South

by Frank Owen

  Garrett realized that he could see the brightness of the fresh blood. The old guy’s room was lit, not with candles or a fire, but electricity running through a bulb that hung from the ceiling. It had been years since Garrett had seen a glowing filament, and its presence unsettled him – an ancient magic that he’d never understood.

  The room was long and narrow all the way along. Pinned to the board siding that kept the soil at bay there were maps of the continent, moth-eaten and creased, criss-crossed with weird geometries. At the far end a curtain divided the room, making a private space beyond. Along one wall, hanging on a string, were the old man’s clothes, drip-drying bachelor-style. A corroded zinc tub of dirty water sat below them, big enough for a load of washing or a cramped bath, a digger’s camp. Oh, my darling Clementine, thought Garrett. Near the tub was the old guy’s desk, piled to the low ceiling with books, one weighted open to a special page with a rusted weathervane, like a skull and crossbones. Beside the desk was a modified exercise bike, wired up to a beat-to-shit car battery. Exposed wires ran up the wall: the source of power for the dim bulb. Garrett knew he looked like a rube but he couldn’t stop turning and turning as he took it all in.

  ‘Wow.’ Vida’s voice behind him was still muzzy with sleep.

  Garrett tested the steps with a boot and then began to make the descent into the glow below.

  ‘Let me go first,’ she said, and pushed past Garrett. She knelt next to the man and held his head tenderly in her hands, like a back-room artifact in a museum.

  ‘Going to need to sew that up.’

  The man groaned in protest. He didn’t try to cover himself, and Vida didn’t bother looking at the old socks of his genitals. He was beyond shame.

  ‘I have a needle. It’s clean.’ She didn’t say, It’s a fish hook. He didn’t need to be worrying himself about that. ‘I’m sure we can steal some cotton from a hem somewhere.’

  The man tried to get to his feet, and he made it on the second effort. He shouldered Vida aside in the small space and went over to a bureau. He began to search through the drawers, the blood from his head wound dripping bright and steady, streaking his thin cheeks like war paint. Behind him Vida lifted her chin and rolled forward onto the toes of her boots to get a look at what medicines might be there.

  From a drawer filled with scraps of cloth and a jumble of multi-colored wool, the man extracted a sewing needle and some thread.

  ‘You sure you can sew?’

  ‘Yeah, I can get the job done. But I’m not near as good as this cowboy.’ Vida thumbed at Garrett.

  ‘Can’t be sure I want him fixed yet. Best you take point while I make up my mind,’ Garrett replied. He reminded Vida of the kids at the dinosaur display in her stepdaddy’s museum.

  The old man sat down on a wooden stool under the old bulb that hung from a rafter.

  ‘Wash your hands good,’ said the old man. ‘And tell him to stay away from my books.’

  ‘I can tell him same as you can. I’m not his mother.’

  The old man kept one yellow eye on Garrett as Vida went back to get the alcohol she had taken from the Lazarus place.

  Like a big old buzzard, she thought, threading the needle: the scarred folds of ageing skin, liver-spotted and yellowing; the bald head rimmed by tufts of gray hair; the unashamed nakedness of the man and his drooping scrotum.

  ‘We’re sorry for the intrusion,’ she said, making conversation. ‘Would never just barge in like we did, but the wind caught us in the open. One of our, our, party is sick.’

  Garrett laughed to himself. Before it was just him and Dyce. Add one crazy woman and suddenly there was a party. Yeehaa! Gimme some of that sugar and tar-tray-zine!

  The maps on the walls were familiar. Garrett examined them so he didn’t have to think about the sharp inhalations the old man was making as Vida sewed his head back together. He’d learnt what America looked like as a kid: they’d all had to memorize the rhymes, the cheats to jog the memory of the activities in each place. The straighter its edges, the less interesting the inside. He’d learnt that from his dad. A lesson he figured was true of anything – a state or a person.

  But across these maps were long arms, storm fronts, Garrett knew that much – extending right across from coast to coast. Garrett studied them for a while and then went back to see Vida finish off the stitching. It wasn’t a bad job: a bit lumpy, maybe. She was dabbing at the skin, mopping at the bloody tributaries so that he wouldn’t have a heart attack if he ever did catch a glimpse of his broken self passing some unmerciful shiny surface.

