Barren Waters, A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival

Courage is not having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don’t have the strength.

—Theodore Roosevelt

Chapter 6

1 Year Prior

“I’m telling you,” Jeremy warned his daughter, “Professor Snape’s a Death Eater! He’s fooling everyone, even you.”

“But he isn’t,” Lifting her chin, Sam stared down the bridge of her nose. “He’s not, Dad. I swear. If Dumbledore trusts him, then so do I.”

Eyes twinkling, Jeremy turned to his wife. “Care to weigh in on this? What do you think?”

“Oh no.” Susan showed him a palm. “I’m keeping my opinions to myself on this. It’s early yet. The jury’s still out for me. We’ve got a whole book left to read. Who knows?” She swirled the wine in her glass and frowned. “Enough wine for tonight. How about some hot chocolate?”

“Extra powder,” Sam said, her nose buried in her book.

Balancing their dirty dishes in the crook of her arm, Susan carried them back to the kitchen. In the morning, she’d take them out back, to the stream, to wash them in the water and dry them in the sun. The water was more acidic than it should be, of course, but for things like washing and bathing, it was harmless. And though it wouldn’t kill them to strain, boil, and drink it, Jeremy preferred that they drink from the bottles in the ark.

“So,” Susan asked as she banged around in the kitchen. “After we finish book seven, what’s next?”

Sam closed the thick tome and gathered her hair into a messy bun. “The Twilight series, I’m thinking. Yes?”

Jeremy couldn’t help but grimace openly. “You’re gonna to put me through months and months of teen romance? That’s cruel, Sam. I’m not ready for that. And to be honest, I’m not sure you’re ready either.”

“But I’m old enough, Dad. I’m thirteen now. I’m a teenager. What’s the problem?”

She was right. It was the same argument they’d had several times before, every time she asked him for the books. She drummed her fingers against the book in her lap, and he fought the lump that was rising in his throat. She was staring him down, daring him to disagree. She held him in the palm of her hand and she knew it.

But he had his reasons for withholding those books. For as long as he and Susan had been able, they’d steered her away from the Twilight series. Not because she was young or immature. Quite the contrary, in fact. She was actually well balanced, self-possessed, mature for her age. The subject matter wasn’t over her head. Sam’s maturation didn’t make Jeremy nervous. His weren’t the fears that commonly plagued other fathers. His was a different kind of dread, a deeper fear, not of an abundance of unworthy suitors, knocking on their door to take her out for the evening, and not of sexual experimentation. His was a fear of the void awaiting her. Like a gaping maw it was, a deep and bottomless pit. Anxiety would choke him if he imagined her future. It was a cave where loneliness crouched and waited. Jeremy would give anything for her to enjoy the kind of puppy dog romances he had when he was a boy, but it wasn’t in the cards for her. It wouldn’t happen. Their family hadn’t seen another living soul for years. To find additional sources of disks, he and Susan had ventured into the world, and on those trips, had encountered other people. But Sam hadn’t accompanied them on those missions. For her, the world was all but empty.

Jeremy’s father had built this cabin and equipped it with the best supplies money could buy. He’d planned for every possible need; given them a chance at life while millions of others had surely faced death. And he’d included the basics to live that life: food, water, shelter, and medications. But what of companionship and love? What of intimacy, affection, and warmth? Jeremy and Susan rarely spoke about the future, but there would surely come a day when things would change. Sam would be forced to provide for herself. It wouldn’t be for decades, of course, God willing, but that day would undoubtedly come. Jeremy and Susan would grow old and die, and Sam would be left to fend for herself. But would her life be a life worth living? For what, Jeremy wondered, was life without the spice of human interaction to season it? Would Sam live out her days alone in this cabin, tending her gardens and reading her books? It was a lonely set of images, which he and Susan didn’t openly discuss.

Peering at her delicate face, he felt a clenching in his gut. These were the reasons he withheld the books. He didn’t want her comparing fiction with reality and realizing how strange her life really was. Though fiction, the sentiment behind the stories was real, and it broke Jeremy’s heart to imagine her pain and the time she would spend yearning for something she’d never have. But he also couldn’t protect her from certain truths forever. Perhaps it was time to get it over with. He watched his wife prepare mugs of powdered chocolate to heat over a flame. Would Sam ever experience the kind of love he felt for Susan? Marriage had given his life meaning. Susan brought him direction, hope, and love.

