by Kurt Gepner
Before Hank left the camp, he retrieved Whisper from Silas and told the older man of his plans. "Look after Evie," he said in a quiet, pleading voice. "I can only do this, because I believe she’ll be safe."
"You really are in love with her," Silas observed. "Ain’t you?"
Hank leveled him with a deeply serious look. "It’s worse than that," he said. "I like her."
The two men gravely regarded one another for a long moment, then simultaneously broke into hushed chuckles. "Get outta here!" Silas demanded as he gave Hank a light shove toward the road. "She’ll be fine," he reassured. Hank walked away with no further pomp about departing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A half-hour passed before people began waking to the smell of cooking. Evie was worried about so many things that she could hardly focus on any one worry in particular. Aside from Hank’s departure, she was worried about their food supply. This breakfast accounted for the last of the bacon, sausage, eggs and pancake mix. The birds hadn’t laid a single egg, probably because they were moving. The coffee would be gone by tomorrow, except for a pound of beans that she had squirreled away. The oatmeal would soon be gone. Their supplies were quickly dwindling and their numbers were growing.
Another pressing worry, aside from reaching their destination, was the man Hank had entrusted to that task. Oh, Mister Shumway, Evie thought bitterly, if I thought we could get by without you, I’d just rip your head off and mount it to the wall! She half-filled a large mixing bowl with dry pinto beans and covered them with water. Here I am, putting on a smile, while you’re off gallivanting like a white knight. It’s no wonder Norah married who she did. There’s no difference between you and Salvador. She dropped a pork shoulder, which was mostly thawed, into an immense stockpot and filled it three quarters full of water.
After setting the pot on the hot wood stove and the bowl in a nook on the counter, she rooted a large yellow onion from a storage box and set it on her cutting board. In fact, she mentally ranted on, didn’t I hear you say that no one should go be a hero because it puts the group in jeopardy? You son-of-a-bitch! Why did I let you run off like that?
When she had the onion chopped and scattered into a large cast iron skillet, she added a dollop of lard and a spoonful of crushed garlic from a jar. They had three bulbs of fresh garlic, but Hank had been adamant about not using it. It was meant to be planted in their garden.
"Hey, Eb’rybody," Brody’s call startle Evie from her thoughts. The boy returned her baleful glare with an apologetic smile. She thought he looked a bit like a whipped puppy, with his two black eyes and a taped nose. Being unaware of her appraisal, Brody cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered into the U-haul dorm. "We’re habing a meeting at de front of de Caraban in five minutes." His fat lips, missing teeth and broken nose made him difficult to understand.
Evie frowned. "Who said we’re having a meeting, Brody?"
The boy shrugged. "Dat new guy," he replied. Evie boggled at him and he shrugged once more before running off.
The only people still in the U-haul were the Yost family. Dale led his wife and daughter out from the back and asked Evie with a red-eyed, stricken expression, "What’s going on?"
She was using a dishtowel as a mitt to lift the heavy skillet off of the wood stove. "I don’t know, Dale, but as soon as I throw some more wood in this fire, I’m sure as Hell going to find out."
They all four descended the steps and proceeded to join the clustering people near the front of the Duck Truck. As Evie and the Yost family approached, Stewart, who was standing on the hood of the pick-up discretely pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. Then he glanced at Brody, who returned an uncommitted shrug.
When the last four had assimilated with the group, Stewart cleared his throat and cheerfully and loudly said, "Good morning."
A murmuring response came back from the throng. Stewart went on without pause. "I’m sure you’re all confused and wondering why I’ve asked you all to meet with me this morning." The replying murmur was louder. Stewart chuckled through his nose. "Well, the best way to deal with this is to just lay it on the table for everyone to see." People were looking at one another, searching the faces around them for a clue about what was being said. "Our friend, Hank, has left me in charge of getting this group up to the meadow."
