The Storm (16 page)

              Just then a dog shot out of the woods at us. It was Murphy! “Murphy!” I said excitedly. “Come here, boy.” He duly ran over, excited to see me and all those around. In all the excitement, I had run off so fast and forgotten that he was exploring the woods around the train when we had gotten separated.

              “Anyways,” said Rick in a voice that was now more masculine, “we need to go check out that house.”

              “It could have been an accident,” Mohammed chimed in.

              “Yes, an accident,” said an agreeing Puba.

              I thought about it a second and replied. “Only one way to know for sure. We need to head over there. Mohammad and I will go inside if need be since we are armed. The rest of you stay outside if we have to go in.”

              We began walking and making our way over to the house. We’d be there in a few paces, but I was curious about this couple whom I hadn’t met before. “So Rick and Roald, how long have you boys been here in the neighborhood?”

              They looked at each other and smiled. Rick gave Roald the nod to go ahead and tell their story, which he duly did with a great sense of pride. “We moved here last year from Utah. Both of us were raised to be good little Mormon boys but our mommies and daddies didn’t approve of our lifestyle. We had been dating and were partners for five years but got sick and tired of the society there having laws that weren’t fair to us. People kept feeling the need to inform us we were sinful and that they knew how we really felt even if they didn’t. You ever hear the old expression ‘
Pray the Gay Away’?
”

              “Yeah, I grew up in Eastern Kentucky. They would send gay people to an insane asylum for treatment there if they could.”

              “Okay, so you know what the environment was like. We got tired of it and decided to go make a life for ourselves. We moved to Maryland because there were lots of jobs here, a large gay community is present, and . . .” A long pause ensured. Suddenly with a giant smile, he finished his sentence, “Gay marriage is now legal here. We were the fourteenth gay couple to be wed in the state.” His pride in that was probably akin to how the fourteenth black millionaire in the country must have felt after the Civil War. The whole time, Mohammad never said a negative word, but he gradually walked at a fast pace to get ahead of the rest of us. His attempts to distance himself were obvious. At least he wasn’t being rude with his disagreements of their lifestyle.

              Mohammad and I were at the door with everyone else twenty feet back. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had no idea who lived here. “Whose residence is this?” Roald, Rick, and Puba all looked at each other, hoping someone else had the answer. Mohammad shrugged his shoulders.

              Finally Puba spoke up. “Look, they have a newspaper in a plastic bag from last week sitting over there in the front yard. Maybe it has a name on it?”

              It was a good idea. I had been seconds away from pounding on the door. It would be nice to know who I am asking for. The plastic bag was intended to keep moisture and rain away from the newspaper, but the deluge we’d had previously had managed to partially penetrate the bag. The newspaper was soggy like a wet diaper but still legible. The name stamped on the outside of the bag clearly read “Hank Macpherson.”

              With a loud bang, Mohammad’s closed fists smacked the wooden door to create a racket that would have been heard throughout this house and those around it. If Hank was inside, he ought to be coming to the door. Mohammad’s oversized, almost boxer-like winter gloves were off now. His hands were clenching the rifle; he was prepared for anything.

              “Hank!” I yelled out. “Hank Macpherson!” Another pounding from Mohammad made the windows vibrate to the point where they almost shattered. Again, there was no response. A couple of people were standing outside their front doors and watching us now.

              “Should we go in?” asked Mohammad.

              “Yeah, try the doorknob. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’s unlocked.” I was remembering the last time I had to enter another’s house. It had taken some time to realize Adam Greenleaf had left the door open for me. Maybe this one would be too.

              His hand turned the doorknob, and he pushed. The large, wooden door didn’t budge. Again Mohammad turned the knob and put his whole body into the push, with the same result. He looked over at me, “Break it?”

