Tarry This Night

by Kristyn Dunnion

  Thomas and Diego dig with a trowel from their kit, right beside one of the old fence posts. They each wear one of Paul’s gloves. Diego has the gas mask and Thomas the veiled hood.

  “Slow pokes,” says Thomas.

  “Here we go,” says Diego. He unearths a package. Inside is a gun, bullets, a bottle of water, meal replacement bars, and a cellphone. “We stashed this on the way in.”

  Paul hasn’t seen a cellphone in years. Before they went to ground, all of the men carried them, and each of the wives had one for emergencies. Father Ernst forbade them in the bunker, fearing they could be tracked, and he was right. It’s how the FBI discovered some of the other settlements.

  Paul says, “Aren’t they illegal?”

  Thomas laughs. “We are illegal.” He opens one of the bars, takes a large bite, and passes it to Diego.

  “Burners are hard to get on the black market,” says Diego.

  “The white market,” says Sondra, smirking. She drinks from the water bottle and trades it for another of the bars.

  “Most carriers went bankrupt or dissolved after the legislation passed,” says Diego, patiently. “Like internet providers, it’s all government regulated.”

  “Only the big wigs get them, officially,” says Thomas.

  “Unless you can hack,” says Sondra. She is already removing tiny, inscrutable pieces and switching them out for bits she carried in her pocket. She texts a cryptic message—signs and symbols—and presses send.

  Hack. What does that even mean? Paul rubs his head, which throbs from the hit he took in the forest and the earlier blows dealt by Sondra. He drinks from the bottle. Bites into one of the bars and chews slowly: fruit of some kind, nuts, and seeds. Could that be honey? He hasn’t tasted anything so sweet in a very long time; the sugar rush energizes and helps him focus.

  Thomas loads the pistol and tucks it in the waistband of his pants, nestled against the small of his back. Paul’s Ruger leans where Thomas left it, against a fence post, looking forlorn. Paul hasn’t so much as touched it since encountering the group. His hands itch for its reassuring weight. He feels vulnerable, less able to defend himself without it. And he misses the connection to his father, which imbued a sense of confidence he’s been lacking.

  “Good to go,” says Sondra. “Should have some backup by nightfall.” She is already fiddling with the phone again, changing the tiny pieces inside. “We can rest in the barn until then.”

  “Should we wait that long?” Paul’s belly tightens with a sense of urgency. Anything could have transpired in the bunker since he left.

  “Relax. After all these years, a few hours isn’t going to make much difference,” says Thomas. “Better to be rested.” He takes a long pull from the water bottle, his throat bobbing with each swallow.

  Paul strides into the field, but Diego pulls him back sharply. “Landmines, kid. Be careful.”

  Kid. Paul has lost all of his good sense. He shuffles behind the rest of them, humiliated, as they creep through tall grass that grows up and around the downed trunks of countless destroyed trees. As he steps over and around decaying logs, Paul detects the tiny movements of beetles. Tracks lead to and from the large trunks. Even after death, the trees support a small, miraculous universe.

  Soon, in the near distance, Paul can make out the shape of a dilapidated barn. They stop for more water and Sondra says, “Our truck’s inside.” He stares for a long time. Could that have been the Andersons’ place? If so, he knows the derelict highway is just beyond.

  Thomas says, “I trust you won’t blow our heads off,” and passes the Ruger back to Paul, who beams. He strokes the smooth laminate and automatically checks that it’s loaded, that the safety is on. He feels taller again, shifting to adjust for the added weight when he slings it over his shoulder.

  The road was relinquished decades ago to farm machinery and horse-pulled wagons once the newer, paved bypass took most traffic with it. The old road mimics the curves of the river and the once proud forest. It leads north past an unmarked lane—the private entrance to the Family’s compound—and south, to whatever is left of the town. This is the same road he set out on days ago, just a few miles up ahead. Paul has almost come full circle.

  CHAPTER 35

  Susan slumps onto a bench after Hannah takes the children to bed. Cousin Silas hovers, glancing from kitchen to Susan, then to Father Ernst’s door. “She’ll be fine,” Susan mutters. The boy blushes and disappears.

