by Jf Perkins
“So, you’re saying we should try for Columbia?” Charlie asked.
“I’m saying that’s what Bill says, and it’s rarely a mistake to follow Bill’s lead. Beyond that, you can decide.” Kirk said, rising to his feet. “I’m sorry to eat and run, but I have to report to Bill and start preparing. Thank you for lunch.”
“It’s our pleasure, Kirk. Like we told Bill, you’re always welcome here,” Charlie said with a smile.
“The pleasure’s mine. Listen, Mike. When you get back to active, come on down and train with us. We’d be glad to have you.”
“Thanks, Kirk. I’d appreciate that. From what I hear, I’ve got a lot to learn,” Mike replied.
“Don’t we all, Mike... Don’t we all.”
Chapter 8 - 13
On the fifth day after Eugene’s demise, the copper haired girl was outside wandering in the gardens, sniffing some plants and simply admiring others. I found myself drawn to her, admiring her in the same way. I knew better than to approach her. I figured that Mom would let me know when it was ok to talk to her, but I was getting anxious to try. I wasn’t sure why.
We were holding off on our latest hay run because we could hear the sporadic crackling of gunfire in the distance, and knew that it was less than a half mile from the last of George Carroll’s hay. Dad and Arturo were wrestling new tires onto the truck we had taken from Eugene’s camp. Actually, they had gotten the heavy tires from Joe Miller, who was recovering from his illness. He had a gasoline pickup that he was sure would never run again, and so he offered the tires along with a reminder that there were still animals and hay bales to transport from his farm. Dad had asked him for the thirteenth time if he was sure, and Joe had assured him once again that he was completely sure. He was too old and tired to take care of those critters anymore.
Now Dad was cursing the fact that Joe had a taste for huge mud tires. It took both men to lift them into place, taking turns sweating to hold the tire in position while the other spun lug nuts on as quickly as possible. Luckily, Sally had a tall field jack in her vast collection of tools, and though it was wobbly on the gravel, it was able to lift the truck high enough for the forty inch monsters.
Kirk seemed to be at ease by himself. He volunteered for watch duty every chance he got, which translated to any time there was work to be done by the rest of us. It was fine with me. There was nothing I hated more than trying to keep myself awake while watching exactly nothing happen in the woods. I wondered what the appeal was for Kirk. I suspected it was something more than just avoiding work.
The gunfire faded away as Dad tightened the lug nuts on the final wheel. It had done that several times during the course of the day, and I waited, expecting it to begin again in a few minutes. When it didn’t, even Dad and Arturo started looking to the southeast. We listened harder, and then jumped when we heard a new sound. Not gunfire, but a massive rolling explosion. The deep boom echoed off the Tennessee hills for a solid minute, before fading to a rumble that still sounded in our ears.
“I guess it’s time for a test drive,” Dad said. “Art, do you mind?” He tossed the truck keys in Arturo’s direction.
Arturo snagged them and stepped around to the driver’s side.
“Bill, grab your rifle. Take the shotgun seat. We’ll grab Kirk on the way.” Dad vaulted smoothly into the bed of the truck, which had been fitted with a rusty cattle fence around the bed. He lifted the tailgate and left the taller gate open. I climbed in as Arturo cranked the diesel to life. We were moving before my door was closed. I recalled the ritual our family had once used to get loaded and belted before Dad would even start the engine. Times change.
Kirk trotted out of his watch post as we neared the paved road. He swung up into the back with Dad and we accelerated down the road. Although we assumed the fight was right where we expected, there were no guarantees. We watched everything as Arturo watched the road.
Soon enough we pulled into the Carroll’s driveway and parked the truck under the lean-to on the west side of the barn. We piled out and began the familiar jog through the trees, passing our old treehouse and sneaking through the woods along the river bluffs. When we were in visual range of the camp, we dropped into the brushy cover and observed. The men in Eugene’s old camp were whopping and hollering. They seemed very pleased with something, and we guessed it was the big boom. Dad disappeared over the crest for a few minutes, and came back waving for us to follow him back the way we had come. Shortly, we were far enough for a quiet conversation.
“They blew the bridge,” Dad said.
“So, no more cannibals to keep them busy,” Arturo replied. “If we’re smart, we should go over there and take them out now. Sooner or later, they’ll be a problem.”
“No. I think there’s been enough killing for one week. If they don’t bother us, we won’t bother them.” Dad said firmly.
“Ok, I hope I’m wrong.”
“I hope I’m right, but regardless, I think our luck has been pushed to the limit for now,” Dad said, rubbing his eyes.
“Well, I think you’re right about that. Let’s get out of here.”
Forty minutes later, we were back at Sally’s hay barn, and Dad had seen enough. “Everybody just relax for the rest of the day. I think we need a break.”
Kirk was already back in the woods. Dad and Arturo split up, heading out on whatever errands they had in mind. I was left standing there, wondering if I could find Tommy and Jimmy. I wasn’t really in the mood to play, but I wasn’t inclined to be by myself either. I settled into the rusty bench swing, hanging from its metal framework in a little clump of trees near the barn. I set it in motion and found a certain soothing music from the slow squeak, squeak of its tired joints.
