When the Devil Dances

by John Ringo

  She stretched and ran her fingers through the tangle of her hair. She'd only been awakened once in the night, to give Amber a change and a bottle, and that was another miracle. All in all she felt as well rested and comfortable as she had felt in . . . about five years come to think of it. Maybe longer.

  Everyone referred to the destruction of Fredericksburg in hushed tones, but her life had come apart well before then. Marrying one of the football team was considered a coup in high school, but twelve years, repeated battered women's referrals, three kids and a divorce later and it didn't look like such a good idea. Having the Posleen land and destroy the town had just seemed like a natural progression.

  Now she found herself thirty . . . something, with three kids, a GED, wrinkles to shame a forty-year-old and—she took off the night dress she had found in the closet and looked down—a skinny body with . . . okay still fairly decent breasts, and stretch marks. She also lived in a cubicle with eight children. A catch she was not.

  She shook her head and looked out the window; it looked like a beautiful day, she'd gotten a chance to sleep in and there was no reason for her to be falling into this melancholy mood. With a deep breath she picked up her neatly stacked clothes off the bedside table and then wrinkled her nose. It had been a long and active time the day before and they were still slightly damp with sweat. Shari was a fastidious woman and wandering around smelling like a bag lady was not her idea of a good time. After a moment's thought she looked at the chest of drawers and the closet. After her shower last night she'd peeked in the closet hoping to find something to wear to bed and had glimpsed a large number of plastic wrapped dresses. Now she opened up the top drawer of the chest of drawers and shook her head; the room was packed with clothes.

  She pulled out a pair of bikini briefs and sniffed them. They were musty with long storage, with a faint hint of a spice that had probably been in the drawer as a preservative, and slightly . . . fragile in feel, as if they were quite old. They still smelled better than what she had been wearing . . . and they fit. They were on the large size, but they were close enough; the elastic had apparently survived storage.

  Rummaging further she found bras and, in lower drawers, blouses, T-shirts and jeans. Whoever's clothing this was had been addicted to jeans; there were at least seven pairs, most of them hip-hugger bellbottoms.

  Shari pulled one out and shook her head; there was no question that these were "originals" and not from the brief pre-Posleen renaissance. Not only did they have that same old, fragile feel as the panties, that she now realized must have been at least thirty years old, but someone had taken a pen to them in some bygone fit of insanity and covered them in graffiti. Kids of the turn years had rarely known who "Bobby McGee" was, although the peace sign and the "I got laid at Woodstock" would be recognizable. The strangest, scrawled on the seat in a different hand, was "Peace through superior firepower."

  She shook her head and carefully put away this artifact then chose a simple pair of straight-leg jeans that were barely worn.

  Bras turned out to be a problem. Shari had often felt that her only two saving graces were planted on her chest; indeed, her endowments were often the only thing that Rorie could not find to fault in her. However, whoever's clothing stocked this chest of drawers did not, apparently, have that particular grace/curse. After much searching she managed to find one that wasn't actively painful to wear. After managing to get it snapped, she looked at herself in the mirror and snorted.

  "That's the answer, girls. Find a bra that is both undercut and a size too small and you too can have cleavage."

  She initially pulled out a very pretty flowered blouse then looked at the neckline. Looking down she shook her head and pulled out a T-shirt emblazoned with "Led Zeppelin World Tour, 1972." It was a tad tight, but at least it didn't plunge and if, when, she fell out of the bra she wouldn't be into public view.

  Digging around in the bathroom exhumed a brush, old, but serviceable, and a toothbrush, new, still in the box. She used both to good effect then looked in the mirror and stuck her tongue out at the reflection.

  "I don't think so, girlfriend," she said to the sag-face wreck in the mirror.

  The first set of makeup that she found had obviously been stored for decades. If anybody was still collecting memorabilia, this house was a gold mine; there was even an unopened box of L'Oréal hair coloring with the faded picture of an actress who hadn't looked that good in thirty years.

  "Thanks," she muttered. "I know I'm worth it, but I just did them last week."

