1: Wasteland
Liberty
"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." —Abraham Lincoln
***June 7
With a dagger in one hand and my best friend—a Smith and Wesson Sigma—in the other, I analyzed shadows outside the window. My red curls were haphazardly pulled through the back of a navy-blue Mariners baseball cap. I gripped the gun and glanced at the letters I’d carved dangerously close to the artery on my left wrist: WWL.
Crazy much, Libby?
“Nice warm jacket, soft-padded cell, three square meals a day. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it?” I asked the stuffed bear lying near my feet.
Frog—as my niece Megan lovingly named the bear—didn’t look impressed by my wit. Frog had been well loved, and it showed. He was missing an eye, and the hole on his arm was visible around the edges of a Band-Aid. He stared at me, looking terrified of being left behind.
“That’s not fair.” I nudged Frog with my toe in an effort to redirect his gaze.
He rolled completely over, and his big brown eye continued to play on my conscience. I sighed.
“How do you feel about Canada?”
Tucking the gun into the back of my jeans, I reached down and picked up the bear.
“Don’t worry, Frog. Canada will be better. Promise.”
Hope.
I shoved Frog into my large hiking backpack next to a crumpled family portrait, a few bottles of water, two lighters, a small journal, a couple pens, a roll of duct tape, my sleeping bag, and a wind-up flashlight radio. The flashlight radio was turned on to scan for stations daily, but so far had only found static.
Stretching, I scrunched up my nose at the odor assaulting me from my arm pits. It had been days since I’d last bathed in a stream outside Olympia, and I felt as disgusting as I smelled.
My stomach growled, reminding me of matters more essential than my neglected hygiene. I eagerly reached into the front pocket of my filthy jeans, when I remembered that the peanuts I was seeking had been breakfast.
A person could starve to death in this city.
Tens of thousands already had.
My temporary shelter reeked of death and human waste. Littering the floor, children’s toys and books lay lonely and neglected under a thin layer of dust. The outlines of various footprints told stories of survivors desperately searching for something—anything.
This had once been my sister Anna’s spotlessly clean home; now it was ransacked and damaged beyond recognition. Just the sight of the cupboard doors hanging from their hinges would no doubt send the obsessive-compulsive Anna into hysterics.
She couldn’t see the cupboards anymore.
Anna had tormented and terrorized me throughout our childhood, but she hadn’t proven tough enough when it really counted.
Each breath is a gift.
The last time I’d been in this house was for Thanksgiving. Only seven months ago I sat at the bar and obligingly chopped whatever Anna threw my direction for the holiday dishes. Her husband, Tom, was on his hands and knees pretending to be a horse for their two-year-old twins, Megan and Martin. He bucked and reared as they giggled and hooted. If I closed my eyes I could still hear their laughter.
Their bodies remained where I found them, huddled together peacefully in Anna and Tom’s bed. No stab or bullet wounds. No blood.
No hope.
This had been their first house, and Anna had turned it into a comfortable home. Family pictures littered the wall beside me—some hanging askew, others broken and lying randomly on the floor. Obscenities were carved into the coated face of their fifty-six inch flat screen TV. Deep slashes ran across once overstuffed couches, and the filling covered the floor like mounds of snow.
Lives spent collecting these material possessions—all this crap—and none of it mattered. Nothing here had saved my sister’s family from their fate.
Another useless tear slid down my dirty cheek.
My sister’s family was dead, and this house was their tomb. I ground my teeth as the desire to kill those who’d desecrated it overwhelmed me.
No. Judgment is not mine to pass.
I fought for control over my emotions, put down the imaginary gavel, and considered the evening view outside the window. The sun was setting on the remains of the once-prosperous city of Olympia, Washington. Calming lines of reds and oranges ran across the sky, contrasting with the dark, sinister shadows on the ground.
Early June displayed an impressive amount of greenery and flowers. Roses—unaffected by the destruction—bloomed in every color alongside ruined buildings. Lush bushes and healthy grass grew obliviously around scattered human remains.
Nature donned a convincing façade as it attempted to hide the passing of humankind. Intoxicating fragrances of lilacs and hyacinths put forth a valiant effort, but couldn’t mask the reek of decay.
