Everyone Left Behind: The Roan

By Time O. Day

Hershal isn't happy with how the seventy have turned out; people aren't paying room and board, they're doing their own thing, and stealing from him . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Time O. Day
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781933151090

Time O. Day

Time's married, with four children and nine grandchildren. He's had paper routes, farm chores, worked in commercial kitchens, owned commercial fishing vessels, auto part store, has been a commercial contractor, a tile contractor, both in British Colombia and California. At 59, he lives and chases wildlife, bikes and snowboards in the mountains of Montana.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Unexpected Visitors

A moonless January night found us on a side hill cutting up another one of my neighbor’s horses, without him knowing it. The glow of a Coleman lantern illuminated seven of us, working away with saws and knives. I loathed being there.

It was just after 7 pm., pitch dark, and bitterly cold. Nobody stood around, all moved with purpose. Limbs and hide were pulled, stretched and cut away. Blood froze when it hit the hard ground. With the freezing wind we were in a race to get off that side hill.

I suppose one can justify taking any animal when they are starving, but that wasn’t the case here. We had plenty of meat. My cousin Mark had supplied our group well with elk and deer. He didn’t need to shoot this horse, and this was the second one of Al’s he’d killed. The problem with my cousin was that he was a monster for meat.

Earlier, he had justified his horse hunt by stating, Al’s clan doesn’t pull their fair share so his animals have to pull it for them.

His statement may have been true; in our communal situation, Al’s clan was pretty much getting our food for free. But I didn’t like being sucked into someone else’s judgment and having a part in butchering someone else’s horse. I wished that God wasn’t watching, yet the way the world was spinning, wobbling from the world wars, I felt the devil had his accusing finger pointed directly at us.

I pulled a sharpening stone out my coat pocket, and stepped closer to the Coleman. While working my blade over it, I looked at the side of the roan’s stoic face, its black vacant eye. This horse was probably less than eight years old and had had a confident gait. What an incredible waste.

Sensing something to my left, I glanced over my shoulder and jerked at the sight of Al’s last horse. It stood still, framed by the darkness, the lantern light flickering off its grayish blue eyes. The noise of the wind had covered its approach. Its grief covered its companion on the ground.

The white horse stared directly at me, giving a mournful rumble. For a moment I felt exposed – its sad eye told more than I wanted to know.

I quietly defended, I didn’t shoot’em.

Look, look, my brother Stan said in awe.

Others noticed the white horse, the wind whipping its mane.

Get out of here . . . Toby stepped toward it in an aggressive manner, waving his knife, . . . or you’re going to be next.

The ghostly form turned into the storm.

Maybe it wants to be next, Natasha’s breath was carried away by the harsh wind.

I watched it disappear into the dark then shot a look at Mark. He didn’t over-think things and was already back to work, shoving his knife up the esophagus. Mark was a good hand, the exact opposite of Al’s clan. This was the paradox of a communal situation. My cousin was like an ever faithful hound dog that couldn’t help being on the hunt, whereas Al’s clan had no end of excuses on why they couldn’t do what they were asked to do.

We could’ve cut them off the food chain, but that would’ve been mighty severe punishment in the dead of winter, especially in a valley without electricity, without stores. We probably would have been more callous with Al’s clan if it weren’t for Mark killing their horses, ‘Balancing the books,’ as he called it.

Often, I put my hand into the steaming carcass to warm my freezing fingers. It was one of those bone-chilling nights that sucked heat out of everyone; steam was rapidly swept away from the gut pile.

In short order the animal was quartered.

Eventually there were too many hands working on the back straps, and Mark observed, It’s no use cutting each other up over this roan.

With that, Paul, Toby, Natasha and her brother, Travis, started packing the quarters up the hill to our diesel truck which was just over a hundred yards from the road. We were fortunate to have that truck and the 2,000 gallons of diesel in tanks up at the house.

Natasha wasn’t petite in any way, a solid gal who but a few months ago would play hockey on the weekends in Canada, her native land.

Paul guided them with his headband light. Weaving around fallen trees that were brought down by a fire years ago, they slowly climbed the hillside with their heavy burdens.

As we finished butchering, the light of the Coleman reflected moisture on Mark’s face. I was alarmed when he opened his coat up to the bitter wind.

What’s with the open coat?

I’m burning up. Picking up a saw, Mark stumbled away from the carcass. He wavered unsteadily.

