by Eric Keller
When they finished the task, Luke smartly pointed out that if anyone came up the stairs, they could spend forever working away at their crude barricade system as there would be no way to push them back. Over the lengthy night, Hale laid within the nest of blankets in the bathroom, straining to hear if anyone was scratching away at the door. Through that sleepless fatigue, the unpleasant solution came to him.
In the morning, they chipped and drilled, managing to create a half inch crack in the cement near the floor beside the barricaded stairwell door. They used the dust from their work to camouflage the hole so nothing could be readily detected in the darkness of the hallway. Using the gas scavenged from the parking garage, Hale filled two detergent squirt bottles and placed them next to the hole. Anyone trying to force their way in now would face a fireball. The thought of burning anyone was utterly horrific, but Hale pressed the vision out of his mind under the guise of it being an unlikely possibility, telling himself having the security measure merely allowed him to sleep easier.
With the important work done, melting ice and making sad meals in the frozen kitchen did not provide much in the way of entertainment. Luke spent much of his time on the balcony, silently surveying the destruction which served as his parents’ gravesite. With no other ideas, Hale spent much of his time standing silently on the balcony beside the sad boy. Not a very pleasant existence but an existence at least.
Hale closed the lid on the checkers’ box as Luke called to him, “Hale, come here. There’s something going on.”
Normally the morbid view from the balcony remained fixed except for shifting snow and an occasional bird; now a half dozen armed men were walking towards them. The setting sun cast them in shadow, but Hale guessed they were part of the exhausted group that walked by in the storm nine days ago. Now they appeared all too rested.
Despite Hale’s first instinct to bolt back inside, a combination of fear and uncertainty held his feet. Instead, he stood next to Luke, clutched his ridiculous pointy stick at his side and looked down at the uninvited visitors. One of the group stepped forward and yelled up at the balcony, “Come down, I want to speak with you.”
Sensing Luke looking sideways at him, Hale merely shook his head at the command.
The man called up again, “We want no trouble. We can work together.”
Hale felt coldness in those polite words. He did not know what going down there would mean. Perhaps being part of an armed troop would make them safer. Perhaps they would shoot them dead when they stepped out the door. A coin flip, but the coldness in the man’s tone caused Hale to choose to stay put.
Hale called down, “No.”
“Better you come down than we come up.”
A defiant head shake before Hale moved inside, gently pulling Luke back with him.
. . .
Harrison would’ve preferred to wait, let those inside get hungrier and colder before approaching. However, their scrounging efforts elsewhere were not very fruitful, all of Thule essentially ruined and covered in shifting snow. The men were having a hard time ignoring the residential building standing untouched right next door. Harrison could not appear fearful or fragile, his leadership position was strong but was not yet perfectly absolute.
Last night Harrison and Clarence snuck inside and did some reconnaissance. They moved through the unlit hallways finding nothing but half-finished apartments and a few completed units which were emptied of anything useful. Exactly what Harrison did not want to find as it meant whoever was there took all the supplies and moved upstairs where they would be harder to root out.
When he and Clarence moved up to the third floor and tried to open the metal door, it didn’t move. Someone barricaded it and barricaded it well. He shared a look with Clarence. The food the men wanted was on the other side, but they did not know what else was waiting for them behind the fortifications.
They only saw one man and a kid out on the balcony, but that did not mean no one else was there. Unlikely anyone living in a residential building would have firearms but military personnel could have taken shelter there during the attack, or someone might have squirreled away a rifle. One person with a gun could do a lot of damage from the fortified position at the top of the stairs. They might incur a great deal of loss trying to get what might only be meager supplies.
Harrison knew the risk of an assault was not warranted, they should hold back and watch the building, waiting for a weakness, another avenue, an opportunity. He also knew his men would see such a delay as weakness on his part, especially while they ate thin rations and drank melted snow. Five days ago, they came across four other survivors, some pathetic maintenance workers. They had put up minor resistance to being robbed, and Harrison immediately killed them which garnered fearful respect from his men, not doing so in this more difficult instance might be seen as cowardice.
As this evening fell, having returned to the building with his group, Harrison needed to act. He told himself he was overly cautious; the chances of anyone up there having a firearm were nominal. He pulled his rifle off his shoulder and marched through the entrance of the building.
. . .
In the dark, frigid hallway, the banging on the barricaded door was overwhelmingly loud. Luke normally kept his distance from Hale, but he now huddled against him as they crouched beside the doorway. The orphan whispered, “Will it hold?”
An especially hard blow shook the metal door, and their homemade barricade moved inward an inch, the gray cat got smart and darted away into the darkness. In the faint glow of the weak flashlight, Hale could barely see Luke’s face, but his worry remained clear. Unable to think of what he could say to reassure the child, he merely shrugged while silently wondering if not going downstairs as the man suggested would be his last mistake.
“Aren’t you going to use the gas?”
