Into Captivity They Will Go

by Milligan, Noah;

  Over the next few days, there wasn’t much else to do but clean up. Most businesses were either destroyed or shut down, and so the residents meandered about, collecting what they could, clothes and stuffed animals and refrigerators, piling what couldn’t be salvaged on the edge of the property. Sam directed people. Older folks wandered around passing out coffee, water, and bread. Men dragged away tree limbs. Caleb and his mother tended to the injured. There were several. Bruises and lacerations mostly. A few broken bones. They made splints out of fence posts and tied them to arms and legs. But, thankfully, no one in the community had perished. Everyone was accounted for. It was a miracle, Caleb’s mother said.

  “We were right,” she said. “We are the chosen people.”

  And Caleb believed her. There was no other explanation. The rest of the area had been devastated with death, but here in the community not a single person had died. Not a single person with serious injuries. They would have to look after one another and help one another, but they were lucky. They had been spared.

  Caleb cleaned wounds with hydrogen peroxide, bandaged them with gauze. Victims had to remember to blink, to breathe, to brush a fly away from their face. Conversations were clipped short, words fumbling off the tongue, sound losing all meaning. They wore an expression Caleb would never be able to forget. It was one of complete and utter despair. Loss. Confusion. Anger. Everything they’d known was now gone, wiped from the earth in a matter of seconds by a monstrous wind. They couldn’t be grateful at this point. They couldn’t bring themselves to thank God for being alive after losing so much. It would’ve been unconscionable, and Caleb understood.

  Over the next few days, they waited. They waited for the mayor to come, the National Guard, FEMA, but no one did. They carried water in buckets from the lake, boiled it over the communal fire pit in order to drink. They slept outside, many of them in tents, underneath lean-tos, a tarp pulled over a couple logs, anything to escape the sun, to find some shade. Mosquitos plagued them. Fires helped some, the smoke keeping the insects away, but after a few minutes the heat would become unbearable, and Caleb would have to jump into the lake to cool off. When they weren’t helping clean up, he, Scoot, Brandon, and Catherine killed time by playing games: hide-and-go-seek, tag, football, Marco Polo. They talked about what they missed most from what was lost, their N64 video game system or their televisions.

  “I miss having ice,” Scoot said.

  They were sitting next to the lake, feet dangling in the water, skipping rocks. Catherine was the best at it. She’d pick up the smoothest stone she could find and then whip it across her body. It would glide from her fingertips and skim the water, bouncing across the surface for what seemed like a mile until it lost all its energy and skittered to a stop, floating for a second before it disappeared.

  “I know what you mean,” Brandon said. “I’d kill for a cold Dr Pepper right now.”

  “A cherry Dr Pepper,” Catherine added. “Or a SONIC Cheeseburger.”

  “No tomato, though,” Scoot said.

  “You’re going to be picky?” Caleb said. “Right now? With everything gone, you’re going to be picky?”

  “Hey, it’s not like we’re starving,” Scoot said.

  Not yet, Caleb wanted to say, but he didn’t.

  Across the water Caleb noticed the mansions still stood. Didn’t even look like they’d been damaged. Three of them stood high atop a rockface bluff, their windows letting in the morning light as if it were just like any other spring day. They might’ve lost some shingles, or maybe some guttering hung loose, but nothing like the poor folk it seemed, their trailers and trucks a complete loss. In fact, just to the east of them a mile-long swath of trees had been wiped clean like a giant lawnmower had barreled through, but the mansions remained unscathed like they’d been protected.

  “Do you think help’s going to come?” Catherine asked. She picked up another rock and let it go, and it bounced six or seven times before submerging.

  “Sure,” Scoot said. “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s been two days,” Brandon said. “We’re running out of food. Have you heard anything?”

  “God will take care of us,” Caleb said. “He always does.”

  “Yeah,” Catherine said. “You’re probably right.”

  Caleb picked up a stone and tried to mimic Catherine’s form, the way she held the stone between thumb and pointer finger, how she whipped her arm back and slung it forward in one smooth motion, but it released from his fingers at an odd angle, wobbling upon an axis, and didn’t even skip once before falling below the surface.

