“Let’s go collect hosta shoots in that yard beside the Winery, then backtrack to check for Morel’s above the trail to the river. I want to check for eggs at the pond too.” Tara had a hankering for Morels and scrambled eggs like her mom used to make, and the gravel pit pond behind the camp was just the place to find some ducks. Where there were ducks, there were usually eggs, especially at this time of year. Her mouth watered at the very thought. She was always hungry now.
These past months, the Marines had shared their MRE’s with the survivors until their stores ran out, but all the while Tara and Mary still prowled the woods and neighborhoods pinpointing food sources. After what they’d been through, Tara was determined to be self-sufficient and prepared.
Up ahead, a large barn with a long, low, beige-brick building attached to it dominated the landscape. This was the Old Town Winery, a refurbished 100-year-old barn which Tara and Lee had watched being readied for nearly a full year leading up to the pandemic. Further down the road at the edge of town were acres and acres of grapevines belonging to the winery. The business had opened the week before Tara’s neighbors got sick with Ebola. She and Lee hadn’t even had the chance to go check the winery out. Although she really wasn’t much of a wine fan, Lee liked a glass now and then. The last few times Tara drank the stuff, she developed a massive migraine, and it just wasn’t worth triggering one of those.
What shitty luck. Your new winery opens, and Ebola kills all your customers. Bet that wasn’t in their business plan. As far as she knew, it had killed the owners too. At least she’d never seen anyone around the place.
A dogwood tree in the Winery’s side yard was just beginning to blossom, and in that instant, Tara wanted a branch of the flowers. They reminded her of her mom teaching them about the cross that was naturally painted inside each bloom. Nostalgic maybe, but Tara had learned sometimes you needed to stop and smell the proverbial roses. She pointed out the beautiful tree.
“Look Mary. It’s gorgeous.” Tara jogged across the grass toward the dogwood. She heard Mary laugh behind her, and when she turned to look, Mary was following.
Out of breath, Tara stopped at the tree and broke off a small branch covered with flowers. Old ways died hard, and Tara wanted to put the branch in a little vase at home. Acquiring water for use still involved a major trip to the river, toting it home and boiling it on her great uncle’s pot-bellied stove. But sparing a tiny bit of unsterilized water for this use wouldn’t hurt anything. Besides, a little beauty went a long way. It might be the end of the world, but Tara would be damned if she’d give up every single pleasure from Pre-E days.
Mary caught up with a big smile on her face and broke off a branch of her own. “Let’s take one to Clyde.”
Tara nodded, knowing the old man would appreciate it. In fact, she’d even put it in a vase and deliver it along with his evening dinner. Clyde was part of the family now.
Tara walked to the flower bed beside the barn where a huge bed of hostas were poking up, about four inches tall— the perfect size for eating. She began cutting a large batch of them, careful to work around the outer perimeter so as to leave enough of the plants for ongoing meals. All varieties of hostas were edible, not to mention plentiful in nearly every domestic landscape. There was a food-swap at the teaching pod each week, and Tara hoped to trade some of these for something delicious. Maybe even meat. She’d already dug up a full sack of daylily tubers to trade. They were delicious when roasted with olive oil, like fingerling potatoes. She stuffed the freshly-cut, tender greens in her bulky knapsack and walked back toward her friend.
There was a chest-high wooden fence a few yards beyond the dogwood tree, running along the rear perimeter of the winery. It was sturdy enough to keep small children from accidently plunging over the edge into the gravel pit and pond below. Tara noticed a black latch running horizontally against the vertical boards. There’s a gate? It didn’t seem safe to allow access to the edge of the high-wall. She walked closer, curious now.
Mary was still behind her at the tree, fiddling with her stem of dogwood flowers and searching for a perfect one for Clyde. Tara saw there was no padlock on the gate. She slid up the latch and pulled it open.