              “Yeah, let me. I’m bigger and have heavy boots on.” I took two steps back and then gained speed going forward and slammed the door with my body. It gave a little bit but didn’t open. Next I kicked it near the knob, hard. Again, the same result. Repeatedly I kicked, and splinters flew. It was giving way. The movies always make it look so easy that a small petite female can kick a door down almost effortlessly. This was work. Finally I backed up a few steps and slammed my shoulder at a speed and force that would have drawn a flag in football for unnecessary roughness.

              The door almost exploded open, and I found myself flying face first onto the floor. “That did it!” I said excitedly.

              Mohammad didn’t say a thing but had his gun drawn and took a couple of steps inside on top of me. The house was dark; all the blinds were drawn and little outside light was slipping in. “Hank. Are you here? We are here to help.” His voice was loud but came across as he intended, non-threatening.

              Silence was his answer. “Mr. Macpherson, are you here?” I shouted. The same reply came back to me. In a hushed and whispering voice as I stood up, I said to Mohammad, “We need some light.”

              Quickly he walked over into the kitchen, which adjoined the entrance, and opened the blinds. If I was blind a moment before, now I could see. Out of all our bodily senses, we tend to rely on vision the most, and our sense of smell is generally relegated to a status of spotting fire or detecting good foods. Now that we had light, the first sense I had that was overpowering was the smell of mothballs. It’s a smell so distinct that once experienced, it will never be forgotten. A rush of memories of my grandmother’s house flooded over me. Hank must have been old. Perhaps he was in trouble. We had to find him.

              Mohammad gave me a disgusted look. Whether he recognized the smell or not, it was clearly something he found foul. He was about to say something, but I spoke first. “I don’t think we have any trouble in here. You go search the basement, and I’ll search the upstairs?”

              He nodded in agreement. He lowered the gun from his shoulder and now carried it more relaxed at his hip. Even if we thought danger wasn’t present, we weren’t going to completely holster them. Our search was over almost before it had even begun. We walked through the kitchen door to the den and saw Hank Macpherson.

              His body was hunched over the dining room table. He was definitely advanced in age, probably in his eighties, although I couldn’t see his face. The room was dimly lit from the small amount of light seeping in through the kitchen. Hank had probably just eaten his final meal, lived alone, and decided that struggling for life in this new world wasn’t worth his effort or time. The wall behind his chair was covered with a chunky blood-red splotch that was still slowly seeping downward to the floor. His body must have then sprung forward and landed his head in the bowl of food he’d just consumed. The only other thing on the table was a yellow piece of paper with some scribbling on it.

              My name is Hank Macpherson. I am eighty-four years old and have lived a good life. I fought in Korea, loved my wife for forty-four years and leave behind three children and seven grandchildren. They all live in Florida and California. If anyone finds me and can make contact with them, tell them I loved them and am sorry. I have no more food and don’t want to eat from the community supply, which I believe will not last long. It is better for me to die on my own terms than to stay in this hellhole of a world a few more days and deprive some kid their future. May God be with you all. Hank Macpherson.

              It was bone chilling to read. This man, who had seen and experienced so much in life, had given up. Millions of Chinese and Korean soldiers couldn’t take him down in the fifties, but now he had thrown in the towel. Mohammad didn’t even want to read the letter. To him, a suicide angered Allah, and therefore deserved no pity. I at least understood what Hank meant, but he was gone now.

              Outside, I explained the situation to Rick and Roald. Puba left as soon as she heard that Hank’s body was in there.

              “Should we report this to the police?” asked Rick.

              “Ha, go ahead. There is no police force anymore,” said Roald defeatedly.

              We all nodded in agreement. “I guess we can come back later today and move his body over near the garbage dump since we are burying everything in that part of the neighborhood. Maybe we have a priest or rabbi in the neighborhood that can administer some last rights. It’s something to bring up at the meeting.” Just then I remembered, the meeting was going to happen in an hour, and I still need to get home to find out if the census committee had visited my house while I was out. Everyone nodded again. “Okay, guys, see you all in an hour.” We each went our own different ways.
Poor Hank
, I thought, but maybe he was right. Maybe we wouldn’t have enough for everyone, and he didn’t want to be a drag on the community. We would find out in an hour just how much there was to go around and for how long.

