E j deen, p.11
E. J. Deen, page 11
“I’m sorry, Sara. I can’t. I have a lot of work to do, and I’m eager to get back.”
She looked disappointed, but she didn’t press the issue. She knew Zach too well. He had his own agenda, his own way of doing things, and they were none of her business. But she loved him dearly, and she worried about him constantly.
“I’ll just go finish my sewing while you men finish up here then,” she murmured.
“Sara,” Zach stopped her before she’d gone two steps.
She turned back and gazed at him expectantly.
“I’ll keep trying.”
She nodded and tried to hide the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
“There is one thing I need,” he said.
She glanced back up at him. “Anything.”
“I could use as much bar soap as you have.”
Sara made soap every month and always had a little extra for Zach, so she didn’t question his request.
“I’ll give you what I have and make a new batch for Pete and myself,” she kindly offered.
Zach nodded his appreciation and went back to unloading the Hummer. Pete had already brought
Zach’s travois out of the barn and was busy fastening several bundles between the poles.
“This is gonna be a heavy load,” the older man commented. “You might need to make two trips.”
“Just pile it high and heavy. I’ll manage.”
“Zach, you ain’t in any sort of trouble, are you? Because if you are, you know I’ll help in any way I can,” Pete told him, his keen eyes assessing Zach for any reaction that might lend credence to his fears.
“I’m not in trouble. I’m just….” He trailed off and signaled with a shrug that he didn’t want to discuss the matter.
Pete understood and went back to what he was doing.
By the time the travois was packed, Sara had returned to the barn and pressed a bundle into Zach’s hand. He smiled down at her for a long moment. She was so tiny, and she looked so damn forlorn. He knew she was sad that Tadpole still refused to stay with them, but there wasn’t much he could do.
Tadpole was a free agent. He could do what he wanted.
“I brought you some food,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Thank you,” Zach answered.
“Aw, Sara,” Pete moaned. “Every time the man goes off, you get all misty-eyed.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” she defended herself. “Besides, you ain’t much better. You worry about him just as much as I do.”
Zach glanced from one to the other, then bent forward and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. He hefted the sack of food and teasingly commented, “There must be enough to last me three days in here.”
She lowered her eyelashes and smiled. “That way you don’t have to worry about finding food for yourself. You can just concentrate on your trip.”
Zach’s eyes were twinkling with mischief now. “You’re still trying to find out how many days journey it is from here, aren’t you?”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, can you?”
“You know the rules, Sara,” her husband reminded her.
“I know, I know,” she muttered, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t need to be told twice.”
Pete was the only person in the world who knew where Zach was headed. He was the only person who ever would know. It was best that way, safer for Zach, safer for Sara, safer for anyone who might be involved with him, except for Pete. It was a tremendous burden for Pete to bear, and Zach was eternally grateful that he was willing to carry it.
“Well, I better be going. It’ll be nightfall soon, and I want to get a good head start,” Zach commented.
“Take care of the Hummer for me, Pete.”
“I will. Oh, I almost forgot, I’ll have that bigger fuel tank ready before long.”
“Thanks.”
Without further explanation, Zach positioned himself between the travois poles and tested the weight of his burden. Pete went to his wife and put his arms around her. She leaned against him, drawing comfort from her husband as they said goodbye to their dearest friend.
Zach gave them a nod and started on his way, dragging his bundles behind him. It was going to be a long, tiring journey on foot, up into the West Virginia hills where he stayed hidden from the world.
Back home, back to his cave and the memories.
*
It seemed like an eternity passed before his shoulder finally healed, an eternity he spent in pitch darkness. Hunger finally drove him out of the cave, and it had not been an easy journey. He’d gone so deep into the earth to find the water that he had no idea how to get back out. He wandered around for days before he realized he was going in circles. It was when he finally found the pit, almost fell into it again, that he knew he was making progress. If he went the wrong way, he would end up back at the underground stream, but if he went the right way, he would end up in the chamber where his rescuers had left him. From there, it was a short distance to the entrance, to sunshine, to food.
He’d been so damn green, so ignorant about survival. It was a wonder he’d lived at all. He’d led a rather soft existence up until that moment, unaccustomed to the rigors of life outdoors. But he was fortunate enough to possess a natural stamina, a strong physique, and he’d always been too damn smart for his own good. He had learned. It hadn’t been easy—God knew it hadn’t—but he had learned.
The cave provided him with shelter, and in its core, he had water in abundance, but getting food became a trial. He learned to acquire it by watching the animals. He observed which berries the birds ate, watched which roots the bears would dig for, and he even found a wild potato patch that he began to cultivate. It was a long learning process. The hunger, often intense and even painful, gnawed at his insides constantly. Sometimes he would hallucinate from lack of nourishment. He lost a good deal of his body weight and precious muscle mass, and he was often discouraged, lying in the darkness of the cave for days and wishing he would die. But something kept him going.
His mind warred with his body in a constant battle for supremacy. Eventually his intellect won out. He survived. Fierce determination kept him alive, and that same determination led him to explore, to seek, to learn.
