Promised Land

by Brandon Dean

  “I think I get it,” I replied.

  “Trust me,” Dad said, giving me a light, playful shove. “You don’t.”

  I saw a new side of Dad in that moment. He’d always tried his damnedest to make sure everyone knew how strong he was, but he was also incredibly gentle and thoughtful—much more so than he’d ever admit. His love was endless, and he was a hell of a man. The best that humanity had to offer.

  As we were inching our way closer to the pharmacy, I felt a frigid, wet chill ripple down my spine. “You feel that?” I asked, shivering against the cold.

  “Feel wha—” he started to ask as the same chill hit him. It was starting to snow—in May, of all months. “What . . . in the hell . . . ?” Dad chattered. We both looked up to the sky to see a light flurry of snowflakes glide through the wind. “I’ve seen it all now,” Dad said as he shook his head in awe. We watched intently as the flakes touched down to the ground and then dissolved immediately. “At least it isn’t sticking,” Dad said.

  We could see the city of Cleveland in the far-off distance, a shell of its former self. Even from so far away, it looked like a ghost town. Our small suburb was no better, either. We saw the state the Mayfield Pharmacy was in as we approached the storefront. Debris and rubble littered the entire crossroads, and bodies were scattered across the ground like common pieces of garbage, some intact, some torn to shreds and mangled beyond all belief. Every single one of them, though, was blackened and scorched, like the charred remnants of a piece of charcoal that had been on the grill. There was one particular scene that stuck with me the most and, to this very day, haunts me at almost every waking second.

  Two bodies intertwined, their cracked, carbonized flesh fused together as if they had been deliberately welded into one piece. The larger of the two bodies had its arms wrapped protectively around the entire frame of the smaller body. That smaller body was what tore my heart to pieces.

  It was clearly that of a small child, its head buried into the chest of the larger form. And held within the curled fingers of the child were the frayed, ashy remains of a teddy bear, missing an eye, with a leather patch sewn onto the top of its head. I could imagine that kid, crying, begging frantically . . . pleading. So scared, so confused. And the one holding the child was doing his damnedest to deliver comfort. They’d never stood a chance, though, and in the end, all they’d had was each other and that one last embrace.

  My chest clenched tightly, and my breathing grew unsteady. My stomach began to churn as my mind desperately tried to piece together everything I was seeing. Tears streamed from my eyes; I pulled my gas mask from my face and vomited on the ground below me. “Dad . . . Dad, I can’t do this!” I cried out, wiping the traces of bile from my mouth with the collar of my shirt.

  Dad rushed to me and pulled my mask back over my face. “Keep it on, Clint. Keep it on,” he said.

  “Why, Dad? Why? Why did this happen?” I asked, my words slurred and barely intelligible.

  “Clint, listen to me!” Dad shouted as he grabbed me by the sides of my head and stared directly into my eyes.

  “Dad, I can’t—” I repeated.

  “Listen!” he said even louder, finally getting my attention. “There isn’t anything we can do to change this. What happened here, it’s horrible. But we have to keep it together for your mother, okay?”

  “This is terrible . . . Nobody deserves this,” I replied.

  “I won’t argue with you on that point. But we can’t think about that right now. We need to go inside,” Dad said as he gave me a pat on the back. “Can’t let this keep us from taking care of Mom.”

  I nodded and followed Dad to the front of the pharmacy. The door was locked, but thankfully, the glass door pane had been shattered enough to reach an arm inside and unlock it. Dad reached in and quickly pulled his hand back out to reveal a small piece of broken glass lodged inside. As he yanked it from his flesh, a small amount of blood dripped to the ground.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah—it’s nothing,” he replied, pushing through the door.

  The door slowly creaked open, and we walked inside, the broken glass snapping and crunching beneath our feet. The entire place looked as though it had been ransacked, with shelves and cabinets overturned and left barren, documents and papers scattered about the dirty tile floor.

