Archive for: February, 2015

Little Soldier by Teresa Richards

Feb 22 2015 Published by under The WiFiles

I am running through a dense jungle, covered in several days’ worth of muck. Bullets fall like rain, and tree branches slap me in the face as I flee. I haven’t slept in oh, so long and the weight of exhaustion tugs at my legs, slowing me down. I dive into the hollowed out section of a fallen, decaying log and lie flat on my back, breathing heavily. The bullets cease and I fidget before checking my watch for the millionth time.

She should be here by now.

The jungle waits like a hungry beast, its silence daring me to make the first move. I check my watch again and exhale in frustration.

Where is she?

I decide to give her three minutes, hoping the enemy doesn’t find me in the meantime. I search the ground at my feet, finding a small stone, and lob it high in the air. It lands in a bush somewhere to my right, startling a flock of tropical birds that take flight in confusion. The bullets resume, now conveniently aimed away from me.

The enemy falls silent and the jungle is eerily still. I ease my head up and peer over the edge of the log, scanning the horizon. I can’t see far, of course, on account of the dense vegetation I’ve gradually come to regard as home. I would be content to wait here all day if it weren’t for her. Why did she have to come with me today?

I glance at my watch, seeing that she has just thirty-three seconds left. I give myself a pep talk, detailing all of the reasons why I shouldn’t wait for her and steel myself to run when her time is up. Yet I know, deep down, I would never leave without her.

Finally, ten minutes and twenty-six seconds later, I catch sight of her little head bobbing toward me through the trees. I rock back in shock as I realize she is crawling! Adrenaline shoots through me and, after throwing a smoke bomb to give us some cover, I rush from my hiding spot and hurry toward her. She smiles at me, but I know she’s been hit. Why else would she be crawling? I don’t wait to find out; rather, I scoop her up and run as fast as my little legs will carry me.

This is exactly why I didn’t want her to come along today, but she insisted. The rendezvous point is still several miles away and I would manage it much better without having to look after my little sister. Yet here she is, bright-eyed and smiling at me, as if I’m the greatest person on the planet. And crawling in the jungle, no less! Really, I thought we were past all that.

A loud crash to my left makes my heart lurch. My sister’s eyes widen and she clings to me tighter.

Fear zaps through my veins. I know what made the crash. I’ve only heard it on one other occasion—a time that did not end well, I might add.

I do the only thing I can. “Run for your life!” I scream to no one in particular. Sometimes it just feels so good to yell at the top of your lungs. Ruthie starts slightly at my outburst and then, turning to gaze at me, flashes me one of the cutest smiles I’ve ever seen. I simply can’t resist smiling back before tearing my eyes away from her adorable little face, forcing my mind back into the game.

I need to focus. We have a hungry dinosaur to outsmart.

I shift Ruthie abruptly to my back, where she clutches to my shoulders and waist just before I take off at top speed through the jungle. I’ve always been great at running away and I utilize my skills, weaving in and out, jumping over rocks and ducking under tree branches, all in an attempt to confuse and outmaneuver the giant lizard trailing us. This one is smart, though—he stays right with us, hot on our scent no matter what tricks I pull out of my impressive, time-tested arsenal. Soon I’m breathing heavily, not used to bolting through the jungle with a baby on my back. I begin to think that maybe this will be the last of my adventures.

That’s when I see it. Our salvation. Looming high over our heads, not far in the distance. I smile.

“Don’t worry Ruthie, I have a plan!” I inform her. She’s starting to get restless and I squeeze her legs tighter, preventing her from lowering herself off my back. She protests and squirms, trying to free her legs. I know that if she gets down she’ll be a goner, and I just love her too much to let that happen.

“I’m sorry, Ruthie. You can’t get down or the angry dinosaur will eat you up!” I inform her, changing course abruptly to accommodate my new plan. She squirms some more, but I’m holding her fast and there’s nothing she can do about it. I will not let her fall prey to that horrible monster.

It begins to rain, but I soldier on. I hear shots in the distance and wonder absently what my enemies are firing at. A massive scream of protest reaches me from the depths of the jungle and the dinosaur behind me roars in response, pausing briefly in his pursuit. I take advantage of his lapse and dart to my right, ducking behind a massive boulder and crouching out of sight.

At last, we’ve reached the tree! I know the dinosaur will be chasing us again soon so I don’t lose any time. I release Ruthie’s legs and help her slide to the ground, where she giggles and stretches up onto her toes, attempting to run away from me. Oh, of course now she wants to show off her new skills, when she would be running straight off a cliff and into a churning waterfall!

I reach out and pull her back, clapping my hand over her mouth and gritting my teeth as her ear-piercing shrieks ring out through the air. Well, if we had lost the dinosaur, he knows where we are now. I stretch up and grab the end of a massive vine hanging from the gnarled old tree and tie it quickly around Ruthie’s waist.

“Hold still,” I insist, knowing that if I don’t get it just right then she runs the risk of tumbling into the waterfall we’ll be swinging across in order to escape mister cranky-pants dinosaur. When she’s tied up nice and tight, I secure another vine around my own waist.

Ruthie is kicking and screaming now, red in the face and angry as a bear that she’s tied up. I’m trying to soothe her when I hear the dinosaur crash back to life behind us, joined now by a second set of rumbling footfalls. I know time is running out, but just as I move to push Ruthie off the rock, I hear the most dreaded sound in the entire world.

