When brewed, Clayton took a cup of their precious coffee. He rummaged around in the bag, pulled out a small thin bottle of his father's “shine” whiskey. This was not the vehicle fuel, this was a homebrew laced with honey. He splashed just a bit in the coffee. Chris observed and wrinkled up her nose.
He smiled and stuck the cup out, “Hey, it's pretty good...it'll make you warm all over.”
She sniffed it and took a tiny sip, it definitely made a warm trail all the way down to the toes, “Not too bad,” she said with a cough.
He pointed to a spot on the map, “I think we are about here, close to this Interstate highway. It will take us right into Grand Island, maybe we can be there in about three days.”
“I've been thinking,” he said. “You know the man on the news said that they would take our guns while we visited in the city, only citizens allowed weapons. I'm not good with that. Got any brilliant ideas how we could secret a gun away?”
She took her .380 out of the case on her waist and held it in the palm of her hand, “This is the smallest gun we have.” She thought for a minute, “Maybe if we wrapped it and put it down in the coffee can, then filled the can back up with the grounds, we could get it in with our gear.”
He turned up the mug and drank the last of the spiked coffee, “That might work, worth a try. Okay, I'm going to bring the horses inside, lock up that back door. Better turn in, need to hit the road early tomorrow.” By the time he returned, Chris already curled up asleep. He put some pieces of an old wooden chair on the fire, gave a longing look at the soft form under the blanket. He laid back on his sleeping bag, arms behind his head, it took him a while to close his eyes and sleep.
***
The wide Interstate highway, unlike anything the two of them had ever seen, stretched out in their view. Here, cars, trucks, all manner of fuel propelled vehicles clogged the road in near unbroken strings. Burned or stripped out, rusted away, some looked as if they served as housing at one time. The two guided their horses down an entry ramp and maneuvered between the dystopian junk for a distance, finally Clayton said, “Let's get off the highway and over to the roadside.” The detriment, glass and even bones not easy to pick their way through, off the road would be an easier path.
Added to the depressing scenery, the smells that often assailed them were stifling. The disgusting odor of just pure waste, death and decay wafted from the freeway. They both tied folded handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses, eased along, a bit stunned at the scenery. Her words muffled under the cover, Chris said, “Oh my god, Clayton. I guess I didn't realize how sheltered we were at home. I mean, it hasn't been easy...not normal, but this looks like a vision of Hell.”
Little pricks of doubt poked at his mind. He pulled the cover down to his neck, “Yeah, our town was just not so big. We knew conditions had to be even more extreme out in the world. It seemed horrible to us, but luckily, good resources and good people surrounded us.”
Far ahead of them and still a hazy vision, the blue gray figures of people, shimmered. Clayton pulled up, “This highway leads directly to the city of Grand Island, maybe sixty miles or so ahead. I don't know if things will get worse before we get there or what it will be like in the city.” He looked over to his partner, “Chris, I hope I haven't made a mistake, dragged you into a dangerous place.”
She pulled her handkerchief down, “Look, Clayton, I made this choice,” she gave him a small smile, “Granted, I might have been a little influenced by the berry wine....” her hand rubbed across her wrinkled up nose, “Why don't we get further away from this pile of crap, off the road? And, I saw the people up ahead, I'll be ready.” They replaced the face covers, moved away from the highway, kept it in sight.
Slowly, the figures changed from hazy blue to colorfully clear. Two men and a woman presented quite a picture as they moved to intersect with the horseback riders. Straining at the end of a long rope held by one of the men, a squat wide animal with beady eyes sniffed the air, his nostrils puffed with the effort. The closer they approached, the stronger a sour smell from the animal grew. At least, Chris thought it was the animal that smelled. She adjusted her handkerchief.
