The After War Read online

  When he had gotten his beard as short as possible with the knife, he used a pair of nail scissors to cut the hair down to his skin. He repeated the process with the hair on his head, methodically, until it was as neat as he could make it. When he finished, he washed his face, and the coldness of the water on his vulnerable skin was shocking. Even the air from the slight breeze made his cheeks and neck tingle and sting. His reflection over the moving water looked different. Younger, maybe, although he still looked much older than his mid-twenties. His reflection reminded him of his youth, and that living in the wilderness had a way of making his years on the earth irrelevant.

  The face looking back at him was a face he barely recognized.

  It was hard to remember what he had been like before fleeing to the woods. He was soft back then, well fed. Living in the wild had reshaped him, made him lean and strong with a sinewy strength.

  He leaned his back against the tree and sat with folded legs. He focused on his breathing, but the sensation of the breeze hitting his newly shaven face felt funny, and it was hard to stop touching his tender cheeks. Laughter was hard to suppress, his mind and body fighting the meditation.

  This went on for some time until Simon realized that the laughter itself was the meditation he needed. A weight had been lifted off his chest without him even realizing it, and his mind had shed some of the clutter that fear and uncertainty had poisoned it with. He put on his shirt, jacket, and holster, shouldered his rifle, and started toward the van.

  “Winston! Come here, dummy. Come on, boy.”

  Winston poked his head up from his coiled position, stood and stretched his back, and then lumbered toward the van. Simon opened the door, and Winston jumped in the passenger seat. Simon cracked the window and decided to take one last tour of the cabin just to be sure nothing was left behind. Again, just to be sure—although he was positive nothing was.

  The axe was no longer stuck in the large chopping log, which meant it was packed. Check. He opened the door to the cabin and looked at the barren living room and kitchen. He already missed the magnificent cast-iron stove in the living room, which kept the cabin warm during the most frigid of nights. As he walked past, he let his fingers glide over the cold metal. How many nights had he warmed his hands before the radiant heat of the thick metal sides?

  The first thing Simon had done when he arrived at the cabin over two seasons ago was drag the mattress out of the bedroom and into the living room, across from the cast-iron stove. There was no sense wasting wood to heat both rooms, especially in the dead of winter when trekking outside was dangerous and difficult. Before the winters hit, Simon filled the majority of the bedroom with chopped wood, from floor to ceiling. The remainder of the bedroom he used for food storage, since the room remained significantly colder than the rest of the cabin.

  He had pried up several floorboards and dug out the earth below until the hole was large enough to fit the small refrigerator on its back with the doors swinging upward. The cold emanating from the ground did a good job keeping the interior chilled, and animals and insects could not get inside.

  During the winter months, he gathered snow from outside the window and packed it around the edges of the refrigerator. The meat inside would freeze and remain fresh for as long as he replenished the snow.

  Simon checked the spare room, opened the refrigerator door, checked the pantries in the kitchen, slid open the drawers, but found nothing that he needed.

  He removed the stack of photographs he had tucked in the breast pocket of his shirt, and flipped from one to the other. His free hand slowly contracted into a fist, and his heartbeat quickened. He tucked the pictures back in his pocket, buttoned the flap, and walked out of the cabin.

  This is it. It’s time to go.

  The small moving van was the kind used by contractors and construction workers. Words on the side said, Kalispell Sports, but the letters were painted over and could only be seen up close.

  Simon slid the side door open and took quick inventory. All the food and perishables, including the few boxes of canned goods and meal replacement bars—mostly expired—were all raised several inches off the floor of the van by improvised risers that Simon had made out of logs, sticks, and some bricks he found in a pile behind the cabin. He touched the carpeted floor. It felt dry.

  Two fifty-five-gallon steel-drum barrels were tied against the sidewall. The bottom of one barrel was corroded and rusted to the point of near bursting with a fragile bump the size of a golf ball sticking out from the side.