I reflected on everything, from the fact that it was still well above freezing outside to the minute patterns of rust on the old steel. I reviewed the week, with the first real fight of my life and the summer with its strange lifelessness. I thought back over the endless winter and the hunger, profound painful hunger, and determined never to live that way again. I remembered the previous summer with its carefree treehouse and canned cafeteria food. I saw the Carrolls, George and Martha in my mind, and missed them with the same bitterness I had when they died. Maybe more, because now the grief could not hide behind the shriek of deadly cold wind. I threw my memories back to the exciting, fearful day when the world broke down and I thought it was all part of a grand adventure. Finally, I tried to recall the details of my old life. The movies, the games, the schools, the sports, the family squabbles that meant nothing. None of it was real, even back when it actually was my life, but I missed it. It was gone.
I cried. I cried for what was lost, and maybe I cried for what was ahead. Who knows? I only know that I never would have shed a tear if I thought someone was watching. Someone was. The red-haired girl was standing right in front of the swing. How did I miss her?
“Hi,” she said.
I sniffed and tried to rub my eyes dry. “Hi.”
“Can I sit with you?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied, scuffing my feet to stop the swing.
She hopped up on the platform and sat delicately, gathering her oversized flannel shirt around her. When she was settled on the seat, I gave it a gentle push. The last thing I wanted was for her to get scared. She wasn’t afraid. She stretched her toes and gave the swing a harder push. Soon we were competing to get the swing going faster and higher until we reached the limit of the stops, and the swing shuddered and wobbled back to smooth equilibrium. The squeaks began to subside, as the rust was slowly ground from the joints. I promised myself to remember to oil the machinery. There was something special about the girl. I was sitting as far away from her as the swing would allow, some fifteen inches between us, but I could feel a connection, a tingly awareness of her next to me. I felt that I could be happy if we could just keep swinging back and forth in a sun that never went down and a winter that never got cold.
“You’re name is Bill?”
she asked.
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Your mother told me. She’s very nice,” the girl said.
I was afraid to look at her for some reason. Maybe she would think I was dumb. Maybe she would disappear. “Yeah. Mom’s good,” I said, afraid to ask her name.
She seemed to know. “My name is Agatha.”
“Hi, Agatha. I’m glad to meet you.”
She smiled for the first time, and I was lost. Then she said, “You can call me Aggie.”
Chapter 8 -13
Terry grinned like Christmas morning. “So, that’s how you met Aggie!”
“Yep, I told you we’d get there,” Bill said.
“So you’ve known her since you were twelve?” Terry asked, still grinning with joy.
“Yes, indeed. Now you feel sorry for her, don’t you?” Bill asked with a silly grin of his own.
“Oh, yeah. You bet, but I’m happy for you.” Terry was wondering why this part of the story made him so happy.
“Well, that’s just because you don’t know how long it took me to steal a kiss from that girl.”
“I’m sure however long it took, it was her idea.”
“Isn’t it always?” Bill asked.
That was enough to bring Terry down to earth. “I reckon so, Bill.”
There was a sharp rap on the front door, just over Terry’s shoulder. The two men looked up, and Terry jumped to his feet to open it. Kirk was standing there, looking worn out.
“Hey, Kirk. Tough day?” Terry greeted the man.
“Sure enough. Bill still up?”
“Yeah, he’s right in here.” Terry stepped aside and closed the door behind Kirk.
Kirk took three steps into Bill’s study and scraped a third chair out of the corner. He sat down and kicked his feet up on Bill’s desk, something that Terry would never do. Terry sat back down in his own chair, and waited to see if he would be allowed to listen to the conversation. Neither of the Carters said anything and Terry assumed he was allowed to stay.
Kirk gave his second recounting of the events of the past twenty-four hours, and listened to Terry’s firsthand report from the Jenkins farm.
“So, the way I see it,” Kirk said, “We’re making our lives tougher with every move, but we’re making the path to what you want wider and shorter.”
“Yeah. You’re not happy with that?” Bill asked.
Kirk rubbed his jaw forcefully and said, “You know I’ve never been one for your elaborate plans, but I also know that you’re usually right. If it weren’t for you, we’d all be dead ten times over.”
“Funny, Brother. I say the same thing about you.”
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to agree to work on the same team. Your team.”
“Our team,” Bill said. “If you want things different, now’s the time.”
“No, I just want to know how many Dragons are going to raid our valley,” Kirk said.
“Well, it turns out that thanks to John and Terry, we have just the man to ask, and we already asked,” Bill replied.
Kirk winced. “Was it bad?”
“Not really. Turns out our boy was quite a talker, and none too loyal to the Dragon cause when it came down to it,” Bill said. “We gave him steak for lunch as the carrot. By the time we got around to the stick, he was ready to ask how to join up.”
“So, if they send everything they’ve got...”
“Just under three thousand men, all told. Most armed with hunting weapons. They have an elite group, two hundred men with full military gear. Most of those are spread out in the ranks. They tend to be the richest and most ruthless. They have almost five hundred vehicles, a hundred with armor and weapons mounted. I doubt if they can fuel them for long unless they have a really organized supply group.”
