by Mike Ashley
The girl seems ready for the suggestion. It isn't that she acts uneasy, but it feels as if a hundred other topics would be more welcome. May nods. She pretends to consider the offer. Then with a polite, practiced tone, she says,
"We might stay for a little while."
"But we're pushing north," the brother announces. "North before spring."
Curiosity changes directions. Older voices name likely places.
"Farther north," Winston declares. Then catching something in his father's gaze, he adds, "Nobody cares where we're going. These people are staying right here."
May tugs fondly on her grandmother's arm.
With a quiet voice, I ask her, "Where?"
She doesn't want to reply. But silence only makes these matters more difficult. Not too softly and not too privately, she tells me, "Canada."
"Nothing there but moose," I warn. With its nearly perfect inoculation rate, Canada was obliterated. The few survivors were too scattered to survive, much less build communities. At least that's what people have always claimed.
She acts untroubled by my concerns.
Half a dozen questions pile up inside my brain.
And then she artfully changes topics. "Where's your house, Noah?"
The mayor makes a low, disapproving sound.
I point at the horizon. "You can't see it from here."
"Are you a hermit?"
I feel uncomfortable. I want to hide my life and can't. With a hint of confession, I admit, "I live there with my wife."
I expect to feel better, only I don't.
The mayor overhears. "Maybe four times a year, we see Noah."
May studies me, holding her grandmother's hand with both of hers.
This peculiar parade has reached the largest, grandest house in Salvation. It is a towering structure with its south-facing windows and the old black solar panels and five corkscrew windmills on top, four of them turning and at least one windmill demanding new bearings or fresh grease - a squeaky, irritable sound that makes me more nervous by the moment.
Yet I stay beside the girl.
To the mayor, she says, "I'm curious. We asked other people about you. Salvation, I mean. They say you're Christian and that you're prosperous."
Hearing praise, the man blushes.
I don't know what I heard in her voice. More suspicion than approval, if I was guessing.
"Our residents are all True Believers," the mayor says. As if being Christian isn't good enough. "Our parents and grandparents knew God would save us. And that's why we survived the Shakes."
I have always despised that inadequate term.
"The Shakes."
May studies the mayor and then looks at me. I'm sure she wants to ask my affiliations, and part of me wants to tell her whatever she wants to hear. But changing topics seems like the better tactic.
"Why Canada?" I press.
She doesn't answer. One hand reaches behind. A small thick notebook has worked its way out of her hip pocket, and she shoves it back in place. Two ancient pens are nestled beside the book. "We're almost there, Grandma. Do you see the front door?"
This is the slowest walk of my life.
Winston has heard my question. Pushing closer, he says, "Florida is a goddamn nightmare."
I don't want to talk to this creature.
"It's the Africans," he adds. "They're coming in boats now. By the hundreds, thousands."
His sister says his name, nothing more.
"What?" he growls.
"That's not why we left," she insists.
"It's a big reason," he says. Then he looks at me, adding, "Africa has millions of people. Their climate is getting hotter and drier. Some head toward Europe, but the Turks and Russians claimed those empty cities. New immigrants get shot, or worse. So the refugees pay diamonds and gold to ride what boats that can still cross the Acid-lantic. Hundreds of men and women and all those children jammed close, and they know nothing about America except that it used to be rich."
He has told this story many times, but it's still emotional. Working himself into a rage, he says, "We had good lives in Florida. But the freighters started dropping their cargo on the beaches. Those people expect to find houses ready to live in. They want cars and grocery stores. They've been lied to, which makes them angry. But before anybody can complain, their boat's turned around and headed back for another bunch of fools."
Hearing the shrill chatter, the mayor seems less sure about his guests. But the commitment was made. He throws a weak smile at everyone and turns the knob on his front door, leading the way into a great volume of warm air and little children. "Company," he calls out. "We've got guests."
Entering the sunny living room, May's father says, "Well, well. I sure remember this place."
Maybe it's my age, or maybe it's my present life. Whatever the reason, I'm not as angry as I would have expected. The last time I was under this roof, my neighbors were holding a meeting, and my mother was voting with the rest of the mob to shun Lola and all of her family.
"Do you remember this room, grandma?"
May is sweet, an angel effortlessly guiding the old lady to the tall windows that look south at the brown bluffs and bright winter skies. I go with them. For some reason, May lets go of the woman, pulling out the notebook and one pen and spending a few moments jotting down notes. Then again, always patient, she asks, "Do you remember any of this, grandma?"
The upper windows are original, but tossed balls and careless tumbles have broken all the lower panes. The replacement glass is never as good. Cold air seeps through gaps. And maybe that's what the old lady feels now. The hand that May was holding lifts, fingertips to the dingy glass, and she seems to tilt into the sunshine, preparing to collapse again. But she doesn't. She manages to straighten, the big dim eyes staring at the bluffs. "What happened to those trees, darling?"
"What trees, grandma?"
"On that hill there. Are they dead?"
"No, grandma." The girl leans in close, speaking with a flat teaching voice. "It's winter, grandma. The trees are sleeping."
"Winter?"
The lady seems flabbergasted.