She was about two feet from the edge of the drop off. There was a pole just in front of her, cement hardened in mounded, craggy chunks around its base. A rope ran from it, along the edge of the pit, and the dirt at her feet was scuffed. Then she saw the rough steps carved into the stone, disappearing downward. They put in stairs! This would be an easy access to the pond, far better than trudging down the long road to the camp and backtracking to it.
The vista that spread out beyond Tara was impressive. She stood looking out over the pond just below, past the fenced-in barracks of the former Kmart-turned-FEMA-camp which ran in a line up all the way to the main building. Tara could see a spiral of smoke rising from the large pile of ashes where the bonfire still smoldered, the small exercise pen where they had been imprisoned only a few months before, and the river winding past on the far side of it. She was excited at finding this new way down.
“Mary, come here!” A moment later, Mary’s surprised face appeared at the gate.
“Wow, when did this happen?”
“I have no idea, but look—it’s a shortcut to the pond. They must’ve been in the planning stages of making an access from the winery. Maybe they were going to put in a patio or something.”
“There’s only a rope for a railing, you’d have to be very careful not to fall,” Mary said.
“Yeah it’s steep, that’s for sure. Still, it’s a time saver. Let’s try it, I bet we can find duck eggs. Watch your step.”
Tara held on to the rope, carefully descending the steep, narrow stairs down the side of the high wall. Mary followed her slowly, picking her way down. The closer they got to the bottom, the more Tara relaxed. They walked the last few feet to the pond and several Mallards squawked frantically and flew upward toward the river. Tara felt sure the females had nests in the rocks around the shoreline.
“Mary, you go that way and I’ll go this. If one flies up from the rocks, check that spot real good. That’s where the nests usually are.” Mary agreed and they each started around opposite sides of the pond. It wasn’t a large or deep body of water, having been formed from run off from the high wall and rain that had filled the deepest part of the gravel pit. But the pit itself was old enough that nature had reclaimed the surroundings, and cattails grew in several clumps.
Those are good to eat, according to my foraging book. She spent a lot of time studying what plants could become food in the wild. She’d vowed they would never starve.
Tara moved closer to the tall spikes, recalling that the young cob-like tips of the plant were edible, as well as a couple bites worth of the root-end of the stalks, the white colored bottoms. The spurs off the roots were edible too. Her forage book came to mind again; cattails had more starch than potatoes, rice, or yams and were full of vitamins. Even the pollen could be used like flour, and the dried brown “tails” were good for tinder and insulation. Tara stopped and pulled up some stalks, breaking off the edible bottoms and stuffing them in her knapsack.
A yell from Mary along with the simultaneous flapping of a duck’s wings announced the discovery of a nest. Tara watched as Mary bent down and then straightened, waving three eggs in the air.
“Don’t break ‘em!” laughed Tara. Mary carefully put them into her sack. Tara continued on around the large boulders that lined the edge of the pond. Someone had obviously put the rocks there years ago. It was actually quite pretty. On her right, thirty yards away, the camp’s tall fence with rolled barbed wire along the top ran close to the last row of barracks. It was fairly quiet there now, but Tara could hear the occasional voice drifting back from somewhere near the front of the compound.
Just then a duck flew up directly in front of her, making her jump. She peered between the rocks. There it is! A nest of straw and scant small sticks held the bounty of four eggs. Tara to
ok them all, hoping the female would lay more. She carefully set the warm eggs in her bag, thrilled that they would all have a good supper.
Mary was approaching from around the other side, grinning.
“I just found four!” called Tara.
“Seven eggs, what a treat!” Mary said, clapping her hands. “If we can’t find Morel’s yet, we can use the mushrooms I have. We’ll use some hosta shoots too, and whatever else we can find. It’ll be a feast!”
“I took some cattails too. Those will taste good with—”
“HEY!” came a man’s yell from somewhere above them. The women glanced up at the high wall they’d just descended and saw a guy standing at the open gate at the top of the steps. He started down.
