Journal (11 page)

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 running 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.