Desolated

by Lou Cadle

  Sierra said, “They have even more invested, wouldn’t you say? It was their land before, more than likely. Their seed stock. Their labor to plant the farm.”

  “It was our organizing the labor to double its yield with irrigation,” he said. “Now in your case, there isn’t all that much land to farm, it seems. It’s a short road. I have to confess, it’d be a low priority to double what you produce. Though the food you grow is good.” He bent his head and forked up another tomato slice.

  They were eating the cheese the men had brought as a peace offering—or bribe. It was almost too salty for Dev, after years of eating almost no salt. But his body responded to the fat in it, and it was hard to not grab it and gobble it right down. He felt the same way about chicken skin, whenever they ate cockerels, and they portioned out the skin and fatty bits of chickens with great care, so that everyone had a share. Same thing today, with the cheese. He could see more than one set of eyes linger on what remained, covered with the cloth it came in. They’d divide what was left into portions and each household could finish their share a few days from now. Even those missing from the table would get a few ounces each.

  Focus.

  Sierra said, “So what is it you could do for us?”

  “The highway and trade, first of all. You’ll get more goods like this cheese. But tell me your wishlist.”

  Sierra glanced around, saw no one about to protest, except Arch, whose posture screamed of protest with every word uttered. “Paint is one thing. If there’s any outdoor paint. The sun is going to tear down our houses from under us, slowly but surely, and a coat of paint on everything would give us an extra four or five years.”

  Vargas said, “If you don’t get it, what would you do?”

  “Patch until we can’t anymore, the way we’re doing. And then replace them with log cabins. With all the dead trees, we have plenty of logs to work with.”

  “Unfortunately, dead trees aren’t much of a trade item. Everybody has those.”

  Pilar said, “I assumed that. It’d be inefficient to haul them anywhere you might want them. Energy equations. Even your horses would need more fodder to pull heavy items.”

  Vargas nodded. “This is true. Now Scooter here, he’s one of our horse experts.” He gestured at one of his men with a fork.

  Scooter was one of the older men, sitting across from Dev. He ducked his head, embarrassed, it seemed, to be singled out.

  Dev asked him, “Where did you learn about horses?”

  “Family had a ranch,” he said, and then he went back to eating.

  The men weren’t being rude about eating, at least Dev could say that for them. They took a reasonable amount from each bowl or plate, and passed it on. He hoped they left today without demanding more food. But if they did demand it, what was to stop them from taking it? All they had to do was walk one minute down to get their rifles, and all arguments would end.

  That threat was there, a steady undercurrent. An old phrase came back to Dev from before-times: Flavor of the day. That was it. Threat and fear were the flavors of the day, despite all this polite sitting around tables and goat cheese and pretending to be nice.

  “Which brings me to the next topic,” Vargas said. “Do you have any specialty goods we could take with us, to show around? It is possible that something you make is exactly what others want.”

  Dev thought of the slings they made with small animal skins and knew that wasn’t something to mention. No mention of weapons. No mention of whatever they needed to survive and could not spare.

  Joan said, “I weave baskets. I can give you a couple of small ones to take with you, I suppose.”

  No one else said anything for a long time.

  Vargas smiled, under calculating, soulless eyes. “Surely there are other things you make.” It was clear to Dev he wasn’t interested in baskets. What was he interested in?

  Sierra said, “We have a lot of one-of-a-kind objects. We can’t give them to you, for we depend on them. The knowledge of how to make them is really all we have to trade, and we can only trade knowledge once.”

  “That’s so. But sometimes, a gift of knowledge goes a long way toward greasing the wheels of commerce.”

  Troy said, “What’s ‘commerce’ mean?”

  Dev realized there was no reason they’d have ever used that word. Or “economy” or many others. “Trade,” he said.

  “Then why not say ‘trade?’”

  Otis, the man who had been here twice, spoke up. “I agree with you. Why are there so many words in English for the same thing?”

