The Plague, Pestilence & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™

by Robert Reed

  Science Fiction Stories

  Once Upon a Future: The Third Borgo Press Book of Science

  Fiction Stories

  Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery

  Stories

  More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and

  Mystery Stories

  X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries

  The MEGAPACK™ Ebook Series | 14

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed

  Originally published in The Mammoth

  Book of Apocalyptic SF (2003).

  Lola agrees with me, we’ve never seen a colder winter . Most

  nights drop below freezing, sometimes a long ways below, and if

  the stoves don’t get fed, mornings are painful . Better to lie under the

  heavy covers and fool around, we joke . But eleven years together

  and two swollen bladders usually put the brakes on too much friski-

  ness . Besides, we’ve got a dozen dogs howling to be fed . For the

  last few weeks, our habit has been to leap out of bed and dress in a

  rush, then sprint outside—she has her outhouse, I’ve got mine—and

  then with all of the mutts on our heels, we hurry indoors, throwing

  logs into the kitchen stove so at least one room is habitable before

  we attack the new day .

  The cold is bad, but there hasn’t been any snow either . Not a

  dusting . Last year’s drought hasn’t shown any signs of surrender,

  leafless trees and sorry brown grass bending under a slicing north

  wind . With my big important voice, I announce, “Winter is Death .”

  Lola thinks that’s a bit much, but I believe what I say . If you can’t

  migrate or hibernate, there’s nothing to eat here but leftovers from

  last summer and fall . If this cold didn’t pass, we would eventually

  perish . But of course winter is just a season, and not a very big one

  at that . My wife smiles and promises me another spring followed by

  a long hot summer. “Because the air is still filled with…what is that

  stuff called…?”

  “Carbon dioxide .”

  “I don’t know why I can’t remember that,” she says .

  Lola’s a simple, practical girl . That’s why .

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 18

  “Carbon what?” she asks .

  With my important voice, I repeat the words .

  “I love you,” she says .

  “I love you,” I say .

  Lola stands at the warming stove, wearing two sweaters and stir-

  ring our oatmeal . In ways I could never be, she is happy . Smiling for

  no obvious reason, she asks what I’m planning for my day .

  “You remember,” I say .

  “Tell me again .”

  “Run the meat into town .”

  “I forgot,” she claims, her stirring picking up speed .

  But really, she isn’t that simple . What she forgets can be a mes-

  sage, not a mistake . Like here: Butcher Jack wants the meat . But

  he has three daughters too, all in their teens . Some nights Lola lies

  awake, scared that I’ll leave her for some young gal who gives me

  babies . If not Butcher Jack’s kids, then there’s dozens of single la-

  dies living in that hated town—fertile sluts talking about Christ but

  not meaning it, their spoiled easy lives giving them time to paint

  their faces and cover their bodies with fancy clothes meant to do

  nothing but draw a man’s eyes . She hates my trips to town . We need

  them, and she doesn’t dare stop me . But even an insensitive husband

  would pick up on these feelings, and I’m not the insensitive type .

  Eating breakfast, I ask what we need . What can I bring her?

  Two different questions, those are .

  Her wish list is shorter than usual . She mentions dried apples and

  bug-free flour and oats and maybe cloth that she can use to make

  new clothes and wool yarn if I can manage it . Then she pauses, star-

  ing at the table between us, saying nothing but in a very important

  way .“What’s wrong?”

  She shakes her head . But instead of lying, she admits that she

  gets scared when I leave for long .

  “Scared of what?”

  Lola looks at me .

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 19

  “I always come home,” I remind her . Of course maybe I won’t

  make it tonight, but by tomorrow I’ll be sitting here again . And

  she’ll have me until spring, if we get enough supplies for all our

  smoked meat .

  “I know you’ll be back,” she claims . Then a moment later, she

  mentions, “The butcher shouldn’t take long .”

  “I have old friends to see,” I remind her .

  She nods .

  “Rituals,” I add .

  One ritual makes her smile .

  “Come with me,” I tell her .

  But that will never happen . Even the suggestion brings up old

  feelings, and as her face stiffens, she says, “I wouldn’t be welcome .”

  “It’s been years .”

  “And what’s changed?”

  “Well,” I say . “It’s not like people will talk ugly to your face .”

  Heat flows into those gorgeous eyes. The sources of pain aren’t

  worth repeating . We know the history, and just by bringing it up, I

  make certain that she’ll stay behind . With a nod, Lola admits that

  we need supplies, but at least I won’t be doing this chore again next

  month . “Get everything you can today,” she implores . “Whatever

  we need, and maybe a present for me . All right? Then come home

  as fast as possible .”

  Maybe my wife doesn’t know the ingredients of the air . But bet-

  ter than me, she remembers why we even bother to breathe .