My brother Stan looked toward Mark. Are you feeling well?

Mark pressed his hand over his eye. The words, I’m off balance, were hardly out of his mouth when he took a number of steps, leaned over and dry heaved.

It wasn’t long before his heaving turned serious. It hurt to see him bent over, retching. Watching him, a cold premonition swept over me – was the telling eye of that white horse conveying consequences?

How long have you been burning up?

Mark wiped his jaw. I was fine a day or so ago.

Let’s get you up to the house.

I can finish here. Mark staggered toward the carcass.

Nope, Stan stated. You’re going up to the house.

There’s not much left to do, I said, sweeping the sides of my blade across some horse hair to clean it. We’ll help you up the hill. Sheathing my knife, I grabbed the lantern and headed toward him.

He was 56, four years my younger, and the one who always had the power, romping around like a young billy-goat. I could never keep up with him, and at times he wasn’t short of showing it, challenging, Come on, cousin, I’ll race you up this hill. I never took up his challenge because he was so in-shape and wiry. Now it was odd to pick up his rifle and insist he go with us.

Like an old fighter, he shrugged off my hand, pulled his arm away, though weakly, and said gruffly, I’ll carry my rifle. His face was moist, tired, and drained.

I’ve got it, I declared, slinging it over my shoulder and grabbing Mark’s right arm.

Stan tossed a strip of back strap meat over his shoulder and took Mark’s other arm.

We struggled up the hill.

Midway up, Mark was huffing and puffing so we stopped. He stood, swaying. Then he bent over as if he were going to do something with his boot, so I let him go. When he righted himself, he would have tumbled, if Stan hadn’t grabbed him. I’d never seen Mark so helpless and the consequences of that dead horse grew.

He weakly mumbled, I don’t know what happened.

You’ll get better, God willing, you’ll get better.

We pressed on, laboring up the hillside.

Feeling his trembling wrist, I realized how much I cherished him. To lose him would’ve been unthinkable. I tried to shove that bad thought away like I did the daily radio reports; military losses, bombings, fires, mob riots, etc., etc.. There were so many pleas for help you were afraid to pray out loud lest the devils hear and make a beeline for those individuals.

Strange, as we crested the hill another black premonition shot through me – one of us, either Mark, Stan or myself, was not going to make it. I mumbled, Jesus, please keep us well.

The other four appeared. They had dropped off their meat and were returning for the rest. I surmise the lantern I held drew them.

Stan yelled over the wind. Mark’s not feeling well. We’re taking him up to the house.

Toby asked, You going to wait for us?

I considered coming back for them, but wasting fuel for two trips didn’t make sense. Yes.

At the truck, Mark climbed into the back seat of the crew cab.

l placed the lantern on the ground just to the side of the truck’s tire. It was a good beacon for the others, but I was amazed that it stayed lit in the fierce wind. Fighting to open the front door, I jumped inside, then looked back at Mark and noticed his swollen lymph nodes.

Your neck looks swollen. How is it?

He slowly moved his hand toward his glands.

Stan opened the other door which sent an icy blast of wind through the cab. He climbed in and quickly slammed the door. A nice warm Irish coffee would be real good right about now.

Mark, you’re going to have to move up to the house.

In those days sickness wasn’t looked upon lightly, especially after a plague ran through the valley and took Kelsey, my granddaughter, and her grandfather on her mother’s side. Additionally, Eli, my son, had gone to Missoula for some vaccine for Kelsey and hadn’t returned. He left over a month ago. I prayed for him every day.

We’d set up one of our neighbor’s empty houses as a quarantine space for anyone who had come into close contact with an outsider. Our retired nurse had determined the quarantine period – twenty-one days. Moreover, we had cut off all trading with the outside world. Here and there sickness still hit our group, a fever here, a sore throat there, yet I felt relieved to be alongside a group of landholders which had rules on how to deal with outsiders. Rules were good, especially when it came to that plague.

You’ll get better, I assured Mark. Priscilla will work you over with her herbs. The wind was making itself known, whistling about the door’s cracks. I wanted to start the truck and get some heat rolling but was conscious of our dwindling fuel supply. You ever wonder where the local ravens hang out in a blow like this. I glanced in the rearview mirror at my cousin. You still hot?

His response was labored, Yes.

I looked in the side view mirror, outside, the lantern light cast a peculiar glow off the backend of the dually, fighting to stay bright against the dark night. I thought of how much time Mark spent outside.