Kirk let out a long low whistle. “Any way you slice it, they’ve got us more than seven to one.”
“I guess we’d better be ten times better then,” Bill said.
“I didn’t hear any great feats of organization from the Junior Dragon. He just strung them along with white-robe bullshit. What about the Coffee County families?”
“Well, if Wyatt turns into the fastest talker in the west, and they jump in, and they recruit, bribe and round up every fighter who owes them anything, we could see another thousand in the fight,” Bill said.
“That could work in our favor. I can’t see that many random assholes doing more than stepping on each other’s feet,” Kirk replied.
“Maybe so, but all they have to do is get that many men with guns marching in the right direction, and we’ll have our work cut out.” Bill held up his hands in a broad shrug.
“Well, my little brother, the trick is to make sure they are always going in the wrong direction.” Kirk stood up. “Terry, round up your boys in the morning. We’ll get started.”
End Part 8
Author’s Notes:
Before I begin to bore you with pontification and potential spoilers, I just want to say thank you to the truly surprising number of people who are reading this story. I’m amazed and grateful to all of you. I would like to say a special thanks to those of you who writing reviews and commenting on my blog. It not only makes a practical difference, it makes the time I put in feel completely worthwhile. And finally, as a special note to the person who calls him/herself “opinion,” I say that you streak in out of nowhere like Racer X saving Speed Racer, say a few words, and disappear in a cloud of tire smoke. That’s just cool. Much appreciation for the reviews.
Nice guys finish last. I look around and see the truism of this particular cliché. Somehow, we’ve built a society where the nicest people seem to struggle the hardest. I know there are probably as many exceptions to the rule as there are examples, but I’d bet that any one of us can pull up a few examples of those people who treat everyone around them like garbage and still manage to have the best of everything. If you can’t think of a direct example, I’m sure a small amount of digging can give you the most outrageous examples in history. I mean, we’re under the yoke of people who do financially what Syria is using force to do to its own people.
In my story, I get the pleasure of having nice guys finish first. David Carter is a nice guy, and people seem to be willing to help him. The Carrolls took one look at David’s family and didn’t bat an eye at letting the Carters stay on their land. Later, the Carrolls invited David’s family into their backyard and ended up staying in very close quarters to survive the winter. I don’t think the Carrolls would do that if David came off like a used furniture salesman on commission, or if he drove up in his sports car and acted like he was entitled.
I think that the kids had a lot to do with it. We don’t generally see a family with young children as a threat. They could be a family of serial killers raising a new generation of Dexters, but we wouldn’t see it that way unless the childrens’ eyes glowed red or their heads spun 720 degrees in a booth as McDonalds.
It’s always fascinating to me how those patterns work. See an old man in a convertible Corvette with a young blonde, what do we think? See a woman in a movie theater by herself, and we draw conclusions about her life, when it could be that she’s just looking for an escape from the noise of her life. See young parents with out of control children, and what do we think? Encounter a middle aged woman with 39 cats, and... Well, you get the point.
I was raised on watching those patterns. My father was a textbook Sunday driver. All of our family vacations were roads trips, usually in a station wagon and involving family. On the highway, my dad was like a sports announcer doing the play by play. Every car we passed, he would look for clues and make a (usually snide) comment about the lives of the people within. Every nice fence was noted. Every tractor and what its brand said about its owner was spotted and reported. Every town we passed got a history and cultural report based on a single pass down main street. My chances of not noticing these things are roughly equal to winning the lottery. The only difference between Dad and me is that so
metimes I tell happy stories. Plus, on the way home, he gave detailed reports on the characters we had gone to visit. Wait, maybe he should be writing apocalyptic stories.
Anyway, the pattern of people helping each other is part and parcel of the Carter experience. They hand out help and they gracefully accept help in return. They call it luck. So, with that in mind, we’re shifting gears. The Carrolls helped them through the acute crisis of the Breakdown, but that was just the fish. Now we have Sally Bean, who is self-sufficient enough to give them the fishing pole. They are moving from immediate survival to long term survival, and I’d like to think that being nice has a lot to do with the help they are receiving.
About the Author:
Creative people tend to be lousy at self-promotion, and I fit the cliché almost perfectly. After many years of asking myself why I have anything to say that is worth writing, the answer can only be that I have finally, in middle age, managed to make enough mistakes to say something solid about how not to live life. If I hold up a mirror to my own life, I get a backwards reflection that may actually contain some value. More importantly, I have been fortunate enough to know many people who may have suffered, but did so with far more skill and grace than I have, and they set a solid example for a realistic method of how to live well.
In the meantime, I live in Washington with my wonderful wife, who happens to be one of those good examples, and our five rescue dogs, who manage to encompass an entire school bus full of joyous, childlike personalities. And to add to the rapidly mounting collection of loose fur and allergens, I also share the house with two cats; one with no social boundaries, and one who is nothing but social boundaries.
In a difficult denial of the self-promotion bit, I must suggest that you stop by my semi-neglected blog and leave me a note. That way, I’ll be able to say that not everyone who signs up is preparing a spam attack. http://www.jfperkins.com