  ‘How does it look?’ the old man asked. The color was coming back into his face. Not a fainter, thank fuck.

  ‘It looks like your modeling career is over.’

  He snorted, then sobered, remembered to be offended.

  ‘Thanks for the stitches. But I wouldn’t have needed them if you hadn’t come in uninvited. What gives you the right to barge into my place? My private space?’

  Vida busied herself with rolling up the thread.

  ‘Didn’t figure someone like you would really care,’ replied Garrett. ‘I saw you out in the open without a mask. Seemed to us that maybe you were ready for the good Lord.’

  ‘How many old folk you see around these days?’ The old man was getting up, making his shaky way over to a scratched desk.

  ‘Can’t say many.’

  ‘There’re reasons I’ve lived as long as I have. One being the sanctity and secrecy of this hole.’

  ‘What are the other reasons?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Sure. Pretty keen on making it past forty myself. I’m not too proud to take advice from an old naked guy. Might get me where I’m going in one piece.’

  ‘And where would that be, now? If you don’t mind my asking? I figure we’re practically family already. Never was particularly fond of my own.’

  ‘Me and my little brother are heading to the coast, then we’ll steal a boat, head off past the breakers. I sure am getting tired of this-all.’

  The old man threw him a shrewd look.

  ‘Yeah, and I’m going to ride a rainbow to the pearly gates. Only folk I know who’ve tried what you’re planning had no other options. You’re either a man of great faith or you’re being hunted. Which is it?’

  ‘Bit of both. The faith’s been growing since I’ve been on the run.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ll be dead in a week, one way or another. There’s no advice I can give that’d make any difference. But wipe those tears away, son. We’ll all see you on the other side soon enough.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  The old man took a book from the table, opened it and held it up. It was filled with notes and charts and dates, with wavy lines and temperatures.

  ‘I’ve been charting the weather for, oh, about a decade now. I know when the winds are coming and when it’s safe to be out.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Vida, as something clicked. ‘Was that your weather box out past Fieldstone?’

  ‘The Stevenson screens, like beehives on legs? They’re all my weather boxes. If you fucking touched one . . .’

  ‘Didn’t get a chance to. Wind picked up.’

  ‘People got no respect these days. Spend my life repairing my boxes and replacing my instruments – trying to make those totems creepy as shit to scare off the scavengers.’

  Vida was quiet. She paid close attention to the maps. Some had areas of tiny penciled lumps drawn on them, like treasure troves.

  ‘You look inside?’ the Weatherman asked. ‘Was it all still there?’

  ‘Reckon so.’

  ‘So you know when the wind’s going to blow?’ asked Garrett. ‘That’s gold. Better than gold, ’cause it’s useful. You should tell people. I don’t know . . . do something with it. You’re a, a, god with that information!’

  Vida looked sidelong at him.

  The old guy sighed. ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Maybe not for you, old man, but for o
ther folk.’

  ‘Just don’t see the purpose. See these maps on the wall there? Once in a while – every hundred years or so – there comes a big storm, blows right across the continent. It’s coming soon, going to wipe us all out, stir up them viruses that’ve been laying low, turn the air to poison, flood the plains, wash the mountains flat. All of that biblical shit. Whatever you care about – gone. We are long overdue for the apocalypse, Sonny Jim.’

  ‘Thanks, Noah. You are building a boat, right?’

  ‘Young man.’ The old guy leant in towards Garrett, the stitches lacing his head up tight as a shoe, like they were keeping his brains in, but only just. ‘This ain’t no joking matter.’

  Vida stepped in. ‘So when’s this thing due?’

  ‘Been due for a few years now, live Yellowstone. Could be here next year, or the year after. Could be brewing on the horizon as we speak. Hard to say. But Renard fucked with everything when he set them sicknesses upon us.’ He shook his head.

  It looks like a football, Vida thought in amazement. An old-school pigskin blown tight with someone’s breath. She thought of all the faded pictures she’d seen: young men staring out at her from another time, miming hardness, their hair slicked back and their arms crossed over their chests. All gone now.