  Susan is exhausted. She may not have enough energy to execute her plan. Poison would be easiest, possibly kindest, but they’ve nothing left in that department. She can repurpose cords or rope for a noose but hasn’t the strength to hoist the bodies. Also she cannot erase the picture of Rebekah’s damaged face—thickened tongue, bulging eye sockets, lips curled in anguish, and those terrible markings at her throat. She settles on knives. Fast and ungentle. She’ll do the girls and Abel first. Severing the oesophagus kills almost instantly, but there will be a lot of blood. If she could do it to livestock, she can do the children. She likes animals better.

  She flicks a spot of congealed grease on the table beside her hand. Spills rarely go unnoticed—the children will lick anything. Once it sets, even after scrubbing, such drops stain the otherwise unremarkable wood. Phantoms seeped into the polished grain under her fingers, the map of a thousand shared meals. She squints and it looks like flowers blooming on a vine, serrated-edge leaves with thorns and heart-shaped petals.

  Will there be flowers wherever she ends up? Will she at least glimpse them when she clings for all eternity outside the gate to God’s Garden? That might be enough, to see and smell them, if not to touch. Why should the Afterlife be any less disappointing than this life she has crawled through, miserably?

  She dunks her rag in the basin beside her. It’s surprising the Family is able to make any mess at all, given so few provisions. Yet dust falls thick, now as ever. After today, it won’t matter what state the place is in. Yet habit and a sense of duty prevails, so Susan wipes the scarred wooden table one last time. An arc of fire tongues her lower back when she reaches. She kneels to get in close for the overhang, the side panels, and wipes the sturdy legs, too. Since she’s already down, she ducks her head under. No cobwebs, but something else catches her eye. A rough drawing—no, a carving: a heart with Paul’s name spelled inside. Which of the hussies did this?

  All the girls, even the little ones, flutter when he’s near. Memaw doted on him, annoying Father Ernst to no end. Annoying Susan as well. Hannah makes no attempt to hide flirtations, and Ruth demonstrates a silent but fierce loyalty that rivals any hound’s. What is it about the boy? Black hair, distinct from the others. She supposes he is kind. Hard to say. Mostly they mute themselves in the bunker, tamp down any excess of personality. Any outward show of feeling can be aired during Reflections and, more than likely, whipped out of them. Rebekah acted like a detached Missionary, but she was also drawn to Cousin Paul. That kind of affection is hard to name—one that pulses with magnetism and mystery. Could it have been more than friendship?

  Footsteps. Susan is humped under the table and when she moves, pain flares the length of her spine. She hopes it is Hannah and that the girl will help her up. It’s Cousin Silas shuffling to the kitchen—he never lifts his feet. Drawers slide open, bump shut. He’s rummaging, doesn’t know his way around. Filching another morsel, no doubt. The boy is hopeless.

  Susan presses palms to bench and tries to stand again. Her arms shake with effort. The left foot cramps, the whole leg is numb. “Come,” she calls out when the boy re-enters the Hall. He freezes, caught.

  “I’ll not mention this trespass if you hurry up.”

  He blushes, looks to his hands, and she sees them—cleaver, carving knife, deboning knife, even the meat fork and scissors—anything with a blade or point.

  “What are you doing, fool?”

  The boy wavers. One step toward her, one back to the kitchen. “His blade of Truth?” he says, without conviction.
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  “Put those down! Help me.”

  His guilty face morphs to one of dread; the boy hates conflict. If he helps Susan, he’ll have to set down the knives. If he sets them down, she’ll grab them. He will have to fight her. His face says he can’t.

  “Good boy.”

  A sound escapes his round mouth, and he darts from the Hall. She is surprised that he disobeyed. Where the devil is he taking them? He’s not an original thinker, so who put him up to this?

  Ruth, of course. Or Hannah?

  Susan presses weight into her palm on the bench, pulls with the other hand clutching the table edge. Sweat stands on her upper lip and pools between slack breasts. “Memaw, give me strength,” she whispers. She’s up, panting, right hip beached on wood. She points and flexes her toes to start the blood moving again. It takes time before she can stand and limp her way across the room. In a narrow drawer near the stove is the fourteen-inch chef’s knife and sharpening stone, too long to fit the block with the others. “Blade of Truth indeed, stupid boy.”