  Simon had removed the tarp covering the van several weeks ago when the snow had finally melted, and when he slid the side door open, the pungent vapors of gasoline flooded his nostrils. The smell was so appalling that he gagged and covered his nose with his shirt. Three of the four barrels had corroded, and two of them had cracked at the base, causing gasoline to dribble out during the winter months. Nearly a hundred gallons of fuel had soaked through the carpet and trickled out to the ground.

  Seeing the empty barrels frightened Simon to his core.

  The reality that he might be stuck in the deep woods of British Columbia, almost three thousand miles from home, without any fuel, scared him more than anything he had yet witnessed. It was the deciding factor on whether or not it was time to go. Seeing the human tracks, only a few hours fresh and just a half-mile outside of camp, was frightening enough. And actually seeing people pass in the woods just a week later had been horrifying. Awful-looking people, draped in ragged cloaks, and so rancid that Simon could smell their caked-on gore from where he hid high in a tree. The thought of being truly stranded, with such loathsome wanderers coming about, gave him nightmares.

  He rechecked the two remaining barrels. A blanket was folded in a square and duct-taped to the side of the corroded bottom of one of them. It was the best he could do, and he hoped to God that the barrel would hold long enough for him to use the remaining fuel, or transfer it to another barrel. But even if the barrel did hold, two drums of fuel would not be enough to get him home. He would have to do the one thing that he had planned specifically not to do—scavenge. But even if he did find fuel, there was a real chance that the gasoline would be spoiled. His own barrels were past expiration, and despite them containing large quantities of stabilizers and the barrels secured airtight—until the recent leak—the fuel could stop powering the engine at any moment.

  Simon couldn’t let his mind wander to such thoughts. His fuel was still burning, and he would have to take his chances with anything he could find on the road.

  The back of the van was packed and secure to the best of Simon’s ability. He slid the door closed and went to the driver’s side. Winston lifted his head as he entered, and Simon could hear his tail wagging against the seat.

  “Good boy, Winston.” He scratched the dog behind the ears, and Winston panted and licked at his hand. “I hope you’re ready, because I’m not.”

  Simon dug the keys from the small backpack he kept on the floor below Winston. The backpack was loaded with just enough supplies to survive if he ever had to make a run for it. He called it his “get the hell out of Dodge” bag. He put the key in the ignition. The engine rattled and revved, and after a moment, sputtered to life. Simon watched through the rearview mirror as clouds of dark blue smoke rose from the muffler. To keep the battery charged, Simon made sure to start up the van every few weeks to a month, and never did the engine disappoint. It was a good van.

  He continued staring at the rearview mirror, lost in a trance. The smoke rose and dissipated in the air, flooding his memory with visions from when he had first entered that van, departing from home into the unknown: the smoke rising from the brick-lined driveway in that early morning, the frost beginning to melt as it twinkled over the windshield, his father holding his mother in her robe and slippers as she cried into his shoulder. The sun was barely up … and Simon had driven away.

  Winston barked, and Simon came back to reality. Five minutes had passed. Simon took a deep breath
, feeling the rattling of the motor through the steering wheel, and he shifted into drive.

  “Hope you peed before, because you’re not getting another chance for a while.”

  Winston wrinkled his nose and sat up in the seat to stick his panting face out the window. Soon, the van was lurching over the overgrown dirt driveway that would take them to the highway.

  Simon had scouted the path earlier that day, cutting back overgrown branches and moving a few large rocks that he did not remember being there when he first arrived. But still, the road was rough, and every bounce made his heart skip a beat. He paid close attention to the damaged barrel in the back, smelling the air for the pungent odor of fresh gasoline, and listening for the sounds of trickling fluid.

  The van crawled into the woods. Simon’s gaze was drawn to the reflection of the cabin in the side mirror as it became obscured from sight behind trees and brush, until the structure he had called home for the past two years disappeared. It was just as before, only this time, his mother and father were not standing behind him, watching him leave. This time they would be waiting for him to arrive—he knew it in his heart. They just had to be.

