The End of Things

The knock on my door is loud.  Not as loud as the explosion that shook the building fifteen minutes ago, but loud.  And persistent.

“Coming, coming!”  I get myself on my feet and move toward the door.  Yahtzee is there ahead of me, barking ferociously.  Her front feet lift slightly off the floor with each yip.  My chihuahua weighs seven pounds soaking wet but imagines herself a dire wolf.  I pull her leash from a hook on the wall, clip it on, and open the door. 

A soldier in full battle gear looms in the doorway.  Under one arm he carries a ream of printed flyers.  “You are being evacuated,” he says.  “It is mandatory.  Read this.”  He thrusts one of the notices at me. His grim expression reflects the gravity of the situation.  

Yahtzee growls and lunges toward him with teeth bared.  I stop her inches from the soldier’s leg.  He glances down at her, moving only his eyes, then he looks back at me.  “Please read and comply exactly with the instructions.  Someone will be back in an hour to get you.”  I slowly close the door as he heads down the hall and knocks on my neighbor’s door.  

As I read the notice my pulse quickens.  The enemy is advancing rapidly into the area.  Rocket and artillery attacks will intensify and be followed by a full ground incursion within 48 hours.  All citizens are required to pack a maximum of one bag or suitcase per person and be ready to depart on short notice.  Roads are severely damaged.  Vehicles are limited and will be allocated to strategic defense actions only.  The army will provide armed escort for the walking evacuation to the border.  Plan on at least four days on foot.  Wear suitable shoes.  Pets will not be allowed.  They must be put down or left behind.

I slump into my chair and look down at Yahtzee.  She looks back at me as if expecting an update.  I’ve come to believe that she understands every word I say, but I have no words for this.  She is all I have left.  

On my side table are two framed pictures.  I look at them every day.  Maybe more than I should.  In one, my wife Irena and I are standing together smiling.  Simple, untroubled smiles.  The Eiffel Tower floats in the background.  We look so much younger.  It seems impossible that our vacation in Paris was only four years ago.  

The other photo shows our son, Jan.  He was a good son.  When the conflict broke out and the President called for every able-bodied young person to answer the call, Jan didn’t hesitate.  On the day he left for training we waved good-bye from the platform.  We were heartbroken and afraid but couldn’t have been prouder.  In the photo he’s in uniform standing in front of a tank.  He sent it to us the day he reported to his combat unit at the front. 

Three months and two days later he died in action.  Looking back now, purpose and pride be damned.  If I could, I’d gladly trade my own life for a chance to turn back time and stop him from getting on that train.  But that’s not the way things work.

Irena has been gone for five months and six days now.  Her death certificate listed “Heart Disease” as the cause.  She was very sick, but I have no doubt it was her broken heart that did the fatal damage.  I miss her.  I miss both of them – terribly and constantly.  

So, it’s just me and my little rescue dog.   I don’t know what I would do without her.  When Jan was killed, I was crushed.  Irena was already sick, and when her condition worsened and she passed away, I went into a very dark place.  Stoli became my best friend.  I was probably headed for a bad end before Yahtzee came into my life.  A friend knew I was struggling and referred me to the rescue service.  I almost didn’t do it.  But it ended up saving my life.  

And now my government - the one that took my son and broke my wife’s heart - is telling me I have to say good-bye to all I have left.  Well, I can’t do it.  I don’t know what I will do, but I can’t put her down, and I won’t abandon her.

I hear another explosion.  It rattles our picture window overlooking the city.  A fresh plume of smoke rises from a building in the near distance. That makes four active rocket target sites I can see from my chair.  When I woke up this morning there were only two.   

The new attack jogs my sense of urgency.  I look at my watch – only forty-five minutes to do what needs doing before the evacuation escorts come back around for me.  I get up and go into the bedroom, pull my largest wheeled suitcase out of the closet, and throw it on the bed.  I unzip it, and consider that this is all the space I’m allowed for everything I will leave here with, possibly forever, the utter absurdity and terror of the situation overwhelms me.  Irena used to kid me about how much trouble I had packing for a vacation.  Packing for an evacuation seems impossible.  But here I am.

I simply need to get myself moving.  From my dresser I pull a week’s worth of underwear and extra socks.  I add several shirts and two extra pairs of slacks, two sweaters and a jacket from the closet.  I find a pair of barely used hiking shoes that I almost donated more than once and gratefully and put them on.  I go out into the living room and grab my pictures from the side table, my rosary from its nail on the wall, and a couple of books. 