Chapter 9

Ups and Downs

              Blennington Estates has a gradual incline that culminates with the peak being at the entrance to the neighborhood. The community slopes lower and lower until the forest starts. The decline through the forest continues a half mile to the train tracks, the first part of totally flat land. As I walked back up the hill toward my house, sheer fatigue came over me. It could have been emotional, because of seeing Hank’s dead body. That could have put me over the edge, or it could have been physical, and my sleep-deprived nights were taking a toll.
Probably a bit of both
, I mused. Maybe I can get so tired that I will sleep without dreams.

              My boots were covered in mud with splotches on my legs up almost past the shins. I would need to clean up and change my clothes before the next town meeting. Stacy had been using the kids’ baby wipes to wipe down the children in lieu of giving them a bath the past couple of days. I supposed that would suffice for me as well. We had several boxes of wipes bought cheap in bulk, so we wouldn’t run out soon, but I needed to figure something out eventually for cleaning up. The wipes were a temporary solution. Later, I told myself. For now, get home. Onward I walked at a fast pace despite my legs starting to feel like spaghetti. As my house came into sight, I saw Miller Bradford walking away with Slav and Samantha Levin. It looked like they had just vacated while Stacy still stood at the door.

              If the three of them had seen me, they deserved an Oscar for going on their way and acting as though I wasn’t coming into view. They knew I was out on patrol and probably hoped to search my house while just Stacy was there. That wasn’t a good sign. Murphy ran ahead and beat me home by a minute. Stacy saw him charging the door and opened it for him. Sometimes I swear I think he will crash onto a wall at full speed, but the door was open and inside he went. Luckily neither of the kids were behind Stacy, or he would have plowed through them like a bowling ball onto a full set of pins.

              Stacy just stood there, half astonished probably at what had just transpired with the census inquiry and half astonished at how worn down I looked. If stress and war can age someone prematurely, I surely had grown a few gray hairs during this week. Instead of opening the door for me, she stepped outside to greet me. We both smiled, although we shared a smile that was to break the ice before something somewhat ominous would be shared. I had to tell her about ole Hank. My mind began wondering about what she was going to tell me. Just then she spoke in a tone that was serious but not panicked. “Shoes,” was all that came out.

              Within a microsecond, I had stopped moving forward and looked down. Of course, my boots were pretty disgusting, and she didn’t want me to walk around the house with them on. Without running water or a vacuum cleaner, I had no idea how we might clean up such a mess. “Of course. Sorry, they are pretty muddy.” I had them off within a few seconds and placed them off to the side of the front door. A little fresh air would dry the mud, and then I could slam the boots together later today or tomorrow, and they would be as clean as I would need to make them. “What happened here?” I asked as I scrapped the mud off the bottom of my pants. I knew from experience that the boots alone wouldn’t suffice. I too had to be de-mudded.

              “Shhh,” she hushed me. “We’ll talk inside.”

              “Understood,” I replied back. Stacy may not be a flamboyant type A personality, but she is smart and reads people well. She would have made the perfect politician’s wife. In addition, she was right. Who knew who might be listening to our conversation and what could be said. If we were walking on ice, she was making sure I was taking small steps.

              As I entered the house, the kids were downstairs and I could hear their excitement to have me home. They would be all over me in a minute. “Pants off too, mister,” she said as she pointed down.

              “Sir, yes, sir,” I snorted back at her as I unbuckled the belt and began to slide out of the pants. Tabitha and Paul were now charging over toward me.

              “Daddy,” they both said. Luckily I had my pants off just in the nick of time and they grabbed onto my bare legs. A couple of seconds earlier, and they would have been filthy.