The Curious Sojourner

  One Man’s Island

  The Arizona Chronicles

  The Curious Sojourner

  Volume 1 Issue IV

  *********************

  A Serial series by

  Thomas J Wolfenden

  Copyright © 2016 Thomas J Wolfenden

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities of peoples, places and events are purely coincidental.

  Forward

  Dear Reader,

  When I first sat down to write One Man’s Island, I had no idea how adored some of the characters would become. From Tim to Robyn, who I originally wrote as a boy, to Ensign Johnson and Petty Officer Suplee, who began as nameless fillers and by the time I was finished writing the first draft, I’d fallen in love with both, and they were a lot of fun to write.

  This being said, and after several positive fan emails, I decided to revisit all of them in a unique way. In One Man’s Island, the novel is split into two parts, Part 1 & Part 2, and there is a five-year gap between these parts.

  This monthly serial series, The Arizona Chronicles, will fill in that gap, and revisit all of your old favorite characters, and also introduce some new ones.

  So, dear Readers, sit back in your favorite reading space with your favorite beverage, relax, hold on and enjoy the ride!

  ~Thomas J Wolfenden

  IV

  “No, damn it!” Tim shouted loudly. Robyn thought she heard the windows rattle with this last outburst. She’d never seen him this angry before.

  “But Dad---.”

  “No but Dad me!” Tim cut her off, “It’s not going to happen now, and because you won’t listen to a word I say, maybe even never!”

  Robyn stormed off in a huff, running up the stairs. The slamming of her bedroom door was an angry exclamation point that reverberated through the quiet house. Tim sighed and went back to work preparing their Thanksgiving turkey on the kitchen counter.

  Stopping, he washed his hands and poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting down at one of the stools at the breakfast counter. Sipping the hot brew, he looked out the window and saw that it had started snowing again; big, heavy flakes and he thought this one might last a while.

  He thought about the argument he and Robyn had just had. He was still angry at her for not waiting until he came back to work on her makeshift antenna, and the sight of her, hanging by one foot fifty feet in the air in that tree that day a month ago still left him with this feeling of abject horror he couldn’t shake.

  If anything should happen to her… I’d die…

  That’s why he was angry. He felt something touching his leg, and looked down to see the rapidly growing kangaroo Joey looking up at him with silent, dark eyes. He reached down and scratched the animal between his ears like one would a dog and said, “I know Fred. She’s stubborn, just like me.”

  Tim smiled finally as the foul mood passed. The baby kangaroo that the both of them had found always seemed to cheer him up, even if it did shit all over the house. After the scare with the milk, they found it loved stale dry dog food, so Tim had grabbed several 50 pound bags of it at a local feed and grain store before the first of the heavy snows came.

  Now if they could just figure out a way to house-train the damn thing! His mind went back to the task at hand, Thanksgiving dinner. He’d shot the turkey five days ago, cleaned and de-feathered it, and now, filled with homemade stuffing, was ready for the oven.

  The house had two ovens, a traditional one, that was preheating and just about ready for the big bird, and an eye-level convection oven he would use for the two pumpkin and two cherry pies he would make while the bird roasted.

  Placing the huge roasting pan holding the turkey in the oven, he set the timer and moved on to the pies. The homemade crusts looked good, but not perfect. He was still honing his pastry skills, along with a bunch of other things he was teaching himself to do.

  Opening the cans of pumpkin filling, he spooned out the contents and said aloud, “Next year, Timmy, we’ll have real pumpkins to make into pies, not this canned crap.”

  He filled both pie shells with the filling, and moved on to the cherry pie. He thought of going all Martha Stewart and making one of those fancy braided pie tops he’d seen on the cooking shows, but decided that would be too much work and went for the completely covered cherry pie with little slits in the top.

  Once done, he placed all three pies in the oven and set another timer, and sat back down with another cup of coffee and started writing a list of things he wanted to accomplish next summer. Fist thing was to grow enough fruits and vegetables to last them both an entire winter. They both were getting really tired of the canned stuff, and a lot of that was rapidly nearing its past-due date anyway, so they had to start being more self sufficient.

  Vegetables were one thing, he was pretty sure he could grow most of what they needed at this altitude and climate. Corn, tomatoes, peppers, peas, pumpkins would all grow here, and he’d drawn out plans for a greenhouse he’d plan on building in the spring for other things, strawberries, blueberries and the like. Blackberries and raspberries grew wild around their homestead, so there was always free picking for those.

  It was other fruits he’d like to grow that he wondered about the most. Apple trees would most probably grow here in northern Arizona, but what about peaches and figs? Could he get those types of trees to grow? It’s something to read up on this winter, he mused as he sipped on his coffee.

  Red meat wasn’t an issue. Since The Event, most wild animals had sprung back and their populations had exploded. He and Robyn were almost literally tripping over deer and elk every day so there was plenty of meat to go around. Also, he’d read somewhere once that the Australians eat kangaroo, and there was tons of them around too, down a little lower in elevation, but he seriously doubted that Robyn would consent to that.

