by Amy Briant
“Hey, what is that?” I said, peering more closely. Rinsed free of mud, I’d expected to see my loop of cord resting on black and white hide. Instead, there was something else around Nancy’s neck.
A bell.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Vineyard
At first, East could not understand my alarm upon the discovery of the bell around the cow’s neck. I finally got through to her, sputtering out the equation of cow plus bell equals a human being somewhere in the mix. All the while cutting my eyes around to see if the rest of the herd or the herdsman would appear.
But we were alone in the meadow by the pond. East still didn’t seem that concerned.
“Maybe it’s one of the cows from Before that went wild,” she said.
I could tell she was way too attached to the stupid cow. Nancy, my ass. And I was no farmer, but even I could see that cow was nowhere near ten years old. It had obviously been born long after the Bad Times. The braided leather strap from which the bell hung was neither tight nor loose. It was comfortably snug—a perfect fit. I wanted to take it off, but Nancy would have none of it, shaking her head and snorting when I tried. She didn’t seem to mind my laying hands on her, it was just the futzing with the collar that was upsetting. After she nearly trod on my foot, I gave up. I stuffed one of Mr. Giovanni’s wool socks up in the bell so it wouldn’t ring. I knew those socks would come in handy.
It was starting to get dark and I eventually convinced myself that the cow was a stray that had wandered off from its herd. Hopefully one far, far away. We’d certainly come across no evidence of a herd of cattle in our trek thus far. We’d already made camp and nightfall was imminent, so it made sense for us to spend the night there as planned. I calmed myself down enough to realize it was smart to be aware of the dangers we faced, but even smarter not to panic. Panic led to bad decisions and bad decisions all too often led to death. I was determined to be a survivor.
“So Kell…”
I looked up from the fire, which I had built while I brooded. East must have been watching my face, waiting for my expression to clear before she made her next request.
“Are you going to milk her?” she asked hopefully.
We both looked at Nancy, who was placidly chewing her cud a few yards away where East had tied her rope to a tree. Fresh milk did sound awfully good. Gran kept goats at our cabin, but we never had a cow. I figured it couldn’t be all that different from milking a goat—right?
Wrong. For starters, we had no bucket or stool, and it was getting darker by the minute. Still, I decided to give it a shot. I got East to hold her collar and feed her grass while speaking soothingly to the beast.
“About what?” She wanted to know.
“It doesn’t matter! It’s a cow!”
“All right, all right, chill out.”
I knelt by Nancy’s side and hoped she wouldn’t kick me. I was holding the flashlight with my mouth and could already feel the drool starting to run down my chin. Her equipment was way bigger than our frisky little goats, but the principles had to be the same. Amazingly, after cleaning the teats with a warm wet cloth, and a few false starts, I was able to fill our cooking pot with milk. More milk ended up outside the pot than in it, but I got the job done. I think Nancy was as happy as we were.
East congratulated both the milker and the milkee with pats on our respective backs, then carefully carried the pot back to the fireside. It was fully dark by then. I removed my cord from the cow’s neck and tried to shoo her away when East wasn’t looking. Nancy serenely ignored me and continued to graze nearby while we ate our own meal by the fire.
In the morning, she was still there to East’s delight and my dismay, reposing comfortably under a tree. She arose when we did. I tried milking her again—just a few pints was the result, but that was more than sufficient for our breakfast. Having only had water to drink for quite some time, the warm milk was particularly delicious.
We broke camp and continued our trek toward the distant valley, following the winding stream again as it exited the pond and headed downhill. We would catch glimpses of the valley when we climbed yet another of the gently rolling hills. There was no particular reason to head for it, except we (well, I) needed a goal and I felt fairly confident that we would cross the freeway if we aimed for that valley. Despite the undulating topography, our overall direction was downward and more or less northwest.
A strange couple of days ensued, wherein I was never quite sure if we were following the cow or the cow was following us. Either way, two days later, the three of us were still keeping company. In the late afternoon, we had finally come down from the rolling hills into the narrow and beautiful valley. It bothered me greatly that we had not re-crossed the freeway, but I kept my growing concerns to myself. No point in alarming East or confirming her fears that I had no idea what the heck I was doing. After all, highways didn’t always run perfectly north or west. Maybe the highway was just over the next hill.
The western wall of the valley was a steep, almost mountainous hillside that was densely forested. Was it the coastal ridge? But how could it be, if we were on the eastern side of the bay? I was confused and tired and footsore. And sick of milking that damn cow every morning. The novelty had long since worn off. The milk was starting to seem more gross than delicious—I was never a big milk fan even when I was a little kid. I did miss the goat cheese Gran used to make. I even missed the last of our goats, a spunky little yellow creature which my grandmother, for reasons unknown to me, had named Velveeta.
That recollection made me miss Gran so bad, it was like a punch in the gut. So I shoved those thoughts back in a far corner of my brain and tried to think of something else. At least East wasn’t bugging me as much anymore. She was pitching in more and more with camp duties, asking fewer dumb questions. It was almost kind of nice to have another human being around, to have someone to care about on a daily basis.