“Tristan! What on earth are you doing?”

The dinosaurs flee in fear, the jungle fades away, and I am left standing at the top of a staircase, the loose end of a rope in my five-year-old hand. The other end of the rope is wrapped around the waist of my livid one-year-old sister, who is outraged by the fact that she’s been tethered to me unwillingly.

“Tristan, I asked you a question! Answer me, please.”

I gaze sheepishly up at my mother and explain that we were trying to escape from two hungry dinosaurs by swinging over a waterfall on some tree vines. Really, what does it look like we’re doing? Does she think I want my baby sister to get eaten by dinosaurs? I don’t say that last bit out loud, of course.

Mother scolds me and unties Ruthie, picking her up and cooing softly in an attempt to soothe her.

So now I am sitting in Time Out. Again. I don’t understand what was so wrong with trying to save my sister from the jaws of death, but apparently, benevolence is frowned upon in this house. I will be sure to remember that the next time we are under attack.

I sigh and rest my chin on my knees.

Suddenly, I hear something. I straighten up and cock my head, listening. A faint buzzing noise, getting stronger, is headed this way. I know it immediately—the sounds of a fighter jet whirring to life. I lift my head and turn to face the horizon. A blue sky peppered with puffy white clouds looms over a lonely terrain.

I bounce anxiously in my seat, waiting for the moment when I am released from my prison sentence.

The sky is calling.

Bio:
Teresa Richards has been writing since eighth grade, when she co-wrote her first novel with her best friend. She earned her degree in Audiology-and-Speech-Language Pathology from Brigham Young University, took a break to get married and have a few kids, and then took up writing again with a vengeance. She writes novels and short stories, as well as children’s picture books. Teresa can often be found reading or writing in lieu of cleaning or exercising.

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Shadowlands by Cooper Smith

Feb 15 2015 Published by under The WiFiles

I pull up and park my motorcycle outside a small townhouse, this is the address that was reported for a disturbance. I look around to see if the caller is still around but the street is abandoned. Good, I haven’t even walked up to the door and I can already feel the chill that runs up my spine. This isn’t a false alarm, we have a breech.

As I walk up to the door I take out my U.L.E.R., what we officers call our Ultra-Light Emitting Rays, it won’t kill whatever is in there but it will stun it, and I would rather not pull out my Shade till I need it. I move to push the door open and find it unlocked. Could be looters but it is more likely the place was abandoned and the previous owners didn’t care. That is the case in a lot of boroughs like these. I slowly push the door open with my right hand, crossed over my arm that is holding the U.L.E.R., just like they teach us at the Monastery. At 18 I am one of the oldest officers, been on patrol for 5 years, but I still take the time to think about each rule and practice they teach you as a Green. It calms me and I am sure it is one of the reasons I am one of the oldest officers. By the time I run through the list of rules in my head I have already closed the door behind me. It won’t do much good if we have a Breecher charging through it but it may slow it down just enough for me to catch it.

I walk through the bottom floor of the house, no sign of movement. I look around and see pictures, the only things the looters don’t lift. Most of them are of a nice young couple, attractive, dressed nicely, one of the pictures was even taken in front of a tree. Must have had money. While my eyes look over the pictures I receive some information on it from one of my implants. I feel a warmth from the back of my neck and in a fraction of a second I am given a condensed stream of information on the residence.

They lived here awhile with their newborn; after a couple of months some people broke in. Two looters, climbed in through a second story window, one of the perps heard a noise, reacted and shot into a dark corner of the room. The kid was killed instantly. After a few weeks the couple couldn’t stand living in the house and moved. Six months later and here I am. The stream ends and I’m back to the present, and that is when I hear the scurrying upstairs.

I know what I am dealing with here, that stream was all I needed. I make my way to the staircase. I hesitate at the bottom; I know what is waiting for me up there. I unsheathe my Shade and clench it tight while I feel the warmth leave me. The amount of times I have had to use this thing, I can’t imagine I have much time left, maybe a year if I’m lucky. They say every time you even hold it you have a few months shaved off your life; a few years if you actually get up the nerve to use it. Who knows, maybe this Breecher will kill me or maybe killing it will kill me. That is the worst part of being on the Blackguard, the only thing that can kill Breechers wants to kill you too. Either way it doesn’t matter, I have a job to do. I push the thought from my mind and work my way up the stairs.

About halfway up I feel another chill shoot through my spine, it hisses at me to turn around and leave, to get out of this house. I feel the pale-blue blade hum in my hand. It is excited, it wants blood, my blood. It is thinking the same thought I just was. But this is my job, this is why I was chosen, so I push myself. I get to the top of the stairs and stop, but not out of fear, I am winded. I wasn’t thinking, I should have waited till I got to the top of the stairs to draw the Shade, but, like always, I feel a pinch in my arm and my implant delivers me a heavy dose of adrenaline. With more strength I turn the corner and see it.

It is padding around in the corner where the baby died, looking pathetic; if this thing could cry I bet it would. It must be hard, remembering a life that it never lived, just a shadow. Just a shadow remembering what little it can from a child who lived a short life. Even without the info I received I can tell it how long it has been since the kid died just from looking at its Shadow. It still kind of looks like an infant, only difference is that its limbs are longer, like they have been stretched out of necessity, like a spider. That and its skin is an unnatural black. Though the skin is a quality all Shadows share.

