Journal Page 8

  After removing the skin, I laid the fillet on a flat rock and cut it into smaller chunks that we skewered with sticks and roasted over the fire. It seemed to take forever.

  A few days ago, I would never have pictured myself eating something as rank as that. It probably had been out there for at least a day, gnawed on by bear and coyote, attacked by insects, a veritable Petri dish for the most evil of bacteria and parasites, but it was the best meal I’d ever had.

  I ate until my jaw hurt and my stomach ached, which probably wasn’t much more than a pound, pound and a half or so. But considere high-top tennis shoes. with t ing how little I’d had the last few days and how my stomach shrunk because of that, it was more than I should have taken in. Five minutes after taking my last bite, first Gabriel and then I, threw most of it up.

  At first I thought that it was because the meat was spoiled, but since Anna kept hers down, I knew it wasn’t that. We had just eaten too much is all. So both Gabriel and I took a couple more bites of meat and waited while we cooked up the rest. What we consumed stayed down this time, so we ate a couple more chunks and wrapped-up the rest in a piece of fabric from the plane.

  As much as we wanted to stay, eat some more, and rest, we couldn’t. We were in an area that offered little concealment, so we could conceivably be spotted. And now that I was thinking straight again, I was chiding myself for my earlier boisterous celebration upon finding the meat. We had to push on.

  We walked until just before dark, feeling a little better now, and again made camp in some trees under a lean-to constructed of tree limbs resting against a low branch of a sixty foot pine tree. It wasn’t good enough to keep rain off of us, should that occur, but it would break the wind and maybe, maybe hold in some heat.

  That night (this night) we ate more of the meat and drank pine needle tea. It was a quiet meal, though. Our conversations were limited to just a few words here and there. Afterwards, Gabriel took the first watch, I went to work on the journal, and Anna prepared her sleeping area. It feels good to sit, and rest, and write. It also feels good to have food in my stomach. I seem more in control of my fate now. For a while there, I don’t know, I guess I didn’t think too much of our chances.

  As I recorded the events you are reading, pausing on occasion to phrase a sentence, or call-up a fact or feeling, it occurred to me that I’ve spent about a week with Anna, and I really know very little of her background. Part of the reason we hadn’t talked about it was we were miserable from fatigue and had no inclination to converse. The other part of it was, quite frankly, we weren’t getting along. But we had time now, and I at least had the inclination. Our relationship also seemed to have improved considerably, so I asked her.

  She told me that what she did before things turned bad was, in her words, quite “unremarkable.” She grew up in the town she now calls Woburn, met her husband there, and gave birth to her two girls there, Christine and Anna. Her husband was a local contractor, and a member of the city council. She did the usual things as a mom, what was expected — worked part time, took care of the kids, belonged to the PTA and a local book club, and so forth. It was a good life, she said. Their family wasn’t well off in terms of money, but they were getting along.

  Just to interject my own observation here, I noticed that as she told this part of her story, several times her dark brown eyes drifted off in the distance and her voice took on an almost sad, wistful tone. I imagine that she was thinking of her family and missing them. I’ve had those moments as well. There is really no escaping them …ever.

  She went on to tell me that all four of them got sick when the pandemic s to warn wotwept across the country. She has very little recollection of those days because not only was she quarantined, but she was also in and out of consciousness much of the time. Eventually, she recovered but no one else in her family did. At this point, she looked at me and said that she seriously thought about killing herself. She couldn’t see living without her kids and husband. It seemed that everything had changed. Her purpose to live no longer existed. She also spoke of feeling this tremendous guilt over having survived, when they didn’t.

  Though I can’t say I’ve ever really felt guilty about my own survival, I can appreciate how she feels. I’ve often wondered how I’ve survived until now. Maybe the better question is why, not how. I didn’t deserve my fate any more than those who died deserved theirs. It’s one of those riddles, I think, that leads one to consider answers that can never be proven either true or false.

  After speaking of her guilt, she looked away and once more spoke to the stars. “I had pretty much made up my mind to do it,” she said. “It was only a matter of determining how, that remained to be decided.” As she was getting ready to leave the hospital, or what they were using for a hospital, Gabriel was brought in and put in the bed next to hers. Since she had already contracted the disease and survived, the hospital staff asked her if she would stay on and help with him. Many of the medical staff had also perished, and they were pressing survivors who had the antibodies, into service. So she stayed and helped not only Gabriel but many others as well. She remained in the bed next to his and, one night after a long shift, while holding him, she did what up to that point she had refused to do. She cried. She said that she just sat there holding him, rocking back and forth, and crying. Afterwards, something changed in her. She made up her mind to keep on living and do whatever she could to help Gabriel recover. She had purpose again.

  Anna crawled inside the lean-to at this point, as she continued to speak, and her voice took on a sleepy quality.