  With the cabin out of sight, all that remained was the road ahead. When he came to the highway that intersected the long dirt driveway, Simon put the van in park and climbed out. He removed the branches used to cover the entrance and peered out over the sweeping interstate, listening to the wind.

  The roadway stretched on for miles in either direction, up and around large and small hills, seemingly endless. Nothing stirred. No movement at all. Sticks, leaves, and branches littered the pavement, and Simon thought it was possible that the road had not been traveled upon since he’d first arrived.

  Back in the van, he checked the rounds in his rifle, and then did the same for his Colt .45. He laid the rifle and pistol on the console between the two seats.

  Then he put the van in drive, moved forward several feet, and stepped out of the van again to replace the branches covering the entrance to the dirt driveway. He looked back one last time before returning to the idling van.

  “This is it, boy—now or never.” He looked at Winston. “How about some music before jumping in, hmm?”

  On his drive there, Simon was glad to have found an old company cell phone with a collection of music on it, since he had forgotten to bring music himself. The music was classical, which Simon didn’t mind. It reminded him of his father. The blaring of horns and the sharp keys of pianos were constantly bellowing through the closed door of his dad’s office in the mansion he’d grown up in overlooking the Ridgeline River.

  The phone’s digital display read Beethoven: Sonatas & Concertos. Violin Sonata No. 5 came through the speakers. Simon pushed Next until he heard the shrill, telltale violin introduction to Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9. He closed his eyes and took in the music like a plant absorbing the sun.

  “All right, Winston. Let’s go.”

  The van inched to the edge of the highway, and Simon looked both ways once more. Still, he saw nothing. He realized he had turned on his blinker out of habit, and flicked it off.

  “No need for that, Winston,” he said and turned left on the highway, traveling eastbound. His hands were trembling on the wheel.

  The road before him was long and straight, and thick on either side with rolling hills covered with tall, lush, green pine trees, cedars, junipers, hemlocks, spruce, and firs.

  Simon’s vision was bright with fear, and his whole body began shaking and sweating as he drove back into the world.

  Chapter 3

  Nelson

  Brian and Steven’s path was not the route marked on their map; nevertheless, the men found themselves walking in the woods parallel to Pearl Street, close now to the center of Nelson. The tops of buildings filled the horizon, jutting over the thicket of trees. It was at that moment that Brian and Steven came upon the first corpse they would witness along their journey. Neither man saw it at first, hidden before them in the knee-high grass, until Steven nearly trod upon it.

  “Hellfire!” Steven shouted, stumbling back and whipping his rifle around. “Christ almighty.”

  Brian’s grip on his assault rifle tightened, his finger trembling over the trigger. Both men pointed their guns at the shriveled brown corpse as if it might jump forth from its earthen grave.

  Ain’t this some divination of hell, Brian thought.

  But the body did not stir. It did not budge from the soil that had laid claim to its flesh long ago. The hollow eye sockets in the desiccated face stared blankly up from the wall of tall grass; its mouth was stretched wide by the taut flesh dried tight over the skull. Pockets of exposed bone shone white from holes in the leathery skin.

  Brian lowered his gun. “It’s okay, Steve. He’s dead.” He looked around. “There’s no one here.”

  Steven lowered his rifle, wiping his palms on his thighs and brushing the sweat from his eyes.

  “I said he’s dead, Steve—”

  “I reckon he’s dead, Brian. I see he’s dead.”

  “Come on now. We’re right at town.”

  They sidestepped around the corpse and then walked until it was well behind them. If the body was someone they had once known, it was now impossible to determine who that person might have been.

  “That won’t be the last of them,” Brian said. “You better get your head on straight.”

  Steven opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again.

