Burn District 1 Page 10

  “This is private land,” Randy shouted to the group. “You’re trespassing.” His voice woke my dad who came out of the fifth wheel with his shotgun pointed.

  “We just need help with a flat tire,” a young male voice called out. “If you have a spare we can buy, we’ll be on our way.” My dad flipped a flashlight on low, shining at the group.

  “You’re endangering all of us with your headlights glaring. Get ‘em off.” The lights flipped off. In the pitch-black night, with the flashlight aimed at their faces, the reality I had diminished to preserve my sanity came back to me. We were in a precarious position, there in the Arizona desert.

  “What size tire do you need?” Mike called. There was whispering, a car door opened and a match lit as a figure squatted down by the side of the car, calling out numbers. Mike disappeared behind the trailer, coming out in minutes rolling a tire along in front of him. With the gun aimed at the group, they set about opening the truck and getting jacks out, fumbling in the dark to get the tire off the car as the other stood around in the cold. No one offered them a warm place to rest or even a drink of water. We were all on guard.

  The tire was too small, but it wasn’t flat, and after forty-five minutes, the party left. If they were upset with the unhospitable nature of the visit, no one said anything. But Randy drove one of the new/old car acquisitions down to the entrance to our camp and sat there for a while with a gun. Then he parked it so it blocked the driveway and walked back in the dark to the camp.

  The next morning at breakfast, it would be Chris and Elise who would upset the equilibriums of our new life, emphasizing how little control Mike and I had over our own children.

  “I finally woke up out of my stupor last night when the visitors arrived,” Chris said. “I am much obliged to you all for looking after me, but I want to leave here and see if my family survived.”

  “Where are you from?” Carol asked.

  “Yuma. But I heard Steve say looters you all met on the road said Yuma got burned. I’d like to see for myself.”

  “I’m going with him,” Elise said. Voices rose in protest. Mike stood up shushing us.

  “You’re only sixteen,” he said softly.

  “I know, Dad, but I’ll be seventeen soon and Chris loves me.” We turned to Chris and he was looking at her with pride.

  “I do love her. And Elise said she loves me. I’ll borrow a gun if you’ll lend it; I know how to use one. And a car. And money, if you’ll give it. Someday, I hope to repay you.”

  “How will you live?” I asked. It was difficult to do it with an army of people. I couldn’t imagine going it alone.

  “The same way you are, Mom,” Elise said. “Looting.”

  “What if you run into renegades?” Randy asked. “Raiders.”

  “We’ll be okay,” Elise insisted, pushing away from the table. “I want to go with Chris and if it means facing problems, we’ll deal with them as they come along.” I looked at my husband and he nodded his head toward our bedroom, the only place we could be alone.

  “Can we talk to you privately?” Mike asked Elise, standing next to her. He was ignoring Chris and I understood why. We were angry. After we rescued him, he’d selfishly risk our daughter’s safety so he could be with her. Standing up, Elise put her hand on Chris’s shoulder and left with me. Mike stayed behind for a moment to address Chris.

  “You are a very selfish young man,” he said. “You’re thinking about yourself, not our daughter. I’m sorry you were ever brought back to our camp.”

  He appeared to be ready to speak up, but thought better of it. Mike hurried to our room to talk with Elise. I was occupying her, going through my closet, picking out items I thought she might need. “Supposedly, rain falls in the winter here,” I said, throwing my rain coat on the bed.”

  “What will you wear?” Elise asked.

  “We have slickers from camping. How about a package of underpants?” I held up a six pack of standard issue cotton briefs, full coverage. Normally, she would never even consider wearing such a thing. We laughed together, but she nodded.

  “My period is here again.” I put the package down on the bed.

  “No way,” I said. “It’s not time.”

  “It’s early by a week. I got it the day we left to come here. It’s stress.” I nodded, reaching under my bed for a large box of sanitary products. Mike hoarded them for me whenever he saw any.