I rubbed my tired eyes, slipped my backpack over my aching shoulders, and headed for the back door. My fingers instinctively massaged the scar on my wrist while I scrutinized the shadows of the backyard, watching for movement. I opened the door, took another deep, steadying breath, and stepped into the dusk.
Looking back at the house, I noticed that Tom never did get around to fixing the screen the twins destroyed. A simple chore left undone, yet it was too much.
My throat constricted.
Breathe.
I stuffed the memories back behind the locked door in my mind. I’d open it someday when I was ready to welcome the madness. Even now I could hear the nightmares knocking, taunting me with a way to ease the pain, a way to forget.
Not today—maybe tomorrow.
Bowing my head, I crossed myself. No organized “religion” had ever felt right—but this Catholic gesture comforted me somehow. In one simple hand signal to God I confirmed my continued belief and petitioned for His aid.
As I headed out, the gun pressed into the small of my back. The discomfort served as a constant reminder of the blood on my hands. “Thou shalt not murder,” the commandment declared, and as a child, I’d been taught the biblical difference between “kill” and “murder,” but what of self-defense? Is it more of a slap-on-the-hand than a burn-for-eternity sentence?
Perhaps the Almighty would allow an attorney?
Of course all the good attorneys would already be in hell …
It’s hard to stay clean while swimming in murky water. When it came down to kill or die, my lineage as a child of Cain had been proven. But every day I prayed for redemption while checking both 16-round magazines of the 9mm; prayed I wouldn’t have to use them.
How did the line between right and wrong get so blurry?
I walked until the sun breached the horizon, hopped over a fence, and slid into a small portable shed. Lawn care equipment and a tricycle frame were the sole contents; nothing of use. Disappointed, I peeked outside to check out the area, and was surprised to find an apple tree. Licking my lips in anticipation, I watched, waited, and listened. My mouth watered from the thought of digging my teeth into a crisp, Washington, Gala apple.
Nothing about my surroundings was threatening; just a small backyard behind a two-story home. A chain-linked fence bordered knee-high grass. There were no abnormal movements or sounds.
Hunger burned within me, melting my paranoia and liquefying my patience.
Apple pie, apple turnover, apple crisp, apple dumplings … torture!
With my gun still at my back, I could stick the dagger in my teeth and scale the tree like Rambo. I’d climbed trees as a child.
How hard could it be?
Footsteps came from my right. I dropped into a crouch and prayed intensely for invisibility.
Please, God, don’t let anyone find me.
A boy who looked about thirteen, rough and tough, with scrawny arms, long legs, and the awkward stance of a pre-teen, hopped the fence and sneaked up to the tree. He looked around nervously and embarked on his climbing mission, lurching and sliding as he struggled to find his footing on the trunk.
The hem of his jeans caught on a small twig and as he kicked to free his leg he fell to the ground with a loud thump. Instinct kicked in, and I shuffled my feet, preparing to run out and help him.
‘No!’
The voice of the call fell on my heart, commanding me to remain hidden. More powerful than words, the call flooded my senses with understanding, cautioning me against revealing myself to the child.
No? He’s just a boy. He needs me!
Another rugged figure came skulking from the boy’s hiding place: a man with deep-set eyes, dark hair, and a lean, muscular build. He moved fluidly, like a hunter. Not a hunter of animals, though. “Hunter” was what I called those who had escaped the burden of their conscience. They lurked in the shadows and preyed on the defenseless.
I winced as the child smiled and encouraged the man’s approach.
Look what You did!
I glanced at the shed’s ceiling, adjusting my cap as I argued with the call.
Just a kid and now he’s in the hands of some hunter. What are You doing?
I felt no response as the hunter crept over, braced the boy’s foot, and boosted him up within reach of the first branch. The branch creaked under the youth’s build.
I watched hopelessly as the boy stretched, bent, reached, and finally made contact with the first apple. He plucked it and stashed it in a pocket.
Good boy! Fill your own pockets first.
The child collected several more apples, storing the first few in his pockets and then begrudgingly tossing the remainder down to his companion. The hunter helped the boy down, and looked around nervously while the child bent and emptied the apples he’d collected into his pack. When the kid stood up, the large butcher knife he wielded glinted in the sun.
“Let’s go.” The man twisted back around as the boy plunged the knife into his stomach.