South

by Frank Owen

  ‘Look, whether any of us make it into The Mouth or not, I’ve got something I want to show you. Something quite valuable, if you’re interested.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Kind of thing I’d trade for a gun if you have, or for a book, maybe – depending on the book.’

  Up close her skin was dry and her breath stank, even through the mask – even in a world punctuated with diarrhea and vomit. There was something marine about it, a seaweedy tang that made Dyce think of dead sailors, of the octopus pulsing in its lair. He shifted away.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Vida, intrigued. It might be some dumb-ass crystal, or some locket that a brain virus had convinced her could cure baldness, that kind of shit.

  Ester reached inside her slack dress and brought out a small glass vial. She held it out to them so that the others couldn’t see. No one was paying them any attention, anyway.

  The vial was filled with a yellow liquid, like pus. Vida pulled her hand back.

  ‘Hey now! What is that?’

  ‘Colostrum! And it’s fresh!’

  ‘What?’

  Ester had their full attention.

  Vida knew what it was. She just couldn’t believe it.

  Dyce was unsure.

  ‘The first milk that a mother makes for a baby,’ Ester said. Her face was gathering color as she spoke: it was clearly an issue close to her shriveled heart. ‘It’s full of antibodies. They fight infection, you know. It can give you immunity against the viruses, even! It’s, it’s, the water of life!’

  ‘Ester. Where did you get that? Is it from a human?’

  ‘My sister, Julia. The one on the left.’

  Dyce and Vida looked across the pews at the pale women. Julia was the one holding the cushion. Vida could see, now that she was looking carefully, that two of them were carrying: they had grapefruit-sized lumps in their guts.

  But Julia’s stomach was flat, though her chest was stained with tell-tale leaks that had dried and stiffened. As they watched, a patch appeared over her left breast and spread, darkening the cloth. She jiggled the cushion and muttered something into its cloth ear.

  Vida’s mind kept trying to connect the dots that appeared and disappeared like the little white lights you saw when you passed out. All those babies. And this Ester.

  The same girl who came to our house. The one who sent my ma to the armchair for a good long time.

  Dyce was asking, ‘But where’s the baby? Did it die?’

  Ester shook her head. ‘No baby. Not anymore.’

  Vida held Dyce’s arm and squeezed.

  ‘She’s using them, Dyce. Like cows. She’s farming their colostrum.’

  38

  Vida and Dyce waited outside the chapel, in the high, clean light. Vida felt as if she needed to dry out, the way her mama used to do with feather pillows – set them out in the sun so that the dust mites were sent scrambling. She was still nauseous from the thought of those women, all the born and unborn babies, like the ones her mama used to doctor. She’d cleaned up after them, the slippery grey coils they expelled like an exorcism that maybe a midwife got used to, but Vida never had. Didn’t want to, neither.

  But worse was the end-point of the trade, wasn’t it? The people who’d already paid for their doses. Supply and demand. She pictured them knocking the colostrum back in shots through their straggling moustaches, like baleen whales.

  Had it worked?

  Dyce was waiting for her to speak, gauging the degree of care with which he would have to tread.

  Vida shook her head. ‘I figure I’ve seen a whole lot of end-time desperation and shenanigans, you know? But maybe we’ve seen nothing yet. It feels like, like, I’ve been in Disney Land for the last fifteen years.’

  He was blunt. ‘It’s all real. Forget her.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Vida, it’s not your problem.’

  So why was it affecting her this way? Her stomach cramped, there, over the left ovary. She was still rubbing it surreptitiously when the fat man from The Mouth walked past them and poked his head through the church doorway.

  ‘It’s happening, people! Gather round! Everyone outside in one long line, please!’

  ‘Where did he come from?’ Dyce asked. He couldn’t see a door in the town walls – not even a hatch – and they looked solid, but Vida wasn’t listening. She couldn’t stop staring. She hadn’t seen a fat man in a while. He wasn’t old-time fat but there was padding under his chin and he wasn’t wearing his belt with its tongue dangling out front like everyone else. Vida didn’t know anyone who hadn’t sat down with a knife and made extra buckle holes all along their belt. If you wanted to measure the progress of history, she thought, you could plot it on people’s waists.

