The Survivors - Chapter 7

Your story should include: a pickup; lipstick; and a silver earring.

Approx 3,413 words

The Survivors, Chapter 7

In the “smaller than a broom-closet” bathroom of the motor-home, Don used his rechargeable razor to remove the stubble from his face. He turned on the water to rinse his face and then toweled himself dry. It was only then he realized he had neglected to close the bathroom door and marveled at how quickly he and Maggie had settled into the comfortable routine one usually associates with only long time married couples. “Quit thinking like that,” he cautioned himself, “or you won’t be able to keep this relationship on a ‘just friends’ basis, the next time you and she are cuddling beneath the blankets.

Don put on a clean shirt and went outside to see what the kids were doing to amuse themselves. Mikey was vigorously putting his right foot down and grinding it into the desert sand, quickly he looked around and found another spot to plant his foot and continue his assault.

“What’cha doing, Mikey?” Don asked.

“Ants,” Mikey said. “I’m killing ever’ one I can see. They won’t bite me again! That hurts!”

“Ants are just like tiny machines, Mikey. I’m sure you weren’t bitten on purpose. Think of them like itty-bitty cars traveling down the road, they haven’t got the brains to think for themselves, but nature has supplied them with instincts that tell them what is food, what danger is, and what to do when frightened. Usually they react by biting anything which frightens them which they don’t recognize as food. The formic acid of many ant bites can be very painful.”

“Un-hunh,” Mikey said. “Well that one won’t bite me again!”

Don had to admit, considering Mikey’s limited understanding; the boy was right on the mark. See a threat, feel panic. Eliminate a threat and the panic goes away. It was only from an adult point of view, when humans tried to apply a sense of right or wrong to an action, that problems became more difficult to understand.

“Doris!” he called. “Maggie has breakfast ready, hurry up!” He grasped Mikey by his tiny hand and said, “Come on, partner, let’s get some of Maggie’s pancakes and syrup inside us before the ants take it all away. I’m hungry, how about you?”

“Pancakes! Yaaaaaay!” Mikey screamed while tugging Don to the door of the motor-home. Doris filed in and Maggie settled the children facing each other on the inside of the dinette so she and Don could get up or down to fetch items from the cupboards or fridge.

Maggie put a piping hot pancake on a plate, spreading it with butter and then preparing a second one. She poured imitation maple syrup over both and set them in front of the children. “Thanks, Maggie,” Doris said as she cut the pancake into bite-size morsels with the silverware Maggie had set out.

Don slid in next to Mikey and began to help him with his knife and fork. “I can do!” Mikey protested.

“Sure you can, Mikey. But half your pancake is on the table already. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have me cut it for you?”

Mike wasn’t pleased but he relinquished his silverware and let Don do the honors.

“Don… I need go poopy,” Mikey said.

“Sure, Mikey, on your way!” he said and stood so Mikey could slip past him. While he was standing, he reached above the sink and flipped the switch for the water pump, then heard the familiar burp as the water pump came up to pressure. “I’ll have this all ready for you by the time you get back. And don’t forget to wash your hands!” he admonished.

Don squeezed past Maggie in the tiny galley and set at the plate Maggie had put on the table for him. Two waffles were buttered and drenched with a sugar-free syrup, the only kind Don had in his pantry; he cut a mouthful and marveled at the fluffy texture as he chewed and swallowed.

“Ummm, Maggie. You wouldn’t consider taking a permanent position as my cook, would you?”

“At the moment, Don, it doesn’t look as though I have much choice. Yesterday I had my own home and kitchen, but now you and the children and this motor home are my only options. You wouldn’t throw me out into the desert to cook over an open campfire, would you?”

“I’ll bet you could cook anything, anywhere, Maggie.”

“Don……” came Mikey’s voice from the bathroom.

Don got up and went to discover what was wrong.

“There’s no handle on this potty,” Mikey said.

“Let me show you, partner. This is the way we do it here.” Don put a foot on one of the two pedals beneath the commode and pressed down, allowing the water pump to fill the bowl with a few inches of water. “We need enough water to flush the… mess away, Mikey. And then we step on the other pedal and watch it go down the drain. When it’s gone, we close the lid so it won’t go crashing down if we’re on the road.”

