The Storm: War's End, #1 Page 7

  He screwed up one day, thought his gun was empty, and shot himself in the foot. Dad always said his friend was lucky that all he ended up with was a hole in the foot and not the head for being so stupid. So I mean it, treat it like it’s always loaded.”

  Jess sobered and promised to be more careful and pulled on the raincoat. Erin grabbed a blanket for a little additional warmth and they both headed outside. The temperature was already rising as the skies continued to clear, and considering the sun was nearly overhead, it was also close to lunchtime. Neither of them was particularly hungry thanks to the hot chocolate, which gave the girls time to explore their surroundings.

  To the west was a small shed, more of a lean-to really, and it was locked with a sturdy padlock that resisted their efforts to open it. They left it for another time when they could find some solid rock or lever to force it open with and then spotted the overgrown remains of a road. From the look of it, you couldn’t even call it a road, merely two ruts carved out of the grass and underbrush and certainly not used anytime recent. Near the lean-to there was a ringed fire pit with two enormous stones situated near it, obviously used as seating. Green blades of grass were growing in the middle of the pit, and it looked as though an old bird’s nest had fallen down into it from the trees above.

  As far as the eye could see there were trees and underbrush, slowly turning from dead winter brown to green in the wet coolness of spring. None of the other cabins had anything stocked inside them, just bare furniture as thickly dust-covered as their cabin had been.

  Neither of the girls had any interest in exploring too far. Erin didn’t have shoes, and both girls’ feet were still sore and swollen. They stopped often and listened for any sounds, anything that indicated the presence of other people, soldiers or otherwise, but all they heard were the birds, the wind and water rushing in the creek. They were utterly alone.

  In the end, they spent six weeks at the cabin, recuperating, growing strong, and improving their survival skills. Jess discovered she was a pretty fair shot, and Erin became adept at fishing. They managed to supplement and extend the stock of food at the cabin with fresh, wild plants, and a good deal of fresh-caught fish and squirrel, rabbit, and even the lone wild turkey.

  At first, the idea of dressing game that they killed was disgusting and off-putting. Jess found she was more nauseous then ever and Erin had to take over all of the gutting and dressing so that her friend could keep most of their hard-earned food down. It was now obvious that Jess was pregnant, but it was something that neither of them spoke of.

  They didn’t talk about Tent 5 or about their families or friends, and they rarely spoke of the future. But as their bodies healed, they fell into a quiet rhythm of survival—it was what they both needed, time to heal mentally and physically.

  The days lengthened and grew warm. It was now mid-May and Jess’s belly was well-rounded, quite pronounced due to her thin frame, and her breasts were full. She had begun to help with field dressing their kills after her nausea eased up, but now she could feel the thing inside her kick. God, how she hated it, this parasite that made her sick, shaped her body into something that was alien and awkward, and brought back memories she dearly wished to never re-visit. Each time they tried some new food, some wild plant or mushroom that Erin assured her was safe, Jess secretly hoped it would make her just sick enough for it to let go and disappear from her. That’s how she pictured it too, simply dissolving away some evening like a bad dream. She said nothing to Erin of her feelings in this matter, although she was aware of her friend staring at her from time to time, on the verge of speaking of the taboo subject. She could barely stand to think of it herself. Better instead to simply survive and take one day at a time.

  They had managed to break into the small lean-to and found it had served as a smokehouse at one time. Later use seemed to indicate that it was a catch-all for hunting and camping supplies. A gold mine for the girls who knew they would need to move on soon. They found a large tarp, miraculously whole despite the obvious signs of mice, an ax, rope, and a set of knives that Erin immediately claimed would be far better suited to cleaning game than the knives stocked in the cabin.

  They cleared everything out of the smokehouse and decided to fire it up and smoke something. This resulted in some hilarious attempts at smoking and preserving the meat first from the turkey they killed (a pitifully scrawny specimen) to more successful forays in smoked rabbit and squirrel. Erin became so good at it that Jess had a hard time keeping up the supply of fresh game until they turned to also smoking the fresh-caught fish.