He learned that certain areas of the cave made great underground refrigerators. And after receiving a nasty scar on his right thigh from a bear mauling, he learned how to keep the animals away. By leaving his own dung near the entrance, the animals would smell the human occupancy and seek shelter
elsewhere.
He learned that caves with underground streams could be a dangerous thing. He was nearly killed when his cave flooded. Afterward, he was faced with the problem of finding another cave, a dry cave.
It took weeks. He hadn’t a clue what to look for, and it was pure accident that led him to find his new shelter. He was out scouting one day when he stumbled across a curious occurrence. He’d gone through a hard winter. Spring was just days away, but it was still cold enough to cause warmer air to frost, and it was precisely that phenomenon that aided him in his search. Walking along a ridge, he noticed a slight puff of warmer air rising up from the ground, seemingly from nowhere. Upon closer inspection, he discovered a small opening in the rocky mountainside and realized there was a chamber directly beneath him. He’d stumbled onto a breathing cave. Now all he had to do was find an entrance, one big enough for a man to get through.
He looked for days before he finally found it, but the long search paid off. His new shelter was a dynamic cave, secluded, almost impossible to find. The entrance was a steep uphill grade followed by a shorter downward sloping grade that opened into a small chamber on the other side. A tunnel in the back lured him farther along, and he followed the rather cramped, rocky terrain for some distance before he came into a larger chamber. A natural chimney-like structure stood in the very rear of the room, and he realized that this was where the puff of warmer air had been coming from. Looking up the shaft, he could see that the drop from above shot straight into the ground. It was far too deep for animals to even consider, and too small to admit a man. The cave was perfectly protected.
It was beautiful actually. God’s artwork. Layers of warped limestone folded and twisted by time itself decorated the interior, and elaborate walls appeared to be hung with draperies fashioned by the shifting of the earth’s crust. Ornate pedestals and columns rose from the floor, and huge stone icicles hung from the ceiling. The upward slanting entrance protected the entryway from snowdrifts and high winds in the winter, and would easily keep anyone from stumbling across it, even in the summer. The natural chimney kept the cave breathing and the air circulating nicely, and the interior was a constant fifty-six degrees, making it much warmer than the outside air in winter.
He immediately marked his territory with human scent and moved in. His new home wasn’t far from the other cave, so he still had water nearby. It would work. He could make do. The idea pleased him.
Here in the mountains, he could be truly self-sufficient. He would never need to rejoin society again, and that suited him just fine.
He set up residence in the deepest chamber of the cave, and it didn’t take him long to make it more amenable to human occupation. He figured out a way to build a fire under the natural chimney,
although the first few attempts weren’t very successful. The heat of the fire shifted the natural breathing of the cave, but he eventually managed to position the fire in such a way that it wouldn’t hamper the airflow.
Over time, he learned how to hunt, how to make bows and arrows, and flint knives. He learned how to use the skins from the animals he killed for blankets to keep him warm. He ate well and gained back the weight he’d lost, and his outdoor activity made him strong, resilient. He was healthier than he’d ever been in his life.
There were no easy routes in this new society, no quick fixes. Hard work taught him never to waste anything. His was not a throwaway world anymore. Whatever he acquired was not easily come by, so he learned to use everything he could, even down to the smallest things, wasting nothing.
For a time he was satisfied with his existence. He had recovered from his gunshot wound. He was strong and healthy, far away from the horror in Washington. But soon he began to grow restless, and he realized that he needed human contact. He bucked it for awhile, but after months of loneliness, he finally packed up his hunting implements and went out into the world to take a look-see. What he found made him wish he’d never left the cave at all. Hell had come to earth, and it dominated mankind.
9
Zach shaped the last bit of wax into a little funnel and fastened it to one end of the tiny shard of flint he had sharpened into a needle-fine point. That done, he went to the opposite side of the chamber and dumped another batch of wax-myrtle berries into a cauldron of water and placed it on the fire, stoking the wood so the berries would begin to boil. He’d been working on his arsenal for days, ever since he had arrived back in the mountains he called home. Thankfully, no one had found the cave in his absence, and he hadn’t had to chase any bears away this time. Luck was with him. Everything was going well. No mishaps, no mistakes, no waste of goods. After being in the steamy heat of the
Louisiana bayou country, the cave seemed especially cold, but that was a minor nuisance. He would acclimatize rapidly enough.
While the berries cooked, he went back to the shards of flint he’d been working on and tested them to see if the wax was set. The ultra thin funnels had to be handled with extreme care so he wouldn’t crush them and have to start over again. In transit, he would carry them in a little wooden box lined with cushions of dried grass to protect them from being damaged. A few packing precautions and a lot of hope might get them safely to their destination.
Satisfied with his progress, he picked up one of the darts and put it inside the tube he’d made from the sugar cane pole. Placing his mouth around the end, he forced a quick gust of air into the tube. The dart was instantly propelled from the makeshift blowgun. It flew across the room with surprising precision and buried the needle-sharp point into the bundle of clothing lying against the far wall.