He felt himself caving, and with a sigh, turned to Sam. He was only postponing the inevitable, he supposed. He couldn’t withhold the books forever. At some point she’d read them. Why not now?

“Okay, Sam,” he said. “You win. We’ll tackle the Twilight series next.”

She smiled.

“Sucker,” Susan murmured from the kitchen.

Yeah. He was.

A knock at the door drained the blood from his face, spiked his adrenaline, and set his feet in motion. It was such a curious sound to hear: the hollow rap of a fist against wood. It was the sound of a visitor, of another, and he found himself jumping from his chair with alarm. His eyes were wild and immediately sought Susan’s.

“Jeremy?” she whispered, frozen mid-step, mugs of cold chocolate held awkwardly in front of her.

He whirled around and peered at Sam. She was standing, sword-straight, arms wooden at her sides. The book had spilled from her knees to the floor, and fear was coiling in her eyes like writhing snakes. It had to be after nine o’clock, possibly even ten. Something wasn’t right. It was too late for visitors.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“Hide,” he hissed, his voice sounding harsher than he’d intended it to. “Get behind the chair. Susan, stay in the kitchen.”

As Susan moved for a gun in the cabinet, Jeremy moved for the door. He watched her widen her stance and remove the safety, and when she finally appeared ready, he peered through the peephole.

“Doctor Jack,” he exclaimed, his heart pounding.

Although the image was tunneled and small, tension was visible in the man’s posture and bearing. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and the muscles in his face were pulled taut. A thin trail of blood tracked the left side of his face, beginning at the hairline, just above his forehead, and running over the curve of his cheekbone. What the hell was he doing here?

“Jack,” Jeremy spoke through the door, “What’s happened? Why are you here?”

Jack shifted nervously from foot to foot. He was acting strange. Something was off. His gaze slid to the right and back, and his voice, though muffled, was clear when he spoke.

“Jeremy,” he said, “I need help. Please. I’m hurt. I’ve had…an accident. I think I’m badly injured… internally I mean.”

Jeremy’s hand was still frozen on the knob. If the man had sustained an internal injury, how had he made it to their house in the dark? Something about the story rang false. The voice in his head hissed a warning. He tensed.

“Jack, how did you get here? How did you make it this far? Did you walk?” Confused, he shook his head and posed a different question. “How did you get that cut on your head?”

Jack lifted his palms to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut as if enduring a private torture. “I can’t remember what happened exactly…I…I fell on the way over here, I think. It’s all muddled up in my head. I fell down. I was knocked unconscious. I think I have a concussion, Jeremy.”

Jeremy lifted his gaze to the piece of concave glass, and though he couldn’t see through it, he felt naked beneath Jack’s appraising stare. Jeremy’s mind spun. What would he do? Though he wanted to help Jack, something wasn’t right. For this, he had learned, was a strange new world. One could trust another, but only by degree, and certainly not in the dead of night. Before he could respond, Jack posed a different question—the question Jeremy had dreaded the most.

“Jeremy, please. Will you let me in? Can I come inside for just a moment? I need someone to watch over me for a while, take care of me while I gauge the severity of this wound. I shouldn’t sleep alone. I mean—I shouldn’t sleep at all. Not with an injury like this.”

Jeremy glanced from the peephole to Susan. He was deeply conflicted, torn in two. This man had practically saved his daughter’s life. How in good conscience could he turn him away?

“Susan?” he queried, lifting his hands from the door.

He needed her opinion to make this decision, but her eyes held the same uncertainty he felt. She shook her head slowly as she dithered, as yet unable to find her voice. An inappropriate laugh suddenly bubbled from his throat. “God, Susan. What have we become? Has it been so long since we’ve seen another person that we’ve forgotten simple things like neighborly courtesy?” Sweat gathered beneath his arms. “It’s Doctor Jack, Suse. What are we doing? Are we being overly cautious here?”

When she spoke, her voice cracked. With a cough, she cleared it. “Okay. Let him in, but I’m not putting down this gun. Are we clear?”

With a nod, he returned his gaze to the peephole. “Jack, I’m opening the door. Slowly. We do this my way if we do it at all. Take three steps back, away from the door. Hold your hands in the air. Do it now.”