The cluster of friends and neighbors and refugees exploded into a cacophonous chorus of questions and declarations of uncertainty, as much aimed at Stewart as Evie. For a moment, while Evie stared in stunned wonder, Stewart offered no response, but then he raised his hands and waved them in parallel toward the group until they were quiet. "To answer your questions, let me start by saying that Hank and I have been acquaintances for years, even though we hadn’t met until yesterday. In that time, we have developed a great deal of respect for each other. So much so, in fact, that Hank felt enough confidence in me to ask that I ensure your safe arrival in the meadow; a place I know well. And I have enough respect for him that I agreed to do it.
"Now, as to where he went," Stewart said with a pause. While he gave a moment to the expectant silence, he looked down at his boots and rolled his bottom lip up over his top, as if carefully considering his next words. "Our coincidental encounter provided Hank with the opportunity to address a personal matter. It’s likely that he will be gone for only one day and then we have plans to reunite." Stewart held up his hand to quiet the group. "What I am hoping we can do, if you’re all on board with this plan, is to expedite our progress such that we arrive well in advance of our established rendezvous and surpass his expectations by half a day.
"As you know," Stewart said through a nasally laugh, "the sooner we arrive in the meadow, the sooner we can get seeds in the ground." With his last statement, Stewart was rewarded by a general consensus and an overtone of enthusiasm. "In order to facilitate our outlined accomplishments, I would like to reorganize our labor into something a little more time-efficient and less physically taxing." The assembled, especially the men, heartily approved of that idea.
Stewart looked around at the faces that were looking up at him. "I think I’ve managed to have a conversation with most of you, either last night or this morning, so I have a reasonable understanding of your individual capabilities.
"Evie," he said with a nod in her direction, "you should, of course, continue with the food preparations." She put her hands on her hips and looked at him with a mixture of awe for his audacity and incredulity for thinking that he had any authority over her, whatsoever. He smiled down at her and said, "From the smell of it, you already have something in the works. So I’ll let you get back to it. The rest of this doesn’t really pertain to you anyway, but I’ll dialog with you later concerning a few improvements that I would like you to implement."
Evie opened her mouth, ready to spew three mountains of wrath on Stewart, but then stayed her tongue. We only need to get to the meadow, she thought. I can put up with this asshole until then. Evie smiled a tight little smile and cocked her head, just a little playfully. "Sure, Stew," she lilted. "I like the idea of anything that makes my life a little easier." She turned and stormed, in the most casual possible way, back to her kitchen.
"Thanks for being a team-player, Evie!" Stewart called after her.
Murder! She thought. The next time I see you, Henry Bernard Shumway, I am going to murder you!
PART FIVE
of Sheep and Wolves
CHAPTER ONE
Hank was glad for the Advil and the liquor that had loosened his muscles and eased his pain. The sun was just beginning to rise by the time he reached the Columbia River at the Glenn Jackson Bridge. Most of the soreness had worked its way from his muscles. The lack of physical pain came with its own penalty, however, as Hank could obsess over his insecurities and dwell upon his errors without much distraction. He applied himself to that task with painstaking detail.
So absorbed by the undertaking of self-recrimination was he, that Hank didn’t give heed to a wall of cars stretching the bread
th of the road until a voice called out ahead of him. "Hold it right there!"
Startled out of his mental scourging, Hank let out a short yelp and instinctively dropped to one knee, reaching for Whisper. A gunshot rang from an open car window and the pavement exploded two inches from Hank’s left hand. He yanked his fist protectively against his chest. "Hands up!" The voice shouted. It sounded like a young man, perhaps adolescent. Slowly, Hank stretched out his fingers and raised his hands above his shoulders.
"Can’t you read the sign? There’s a toll for crossing," the voice said.
With furrowed brow, he looked around. His eyes fell upon a flattened cardboard box. With black spray-paint the words TOLL BRIDGE were written across the front. Hank shouted back. "How much?"
"What’ch ya got?" The voice asked.
Hank knew he should be contrite, but couldn’t bite back his words before they escaped his mouth. He challenged, "Are you robbing me, or charging a toll?" Then he winced, inwardly.
