by Penn Gates
“If I thought there was food there, Martin, you’d have a hard time keeping up with me. But the place has been empty for a long time.”
“How come there’s so many empty houses out here?” Martin asks shrilly. “Did Geezer come from here?”
Nix grits her teeth. The World Health Organization had determined that Palestine was Ground Zero for the virus, and scientists named it the Gaza Flu. Almost immediately, it was nicknamed Geezer Flu—because it’s fatal to almost everyone over the age of 35. The last news she'd heard—before the electricity failed in her neighborhood—had been terrifying. The virus has not been successfully contained in one country, or on one continent. It has gone global.
The Millennials have been disturbingly gleeful. Many are struggling with student loans while paying into a Social Security system that’s already bankrupt. Justifiably, they’ve had a sense of being well and truly fucked for a long time. The blogosphere gloated that nature itself is finally solving the problem of the baby boomers.
Nix wonders what they’ll do when they can no longer brain meld with each other on their hand held devices. But she already knows. It turns out it’s not that hard to take over the world when the older generations are dropping like flies. So far, the young survivors have shown a far greater talent for chaos than for organization.
“Nobody knows where the virus came from,” she explains to Martin. “At this point, I don’t know that it matters.”
“But you’re old—and you’re not dead.”
“I’m not that old!” Nix snaps.
Martin seems to fold into himself.
She stops walking and squats down in front of him. “Hey, I'm sorry. You're absolutely right. I’m old enough to catch Geezer and croak, and I don’t have a clue why I’m still walking around.”
Martin starts to cry. “Don’t die,” he moans. “Please don’t die.”
Nix has never had a maternal bone in her body, but she has the sudden urge to hug this kid and wipe away his tears. She remembers, just in time, his response to an offer to shake hands. “If I was going to catch Geezer, it would have happened by now.”
She looks into his eyes. “I won’t leave you. I promise. We’re going to make it to the farm, and we’ll be safe." When he doesn’t respond, she says, “Do you know how we used to seal a deal out here in farm country?”
He shakes his head.
Nix spits into the palm of her hand. “Now you do the same, and we shake on it.”
There’s a flicker of interest. “Really?”
“It’s only for the most important things. You can’t break a promise like that. It’s forever.”
Chapter 2
When Martin finally stumbles and falls, she wordlessly scoops him up and carries him in her arms. At first, when she catches sight of Gramps’ mailbox in the distance, she thinks she might be hallucinating. The big old rural delivery box seems to be balanced magically on a length of chain with links as big as giant Bavarian pretzels. In spite of her fatigue, she grins. She remembers the day Gramps welded it together, working from the crayon drawing her ten-year-old self had made. She’d thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen, and as she’d hoped, so did the kids on the bright yellow bus that stopped each morning to carry her to school.
“Martin, wake up,”she whispers in his ear. He stirs in her arms and opens his eyes.
“You think you can walk a little bit farther now?” she asks hopefully as she sets him down with a sigh of relief. She points to a gravel lane running like a dry creek bed through higher ground. “It’s just up there.”
He still seems to be half asleep and she needs him alert. “You’ll like this place,” she says. “This is where I used to live when I was little—at least part of the time.”
Martin staggers forward, but Nix grabs his shoulder. The past week has taught her to take nothing for granted, not even the safety of the place she’s worked so hard to reach.
“Martin, pay attention,” she says. “We’re going to play a game." She gets down on her hands and knees in the tall grass blurring the edges of the long drive, and motions to Martin to do the same. “Let’s pretend we’re lions, and we’ve been out hunting for our supper. Now we’re going home and we must be very quiet as we creep toward our cave.”
“But is there really a cave?” Martin whispers loudly.
Nix sees that the kid is near the end of his strength. Can he make it? Maybe she should just stick him in the weeds and check things out by herself. No, she can’t leave him alone out here by the side of the road. He’ll have to come with her.