  “You better take these, too,” I said. She sorted through the packages of pads and tampons, and for the future, maternity pads.

  “Mom, are you trying to tell me something?” Elise asked, looking at my midsection.

  “Ha! No way! But I have two daughters and there’s always Kelly. You just don’t know what the future will bring. We have to collect this stuff when we come across it.”

  “Someday we won’t have places to loot,” she replied sadly.

  “That’s a long way off. I had a dream last night that we found an abandoned Wal-Mart.” Elise laughed.

  “Oh, Mom, that is almost not funny,” she said, smiling. Mike walked through the door, and I worried Elise might misinterpret his anger. I wanted to go to him, but I stood still, at the side of the bed, adding tampons to the growing pile.

  “I’m so upset right now, I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret,” Mike said. Elise went to him right away. My heart jumped a little; my pride in my daughter was overwhelming. She was so smart, and so wise.

  “Daddy, forgive me, please. I’m in love with Chris; if he left without me, I’d be miserable with worry.” I could see Mike decompress with her words, her hands on his arms. It made sense to me; she wasn’t a child any longer. If he asked, I’d say I was in support of her going, but only if he asked me.

  Mike shook his head. There was no argument. He didn’t want her to go, but was powerless to stop her, short of tying her to a bed. “At least take a gun,” he said. I agreed. Going anywhere unarmed was foolhardy now.

  We packed her belongings into a duffle bag while Randy and Mike decided on which sidearm to give them, and Steve and Junior picked out a car for them, a newer model compact that got good gas mileage. It had a full tank of gas, with two five-gallon cans in the trunk.

  “If you get three hundred miles away and can’t find a station, head back here,” he informed Chris.

  “Yes sir,” he answered, thanking everyone, saying he was sorry, all the right things. Kelly and Carin packed enough food for them to eat for a few days without having to stop anywhere. What would bother me the most was not knowing where they were or how they were doing.

  Communication channels were down; my dad talked to other looters and picked up some information that way, but I knew because I had tried to contact my sister. I didn’t tell anyone I was going to do it. After the men left for a looting session, I hid in my bedroom with my phone charging, and turned it on. There was no signal. That night, I asked my dad if he’d heard anything about the internet and he confirmed it; no one had been able to log on.

  “What about landlines?” Randy asked. My dad shook his head.

  “I try every house I go into and no one has a dial tone.”

  “We’re the first compound off the interstate. The next time a stranger comes here with a flat tire, let’s pump them for info instead of acting like a bunch of hysterical hillbillies,” I said. I thought my father-in-law was going to faint.

  “Mike, you’d better straighten out your wife,” he said. But Carol agreed with me.

  “She’s right, Randy. If someone pulls up and you have a gun aimed at their head, what danger is there going to be to ask them what the news is?” Randy shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay, you gotta point. Sorry, Laura,” he said, smirking at me.

  Chapter 11

  Carol

  This is like a bad dream. I thought of my house last night. Randy built it himself. It’s on a hillside overlooking the Brandywine Creek. Our view is amazing, or was amazing; the time of year when the leaves are changing color, every cha
nce I got I looked out over the beautiful, breathtaking vista, just in case something like this happened. And you know what? It wasn’t enough. The memories of the color change, the view of the homes below us with their lights on in the winter, at Christmas the colorful display almost as though they’d decorated just for our benefit; it’s not enough. I don’t want to be here in Arizona. Its barren, treeless terrain, same weather everyday, glaring sun is boring.

  Going through the motions with my granddaughters is just so I don’t lose my mind.

  “Grannie, you need to give yourself a break,” Carin whispered. “It hasn’t been that long. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” I’m trying to take her advice, but it’s so hard. My daughter-in-law hasn’t helped matters.

