by Pamela Jekel
“And the fish,” Miranda said.
“They can’t all be dead, can they?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “The ones that were left after the legionnaires must have gone to the camps, I guess. At least the ones in the cities.”
“But this isn’t a city,” Miranda said. “This is just a little town.”
They walked around the chapel, trying all the doors and the windows. At the rear was a storage shed, its door ajar. They peered inside the dusty wooden building cautiously. “Stay out here,” Jack said, “the spiders are pretty thick in there.”
He went in, rummaged around, knocked over something metal that clanged, and then he emerged with a grin, holding up a key. “I knew it,” he said. “The caretaker had to have a key, right? And a spare.”
The key opened a small door at the rear, and they went inside. It was cool and shadowed, until they walked into the chapel itself, and then the light from the windows lit up the wooden floor and the pews. Two glass windows were cracked, but the steel supports were still in place. The altar was empty, the pews dusty. The silence was what struck Jack most of all, however. He automatically genuflected in the aisle, crossed himself, and sat in a pew, facing a large plaster statue of Mary to one side of the altar. For some reason, the statue of Jesus had been removed, but the lighter outline of where it once stood made its absence obvious. Sky and Miranda sat down beside him.
“You think there’s anything left in the kitchen?” Miranda asked, her voice suddenly loud and echoing up the aisles.
“How did you get in here?”
Sky gasped and turned, and Jack got to his feet. A priest stood in the shadows behind them.
Jack instantly kneeled, so as to present no threat. “I’m sorry, Father. I came here as a boy long time ago, and I brought my wife and child to seek shelter.”
“How did you get in?” the priest repeated.
Jack held up a key. “I remembered the caretaker. He helped us make that path around the pond, remember, for our Scout project?” He dropped his hand, unsure what else to say. “I’m Catholic, Father.”
The priest came closer, and they saw that he limped badly. His habit was worn and stained, and his face was hallowed, his hair thin. “I can’t help you,” he said. “I have nothing to give you.”
“Perhaps we could just rest here awhile?” Jack asked. “And then we’ll be on our way.” He gestured to Miranda. “My daughter’s already walked more than twenty miles today.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jack Cummings. My father was Theodore Cummings, you may remember him?”
“What parish?”
“Saint Joseph’s, Father. My Dad helped organize the Parade of Lights each Christmas.”
“Ah yes, I remember that was always a festive event,” he said. He smiled for the first time.
Jack was struck by how his face changed when he smiled, from haggard to almost holy. He rose from his knees. “How have you survived here, Father? Are you all alone?”
The priest said, “With God’s help, of course.” He turned to Miranda. “Are you thirsty, my child? We have clean water.” He gestured to them to follow him.
Sky glanced a quick question at Jack, but he could only shrug and follow the priest down the stairs into the chapel basement. A young nun sat at a small wooden table, her hands patiently crossed before her. Her hair was cut short, her shift thin but clean. Around the basement walls were stacked the tables and chairs which would have served the parishioners for countless Sunday potlucks, and a bucket and mop leaned against a door. “Sister Catherine, this is Jack Cummings and his family. They’re from Saint Joseph’s parish. They will be sheltering with us this evening.”
Sister Catherine rose and extended a slim hand to Jack. “Have you come from Athens, then?”
Jack was struck by the scent that came from this young woman. It was fresher than his wife’s odor, which he’d grown used to over the months. “No, Sister, we’ve walked from Clarkston. We left the camp, and we’re headed for Watkinsville to our own land. This is my wife, Skylar, and my daughter, Miranda.”
The Sister smiled at Miranda. “So young! She escaped the infection.”
“With God’s help,” Jack said.
“Well of course, you’d say that, being Catholic,” the nun said almost impishly, “but I’ve no doubt good genes had something to do with it as well.”
Sky smiled for the first time since they’d entered the chapel. “I’m sorry to intrude on you this evening, Sister.”