“It’s a kind of cave,” she says, trying to sound enthusiastic. “And there’s food inside of it—at least there always was when I was a kid. I used to sneak down there for apples."
It seems to take forever to crawl the length of the drive toward Gramps' farm. About 500 feet off the road, the drive splits at the base of a hill and continues around each side of it. At the crest of the hill, a large old house looms. Nix risks rising to her knees for a quick look. Beyond the pasture fence, cows graze as they always have. She feels a surge of hope. If they hadn’t been milked, they’d be lowing in distress. Someone is tending them. Please let it be Gramps!
"OK, Martin,” she whispers, pointing across the expanse of gravel. “See that little door built into the bottom of the hill?”
Martin nods uncertainly.
“That’s the cave. I’ll go over and open the door. When I give you the signal, run as fast as you can across the drive."
She adjusts her backpack, takes a deep breath and blows it out through pursed lips. “One more thing, Martin. It’ll be dark inside so stop right away and don’t move an inch. I’ll be waiting with a flashlight so we can see to go down the stairs.”
“The cave has stairs?" Martin perks up. “This is like a hobbit house, isn’t it?”
“That’s exactly what it’s like." Nix gives the kid a thumbs up. “Watch for my signal—then run like hell." She bites her lip. “I mean heck. Run like heck!”
The seconds it takes her to cross the open space of the drive seem like minutes. She squeezes down on the old-fashioned latch and yanks at the rough plank door. To her ears, it sounds like she’s using a battering ram. She waves frantically in Martin’s direction. The small figure darts out of the weeds and zigzags across the gravel like a broken field runner, passing through the door as if it’s a goal post.
“Way to go Martin!” she says and grabs his arm to keep him well away from the stairs. She eases the door shut and switches on the flashlight.
“I’m scared,” he says for the first time.
She aims the light down the short flight of wooden steps. “Let’s go see if Gramps still stores his apples down here,” she suggests, hoping hunger will overcome fear. “I’ll go first. Put your hand on my shoulder. There’s no railing to hold on to.”
She exhales with relief as her flashlight reveals barrels and wooden crates full of apples, potatoes, and squash—all the things Gramps has always stored in his root cellar. She quickly locates a few burlap bags and fashions a bed. “Here you go, Martin. Lie down and put one of these over you. I’ll get you an apple to eat.”
He begins to gnaw frantically on the old-fashioned Northern Spy she hands him. “Go slow, bud. Your belly’s shrunk, and it won’t be happy if you eat too fast.”
She takes a bite out of her own apple. It tastes like heaven. She sits down with her back against the stone wall and gives herself exactly five minutes to summon enough strength to go look for Gramps.
“Listen up. I’m going to check on the house. Have a look around. You stay here and warm up. You can have another apple, but slow, OK?”
He nods absently, still chewing.
“And Martin? Under no circumstances are you to come looking for me. Is that understood?" She hates to have to say it, but if Gramps is—well, she doesn’t want the kid to see things that can’t ever be unseen. And there’s always the off chance something’s wrong.
He freeze
s, apple halfway to his mouth. She has his full attention now.
“I’m sure everything’s fine, but—if I don’t come back, you stay hidden until it’s dark and then get the hell out of here. Got that?"
She sees him struggling against panic, but his voice sounds steady as he echoes, “Got it.”
She checks the ammo clip on her gun and turns toward the stairs. “Oh, I almost forgot." She tosses the lit flashlight to Martin. “You need this more than I do." And she disappears into the shadows.
Nix commando crawls up the incline and around the foundation to the back corner. From there she can see the porch that runs along the new wing, which had been added at least a century ago. She wants desperately to run across the yard and up the steps calling, Gramps, I’m home, but she wills herself to follow protocol for approaching an unsecured building. She continues to crawl along the stone foundation and then under the porch. After pausing to catch her breath, she extends an arm and lobs a small pebble in the general direction of the porch decking. It lands with a small clatter. She waits, counting to fifty, then one hundred. Nothing stirs.