  “Start looking. You know what we need,” Dad said as I removed the duffel’s strap from my shoulder and unzipped its main compartment.

  Dad ran to the back of the pharmacy and into the storage room. I could hear loud rummaging as he slung drawers and boxes about the small, confined space. I walked over to the front counter and started opening all of the cabinets and drawers, finding two adhesive bandages still in their wrapper as well as a sealed bottle of rubbing alcohol and an unused syringe. I threw all of it in the bag and called out for Dad. “Find anything?”

  “Sure did!” Dad yelled back, holding up a half-empty bottle of penicillin. Even through his gas mask, I could imagine the smile I was sure he was wearing.

  “Good job! Is that gonna work?” I asked hopefully.

  “Only one way to find out,” Dad replied. “Let’s get outta here.” He handed me the penicillin; I threw it in the bag and zipped it shut. I rose to my feet and began following Dad back to the front entrance.

  “Help me! Anybody, please!” I heard a man’s voice scream from outside the pharmacy.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “How the hell should I know? Quick, get behind the counter!” Dad instructed.

  We scurried over to the counter and crouched down, trying our best to remain hidden. The man’s voice kept pleading for help; it grew louder and louder.

  “We have to help him!” I insisted.

  “You know we can’t risk anything. Just stay down.”

  A gunshot rippled through the air, and the voice was silenced.

  “Oh, shit,” Dad whispered as he peeked his head around the counter.

  “What is it?” I asked frantically.

  “Shh!” he hissed.

  “Is there someone out there? Did they kill him?” I asked in a whisper.

  “What do you think? Shut up and stay hidden,” he commanded.

  “We can’t just stay hidden! We have to help!” I said, rising to my feet.

  Dad pulled me back down. “Don’t you dare move,” he said. “Do you have any idea what would it would do to your mother and me if something happened to you?”

  “But, Dad—”

  “I said be quiet!” Dad snapped.

  “Hey, he have anything?” I heard a man’s voice say from outside.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dad whispered. “They’re speaking English. They aren’t even German.”

  That was the first time I really saw the world as I do now, became aware of how cruel and dark a place could become in a matter of days. How desperate people could become when the odds were stacked against them and everything was stripped away. It scares you, makes you wonder if you’ll ever go down that road yourself. Makes you wonder what happened to make these lost souls fall from grace.

  I came back to my senses when I heard a second man respond to the first. “Nope. Nothing. Typical.”

  “Shit, old man ain’t gonna be happy ’bout this,” the first replied.

  “We gotta go back with something!” the second man insisted.

  “How ’bout that pharmacy? See if there’s anything in there!”

  “Oh, shit,” Dad whispered under his breath. “Don’t make a peep,” he instructed quietly.

  Our backs were still pressed against the counter as we heard the door creak open slightly. Footsteps atop broken glass and filthy tile echoed through the room.

  “Just a waste of time! This place looks like a tornado went through it,” I heard one of the men say.

  “I suppose so. Let’s go on,
then. Gotta find something,” the second replied.

  Dad exhaled in relief, and my heartbeat began to slow down. We heard footsteps make their way back out the door when, all of a sudden, they stopped.

  “What’s that on the floor?” I heard one of the men say. Dad and I looked at each other in confusion and fear.

  “Looks like blood to me. And it’s fresh,” the other man replied.

  Dad looked down to the cut on his hand and began shaking his head.

  “Anyone in here?” one of the men shouted.

  Dad and I stayed silent until the second man chimed in: “We will burn this place down! Show your faces!”

  Dad looked at me and gave me a single nod. “Don’t shoot!” he said as we rose to our feet with our arms in the air. The men inched their way toward Dad and me with smirks painted across their faces. It wasn’t long before Dad and I were backed into the wall, with nowhere to go.