They all wore a wild and dirty array of mismatched clothing, the men visibly armed. A hat with a long pheasant feather sat on the head of the man with the pig...yes, thought Clayton, I'll be damned if that isn't a big fat hog. They did have pigs on the farm, not quite the large size or as splotched as this porker. The woman, with hair as wild as if lightening had struck her, heaved her generous breasts, close to spilling from her top, towards Clayton and licked her lips.
A giggle escaped Chris. The pig seemed to snarl, perhaps just snorted, her horse pranced around.
Clayton said, “Hey, bud, could you move the beast a little farther away, it's got the horses spooked.” The man moved a few feet away, kept his eye on Clayton. Eye was the correct description, because each one seemed to roll in a different direction.
One of the men said, “Looks like we got some real cowboy outlaws, huh? I s'pose ya'll are headed to the big-g city,” he wiggled his hips in emphasis of “big”.
Clayton said, “Yes. Looks like you are headed away from the city.”
The man spit on the ground, “We was not welcome. Them idiots thought we'd give up our guns. They was wrong,” he raised a long rifle, “So, what you outlaws got to share?”
Chris and Clayton both drew their pistols, the hog snuffed and rooted at the ground. Clayton calmly said, “Do you have something to trade?”
The three backed away towards the cluttered highway. Just as a shot blasted from the man's rifle, Chris's horse took off across the open fields, already spooked by the pig. The motley crew disappeared into the auto graveyard, the waddling pig being dragged. Clayton spun his horse in pursuit of Chris. By the time he caught up to her, she patted her slowed horse's neck and crooned to calm the runaway.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” She pushed her handkerchief up onto her head, reached in a shirt pocket for another cloth and wiped dust from her face.
They moved at an angle, still towards the city and away from the confrontation, let the horses just amble along for a while. “Can you believe! A pig on a rope,” croaked Clayton.
“I think it was just about the biggest pig I've ever seen. Nasty tub of lard, too,” Chris said as they loped along, closer to the highway again but keeping a distance.
“Well, I've been around pigs, at the farm. Don't laugh, but they can be mean as all get out. Food or a pet? Porky's status might change at any minute.” His laugh rumbled.
She looked over at him, “She really liked you, sweetie, I could tell.”
“The pig!?”
“Not the pig...that lovely lady,” she tried to remain serious.
He made a gagging sound and urged his horse to pickup the pace.
By the end of the day, an old road sign indicated 45 miles to Grand Island. They moved farther away from the highway and made camp. That night, one of them would have to be on watch at all times. No more trouble so far, but an increasing number of people, traveled towards or away from the city, weaved among the autos and dotted the landscape.
In the growing traffic of travelers, they moved forward the next two days. Once, across the highway, a family of three, a man, woman and young child moved in their same direction, toward the city. The man shouted across the mangled autos, “Mister, are you going to the city?”
They all continued to move along, Clayton shouted back, “Yes!”
The man said, “We heard there's food, all kinds of things, like in the old world.”
Clayton said, “Maybe...I don't know.”
The child, a little girl, yelled across excitedly, “There's candy and lights and no bad people.” She skipped along.
Chris sent them a wave, “We sure hope so. Good luck, maybe we'll see you there.”
They soon lost sight of the family in the sparse and desperate parade of refugees. Suspicious of those that moved aw
ay from the city and feeling a tenuous kinship with those that trudged towards it, Clayton and Chris made their own trail. For Clayton, his excitement grew in near proportion to his apprehension. One part of him wanted to slap the flanks of his horse and ride dead out towards the unknown city, another part of him wanted to spin around and get his pretty partner and himself back to the haven of home.
The next day, not long before dusk, the highway became mostly clear of debris. Ahead, the Stars and Stripes flew above two tall towers on each side of a wide gate, lights already beamed out from them. The tall fence that stretched out from the towers was lined with pieces and parts of cars; doors, hoods, roofs and tires, radiators and grills; secured to the fence like eclectic armor. A glare fanned out and illuminated the two riders and an amplified voice blared out, “You are at the private town of Grand Island. Who stands at our gate?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Grand Tour
Entry was granted to the man and woman from up North, who explained they were just visitors, interested in seeing the town and perhaps establishing some trade connections with their hometown. The small pistol buried beneath coffee grounds survived the scrutiny of the guards. All of their other weapons were temporarily confiscated, they watched the conscientious guard tag them and put the name and number on their passes, the weapons stored away in a locked vault made from an old meat cooler.