“It’s worth sharing our small meal with you to hear news from the outside,” she said. “We don’t have much left,” she added, gesturing to the table. “Jack, bring chairs for your family, and we’ll break bread together.”
They took seats at the table, and she went off towards the kitchen.
“How is it that you’ve survived here, Father?” Jack asked.
“Well, first of all the Army came in and cleaned out nests of looters for about thirty miles around Atlanta. That happened a little more than a year ago. No mercy, no exceptions. It was very bloody for weeks. They also took any supplies they found, anything that wasn’t hidden or buried.”
“But surely, they didn’t get all the looters,” Jack said.
“No, they didn’t. Once the Army evacuated, it was touch and go. Some scavengers came back, but by then, we had nothing for them to steal, so they defaced the chapel, did their damage, and left. We repaired what we could. What they didn’t know was that several of our local parishioners bring us our food, so we had little stored here. We lost two of our older nuns in the infection,” he said, “and I don’t know why God has left me alive. But Sister Catherine keeps us together. It was only by accident that you catch me in my habit today. Usually, we don’t bother. We’re off the main road, thank God, and our spire’s not as high as the Baptist tower. Guess most of the looters didn’t even know we were here.”
“So some of the townspeople are still alive?”
“Oh, of course,” the priest said. “What did they tell you in the camps?”
Sky said, “That roving bands of looters had killed everyone left alive by the infection. And that those who escaped were dead of starvation. Or cholera or the flu or some other disease.”
“Well, of course, many did die. We’ve lost so many, especially the very young,” he said, touching Miranda’s shoulder softly. “Such a tragedy. But we have survivors all over the parish. They blockaded the city where they could, hid out when they had to, shot to kill when they had no choice.” He thought about it for a moment. “We’ve not seen any looters in many months now. I guess they’re all dead at last. There are at least six family groups that I know of who live within a day’s walk, and they all combine their resources and their energies to make it. But tell me, what about the camps? Do they really have electricity?”
“Yes, but only short times of the day. The military has control of all the resources, gas, generators, food, medical supplies, and people. Whatever is left, they’ve got it.”
“What about the government?”
“So far as I can tell, the military is the government. At least for now.”
“Well.” The priest’s eyes were intent. “That’s a very dangerous state of affairs.”
Sister Catherine came to the table with a small tray of plates, silverware, and cups, and handed them all around. She carried a pitcher over and filled their cups with water. Miranda drank hers immediately. “Is there more?” she asked.
The nun filled her glass again. “Our well is good and deep. We have to pump it by hand, but it hasn’t failed us yet. This county has an excellent aquifer, they say. It’s somehow easier to stand an empty stomach with clean hands and face.” She went back into the kitchen and brought out a tray with slices of flat corn bread, peanut butter, and honey. “I’m sorry this is all we have,” she said. “This is the skinny time of the year, until the crops come in.”
“Where do you get the bread?” Sky asked, her eyes wide.
“We bake it! Oh, it’s a little coarse and dry with no butter or eggs, but I guess if the Israelites could eat unleavened bread, we can. I do miss wheat, but we’re used to corn now. The honey comes from a local farm, and the peanut butter isn’t peanut butter, but pecan butter. One of our ladies brought it to us last winter. We think it’s just as good as goobers!”
Miranda grinned widely at that.
“Father Hudson, will you say the blessing?” Sister Catherine bowed her head.
“Bless us Oh Lord for these thy gifts which we are about to use for the health of our bodies,” the priest said. “We ask your blessings as well on these wayfarers, that they may find their way safely to wherever home may be.”
“Amen,” they murmured.
“Do you have a woodstove?” Jack asked, reaching for a slice of the bread. He saw how Miranda was staring at the honey, transfixed.
“No, but we’ve got an underground propane tank, and we ration it carefully.” Sister Catherine passed a piece of bread to Miranda. “In the summer, I can bake in a clay pot on the concrete, believe it or not. Help yourself, child.”
