Our Daily Bread

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Me neither,” said Little Joe.

  “You’ll do what I fucking tell you,” said Albert. “Come on, Bobby.”

  “Wait,” said Jack. “They’re moving.”

  “If you’re shitting me—” said Albert.

  “See for yourself.”

  They stood on the porch, looking at the cabin. It took a moment to make out who was who in the darkness. Dan, Lloyd, Ray and Old Felicity. They talked. Dan shook his head. Lloyd hopped around from foot to foot like his boots were on fire. Sybil came to the doorway and said something, and Dan pushed her back inside. She cursed.

  “What are they doing?” said Bobby in a whisper.

  “I wish I fucking knew,” said Albert. “But I don’t like this.”

  Harold appeared, and pushed past the group on the porch.

  “Fucking little bastard,” he yelled, loud enough to be heard by the children in the cabin. “I’ll huff and I’ll fucking puff.”

  “Get ready,” said Albert. “I think we’re doing a runner.”

  “You’re not fucking leaving us,” Jill had picked Kenny up, balancing him on her hip. She grabbed Albert’s arm. “You took sides when you let ’em in, Bert. You fucking know that.”

  Donna and Cindy came to the porch. Cindy tried to pull Lloyd inside. He slapped her, knocking her sideways, and both women disappeared back inside the house.

  “Mama,” said Ruby, peeking from the window.

  Harold came back round the corner of the house. He carried something. He stood at the bottom of the steps, talking to the men on the porch.

  “Holy shit,” said Jack.

  “What is it?” said Bobby, his hand on Albert’s shoulder.

  Albert shrugged him off. “It’s a can of gasoline.” He turned to Jack. “Help me move that trunk.”

  “Why?”

  “Do what I fucking tell you. Bobby, watch them. They make a move in this direction you tell me. Jill, get the kids ready.”

  Albert took one end of the trunk and Jack the other. They swung it into the middle of the room. Albert stepped behind it and pulled at a board, then another. They gave way with a crack and creak. He lifted out a section of the wall, a perfect square of wood and pink insulation.

  “Huh,” said Jack. “You think of everything.”

  “Hoped I’d never have to use it. You go out first. Take Toots. Can you carry her?”

  Little Cathy started to cry and Kenny sniffled, hanging on to his mother’s thigh. Jill rested her hand on her son’s head and with the other tried to get Toots sitting up. The girl, still silent, reached weakly for her. “I’ll take her.”

  “She’s too heavy.”

  “She weighs nothing.”

  “Maybe not for a minute or two, but she’s more or less deadweight. Don’t argue with me, Christ! You got to help the others. Cathy’s not going to be able to go for long. And you or Jack’ll have to take turns carrying Brenda I guess. Joe, you, too. I’ll take Toots as soon as we get out.”

  “Where are we going?” Jill said, handing Toots over to Jack.

  “I don’t know. Into the woods for now.”

  “They’re moving around up there,” said Bobby, his voice like a tightly pulled wire. “Arguing.”

  “Good. Keep them busy.” Albert pushed Jack and Toots out the escape hatch. “The three still up on the porch?”

  “No. They came down. They’re just kinda standing there now. No, I think they’re moving. Albert, I think they’re coming this way.”

  “Hurry up! Get out, get out, come on, all of you.” Little legs and bums and backs under his hands, pushing them, shoving them. Griff cried out as he barked his shin. “Run deep into the woods. Stick together! Stick together!” The last thing he wanted was to lose another kid to The Others. The realization he would go down fighting for these little ones struck him like a board.

  “Albert!” Bobby was next to him, on all fours. “You ready?”

  “Go, go!” said Albert, and shoved him, then scrambled through after him. The hole was small, and it was a tight squeeze. He scraped his cheek on a nail. Now his head was out he heard voices from the front of the cabin.

  “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll burn your house down,” said Harold, and there was laughter.

  Maybe it was just Albert’s imagination, but he smelled gasoline and sulphur. He scrambled to his feet, wiping at the blood on his cheek. The wound was deep; a rivulet trickled on his neck. Quickly, he pulled the wooden square back into place. If the others saw it, they’d know which direction to follow and seconds counted. As he wrestled with the board, he tore his fingernail. He turned, crouched low and took off. He stumbled on a tree root, caught himself and ran, blind and fast, following small figures in the pine-scented night. His fear snapped and snarled like a dog at his heels. If it got its teeth into his tendon he was done for. He could smell it—feral, acrid and pungent. From the corner of his eye, Jack beckoned from a hollow. Albert clambered into it. The air was thick with the buzzing of mosquitoes and the sound of children panting.