  Vargas glared at Otis.

  Dev realized he hadn’t given anyone else permission to speak, and this man had broken some sort of rule. He wondered if he was about to see another man punished physically.

  “Anything else you have?”

  Misha spoke up. “Medicines? I have some herb knowledge, but if anyone has any other medicines, or even herbs from different climates, we could trade those.”

  Vargas said, “Could you make a list of what you have?”

  “The names I know, I can,” Misha said. “I’ve had to make up my own names for others I’ve found.”

  “Maybe you can draw a leaf or flower if you don’t have any whole ones? Any art talent?”

  “My—I know someone who does,” Misha said. “I could do that for you. Probably only a list today, but drawings eventually.”

  Arch said, “Unless you decide we’re not worth it and just leave us alone from now on. Meaning, this is the last time you’d be here.”

  Vargas turned to Arch. “Everyone is worth it. And you’re on a highway we’ll improve, so you’re in our territory.”

  Arch said, “This is my house. My property. My territory. You’re going to take it from me.”

  “Am I?” Vargas said. “What was said here today that makes you think that?”

  “Governments always take more than they give. It’s their nature.”

  Dev had heard that kind of thing growing up more times than he could count. It’s part of what motivated his father to take his family off the grid. Make at least half of what you need to survive—food—and you had to work less, so you were taxed less, and blah blah blah. What Dev would give to have the chance to go back to those times, to show Zoe a bigger world, with more to buy, shiny new things that hadn’t been used up. Tools without wear, painted walls, new sheets and clothes that weren’t patched a hundred times over. Governments that used at least some of your tax money to benefit you. He certainly would pay a tithe for that.

  Not that he believed this group would bring that to them. He felt nothing but distrust for these men. The killing of the hen. The way Vargas has physically punished his own man. All these fake questions, pretending to share a friendly meal, and none of it was real. There wasn’t a sincere bone in this man’s body. Dev didn’t say that aloud. He said, “It sounds intriguing. Do you have someone down there who’s a smith? Makes new tools, that sort of thing?”

  “We have someone who keeps wheels in repair, weapons, and horseshoes. He’s part of the military. But we haven’t encountered a true blacksmith yet. Who knows though—we may yet.”

  Arch said, “No way anyone could keep a forge going.”

  “I don’t know,” Pilar said. “There’s plenty of wood. It might be a once-a-year sort of endeavor to fire up a forge, but if someone had the tools, the metal stock, maybe there is one that operates periodically.”

  “Again, we haven’t seen one, but you could be right,” Vargas said. “Well, this was good food. The rest of the cheese is yours to keep. If you’d run off and get those baskets and list of herbs before we go, that’d be useful. And if we could water our horses once more?”

  Water, they had. Dev said, over his father’s objections, “Sure. You young people, why don’t you all fill buckets and take them out to the road.” He looked at Vargas. “Buckets okay?”

  “If you have a washtub or something larger like that we can use—not take, just use to let the hors
es drink from.”

  “We do,” Dev said. “I’ll get that.”

  Rod said, “I’ll help carry water. You have twelve horses?”

  “Yes,” Vargas said.

  “I don’t know what horses drink. A gallon per horse?”

  “Two would be better.”

  Sierra said, “I’ll help too. That’s a lot of water to carry.” She went off across the yard and then turned. “If you can bring four or five horses up to the second driveway, I’ll have to tote it a shorter distance from my well.”

  “Okay,” Vargas said. “I’ll do that. Scooter?”

  “Yes, sir,” Scooter said, and he jumped up and hurried down the driveway.

  Dev was glad they seemed to be nearly on their way. No one had been shot this time—not people, and not hens. Except for Arch, the neighbors had all played nice. The only problem was, he wasn’t sure how much more he had learned about this government or these men. He said to Vargas, “When can we expect you back? And what will you want then?”

