by Penn Gates
George turns without another word and stalks off.
“Nice job on the field, by the way,” Nix calls after him.
◆◆◆
Brittany applies the iron tines of the garden rake to the lumpy sod that Nix has just churned up with the Clinton Mule. Nix cuts the engine and puts her hands on the small of her back to relieve the ache, but when she notices Brittany watching, she quickly drops them.
“So, Brit, you're getting a tan,” Nix says, knowing that the surest way to refocus the girl's attention is to bring it back to her own appearance.
“Sun gives you skin cancer,” Brittany answers promptly.
Nix smiles. So predictable. Aloud she says, “So they say. I think it's people who lay on the beach for hours basting themselves like turkeys who get skin cancer. But we saw plenty of hats in the attic if you're concerned.”
“The ones with the floppy brims,” Brittany enthuses. “I'm going to get one of them.”
“Fine, but not now. For tomorrow.”
“We're doing this tomorrow, too?”
Maybe Brittany still complains to the others, Nix thinks, but in the week she's been working with me, her whining has slowed to a trickle—and it better stay that way.
“Careful,” Nix says aloud. “That was almost a whine.”
“Do you think we might be done today before supper?” Brittany asks in a wheedling tone.
“Suppose it depends on how fast we work,” Nix answers. “Why?”
Brittany shrugs. “Jason asked me to go for a walk with him, that's all, and I want time to wash up." She sniffs. “I smell like—I don't know what. I wish I'd known how things were going to be. I'd have brought way more deodorant.”
“Is that like a date?” Nix asks. “Because nobody is getting romantic around here—that’s the rule, remember?”
Brittany starts to pout. “I remember all right. But I don't see how you believe you can just make rules that go against nature." She leans on the handle of her rake.
Nix throws a chunk of grass at her and scores a hit. “OMG! Child abuse!” she cackles. “Call Children's Services!”
“You are so mean,” Brittany says reflexively, but she starts raking again. “How old are you, anyway? You're not that old. Don't you ever think about romance?”
“I never said you couldn't feel what comes naturally,” Nix says, ignoring the girl's question. “I'm saying you can't act on those feelings at the moment.”
“Why not? It's not like it means anything!”
“Did you think to pack condoms?” Nix asks suddenly.
“W-what?”
“Condoms? Birth control pills? Any other contraceptive devices? No?” Nix fastens an unblinking stare on Brittany. “You say it doesn't mean anything, but before contraceptives were available, what it usually ended up meaning was—a baby!" Nix laughs. “Damn! Not only are we running low on deodorant and hair conditioner, but I don't think we'll be able to find an abortion clinic around here.”
Nix dusts off her hands. “Wow! I'm just trying to imagine what George's reaction would be! I bet he'd stop feeling sorry for you quick enough when he realized you're a—”
“Stop it! You are just so vicious!”
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Brit. We're just talking about possibilities, not actual facts." Nix narrows her eyes. “But go ahead and get knocked up, and see how mean I can be then!”
Brittany begins to attack the garden with the rake as if she's scratching out Nix's eyes instead of clumps of grass and weeds.
“Look,” Nix says, trying for a more reasonable approach. “We don't need to be creating more people until we figure out what the future holds after Geezer—if there's actually going to be a future.”
“What do you mean by that?” Brittany asks nervously.
“I mean nobody knows what's going to happen next, that's all. The virus is out there. It could die out after it kills all the older humans—or it could mutate.”
Brittany throws down the rake. “If you really believe all that stuff, why are we even trying?” She doesn't look petulant any more. She looks scared.
This is why I stick to intimidation, Nix thinks. When I try to explain stuff, I just fuck it up.
“Don't be so dramatic,” she says aloud. “It could just as easily mutate into something that's weaker and more easily treated. The point I was trying to make is that we can't just act like we always have—because the world is a different place. The consequences of any mistake can be a lot harsher than they used to be.”
