AFTER
Page 6
She took the squirrel in her hand and was amazed to find that it didn't have a mark on it. Compadre had dispatched the animal without even breaking the skin. Together, she and the dog continued up the hillside until they found a rocky ledge with enough room to sit down and rest for awhile.
Phyllis unshouldered a backpack and set it down. She had found the knapsack in a ditch just after leaving Charlotte and, out of convenience, swapped it for her rolling suitcase. She unzipped the upper section, rummaged around inside, and found a black leather roll secured with Velcro strips. She opened it and slowly unfurled it to its full length.
In loops and pockets were secured the tools of her trade: dozens of spices, an assortment of kitchen knives, cooking utensils, and even a spoon, fork, and knife. As Compadre lay on the flinty shale of the ledge, watching her, Phyllis went about the business of preparing the meal, which did wonders for her sagging spirit. Just going about the motions of doing what she did best made her feel useful and in control once again.
Phyllis first went along the slope above the ledge, finding bits of dry vegetation and twigs for a fire. Then, heaping the tinder on the rock floor, she lit it with a cigarette lighter that had been left in the front pocket of the backpack. Soon, a small but sufficient campfire was blazing. Phyllis took a filet knife and deftly slit the squirrel from chin to crotch. Without a trace of squeamishness, she skinned and cleaned the squirrel, then seasoned the raw meat with a delicate blend of spices: oregano, garlic, and a dash of rosemary.
Afterward she impaled it on a long stick, which she held steadily over the fire. Phyllis had grown up with a father and three brothers who were avid hunters, as well as fishermen. She recalled childhood weekends when she would accompany them on hunting trips into the wilds of Maine. Even at a young age, she had possessed a love for meat and a knack for dressing out game, be it mammal, fish, or fowl.
It wasn't long before the flames had cooked the squirrel completely through. The aroma of the meat smelled absolutely delicious. Compadre rose up on two paws and whimpered inquisitively. "Your reward for a job well done, my friend," she said, twisting a hind leg off the broasted squirrel and tossing it to the dog. Compadre wolfed it down like he had been without food for weeks. Phyllis knew that simply couldn't be the case, though. The Malamute was too healthy; his coat was thick and glossy and there was no hint of weight loss.
Phyllis sat and ate her lunch slowly, giving her stomach time to adjust to the sustenance it was finally receiving. If she hadn't, she would have likely puked up everything that went down. She pulled an old plastic Coke bottle from the pack. It still had a little water left over from a stream she had come across earlier in the day. She took a swallow of the tepid liquid, then took another bite of seasoned squirrel.
She looked out across the landscape that lay before her. She saw no sign of a town or even a road. All she could see were treetops: pine, cedar, and scrubby mountain oak. Their foliage wasn't as green and full as she expected. Instead, it was dull and lusterless, some even turning yellowish brown. She lifted her eyes and stared at the sky. The baby-blueness that once comprised Earth's lower atmosphere was dyed an ugly pale brown, almost beige in hue. A few clouds hung in the sky, but they were no longer white and fluffy. Instead they were black and sooty, like the smoke of a wood stove.
"Who did all this, Compadre?" she asked out loud. "Do you know? Who caused the Burn?"
At the word "burn", the white Malamute bared his fangs and growled.
"Yes," she said, pulling at a stringy piece of squirrel with her teeth. "I know exactly what you mean."
A few moments later, after they had finished eating, Phyllis packed her black roll back into the backpack and stood up. "So, my benevolent savior," she said to the dog. "Which way should we go? Or are you ashamed to be seen with an old gal like me?"
Compadre jumped up. Resting his large paws across her shoulders, he licked her dimpled face. Phyllis laughed. "Do you love me… or are you just sneaking one last taste of squirrel?"
The dog dropped to the ground and barked. It was a strong, throaty bark that reminded her so much of her Sandy. Then the Malamute turned and started onward up the slope.