Jack obeyed, but his movements were awkward and jerky. His gaze slid to the right once again, a doe caught in a Mack truck’s headlights. Jeremy tracked him as he backed away from the door. When his field of vision was somewhat larger, Jeremy strained to see to each side of the man, but the peephole set frustrating limits to his view. There wasn’t a backpack or rucksack in view, no supplies or gear with which Jack had traveled. Had he forgotten those too? How was that possible? Or did it, in fact, give credence to his story? If he’d sustained a head wound, it made sense. For who in his right mind would walk through the woods in the dead of night, without a bottle of water or a scrap of food? Maybe he really needed help.

Jeremy peered in his daughter’s direction. He could see her shadow in relief against the wall as she crouched behind her chair. To someone else, she might be unnoticeable. It was the best they could do in a pinch, he decided.

“Jack,” he said, disengaging the lock. “We do this slowly if we do it at all.” Setting his hand to the knob, he opened the door, and peering through the blade-thin aperture, said, “Keep your hands up, Jack. Here’s what we’re going to—”

—Time seemed slower, though several things happened at once. Three men burst into his field of vision, throwing him backward as they leaned against the door. The door, when it opened, was ripped from Jeremy’s hands, and with guns raised, two men rushed into the room.

“Hands up,” one shouted. “Up where I can see ’em.”

Jeremy could see Susan peripherally. There hadn’t been time for her to run, or hide. He willed himself to stare straight into the man’s eyes. “I’m unarmed,” he choked, lifting his hands above his head.

Two of the men pushed farther into the room, while the third dragged Jack through the door and jostled him into a chair. When he met Jeremy’s gaze, the doctor seemed to wilt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, guilt thick in his voice. “I’m so damn sorry. Should’ve let them kill me.”

One of the men raised the barrel of his gun and leveled it on Jeremy’s temple.

Susan flinched.

The gunman unfortunately caught it and spun. “Drop it, lady,” he said, his tone businesslike, well practiced. It was as if he’d done this several times before. He was close to gaining the upper hand and motioned Jeremy to sit on the sofa. Susan made an animal sound in her throat.

No! Jeremy screamed inside his head. Don’t you dare drop that gun! Stay strong!

Over and over again, he willed her strength. She mustn’t show weakness to these predatory men. Not while their family still had a fighting chance. They were three adults against three adults. All wasn’t lost if one of them still had a gun.

Her eyes darted between the three strange men, snagged on Doctor Jack’s head and widened. Her resolve was crumbling. Jeremy could feel it. He could see it, even from here. She wasn’t ready for something like this. None of them were and it was Jeremy’s fault. He’d never thought to prepare them for this.

Susan set her gaze on the gun that was pointed at Jeremy’s temple. Beaten, she let her weapon fall from her fingers, clatter to the floor and spin away from her foot. When she raised her hands above her head, the man with the gun gave an approving nod. “So, Jeremy,” he said almost comfortably, the only threat in the room now neutralized. “It is Jeremy, isn’t it? Pleased to make your acquaintance, though I feel like I know you so well already.” He glanced at the fire and the book on the floor. “What a pleasant evening you’re having tonight. So tell me: where’s this room I’ve heard so much about?”

Jeremy struggled to find his voice. “Room? What room?”

The man shook his head. “Uh-uh. Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, Jeremy, or you’ll learn that I’m not a patient man. I’m talking about your supply room.”

With two of the men covering Jeremy and Jack, the third moved for Susan and grabbed her by the shoulders, and after pushing her down to the sofa beside Jeremy, paced a slow circle around the room. With eyes as wide as saucers, he beheld his surroundings. For the first time since they’d entered his home, Jeremy noticed how disheveled they were. Refugees of a dying world, their clothing was tattered and soiled, mismatched, and their shoes were split at the soles. They had the look of bandits, both thin and scraggy, in hand-me-down garments and stolen shoes; spoils from a world in which nothing new would ever be made.

Jesus, he thought miserably, this place must seem like a Vegas penthouse to these guys.

“This place is amazing,” the third man muttered, as if plucking the thought from Jeremy’s head. Coming to a stop in front of the fireplace, he examined the portraits on the mantel. Jeremy tensed. He was too close to Sam’s hiding place. “This place is something else, Sturgeon,” he said to one of his colleagues, extending his hands over the fire and rubbing them briskly. “Like a place I’d like to call home.”

The man—apparently known as Sturgeon—returned his piercing gaze to Jeremy. “I asked you a question. The supply room. Where is it? The ark. Tell me where it is. Right now.”