  * * * *

  There’s no telling how many vehicles went into making my freight

  truck . I lost count of the places where I found the little valves and

  bolts and brackets and gaskets . But the body belonged to a military

  Hummer and the engine to a second Hummer—a big eight-cylinder

  reconfigured to burn even our lousy homemade alcohol. No two

  tires have the same lineage . I can make most repairs using the tools

  on hand and the junkyard behind our last outbuilding . But one of

  these days, this truck is going to stop running . It’ll probably happen

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 20

  at the bottom of a gully and miles from home, and the part I need

  won’t be in my inventory, or more likely I’ll hike all the way home

  and find ten replacements, every last one of them rusted and useless.

  Water and time are two demons steadily erasing what remains

  from before . But that very bad day still sits somewhere in the future .

  Today we have a fleet of Jeeps and little trucks and tractors and

  powered carts, plus the one big Hummer . With Lola’s help, I load

  the truck and both trailers, tying down the choicest parts of elk and

  whitetail and wild pigs, plus that one idiot black bear that decided

  to visit us last October, mauling our dogs when he wasn’t making a

  mess of our smokehouse . Balancing the load is critical, and it takes

  a lot of pushing and dragging until everything is just right . Suddenly

  it’s mid-morning . Lola thinks it’s too late to go and wants me to

  delay, although she won’t say it . I give her a kiss, and she does noth-

 
ing . I step away, and she pulls me close and kisses me, lifting her

  face and whole body against me . I have to laugh . Then she slaps my

  face and storms away . I climb into the cab and take the usual deep

  breath, for luck. The engine catches on the first try, and I wave and

  she waves and smiles, and I roll across our yard and down onto the

  narrow, grass-choked road to town .

  The dogs follow, but not too far .

  In good shoes and motivated, a fit person could run to Salvation

  in ninety minutes . Every road between home and the highway is

  my responsibility . Nobody else lives out here . Spring and summer,

  I use our biggest tractor to pull the mower, keeping the weeds and

  volunteer trees off the once-graveled roadbeds . I also blade over the

  ruts and any gullies made by cloudbursts, and eventually I’m going

  to have to brace the bridge at the seven-mile mark .

  The bridge creaks and moans, but it holds as always . My roads

  end at the highway, and sitting beside the intersection, happy in the

  sun, is a tiger—a great yellow and white and black beast staring at

  this noisy contraption and the stubborn, half-deaf man clinging to

  its steering wheel .

  The local tigers are beauties . Their ancestors lived in a city

  zoo or maybe somebody’s private collection, and instead of being

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 21

  mercy-killed the big cats were set free . Siberian blood runs in this

  fellow . He is enormous and warm inside that rich winter coat . A fur

  like that would command a huge price in town . Or even better, it

  would be the perfect surprise for a woman who biggest hope is for a

  sack of bug-free flour.

  But this tiger proves to be a wise soul . Reading my mind, he van-

  ishes into the grass before I can get hold of my favorite rifle, much

  less put the scope to my eye or push a big bullet into the chamber .

  Oh, well .

  Salvation stands along this highway and the adjacent ribbon

  of clear, drought-starved water . Turning left, I head downstream .

  Rectangular foundations show where homes once stood, pipe and

  wire scavenged long ago, the wood and gypsum burnt off by the

  spring fires. Side roads and driveways are nearly invisible under the

  pale dead weeds . A factory was only half-built when work stopped,

  and while the roof caved in years ago, the concrete walls and paved

  parking lot are putting on worthy battles against roots and the surge

  of the frosts. After that ruin comes the first tended fields. Families

  have claimed different patches of bottomland . People who might

  be four generations removed from farming have figured out how to

  plow and irrigate, how to fight off the weeds and pests, saving seed

  and canning their produce and trading for new seeds that will do

  better or do worse this coming year .

  It has been weeks since I saw any new human face. Today’s first

  face belongs to a boy . Standing in the trees between the cold water

  and me, he looks wild and very happy . Curious about this man and

  his enormous truck, he lifts his arms, yelling something important .

  I can’t hear a word over the screaming of the engine . Rolling past

  him, I wave like any friendly neighbor .

  He runs after me . And because he is a boy, he picks up a piece of

  the broken pavement, flinging it into the last trailer.

  New houses mark the outskirts of Salvation . Standing back from

  the river, they are built from packed earth and straw bales, roughly

  hewed wood and salvaged sheets of random metal . Beauty and ele-

  gance don’t matter . Being tight in the winter and cool in the summer

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 22

  is what counts . The town grows every year, and this is the look of

  the…what’s that word? Oh, yeah . The suburbs .