I bring this all back to the bedroom and lay it on the bed.  Of course, Yahtzee has been shadowing my every move.  As I stand looking over the collected items and sizing them up, she jumps up onto the bed, into the suitcase, and looks up at me.

She is so small.  I could leave some of the clothing out and make room inside for her.  But she might bark or whine and give us away.  Being closed inside the dark might frighten her.  She might panic.  

Then I remember her medicine.  She doesn’t behave well at the veterinary office, so they gave me a mild sedative to give her before her appointments.  I could give her an extra dose to ensure she would rest peacefully inside the bag.  At least that would get us started, and I could figure out what to do next once we’re on our way.  

I go to the kitchen, find her medication, pull a box of her food from the cabinet and a grab few bottles of water from the refrigerator.  I give Yahtzee three of her sedative chews.  She usually takes one for vet visits, so I’m hoping this is a safe but effective dose.

Back in the bedroom, I decide what to bring and what to leave behind to allow space in the suitcase for the dog.  I pack plenty of underwear and socks, two pairs of slacks, two dress shirts, one sweatshirt, a light jacket, my books, my shave kit, my photos, the rosary, and Yahtzee’s leash, food, water, and medicine. When I’m done, I stand back and satisfy myself that there is enough space left for her, with a little breathing room.

Yahtzee is lying comfortably beside the suitcase on the bed.  Her head is resting on her front paws.  Her eyes are already looking drowsy.  I pick her up gently, set her inside, and check the time.  The soldiers will be back shortly to collect us.  I close the suitcase and gently pick it up, carry it out, and set it near the door.

Minutes later there is a knock.  Two soldiers, a male and a female, are waiting for me in the hall.  “It’s time to go.”

“Yes, yes,” I say, picking up my suitcase and setting it in the hallway.  

“Do you need assistance with that?” the young woman asks.

“Thank you.  I’m fine.”  

I turn and lock the door behind me.  It’s something I’ve done thousands of times, but as I turn the key and hear the latch click, the absurdity of the situation strikes me.  What am I doing? Does it even matter that it’s locked?  Will I ever be here again?  I suddenly feel outside of myself, like a character in a book I once read – “unstuck in time”.  

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes.  Fine, fine.  Thank you.”  I pick up my suitcase and we head down the hall.  They tell me to go downstairs and wait with the other residents while they finish clearing the building.  

The group I join outside is unlike any group of people I had ever joined before.  It comprises seventy or eighty people who are largely unknown to each other.  Beyond the random nod or occasional polite “good morning” that passes between individuals who just happen to live at the same street address, many of us had never exchanged so much as a complete sentence or knew a single personal detail about their fellow residents.   There are a range of emotions on display among the evacuees.   Confusion, frustration, anxiety, terror, but one common thread binds all of us together: a complete loss for knowing what the future holds.

As the soldiers come down the steps with the last few residents, several muffled thuds and another loud explosion rock the middle-distance.  People visibly flinch and a ripple of heightened concern sweeps through the crowd.  After the captain of the soldiers makes a brief statement about the rules of the march, we head west on the road out of town.

There is little talk among the evacuees.  Most walk without speaking, or converse only with immediate family members.  I am not close to any of my neighbors, and under the circumstances, am not interested in initiating any chit-chat with people I may never see again.  I am, of course, chiefly concerned with Yahtzee, so I choose to keep my head down and walk on.

 On our way out of town, we pass through decreasingly urban neighborhoods, transitioning from apartment buildings to row homes to single family residences set on larger and larger lots of land.  A few hours after our departure, we are surrounded by rural countryside.  The soldiers call a break not far from a large lake.

Some people sit and rest, take some water or have a bite to eat.  Others go into a nearby grove of trees for a natural break.  As for me, I plan to carry the suitcase some distance away from the group to check on Yahtzee.  But as I stand to walk away, I hear a deafening whistle, which is followed immediately by a blinding explosion.  I am thrown from my feet and lose consciousness.  

Sometime later I return to my senses.  My ears are ringing.  My head is throbbing.  Pain radiates throughout my body, but my left leg is in particular agony.  An Army medic is wrapping the leg with gauze.  

“What happened?” I ask.

“We were hit by an enemy rocket.  Several people died.  You got lucky.”

“Where’s Yahtzee?” I shout.  I am frantic and still a bit disoriented.

“Who?”

