literature

Winds 1

Deviation Actions

Published: Jan 18, 2013

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Literature Text

The house is dilapidated: the roof is bent sideways, a few of the windows are busted out, and several of the boards that had made up the structure are now broken and jutting in every direction. It's a pitiful image, but it'll have to do for shelter. Nightfall is fast approaching and the father and his sons need a place to stay. Here is as good as anywhere.

They wrench themselves through the slanted front door. The inside is just as unwelcoming as the out. Everything is grimy and sad. The remnants of what was once a home look betrayed and hopeless.

The oldest son, Isaac, wanders into a nearby bedroom and finds a fallen-over bookshelf. The books it once held are scattered across the floor, sopping and ruined from the rain that had come through the hole in the ceiling directly above. He picks them up, one by one, and inspects them. The covers and pages are soggy, the print faded beyond legibility. He almost wants to cry. It's been so long since he's read a book. He puts the last one back down and then stands. Walks over to the dresser that has managed to stay standing, and looks at the things on the surface: a jewelry box, hairspray, a comb, lotion. He opens one of the drawers—the middle one—and inside finds… a book.

The Bible.

He picks it up. Looks it over. It's in good shape—the pages are dry, the print readable. He stuffs it into his backpack. It occurs to him that his father may not approve, but he hardly cares. Finally, he has something to read.

"Isaac!" his father calls. "Isaac, come look at this!"

Isaac goes back into the front room to see his father and little brother sitting next to a radio. The father is fiddling with it, trying to get a signal. All that comes through is static. He keeps trying and trying. "It's not going to work," Isaac says. "It's damaged."

The father tries a bit more, and then just like that, there's a voice—a distant male voice emanating over the static. "Is anyone out there? This is a message from Caswell, Wisconsin. We're building a sanctuary here. We have food, water, shelter… we're civilized. You're not alone. You're not alone."

The father shifts his gaze back and forth between each of his sons.

None of them say anything.

***

They stay the night. In the morning the father takes a pear out of his knapsack and slices it into three pieces with his hunting knife. While they eat there's a density in the air, thick like condensation, suffocating them, and both boys know even before their father speaks what he's going to say: "We're going North. To Wisconsin."

"There are more raiders up North," Isaac states. "We'd be risking everything."

"We're risking everything now," the father says. "There's almost no food. And we can't keep wandering around like this."

Isaac takes a bite out of his pear piece. Chews it slowly. He's been eating slowly for a while now, savoring every piece as long as possible. "What if that sanctuary doesn't exist?"

The father sucks in a deep breath. "Then we're no worse off than we are now."

They set out later that day for North.

***

They've walked hours by the time Jacob starts to wheeze.

The father reaches into his knapsack and takes out Jacob's inhaler. Isaac watches as he gives Jacob his usual three hits and then pats him on the shoulder.

Then the inhaler goes back into the knapsack and they walk on.

***

By nightfall the father and his sons have found a still-standing shed, its sliding door open enough for them to fit through, and they take refuge inside. They eat bread that the father provides from his knapsack.

Before lying down to go to sleep, the father sees Isaac reading the Bible by flashlight. "Where did you get that?" he asks.

"The house," Isaac says.

The father considers that for a moment. Then says, "You shouldn't waste the batteries in that flashlight" and lies down.

***

That night, Isaac dreams he's swimming in a vast and deep expanse of water, his arms stroking, his legs kicking, no land in sight. His whole body is sore—oh so sore—and he wants to give up. He looks to the sky as if he'll find solace there, and finally stops trying altogether as the clouds turn black, and allows himself to be swept away by the current.

The last thing he remembers before waking up is the sensation of cold water closing over his head, embracing him in its blue clutches, whispering, "There there, rest now."

And when his eyes open and he realizes that he's still in the house, he turns on his side, scrunches into a ball and cries silently against his arm.

***

The next morning, the father and his sons leave the shed. The sky is overcast. "Daddy, is it going to rain again?" Jacob asks.

"I don't know," the father replies.

"Will the sun ever come out?"

"I don't know, Jacob."

By midday, they come across an old playground and stop there to eat. The father has been carrying Jacob, and he sets him down to get food out of his knapsack. Half a bag of beef jerky, shared between them, as well as a canteen of water. After they eat, the father sits on the merry-go-round to rest and watches as Jacob explores the area and Isaac finds a still-standing swing set where he sits and reads his Bible.

For a moment there is peaceful silence. Then Jacob screams.

The father and Isaac both take off running in the direction where the scream has come. Jacob's wandered to the bottom of a hill and they can see, even from the distance, what has upset him: he's found a dead body.