“Lemme do,” Mikey said. The tyke followed the instructions he had been given and, when the bowl was clean, said, “That’s neat, Don! I did it all myself!”

“You’re gonna be a first-class camper, buddy. Let’s have some of Maggie’s waffles now.”

When breakfast was finished, Don stepped outside with a pair of 7X35 binoculars and gave his attention to the home Maggie had discovered. It was a low ranch-style about a mile away. The home was beige with a gently sloping white shingled roof. On the roof a modest solar array was visible. In the back yard, three windmills stood, thirty to forty feet tall. It was too far for the children to walk, but Don didn’t want to leave his family alone while he went to investigate. Truthfully, he didn’t want to investigate; anyone who chose to live in lonely surroundings such as this probably valued their privacy and might decide to take a pot-shot at anyone who disturbed it.

“We’ll drive to within a couple hundred yards, Maggie, then I’ll go knock on the door. We’re trespassers out here, and we need to be on our best behavior.”

“No problem, Don. I’ll take care of the children until you tell me it’s safe.”

Don squeezed behind the wheel and kicked the engine over. “Everything put away back there?”

“Yeah….sure thing!” the kids replied.

“Just don’t rattle us all over the road, Don,” Maggie said. “I’m ready.”

He drove off, keeping the speed down to twenty miles per hour; after all, the trip would be a short one. As they drew closer, Don could make out a cyclone fence, about four-foot tall. He was pleased it wasn’t an eight-foot fence topped with razor wire. At least there was no indication the owner might be one of those militant survivalist types. Cautiously, Don stopped well short of the drive way and parked the motor-home.

Don unscrewed the handle of a mop in the closet and tied a white T-shirt to one end. “If you’re that much afraid of the owners, Don, perhaps I should go?”

“Not on your life, lady. Doris and Mikey need you to watch over them.”

“Yeah, right, and you’re not capable? Why don’t you watch the kids and I’ll knock on the door? Most people would not normally shoot a defenseless woman.”

“And most people would not normally die during the middle of the night, Maggie. This is not a normal situation. We have no idea what to expect. I would just as soon drive off into the middle of the desert and keep the radio tuned to the emergency broadcast frequency until we get some news, but we have less than twenty-five gallons of drinking water and no idea when we can fill up again. If we can stay here, it would be better for us, so I’ll go.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Maggie said with a mock salute. The children followed suit, “Aye-aye, Captain.”

The scene was deadly serious but Don could barely refrain from bursting out laughing. With a smile on his face, he said, “I’ll turn the vehicle around before I step outside. If you hear shooting, or if I’m not back in ten minutes, crank her up and head back to town. You’ll have to trust to luck that you’ll find some where safe.”

When the vehicle was turned around Don grabbed his flag of truce and headed for the door. Maggie threw her arms around him and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Good luck,” she said. “Hurry back!”

Don liked that. He could have been a frontier marshal about to step into the street for a showdown with Jesse James or some other desperado. He could have been a World War I doughboy off to the battlefields of France, but Don was not a warrior. He had been in the rice-paddies of Viet Nam a few decades ago, but he was young then and in fine physical shape. Now he was a sometime writer with a bad back and carrying twenty pounds too many around the middle. He was definitely not the hero type.

Stepping out the door, Don held his make shift flag aloft and opened the gate. While slowly approaching the front door, he encountered his first problem. A large German Shepherd sprinted around the corner of the garage and headed straight at him, teeth bared and filling the air with a menacing growl!

Don dropped to the ground and rolled over to expose his belly to the air. Surprised, the dog skidded to a stop and began sniffing the stranger, his vicious jaws scant inches from Don’s throat.

“Good boy,” Don whispered soothingly. “Good watch dog! You’re keeping the burglars away and doing a good job of it too!” With caution, Don extended one hand and began caressing the dog on the shoulder and neck, all the while speaking softly and approvingly. When the dog began licking Don’s face, he grew bolder and rubbed the dog’s fur with both hands.

