by J. D. Palmer
“Yes. I asked her if she would like to see you or the others. She shook her head.”
“Bull. Shit.” My voice is ice cold, violence thrumming a discordant tune to the beat of my heart. “I want to see her now. Right fucking now.”
Doctor Wong heaves a heavy sigh and opens his desk. He pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to me.
Harlan. I do not trust these men. But I am unchained, even if I’m not free. They cannot harm me without harming a child. There is time, then… Time in which I wish to be alone.
It’s hard to hear her voice in the note, mainly because I have not heard her speak, nor have I been privy to the writing in her traveling journal. Only small notes.
But the handwriting is hers. The large, swooping letters that have difficulty running in a straight line.
I don’t know what to make of this. My anger fizzles, sadness stealing in to take its place. She doesn’t want to see me? Me?
“Did you read it?” I say, looking at Doctor Wong.
“Of course.”
He arches his eyebrows at me, hand held out to take the note. As if it were an important document that needs to be held onto.
I hand it over, having no desire to hold onto it. Jimmy clears his throat.
“It’s almost dinner time. I’ll walk you down, introduce you to the rest of the group.”
He guides me from the room. I feel Doctor Wong’s stare following us out. I still want to demand to see her. I want him to show me the door that leads to her. To make sure she is safe.
But her note is a rebuke that must go heeded. After everything we’ve been through. Agonized through. A trust built on a foundation of suffering side by side…
I don’t want to see my betrayal in her eyes.
Chapter 17
Jimmy and I walk across the grass and across the road. Other men trickle out of the houses or out from greenhouses to join us as we walk. They cut across the sand towards a distant building but Jimmy keeps to the road. A longer walk. Perhaps he doesn’t want to get his shoes dirty. Maybe he just adheres to the old world. I wonder if he still stops at stop signs.
He pauses in the road. His hand grips my shoulder as he turns and points up the sloping hill. “See the outline of those windmills. The one on the far right? That’s called Evelyn, for my daughter. That’s the first windmill made here. You can always see her at sunset, she’s hard to tell apart during the day.”
I give a nod and he can tell I don’t really care. I should. I wish I did.
“I’m just… proud of this place. Especially now,” he says, a weary smile on his face. We continue walking. He continues to play tour guide.
“The community in which we live is called Camelot. Not because of any sense of poetry or irony or anything profound. It was named that prior to the… you know.” A large sign sits alongside the road proclaiming “Camelot Golf Course.” The sign is riddled with bullet holes and someone has drawn a crude picture of a woman sucking a man’s cock. Jimmy heaves a sigh as we walk by.
There is a clubhouse on the far side. A building made to look like an old cabin, large timber beams criss-cross to form a peak, Camelot Golf Club proudly emblazoned at the top. A ramshackle conglomerate of logs and tin. It must have been hideous beforehand. Now it seems to fit. Shorter buildings squat next to it; maintenance supplies and golf carts and a shed that is locked.
Inside is a rustic setting. Wooden booths and dark red carpeting. Long tables have been pushed together close to the kitchen area. The room is dimly lit by ancient chandeliers. A fancy bar sits in a corner. Bottles of every liquor imaginable line the polished wood countertop. All have been opened.
The men crowd along tables, calling to each other and pushing and shoving seemingly without reason. Don sits at a small table by himself. As soon as Jimmy enters the men quiet, tomfoolery dimming in the face of his authority.
Jimmy tells me to grab a seat. He goes to Don and sits, the two shaking hands and smiling. Most of the men are staring at me curiously. I look for a place to sit by myself.
“Har.”
John and Steven have a spot at the far end. I walk over and join them. “You guys okay?”
Before they can say anything we are interrupted.
“Attention everyone.” Don is ushering a standing Jimmy back into his seat. Jimmy acquiesces, slouching down into his chair. I get the sense he is relieved not to do the public speaking. Don walks to the center of the room, a smile on his face.