The ark? Jeremy shot an accusatory glance at Jack. The doctor had ratted his family out! To save his own skin, the traitorous Judas had betrayed a family of three. How could he have done that? It was disgusting, unthinkable, something Jeremy would never do. Jeremy tried to center himself. He lifted his shoulders, took a deep breath. Think about Susan. And Sam, he told himself. Stay strong for them. Just get them out alive. We’ll figure out what to do later.

“Down there,” he motioned with a nod of his head, the words dripping from his lips like acid. “End of the hall.”

The second man took Sturgeon’s place, and Sturgeon disappeared down the hall. Shit. That door was locked. He forgot to tell the man about needing a key. Jeremy always kept the ark locked down at night, and though he didn’t want these men getting inside, he didn’t want to anger them, either.

As expected, Sturgeon reappeared within seconds, and with the butt of his gun, struck Jeremy’s head, connecting painfully with the side of his face. “Forget to mention something?” he hissed. “Don’t fuck with me, Jeremy. I don’t have time for this.”

The coppery taste of blood flooded Jeremy’s mouth, sharpening his thoughts and centering him. His mind raced as he considered his options. The cart at the edge of the forest, he thought, his mind grasping the edges of a plan. There was no way in hell these men were letting him keep the cabin. Not after they saw what was inside the ark. He and his family would be turned out or killed. He would do what he must to ensure it was the former. He’d appeal to this man’s sympathies, if he could—if this man had sensitivities, of course.

Seizing the tenuous thread, he pulled. “Sir, if you let my wife go, I’ll help you. I’ll even—”

“The key, asshole. Where is the key? All I want to talk about now is the key.”

“Okay. Right. And I’ll tell you where it is. But first I want to know what you plan to do with us. I’m only asking for something small, for you to allow my wife to leave the cabin. It’s a simple request. She can’t possibly—”

In a rush of movement, he advanced three steps, raised his gun and squeezed the trigger. The report echoed loudly in the room, bouncing between wooden beams that crossed the cabin’s vaulted ceiling, though it failed to mask Sam’s piercing scream. Jeremy inspected the angle of the gun, as strange images danced behind his eyes. He’d expected to feel a sharp pain, a punch in the gut, or the hot burn of metal cutting skin. Curiously, he felt nothing at all. Maybe he was just in shock? In a strange sort of daze, he tracked the path of the gun, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp in his nose. The trajectory was off. Had it been a warning shot? The weapon wasn’t pointed in Jeremy’s direction. It was pointed left of him. He didn’t want to look. His neck was frozen, sparing him the pain of what he knew to be true.

Breaking his paralysis, he forced his head to turn.

There she sat, his beautiful wife, clutching her gut, blood oozing through her fingers. It was running onto the legs of her pants, one of the many pairs of khakis she’d inherited from her mother-in-law. His voice failed him as he took it all in. Her eyes were scrunched against her pain, and her breath was coming fast and shallow. Jeremy had never been shot, but he knew a bullet to the stomach was an excruciating death. Death? He shook his head incredulously. No. Susan wouldn’t die. This wasn’t over yet. He would get them out of this. There was more to be done.

Propelling himself into motion, he fumbled for the key in his pocket. The barrel of the gun swung ominously toward his head.

“No,” he called out breathlessly. “Don’t shoot. Please. The key. I’ve got it right here, in my pocket.”

The man called ‘Sturgeon’, of all the crazy things, allowed Jeremy to pass him the key, while the third man—as yet unnamed—pulled Sam from behind her reading chair.

Dear God. Not Sam. Please not my baby girl.

Jeremy fought an anxiety attack as he beheld his daughter’s stricken face. She’d gone ghostly white, her mouth agape as she beheld her mother’s wound.

“I’m okay baby,” Susan managed to say through clenched teeth. “Everything’s gonna be alright. Do as the man says and we’ll be okay.”

As if the man had no heart or soul, Sturgeon turned from Jeremy’s ailing family and motioned his partner to follow him to the ark. Jeremy sat stupidly, eyes pinned to his wife. But when he heard the key in the lock, he flinched. This is it, he despaired, the end. With no supplies and no place to go, his family would be thrust into the night, defenseless.

When the door to the ark opened, Jeremy heard the men gasp in unison. The man guarding Doctor Jack craned his neck, called out to his partners, took a step forward, ranging farther from his position by the door. “What is it, Sturg?” he called out. “Is it good? Cuda? What’ve they got?”