“What a good boy you are! I’ll bet you’re hungry too. Have you been fed today? Or yesterday, for that matter?” The dog kept licking, evidently approving of the salty perspiration on Don’s skin.

“Okay, buddy, I’m gonna get up now. Let’s go see if anyone is home. Will that be okay with you?”

Slowly he got to his feet, careful to make no sudden movements which might startle the dog. When Don was standing upright he was much taller and apparently more menacing to the dog, for it backed away and bared its teeth once again. Don decided to play it safe and went down on hands and knees and began to crawl toward the front door of the house. Apparently the dog approved of this behavior and trotted happily along with Don.

When they reached the front door, Don didn’t want to risk standing to ring the bell. He decided if the electric was off, it probably wouldn’t work anyway. Don pounded with one hand and called out, “Hello? Is there anybody home?”

While he waited, he put one arm around the dog’s shoulders and began caressing his stomach. “Where is everyone, buddy?”

Buddy emitted a low growl, but it was more one of contentment than threatening. Don continued to rub the dog and then pounded again. “Hey inside! We don’t mean any harm. Is anyone at home?”

Don decided to quit kneeling on the door step and rolled over to a sitting position. The dog put one paw on his shoulder and continued licking Don’s face as if to ask for more. Don dug the fingers of both hands playfully into the dog’s shoulders and began tickling the beast. “Thanks for not ripping my throat out, Buddy, but I’m not used to viewing my surroundings from the ground. Come on, let me get up now and we’ll go around to the back of the house. There must be a door open and that’s how you got out here.”

Slowly Don rose to a standing position while continuing to address his new friend. “I’m not here to steal anything, Buddy; I’m just looking for help.” He stroked the dog’s neck while reassuring him with his voice. “You must have some owner’s here, Buddy, are they alright or are they lying on the floor or in bed? Let’s go around back and look for a way inside.” Don added urgency to his voice which Buddy seemed to acknowledge.

The dog raced around the garage and toward the rear of the house with Don following. At the back door, Buddy charged through one of those rubber doggie-doors and inside. Don got down on his knees again and inserted his arm until he could feel the doorknob and turn the lock. It opened! Don rose to his feet and cautiously entered the kitchen.

“Hello? Is there anybody home? We don’t mean any harm… we’re looking for other survivors.”

Buddy came back to the kitchen and gave Don a quizzical look, then turned in the direction of a hallway as if expecting Don to follow, which he did. The first door he passed was open to a guest bathroom. The second was furnished as a den or home office. At the end of the hall was the door to the master-bedroom and master bath.

Don needn’t have worried about being shot when approaching, a man and woman in their mid-forties or early fifties lay in bed. The faces of each were drawn and pale, a white pasty color Don was beginning to associate with the face of the dead.

“I guess you didn’t get your breakfast this morning,” Don said to the dog. “Sorry, Buddy, lots of things have changed in the world.” Don slapped his hand against his thigh and called, “Come on, let’s see if we can find something to eat in the kitchen, Buddy.” Don pulled the door to the bedroom tightly closed behind him and waited for the tell-tale click of the latch.

Happily, the shepherd led Don down the hall and back to the kitchen. This time, Don noticed empty bowls for water and dog food on the floor, behind a breakfast counter and next to the sink. As chance would have it, one of the dog dishes had the name Buddy on it. “Not very original,” Don thought.

A tall broom-closet sat to one side of the sink, and Don found a large bag of kibble inside. He put several hands full into Buddy’s dish then wondered if he were supposed to mix it with water? “Set it in front of him and see if he eats,” he thought to himself. Buddy went after the treat without urging. Don filled the water dish and then opened the front door and called out to Maggie. “All clear! Come on in!” he said with a wave.

As Maggie and the children approached on the flagstone walk, Maggie sighed with relief. “Jeez, Don! We thought you were in serious trouble when we saw that dog running at you! And then you just lay down… what was that all about?”

“Well, I know a dog can easily outrun an Olympic sprinter, Maggie, which I am not, but then I remembered something I saw on Animal Planet once. When male animals engage in ritual combat during the mating season, they never intend to kill; they simply want to establish dominance. When one animal acknowledges the superiority of the other, the fight is over. I figured this dog was only doing what he was trained to do, guard his territory inside the fence. If I lay down and exposed my underside to him, he would see that he was the one in charge and I was no threat.”