This one is still developing clinging on to a shape that it can piece together, but soon it will lose those remnants and it will change as is necessary. Maybe it will grow wings or a snout, the good thing is that it hasn’t yet so this kill should be easy. Keeping an eye on the Shadow with my Shade out I holster my U.L.E.R. Then I move my hand up slowly to right under my ear. I feel for the round button and press it. For a moment my eyelids flutter, a reflex so I know that the Court House can see what I see right now. I reach again for my U.L.E.R., ready to aim and pull the trigger but I was too slow. The Shadow turned and looked at me dead on with its pale blue eyes and just like that it was heading for me.

I tried to aim and fire but I my Shade was draining me and I couldn’t focus. My gun was swatted away and I dropped to one knee. All I had to fight now was with this thin knife and it was already trying to kill me. I pulled the blade in close and rolled back before I took a stomp from the Shadow’s clubbed foot. I was back on my feet again before it had the chance to strike. I went back to the Monastery again, just like they taught us, dodge strafe slash stab. It was all muscle memory at this point but my knees quivered and I stalled allowing one of its hands to slash at my shoulder.

It had no claws to speak of, or talons or even sharp nails, but it cut into my flesh all the same. A normal human would have died there but I was raised as part of the Blackguard. I had gone through hell being given the best that science and the occult could offer. I am this world’s one line of defense from the Shadowlands and all of the messed up shit that breeches the wall. I am eighteen years old and I am dying way too soon to give up now. With what little strength I had in my legs I pushed myself forward and rolled over the Shade. When my back was pressed to the ground underneath the Shadow I used both hands and pushed the blade into the jaw and saw it come out through the top of its head. It just stared at me. It stared at me with those pale eyes the same color as my Shade and the same color as mine.

There was no more humming from the Shade, it fell silent as the shadowy infant dissolved from existence. I felt my wound burn as I sheathed the Shade and a huge breath of air fills my lungs. I could feel the warmth return to my body and looking at my hand I could see some of the life return to my skin. I force myself off the ground with another burst of adrenaline, just enough to get me to the Court House Med Center. I pick up my U.L.E.R. and take the stairs three at a time on the way down, I almost fall but I catch myself at the bottom. I don’t care, I just want to get out of here. I exit the house and hop on my motorcycle. I am ready to drive off to have the doctors patch me up and tell me how lucky I am just to be walking around.

Before I drive off I look around at the houses on the street. I was taken the day I was born. I never met my parents; maybe they lived in a house like this? Maybe I would be dead if it weren’t for the Blackguard? Maybe my memories would go on to live in one of these deranged echoes? I think on these questions for a bit and imagine what life would be like on the other side. Then I ride off and leave them behind with the abandoned house. This is New Boston, it’s best if we don’t question our lot in life here.

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Summer by Jane VanCantfort

Feb 08 2015 Published by under The WiFiles

I remember when I couldn’t seem to find contentment. Contentment, now a distant luxury, a concept you couldn’t explain to children, though I haven’t seen a child in awhile, not since the baby passed.

Life was so easy then; with yoga classes and three square meals a day and a comfy bed and floral pillows. Lovely weekends, filled with cleaning and food shopping and laundry and gardening and cooking,; but even so I’d often be at loose ends, wandering from room to room. Maybe I’d cook some more, make homemade potato salad from my mom’s recipe, the one with the cider vinegar on the hot potatoes, with my addition of cilantro from the window box. Maybe I’d make my signature dark chocolate banana bread., Or I’d go for a long run on our country road and come back and do some weight lifting; and read the latest short fiction in a magazine; band yet I could still find myself staring into space with an inexplicable malaise. Now I see what I have lost; now that my fear is real.

And life was easy that last summer, so warm and sunny. The strawberries were a brilliant deep red, ripening early, and each bite had an explosion of flavor, of sweetness, of red juice flowing. The farmer’s market was always bustling; I can close my eyes and still see the piles of patty pan squash in brilliant speckled green and yellow, the mountains of lettuces and green beans, the brilliant shades of the gladioli. I took photos of the bounty and posted them and all my friends liked them; that is how we were back then. I googled canning and made strawberry preserves and felt so proud when they were lined up on the shelf in the new mason jars in my little storeroom in the barn.

One Saturday at the outdoor market there were no squash, just gourds. I had always loved gourds, I remember my mom buying them in September or October for her fall displays. I loved the unusual colors and the bulging warts, protruding oddly and different than I had ever seen.

“Why don’t you have any more patty pan?” I asked the young farmer, who, like many of the farmers affected the bearded overall style of the latter day hippie.
“I think the compost I used got degraded, its never happened before, and I think the gourds are early this year anyway…. you can’t eat them but they are sure pretty. We call then bi-racial because of all the colors!” He guffawed, a bit self-consciously; perhaps he had been using the line all morning. I smiled and bought a bag full. It was strange they were so early, and they had never been such n a brilliant red and burgundy. They looked pretty in my Mexican bowl in the entryway.
It was such fun for the young people, that summer, we’d see them headed out to the lake with their jet skis every day. They started having dances at the meadow that surrounded the old mine mansion, with solar Japanese lanterns; we could hear the music faintly as we waiting for the sun to leave us for another day. I imagined the girls were wearing tiny summer dresses, as I once would have done.