  Garrett walked over to look at the maps again.

  ‘The arms – they aren’t cold fronts, right?’

  ‘Yup. Previous storms. The real big ones. So bad they didn’t even bother giving them ladies’ names. One from 1900, which was a great way to sing in the new century, and another one a hundred years before, same thing. Took out a lot of people – but they didn’t have the viruses all together back then. If it was one at a time, or even one of a kind, you have a chance, with the right antidotes, and quarantine. But disaster medicine only goes so far in the End Times. This time round we’re fucked. Germa-fucking-geddon.’

  Garrett noticed a tiny brass bell hanging from a red wool string that ran up and through a hole in the floorboards above. He tapped it with a finger and it tinkled, the source of the fairy chime that was the soundtrack to his frustration.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It goes up outside. Tied to a branch so I know when the wind’s blowing bad.’

  Garrett felt his face heat up, the blood rushing around his eardrums.

  ‘How long’s it been quiet?’

  The Weatherman didn’t need to answer.

  In the stillness of the room they all heard the voice coming from outside.

  ‘Garrett! Garrett Jackson! You in there?’

  14

  Vida moved first. She climbed two of the steps and reached for the trap door. She pulled it closed just as the shack door opened. She and Garrett and the Weatherman stood silently, listening as Gus and Walden Callahan blundered around the room above them. Their voices, clear as day.

  ‘He in there, Pa?’

  ‘Shhh. Just fucking shhh.’

  A board, squeaking under a boot.

  ‘Ah, Jesus.’

  ‘What, Pa?’

  ‘It’s his brother. And he looks about the same as Bethie does.’

  ‘Allerdyce?’

  ‘How many brothers you think Garrett’s got?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘Yeah.’ A sigh. ‘So it’s Allerdyce.’

  More footsteps: Walden entering the room.

  ‘Ah, jeez.’

  ‘We been tracking them sticky black shits since Fieldstone, Walden. Someone’s insides dissolved. You expecting lavender?’

  ‘But where’s Garrett?’

  A long silence. The questions Walden asked Gus chafed, wearing him down slow and stinging like hell.

  The idea had been to bring Walden along, harden the kid up on the trail, but with each step Gus had regretted it. He’d have caught up with Garrett this morning already if he’d set out alone. For long stretches he’d let Walden walk out front, and he’d watched him walk – lifting a boot and swinging it, letting it land wherever it fell. How was this a Callahan? They did things a certain way – walked with purpose, for one. You lift a boot and plant it where you want it. People see you coming and they know. Even Beth was more Callahan than lame-ass Walden, with his soft hands and his puppy-dog eyes.

  And, goddamn, a Callahan filled his clothes! Back in the old days they were built like Gus: meaty, mountainous, impassable. A couple of times Gus had looked up at his eldest – waddling along over rocks like a sea bird caught up in a fishing line – and he’d thought about pulling his gun out and shooting him right in the back. Aim for the spine, ’cause a mite left or right and you’ll miss the kid outright, he told himself. He’d thought it through, could say it was Garrett. There was no shame in it. What did that make him? The world’s worst father? For damn sure. But, first and foremost, a Callahan. What else was there, when your kids could be wiped out by a snotty nose? Family was something you made as you went along.

  ‘You think he’ll be back, Pa?’

  ‘His pack’s here. His brother’s here. He’s sure as shit coming back. So close the door and make sure your gun is loaded and drawn. And don’t shoot me in the dark. You nail me, Walden, and you better hope it’s between the eyes.’

  The three below heard Walden close the door.

  ‘How long do you think ’til he’s back?’

  Again, no answer. Gus saving his breath for the coming showdown.

  How old was he, anyway? Vida wondered. She and the Weatherman stared up at the floorboards. Without knowing it, they’d risen on their tippy-toes, straining.

  Garrett motioned them together with his hand and they huddled.

  ‘Weatherman. There another exit?’

  ‘Yeah. Old water pipe.’ He jerked his grizzled chin. ‘Behind the curtain. Only ever tried it once so as I’d know I could fit. Don’t reckon you’d make it.’