Turning the dying light on the plastic bottles set next to the door, Hale contemplated the bizarreness of his situation. Huddled in a frozen hallway with an abandoned child, considering whether to burn armed men barrelling towards them. He never had an especially great abhorrence of violence but the idea of murder, of actually burning someone to death, remained unthinkable. Another huge bang and the barricade moved in further.
Hale silently handed the flashlight to Luke, picked up one of the bottles and took the lighter from his pocket. When he placed these items here days ago, it seemed like a fantasy, preparing for an emergency that would never come or would only come in some hazy, far off future.
He heard voices from behind the door, men extolling men to smash harder. Hale could picture the scene on the other side, a cluster of them, shoulder to shoulder against the door. He set the nozzle against the hole. Another intense crash. The door was almost free. Hale squeezed the bottle.
The familiar, pervasive smell of gas immediately filled the space. Hale heard curses and shouts from the stairwell. Hopeful the attackers would flee at the idea of being burned to death while trying to get unseen cans of corn, Hale squeezed, again and again, emptying the container as quickly as possible, causing the fuel to spread across the tiled floor.
However, instead of sounds of retreat, a massive collision followed. Panicked by the impending attack and by the idea of lighting a fire in a hallway full of people, Hale blindly grabbed up the second bottle and proceeded to empty it as the men pushed in on the battered door.
With the floor now flammable and no more ammunition at his disposal, Hale dropped the plastic bottle and stepped back. Another crash and the door jamb broke from the cement, their barricade dislodged. A gap of six inches appeared on one side, and powerful illumination came through. A man’s face appeared in the wide crack, eerily lit from below and behind like someone telling a ghost story with a flashlight.
Even though Hale only s
aw him from the balcony, he knew this was the leader with the icy voice who called up at them, the penetrating look the same from a mile as from a foot. For a moment no one said anything, their frosted breath filling the dimly lit space and lingering amongst the petroleum fumes. The face in the gap calmly spoke, “Step aside, we’ll take what we need and be on our way.”
The offer clear, let them come in unimpeded, and they would merely take everything of value and leave them to starve to death in the frozen darkness. Oppose them and die. No appealing options on the table.
Keeping his eyes on the face, Hale more sensed than saw Luke scurry in behind him. He suddenly knew he could not let them be killed without trying everything to survive. Qualms about committing fiery murder instantly evaporated. Hale flipped the lighter open, slowly shook his head and thumbed the flame to life.
No fear showed on the attacker’s face, no anything showed on his face, he merely said, “You can’t think your crazy plan will work? All you’ll do is make a lot of smoke and piss us off. Open this door, step aside, and you and the kid live to see another day.”
Hale lowered his gaze for a second at the pool of gas on the floor where it had spread out. He would only need to toss the lighter a couple of feet, and the vapors would erupt, filling everywhere with fire. He had no idea if fire would spread under a door or if the flames would move fast enough to overtake the attackers. Regardless, the corner he backed himself and Luke into left no choices.
Visions of growing weaker and weaker in the dismal, frigid apartment he inherited from a woman he barely knew with an unknown orphan he inherited from parents he never met, flashed in his mind and he made his decision. Hale calmly replied, “Might as well give it a try. At least we’ll be warm for a bit.”
. . .
Cursing himself for rushing when he knew they should be patient and walking right into such a ridiculous trap, Harrison pondered options. He could hear the men behind him shuffling, obviously unnerved by standing in the gas, but they remained behind him, no one bolting. They were displaying courage if he turned and ordered them to run it would be because of his cowardice, not theirs.
Regardless, the barricade, while damaged, remained in the way. They would all need to push a few more times to get through, and that would give the serious looking man with the lighter more than enough of an opportunity to see if his gas chamber trap actually worked. Harrison’s mind spat forth a third option.
“Wait. Wait a moment. We can work something out. We could use someone with ingenuity and courage. Why don’t you join in with us?”
The man with the lighter seemed unsure, but at least he did not immediately toss the flame. Harrison continued, “There’s a dozen of us, mainly former military, well established, set up in that service station out back. We’ve got supplies, plenty of heating fuel and are secure. You join us, and we can ride out this mess together. Has to be better than huddling up here waiting for the food to run out.”
“The boy?”
“I’ll personally vouch for his safety. And we’ve got lots of chores that’ll keep him busy and make him useful to the group.”
Harrison hoped he understood the unsaid meaning: the boy would need to work but, doing the jobs adults shirked would serve to protect him.
“You have all the guns, makes agreeing to put away the lighter difficult for me.”
Few words from the man but Harrison figured his adversary could clearly take in a difficult situation quickly. This started as a face-saving rouse, but now Harrison wondered if the stranger might actually be a useful resource. “True. Guess you need to take us on trust.”
Waving the lighter an inch or two, moving the imposing orange glow, he said, “Not going to happen.”
“Ok, one chance. You tell me how you see this working. If I don’t like your plan, this discussion is over, and you can stick that lighter up your ass.”
No hesitation. “If you want us to join you, then arm me.”
Interesting. If Harrison wasn’t bluffing about letting them join them, giving him a weapon made sense. While giving up a rifle to a potential enemy made him nervous, years in the military taught Harrison that merely having a gun was a long stretch from being able to use one.