“Attention. This is a small group so I imagine you all know of the recent events.” He beams. “There is new hope for my friend’s daughter.” Jimmy gives a wan smile. Whoops and cheers from the men. Less, I think, for the daughter but for what caused it.
“I want to thank you all for your hard work, and your continuing hard work in these dark times. You all should be proud.” He gives a genuine smile as he looks at each person individually.
“We have some guests, possibly new residents.” The focus turns to us. “Some of you have met them. Some have not. Please, friends. Tell us your names.”
I hate this shit. Always have. I hated introducing myself in school or in large groups. But this is even fouler, at least to me. I don’t want to know these men. I don’t want to put names to the faces I will soon be leaving behind.
John saves the situation by standing up right away. “My name is John. This is my brother Steven, and our friend Harlan. We are very thankful for your hospitality and look forward to getting to know you all.”
Jesus.
Don looks a little disappointed that I didn’t have to stand up and say my name. As if he can sense my discomfort. I wonder what look I have on my face. He gives a nod. “All right. Go shake their hands. Please make them welcome.” He looks me in the eye, gives a little wag of his finger. “Watch out for the tall one. Harlan. He has a temper.”
With that he returns to his seat. Conversation springs back up. Men eye me, sizing me up. Whispers and glares. Laughs that aren’t joyful but instead contain something dark.
Don threw me to the wolves. I keep my head down. Food is produced and Steven fills my plate. I quietly eat, reminding myself to stay out of trouble. Just a day or two for them to run tests on Beryl and then we can go.
A few guys come over and introduce themselves. I don't pay attention to the names and I give nods to the offered hands. There is animosity, of course, towards these men who kidnapped and scared the hell out of us. But I also hate situations like this. I don't mind being the center of attention when I pick the moment. But now…
A feel a hand snake around my shoulders as a man flops down next to me. I shrug it off.
"Don't."
He smirks and dramatically holds up his hands.
"Whoa there, easy!" He laughs and looks at me expectantly. Long, curly blonde hair making the grime on his cheek stand out. Is he waiting for an apology? After a few seconds he flashes a look at John and Steven as if to ask them what my problem is. I focus on the food in front of me.
"I was one of the guys who went and fetched ya today. Just wanted to say no hard feelings. Ya get me?"
John says something obsequious and the man laughs.
"I'm Chris. You guys are awesome. Can I buy you a drink? He gestures grandly to one of his friends who brings over a few beers. Chris pulls out a wad of 100 dollar bills and presses them gently into his friend's hand. "Keep the change," he says solemnly before they both burst out laughing. Apparently it is a running joke.
Chris turns back to us. "We have fun here, you guys like fun? I bet this guy likes fun." He ruffles my hair, intentionally invading my space, and it's all I can do not to hit him or storm out.
"I didn't have too much fun before this. Granted, there were chicks running around so… Perhaps they were the source of my misery?" He laughs and looks around expectantly. John musters a chuckle and that's good enough to keep him going.
"I like you guys. You ever want to hang out, talk bitches or some shit, you let me know.”
He cl
aps me hard on the shoulder as he walks away. The point of my fork screeches on the plate. I feel my face flushing red as I tremble with impotent rage.
Why am I so angry?
I glance at Steven and John, both are staring at me, waiting to see what I am going to do. Do they not understand? Do they not know what he was saying beneath the words? What he was doing with all the little pushes and prods and slaps on the back? I take a deep breath and go back to my food. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe John is right, I’m too distrustful.
I glance around the room. I see Richard, he sits by himself and sneaks glances our way. More eyes scan us in between snatches of hushed conversation.
They’re just being curious.
I know I’m messed up. Changed. Different now than I was before. Stuart made sure of that. He fucked me up way more than the downfall. And I don’t know if I’ll ever really change back. I don’t know if I should. Not now.
I take another glance around the room.
I think I’ll stick to being distrustful.
This is Camelot.