  ‘I’m slicker than I look.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘She would, though, right?’

  ‘Easy, tiger. I can volunteer my own services,’ said Vida.

  ‘Relax. You can both go up the pipe. No reason to get your panties in a bunch.’

  Vida could see the cogs turning in Garrett’s head, like one of the Weatherman’s instruments.

  ‘I’ll need some cover. Element of surprise and all that.’

  She nodded.

  ‘One of you has got to go up and out, and then come round the front. Going to need some heavy footsteps, maybe some whistling – make them think I’m coming back. Meanwhile, I’ll be sneaking up from below.’

  Like a demon, Vida thought. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

  ‘And you, old man?’

  The Weatherman glanced at his books and shook his head. The blood was dry, Vida noticed, and crackling in brownish flecks. He would heal just fine.

  ‘I’m staying.’

  Garrett went to the curtain and drew it back. The pipe was definitely big enough, some part of the original dam. It still trickled water.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ the Weatherman said. He was checking instruments, tapping at mercury behind glass. ‘Wind’s down, at least. You’ll just have to be real quiet.’

  ‘I’ll tell the marching band to stand down.’ Garrett’s mouth pulled sideways. ‘Hey. A bad joke’s better than none at all. Am I right?’

  He gave her a real smile now, and they nodded at each other. See you on the other side.

  She mouthed, Good luck, then scrambled in and began to wriggle her way into the slippery darkness, the slime lodging under her fingernails. But it was a good green, Vida thought. Not of infection, but of life: everywhere tiny ecosystems battled the odds, their small cycles preserved.

  She went on. There was hardly any space. Like being born again, Vida told herself, and thought of the stories Ruth had told her about her midwifery trials: the long nights of struggle and blood, the feeling that your body contained something larger than itself, and that the universe was working through you. It’s the ones who resist who tear the worst, her mama always said.
You’ve just got to give yourself over and trust.

  Trust who? Vida always asked. God?

  No, said Ruth. Yourself. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.

  But, really, what else could she have said? Vida thought that you couldn’t tell a woman in childbirth that she had no say in what was happening. Best-case scenario: your insides are rearranged. Worst-case: you die. Whatever happens, your life will never be the same. It sure motivated a person.

  Vida wondered if childbirth made it easier to bear the sickness and the suffering later on. Your own, maybe. But not your children’s. She felt kind of sorry for Bethie’s father, but Mrs Callahan must be a hundred times worse: a daughter and a grandbaby gone in one go.

  Vida wedged her elbows against the concrete sides of the pipe and pushed with her feet, inching forward and upward, all the while trying to be quiet. The same movements, over and over, and no way to tell her progress. She could hear nothing behind her, and after minutes of climbing there was still no light, and no sign of any end. Vida felt the rising of panic. There’d be no way to climb out again backwards, and her wrists and elbows and toes were bruised, she could tell. There was no choice, and so she kept going, up and up, picturing a ladder going on into the clouds, holding fast to every imagined rung.

  The smell of the pipe was changing – straw, maybe, something that reminded her of barnyards or stables. Vida’s head knocked painfully against something solid: it crumbled a little against her fists when she hammered at it. Dried mud and grass, she hoped, the Weatherman’s camouflaged lid.

  She lifted an arm and punched against the plug, pictured Stringbeard’s face.

  Another blow and Vida broke through. Fingers of daylight tickled her face.

  She worked one arm up and out, over the lip of the pipe. She pulled her body up until her other arm came free. Then she sat on the rim and raised her legs as quietly as she could. Some trees, but she saw no humans in the landscape, so Vida flopped backwards, panting. One minute, she told herself. I deserve it.

  For a minute she lay beneath a dogwood next to the pipe, streaks of algae covering her clothes like mucus, and she stared up through the leaves at the sky. How many times in my life have I done this? Despite herself, Vida was comforted. The afternoon was quiet, the clouds high and the sun in its last quarter. The light on her skin felt healing; the leaves she lay on were warming to her body. Crickets actually chirped, hidden away in the foliage. A chickadee darted from branch to branch searching for them, maddened with hunger and possibility.