"What’ch ya mean?" The voice asked, uncertainly.
Now committed to this course of dialog, Hank called out, "If you’re robbing me just tell me, so I can hand over my stuff. But if you’re running a business, name your price. Either way, quit wasting my time!" He was feeling perturbed with his circumstances and his recklessness.
After what sounded like a short whispered argument, another voice called out, "You got any candy bars?" That voice, too, was a young male.
Suddenly, a man’s voice barked out from behind the barrier. "God-dammit, you little shits! I told you motherfuckers to wake me up at dawn. What the fuck is wrong with you?!" A scuffle ensued. "Get your ass over here!" There was a rapid pulse of slaps and a shriek, then silence. "Now YOU, git back to work! And YOU, go empty the toilet!"
Chewing on his bottom lip, Hank waited anxiously for someone to say something. After a few moments, he called back, "I’ve got a bag of trail-mix. Will that do?"
"Show me!" It was the first voice, but this time it was resentful and angry.
"Can I get into my backpack without being shot?" Hank asked with genuine concern.
"Go ahead!" This time the man’s voice answered.
Hank slipped off his backpack and half-turned his back to the wall of cars. Letting his drover’s coat shield his actions from their sight, he pulled out three zip-lock sandwich bags that were full of dried fruits and mixed nuts. Each bag weighed about a half pound. Two of the bags he slid into the big right pocket of his coat. Then he zipped shut his backpack. As he was about to stand up, he changed his mind and quickly pulled out another bag of trail-mix. He tucked that one into his breast pocket.
"Hold it!" The man shouted. "Don’t move!"
Hank froze.
"Keep your hands right where they are," the man ordered, "and stand up real slow."
Hank did as instructed.
"Now," the man said loudly. "Don’t let me see you twitch, except to pull your hand out of your jacket. You’d better be holdin’ somethin’, or my boy’s gonna give you a new hole in your head."
With his left hand holding one bag high, Hank slowly pulled his right hand free of his coat pocket and held the other bag high. He looked from left to right, grasping for information about his situation.
The middle of the bridge, which had been the path for bicycles and foot traffic, was now the only gateway past the wall of cars. To the right of the bike path, he saw a rifle muzzle protruding from a black Nissan Sentra with dark tinted windows. Through the window of a van to the left side, he saw a boy’s face. Like parentheses cupping his eyes, the boy’s hands were pressed against the glass. Another van to the left of the first moved in a way that told Hank someone was inside.
Silence dominated the moment. Finally Hank called out. "Is it okay for me to come over there?"
"Yah. Go ahead," The man permitted.
At an intentionally slow place, Hank grabbed his backpack and strolled up to the gateway. He stopped at the barrier between the bike path and road, but was told to "Keep going." He sat on the low concrete wall and lifted one long leg up and over, followed by the other. Once through the gateway he saw a girl, perhaps fourteen years old, sitting behind a makeshift table. Her hair was dark and hung thick and limply from her scalp, like strands of damp yarn. Hank gave her a wan smile. She looked up at him with pale, sunken eyes. The barest flinch of a smile tweaked the corner of her lips.
"Are you the check-out clerk?" Hank asked with a friendly tone that sounded nervous in his ears.
The girl’s eyes darted apprehensively past Hank. He tracked their direction. Next to the van, on the other side of the barrier, he saw a tall broad-shouldered man with a glossy bald crown, a wiry long goatee and blurry tattoos sprawling over his thick bare arms and neck. The bald man crossed his arms over his barrel chest and jutted his jaw toward the girl, giving her a single, brisk nod. Hank was very aware of an automatic pistol holstered at the man’s waist.
"Yes," she said with a tissue thin voice.
Hank tilted his head back at the man and asked her, "Is he your boss?"
"He’s my dad," she said.
"Can I talk to him?" Hank asked.
The girl’s eyes flashed wide for a split second before she donned a blasé mask and shrugged, noncommittally. Hank smiled at the adolescent girl and turned to face her father. "Hi," Hank said as he crossed the space between them and extended his hand in greeting. "My name is Hank."
