The Apocalypse is a Process

"The apocalypse is a process."

Journal of Belinda Montgomery

Those words stick with me. The author had been dead for a year when I stumbled onto her mountain cabin, while scavenging homes in the Carolinas. Since I had immunity to the sickness, I could walk through the sick-camps and not even catch a sniffle. I was the one in twenty people who almost dies from it, lives, and becomes immune. I didn't fear MERS 26.

So, about the benefactress I never knew; this cagy old gal knew that power was problematic up in the mountains, so she built her home with solar, wind, and geothermal. Unlike most of the idiots who build mansions in the mountains, she built a modern cabin. She had her hideaway at the end of a gravel road that you'd never know was there just by glancing. Best of all, her attached garage was easily converted to a stable. Her Jeep, while wonderful, required gas that's getting harder and harder to find. My mule ran on grass, which is much easier to find.

I found her slumped at her desk. Belinda Montgomery. The house reeked of decay, and Belinda's decomposition required a tarp from the garage to move the body. Burying her proved problematic; I couldn't dig a grave. There's not much soil on top of the bedrock of the mountain. I solved my problem using a pile of rocks that was probably set aside for an unfinished landscaping project. The decay spoiled a lot, but I salvaged what I could and hauled out the rest to burn. The desk yielded manuals on how the energy systems worked and her journal atop a black velvet box. In the box was a silver, antique-looking, heart-shaped locket inscribed with, "Love you Mom, your Tris." I put it on the mantle of the fireplace. Whoever Tris was, I wished them well.

Further investigation uncovered two-gun lockers in the closet of the master bedroom with rifles and a shotgun in the first, and a few handguns in the second. On the top shelf of the closet were labeled hat boxes of bullets. I had to give Belinda credit, she was organized, but opening hat boxes to reload? That's a bit much.

The other two rooms were the bathroom that connected to the master bedroom and hallway, and a guest room off to the side. The guest room was stacked with supplies. Belinda thought she could weather the plague up here in her mountain retreat. That was the insidious thing about MERS, it could lay dormant for weeks and suddenly spring to life. People died within hours of onset sometimes.

I peeled off dust-caked clothes and surveyed Belinda's bathtub. Tonight's bath would include salts that smelled of eucalyptus and promised to make my sore muscles feel better. I hoped she brought a warehouse of this stuff in her stockpile. As I dunked myself under the water to rinse my hair, I heard the downstairs door open and close. A voice called up, deep and male, "Mom, when did you get a mule?" I piled out of the tub and wrapped a towel around myself. My hair hung long like seaweed, dripping, as I dove for the master bedroom and the Sig P365 I loaded from the closet.

"Mom? You up in the bathroom?", followed by footsteps on the stairs, "Hey, it's Tris, I'm sorry I took forever."

I steadied the gun, the towel, and answered the man entering the doorway, "Your... Momma took sick and died... I come upon this place and gave her a buryin'."

His face showed surprise, grief, and anger in a series of rapid flashes. He had the beard of a man who hadn't shaved in months, his hair was dark, and his eyes a startling blue. His clothes were dirty and torn in a few places. Then, I see a strap on his shoulder and recognize an AK-47.

"Who the hell are you?" he snapped.

"The woman with the gun." I retorted.

His eyes narrowed, "Look, squatter. This is my mom's house, and therefore mine." I watch for movement towards his gun and he recognizes my stare, " How about we set our weapons down and talk."

"Look pal, how about you shrug that AK-47 off your shoulder, back away, and I don't shoot you."

"It's Tristan, not pal, and this is my house. So, shoot me or we talk." He slowly laid his weapon down. I didn't. "We don't have much to talk about."

"I walked the Appalachian trail for months trying to get home. I want a shower, food, and details about my mom."

"Why did you leave her?" I ask, as a non-answer.

He looked up, his eyes sad, and he said, "We needed garden seeds and gasoline. I was the best choice to take the 4-wheeler to the settlement and make trades. I got waylaid, sold to the Carolina militia, and had to escape. I expected to come home to my mom, not a squatter. So, either shoot me or let me get a shower."

I lowered my gun. I either had to shoot him or, tentatively, trust him.

"What did you give your mom in a velvet box?"

"A silver locket. Why? You trade it already?"

"No, you giant ass, I wanted to make sure you were the kid who gave it to her."

"It's me, now go find clothes and leave me to shower." He walked away and I picked up his weapon to take with me. He was either very trusting or a complete fool.

After an hour, Tristan returned. His face was pink from shaving with long, damp hair on his shoulders. He wore jeans that were a little loose and a faded t-shirt from some college. He sat opposite me, looked at the gun, and said, "You gon' tote that thing everyplace you go?"

"Maybe."

He sighed, "Ok, how did mom die?" I told him in concise sentences what I found, did, and why I claimed this place.

"Never mind I own it, huh?" he said in a low voice. He was letting me know he was angry, but not irrational.

"You could always call the police and file charges." I offered, sarcastically. Tristan ran water into the tea kettle at the sink. Placing it on the stove, he turned on the burner. He stood for a while considering.

"That new rock pile out there by the flower bed…?"

"It's the best I could do for her." He clenched his hands and when he spoke it was choked with emotion, " I guess I should thank you for that."

"You don't need to."

He nods. As the kettle whistled, he poured hot water into the cups and tossed the tea bags in.