“For instance, that sunburn you're working on,” Nix says. “Can't just run to the drug store for something to spray on it. You'll deal with the discomfort because there's nothing else to do but live with it.” She motions to the girl. “Come on, let's quit for the day. I know one thing that will make us both feel better.”
Nix strides around the house to the pump with Brittany behind her. “Me first,” she says. “Grab the handle, princess!”
Nix sticks her head under the stream of water and then comes up for air, shaking her head like a dog.
Brittany squeals and jumps back. “You did that on purpose!”
“I did,” Nix agrees. “But what's the big deal? It's your turn to cool down while I pump. You'll feel better—guaranteed.”
“Now what am I going to do with my hair?” Brittany wails after getting doused.
“Go up to that warm attic to look for a hat, and your hair will be dry by suppertime.”
Nix feels better as soon as she gets rid of Brittany, but she's starving and wonders if she can score a sample of whatever is cooking for dinner. Margaret is usually an easy mark.
But Margaret isn't at the stove—or the sink. She's standing in front of Freddie, and they seem to be holding hands. Interesting. But it isn't romance on Margaret's mind. It's first aid.
Freddie's thumb is swollen to twice its size and oozing blood. Nix is reminded of the great old Warner Brothers cartoons where Sylvester hits his thumb with a hammer and yells “Sufferin' Succotash!” while it expands and contracts like a balloon.
“How the hell did you do that?” Nix asks Freddie.
“I didn't do it on purpose, I can tell you that much,” Freddie says through clenched teeth.
“You hit it with the hammer, didn't you, dumb ass?” she asks, ignoring the fact that he looks like he's about to pass out.
“Nix, this is not helpful right now. Do you have some spirits?” Margaret asks in a calm voice.
Why is she asking about my spirits? Nix wonders, then realizes Margaret's talking about the bottle of Scotch in the desk.
“I need them, too,” Nix says under her breath, but she goes to fetch the Scotch as requested.
Margaret surprises her by pouring the alcohol over the wound rather than giving Freddie a slug of it for the pain.
“Don't we have any medicinal alcohol around here?” Nix asks. “That's expensive stuff.”
“We have used up the only bottle Mr. Forrest had at his store,” Margaret answers.
“Well, that can't be good,” Nix says. “Without antibiotics, alcohol is our only defense against infection.”
“Alcohol? Who's got alcohol?” Cash asks, walking in on the conversation. He leans close and looks at Freddie's hand. “That's nasty, man. Who was swingin’ the hammer? You or Jason?”
“Me,” Freddie mumbles, looking at the floor.
Cash glances across the boy's head at Nix and mouths, “Jason—wanna bet?”
“What hammer were you using, Freddie?” Nix asks.
“The one with the hook on the end.” Freddie shudders as Margaret begins to wrap a clean cloth tightly around the wound.
“That's a claw hammer, dude." Cash gives him a light smack on his forehead. “Bet you didn't get your computer terms mixed up, did ya?”
Without another word, Cash heads for the basement and Nix is right behind him. She vaguely hears Margaret call that Jason went out the back door after he helped Freddie upstairs, but neither sh
e or Cash is looking for Jason.
Cash is over the edge and through the hole before Nix is all the way down the stairs.
“Don't try it,” Cash calls. “We forgot a light.”
“Then what are you doing in there?” Nix asks. “Playing Blind Man's Bluff?”
“Just about,” he answers, his voice sounding hollow. “Got it. Wow, that was dumb luck." His voice comes nearer again. “I'm gonna hand you the sledge hammer through the hole,” Cash says. “You ready?”
As Cash climbs back into the cellar, Nix comments, “I'll bet Freddie can't even pick this sucker up, let alone hit something with it.”
Cash takes the handle out of her hand and flips the sledge hammer so it's heads up. “You do the honors, detective,” he says, “And detect.”
Nix touches the business end and holds up her fingers so Cash can see the blood.
“Jesus, he doesn't have the brains God gave a chicken.” Nix wipes her hand on her overalls without thinking. “Now he's gotta finish this job by himself.”