  It was after a particularly large haul from the smokehouse that they found themselves dining on the last of the green beans. The propane stove would be too cumbersome to carry with them, and they were nearly out of propane anyway, despite their careful conservation, so Erin didn’t object when Jess started it up and used it to heat not just the water, but the lone can of sweetened condensed milk.

  “It’s time to move on, isn’t it?” Jess said it aloud, even though she knew the answer already. Erin had been on a smoking and preserving kick, and with the supplies dwindling, it was time to leave. They had both known they couldn’t stay here forever.

  “We’ve got a long way to go,” Erin said as way of an answer, “So I guess it’s time we got started.” There really wasn’t anything more to say. The next day they packed everything they could comfortably carry, rigging it on a length of tarp between two sturdy poles with leather straps lined with fur at either end. The straps fit over their shoulders, one girl in front, the other in the back to balance the load. The fur lining would be warm in the hot weather, but soft against their skin.

  Their supply of dried meat and fish would last for a while, a week or better, before they needed more food. And it was in this way that they started off, both barefoot, their feet hardened by walking without socks or shoes for many weeks now. Jess refused to take the worn-out sneakers—it wasn’t fair that Erin had nothing and she did.

  They stripped the cabin of nearly anything that they could use and reasonably transport with them. As they left, the girls closed the door behind them, silently grateful to the unknown owner who had helped them to survive. The woods closed in around them. They followed the ruts in the overgrown path and then turned back towards the creek. It was time to go home.

  Welcome to Tennessee

  “Hell is yourself and the only redemption is when a person puts himself aside to feel deeply for another person.” – Tennessee Williams

  The dark, unwelcoming barrel of the shotgun was the first thing his eyes focused on. The voice was the second. “Welcome to Tennessee, boy. Now get the heck out.” The owner of the voice was male, with a thick drawl. He didn’t sound particularly welcoming, but it was the shotgun that brought home the point with crystal clarity. Chris hurt, all over, and he was completely disoriented. For a moment, he could not remember where he was or how he had gotten to be on the ground, covered by a filthy blanket. He blinked and tried to focus on the man behind the gun. The rising sun flared behind him and all that Chris could make out was the man’s outline.

  “I know you can hear me, boy. So’s you best cotton to what I just said. Get the heck back from whence you came. Now. Before others less kindly than me find you.”

  Someone who was less kindly than pointing a shotgun at him and telling him to get out? With a statement like that Chris had no interest in meeting any others. The old man jerked his blanket away, exposing the uniform below. “We don’t take kindly to the West telling us how we should live. ‘Sides, I’ve heard some damn messed up stuff comin’ in whispers on the wind. You’re lucky I don’t shoot you right now, boy.”

  Chris shook his head. He showed his hands were empty of weapons and tried not to look at the shotgun barrel, because it was making him damn nervous.

  “Sir, I was a conscript. They took our town, burned it to the ground, and killed most of us. I escaped and they are probably hunting me as we speak.” He tried to meet the man’s eye
s, but the sun was so damned bright. “I’ve got a broken ankle and no gun at all; I lost it when I nearly drowned in this damned swamp.”

  As if on cue, the broken ankle began to throb mercilessly. He had hobbled for nearly a mile on it, practically screaming in pain each time he had to put pressure on it. The bones inside had scraped against each other in a way that would have made his skin crawl if he wasn’t busy trying to not pass out.

  “Lake.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a lake, boy. Reelfoot Lake. Formed when the New Madrid went ape crap ‘bout 200 years ago. Don’tcha pay attention to your history, boy?”

  Chris thought that it wasn’t his history, he wasn’t from Tennessee. Instead he simply replied, “Uh, I guess not, sir.”

