by Ron Charach
Carla finished with the room lights and gave her mirror one last, well, not bad sort of smile then surrendered to a very deep sleep. Pullin’ her covers up over her breasts, stretchin’ out her long legs against the cool satin sheets, she buried her face in her pillow and hoped for a dream about another life, another world.
Her every bedtime move on video—all edited into one big long ongoin’ sequence o’ famil-iarity worthy of YouTube. Just what would you like to see her do tonight? he’d grin, his wide expanse of porcelain capped teeth pushin’ apart his ratty ears. It came in handy when morgan got restive an’ threatened to blow the masquerade.
While morgan looked around at the seediness o’ma’s set-up—scarcely able t’believe he had stooped to watch a peep show courtesy of unca harold galloway.
louise closes up too
Louise had trouble sleepin’ that same night even though she was far away from the town where folk lay quiverin’, warm quilts pulled up over their ears as they waited for the gunshots to die down and for even cabana to go get himself some sleep.
She kept havin’ bad dreams, a dizzy feelin’—she worried she might not always be well enough to care for her Jamie who slept soundly now. She leaned over his little wooden crib and kissed his eyes gently so as to not wake him. And as he slept on, she admired him, kissed him again feelin’ silly for worryin’, and wonderin’ how life could ever end with such a beautiful young saplin’ to live for.
She laughed, gently sat down on the edge of her lean-to bed, brought her legs up and curled into a little ball, just like Jamie sleepin’ by her bedside, an’ forgot about tomorrow easily.
accident
The weak light filters through the shears bathin’ Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson’s faces in a bronze anemic glow. Inside their eyelids the world is a dull red haze just strong enough to make them turn their backs to the window, press their faces in their pillows, and steal a few more dreams on a Sunday mornin’.
But noises outside drive home that it’s time to git up and face the list of 1,001 still-to-do’s and talk yerself into believin’ for one more twelve-hour period that it’s better to act like an adult than lie in bed with the “furnace” on and keep the cool outside air waitin’. Damn this man-made weather!
There’s a ballyhoo goin’ on outside among the few normal-enough, still-healthy kids left in the neighborhood, the rest havin’ died off, there bein’ no real hospital, just an infirmary and the new age of Survival of the Fittest—to quote harold galloway—havin’ already dawned. The kids have struck up some kind o’ ballgame or other—screamin’ and jostlin’ an’ pushin’ an’ hollerin’ ’til a body jest has to get up or his wife’ll think she lost him in his sleep.
Parkinson’s been charged by the town’s peaceable citizens with dismantlin’ the downtown bear traps—the kind that crazy loon trapper keeps settin’ an’ buryin’ in sand or dry silk leaves. Parkinson himself has had a few close calls with those dust-camouflaged snappers and has ample cause to resent bein’ the one appointed to find and disarm ’em—’specially when it’s autumny cold an’ still a bit dark in the mornin’ an’ just about anybody could step into one if he weren’t A-one careful on Main Street.
The plan was for Parkinson to rise at eight fifteen—early enough t’be the very first man downtown since on Sunday just about everyone ’ceptin’ the kids would sleep in. But here it is, goin’ on half past ten. Sits by the kitchen table in pyjamas, puttin’ on the kettle for a two-minute preparatory cup and throwin’ on a pair o’ pants over his sleepin’ gear while he waits. Ma Parkinson is still far away from the world, choppin’ wood in bed through clogg’d sinuses (bless her) and he watches her pass time in dreamland ’til his Paul Revere copper-bottom’d kettle gives a shrill whistle.
Relieved that it’s “bright” out even if the desert sunlight diffuses into a faintly pissy color as it streams through the grimy glass of the main dome, he’s glad to hear the kids are so happy on what to them, after all, is as sunny a day as they’re ever gonna see.
They’re deep in concentration playin’ this “all-American” game that Reggie Canuck taught Henry Morganstern and that he taught the kids before he defected to the eight. A game kind of like the NFL ’cept more excitin’ ’cause there are only three downs, which makes for a whole lot more passin’. Young Timmy McCarver throws a long spiral clear across the length of three front “lawns” and hits little Brent Donnelly for a seven-point major as they call it—touchdown bein’ a bit too close to countdown or meltdown t’be a word galloway would want people usin’.