“Don't buy that dumb jock act of his,” Cash says. “That guy has a wide streak of mean. I think he did it on purpose—just for shits and giggles.”
“I knew they were trouble the night they crawled up my back steps. All but Emma,” Nix adds.
“Let me handle him,” Cash says. “I want somebody to kick around, too. You can't have all the fun.”
“Discipline,” Nix says. “The word you're looking for is discipline.”
“Nice try,” Nix says to Freddie when they return to the kitchen. “But we know it was Jason that smacked your thumb.”
“Next time don't be an asshole and cover for him,” Cash advises.
Nix wanders over to look at the list on the bathroom door. The generator kicks on at 4:30 which means hot water for bathing. Unfortunately, in a house of 14, there's only so many gallons to use on any given day. Peter and Paul, who have no objection to sharing a bath tub, are first in line today, and after them, Elizabeth. Nix knows for sure that she could easily persuade the boys to switch with her, but that would be selfish and an abuse of their trust—and crap! I want a bath so bad, she thinks. And it's never going to get any better. One bath a week for the rest of my life. She sighs and decides to go swimming. If I stay close to shore maybe the fish won't bother me. Or I could take a few crusts of bread and toss them on the other side to distract them while—
“Let's see,” Cash says, standing next to Nix and running his finger down the list. “It's the day after tomorrow for you, St Clair.”
“Don't rub it in.”
“I can offer an alternative,” Cash says. “For a small favor.”
Nix turns to stare at him suspiciously. “What's the alternative? More importantly, what's the favor?”
“I happen to know where there's a washtub full of water been sittin’ in the sun since morning,” Cash says, grinning. “Should be just about comfortable.”
“You still haven't told me what's in it for you,” Nix says.
“I can make an outdoor shower we can use all summer,” Cash says. “All I need is the truck, one big, dumb guy, plus a couple of days to go lookin’ for pieces and parts.”
Nix raises an eyebrow. “Is that all? Because that seems ridiculously cheap for a warm bath.” She rubs her hands together. “But let's not stand here and talk about it while the afternoon air is rapidly cooling. “Where are you hiding this redneck hot tub?”
Chapter 14
“Are you sure this isn't too early to plant?” Nix asks Margaret. “There was a frost night before last."
She knows these things because she's up at all hours, patrolling for the boogeyman, since Cash took off on his scavenger hunt.
Jason fervently believes the entire trip is to punish him for hurting Freddie. He can't seem to understand there's a world full of people—well, at least a houseful—who would be surprised to learn that their only importance is to play a supporting role in The Story of Jason.
Nix had been surprised when Cash asked Michael to go with him, but when she saw the telltale straightening of the boy's shoulders, she didn’t have the heart to object. Cash is a mechanical genius, capable of drawing complete schematics in his head. He isn't supposed to be a people person. She's the one who knows what makes people tick and how to use it—but somehow Nix can never tell what makes others feel good, although she has a real talent for scaring them into believing she knows their secrets.
“Do not worry about frost,” Margaret answers. “We will cover the plants if it is getting too cold. We have always set out our gardens early.”
“You're the expert,” Nix says. “Just tell me what to do.”
Thanks to Margaret and Mary, there are healthy seedlings to put in the ground. They'd begun in early March to plant seeds in every container Nix could locate on her periodic digs in the attic.
Yesterday, Brittany had been assigned the chore of watering the little plants safely tucked into the cold frames George built along the side of the porch. Nix sat savoring the last of the morning coffee while she’d watched from the top step to make sure the princess understood the difference between watering and drowning.
“Bet you wish you had a cup this huge,” Brittany teased, holding it up for Nix to see.
“Not likely! That's no cup, doofus, it's a chamber pot.”
“What's a chamber pot?”
“Just think of it as an antique port-a-potty, Brit. On cold winter nights, no one wanted to traipse through the snow to the outhouse. So they peed in a pot under the bed.”