  “You know what I miss,” Scoot said. “My freaking bike.”

  The third morning after the storm, a few of them decided to go into town to talk to the mayor. Sam went. Scoot’s dad. Evelyn. She allowed Caleb to tag along, but he was to keep quiet, stay out of the way. Scoot’s father’s pickup still ran, and so they all piled into that and set off on the highway toward town. It was the first time Caleb had seen the extent of the destruction. A few of the others had already ventured into town and brought back reports of what little still stood, but it was nothing like seeing it firsthand. The trees were what got to Caleb the most. What seemed like a thousand of them had been splintered and thrown across the landscape, left fractured and jagged and piled atop one another. There had once been so many, the forest large, unyielding, and deep. It had seemed something impenetrable, forged by God himself. But now it lay in ruin, a miles-long bed of kindling.

  Town wasn’t any better. Most of it lay in rubble. Brick, cinder-blocks, stone, and pipe scattered everywhere. Electrical poles were down, the wires crisscrossing the streets. The roads were blocked, and so they had to park the truck at the edge of town and walk from there. Firefighters, police officers, and first responders took to the streets to clean up, perhaps looking for survivors, the dozen or so who still hadn’t been accounted for. The rest of the townsfolk just seemed to wander. They’d pick something up, a tattered book or a store’s door signage or a bent stop sign, and just look at it. They’d look at it like they were studying it, and then they would place it back down on the street like it wasn’t what they were searching for. A few men with beards and plaid shirts and blue jeans bulldozed much of the rubble with heavy equipment, their engines loud, puffing, deep, and guttural. They made neat piles of the wreckage on street corners, waiting, Caleb supposed, on a better idea of what to do with all of it.

  City Hall, like much of town, had been destroyed. The only thing left standing were the concrete stairs leading up to the once grand building. Caleb had seen it when they’d moved to Grove and his mother needed a new driver’s license. Inside its halls were large murals painted by local artists. Landscapes mostly, they depicted the lake, sailboats, cattle ranches, and loggers. Now, of course, they were gone, and so too was the mayor. In his stead they found Sheriff Whetsel.

  “Gone to Oklahoma City,” he said, “to talk to the Governor.”

  The sheriff was a bulbous man. Round belly, square shoulders, a trailer-hitch jaw, he had the build of an ex-football player. On his face was a bandage, a long strand of gauze that ran from his ear down his cheek and onto his neck, a streak of red staining the middle. A wound, Caleb figured, he’d sustained in the storm. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his complexion the color of olives, his lips chapped and dry. He showed them to where the Red Cross was handing out supplies. People from all over Oklahoma, Missouri, and Arkansas had come together to donate food, blankets, sunscreen, bug repellent, and water.

  “You can take three packages of water,” the sheriff said. “We got some bread in there, too. Some dry cereal. Canned corn, beans. Take what you need. We don’t have much, but hopefully more will be on the way. Mayor’s talking to the Governor and FEMA about declaring a natural disaster, a state of emergency. Bring in trailers. Food. Medical supplies. It’s slow going, but we’re doing what we can.”

  They thanked the sheriff, and each of them gathered as much as they could carry f
rom overworked volunteers, strangers who had come from all over to give their time, their resources, and their labor to help those who were in need. Caleb felt comforted by this. Despite so much destruction, good could still be found.

  That night they had a feast. Sam baked cornbread, and Caleb’s mom cooked a stew. Scoot’s family whipped up some sweet tea. They were all over at Sam’s house. It was large, but with all thirty-six of the congregation in the first floor, it was a tight fit. The place smelled funny to Caleb, a bit like a wet sponge. The carpet stunk of dust, its fibers worn thin where Sam often traversed, from the kitchen to the den to his master suite on the ground floor. In the kitchen, the appliances were outdated, the color of wilting limes. The toilet downstairs constantly ran, the tank in the back squealing a perpetual, high-pitched whine, but despite this Caleb felt comfortable here, at home.