  There were also plenty of rabbits, but he and Robyn were getting tired of that. He thought of wild pigs, and then that thought progressed to bacon, yet another thing to learn how to do, how to cure bacon. He’d moved a whole butcher’s shop worth of stuff into the barn last month, and he was getting better at cutting up the game he’d shot every time.

  But the one niggling little thing that bothered him was the fact that along with all of the people, most, if not all of the domesticated animals had died that night also and he never understood why. Not that he missed beef all that much, he’d much rather eat deer or elk venison, but to have fresh milk… Or chicken, and fresh eggs, none of this powdered shit they’d been eating.

  He scribbled down on his growing list domesticate some ducks or geese maybe? Another thing he’d need to look up. It was a good thing he took most every how-to and homesteading book he could find from the library, and now that winter had set in, he had nothing but time on his hands for a little light reading.

  Tim looked at his watch and saw that it was almost 4PM, and dinner would still be several hours away. He put his empty coffee cup in the sink, retrieved a tumbler from a cabinet, and filled it with ice from the icemaker in the refrigerator. He then poured a liberal amount of Irish whiskey over the ice, and taking his notepad, padded off into the living room.

  This room was a lot colder than the warm kitchen with both ovens on, so he lit a fire and settled down with his drink and lit a cigarette, easing back into a leather lazy-boy and added items to his list as they came to mind. Canning and preserving he jotted down. No sense in growing a bunch of fruits and vegetables if you couldn’t keep them over the winter.

  As he wrote and his list grew longer, he began to get angry. Not at anyone in particular, just angry at everything. He was angry at the society he was raised in, one that left him woefully unprepared for somethin
g like this.

  But who knew that the world would end? Who knew that everyone would die in one fell swoop of the Grim Reaper’s scythe? No one, no one did, but here he was, alone in his mid 40s, in an empty world with a fifteen year old girl learning things that everyone knew how to do only a short hundred years ago.

  Robyn came down silently, sitting down across from him on the couch, paratrooper’s M1 Carbine and cleaning kit in hand. Tim looked at her, but she remained silent, expertly field stripping the rifle expertly and began to clean the weapon with a toothbrush.

  They sat silently, Tim with his list and whiskey, Robyn with her rifle, for some time without saying a word. Tim was just about to bury his nose in his list again when Robyn finally broke the silence.

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” she said, putting the rifle back together and sliding the bolt back a few times to get the fresh oil into every nook and cranny.

  “No, I have to apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

  “I should have listened to you and stayed in the house until you got home.”

  “You do understand why I was angry, don’t you?”

  “A little, but I am almost fifteen and I’m not the little kid you found in West Virginia anymore.”

  Tim took a sip of his drink, and then sat it down on the hearth along with his notepad. He leaned forward and looked Robyn in the eye and said, “Listen. I know you’re not a little kid anymore. You’re growing up so goddamn fast it’s kind of scary to be honest.”

  “Dad, you taught me how to take care of myself,” she pointed out proudly.

  “I know I did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Robyn, we’re alone, completely and utterly alone. If something bad happens, there’s no more police, or firefighters, or paramedics to come to our aid. There are no more hospitals with doctors, surgeons and nurses. If something bad happens, it’s final, and most likely deadly.”

  Robyn didn’t say a word, so Tim continued, “I’m pretty sure that a lot of people survived The Event just like we did. But since then, I’m pretty sure a lot of them have already died. Look at your friend Geoffrey. He died in that empty well for no other reason there was no one left to help him. Something that was completely survivable only a few years ago. Now it’s up to us to continue on, not do anything stupid and get ourselves killed.”

  “Like climbing that tree to make my antenna,” she said, hanging her head.

  “Well, I didn’t say it you did, but yeah, doing just that. Sweetheart, yes, I’m good at first aid. So are you. I can mend a broken bone if it’s not too bad and even suture up a deep cut. Give you a shot of antibiotics. But my expertise stops there. What if you’d fallen and had internal injuries? I can’t do surgery!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Robyn, I’m just trying to help you make adult decisions. It’s just us, and I want the both of us around for a while. Shit, I’ve had a toothache now for a few months I haven’t said anything about, because I’m scared shitless of what it could do.”

  “What could happen?” she asked, concerned expressing crossing her face.

  “For starters, it could get abscessed, and that infection could go into my bloodstream and kill me.”

  “You’re scaring me, Sar’ Major.”

  “Robyn, you should be scared. Every day now could be our last. We’ve got to stay alert and be aware of our surroundings at all times. And never, ever do anything stupid.”

  “What are you going to do about the tooth?”

  “Well, right now nothing. At some point it’s going to have to come out.”

  “How?”

  Tim held up his tumbler and smiled, “With a shitload of this in me, you’ll have you pull it.”

  “Me? I’ve never done that before.”

  “There’s got to be a first time for everything. When the time comes, I know you can do it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Tim downed the last swallow of his whiskey, and proffered the glass to Robyn, “Here, get me another since you’re being so understanding.”

  “Can I have one?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to try. Are you hitting the Jameson’s?” she asked, taking the glass and standing.

  “Yes, I’m hitting the Jameson’s,” he replied, “So, I’ve got the bird in the oven and the pies should be about ready. Have you thought on any of the sides?”