“May we stay here tonight?” Miranda asked, her mouth full.
“Miranda.” Sky shook her head.
“We can offer you a pew,” the priest said. “I’m afraid we have no extra beds.”
“That would be wonderful,” Jack said. “We’ll be out of here in the morning. Do you have any news of Athens?’
“Little that’s reassuring, I’m afraid. Once they closed the university, most of the students went to Atlanta, and the ones who had family nearby tried to get back to their homes. But many had no place to go, and when the campus closed, they refused to leave the dorms. You can imagine the condition of those dorms in a month. They didn’t even have shovels to dig latrines. A fire started in one; I guess they were trying to cook in their rooms. It spread quickly, with no water to stop it. Hundreds of students were killed, I believe.” He shook his head. “Such a terrible waste.”
“What about the National Guard? There’s a branch in Athens; didn’t they help keep order?” Jack asked.
“They were called to Atlanta,” Father Hudson said. “Nothing mattered but Atlanta. We were on our own out here. But tell me, do you have any news of the Archdiocese? Anything from Rome?”
“I’m sorry, Father, I don’t. Why have we seen no people in the open fields we passed?”
“Because there aren’t enough people to work them. The family groups have their little plots, but this is May, the month for seeding and weeding. No one works by the clock anymore, but by the season. No one lives by the highways either; it’s too dangerous.”
After their meal, they put their bedrolls on the pews, and as the chapel darkened in the twilight, Miranda fell asleep. Sky and Jack sat upfront at the altar, planning their route with a map Sister Catherine lent them.
“Pretty scary about Athens,” Sky said. “But I don’t get this. Where’s the murder and mayhem we heard all about?”
“I don’t doubt that it happened,” Jack said, “but maybe, it’s over. At least around here. I wouldn’t want to test that theory in New York City or L.A.” He pointed at the map. “I think we can make it to here by tomorrow night, if we’re up early and moving by dawn.”
She followed his finger’s position. “Athens? What are you talking about?”
“Just to my parents’ house. From there, it’s easy to cut south to Watkinsville.”
“Oh God, Jack, that might be more dangerous! If we’re ever going to run into trouble, it’ll be in Athens.”
“Yeah. But if we’re going to have any chance to get more weapons, it’ll be at Dad’s house. He had that gun safe locked in the basement, remember? And the other wall safe. I’ll bet they’re still intact. It could be the difference between life and death someday, to have those extra guns and ammo. It’s worth the detour.”
“Means an extra day of walking, too. The longer we’re on the road, the more vulnerable we are.”
“Well, we just ate one meal for free, didn’t have to use our own rations. If we don’t do it now, I’m going to have to leave you and Miranda at the cabin alone while I try to make it back up there.”
“Not one fucking chance of that,” she said. She thought for a moment. “Okay. We’ll make a try for Dad’s house. Do you remember that old Singer machine your mom had in the attic? The pedal-pusher? I wonder if it’s still there. If it is, I could make clothes. Plenty of empty houses with drapes and curtains to use, old furniture to rip up for heavier stuff for pants and jackets. It would give us something to barter with until we can get our own crops in.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I barely passed Home Ec, and I always hated sewing.” She smiled. “But that honey was amazing. I’d rather trade for honey than ammo.”
They left at dawn, with a small packet of Sister Catherine’s bread, water in an old plastic bleach bottle, and the priest’s benediction. “Keep off the road,” he added. “It might be faster, but it’s not safe.”
Jack appreciated the bread and the benediction but decided to ignore the advice. He was anxious to reach his parents’ home, and the main highway was the fastest route. They got back on the road, and as they walked further east, there were more abandoned vehicles which the Army had not bothered to push aside. Near noon, they stopped in the shade of a Seven-Eleven, west of Monroe off Highway 78, and opened their second MRE. While Sky and Miranda rested, he decided to see if he could find anything of value in the cars.
He was in the backseat of an old Buick, pulling out the seats and struggling with a clasp, when Miranda walked over. “What’re you doing, Dad?”