Cuda? Jeremy though. Had he just said Cuda? As in Barracuda? Had these men named themselves after long-extinct fish?

From the corner of his eye, Jeremy caught a twitch of fingers. He slowly moved his gaze to Doctor Jack, who nodded and lunged for the gunman without warning, and with a grace Jeremy hadn’t thought possible for a man of his size and bearing, caught hold of the man and spun him to the ground. Jeremy dropped from the sofa to the floor, and rolling closer, clamped his hands across the intruder’s mouth. When Jack wrestled the gun from his fist, he brought it to bear on the man’s forehead. A tear tracked the side of Jack’s face while he fought. Guilt was an anvil, crushing his spirit. He would shoot the man if Jeremy didn’t stop him first.

“No!” Jeremy whispered. “Don’t fire it, Jack! It’s too loud! Stop! The others will hear!”

Jeremy held the intruder’s head between his knees, holding firm like a vise as he avoided gnashing teeth.

“Strangle him,” Jack spat, peering nervously over his shoulder. “Do it. Before they come back.”

Strangle him?

Jeremy swung his head toward Susan. Strangle? Really? Her rosy skin had gone waxy and gray. Cold sweat dotted her forehead. She was trembling with unconcealed agony. She was dying. She’d already lost too much blood. It pooled around her body in ghastly red ribbons. She wasn’t going to make it. Jeremy tried to catch his breath.

“Susan?” he whispered. “Strangle?”

He desperately needed her approval on this. Should he kill this man? This monster? This man who had entered their home and effectively stolen their future? Should he kill this man in front of their daughter? And should he do it with his own bare hands?

Briefly opening her eyes, Susan nodded. “Do it, Jeremy. You have to do it.”

Jeremy’s eyes slid to Sam and lingered on her stricken face. She wasn’t aware of her surroundings right now. Her eyes were fixed on her mother’s reddening shirt, and her hands were clenched, balled into fists. She was strangely stoic, tense but not crying. He returned his gaze to the man between his legs, and slowly closed his hands around his neck. It was scrawny, corded, not what he expected. As he squeezed, he was dimly aware of ambient sound: blood rushing in his ears, the snapping fire, the tiny throbbing pulse on the side of his face.

The robber’s eyes grew wide with alarm, and he began to struggle against the pressure on his throat. The fighting was intense, but the doctor was there, holding the man’s legs and feet in place. When the kicking and grappling reached a pinnacle, the doctor threw himself across the man’s kicking legs, and in a valiant effort, stifled the sounds of battle.

Jeremy was surprised by how long it took to kill a man. He would have thought it just minutes. It wasn’t. It was difficult too—the strength required, the tension one must keep in the fingers and hands, the tautness and rigidity of muscles and tendons. The minutes ticked by, impossibly slow. Jeremy worried it would take an eternity. As he lifted his gaze, his pulse began to race. He was certain he wouldn’t complete the task in time. The men would return, catch him in the act.

But they didn’t. And he did get it done.

The man’s struggling waned then ceased. Doctor Jack moved closer to his face. Touching two fingers to the man’s inflamed neck, he leaned closer and listened for the sounds of breath.

“Not breathing,” he whispered, “but that doesn’t mean dead. We need a knife,”

“A knife? Why?” Jeremy’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure he’s not dead?”

“We can’t be sure. One can come back from this, particularly if the windpipe isn’t ruptured.” His gaze was intense. “A knife, Jeremy. We need a knife. Now.”

In his pocket was Jeremy’s handy pocketknife, but would it be useful in this situation? “This is all I have, Jack,” he said, handing over the tiny weapon.

Snatching it from his hand, Doctor Jack flicked open the two-inch blade and moved for the suffocated man with purpose. Clenched in a bearish fist, the knife looked ridiculously small. What the hell could he do with that? Jeremy used that knife for opening packages, cutting twine, or cleaning his nails, nothing as robust a slicing a man’s throat. But before he’d even finished the thought, Jack had set the blade to the man’s throat and sliced, opening an artery in one smooth stroke. Thick, syrupy blood leaked onto the floor, pooling around Jeremy’s knees. He felt sick. Dropping the man’s head, he scuttled backward like a crab. Revolted, he tried to collect himself. Strange, he thought, that I feel like this. After all he’d seen and done this night, it was this that somehow crossed a line.