  The twins and Leah are abed. No sign of Hannah. Susan rests on her cot, sets the knife and stone down. She had a whim to put the girls under one blanket so they’ll arrive at the Garden together, but they’re too heavy for her to lift. She pushes the cots together instead. Sits again to catch her breath. She begins to sharpen the blade, drawing it up the stone, flipping it, and drawing it up the other side. Kitchen music; she never tires of it. The twins stir and settle. She hardly ever thinks of them as her own. The birthing was hard, messy, but she gritted her teeth and pushed, Memaw and Deborah on either side, cheerleading. The babies looked strange—red-faced, mucous-plugged, placenta sheen glistening—but even in that barbaric state, she was secretly pleased. Finally, after so many miscarriages topside. Father Ernst praised her for bearing the first of the new tribe below—oh, how she was celebrated. She brought the twins forth, gave them life. Now she can guide them to the next. Better than delivering them to Father Ernst.

  Helen sleeps on her back, arms and legs thrown wide. More authoritative, this one always grasps for facts, reason, rules. Rachel rolls on her side to face her twin. A freckle on her right earlobe—the only way Susan could tell them apart, at first. Rachel doesn’t challenge her sister, doesn’t encourage her, either. She reminds Susan of a mule they had topside, plodding the fields apart from horses and men, minding his own. A lot like Susan herself. On instinct, Helen inches toward Rachel’s warmth. Her small chest rises and falls under the sheet. Susan could put a quilt over them.

  She sets down the knife and stone, lifts the lid on Rebekah’s old trunk—empty. Ruth sorted her things, but what became of that much fussed-over quilt? Fine handiwork, no doubt. She opens Ruth’s trunk and it’s there, under hand-me-down dresses. The last time she saw it, it was rough basted, pins everywhere, and still needed the final edging.

  Susan unfolds it across the two cots, covering the girls. Unless Ruth had a peek, she’s the first to see it. It’s a complex scene she can’t figure. Upside down. She shifts it the right way around. Sucks in her breath. Rebekah’s finest work. Immaculate. Susan thumbs the stunning panels—chocolate-brown from Memaw’s best housedress, gunmetal sashings from Deborah’s overcoat lining, hints of midnight-blue from Mary’s negligee. Mainly the colours of night, of the bunker itself—rusted pipe and scaling kettle, blackened oven, gleaming stove elements. Within the border, the top section lightens with pieces of that Floridian-orange apron, and cream-coloured slips, butter nightcaps, scraps of the children’s Christening gowns. It’s a sunrise, a sophisticated pinwheel pattern, made from items belonging to each of them. The corner blocks are stunning: meticulous appliqué and free-motion embroidery replicate familiar profiles. Memaw, Deborah, Mary, and Susan herself. Astounding.

  Least photogenic and most camera-shy of the wives, Susan rarely has had her picture taken, let alone a painstaking tribute made—like this. Susan cannot stop looking at the fourth corner: the image captures her likeness but is softer than she feels. Kinder. More dignified. Almost handsome. Like the woman she might have become, in other circumstances.

  The embroidered centrepiece shows a robed, bearded man lying at the feet of a bride whose gown drips blood. The background is stitched in heavy thread—ladders, ladders everywhere. Susan flips a corner. On the plain backing, spidery red-threaded letters spell out The Ascension Made Manifest. The title of Father’s Book of Sermons.

  Rebekah’s vision of the Ascension is shockingly different from Father’s. Susan grips the foot rail of Helen’s bed, sinks her weight onto it. She has not forgotten that heretic bonnet, some kind of infant’s mourning cap, although she did not show it to Father Ernst or tell him what she discovered in her grisly work. What more could he do to punish a dead woman? Rebekah was probably about four months along, hence the moods, her frequent tears. The poor girl.

  Susan’s heart stutters, she can’t get her breath. She eases herself onto the mattress. Clutches the knife, drops it.

  Sacrilege, what Rebekah’s done. Yet this was the same girl who gifted Susan a needlepoint replica of the Farm based on the photograph in Father’s chamber—her most treasured possession. The Farm. That was what Susan loved and what she had been promised, not this filthy bunker living. A safe place to live and work.

  And she was to be let alone, Memaw said.