  “Could be as short as ten days,” Vargas said. “We won’t want anything at all. Maybe another meal, but we’ll bring jerky or something to share, just like we did the cheese. Smoked trout is a possibility. That sound good?”

  It sounded wonderful to his taste buds, but Dev didn’t like how much it was going to cost in the future. “Will it be you, or another person? And by the way, do you have any women in your army?”

  “Probably me. We don’t let women serve in the Outriders.” The term sounded official, like it deserved a capital letter.

  “But they do serve?”

  “Of course,” Vargas said. “At the base. Why, you want to volunteer someone?”

  “No,” Dev said, a little too vehemently, he realized. “We like things the way they are.”

  “You’ll like them better once you have trade partners,” Vargas said.

  Dev said, “You do, um, recruit people for your army?”

  “Not often,” Vargas said.

  Arch said, “You don’t shanghai anyone? Draft them.”

  “No. We’re careful who we let in. Last thing we want is a reluctant draftee.”

  Arch said, “What about when you lose people in battle?”

  “We don’t lose people in battle,” Vargas said. “We always have the upper hand.” He looked around. “Always.” A reminder, not that Dev needed it, that he and his group were outgunned.

  An hour later, they’d gotten their water, taken two small baskets and a list of herbal medicines Misha provided, and had gone on their way.

  “That wasn’t awful,” Pilar said, once the sound of the horses’ hooves had faded.

  “It was a disaster!” Arch said. “They ate our food, and what did we get?”

  Sierra said, “Not killed.”

  “Amen,” Joan said. “We’re alive. And we have ten days to keep training and to come up with a plan.”

  “What the hell plan can we come up with?” Arch bellowed.

  “Dad, sit down, would you?” Dev said. “I don’t want you upset again.”

  “I’m going out and digging up those grenades.”

  “Pop, don’t. We don’t know if they’re about to explode. You hit that container with a shovel, and that might be the end of you.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” he said, and he marched off to the barn.

  Zoe said, “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll stop him.”

  If anyone could control Arch, it was his granddaughter. “Don’t you put yourself at risk. If he decides to blow himself up, you get well away from him.” It wasn’t that Dev wanted to lose his father, but if it were a choice between his daughter and his aging father, he’d pick Zoe every time.

  Misha said, “Don’t worry, Dev. I doubt he has the energy to dig a hole. Not as hard as the ground is right now. Not in the afternoon after the stress of today. Tomorrow morning, he might have the energy.”

  Dev rubbed his forehead. “I guess I need to dig them up this evening, to keep him from doing it tomorrow.”

  “No, don’t,” Joan said.

  “He’s right about this much. We have to try,” Dev said. “At some point, we’re going to have to defend ourselves. That became clear to me today.”

  “I wish that wasn’t so,” Sierra said. “But I’m afraid you’re right. But maybe we should draw lots to see who takes the risk with the grenades. Anyway, I’ll start the clean-up.”

  Yasmin, Wanda, and Barry all volunteered to help. His father hobbled past, a shovel and pickaxe over his shoulder. Misha was right: he was weaker in the afternoons, and he’d been standing the past hour or more, so he probably couldn’t dig a hole. Dev knew Zoe would come and tell him and Misha if his father collapsed again.

  Dev went to use the outhouse, needing a moment alone to order his thoughts. What could he do? What hadn’t they done that they needed to do to prepare for the next visit? What hadn’t they thought of yet that might help them survive this encounter?

  He stepped out of the outhouse to see Sierra standing there. “Next,” he said.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone, actually,” she said.

  “Okay. What?”

  “I want to keep Zoe safe. Is there any way to convince her to stay out of sight of these men?”

  “I tried,” he said.

  “I’m sure you did. Maybe if I talk to her.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “I could remind her of what Emily suffered. And me.”