But at that moment, the men reappeared in the doorway. Sturgeon’s hawk-like gaze scanned the carnage. What now? Where would they go from here? What would be done? As the precarious moment hung in the air, Jeremy’s thoughts became incoherent and scattered.

Doctor Jack was the first to move. Lunging across the floor, he propelled himself toward the gun in the kitchen. Of course! Jeremy thought. Susan’s gun! While Jack crawled toward the weapon, Jeremy pitched himself back toward the sofa. Guns were hidden all over this house, strategically placed, in various locations. In his haste he’d forgotten about that. Jeremy threw himself toward the sofa, desperately, and thrust his hand beneath the cushions. He pushed past dust bunnies and used Kleenex, his grip finally closing on the FN Herstal.

A shot fired behind him.

He froze.

No, he thought, panicked. Not again. I can’t bear it. Who is it this time? Susan again? Sam?

Without thinking it through, he pushed himself to his feet, raised the gun in front of him and squared his stance. The shot had been fired at Doctor Jack, and though the man had been hit in the back of the thigh, he’d reached Susan’s gun and now held it in his hands. The barrel quivered with the waves of his pain.

Sturgeon dared a step forward. Jeremy fired. Though only a warning shot, it stilled the man. “Not another step,” Jeremy growled. “Freeze.”

Sturgeon leveled his gun on Jeremy. The two locked gazes and Jeremy held firm. “Well,” Sturgeon said, maddeningly calm. “Now what? It seems we’ve reached an impasse, Mr. Colt. Gun for gun, man for man.”

Impasse? The word sounded strangely astute on the tip of Sturgeon’s lips, too educated and civilized for the tense situation.

“Seems so,” Jeremy spit from between clenched teeth. “Get out of my house. Go now, or I’ll shoot.”

The man smirked at that and shook his head. His tone was dangerously soft when he spoke. “You know that’s not going to happen, Jeremy. This is my house now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Doctor Jack dragged himself across the floor, eyes fixed on Sturgeon’s gun. “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he hissed. “I should’ve just let you kill me instead.”

Sturgeon eyed the pool of blood at Jack’s feet. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. We’ve successfully done that.”

Jeremy realized it was time to think strategically. It was time to be realistic, no matter how much the truth hurt. There was no way out of this, no keeping his home. The doctor was as good as dead. So was Susan. He quailed. There was only one thing left to do. For what offense could he effectively wage with a thirteen-year-old girl attached to his hip? He stepped forward, bravely, while summoning his courage. “All right. You win. The house is yours. I only ask that you let my family leave. It’s a fair price to pay for what you’ve done.”

Barracuda spoke, his eyes crawling over Susan. “Let ’em go, Sturg.” he said. “They won’t make it very far. Not out there. Not with her like that.”

Sturgeon turned his gaze to Susan. He seemed to be considering Barracuda’s advice, for the disgust in his eyes was unmistakable. It was as if she were nothing but a piece of rotting meat on a spit, an unpleasant job he’d have to tend to later, once she died on that couch. “Get out of here,” he breathed. “Get out of here now. Get out of here quickly before I change my mind.”

“Get the girls,” Jack hissed. “I’ve got this, Jeremy.”

Moving to his wife, Jeremy dropped to a knee, while trying to keep his gun trained on Sturgeon. At some point, Sam must have broken her trance, for she was sitting on the couch, cradling her mother’s head, crying quietly, tears streaming down her face. Jeremy crouched and grasped his wife’s clammy hands in his.

“You ready, Suse?” he whispered. “You’ve got this.”

His wife’s chin quivered. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I can’t do it, Jeremy. You know I can’t do it.”

“Mom,” Sam choked through a wrenching sob. “It’s time to go. You have to get up. They’re letting us go. We have to leave.”

Lifting a trembling hand to her daughter’s face, Susan smiled thinly. A trickle of blood spilled over her bottom lip. “Go on, honey,” she breathed. “You have to go with Daddy. I love you so much, but right now, you need to go.”

“We can’t.” Sam shook her head violently. “We’re not leaving without you, Mom. The Doctor can make you better, like he made me better.” Jeremy watched her stand and sway, his heart breaking as she lifted Susan’s limp arm. “I’m not kidding, Mom. Get up. We’re not leaving without you. We can’t.” She glanced at Jeremy, daring him to disagree. “Isn’t that right, Dad? Tell her. We’re not leaving here without her. Make her get up. You have to make her get up.” Kneeling, she placed a gentle hand across her mother’s wound, and sobbing, bent to tie her shoes. “Please, Mom. Please don’t do this to me. Not now.”

