, he’s essentially taken over as the de facto leader of the family. Only Mrs. Taylor seems to hold any weight against him. But despite sharing some of my concerns, she has no more solutions than I do.

  “I understand, Lauren,” she said to me. “But I don’t know what other options we have. He’s not an easy man to like, but he does have experience that we don’t...until we can think of an alternative we have to have faith he knows what he’s doing.”

  Easier said than done. I can hardly think of the man without bitterness filling my mouth. For weeks, it was out of indignation on Morgan’s behalf. Casting doubt on his ideas, voicing snide comments out the corner of his mouth, making him seem foolish when he would leave the farm in search of Felix’s family. Now, such tactics are unneeded. The doubt in Morgan has already been planted, been spread among the family. Somehow, most of the fallout from our attack has landed on him. It’s not anger they feel so much as disappointment, as if he were a child who ought to have known better. The hypocrites. How quick they are to forget the things he’s done—the danger he’s faced and the lengths he’s gone to protect us. He’s proven himself a leader yet they look at him as a fool. I suppose it doesn’t help that he has done nothing to defend himself.

  Something’s changed in him. From the beginning, I was drawn by his presence, by the quiet strength he possessed. That strength has made myself stronger, better. It’s what brought us here; on this small piece of land where we fight to build a future. It’s something I haven’t felt since we were attacked. I’ve tried talking with him, but he’s always quick to brush my concerns aside, insisting all is well. If I didn’t know him as I do, I might believe him: might let the forced smiles and false assurances convince me he really is alright. As it is, they only serve to highlight the opposite.

  I work beside him now, helping to place barbed wire around our greenhouses. Sharpened stakes protrude from the ground at angles, lengths of barbed wire linking them together. The greenhouses themselves have been arrayed in a concave defensive line near the house, mounds of hard-packed dirt filling the gaps between bumpers, yet another line of defense we can utilize. Little by little, this once quiet farm has turned into something out of a war novel, the warm memories contained within the walls and echoing across the fields now buried under layers of fear and stress—of bullets and barbed wire. If Felix’s family were to return today, would they even recognize the place?

  I glance up at Felix in the watchtower, his face pulled into an emotionless grimace as he surveys our perimeter. He’s pulled away even more than Morgan since we were attacked. When I think of Felix I think of a quick smile, of an easy demeanor and unfailing optimism. I haven’t seen either since he called off the search for his family.

  “It’s been weeks...we’ve checked everywhere I could think of...what else am I supposed to do?”

  I wish I knew, but I don’t even know how to be there for him let alone answer that question. It’s not just me. Emily and Leon seem as lost as I am these days, neither knowing how to help any better than I do. It’s been demoralizing. I want to do something, anything, but I’ve been second guessing myself at every turn. Besides, I don’t know that it’s my place to bring up his family at all. I feel as if I know them from the countless stories I’ve heard: the kindly aunt, and jovial uncle, and cousins with all their quirks and traits. I can picture each in my mind’s eye as one would imagine characters from a book. That’s the problem. All I know of them is what I’ve been told, what I’ve imagined. I’ve never felt the warmth of his aunt’s hand as we were introduced, or heard the deep-bellied laugh of his uncle after one of his famous one-liners. We’re strangers. That’s the simple truth of it. Better to leave it alone than overstep my bounds.

  The afternoon passes quickly, focused as we are on our tasks. That and the fact that the days grow shorter. As has been our custom, we pack up for the day as the sun begins to set, returning to the house where awaits our paltry rations. Though no one complains, hunger remains with us long after the last bite, our constant companion. I haven’t been able to save much of anything lately, our rations have been so small. The emergency stash I’ve kept for Grace is pathetic, enough for two days at the most. I eye my sister’s small frame with deep worry, knowing how thin we are stretched with the approaching season. I need to figure out a way to save more.

