John and Chung spent the night in the Ranger Station, with John tossing and turning, going over the events of the day and whether or not he had to kill Fran. He had made the right decision. Chung jerked in his sleep and John thought it was also because of what had transpired that day. After the restless night, they rose early the next morning for their return trip.
As John was driving back to the lodge, he noticed that Chung had assumed a familiar pose. His arms were crossed, his gaze blankly fixed on the horizon and his hands once again fidgeted with the rifle. "What's wrong, Chung? Our mission was a success. We did good. We found some fuel. We obtained some intel. We're still alive. What more could you want?"
"Our new world is not a nice place, is it, Big Guy? It's brutal. Dog eat dog. I thought the survivors would band together. I figured that maybe life would be hard. That we'd work all the time. But," Chung stopped talking and wiped his eyes. "Dammit, I figured we'd all be good friends." He stopped for a moment as his voice became raspy. "And when the work was done at night -- we'd all gather around the fireplace -- and sing songs, play games, have fun. The old fashioned way. Be happy to be alive. It hasn't turned out that way, has it? It's horrible. Nasty. Worse than dog eat dog. We're afraid of everybody we see. We're afraid of the government. We kill anybody we have any reason not to trust. Kill or be killed. I hate it." He stared blankly out the window.
John had to take on the leadership role again, quelling the fears of one of his group. He slowed to a crawl as he spoke. "In our old world, Chung, we had the rule of law. The law kept people from killing each other. If people had a problem with each other, they would just walk away. The other person didn't come hunting them. If they did, we could call the law and the law would protect us. Put that person away. Now, we have no rule of law. Nothing stops someone from coming after us, killing us. So, we're fearful. You're right, we believe it's kill or be killed. And I believe that's the only way it can be right now. Sad. It will be a few years before your new world arrives. I'm confident it will come. We'll do what we must until that happens."
Chapter 75 - The Rabbit Man
With John and Chung on one mission at the Ranger Station, George and Fred were preparing to try their hand again at hunting. Fred decided that, with the increased firearms training of the group, he could leave Pierre in charge of security without worrying.
"That was a great fishin' trip, Fred. I couldn't reel 'em in fast enough. We filled the boxes on the flatbed to the brim in one day. I'm ready to go again. Marceau said we had enough fish for two weeks. Do you believe that? We can feed the whole crew for two weeks with a day's work."
"Don't forget. And two days travel."
"Big deal. Two weeks food in three days. We're still heroes."
"And three days cutting wood."
"OK, but we're still heroes."
"And weeks of building that little train."
"Still heroes. Major heroes. Marceau said she was tired of beans. That's good enough for me. Keep the cook happy. Rule number one."
"Chef." Fred was quick to repeat what Marceau had said many times.
"Right."
"And, I suppose it has nothing to do with all the other fishermen on the East Coast being dead and not catching all the fish? And all the fishing boats rotting away in port. Right?"
"No, of course not, it has to do with us being kick-ass fishermen. You can tell your grandchildren about that day. It was the greatest day in fishin' history. You can take that to your grave."
George had hit a nerve, something Fred thought about more and more lately. "I don't have any children or a girlfriend. I'm not likely to have any grandchildren. Or children. I am likely to have a grave. Out back on the hill, probably. I've already picked out a shady spot with a good view."
"I thought you and Joan were hittin' it off. She's attractive. Don't tell me you're not interested. She was interested in you last night at dinner. She was listenin' to everything you said, twirlin' her hair. Watchin' you constantly. Smilin' at every thing you said. Laughin' at every joke. And to be truthful, most weren't funny. You need to think up some new stories, good buddy. And, after dinner, she touched you three times. Put her hand on your arm." George slapped Fred on the shoulder. "Three. And on the porch, she sat as close to you as she could and crossed her legs in your direction. All those signs were pointin' straight at you, Fred. Don't say I'm wrong, 'cause I'm not. She is yours to lose. Don't blow this."
"I'm not blowing anything. Binky and his group are always talking about leaving. Continuing their around the world trip. She may not be here long. She's nice. But not the best. And she's weird. Did you hear her say anything? Not a word. Not a single word. A few laughs. That's all. ."
"Most men complain about their women talkin' too much. No problem with Joan. A perfect woman. And who in this giant world of ours is best? Masako? Are you still pining for her? She's pining for John and dating Zack. Move on man. The past has passed. She's your chance to be happy here. Don't be an idiot and throw it away. Life is now more difficult than it has ever been and your chance of being happy is less than it's ever been."
