Chapter 3 (Jacob)

Jacob becomes less social as the apocalypse nears.

 Jacob Steelhead scattered the last bits of vegetable refuse amongst the chickens and trudged through the wet clay to the small mobile home he lived in.

 Tamarac trees were clustered around the fungi infested 17 footer he called home. It was a complete hovel and the yard was laughable but it was his own. 

 Chickens flitted about. Trees grew meekly. Yet he was away from his brother. 

 As far as brothers went they couldn't be more different. Jacob with his heavy build, dark hair, green eyes, thick black beard and pear shaped face. As opposed to Johan's tall lean frame, blonde curls, and lantern jaw. 

 If their looks divided them their personalities set them further apart. 

 Jacob with his solitude and animals. Johan with his friends and partying. The only even ground was their fortitude and constitution for hardship. 

 Their parents had been a cold couple. Zealously religious and completely domineering they provided a less than stellar environment for the two boys. When they weren't attending mass or hearing about The Word from their father they were toiling around the family property doing chores or peeling aspen logs with drawknives for pulp money. 

 Jacob had taken to the work. He had spent his proceeds from the labor on a used Stihl chainsaw and began to thin the aspen trees around the family farmhouse. Soon he had saved enough money to buy a weary Belarus tractor. By the autumn of that year most of the aspens had been felled and he was venturing further into the woods. 

 Occasionally Johan would accompany him but for the most part Jacob enjoyed the solitude of the work. Always close at hand was his old transistor radio with the leather sling that he had refurbished after finding it in his father's weathered barn. 

 Mostly he listened to public radio. Sometimes a classic rock station based out of the only city of decent size in Rusk County. Nonetheless it was just white noise to him. 

 As the months passed and his forearms grew from the constant motion of draw knifing pulp logs; Johan had decided instead to party and work as a cook in a nearby pub. Often while waking up at 4am to cook breakfast Jacob would pass him in the hall. Johan staggering and swaying. 

 By the end of that summer Johan had moved out and Jacob had bought the small trailer that he had pulled towards the back of his parent's land with the Belarus. 

 Occasionally Johan would show up late at night with a crowd in tow. Jacob would be pulled from sleep by sweeping headlights and raucous laughter. These meetings were usually ill met. Within time they ended all together. 

 As the years passed Jacob started a firewood business along with his pulp logs. He was soon managing the family forest and selecting trees with the diligence of a forester. 

 One spring he planted a modest garden and put out a small vegetable stand by the highway. Near the end of the summer local restaurants had asked him to supply them with his potatoes. Now he had nearly 40 acres of garden planted. His firewood business that catered to locals and tourists alike. And of course his ever present pulp peeling operation. 

 Life was simple in the trailer. While living with his parents he had been accosted daily and only left alone only if working the land. 

 He had found his peace for a number of years until father had died of a stroke on Christmas Day. Mother hadn't lasted long after that. Johan had moved back in while she attempted to deal with her grief. She spent most days reading the bible and dusting an already spotless house. Eventually she had died while watching reruns in front of the TV. The cause of death was never determined. 

 Johan had taken over the farm house while Jacob stayed alone in his trailer on the edge of the property. 

 A lawyer had come to visit once. After a brief exchange Jacob had asked "Who's responsible for taxes and utilities?"

 "Naturally both of you." the lawyer had stated.

 Jacob had grunted and closed the door.

 Since then the house had fallen into disrepair. 

 More often than not the house was aglow at night. Cars would be haphazardly parked around the yard and shouts could be heard well into the night. 

 After the funeral of his mother and the newfound activities his brother's visits had ended. 

 Life pursued this fashion for some years until two specific events happened in a single month that changed their ambivalent relationship. And it had started with Jacob's vegetable stand. 

 On a crisp November day with that perfect sweater weather and golden leaves Jacob had backed his rusty Dodge Ram into the turnaround and angled the hood towards the rutted driveway leading to the highway. As he neared the road and his vegetable stand he noticed that someone had crashed into his large cedar kiosk. At this time of year he was making a brisk business of pumpkins, turnips, and radishes that he sold as deer bait. All neatly bagged in fifty pound sacks and stacked in orderly rows.

 There was a metal lockbox that cash was deposited in via the honor system. It had been jimmied and was laying in a tire rut looking broken and sullied. Jacob had held his tongue. Followed through on repairs and kept silent on the subject.

 Until the night his dog had been run down. 

 Though the parties had slipped off there was still a steady stream of guests. Jacob rarely went to town but it was almost unavoidable to hear the gossip. "That boy is dealing drugs!" he had heard Old Man Ehlers explain to a withered elderly man with a camel colored woolen coat.

 Then the old Russian had noticed him and quickly changed the subject. Jacob nodded towards them regardless of the gossip and plucked a plastic shopping basket off of the pile near the door.

 He quickly filled the basket with a tub of whitefish livers and some braunschwaiger. Rounding the next corner he placed a bottle of Jack Daniels into his basket and headed towards the exit. In the tiny produce section he grabbed a handful of limes then proceeded to check out. 

 "Will that be all?" Mr. Ehlers had asked.

 "I reckon." replied Jacob.

 The man in the woolen coat fidgeted uncomfortably as Mr. Ehlers slid the whiskey into a thin paper bag. "Selling a lot of turnips?" the proprietor asked. 

 Jacob remained silent and watched the man's palsied hands bag his goods. He paid with some crumpled bills and left without a word.

 On the drive home he alternately took drinks out of the whiskey bottle while chasing it with bites from the lime. Rind and all. 