Our public pool was stuffed with people daily, and the city council voted to up the cost per swim. People worried about sicknesses from the pool, which was so jammed with people. It stayed hot until 10 or 11 pm, in fact it didn’t really ever totally cool off, not like it used to. And old folks had to be checked on, and there was a new program to get swamp coolers to the poor, and cell phone kept going out. Oh, we heard tales of twin tornados and the fires in the south were terrible and they had to ration the water, but we were on a well so we kept watering, and the tiger lilies had never looked better.

One of our shrubs, which had never bloomed before, suddenly had tiny white blossoms. It was pretty, but it became infested with tiny flies with shiny copper eyes, you couldn’t walk by the plant without being in a cloud of flies, and we started leaving the house by the other walkway to avoid them. The shrub is outside the window of the storeroom, I can see it, or what’s left of it, through the dust and cracks in the window. I can see it from the far corner where I wait for them. The storeroom is where I hide now. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here, could be three weeks, surely not three months.

Back then our chickens kept sitting on eggs, and we had more chicks then we knew what to do with, but they kept dying. Joe found one with its eyes bleeding, and then more of them were floating in the horse trough. We had a little plant of marijuana, since it was legal and we liked to smoke in the evening, and that formed giant buds way before the season usually ended, and the weed was so strong we just had one or two hits and were set for the evening. When we sat in our chaises and took in the sights, it was like we were looking through a iridescent floating bubble, and all the trees and flowers looked soft and inviting, and we heard the low buzz of the insects throughout the night.

Joe started to get extra tired daily, even though he loved to garden; the days were just so hot. Our old dog Parker was always miserable and panting, and could barely climb the stairs, and Joe usually left him in all day with a water bowl that he had to frequently refill.

We used to watch the news while I made dinner, we had the top floor of the barn converted to a loft and I could chop at the kitchen island and watch the giant flat screen TV, and the news and the weather just seemed more and more ominous each night. We were having power failures frequently, and sometimes the cable would go out.

“Why would terrorists shoot down a plane? What good would it do them?” Joe asked one evening, reacting to a war event, there was always something lurking in some part of the world.
“It shows the world the injustice of the powers that be, I guess.” I answered.
“Things have always been unjust, though, haven’t they?” Joe asked.
“I’m more worried that they shut down the borders of a whole country, because of Ebola!”
“Ebola will never get here, though.”

We switched to the local news; the mountain lion sightings, the city council elections, much more calming. After all, there had been a terrible world event in every year of our lives. I was always railing about injustice back then and taking the side of the underdog; our little debates, so silly now. How arrogant we were, to think that our opinions mattered.

The heat was unrelenting as summer wore on. Even at nine in the evening, as I sat in my chair under the heavy flower baskets we had hanging, I couldn’t believe how much I would sweat. There was often sweat pooled in the hollow of my throat and my scalp was damp, and there was always a film of sweat on my face. I had to slather myself with Buzz Away all the time, and the odor of it was always on my hands.

Joe and I were typical old folks, complaining of fatigue, and there were tales of other elderly fainting in public, or passing away alone in overheated apartments. There were even wholesome ads on TV , with the phrase: “Weather, we are all in it together. I saw it on billboards and grocery bags.

The cell phone coverage kept fluctuating, I didn’t understand the technology, why would heat affect satellites, but they said it was solar flares, or maybe solar storms. The price of water kept going up, but Joe and I were on a well with a windmill, so we kept watering, but Joe worried that eventually the ground water would run out if it didn’t rain. In town there was a reward if you saw people watering or spraying off the sidewalk, which used to be routine, and the penalties got harsher, jail on the second offense.

And then it got hotter than the records had ever shown, and it was almost September. It seemed like all the leaves were dying, not changing, We rented out a modular home on our property to a young couple, Jared and Renee. I didn’t talk to them much, I wanted them to have their privacy from a on-site landlady, so I was surprised to see Renee making her way over to our side with baby Avery. I hadn’t see either of them in weeks. They used to barbecue outside with friends, and throw a ball for the dog, but they had been staying in all day lately.

I could see the dust Renee’s flip flops made as she walked, and even from the second floor window the baby looked listless and pale. I cranked up the fan and poured us ice tea, and took the baby from her as we sat at the kitchen table. Avery looked dully at me and seemed so quiet.
“I can’t get her to nurse, do you think I should switch to rice cereal?” Renee asked.
“I think she is too young, you should hold off until five or six months.” I said, stroking the baby’s sweaty head. Renee looked sickly too, soaked with sweat and wearing the same stained denim shorts and tank top she had worn last time I saw her.
“Did your kids have diarrhea in the summer when they were little? Did they ever not want to eat at all?” she asked. “The pediatrician says she isn’t thriving.” Renee said, tears welling up in her eyes.
“Oh sure, kids are always losing their appetite in the summer, or having the runs, or getting prickly heat on the back of their necks.”
Renee nodded, gratefully, but I was frightened to see the baby so thin. It was odd to see gnats in Avery’s eyes, and she had no energy to brush them away.
“Maybe you could fill the baby pool and …” I started to say, but she was already shaking her head no, I guess they didn’t want to spare the water.
Before we knew it, it was Labor Day, and there was no sign of the heat passing on. They tried to say it was Indian summer, but I wasn’t sure.

