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by Matthew Costello

  Occasionally, a burst of male laughter exploded from a nearby table.

  There was no laughing at Christie’s table. Not yet.

  Maybe—she sometimes thought—not ever.

  “So they go out, find food—?”

  “Gas, too. Weapons. They find a lot,” Janna said, sounding like a faithful supporter of night patrols.

  Kate’s wandering eyes had returned to the table, probably—Christie thought—taking in the rest of the room. The laughs, the few other young people near her age—

  And Kate asked a question.

  By now, the other women, all with the same expression, part fear, part some kind of emptiness, had tuned into the conversation.

  “Do they all make it back?”

  “What do you mean?” Janna said as if the question itself wasn’t clear enough.

  “Does everyone come back from these ‘night patrols’?”

  Kate looked at Christie, then Helen, checking that there wasn’t something completely off with her question.

  Christie wanted to reach out and cover Kate’s hand.

  A signal. Steady. Let it go.

  Or perhaps simply … not now.

  The other women sequestered at their table looked at each other.

  Christie thought of a play she taught in high school. Before Jack, the house, the kids, the world ending …

  Macbeth.

  And the three weird sisters.

  Witches, or simply crazy women prophesizing Macbeth’s doom due to his own actions.

  This group would be perfect casting, she thought.

  Janna—who had somehow become the spokesperson for the others—finally answered.

  “Most nights they do. Sometimes they even bring new people. Not too many lately. So yes—most nights—” a look at her other sisters—“they’re fine.”

  Most nights.

  And the others? Christie thought.

  She should take her own advice.

  Let it go. Enough. There would be other times, other dinners for questions.

  To learn. How things really work here.

  But as the evenings trudged along in their sameness, there weren’t many more questions, and certainly not many more answers.

  * * *

  Some nights, the Colonel walked around the room.

  And Christie couldn’t help but think about Ed Lowe at Paterville. The camp director. Presiding over each family dinner like a king, maybe secretly eyeing the people they would single out to be taken away, to be butchered, to become part of those oh-so-tasty Paterville Camp meals—

  She stopped herself.

  That was then, she’d reminded herself on more than one night.

  This is now.

  The Colonel, though, would stop at a table.

  Sometimes joining in the barrel-chested laughing of the men. Or crouching down to talk to one of their wives. Lord of the manor. Like Ed Lowe, king of this realm.

  Some nights, he made announcements.

  Reminding people …

  “The hallways, now you all know this, are to be clear one hour after dinner. If you are out and about, you better have a reason. Want you all secure, hear?”

  Or:

  “Those of you looking to rotate into other jobs, hang in there. Working on a new duty roster. Gonna be … real soon.”

  Sometimes people applauded.

  Some laughed.

  Smiled.

  No one—Christie saw—did anything that could look like a challenge to the Colonel’s authority.

  People mostly applauded when the Colonel made some men stand up, and announce what they’d found the night before. The food. The supplies captured. Soldiers who went behind enemy lines, and brought back things to keep this castle, this fort running.

  Big cheers. Whistles.

  And—Christie noted—no tears. No table with people crying because someone didn’t come back.

  She thought … maybe this works. Maybe me, the kids, just have to deal.

  Though it was Kate, after the first days and evenings, all melting into each other, who first said the words that Christie was thinking.

  * * *

  “Mom,” she said as they left after one dinner.

  The Colonel had been in expansive form that night, leading the cheering for a successful night patrol, as he clapped loudly for the men, scanning the room to see that everyone else was also applauding wildly.

  Christie had felt that there was no other option.

  She clapped for the brave men who went out into the night to hunt for food.

  To get the inn all ready for—as the Colonel reminded everyone regularly—winter!

  Kate walked beside her mother. Both had done the morning slog in the kitchen and dining room, so now they were free of any duties.

  To walk the halls.

  When you didn’t work, there wasn’t much else to do.

  “I don’t like it here,” she said.

  Christie nodded—but didn’t pick up the conversation until they had moved away from the others, and she felt that they could talk—quietly—about what Kate had just said.

  And despite the fact that Christie felt exactly the same way, she asked the question.

  “Why is that, Kate?”

  Kate looked right in her eyes, as if not believing her mother could ask such a naïve question.

  They were two weeks into their life here. This chilly home.

  Kate eventually answered.

  “All the rules. Don’t they drive you crazy? You go here, do this, follow the Colonel’s—”

  “Kate,” Christie said, hearing her daughter’s voice rise.

  “Right. And the guys. They keep looking at me.” She took a breath.

  Christie thinking … my beautiful girl. My sweet and wonderful girl.

  “I don’t like how they look at me.”

  The meaning of that left unsaid between them.

  Because, despite all the rules, Christie wondered if in the world of this castlelike building, this community of night patrols, and duty rosters, and laughing men, and hungry eyes, could there be new rules?