Stan said, I bet, with the wind chill, we’re looking at minus thirty.

I agreed, It’s good to be inside this truck.

Nobody’s got any business out in this stuff.

I half-turned to look at Mark. We’re going to get you out of that barn. Do you want to sleep in the sunroom?

I can sleep in the garage, Mark’s voice trailed. There’re too many people up there.

We might have to get you in the sunroom. Don’t fight me on this, those women will want to be looking after the man who brings in all the meat. I fought a yawn and considered Mark’s condition; his lone vice was chewing tobacco. Was his ailment due to throat cancer? The fact that I saw him chew tobacco not long ago suddenly bugged me.

How are you getting chew?

His silence was ominous.

Stan said, I sure didn’t see this coming. I didn’t see a day when there’d be no food in stores, no electricity, Americans turning on Americans, and wars that came to our shores.

Some folks around here saw something coming. I gave him a tired grin. At least they say they saw it coming.

I still can’t see how anyone saw it coming.

Priscilla thinks Jesus is coming back.

What do you think?

I don’t know if Jesus is coming. I wonder if the wars are just a diversion from the financial mess this nation is in. I hope it’s not all a look-over-there while the bankers and the government boys change the constitution and steal everything.

You sure were prepared for this, Stan commented.

You got to be kidding. I’ve got a burnt-out windmill and didn’t think of putting a hand pump on my other well.

You still have solar.

Right, I said, frowning, which is barely enough to keep a few lights on at night and listen to the ham radio.

Least it keeps you informed. At least you get to hear the news.

I grimaced because, more and more, we’d heard reports that contradicted some of the official government radio news. This misinformation was perplexing, especially when it came to the source of radiation in the air. Officials said it was from the wars, yet we were getting reports that the cooling pumps at all the U.S. nuclear plants had shut down and the nuclear fuel was sending radiation everywhere.

Anyway, this cab sure is better than being out there. I don’t know how Mark faced the bitter cold all the time. I’m also puzzled why he. . . I shot a teasing eye at my cousin in the rearview mirror. . . . shot that horse when we have so much meat already.

Mark cleared his throat. Those two horses disappeared for a week, probably were looking for better pastures. He paused for a bit, his breathing labored, When they didn’t return, I was sure someone else had got them. Today, when I saw ’em back, I didn’t fool around.

I thought about that white horse. I felt God was weighing us over that dead roan. The first horse led us to lying; we told everyone that it was an elk. There was no way we wanted the kids to know that we were shooting or eating horses, no way. I didn’t like living lies; I didn’t like sending that message to our children. I saw no blessing there. Tonight, that white horse’s eye spoke of consequences.

Stan drew me out of my contemplations. Do you think with Martial law that my stuff back home will be protected?

No. Mark roused, Society doesn’t need more laws, it needs more buckshot to keep the laws. He cleared his throat. What the government boys haven’t stolen the . . ." his voice faded off.

But what about that . . . my brother’s jaw dropped, gaping at the sight of something behind me.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound on my window was so startling, I jerked. Spinning around, I had a razor hope that, maybe just maybe, it was Eli. The view of a short bundled person knocked this hope down.

Through the gusting wind I barely heard, Can you . . . ?

The silhouette of someone, backlit by the lantern, drove fear. I didn’t know whether to fire up the diesel and drive off or open the door. I couldn’t get my hand in my coat pocket fast enough to grab my .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. A few jerks later, it was out and aimed at the door.

Beside me, Stan had taken hold of Mark’s rifle.

Again the voice implored, "Can you . . .? The wind squelched.

With the wind blowing in the person’s direction, I decided not to power down the window; there was enough sickness in the cab already. I glanced at my brother, Watch my flank!

The muzzle of my weapon was pointed at the person as I opened the door. Fighting the freezing wind, I stepped out.

Stan opened his door, and his action, coupled with wind, slammed my door.

Before me, under a hooded coat was a woman; to her side, a kid.

Can you help, please? Just beyond the lantern’s light I saw the outline of others, two, maybe more.

Step back! I loudly instructed, lifting my bandana over my nose. We have a quarantine policy here. I half-glanced back and saw my brother Stan had moved along the other side of the truck. His rifle appeared over the top of the hood. With my hand firmly holding my weapon, I asked, What you want?

Can you help? She stepped toward me. It was then I noticed she was Asian.

I warily stepped back. Are you sick?