The father turns Jacob around, presses his crying face to his chest, and tries to comfort him as he and Isaac inspect the corpse. It's not very old. A recent kill, it looks like. It's bloated and pale with open, ghoulish eyes and a heavily fractured arm. The hair is matted with dried blood; it's easy to tell that the cause of death was a blow to the head.

It emits a fowl stench—so potent they can taste it—and they quickly walk away.

Jacob is still crying by the time they make it back up the hill.

"Jeez Jacob, it was just a dead body," Isaac grumbles.

His father turns to him, angered, and says, "What is wrong with you, Isaac?"

Nothing else is said after that. They leave the playground and press on.

***

"Do you think things happen for a reason?" Isaac asks. It's a few nights after the playground incident and he, his father, and his brother have found another deserted house to stay in for the night. He's lying back-down on a stained pillow, staring up at the ceiling. His father can barely see him in the dark, but the moonlight spilling into the windows outlines his profile.

His father doesn't answer but glances at Jacob's sleeping form and then back at him with a questioning expression, as if to say "What the hell are you talking about?"

"That dead guy Jacob saw... he didn't survive," Isaac goes on. "But we did. Jacob did, and I did, and you did. Do you think there's a reason for it?"

The father thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. "I think you've been reading that book of yours a little too much."

"It was the only dry one in the house," Isaac states, his eyes still firmly on the ceiling. "Just sitting there like it was waiting to be found."

"Goodnight, Isaac."

***

During the night, the father takes the book from Isaac's sleeping hands and lights a match from the matchbox he keeps in his knapsack.

He's about to set the book alight before he hears Jacob's voice ask, "Why are you burning Isaac's book, Daddy?"

He turns to meet the boy's tired and curious gaze, and doesn't answer.

"Won't he be mad?"

He can't help but smile. The innocence, the purity—if he doesn't smile he'll break down and cry. "Yeah," he finally says, bringing the match to his lips to blow it out, "I guess he would."

He tells Jacob to go back to sleep, and then puts the book back where he found it.

***

When Isaac and Jacob awaken the following morning, their father is still asleep. Usually their father wakes up before them because he feels better when he does that, but this morning is different.

The boys try to entertain themselves while they wait. Isaac starts reading his Bible and Jacob picks splinters from the damaged hardwood floor. Eventually Jacob says "I'm hungry" and Isaac helps himself to their father's knapsack and retrieves the last of the bread. There's one slice left. He breaks it in half, gives Jacob one and eats the other.

There's a low creak—the sound of feet stepping across wood—and the boys jolt. Someone's outside on the porch! Jacob looks to Isaac for reassurance and Isaac gestures for him to be quiet. The boys scoot over to where their father lays and gently shake him awake. The father squirms, opens his eyes, grunts. "Daddy, there's someone outside," Jacob whispers, and the father bolts up.

His pistol is in his knapsack. He digs it out, tells his boys to stay behind him, and hides behind the wall that separates the kitchen from the front room.

The knob twists. The door squeals open. Footsteps thud on the floor. And then she's there at the kitchen doorway—an adolescent girl dressed in tattered, dirty jeans and an old jacket, her face flushed from the cold wind, her eyes glassy, her hair a tangled mess. She sees the father, sees his gun, and her hands go up.

Isaac starts praying silently.

"I'm not here to hurt you," the girl says. "I was just looking for a place to stay."

"Well this one's ours right now," the father tells her. "You're welcome to it once we leave, but in the meantime I want you gone."

"I have nowhere to go," the girl says. "It's gonna storm soon. There aren't any other houses for miles. Please, if you would…"

"No." The answer is simple. Definite.

There's a pause. The girl takes a deep breath. "Do you really want to shoot me?" she asks.

"What matters is that I will."

The girl stares directly into his eyes and raises her hands higher, her face stoic and defiant as she says, "Then do it."

The father just has time to thumb the hammer back before Jacob rushes up to him, wraps his arms around his waist, and begs, "Daddy, please don't do it."

"Get behind me, Jacob," the father says.

Face still pressed into his shirt, Jacob shakes his head no. "I don't wanna see anymore death," he whimpers. "Please, Daddy, please…"

Placing his free hand on Jacob's little back, the father thumbs the hammer back up and lowers his gun. "You aren't getting any food," he tells the girl. "And stay away from my boys."

The girl nods and puts her hands down.

Thank you, God, Isaac thinks.

***

Because there won't be any shelter for miles, and because a storm is on its way, the father decides to take refuge within the house for one more night. He and his boys claim one half and allow the girl the other. After the father and Jacob have dozed off, Isaac sneaks over to where the girl sits, in what was once the house's laundry room, and sees that she's still awake. Quietly he approaches her. When she catches him she scoots away. "Your father told me to stay away from you," she says. "He is your father, right?"