  The makeup case was a loss, though. Oh, there was plenty in it, whoever had owned it must have occasionally made herself up like a kewpie doll, but it was all dried up. The foundation broke away into chunks when she opened the jar.

  Next to the case though, hidden by it until she pulled it out, was a small, plastic container. It looked like Galplas, but Shari thought that was unlikely; where would a Galplas zipper bag have come from? However, on the top of the bag was a small green dot and when Shari touched it and slid her finger along the top the bag opened along an invisible seam. Galplas all right.

  Inside was what Shari mentally decided were someone's "bare essentials." There was a tube of mascara, a light lip gloss, a single eyeshadow case with an eyebrow pencil and a pair of eyebrow tweezers. The colors were not perfect for her—if she wasn't careful she'd end up looking like Britney Spears—and she really wished there was a base and some rouge, but they would do. And this was practically brand new.

  She quickly applied the makeup, sparse as it was, and then stepped back to consider the overall effect.

  "Baby, you look like a million dollars," she said. Then: "Liar."

  She made the bed then followed the smell of bacon downstairs to the kitchen. Kelly and Irene were at the table nibbling on biscuits, Amber stuck in a high chair just to the side, and Mr. O'Neal was at the stove, frying another pan of bacon and cracking eggs.

  When she came through the door he did a double-take and missed the bowl, the hand with the uncracked egg in it flailing in the air for a moment before he looked down and lined back up.

  Shari tried not to smile and walked over to the stove, sniffing at the food. "That smells heavenly."

  "How would you like your eggs, milady?" Papa O'Neal said. "I'm scrambling some more for the bottomless pits over there, but I'll be happy to fix some any way you please."

  "Scrambled is fine," Shari said, trying not to smile again as she caught a surreptitious peek in her direction. She shook herself internally. Don't you dare arch. Don't do it or you'll never forgive yourself. Despite the internal debate she felt a stretch coming on and stretched and, yes, she couldn't help herself, arched.

  A piece of bacon hit the stove top as Papa O'Neal missed the frying pan.

  "Damn," he muttered. "Clumsy . . ." He picked the bacon up with his fingers and juggled it to the cloth covered plate. "Would you like bacon or a . . . would you prefer some sausage?"

  "Bacon is fine," Shari replied, walking over to the table to give the poor guy some space. As she did she realized that she was putting some extra sway in the walk and wanted to hit herself on the side of the head.

  He's . . . well, he's got to be at least sixty and what in the hell is he going to see in you, but a has-been divorcee refugee with kids and stretchmarks?

  "I . . . uh, I see you found something to wear," O'Neal said, filling up the children's plates and carrying them over to the table. "I thought some of Angie's stuff might fit you. I meant to tell you to take your pick last night. Actually, I was talking to Elgars about the supply situation in the Urb; I had no idea. The house is packed with stuff; you should take anything you see that you want. I'm . . . surprised you found a bra that fit, though."

  "I appreciate the offer on the clothes," Shari said. "It feels like charity but, what the hell, I'm willing to take a little charity. There really isn't anything available in the Urb." She smiled and stretched again. "I will admit that I'm unlikely to find some stuff, though."
>
  Papa O'Neal coughed and went back over to the stove while Shari looked around for something neutral to comment on.

  "Where are the rest of the kids?" she asked. Irene got down and climbed up on her lap, bringing the plate with her. She then went back to the serious business of stuffing biscuit and bacon in her mouth.

  "Some of them are still asleep," Papa O'Neal said. "The rest are out with Cally doing chores. They like them. She took them egging this morning and then they got to eat them. Billy even helped milk the cows and that's really above and beyond the call of duty."

  "Kids always like doing chores," Shari said with a chuckle. "Once. And as long as it's not too hard."

  "Well, it's kept them outside and running around," O'Neal said. "And out of your hair; I could tell you needed a break."

  "I like my kids," Shari protested. "Even the ones that aren't mine."

  "Sure, and I like 'em too," O'Neal replied. He picked up a cooled-off piece of bacon and put it on the baby's tray. "But having to be on them all the time is too much for anyone, even Super Mom."

