Back at the place of the attack, Bodhi helped Troy to a sitting position and began looking him over for additional injuries but saw none, only the deep bite mark on his neck and shoulder. The wound had bled quickly at first but was already clotting as Troy applied light pressure with his shirt. Troy explained what had happened. He had just finished pissing when he was hit in the head and knocked to the ground from behind.
“The guy must have thought I was unconscious because he just walked up and stood over me. I was disoriented and confused for a moment, but when he rolled me over, I realized what had happened. My vision was blurry, but I saw him crouching over me. I reached up and grabbed him. Things were still moving slowly. I wasn’t thinking. I just pulled him to the ground, and we began wrestling.” Troy rubbed his head carefully as he spoke.
“He was really fuckin strong. At some point I jabbed my thumb in his eye, and I remember him screaming at me. Then,” Troy reached for his shoulder and carefully touched near his wound. He made a painful grimace, “that son of a bitch bit me, and he wasn’t going to let go – until you guys came plowing through the trees.”
Eventually, Marcus and Anders reappeared. “We lost him,” Marcus reported as he reached to help Troy get up from the ground. Troy started to brush off the leaves and dirt that covered him. He winced in pain and again reached for his shoulder just under his neck where he had been bitten.
Troy was getting angrier. “I can’t believe he bit me.”
They made their way back to camp. Bodhi gave Troy a hard time, commenting on how the man with the long black hair was actually smaller than Troy, which wasn’t true. Troy took it in stride, but no one thought it was funny.
Marcus wondered if the man that attacked Troy was indeed Sarah’s murderer. It seemed likely. There were crazies wandering around everywhere. They’d attack anyone and take whatever their victims had, shirts, pants, food, water, and definitely weapons. What didn’t make sense is that this man was dressed well. He took nothing from Sarah. No signs of sexual assault. He didn’t have time to take anything from Troy. His hair was clean and kept, stylish even. No, this man was different than a common raider and wanderer that Marcus had run into, and sometimes killed, during hunting trips. Those were desperate men, foul and nasty and on the edge of survival. This man in the forest had an entirely different motive, something unknown. The death at the farmhouse, Sarah, and now the attack on Troy felt connected in some strange way, and not understanding how or why made Marcus feel a new vulnerability. He wanted to get out of the forest and soon. Back at camp the men gathered their supplies. The sun crept higher and cut its way through the eastern treetops. The forest was warming and filling with light.
Marcus pushed them to hurry. “Troy when we get back to town, you go straight to Doc Peterson and have him look at that bite.”
“Sure, you think it could get infected?” Troy asked.
“Yeah, you never know. So don’t waste any time, straight to Doc.” They headed towards the trucks. After tossing in all their gear, they headed back to town. It would be hours before they were back to Washburn. After a long drive a serious infection with a bite that deep was a real risk. As they were about to get on the road, Marcus pulled Anders aside. “I’m going to drive fast, make sure you keep up.” Anders said nothing but looked uncomfortably at the gash on Troy’s neck. Marcus continued, “If that becomes infected, he’ll have a serious problem.”
Anders nodded.
Time for mourning Sarah was not now. The trucks roared to life, and they drove away from the lake. Hunters had learned to leave town with a full tank of gas, a siphon, and a full gas canister spare whenever possible. Running out of gas in the wild was never a good idea. Abandoned cars could be siphoned to get home, but success was spotty, and much of the gas was getting old and unreliable. This meant that few trips were made beyond a hundred miles out, if that far.
Back in town Marcus ensured Troy was looked at by Dr. Peterson. Admittedly, there was not a lot he could do, but he washed the wound with alcohol and applied ointment and gauze. The next morning Marcus and Bodhi checked in on him. It was nearing eleven, but Troy was still asleep in his blue trailer home with the white trim. They woke him up by pounding on the window.
“Hey, morning fellas,” Troy said as he opened the door, bare chest, bandaged shoulder, wearing University of Michigan gym shorts.
“So, how unhealthy aren’t ya?” Bodhi winked.
“Glad to be back in my bed again, that’s for damn sure.” They went inside, and Troy plopped himself on the sofa. He grabbed a water bottle and drank most of it.
“How’s the neck?” Marcus sat in the recliner and could feel broken springs under him. The house had belonged to a family named Waddum and a family photo album still sat on the coffee table. A considerable amount of dirt and grime had accumulated around the place since the Waddum’s had unknowingly given ownership to Troy.
“Fuckin sore man.”