  “I’ll check the pies when I get out to the kitchen, and yes, the sides will be honey roasted carrots, sweet potato casserole, creamed corn and who could have Thanksgiving without cranberry sauce?”

  “No mashed ‘taters?”

  “You want mashed potatoes too?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, nasty, powdered mashed ‘taters also!” she gleamed and went out of the room.

  “And Fred left a few presents for you in the kitchen you can clean up too!” he called out after her. He turned and knelt down by the fireplace, taking a few more juniper logs from the stack next to it, placed them on the fire. Soon, the fire was roaring again, and Tim sat back down with his list.

  And his mind drew a blank. He lit another cigarette and just stared into the fire for some time until the aroma of the pies wafted out into the living room, making his mouth water. He checked his watch and reckoned the turkey still had another half hour to go. Robyn came bounding into the room, sitting down heavily on the couch opposite Tim.

  “The pies are done and cooling on the counter. How long for the bird?” she asked, “I’m starved.”

  “Thirty minutes or so.”

  “Good! I’ll put on some music!” she replied, and got up at went to the stereo set up on a shelf by the window. She put in a compilation disc of all 80s music, and hearing the tunes, Tim instantly became nostalgic.

  Robyn saw the look on his face, and asked, “Are you thinking about her again?”

  “Who?”

  “C’mon, Sar’ Major! You know who! The girl you told me about, the one in the park.”

  “I might have, but since you opened your piehole, you ruined the mental image I was having,” he told her with a sly look in his eyes. He stuck his tongue out at her playfully, although he didn’t get the reaction he was expecting.

  Suddenly Robyn stiffened up and the color drained out of her face. Tim felt a blast of icy air on his back, and turned to face what she was looking at over his shoulder. Standing there in the open doorway was the figure of a gaunt, shabbily dressed man, wisps of snow blowing in around him as he stood there, vacant-eyed, taking in what was before him.

  Before Tim could stand, the man softly said, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.”

  Robyn stayed seated on the couch and was frantically looking around for a weapon. She was mentally kicking herself for not having her carbine close. Tim glanced at her and with one look, told her to keep calm, he’d handle this.

  Tim stood slowly, and walking around his chair, cautiously made his way to the figure in the door. When he neared the man, Tim spoke.

  “Listen. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Is that pies I smell? And turkey? Are you cooking a turkey?” he mumbled, tears beginning to well up in his eyes, “I’m so cold… Cold… And hungry.”

  Tim reached the man and looked into his bloodshot eyes. He thought he saw just a little bit of humanity in there and decided to play peacekeeper, “Listen, buddy. We’ve got plenty of food,” he told him, holding the man be the shoulders. He gave their unexpected visitor a once-over, and saw he was in a sad state.

  Threadbare jacket, torn cargo pants, sneakers that were soaked through. He hadn’t bathed in days or weeks and his soiled skin showed a deathly pallor. Tim led the man into the dining room and sat him down at the table, and then took the seat across from him.

  Robyn shot up from her seat and quickly closed the front door. Tim called to her and asked her to brew up a pot of coffee. She went into the kitchen while Tim attempted to question the man.

  “I’m Tim Flannery, and the lady making
the coffee is my daughter, Robyn. This is our home.”

  The man, who had been shivering and absently picking the crud from under his filthy, dirt encrusted fingernails, looked up slowly and said, “I’m John… John Parker.”

  “Well, John, you’re in luck. We were just about to have Thanksgiving supper, and you’re more that welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you…” he replied, and began to cry in deep, gasping sobs. He buried his face in his hands, and for a few minutes just let it all flow out of him. Tim let him be for a few minutes until Robyn came to the table carrying two steaming coffee mugs. She handed both to Tim, who then placed the second cup in front of John.

  He looked up, and through tear streaked eyes, thanked Tim. Robyn handed him a paper towel, which he immediately used to dry his eyes, “It’s been so long…”

  “I know. Where did you come from?”

  “Back east…”

  “So are we. We’re from Philadelphia,” Tim told him.

  “Speak for yourself, Sar’ Major. I’m from West Virginia!” Robyn cut in and Tim shot her a look.

  “I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” John said, cradling the coffee cup in two hands, and bringing it to his lips for a loud slurp.

  “Hey, that’s okay. You don’t have too. Supper is almost ready, so why don’t you just sit here and relax; and Robyn and I will get things ready.”

  “Thank you,” John said quietly, sipping on his coffee, “Is that a Kangaroo?”

  “Yeah. That’s Fred.” Tim said, looking at the marsupial lounging in the living room.

  “I thought I was hallucinating again.”

  Tim left John in the dining room and made his way into the kitchen. Robyn had vanished up stairs, so he was alone with his thoughts. He opened the oven and the aroma of the roasting turkey filled the room. He checked it with a thermometer, and found that it was the correct internal temperature, so he placed the roasting pan on top of the stove and turned off the oven.

  It would need to rest a few minutes, so he busied himself with gathering the plates and flatware to set the table, now for three instead of two. Robyn came back into the kitchen wearing an oversized hooded sweatshirt. She reached up underneath it, and nearing Tim, handed him something.