“You'll have to put your horses in the stables right inside the gate,” said the guard. “No animals allowed on the streets. Can't spend our time cleaning up s—t you know,” was his matter of fact statement.
“Sure,” Clayton reached out to shake his hand.
The man did shake, but continued, “Now listen, I know it's just two pieces of paper, don't you dare loose those passes. You must have them and show them if questioned. Plenty of folks wouldn't blink at stealing them. They are your proof of your ownership of the guns and they are your permission to be in the city. Without them, if lucky, you would get thrown out; if not, you could spend a lot of time in our jail.”
“Thanks,” they both said and led their horses through the gates of Grand Island. The couple left their home a little over a week before and their destination, the curious city now teemed around them. They immediately turned to the stables to secure the horses. There was a man throwing out hay; several other horses, a couple of mules, some donkeys and a camel chomped around.
The hay man said, “You can put your saddles in the barn there. I'll use your pass number to tag the horse and your gear. I can't make any promises, but we do try to keep out the thieves.” He looked at the bags that drooped from the horses, “I wouldn't leave those bags, if I's you. See those kiddy wagons over there?” About half a dozen little red wagons, beat-up, faded and crusty sat in the corner of the barn. “You can borrow one of those, but you got to pay.”
Clayton said, “What about for the horses?”
“The city allows the horses and saddles to stay. Anything more than a little hay and water, will be your responsibility. I decide what to accept for the wagon rental, a one time payment.”
It occurred to Clayton that their bartering goods might not be adequate for a very long visit. He nodded to Chris to get something from the bags. She found three rather stained cigarettes in a bag, as her hand came up and out, one of her knit caps dropped to the ground. The man bent and picked it up, looked it over. She showed the cigarettes.
“Cigarettes...damn. Okay, that'll do, if you throw in this cap.” She agreed. He stretched the rather rosy colored cap down over a bald head and grinned.
Clayton went and picked out a wagon with all four rubber wheels still having their round shape.
Chris said, “Looks like we need to see if we can condense this stuff down as tight as we can. Of course, we've got to have our sleeping bags.” She looked over to the stable man who patted his head proudly. “What about shelter, a place to sleep?”
“Course, if you can pay, there's some rooms. Otherwise, there's a big gymnasium at the other end of town or there's the outdoors. They let folks stay in the gym, as long as they cause no trouble. No fires inside and they expect you to vacate during the day, look for some work to do.”
Chris finished stuffing and squeezing their gear into two bags instead of four. They tied the sleeping bags on top, with a thanks to the man, they were out into the city. Completely amazed at the sights and sounds that surrounded them, Chris openly gawked. It was as if the circus came to town, except this whole town was a circus.
Everywhere they walked, the wagon trailed along. People crowded the streets, an array and diversity of people like she had never witnessed. Most people appeared friendly and nodded or spoke. A few avoided eye contact, scurried and slunk around, Chris thought, like rats. A majority wore clothing similar to theirs, practical and worn. Those that didn't, wore a huge variety of apparel and looked like they indeed arrived with a circus, splashed the scenes with startling color.
There were stores with open doors and goods displayed on racks and shelves. As they passed other citizens and visitors, absorbed in talk, in arguments, in animated conversations, they heard language that they did not recognize and words that they had rather not hear; Yeah, she's just a nasty whore...where you sleepin' tonite?...Mon Dieu, une odeur!...rat as big as a dog. The citizens easily distinguished from the visitors, the citizens bore arms. There were some people that gathered trash, fires burned in certain areas, all contained, some in barrels. Definitely, a lot of trade being conducted in the stores and on the streets.
