Jacqueline Druga - Healing

Perhaps that was why Dylan opted out.

When she knew she was going to die, she asked to die, before the horrendous end. And for that, Tom was grateful. Though he didn’t want to see Dylan go, he didn’t want to see her suffer. Somewhere inside he found a tiny bit of comfort knowing that his wife, daughter and grandson were together.

How long had he stood at the door to the video store? Key in hand, movies from the house tucked under his arm. He stood there for a while. Not in contemplation of opening the store, but in thought. He actually did think about closing the store forever. After all, there wouldn’t be any new releases, not for a long time. No one had money, so there was no economical reason. But Dustin loved the store and a return to some sort of normalcy was in order, even if it began with a simple video store.

He looked down to his keys, his vision blurred. Tom was tired, he hadn’t slept much. He hoped that was the reason for his eyes blurring, because if he needed new glasses he was in trouble. There wasn’t an ophthalmologist in Lodi.

Something so simple as a pair of glasses , Tom thought, will be something difficult to get.

“Oh my God.” The male voice was tired, raspy, but familiar. He chanted out the words in shock. “Oh my God.”

Tom turned around. Ross Jenkins owned the local funeral home. He wasn’t an older man, just middle aged, and his face was worn and drawn, much like everyone else’s. He stopped about four feet from the store steps.

“Hey there, Ross.”

“Tom? Tell me you’re opening the store. You’d be the first you know, to reopen.”

“Yeah, think I will,” Tom said. “Maybe I’ll start a chain reaction. Who knows? I know it’s early and all—”

“No,” Ross interrupted. “Timing is perfect. People need to see that life goes on.” He sighed. “Even if it starts with a video store.”

“I appreciate it. And if you aren’t so busy, maybe you’d like to come in and help me get this place back in order? I’m sure it’s dusty.”

“I’d like that,” Ross said, moving toward the steps.

After a pause, Tom stuck in the keys and unlocked the door. A smell of dust and ‘stale’ pelted him. He held the door open for Ross. “Come on in. I’ll hit the switch in the back. At least the power’s on, even if it’s on roll outs.”

Ross stepped to the door. “It’s good to see you, Tom.”

Tom nodded.

“I’m sorry for your loss with Marian, Dylan and Dustin.”

Tom nodded again with a closed mouth. “And I’m sorry too, for Jill, Ben, Gary, Steve, and Lizzy.”

“Thank you.”

For simplicity, Tom could have just said he was sorry for the loss of Ross’ family. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Doing so would lump them all together and somehow Tom felt as if that slighted them. He supposed the ‘sorry for your loss’ comments would be regular things in Lodi for a long time. And the list of names would be long and recited.

That was life in Lodi. No one was just a statistic or resident. They were people with names and families. Everyone in Lodi knew everyone, that was what made it so hard.

At some point though, even early, a sign that life has to keep moving on, had to be delivered.

One step at a time.

Tom walked into his store.

The small fire crackled and Mick poked it with a stick. He had cooked some canned ham and beans for him and the boys. Tigger was out like a light, fast asleep on the ground, curled up on a sleeping bag that twisted around his body.

Chris sat on a mini seat, elbows on knees, staring at the fire.

Mick glanced across to him many times.

They had never reached their destination of West Virginia. They got as far as the interchange where I-79 split and met with 1-279 just 12 miles before Pittsburgh and a roadblock kept them from going any further.

It appeared as if an exodus out of the city had taken place. Vehicles had used both lanes on all roads to leave, but had been halted by a military blockade. A traffic jam so bad, no one could even turn around. Mick hadn’t even heard of any military blockades. Then again, Mick had focused only on Lodi.

He didn’t stop to see if there were people or bodies in the cars. The boys didn’t need to see that. There was no way to go around it, so Mick, not wanting to waste the gas, headed north.

He located a campsite just outside of Erie. The switch up would save them gas, Mick told Chris.

It wasn’t what Mick expected.

People had flocked to the campsite. It seemed this particular one tried to do what Lodi had done — seal off the site. The two trucks that served as guard were empty, and were only blocking the entrance. Mick was able to move one and pass around. The winding road into the campsite was deceiving, giving the illusion of desolation. The road was covered with leaves, like at the rest stop, and had no tracks. Mick was certain no one would be there, until they passed the gate.

Upon entering, Mick could see a ton of RV’s parked, and tents set up. That was in the distance. Up close, in a section near the fence, were mounds. Rows and rows of fresh dirt mounds.

Graves.

People had fled there and people had died there.

Someone had to be there, or at least was at one time, because someone had buried those who passed. There was at least one survivor, Mick figured.

No sooner did they pull into the site when a man waved for them to stop. Mick slowed down and the man, in his thirties, stepped to the window.

“Hey, there,” he said to Mick. “Passing through or staying?”

“Um, a little of both,” Mick replied. “Was wanting to get my boys away from home for a while, you know. Couldn’t get by Pittsburgh to get to West Virginia. Not on our gas rations.”

“I hear you.” He extended his hand into the window. “I’m Ethan.”

“Mick Owens,” Mick said, introducing himself.

“Where you guys from?”

“Ohio. Lodi, Ohio.”

“No, shit? Your town fared pretty well, I hear.”

Mick gave him a sad look. “Better than some, but we got hit. We…” Mick paused and looked at Chris. “We got hit.”

“I see. Well, you are more than welcome to stay. You can pitch a tent, or the Charles’ camper is empty. They left for the city when they got sick. Just parked it and took their truck.” He pointed. “It’s right over there.”

“We appreciate it. Thank you.”

“We’ll be seeing you,” Ethan said.

Mick nodded conveying another ‘thank you’ and pulled in the direction of the camper.

“We ain’t staying in there, are we, Mick?” Chris asked. “People got sick and died in there.”

“They didn’t die in there, you heard the man. They moved on. We can stay in the truck, but I didn’t bring a tent,” Mick replied. “Why I don’t check it out before we make the call. Okay?”

“I suppose that’ll work.”

Mick reached over and squeezed Chris’ leg, and pulled in front of the camper. It was a nice sized one and newer.

Mick checked it out, then Chris. Tigger didn’t really mind one way or another. Chris gave his seal of approval and Mick was glad. He wanted to stop for a little bit.

They were out of Lodi, away from familiar surroundings. Around people they didn’t know. And there were ‘people’ there; one person was more than Mick had expected to see outside of Lodi.

Just after they parked, and pulled some things out of the SUV, a woman named Madge came over.

To Mick, she looked injured. Not physically, but emotionally like everyone else. Chris and Tigger were outside when Mick stepped from the camper.

“I saw the truck,” she said. “I was hoping the boy wasn’t driving it.” She smiled. “My name is Madge; you met my son Ethan when you pulled in. Here…” She handed him a plate. “It’s a casserole. You and the boys eat. Have some lunch. You must be hungry.”