  “Anyone missing?” he said. His heart pounded like a maniac on the door of his sternum.

  “No, all here,” said Jack.

  They were a pack of baby foxes in the den of rotting leaves and mud and insects, hounds on their trail. Eyes popped and blinked, the dirty faces pale and streaked. Bobby breathed hard, near panic. Albert reached out and squeezed his knee. “You got my back, right? You and me, right?”

  Bobby swallowed. “Right. I’m okay.”

  Albert peeked over the top of the earth mound. The Others were creeping around the cabin. They must think Albert and the kids were still in there. Good. He was afraid they’d known about his “back-door.” Harold came round the corner, pouring gasoline at the baseline. Lloyd said something to Harold and he stood up, walked back around to the front of the cabin. The sound that followed was unmistakable. He’d kicked in the door. More voices, louder, the words garbled. Then a brighter light. Orange and flickering.

  No point in staying to watch his house burn down.

  “They’ll be looking for us. Come on.”

  “Sorry about the cabin,” said Jill.

  Bobby pointed. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  Something else, coming through the trees. Lights. A car.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tom’s mouth was set and his hands gripped the wheel. He forced himself to take the steep mountain road slowly. If he went off into the ditch, it was all over. As he got closer to the compound, he smelled smoke. At first he assumed it was simply one of the wood stoves, but then realized it was too strong for that. His foot pressed down on the accelerator slightly. He scanned the forest. Red-tinged light. His heart skipped and a jolt like electricity ran into his fingertips.

  The truck pulled into the rutted path that served as a driveway to the main house. Fire crackled from a structure a way back in the wood, an outbuilding of some sort, he thought. Women, three of them, stood on the porch of the main house, watching him approach. A group of men—how many?—loitered by the burning building, backlit against the flames. They didn’t seem to be trying to put it out. One of them tossed something in the underbrush. No sign of either Bobby or Albert. Tom cursed himself for not having a cell phone, but then doubted there was a signal up here anyway.

  Tom put the truck in park and reached under the front seat, making sure the crowbar he’d stashed there was within easy reach. One of the women—the thin one—took a couple of steps in his direction. The fat one pulled her back into the house and closed the door. The fat one’s face appeared at the window a moment later. Tom stepped out of the truck, leaving the door open, and faced the approaching men. Instinct told him it was important to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary here. A building on fire? Happens all the time. No point even commenting. It was like approachin
g a pack of semi-feral dogs. Calm authority. Show no fear. There were four of them. He recognized Harold Erskine—baggy old elephant—and Ray Erskine, looking ten years older than when he’d last seen him. Basset hound pouches drooped under his eyes; his jeans and stained T-shirt hung off him. It flashed through Tom’s head that maybe he was sick—cancer? He had the look. Tom wasn’t sure about the remaining two, who looked as unhealthy as Ray. He thought the one with those same baggy eyes was Lloyd. His cheeks, like Ray’s, were sunken and all the men except for Harold had sores on their faces. Some kind of skin disease?

  The men were silent, which was unnerving. They stopped their advance, but didn’t stop moving. It was like they couldn’t stay still, twitching like puppets. Only Harold Erskine was reasonably still—maybe he was pulling the strings.

  Tom stuck his hands in his pockets, casual as anything. “I’m Tom Evans,” he said.

  Harold spoke up. “What do you want, Tom Evans?”

  “I think my son’s up here.”

  “Only us Erskines up here.”

  “He’s visiting Albert.”

  “I said no.”

  Ray—Tom was sure the man’s name was Ray—ducked into the house. The other men fanned out just a little, but enough. The door to the house opened again and a plump, youngish man stepped out.

  “Hi there, hi you. Who are you? I’m Sonny!” the plump man said.

  “Get back in the fucking house, Sonny,” said Harold.

  “Do I—”

  “Get in the fucking house!”

  “You don’t have to yell at me,” the man said as he slinked back inside.

  “And you, too, Tom Evans. Say goodnight, now.”

  “Where’s Albert?” Tom inched back toward the truck cab.

  “Not here,” said Harold.

  “He’s fucking deaf,” said Lloyd. “You too old? You going deaf, Tom?”

  “Maybe he’s a fucking retard like Sonny,” said the other man.

  The burning building collapsed with a whoosh, sending a spark-storm into the night air. “You better hose down those trees,” said Tom. “And I think you better tell me where my kid is.”