  She went on to say that most people think that Gabriel and she are mother and son by birth. “But of course it is not true; we are mother and son by choice.” According to Anna, Gabriel only sometimes tells people the truth, and when he does, he usually also says that she saved his life. “The real truth is that he saved my life. I often think that if he had been put in another bed, or if my recovery had been just a day or two slower, or for that matter faster, or if Gabriel hadn’t recovered at all, I would have killed myself without ever having the chance to love him.” She made this statement to me dry eyed and matter-of- fact, without any dramatic effect, and I believed her from crown to sole. It struck me then how much chance affects our lives. Me finding the journal while looking for food, which caused me to help a boy I just happened upon, and all the rest that you know leading up to this very moment in time.

  In a slurred voice, she said that eventually she was asked to be on Woburn’s governing council, and the remainder of the story I pretty much already knew. They got the town organized, some basic services in place, food production and rationing going, and established a militia for defense. Everybody worked. There were no bosses so to speak. That’s how she and Gabriel ended up on the work party that was ambushed and how they were kidnapped. The last few sent not by a long shot. ged and ences were hardly understandable and eventually she just stopped talking entirely. She was asleep.

  April 9, 2054 –

  I don’t know what to think about this day. Was good the winner? Or was evil the one left standing? Then again, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe there aren’t even any teams on the field. Maybe it’s just a running clock presiding over a silent, empty stadium. I know I’m going to have to explain that.

  The morning started gray, damp, and silent except for the breeze that rushed past my ears and rubbed my face sore like a stiff bristle brush. All our gear was covered with dew and our clothes were wet, but it wasn’t from rain. At least it wasn’t from rain.

  For breakfast, we made a thick broth and ate more of the meat. We figured that as long as it stayed cool, we might get another day out of the venison before it was no longer edible, and we were determined to eat as much of it as we could. Calories were precious things and not to be wasted. It was also a treat to start out the day with a full stomach.

  We stepped off again and soon found our route skirting the edge of a high desert. Within two hours we came upon a narrow paved road r
unning north and south with a river next to it. My maps showed that we were very close to Highway 97, and if we turned south we’d soon make the connection. There was a risk here of course. If they had gotten ahead of us, this would be a good place to set up an ambush. So we went back a couple hundred yards into the trees and scrub, and turned south, parallel to the road and river. I figured if they were in fact waiting for us, maybe we could spot them first.

  Another hour of walking brought us to the junction of the road, river, and highway. We watched it from a distance for about thirty minutes without seeing any movement and decided to check things out.

  The highway was four lanes wide at this point and stretched north and south, out of sight. A big rig, with its rear doors wide open and empty, resting on flattened tires, was in the center lane. Not far from that, on the shoulder of the road, was a minivan with a broken rear window, its hood raised, and covered with a thick layer of grime. More vehicles could be seen in the distance, both directions — tombstones of progress, monuments to man’s steady march to nowhere.

  Almost directly overhead was a road sign, faded and dirty, indicating the town of Turnbull was five miles south.

  The idea of a town so close was exciting to think about. For the first time in a week, we could have real shelter; a roof over our heads with doors and windows to keep the wind out. We could also scavenge for things of use — clothes, food, maybe even a new tarp. But a town presented risk as well. Mr. Ponytail wasn’t the only dangerous character out there, so we couldn’t just go whistling our way in. We’d have to take our time, work the perimeter, and do a lot of watching first.

  We got off the highway, on the east side this time, and turned south the Author

  About a mile into it, I saw something close to the edge of the highway and took notice of a huge, vile looking black bird with a featherless, red head, rising up into the air. It seemed to float there for several seconds, a half-dozen feet above the ground, before setting back down again. Another one was with him, and I watched it dart forward, peck at something on the ground and jump back several inches, bobbing its head nervously. Something had gotten their attention, so I moved forward a bit to get a better view.

  I saw him then, a man sprawled face down on the ground. I immediately started forward but was stopped by Anna with a hand on my sleeve. “Leave him,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.” At that, we all started scanning our surroundings, looking for others. Nothing was apparent, though.

  I know it was good advice she gave. It made perfect sense. A week ago they even could have been my thoughts on the matter. And I’m sure anyone reading these lines doesn’t need me to explain the wisdom of them either. But I still couldn’t abide by them. If I had to explain my reasons for ignoring her, there’s no way I could. So I told her and Gabriel to keep a good watch while I went to check. As I started out walking, Anna was still protesting to my back.

  At my approach, the two buzzards took reluctant flight, made a couple of turns, and landed no more than twenty yards off as if saying they would wait. One way or another they’d get what they came for.

  He was about thirty years old, thin, short, with oily, long black hair, wearing clothes much soiled from travel, and shoes worn through on the soles. One leg was slightly drawn up, forming a triangle of sorts with the other. His hands were under his body, down near his belt. His face was turned to one side.

  Before reaching him, I could tell he was still alive, though not by much. There was blood, still wet, spreading out from the middle of his back and more blood on his mouth, chin, and the ground below. Also, he was breathing in short, rapid gasps as if he couldn’t get enough air. All in all, he gave a sad and miserable appearance.

  I spoke to him gently before touching him, giving assurance that I was there to help. The eye that I could see, the one turned up, came wide and stared. I moved to where he could get a better look at me as I went about checking his wound. It was a nasty one. He had been stabbed in the back, and by the looks of it deeply, too.

