by Brian Hart
He wakes up at the side of the road with blood on his face and his hands, drag marks in the dirt that lead to him. The boy and the dog are gone. His bike is in the ditch but the boy’s is gone with him. He sees a patch of green high on the hillside and when he listens he can hear an irrigation pump running. He picks up his bike and wheels it onto the pavement. The dirt road is lined by dead and broken cottonwoods. The boy’s bike tracks weave up the hill. The dog’s tracks zigzag over them. He turns a corner and comes upon a single-level house with a sod roof, a large, high-fence garden. Mismatched chickens in the yard and in the road. The barn is small and he can smell goats. Their scent makes him happy.
An old woman in jeans and a T-shirt comes out to meet him. “We were just coming to get you.” She motions to the garage. Her hair is thick and curly, red streaked with gray. A truck is backing out. The boy and the dog are in the back. “We couldn’t get a word out of the kid, but we figured it out eventually.”
The truck’s reverse lights turn off and it returns to the garage. The dog hops out and the boy follows him. He pets the dog when it collides with his legs. The boy approaches and digs the empty water bladders from his rear pannier. The man that had been driving the truck is out now. He’s old but built like a runner, wearing a red T-shirt and a dingy baseball cap, Ben Davis trousers, New Balance shoes. His name is Hugh. His wife is Patty.
The boy holds up the empty water bladders for the old couple to see.
“We can do that,” Patty says.
“Better come on up here,” Hugh says with a wave of his hand.
The boy follows Patty inside. Hugh motions the man through the door too but he’s still bleeding a little from his bike wreck so he stays on the porch stairs with the dog. Hugh walks to the barn and when he returns he passes the man a wet rag and another dry one along with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
“They’re clean, even if they don’t look it,” the old man says.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want a mirror? You only have the one cut on your temple there that’s still oozing a bit.”
The man does his best to clean up. The peroxide foams and sludges pink bubbles down his jaw and neck.
The dog is drinking out of a water dish at the bottom of the stairs. The man searches for another dog, to prevent a fight, but doesn’t see any.
“Ours is dead,” Hugh offers. “If you were wondering. Remind me and I’ll give you some kibble when you go.”
“Thanks again.”
“Is he mute?” Hugh asks of the boy.
“I don’t know,” the man says. “I don’t know anything about him.”
Patty comes out of the house, followed by the boy. They set a pitcher of water and four glasses on the table. The old woman motions the boy to a chair with a smile and he sits down and immediately drinks down all the water from the glass he’s been offered.
“Take it slow now, sweetheart,” Patty says. “We still have bread, don’t we?” she says to her husband.
The bread is hard enough to make the man’s gums bleed but the strawberry jam and butter that Hugh slathers on it makes the discomfort inconsequential.
“So he’s not yours?” Patty nods to the boy.
“No,” the man says, trying to keep the bread down, mouth watering.
“His people?” Hugh asks.
“They’re gone,” the man says, hesitating. “I found them on the road. He was hiding in a culvert. I don’t know who did it, which militia.”
The boy sets down his bread and looks at the old woman, butter and jam on his upper lip. “They were in a helicopter.”
“Who?” the old man asks. The boy doesn’t answer.
The old woman looks at her husband. “We saw helicopters, was it yesterday? Coming and going. They were militia, not federal. A man waved at me from the door.”
“They took my sisters,” the boy says. “They told my dad and everybody to put down their guns and then Tommy fired his but it was an accident. They started shooting out of the helicopter and it didn’t stop until they landed. Until they took them.” The boy swallows hard and takes a deep breath.
The adults at the table glance at one another, fidget in their chairs.
“And what about you?” Hugh asks. “You’re ill? Drink some bad water maybe?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say trichinosis,” the man says. “Bear meat.”
“That’s a tough row, that one,” Hugh says.
“We can’t spare any antibiotics,” Patty says. “And if memory serves, I think you can ride it out just as soon as treat it.”
“What I picture going on in my stomach,” the man says, “is worse than the physical part.”
“What’s going on in your stomach?” the boy asks.
“I’ll tell you,” Hugh says, laughing a little. “But you have to tell me your name first.” The old man glances at his wife. “And how old you are. And where you’re from.”
“My name is Roland. I’m eight. I lived in Sacramento before we left.”
“Not at the table,” Patty says to her husband.
“Roland, age eight, from Sacramento,” Hugh says, smiling, making crawly fingers with his hands. “It’s worms, thousands and thousands of worms squirming in his belly like a nest of snakes.”
“Now you’ve made me sick,” Patty says, standing up. “You can come with me, Roland. I don’t want to leave you alone with these two. One’s sick and the other’s just plain gross.”
The boy follows Patty inside and Hugh clears the dishes. When he comes back he motions the man around the corner to the lush grass of the backyard. “You can rest there,” he says. “The hose bib is live if you’re thirsty.”
The man sleeps through the heat of the day in the shade of a fig tree. They have goat stew and roasted vegetables for dinner but the man can still only manage the broth.
After they eat, the man insists that he and the dog sleep outside. “I don’t want to risk getting sick in the house,” he says.
“You can sleep in the goat shed,” Patty says.