  The men were tall, about the same size as my dad, and about ten years younger. One was much thinner, while the other was slightly older and stockier. Both of their faces were covered in layers of filth and grime, like they had just gotten off from a shift at a coal mine. The larger man’s face was deformed on one side, as if he had been badly burned by chemicals. Perhaps he hadn’t been in a safe zone when the bombs fell. Their clothes were little more than torn rags, their pants and shirts full of holes. The larger man wore a thick, black leather jacket that would have swallowed me.

  “We never saw you, you never saw us. How about we just go on about our days?” Dad asked the men.

  “How about this: I do all the talking, and you only open yours if I ask you a question. Ya hear?” the smaller man said.

  Dad nodded.

  “What’s in the bag, boy?” the larger one asked, directing the question at me.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  “You got that thing glued to your chest—seems awfully important for it to be nothing,” he replied.

  “Please . . . you don’t have to do this!” Dad spoke up.

  “What the hell did I just tell you?” the smaller man screamed, raising his shirt slightly to reveal a handgun in his waistband.

  “Now about that bag, boy,” the older man said again.

  “Medicine for my mom. She’s dying,” I answered.

  Both of the men took a look at each other before letting out a harsh bark of laughter.

  “Poor baby,” the smaller one said. “What makes you think we give a damn about your mom?”

  “Please don’t—” I pleaded.

  “What’s yours is ours now. Best make this as easy as you can on yourselves,” the older one said, cutting me off.

  I slid a look at Dad, and we nodded to each other.

  I could see Dad’s eyes scan the men through the lenses of his mask as I did the same. Only the smaller one had a gun visible. The larger one had a large hunting knife shoved in his waistband. I didn’t know what the plan was, but I knew Dad had no intention of letting Mom die.

  “Hand over the masks,” the larger man demanded.

  Dad and I both knew it was already too late for them—they’d been exposed to far too much radiation, so the masks would likely be useless by that point. But considering we didn’t want to get gunned down, Dad and I slowly reached to the backs of our masks to unzip them and slide them off our heads. Dad and I handed the men the masks, and they promptly put them over their own faces.

  “Now the gun!” the larger man said.

  Dad didn’t immediately hand it over; instead, he asked the man a question. “You’re going to kill us, aren’t you?”

  The man went chest to chest with Dad before giving a condescending snicker. “Maybe you ain’t half as stupid as you look. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Surely you can understand that this town don’t have enough for all of us to share. Quick and painless, or suffer—choice is yours. You best cooperate.”

  “I understand,” Dad said before looking at me. “I love you, Clint,” he said, taking the rifle off his back and slowly handing it over.

  The man reached for the gun with both hands, and that was when I found out we didn’t have a plan at all. This was a showdown, and we were about to fight for our lives.

  Before I knew what was happening, Dad reached down into the man’s exposed and vulnerable waistband and grabbed the hunting knife, quickly plunging it into his heart and then shoving it in farther with a quick twist. The man groaned and gagged as the life left his body, falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “You son of a bitch!” the smaller man screamed, pulling his gun from his own waistband and firing two shots into Dad’s chest. Dad immediately fell against the wall and slid down to the floor, grunting in pain as he left a streak of blood behind him. I saw red and, without thinking, charged the man who had shot my dad. The pistol flew from his hand and slid across the floor, out of reach.

  I had the man on his back; I swung my fists at his face from every direction.

  “Get off me!” he shouted, wriggling out from under me and breaking free when he gave me a quick kick to the ribs.

  I was facedown on the ground; he grabbed my hair and kept slamming my face against the floor. My head throbbed and my vision faded as I watched a pool of my own blood form on the floor’s surface. He flipped me over and buried his knee in my chest, choking the life out of me. My eyes drifted over to Dad, and I could see him barely hanging on. He was crawling to something, but it wouldn’t be until a little later that I knew exactly what it was.

  “I’m sorry, Mom . . . I’m sorry,” I groaned weakly as I began to gag on my own blood.

  “Go to hell, you pig! Just die already!” the man screamed at me.