Phyllis sighed. "Okay, you're the tour guide. Hopefully, you know this area better than I do." Cautiously, she started up the embankment after him, wishing she had more dependable footwear. Gucci was stylish and all the rage, but they were shit for walking in, especially beyond red carpets and the sidewalks of Rodeo Drive.
As evening fell, Phyllis and Compadre had navigated several hills and found themselves in a narrow valley with a stream winding through the center. It was a beautiful place, the sort you see in nature documentaries or on the pages of calendars.
Phyllis took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Just finding Compadre and eating the squirrel had lifted her spirits tremendously. She exhaled and instantly launched into a fit of violent coughing. She put her hand to her mouth and it came away covered with bloody spittle. That scared her… the same way the blotchy discolorment of her skin and a couple of ulcerated sores on her arms and hands did. If radiation was killing the plants, then naturally it was working on her as well. But Phyllis didn't want to think about that now. All she wanted to think about was making it past Washington and New York, and getting home to Art and Sandy.
The two hiked along the creek for nearly an hour. Phyllis filled up her water bottle, despite a couple of dead fish she saw bobbing in the current.
There was no getting around it; she had to have water to survive. Onward they trekked as the blistering sun began to drop to the west. The ugly brown sky altered into unnatural shades of purple and crimson as twilight began to settle.
Phyllis was beginning to worry about where they would camp for the night, when Compadre lunged forward, barking. Frightened, she picked her way through kudzu and blackberry bramble, trying to keep up with him. She certainly didn't want to lose the dog now, after having just found him.
When she finally made it through the thicket, she found him sitting on his haunches, waiting for her in front of a little graywood shack with a rusty tin roof. The structure looked as though it hadn't been lived in for years. The door hung partially off its hinges and the glass of the windows was completely gone.
"Well, it's not the Waldorf Astoria, but I suppose it'll be a roof over our heads," Phyllis said. Tentatively, she stepped past the sagging door and entered the structure. She took a small flashlight from the knapsack – not a leftover from the backpack's previous owner, but her own. Phyllis had a bladder problem and it was handy for helping find the bathroom at night, especially if she was in some strange place away from home.
The interior of the little shack stank of dank earth, cigarette smoke, and urine. Evidence of several small campfires could be seen on the shed's dirt floor. Apparently, this had become a way station of sorts for travelers and transients. Against a far wall stood the metal frame of a twin bed with a mildewed mattress within its cradle. On the other side of the room were a small table and one rusty folding chair.
"Like I said before, it's not five-star accommodations, but it'll have to do."
Phyllis tossed her backpack on the bed and looked around, rubbing her hands. She was more than a little compulsive about cleanliness and the nasty state of the shack made her skin crawl. Again she reached into the pack and, this time, withdrew a lavender aroma-therapy candle – again one of her home-away-from-home items – and, placing it on the tabletop, lit the wick. It didn't cast much light, but it was enough to give a clearer – and more dismal – picture of her surroundings. "Well, we can do better than this."
For the next hour, Phyllis went about the almost impossible task of tidying up the shed. She tossed much of the debris – empty soda cans, food packages, and even a used condom or two – out the back window. Then she rearranged the furniture a bit to suit her needs. "Hmmm, not bad," she said to herself. "Not bad at all."
Night descended and, for a while, Phyllis simply sat in the folding chair, staring at the
flicker of the candle and trying to avoid the darkness beyond the windows and open doorway. She had attempted to straighten the door earlier, but it had threatened to fall off entirely, so she had left it alone. Compadre lay at her feet, his head on his paws, looking bored.
Phyllis's stomach grumbled. "Another squirrel would sure be nice right about now," she said. As in agreement, the Malamute's tummy rumbled noisily.
Outside the side window, an owl hooted, causing Phyllis to jump.
Compadre jumped, too, but not in fright. The dog rose to his feet, cocked his head until the owl hooted again, then bounded out the door.
"No, boy! Don't go out there!" she called. "A bobcat or something could get you." But what she was really thinking was Please, don't leave me in here alone!
Phyllis waited for what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than four or five minutes. Then she heard a sound at the door.
