The Book of a Few (2 page)

Since I moved out, things between my mother and myself had gotten better. Even now, I’m resentful of my upbringing, perhaps. That’s not to say that I hate my parents or anyone who has done me wrong. I simply dislike the circumstances that I was thrown into, as I feel it was avoidable. But you get what you get, I suppose. I’ve accepted what’s been handed to me and hope to move on through my life quickly.

Anyways, I spent a short amount of time there. As I made my way to the door, I stated to my family that I was going out to search for wildlife, and hopefully would bring something back this time. I left for a patch of woods between some fields close by, walking there, of course. Holding a firearm on my way out of town, I didn’t get any odd looks. Seeing someone with a gun grows more and more common as the days pass by.

The woods were quiet, more so than they usually are. This specific location had probably been all hunted out, but it
still
seemed too quiet. It was like every little fiber that makes up the world, including the living animals, knew what was coming before we ever did.

I sat myself down, back against a tree, looking out into a small opening where the trees were spaced out just enough to let the sun shine down on the overgrown grass. Ideally, I was hoping a deer would roam through. Of course, the sex of the animal makes no difference when hungry stomachs are on the line.

I thought to myself while sitting there that maybe our lives aren’t the only ones that have been silenced. I noticed that not even the birds were chirping. There were no squirrels chattering in their trees, or dropping nuts after they had been eaten. I had only heard three noises that day—the breeze blowing in the trees, myself every time I needed to readjust my position, and the trickle of a creek just out of eyesight.

This is probably over-exaggerated, but I believe I was sitting there for at least two hours with no signs of wildlife. Growing bored, I decided to move to a spot where I could overlook the creek and beyond. With the thought that sooner or later something would have to come along and get a drink, I got up, stretched, and began moving closer to the creek. Luckily for me, I found a suitable log lying on its side that gave me the perfect view. The only downside of this log was that I was sitting somewhat precariously right next to the steep bank of the creek. My feet rested only inches from the steep drop of three to four feet before the top of the water.

I sat and waited as patiently as I could, and without noticing, had begun to lose myself in thought. Questions like: “What would I do if I were unable to provide for my loved ones?” and “What if I am completely incompetent?” plagued me. Not because I’m not good enough or physically able, but because it is truly impossible. Impossible to acquire all that is needed for my family of five, Miranda’s family of three, and impossible to survive in an overpopulated world with no infrastructure.

Plant life rustling on the other side of the creek brought me from my mind’s wandering slum. Attentive now, I quickly raised my gun toward the sound. A half-minute passed, and it still hadn’t shown itself from the cover of the tall grass. Listening as well as I could, it sounded like it was moving further away. I decided to take the chance of alarming the mystery game and cross the creek to get closer. I was determined that whatever was in there was not getting away.

I stood up as quietly as I could without holding back any speed, although the snapping twigs under my feet didn’t help the cause. I surveyed for the best way across and found that the fastest option was to go straight down and across. A
fter
finding a suitable place to put my foot, I began my descent. As my first foot found the bottom, the water-slickened stones threw my leg out from under me. I fell backward and crashed onto the jagged stone riverbed. Sharp pain erupted in the back of my head and the world around me faded to black.

When I awoke, my eyesight blurred at first. I found myself in agony. I was lying on my back in the creek with water up to my neck. I was lucky I didn’t drown in my loss of consciousness. The big rock that I presumably hit my head on held me just above the waterline. With a stiff back, I sat up slowly in an attempt to lessen the pokes and jabs of the rocks beneath me.

Looking about, I noticed it was much later in the afternoon. I reached into my pocket to find that my iPod was now cracked and filled with water. The sounds of the wind and the water in the creek covered any signs of the animal I had heard before. It was gone by now, and upon realizing it, I swung at the water with gritted teeth. I cursed as I stood up, feeling cramps and sharp pains down my back and neck. Rubbing my water-soaked fingers against my face and the back of my head left dabs of blood on them.

I climbed my way out of the creek using another way up. Once on dry land, I stood there, trying to gauge the time for a bit. I know some Boy Scout trick used for judging time before sunset. Something like three fingers below the sun is an hour, or maybe it’s two fingers. Anyways, the sun was working its way toward the horizon and I decided to go back. There wasn’t anything to gain out of this. As I have said before, I’m not a good hunter. I just like guns.

I made my way out of the timber empty handed, again. I moved slowly, hoping, praying that something, anything, would come across me on my way out. When I reached the timberline and nothing had shown itself, feelings of desperation and thoughts of thievery accompanied my shameful walk.

I usually consider the act of thievery below me; even at times like this, it shouldn’t be resorted to. But then I realized that there were other people out there like me who had already come to this conclusion. If surviving meant thievery as a last resort, so be it. I couldn’t wait about for my family, and myself, to die.

I then began to wonder where I would find someone or someplace with enough food to justify taking without leaving the victim of my crime to starve. I know this was a ploy to fool my own heart and ease the guilt, but it did help regardless. Or maybe, I thought, if I explained to people what my family was going through, they would be willing to part with a few meals. Hopefully. I would try that first.

As town came into sight, the sound of black powder exploding in the barrel of a gun reached my ears. I became worried that someone could be hurt and picked up my pace to a jog. The gunfire sounded too deep and loud to be any typical, smaller caliber gun. A successive gunshot swept through the cornfields surrounding me, then another. Again and again, I heard the sound. The rapid shots suggested either someone was being careless or defending themselves.