Whoa. I caught myself. You better knock that shit off, I told myself sternly. If you think Elinor Eastman is your friend, you’re delusional. Stop being a jerk and focus on the mission.
The area through which we were walking must have been rich and fertile farmland Before. I could still see traces of the farmers’ efforts. Although overgrown and untended now, we were in what must have been a vineyard. There were a few wild grapes on the vine which East and I sampled, savoring their juicy sweetness. Nancy plodded ahead of us, tail swishing back and forth. She had no interest in grapes or history, but acted like she knew where she was going. I admired that.
As we stepped out of the last row of untended vines, we found ourselves on a broad dirt road. The field of grapes before us was not in disarray. In fact, it looked extremely healthy and well looked after, with row after row of vines laid out in a geometrically precise fashion. As the implications of this sunk into my brain, the cow chose that moment to moo. Loudly. I jumped. She made a hard right and trotted off down the road purposefully.
“Hey, where’s she going?” East said in protest.
“Forget the cow,” I said, grabbing her arm with belated urgency, “we need to get off this road—”
But it was too late. Around the bend came two riders on horseback. As they saw us, they urged their horses into a gallop. Puffs of dust flew up from the hooves with each stride. They passed Nancy without a second glance, heading straight for us. The cow scampered out of sight around the corner. There’s gratitude for you. There was no time to run. In the few seconds it took them to reach us, I observed two points of interest. Both riders were women. And both were well-armed, with rifles tucked into scabbards on their saddles and handguns on their belts.
The taller one reined in her horse in front of us. She was an African-American woman of about forty with close-cropped hair and a weary expression. Her companion, a short, squat Hispanic with long black hair in a single braid down her back, circled behind us on her chestnut mare. She rattled off something in Spanish at the other rider that I didn’t catch. I spoke a litt
le Español thanks to my grandmother’s Cuban heritage and a year of lessons in tenth grade from Miss Sanchez. Gran’s knowledge of several colorful Cuban epithets had not helped me in my academic pursuits, but they continued to come in handy at trying times in my life. Like the present.
“So what have we here, Marta? A couple of cattle rustlers?” the weary-eyed woman asked her companion with a trace of a smile. I was glad she spoke English.
Marta didn’t answer, but I could hear the leather creak as she shifted in her saddle behind me. I didn’t like her being back there—my neck tingled with her unseen presence. I glanced at her. She steadily returned my gaze with no expression whatsoever.
“We didn’t steal your cow—we brought her back!” In her outrage, East bent the truth only a little.
The tall woman looked her up and down without a word, then her gaze passed to me. Our eyes locked for a moment, then I deliberately looked away. Her look was piercing and intelligent, like she knew exactly what I was thinking. I hoped not, since what I was thinking about was my gun. It was on my right hip in a makeshift holster I’d fashioned out of Mr. Giovanni’s other wool sock, a bandana and some cord. It was too heavy to carry in my hand as we’d walked along each day. And I’d grown tired of it banging against my leg or slipping down inside the waistband of my pants. With everything that had happened, it seemed ill-advised to carry the gun in the depths of my backpack. So it was securely tucked away in the sock holster, strapped to my upper thigh, barely concealed by my untucked flannel shirt. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so to whip it out. And then what? A pitched gun battle with two women who were armed to the teeth and had the drop on us? Who might—or might not—be foes? Unless our lives were threatened, I wasn’t willing to use the gun. I decided to bide my time and see what they had to say.
“What’s your name?” the woman said to East.
“Elinor,” she said after flicking me a glance. “And that’s Kell.”
I was happy to let East do all the talking as long as she didn’t tell them anything about Segundo. All of my concentration was focused on the two women. My neck was getting a crick in it already from constantly turning to look at one, then the other. Marta’s poker face was unnerving. The African-American dismounted and walked over to us.
“What are you kids doing out here? This is private property. And we don’t take kindly to trespassers.”
“We weren’t doing anything wrong!” East flared up again. I knew the anger was just a front for her fear. I thought the adults knew it too. They seemed amused by us, not threatened. “We found Nancy stuck in the mud and we rescued her, then we came down here—”
East faltered at their reactions. Marta—or maybe it was her horse—snorted behind us. The African-American woman had an odd look on her face.
“What?” East said. “What’s wrong?”
“You called the cow Nancy?” the woman said, fighting a smile that shone in her eyes. Her eyes didn’t look so tired when she smiled. They were warm and brown. Very expressive, in contrast to her no-nonsense appearance. She looked over our heads at her buddy. “What do you think of that, Marta?”
I turned in time to see Marta shake her head and roll her eyes in disgust. This time, I caught more of what she said. “Ay, nunca nombra su comida.”
Her irritation evident, East said, “Why are you laughing?”
“Because my name is Nancy,” the woman said, letting the smile loose. It was worth waiting for—she had one of those terrific smiles that made you want to smile. She was no beauty, but in that moment, I found myself drawn to her somehow.
East shot me an “oops” kind of look. Nancy—the woman—seemed to have reached a decision about us.
“You are welcome to come with us, chiquita,” she said, still addressing her remarks solely to East, “but the boy cannot. It is women only here at Tres Hermanas.”
“What boy?” East said, confused.