  Shari frowned and cleared her throat. "Uh . . . should you be giving Amber bacon?"

  Papa O'Neal frowned in turn and shrugged. "I don't see why not. I got given it as a baby and so did my son from what I hear. And that's the third piece she's gummed to death so far this morning. What do you think I should give her?"

  Shari paused and watched as Amber picked up the slightly undercooked bacon and began gumming on it. "I . . . well, if you're sure it's okay," she said doubtfully. "We usually serve her cream of wheat. . . ."

  "Semolina," Papa O'Neal said. "Got that. Fresh off the farm. Got two different varieties as a matter of fact."

  "Or creamed corn?" Shari continued.

  "Got that too," Papa O'Neal said. "But how about some nice cornmeal mush? That's good baby food. With some bacon ground up in it for flavor and texture."

  "Do you always eat like that?" Shari asked. "I'm surprised your arteries don't clang closed with a boom."

  "Got the lowest cholesterol my doctor's ever seen," Papa O'Neal said with a shrug. "It's all the cold baths and healthy thoughts."

  "Uh huh," Shari said, picking up a slice of bacon that Kelly had overlooked. "One question and I hope I'm not prying. Who is 'Angie'?"

  Papa O'Neal grimaced and shrugged. "Angie's where Cally got at least half her looks; she's my ex. She lives on a commune in Oregon and has ever since she was in her forties and discovered a true calling for . . . well, for Wicca."

  He shrugged and put the eggs, bacon and a biscuit on her plate and brought it over to her.

  "We never were real compatible. She was the communal nature-lover artist type and me, well," he shrugged. "The best you could say about me is that I never killed anybody that didn't deserve it. She never liked what I did, but she put up with it, and me. Part of that was that I was gone a lot and she sort of got to be her own person. She lived here, raised Mike Junior here for that matter. Pappy was still alive back then, but he practically lived up in the hills so she ran the farm her way.

  "Anyway when I came back for good, we got along for a while then we commenced to fighting. Finally she discovered her 'true calling' to be a priestess and left for that commune and I understand she's been happily living there ever since."

  "The 'Woodstock/Peace through superior firepower' graffiti," Shari said with a smile.

  "Ah, you saw that," O'Neal said, laughing. "Yep. That was us all over. She got massively pissed at me for scrawling that on her butt. My point was that she shouldn't have gotten so stoned she let me. I told her what I was doing and she thought it was a cool enough idea that . . . well . . . she thought it was a good idea at the time."

  "So no grandmother to help out," Shari sighed. "And somebody has to have a girl talk with Cally."

  "Assuming you can find her," Papa O'Neal said. "I haven't seen her all morning. I've heard her; she's using her drill-sergeant voice on your kids. But I haven't seen her at all. We're usually up around dawn, but she was up even earlier and out the door before I got up."

  "I thought you were getting up and slaughtering the fatted pig this morning," Shari said with a smile. The eggs and bacon had been wonderful and she had more of an appetite than yesterday.

  "I did," O'Neal said, grinning. "And it's on the barbeque, slow roasting even as we speak. And Cally normally would have been right there with me. But not this morning; she hasn't gotten within fifty yards of me this morning."

  He paused and rubbed his chin then looked at the ceiling in puzzlement.

  "She hasn't been within fifty yards of me all morning," he repeated thoughfully.

  "I wonder what she's done wrong," Shari said with a grin.

  * * *

  "You have to tell him," Shannon said. "You can't go on hiding all the rest of your life."

  "I can too," Cally answered. She forked another load of hay over into the stall with more vehemence than it actually needed. "I can hide as long as I have to, put it that way."

  The barn was huge and quite old. The original structure dated to just after the War of Northern Aggression, as Papa O'Neal called it. There were several horse stalls, an area for milking and a large hay loft. Along one wall several hay rolls had been stacked. Leaning against them was an odd rifle with a large, flat drum on top of it. Cally never left the house unarmed.