  Soon there is a call for quiet and the eyes and ears throughout the living room and kitchen fall on Richard. I roll my own eyes before they too seek him out. Every evening for the past couple weeks has been the same. Richard calls for order and proceeds to ramble on in his drone-like way on matters about the farm. It’s part progress report, part rally speech, both of which fall short of the desired effect.

  “We’re making good progress on our defenses; We can’t afford to get complacent; Always stay vigilant; Remember the procedure if we’re attacked.”

  On and on he goes, oblivious, it seems, at the unenthusiastic response from his audience. He is trying though. Have to at least give him that. But he isn’t one to inspire. The foreboding air among us remains as thick as ever. If there is any relief had from his speech, it’s in it’s ending.

  “Well that was illuminating,” Emily says, speaking lowly so only we can hear. It makes me smile. She doesn’t like Richard any more than I do. Morgan doesn’t share my humor.

  “Not tonight, Em,” he says tiredly.

  “What?” she challenges. “Just saying, you’d think we were children the way he repeats himself every freaking night. It’s annoying.”

  “And complaining about it isn’t?” he asks.

  Here we go, I think to myself. The bickering between them has steadily gotten worse. Emily has never been one to tame her tongue or keep her opinions quiet. She creates waves while Morgan has taken to avoiding them altogether, content to shuffle along with his head down and let others steer the ship. The two mentalities are natural deterrents of each other. Hence the bickering. It’s as annoying as anything else.

  It’s not long before my mind goes numb and my eyes drift about the kitchen, settling on Grace who sits at the island with Ray and TJ, his overgrown hair strategically placed to cover his wound. Poor kid. He’ll be deaf on that side for the rest of his life. Even so, he’s lucky. Things could have been so much worse. That he’s here, alive, smiling with his friends, is a blessing.

  As if sensing my stare TJ shifts and turns my way, his eyes briefly meeting mine before looking past and settling on Morgan. I feel Morgan tense beside me. A strange look flits across TJ’s face. Not anger. Not absolution. Rather, a look of confusion, as though he sees something he does not understand; something he doesn’t know how to feel about. He stares for a second, maybe two, and then averts his eyes, that strange look still on his face. I squeeze Morgan’s forearm, letting him know I am here.

  “I think I’m gonna go try and grab some sleep,” he says, standing abruptly.

  “It’s not even dark,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I know. Just tired, I guess.” He looks as if he wants to add something, opening his mouth once before closing it. Instead, he forces a strained smile before crossing the kitchen and disappearing up the back stairwell. I don’t follow. I want to be there for him, but a person can only be pushed away so many times before it takes its toll. I’m at that point now. Space is what we both need.

  “I’m gonna get some air,” I say. I exit the kitchen and step outside, the chill sharper now as the sun sinks. I settle myself onto the tire swing at the edge of the porch, the sky a deep purple above the apple orchard. Morgan and Vince built it for Abigail soon after we arrived, a surprise fo
r their younger cousin to help lift her spirits. I find myself smiling as I remember the look that crossed her face when she first laid eyes on it—that kind of pure, unfiltered delight unique to children. The only one who might have been happier that afternoon was Morgan.

  Despite the chill, I kick my legs and begin to swing, tipping my head as I lean back as far as I can, my hair flowing behind me in a long wave. The motion is a nostalgic one, flooding my mind with memories: a chubby-faced toddler playing in the sandbox with a pail and plastic shovel; a bold kindergartner, fearless as she stormed the playground’s slides and jungle gyms; a smiling adolescent with a melodic laugh in the swing beside me, challenging me to see who could climb higher; all with the same deep black hair and dark emerald eyes. Parks were always an escape—a place I could take Grace and leave the real world behind for one of our creation—a place of magic, of wonder, a place where I could pretend everything was fine and we were as happy as the everyday people who explored the land beside us. Despite the ever-changing addresses and endless string of moving boxes, they were always there, a constant in my life when little else was.