They decided to use the rest of the day to get their bearings and explore the city. They picked up several bits of useful information as the day progressed. In the park area, a woman tended a pot on a small fire; in the pot, rice with vegetables steamed. In a skillet, flat patties of cornmeal sizzled and browned. The aroma was great, Clayton noticed a couple of people approached the cook and handed her small items in exchange for a cup of rice mixture and a corn pone. He looked to Chris, “Get our cups out and let's see if we can trade for some of the food.”
She said, “It does smell good, doesn't it?” She found their cups and spoons, “Let's try a bit of coffee for trade.”
The woman was happy to trade for some coffee. She said, “Ain't no meat today, just the rice and vegetables with a bit of egg.” As they thought, coffee was going to be a rare item.
In another area a man, gun on his waist, stood by a large barrel and tossed trash into the fire. They sat on the ground nearby with their cups. He did ask to see their passes, but had a friendly conversation with them, as they ate. “South Dakota, huh? Had a cousin up there once, don't know what happened to him, though.” He jammed stuff down into the barrel, it sent out sparks and warm waves. “This is a pretty good place, if you work and behave. There's a fence around about a three mile square town. Another gate is at the back, on the river side. It's been cleared out all around, beyond the fences, so there's no hiding and climbing places. We've burned a lot of the debris of torn down houses and buildings around town for fuel.
Clayton questioned, “Do you have guards on the perimeters?”
“You bet, that's one of the big jobs around here. And we have dogs,” the man said. “Where you two staying, at the gym or do you have barter for a room?”
They looked at each other, Chris said, “Well, the gym smelled pretty bad, they say it fills up every night. The weather isn't bad, we'll just find a place to sleep outside.”
“Tell ya what, a friend of mine has a house about a block over that way, fourth house from corner,” he pointed with the pole he had been poking at the fire with. “She has rooms, but she also has a small garage. If no one is using it for the night, she'll let you stay cheap. At least, be under cover. Tell her Bob sent you.”
Clayton stood up, “Thanks, we appreciate it.”
They made their way back to check on the horses and later located the house of Bob's friend. After checking their passes, she agreed for them to use the garage for three ounces of their moonshine. She
was a heavy set woman, unusual in these times for anyone to be plump. Work and no excess of food made nearly all survivors thin. She said with a raspy voice, “You can stay as long as you need, we'll work it out as you go. There's plenty of stuff floating around this city. If you're smart, you can do lot's of tradin' for what you need. Just don't let nobody take advantage of you and hang on to those passes, no matter what.”
Practically nothing in the old wooden garage, it did have a paved floor and was shelter, no windows, the big front door was permanently down and an entrance door was on the side. They moved the small wagon in, dug out a candle, placed it on an old plastic bucket and lit it. Their sleeping bags and blankets spread out on the floor. Chris wished she had another of those warm cornpone patties. Since they managed one hot meal today, she wouldn't try to build a fire and cook tonite. She dug out some dried jerky and one of the few jars that Clayton's mother insisted they bring. It was a large jar of tomatoes, corn and potatoes she had preserved.
Clayton said, “It's just weird, isn't it? This pass thing is a big deal around here. Makes me a little nervous, everybody keeps reminding us, don't loose the pass.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Well, I don't intend to loose mine,” she said. They ended another day, so close but maintained their distance. Chris thought that was getting harder to do.
***
Funny, Chris hadn't noticed before, most of the citizens of the city, the ones with visible weapons, were dressed very similar. Even a few people who appeared to be visitors, wore the same vest, actually a tunic style top. Maybe she hadn't noticed because the tunics were made from many different fabrics in dozens and dozens of varied colors. Obviously, they were made in at least a few sizes. A gunbelt circled the waist of many citizens, or you could easily spot a small weapon, as well as many other items that filled the two big pockets in the vests.
The Days After (The Tenth Year) Page 12