I was not, and yet I found I was unprepared for it. Again. Would it ever end? There were times—too many of them, I admit—when I wondered if I would ever find a place where I could just fit in. Not be the freak. What had I ever done to be eternally cast as an outsider, an undesirable…a monster. I swallowed and closed my eyes for a moment against the harsh slanting rays of the afternoon sun. I would have to explain. I hated that. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Nancy-the-woman said, “You’ll have to make up your mind, Elinor. You can come with us, or you can move on with him. But the two of you cannot stay here on our land.”
East stopped looking bewildered as she finally got it. She even laughed a little with relief, then abruptly stopped when she saw my face. She waited a moment for me to speak, but when I didn’t, she said, “Kell’s not a boy. She’s a girl. Go on, tell her, Kell.”
This time, I didn’t look away. Chin up, shoulders straight, I looked into Nancy’s eyes, daring her, asking her to see me—Kell, a person—through all the barriers, cloth and otherwise, that separated us.
She shaded her eyes with a hand that looked large and hard. She looked me up and down one more time. And again. Perhaps she noticed the absence of an Adam’s apple. The absence of facial hair. She must have seen the flat chest and unplucked eyebrows. She must have noticed the bulge of the gun. She probably saw dirt and sweat. Hope and fear. Fight or flight.
“Ah, I see,” she finally said as if to herself. I had no idea what she meant. I heard Marta shift in her saddle, then cluck softly to her horse to move up beside me.
“My apologies, Kell,” Nancy said. “Of course, you shall both come with us.”
She said it like we had a choice, but it was clear to me we did not.
“But first I must ask you for your weapons.”
She held out that large hand peremptorily. There was no doubt or hesitation in her manner, like it was automatic I would just hand my gun over. East froze, staring at me.
“How do you know there aren’t ten more of us?” I asked Nancy, finally finding my voice. “Maybe we’ve got you surrounded. Maybe you need to hand me your guns.”
“Nice try, kid, but you’ve been on our land for quite some time now. Our sentries have been following your progress closely. It’s not a coincidence that Marta and I found you here.”
She said all that with just the hint of a smile, not like she was laughing at me exactly, but letting me know who was in charge.
“How about East, I mean Elinor, and I just turn around and go back the way we came? Like you said, we’ll get off your property. We don’t want any trouble.”
She considered me for a moment. Then, she said, “How old are you two?”
I said “eighteen” at the same time East said “seventeen.” She heard my lie and cut her eyes at me as I glared right back at her. I hoped she was reading my mind and getting the SHUT UP I was so fervently trying to send her.
“And how much food do you have?” was Nancy’s next question.
Again East and I spoke simultaneously. East, her pride evident, said, “We’ve got plenty. We found MREs and—” while I yelled “East, will you shut the fuck up!”
She shot me a wounded look, but stopped talking.
Nancy was giving me that considering look again. I didn’t like it. I much preferred to be under the radar. I decided that since we apparently couldn’t fool her and we surely couldn’t outrun them, I would just lay my cards on the table.
“Look,” I said. “I’m not giving you my gun. So everybody just be cool and nobody gets hurt. We’ll be leaving now.”
I gestured to East and started to turn to walk back up the road. Before I could do that, I heard a click as Marta cocked her weapon.
“Sorry, Kell,” Nancy said with a serious face. “I can’t let you do that. I can’t let two underage girls go off into the wilderness by themselves.”
In a world where life expectancy was a big fat question mark, the adults still found magic in the number eighteen. I didn’t see what the big deal was myself. Just another stupi
d grownup rule.
“We don’t need your help!” East flared up again. “We’ve been doing fine on our own for like a month!”
I caught her eye. She looked at me uncertainly.
“Shut up?” she asked. I nodded tiredly. “Sorry.”
I realized it was a foregone conclusion that I would hand over my gun. It had been since the two riders came around the bend in the road.
“Easy,” Nancy said as I reached for the gun. I slowly pulled it out, making sure I was giving them no cause for alarm as I walked the few paces over to her and handed her the gun. So long, gun. It wasn’t even mine. For a second, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall where I’d gotten it. Oh, yeah. Dead Lookout Dude at the observatory. And the bus…the bodies…
“And now the knife,” she said.
I slowly pulled my hunting knife from its sheath on my belt and gave it to her, hilt first.
“Gracias,” Nancy said as she stashed both my weapons in her saddlebag. “Anything else on either one of you that could hurt you or us?”
We shook our heads no, but were nevertheless subjected to quick, efficient pat-downs and bag searches. My respect for this strange authoritative woman was growing—unlike a lot of other adults I’d met, she knew what she was doing.
She mounted her horse, then deftly maneuvered it over to East. She had East put a foot in the stirrup, then, with one swift, strong motion, she held out a hand and pulled her up behind her. Marta did the same for me.
“Just an hour’s ride,” Nancy told us as we set off down the same road which Nancy-the-cow had taken. She said something in Spanish to Marta and this time I did understand it.
“We’ll take them to Simone and let her decide.”
I missed my gun already. I rubbed my thigh where it had so recently rested.
Who the hell was Simone?
Chapter Twenty-five