  Laura always makes things look so easy. She worked full time and raised a household full of perfect children, while I was at home, (except for my little part time job at the garden,) and even then, I couldn’t do motherhood right. Oh, don’t get me wrong; Mike is great. He’s a great dad and a great son. I see how he acts with his kids and it brings joy to my heart. He’s a real family man.

  You’ll never hear us talk about Dennis. Dennis is Mike’s older brother. He hasn’t spoken to Randy or me for almost ten years. I discovered he stays in touch with Mike, not consistently, but enough for us to know he’s alive. Dennis isn’t Randy’s son. I was pregnant with him before I met Randy, and Randy said he didn’t care that I’d been with someone else, but as it turned out, he cared. He cared a lot. It didn’t make any difference that it happened before we even knew each other. That’s what is so odd.

  I spent most of my time protecting Dennis from Randy. He wasn’t physically abusive to him, but everything the boy did he took exception to. If he chewed his food a certain way, or tucked his shirt into his jeans unevenly, or any one of a million other things, Randy would let the boy have it. His words seared. Most of the time, I acted as the buffer and took the brunt of his harshness.

  Finally, when Dennis turned six, I got pregnant with Mike. Randy did an about face; now he was seeing a little boy that he was madly in love with and couldn’t imagine allowing anyone to talk to or treat Mike the way he’d treated Randy. But it was too late. Six years of severity leaves its scars. Dennis submitted to Randy because he worried the alternative would be painful. He could never trust either one of us. It’s so sad! My little boy. He was so cute, too.

  I hate it when I go down memory lane. No one cares about Dennis. Laura might have met him once, but he didn’t attend their wedding, refused to stand up for Mike, never acknowledged the births of the grandchildren. Mike loved him, too. It was really sad when Dennis left home at seventeen to join the Marine Corps. He was technically too young, but I signed the papers. Mike was just eleven at the time, heartbroken. He wrote letters to Dennis in his childish cursive, and occasionally he’d receive an answer.

  Oh well, it’s too late now. If I hadn’t married Randy, I wouldn’t have Mike. Everything in life is a tradeoff. Randy has never apologized to me for the way he treated Dennis. I believe that after Mike was born and he had the change of heart, he supposed that would be enough.

  How did I get off on that topic? I don’t seem to matter much around here. I enjoy caring for my grandchildren. The girls are a joy. We sew together, and do crafts. The boys are fun, too, Junior so loving. But the adults ignore me. I enjoyed being in the trailer with Steve and Kelly. We had a routine, playing cards at night, talking around the campfire. Steve probably thought he was doing us a favor by finding the camper, but all the evening activities ended when we moved. No one wants to play cards now, and to get Randy out of his recliner is almost impossible.

  I’m so isolated here. I don’t have my Facebook friends to chat with or any of the games I used to play with them. Does Facebook still exist? I’d spend hours on the phone with my friends at home. Are they alive? Do they think about me?

  Oh! I just remembered what I started to say. About Laura. She has a relationship with everyone but me. I always feel like she is waiting for me to take over her duties. Don’t get me wrong, I love cooking for the family and that sort of thing. But I don’t feel the love. Oh well, I’ll keep doing what I want to do and try to stop longing for more.

  Chapter 12

  Laura

  After Elise and Chris left, it was quiet and empty at the trailer without my efficient daughter scurrying around and everyone helping Chris with physical therapy. I did math problems or worked on essays with the kids after breakfast in a feeble attempt to homeschool, and then we split up to do our chores. We finally had our wagon train set up like the old-time pioneers did as they traveled across the country; our trailer sat along the ridgeline with the Mexican border fence running along the gully behind it, the refrigerator truck next to our trailer to the right, and the fifth wheel at a right angle to it. To the left of our trailer was the little camper now belonging to Carol and Randy. My dad’s truck, the van and two other vehicles completed the circle, the space surrounded by salvaged stockade fencing. All the buildings and vehicles were partially covered by desert camouflage netting. My dad built a covered structure so we could have a fire at night, but the concern over sparks giving away our location meant we could only do it if we really wanted to stay outdoors and it was too cold to do so without a fire.