  The man just let out a harrumph and stood there, not moving, just staring. Chris shifted uncomfortably and the bones grated together, he barely stopped himself from shrieking in agony. He tried to slowly sit up and lean towards the injured ankle but was pushed to the ground by the dark snout of the shotgun barrel. Rough hands went through his pockets, found the spare ammunition clip he hadn’t managed to lose and relieved him of his knife as well. Once that was done, the stranger held out his hand to Chris and slowly pulled him to a sitting position.

  “Let me see that ankle, boy,” Chris could see that the man was old, seventies maybe, his hair was white through and through. “I was a medic a long-assed time ago now, but I ain’t forgotten everything, just my granddaughters’ names occasionally, and they usually forgive me for that.” He pulled off Chris’s boot, which did earn a scream of pain. Chris was desperately trying to clear the black spots in front of his vision as the old man ran his calloused hands lightly over the swollen ankle. “Yep, that’s broken and sure, that is.” He looked thoughtfully at Chris, looked him over, and looked him up and down.

  “Okay, this is what I’m a’gonna do. I’m going to get you out of the open,” he gestured to a stand of trees about 100 feet away. “And I’m a’gonna go back and get my girls out here to help get you to our place. Ain’t no way you can walk that far and ain’t no way an old fart like me is gonna be carrying a fine strapping lad like you over my shoulder.”

  With that he pulled Chris into a standing position and looped the boy’s arm over his shoulders. A hundred feet felt like a hundred miles. The swelling and throbbing of his broken ankle had him sobbing in pain by the time they reached the break of trees.

  The old man settled him slowly down against a tree. Chris’s vision darkened and his head swam. “Don’t you make a sound there, boy, not a peep. Like I said there’s others won’t give you the time of day, just shoot you when they see those colors. I’ll bring back a shirt and jeans for you to wear. I’ll be back in two licks.” Chris barely registered the man’s departure through the haze of pain. Eventually, he relaxed enough to doze lightly. It was a welcome respite from the throbbing fire that consumed his foot.

  The murmur of voices snapped him back to consciousness. Two teenage girls walked with the old man. The old man had exchanged his shotgun for two long poles and a rucksack. The girls were both armed; their slim hips bulged, each wore a tiny revolver on one side and a sharp, long hunting knife on the other. They looked openly skeptical as they caught their first glimpse of Chris.

  The older one, she had to be close to Jess’s age, eyed his clothes, “Gramps, you said he was hurt, y’didn’t mention he was the enemy.”

  “He ain’t the enemy, girl.”

  “But he’s wearing a Western Front uniform.”

  The old man looked irritated, “And he’s explained why so’s you better never mind.” He bobbed his head towards Chris, “Boy, I brought you a change of clothes. You to take off those you got on and let us get ‘em gone where no one else will go a’looking. Folks round here’d just as soon shoot you if they sees those colors. After your good and dead they might think of askin’ questions. So skivvy on outta them and put on these.” He tossed the rucksack and Chris caught it. He pulled off his shirt quickly and then looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  The taller girl rolled her eyes, “Oh for Christ’s sake, ain’t nothing we ain’t seen before.”

  “Carrie Lynn Perdue!” Her grandfather barked, “Don’t you use the name of the Lord in vain!”

  She was instantly meek, “Yes, Gramps, sorry.” Her grandfather harrumphed and gestured for both the girls to turn away while Chris took off his pants. They rolled their eyes and grinned mischievously as they turned their backs.

  It took him a fair bit of time to maneuver with his swollen ankle, which had doubled in size from the night before. By the time he had put on the pants and buttoned his shirt his head was swimming and he felt sick to his stomach. He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to settle. He was startled by the soft, warm hand that gently touched his forehead.

  Both of the girls were tall, slender, and had long blond hair. The taller one, who the old man called Carrie, had emerald green eyes and her younger sister had that half blue, half brown, half something else that people usually just called hazel. Right now a pair of the most amazing green eyes were staring into his and looking concerned. “Gramps, he’s got a fever too.”