“My dog! Yahtzee.  Is she safe?”

“Was it a chihuahua?”

“Yes!  Is she all right?”

The medic doesn’t answer.  Instead, she stands up and walks away.  A few minutes later the captain of the detail approaches and kneels next to me.

“You were asking about a dog?  A chihuahua.”

“Yes.”  I’m starting to regain my senses.  I’m getting a very uncomfortable feeling from the captain’s demeanor.

“Your dog was discovered after the blast.  One of my men heard her whimpering coming from inside your bag.  Did you read the evacuation instructions?”

“Yes.” Ah – now I remember.  “But was she, I mean is she -?”

“She was slightly injured.  But that dog was in clear violation of the orders.  I had her put down.”

The captain’s words rattle around in my mind for a few seconds before my defense mechanisms allow me to hear what he said.  Yahtzee is dead.  As if my world did not already feel unlivable, now this?   I am at my limit.  

“Where is she?”

“What?”

“What did you do with her after you shot her?” I shout.

“Look, I realize this is difficult for you.  But you never should have brought that dog with you.  I’ll find out what was done with her and let you know.”

A few minutes later I was told that Yahtzee had been thrown into the edge of a nearby hayfield after she was shot.  I was furious and grief-stricken at the same time.  I went and recovered Yahtzee’s body and went to the captain to ask his permission to take her remains to the shore of the lake and bury her.

“Are you sure you can manage that?  With your leg injury?”

“I will be fine.”  My teeth were clenched in pain and anger.

“Very well.  We’ll be moving on in an hour.  Please make sure you’re back by then.”

As I limp toward the lake, I feel outside of myself.  Yahtzee’s body is still warm.  My leg is on fire.  The bleeding has soaked through the medic’s bandages.  I am in agony, carrying the suitcase in one hand and pressing Yahtzee against my chest with the other.

I imagine Yahtzee still alive and well, walking beside me.  She would look up at me every few steps for reassurance.  She rarely experienced anything beyond the familiar sights and sounds of our neighborhood.  The current situation would be so foreign to her, she would feel as if she had woken up in some hellish other world.  I would do my best to remain calm and speak to her in a reassuring tone, but it would be pure bluff.  She knows me well enough to hear the fear in my voice, regardless of the words I spoke.

When I reach the sandy shore of the lake, I see a dock extending out beyond the glassy shallows.  I lay the dog down, then sit, open the suitcase, and pull out my pictures.  First I look at Jan for a long time.  I can’t feel him.  If it weren’t for this image, I’m not sure I could remember his face at all.  

Then I hold the one of Irena and me in Paris.  I close my eyes and try to evoke the memory, to bring back the way that day felt.  What did we see?  What sounds were in the air, what smells surrounded us?  But the memory won’t come.  It is as if I never knew the two people in the photo.  Their hopeful, happy smiles seem impossible in the world around me now.

I put the pictures back and pull out my rosary.  I close my eyes and pray.  I want to feel something.  Comfort, forgiveness, love. Hope, mostly.  All of it, any of it.  But none of it comes.

I am empty.  I look down at Yahtzee.  “I’m sorry, girl.  I can’t do this without you.”

Nearby I collect a dozen or so fist sized rocks and drop them into the case.  After snapping the latches closed again, I carry Yahtzee and drag the suitcase, painfully continuing toward the dock.

Hobbling out over the slatted boards, at first I can see the lake bottom through the glassy water.   But as I approach the end of the dock, the water darkens, and the bottom fades from view until it disappears entirely.  I sit down at the far end and lay Yahtzee’s body beside me.  I imagine her climbing into my lap, shaking.   She would lick my chin, worried about me as I painfully extend my injured leg. 

My bandages are now saturated and dripping.  I feel lightheaded. 

I slide myself over to the end of the dock and hang my legs hang over the edge.  I unclip Yahtzee’s leash and run it through the handle of the suitcase, then wrap my legs with it and clip them together.  Then using my last scrap of strength, I shove the suitcase into the water, pull Yahtzee to my chest, and slide in.

I imagine Yahtzee would be struggling in my arms as we sink deeper into the lake.  I hold her tightly and concentrate on not moving my arms or legs.  I tighten my grip on her as panic consumes me.  I resist my body’s instinctual reflex to breathe for a long agonizing moment, but in the end, I surrender.  My mouth opens, I exhale, and then my lungs fill with water.  Yahtzee has stopped struggling.  I lose consciousness and become one with the blackness below.