  Out they came, the shuffling of the condemned, scared stiff by the chance of redemption. The family stood there, neat and smiling, but they had to hold the little guy up. Dyce could hear the low groans of their stomachs digesting themselves.

  Next to them was the lone man wearing a poncho. He stared ahead, eyes blank. You got to see a lot of death to wind up single, thought Vida. And it shows.

  After him came the sisters, all four in a row, fecund, rotten.

  Then Dyce; then Vida.

  The fat man was waving his hand in front of his nose. ‘Satan ate a hot shit sandwich! The smell, people! Goddamn it! Get back!’

  The sick family moved back a few steps but kept shuffling forward as the man spoke, like hungry dogs under the dinner table. He pulled himself together and went on.

  ‘Look. We got three spaces, so three greenhorns are what I’m after. And up front, I’ll tell you, we’re not going to take the kid.’ He pointed a whole hand at the child, not just a finger. If it was supposed to make the choosing process less personal, it didn’t work. The mother called out, but it was the thin wail of defeat. ‘Lady, I’m sorry. But the kid’s not getting in. Look at him.’

  As if he’d understood, the delirious kid dropped to the dirt. His mother and father hauled him up again by his thin arms. Vida expected the father to keep cursing, for the family to give up and shuffle off to lick their wounds and reassess their situation.

  They didn’t. Where would they go? They might stand a chance of entrance if the kid died here. Bury him and begin again.

  The fat man shrugged, his chins wobbling, and moved on.

  ‘Next thing you need to know is that no one gets a free ticket to The Mouth. We need some proof of loyalty. Of intention. So if you’re chosen, you’re not getting a warm towel and a goodie bag, okay? First you got to do something for us, and it’s not cleaning your stepmom’s running shoes or mending the fence.’ He breathed. ‘Today’s task is special. If you succeed, then you’re in.

  ‘Alright. So. Starting with Daddy over here. Tell me, what do you do? What’s your special skill?’

  He walked along the line and pointed to each person in turn.

  ‘Metalworker.’

  ‘Seamstress.’

  Next, the lone man. ‘Distiller.’

  Ester: ‘Farmer.’

  ‘Right,’ muttered Vida. ‘Dairy farmer.’

  The first of the three sisters opened her mouth to speak but no words came out – just a dry gasp. Ruth had always told Vida that carrying a baby gave you a hunger that came straight from the world beyond. Pica, it was called. Women ate strange things. Pregnancy gave you cravings. The women here were all signing to show that they could work – dig holes, knit, cook.

  ‘Carpenter,’ said Dyce.

  ‘Nurse,’ said Vida.

  ‘Really. A nurse. Always a lot of nurses and doctors around. It’s funny, right? Maybe it’s because this world is so full of sickness. But maybe it’s because you’re saying what you think I want to hear. Last doctor we let in turned out to be a doctor of literature. Fat fucking help that was.’

  ‘I was apprentice to my mother. She was a nurse before The War.’

  ‘Show me something medical.’

  ‘Like what?’

&n
bsp; ‘You tell me.’

  Ah, shit.

  ‘Sure.’

  Vida left the line and walked to the other end.

  Come on, Vida. Sell it. This country was built on people pretending to know what they were doing.

  ‘These three have the same sickness, probably caught out in a wind. Diarrhea and the sweats and cramps. Early stages – contracted it a couple of days back. Daddy here is worst off. Swollen liver, judging by the way his wedding band looks like it’s about to pop right off those sausages. Mom’s got some weeks in her. Might make it, might not – depending on diet and medicine. The little guy . . .’ Vida shrugged. Don’t show him you’re afraid. Don’t show him how fucking freaked out you are!

  She moved on and got to the man sweating under his poncho. ‘And this guy, he’s not sick at all. He just wishes he was dead. Don’t you, mister? I could help you with that, you know,’ Vida said softly. ‘Larkspur, water hemlock, milkvetch, death camas – and a gallon of whatever alcohol you got, to take the edge off the seizures when your organs fail.’