“Can’t say I’m real keen on him getting sick in there, either,” Hugh says.
“It all cleans up,” Patty says.
“Not if the goats eat whatever he pukes up and they get sick too.”
“I’ll sleep in the yard,” the man says.
“Sleep in the bed of the pickup,” the old man says. “It’ll keep the dew off.”
The next morning Roland wakes the man in the bed of the truck. He’s ready to go. “Come on and get up,” he says.
As he’s getting himself together, digging the sleep from his eyes and tying on his shoes, Roland is going on about the soccer match that he and Hugh and Patty listened to last night on the radio, broadcast from England. The man, out of the truck now, pisses against the driveway fence. The dog moves down the line a bit and does the same. The sky is dark with smoke and the wind is blowing hot out of the south. Hugh and Patty are up and moving around in the house, the sound of cooking comes through the screen door. The man feels like he might be able to keep food down. He smells coffee and smiles. They eat at the kitchen table. A clock ticking is the only sound. Nobody says grace.
“We chose to live like this,” Hugh says, passes a plate of fried potatoes and sausage to Roland, “long before it was necessary. Seemed obvious at the time.”
Roland loads his plate and without pause begins eating.
“The way that people wasted their money, their lives,” Patty says, passes the man a mug of coffee.
The man thanks her, sips, holds it in his mouth for a few long seconds before swallowing. “Do you have kids?” he asks.
“Our oldest was killed in Saudi Arabia in ’26,” Patty says, turning to Hugh. “He was a Marine.”
“I did five tours in Afghanistan,” Hugh said. “My father fought in Vietnam. My grandpas were in WWII and Korea. Family traditions, deadliest thing on the planet.”
“We have two girls too,” Patty says. “One lives in Wales and the other in Manitob
a.”
“They don’t visit,” Hugh says.
“Neither do we,” Patty says.
“Jeffersons don’t bother you here?” the man asks.
“Nah,” Hugh says. “Never did. We’re in flyover country, literally. They just fly over us. I hear the Jeffs are done anyway. It’s STT now. The lady on the radio said that their general was invited to the White House.”
“So they’re legitimate,” Patty says, nodding. “Hopefully they’ll act like it.”
“They’re all the same,” the man says.
Roland asks if he can have seconds. Of course. Much as you want. They watch him eat. The man folds his napkin and puts it on the table.
After breakfast, standing on the porch, Patty gives the boy a hug and Hugh shakes their hands, making the departure official.
“You could stay with us a few days,” Patty says to Roland.
“I have to find my sisters,” Roland says, as he climbs onto his bike and lifts one foot to the pedal.
“He doesn’t want to stay with us, woman,” Hugh says. “Good luck to you both.” He turns with a quick wave and goes inside. The screen door slams.
“What d’you wanna bet that when I get in there he’ll be crying?” Patty says, shaking her head. Roland gives her a scared look. “Don’t worry about him,” Patty says to Roland. “You can always come back. Anytime.”
“Thank you,” the man says.
“Thank you,” Roland says.
Morning on the blacktop with full stomachs. No cars and wind at their backs. “Easy money,” the man says, as much to himself as to the boy.
[38]
R>45
CA 96118
The hay in the barn went quickly, especially after the roof leaked and they lost a ton or more to mold. They butchered four of the eight milk goats and ran trap lines to keep the chickens fed, tromped through the snow to the abandoned hay barns and nearby oak trees, chipped out watering holes from the ice and laid snares for rabbits, squirrels, feral cats. The chickens didn’t like to eat animals with eyes, not at first, but they got used to it. Wasn’t long before they’d peck out the eyes first.
The snow finally melted. At the edge of the western field, Wiley spotted a young ram that had escaped during a storm. With the dog’s help she got a rope on it and dragged it back to the goat shed. Two weeks later Sarah crossed hog wallows while she worked her string of #2 squirrel traps along the cut banks in Correco Canyon. Roy figured they must’ve holed up in an old barn somewhere, or even a house. He didn’t like to think what they might’ve dug up to eat.
Then the generator broke and no amount of cunning or ingenuity could repair it. The damage sustained to the grid over the long winter meant it was only slightly more reliable than their solar. They were lucky to have a couple of days a week at full power.
Roy left the machine partially dismantled and in a pool of its own oil. Jerzy, the actual mechanic, not the tinkerer Roy was, made short work of making the declaration of death. A slow leak had left the pistons dry and when it kicked on for the last time the damage was, as Jerzy put it, absolute. They used the tractor to load the ruined machine into the back of the pickup, then took off their hats like so long, old friend, and shut the tailgate.
Karen and Roy took Sarah with them when they drove the generator to the junkyard, Eli’s Pick ’n’ Pull, outside of town. Jerzy had come up with a list of possible replacements with part numbers they could search for. The next move was to cannibalize the generator from the drill rig. Or go to Reno, and they tried to avoid Reno. Same with Sacramento. They left with the understanding that they were leaving Jerzy and Wiley alone and doing it on purpose.
“They’re going to have a kid,” Karen said.
“No, they’re not,” Roy said. He and Sarah were playing blackjack.
