Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (15 page)

                 i can’t wait.

October 8, 2009—Letters to a Young Poet

Amanda:

Seeing as how we’re technically now part of a relief effort (whatever that means), Ted and I have decided to embark on a project of sorts. We have begun collecting haiku from the survivors here in order to bring you a little hope, a little sunshine. Also, many of the people I’ve met here are intrigued by the blog. They think I’m a bit mad, but I don’t mind.

We cannot get out

but the arena is huge

and they have showers.

—Ted

Chemistry is hard

but it’s extra hard if you’re

dumb like Allison.

—Ted

Ted smells like an ass,

but really, that’s nothing new.

Thank God for showers.

—Allison

Um, I don’t get it,

why are you writing poems

for the Internet?

—Collin (Ghost Written by Allison)

I’m learning to shoot;

the guns are loud and heavy.

C says: Deal with it.

—Allison

What is a haiku?

I’m just a big stupid mutt;

Oh look! A pork bone.

—Take a Wild Fucking Guess—he’s
licking his butt right now …

COMMENTS

Carlene says:

October 8, 2009 at 2:33 pm

Surviving here in Alaska. It’s good to know there are still conscious, living people out there in the world … Keep telling your story. Keep reminding us there is hope to regain our planet. Keep reminding us that you are alive.

Allison says:

October 8, 2009 at 4:43 pm

You couldn’t catch some salmon and ship them down here, could you? I guess the trucks aren’t running and I don’t know what we could trade. Books maybe, or goodwill? On second thought, keep the salmon for yourself; I’m sure you need it too.

amanda says:

October 8, 2009 at 5:07 pm

thanks for the poems! they made my day a little better

October 9, 2009—Haunted

“Another day in paradise,” Ted says, up bright and early and way before I feel even the slightest inclination to open my eyes. “You want me to go grab us some breakfast?”

“You go. I’m not hungry yet.”

“Okay, but when I get back you better be here. No chasing after your mom or ditching me for Liberty Village. There’s frozen waffles here, Allison. Waffles. Think about that.”

Ironically, everyone here calls it The Village. Sure it’s okay, but it’s not
Liberty
Village, which is, I’ve come to believe, the place to be.

The tents range from the very small to the extravagant, family-sized monstrosities that look capable of concealing a small circus. They have amenities here that I couldn’t even imagine finding at the apartment. Lake water, pump showers, water heaters, bandages and antiseptic wash, Q-tips, coolers, ice packs and tampons—life is made significantly easier by things like these. You don’t realize until you’ve gone without Q-tips and tampons how instrumental they are to your comfort and sanity. Just knowing that I can wake up and clean my ears is a relief.

The Village is mainly separated into two areas: the Black Earth Wives and Everyone Else.

It didn’t take long for Ted and me to notice this split. The Wives tend to broadcast their general
differentness
. They don’t do it with alternative music or tattoos. They do it with their religion. Ted and I aren’t really sure what denomination they are, but it’s the very, very strict kind. Every morning at nine, like clockwork, a sign-up clipboard gets passed around from tent to tent. The purpose of the clipboard is to solicit names for the prayer hour. The Black Earth Wives gather in a ring at the center of their tents and hold hands and pray, spending a moment on every single name on the list, praying for their souls or for their safe passage.

They’ve reached out to our side of The Village, mainly in the form of childcare. There are a handful of single mothers and fathers here, people who lost their husbands or wives, boyfriends or partners in the chaos and who have been left to raise a child or children on their own. It’s amazing to watch, the slow progression of the Wives as they infiltrate our half of the arena, oozing through the gaps in the tents. They search out the women and men who sit dazed, their eyes glazed over with a general mistrust of the world.

Collin took me around today, introducing me to the families he knows the best, telling them that I helped get rid of “that bloody vermin.” He’s simultaneously deferential and authoritative; no mean feat, but one that seems to instantly and pleasantly ingratiate him no matter the audience. The introductions feel good at first but then it gets tired, played out. I’m not a hero and it feels peculiar to be lauded for a swift and cruel act of revenge. So I force a smile for each new face and shake their hands and listen to their stories. They thank me for getting rid of Zack and I bow my head shyly and try not to think of his agonized face and his raw, bloody stumps lying in the dead grass.

We visit the Wives last. I ask why there are so many of them, where they came from, and why they are alone. I can’t help but think that if my mother were here, she would stay far, far away from these women.

“I’m starting to think all of this started somewhere outside the city, that the suburbs went first and that’s why the city was overrun so quickly,” Collin says. He doesn’t go anywhere without a gun, but no one here seems to mind; they look to him as their undisputed leader and protector. Today it’s a Glock tucked into the back of his fatigues. Collin greets everyone by name.

“Black Earth got hit hard,” says Collin. “One house at a time, the residents realized they had to do something. There were a lot of families there, a lot of children. They decided to round up all the kids in one van and get them out while the dads, avid hunters, went out to hold off the onslaught. It didn’t work. They were outnumbered too badly and the husbands went down ‘fighting like angels of the Lord,’ as the wives will tell you.”

“And the van?” I ask, knowing its fate already.

“They came across it when they left, heading toward the city. It was overturned in a ditch. Empty.”

It didn’t surprise me, the way their story unfolded. This is the land of hunting, of fishing and farms and Harley-Davidson. I never felt close to that part of our state but I can’t help but feel for them, for the way they tried like hell to defend themselves. We cross the thin, empty strip of floor that separates the Wives from everyone else. There are plenty of people here that seem to ignore or outright dislike the Wives. They sense, rightly, that the Wives are proud of who and what they are and may be a bit insane, taken to the extreme end of charity by the horrible losses they have suffered. I hear that some children are cautioned to stay away from that side of the arena and some tents have purposely been set up as far away from the Wives as possible.

