The Training Run, Part 4

           We were the second ones back to Haven. Our little clearing was as a good a spot as the Red Oak Woods could provide. It thickened for the perimeter of it giving us extra defense but also forming a nice canopy from the rain. When we got back, Meyer and the others told us their tale. The fires that followed Day One had mostly ceased. They found a few abandoned cars that had escaped miraculously any bombs; they searched the glove compartments and trunks finding mostly drivers’ registrations but a few snacks, too: days old French fries, mints, cereal bars, and leftovers that had not made it to the owner’s lunch hour. Some people had been well into their routines when this all happened, Meyer had shared aloud.

            The rain picked up.

            They had also watched a group of people loot a gas station between the Woods and Capital Circle. There could not have been much left but auto supplies so that did not explain why there were so many people in there. They kept their distance from the gas station—when everything goes back to zero, trust of those you no longer know did the same…especially when there were so few of us left. While we may have been neighbors a few days ago, we were now just inhabitants facing the same problems:

            Where was our next bit of food coming from? Did anywhere in town or beyond have electricity or running water?

            Meyer said that judging by the state of things on the Circle, the answer to the second question was certainly ‘No.’

            There is hardly anything left in there, he told us. A few buildings were still burning especially the larger ones in office parks and strip malls with corporate anchors like Publix and Home Depot.

            All their wealth and security counted for absolutely nothing now.

            Any sign of who did it all?

            None. No army has come to occupy us…not yet.

            No sign of the National Guard?

            That would have been the first thing I bombed.

            There was an armory about three miles due south of where we held safe in the Red Oak Woods. If the armed forces had not made it out of there then it was my belief that no one anywhere was doing any better than us. There was a murmur of agreement among the group.

             The rain came down now in anger and a shit-ton of lightning.

            Where is Pickens? Meyer asked.

            He stayed at the house, and wants us to come back there and set up shop… permanently. He is pretty convinced that no one is coming back to it—judging from what we saw there and what you are saying he is most likely right.

            Let’s go there now, Meyer suggested.

            I don’t know if we can find our way in this weather, I yelled over the thunder.

            We have to try. We can’t leave him alone there.

            Let’s wait until it clears up. Probably another hour or so.

            We waited. Then another hour. Then two. Finally three. The sun descended beyond the horizon. We had to wait for it to clear. Before we knew it, the night would not let us back to Pickens until morning. We knew these woods in the daytime; we feared they would know us at night.

            We stayed there in Haven until morning.

*  *  *  *  *

            Another reason we did not go back for Pickens immediately as we told him we would was because of Meyer’s report on the state of things. The gas station that had somehow missed the bombing was surprising, but because there were still a few groups of people around (and at least one place to loot), we figured there would be time before things turned desperate—people could still get a few items of food. We started toward the road just after daybreak, following along but not directly on the trail system for fear of encounters of the unknown.

            We wanted to stay under the radar.

            Once the trail popped out unto the dirt road, we hastened the final seven or eight minutes to the bungalow. It appeared mostly the way we left it, but the front door was partially open and another window had been broken in front.

            Pickens!

            No answer.

            The eight of us did a lap around the house. The covered fire-pit in the backyard was still smoking. Maybe he had caught a squirrel or raccoon.

            Pickens!

            We started up the stairs to the front porch to find a highball glass on its side underneath a new broken window. I was the first one to the front door and slowly pushed it open. I closed my eyes just for a moment before taking that first step.

            I pushed it open.

            Hello? Pick—

            The bottle of Basil Hayden’s remained on the mantel, but laid on its side. Below the mantel was a recliner where the body of David Pickens, Olympian had breathed its last breath. A few of us ran up to him immediately to see what had happened. Those who saw the carnage that had been laid onto the meat of his quadriceps, calves, and biceps stood back—aghast. Zephyr and Smith cried out in horror turning their faces away. His shirt had been stripped from his body. His neck had been punctured, and he sat in a pool of his own blood that had run down his chest to settle in the chair.

            His skinny frame was pale and cold.

            The most powerful muscles of his body had been carved away from the bone. These muscles, lean and taut had once propelled him to being one of the top American distance runners in history; had moved him along to a top-5 finish in the Games; had moved him over beach, hilltop, and mountain for most of his adult life had now been used as entree in the backyard of House Apocalypse.

            Who the fuck would do this! Cried Zephyr. Is this our world now—our existence?

            I looked around for a weapon of some sort, for something that had inflicted this damage to our brother.

            Nothing.

            Meyer went outside for air. The warm aroma of blood had made him nauseous. The fresh air overwhelmed him, and he vomited repeatedly. Those who were not standing with Pickens comforted each other.

            We were now eight. One of our leaders had been taken from us in a manner that not a month before would have sounded like something out of a horror film. Everything was normal then, as normal as things can be for people who spend most of their time running or thinking about running. There was no innocence anymore. It did not matter what our mile times were or what we had run our intervals in the week before. Our coach was missing. Our friend was dead. We had no home. We had no food. Others were turning to extreme measures for sustenance. We came to the realization that if we did not want to lose our soul, we needed to hunt and kill an animal… and soon.

            Things had turned desperate now, and we had to act quickly.

            We took Pickens’s body out to the edge of the property. Anderson and Slim found a few tools in the garage that would help. We took turns digging the shallow grave for our friend. Six feet would not work. Whoever had done this might check back to see if there were other human meals around. We had dug about three feet of earth, and gingerly placed Pickens and his bottle of Basil Hayden’s at his chest. We left the glass on the porch as a warning to whoever came by the solitary house next.

            Broken highball through a broken window.

            We did not dwell on ceremony. Tresser, who had been a Eucharistic minister in high school and was therefore deemed our spiritual leader, said a few words from his heart. He left the New Testament out of it—something I think we were all thankful for. God didn’t exist anymore, and if he did he certainly didn’t care about us. And with what was going on now in the world, I didn’t think any of us could blame him.