  Christie felt icy.

  Was she overreacting?

  Options, she thought.

  What options do we have?

  On cue, three men walked by, voices loud. As they walked past Christie and her daughter, she picked up bits of their conversation.

  “Schuylerville. That place … still cherry, I tell you.”

  “And those fields? They can’t all be bad. Bet there’s some corn there.”

  Night patrollers getting ready. Two middle-aged guys trying to keep up with the bravado of a younger man walking with them.

  Their guns slung over their shoulders.

  Christie waited until they were well away.

  “Listen, Kate. I’m not happy here. The stuff that bothers you … that worries you … worries me, too.”

  Simon, who had made friends with some of the other boys from another table, finally caught up to them.

  “Mom, is it okay if I stay with the other kids for a while?”

  “Watch the clock,” Christie said. “Don’t want one of … the guards … bringing you back.”

  Simon smiled.

  He at least still seemed to enjoy exploring the halls, corridors, rooms, and hidden areas of the inn.

  Two boys had befriended Simon, one boy twelve, another looking closer to nine.

  It was a relief that Simon seemed, for now, okay.

  Then:

  “Kate, I don’t like it. But I said we’d try it for a while.”

  “We have, Mom. We have.”

  Christie nodded.

  Then she grabbed her daughter’s hand, and gave it a squeeze.

  She had to tell her something important.

  Something—she hoped—that might buy her some time.

  To think, to plan.

  “Kate, I’m still—it’s still hard for me.” Then, in case her daughter, with those glistening blue eyes locked on her, didn�
�t get it … “being alone.”

  Kate’s eyes didn’t waver.

  But she did squeeze her mother’s hand back.

  The crisis averted for now.

  And as she released her daughter’s hand, she saw Helen walking down the hallway, taking in the scene.

  Smart woman, Christie thought. Bet she knows exactly what this is all about.

  And as Kate sailed on, to the staircase, to the rooms above …

  Christie waited for Helen, who didn’t ask about what she’d just seen.

  For that, Christie was grateful.

  28

  September Ends

  Those first weeks also brought a clear understanding of how the jobs in this place got done.

  More of the Colonel’s rules.

  His system.

  Once they found out that Christie had been a teacher, and had also been a neonatal nurse before getting her teaching degree, her duties became clear.

  Or at least did to her.

  The Colonel had set up a small infirmary, nothing more than a few first aid kits, bandages, nothing too major. Occasionally, night patrols would find prescription drugs and, if anyone knew what they were for, this is where they went.

  The closest they had to a doctor was a young woman who had been a few years into her premed.

  What would they do if something bad happened? More than a scrape and surface wound?

  It wouldn’t be pretty.

  Christie worked a few hours in the infirmary each day, talking to the young woman, Gina, who seemed to be afraid of what might walk through the door.

  And what Christie brought to the table wasn’t much. Only what you might need to help a mother or a newborn.

  And not much else.

  The classroom was an even stranger setup. A dozen kids ranging in age from seven to sixteen, all in the same room like in frontier days.

  A retired—and confused—elementary teacher tried to keep them occupied while the group of kids seemed to search for ways to drive her crazy.

  That woman, Mrs. Blake, acted even more relieved than the premed student when Christie showed up.

  But even with all that, Christie still found herself assigned to kitchen duties, scrubbing pots before they went quickly into giant washing machines designed to handle parties of hundreds.

  Quickly—because water had to be conserved.

  They also had a system there, overseen by a bullet-shaped woman who clearly relished the idea that she ruled this domain, and anyone assigned to work in it.

  They let the dirty dishes, the pans, the utensils—all of it—accumulate.

  “Otherwise, you waste the water,” the woman said when she showed Christie how to fill the machine. “We only run when we’re full. You got that? And not a full cycle! You understand?”

  She asked the questions as if there might be something wrong with Christie’s mental functioning.

  Christie nodded, and soon was scraping plates, giving them the briefest squirting rinse before putting them in one of the inn’s giant dishwashers.

  Most days, she worked all over the building.

  The infirmary. The classroom. The kitchen.

  Busy.

  And that—was probably a good thing.

  * * *

  And the men?

  In this world of the Colonel, the men clearly had different roles.

  Those who knew about things like boilers and plumbing and cars had plenty to do making sure everything stayed in good running condition.

  These men, old, young, stuck together.

  Like they’re working on the Manhattan Project, Christie thought.

  Scientists who are probing the arcane mysteries this centuries-old inn.

  She would catch these men heading down the main staircase that led to the bowels of the building, the forbidden zone of the garage, and supply rooms.

  Did the boiler and the cars really need that much maintenance, or did they just go down there to—what?

  Hang out? Have a smoke? Maybe a drink.

  Yeah.

  There was no question that she smelled alcohol wafting from a group of them as they walked into the dining hall.

  Guess some of the “night patrols” could bring bounty not meant to be shared with everyone.