Joe and I weren’t watering anymore, we were afraid the well would run dry, so we filled water bottles and stored them by the washer dryer. We tried to do as little laundry as possible, and wear the same shorts and tanks for as many days as we could stand.

They shut down the farmers market for the season because it was so dry and dusty by 9 am and the vegetables weren’t thriving anymore. The grocery stores cut their hours, too, not wanting to use the power to be open all night.

A lot of the kids in town got a stomach flu that wouldn’t leave them alone; and the talk returned that the dirty pool water caused it, or maybe it was the runoff from the manure, or maybe the river wasn’t clean anymore. The water looked different, and there was a smell; not chemical exactly but strange when you turned on the tap. The water stopped running in the local ditch and the fish were dying in the lake, no one knew why.

When they said we couldn’t use the air conditioner anymore, too many people were using power, we didn’t care, we had always thought it was bad for the environment, and we were used to lying on the bed at night, sweating, hearing the fan turn. Then electricity costs went up so we went for no fans as well and we started sleeping out on the porch. I wasn’t that much cooler. We moved the chaises upstairs and slept separately, it was just too hot to bump into another sweaty body at night. The store sold paper fans now, and I remember as a child the fans in church during services, I hadn’t thought of those in years. Maybe we were returning to a simpler time. How foolish a thought.

“Just think how the settlers had it, back in the 1800s. They didn’t have electricity or refrigeration at all, and only took a bath once a week.” Joe said from his lounge,
“I guess we can get used to this, huh? At least I don’t have to wear the dresses they wore back then….”
“I like the hats the men wore though, and the suspenders. And my feet have to be as dirty as theirs were!” Joe said. “ He wiggled his crusty brown toes. Joe could always get me to laugh, and I feel asleep watching the stars. They looked cool up in space, glowing like ice in the night sky.

We started thinking we had better save some food, the market was so picked over, so I got sacks of brown rice and dried pinto beans at the coop, and we decided to solar dry our veggies, but the veggies were so withered they looked dried before I even put them in the rack. I got a lot of canned food at Grocery Outlook, but I had to be so aggressive in grabbing things I was a little frightened; people used to be so much nicer, now it was all elbows and dirty looks. All the bottled water and batteries were out of there, and I had to get Vienna sausages even though we hated it. At least I could give it to the dog.
I still tried to keep up my old routines, I still went running, but now I went at first light to avoid as much heat as I could. I still went to the place I always went, but I started walking halfway there, it was just so hot.

One morning I heard a terrible rustling and grunting in the Manzanita growth. I stopped dead in my tracks, it was an awful noise that I still can hear when I concentrate, or maybe I am thinking of the sounds I hear in the next room as I wait here, its all mixed up now.

Then I saw it, about 30 yards away, a mountain lion pursuing a wounded deer, and I saw it pounce and the deer screamed and I smelled blood. I turned and ran for my life, imagining claws on my back, and I never went back. I can still see its muscular tawny body stretched all the way out to pounce on the scrambling, bleeding deer. She didn’t have a chance.

I switched to walking on the road and then it was too hot for that, and it didn’t seem safe. People from the city were coming up more and more, and I didn’t want anyone following me back to the house. There seemed to be strangers living in the woods.

Joe and I went to the city council meeting, just to see what the plans were, with the stores in town shuttering and the mail delivery down to twice a week and all the new people in town. Our town had always been divided with a conservative tilt, but now the Tea Party had a strong voice, as all their nay saying and fears seemed to be coming true.
I was shocked to see an old man carrying a picture of a coffin, saying the government was going to leave us to die.
Joe approached him with a smile.
“Aren’t you exaggerating a bit there friend?”
The old man turned and looked at him, taking in his long hair and farmer’s feet, and the anger was so fierce and sudden.
“You’re a fool if you think that, and you’ll deserve what happens to you.” The old man almost spit at Joe, spittle was on his lips, and I pulled Joe fiercely to get him away.

Joe had always been a pacifist, he was a conscientious objector in the war three wars back. I think he was shocked at the venom, but then it got so much worse.

They was a lot of talk about the guns for sale after the meeting, that did scare me. but for me the worst part was the open discussion.
“Back in Washington, they don’t care about us. They don’t care I went and fought in their war, and they don’t care if we run out of water and gas either.” A young veteran said, his voice rough and husky with emotion, and all the people around him patted him on the back.

We left the meeting early and I didn’t like the feeling of the eyes on our backs . I was relieved to get in the car, and locked my door the second I got in. Gas was up to $7.00 so we decided to come to town even less.

I sat on the deck to look at the moon that night, and I wondered what we would do if they came over from the highway to our place, we had big glass windows, perfect for the valley views but I felt vulnerable.

Then our son, Wade, living down in the city, lost his job. That was bad enough, but he was also worried about the sea level. He heard rumors that they might evacuate the coast and his place was one block from the beach. Wade said the fog was changing, it used to roll in daily in the summer, so there was just a few hours of sun each day; but now the fog was rare and had a yellow cast.

I had taken to turning my phone off, now I turned it on twice a week, I used to scroll through silly pictures constantly, but now I worried it wouldn’t be charged if the power went out. When I turned it on I saw a message from Wade. It was three days old.