At last her foot touches the bottom step of the back porch stairs. The pebble seems to rule out anyone around to hear her, but she carefully avoids the top step, which had always squeaked. She readjusts her grip on her weapon, opens the door, and slips silently into the kitchen.
The house is so quiet it seems alien. For as long as she can remember Gramps turned on the radio before he even started the morning coffee. The agricultural reports droned in the background during breakfast, and the local announcer read off bulletins about church bake sales and PTA meetings as she left for school. When she returned in the afternoon the radio was still on, whether Gramps was out in the barn or not. She puts her hand on its old plastic case sitting next to the breadbox and thinks, it’s not on because the electricity is down here, too. But then how is he getting the milking done? Nobody can milk that many cows twice a day without electricity.
The silence is broken by the unmistakable sound of a shotgun shell being chambered. A husky voice says, “Do not move, missus, or I will shoot.”
Her arm hangs loosely at her side, but the Glock is still in her hand. She spins around, bringing her arm up in one fluid motion. And finds herself pointing a deadly weapon at a kid who can’t be more than sixteen. Seventeen, tops. His blue eyes widen, but the shotgun doesn’t waver.
“Who the hell are you?” she says in a harsh voice. “Where’s the man who lives here? What have you done with him?”
He gazes at her, unperturbed. “You are the one sneaking in like a thief,” he points out. “Who are you?”
“My name is Phoenix St Clair, and the man who owns this farm—Alvin St Clair—is my grandfather.”
“What was the name of the calf you won a Blue Ribbon for at the fair?” he asks suddenly. The bizarre question hangs in the air between them.
“I’m not in the mood for games,” she snarls. “Just tell me where my grandfather is, you little bastard! If you’ve hurt him, I swear—”
“Answer the question, please, and then I will tell you anything you want to know.”
The whole scene strikes her as ludicrous. A tall, gangly kid in a buttoned up shirt and suspenders is holding a shotgun on her like a homesteader fending off a ruthless cattle baron. But that’s not quite it. There’s something about his clothes that tickles her memory. She relaxes slightly. Whatever this guy is doing here, he’s not going to shoot her. He’s a Mennonite.
“Buttercup,” she says suddenly. “Her name was Buttercup.”
He lowers the shotgun. “Your grandfather still has a picture of you and Buttercup getting your prize. It is in a place of honor on his mantle." He smiles at her, assuming that they’re now on friendly terms.
Nix is not quite ready to declare a truce. This guy just scared the crap out of her. “What the hell are you doing with my grandfather’s shotgun?”
Instead of answering her, he carefully props the shotgun around the corner in the pantry.
“Either hold on to the gun or take out the shells. Rule of the house—no loaded guns left unattended.”
“You are sounding just like your grandfather." When he grins he looks about twelve years old. “Do not worry. It is not loaded.”
She stares at him in disbelief. “You confronted an armed intruder with an empty shotgun? What is wrong with you?”
“Loaded guns can go off by accident,” he says. “I would not want to be killing anybody.”
“Are you for real?” Nix asks, trying to slow her racing pulse. “Because you’re sure as hell living in the real world—and it just got a whole lot more dangerous, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Ignoring her comment, he says, “I am sorry that I am forgetting my manners. My name is George Shirk.”
“Yeah, yeah, pleasure to meet you, George,” she says impatiently, “But I really need more information before I decide whether or not to trust you.”
“What would you like to know?” he asks calmly.
Nix wonders what it takes to make him lose his cool. “For starters, answer my question.”
“Which one?” he asks.
“Don’t be a smart-ass!” she snaps. “Why do you have my grandfather’s shotgun?”
It suddenly occurs to her that only a cop would choose to ask about the gun first. She’s not sounding much like a concerned granddaughter. “Wait—first tell me where my grandfather is.”
“He is upstairs in bed, Miss St Clair. “He is not feeling so good.”