  "It's a natural thing," Shannon argued. The ten-year-old slipped off the hay round and picked up a chunk of clay on the floor of the barn. She waited just a moment until the mouse stuck its head out of the hole again and pitched the clay at it. The chunk shattered on the wall above the hole and the mouse disappeared. "You have a right to live your own life!"

  "Sure, tell that to Granpa," Cally said with a pout.

  "Tell what to Granpa?"

  Cally froze and stuck the pitchfork into the hay without turning around. "Nothing."

  "Shari and I were just wondering where you'd been all morning," Papa O'Neal said from behind her. "I notice you've got all your chores done. But you somehow managed to get them all done without coming within a mile of me."

  "Uh, huh." Cally looked around, but short of actively fleeing by climbing up into the hay loft and then, all things being equal, probably having to climb out the side of the barn through a window, there was no way to escape. And sooner or later she'd have to turn around. She knew she was caught fair and square. She thought briefly of either turning around and shooting her way out or, alternatively, jumping out the window and going to Oregon to live with Granma. But she doubted she could get the drop on the old man. And as for living with Granma, the commune depended on the local military for protection; they'd take her guns away. Blow that.

  Shannon, the fink, had actually made an escape. Bolted. What a jerk.

  Finally she sighed and turned around.

  * * *

  Papa O'Neal took one look and pulled out his pouch of Red Man. He extracted about half the pouch, laboriously worked it into a ball just a bit under the size of a baseball and then stuffed it into his left cheek. Then he put the pouch away. The whole time he had been looking at Cally's face.

  "Granddaughter," he said, his voice slightly muffled, "what happened to your eyes?"

  "Don't you start, Granpa," Cally said dangerously.

  "I mean, you look like a raccoon . . ."

  "I think she was going for the Britney Spears look," Shari said delicately. "But . . . that density doesn't really . . . suit you, dear."

  "I mean, if you go into town, they're gonna arrest me for beating you," Papa O'Neal continued. "I mean, your eyes are all black and blue!"

  "Just because you know NOTHING about fashion . . . !" Cally said.

  "Oh, fashion is it . . . ?"

  "Uh, whoa, whoa!" Shari said, holding up her hands. "Let's all calm down here. I suspect that everyone in this barn, except me, but probably including the horse, is armed."

  Papa O'Neal started to say something and she laid her hand over his mouth.

  "You wanted me, us,
to talk to Cally about 'girl stuff.' Right?"

  "Yes," O'Neal said, pulling the hand away. "But I was talking about . . . hygiene and . . ."

  "How to make guys complete doofuses?" Cally asked. "I already know those things."

  Shari slapped her hand over his mouth again and he pulled it back.

  "Look, I'm her grandfather!" he argued. "Don't I get to say anything?"

  "No," Shari answered. "You don't."

  "Arrrr!" O'Neal said, throwing up his arms. "This is what I hate about having women around. Okay! Okay! Fine. I'm wrong! Just one thing." He pointed at Cally and shook his finger. "Makeup. Okay. I can handle makeup. Makeup is even good. But no raccoon eyes!"

  "Okay," Shari said gently, turning him towards the barn door. "Why don't you go check on the pig and Cally and I will have a little talk."

  "Fine, fine," he muttered. "Go ahead. Clue her in on how to make a guy insanely angry without even opening her mouth. Put her through girl academy . . . Fine . . ." He continued to mutter as he stalked out of the barn.

  Cally looked at Shari and smiled happily. "You seem to be getting along."

  "Yes, we are," Shari admitted. "Whereas you don't seem to be getting along with him at all."

  "Oh, we're okay," Cally said, sitting on the hay. "I just spent so many years being his perfect little warrior child and now . . . I don't know. I'm tired of the farm, I'll tell you that. And I'm tired of being treated like a child."

  "Well, get used to that continuing for a while," Shari said. "Both of those things. Unless something very unpleasant happens. Because you're only thirteen and that means you're going to be in parental control for five more years. And, yeah, they'll wear. And, yeah, you'll want to find any way out from time to time. And if you want a really stupid one you can find some cute jackass with a hot car and a nice butt and have a passel of kids and find yourself out in the cold at thirty with mouths to feed."