Humanity Gone: After the Plague (8 page)

             
I need to know what time it is and give my hands a break; I don't want to get back to the cabin too late in the day.  A quarter-turn of the keys in the ignition of the car shows that it’s still only one o’clock.  Good; I have plenty of time.

             
I finish the grave rather quickly now and work through the pain each fling of the shovel delivers.  I stand up against the wall to check.  It comes right up to my chest.  I hoist myself out and lay the ranger’s body next to the grave.  After lowering myself back in, I pull the ranger off of the ground and lay him gently on the bottom.

             
Refilling the grave takes half the time of actually digging it.  As I finish the mound, I consider making some parting remarks.  There are only a few shovel-fulls left.

             
“Thank you, sir,” I begin, weakly.  I empty the shovel onto the mound two more times.  “You gave us some more time to get on our feet.”  The last bits of dirt fall from the shovel’s edge.  “Hopefully we’ll be ready by the time it runs out,” I say, more to myself than to him.

I’m glad I came back.  Something about fulfilling this man’s final wishes gives me a sense of belonging here.  There are no adults left to do adult’s work.  I may be about as old as it gets, now.  Although that thought is intimidating, I feel a kernel of confidence sprout in my mind that says if anyone can handle this situation now, it’s me.

I exhale as if the job is finished, but before I can look away, my thoughts return to my father.  Paralyzed, I realize that I’ll never have the opportunity to recover his respect, if that was even possible. 

“
I swear, father.” I whisper while staring at the cross on the grave.   “ I swear that I won’t.”  I mean it.  Whatever it takes.  A few moments go by before I relax my grip on the shovel and use my dirty hands to wipe away the tears building in the corner of my eye.

I finished burying my father.

I turn my head toward the tool wall, and after a momentary pause, I collect its contents and pile them in the folded down back seat of the white SUV, including the bow and quiver full of white-finned red arrows. A wooden stop sign about 20 yards into the campground catches my eye.  My hand grabs the bow.

             
I hope you were right about these woods ranger. remembering his note, and the reference to game.  I hope the archery club at school taught me enough to do something about it.  Despite the pain in my arms and the quarter sized blisters on my hands, I pull back on the string and notch an arrow. My split-finger hold grabs the arrow I take a squared stance, just like I was taught. My arm raises the weapon.

             
The pain from digging is gone for a single moment, and all I feel is the tension in my leading hand and a focused stillness as I release the arrow.

Chapter 16: Jocelyn

             
I’m not sure how long it takes to dig a grave, so I try not to worry, but Jon’s been gone for a while.  Why was he so insistent upon going alone?  None of us should be doing anything alone anymore.  I’m going to make that a rule when he gets back.

             
I look toward the window for the thousandth time today to see if there is any hint of orange among the clouds.  The clear, bright, blue sky reminds me that it’s not as late as my nerves are telling me it is.

             
The rest of my day so far has involved a walk around the cabin site to get familiar with the nearby area and staring at our food supply trying to figure out how to ration it.  “Nutrition for survival in the event of a world-wide catastrophe” was not a topic that was covered in junior year health class this year.  I wish it had been.  It’s going to be very hard to feed the four of us in a way that we don’t waste away or go crazy from eating the same things over and over again.

             
I start to take some kind of inventory of what’s here from what Jon organized last night.  We have a ton of what appears to be some kind of generic canned pasta, as well as various soups, beans, jarred vegetables, and a few generic larger cans labeled “Chicken-in-a-Can.”  There is absolutely nothing appetizing about that.  My organic diet is about to end.  The pantry also holds some kind of perishable items that we’ll have to take care of first.  We still have a few boxes of those mini-muffins that we had this morning.  There’s a box on the floor that’s full of potatoes, of all things, and a pie tin wrapped in foil sitting on top.  I grabbed it the night before off the counter of the station.  Either the ranger or his wife did some baking before they passed. I hope it is still good.  I peel the foil back and am satisfied that it still seems relatively fresh.

             
I can’t help but smile at the last box that I see.  Everyone has always said that Twinkies would be their food of choice in the event of a world-wide catastrophe.  I guess we will find out exactly how long they last; two ten-count boxes of Twinkies lay on the top shelf of the pantry. Since Hostess even stopped making them, they could be some of the last real Twinkies in the whole country.

             
How in the world did we fit all of this in the car last night?  I don’t remember taking that many trips. Then I realize yesterday was pretty much a blur already.

             
Eventually, this food will run out.  Will we be able to get back to the grocery stores?  No. They’ll be empty or too dangerous.  How long will we have to sustain ourselves here?  How can we possibly be expected to do all of this?

             
“We just have to,” I say out loud.

             
This conclusion feels liberating.  The near panic that I had briefly felt was quickly fading away, like a heavy and cold blanket falling from my shoulders.  Now, my questions have answers, or at least plans to find them.

             
I don’t know how to farm.  How will we grow our food?  Trial and error.  In the spring we will have to try our best. We have a well-pump, plenty of dirt, and plenty of sun.  I start to walk away from the pantry to sit down.  And when should we start hunting?  It’s a long shot, but maybe the stores still have some seeds in them.  Maybe people overlooked them in a panic and went for the more conventional products. 

             
Maybe it will not come to that.  In the back of my mind I hope things will come together in the country. Jon keeps pushing that this will be our lives for a very long time.  Maybe order will be restored with the help of other countries. 

