When Opportunity Strikes

I stretched and then eased myself to a sitting position to rest under a tree, lazily enjoying the cool breeze. It had been a sweltering day and the towering tree provided ample shade. The tree had dropped a large yield of black walnuts yesterday in the storm resulting in hard husks scattered everywhere like a minefield of green spheres in the tall weeds. It’s unfortunate that I don’t eat them as they make me sick.

Yawning, I watched the man and two children tend to the garden. They were a family who took pride in everything they did. They had put a lot of time and effort into it, and it had shown. Even the hottest days hadn’t kept them from their daily labors. Through the sweat and tears they had managed to grow a lush, ever-flourishing field of vegetables. A vast variety of tomatoes, carrots, broccoli, lettuce, celery—the list went on and on. Everything a homestead could want, and then some. That is, until the storm.

The hurricane had been brutal, damaging the shed, knocking down trees and flooding the area. The high winds and relentless rain had pummeled through the land for nearly 8 hours causing havoc and destruction. The garden had suffered terribly, being a near complete loss with only a few vegetables left to pick through. The loss was a devastating blow to the family who depended on the food to help get through winter.

I don’t live too far from here, but my home had not received as much damage. There had been minor flooding and some fallen trees and brush around the perimeter. Nothing serious. We are sixty-two strong and clean up was quickly executed.

The woman came around the family’s home; a small, three-room cottage, carrying shards of clay pots in a large cardboard box. They had once been home to thriving lemon bushes. She tossed the box in the back of the man’s pick-up truck with a smash. The old, brown Chrysler hadn’t moved in months and probably wouldn’t be moving for a while as a pack of river rats had moved into the engine, chewing away wires to make room for their ever-expanding family. My peers and I avoid these disgusting creatures as best as we can. They are vile and can transmit disease.

Wiping sweat from her eyes, the woman walked to the children where they were bent over, picking up pieces of broken branches and twigs. She lovingly ruffled their brown hair, and then continued to the man to assist him.

Together they rummaged through fallen branches and debris to salvage what they could. From where I was relaxing in the thick foliage, I could clearly see sadness in their faces. Almost defeat. Tears slowly rolled down the woman’s worn face. The man pulled her to him and hugged her reassuringly. He kissed her forehead. She wiped her eyes, and then glanced to see if the children had noticed her weep. If they had they didn’t show it as they hauled the branches they had collected to dump in the truck. After the embrace, the couple returned to the task at hand.

My eyes felt heavy. I closed them, listening to the family as background noise. The buzzing of the bees in a nearby hive captured most of my attention. The hive had been ripped from a nearby tree and lay destroyed, massive amounts of bees hovering around it in search of their queen. If they hadn’t located her by now they most likely wouldn’t.

We had relocated to our current place last year at this time. We had been ruthlessly driven out of our previous abode, which was only a short walk away. The very man I was looking at, with all of his hard work and effort now in a tangled heap, had discovered our presence by sheer luck. Stumbling upon a bunch of us, actually. We had been outside weather-proofing our home when he had appeared out of nowhere. He had been so stealthy and quiet on the pine needles that covered the ground that we hadn’t heard him approach. Judging by the rifle he held, he was hunting. We froze. His eyes widened as he noticed us. Raising the gun, he took a step forward.

His concentration on us, he tripped over a rotted stump that was partially hidden beneath moss. He fell to the ground with a thud. His weapon flew out of his grip, landing a few feet away. Not wasting another moment to see if he had hurt himself, we fled in different directions. Five shots sounded.

Once we were certain it was safe, the survivors joined at our designated meeting place deep in the meadow, cloaked by an over-growth of tall grass. We had waited for some time, and when we were sure no one else would be coming, we conducted an emergency census. We came up three short. It hadn’t been too difficult to figure out what had happened to them. Prior to the meeting, some of us had doubled back when the man was observed creeping through the woods afar, rifle in hand. Through the eerie silence, we easily detected splotches of blood on blades of grass and moss. No bodies were in sight, undoubtedly hauled off with the man for consumption. Trembling in both anger and sorrow, we looked at each other helplessly.

We neared our home when a powerful, eye-searing odor of vinegar and garlic hit us all at once. Gagging from the fumes, we quickly stepped back. Noxious piles blocked the front entrance. With further inspection we discovered that the man had set-up traps, hiding them in the weeds. We had heard about these deadly devices from our forefathers. Over the years, many of our kin had been taken before their time. And the death it promised wasn’t a merciful one. There had been no way of knowing if there were more traps, unseen and waiting to kill. Carefully edging away, we avoided certain death. From a distance, we noted that all of the entry ways were compromised with traps. We reported our findings at the meeting.

A second head count was done, ensuring that the tally was accurate. Once the sounds of grief and panic had died down, a serious discussion ensued. Obviously, we had to find a safe place to live. That was number one. Some scouts would be sent out to secure one of two known shelters, and to prepare it to house us.

Another important issue was food, or lack thereof. All of our food for the upcoming season is stored at our, now dangerous, previous residence. The crowd stirred, realizing starvation was a true possibility. Talk of heroism had been volunteered, but was denied through vote. It would be suicide to attempt to breach the premises. We had already lost loved ones in this attack and would not chance losing more.