"That's right," Isaac responds, with the hint of a smile. It's so nice to finally talk to someone other than his dad and brother.

"He looks young," the girl muses.

"He's thirty."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve." At the girl's astonished expression, "He was eighteen when I was born."

The girl nods, accepting it, although it's easy to tell that she has questions.

"So how old are you?" he asks her, trying to maintain the conversation.

"Fourteen," she replies.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

"I'm sorry." Isaac glances down at his hands, unsure of what to say. When he looks back up he's still unsure but decides to say the first thing that comes to mind: "My mom's dead."

"Sorry," the girl reiterates.

There's a pause. "How did you find this place?"

"I've been traveling," the girl says.

"Us too. We're headed North. Up to Wisconsin. We think there's a sanctuary up there."

The girl is interested. "Who told you about that?"

"We heard about it on the radio, in this old broken-down house."

"That's all you have to go on? That's not a lot."

Isaac shrugs. "What do we have to lose?"

The girl gives a crooked smile.

"When my dad pointed his gun at you," Isaac says, "you didn't look scared."

"Dying is the least of my fears at this point," she tells him. She sees that he is staring off blankly, in a thoughtful stupor. "No hard feelings towards your dad," she adds. "Seems like a good man."

"My dad hates me." It's not the first time Isaac has said this. He waits, expecting the typical incredulous response, but instead gets a simple "Why?"

"My mom cheated on him," he explains. It's been years since he's told this story. "She, uh, she dumped me on him and then took off. I think he blames me for ruining his life—for keeping him from going to college and shit. I'm one of his regrets." He bites his bottom lip, once again awkwardly glancing down. "My little brother Jacob, he's from another woman. She took me in and all, but I reminded my dad of my real mom too much. He can barely look at me."

"Does Jacob mind?" the girl asks.

Isaac meets her eye. "Jacob doesn't know. My dad never told him. I think… I think he tried to put the whole thing in the back of his mind."

"So what happened to Jacob's mom?"

"She died too."

"Oh."

There's a long moment of silence and Isaac decides to change the subject. "So... I've been reading the Bible."

The girl laughs. "Are you serious?"

Isaac nods.

"Where'd you get it?"

"I found it, in the same house where we heard the radio signal. It was the only book not destroyed." Isaac pauses. "There's this story in it, where God tells this father to kill his son. The son's name is Isaac, like mine."

"I know that story," the girl remarks.

"I was kinda hoping that God would let the father go through with it."

He doesn't have to explain what he really means. The girl knows. "Do you think he could?"

"I think he wants to."

The girl grimaces. "That's terrible."

"Why's that terrible?" Isaac looks at her matter-of-factly. "Even God himself killed his own son."

***

The next morning, at daybreak, while the girl is still asleep, Isaac and his father and brother leave the house. They're halfway across the soaking lawn when Isaac says, "Dad, I want the girl to come with us."

The father stops, gives him a disbelieving look, and says, "Out of the question."

But Isaac is resolute. "Either she comes with us, or I'm going with her."

The father is now angry. "Isaac, I won't have this," he says, his voice stern. "You're my son, you go where I tell you to." He takes a step towards him.

Isaac backs up, crossing his arms over his chest. "You'll have to kill me," he says. He hopes his father will take him up on that. Even more so, he hopes he'll be like the girl—bold and strong and unafraid—when he does.

The father sighs, exasperated, and bends down to pick up Jacob who's begun to cry again. "Why are you doing this?" he asks, puzzled. "You don't even know her. How could you choose her over us?"

"If you let her come with us," Isaac replies, "I won't have to choose."

The father sighs again.

"Can she come with us, Daddy?" Jacob asks. "Please?"

When the father doesn't answer Jacob asks again, "Daddy, can she come with us? Daddy, can she?"

"Be quiet, Jacob," the father snaps. Then, as he puts Jacob back down, "I'll ask her."

Before reentering the house, he turns to Isaac one last time. "She'll have to take care of herself. I won't be feeding her or looking after her."

***

I will fully admit that I did not want to post this in two parts. I've always hated - and I mean passionately hated - the idea of posting parts of a story as separate deviations. That just bothers me. But... this story is (so far) a whopping 22 pages typed, with a word count of over 6,300 so I felt rather choiceless on the matter. :/

I feel inclined to point out that I was heavily influenced by a certain literary genius: Paulo Coelho. If you haven't read any of his work, do. It's amazing. I tried to adopt his style here - the simplicity (less description, more action), the lack of commas for the sake of flow. I tried to fuse it with my own. Also, I put two spaces between sentences instead of one. I practically never do that, but I like it here; I think it shows the disjointedness and confusion of what's happening.

As a sidenote, if you noticed, the father is the only character who goes unnamed. I assure you, that was intended.