“Who is that?” stage-whispered Mary. There just weren’t that many people left in town and they didn’t recognize this guy. He looked young. Fear rose up in Tara, and she glanced around for a weapon. She picked up a small rock. There was nothing else. She dropped it, realizing how ludicrous it was. Let’s hope he’s friendlier than he looks…
Chapter 2
A young man strode toward them around the pond, his arms wide open in outrage, an angry expression on his face. He pointed toward the water. “This is private property now. The lake is part of the winery, and those steps are not to be used. They’re not safe.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, we weren’t aware anyone had survived there,” Tara responded, trying to placate him, mostly relieved he wasn’t a threat. She fumbled with her backpack and noticed his young face soften as she walked to meet him, extending her hand. “I’m Tara and this is my friend Mary,” she paused, “and your name is?”
The young man nodded sternly at them both, jaw set. He did not take Tara’s hand, and she dropped it self-consciously to her side. Finally, he answered after seemingly weighing his response.
“Jake O’Donnell, I’m the caretaker for Old Town Winery.”
Tara smiled, trying her best to break the ice. “It’s beautiful up there—and down here. I’m so glad to see you, to be honest, so few of us have survived.”
The boy relaxed even more, nodding. “It’s been rough,” he offered.
“Are you the owner?”
“No, but the owner survived too—Mr. Brenner—Eugene. In fact, he probably saved me from the virus. I don’t have any family.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tara thought he was most likely still grieving deeply if he lost everyone in the pandemic.
“No, it’s okay, I’m an orphan. Mr. Brenner took me under his wing long before the virus began. I’ve been working for him for a couple years now, tending to the winery.” He wore a satisfied smile as he said this. “I don’t remember my family.”
Tara nodded, still partially distracted by his interruption. “So Mr. Brenner survived then too. That’s wonderful, a couple more people in our little neighborhood.” Tara troweled on the charm so the boy would realize they were no threat and were in fact assets in this new nearly empty world. Plus she had ulterior motives; she wanted to use the shortcut. “Is Mr. Brenner staying at the Winery?”
“No, I stay there, but he still comes by. He gets great pleasure in making wine and tinkering in the bottling plant.” The boy inclined his head toward the long, low beige brick building attached to the barn. A sheepish expression replaced his stern one. “I’m sorry ladies, I’m just following orders.” This was closely followed by a slightly worried look. “I’m not supposed to let anyone use the stairs.” Tara could see it pained him to be mean to them. Poor kid. His boss is all he has.
“But the winery will be open again soon,” Jake finished lamely. “He’s mentioned having a party for all the survivors. “
“That would be great, I hope it happens. And it’s okay about using the stairs. No biggie, we’ll take the long way.” But Tara wasn’t about to give up the eggs they’d just found. She wasn’t entirely sure Mr. Brenner actually owned the pond anyway. More like wishful thinking on the kid’s part. As far as she knew, the pond was city land, part of the old gravel pit and railroad track land that ran past on the road above.
Mary stood quietly by during this whole conversation and now Tara turned to her.
“OK, Mary, are you ready to go?” Mary nodded, only a slight twist of her lips announcing her disgust. Tara knew that look well. Nervous at seeing it, Tara cleared her throat, anxious to get out of there before Mary could no longer contain her usual feistiness. No sense jinxing the future possibility of getting permission to use the stairs. Tara said goodbye and Mary nodded at Jake curtly. The kid even gave them a hesitant smile at Tara’s wave.
“Thanks again, nice to meet you,” Tara called.
“Wow. What a damn grump.” Mary groused, shaking her head as they walked away.
“Well, his boss sounds a little strict. I guess that’s the kind of employee you become under those conditions. Plus, he’s all the kid has. The boy seems scared to offend him or be seen as a screw up.”
“I guess so. I thought for a minute there I was going to have to fight him for these eggs,” Mary said under her breath, possessively stroking the bag at her side.
An unbidden picture of Mary, short white hair flying, rolling around in the gravel pit with the kid in a head lock made Tara burst out laughing.
“I’m serious. It might be their land but they ain’t gettin’ our supper!” Mary said squinting in her best Clint Eastwood impersonation.