We agreed that the majority of us would venture out to gather as much food as possible. We wouldn’t be fussy either. Thanks to the man, it was going to be a rough winter and we couldn’t be picky.

I shook myself alert. Time had passed and I had almost nodded off. I looked at the family. I don’t know how many hours they had labored, the four of them in the scorching sun, but it had been quite a while. Their shirts were wet with sweat, their hair sodden. The signs of sunburn were evident.

They had made progress. Much of the branches in the yard were now in the bed of the pick-up. The children were each raking up piles of smaller debris and relocating it to the truck in buckets.

But, most importantly, I noticed the neatly stacked rows of retrieved produce. There wasn’t much. Maybe enough, if rationed properly, to see them to January. Maybe even to the beginning of February. They would surely have to slaughter more livestock than usual to make ends meet. It promised to be a dire winter.

The man stood up with a heavy sigh. He swiped sweat from his reddened face, smearing mud across his damp cheek. The ground was still water-logged and soggy and he was filthy. He wiped his hands on his muddy overalls then glanced at the rows of vegetables. He slowly shook his head in despair. The woman patted his back in a comforting manner. Pursing her lips tightly, she made her way to the cottage. She returned with a pitcher of cold lemonade and paper cups. The family quickly drank, quenching their thirst. The adults eyed the patch of dirt where the garden had once been, and then the meager harvest. A heavy silence filled the air. Even the adolescents were silent, quietly sitting on the steps.

The man exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping with burden. They had all worked hard and were tired. And hot. They needed to clean themselves, and then prepare for dinner. He turned away, stress etched on his haggard face, and then ushered his family into the house.

Leisurely stretching my legs, I stood, scanning the area for other members of my colony. I spotted Bill, and then Cheryl, peeking at the house from behind the truck’s rear tires. Sounds of dishes clattering could be heard as the family sat down to eat. Peering warily at the cottage, I carefully stayed in the tall, unkempt grass for cover and made my way to the unattended stockpile. Although I couldn’t detect the rest of the colony, I knew they had all been there observing the family from their hiding places. I also knew that they were already advancing to reap the harvest alongside of me, the bitter-sweet taste of revenge on everyone’s palate.

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The man pushed his chair back from the wooden table, and then stood. He smiled. “Delicious, as always, Maude,” he complimented his wife of 12 years. Although their marriage was far from perfect, the last two years had been especially trying on the little family from the factory’s sudden closing to poverty and increased prices. Their relationship had become strained, but their love was strong and would endure. Maude had even taken up selling eggs and goats’ milk to the neighbors and their friends. And she was learning how to make goat soap from a book that the neighbor had dropped off from the local library. She would try to sell them. It wasn’t much, but it helped. He appreciated it.

Maude smiled warmly. “Thank you, Thomas.” She began to clear the dishes. “Billy, Brian, you can both go play in your room.”

The boys excused themselves from the table to hurry to their toys. They knew it would be an early night. Tomorrow would be a busy day. They had to help clean the chickens’ coop in the morning, and then they would resume cleaning the yard and loading the truck.

Maude put the dishes in the sink, and then began filling a basin with soapy water. “What do you think about vegetable stew tomorrow?” she asked.

Thomas frowned. “We left the vegetables outside.”

Maude turned the water off, and then dried her hands on a towel. “I know. I figured we could eat first, and then bring them in. I’ll help.” She grabbed a handful of large, burlap bags with dangling, red draw-strings off of a shelf.

The pair walked to the door, yelling to the children that they were stepping outside. Maude closed the door behind her. “I’ll wash everything in the morning. I’m exhausted.”

Thomas agreed. “I’ll help you prep it for storage. After that we’ll go to the dump to empty the truck,” he said, not yet knowing that the rats had invaded the engine and that the truck would not be going anywhere. “It might need gas. I don’t remember.” He stopped and peered into his wife’s eyes, a promise upon his lips. “I know it’s been hard. We will get through this.” He hugged her for a long moment. “It’s not much, but we should be grateful for what the hurricane didn’t wash away. Then we would have nothing.”

It was true. She nodded. She was grateful for what they had. They shared a quick kiss, and then made their way to the garden’s remnants less than twenty-five feet away. They were discussing the big clutch of eggs three of their broody hens were tending to by taking turns sitting on them. They were hoping for mostly females. The cockerels, once a certain age, would end up in the pot as they already had too many. Fights among the roosters was a common occurrence as they vied for dominance and the ladies’ attention.

Thomas suddenly stopped, his face dropping in disbelief. Maude stopped beside him, questionable. She followed his gaze to where the year’s bounty had been neatly stacked. Her hand covered her open mouth in shock. It was gone! Not a single carrot or head of lettuce remained! A nonsensical utterance emerged from under her hand.

Thomas grunted as if punched, and then dropped to his knees making a splash in the mud. Astounded, he surveyed the area. Hundreds of fresh footprints were readily recognizable in the soft ground, along with little, brown balls of fecal matter. He yelled incoherently, and then cursed, pounding his fist on the wet earth in fury and frustration. Muddy water splattered on both of them. “Damn it!” he yelled, getting to his feet in a haste. He ran to the cottage to get his rifle.

Maude studied the tracks, and then focused on the surrounding fields and woods. Unable to contain her grief, she burst into tears. It was already going to be a brutal winter, but rabbits had sentenced them to a catastrophe.