“Looking for treasure,” he said. “It occurred to me that most of these folks who left their cars might have supplies in their trunks that the looters didn’t bother with. Want to help me?”
“Sure.” She peered up the road. “Mom’s really tired.”
He looked up. “She okay?”
Miranda shrugged. “I don’t know. Her face is awful red.”
Jack climbed out of the car and followed Miranda back behind the Seven-Eleven. Skylar was leaning against the building with her eyes closed. Her face was bright pink down into her neck.
“Honey?” Jack sat down next to her.
Sky opened her eyes.
He took her hand. “You feeling alright? Miranda says you’re tired.”
She pulled her hand away. “No shit.”
He glanced at Miranda. “Will you keep watch, kitten? Just go sit in the shade out behind one of the cars where you can see up and down the road in both directions. If you see or hear anything coming, run right back here, okay?”
Miranda stared at her mother warily. “Is she sick? She looks really weird.”
“She’ll be fine,” Jack was taking the water bottle out of Sky’s pack. “Just keep an eye out.” When Miranda left, he took off his shirt, wet it thoroughly, and began to wipe Sky’s face down. “You’re pretty red. Is it the heat?”
“Yeah. The heat, twenty miles of asphalt, an empty belly, four years of worry, the death of one son, the loss of the other, take your pick.” She took the wet shirt from his hand and put it on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned back again. “Leave me alone.”
“Not a chance,” he said.
With her eyes still closed, she swiftly reached over and punched him in the chest with her fist. The strength of the blow and its surprise almost knocked the wind out of him, and he coughed spasmodically.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” she repeated.
He sat silently for a moment, trying to regain his composure. One part of his mind wanted to hit her back, knock her damn head into the wall. One part was terrified that she was truly ill. Could it be high blood pressure? Some sort of stroke? She was young for that, but given the last four years, it wasn’t impossible that she was sick. Heat exhaustion? But she’d worked out in the fields longer hours and in August. Red face, sweating, overly tired, bitchy…and then it occurred to
him. Menopause? She was only forty-six.
He took out the sport drink mix he’d been saving and poured it into the water bottle, shook it up, and nudged her with it.
She opened her eyes, glared at him, and took the bottle. She took a long drink from it.
“That’ll help. You’re probably just dehydrated.” He got up. “When you’re ready, we should get on the road. We can make another ten miles before dark.”
He went out to work on the Buick again, moving Miranda to his side of the road to keep watch. He found the small opening in the trunk and stuck his hand inside. Lots more than just a spare tire. He started pulling out items, bending back the metal as he could. A treasure trove, indeed. Bottled water, a flashlight with batteries which were probably worthless, a carpenter’s bag of tools, an excellent hunting knife, plastic wrapped foods which may or may not still be edible, someone’s “get-out-of-Dodge” cache, left here to bake and freeze over the years of Georgia’s seasons.
Sky walked up then and peered inside the car. “Miranda, see if you can fit inside that hole your dad made. I’ll keep watch.”
“Do I have to?” Miranda asked. “There might be a dead guy in there or something.”
“There’s no dead guy in there,” Skylar snapped, “you’d smell him if there was. Your dad can’t fit in there, and his arm’s not long enough. There might be something that we need; go on, now.”
Miranda crawled in the backseat and turned herself sideways, inching her way gingerly past the bent metal and gradually disappearing into the dark trunk. They could hear her turning around, grumbling to herself, and then they heard her ripping at what sounded like a cardboard box. “I need the knife,” she said, sticking her hand back out the hole.
“Be very careful with it,” Jack said, handing her the knife.
“Oh yeah,” she grumbled, “because it could be dangerous.”
More sounds of ripping and cutting, and then she began to hand items out: Power bars, Snicker bars, boxes of raisins and other dried fruit, and bags of instant oatmeal. “Wow!” Jack said, “look what you found, kitten!”