  Caleb sat with Scoot, Brandon, and Catherine. They were quiet, had been since the storm. Their home had been destroyed, along with most others in the community. The vast majority of their possessions had been blown away by the winds, their Spawn and Team 7 comic books, their twelve-gauge shotgun, and their Pog collection, all of it vanished. But Caleb didn’t think that was what really bothered them. They were just things, after all. Their sense of security had been shattered, this feeling they were safe and invincible. For the first time in their lives, they had to face the fact they weren’t indestructible. Quite the contrary, actually—they were fleeting, vulnerable, and soft.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it,” Caleb said, “but everything is going to be okay.”

  They chewed their cornbread, slurped on their stew. They hadn’t had a proper shower since the storm, and so their faces were dirty, their hair ratty, tangled into knots. Clothes hadn’t been washed, worn for a few days straight. They weren’t in the mood to be reassured, and Caleb didn’t blame them for this. Sometimes it was okay to be angry.

  “Were you guys afraid?” Caleb asked. “During the storm, I mean.”

  “No,” Scoot said. “We were underground.”

  “Don’t lie,” Brandon said. “I heard you. You were crying.”

  Scoot backhanded Brandon in the shoulder. “Like you weren’t.”

  “It’s okay,” Caleb said. “I was scared, too.”

  He took a bite of cornbread. It tasted good. A bit hard, the crumbs scratching the roof of his mouth, but despite that it tasted better than any cornbread he’d ever had, filling his stomach, returning his energy, making him feel human again for the first time in days.

  “You saw it, didn’t you?” Catherine asked Caleb.

  “Sorry?”

  “The tornado. Did you see it?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “What did it look like?”

  He told them. He told them it was the biggest thing he’d ever seen. It didn’t look like any tornado he’d seen on TV, twisting violently, throwing up debris, dark in the center, wispy like smoke on the edges. It was just a wall. A black wall, rumbling forth, stampeding across the woods, throwing up trees like matchsticks. It didn’t twist, but barreled at him. In that moment, he’d been sure it was the end. He braced for it. He came to terms with it. He said a prayer and repented for his sins, welcomed the moment he would be transported from this world to the next, but it didn’t happen. He was spared. They were all spared, and now he was no longer afraid, for he knew God would always take care of them.

  “You think this is God taking care of us?” Scoot asked.

  “Of course. We’re still here, aren’t we? Dozens of people died in town, but no one here. Why do you think that is?”

  “Luck. Coincidence. I don’t know.”

  “You really believe in luck?”

  “You really believe in a god that would do this to us?” He spread his arms and looked about him. The park was in ruins, homes twisted and crumpled, debris strewn about. Wood splintered. Aluminum jagged.

  “I do,” Caleb said. “I really do.”

  Scoot took the last bite of his cornbread, washed it down with the last of his tea, then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. He didn’t say a word. He just stood, picked up his plate, and left.

  “Don’t mind him,” Catherine said when Scoot was out of earshot. “He’s just mad. That’s all.”

  DAYS PASSED. A WEEK. BUT help didn’t come. The food they’d received the first day in town didn’t last long. They tried to ration it, but they had thirty-six mouths to feed and only a few loaves of bread, a dozen or so cans of corn. Even at one meal a day, a ladle full of green beans, one slice of bread, a six-ounce glass of water, it didn’t last. Caleb lost weight, just like he had when his mother made him fast. It started out in his face. His cheeks felt sunken. His eyes heavy. His tongue sandpapered. Then he could see his ribs. He’d lie at night on the ground, a fire burning next to him, and count them. One, two, three, four. His stomach growled. It rumbled. But then it started to ache. He felt sick. He dry-heaved even though he didn’t have anything in his stomach except phlegm. They waited for word from Oklahoma City and Washington, DC that more help would be coming, huddled around radios and Sam’s television, but it never came. A billion-dollar budget deficit had already depleted the state’s rainy-day fund, and it couldn’t afford to help out at all. FEMA’s administration was mired in bureaucratic ineptitude. Insurance companies were delaying payment, stalling through weeks of adjustments and evaluations, trying anything they could to keep from paying out on policies. They were on their own.