George and Fred had taken the original two Dark Darts to the east along the same route they took to go to the coast. The original Darts were not powered by a gasifier, but had bicycle pedals. The second car of the little train was filled with their camping supplies. As soon as they saw a railroad yard ahead, where the tracks turned south, about forty miles east of the lodge, George stopped pedaling. "This is it."
"George, what's up? Why are we stopping? You see something?"
"We're going huntin'. That's why we're takin' this trip. It's a huntin' trip. And this is the place."
"How do you know that this is the place?"
"How do you know this is not the place? It's just outside the range of the cars. We've never been here before. If we had to walk back, we could. Perfect."
"I was looking for some reasoning a little more persuasive than that. Like maybe you had seen tracks beside the tracks. I mean animal tracks beside the train tracks."
"Nope. Let's go hunt for somethin' to shoot. That's what huntin' is all about. Right?"
Fred hopped out of the confined cabin, and then helped George.
"Putting on a little weight, old friend? Getting out of shape? Maybe living with Iris agrees with you."
"The only thing that doesn't agree with me right now is you. Cut out the wisecracks and look around. What do you see? Any animals? Any tracks? Scat?"
Fred turned his head and searched all around the immediate area. He removed his binoculars from his backpack and looked. Nothing was moving, except the trees on both sides of the tracks, swaying in the breeze. The rails stretched out to the horizon in both directions.
"Nothing. What do you say, George? Where's the hunting the best?"
"To the right. Over the hill. That's where the river is. All life requires water. We should go that way."
"I'm glad you mentioned that, George. Another thing that all good life requires, and all good hunting requires too, is alcohol. That's a rule my pappy taught me when I was knee high to a grasshopper."
"Y'all were little kids or had giant grasshoppers. Even in Texas, we didn't have grasshoppers that big. Maybe a couple feet long, but that was it. What's in your mind, ol' bud'?"
Fred reached into the rear storage compartment of the Dark Dart and pulled out a bottle.
The lines between George's eyes deepened as he squinted to see. "What's that?"
"You aren't the only genius in this town. I built a still. A little one, but it's big enough. I took some of our corn and made some mash. The rest is history and the best part of that history is in this bottle."
"Freddy-boy, my good ol' bud. Count me in."
George took a drink from the bottle and passed it to Fred. Fred took a drink, coughed and said, "Smooth. Isn't it?"
"Yep. John always says I'm a genius, but this time you get the prize."
"I agree with that," said Fred, taking another drink. "Which way do we
go?"
"Like I said. To the right. Toward the creek. Or river. Or whatever it is. I can hear it gurglin'. It's over there somewhere," he said, pointing with one hand and grabbing the bottle with the other.
George and Fred hiked down the hill and climbed around a few large boulders to the river. They sat on one of the giant rocks by the small stream and Fred took back the bottle, had another drink, then handed the bottle to George.
"I picked the right spot. Sunny day, nice babblin' stream. A light breeze. Couldn't be better. I forgot somethin'. Exactly what is it we're doin' here, Fred?"
"Drinking."
"Right. That's it. Hey, what is that over there drinking from our river?"
"Don't know. Could be a rabbit. Be still. Really still."
"He shouldn't be allowed to drink from our river," George whispered.
"Right," said Fred, taking his rifle from his backpack and aiming. Two seconds later, he pulled the trigger and the rabbit jumped straight up into the air and then fell straight down.
"Serves him right. Drinkin' our water from our river."
"Know what, George? We just hunted. I used to love hunting. But I'm liking it more and more. That was great. I forgot how good it was. What do we do now?"
"Same thing. Pass me the bottle. We'll wait for another. What was that?"
"A rabbit, George. You know. Fluffy. White."
"Right. We'll wait for another rabbit. Or whatever."
"Right, whatever. You said it was white?"
"Still is. Why."
"Wild rabbits are not white. Wonder where it came from?"
"Don't know. You sure this drinkin' and huntin' is safe? They say you shouldn't drink and drive. This could be dangerous, right?"
"No, of course not. But, I hear what you're saying. Drinking and driving is dangerous because of all the other cars on the road. And the trees beside the road. Things you could hit with the car, if you weren't in control. But as long as we don't point a gun at each other, we're fine. Right? Nobody else to shoot. Nobody's around for miles. What can go wrong?"