  And then there were the guards, and those groups of men who went on those patrols. There wasn’t a patrol every night, and the Colonel clearly had a roster he followed or maybe favorites he liked to send.

  These men always carried their guns as if they might have to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

  Perhaps that was a good thing—though those first weeks had been quiet.

  Almost—Christie thought—too quiet.

  All the guns, this fortress, the guards.

  What was going on in the outside world as this new reality became her and her kids’ entire universe?

  That—was anybody’s guess.

  * * *

  Many nights, the Colonel gave his reports.

  How things had gotten worse. Shortwave radio messages about this city gone bad, another one under attack.

  Or so said the Colonel.

  His message clear: you folks should be mighty grateful that you’re here.

  But people still had radios, the inn’s generators still kept the electricity flowing until curfew time, when they then routed power only to certain strategic spots.

  Radios. A few TVs. The TVs picked up nothing.

  But now and then, a radio station would come in, usually right after sunset.

  And for a few moments you could hear a station, someone, somewhere.

  Music escaping from a distant spot in Vermont, or Massachusetts, or Connecticut … wherever the signal had amazingly traveled from, also occasionally carried new reports and updates on—

  (They had a name for it now…)

  —the failure.

  Amidst the sporadic programs, there was a report that sounded like control had been restored to the area near Middleburg.

  And Christie wondered where the hell that was. Vermont? Upstate?

  Then, on another night, how sections of Albany, the Capital City, had been cordoned off, “the failure” still complete there.

  And people should always—please—check the status of a region before leaving to go somewhere.

  The failure, it seemed, had been widespread.

  The reports—snippets really—conflicting, ultimately useless.

  Once, a station played a statement from a government official, an undersecretary of Homeland Security …

  One of those reassuring messages that used to be broadcast regularly, even back when they were safe and protected in Staten Island.

  How the government had made inroads in controlling the outbreak of Can Heads. And yes, there were signs that the illness—that’s what they called it—was abating, even if you might not be seeing signs of it.

  And the undersecretary went on, in those seconds of clear radio signal, to say after what had been a global failure of control, of security, of the basic electricity and firepower used to keep people safe, yes, soon things would be getting back to—

  (The undersecretary didn’t say it. No, that would have been laughable. To say that word. Normal.)

  No.

  She said … “Getting back to a place where things like food and fuel, as well as all protective services, will start being restored.”

  The hidden message: hang in there, folks.

  The radio signal faded shortly after that gem.

  The group who had gathered stood there, around the radio.

  No one saying anything.

  So many desperate thoughts of hopelessness filling the room.

  After that, Christie thought that the radio, whatever news it carried, was probably perfectly useless.

  As useless as the Colonel’s pronouncements.

  * * *

  Then one day, Helen came by the infirmary while Christie sat there, waiting for a bloody nose or a finger with a gash to walk into t
he room.

  “Hey,” she said.

  Helen had done a lot of kitchen work, but she had also convinced the Colonel that she—and her riot shotgun—would be good to have on one of the guard rotations outside.

  She had laughed, telling Christie about it, when the Colonel agreed.

  “I’m one of the boys now.”

  Today she said:

  “How you doing?”

  “Okay. I’m done here in a few.”

  Gina, wearing a white jacket and the fear in her eyes, came into the room.

  “Hi,” she said to Helen quietly.

  Then Helen turned back to Christie.

  “You free? Bit of a walk?”

  Christie nodded. “Sure. Until lunch, I’m good.”

  “C’mon.”

  * * *

  With Helen now pulling some guard duty, they didn’t get much of an interrogation when they went out the front door to walk around the outside, near the lake.

  Staying, of course, within the approved area of the nearby grounds.

  “Leaves starting to change. Wish there were more of them.”

  Helen pointed to the mountain face across from them, the off-limits cliff rising from the other side of the narrow lake.

  “I used to love fall,” Christie said. “The colors. Loved it.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  They walked along the lake perimeter, leaving the front of the house. Staying on the road that led from the base of the mountain, two guards could see them walking.

  They nodded at the guards.

  Who nodded back.

  “So,” Helen said. “Like I said … how are you doing?”

  “What? You mean here?”

  “Yes, that. And…”

  “Here. This place. It is…” Christie smiled … “what it is. Can’t say I like it.”

  “Safe at least.”

  “Guess so. Can’t believe you like it.”

  Helen Field acted like a woman who knew her own mind, and had every intention of speaking it.

  “It ain’t paradise. That’s for sure. But maybe—for now—it’s okay.”

  Christie sniffed the air. Chilly. The altitude making it cooler, the breeze off the lake so cold.

  “Maybe. I guess you’re right—okay for now. I don’t know.”

  More steps, and silence.

  Then:

  “And otherwise?” Helen stopped. “How are you?”

  When was the last time someone asked that question? And meant it?