  It was at that moment that I accepted it: I was about to die. I reached out and gave one last feeble swing at his face, but he slapped my hands away like those of an annoying infant. My right hand landed on something; it was a shard of glass. I gripped it tightly, knowing it would be the only chance I had to make it out of there alive—I just had to wait for the right time to strike. With my eyes starting to close and my limbs growing numb from lack of oxygen, though, I knew I didn’t have much time to wait.

  Just in the nick of time, another gunshot echoed through the pharmacy, and the man on top of me had his chest blown apart. He screamed in pain, and his grip loosened. As air filled my lungs again, I saw a small window of opportunity to strike back. With all the strength I had in my beaten body, I drew the broken shard of glass deep across the man’s throat.

  The look on his face was pure shock as his blood rushed from the wound like a geyser. I think the pain of getting shot paled in comparison to what was happening at that very moment. He knew he was done; he knew he was dying. It hit me hard, the fact that I had just ended another human being. It made me question who I really was.

  His eyes closed as his limp body fell from on top of me. I stood to my feet, my muscles aching, and hobbled over to Dad. He was lying on his back in a pool of his own blood.

  “So much for all ten, huh?” Dad tried to joke. He was wheezing, and his skin was sickly pale.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I replied, trying my best to drag him.

  “Stop,” Dad said with a harsh cough. “Go home . . .”

  “I’m not leaving you! Let’s go!” I insisted.

  “It’s too late for me, son. I need you to take care of her. I need you to look after her. You’re the man of the house now.”

  “Dad! Stop!” I shouted.

  “It hurts so bad, Clint. My God, it hurts so bad,” Dad said as he started to choke.

  I turned him over on his side, and blood drained out of his mouth. He took in a deep, wheezing breath. “I need you to do it,” he said.

  “That’s not an option!” I replied.

  “Don’t leave me like this . . . please . . . ,” he begged.

&nb
sp; “There’s another way! There has to be another way!”

  “I want you to know something,” Dad said before letting out yet another bloodied cough. “You always were a special kid. Light of my life.” Dad stopped to take in another ragged breath. “I remember when I first held you, the deep talks we always had. I guess all good things come to an end, right? Teaching you to play ball, teaching you to be the man you are now. And I couldn’t be more proud.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” I said, my eyes burning with tears.

  I gripped Dad as tightly as I could and gave him the longest hug I’d ever given him. Just like the two bodies in front of the store, we were having one last embrace. I could feel his thready pulse bouncing to no particular rhythm. He kept trying to speak, but soon it was nothing more than exhausted noises and groans.

  I looked Dad in the face one more time, memorizing the face of the man I’d always admired, the man I’d always thought of as a superhero. The look Dad gave me, that stare—he knew it was time, but I didn’t want to accept it. I had never seen someone feel so much pain at once. And despite my strongest wish, I knew he was right. I couldn’t leave him like that, just barely clinging on and in so much agony. I picked up the rifle as I watched Dad mouth the words “Goodbye. I love you.” And then he closed his eyes, waiting.

  “I love you, too, Dad. I love you so much,” I whimpered back.

  I aimed the gun as best I could through my tears, my trembling, unsteady hands clutching the very thing we had tried so hard not to use. Now, it had only nine rounds left. I moved my finger to the trigger.

  And in an instant, the nine became eight.

  Chapter 7

  I gathered all the supplies that could possibly be of use to me, along with my mask, the handgun our attackers had brought, their knife, and the thick leather jacket, which had a small glass jar of some type of food tucked into the side pocket. I looked outside and saw that the rate of snowfall had dramatically increased.

  I glanced at the young man staring back at me in the reflection of the shattered remains of the pharmacy’s front window. A black eye, bruised jaw, and bloody mouth. I was taken aback by the fact that if it hadn’t been for my dad and a piece of glass, I wouldn’t be walking back through that front door. I pulled my gas mask over my face with sigh of disbelief.