Prepper

Chapter Six

It has been three weeks since I got my ass handed to me on Mr. Henneman's front lawn, at least that is how I feel about the ordeal. I relive it over and over in my head, I can't shake it. I don't sleep well, I can scarcely fall asleep, instead I stare at the ceiling and try desperately to push more personal demons into the backwaters of my mind. It no longer works though, I think there is no space left and more and more the things I put back there are oozing through the cracks and seeping back into the fore.

When I do fall asleep, the nightmares come, it's like being five years old again, the terror is the same. I pace the house at night double-checking that the doors are locked, peering out windows looking for some shapeless threat. Perpetually stalked by a restless fear I can't overcome.

I often pause at Heath's door and listen to him snore and mumble in his sleep. I catch fleeting moments of real sleep, but it's only for short stints then some noise, real or imagined startles me, I bolt upright and listen and listen, gripped with a paralyzing fear in the darkness. Surprisingly, I've become well adept at getting by with little sleep - I'm a functional zombie.

Despite Jake's encouragement that I handled myself well, I feel like I was completely outclassed by some punk. It's a shameful feeling of weakness, and it clings to me like a cold sweat. It's there when I close my eyes, it's there when I look in the mirror, always there, night and day it never leaves. I hate it.

"Connor Curtis." Kate exclaims with mock indignation. I realize I have been staring at her ass the entire time, lost in my thoughts. I don't clarify, it's better to let her think I'm back to my licentious self. She's got enough worries as it is. My other wounds have healed, the black eye is gone and my hand only aches slighty in the morning and is no longer swollen to the size of a catcher's mitt. It's just the mental scars now. The glop of oatmeal at the end of my spoon has gone cold, I stab it back into the bowl and leave the table. My appetite is gone.

Merida seems to have fared much better, she's happy and goofy, apparently having forgot about the whole affair. Jake provided me with a new collar for her, it's for hunting dogs so if they snag on something in the bush, it won't choke them and they can slip free of it. The choke chain went in the trash. Although now, she hardly needs a leash anyway - she stays in perfect check when we walk now, right at my heel.

We still do our neighbour watch walks, I'm more fearful and anxious now, but I push through it. Despite the anxiety, I'm more afraid of looking afraid than I am of being afraid. Someone once said, there is nothing to fear but fear itself - that's bullshit, there's plenty to fear, that's a fact. Yet, many good things actually came out of that incident, I have to admit. Just not for me.

The day after that brawl, Jake and I canvassed the entire neighbourhood and explained what we were doing. Everyone was very receptive and a number of people volunteered to take part as well. We set up schedules and zones, we even started keeping a log of incidents. We also keep descriptions of people and cars that appear out of place and we circulate that information to all the households so the homeowners know what to keep an eye out for.

People started installing security lights and are keeping their porch lights on all night now. An ex-city council member pulled some strings to get the utility company to come out and fix the broken street lamps. There are now at least four people on watch at any given time; no one walks alone and each team carries a two-way radio. We are trying to bring peace and security back to the area, and it seems to be working.

Some folks who can't participate help in other ways, leaving snacks or coffee on their porches. Others come out and chit-chat, or report a suspicious car in the neighbourhood. I can't even count how many people left dog treats out for Merida and Diesel. Big D, as I call him, is a Belgian Malinois, retired from actual police work. Sadly, his handler had been killed while off-duty by a drunk driver. Big D was in the car at the time, but survived his injuries. He now lives with the deceased officer's father, a quiet, unassuming man who mostly tends his garden and makes beautiful wooden carvings of ducks. That is pretty much everything I know about him, that and his name, Ari Cohen.