An engine pieced together with the remains of society. An apparatus that runs efficiently, powered by testosterone and oiled with blood and fear and a giddy hope of a future that belongs to them.
We are thrust into the machine and I begin to understand how things work. Jimmy is followed because without him there is no energy. Don takes care of everything else. Don assigns work schedules, he leads patrols, and he is the one that settles disputes. He talks often and eloquently. He knows everyone by name and seems to know what he is doing.
John likes him a lot.
To the rest of the men Don is a saint. The man who has given them purpose. Corralled the frightened and the desperate and has offered a vision of a future bright and shiny.
And I can see why. He is charismatic. His words shape these men, pushing them to work harder, to live fuller… To be MEN. To be smarter, tougher, stronger men. Men who hang onto his every word.
Jimmy is the boss, to be sure. But Don is the boss’s voice.
There is a pecking order. Don has his group, men who cluster around him and are given power that they desperately want and aren’t afraid to use. They like to throw their weight around, the two most prominent being a muscular black man named Theo and a tall, lanky white boy called Alderman.
A man named Josey plays guitar and tells stories. He and a couple other guys keep to themselves and do whatever jobs that are asked of them. Rudderless men, content with being a part of something that doesn’t involve death or dying. They are the men that stay quiet.
A small boy and a fat kid named Tommy sit at the bottom. The kid, Gerald, can’t have more than thirteen years to him. He wears a permanently perplexed expression on his face, mouth open and eyebrows straining skyward as he rushes to ingratiate himself to someone. Anyone. He is shoved and knocked around and told to fetch more food. He does it with a smile and laughs along with the others when someone makes a fool out of him. He desperately wants to belong and bullying is far better than being ignored.
Tommy has to be thirty, small traces of grey already appearing in his black hair. Pig-eyes in a face where his features have been gathered together to allow as much space as possible for chin, forehead, and cheeks. He is frightened of everything and it’s plain that he can’t adapt. He sits at the edge of the group and wipes sweat from his chin as he eats his food.
He regularly asks Jimmy if there is any chance that they will need someone to run a computer. “I don’t know anything else, how am I supposed to learn how to do all these things when I have dedicated my life to programming?” he whines.
Jimmy is always gentle, but firm, telling him how important it is to learn. He never seems to try, though. He whines and sweats and occasionally cries his way through whatever task has been assigned to him. The men don’t make it easy on him, but it’s hard to find room for pity with a creature unwilling to change himself to survive.
We too are assigned jobs. Grins flash around the room when Don tells us that we are now the new kitchen detail. Dishes, food preparation and storage, and clean-up. Doesn’t sound that bad.
Most of the residents are young, teenagers to late twenties. There is only one man older than Jimmy and Don, a small, hard-bitten Hispanic man named David who serves as the cook. He doesn’t smile and he doesn’t respond to English. He always has a knife in his hand even when he’s not cutting vegetables. Nobody fucks with David.
I like him.
There are seventeen of us total. Each of us gets a small house and is assigned two roommates. I’m with the brothers.
Thank the gods.
Running water is shut off in the homes, with the exception of the Doctor’s office. Each month everyone is allotted two, five minute showers. Apparently spots are traded and bet upon and used for the settling of debts. Water, at least in this town, is the new currency.
Some share their shower time. Most just dunk their heads in a horse trough filled with old, brackish water that sits by a shed near the kitchen.
The brothers were given a shower when we arrived. A benevolent gift. I missed my chance, I guess. And I'm not going to ask Don for one.
Jimmy has a rule: lights out at ten o’clock.
But lights can stay on all night at the clubhouse. An amendment passed by Don.
At sundown we filter in and David brings out food. Dinner is a quick affair, loud laughter as filthy fingers shove food into mouths that tell filthier jokes. Jimmy eats with the men but leaves shortly after to check on his daughter. That’s when the real fun begins.