  Then it was Ester’s turn. Vida didn’t look at her, couldn’t bear the dead eyes and the lizard skin.

  ‘This girl had a mental problem long before the viruses came blowing in. Day she was born. If you ask me, she should be in prison. But since prisons are long gone, I’d recommend the same treatment as the last guy.’

  Ester replied in a low hiss, inaudible to everyone except Vida. ‘Gonna kill you slow, sister.’

  Vida brushed her off and kept moving. Just the sisters to go. Nearly there.

  ‘From the lump in her gut, I’d say this woman was three months pregnant, but judging from her skin and hair, she’s likely closer to seven. Same goes for the other one, except that she’s closer to due. Almost nine months. The babies, like the mothers, have rabbit starvation. Protein poisoning. You had a long, cold winter, didn’t you, ladies? Treatment is fat, like brain or skin – and lots of it. Maybe it will happen.’

  At last. Julia.

  ‘This one gave birth maybe a week back. She needs rest and food, and to hold her baby. But her baby is dead, thanks to her sister.’

  Ester stepped in. ‘What happened to the Hippocratic Oath – do no harm and all that shit?’

  ‘Lucky I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘And your husband, while we’re reading through everyone’s medical histories, what’s wrong with him?’

  Vida walked back to Dyce and caught him by the hand, knowing that she was revealing her soft spot to Ester, but not having any choice.

  ‘He recently caught a virus that blinded him. He’s recovered his sight, but his eyes are scarred.’

  ‘Okay, enough,’ said the fat man. ‘You’re useful. Welcome!’ He clapped his hands together, as if he’d announced her jackpot win on a game show. ‘And I’m going to take your partner too. Seems like he’s more living than dying. So it’s just the one more space.’ He looked around, showy, as if he was playing Eeny Meeny Miney Mo.

  ‘And . . . I think . . . it’s going to have to be . . . Ester.’ Vida heard the sighs; she herself had given one. The fat man went on. ‘I hear what was said about her being a bit of a loose cannon: that’s not in dispute. But we run a tight ship here.’ He looked at them, warning. ‘She’s got initiative and we’re all for that. The rest of you that didn’t make this round: you’re welcome to stay on in the church and see if any of these three don’t make it back, because then I’m going to have to choose others. But I do advise you to move along. Find someplace else. Those I’ve chosen: don’t get too comfortable. You’re coming with me.’

  Dyce and Vida hugged. The sick family wandered off, their familial bonds looser than when they’d arrived. The lone man showed no emotion, but went back to sit in the shade thrown by the chapel walls. Ester glared at Dyce and Vida. It was a mixed blessing for her. She had saved herself but lost her lucky ticket. She beckoned the other women closer. They went into a huddle, and Dyce couldn’t shake the image of them around a pot somewhere. There would be babies boiling in the water.

  When they were done whispering, the sisters returned to the church, slow and dreamy, floating weightless over the earth like the wind.

  ‘You know what this means, right?’ Vida said to Dyce.

  ‘Ester’s going to send us a fruit basket?’

  ‘Only if she’s poisoned the apple first. She’ll try and get rid of me – and then she’ll climb you like a totem pole.’

  39

  ‘When last any of you see a live horse? Years, right?’ The fat man stood in the shade of the perimeter fence, glistening like a toad. Vida, Dyce and Ester stood around him. Dyce watched the man speak, but occasionally his eyes would wander up to the wooden wall behind him, searching for a seam. It bothered him that he couldn’t figure out where the entrance was.

  ‘There’s been a sighting. Men on horses. Two. Scouts from up north, we think. Don’t know what they’re doing this far south, but they’re sure as hell aren’t opening a McDonald’s drive-thru.’

  Far off behind him, Vida spotted three shapes shifting through the grassland, two big, one small – the doomed family heading for the sea and the warm, wet, poisonous coastal air. They were staggering to their deaths, she knew. Maybe it was better than the impossible decisions that came with survival.

