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Ethan

Donald Reed Greenwood

    There he sat, just off the shoulder, perhaps seventy-five yards ahead. Marty spotted a solitary figure, half-immersed in a marshy ditch, a boy seeming not to care that he was ragged and soaked. Tragically, starvation imposes indifference and resignation on the human soul.
    Marty, despite driving along an unfamiliar road, on an uncertain journey, refused to the succumb to the oblivion awaiting that fatal surrender.
    Not yet. The survival instinct is a powerful motivator.
    He still had the “abundance” of a half-loaf of stale bread, a box of crackers, assorted cans of baked beans, and chicken noodle soup.
    Plus two precious containers of peaches.
    And a case of Deer Park. In recyclable plastic bottles. As if it mattered.
    With a half-tank of gas left in his battered F-150, Marty stubbornly clung to the tattered hope offered by his meager provisions.
    If I can just find a convenience store with gas pumps that hasn’t been ransacked or destroyed, I’ll be ok.
    As he approached the boy, his truck bouncing up and down, the tires clashing with bomb-cratered potholes, and Marty briefly losing control as his suspension battled with his steering wheel, gravel flying randomly, imitating the sound of bullets, pinging against the rusting dents on the truck’s side bars, he noticed movement.
    The youngster stirred. His right hand slowly raised until it cleared the top of his mud-caked, disheveled coiffure.
    Should he bother stopping for the kid? If he was unlike the others, Marty would feel an obligation to share his invaluable subsistence rations. And Marty would have to assume responsibility for his well-being.
    With the landscape hollowed out by war, assisted by its progeny, desolation and famine, was it wise to pause the accelerator, and bring the weight of his foot to the brake?
    If the kid was not like the others, could he trust him?
    With a mental flip of the coin, Marty eased off the gas, rolled the truck slowly toward him, appraising his appearance.
    He guessed the lad was about thirteen, with a lanky frame, likely owing to hunger, or possibly a growth spurt that occurred right before the calamity struck, its aftermath reducing prospects for the boy’s survival.
    His Wake Forest hoodie was ripped at the sleeves, his jeans scarred with horizontal slashes above and below the knees; a look once in fashion, but now absurdly irrelevant. With his ankles and feet immersed in the murkiness of the earthen culvert, Marty had no idea if he wore shoes, or if his feet were bare.
    The boy raised his head, his eyes hidden deeply in his skull sockets, lips neutral in expression. He wore the mask of an infantryman too long exposed to the horrors of combat, the “thousand-yard stare” Marty had once read about in war memoirs and novels.
    Books. Marty wished he’d saved some of them. He possessed a copy of the SAS Survival Handbook, but that hardly qualified as classic literature. There simply hadn’t been enough time. Food, water, his tent, sleeping bag, blankets, assorted clothing and outer-wear, all hastily assembled, were essential.
    Literature, the repository of civilization, wisdom and knowledge. Had any of it survived?
    With his foot caressing the brake, Marty eased to a full stop, engaged “park”, and silenced the engine. The boy’s hand and forearm quivered, but stubbornly, it remained above his head.
    He’s suffering from serious trauma. Marty was certain of it. He’d stopped before, observing the same condition in the few survivors he’d encountered. All of them were in shock, practically comatose; just a waste of time to offer even a a sip of water or a morsel of bread.
    Would this boy be any different? Was his raised arm truly a conscious response?
    Marty slid out of the driver’s seat, leaving the door ajar and approached the boy.
    “Son, can you tell me your name?”
    The boy’s lips trembled, his throat silent and barren.
    “At least, let me lift you out of this filthy, muddy pool.”
    Marty reached under the armpits and slid him up and out of the ditch. Now he knew for certain that the boy was indeed wearing shoes.
    They were Reeboks, grimy and worn-out; the soles beginning to separate. Surface slime from the stagnant water clung to his buttocks and lower legs.
    The boy began to shiver. Marty unfastened the cargo cover, rummaged through the contents, and yanked a blanket out of his duffel bag.
    Marty cradled the kid’s hands under his armpits, wrapping the blanket snugly around the slender frame.
    “Please son, what is your name? My name is Marty.”
    The boy’s lips parted, partially revealing yellowed incisors.
    “E.....E.....Ethan.”
    “Ethan. My God, how long have you been here? Where is your family?”
    “My mother...... is dead. And my father.......”
    “No need to talk anymore. You must be hungry and thirsty. I have some food. Some beans and bottled water ok?”
    Ethan shook his head sideways. “Please.....will you go with me to my campsite? My father is...... ill. He needs help. Do.....do you have any medicine?”
