Read Online Burn District 1 by Suzanne Jenkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzanne Jenkins
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laughing with Kelly.
Kelly and the girls left to do the shopping in town. When the van pulled down the driveway, I had an additional moment of fear; I was letting my two precious daughters leave the safety of our compound. In twenty-four hours, the trailer and surrounding camp meant security to me. My dad, Randy and Mike, would never knowingly let anything bad happen to us. Now, the girls would be out of our realm of protection.
“If we are going have any normalcy we need to allow them to do this much,” Mike said, back at the trailer, watching me wring my hands. He’d given them each two hundred dollars with lists of items to look for; nylon webbing, rolls of sheet metal at the lumberyard, a box of two-inch screws. I knew he was planning on reinforcing the trailer, but against what I wasn’t sure, and was afraid to ask.
“Why’d you give them so much money?” I asked.
“They’re wise women,” he said softly. “If they see something we might need, I want them to be able to buy it.”
We’d been hoarding cash while Mike was doing doomsday prepping. Just enough of our paychecks went into the bank to cover bills, and a little went into a savings account. We were paranoid that someone at the bank might be keeping track of the cash we had on hand. When Pete came to warn us, we stepped the process up, closing our savings account, cashing out what we could in investments and paying bills with money orders. If we lived frugally, we figured we had enough cash for a year. We didn’t know what to do with all that paper. We had a small gun safe that was always in Mike’s sight. I had a wad of cash in my purse and my suitcase. The logistics of the money were anxiety producing.
“I’m getting nervous,” I said. Mike frowned.
“Go see your dad and tell him I’ll be right over,” he said. I grabbed my straw hat and went around back where he and the boys were already stacking scrap wood. Before long, I got into the work, the physical labor satisfying my urge to be productive, while calming the worst of my anxiety. Long before we expected the girls to return, I saw the van coming down the driveway fast, leaving a trail of dust. Mike was out in the field, dragging metal parts from an old truck to a pile he’d started.
“Let’s go see what they bought,” my dad said, looking over at Mike. “Your husband isn’t lookin’ too happy right now. I hope my junk pile keeps him occupied.”
“Me, too,” I said. I didn’t know if Mike would have enough to do to fill his time, making being busy his goal everyday. Always with something to do and places to go, Mike drove us nuts with his nervous energy.
“I can see he’s already getting antsy,” Steve replied. I shrugged my shoulders; deciding finding Mike meaningful activity was not my responsibility.
As we approached the van, I saw immediately that something was wrong. My daughters were hovering over a form in the back; Kelly leaned over the front seat, helping them in back. Steve noticed, too and we picked up our pace, running toward them.
I opened the door and Carin turned to us, crying. “We found him. There was a burn.”
“What do you mean a burn ?” Steve asked.
“The same thing they’re doing at home, they’re doing here.”
“We saw it, block after block, down to the ground, just like the farm,” Kelly said.
“Who is it?” I asked. There was a smell in the van that I didn’t want to dwell on; it reminded me of homeless people, unwashed, ill.
“He’s a pilot. We saw the tail of the plane sticking out of a house. Then Elise saw him. He was lying in the street; like that body was back in St. Louis.”
I looked carefully at Carin; she’d seen the same awful thing I had. I nudged past my girls to get a closer look. “How’d you get him in the car?”
“He can walk with help,” Elise said. “His name is Chris. Chris Monroe.”
“Move out, ladies and I’ll help him up.” My dad was taking charge and I was glad to relinquish control
Kelly and the girls left to do the shopping in town. When the van pulled down the driveway, I had an additional moment of fear; I was letting my two precious daughters leave the safety of our compound. In twenty-four hours, the trailer and surrounding camp meant security to me. My dad, Randy and Mike, would never knowingly let anything bad happen to us. Now, the girls would be out of our realm of protection.
“If we are going have any normalcy we need to allow them to do this much,” Mike said, back at the trailer, watching me wring my hands. He’d given them each two hundred dollars with lists of items to look for; nylon webbing, rolls of sheet metal at the lumberyard, a box of two-inch screws. I knew he was planning on reinforcing the trailer, but against what I wasn’t sure, and was afraid to ask.
“Why’d you give them so much money?” I asked.
“They’re wise women,” he said softly. “If they see something we might need, I want them to be able to buy it.”
We’d been hoarding cash while Mike was doing doomsday prepping. Just enough of our paychecks went into the bank to cover bills, and a little went into a savings account. We were paranoid that someone at the bank might be keeping track of the cash we had on hand. When Pete came to warn us, we stepped the process up, closing our savings account, cashing out what we could in investments and paying bills with money orders. If we lived frugally, we figured we had enough cash for a year. We didn’t know what to do with all that paper. We had a small gun safe that was always in Mike’s sight. I had a wad of cash in my purse and my suitcase. The logistics of the money were anxiety producing.
“I’m getting nervous,” I said. Mike frowned.
“Go see your dad and tell him I’ll be right over,” he said. I grabbed my straw hat and went around back where he and the boys were already stacking scrap wood. Before long, I got into the work, the physical labor satisfying my urge to be productive, while calming the worst of my anxiety. Long before we expected the girls to return, I saw the van coming down the driveway fast, leaving a trail of dust. Mike was out in the field, dragging metal parts from an old truck to a pile he’d started.
“Let’s go see what they bought,” my dad said, looking over at Mike. “Your husband isn’t lookin’ too happy right now. I hope my junk pile keeps him occupied.”
“Me, too,” I said. I didn’t know if Mike would have enough to do to fill his time, making being busy his goal everyday. Always with something to do and places to go, Mike drove us nuts with his nervous energy.
“I can see he’s already getting antsy,” Steve replied. I shrugged my shoulders; deciding finding Mike meaningful activity was not my responsibility.
As we approached the van, I saw immediately that something was wrong. My daughters were hovering over a form in the back; Kelly leaned over the front seat, helping them in back. Steve noticed, too and we picked up our pace, running toward them.
I opened the door and Carin turned to us, crying. “We found him. There was a burn.”
“What do you mean a burn ?” Steve asked.
“The same thing they’re doing at home, they’re doing here.”
“We saw it, block after block, down to the ground, just like the farm,” Kelly said.
“Who is it?” I asked. There was a smell in the van that I didn’t want to dwell on; it reminded me of homeless people, unwashed, ill.
“He’s a pilot. We saw the tail of the plane sticking out of a house. Then Elise saw him. He was lying in the street; like that body was back in St. Louis.”
I looked carefully at Carin; she’d seen the same awful thing I had. I nudged past my girls to get a closer look. “How’d you get him in the car?”
“He can walk with help,” Elise said. “His name is Chris. Chris Monroe.”
“Move out, ladies and I’ll help him up.” My dad was taking charge and I was glad to relinquish control
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