"Not like Florida, is it?" May asks.
And then grandma giggles. There's no other word for the joyful girlish laugh that rolls out of her. She giggles and turns back to her granddaughter, saying, "Oh, my. Winter? Really?"
"Really."
Delighted to her core, the old gal says, "Well then, we did it, didn't we? Winter came. We saved the world!"
I wasn't quite seven years old, hunting inside a garage for gas cans or tools, or even better, fresh toys that might help pass the day. Dad was searching the house for food. Mom waited on the front yard. She was supposed to be helping us, but sometimes her energy would leave her. Maybe she looked stern and strong, but the truth is never as simple as appearances. Sitting and doing nothing was all she could manage that morning, her face unchanged but the wrinkles deeper, the color leaving the skin as secret thoughts made her sick.
All of us were sick. More than once, dad confided that to me. We weren't sick in ways that would kill us, but because of the awful things that we had seen. Yet difficult as it seemed, he insisted that each of us should try to count our blessings.
The garage had no blessings. There weren't any toys and the only gas can was empty, and even before the world ended the car wasn't worth much. Dust lay thick on its windshield, and I spent most of a minute writing the words I knew into the gray grime. I wrote my name and "dog" and "cat" and I don't remember what else. Then dad came out the house, looking back at me.
"Wait there," he said. "Don't go inside."
I'd seen bodies before. They didn't scare me.
But dad was worried about something. He walked up the driveway, aiming for mom, and he started to talk and she looked at the house as he said something else, and then she was shaking her head.
"It's not our business," she said. "Don't."
That's when I slipped through the side door.
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The lady was in her thirties, and she used to be pretty. I found her sitting in the middle of the dining room. She was naked. Walls of cardboard boxes were stacked on three sides of her, each box cut open so that she could reach inside whenever she wanted. Empty cans of applesauce and spaghetti and condensed tomato soup and plastic water bottles covered the rest of the filthy floor. She sat with her naked body propped up, soft ropes around her chest and rubber handles dangling from the ceiling. Her chair belonged in a living room, except somebody had used a chainsaw to cut through the cushion. The hole was nearly too big for her scrawny bottom. Later, thinking about the situation, I realized that somebody must have cut a matching hole through the floor, leaving it so that the lady could go to the bathroom whenever it was necessary. Food and water in easy reach, and she could have lived for years eating from that stockpile.
I whispered, "Hello."
Her face was jumping, but her eyes were steady. She could see me well enough to react, though her words didn't make sense. Her ingenious, desperate system had worked until she was too weak to unseal the cans and bottles. Openers and barely punctured cans lay at her feet. There wasn't any strength in the emaciated legs. Her stick-like arms were covered with sores and red blotches. Months had passed since I had seen somebody living with the Shakes. It amazed me that she had survived this long. But some people possessed a natural immunity. It wouldn't save them, but it was enough to make life into something worse than dying.
With all of the dignity she could muster, that naked starving and helpless woman sat on her makeshift toilet and looked at me and said nonsense. Then her eyes moved, and she stopped talking.
A hand dropped on my shoulder.
I waited for my name to be said. I waited to be in trouble. But my father knelt and looked only at me. Then with a careful solemn voice, he said, "Go outside, Noah. Go now, and I'll be right behind you."
My first thought was that dad was going to open up some cans and bottles, giving the lady a feast before we moved on.
Then I saw the pistol tucked into the back of his pants.
I hesitated.
Again Dad looked at me. This time he said, "Go," with God's own authority, and I went outside as ordered. I didn't want to run. I told myself just to walk. But I was suddenly in the bright sunshine, my legs churning, and the shot came and was gone and I barely heard it.
Mom called my name, but she didn't try to stop me.
I ran past her, sobbing and making my own nonsensical sounds.
On the brink of giddy, the old woman says, "Oh, my. Winter? Well then, we did it, didn't we? Winter came. We saved the world."
Few people pay attention. A few notice her voice and maybe listen to the words. But everybody is talking. Everybody wants to find the fun in something new and unexpected. Just slightly, the noise inside the big room dips, and then grandma is finished and blank-faced again. Maybe she didn't speak. I thought I heard everything, but I'm not sure what I heard. There might be a thousand fine reasons to ignore whatever leaks out of that lady. And that's my intention, right up until I glance at May.
She and her father are trading looks. Less than comfortable, there's this weird long moment where bolts of electricity seem to be flying between them.
And then together, at the same moment, they laugh.
Nothing could be funnier, their cackling says. May lowers her pad and pen, patting her grandmother on the back while casually studying the other faces in the room. Settling on the person most puzzled by this outburst, May uses a smile that couldn't feel any sharper. "Grandma has troubles," she mentions.
I nod amiably, seeing no reason to disagree.
"Gets confused," she adds.
"It's all right," I say.
But that doesn't satisfy her. She needs to touch me. Her fingers curl around my elbow, and her face is close enough that I can smell dried meat on her breath. "The poor thing tells the most amazing stories," says May, her voice quiet, just short of a whisper.
"I can believe it," I answer.
"Don't make anything out of her noise," her father suggests, offering up a nod and wink. "She doesn't even know where she is."