    “I have an emergency medical kit, with isopropyl alcohol, anti-bacterial ointment and ibuprofen. Will that help?”
    “ I don’t know......I’m so tired from waiting for a miracle.....for someone to drive down this road. But you came. Please....my father.”
    “Can you walk?”
    “I....think so. But my feet are so cold and numb. If only it hadn’t rained last night.”
    Marty opened the passenger-side door of the F-150, grasping the handle of his medical kit. After shutting both doors, he crouched next to Ethan.
    “Can you stand up on your own, or do you need help?”
    The boy slowly pushed himself up, his left arm clutching the blanket, his right arm attempting to steady his motion. His legs trembled in the effort.
     Reaching down, Marty slid his left arm under the boy’s armpit, embraced his back, and assisted him to a full, upright posture. Ethan wavered for a moment, before restoring control of his legs and feet.
    “I’m....I’m ok, Mister. Thank you.”
    “Ethan, let’s get moving. Walking will warm up your legs. You’ll be fine. So, are you ready?”
    “I think so. It’s not far.”
    With the boy leading, the pair stepped carefully through the putrid sludge of the ditch, slip-sliding up to a barely perceptible pathway, outlined with scorched vegetation. Ahead was a maze of blackened, downed trees, ruptured limbs, and a thicket of twigs; a random basket-weave of litter.
    How do we navigate through this barren jungle?, thought Marty.
    Finally sure-footed, Ethan located a narrow passageway. Often crouching and side-stepping, their clothing and the blanket repeatedly snagging on the sharp wounds of the brutally-splintered remnants of a once-lush stand of hardwoods, Marty and Ethan escaped the rubble and strode into an expansive clearing; a vista of charred cornstalks, most arrayed in neat, orderly rows, reposing peacefully on the ground. A defiant few remained upright, intertwined in death.
    In a barren, agricultural graveyard.
    Amidst the devastation, Marty spied the tent.
    It was a dome type. It appeared to Marty that it was only meant to accommodate two people. He guessed it would hold three in an emergency.
    Emergency. That’s an understatement. I wonder, what happened to Ethan’s mother?
    “Mister, my dad’s lying in the tent.”
    Marty parted the flap and peered inside. Aside from two sleeping bags, back packs, clothes and camping clutter, it was unoccupied. Where was Ethan’s father?
    “Ethan, he’s not here. Was he disoriented, and could he have wandered away? We need to find...........”
    Marty’s voice was silenced by a blow to the back of his head.
    The boy’s father struck Marty savagely with the spike-end of a mattock, crushing his skull. His form slumped into the blackened maize, a light, grayish liquid oozing from the ears and nostrils.
    The man paused, then kicked the lifeless body, just to be certain.
    “Ethan, we have to work quickly. Help me roll him on his back.”
    “Now, get me the knife and grab hold of his forearms.”
    Reluctantly, the boy acted as instructed.
    Ethan dreaded this moment. He despised himself for it. Marty had offered him comfort and encouragement.
    Just like his mother.
    The shame of betrayal roiled his insides. He hadn’t truly wanted to deceive anyone. But his father had vehemently insisted.
    It’s absolutely essential, son. Do you want to live, or not?
    Ethan hadn’t completely lied to Marty. Since his mother’s death during the catastrophe, his father’s personality had changed. The compassion his dad once bestowed on his family, his neighbors, friends and even strangers, had degenerated.
    Ethan had told the truth. My father is ill.
    He shut his eyes as his father expertly punctured the groin, carefully slicing upward, avoiding the soft organs, as the knife traveled to the breastbone. With a quick snap of the knife, his father split the sternum wide open. The boy shuddered.
    Spreading the legs apart, the father carefully maneuvered the knife, surgically separating the stomach and intestinal sacs, and other organs from the torso cavity.
    With the vitals, and their warmth, removed, the valuable flesh around the ribs and the haunches would cool down, avoiding contamination and slowing its spoilage.
    He and his boy couldn’t chance an encounter with E-coli.
    In just over thirty minutes, the meat was deftly sliced from the ribs and the femurs.
    “Ethan, get the cook fire going, while I slice this piece into skillet-sized strips. I’ll roast the other cuts in our portable smoker.
    “We’ll eat well tonight, son.” His father encased the offals in a plastic tarp, then cautiously removed his bloodied latex gloves, gingerly grasping the tips and peeling them inside-out.
    “We’ll dispose of the remains later. I’ll siphon the gas from our quarry’s vehicle and scavenge it for anything that’s usable. And edible.”
    A smile began to dominate his father’s face, with his cheeks contorting, strained by the expansion of the lips. His eyes became crocodilian; widened, heavily browed and deeply creased.
    Ethan recoiled at the transformation.
    “Son, if we’re fortunate......we might have dessert.”

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