Happy with the results, Zach put the blowgun aside. It was perfect. And the rest would be just as good.
He was too meticulous for anything less.
He worked all day, using his knife to flake small shavings from the bar soap Sara had given him, filling bottles he’d been collecting with gasoline and whiskey, fashioning rag stoppers, putting together the proper combination of sulfur and saltpeter, making corn starch incendiaries, and carefully working out the precise igniters for each.
He already had a hefty arsenal prepared, throwaway knives stacked in a bundle, ready for use,
explosives and incendiaries he had made over the last few days packed and ready to go, and now the last batch of blow-darts were almost finished. Soon his one-man war would begin.
There was only a slim chance he would find the men he was looking for, the men who had raped and infected Serena. She’d told him they’d taken her to Florida, to one of the places they liked to gather.
Even if her kidnappers weren’t there, the way Zach figured it, any Pirate would do.
He didn’t intend to bother with the small-fry. He would start with the main faction. He had a score of his own to settle with them, and Serena’s need for retribution was only an excuse to begin. But he had to be careful. These men were dangerous in the way they killed. He would have to see to it that he didn’t get caught.
He paused in his task and stared into the blazing fire that was heating the last batch of wax-myrtle berries. He didn’t like to think of what could happen to him out there. The Pirates didn’t just kill. They maimed first, tortured until a man begged for mercy.
He reached up and fingered the scar on his face. He’d already had one too many run-ins with the Pirates. But this time would be different. He was different. He’d been much younger then. Now he was older, stronger, wiser. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He didn’t even intend to get close enough for any sort of real contact with them.
He wasn’t afraid of them—never really had been—and that lack of fear had been what had gotten him injured before. Now he knew how they operated, and he knew how to avoid their traps. They would never even know he was there until it was too late.
He put his knife down and stretched his back. He just wanted to live through this personal war so he could tell Serena she’d been avenged. He wanted her to know there was some justice in this world, even if it consisted of only one man.
He had no idea what time it was. Time didn’t exist when one was burrowed down beneath the surface of the earth. There was no telltale shifting of light as the sun went down, only darkness lit by the fire in the corner and the few candles scattered here and there. He was tired. He’d been working for hours without even stopping for food, and his body was protesting the demands. He finished shaping the last little funnel, securely attached it to the flint needle, and then set it aside to dry before standing up and stretching his aching muscles. He was too tired to even bother with a bath or food. It was all he could do to drag himself to the corner where his straw bed lay. He threw himself down on it and embraced the opportunity to allow his body the rest. It felt good. It was nice to be back in the safety of his cave, where he could relax.
As the flames in the fireplace began to slowly die away, he drifted into sleep.
*
Sweat dripped off him, sliding down between his shoulder blades and making him want to wriggle in discomfort. He managed to resist the urge despite the intensity of it. He was beginning to wonder if his journey to the Everglades was a fool’s errand. For weeks he had traveled on foot, carrying his bundles of supplies, forcing his body into unnatural, often inhuman feats as he pushed himself further, harder, longer. He ignored the discomfort because he wanted the supplies. He wanted the wiring, the radio, the electronic equipment, and most of all he wanted the generator. Only one faction he knew of could provide him with these things. The Pirates.
He’d been warned not to go—the Pirates were too dangerous—but he hadn’t listened. He was stubborn, headstrong. He was desperate. He wanted those goods, and he would stop at nothing to have them.
He played a dangerous game. He had nothing of value to trade for the items he wanted. All he offered was a bluff, and when the Pirates discovered this, that’s where the real danger began. He was so sure of himself, so damn arrogant. In retrospect, he’d been a complete and utter fool. How could he have thought these ruthless mercenaries would be so stupid as to fall for it? After all, this wasn’t the legal arena he was dealing with. This was not a jury he faced, where he could argue someone else’s case and win by sheer brilliance of semantics alone. This wasn’t civilized society anymore. But he hadn’t learned that yet. He would, though. The Pirates would teach him.
He’d been out in the world, had wandered from his cave, met some people, run into some mishaps along the way, but he hadn’t yet become the hardened soldier that time and experience would mold him into. He was still a bit naive about the ways of the new world, the motivations of lust and greed and fear. The ignorance, the shame, the decadence. It had all been there before the plague, before the revolt, lying dormant, but now it was even worse. Chaos was in its heyday. Greed, corruption,
misappropriation of power, all had shifted into high gear. Murder, rape, killing sprees, theft. It was sickening.
Another trickle of sweat rolled down his back. He knew the moisture was creating a noticeable stain on his heavy cotton shirt, evidence of his anxiety. High in the mountains, following his shooting, he’d been left alone with only one pair of bloodied slacks and a torn and bloody shirt, and those had soon become useless to him. When he’d come out of his cave to seek humanity, he’d been wearing animal skins. Over the course of time, he had acquired more suitable attire. Black boots, army fatigues, and a bit of an attitude to go with it.