“Oooh, that's disgusting!" Brittany set it back in the cold frame with a thud.
“Watch what you're doing,” Nix snapped. “Nobody's used that pot for anything for a hundred years, but the tomato seedlings seem very happy in it—make sure you don't disturb them.”
Nix smiles now, remembering. It's so easy to get a rise out of Brittany—and so much fun. But, no time for fun now. It's work, work, work today.
“Martin, hold up for a minute,” she calls to the little boy as he barrels past with Peter and Paul.
He stops and trots over to her. “I only got a minute. I'm gonna help with the water wagon,” he says breathlessly.
Nix puts on a disappointed face. “Oh. Well, if that's what you want to do, go ahead. It's just that Margaret and Mary said you could plant the potatoes all by yourself, and they were really looking forward to teaching you how to do it.”
“Show me how, M & M!” Martin shouts in excitement, the wagon forgotten. Since he's learned his alphabet and the sound each letter makes, it's opened a whole new world. And to an eight-year-old, the best joke he's ever thought of is calling the Mennonite sisters, Margaret and Mary, M & M for short. “And because they're sweet,” he'd added.
As Martin plays 'Bury Mr. Potato Head’ with chunks of last year's potatoes, Nix wonders what's keeping the water wagon. Brittany is in charge of irrigating the rows of new plants—and simultaneously demonstrating that she's ready for a management position. She's enlisted Peter and Paul to pull the American Flyer that was old when Nix used to play with it.
That's got to be brutal, Nix thinks, as she watches the boys hauling a wagon full of sloshing watering cans over the ruts and grass between the pump and the garden. Brittany stands waiting for them, and then delicately dips an old soup ladle into the bucket and tenderly waters a pepper plant.
“Take it easy, Brit,” Nix calls. “Don't want you to hurt yourself.”
The Shirk twins break up laughing. Even Elizabeth puts her hand to her mouth to hide a smile.
“You've rested enough,” Brittany informs them with the lofty dignity of someone half a dozen years their senior. “Unload those cans and go fill the other ones.”
Nix leaves them to work it out and kneels to plant more squash. She tries to find that no-zone she goes to when she's outside working with plants, a place that feels like an endless now. But she can't make herself stop worrying and inventing possible disasters. It’s been three days. They should be back b
y now.
And it’s a pain in the ass keeping my hands mud-free, she thinks, just in case I need a good grip on my gun. She glances up at the sun to gauge the time. A little past mid-afternoon. Even as she thinks it, she catches sight of M & M heading toward the house to fire up the cooking stove and begin preparations for supper.
“I hear the truck!” Paul whoops suddenly. “They're back!”
Nix stands and massages the ache in her lower back. She wants to give a war whoop, too, but she doesn't even smile. It's better to keep what you think and feel to yourself. She's avid to know if they've caught sight of other survivors, though, and she's looking forward to a worry free night for the first time in days.
Suddenly, all thoughts of relaxation vanish—because behind the pickup is an old stake body truck with too many guys in back to count at a glance.
“Everybody in the house now!” she yells, “And God help you if I don't see you moving.”
Nix draws her gun and glances around to make sure all the kids have vanished. Then she stands, feet planted apart for balance, with weapon hidden behind her back, waiting for some sign of how this is going to play.
She watches as Cash jumps down from the pickup. Michael remains in back, seated atop a pile of what looks like rubbish, his rifle resting across his knees. Cash approaches the other truck, which looks like it's mostly held together with baling wire and crossed fingers. He speaks to the driver, and whatever he says is greeted with laughter from the guys in the truck bed behind the cab. Damn it, she wants to know who these people are, not how to entertain them. She keeps her finger on the trigger, as she watches Cash finally amble toward her.
“Take your time,” she calls, “I'll put in a few more plants while I wait.”
Cash glances around. “Garden's comin' along nice.”
“Let's not discuss rutabagas right now,” Nix hisses. “What the fuck is going on?”