Troy pulled back the gauze to expose the bite. The gash had begun to scab but there were red streaks running under the skin and away from the wound, tracing three to four inches in all directions. Troy noticed that Marcus’s face showed concern. “Let’s have Doc take a look at that again now that it’s been a day.”
Doc lived in the small medical clinic which had been overrun by looters years before. The little structure was in bad shape, but Doc had slowly been fixing it up. Although he had no medicine, he had great bedside manners and always left his patients feeling optimistic. Even when he had to deliver bad news, he found a way to give hope. After another inspection of the wound, he told Troy that he had definitely an infection, but hopefully not to the level of blood poisoning. He recommended he get lots of fruit for Vitamin C, and to eat some of the fish that the Miller kids always catch in Green River to get some Omega 3’s. “Do that”, Doc told him, “and with plenty of rest it should improve in a few days.” Troy left feeling better and was determined to follow orders.
The following day, things were not better. The red lines were thicker and longer, snaking away from the wound in every direction over six inches. The gash was larger and now white and pasty in appearance. Troy said the bite didn’t hurt anymore but a pain was moving across his chest and down the back of his shoulder. He was eating all the berries and fish he could find, just like the doctor ordered.
Marcus spent the next two days worrying about Troy. He alternated between checking in on his friend and walking around the edge of town killing time. That is where Josie found him, walking under the afternoon sun, alone. She caught up with him on a little ridge that overlooked the rooftops. Marcus had his back to the town, and he was gazing far off into the west as if he was trying to see past the purple horizon.
Across the plains, he could feel the mountains of the west he’d always heard about. An earthen barrier he had never seen that he knew was a fortress between him and the coast. He wondered about the wife that was once beyond those mountains. He stopped himself from entertaining a false hope that she had fled San Francisco and remained alive. Maybe she had been out of the city before its destruction. Maybe if he made it to California, he could find her. He knew it was a foolish idea. Where would he look, and if he did find her, what then? She didn’t want him before. Why would she want him now, now that he had even less to offer. Distances now after the war were almost unimaginably big and daunting. Miles and miles of open country stretched by the disappearance of the modern world. To cross it would be to tempt fate, and if she had still been in that city, well, he doubted anyone survived.
He had once traveled to St. Louis which had been bombed during the war. He was looking for supplies there, as always. It was trip much further than a hundred-mile recommended limit, and he almost didn’t make it back. That city had been struck like San Francisco and little was left. It was a valley of ruin, a graveyard of humanity populated by ghosts and building-sized cement headstones of mankind. Only those willing to leach off the remains of a dead world scurried there. He had been attacked and chased by those sickly mobs still fighting over the crumbled city. No, he would stay here and help those he could. There was nothing else to do.
On the hilltop, Josie joined and then stood by Marcus for a while, not willing to break into his thoughts. He enjoyed her quiet company and soon turned to her. She too was looking into the distance as if she were trying to see what he saw. He knew she couldn’t. It was the image of his lost family. An image already faded into the past. It was a haunting memory, and for him alone. San Francisco was well past rational traveling distances in this world. It was nearly two thousand miles away. No one thought there was anything magical about that self-imposed one-hundred-mile distance limit, but the world was unknown now and no one had returned when going farther. The question of what was out in the wasteland had become a frightful one. Lore of all kinds crept into conversation now. Rumors of mutated men and women. Marcus didn’t really buy into those fears, but one never knows. In the absence of information, the world had grown darker, more unknown, and more mysterious.
Marcus respected Josie. She had decided to teach the children of Washburn like she had done in Tulsa. She gathered all the books she could find around town and asked the hunting groups to bring back books when possible. The children loved it. Many of their parents were missing and the lessons gave them a sense of belonging and a sense of family. The community now raised the children which was a source of pride for the town. Mayor Coll had recently announced that teachers would be added to the list of town roles: farmers, hunters, watchmen, and now, teachers. Right now, that meant only Josie, but Josie was looking for others to teach and that was a hopeful sign for the future.
Marcus would sometimes watch the children assembled on the ragged summer grass around her as she taught. They listened to Josie’s every word. Little hands popped up regularly with excitement which were followed by questions and comments, and not always relevant. It was the only time he saw Josie genuinely smiling. Teaching took her away from the crumbling present, and in the company of little smiles and giggles she could glimpse a future of possibilities and promise. When not teaching, Josie often had a faraway look. He would notice her sitting alone, looking at the ground, and he wondered what sorrows she kept. Since the war, everyone had stories to tell. Tonight, on this little hilltop in the evening breeze, she shared part of hers.