  “I ain’t surprised about that. Let’s get him on the gurney and get him back to the house. Liza, you take these and burn them down at the pits. Make sure no one sees and make sure they’re burned to nothing. Then you hustle yourself back to the house right quick, y’hear?”

  “Yessir,” the girl chirped and disappeared into the woods with the bundle of clothes.

  Chris slowly stood up with Carrie on one side and the old man on the other. They helped him hop to the stretcher; a sturdy piece of canvas attached to the two poles, and laid him down on it.

  “I could try and walk,” Chris said, his voice sounded embarrassingly feeble to his own ears. Carrie snorted, crouched down at one end, and gripped the poles.

  “One, two, and three!” Carrie and her grandfather heaved him into the air and began to walk steadily.

  It wasn’t long before they were huffing and puffing from the exertion. It took several sets of walking and then sitting down and resting before they reached their destination. What Chris could see of it from his limited view was a decent sized farmhouse and several outbuildings. Several trees, on the outskirts of the property had been felled recently and Chris noticed that the view from the house was clear in all directions. It was a well-situated, defensible property. Anyone who tried to take the house would have zero cover for a good 100 yards in any direction. Unless you were suicidal or had a true hard-on for trouble, it would be advisable to find a better target.

  Liza caught up to them, materializing at Chris’s right shoulder and grabbing half of her grandfather’s side of the stretcher. “Y’didn’t blindfold him, Gramps. Y’shoulda.”

  The old man’s breathing was labored. “When I need yer opinion, girl, I’ll tell you what it is. You let me do the worryin’ ‘bout this fella. You burn those clothes down to ash?”

  “Uhh...yessir.” She tripped over a rock and lurched to the left, and the three of them all stumbled and nearly dropped him. Chris’s damaged left ankle rapped hard against the undamaged right and he passed out.

  Plaids and Paneling

  “Other things may change us, but we start and end with family” – Anthony Brandt

  Chris opened his eyes and frowned. The deer standing over him was still. It didn’t move, it didn’t blink, – and it didn’t seem to even breathe. It took him several moments to realize it was only a head, a hunting trophy, mounted on the wall.

  The past couple of days had been a blur of pain. They had set his ankle, he certainly remembered that. He wished he didn’t. He distinctly remembered cursing and screaming, which was surely offensive to the old man and his scream had been embarrassingly effeminate. The pretty girl with the green eyes must have been greatly impressed with that.

  After that had come waves of heat, then cold, and the ache from the damaged ankle, all in succession, as
they battled the fever that had beset him. His fall into the swamp, the exposure to wet and cold, as well as the stress of the escape and no food in days had opened the door to a bad cold, complete with a racking cough, which had then turned to pneumonia. Today was his first lucid day in what seemed like forever.

  He took a moment and looked around him at the room. Paneled walls all covered with furred trophies or pictures of hunters. He was lying on a worn, lumpy couch with a handmade quilt covering him snugly.

  He could see it was made of plaid flannels, most likely old cast-off shirts. His stomach growled loudly. How long had it been since he had eaten? He dimly recalled Green Eyes, what was her name, spooning broth into his mouth. When had that been? Last night?

  A lively young face appeared in his field of vision. Hazel eyes and pixie nose and damned if he could remember this one’s name either. “You’re awake!” She grinned at him and then turned and yelled over her shoulder, “Hey Carrie, tell Gramps that he’s awake!”

  It was Gramps that answered, “Stop your bellowing child, I’m right out here.” From his position on the couch, Chris could see that this den opened into a short hall and a kitchen beyond. The old man set down the basket of eggs he had just brought in from outside and made his way slowly into the room. “So, you finally lucid, boy? You’ve been near to dead for six days.”

  Six days! Six days he could barely remember. His brain was still fuzzy from sleep as he tried to figure out how far he’d come and how long it had taken. Weeks? Months? He would later map it out and discover that he had traveled for nearly three hundred miles. He’d just kept going, kept running. It hadn’t made sense, not then, and certainly not now. Who the hell ran towards Tennessee anyway? Yet here he was.