The Farmhouse on the Hill

PART 1

***

28/10/1998

I don’t think I can do this. This guy Jayme wants me to help him rob some fucking jewelry store out on Main Street. It’s a dumb idea, I know, one that's likely to get us both killed. But man, what other option do we got? Ever since we lost our jobs at the Nesco Automobile Factory, it’s been harder than a virgin boy’s dick after watching porn for the first time. 

I tried looking for work at other places; Joey’s Burger don’t hire nobody who didn’t finish high school, and the New Durban High School don’t hire nobody with a criminal record, so as to not put the students’ safety at risk. So, to put it in laymen’s terms, I'm fucked. And it is to that end, I think I’m justified in saying I have no other choice. . . I have a kid to think about. Her mother’s a crack-addicted whore so the task of raising her falls on me; it’s me who puts food in her mouth, clothes on her back, a roof over her head.

So it’s either this or nothing at all. 

The clock’s reading 9:15, and Jayme said to get some much shut-eye because it’s going down tomorrow. Here’s to hoping it goes according to plan and here’s hoping I get out alive. 

***

29/10/1998

I was a fool for thinking nothing major’d happen there. Jayme had planned it out well; though, in hindsight, it was about as planned as a dog getting fucked on rollerblades. So, here’s how it went down:

We get to the store, I'm playing getaway and Jayme's going to be the one doing the heavy lifting. I wait in the car while Jayme robs the place of its most precious items. He runs out with a stab wound to the thigh which I ask him about, which he brushes off and tells me to drive. So I kick the car into gear and make a run for it. We speed for a couple blocks before we run into a cop convoy. We both figured we’d make it out scot-free with little police presence, I mean the NDPD ain’t exactly the NYPD. The convoy hangs a U when they clock us and I floor the gas when I clock their clock. They chase us for a while until spike strips pop the tires, making me lose control of the car. With the car spinning outta control, we crash into a florist’s shop. Jayme looks at me and tells me to make a run for it and that he’ll hold them off and that he’ll find us at the farm. I say something in disagreement, though mentally I agree with everything he says. Do it for Gwen, he says - so I get out through the front windshield and make a run for it, because of my baby and because of the promise that he’d come and find us. 

But he never came. 6pm turned into 7pm and 7pm turned into 8pm. Right now, at this farmhouse that we agreed to meet at after the robbery, I’m waiting on him with his girl Sarah and my baby daughter Gwen (or Gwennie). It’s the devil’s hour and we haven’t had a knock on the door or a phone call or anything to tell us he’s ok. 

Sarah’s suggested that I get some shut-eye while she waits for Jayme until he comes, and I can’t lie, fatigue’s stuck to me like white on rice. Hopefully, he’ll come. 

***

30/10/1998

It’s been. . . honestly, I dunno how long it’s been since I last saw Jayme, or Sarah. She left some days back to go look for him. But like Jayme, she never came back. I turned on the radio and TV to see if any of the local stations had something to say about the robbery, I figured it’s a small town and big shit like a jewelry shop getting robbed was bound to get coverage, right? But nobody's saying a fig about the robbery. What the news talk about most is how the president's getting topped-off by some foxy brunette, and the new respiratory illness doing the rounds in and around the country. The news said it was a kind of super form of TB, and it spreads and kills you faster than TB. Because of this, a state of emergency has been declared and every citizen's been ordered to stay indoors.

***

02/11/1998

I don’t think the cops are looking for me no more, that’s something good, at least – they have bigger fish to fry right now. But I’m still holed up in the farmhouse with no sign of Jayme or Sarah or nobody else - it's just me and Gwen. Keeping count of the days keeps my mind at ease, somehow. Me and Gwennie’ve been going around outside – she seems to like the sound of nature, you know, the singing of birds, the rustling of leaves. Watching her smile and laugh everytime she sees the birds drinking from the fountain in the backyard makes me happier than anything.  

But we’re running outta food. I guess the food me and Jayme stocked up on before the robbery wasn’t meant to last as long as it has. But at least, because there are fewer mouths to feed, I managed to ration and stretch it out a bit. But I don’t doubt the day’ll come when we gotta go out and look for food.  

***

23/11/1998

Yesterday, I went back to town, not to look for Jayme or Sarah but to look for food for myself and my baby girl. What I found was nothing short of horrifying. To say everything looked fucked is an understatement. It looked like one of those apocalyptic movies, where every town was turned into a ghost town, with the military riding up and down the roads. Some shops and buildings looked to have been burned down, retail and convenience stores looked to have been picked clean. . . what little I could find was a sizeable loot of canned food. For Gwen, I got at least a packet of diapers enough to last her through the week. And at least two packs of baby formula. That’ll last us until I figure out what to do about our current situation and this goddamned cough I’ve been having. 

***

25/11/1998

I been coughing out my lungs for the past few days. At first I didn’t want think it might be that super TB but shit. . . I know I got it, from who I don’t fucking know – I saw and spoke to nobody when we was back in New Durban. The news said to isolate yourself from others if you suspect you got it and call a doctor. But here’s my thing: I got a little girl, of no more than two, who depends on me for everything. . . I'm all she has. So, how do ya care for someone who literally needs you for everything when you’re sick with a disease that spreads when you cough or sneeze? And I can’t even call a doctor ‘cause the phones don’t fucking work no more, the TV stopped airing shows and news and the radio don’t talk no more. Part of me thought this thing would pass like a fart, but it hasn’t. 