  ‘So, here’s your ticket. We want those horses. Find the scouts, kill them, take their horses and bring them back here. Didn’t seem that any of the rest would be up for this, but you three have got something. Healthy enough to get there and dumb enough to give it a try. Am I right or am I right?’

  The man paused and Dyce jumped in to save himself from Ester’s breath.

  ‘Where were the men last seen?’

  ‘East.’

  ‘East? That it?’

  ‘Yeah. My recommendation would be to head east, find horse tracks and follow them till you see a couple of horses.’

  Dyce felt the part of himself that was Garrett urging him to say something stupid, pick a fight with the guy about to throw the lifebelt his way.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said. ‘Real helpful.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Vida. ‘We just arrived and you’re sending us out there again?’

  ‘That a problem?’

  Vida had no case. Then she thought better of keeping quiet. If The Mouth was the paradise they’d hoped for, then their feud with the Callahans wouldn’t be an issue. The opposite, even. She took her chance even though she knew having Ester hear it all was unwise.

  ‘Had the Callahans on our tail for a few days, is all. Heading back out there is giving them another stab at us.’

  ‘A Callahan after you? You shoulda said so up front! I knew I liked you guys! You know which one is after you?’

  Vida almost laughed. Which one?

  ‘All of them,’ said Dyce softly. ‘Every single motherfucking Callahan there is. From the pimple-faced bed-wetters to the old man with the bird. All of them.’

  ‘Tye Callahan? Jeee-zus! What you folks done?’

  ‘Got mixed up with killing a couple of them.’ Dyce wasn’t proud.

  ‘Got mixed up . . . Ha! I love that. Who’d you kill?’

  Vida took up the story. ‘Walden, for one. Then his daddy got in the way. This was all about Bethlehem, though.’

  ‘Fuck me.’ The fat man held his index fingers on his temples as though he was massaging the information into his brain, as if it was too big to fit in all at once. ‘Heard she was the only good apple on that tree.’

  ‘That’s about right. So you see, if there’s another way . . .’

  ‘There’s only one way. Just ’cause I like you now doesn’t mean I can change things like that.’ He snapped his fingers, loud and meaty. ‘Things are as they are, but I’ll tell you what: make it back with those two horses – and without getting killed – and we’ll lay out a celebration dinner for you. A big, fat welcome for the victorious Callahan Killers!’

  ‘No insects on the menu, and I’m in,’ said Dyce.

  Este
r snorted. The fat man looked over at her.

  ‘All set?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to it.’

  The man walked off up the fence line. He stopped, bent down with an effort and knocked on a wooden trap door. Dyce hadn’t spotted it, but then that was the point – keeping the entrance hidden, keeping the perimeter strong.

  The trap door opened for him and he slipped inside under the town walls like a plump rabbit into a warren. No, not a rabbit, Dyce told himself. Like a spider into its hole.

  And you’re the scuttling pin.

  That was a thought straight from the mind of Garrett, it felt like. Dyce looked over at Vida, taking the temperature of the situation, the same way he’d done right before they’d walked into her run-down house, the same way he’d felt when his gut was telling him what his hard head wouldn’t heed. Run! it had said. Stay away. He’d ignored it and paid the price. She showed no emotion. If she was scared, she hid it well. Played her cards close, that one.

  ‘Guess we’re off, then,’ said Ester. ‘Don’t go without me, you hear? I have to tell my sisters.’ They were waiting balefully in the shade, the cushion hugged to Julia’s chest. Dyce thought that they looked as if they would wait for ever. He saw Ester glance at the poncho man, who was still keeping himself to himself.

  Ester came back. ‘Ready?’

  ‘You go on ahead,’ Vida told her. ‘I want you where I can see you.’

  ‘Which way’s east?’

  Dyce jutted his chin in the direction of the sun.

  ‘East, west, home’s best,’ Ester sang out. She began walking, taking her fishy smell with her. Unwashed, that’s what she is, Vida told herself. Dirty. The girl was moving quickly, effortless, and Vida was reminded of their age difference.

  ‘Come on,’ Ester called. ‘I won’t bite!’

  ‘No,’ Vida breathed. ‘You’re the kind that swallows whole.’

  40