  I lied to him, I don’t know why, I just did. I said it didn’t seem too bad but that I wanted to look him over for other injuries. I rolled him onto his side cars and truckstifto check his front, and what I saw made me turn away. His intestines had poured out from a second wound, down low. I’ve got to tell you it’s a hell of a thing to see someone’s insides lying there on the ground like that; a hell of a thing. The stab wound to the back was bad enough, but this other one made his situation hopeless.

  I gently rolled him back down and glanced behind me at Anna, maybe for some support, I don’t know. There was just a whole bunch of stuff going through my head at that moment. But instead of getting what I wanted, she motioned for me to come away. I looked at her for a second and signaled for her to give me another minute. I knew that I couldn’t help this man, one look told me that, but I also couldn’t just walk off either. I had to say something to him, for my sake if not for his.

  I asked what happened to him and had to bend down close to hear his answer. In that position, mere inches from his face, that sweet, almost metallic odor of fresh blood crawled up my nose, filled my lungs, and turned my stomach. Death has its own smell, and I was well familiar with it.

  He whispered that he and three others were traveling through the town of Turnbull “late last night” and were attacked by a larger group of both men and women. There was a confusing, running fight, and he was sure the others in his party were killed, but he somehow escaped. He made it to where I found him and had been laying there ever since.

  About that moment, I heard Anna call out to me. “Let’s go Alan, we can’t stay exposed like this.” As she said these words to me, she leaned forward, pushed her arms out, with palms up, clearly angry about my delay.

  I stood up at the sound of her voice, and the man’s hand reached out and grabbed my ankle. He somehow gathered enough breath to say, “Please, don’t leave me like this.”

  I kneeled back down, rubbed his shoulder a bit and told him that I was sorry, but there was nothing I could do for him. I really was sorry, too. It was a terrible way to die. I couldn’t help but project my fate to his.

  I watched as a tear rolled down his cheek and cut its way through a smear of blood. He said, “Please mister, I don’t want to feel them eating me.”

  A chill ran its way up my spine and spread across the back of my neck. Ah shit, I thought. He wants me to kill him.

  I am ashamed to say, the selfish bastard that I am, my first thoughts after that were about me, not him. Why does he have to put this burden on me? I don’t want to be the one. He has no right to ask me to do such a thing. This isn’t my fault; it’s not my problem, so why should I be the one to fix it. I told myself, I should have just walked on by like Anna said.

  “… We have truly evolved as human beings when we can see beyond the limits of our own needs and instead embrace the suffering of others.” Claire Huston August 2051

  Claire Huston was at work again, and I calm cars and truckstifed down and told myself to quit my whining. A man was suffering here, and I had it within my power to stop it. Isn’t that the moral, human thing to do? Wouldn’t that be the better act? The sacrifice of my silly desires would be miniscule compared to what he is surrendering. This man is dying, and he knows it. That’s bad enough, that and the pain. But he also knows that before he is at rest, his flesh will be plucked from him one bit at a time. The knowledge of that must be beyond horrible. Wouldn’t I want him to do the same thing for me, if the positions were reversed?

  I once more glanced back at Anna and saw her start toward me, hard heeling it all the way.

  Another one of those big ugly birds made tight little circles overhead. It cast no shadow as it passed. It was as if it were a dead thing itself.

  I removed my pack, pulled out the little .22, and loaded it. It was the only way I could think of. I certainly wasn’t going to strangle him. I wanted his misery and my misery to end quickly.

  The entire time I was doing this, th
e man was watching me and crying. And well, I guess I was crying, too. It embarrasses me a little to write that. A man’s not supposed to cry, right? We’re supposed to do the hard things while gritting our teeth and bearing up. But there I was, going about fixing his death and bawling like a little kid.

  It was about then that Anna reached me. “Are you crazy,” she said. “If someone sees us ….” She stopped talking when she saw my face, saw the man, saw his wounds, and saw what I was going to do. I heard her say something at that point, however I have no recollection now of what it was. Since she moved up next to me, though, I think it must have been a gentle thing. I also remember feeling better that she was there, standing next to me. It was as if she were taking possession of some of the pain I was experiencing.

  I put the muzzle of the rifle behind his ear and told him softly that everything would be all right, and the pain would soon be over.

  He looked up at me again with his one eye, pale blue, rimmed in red and said, “Wait. Wait. Please. My name is Michael Bass. I was a husband, and a father, and … and maybe a good man. Remember me. That’s the worst thing, nobody to remember.”

  My hand shook after he said it. I wonder what I would say in his place. His was a good and sad thing to hear.

  After that, he nodded his head.

  I promised I would never forget him, how could I, and tried to squeeze the trigger. My finger wouldn’t move. It seemed frozen, without nerve. My brain and muscle refused to coordinate. They defied my conscious will. A terrible several seconds ticked by.

  Anna was there, however, and she put her hand on my hand and her finger over mine. I felt her warmth on my skin and something else I can’t put a name to. Tears let loose. I pulled the trigger. I did it. But she gave me the strength. She shared my suffering. I wo the Author