The little girl’s crying again, so lemme go tend to her and hope I don’t give her what I got.

***

08/12/1998

I dunno if this’ll be the last note – the gist of the matter is I’m worse than I was a few days ago. At night I sleep in my own pool of sweat. I fixed up a remedy my momma used to cook up for me when I had the flu. . . I know they ain’t the same but it’s still treatment – better than doing fuckall about it. The homemade remedy worked some, it kept the coughing down for some days until the fucker came back with a vengeance. Instead of the usual phlegm I spit out everytime I cough, I now cough up blood. I thought about kicking up that remedy again but what if instead of spitting out blood I cough out my life this time? And to make shit worse and terrifying, the kid’s got to coughing too. She cries all the time, I know she’s in pain. The birds don’t calm her like they used to. The walks we’d take around the fields that surround the house don’t calm her none. She only sleeps at night, and even then does so momentarily, because she wakes up crying in a pool of sweat. 

There were times when I thought about ending the pain for her and me, I mean I got some bullets left over in the revolver. I tried doing it some days ago but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s simple to do it when you don’t know whoever it is you about to kill but it’s a different bull when it’s your own kid. It’s different when it’s the same person who you've had high hopes for. This little kid, who’s sleeping soundly (for a change) beside me while I write this, was supposed to be some big wig. A doctor, an engineer, or a fucking president. The world was s’posed to be her oyster. But now that world is nothing but a wasteland, fucked hard in the ass by a disease that kills anything with a pair of lungs.

We can’t stay here any longer, I’ve decided to head back to town tomorrow, to check for any signs of life, to see if there some folks who got out ok, to find if I can’t radio someone out there who might know what to do. If we’re lucky, they might have a cure and then everything’ll be ok. 

If it goes either way, I know we’ll be ok. 

– Dan 

PART 2

***

16/01/2006

   “Whatcha reading?”

   Gustavo, a boy of eleven, shook his head. “They died here.” 

   “Who did?”

   Gus handed over the sheets of papers to his father to read. He had only heard stories of how difficult life was during the early stages of the outbreak but he had not anticipated that was this bad. His own father, who was, according to Gus’ mother, a soft man before the outbreak, was hardened because of the things he saw and, indeed, because of the things he did. “These are wild times, Gus,” his father had once told him as they sat round a fire, “and they make savages of decent men and they make men out of children.” 

   As his father read the sheets left over by that man, who robbed a jewelry store out of desperation, Gus looked around their decent farmhouse. In the living room were Dan’s remains and now Gus had to find Little Gwen’s, who would have been around his age if she survived. He wanted to hope against hope that the baby managed to get somewhere safe and survive all of this but he knew better than that. 

   While making his way upstairs, to where he guessed the baby was, an air of hesitation took over him. Was he willing to see what he was about to see? I’ve seen worse, he tried to convince himself, though he knew he was lying. It was one thing to see a man croak and choke on his own blood (which he had seen) or stab a man right through the neck until the knife gets wedged in his spine (which he had done) but it was another to see the remains of a little child. His indifference towards the former scenarios could be justified by the fact they were not innocent. . . unlike a baby girl. He knew this would be one of those things that stick to you like rice, to quote the man from the letters. 

   Eventually, Gustavo mustered the courage to throw the bedroom door open. Immediately, his nose was stabbed by the bitter and gut-churning smell of a dead body. On the bed were the remains which were swaddled in threadbare and soiled and weathered cloths. Where her head would have been was nothing but dried blood and Gus guessed some savage made lunch out of her head. With such a thought going around in his head, Gus bent over a bucket and threw out the sandwich he had for lunch. “It’s not fair,” he whispered to the butterfly wallpaper before him. He turned back to the bed and had a mind to carry the remains outside. 

   Out back was a shovel and a field so Gus dug a grave for the two. It took him the better part of two hours to dig, and by the time he was done, his father had finished reading the notes. “I dug only one grave so you’ll always be with your girl,” Gus said to Dan’s skeleton. “I’m sorry it came to this. I might not have known you but. . .” he trailed off, unable to continue. His father put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

   “Hopefully this’ll bring you peace,” his father said, then he turned to his son before saying: “Come, let’s finish while we’ve still got light.” 

   The two of them wasted no time in burying the man and his daughter. And then, when they had finished, the boy and his father stood, sullenly, looking at the grave. Nothing was said, nothing was done, all was silent, save for the rustling of trees and the chirping of birds, which the girl so loved. “He died first,” Gus’ father blurted out, out of nowhere. 

   Gustavo turned to him. “How do you know?” 

   “You just know.” Gus could tell his father was just as profoundly affected by this as he was. “We had best keep moving. We need to drive right through the night if we want to get there in time.”

   Gus nodded and followed his father as they walked to the car. 

   He could not help but wonder if the two found peace somewhere. If they did, in what capacity was it? Was it as beautiful as the Bible promised or was it no different than the lives Gus and his father, and every other person who survived, led now? 

   They’ll be ok, Gus thought to himself as the car made its way westward across the interstate.