Firearms were a rarity these days. Only those in the army or special positions were allowed to own them. His conversation partner, with his long hair, weathered face and calculating eyes, did not appear to be military. Harrison guessed he was dealing with a construction worker or an oil worker, a man who earned everything he got through hard labor, not from government checks.
Harrison causally lowered his rifle off his shoulder. Holding it by the muzzle, he extended the stock through the gap in the door. Now, he could no longer see his opposition and, as he waited, he caught himself staring at the shadow beneath the door, worried the glimmering, chemical blackness would suddenly explode into a fireball, engulfing his boots and the flesh within.
Finally, the gun was taken from him, and he let out a breath of relief as it was pulled through the gap and this was followed by the sound of the barricade being pulled down as he overheard the man with the lighter strangely saying, “No, you should probably leave the elephant behind.”
. . .
Huck no longer cried. For hours now he would not wake. Morreign sat on the edge of the bed with the child on her lap, a bowl of water beside her so she could moisten the cloth on his forehead and found herself deeply missing the horrible, sad sobs that had filled the cabin for the last two days.
An earache. They brought medicines, including antibiotics, but no matter what they tried the fever would not break. Simply an ear infection that became a fever and now her youngest child would not wake up. As she rocked him, she silently cursed bringing them here, then she cursed those who forced them to flee, then she cursed all of humanity before returning back to curse herself.
The door opened letting in a blast of intensely cold air. Paul, his arms full of firewood, stumbled inside. “Any change?”
Wiping an errant tear from her cheek with her mitten, Morreign answered, “He’s really hot but his breathing, I think, is a little stronger. Maybe.”
Dropping the wood next to the stove, Paul began the arduous process of stripping off scarves, gloves, coat, and goggles as he said, “Oh. That’s good.”
Paul sat next to her on the bed, placing his hand on Huck’s blanketed leg and looked at their son as he said, “There’s nothing to worry about, but I’ve got some news you should know about.”
“News? What do you mean?”
“A family. Husband and wife with a boy about ten and a teenage girl walked up from the river about an hour ago.”
Anger easily pushed through the frustration and fear Morreign felt for the last two days, and it coursed harshly into her voice, “An hour ago, and you’re telling me now? They could be dangerous, part of a larger group or something.”
Paul, annoyingly patient as ever, put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s more important you stay with Huck in case he wakes up. They’re no threat. Frostbitten, exhausted, starving and all around battered.”
Wetting the cold rag for Huck’s forehead for the hundredth time, she tried to quell her irrational anger as she asked, “Where did they come from? How the hell did they find us?”
“They’re really distressed. Only the girl is able to say much of anything that makes sense. Her dad is some sort of pilot, and they managed to steal an old bush plane in Fort McMurray. He knew the lodge was up here and thought they could hide out like we are. But the plane crapped out on them, and they crash landed downriver. They’ve been walking for three days.”
For an instant, calculations about the supplies needed to feed strangers ran through her tired mind before eager curiosity ov
er the family surpassed those mundane concerns. Morreign asked, “The woman, the wife, is she a doctor, or a nurse or anything like that?”
Paul shook his head and said, “I asked. She was a chef.”
Morreign had to chuckle slightly at the ridiculousness of it all, then, too tired to feel any real sense of disappointment, she merely sat next to her husband, looking at their sick child. Heat poured off of Huck and an odd odor she could only call sickness hung about him. A teardrop fell off her cheek onto her hand. She didn’t even notice her crying starting again. The tears merely came now, a symptom of sitting and watching your child slipping away.
In the dim room, lit only by the smoky glow from the stove, the impotent waiting became unbearable, and Morreign began softly talking to fill the silence with something, “Remember, the other night, when we were sitting around the table with Leo and Ainsley? We were saying all the things we missed before we came here.”
Paul answered in a near whisper, “Sure. Leo’s having a really hard time without internet porn.”
A smile touched her lips, but it was only a reflex, vanishing immediately. “Do you remember what you said?”
“Yeah, I think so. Sportscenter. Coffee. Hot showers.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“Of course. Wine. Clothes that don’t smell of smoke. Light switches.”
“I was wrong, I don’t miss any of those things, not really anyway. You know what I actually miss? The things I used to think of as annoying hassles. Running out of milk and having to go to the store. Needing to call the plumber because the washing machine is leaking. Taking a kid with an earache to the doctor. Back then nothing really went wrong, only things sometimes needed to be fixed, now… now things go wrong, now things can’t be fixed.”
She knew Paul was struggling with what to say. His innate kindness dictated he say something reassuring to try and alleviate her pain, but clearly, nothing could be said here. A powerful part of her wanted to throw herself at him and beat him with her fists, claw at his eyes and stomp on him. Never before had she experienced a true desire for violence but a powerful aggravation filled her because this man, the father of her children, was supposed protect them but he was doing nothing but sitting there, watching Huck die. She forced herself to take a deep breath. The violent instinct passed but she still wanted to be alone.