  Our nights together took on a routine that was comforting even though we were prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. That meant before we relaxed for the evening, we took baths and laid out clothes for the next day. I arranged coolers and baskets of food to grab, just in case. The cars were full of gasoline. If we needed to evacuate, we’d leap into our clothes, grab our food and run. The fifth wheel was ready to hook up to my dad’s truck, until one day Mike Junior had a good idea.

  “Grandpa, let’s hook up your truck permanently and get another truck to drive from the dead people.”

  “Oh, my god,” Carol said. I nodded; it was not the kind of dialogue I wanted my son to engage in, but the times were different.

  “That’s a great idea, Junior,” Steve said. “Let’s look for one now.” They’d take off together, and come home with either another car or truck, or a trailer full of useful items.

  I looked forward to looting for groceries. We were loading up at an abandoned grocery when another vehicle stopped and a very pregnant woman and her mother come into the store. Steve was ready to draw his gun, but they put their hands in the air as soon as they saw him reach behind his back.

  “I’m Candy Silver,” the woman said quickly. “This is my daughter Jessica. We live over there.” Pointing to the area where the trailer park was, where we’d found Chris. I stepped forward and offered my hand, knowing my dad had my back.

  “Did you just move there or did your place survive?”

  “We’ve always lived here. Our house was far enough from the last blast,” Jessica said. “I can’t imagine coming here on purpose.” I heard Steve cough behind me.

  “We’ve been taking stuff from our neighbor’s homes, but our power’s off so there’s nothing fresh left. I saw this place, hoping we could find at least some fruit for Jess.” Steve pointed over to the produce department, piles of fresh fruit still nice. The refrigerator cases were loaded with berries and other perishables that could be frozen. “There’s enough fresh fruit here for a year if we get it into a freezer right away.”

  We took as much of it as we could, putting the baked goods and meats we didn’t have room for back at the camp into the gigantic walk in freezer. Candy made trips back and forth between her trailer home and the grocery. We filled Candy’s car until she said she didn’t have room for any more. “I can’t fit another crumb into my house!”

  Our truck was full of potatoes, onions and root vegetables that we would put into a huge root cellar my father-in-law dug with a backhoe he’d taken from the farm across the street. Opening up into the gully facing the border fence, he considered putting a pad lock on it to prevent illegals from using it as a shelter, until we heard that the reverse was happ
ening. People were fleeing into Mexico from the US.

  Then what I was dreading happened; the electricity went off. We didn’t know if it was purposeful, or there simply wasn’t anyone to operate the plants. Electricity in Yuma County was coal generated. In my hysteria, I thought maybe it just ran out of coal or there was no one to shovel it into the furnaces, a childhood picture of a man in overhauls shoveling coal into a round furnace with an oval door. My mind couldn’t fathom the magnitude of coal it took, train-car-loads that traveled on vast conveyor belts into behemoth furnaces. I begged Mike to help me find the plant; we could keep it running if we had to I argued, but he wouldn’t take me. My family was laughing at me, Kelly included, as my hysteria about it mounted. Everyone had their turn at being unreasonable, and I’d finally gotten mine. Later, after my meltdown, I apologized, but something had shifted. A sense of survival at any cost inched out what little hope I had that our new way of life was temporary, sure it would get worse, that I was going to die living this way.

  After that happened, my obsession with hoarding food escalated. I wanted to make sure we got everything we could from the store freezers before it thawed. Stuffing as much as we could get into the refrigerated trailer, leaving nothing behind for others, the worry over what might happen when we ran out of food possessed me. When I wasn’t washing clothes or doing something with my children, I was organizing food. It was a constant concern; making sure I was using items by their expiration date, moving things around in the refrigerator truck so it didn’t get freezer damage, rotating canned goods. I was making it a full time job.