“Hi Momma! Hey, it’s getting kinda hairy about here, and Stef and I want to come up and stay for a while. They are going to evacuate and I don’t want to be part of that mess. I’m gonna bring my guns, might be good to have some security up there. Might take us a couple of days to get there. ” He laughed, but the dread in my stomach felt like a punch.
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll make it. Put a jar of jam aside for me, okay? And some eggs? Love you!”

—————————————————————————————————————————–

And then it was over, it got bad so fast. Now I know that the fabric of civilization is a fragile mesh. it seemed like it took three days for us to be on our own but I guess I am exaggerating. I remember reading what people went through in the Holocaust and the Reckoning but I never saw it happening to us. I just didn’t expect the lawlessness. I didn’t think the government would just go missing. I didn’t think neighbors would turn on each other. I didn’t think of the terrible violence. I didn’t think hungry people would binge on meth.

We became people who lived behind boarded up windows only venturing out when desperate for water or food. Then we lost even that, when they invaded the house.
We ended up in the little storeroom downstairs, along with some of the neighbors they had rounded up, and our tenants and their baby. That was rough, but Joe had it worse.

Joe had run out of medications he took for blood pressure for quite a while, and wasn’t himself; he had always wanted to be the husband and caretaker and he just couldn’t stop the way things got. He hated being powerless, they wouldn’t listen to him, they struck him more than once and I hated to see him old and helpless, and when they shot Parker Joe didn’t recover. Then the baby passed, and we helped them bury her at night in a dresser drawer wrapped in her favorite blanket.

Then Joe had another stroke, after they broke his nose with the rifle butt, and this one was bad, his face drooped and he couldn’t use his arm. The last stroke he had been in the hospital for a week with physical therapy and 24 hour nursing, this time he lay on a pile of old rags we had in the barn. He couldn’t speak either though he tried. I kept telling him I loved him and we would get through this, but his eyes were filled with fear, and he would work his mouth but only sounds would come out. Then one day he was just gone, and I didn’t tell them but when they brought the water but they saw and took him. They dragged him, and his head banged on the concrete floor. Mary covered her face with her hands but I kept looking.

I hated them so much. Once they had to be young people, probably at the dances, and I don’t know how they learned to be so cruel. They had to be the people who I used to see, selling tires, having families, but they had changed.

Then they took Jared and Nick away, and we women were alone. Renee had been catatonic since the baby, but Mary was always on the edge of hysteria. They took Renee first, she was the youngest and prettiest and when they took her she didn’t struggle. I don’t know what they did to her; I only know she didn’t scream. I could hear them laughing. They drank a lot, and I guess meth; they always seemed so wired and so cruel.

Mary was next, and she screamed and cried and struggled, and I sat numbly alone in the room. I was almost sixty and I guess they didn’t really want me. They forgot the water for a day and I hoped they would forget me. I could sit and remember, but the fear made the memories jumbled, and I guess not eating too. Nature used to always soothe me, but I didn’t ever hear birds chirping and the sky wasn’t blue very often.

I found a few tablespoons of jam in a jar hidden under a crate, that jam I made in early summer, and I ate a half of it. I felt sick but I kept it down. I held some under my tongue like I used to do with candy when I was young.

Then they came for me. I still had the taste of jam in my mouth when they grabbed me, and they pulled me out of the room into my barn. They dragged me to the stairs, and suddenly I thought of the deer in the woods months ago. I might as well run. I could run up the hill toward Mary’s old place. Maybe I could live back in the woods where I used to run. Maybe somewhere there will still good people.

I sagged and pretended to faint, and they loosened their grip. Then I burst into a run, still tasting the summer berries, and I started up the hill. I ran like the deer, I ran as fast as I had ever run. Maybe this time the deer will get away.

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Water Baby by Jane Percival

Feb 01 2015 Published by under The WiFiles

Zoe was an odd little girl, there was no question of that. From the day that she first joined the family – a small scrap of a child with a shock of black hair, she was different. She had such a grave way of looking at the world. Her aunt, uncle and cousins would take turns to try to make her smile, but she would just look back at them. When she was a toddler, she was content to play by herself, although she did play alongside other children if she had to. And it didn’t go unnoticed that she had a habit of staring at people, watching. Jo would often look up and catch her gaze.

Zoe was a collector. In itself, that wasn’t unusual. Her father had collected those cardboard coasters that they have in bars, and her mother’s childhood stamp collection was still up in the attic. But Zoe collected round river stones and had a pile of small twigs that she’d found somewhere. She’d spend ages sorting the stones and rearranging the twigs into different shapes. When not playing with the twigs, she’d bind them up in her old baby blanket, the one she’d been wrapped in on the day she was rescued.

Another difference was the way she behaved around water. As a tiny child, the only thing that would calm her when she was upset was a deep bath, and she was always trying to put her head under. She’d push back and wriggle in Jo’s arms, as slippery as an eel.

And then there was her physical appearance. She was slim and supple, with a heart-shaped face, a small turned up nose, a wide mouth and huge green eyes. Her hair was glossy and straight, and pure black. Both Donna and Carl had been fair.