Alcohol appears, bottles of whiskey and rum being passed around, sloshed into cups or taken straight from the bottle by chapped lips in equal proportions. Groups of workers are called forward by Don to share the “gains for the day.” People detail the finds from foraging. Boys show off the tomatoes and zucchinis and carrots that they grew themselves. Foragers showcase canned goods and water or, god forbid, boxes of stale cereal. Each group is raucously lauded or booed on their achievements depending on the people presenting or by the level of intoxication.
John applies himself to making friends. His easy way of telling stories and willingness to work soon has earned him a spot in the group. He is an advocate for order, for rules, for a system. All things that Don can exploit.
Steven also has found a niche. The first night upon our arrival the men found out he was a tattoo artist. A day later a foraging team comes back with an ink gun, a generator, and supplies. Now drunk kids get bizarre symbols or fearsome creatures or, more often than not, the name of some girl they loved or thought they loved emblazoned across their backs. Steven is creative and good at what he does. And he’s quiet. He stays on the periphery with Josey and the other men who don’t want to draw attention to themselves.
They don’t know what to think of me. I don’t blame them. I see what I look like in a mirror. My hair has grown into a long shaggy mane that reaches my shoulders. I had a patchy beard that I shaved. The face that stares back at me is lean and gaunt, eyes bright in sockets deep and lined. There is a chunk gone from my lip that scarred in a thick white line that pulls the right side of my mouth up as if I’m about to laugh. Or snarl. My neck is covered in a mottled pink, a cloud of scar tissue that starts on my left and forms a thunderhead on the right.
I am the man who brought the woman. She is the object of their obsession, the subject of whispers and boasts and hushed talks and ribald jokes. They glance at me and shake their heads and I can’t tell if they are thankful that I brought her or ready to kill me to lay claim to her.
I clean dishes. I do what I’m assigned. Other than that I do not take part. John has exhorted me to be more social. He tells me the other men say that I think I am better than them. Steven tells me they aren’t all bad. I’ve seen him sitting with Josey’s group, head bobbing along to the strum of a guitar or to a story real or imagined. I’m happy for him, happy that he is beginning to lose the dark edge that traveled with him these last wee
ks.
But I don’t care to try. I’m only here for Beryl. I believe Jimmy when he says we can leave. I just don’t believe that these other men will allow that to happen. I’m not going to make friends with people I might have to kill later.
Is this how I think now?
Some of the younger ones ask about her. Eyes bright from alcohol that they aren’t used to, they stumble over and put a familiar hand around my shoulders and blink up at me. They ask if she’s okay. They ask if she has seen them working from her window. They ask if she’s my girlfriend. I shake my head or ignore them. They totter back to their companions and cast dark looks over their shoulders. Better for me when I leave early.
One day.
Two days.
Three days pass. I’m not allowed to see Beryl. Or, at least, the doctor tells me that she still doesn’t want to see me. It almost came to blows, Jimmy forced to intervene before I stormed into her room to make sure she wasn’t being tortured. Wasn’t dead. Wasn’t chained to a wall and dressed in some little dress…
The waiting is hard on me. Worse, in all ways possible, to have time on your hands. Especially when you shouldn’t. When your whole focus is on fixing a situation. Fixing it so you can leave.
Five days pass. Five days in which I am told that Beryl does not want to see anyone. Five days in which I do my work, keeping to the shadows, and try not to think about how much time is passing.
Five days. Gone.
My job is kitchen clean-up. I scour pots and pans, plates and bowls, silverware and knives and cutting boards. It takes me hours. But I get to run water from the tap, hot water, a novelty that takes away the annoyance.
I am required to do the dishes after dinner at night and after the morning feeding. Seventeen men eat a lot, and there is no rationing of the food, such is their confidence. So I spend a lot of time in the kitchen. There is a comfort in the labor, distasteful as it is. But I have time to think, and to expel physical energy, and above all things, I eat like a king. Finally I start to gain weight back that I had lost. I start to feel less like a specter and more like a person again.