 With a soft hand he activated his turn signal and slowly banked onto The Steelhead driveway.

 His dog's form was unmistakable as the Dodge's headlights fell upon it. The poor mutt's spine was bent at a 90 degree angle. Even at a distance Jacob could see the eyes were clouded over. 

 He had never named the dog despite having her for 6 years. He referred to her as "Girl" when she was pleasant and "Dog" when he disapproved of some behavior or another. Regardless of her mixed heritage she had been a constant companion in the woods. Someone to talk to while peeling logs and a partner to keep watch over the chickens. 

 With burning eyes Jacob took a last swig of whiskey and stepped out of the truck. 

 Jacob dropped the tailgate and then pulled the dog's blanket off  of the bench seat. Normally the dog would have accompanied him to town but she had been out "ranging" as he liked to say. 

 He tenderly wrapped the dog up while whispering softly; being careful not to jostle the corpse. After placing it into the bed of the pickup he started walking with a brisk pace towards the farmhouse. 

 When the farmhouse loomed ahead his gait quickened. As Jacob approached he noted the absence of lights. Dismissing the notion of returning later he stomped up the steps and without knocking tried the door. It was locked.

 Without thinking he manhandled the wrought iron bench off the porch and started to swing it like a ram during siege. Eventually the cast iron end snapped off but undeterred Jacob used the iron ties to force the lock. After some frenzied jabbing the lock gave way and like a sardine lid the door cracked open. 

 Jacob tossed aside the bench and entered the house. It was full dark and while fumbling for a light switch walked right into Johan. His brother was naked except for a thin towel he held around himself with one hand. A dim light turned on and an acne covered brunette that had seen better days appeared behind Johan. She was shrouded in a bed sheet; hand hovering near a lamp his mother used to love.

 "You're going to move out tonight and you're never coming back." he flatly stated. 

 Johan started to smile but before the grin could totally lift Jacob had grabbed him by the throat and threw his brother out the front door. Johan's back collided with the rail cap and a few balustrades scattered about like kindling confetti.

 Before Johan could protest, Jacob had lifted up a leg and sent it straight into Johan's sternum. The rail cap finally gave way as Johan awkwardly tumbled backwards over the ratty junipers near the edge of the porch.

 Out of breath and winded Johan remained silent. Jacob trudged down the steps towards his brother. The brunette finally snapped to action and releasing the sheet ran towards Jacob screaming threats and curses. 

 "I'll call the lawyers." Johan wheezed.

 The acned brunette finally reached Jacob. A deft backhand snapped her head back and knocked her unconscious. With a dull thud she landed on the browning grass. 

 "You hit my girlfriend."

 "She ain't dead. You might be soon."

 Jacob advanced and Johan curled into a ball, partially from fear and also to cover his nakedness.

 "I'll get the sheriff and the lawyers here." Johan threatened again.

 "Do you have that fancy phone on you right now?" Jacob asked.

 Johan paled. Then the fists started to land on him while he screamed. 

 The sheriff never showed up. Neither did the lawyers. At sunup Jacob sat on his tractor sipping coffee splashed with whiskey. Occasionally he raised a pair of old binoculars to his eyes and scanned the farmhouse. Johan was throwing boxes and garbage bags into a rusty Chevy Lumina while the acned brunette paced the lawn chain-smoking long white filtered cigarettes. 

 He finished the last sip and got down off the tractor. Jacob kicked at a pinecone while hitching up his soiled jeans. With one last backwards glance towards the farmhouse he entered his trailer. After grabbing a small keyring from a rusty nail pounded into the wood paneling he exited the small trailer and slammed the flimsy aluminum door.

 Behind the trailer was a dilapidated garden shed Jacob had built some years back from a mismatch of discarded lumber he had scrounged from around the farm. He unlocked a small padlock and entered the musty smelling shed.

 Leaning in the corner was a shovel and a pickaxe. He waved a buzzing paper wasp away and scooped up the weathered tools. After exiting the shack he locked the door and strode towards a small balsam grove that his dog had enjoyed laying in after chasing critters in the woods. Jacob swung the axe and broke the dry dirt and shallows roots. Sweat broke out on his neck despite the darkening sky. 

 When the last shovelful of dirt had been thrown onto the grave a wet snow started to fall. Jacob brushed the flakes off his shoulders as he left the protection of the balsam boughs. Walking past his truck he tossed the tools into the bed. 

 Entering the trailer he went to his bedside and took a Colt 1911 from the nightstand drawer. It was a clean weapon. Oiled and scrubbed meticulously. One of his only large purchases that wasn't a tool or a way to make more money on the farm. Jacob dropped the mag, checked the load, then drove it home again. He racked one into the pipe and tucked it into his waistband. Johan was mad. It was better to be cautious. 

 Jacob left his trailer making sure to lock the door behind him. He eased the door of his Ram open and plopped down onto the sagging seat springs. With a twist of his wrist the car started and a cloud of black smoke bellowed from the tailpipe. Cranking the beast into reverse was a chore so he spent a moment easing the the clutch in an out while feathering the shifting handle. Finally it slipped in and Jacob let the clutch out and performed a slow backup. "I need my whiskey." Jacob said to his dog.

 He reached over to pet the beast and then remembered the dog was buried in the balsam thicket. Dog hair was still clinging to nearly every surface in the vehicle and the mongrel's smell still remained. Nonetheless he was alone again. Sighing he shifted into first gear and steered the car towards town.

Author's Note

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