James Hunt - Broken Lines

“Who needs help?” Anne asked.

“Well, everyone really, but there are some folks worse off than others… and a few that are better off than most.”

Mike saw her eyes land on the open basement door that Mike had left. They were only there for a moment, but Mike saw her notice it.

“I’ll run downstairs and see what I can put together,” Anne said.

“Oh, let me help you.”

“No, it’s all right. I’ll only be a minute.”

Anne slid behind Mike and left him alone with Bessie.

“It’s very kind of you to help the way you have, Mike. Not everyone is as fortunate as you are,” Bessie said.

Mike followed her to the edge of the living room. She leaned in without moving her feet from the hardwood floor of the foyer to the brown carpet of the living room.

“Redecorating?” she asked motioning to the plywood over the windows.

“Just making sure the things that belong outside stay outside,” Mike said.

Bessie backed closer to the front door when Anne returned from downstairs with a bag of goods, almost spilling over at the top.

“Oh, Anne, this is too much,” Bessie said.

“No, take it. I hope it helps with what you’re trying to do,” Anne said.

“It surely will.”

Bessie clutched the bag to her chest with both hands. Her shoes clacked against the pavement as she walked back to her home. The moon highlighted her hair along with the slight outline of her downturned mouth, furrowed brow, and creases in her forehead. She entered through her back door into the kitchen and dumped the cans from the bag, sending them clanking and rolling onto the counter tops.

Tim and Adam sat at the kitchen table. Both were emptying boxes of bullets and filling magazines. Both of them froze at the sight of the goods spilling onto the counter.

“They have all that?” Adam asked.

“That’s a fraction of what they have. They’re holding out on us and they’re boarding up their house so no one can get in. They’re creating a fortress over there,” Bessie said.

Adam shoved one of the loaded magazines into his pistol. The click brought a smile to Bessie’s face.

“We hit them in the morning,” Bessie said.

Mike rolled out of bed. The room was pitch black. He stumbled to the bathroom tripping over one of Anne’s shoes again. His hands ran along the dresser until they wrapped around the pocket watch that his grandfather had given him. It was the only thing that still kept time in the house.

He lit a candle in the bathroom and held the clock face up to the light. 6 a.m. The watch snapped shut and he scooped some of the water in the sink into his hands, splashing it on his face. He walked back out to the bedroom, candle in hand, and let the glow fill the room.

The light hit Anne curled up under the sheets. Mike stood there staring at his wife, just like he had done for the past twenty-six years, every day, before he left for work.

The second story floorboards creaked under Mike’s steps. He tiptoed to Freddy’s room and cracked the door open. His son lay still, quiet on his bed with all of the covers thrown off and his shirt up, exposing his belly. Freddy had his mouth open and all of his limbs were extended outwards like a starfish.

When he opened the door to his daughter’s room she looked just like her mother. Curled up under the covers. The sheets rising and falling from her calm steady breath.

He stood in the center of the hallway among the three rooms. This could be the last time he watched them sleep in this house.

Pictures hung on all the walls around him. The memories came flooding back to him. The vacation to the Grand Canyon they took three summers ago. The Christmas mornings, Thanksgiving feasts, birthdays, anniversaries, all on display.

The tear he wiped from his cheeks wasn’t one of sadness for having to leave, nor fear of what was ahead. It simply represented all of the joy he felt during those moments frozen in time along the walls, and the gratefulness he felt for still being able to remember them.

Mike stepped down into the cellar to grab the guns and ammo and check for any last items he may have missed. He had the duffle bag strap on his shoulder, walked back up the stairs, and headed for the garage.

“Don’t you all want to keep your family alive?” Bessie asked.

Shouts and cheers filled Bessie’s living room. Fifteen families crowded together. Bessie stood on top of her coffee table in the center of the group, Tim standing by her side.

“We tried to come together in a civilized manner didn’t we?”

Hands clinched into fists while others wrapped tightly around baseball bats, crowbars, tire irons, pistols, and rifles.

“Most of us answered that call and for that my family, and every other family here, thanks you.”

All of the animosity they had for each other the night before had transformed to a single point of hate. A universal cry of fear and hunger rose from the crowd.

“But one family did not answer that call. One family chose to keep what they had to themselves. One family is letting you starve.”

She fed them hate.

“Your family can’t survive without the food they have. We don’t know when help is coming. Help may never come, so we have to help ourselves.”

She fed them fear.

“But you can do something about it. You can make sure your family survives. You can make sure that they all have something to eat!”

She fed them the answers they wanted to hear.

Bessie threw her hands out, calming the crowd. The cheers slowly dissipated. She stepped down from the coffee table. Tim handed her the bullhorn and she marched everyone out the front door.

Mike first heard the squeal of the bullhorn from inside the garage. He rushed to the front door; looking through the peephole he saw twenty people standing out front in the morning light. Bats, crowbars, tire irons, and rifles were poised at the ready.

“Mike, we don’t want to harm anyone. All we want you to do is the right thing. We know you have supplies and there are people out here who need them,” Bessie said.

Anne, Freddy, and Kalen rushed from their rooms and were leaning on the banister rail above Mike, listening to the words echo outside.

“Dad?” Kalen asked.

“Stay there,” Mike said.

Ulysses came out of the guest bedroom fully dressed in a long sleeve shirt, jeans, and boots. He grabbed the duffle bag off Mike’s back and set it on the floor. He pulled out the .223 rifle. The clang of metal on metal rang through the foyer when he shoved a clip in.

“How many?” Ulysses asked.

Mike clicked the safety off the shotgun.

“Around twenty, but there could be more around the house.”

Mike picked up a box of shells and slid them across the floor over to the base of the kitchen window.

“Anne, bring the kids downstairs.” Mike said.

Anne grabbed both of their children’s hands pulling them down the steps. Freddy clung to Anne’s leg all the way down.

“Dad, you take Freddy and Kalen to the Jeep. Get it ready. The moment we get a bad breach I’m going to set the house on fire.”

“What?” Anne asked.

“It will send them running and give us enough space to get away,” Mike said.

Freddy started crying hysterically now.

“Shh, it’s okay, buddy. Hey, you’re gonna be fine,” Mike said. “We’re all going to be fine.”

“C’mon, kids,” Ulysses said.

Kalen grabbed her brother’s hand and followed Ulysses into the garage.

Mike handed Anne the other shotgun and tossed her a few shells. She fumbled the first one to the ground after attempting to load it in the chamber.

“Shit,” she said.