The bald man unfolded his arms and planted his fists on his hips, clearly rejecting the friendly offer. Borrowing from Stewart's method of ingratiating himself to others, Hank chuckled. "You’ve got quite the operation here."
"Yah," the man said. He was missing all his upper incisors, which made his F’s, Th’s and S’s somewhat blended. "We done perty good for ourselves, yesterday." He smiled proudly, despite his aloof stance. Then with a threat in his eyes, he said, "But that don’t mean you can get one over on me. You just pay up, and get movin’."
Hank tossed the bag of trail-mix onto the table in front of the man’s daughter. When he turned back to the man he asked, "Am I going to have to pay any more tolls?"
"Nah," the man said as he re-crossed his arms. "My homies and me got this bridge cinched up."
"What about my return trip?" Hank asked pointedly. "I’m getting my family. If I know what it’s going to take I’ll make sure I have enough for the crossing"
The bald man looked uncomfortable. "That’s not up to me."
Hank briefly gnawed at his bottom lip and then asked, "Do you have a boss, or someone I could talk to?"
Defiantly, the bald man said, "I ain’t got no boss. This is my side and that," he jabbed his thumb toward Oregon, "is my buddy’s side. You want ta make a deal with someone, then you should git walkin’."
"You know," Hank said with a concerned demeanor, "it’s probably a bad idea for me to offer criticism while there’s a gun pointed at me. But I’ve never been too smart."
"You’d best be careful what you say," the bald man said with a threat shining in his eyes.
Showing his palms defensively Hank said, "It’s not like I’m accusing you of breaking the law, or anything. I just want to offer you some constructive advice."
The bald man looked baffled. "All right," he said. "What’ve you got to say?"
"Well," Hank said, demurely. "You’ve seen a lot of folks come through, so I’m sure you can tell that I’m better equipped than most… right?" The bald man nodded. "I have a group of more than thirty people waiting for me to get back with my family. We’ve got a place and some supplies."
"Unless you’re making an offer to do business," the bald man impatiently said, "I don’t see how I should give a shit."
Hank pressed his lips together and nodded. "All right," Hank said as he threw his hands up. "I can see that you’re busy." He looked around at the empty bridge. The sun had not yet cleared the eastern horizon and their only company were the loud birds that frequent river shores. "I thought you would like to be prepared for what would happen, i
f I don’t make it back, for some reason."
"Yah," the bald man had a patronizing attitude. "They gonna come looking for ya?"
Hank nodded, slowly. "Yep." He put his left hand on his hip, which opened his drover’s coat enough for the bald man to see the pistol-gripped shotgun holstered on his leg. "You’ll want to let them know that I made it through here, safe and sound. Because, among other things, they have enough ammo for their M-16s to saw a car in half," he bluffed.
The effect on the bald man was immediate and exactly as Hank desired. That effect being a suddenly bloodless face and defensive stance. Hank pressed on. "Now, I don’t mind paying a toll… I mean you have to feed your family, right? So long as it’s fair. If you’re open to suggestion, I’d like to offer you some advice."
"What’re you advising?" The bald man spoke with a newly respectful timbre in his voice.
"What I’m advising," Hank replied, "is that you put out a few signs that clearly defined your service. You know, like: safe passage across the bridge." He parted his hand as if revealing a marquee. "Then you specify the cost for that service, such as: A can of food, bottle of water, bag of chips, you get the point."
The bald man’s brows had knitted together and he became flush. "Why should we do that?"
"Because it would make your business look a little more legitimate and a little less like highway robbery." Then, crossing his own arms, Hank said, "Besides, I want to make sure there’s no problem getting my family back across."
"Ha!" The bald man guffawed and then rubbed his hand across his shining pate. "Ya know, it don’t sound like a bad idea. Maybe I’ll head across with you and you can learn up my buddy about it."
"Sounds great," Hank said and turned to start walking. "Let’s go." Handing the bald man the other bag of trail mix, he added. "Consider this a business gift."