Her voice goes shrill. “He doesn’t have the virus, does he?" She wills her hands to stop shaking.
“I do not believe it is The Sickness. He is not showing any of the signs.”
“How do you know?" She runs her fingers through her short, dark hair. “How long have you been here?”
“I am thinking two, maybe three, weeks." His blue eyes look a little watery but he speaks calmly enough. “After my parents—and all the elders—died of The Sickness, I was deciding it best to join any other young people of our community I could find. Then together we could decide what we should be doing next.”
“About my grandfather—” Nix interrupts.
“We were passing by on the road, and Mr. St Clair was running in the pasture trying to catch his bull. I stopped to help him because I had an idea it was not a good thing for an old man to be doing.” He gazes at Nix. “After we got the bull put away, he was saying how worried he was about the electricity going out, then coming back on. It was making it hard to milk all his cows two times a day.”
“Get to the point. Why are you still here?”
George shakes his head sadly. “He was talking away and then he was collapsing in front of my eyes." He takes a deep breath. “That is why I am thinking it is not The Sickness. My parents were doing strange things before they got the burning fever or the trouble breathing. My father was up in the dark working in the fields. My mother was scrubbing the floors at midnight. They could not stop moving. They were talking so fast we did not understood their words." He studies his folded hands as if they are an unspoken prayer.
The silence lengthens, gets a little embarrassing. Nix has honed her ability to read people in a hundred interrogations. But she’s seldom had to try to make people feel better. Her job was to make them feel worse. And she’d learned never to take people at their word. Every story needs to be verified. Anybody can disguise themselves, and you couldn’t find a better cover than pretending to be a pacifist. She realizes the pistol is hanging loosely at her side and she puts her finger on the trigger and aims it at George again.
“Tie me up and lock me in a closet,” he says mildly. “And go upstairs to ask your grandfather about me. He will be telling you I am trustworthy.”
She considers briefly and says, “I’m not letting you out of my sight." She motions with the gun. “We’re going upstairs together—my gun and I will be right behind you. If you try anything, I’ll blow your ass through the roof.”
George smiles, shaking his head. “You are talking as they do in the action movies.”
She grits her teeth. Shit! It was something out of a DVD she’d watched a couple of months ago and thought was stupid. “Never mind the chitchat,” she says, deciding to stick to the tough-guy dialogue, corny or not. She motions with the gun again. “Walk up those stairs and hug the wall on your right."
He does as he’s told without further comment, and she follows, but not too close, so if he tries to kick at the gun she won’t be right behind him. It’s cool on the second floor, just as she remembers. The upper hallway is austere, with bare plank floors and a curtain-less window. The St Clairs had always been frugal. They’d never spent a penny to spruce up space used only for sleeping.
George stops outside the open door of Gramps’ room. “Mr. St Clair,” he calls. “Are you awake? I am bringing you some company.”
Her eyes tear up as she hears Gramps’ voice grumble, “Don’t want no company. Tell ‘em to go away.”
“You will want to see this visitor,” George says. He glances at Nix. “Can I go in?”
She nods and waggles the gun at him. “Get over there against the wall—and stay clear of the bed.”
George walks quickly to the old platform rocker in the corner. She has a flash of her grandfather holding her eight-year-old self on his lap and telling her a story to make her forget her nightmares.
Before she even enters the room she hears Gramps gasp, “Sweet Jesus! It’s Nix! I’d know that voice anywhere!"
Coming through the doorway, she sees him try—and fail—to sit up.
“Honey, I was so scared you was dead,” he says, tears running down the seams of his face. “How did you get down here? I didn’t hear no car.”
She wants to run to him like she used to when she was afraid, but she knows it’s her turn to take care of him. “Calm down a little bit,” she tells him. “It’s not good for you to get excited.”
“What are you doing with that gun, young lady?” he asks suddenly. “You know the rule—no loaded guns in the house.”