Little Brent lands with the ball in his hands, lettin’ out the most excited scream the neighborhood has heard in a long while. Two plays later a newcomer to these minor leaguers—Gary Gordon—comes tearin’ across the sidelines—which are really only sagebrush along the edges of the front yards—an’ he runs a good five houses’ worth before slidin’ way outa bounds into a small pile of dusty leaves—lettin’ out a diff’rent kind o’ scream. His leg is on fire as some kind o’ animal—fierce and iron-y—hauls him to and freezes him to his breath. The pit-bull of a thing’s long metal teeth sink deeper in as his hands reach down t’try an’ pull apart its jaws.
The harder he tries t’pry it apart the tighter it gits. The other kids come runnin’ to see what the fuss is—screamin’ an’ cryin’ at the sight o’ little Gary wrigglin’ and writhin’ like a fish on a hook—his pant leg glowin’ arterial red as the color drains from the rest o’ him. One of the kids takes to bein’ sick, another faints dead away, while a third runs t’git help—runnin’ in an ellipt’cal path while lookin’ down, way down, whenever he passes anythin’ remotely like a bump on the ground. Soon every adult townie in the neighborhood’s caught the difference between what’s goin’ on an’ the enthusiasm a few minutes ago.
By the time Gary passes out, the kids have roused the adult world—such as it is—with the Donnelly boy poundin’ on Parkinson’s door so loud that Parkinson leaves his kettle on the boil without fussin’ to rouse the missus. Soon every grown-up within a couple blocks o’ the Accident is up ’cause the team captain is shoutin’ for everyone t’come quick ’cause Gary’s all caught up in a bear trap an’ bleedin’.
An’ Doc Halverson—who chased galloway’s cocktail with some Scotch last night—brushes everyone to the side—even moves Mrs. Sheila Gordon, the boy’s mother, off to one side and tells the father, Will Gordon, t’git that frantic lady away from there before she does more harm than good to her li’l boy lyin’ there limp as a doll.
Doc was once a half-decent doctor even if he does work for galloway and got all his trainin’ and equipment second-hand from henry morgan before the latter took out early re-tirement. But all he can do is stare at the mangled mess inside that bear trap while his hands reach for peroxide an’ gauze and a li’l vial o’ morphine in case the boy comes to again. An’ he jest stares on accoun’ o’ he doesn’t know how t’git the damn thing off—an’ it’s mighty clear that it’s caught Gary high-up on the fe-moral artery, an’ might soon jest bleed him t’death.
Halverson presses down on Gary’s in-guinal region and yells for someone to find galloway and git him t’start an IV and hang some bags of that plasma galloway hoards like youth serum and stops short of askin’ someone to find that crazy trapper who might know how t’git it off fast-like, since there don’t seem t’be an in-tact release. But no one in their right mind’ll go near ma rosemary’s—which is where all the big ones’ll be after their so-journ of the previous night. Of the bad lot, henry morgan’s the only one with a wife he might have come home to, an’ so Parkinson sends a townie out to the home of Claire an’ henry morgan, cussin’ in self-disgust because of all the people who ought to know how t’git these traps off... But then he’s done such a good job these long months clearin’ out these suckers, he’s never really needed t’know.
Claire Morgan is up alright—housebound as usual and a bit confused-lookin’, her
hair all tousled, a home-rolled doob burnin’ in her slender hand, though when she hears what’s happened, she spits her husband’s name like a curse.
Finally the trap has done its work an’ the townfolk carry the boy to his parents’ place with his top-shredded leg wrapped in a fresh towel tied up in a knot just above the mess an’ with cold damp towels on his face and a little morphine in his blood and his very own teddy bear restin’ spread-eagle on his chest. After he lies there a good ten minutes—an’ Mrs. Gordon has been forced t’take a little morphine on top of her daily dose, and Mr. Gordon is offered a few swigs—a bear of a man named John Gideon—who was once the doctor’s own aid, but who’s restyled his self as a evangel’cal carpenter—gits up the stomach to take up the gnarled limb and wash it off an’ bring it back into the house—pillar-white and floppy though it is—demandin’ if there might be some way to sew it back on. But Doc Halverson takes on a sad look, almost as if rememberin’ a time when there had been a way but jest answers —Throw it away somewhere far out o’ reach, an’ hides his innermost desire to jest sit down with the Gordons an’ join them in their weepin’ and adds —Wrap it good, John, so the rats don’t get at it and do yore best to hide it away. And for God’s sake, don’t even consider burying it anywhere…remember this soil...