  Those days of pretending are over now, I’m afraid. The world is too wicked a place to delude oneself into believing otherwise. There’s a reason for all the defenses we’ve erected: for the traps and barbed wire and lookouts surveying the land on the second floor. There’s a reason why my Glock does not leave my hip and my AR is never more than an arm’s length away. I let the swing slow down on its own accord, that familiar swoop in my stomach turning to stone as the moment passes.

  The wind shifts and the sun disappears, plunging the temperature even lower. I shiver as the cold penetrates my sweater, ready to return to the house. Just then, a crashing thud sounds to my left. Silently, I leave the swing and take cover, AR aimed toward the work shed and distant apple orchard. Breath turns to vapor as I wait, resisting the urge to retreat to the far side of the porch and get someone. Felix will have retreated inside by now. I might be the only one in a position to identify the potential threat. I have to be patient.

  Another thud, not as loud but clear against the quiet night. I squint, willing my eyes to see past the dark. Nothing. Nothing. And then, movement, the door to the shed opening and closing, a shadow of a man emerging from inside and staggering toward the house. He’s unsteady on his feet, making no effort to conceal his movement. Still, I hold my ground, unwilling to give away my position. He’s heading straight for the back porch, oblivious it seems to knee high strands of barbed wire looped across the gap between greenhouses and home. But then he stops and reaches into his pockets. I hear a click and a tiny flame erupts in the dark, briefly throwing his face into detail. Mitch. I let loose a breath that's part relief part frustration.

  I shout a warning just in time. He looks down and spots the barbed wire he nearly toppled over. “Good call,” he says with a laugh. “That would have blown a fat—”

  “You’re welcome,” I say cutting him off. “What the hell are you doing out there alone, anyway? You trying to get yourself killed?”

  He picks his way over the wire, laughing still. “Just enjoying the evening, darlin’. Same as you by the looks of it.” He clumsily climbs the porch railing, losing his cigarette in the process. “Damn it,” he says as he hastily bends to pick it up. He blows the dust off before proceeding to take another pull. A large cloud of smoke escapes his mouth with a content sigh. “No harm done.”

  He leans now against the railing, taking another deep pull as he surveys me. I feel a chill go through me as his stare lingers, reminding me of the dark tone his voice took when I discovered his bottle of pills the last time we were alone. With so much going on it had completely slipped my mind till now.

  “So, what brings you out here?” he asks. “You and the nephew have a fight?”

  I listen closely to his voice but detect none of the slur that coated his words that night in the kitchen. It’s a moment before what said registers, catching me off guard.

  “Why would you ask that?”

  He shrugs. “Seems odd I guess,” he says. “You out here, cold and alone. Morgan nowhere to be seen when you two are usually joined at the hip. Makes sense.”

  “We’re good,” I say, suddenly irritated by his questioning. Our relationship is none of his damn business. It’s certainly not something I’m about to talk to him about. “I think I’ll join him inside, actually.”

  I turn to leave when suddenly he reaches for me, his hand cold as ice as it locks around my wrist. I try and yank my hand away but he holds on till he’s on his feet. “Whoa, relax girl!” he says. “I’m not gonna to hurt ya’.”

  I push against his thumb to break his grip, remembering the trick from hours of self-defense videos I watched online. I shove him hard against the porch railing, an amused chuckle issuing from his mouth. “What the hell are you doing?” I seethe.

  His chuckle quiets, but the amusement remains in his voice. “You’re a little hellfire ain’t you?” he says. He takes one last drag from his cigarette and flicks it away into the dark. “Can Morgan even handle you?” he asks, shaking his head and exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  I don’t even know how to respond to that. “I doubt it,” he says, answering his own question. He takes a step forward as I take one back. “Girl like you? You need you a man that knows how to stoke those flames higher, make them burn nice and hot. Nice guy’s like my nephew?” He shakes his head dismissively. “Not in their nature.”