             
I look at the girls.  They seem calm right now.  I think they’re grateful to just have a place to call home again, if even for a little while.  If Jon is right, eventually we will need to be living entirely on what we harvest and what we kill.  When that time comes, we can’t afford to still be learning.

             
We have bullets.  Lots of them.  The ranger’s rifle and shotgun had several boxes of ammunition next to them.  Although it’s a substantial supply, it’s not infinite.  Maybe there’s a population of fish in the river that we can use.  

             
Then it occurs to me, I have no idea what the hell I am rambling about.  Please God don't let this last long out here.

             
“Jocelyn?  I’m hungry,” says Sara, with a half-pout, half-beg on her face.

             
I put on a warm smile for her.  “Don’t worry.  We can take care of that right now and I have a surprise for you tonight when Jon gets back.”  That pie isn’t going to last long.  We might as well celebrate our new home and put some kind of positive spin on this.

             
“Can… can I have some more muffins?”

             
“Don't you want something else?” my mind goes to the few bags of chips we brought from our house.  Don't all kids want junk food? She shakes her head. “Well, of course you can. Did you like those this morning?” We had some simple soup for lunch, but it obviously wasn't holding them over.

             
“Yeah,” she replies with a timid smile emerging on her face.

             
“Well good.” I give her some and she enjoys them.  She offers Sara and me each one as well from the bag.  “Ok girls, come here for a second.  I want to show you everything that we have.  We’re going to have to be careful with how quickly we go through these things?”  I usher them over to the pantry and show them the shelves.  “This will only last the four of us a couple of months at best-so we cannot be wasteful.  And if help hasn't arrived by then we’re going to have to start relying on other things.”

             
“Like what?” asks Caitlyn.

             
“Well, Jonathan and I going to try to farm and garden in the spring… and soon we may need to hunt.”  I’m not sure what kind of reaction that will get, but we’re going to have to approach the subject eventually even if I don't know where to start.  I also don't know what else to talk about with the girls at the moment...

             
Sara’s eyebrows furl at the word hunt, but Caitlyn has an unexpected reaction; her face shows enthusiasm.

             
“Can I come?” she asks, clearing her throat afterward.

             
The words “absolutely not” come to mind.  It’s not everyday I see such a small girl excited about the concept of killing and eating animals while her excitement should focus around dolls and an opportunity to go to a petting zoo.  “Maybe, Caitlyn.  Jon and I need to figure it out first.”

             
It’s amazing how much an already small child can deflate as she sulks at my response.  I guess “maybe” didn't sound too promising in her eyes. Deciding not to give it another thought, I turn back to the pantry and re-stack the boxes of the muffins.

             
The girls and I take a walk, mostly to get a solid idea of what’s immediately around the cabin, but also because I want to get out and breathe.  I have felt like I’ve been holding my breath for days. 

             
The river that I vaguely remember from our family camping trips flows a few dozen yards away from the cabin.   The sun  sinks over the treetops, and I can’t help but think of a short prayer as the sun reflects off the water.  My mother and I used to say these, but that habit left with her so many years ago.  She was much more religious than my father. Her prayers enter my mind, but I don't know if I believe anymore. Especially after the past few weeks.

             
I talk with the girls and learn a lot about them.  They tell me about themselves, but most of all they tell me about their parents.  They were part of a really close family.  Sara, as we already learned, is a little more openly confident in herself.  She is about an inch taller than Caitlyn and makes sure I know that by reminding us several times as we walked along the creek.  It might be their one discernable physical feature.  On the emotional side, it seems that Caitlyn still doesn't have as much self-identity yet.  I recollect my early middle school years with them, too.  I was sure of myself from the age of eight, but Jon was always latching on to new people and trying to be like them.  He was never sure of himself until three years ago, and I’m afraid that happened for all the wrong reasons.

             
We come across a downed log across a shallow part and I balance across it.  Sara refuses to try but Caitlyn quickly runs across to me.  Then she goes back and tries to drag her sister.  Sara resists until Caitlyn gives up.  We all laugh and start to make our way back to the cabin. Caitlyn may be more timid, but is much more willing to take chances.

             
A low rumble comes from the direction of the cabin.  We are barely within eye-shot, and it looks like some headlights are shining through the early evening air amongst the shadows of the trees.  I need to get back quickly.  My heart starts to race at the thought of this car with anyone but Jon.  The girls lag behind me as I quickly walk toward our new home.

             
I breathe a sigh of relief as Jon kills the engine and steps out of the driver’s seat.  There’s a new look in his eye, or a new air about him, or something.  Maybe it’s the way he’s standing. Confidence.

             
“Hey,” he starts, “I picked up some more things from the trailer.  We didn’t search the outside walls; he had all this equipment.  And check this out.”  He finishes the sentence while throwing open the trunk of the SUV.  He reaches in and pulls out a bow.

             
I know that Jon hates guns, and I always felt like it was strange how involved he was with the archery club when, in my opinion, a gun and bow are so similar.  However, I can see how a bow doesn’t exactly compare with a gun to Jon...

             
“The quiver is full, too.  This ranger didn’t go cheap on them either.  The red shafts are carbon.  These things will last.”

             
I'm not sure what's so special about carbon, but I let him have his moment.  Jon is a good shot, but he isn’t exactly Robin Hood.  Yet, we have to hunt, and he may be our best chance.