An’ with his little boy flat out still oozin’ blood an’ bein’ fed ice-chips an’ blubberin’ baby-talk his pappy hasn’t heard from him in years, pharmacist William Gordon steps out into the dim mornin’ glare and announces he is off to find that infernal trapper dan. To kill him. With half the town’s menfolk sayin’—Don’t be a fool. Gordon, who was the town druggist whenever galloway let him get into his stash, nearly forgets to take a gun and might have had to use his measurin’, pill-countin’ hands to do in the trapper—which would a’suited him jest fine and the i-rascible trapper even more. ’Course only the eight have real guns with ammo clips ’n all—though Bill Gordon managed to squirrel away his personal piece from his days livin’ out in the dark nights of suburbia.
Someone from the town—some woman—had the sense t’clear the kids off the street—’cause by now even the mutants are gettin’ into the act, wheelin’ themselves to the doorways an’ pokin’ their heads from their Stryker-frames t’see what the commotion’s about. The kids had t’be cleared so that Parkinson could check the rest of the residential area for any other nasties the trapper might’ve set in his infamous stupor.
An’ someone else, a well-muscled blacksmith name o’ Abrams, calls on John Gideon—who hadn’t yet washed Gary Gordon’s warm young blood off his hands—t’join him in gittin’ up a mob of about twenty men still in serviceable health—for townies—to back Will Gordon.
John Gideon is not yet game. —The next child so trapped, he says, will also lose a limb. With those twin pillars of flesh we shall fashion a cross to hold up to anyone who trucks with the godless galloway.
You nuts? thinks Abrams, not waiting for an answer. —We have to do something now, today, just this once...
And figure this: the average age of this mob of retri-bution is forty-five; why, they’s pretty well all circlin’ fifty on one side or t’other. Everyone in the whole danged town ’cept for the be-nighted offspring and certain se-lect members of the eight. Most folks might reckon the eight a whole lot younger if you could reckon ’em at all in human years. The only variations on these mono-themers are harold galloway—in his mid-fifties if he’s a day—with henry morgan an’ black amos not far behind. Course ma’s age could not be estimated by anyone save the coldest-hearted of men and cabana can’t count worth shit. The only age-mate of the younger eight in this-here town is Carla. Reason for takin’ this informal census is the fact that this chorus-line of indignant forty-fivers looks like a businessmen’s health club with a fitness program that’s failin’. A mighty worked-up pack o’ Boomers they be as they bite on their lower lips more desp’rate than enraged. After all—with galloway out surveyin’ the range-land—there’s no one t’tell them all to go straight home an’ cool off. No elder anyone can accuse of havin’ learned from advancin’ years.
confrontation
Indian summer of a day. Mornin’ coolness givin’ way to hazy hot ’n humid under the dome. To hell with little bleedin’ Gary says the far-off sun, splashin’ dim yellow over everythin’ like a basin of stale piss dumped from the window of a three-story roomin’ house—damn them unreachable, uncleanable domes with the infinitesimal particulates that never seem to clear once they settle, rain or no.
As William Gordon heads down the main street t’wards the outskirts, he passes ten dozen dazed-lookin’ people who know what happened to his son and who can only shrink down t’ the size of their own sad horizon-lines. Clomp clomp clomp. Determined Will Gordon in an old pair o’ motorcycle boots henry morgan outgrew by two sizes—galloway’s moseyin’ by-law preventin’ townies from ownin’ cowboy boots. Wild Bill Gordon peripatetic pharmacist—out to avenge the sins of the fathers with a thin ribbon o’ townsfolk trailin’ down a sidestreet in an effort to head him off before he reaches ma rosemary’s.