No. We’re lost. We need shelter.

They were so downcast, so non-threatening that a sliver of compassion rose in me. I tucked my gun back in my coat pocket but still held it and loudly called out, If you’re looking for shelter, you can get in the back of the truck. I’ll drive you over to an abandoned house. I thumbed toward the camper shell. You can hole up there until the storm passes.

We have children, the gal implored, gesturing toward the warm cab.

I can see that. The survival game played, but, with that plague running, I wasn’t going to extend any invitation to ride in the front. I motioned again toward the back of the truck before snagging the lantern. We got an animal, and we’re waiting on some others who are hauling up the meat.

For a moment they looked like fixtures, frozen statues. I assumed they at least had handguns, though they weren’t exposed, so, not wanting to draw any unwarranted aggression, my actions were slow and easy. I swayed the lantern about, searching the darkness for others, before carrying it toward the back of the truck.

The tailgate hung down, and meat was lying atop a tarp. I set the lantern on the tailgate before climbing in the back and folding a tarp over the meat. The hooves stuck out the end.

Just step over the tarp. As I stepped down from the tailgate, I noticed Stan, with rifle in hand, hanging off to the side. It was good to sense his protection. Who could trust anyone these days?

Yet the more I watched this hopeless group of four, the more I felt for their plight. They walked slowly, rigidly, like a bunch of rag tag, spent, half-frozen stiffs. Nearing the tailgate, the woman stopped as though she was ready to say something but then turned.

The men had a difficult time taking their backpacks off. I would’ve liked to help the woman onto the tailgate, but we had a no-contact policy with outsiders. At least I was good for holding the lantern. One of the men gave me a faltering look as he helped a kid in. It was sad to see how weak they were. What a pitiful sight.

Where’d you come from?

The man’s voice was slow, We came over the pass.

Where are you from?

California.

You’re a long way from home.

I lifted the light. Its glow revealed the gal in the back, hunched over, staring dumbly down at the horse’s hoof. My eyes again met the man’s. How long have you been on the road?

Twenty-nine days. The man was the last to get in.

The rest of us should be up in a minute. I shut the tailgate. Unfortunately the truck had no camper window; with our bumpy dirt roads, it had fallen off, long ago. I quickly headed for the cab, set the lantern by the tire and couldn’t get inside the truck fast enough.

Stan shut his door.

For a moment, I sat, rubbing my mitts together, considering the Californian’s plight. Much of my worries were over my daughter, Bethany, who was in California before society’s wheels fell off. Would someone help her on a night like this if she were traveling to Montana? I gave Stan a look. They said they’ve been on the road for near a month. Can you imagine being on the road in winter for that long?

No.

They came over the pass today.

I glad I’m not in their shoes.

I can’t imagine being so desperate you have to put your trust in total strangers. They don’t know if we are taking them to a cannibal’s lair or what.

California is over a thousand miles.

I wonder how much of that was on foot.

I stared at my rearview mirror, waiting for the rest of the meat carriers to appear.

It wasn’t long before familiar faces emerged from the darkness, each under the burden of meat. Getting out, I snagged the Coleman. Its light swayed as I stepped toward the back bumper. I arrived just as Toby reached for the handle on the tailgate.

I advised, There’s some folk back here.

But he didn’t hear me. When the tailgate flopped down I saw that he wasn’t expecting anything. It was comical to see him jerk at the sight of the Californians.

It must’ve been somewhat bizarre for the Californians to watch the rest of that horse meat slung in the back and see the tailgate shut again.

The rest of us quickly piled into the cab. It was cramped. Normally Mark wouldn’t travel with us, he’d walk back to the barn, but that wasn’t the case now. When I drove away, the chatter was running thick over the Californians.

Just before our gate I passed the old Army truck that I previously parked to one side in hopes of warning intruders that we had military experience, which was untrue in my case. It was doubtful that truck had scared off anyone.

During the day we had a guardsman at our gate, but as soon as the sun went down, that guard post was vacated. At night Sergio scheduled a guard farther down the road on our side of a rural bridge, hidden in the trees. We also maintained twenty-four hour security for the entrance up the east hill with one guardsman in the day and two at night.

I powered the diesel through the open gate in a hurry to get the Asians settled and Mark up to the big house.

At the crossroad, I drove to Patty’s empty house on the outskirts of our neighborhood. Neighborhood in this area of Montana meant 20 acre lots, so our neighborhood was quite spread out.