"Here's the deal, this place was supposed to be my parents' retreat. They would come up for fall getaways. My dad built this place... When the sickness hit him, he sent mom here to open the place up so we could hide out. Only, he got sick and died while we were here. I was here at 15 watching the world fall apart... until the cable and radio stations went offline. I still have no clue where my sister Carrie is. She was at college up north. Dad never got an answer on if she was alive. Listen, there's plenty of space and power to go around if you want to help me here. You stumbled up here even though we did our best to obscure the gravel road to the cabin."

"You're just gonna trust a squatter? " I say, folding my arms against my chest.

"I'm going to trust that since you didn't strip the place down, I can work with you. I saw your mule. They're the preferred choice for traders. Being a trader, you're smart and already know the value of this place. If we get discovered I need another set of hands to defend. As a militia draftee, I saw the horrible things people do for a decent roof over their head and clean water."

"Why did you leave? Militia gets the best food, clothes, and women."

"I don't like how they get those things, plus I had family here."

I consider what he says, "You Immune?"

"I have no idea; I've never been sick. What about you?"

"Caught it with my whole family when I was 12, only I lived."

"Sorry."

There's an uncomfortable silence before he says, "Right, I'm going to sleep in my folks' bed. If you want the guest room, it's all yours." I don't contradict him. I never wanted to sleep in a dead woman's bed.

"You eat today? There's spam and the potato flakes are still good."

"I could stand to eat." He looks incredibly tired and drinks his tea slowly. I stand up, "Since I'm a squatter and all, the least I can do is make you dinner." I fry spam and make garden-vegetable soup. He eats it the way men who've had to scarf food down while they can and not look at it too closely.

He thanks me and says, "What's your name?"

I look up from the dishes, "Madelyn Culpepper. Most call me Maddy."

He mulls it over and says, "Well goodnight, squatter."

The morning comes to me in the guest bed, gun on the floor in reach. I get up, use the downstairs bathroom and decide to check out the packets of oatmeal that just need hot water. It is decadent having this kind of food. I shouldn't get used to it. I don't hear anything upstairs. Maybe Tristan's tired. I give him another hour, then go up.

Outside the door, I hear a wracking cough and step inside. He's on his side coughing with a flushed face. I can see he's used the entire box of tissues to spit up chunks of greenish phlegm. This is MERS; sudden onset of symptoms that slam you to the ground and drown you in mucus. I start to clean up the tissues and he croaks, "I'm sick, don't get close."

"I already had it. I need you to sit up. I gotta pound your back, ok? If that gunk sets up in your lungs, you're done for."

"It's a cold."

"No, it's not. You were healthy and fine hours ago. If you wanna live through this, I gotta keep you from drowning in your own body."

"You could let me die and keep the house." He wheezes.

"I already got the house; you're just going to help me."

He coughs as I get every pillow and cushion in the house to prop him up. I alternate between pounding his broad, muscular back and feeding him broth and aspirin. The thermometer's battery is dead, but his forehead is hot under my hand. When he's too weak to stand, I bring him a bucket to urinate in and wipe him down in tepid water to manage the fever. He rambles about his parents, his time at Fort Campbell, and his sister. On the 4th night, I'm sure he'll die. He breathes shallowly, and I hear gurgling in his lungs. I pound his back, forcing him to bring up more thick phlegm. He shutters into a restless sleep, and I go back to the guest room. The med kits in here are useless. Then I reason that Belinda would have more, she was an over planner. I look under the bed, Bingo! There's a clear plastic box. On the lid, in that neat handwriting I know is hers, it says MERS Kit.

There's a note in the box addressed to Tristan, "Tristan, don't be squeamish about the IV. The last journal I read concurred with the CDC that Cefoxitin could prevent death from the secondary symptoms of MERS while the body fights the virus. It doesn't always work, but it's all we have. I have instructions on how to reconstitute the antibiotic. If I get sick, I can't run an IV. It will be up to you. Follow the instructions, I love you. Dr. Mom"

I scan the contents. The saline bags have expired, as well as the medicine. I reason that if Tristan is going to die anyway, so what if he gets expired saline and medication? I follow the directions and gather up the IV needle, tape, and gauze, with instructions in my other hand. I shake Tristan, "Tris, it's Maddy, I have to put an IV in. Your mom read that if we get the secondary symptoms under control, you can fight the virus."

He mumbles. I hope it's an agreement. I hang the bag of saline up on the curtain rod and leave the line where I can get it. Staring at the directions, I put on the tourniquet, find a big vein that feels straight, and stick the needle in. Tristan barely flinches as I follow the steps, praying that I got it right. I settle in for a day and night of watching and waiting.

In the grey hours before dawn, I change the medicated bag for a bag of saline. Tristan hasn't been eating or drinking much and I figure the extra fluid won't hurt.

With the bright sunlight, I wake to the second bag almost gone. I place my hand on Tristan's forehead. It's warm, but not burning up. He says weakly, "Hey Squatter, you look tired." He coughs and I bring him the trash can to spit into. He leans back, "I think I might live."

"Good, we need firewood and a way to get hay and straw for Frank."

“Who?” he enquires wearily.

“Frank is my mule.” I reply and think maybe Tristan has fallen asleep, he startles awake to cough and spit out more phlegm.

He closes his eyes again leaning back to his nest of pillows and says, "So, if I'd been home, mom could have gotten medicine."

"Shhh, there's nothing that can be done to the past. Just get better."

He sighs and murmurs something I can't hear. I stretch and stand up. It's a new day, and maybe by the end of it he will still be alive and we can argue about my status as a squatter. I look at him. Did I get the meds in him in time? Will I be using the last of the landscaping rocks to bury him, too? I don't know. I just know that time will tell.