Abruptly, Compadre strolled in, dragging a huge horned owl into the shack by its foot. The bird was dead. Looking at the sharp talons on the owl's feet, Phyllis wondered how the dog had managed to catch it without being clawed half to death.
"How did you get this thing, boy?" she asked him. "You didn't climb a tree, did you?"
Compadre sat there, mouth open and tongue dangling, as if amused by her question.
Phyllis prodded at the owl with the toe of her shoe, just to make sure it was actually dead. It was. She picked it up and turned it over. "It's a big one, to be sure. There's got to be a lot of meat under all these feathers."
It took Phyllis the better part of an hour to pluck and dress the owl. But she had been right; it was a whopper, just a bit smaller than a young turkey. Phyllis built a good-sized fire outside the front door – she was hesitant to build one inside, for fear of burning her only source of shelter down. Then she rigged a spit using tree branches and a broken broom handle she found. Soon the pale body of the owl was browning over the flames, the aroma of Cajun spices and cayenne pepper filling the air.
Phyllis laid out her silverware on the table and used an old hubcap she found in a corner as a plate. She moved the lavender candle to the center of the table. "A nice white wine and a raspberry sorbet would make this meal complete, but beggars can't be choosers, my mother always said."
It wasn't long before she and Compadre were feasting on roasted owl. She had to admit it was a little gamey for a bird, but the spices helped to cover that unpleasant aftertaste. Compadre took a couple of bites, but didn't like the sting of the cayenne pepper at all. Phyllis took her knife and cut some chunks from the inner meat that weren't so spicy. Compadre gnawed on the bits of owl and lapped at a little water Phyllis had poured in old Styrofoam cup she had found in the debris.
Afterward, Phyllis extinguished the candle and lay down on the nasty mattress of the twin bed. For the first time since the Burn, she retired for the evening with a full belly and a relative sense of ease. Compadre climbed up on the bed and settled down next to her. She found comfort in his presence. Taking the gun out of her pocket, she laid it on the mattress next to her, but that overwhelming fear of being attacked in her sleep no longer seemed to plague her. If someone came, the Malamute would alert her in plenty of time.
"What's your story, Compadre?" she asked him in the darkness. "Did you have an owner who loved you? A little boy who thought the world of you? Did you live in a big back yard with green grass and a tire swing in the tree and a dog house you called your own? Did they feed you scraps from the table and give you baths in a big metal washtub?"
She lay there on her back and listened to his steady breathing. Already asleep. She supposed that day's hunting had tired him out. Gently, Phyllis stroked his back, out of affection and thanks for the wonderful meals he had provided.
Phyllis reached into her other pocket and took out her Blackberry. She turned it on. NO SERVICE flashed on the display when she tried her home number again. Then almost immediately afterward, LOW BATTERY followed. Fantastic! And she had absolutely no way to recharge it.
Where are you, Art? she wondered. Are you still on the Bay or did you come looking for me? Are you dead or alive?
Having no answers, Phyllis sighed and turned the phone off. She lay there in the darkness, listening to the sound crickets and the gentle breathing of her protector until, she herself, drifted off to sleep.
For the next few days, Phyllis went nowhere. She stayed at the little shack in the woods, instead of continuing her long journey northward to Maine. She didn't know why. Maybe it was because she was exhausted, or maybe she was just weary of the unknown she encountered with each mile she traveled. In some strange way, the shack seemed like an oasis from the danger and chaos the Burn had conjured.
Two times a day, Compadre brought her the product of his daily hunts. Sometimes it would be a squirrel, sometimes a rabbit or chipmunk. Once it was a possum, which was almost too ugly and nasty to consider eating, but she had used her culinary expertise to turn the scavenger into a feast she would have been proud to serve to the Queen of England. Together they would eat and, at night, they would sleep satisfied, their stomachs having ceased their grumbles of hunger and complaint.