  They stepped onto the road as the first house emerged from the woods. They walked past it, taking careful notice of the blank windows—as black as the eye sockets of the corpse—and scanned for any sign of movement, like the fluttering of drapes, or the partially covered face of a person peering out from the darkness with a shotgun clenched tight in their hands. Anything.

  But there was no movement.

  “Think anyone’s left?” Steven said, with a crack in his voice.

  Brian shrugged. “I know as much as you do.”

  The yards around the homes, and Pearl Street itself, were spotted with litter and debris of every kind blowing in the gentle breeze. Overgrown tree roots buckled sections of the sidewalk and emerged from cracks in the pavement. They passed the police station bordering the center of town. The cruisers were vacant in the parking lot, and the building was cold and silent.

  Nelson was nothing more than a strip of businesses on either side of Pearl Street, which stretched on about a block in length, and began and ended in total wilderness. The men had lived and worked in Nelson their entire lives. Their family had once owned a plantation nearby many, many years ago—back when the community had a name for itself in the farming industry. Nelson was once a picturesque town.

  Now, the plantations around Nelson were little more than dilapidated mansions surrounded by overgrown fields, much the same as Steven’s home. Nelson served as a reminder of days long gone. Brian’s chest felt heavy as they walked the streets, his footfalls cutting through the layer of dust that covered everything, casting the whole town in a drab hue.

  The businesses they passed were boarded up with posted signs that read, Closed. No Trespassing. and Take What You Will. Be Safe.

  A few drops of rain began to fall, leaving dark spots on the pavement.

  “There’s nobody here,” Steven said.

  Brian didn’t answer.

  “They’re all dead. You reckon they’re all dead, Brian?”

  “I reckon I don’t know.”

  They passed Nelson Pharmacy, Clark’s Clothing Supply, and the office of Dr. Morgan Forester, their lifelong physician, whose walls were covered in the same Norman Rockwell paintings that the interior so closely resembled. They sidestepped several piles of broken glass left on the sidewalk before some of the businesses, until they found themselves standing in front of Hendricks Bar and Grill. The front window was boarded up, and a sign was nailed to the front, scrawled in familiar handwriting, Retired. Be Safe and God Bless.

  The sign was unmistakable
, written by the meticulous and fragile hand of Nancy Hendricks. Brian had insisted she nail it up before they all turned their backs on Nelson and went their separate ways.

  The glass panel on the door was shattered, and the frame hung open on its hinges. Beyond the broken glass was nothing but pure darkness. The small thirteen-stool bar and four-table restaurant was invisible as they peered inside. Steven stepped forward.

  “Don’t, Steve.” Brian shook his head. “Just don’t.”

  “We gotta go in, Brian. We can’t leave without knowing.”

  “There’s nothing to know. They’re not in there. You’re fixin’ yourself for disappointment.”

  “Maybe they left a note?”

  “There’s no note.”

  They stood motionless for some time. The building was more than just a bar to them, and it was more than just a job they had once worked. It was the bar owned and operated by their beloved Nancy and Ben Hendricks. The elderly couple had practically been family—practically parents—to Brian and Steven.

  Brian found his flashlight and aimed the beam of light through the gloom. They looked at the weathered sign above the building, each man lost in thought. Years of their lives had been spent working behind the worn wooden bar and sweating over the grill in the back. But mostly, Brian was lost in reflection over Nancy and Ben.

  He saw the old man’s denture-filled smile, and the way his upper back had begun to curve as his years progressed. He saw the clear, loving eyes of Nancy. Nancy with her small, fragile hands—the same hands that had painted the sign on the front window with precise and delicate lettering. Those tiny hands held more power over Brian and Steven than a bar full of brawling ironworkers. A slight touch of her warm fingers on Steven’s shoulder could snap him out of his “seeing red” moments. A gentle rub on Brian’s arm after a long day at the bar put his mind at rest.

  Steven shook his head. “They should have come down with us. We should’ve forced them.”