  “I don’t think that’s why this guy’s up here at all,” said Lloyd. He picked at one of the sores on his jawline.

  “Me, neither,” said the one whose name he didn’t know.

  “I just want to get my son. No trouble.” Tom reached back into the truck and pulled out the crowbar. “Not unless there has to be.”

  The door of the house opened and out stepped Ray. He levelled a rifle at Tom. “He’s Whitford’s friend. Aren’t you Whitford’s friend?”

  Tom turned to face the gun. His stomach cramped. “I’m just here for my son.”

  “That’s my dad,” said Bobby, starting to stand and slipping in the mud.

  Albert grabbed him and pulled him back down. “Motherfucker! What the hell’s he doing up here? He’s going to get himself killed. Idiot. Idiot!”

  “That’s my father!”

  “We’re getting out of here,” said Jack.

  “Stop, everybody! Bobby, you are not going up there. It’ll only make it worse. And the rest of you—you’re not going anywhere. They’ll come after you, pick you off, now or later. If not tonight, tomorrow. We’ve got to stay together and get out of here once and for all. Let me think. Let me fucking think!”

  “He’s right, and I can’t take care of Toots alone,” said Jill.

  His cabin collapsed. Foosh. Gone. Ray came out onto the porch. He had a rifle.

  “Oh, shit,” said Albert.

  “Now what, genius?” said Jack.

  Bobby’s father put his hands up in the air. He dropped the crowbar he’d been holding. Maybe he’d just get back in the truck and start down the mountain. Maybe if Jack ran down that way he could catch up with him, have him wait for them and drive them all the fuck out of here.

  Lloyd walked over to Tom Evans and punched him in the stomach. The big man doubled over and Lloyd brought his knee up into Tom’s face. Tom staggered back and then stood, roared and threw himself into Lloyd’s middle, slamming him into the side of the truck. Albert couldn’t make out everything they were shouting at this distance, just “Take him out!” and “Fuck him up!” Bobby struggled to rise and Albert grabbed him again. “I will knock you the fuck out if you don’t chill. You go up there and they’ll kill you both, understand? Understand?!” The boy was crying, but he nodded. The other children began to cry as well, with Jack and Jill shushing them as best they could.

  Tom Evans and Lloyd rolled around in the dirt for several minutes, and then Tom Evans broke away and turned toward the house. Ray sighted the gun and fired. The shot’s sharp crack bounced through the trees and Bobby shrieked, holding his hands over his ears. But Tom Evans didn’t fall down. The truck lurched to one side as the tire flattened. Ray fired again and sparks flew up from the engine. Tom hunched down, covering his head, while Harold yelled and waved at Ray.

  “What the fuck!” Harold said, and then something they couldn’t hear. “—get out now? Idiot!” Harold marched up the steps and ripped the gun from Ray’s hands. He slapped him across the face. Then he turned to Tom. Lloyd and Dan stepped back.

  “Ah, fuck,” said Albert.

  “What, what?” Bobby clawed at him.

  “Listen. Fast. I’m going to draw them away.” He was not saying this. “They’ll come after me. The rest of you—get Evans’s attention if you can. Get him with you.” He could not possibly be saying these words. Could not possibly be thinking about doing what he was thinking about doing. There was some arguing at the house. The women had come out. But Albert knew it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Jill pulled his arm. “You can’t be serious. Who are you, the lone fucking ranger?”

  He shook her off. “But if you can’t get Evans, get the fuck off the mountain anyway. Bobby, you too, you can’t help him up here. I’ll meet you down at the marsh, but if I’m not there, keep going. Jack, do not let Bobby get near that house! It’s up to you, little brother. You and Jill.”

  Without another word, he took off running, scrambling up the hollow. His chest burned, his stomach burned and the voice inside his head told him he was clearly having a breakdown. Turn right you moron, it said, run into the woods, it said, keep going, it said. Albert skirted past the still burning wreckage of his house, moving fast now, because there was almost no time. He would get his truck, drive it right into the midst of the bastards, and hope Evans got out of the way in time. The hood of his truck was up. Wires hanging. Battery gone. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  His mind raced. Seconds mattered. Run, Spot, Run. And stop when? Then, everything slowed, as though he were watching a film of people running underwater. Bobby’s face back there in the cabin, looking up at him like he was worth something just for letting those kids in. Like he was a hero or something. Stop running when? Now? Probably not, but still . . .