  Ernst. Without him, the women would still be alive. They’d be up on that big front porch rocking, sewing, laughing. Waiting for the bread to rise. Simmering soup, letting pies cool on the sill. Her mind jumps to Memaw’s ghostly smile, her voice reminding Susan, You still have work to do. Susan imagined bolting Father Ernst inside his chamber earlier today, removing him from the picture entirely: heresy. Or simply another unexpected task required to ensure their survival?

  It’s not too late.

  There’s a shift inside her, an opening. Like hauling up a window that’s been painted shut for so many years. Susan knows now what it is she must do.

  “Mother Susan.” Helen is awake.

  Susan tucks the stone and knife into her apron pocket. “Come, child. I need your help moving the big table.”

  Susan stands, beckons. She steps once, twice, lurches on her bad side. Her slow legs are covered in bark. Her torso is the trunk. Arms, the spindling branches of an ancient tree. Sap runs in her veins, not blood. Susan stands between heaven and earth, connecting the two, and stars of the blackest night lodge in the leafy twigs of her hair.

  CHAPTER 36

  The king-size bed dominates the chamber. Even topside, Ruth never saw such a large mattress, such fine fabrics dressing one. How did he get it down here? She shivers in the bridal gown, which has sagged open wide as a trough at her neck. She can see right down the stretch of ribcage and navel to her bloomers. The belt is still secreted there, low on her hips, rat sack and sheathed knife: totems from her old life.

  “Come, Bride,” says Father Ernst. He tugs a short chain, and a square of wall opens. A hidden alcove. Inside, a cut-glass bottle. He unscrews the lid, pours a golden measure into one cup, pours more into a second. He hands Ruth the smaller portion. “A toast.”

  Ruth sniffs, wrinkles her nose. It’s like the syrup they used to take to quiet their coughs at night.

  “Sip,” he says.

  When she swallows, liquid fire burns its way from throat to belly. She smacks her lips, frowns.

  Father Ernst chuckles. “Oak cask bourbon, a small and very good batch. Acquired taste, I suppose. This is near the last of it.” He holds it in his mouth, savouring, just as he does his meals.

  The second sip tastes better, and the sting of heat spreads across Ruth’s chest.

  “Did Mother Hannah tell you what to expect tonight?”

  She shakes her head. “Only to do as you say.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that.” He sits on the bed, facing her. He strokes his beard.

  He doesn’t say anything else, not right away, so she drains her glass. Her fingers shake when she sets the cup down. Liquo
r zips through her. She feels taller. Braver. Dizzy.

  Father Ernst pats the mattress beside him. Her fists clench at her sides. His lazy lids droop, but his eyes track her every movement.

  “Are you teasing me, Wife?” He takes another amber sip.

  Inside her, something begins to shout. “I don’t feel good,” she says.

  “You pretend innocence, yet you seduce.” His cheeks are pink from the liquor or from some great anticipation. Tongue tip to lip through the moustache. “Take off that gown, Temptress.”

  Does she hold a seditious spark to blaze the loins of men? Impossible. Yet there he sits, expectant. As though she knows what she’s supposed to do. As though it’s her choice, after all. Her legs are cement, thighs plastered together, crumbling. She cannot step out of the dress. She will not lift it.

  “Ruth.”

  She licks her dry lips. Looks to her empty cup. Surprises them both by beginning to cry.

  The spell is broken. Father Ernst sets down his glass, ruffles his hair. “Now, now,” he says. “A little water?”

  She nods. She’s thirstier than before the drink and her head spins.

  Father Ernst pulls his bookcase away from the wall and presses something she can’t see. A hidden door swings open. “I keep a few things in here.”

  It’s a storage closet, shelves stacked with provisions.

  She steps closer. “Is that—is that food?” She wipes her face with the back of her hand. There are neatly labelled trays. Army-green canisters. Containers of water. He opens a new gallon jug. It’s clear. Clean. He pours some into her cup, and she sucks it back, wipes her lips. Holds out the cup again.

  “You can have more, after.”

  After what? But she knows. She must remove the dress. Get into the bed. He will touch her. He will do things to her body. Put part of himself inside her, into that tiny place she knows almost nothing about. Hannah said it will hurt and she might bleed but that it gets easier in time. She said, “Sometimes you might even like it.”