Nature's Call

The woods were alive with the sounds of nature, birds conversing with each other while families of squirrels argued over nothing and everything. The chorus surrounded her with the comfort of normalcy - each chirp, bleat, and chitter signaling the absence of danger. Annie knew she could let her guard down since her furry neighbors never did.

That afternoon, though, she was so preoccupied with digging the mud from the gaps between her toes that the alarmed call of a blue jay in the woods almost escaped her notice. She would’ve missed it, had it not been for the second, louder screech that pierced the facade of security. Her ears tuned to the jay’s frequency, muting the everyday sounds in search of additional information.

She wasn’t necessarily concerned; predators patrolled the woods around the clock, and jays were known to flip out over anything. She kept her ear open but continued work on clearing the mud from that morning’s scavenging trip. The previous night’s rains had softened the ground in the clearing around the rusted Plymouth Voyager minivan she called home, and she despised that squishy sensation between her toes almost as much as she hated the grating of dried mud between them.

The sharp yeep of a robin at the edge of the woods caused her to jump, her toes destined to remain half-cleaned as her full attention turned to the tree line. Blue jays might cry wolf, but robins weren’t so easily spooked. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest to get her entire frame inside before slowly pulling her minivan’s sliding door shut – holding the handle up to quiet the click at the end. She pressed her eye to her peephole, a small clearing in the grime on the window, searching in the direction of the robin’s call. The only sound now was the wind brushing the tops of the shoulder-height grass that occupied the clearing. The robin must have taken off as soon as it sounded the alarm.

The waves sent across the top of the grass by the wind held her attention, each hint of movement a possible harbinger of danger. What was out there, she wondered? Wolf? Bear? Or worse: human?

The breeze sent another ripple through the overgrowth; this time, some of the grass didn’t follow the wave. She leaned in closer and pressed her forehead to the glass, leaving a ring of sweat that was already beading on her forehead from the humid Georgia heat trapped in the enclosed van. Her eyes affixed to the anomaly, she watched as the patch moved independent of the rest of the grass.

A family of squirrels chittered excitedly in the far branches of the towering oak tree the Plymouth Voyager was permanently parked beneath. She could see them yelling at whatever was down there, telling it to bugger off with as much fury as a group of rodents could muster. She turned her attention back to the grass just in time to see the patch emerge from the edge of the grass into the shade under her tree. It sat atop a man’s head, the disheveled hair grimy enough to match the tan grass. The man crouched as he moved, keeping a low profile as his eyes remained fixed to the west of the clearing. He hadn’t noticed the van nor was he looking in her direction. That was the allure of the van, its camouflage being its natural place in the post-apocalyptic world where shadows of civilization were slowly overtaken by nature as time continued its onward trek.

He was older - but how old, she couldn’t tell. His skin was leathery from years out in the Sun, making it hard to determine how much of his aging was natural versus Sun-baked. He wore a sleeveless hide jacket, a symbol embossed on the back. Bandit gang. She didn’t know all of their insignias, so she had no idea which group he associated with, but she didn’t need to in order to know he wasn’t someone she wanted to cross paths with. The long rifle he held at the ready confirmed this.

He paused after making it to the cool shade under her oak, wiping the sweat from his brow. His eyes never wavered from the unseen prey he was stalking. Bandit gangs often sent out skilled hunters in search of supplies and food, be it a deer, turkey, or whatever supplies they could pilfer from the remains of the unlucky few who couldn’t hide fast enough. Some gangs didn’t stop there, seeing no difference in the taste of meat from game, bird, or human. Despite the suffocating head building in the van, she shuddered at the thought. He crouched, going down on one knee that sunk into the soft ground, and looked around inspecting for signs of his quarry... until something caught his eye a few feet in front of him.

Annie gasped as she looked down at her still-muddy feet. When she looked up, the bandit was still crouched - but was looking directly at the van. She flopped over, pressing her back to the sliding door. Her breaths shortened as her heart began to race, incredulous that another bandit would find her out here.

Scavengers and bandits often walked through this part of the woods, but they rarely paid the van any attention. Its grime-covered teal exterior was as much a part of the environment as the trees above and the grass below. So many Georgians were lost in the Global War on America that it was more common to find their houses, vehicles, and belongings laying around than it was to find an actual person. Whatever could be ransacked was already picked clean many times over; unless there was a sign that someone had been there recently, most assumed that there were no supplies in random vans in the woods.

Unless there was a sign…

Like fresh prints in the mud.

She prayed that he wouldn’t think to check the van, desperately clinging to irrational hope. She tried to convince herself that he was just looking for deer and saw one behind the van. Or that even if he’d seen the van, its grimy windows would offer no visibility to the decorated interior, and he might move on without opening the doors. She pushed the sliding door’s lock, just in case.

The squirrels’ chittering moved down the branch, from the tip to the base where the van sat immobile. She listened, following their voices to track his location. He was definitely walking towards her; she could no longer hold out hope that he’d ignore the van. Hope was draining with each passing second; she was down to the inane notion that he might not try the van door - even though her footprints led directly to it. She began to hear the squelch of his steps, slow and measured, as he neared her, the sounds shattered her last vestiges of false hope. The initial burst of a sob escaped past her hand before she muffled it and whined quietly. The layer of sweat covering her face now mixed with free-flowing tears.