  He came out on the far side of the clearing, just back of the house. They couldn’t help but see him there. “Hey, you fucktards!” He waved his arms. Picked up a rock and chucked it, hitting Lloyd in the middle of the back. “Hey, you motherfucking cocksuckers!” They spotted him. Albert turned his back, waggled his ass at them. “I’m going to burn your fucking house down, you assholes! You hear me?” He took off into the woods, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they’d heard him. They had. And here they came—Lloyd and Ray and Dan.

  Past the garbage dump, past the old outhouse and into the deep woods. Behind him they lumbered and hooted, but he was faster than they were and smarter. He’d always been smarter. His left knee hurt, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he kept on running, zigzagging. Branches slapped his face; brambles stuck to his hair and sleeves; thorns tore his skin. But it was only the three uncles. Old Harold had stayed behind, and Old Haro
ld had guns of his own. There was only one thing that would get Old Harold away from Tom Evans: disruption of commerce.

  Albert came into the clearing where Ray’s trailer and shack stood, or leaned. Dark as a husk. Albert wanted to burn it, but how? He had nothing and he didn’t want to take the time to look around inside. Voices in the brush, and barking. Fuck, they’d turned the dogs loose. That was bad, bad, bad. Grunter snapping, biting, back in time, he was back there—at the mailbox races he and the other kids had been forced to run. Run, you kids, Harold would say, while Fat Felicity stood beside him with a hickory stick in one hand and snarling, snapping Grunter’s chain in the other. Grunter the wolf-dog, the kids called him. Run to the mailbox and back. You better win, too. Albert ran. And so did his sister and brother, Jack and Jill. His cousins ran. His half-brothers and half-sisters ran. They all ran, while the dog went lunatic with excitement, drooling and snapping, and they scratched and fought and tripped one other when they could; they climbed over each other and pushed each other’s faces in the mud. Because so much was at stake. For what did you win? A day when the drunken uncles didn’t come after you. A day when you didn’t have to bend over and take it. When you didn’t have to open your mouth and gag. When you didn’t have to. You just didn’t have to.

  Run, you kids . . . Albert dashed, and nearly tripped on a vine. He slapped other vines out of his way, going deep, making it harder for them to follow. It had been easier when he was little. Monsters behind him. Breathing, thundering, slavering, beasts in the forest behind him. He was ten years old again, his back throbbing from the belt, his mouth full of the taste of Harold, his eyes salt-stung and fury-blind. His breath was ragged. His own sweat acrid in his nostrils. He had to calm down, not let the nightmares take over. The dogs were stupid, untrained. They’d run off after every scent, confused by all the excitement . . .

  Barking. Run, you little fucker, we’re gonna find you! Rational mind flew away like a startled owl. He was sobbing, now. But he was almost there, passing the generator they kept at a safe distance from the lab, and then he was there. The area around the trailer was littered with red-stained coffee filters, gas cans, old batteries, iodine bottles, cold remedy packets—too many to count—Prestone containers, matchbooks. He wiped tears from his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but whatever it was, it had to make a big bang. Meth labs were notoriously flammable. There had to be matches in there, or else a gas burner or something. He’d go in, get a match, and blow the place up. They’d come running, and he’d be off down the mountain to anywhere but here. He looked behind him; saw a flashlight way off in the trees. The dogs were snarling at something, high-pitched yelping—he hoped they were fighting each other or tearing the uncles to shreds, but he doubted it. He had only minutes, maybe less. A cinderblock served as a step. The door was padlocked, of course, but no troubles. He picked up the cinderblock, considered the hazards of sparks, and struck the lock anyway. The lock broke and nothing blew up. A good sign. He opened the thin door and stepped in. Jesus the smell. Like the piss of a thousand cats. Something sickly sweet. He’d never find anything, it was pitch black, the windows covered in tin foil so that not even moonlight got in. The square of gloomy light coming in the door revealed a counter covered with filth, candy wrappers, cola cans, beakers, Tupperware, more coffee filters, rubber gloves . . . he couldn’t make out anything he wanted. Where were all the goddamn matches? Where was the heat source? They’d be on him in seconds and then . . . The fumes were so potent he held his T-shirt hem over his mouth and nose. He’d have to risk turning on a light. What did it matter? They knew where he was headed. He felt along the sticky wall for the switch, looking upward to see if there was a fixture. A bulb, there was a bare bulb. His fingers found the switch and as he flipped it it occurred to him it might not be wise, for there was something wrong with that bulb—there was something in it—and in the time it took for the current to travel along the wall into the strange bulb, Albert Erskine knew he’d made a dreadful mistake.