It’s a lot like
West Side Story
but without all the dancing.

Their tents are all gathered in a ring, the entrances facing the middle. You might expect to see a big bonfire there, but instead they’ve put up a cross made out of two-by-fours and duct tape. There is a strange kind of symmetry to it, their low hobbit holes all circled up like a brigade of wagons with a big, foreboding cross watching over them all. They emerge from the tents one by one, as if summoned by an invisible gong.

And they’re hollow, completely empty, and trying so hard to be full again.

The Wives are bustling today, excited. A new family has arrived, the Stocktons. They’re not from Black Earth but that doesn’t matter; any and all families are warmly welcomed and invited to live among the Wives. The Wives are, across the board, turned down. But the Stocktons seem promising, or that’s the rumor. I don’t remember meeting them.

“They’re at the med tent,” Collin murmurs. “The father suffered a few minor abrasions, maybe a sprained ankle. You should meet them later. I’ll introduce you.”

But first I need to meet the Wives. It’s a daunting experience, a bit like parachuting into the middle of a Stepford Wives convention and being bombarded with questions and pats on the back. Collin (who they primly refer to as Mr. Crane), of course, tells them about my harrowing deed, the vanquishing of the evil Zack. Of all the villagers, they are the most impressed, the most thankful and awed. They stare at me as if I’ve just come to hand them the blood of Christ, their mouths forming wide Os of shock. It’s their reactions that frighten me the most.

“Bless you, bless you, God bless you for seeing to that … rat.”

“God be with you—He must be. He must be.”

On and on it goes. I try to be humble, to look like the martyred hero they expect. But it doesn’t feel authentic. Collin notices my discomfort and steers me away from the group, bringing me over to one Wife sitting apart. She’s perched on an empty plastic crate, her hands tucked demurely into her lap. She’s wearing a gingham skirt and a loose blue sweater with daisies embroidered around the collar. Her permed red hair is matted and greasy. When she looks up at us I see that the front of her sweater is stained down the front with a broad brush stroke of blood.

“Marianne? This is Allison.”

She doesn’t extend her hand or really even show that she’s seen me. Her eyes go straight through my body, through my veins and bones and I can feel the steely chill. At first I think we’re done, that Collin is going to drag me away from this phantom, this ghost, but her eyes crackle to life suddenly and her chapped lips drop open.

“My son,” she says in a whimper, breathing hard as though she’s just noticed that he’s gone missing. “My son … My son ate my baby girl. My son ate my baby girl!”

She repeats it again and again, her voice rising until she’s screaming at me at the top of her lungs.

“MY SON ATE MY BABY GIRL!”

This is when Collin drags me away, shooting a look at the other Wives who hurry over to take care of Marianne. They enfold her in a tangle of arms, rocking her, clucking softly at her like a brood of giant mother hens, their foreheads all bowed to touch her face. Marianne disappears behind them, silenced, lost in the sea of their sudden and overwhelming care.

“Holy shit,” I mutter, shaking my head to try and stop the painful ringing in my ears. Collin nods.

“Marianne is … Well, she’s lost, I think. There are a few people like that here, but she’s the worst. I asked Susan about her once. She told me Marianne’s house was hit first, that she watched her son … Well, you heard her.”

I did. It’s hard to get that sound out of my head and when I blink I see her terror-stricken eyes. They look like Holly’s—vacant, swept under.

Collin takes me out of the arena and down a long, narrow corridor. We go outside into a fine October mist. It’s certainly brisk out here, but there are plenty of extra clothes now, and the Wives have been busy sewing blankets and turning university jerseys into thick, patchy sweaters. They’re not very warm but they do a decent job against the wind. As soon as we walk outside I hear gunfire. I’m getting used to that, to hearing shots every time I step into the open air.

The pale sun behind the clouds with its teasing hint of warmth has made the mist rise up on the horizon. Everything is gray beyond the close border of the arena yard. You can just make out a hint of tennis courts and a sidewalk, and a few yards in front of that a parked truck with a man standing guard behind it. There’s ash in the air and the strange, briny smell of warmth seeping out of the ground. It rained last night but now the earth is almost dry.

Luckily, the nearest gunfire is just practice. Collin and his redheaded nephew, Finn, have set up a firing range out here. They’ve decided to take Ted and me and turn us into soldiers. But Ted is still inside at the med tent. He seems far more interested in learning how to suture wounds and set bones than to come with me to target practice.

“Where did they all come from?” I ask, nodding toward the gun Collin is now aiming at a far-off stack of wooden crates. He seems different with the gun primed and ready to fire. He’s more distant, pulled behind a kind of sobering veil. His face is still gently creased, his eyes are still bright, but the feeling he exudes is chilling. There are so many weapons, so many supplies, that I can’t help asking. It seems like something that should be left unsaid; it doesn’t matter where the guns came from, it only matters that there are people here who know how to use them.

“The police. They’re not trained for stuff like this. Maybe in New York or Chicago they would have experience with rioters and gang violence, but here they just weren’t prepared. There’s a difference between keeping a cool head under pressure and being intelligent under pressure.” Collin must be immune to the sound of gunfire because he barely flinches as he pulls the trigger and the round explodes out of the barrel. I, however, am not used to this sound and it’s deafening and scary every single time.