Rescue

"Dad. Dad. Are you there?" Silence was the only response to her knocking. "Dad! Are you okay?" She pushed the door open, knowing he would not have locked it. She found him in the back of the house, in the kitchen, in a camp chair, his legs propped on a step stool, entirely wrapped in his old sleeping bag, the one he had taken every summer on their campouts. She could barely see his head. His eyes were closed. She couldn't tell if he was still breathing.

She pulled down the top flap of the bag enough to expose his head. She put two fingers on his carotid. "Dad," she whispered. "Dad."

He grunted and sighed. "You're letting the cold in, darling. Wrap me back up. That's a good girl. You don't happen to have a stocking cap about, I suppose?"

Darla leaned down until she could see his eyes and grinned. "I'll find something. How long have you been like this? Out of fuel?"

"Don't worry about me," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"Right. Don't worry about you. Here you are alone, near to freezing. As I expected. I would have been here earlier, but I had to wait for Benjamin to finish repairing the electric cart so we both could come back. Come with me back to the village. We have heat there. And food. Come join us, Dad."

"Leave me be, girl. I'm old. You have children to take care of there. There's little enough for any of us now."

"Dad. You know I'm not going to do that. Can you walk?"

"Stubborn girl. Do you get that from your mother or from me? How is your mother? Have you heard from her?"

"She's coming to stay with us. She sent word."

"Well. Good. She's smart and resourceful, that woman. She'll be a real addition to your little survival village."

"Dad, we do a lot better than survive there. You need to come stay with us. You'll see."

Darla knew he was determined to stay in his home of many years, and to die there if necessary. But she was as stubborn as he was, and younger and stronger. It wasn't a question of getting him to come. It came down to whether she would have to tie him up and drag him out like a side of beef. He was tough and stringy and tall, but thin from not eating, and the recent drop in temperature, along with no food left, had frightened him. She gave him water and a small muffin she had in her pocket. She kept talking to him as she watched his eyes take on some of their old glow. Her father, the source of much of her inspiration as she grew into her own. A story teller. Sharp, intelligent. But also a Buddhist philosopher inclined to accept without judging all that he experienced, including the downward spiral to death, which worried her. The up side was he had taught her to question everything, including everything he taught her. She trusted that, in the end, he would fight against the dying of the light. She got him to his feet.

He couldn't walk. His right lower leg was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Darla had learned enough emergency medicine to know it was a serious wound. The bandage looked like it had not been changed since he put it on. "How long ago did this happen, Dad?"

He winced in pain when she touched the leg. "I don't know. Lost track of time. Several days. Maybe a week. Cut it fighting off a looter. Might have been a neighbor. He had knives. He's upstairs. He got rather the worst of it, I'm afraid. You know that saying. "You should see the other guy." I wasn't able to get him out of the house though. Going to stink badly soon."

"Oh Dad. Was he alone?"

"Darling, if he hadn't been, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

She tried to move him using the fireman's carry, laying him across her back and dragging him, but it hurt his leg too much. She sat him on the step stool, which had casters, and tied his legs together with towels to stabilize them. She was then able to drag him backwards to the front door. When she opened it to drag him down the single small step to the walk, she stopped.

"Shit," she whispered. A few feet away, in the drive, a young man stood bent over, back turned to her. He appeared to be studying the wiring of the golf cart Darla had borrowed from Benjamin. She had the key, but it seemed likely that someone determined could find a way to hot wire it. "Hey you! Get away from there!"

He turned to her, startled. He was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen, and too thin. Desperate. He squinted his eyes and bared his teeth. Ferel looking, she thought. He stared at her for a long time, saying nothing. Finally he said, "Key!"

Darla pursed her lips and said, "Not going to happen. Move away. Now."

"Can't." He continued to stare at Darla, not moving. His right hand came from behind his back. He held a hunting knife. Three inch blade, Darla estimated.

She had hoped this wouldn't be necessary. When she went to Benjamin's shop to borrow the cart, she had asked him to come with her, knowing she might need help to get her father. "Sorry," he had said. "The cart's battery should get you there and back with your father. I've tested its range with different weights, and given the distance you have to go, I estimate you won't be able to carry more than two people. Two out and three back, sorry, it won't make it. Here." He had given her a handgun, a rare and valuable item in their community indeed. A Walther PPK with four rounds. "It's all the ammo I've got. Please bring it back. Unused if at all possible." She had thought about it hard, then kissed him on the cheek and pocketed the gun.

Now she slipped her hand into her right pocket and brought out the pistol. She held it out in front of her with both hands, the way she'd seen it done many times on television before the grid went down, and with it, all forms of artificial entertainment.

"Move away from the cart," she said again. Her hands were steady. She aimed directly for the young man's chest.

"Please," he said, still not moving. "My little sister's hurt. I've got to get her somewhere where she can get help."

Darla held her aim and watched his eyes closely. "You're lying."

"No! Our parents .…they're dead. Some people broke in. Took everything we had. My dad tried to stop them. They had guns too. I was in my room. Lisa ran downstairs when she heard shots. One of them shot her too."

"She's alive? How bad is she hurt?"

"It's her leg. I wrapped it. Stopped the bleeding I think. But she's sick. I've got to get her help."

Shock, Darla thought. Or worse.

"How long ago? How old is she?"

"Five. Just five years old! It happened yesterday."

He could be lying. Probably lying in fact, Darla told herself. But she couldn't dismiss the story.

"Listen to me carefully. I'm taking my father to my community. We have medicine, food, heat. Everything you and your sister would need. You live near here? I want you to go get your sister. Bring her back here. I'll take both of you with me to where I live. You'll do fine there, but only if you cooperate completely. No trouble, no surprises. Understand?"

He stood looking at her as if he hadn't heard. Cunning? Or disbelief? Darla couldn't tell.

"Do you understand me? You have a choice here. How long would it take you to get back here with her? Tell me!"

"Uh, ten minutes?"

"All right. Go. Go! If you're not back here in ten minutes, you lose your chance. No weapons, no other people. Just you and your sister. Any funny business, I shoot. Got that?"

He turned and ran down the street. Darla turned to her father. "Let's get you on this cart." The boy returned about eight minutes later, pulling a little girl wrapped in a heavy blanket in a Radio Flyer wagon. Darla loaded his sister on the back and perched him on the back bumper. She knew they probably wouldn't make it all the way, but she had to take them.

They ran out of juice about half a mile from the village. Benjamin seemed to have expected this for some reason. He was riding in their direction with a fully charged battery strapped to the back of his bicycle. Within minutes he'd switched batteries and rode with them the rest of the way to the village's small clinic.