Tara wiped at her eyes, still laughing. “I agree. This is a new world, and it is finders keepers for the most part where food is concerned. I mean, yes, we’ll try to respect property boundaries, but I seriously doubt they own the pond. And I don’t think the kid knows any different. He’s just being overly cautious.”
“Well, he put me completely out of the mood to forage,” Mary complained. “Let’s go see Clyde.”
Tara shrugged and agreed. They could forage later. The women crossed behind the fence along the barracks, squeezing through the tight space between the fence and the high wall, heading toward the steep path that ran up the hill beside the river. One glance behind them showed the kid Jake half way up the steps to the winery. She and Mary would just have to continue taking the long way around, since Jake didn’t want them using the shortcut. Tara thought the kid was probably alright, just scared of his boss and mentor and afraid of losing his good graces. He obviously didn’t have anyone else left to lean on.
They trudged up the path, and Tara glanced over her shoulder at the river meandering slowly below. It made for a pretty picture on a spring day with the trees just coming into leaf and nothing to block the view. Even the camp compound behind them looked less intimidating. A flashback of the night they’d escaped hit Tara along with the memory of how they’d slid in the deep snow up this very path. Again, she gave silent thanks for surviving all she had. She’d caught herself doing that a lot lately.
Huffing and puffing, they reached the top and Tara stopped there for a minute. “Wow, I’m out of shape. It’s been a long winter.”
Mary wiped her forehead. “I am too. We’ll get our sea legs back soon. I’ve got a few more good years left I think.” Tara laughed and agreed. Mary was older than she, but in great shape. Probably better shape than Tara was, truth be told.
They followed the road back to the edge of town, and turned down the alley toward Clyde’s. The old man had been looking frailer each evening when they brought him dinner. He was in his nineties after all, but Tara hated to think of him dying. He’d grown to be like her wise old grandfather. And the saddest part was, he was still sharp as a tack. To have a lively mind in a decrepit body is the rottenest trick of the universe. I honestly hope I get dementia so I don’t know.
As the women passed overgrown gardens in the barren backyards of empty homes, Tara kept watch for volunteer vegetable plants sprouting here and there. “Mary look, tomato plants.” Tara pointed, deciding to come back for these later and transplant them in her own garden plot. It was nearly time to get started with all that. This year she hoped
to supplement their food resources with a mega garden. Of course, they could still take from any of the neighbor’s gardens too; finders keepers again.
Just ahead, Mary inclined her head toward a small bungalow-style home which was the first on the cleaning committee’s list. Tara assessed it with a practiced eye; small and neat, white with blue shutters. Hopefully the owner would be found tucked tidily in bed, having died as self-sufficiently and in as good of order as they’d lived. Better yet, maybe whoever resided there had gone to the hospital or the camp and expired elsewhere. No dead body to deal with.
Just then Tara noticed the splotch of red paint beside the back door. Oh no. Her heart sank. She knew this meant the home’s occupants had been given the Ebola virus faux “vaccination” and left to percolate—their bodies slated to act as giant petri dishes and grow the most virulent strains of Ebola. She pointed to the swath of paint and Mary nodded grimly. This was a bad sign, but the dead occupants might still have been removed by the guards after they’d died. The cleaning crew wouldn’t know until they got inside. Tara swallowed hard just thinking about what might await them.
Clyde himself had helped the cleaning committee cause by telling them which houses in his neighborhood had the fewest bodies—family members—figuring this info would make it easier to get volunteers. He was right—the fewer possible dead bodies, the better. No one was looking forward to the job, but it had to begin somewhere. There were families at the camp waiting to move into their new homes. Add in the incentive that volunteers were promised an equal share of whatever food was found, and this definitely bolstered Tara’s resolve. She hoped this house kept a full pantry—that is, if the camp guards hadn’t already retrieved the bodies, along with all the edibles. Tara had parked Ben’s red wagon at Clyde’s the night before, hoping to fill it with Mary’s and her shares.
Red Death (Book 2): Survivors Page 2