Even with the few added minutes of run-time, gunfire was still present by the time I had reached the first town road. I judged it would be better to go where I needed to go and stay out of whatever was going on. Getting caught in the crossfire of a situation that I didn’t know the details of didn’t sound too pleasant. As best I could, I guessed at the locations of the sounds and planned on finding a way to avoid them.

First things first: I felt the need to reach my mother’s home. With all of the chaos, checking in with the family was something I couldn’t put on hold. I weaved myself a few blocks into town, safely, and felt that the speed of the gunfire had slowed. Nearly a block away from my destination, a man appeared from an enclosed patio of a wood-sided home. He burst from the door with a grunt and a gasp, startling me. In his arms he had small child, and I immediately realized that something was wrong. The child’s limbs and head dangled and bounced wildly and unrestrained as the man moved down the steps. His face was rugged, like everyone’s, but with panicked, darting eyes.

I asked him what was going on, noticing a gun in his hand. Either he was ignoring me, or was just too stunned to notice me. The man rushed to a car parked on the side of the road and reached into his pockets to grab his keys. After dropping his keys, the man groaned loudly and put the girl down with her back resting against the car. I now noticed the girl’s face. Blood ran down her cheek and neck. A large gash bled from her temple area and there were numerous scratches across her face, but her neck had taken the most damage. I could see from ten feet away that a piece of flesh was missing. The hole created a trail of blood down the front of her white t-shirt, and changed the tips of her blonde hair to red.

He picked up his keys and flipped through them witlessly. Groaning came from the little girl’s mouth, and the assumed father stopped for a moment and looked down at the girl by his feet. In just a short second, her eyes snapped open and she lurched forward toward the man with her mouth open and arms outstretched to wrap around his leg. She tore into his uncovered leg, biting him with enough strength to spill blood. He dropped his keys, yelling, and grabbed the back of her head by the hair. He pulled her away from himself and shouted for her to stop, calling her by name.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. She chomped at the air, struggling to get closer to his leg. Abigail began convulsing and pulling at his arms, trying to get free enough to draw more blood. Unexpectedly, the man began beating the child’s head against the car with his full force, causing dents to form in the door. I don’t know how long he continued to bash her head, but somewhere in there, I swear I heard sobbing. I wasn’t sure if it was the little girl or her father crying, but the man dropped down to his knees in front of the girl. Then I noticed the severity of his wound; she’d gotten him good, and he would need medical attention before too long.

I stood there, dazed, for what felt like a long time. But I collected myself when I remembered my family and instantly felt heart-crushing paranoia. I wasn’t sure at the time what I had just witnessed, but that answer could wait. I turned my back to the lone father and began running to my mother’s, which at this point was close by. Thinking back, that was a seemingly appropriate introduction for the infection in general. That experience gave me a good first taste of what was to come.

My mother’s front door was left open, and surrounded by the shattered glass of its window. I ran in, yelling out in hope for a response. Nothing. I sprinted and screamed through the kitchen and up the stairs to the second level, but the only response I received was visual. In the far room down the hall, my mother’s room, they lay dead. My sister, who was only six, was more than three feet away from her own arm. My brothers were strewn across the floor like a puzzle, and my mother thrown in a corner with blood and teeth marks where her nose should have been.

I dropped to my knees and felt crushing pain like a black hole had just opened in my chest. I fought as hard as I could and turned the sadness to anger. Then anger to rage and I pulled at the hair on my head and I cried out for God and I cried out for my own death instead. I waited. And I waited. My fists unclenched, and I looked up from the floor.

I went to each of their bodies and shut their eyes.
I was sad, yet calm.
Systematically, one by one, like a soulless machine with no other thought than this one task.
I felt that, despite all this, I still had something that I needed to do, and time was of the essence.

I left the bodies where they were and sprinted to Miranda’s home with my shotgun on my shoulder.
When I reached her home, I just ran in. I suppose you could say that it was a good thing, but I couldn’t find anyone. There were no bodies—thank God—but it did look like they left in a hurry and didn’t care to leave a note. Most importantly to me, Miranda may not have even come back from her college yet.

With my investigation as far as I could take it, I figured it would be a good idea to wait for her to come back. But then I thought how I should bury my mother and siblings as they deserved. That would be all right, I decided. The bodies of my family would rest on the property they died on, and I could watch the road from my mother’s yard and await Miranda’s return.

I left, yet again, for my family’s home. I went inside and began dragging the bodies out of the house, and placed them in the yard. In the garage, I grabbed a shovel and began digging. I didn’t have much time to dig each of them a proper six-feet-under grave, but I would at least give them something.

For half an hour, I didn’t hear a single gunshot. The only curious noise was a set of tires squealing. But beyond that, the town was silent. I’m not sure how long it took, but I dug my family two graves, one of which ended up frustrating me because it became slightly elliptical without me realizing. I didn’t have time to fix it, so I left it as it was.

I was finishing up the last hole that would allow me enough depth to get a thick layer of dirt over the deceased when movement caught the corner of my eye. I saw a man walking around in the yard next to ours. A strange feeling of uncertainty and the need for caution came over me. I watched him for this moment, walking about. He was looking around, surveying the area it seemed, and froze in place once he noticed me.