“Sam,” Jeremy whispered, pulling her closer and gathering her in his arms. Words failed him, for in this situation, none would suffice.

“I’m waiting,” Sturgeon said.

Jeremy flashed a hateful glance. “We’re going,” he snarled. “Give us a minute.” Lifting Sam’s chin, he thumbed a smudge of blood from her cheek. “We have to go, honey. I’m sorry. I know it’s difficult to understand, but you have to come with me. We have to leave.”

Cradling his child as best he could, he bent and kissed his wife’s trembling lips. His heart broke in two. This couldn’t be happening. Was he actually considering leaving Susan behind? Was he really doing this? Or was it a terrible nightmare?

“Susan,” he gasped. “It’s always been you. There’s never been another and there never will be.” Touching his forehead to hers, he whispered, “If I were stranded on a deserted island, you’re the only one I would want by my side.”

She smiled. It was something they often said to one another, an implausible scenario that had somehow become real. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “I love you, Jeremy. Take care of our daughter. Be strong. You can do this. You know what to do.” She kissed him once more. “Now go. Get out of here. For the love of God, Jeremy, before something worse happens, before she gets hurt.”

He nodded and pulled Sam’s arm. She resisted, though her hand found his and clenched it painfully. There was nothing left to say and the three of them knew it.

“Mom,” Sam breathed.

“I know, baby, and it’s okay. I love you. Remember that. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Take me with you on your next adventure. Listen to your Dad, but take me with you. This is only the beginning of something new, Samantha. Daddy will take care of you now. Go.”

Sturgeon thumped his gun against his palm, and Jeremy tore his gaze from his wife. But as he moved for the door, he heard her call out.

“Wait,” she said. “Jeremy, come back.” Dropping Sam’s hand, he rushed to her side. “My pocket,” she whispered. “Check my left pocket.”

He plunged his hand into her pocket, and there, deep within the folds of cotton, were the shapes of seven small disks. The insulin. The intensity of emotion nearly choked him. She’d somehow remembered to bring what he’d forgotten, and she’d saved their daughter’s life in the process. She amazed him. He pressed his lips to hers, palmed the medication, and then ran to his daughter and grabbed her hand. Doctor Jack pushed himself to his feet, hung his head, and followed them into the dark silent night. It was surreal, like a dream, the edges bright and jagged. They scampered down the winding path, down the stairs that led to the garage.

“Stop,” Jack said. “Please, Jeremy. I need to rest.”

Eyes flashing, Jeremy spun to face him. He was breathless and pale. He’d lost a lot of blood. Jeremy thought he might throttle the man, beat him, smother him, cut, or maim him. He should make him pay for what he had done. But as he stared at the man’s haggard face, he felt strangely hollow. He pitied the doctor. Look at him. He was dead on his feet, not a chance in hell. Without proper care, a gunshot wound would fester. In a matter of days, infection would set in, and that, or the blood loss, would kill him.

“I’m a liability,” Jack whispered, and Jeremy didn’t disagree. “I can barely make it down this hill, much less through the woods at night. Go without me. Go. I’ve already lost too much blood.”

Jeremy nodded. He couldn’t argue with the man. Turning around, he peered at his cabin, at the curling smoke, lifting from the chimney, at the orange and yellow light, flickering from the windows, at the large picture window overlooking their precious garden. He was angry, furious, his body sick with it. His mind tripped over everything he had lost and a white-hot blade of anger twisted his gut. This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He pictured the life these men would live, the years they’d spend inside his home, the comfortable nights they’d sleep in his beds. He imagined warm nights they’d spend in front of his hearth, feasting on his supplies, gorging themselves, making salads with his daughter’s spinach and kale.

“No,” he whispered fiercely. “This isn’t happening.”

He couldn’t allow this to happen. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t permit them these unearned luxuries. Not after Susan, the brutality, the savagery. These men had built nothing. They hadn’t earned this. They were pariahs, thieves. They didn’t deserve these opulent spoils. Resolve hardening like a vise in his chest, he clamped his teeth together. He would stop this. Now. He wouldn’t let them enjoy this life—not if he and his family couldn’t. He refused to spit in his father’s face, wouldn’t allow them to soil his father’s legacy. If Jeremy couldn’t have this, no one could. It was as simple as that. And though he knew the sentiment was childish, Jeremy allowed himself to feel it fully, just the same.