“But you took an awful chance, Don!”

“I couldn’t think of anything else, Maggie. At least, it worked. Look, the owner’s of this spread are in the back bedroom, please try to keep the kids out of there while I look around. I just gave the place a quick once-over, not a thorough check.”

In the living room, Don and Maggie found Doris and Mikey playing with the shepherd. “What a cool dog,” Doris said.

“He loves me,” Mikey said in response to Buddy licking the salty perspiration from the boys face. “What’s his name, Don?”

“I think its Buddy, Mikey. At least he doesn’t seem to mind if I call him that. Listen, I’d like you and Doris to wait here in the living room and play with Buddy, or out on the front lawn if you like. I want to investigate and be sure we’re safe here. Will you do that?”

“I can help, Don,” Doris said.

“You’d be a big help if you and Maggie will check out the kitchen and see if there is anything there we can use, Doris. And you can help Maggie keep an eye on Mikey too. You know how little ones can accidentally get into trouble, don’t you?” Don gave her a conspiratorial wink, which the girl returned with the knowing expression of a grown up.

Don headed for the west-wing of the house, briefly glancing into every room he came upon. He found another bedroom, apparently occupied by a teenage girl, but found no occupant. Perhaps she had been away when the event occurred? But where and why would a teenager be out of the house at two o’clock in the morning?

Don went back to the kitchen, passing the entry to the living room on the way. Mikey was napping, stretched out on the floor with his right arm wrapped around Buddy, and his left thumb stuck into his mouth. Doris and Maggie were both sitting on the floor watching “Finding Nemo” on the television.

“What? The TV is working here?” Don asked.

“We’re watching the VCR, Don. Evidently this home still has power. Mikey fell asleep but Doris is happy as a clam.”

“Okay, I’m going out to see what’s in the garage. Ah’ll be baaach!” he said, imitating the now-famous phrase spoken by Schwarzenegger in his role as The Terminator.

The garage was connected to the main house by a door off the kitchen. The door was fastened by a chain, which Don slid from the locking mechanism and left to dangle. Inside the garage, stifling under the September morning sun, Don found a luxurious Lincoln two-door and a more economical Toyota pickup. He guessed the Lincoln was the family “go-to-town” car, while the pickup was more sensible for a daily commute to work.

As he examined the vehicle more closely, his estimate was confirmed. On the dash of the Lincoln was a melted tube of lipstick and a single silver earring, a shiny version of Flipper suspended by a delicate chain. Had the lady of the house taken it off while talking on her cell-phone or had she simply lost the mate and tossed this one on the dash until she found the other? Don couldn’t guess, but it was obvious the Lincoln was used more by the lady of the house than the man. He reminded himself to look for the car keys later, if he needed to locate supplies somewhere in Primm, the little Toyota would require much less gas than either the Lincoln or his motor-home.

Don looked over the interior of the garage. Someone had sensibly built a loft between the rafters and the underside of the roof, allowing the usual junk which accumulates in the family garage to be stored up and out of the way. Along the far wall was a work-bench built of sturdy two-by-fours, with hand tools neatly hung on a peg-board against the wall and a drill press and radial-arm saw built in. What intrigued Don more were a dozen or so 5-gallon plastic pails with masking-tape labels on the top. Each label was hand-lettered with a magic marker to indicate the contents: Corn, Beans, Carrots, Green-Beans, Potatoes, and so on. Don removed one of the tops and confirmed the pail was filled with diced carrots, dried to preserve them for future use. Evidently one of the house hold did possess some survival skills and had stocked up on some provisions against a possible food shortage. Or perhaps their unknown benefactors were members of the Mormon Church? Hadn’t he heard somewhere that Mormon’s were encouraged to maintain a six-month supply of preserved foods, or was that just another urban legend?

* * *

Have Maggie, Don, and the kids found a safe-haven? They now have food, even television (a most essential survival need), what will happen to them next? Will we ever learn what catastrophe has befallen them? Be sure to return again for the further saga of “The Survivors!”