Sarah showed Roy her cards and he passed her four quarters. “When do I get to have a baby?” she asked.
“Never,” Karen said.
“When you’re older,” Roy said.
“How much?”
“A hundred years,” Roy said. “Hit me.” Ace of spades. “Bam, kiddo. Pay up. That’s black and the jack. Blackjack.” He held up his hand to make a pronouncement, as was his habit with Sarah. “The great Lemmy once said, ‘You know I’m born to lose and gambling’s for fools, but that’s the way I like it, baby, I don’t want to live forever.’” Roy was about to sing the last line, and don’t forget the joker, when Karen told him to shut it.
“You’re weird.” His daughter dug into her backpack and passed her dad a butterscotch candy. “I’ll get that back,” she said, not joking.
The road was potholed and washed out in places. Blackened fence posts had dropped their wires but it was greener than it had been in years.
“I think Barry has the same model,” Karen said.
“Same model of what?”
“Generator.”
“How would you know that?” Roy said.
“Because I talk to people. I’m not a curmudgeon like you. People like me, right, sweetie?”
“That’s right, Mama.”
“You know as well as me that the Pick ’n’ Pull is a dead end,” Karen said. “Eli won’t be there or have anything we can use. He sure as hell won’t be sober. Might be naked.”
“Probably,” Roy said.
“It’ll be a kind of peace offering,” Karen said.
“To Eli?” Roy wasn’t really listening.
“To Barry.”
“Come on,” Roy said. “I invited him over for Christmas. Wasn’t that enough?”
Sarah held up an ace and a king. “Pay up,” she said.
When Karen turned and stopped in front of Barry Miller’s security gate, hung her head out the window for the camera to see, waved hello, and waited for the gate to swing open. “We still haven’t met his wife,” Karen said. “It’s time. The opportunity has presented itself.”
“I can’t believe someone married him,” Roy said.
“As if they don’t say the same thing about you,” Karen said.
“She probably came mail order from the NRA,” Roy said. “Get yer new wife free with a lifetime membership and a case of 5.56 or 7.62 NATO.”
“Be nice,” Karen said. The gate swung open and they drove slowly down the lane.
A woman emerged from between the outbuildings and the house wearing a bloody apron and rubber gloves that went to her armpits. She had a very intense look on her face, not fear but close to it.
“Would you mind giving me a hand?” she asked, before they’d even gotten out of the truck. She was Karen’s age, maybe a little older, short gray hair and bright green eyes.
“Sure,” Karen said.
They followed her around the open shop door with the tractor and all its implements lined up neatly in a row to a steel outbuilding with a reinforced steel door.
Inside they found Barry stretched out on a shiny metal workbench in the center of the room. His shirt had been cut open and when his wife moved the compress they saw that he had a neatly puckered bullet hole on his left side below his ribs. He didn’t look surprised to see the Binghams. He even made the effort to smile at Sarah. The room was large and well lit by overhead LEDs. The walls were wainscoted with fiberglass-reinforced panels like you’d see in a restaurant kitchen and there was a walk-in cooler and a table with a band saw and a meat grinder. Another table on the opposite wall, beside a large double basin sink, had industrial rolls of butcher paper and plastic wrap.
“They dropped him off like this,” Barry’s wife said.
“Who?” Karen asked.
“Jeffersons. He won’t tell me what happened. If they shot him or if someone else did. With friends like that—” She made a face at her husband then turned back to Karen and Roy. “I’m Ilah.”
The Binghams did their introductions. “What can we do to help?” Karen asked.
“I flushed it and it passed all the way through so I’m ready to go in and clean it but he won’t stay still. I already gave him so
mething for the pain but he’s squirming all over the place. I was about to use ratchet straps to buckle him down when the alarm beeped and I saw you on the gate camera. I’d rather we kept the human touch.” She had a cool but pleasant smile and Barry obviously deferred to her. He still hadn’t said a word since they’d arrived. The shame was nearly as heavy on his face as the discomfort. Roy wanted to laugh. You’re fucked, Barry, he thought. Your friends shot you or someone else did and you’re fucked.
“I might have to do a few internal stitches too,” Ilah said. “I can’t tell until I get in there.”
“Are you a doctor?” Sarah asked.
“No, nurse practitioner.” Barry lifted his arm and moaned a little. “Let’s get it over with. Your daughter can wait in the house. There’s fresh orange juice in the fridge.”
“Can I stay?” Sarah asked. “I want to watch.”
“No, go on inside,” Roy said. “I’ll come and get you when we’re done.”
“But I want to see.”
Karen put her arm around the girl and walked her out and came back a moment later, rolling up her sleeves. “She likes blood too much. When I was her age I was a vegetarian.”
“You two ready?” Ilah asked. “You ready, sweetheart?”
Barry nodded but didn’t speak.
Roy took him by the shoulders and Karen held his feet. When Ilah spread the wound with her forceps, Barry fixed Roy with a hateful stare and didn’t let up until she’d finished with her scalpel and took a break.
“We brought you a present,” Karen said to Barry. He was pale and his skin was clammy. Roy thought he would’ve passed out by now, wished that he would, holding him was exhausting.
“You shouldn’t have,” Barry whispered.