  “Step off, Mitch!” I warn as he continues to creep closer.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says, unperturbed. “Don’t pretend now.” He steps within arms reach and I react instinctively, unholstering my gun and leveling it between his eyes which widen in surprise. I take another step back and this time he doesn’t follow.

  “Let me make myself clear,” I warn, voice primal, pulse pounding with adrenaline. Still, I remain calm. I won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing rattled. “Whatever looks you’ve deluded yourself into believing I give you? They’re complete bullshit! I don’t know if you’re high or what. To be honest I don’t really give a shit. You come at me like this again, and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Got it? So stay the hell away from me! This is the only warning I’ll give you.”

  I keep the gun trained on him till I reach the door, only letting it drop as I turn the knob. Mitch watches me the whole way, a cold, subtle smirk splitting his face. He speaks just as I open the door, so low the words might have been meant only for himself. Little Hellfire.

  I shut the door with a bang, drawing glances my way. Subtle. I ignore the stares and make my way across the room, trying my best to appear normal. Emily eyes me curiously, but I forestall any questions by feigning a yawn and wishing them goodnight.

  “Your hands are freezing,” Morgan murmurs as I settle in beside him. His voice helps settle the lingering tension I feel. His arm wraps around my shoulders and I let loose a long breath, releasing the rest.

  “Stepped outside for a minute,” I reply. “Temperature drops fast when the sun goes down.”

  “It’s only going to colder,” he sighs.

  “I know,” I say, the worry in his voice impossible to miss. My thoughts stray to the approaching winter, to our greenhouses, to the threats circling outside these walls. They stray to Mitch, our encounter still vivid in my mind. There are threats inside these walls as well. I want to tell Morgan. It almost feels a betrayal to keep it to myself. But with everything he’s dealing with, I don’t know how he’d react—the ripple effects it might have.

  “We just have to be ready for it,” he says.

  My hand strokes the cold metal of my Glock tucked beneath my pillow, it’s presence there a fixture since the first night of the collapse. I look back on that night, as well as all the nights that both followed and preceded it, and I feel my resolve harden. I won’t allow myself to be cowed by the likes of Mitch. Never again.

  “We will be,” I say.

  Chapte
r 13: (Morgan)

  My face is numb with cold, the air charged with a wintery bite. It’s dark, the days first light yet to peak from the east. Leon, Felix, and Vince accompany me. We hike to the steady rustling of leaves underfoot, the hillside we climb thick with trees and large shrubs that grow starker by the day. It won’t be long till the smattering of yellows and reds fade and fall as autumn cedes to winter. Long have I dreaded the season of snow and cold. It’s brewed on the horizon for some time, dark and ominous. I’ve watched it stalk closer day by day—felt the warmth of the sun fade under fierce gales and rolling clouds, watched lightning dance across the sky and thunder ring loud in my ears. Only now it looms above us, angry and violent, the sky above a darkened shade of steel, twisting and unfurling in promise. The deluge is upon us, and staring it full in the face has me very, very worried. All any of us can do is continue to prepare the best we can. But it’s hard to feel hopeful when already we’ve suffered setbacks.

  In the last week alone we’ve lost over a quarter of our greenhouses to the cold. It’s a tough loss, we’re stretched so thin already. Heat sinks have been added to those that remain, the idea being that the trapped heat will be released during the night. It’s not an ideal solution, but without power, it’s the only chance we have.

  In the meantime, our rations grow smaller. The hollow pangs clawing at my stomach are a constant presence. I think back on my travels along the Colorado Trail, on those desperate days that followed the wildfire. I’ve known hunger greater than this, but I fear it may be just a matter of time until I’m reminded of that desperation or, God forbid, I surpass it. And this time there will be no hidden farm teeming with crops and resources, no kindly old man like Elroy willing to help us in our darkest hour. All we have is us. This farm and whatever we can scavenge along the way. Which brings us here, to this frozen hillside when even the sun still sleeps.