  Another mile, and I’m in the original town . The houses here are

  taller and far prettier than the dirt mounds, and they’re five thousand

  years fancier . Corkscrew windmills turn on the peaked roofs while

  solar panels face the cold bright sun, the day’s wealth turned into

  heat and LEDs and electricity stored in banks of refurbished bat-

  teries . I can’t say what people want with so much juice . How many

  lamps do you need to read an old book at midnight? But power is

  power, prestige never changes, and if I can’t remember who lives in

  which house, at least I can be certain that only the best citizens are

  living behind those insulated front doors .

  Salvation has always been Salvation . But the people who built it

  were different from today’s good citizens . Worried about their fu-

  ture, they purchased hundreds of acres of farmland . They created a

  town square and a host of little businesses and streets filled with effi-

  cient, luxurious homes . Being forward-looking souls, they powered

  their world with wind and sunlight . They devised a community and

  a life style that demanded little from the overpopulated, overheated

  world. But wealthy people are smugly confident. They will always

  do what looks smart, and being smart was what killed them . That’s

  why Salvation became a ghost town . But these beautiful homes

  weren’t empty for long, because up in heaven a benevolent God

  sent His chosen people to a place with that perfect name, and among

  the blessed where my mother and my father, and me .

  * * * *

  In a town that often chews up its own, Butcher Jack is considered

  a fair trader, a gentleman unencumbered by enemies or old grudges .

  And he’s glad to see me, but only because we’re friends and because

  we think the world of each other . After the usual greetings and hand-

  shakes, he turns quiet, throwing a sour look at the truck and trailers

  loaded high with sweet wild meat .

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing you’ve done .”

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 23

  I can’t guess what he means .

  “It’s the Martin brothers,” he begins .

  Identical twins, the Martins are a few years older than me, prone

  to drinking homemade whiskey and starting fights with whoever is

  closest . They were barely men when they were shunned, and when

  their behaviors didn’t change the mayor took the unusual step of

  forcing them out of town . The brothers live on the National Guard

  base several days’ west, sharing at least four wives and a platoon of

  kids who call both of them “Dad” . Why that clan means anything to

  me is a mystery, right up until Jack admits, “They just brought in a

  load of cured buffalo and wild cattle .”

  “Since when do they share?”

  “Since this winter . Too many bored kids underfoot, too much

  energy causing mischief. They figured it was time to put the crew to

  work, maybe barter for toys and the like .”

  “But how’s their meat?”

  He answers my question with a hard stare .

  “Do they match my stuff?” I ask .

  “No, and that’s why you’ll always have customers, Noah . Least

  as far as I’m concerned .”

  Why doesn’t this feel like good news?

  “Drunks or not, the Martins did a respectable
job. Not the flavor

  you manage, and the meat demands chewing . But people are pretty

  satisfied.”

  “How much did they bring?”

  Jack considers my load before saying, “Twice yours .”

  “Damn .”

  “There’s the problem’s heart,” he says . “Our local market is just

  about saturated .”

  I used to worry about my neighbors turning into hunters, particu-

  larly as the elk and buffalo grew common . But killing is easy work .

  Gutting the beasts is hard, and smoking that lean flesh is an art form.

  If I hadn’t come to town today, I’d still feel like a wealthy man . But

  now I’m destitute, wrestling with my terrors, wondering if weeks of

  PALLBEARER, by Robert Reed | 24

  labor are going to count for nothing . And worst of all, my best friend

  in Salvation is delivering the deathblow .

  “You’ve still got your loyal customers,” Jack repeats .

  I nod .

  “And remember, we’ve got more mouths in town . Twenty more

  than last year, nearly .”

  I wait .

  He offers a sum . It’s half what I expected, but I know it’s more

  than he has to pay me . This is charity, and I have to smile . Then he

  calls out his four sons to help unload the meat, and I catch myself

  watching for his notorious daughters . I don’t see them anywhere .

  Once his boys are working, he turns back to me, saying, “Things

  won’t get any better, Noah .”

  “You mean with the Martins?”

  “No, it’s the darn Mennonites,” he says, waving toward the south-

  east . “Those hill families are clearing pastures, putting up fences

  and breeding with some quality bulls .”

  “Tigers like beef,” I point out .

  And Jack nods, wanting to believe that too . “But they may have

  solved the predator problem,” he warns . “Big dogs trained to watch

  the herds, and when there’s trouble, the dogs bark . Cougars, wolves,

  even tigers…they’re all going to think twice when those bearded

  men start firing their big rifles.”

  I laugh sadly .

  Jack shrugs . “Next year, in a small scale, they’ll be putting do-

  mesticated beef on our tables .”

  And I curse .

  Which he expects . And with his own sense of impending loss,

  he adds, “Mennonites are smart businessmen . Always have been .