She was well aware of what bandits would do to a young woman alone in the woods. Even if she’d previously had any doubts, the other bandits who found her six months prior taught her better. Luckily they'd let her live, just leaving behind a parting gift that she'd only discovered recently.

She’d spent considerable time during scavenging runs to Valdosta look for additional protection, something more than her dull knife or the baseball bat her scrawny arms could hardly swing. She’d found it in the basement of a one-story rambler, a rusted revolver with a box of rounds next to it. She’d shoved both into her backpack and taken them back to the van, but she’d never fired a gun before. She wasn’t even sure it would fire. More so than that, she couldn’t bring herself to kill; she never understood how men could do it so easily, as if it were nothing more than an afternoon stroll.

She reached under the driver’s seat and grabbed the the black grip of the revolver. She’d always known that she couldn't fire the gun; like the baseball bat that she couldn’t swing with enough force to do anything, the gun was never meant as a weapon – only a deterrent. The bat may not have worked last time, but she hoped the threat of being shot combined with her insistence that she had nothing of value would be enough to prevent what she knew he’d want. She knew it had little chance of working, but she tried to lie to herself - in vain. The icy terror continued to creep outward from her chest, eventually reaching the pit of her stomach. The baby seemed to sense her despair and responded by kicking the left side of her bulging belly.

“We’re not alone,” she whispered with a wavering voice, her hand instinctively covered her belly. The barrel of the revolver shook wildly as she lifted it to face the direction of the approaching footsteps. If she could just bring herself to fire, if the gun would actually shoot, she could end this now. She could fire the six rounds she’d long had loaded into the chamber. The danger would pass. She knew she should, but she knew she wouldn’t. There wasn't a single violent bone in her body.

The sound of the sliding door’s handle caused her to jump; she’d heard the steps approaching, but she expected him to say something first. Knock possibly. The handle jiggled for a moment then stopped as the lock showed that it still worked. She couldn’t hold back her sobs any longer as fear overwhelmed her. She tried to muffle them. His voice told her she didn’t silence them enough.

“Oh sweetie, there’s no need to be scared.” His voice, raspy and deep, had a strong, Southern twang to it. “Why don’t you come on out and let ol’ Uncle Walter get a good look at you?” His laugh was slow with a devious edge as he moved to the passenger door. Her heart sunk as the handle rattled, the sudden realization hitting her that she didn’t know if that door was locked. The handle creaked as he lifted it, silence lasting an eternity before the handle creaked again as he lowered it. Three more times, he lifted and dropped the handle before giving up. Locked.

She let out a deep sigh as she realized none of the doors would open for the bandit. The driver’s side door had never opened since she'd moved in: it was rusted shut. Same with the rear cargo door. Perhaps he’ll give up, she told herself. But he knew she was in there, and like a predator digging into a tunnel with trapped prey, he’d find a way in eventually.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s stop playing these silly games. Let me in so we can enjoy this fine afternoon weather together.” His voice trailed as it moved around the front of the van. He tried the driver’s door, finding it unmoving as well. “You’re really sealed up tight in there, huh?” He turned back, stopping outside the sliding door once again.

She held the revolver in front of her face, the iron sights jumping around as she struggled to keep her aim steady. She could see his silhouette through the grime on the window but knew he couldn’t see her. Just shoot, she implored herself. Why couldn’t she do it?

A loud thud sent her scuffling back, pressing her back against the opposite wall. Another followed, then another, before the final blow ended with the sound of glass shattering. She recoiled, throwing her hands in front of her face. After the last of the shards clinked on the floor, she looked up to see Walter’s leathery face, stretched thin with a big smile that displayed only half the number of teeth it should have.

“Nice to finally meet you. You gon’ invite me in or not?” His face disappeared, replaced a moment later by his hand reaching through the newly opened window. He felt around for the lock, pressing the lever. Without the lock to prevent it, the door slid open when he pulled the handle this time. His smile was laced with anticipation and confidence.

“Aww honey, don’t be scared.” He spun the rifle on its strap until it was resting on his back. “I ain’t gon’ hurt you. Well, not as long as you play nice.”

Annie raised the revolver, her hand still shaking wildly. She wanted to speak, tell him that there was nothing there for him to take and that she’d shoot if he tried anything. She could hardly breathe, though. The words never formed.

“Oh! What you got there, missy? An ol’ snubnose? That’s cute. You ever even fired one of them things before?” His tone was playful, yet sinister. She’d heard the other bandits use that same tone. There wasn’t an ounce of fear anywhere in it.

The gun dropped as the fight left her body. She knew what was coming; she could only hope he would show the same mercy as the others did. She openly sobbed, deep sobs that started in her chest and convulsed over her entire body.

As she sobbed, she felt the van shift as it took on Walter’s weight.

She heard the sound of the rifle dropping to the ground as he began removing what he had on.

She felt the sensation of helplessness.

She smelled the sickening stench of sweat and filth as he drew closer.

She tasted iron as she bit her lip.

Then, she felt another kick.

She felt the weight of responsibility, her child relying on her.

She saw the situation for what it was.

She felt cool resolution wash her fear away and steady her hand.

She saw a smile cross his face when she raised the gun again.

She heard the blast echo in the van’s interior.