Despite her being so unlike their other children, Jo and Tom loved Zoe unconditionally and cared for her with the same love and affection they had showered on her older cousins.
*
When Zoe was four, Jo took her along to the local kindergarten. Her cousins had spent their early years at home until old enough for school, but it seemed that Zoe needed something more than helping in the kitchen or playing with her dolls in a bucket of water in the dusty back yard. It was February, the tail end of summer, and Zoe held Jo’s hand as they walked the three blocks to the centre. She allowed herself to be introduced to the teacher and Jo offered to stay with her for a while to keep her company. Zoe watched the busy activities going on around her and didn’t seem interested in joining in. She didn’t even look up when Jo left.

Attending kindergarten wasn’t that much of a success. It wasn’t that Zoe didn’t mix with the other children, it was more a case of the other children not mixing with her. She was like a small repelling magnet. Despite every attempt to include her in group activities, she remained aloof. She would watch, rather than joining in. When spoken to, she replied as she should. There was nothing measurably wrong with her speech or her cognitive abilities, she was just ‘different’.

The only activity she appeared to enjoy was the water bath. She would collect up all the dolls, take off their clothes and line them up under the water with their glassy eyes staring upwards. Sometimes she’d have to weigh them down with heavy stones from the sandpit to stop them from bobbing to the surface. Then she’d take them out and toss them onto the grass. She repeated this activity over and over until the other children complained and the adults became unnerved. How she would manage at school, nobody knew. After a few months, Jo decided to that kindergarten wasn’t for Zoe.

At home, her collecting had become something of a problem. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d just ‘collected’, but she was always tipping out her cardboard box of stones onto the bedroom floor, sorting and re-sorting. And she disliked being disturbed. As she grew older, she arranged the items into complex patterns. The twigs were always sorted into shapes resembling small people which she’d fan out and link to the river stones. The river stones were sorted into undulating lines that started from a central point. The storage box became tatty and shabby, its corners bursting at the seams.

One day the family heard a sharp cry from Zoe’s room. Upon investigation they had found her sitting on the bedroom floor, gazing at her twigs and stones which were in jumbled heaps, the cardboard box torn away at the bottom. For her next birthday she was given two plastic storage containers with wheels underneath. They had lids that could be clipped down and handles for towing and could be cleverly stacked on top of each other or rolled under the bed. But Zoe wouldn’t use them. From the day the cardboard box fell apart, the stones were always on her bedroom floor. She just stepped over her complicated arrangements and became upset when it was time to move them aside to vacuum clean. Every night she’d collect up her twigs, wrap them in the old blanket and carefully place the woolly bundle alongside her pillow.

*
The first day of school caused a minor catastrophe – Zoe refused to be parted from her twigs (still wrapped in her baby blanket)and had insisted that they be packed into her backpack along with her lunch and other school items. She wouldn’t leave the house without them and when Jo tried to lift her up, she scratched and bit at her. In the end, Jo managed to squeeze the blanket into the backpack alongside her exercise book and pencils. Zoe had to carry a separate plastic bag with her lunchbox and drink bottle inside.

At the end of that first week, when Zoe was sleeping soundly in her bed, Jo crept in and removed the parcel from beside her pillow. She carefully set the twigs aside and cut the blanket up to make a small purse with a Velcro fastener. The next morning, Jo expected Zoe to complain, but she didn’t. In fact for the first time, she almost seemed pleased, tucking the purse safely down the front of her sweatshirt.

Zoe was a bright child and managed her school work with ease, and despite being a loner, seemed happy enough. She excelled at water sports and could swim like a fish. She couldn’t be persuaded to wear goggles, however, even when the chlorine made her eyes red-rimmed and sore. She fitted in.

As she grew older, she formed no friendships and had few acquaintances. At around the age of thirteen, she complained to Jo that she’d been having trouble sleeping.
“I have these dreams,” she said. “I dream that I’m in the water and it’s cold. There are two white lights and people all around me are saying ‘go, go, go’. Pushing me.”

She began to spend her free time walking by the banks of the Hokitika River. She’d been told the story of her parents’ death and how she’d been saved, but this didn’t deter her.
“Do you think the accident had some kind of lasting effect on her?” Jo asked Tom.
“I doubt it,” Tom replied. “She was only a tiny baby.”
“Sometimes I wonder, though,” Jo reflected, thinking back to the day that Zoe had been rescued from the river.

*
It had been a tragedy. Jo’s sister Donna had given birth to Zoe at the maternity unit at Grey Base Hospital, about 40 km north of Kaniere. Zoe’s entry into the world had been straight-forward, but the day her parents were due to bring her home had been wild and stormy. Carl had driven to Greymouth to collect them, with the intention of heading back in the early afternoon. On a good day, the drive back to Kaniere usually took less than an hour, and they’d left Hokitika shortly after lunch. There had been a flat tyre and Donna had rung Jo to say they’d be a bit later than they’d originally expected, but other than that, there was no reason to think anything would go wrong. Jo, Tom and the cousins had been looking forward to their return and meeting up with baby Zoe for the first time.

After reaching Hokitika, Carl had taken the slower, Arthurstown Road route. This road ran alongside the Hokitika River for a good part of the trip to Kaniere. Even this should have been without problems, but just as they were on the final straight before crossing the bridge into town, the car swerved sharply to the left, before sliding over the bank and into the river. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the accident happened directly across from one of the few houses on that stretch of the road, all three lives would have been lost. But a gentleman by the name of Don Walters was checking his mailbox at that very moment. He heard the screeching of tyres and looked up through the driving rain to see the tail lights disappearing from sight.

