Dawn broke, spearing the trees with light and
setting the multi-hued fall leaves ablaze in a riot of
color. Across Sullivan’s pond it came, leaving a trail
of sparks dancing on the wave tops in its wake. Past
the tiny boathouse, up over the shoreline and finally
illuminating the one room cabin that sat nestled
snugly in the embrace of the trees on the other side.
It was one of those perfect postcard moments that
brought tourists from around the world to Maine every
year with their Winnebagos and their cameras, filled
with the vain and futile misconception that they could
somehow capture that beauty and take it home with them
like a genie in a bottle.
A lone sunbeam found its way through two of the
boards that had been hastily nailed over the windows
inside the cabin and bored into Carl Deaver’s eye. He
blinked groggily but didn’t move from his position on
the couch facing the door. The light didn’t bother him
much; he hadn’t slept in three days. Or was it four?
He’d lost count. In any event, he hadn’t slept since
it happened.
The memories hit him again like punches from a
younger, faster boxer, but he pushed them away this
time. He’d relived them enough over the last few days
as it was. It was almost time for him to go and he
wanted to spend a last few moments thinking about the
happier times he’d had here at the cabin with Katrina
and Emily. He lay the shotgun down beside him on the
couch. Ears tensed for the slightest hint of a sound
from outside, he leaned carefully over and withdrew
his last bottle of Rolling Rock ale from the empty
case on the floor. He cracked it open, drained half,
and then resettled the shotgun into his lap with one
finger on the trigger.
The gun and the cabin had both been his father’s.
A lifelong pacifist, Carl had always sworn that he
would never pick up a gun, but as he blearily surveyed
the room it occurred to him that his convictions, like
the cabin, had become only so much wreckage in the
face of recent events. He let his mind’s eye take a
last look at it the way it had been.
Over there the bed that he and Kat had shared so
many nights during their college vacations, and later
with Emily after she had been born. The massive stone
fireplace over which the shotgun used to hang merely
for decoration. (He’d kept a fire going so they
couldn’t get down the chimney). The table where they’d
all eaten breakfast that day, covered now with
splinters of wood and shattered glass where he’d had
to stand on it to nail the window shut. It had
happened and they had come and now everything was
broken, everything in ruins. Especially him.
The beer was gone. Kat and Emily were gone. It
was time now for him to go too.
Carl stood, cradled the shotgun in his arms, and
slowly made his way to the door. Through the haze of
his fatigue he could hear them outside, shuffling and
scratching as they prowled around on the porch. They
were waiting for him, he knew, as they had been for
days. Well let them wait a little longer. He had one
last thing to take care of before he went outside to
greet them.
Hanging beside the door was a photograph of Kat
and Emily in a simple, silver frame. It had been their
gift to him last Father’s day. He used the butt of the
shotgun to smash the glass, then slipped the picture
free, kissed it, and tucked it into his shirt pocket
facing outward. Taking his battered Red Sox hat from
the coat rack, he perched it on top of his head, then
with a deep breath he unbarred and opened the door.
The animals were there, thousands of them, every
denizen of zoo and forest and home imaginable staring
at him with inscrutable, marble black eyes. Carl had
thought that they might attack him the instant he
showed himself, after all the last time he had stood
here it had been to watch in horror as his wife and
daughter were dragged screaming into the woods.
That had been the moment when they took back the
world. He’d heard about it on his little radio that
night, after he was back in the cabin and they were
still trying to knock down his hasty defenses rather
than outwait him. Every creature on earth rising up as
one against their masters. Cities in ruins. Global
chaos. Then nothing. The broadcasts had died before
the batteries did.
Yet now they merely waited.
“I’m coming,” said Carl at last, and he started
down the path towards the pond. The assembled
creatures parted to let him pass. As he walked he
began talking to them. “I was on your side you know,”
he said, tears running unnoticed down his face. “In
the seventies I was heavily into ecological
protesting. Treehugging and all that. I always
recycle, care about the environment… hell, I even
voted for Nader. Dolphin free tuna!” He gave a chirpy
‘thumbs up’ to a nearby bear. It looked at him
malevolently.
He finished the rest of the walk in silence.
At the waters edge Carl turned to face them,
placing the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth. Good,
he could just reach the trigger with his thumb. The
animals stood watching him like a jury.
He suddenly realized how quiet it was. No planes,
no boats, no cars. And the air smelled cleaner than it
ever had before. He dropped the gun.
“The thought occurs that maybe its all better
this way,” he said, falling to his knees. “You know
what? Come get me. You’ve earned it.”
He spread his arms, closed his eyes, and waited
for them.
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