In Pursuit of Power

I turned in my bed to check my watch. It was one in the morning, and I needed to leave. Silently, I arose and slung my bag over my shoulder. Passing my parents on my way towards the door, I saw their faces and limbs glistening with settled heat. That was the mild kind: upstairs, where I slept, the heat resided in a dense smog, smothering me in my sleep. I tried to shake it, but it clung and festered, even as I stepped outside. It was one of the many woes of the city, I supposed. I mounted my bike, then I was gone.

Thirty miles from our house, there was a small grove of trees, and among the trees was a small cabin. By the time I approached it, nearly two hours had passed, and my eyes were already fatigued from the strain required to see. I fumbled with the padlock for a few minutes before dislodging the swollen door and stepping inside. Immediately to the left was the kitchen, and feeling about the area, I dribbled kerosene into the oil lamp that my mom had brought two mornings ago. With the wick soaked, I lit the lamp and smiled in satisfaction.

Returning the oil tank to its place below the sink, I surveyed the rest of the cabin. It was built in such a way that one side sank some inches into the ground, and most of the furnishings situated themselves on that side. My sleeping mat, the smallest one, had slid below the dresser that my dad had lugged on his back the morning before. I adjusted it, then allowed the bag to sink from my own shoulders. The clothes inside were crumpled, so I attempted to fold them before transferring them to the dresser. We were ready to come.

As I was about to finish folding, I heard a faint ping as an object fell by my feet. Looking down, I saw my mom’s gold locket glinting in the light of the lamp. She had intended to sell it, I thought, but money was rather frivolous at the moment. I bent to pick it up, tracing the heart-shaped rim with my finger. It would be good to keep this, I thought to myself. Gently laying the locket upon the clothes in my mom’s drawer, I checked my watch again. It was three-fifteen in the morning, and I needed to return. Cupping my hand over the oil lamp, I blew out the flame, then blinked forcefully for a few seconds, willing my eyes to adjust.

When I grabbed my bag and exited the cabin, I braced one foot against the cabin wall for leverage and one behind me for stability. I leaned backwards, and the door begrudgingly wedged itself into the frame. I closed the padlock shackle, then hastened to the root cellar on the other side of the cabin. It bore the same lock as the cabin did, but panic struck when I realized the shackle was not fully closed. I threw the door open, feeling the current of air close to my face, then stumbled down the flight of steps. I cast a fraught glance around the perimeter of the cellar to find that all twelve kerosene barrels were still present; that was a relief.

With my heart still screaming, I ascended the stairs and stepped out of the cellar, resolutely closing the cellar shackle behind me. I took a few steps toward my bike, but returned to pull on the padlock once more. It was locked; I was certain.

Returning to our house around five-thirty, I found my parents awake. “Hi,” I offered shyly.

My mom scowled. “You were cutting it close,” she replied.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” I approached her side to assist in folding up the couch. She allowed it, though visibly upset by my measly apology.

“Bike faster next time, okay?” She cupped the side of my face with her hand. “Now sit at the table.”

My dad was already there, his chin resting upon his closed fist. He may have been sleeping; I wasn’t sure. My mom finished arranging the couch pillows before she joined us. “Bread?” She inquired. “Yeah, thanks,” I responded. She set a plate in front of me, then topped it with two slices of bread. She did the same for herself before my dad grunted, and she granted him two pieces as well. He muttered his thanks while tearing apart the slices, bringing the pieces to his mouth without caring to open his eyes.

We ate in silence until the six a.m. caller arrived and knocked on our door. My mom smeared the shine from her forehead and opened it. I recognized the man; he had monitored our street before. “Roll,” he commanded, and we stated our names as he marked our presence on his clipboard. “Good,” he noted. “Here is your water for the day.” He handed my mom three bottles then closed the door himself. I looked out the window to see the street monitors lining up, their white uniforms still crisp in the first hour of their work. My mom cleared her throat to get my attention, then motioned to the couch. I nodded, then lay down there to get some rest.

She shook me awake before the noon call, her knitting in hand, as it was every day. My dad was fanning himself at the table, as he did every day. “Thanks,” I mumbled. I pressed my palms to my eyes before fixating on the wall in front of me. The paint had become heavy with humidity and started peeling away from the wall. I closed my eyes again but the knock at the door startled me from my fog. I got up and answered the door. The man on the other side performed a quick head count before extending towards me a bag of canned foods and bread loaves. I accepted, then turned to give him the bag of empty cans that was to my right. He snatched it and delivered the daily reminder: “If you need assistance, a street monitor will be here to help. Wave your yellow flag in your window.” With this, he closed the door.

I handed the bag to my mom, who removed the cans and arranged their contents on plates. My dad had drunk most of his water and was now eyeing mine. “Dad,” I said, “I’m going to need that, and then some for dishes.”

“No no,” my mom intervened. “I’ll buff the dishes today. We can wash them at the cabin tomorrow. Drink up.” She beamed at me, and I smiled back. My dad even offered a smile, listless as he was. The clock was inching towards midnight, shortly after which we were planning to leave. There were fewer street monitors then, and with no energy production for years under the city’s Fossil Fuel Preservation Initiative, we were no more than blurs in the deep night. I cleared our plates and told my parents to sleep in preparation, and so they did.

Following the final two calls of the day, and perhaps of our lives, midnight arrived. I peered through the window to watch the monitors be dismissed, then I turned towards my parents, their faces sallow with the ghost of energy. I took the bike outside, where I held it steady as my dad mounted it. “Go ahead, Dad. We’ll see you there,” I assured him, and he left. My mom and I packed the final necessities: dishes and silverware, knitting materials, a few books, and a flashlight with a battery that she had been saving for two years. “This battery had better work,” she said with a laugh. We left the house, door locked, and walked east towards the city limit. “Mom,” I whispered, and I heard the tremble in my voice even then, “Do you think they’ll come looking for us?”

I sensed her facing me in the dark. “I don’t think they’ve wanted us here for a long time.” She paused before speaking again: “They go home and they have their power and their gas and their water. It's just us, only us.”

“Okay.”

We strode on in the early day, until the expanse of darkness subsided to the glinting sun. It almost looked heart-shaped when I squinted to look at it. We were far beyond the city, but only halfway to the cabin. “I hope your father made it alright,” Mom mused. “I still don’t know how he found that place, let alone in the dead of night. We’re very lucky.”

I nodded; we were.