And they do. Gordon rounds the corner of the ole livery’s hitchin’ posts t’find he’s starin’—down the sandflats jest at the very edge o’ the dome—at a crowd o’ thirty or so allies, silent-starin’ townsfolk with shovels ’n blades ’n antiquated garden rakes—no guns for townies, galloway’s by-law on Accessible Media. Course—the black market bein’ what it is—there’s a piece or two that evaded galloway’s inspection now pickin’ up undershirt scent in the crowd.
They’re awaitin’ the word. To avenge a thin but springy child’s leg that right now is gatherin’ flies atop the old deserted annex—where John Gideon risked high radiation readin’s to go an’ toss it. Why yes, Gideon fairly did throw that parcel o’ human flesh—bones an’ all— mumblin’ a prayer as he let fly one o’ God’s own pretty ones’ once-tender flesh—hardly the first piece of kiddy sawed off in a mis-calculation, land-mines an’ cluster bombs an’ missiles launched from drones bein’ what they are, and the former US o’ A havin’ been in no big hurry t’ban one bit of it.
The mob and Bill Gordon look straight-on at ma’s where the only sign o’ life is one curtain openin’ jest a mite. At the side of the house are seven horses waterin’ an’ jostlin’ each other for feed—with the only one missin’ belongin’ to big ned. But cabana’s horse is there—to no one’s good luck but his own—an’ that stallion—or is it an androgenized mare?—is showin’ its teeth an’ wavin’ its tail o’ braided wire at the gatherin’—snortin’ an’ spittin’ out the lesser oats, pawin’ at the turf as if she c’n sense the impendin’ action.
As the door to the house flings open.
An’ standin’ there is jest one man. An’ it ain’t big ned—’cause he ain’t even there. And think a bit harder—’cause it sure ain’t trapper dan, who the mob would want to fire at in somethin’ approachin’ unison with whatever pieces escaped the confiscation. And you best bet it ain’t billy or jake or old henry m., not even black amos barton nor willy an’ o’ course it ain’t ma—’cause she’s busy makin’ poultices for whosoever survives. It’s cab. Standin’ copper-eyed, prismatic’lly shootin’ back the rays o’ sunlight ’til the eyes of the townies start to smart an’ make ’em consider the few comforts o’ home.
The mob begins to shuffle some. That old familiar silence kills and you don’t need your metaphors when cab’s around ’cause he pretty much serves as his own com-parison. These shiverin’ souls are brave enough—if paunchy in their midlives, though here and there’s a blacksmith or carpenter with a bit o’ ripple left grippin’ at a jetblack hammer for good luck. A baker name o’ Kelly with a reconditioned Colt .45 held straight out horizontal-like—pointin’ cab’s way albeit for some in-tension tremor. An’ a livery man name o’ Frank with a long whip an’ a blue crowbar t’hurl if he gets a chance to. And Jones and McTavish an’ Orest an’ Schulberg the banker with their wi
ves’ tiny derringers held high in sweaty hands as they quietly in-tone th’original Latin. An’ John Gideon that reborn Christian type who fancies himself a carpenter. And finally, William Gordon—counter and dispenser of pills—willin’ to die here with nothin’ more than hate curled inside his sweaty fatherly fist.
An’ Gordon squeezes out some words—his moundy throat dry ’n tears startin’ to form at the corners o’ his eyes—so unaccustom’d to public dyin’ are these pharmacists who fight other people’s setbacks with labeled potions and photocopied ’structions. His raspy throat croaks out a tentative: —cabana…
Now why in hell did he up and say THAT? think about ten men.
An’ Gordon squints straight ahead into the visage of that nouveau-legendary figure—an’ he wants to go on ’cause he knows that the words that oughta follow go somethin’ like: Please stay out of this, cabana, we’re only here for trapper dan—to stop this insane trap-laying once and for all. My own boy is dead, cab, I mean DEAD—and there’s nothing that can ever bring him back.
But cabana turns this father pre-cambrian, an’ all those suck-cinct words he was fixin’ t’say are aborted like hummin’birds that got stuck to a crazy-glue feeder—frozen like stalactites formin’ in his grittin’ enamel.