  Supplies in town ran short. First it was the bottled water. Then soap. Gas. FEMA brought some food but no shelter. Not enough antibiotics. Pharmacies from surrounding communities sent what they could, but it wasn’t enough. Victims’ wounds got infected. They smelled like pennies and turned the color of mold. People got sick because of it. Kids and the elderly mostly. The infection had seeped into their bloodstream. That was all it took. One moment they were fine, and the next they weren’t, the middle occupied by days of painful agony.

  Sam sent another contingent into town: Caleb, his mother, Scoot, Brandon, their father, and Sam. Very little had been accomplished since their last visit. Debris still piled up on the roadside. Power lines still hung low, dragged across the streets. Buildings still lay in rubble. The townsfolk took to sitting more than anything. They sat on front stoops that still stood, on lawn chairs bent from the storm, on the ground even, just anywhere they could. More than anything, what struck Caleb was what was absent. Kids no longer played. They didn’t ride their bikes down the street or get into fights over pickup games of basketball. Neighbors didn’t greet each other or help to take out the trash. Families weren’t attending barbecues or birthday parties. Industry stopped. The retirement village where Sam and Caleb’s mother worked had been destroyed. Many of the residents had perished. Tourism halted. Summer homes that hadn’t been razed went vacant. Hotels and cabins went unoccupied, bait shops closed. And they were out of supplies.

  “We don’t have anything,” the sheriff said. He wasn’t defiant about it, or confrontational. He just seemed disappointed in the fact, his bulldog cheeks hanging lower than before.

  “You have nothing to spare?” Sam asked. “We need medicine. Rice. Flour. Anything.”

  “We’re all dry. Both FEMA and the Red Cross said they’d bring more food. More medicine. But that was days ago.”

  “We got kids out there, Sheriff. Old folks. We need help.”

  “I understand, Sam. I do. We got them here, too.”

  But it was no use. The sheriff couldn’t give what he didn’t have, and so they decided to head back to the trailer park. On the way, they passed Pickleman’s, a little convenience store still standing. It wasn’t much, just a brick building on the edge of town selling bait, soda, beer, cigarettes, and souvenirs: I Love Grand Lake T-shirts and earrings shaped like fishing hooks. A window was broken, and through it, Caleb could see some of the items were missing, others strewn across the floor. Cereal had spilled, and the cash register had been smashed, its drawer open and emp
ty. The sign on the door said “closed,” and the lights were out. Sam tried the knob. Locked.

  A rifle fired above them. They all jumped. Dread gripped Caleb. He’d heard gunshots before, out hunting with his father and brother and mother, down at the gun range, even just sitting on the steps of his trailer back at the park, the blast echoing over the forest canopy, but it was nothing like this, so close, so unexpected. He didn’t know where it was coming from, where it was being aimed, if he himself may be the target. He had the sudden urge to flee, didn’t even matter in which direction, but it was like his thighs had filled with concrete. He couldn’t move, so he did the only thing he could—he covered his ears. It did no good, though. They still rang a high-pitched hum, so loud Caleb feared they might bleed.

  “Get out of here!” a man yelled. It was Mr. Pickleman. He was on the roof of his store, a .30-06 in hand. He’d fired a warning shot when they’d tried to enter his store. Evelyn grabbed Caleb by the shoulder and dragged him back toward the truck, but the message was clear: the people were starting to turn on each other. The clues sprouted all around them. Boarded-up windows, deserted streets, rubble that hadn’t been cleared. The people were afraid of each other, so desperate they’d steal from their neighbors, the very friends and confidantes they’d known for years.

  And it was, Caleb’s mom said, just the beginning.

  “There’s a war coming,” she said, now back at the trailer park, her voice carrying over the congregation without aid from microphone or speaker. For everyone to hear her, she yelled, her face red from strain and drenched in sweat. “It will be a grand war. The final war. The ultimate battle between heaven and hell. You can see the beginnings of it all around us. God has noticed our pride and greed and sloth. He has seen our envy and our wrath. The way we turn our backs on our neighbors, our family, and our friends. And so he has sent us this storm.”