Maybe not, but the woman in question giggles again - that same odd girly giggle - and once more her eyes regain their depth and clarity. She turns and looks at us, engaged enough with the conversation to open her mouth, the beginnings of some new statement emerging.
May cuts her off.
Nothing about the act is rude, but the girl is determined. "I'm sure you're tired, grandma. Wouldn't you like to lie down? A little nap, yes?"
Grandma blinks, struggling with the abrupt shift in topics.
Her son turns to the mayor, his voice louder than necessary. "My mother needs to lie down. Do you have any guest quarters, a spare bed ... ?"
"We don't have guests," the mayor confesses. "And the beds are all upstairs." But after giving the situation careful study, he charitably adds, "There's a comfortable couch in the next room. With the door closed, I think your mother could relax."
That's good enough for this suddenly devoted son. "Come on, Mom. Let me help you."
He and the old lady follow the mayor out of sight.
I watch May, and she smiles. But when I pretend to look elsewhere, her face stiffens and the smile turns into something harder.
Old Man Ferris is talking about winters past and current. Butcher Jack is beside him, but he throws me a questioning look.
I ask May, "What are you writing?"
She lifts the notepad, apparently surprised to find it in her hand. "Oh, I just like to write." But is that enough of an answer? Maybe not, which is why she closes the pad and slides it back into the tight pocket. "When we started out, I thought it would be nice to keep a record. A journal. Maybe I could even finish a book about our travels some day."
"A book?" I ask doubtfully.
Jack has drifted closer. "Of course a book," he tells me. "Don't you think someday, somewhere, there's going to be enough people to make it worth printing new books?"
May nods enthusiastically. "That's going to happen sooner than you might guess."
Jack watches me.
I move my gaze from him to May and back again, saying nothing.
Silence bothers the girl. She pretends otherwise, but I get the strong sense that she feels nervous, intensely aware about this room full of strangers. The mayor emerges from the adjoining room, but May's father remains behind. "I want to go check on my grandmother," she announces. I don't get an invitation to join her, which pricks me somehow. She tries not to look like a person in a hurry, but that's exactly what she is, slipping between other people and past the grinning mayor, entering a room that she doesn't know and making sure that the door is latched behind her.
I stare at the door while trying to make sense of my thoughts.
"You know what's really odd?" Jack asks.
"The old lady's babbling."
"Not in her state, it isn't," he says. Then he gets beside me, saying, "She could talk about aliens and horned dragons, and really, who would care?"
"The girl's reactions were peculiar," I mention. "And her dad's too."
My old friend takes a deep breath.
"What else?" I ask.
"Do you see Winston anywhere?"
A man of his proportions would be obvious, but looking across the sun-washed room, I don't see him.
"The old lady was talking her nonsense," Jack says. "You know, about saving winter, saving the world? And that's when I happened to look at her grandson."
"So?"
"You should have seen his face," says Jack. "Bonf res don't get half as red as those cheeks of his."
"I don't see him now," I say.
"Red-faced," Jack repeats. "Then all at once, the kid turned and practically ran outdoors."
Our history teacher wanted to show us more of the old news recordings -dispatches from the ends of the earth, tearful accounts of American hospitals being filled with the sick and dying. But too many ki
ds went home crying after that first day. Too many of us didn't sleep that night. So on the second day, the new mayor and my mother and several other important bodies sat in the back of the class, watching with us while shaking bodies and military convoys filled the television screen. I didn't remember any of this from my own life. When the Shakes began, my father filled our van with food and drove us north to a lake and isolated cabin. There wasn't any news or Internet for us, which meant that Mom was seeing these horrors for the first time too. When I felt sick, I looked at her. But she just sat there. Stone has more emotion than her face showed. Then came a long story about riots, mobs trying to break into pharmacies and gun shops, and the reporter - a smug fellow with a big cross dangling around his neck - explained how people were hunting for pills and bullets to kill themselves and their loved ones. "Suicide," he said, "has become preferable to a slow miserable death."
I looked over my shoulder again. Mom's face had changed. Pale as milk, she stared at the screen with her eyes narrowed, her mouth set but her body struggling to hold inside whatever she was feeling.
It was the rarest sensation, feeling sorry for that woman.
Another news story began. Instead of people fighting for pills, one man was sitting in the middle of a long table, talking into a microphone. Several old men and old women were sitting behind another long table, listening carefully. Ignoring his own shaking hands, pushing past his sloppy voice and the drool, he was trying to explain his company's role in the ongoing catastrophe.
"My people used standard methods to produce our vaccine," he said. "Attenuated viruses have been employed for years. Successfully employed, yes. Mumps and chicken pox and measles have been conquered with these proven techniques. Our mistake was to believe that the wild virus was genuine. Which was everyone else's mistake too, I should add."
A woman at the other table held up her hand. "Where do you think the virus came from?"
"We have evidence," he began. Then he hesitated. Two assistants showed him pieces of paper, and he started to read, offering long words that might have been technical or might have been mangled by his failing mouth. Then he stopped talking, gathering himself with one deep breath before adding, "This bug is an ingenious monster."