He wordlessly dropped his daughter’s hand and sprinted for the garage, for a door at the rear, a fake stone to the left. Unlocking the door, he slipped inside, headed straight for his workbench and tools. His eyes traveled over neat rows of tools, gloves, hats, shovels, and household cleansers. Bucket in hand, he grabbed bottles of any kind of solvent he could find: nail polish remover, drain cleaner, gasoline, any aerosol cans he could get his hands on. Alone, each chemical was easily combustible, but when mixed together, were poisonous and toxic. He howled inwardly at his cleverness, while simultaneously being shocked by the depth of his savagery. He wanted them to suffer, he realized. He wanted to inflict as much pain as he could. They would escape, of course; they weren’t idiots. They wouldn’t sit inside a burning house and die. But maybe Jeremy could inflict a bit of pain, injure them while they waivered. They’d be sitting in the ark right now, gorging themselves, and once the fire took hold of the house, they would dither over which supplies to take and which to leave behind.

When the bucket was full, he grabbed a box of matches, and fleeing the room, began running up the hill.

“Dad?” Sam asked him as he ran past her. “Dad! What are you doing? Where are you going?”

Peripherally, he saw her push past the Doctor’s clutching arms, sprint up the hillside behind him, and scream. “Dad! Did you hear me? What are you doing? Stop!”

What was he doing? His wife was in there. No, he told himself. She’s not in there. She’s dead. She’s gone now. Do what needs to be done.

Even now, he could imagine the men sitting in the ark, bags of chips and cookies scattered carelessly around them. He could envision them popping the tabs off of cans of beer, corking bottles of wine from his west-facing wall. And he could imagine his wife, dying alone on the couch, perched beside a dead man, light dimming from her eyes. The images only kindled his rage further.

He dropped his pail at the edge of the lawn and ripped the tops from various cleaners, splashing the contents up the sides of his cabin. He spattered the door with nail polish remover and the window frames with rubbing alcohol. Around and around the cabin he raced, while Sam’s feet churned billowing clouds of dirt behind him. He was only dimly aware of her sobs, until his pail was empty and he finally stopped. He fished out the matches and held one aloft.

“No.” She shook her head. “Dad. You can’t. Mom’s in there. You can’t do this.”

He wasn’t aware, until that moment, of his tears, streaming down the sides of his face. Salt was tight against his cheeks when he spoke. “She’s not, Sam,” he whispered. “She’s not in there. Not anymore.” Crouching beside her, he placed a hand on her chest. “She’s not in that house anymore, Sam. She’s with you.”

And with that, he stood and beheld his family legacy, the lodge that had been the only home he’d ever known. Detached, he struck the first match. Moving for the door, he tossed the match against the wood, where it lit with silent and deadly force. Sam’s hand found his, and together they watched the inferno climb the walls. It was odd, he realized, the frailness of it. It had taken his father years to build this cabin, while Jeremy could destroy it in an instant.

He pulled Sam’s arm. He had to get her out of here. But he was a man on a mission, wouldn’t allow himself to stop—not until the plan was fully executed. Together they sped around the house, lighting matches and flinging them onto the wood siding. Before long, the cabin shone brighter than the moon. Asphyxiating smoke began curling into the air.

“Enough!” Sam screamed, her voice penetrating the maelstrom in his head. “Dad, that’s enough! Let’s go!”

She’d screamed the last word. And she was right. Time to go. The men would be running outside at any moment. In no time, they’d puzzle out what he had done, and burst through the doors in pursuit. Not good. Jeremy knew a confrontation would be deadly.

He grabbed her by the hand and they sprinted down the hill, toward Jack, who had obviously died. His eyes were glassy. They left him where he lay. Scooping his daughter into his arms, Jeremy ran for the trees as fast as he could. He knew where they would go. He’d known all along. With his daughter cradled against his chest, he melted into a canopy of trees, his trees, his forest, his thirty-seven acres of forestland.

The forest opened its arms to them, like a living, breathing organism, embracing family. He ran until the muscles in his legs burned with acid, until his chest heaved and his eyes blurred, until his arms and cheeks were covered in scratches. He ran toward the rising shape of a cart, covered by an army-green tarp and slick plastic, this awkward little wagon, this wheelbarrow on steroids, this sub-standard ark that would keep them alive.