  Her? Oh right, some guy had attacked her in the barn, right back at the beginning of all this. He hadn’t gotten very far before Curt had arrived, and Dev had forgotten about it until now. “I hope that helps. Every time I see one of them look at a woman, it’s like a wolf eying an animal struggling in a trap.”

  “I get the feeling that....” She shook her head, unable to find the right words. “It’s like they’re worming their way in. Trying to look innocent, even helpful. But it’s not going to stay that way.”

  “I agree, one hundred percent. He wasn’t interested in basket or herbs. That was all BS. I don’t trust them farther than I can throw their horses.”

  “Did you see their wagon?”

  “No.”

  “I did. I don’t think it’s merely a wagon to carry goods. It has these studded things on the wheels, and it’s heavy enough that two horses pulling it weren’t having an easy time getting it started. The sides are lined with leather—over metal, maybe—for defense against projectile weapons.”

  “A war wagon,” he said.

  “Never heard the term, but yeah. That’s what it is. There were notches in the sides, for rifle barrels, I think. Like those things at the top of castle walls?” She drew them in the air.

  “Crenellations,” he said.

  “How’d you know that word?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Read it at some point, and it popped into my head just then. Funny what the mind can hold onto, even if you aren’t using the fact.” He pointed to the outhouse. “You need it?”

  “I guess I’ll take advantage. We’ll probably be talking a while. Wait for me, and we can talk more about Zoe on the walk back.”

  “Okay,” he said. He stepped away and looked around his home. The outhouse had been put well beyond the house and gardens. Probably too close to the stream this time, but then there was no stream anymore. They moved it every year to a new location. Every year, they went back to the location of three years past and dug up the soil in the area, which was richer for the composted human waste, and top-dressed the remaining fruit trees with it. Nothing went to waste, not even their own waste. Where the old septic fields had been behind each house was some of the most fertile garden land they had. They composted everything—trimmings, eggshells, wet herbs left over from tea. It was habit, one of many habits braided together that kept them alive.

  A hawk cried in the distance, a lonely sound. Sierra emerged from the outhouse.

  “If we lose this place,” he said, “pitiful as it is, I’m afra
id we’ll lose people from starvation. We can’t carry enough food to last much more than a week.”

  “There’s hunting.”

  “Imagine carrying seed potatoes—or pulling them in a wagon—and imagine carrying seeds. We’re walking and walking, growing weaker. And the hunger is gnawing, and there are the potatoes, the grain, edible. Who would have the strength to continue starving to preserve the seed stock?”

  “I would,” Sierra said, fiercely. “To give my kids a chance, I would.” Then she looked sheepish. “Or I hope I would. You never know until you live it.”

  “No, you probably would. You’re mentally strong. One of the strongest people I’ve ever known.” He pointed. “Let’s detour through the orchard.”

  They switched directions and went to stand under the remaining fruit trees. She pointed up and said, “It would take ten years to grow a fruit tree to maturity, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably, and you might be surprised at what you grow. Some of our trees were grafted. Berry bushes would produce quicker.”

  “And there should be wild berries up there somewhere.”

  Dev shook his head. “We need to save this kind of talk for the whole group. It’s Zoe I’m most worried about.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know. She’s a grown woman, and she’s a confident person. I’m not sure I can push her around anymore.”

  Sierra smiled sadly. “You never did push her around much.”

  “Didn’t have to. She was a cooperative kid, wanting to please. A look of disappointment from me was usually enough.”

  “I have less influence than you. I’ll talk to her, but I don’t think we’re going to get her to hide in the woods when those men return.”

  “Maybe if she has a job to do.”

  “Looking after your father?”

  “Ha,” Dev said, without humor. “Keeping Dad away would be even harder than keeping Zoe away.”

  “I wish you could though. His attitude is going to backfire on us one day. I’m not saying he’s wrong, mind you. He just needs to keep his rebellion to himself for now—until we decide what—if anything—can be done.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, but I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe it’s good someone shows a belligerent attitude. They might think there’s bite under his bark.”