Not long after the electricity blinked off and the world went crazy, Patty had been murdered by, we assumed, the Wartal brothers. They had lived at the edge of our subdivision and had disappeared. The diesel’s high beams illuminated her house. The pale green structure looked dark and desolate in the winter cold. I parked in her gravel drive, left the engine running and grabbed a flashlight.

Heading to the back of the truck, I dropped the tailgate. It clunked down. I shone the flashlight in. We’re here.

The Asians were all huddled in the back corner. Their eyes looked like the only part of them that were alive.

Let’s go.

Hunched over, they crawled around the meat like turtles, slow and cumbersome.

Impatient with their lack of speed, I chided myself for not turning off the engine. I’ve got others to drop off as well. While waiting, I reached in and snagged the horse’s heart and tongue.

The men slowly dragged out their backpacks.

I shifted the flashlight toward the concrete walkway. The walkway is right over here. Carrying the horse’s heart in one hand and the tongue and flashlight in the other, I paced to Patty’s door.

The door stiffly opened. The house was an icebox. I flashed the light about the kitchen and saw a few mice scurrying across the carpet in the living room. It was terrible to see those critters inside a house. I set the meat on the Formica counter and went to the stove to turn it on. I could smell gas, but it didn’t flame. This stove didn’t have a pilot light, so without electricity the stove was useless unless you had a match. Turning off the stove, I addressed the Asians coming through the doorway. There is gas in the stove. I assume you have matches?

All their movements were so slow. There was a long pause before one man said, Yes. His backpack slowly slid to the vinyl floor.

There’s firewood outside. I aimed the light at the wood stove in the far corner. I assume you know how to start a fire. Why don’t you retrieve your matches? I waited for him to fetch the matches, shining the light on his backpack. His hands were so stiff and his movements so slow that I had half a mind to go to the truck, turn off its engine and see if anyone else had matches.

After much searching, the man found his matches. He extended them my way.

I waved him off. With that plague running, we have a no contact policy. I shouldn’t even be in here with you. Regardless, let’s see if you can light the stove, then I’ll be off.

It took the man a few more minutes just to light the stove.

I promised myself I’d never leave the truck running again while waiting. Fuel was too valuable.

Though Patty’s house had bedding, I didn’t know if it had enough for all of the Asians, but they were going to have to make do. We had forty plus people at our house, and making do was part of the program. Water was another matter.

Before I left, the woman asked, What’s your name?

Hershal.

I didn’t ask her name as less was expected when you kept the personals at a distance.

On the way back I dropped Toby off at Dewey’s place. The dark house he headed for didn’t appear to have one candle lit.

Dewey had three of our neighboring families living with him. It made no sense to heat up four houses when one would do. There were a few neighbors that didn’t hole up at Dewey’s; Ernie had tried but he couldn’t stand living with Toby. Someone said they’d got into a political argument. It is funny how touchy people were. The other family had military experience and seemed to be doing fine by themselves.

The only family that wasn’t welcome at Dewey’s was Al’s. He was the animal guy, and they were too flea riddled with all their inside pets, ferrets, gerbils, cats, rats, dogs, and who knows what. But now, without running water, without showers, we were all heading in that buggy direction.

Back in the day, Sergio, our security scheduler, had visited Al’s place; he came back itching and wasn’t willing to send any of Al’s clan on guard duty with us. So he made Al’s clan responsible for the dry creek and road area that adjoined their property. They were supposed to guard their area 24/7 and call in any movement. They should’ve picked up my truck lights, yet I heard nothing over my radio.

Their lack of attentiveness to security was an ongoing problem. Sergio had given them a number of warnings. How odd to have to correct a neighbor’s behavior. I was grateful for Sergio’s discipline and leadership. He was all for cutting them off our food. He said Al could harvest his own horses.

I knew that Al wouldn’t knowingly eat his pets, and I wasn’t for cutting that clan off, mainly because I didn’t want an enemy on my flank. Additionally, what then for the rest of the landowners? Wouldn’t they go around as if they were walking on eggshells? Do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, and get cut off? I didn’t want that. We would’ve come down harder on Al’s clan if it weren’t for their horses. As it was, Al acted like he was participating in security, and we acted like we were giving them elk meat.

We motored on to the barn where we hung the horse meat and picked up Mark’s cot and sleeping bag. I didn’t know how he slept in that barn. He and Eli must have