The Hokitika River is fast moving, with its source in the Southern Alps. At the time of the accident, it had been raining steadily for most of the day, and the river was swollen. Don had run across the road and stumbled down the bank to where only the boot and back bumper of the car were showing, muddy green water coursing over its roof. Only a few minutes had passed since the accident, but there was no movement, no sign of anyone struggling to get out. Don waded in up to his waist. The water was icy cold. He pulled at the left rear door but it wouldn’t budge – the car was already starting to shift due to the pressure of the water. Picking up a rock, he pounded it against the window until it broke, reached in, found the catch and dragged the door open. The front seat was completely submerged. He could just make out the shapes of two bodies still strapped into their seatbelts, the woman’s blonde hair swirling, when the car started to move some more.
Floating in the back of the car was something wrapped in a sodden white blanket and Don was startled to see two bright eyes. He quickly grabbed at the bundle and pulled it out. The car shifted in the water, sank further, then started drifting down the river. Dan fell backwards and only just managed not to be swept away himself. Looking at the wet pile of bedding in his arms, he realised he’d rescued a baby. It was wet and cold, but clearly alive.

The rest was history. They found the car the following day. It had been washed up on the sand bar at the mouth of the river, with Carl’s body still wedged behind the wheel. Donna’s body was never found; most likely she’d been washed out to sea.

Jo shook the feeling off. They’d done the only thing they could, they’d taken baby Zoe into their own home. Not that a new baby was something they’d wanted with the other kids all but grown up, but she wouldn’t change a thing. She did still wonder about that day, however. Why had Donna and Carl taken the longer route, and why had the car suddenly swerved? Sure, it had been rainy and windy, but it was a straight road and there had been no other traffic.

*
After graduating from Westland High School, Zoe was accepted into the University of Otago’s Bachelor of Science (Marine Science) programme. She moved down south to Dunedin and studied there for a little over two years, managing well enough at the academic side of things. She had good grades but her inability to make friends, combined with her lack of interest in forming relationships of any kind, held her back. Her class mates found her odd and difficult to talk to. And they found her behaviour a bit unnerving at times. She was often found gazing into the specimen pools at the Marine Science facility, and on diving excursions she easily lost her focus and would lie motionless, drifting face down just below the surface, gazing at the swirling strands of golden brown kelp as they moved with the tide. The girls in her class considered her ‘weird looking’ with her green eyes and her shiny black hair and her aloof and distant manner. The boys found her somewhat scary and gave her a wide berth.

She still carried around her collection of twigs. These were well-worn from handling – smooth and almost pure white from age. She had purchased a small fringed suede pouch from a craft market and kept them there, along with three small stones from the Hokitika River. She wore the pouch on a long leather thong around her neck.

*
In April of 2010, Zoe upped and left Dunedin, taking the InterCity Bus to Christchurch and the West Coast shuttle across the island to Greymouth. She met up with Jo who was finishing her shift at the Grey Base Hospital where she was employed as a nurse. Zoe’s cousins had long since moved away; to Christchurch and Nelson respectively. Tom had drowned in a fishing mishap a few years earlier. Jo was mostly glad to have her back home, but wondered what she’d do with her.

Zoe picked up a part-time job at the Countdown supermarket in Greymouth and once again, took to walking along the banks of the Hokitika River in her spare time. She couldn’t remember where she’d found her original twigs and this seemed to bother her. She constantly asked Jo about her parents’ accident.
“Why did they drive off the road?”
“Where did they drive off the road?”
“Who found me?”
“How did he get me out?”
An onslaught of questions that Zoe had never raised before.

*
A couple of months after her return, Zoe went for a walk and didn’t come home. The police were alerted, but as she was an adult and the weather was still mild, they weren’t unduly worried. Everyone knew Zoe; they knew she was familiar with the area and a strong swimmer. And she did have strange habits.

By the time they began searching in earnest, more than twenty-four hours had elapsed. Tracker dogs found Zoe’s clothes folded tidily on the banks of the river, directly opposite the place her parents had met their death, 21 years earlier. On top of the pile of clothes was the fringed suede pouch. Jo’s heart sank when she heard this.
One of the search party volunteers was the local GP. He tipped the contents of the small pouch onto the ground, to see if Zoe had left a message or any clue inside, then drew back in surprise.

“Let me look at those!” he exclaimed, hoping he was wrong. He held the small twigs in his large hands, peering at them closely. “These are bones, and unless I’m mistaken, they are the hand and foot bones of a very small baby.”

But there was more to come. The dogs were barking and scratching at the ground below the clothing and the search party decided to investigate what was making them so excited.

It was assumed that Zoe had given up on her solitary life and thrown herself into the river, but her body was never found. What they did discover, however, was a small grave, directly beneath where Zoe’s clothes had been left. In the grave they found the skeletal remains of a human baby. The remains had been preserved in muttonbird fat inside a sturdy bag made from bull kelp. The hands and feet had been removed.
END

Bio
Jane Percival lives on a small life-style block adjacent to the Kaipara Harbour, north of Auckland, New Zealand.
She has recently ditched her day job to focus on her long time love of writing. She is an avid gardener and writes a gardening blog. Lately she has been focusing on speculative fiction.
Blog: www.heni-irihapeti.com

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