Over time, Phyllis seemed to grow accustomed to such a simple and wantless existence. Sometimes in the middle of the night, she would wake up and wonder if the TV shows and cookbooks and the lighthouse on Casco Bay had only been a pleasant dream, the interviews with Larry King and the guest spots on Oprah an elaborate fantasy. Sometimes she even wondered if Art and Sandy had been real at all or merely inventions of her imagination.
As the lesions on her arms and face multiplied, and she grew weak and confused and her hair began to fall out little by little, Phyllis found herself believing that she had always lived in the shack by the creek and that the white dog with the mismatched eyes had always been by her side. The lighthouse and the sea became a distant memory and she began to forget what Art and Sandy had even looked like.
Sleeping and eating the wonderful meat that Compadre provided became her life. Phyllis would stay awake only long enough to work her magic on the flesh brought to her, then she would return to her bed and descend into merciful slumber once again.
Then, abruptly, simplicity changed into hardship once again.
The offerings of Compadre's hunts in the woods turned less than desirable. The first sign that something was wrong was a woodchuck the dog brought her early one morning. The animal didn't look right; it seemed too large and malformed. When Phyllis slit its hide, she found the meat to be purple and bruised-looking underneath. And its blood was black and sluggish. She wondered if it was a result of the radiation. Maybe it had taken a toll on this poor creature… the same way it was taking a toll on her, little by little.
After a couple of days, the infected animals grew scarce and Compadre would return to the shack with nothing. After enjoying such a plentiful bounty, the sudden loss of sustenance – of her precious meat – was both disheartening and nearly unbearable. Once again, her stomach began to grumble and complain, and the gnawing pangs of hunger returned.
Then, one afternoon, Phyllis nearly crossed a line she had never even considered before.
Compadre was out on one of his fruitless hunts. Phyllis was in the shack alone, tidying up a bit, although the action now seemed pointless and mundane. She was straightening up the table and chair, when she heard a noise at the door behind her. "So, did you find anything today?" she asked, turning around.
Standing in the doorway were two men. One was a big man, bald and clean-shaven, wearing a ragged t-shirt, jeans, and boots. The other man, smaller and thinner, sported a shaggy beard and wore a tank top and shorts. Both men were filthy and riddled with radiation sores. But that wasn't what frightened her about them. It was their expressions that startled her, the fire in their eyes and the ugly grins upon their faces.
Phyllis steadied herself against the table. "What do you want?" She suddenly realized that it was the stupidest question she had ever asked in her life.
"Lookee there," said the man with the knife. "She's got a bed and everything. We don't have to do it on the ground like usual."
The big one chuckled. "I'll take the mouth this time." He patted the fat end of the bat against the meaty palm of his hand. "I might have to knock her teeth out, though… so she won't bite me."
Phyllis remembered the gun. Struggling, she pulled it from her pocket and pointed at the man with the knife. "Get out of here!"
"Put that gun down, lady," said the one with the bat. "If you don't, I'll have to bust you up. And loving ain't too pleasurable when you're full of broken bones."
It suddenly occurred to her that the threat of the gun wasn't going to deter the two. They were going to rape her.
The one with the knife unzipped his pants and unleashed himself. His penis was swollen and purple, the veins dark and enlarged. Something yellowish-green dripped from the end, thick and stringy.
He's going to stick it in me, thought Phyllis. He's going to put it in and poison me!
Only one other option came to her mind. "Compadre," she said. The word came out as a hoarse croak at first. "Compadre!"
The intruders laughed. "Oh, we'll be your compadres, señorita," said the big fellow.
The one with the diseased member took another step forward, then an expression of intense pain wracked his face. He shrieked long and loud as a deep growl rumbled directly behind him.
Compadre had his jaws locked around the calf of the man's left leg. The fangs burrowed deeply, breaking skin and drawing thick rivulets of blood. Phyllis watched as the dog yanked his head sharply to the side, ripping the muscle completely from its moorings. The tendons behind the knee snapped first, then the ones just above the ankle. As if in triumph, the Malamute lifted his head, displaying his gory trophy.