George and Fred sat on the bank for another ten minutes and then heard rustling in the leaves behind them. Fred looked at George and pointed to the rear. George stood up with his rifle in hand and looked into the bushes. The rustling continued until a snowy-bearded man, lean to the point of being thin and wrinkled as a prune, pushed his way out of the brush. He carried a rabbit as white as his beard. He spied the dead rabbit over at the river bank. where it lay lifeless.
"You two drunks shot my rabbit. I thought I heard a shot. I should shoot you." The man held his rabbit up by the scruff of its neck and said, "Don't you worry, Sweetums. You're safe. I won't let them hurt you."
The rabbit wiggled its nose, but didn't reply.
"We was huntin'," said George, halfway slurring his speech. "Two problems. First, you don't have a gun. And second, that rabbit of yours was drinkin' our water from our river without our permission."
"And what makes this your river?" The man nodded toward the river" It's been here longer than I have."
"I have too," said Fred. "You just got here. That makes it my river. Want a drink?"
"A drink? Of what? Water? Had plenty of that. Not crazy about it. Got a spring full of it in back of the house," he said, pointing a bony finger behind him.
"What is this, George?" said Fred, holding up the bottle.
"I don't know. Why ask me. You made it. You could call it Fred's Special White Lightning."
"What's special about it?" said the man.
"Take a drink and you'll see. It's real smooth. Sweet tastin'."
Fred took another drink and said, "Right. Want a swig of Fred's Special White Lightning?" Fred held out the bottle. "It's real special."
"And smooth."
"Right."
The man ambled over, handed George the rabbit and took the bottle from Fred. He upended it and three swallows later, sat down on a large rock. "It is special. Smooth. You made this? Good work." He put the top back on the bottle and set it into the cold water to chill.
George take a double take at the rabbit and then smiled and began stroking its fur. "Sure. So, who are you?"
"You can call me Bugs. You know, like Bugs Bunny."
Bugs laughed and then Fred and George laughed and, after a few minutes, Fred said, "Why is that funny?" and motioned toward the bottle.
Bugs handed the bottle to Fred and said to George. "Is that your rabbit?"
"No, never saw it before. You gave it to me when you took the bottle. I thought it was a kitten, but you're right, it's a rabbit." He lifted it high in the air and looked at it closely.
"Well, give it back. That one over there was my rabbit, too, and you shot it. I was trailing it. It escaped from my pen. About a half a mile over that way," Bugs said, pointing a finger to the right.
"You raise rabbits?" said Fred.
The man said, "Yeah, any more left in that bottle?" as George handed him the rabbit. "Haven't had a good drink in months. Miss it. Been sober far too long."
"Sure," said Fred, passing the bottle. "Can we see your setup? I always wanted to raise rabbits. Don't make any noise. I like that."
Bugs took the rabbit from George and held it up in front of his face. "Hey, Sweetums. Would you like some of Fred's super special white lightning?" Bugs poured a spoonful into the palm of his hand and Sweetums licked it up. He looked over at Fred and said, "You can see my hutches, but only if you promise not to shoot any more of my rabbits. "
"Of course. I wouldn't shoot your bunnies."
"You already shot one."
"Oh yeah. Sorry about that. We were hunting."
"What?"
"We were hunting."
"Yeah, what?"
"Oh, what were we hunting? Whatever we found. And we found your bunny. Sorry about that. How many have you raised?"
"Two hundred and fifty-one. Fifty, now. You shot one."
"Right."
"You think alcohol will hurt Sweetums?" Bugs held the rabbit out and stroked it's underbelly.
"Probably, is he over eighteen?"
"Days, months or years?"
"Years."
"No, he's less than six months. They all are. I won't give him any more. Did you like that, Sweetums?" Sweetums crinkled his nose. Looking back at Fred, he said, "I think he liked it. Good stuff, right Sweetums. Yeah, he liked it."
Fred and George put their things back into their backpacks and followed Bugs. Ten minutes of hiking later, they stepped over a fence and emerged into a clearing where more rabbits were sitting or eating than they could count.
"Hey, Sweetums. I'm home," Bugs shouted.
"I thought the one you were carryin' was called Sweetums,"
"They're all called Sweetums. It's simpler that way,"
"What do you do with all these," said Fred. "You eat 'em."
"No, not my bunnies! I couldn't eat 'em." Bugs paused a moment. "Well, I eat a few. The ones who aren't nice. Some are mean, you know. I eat those."
"Was the one I shot mean?"
"No! Well he did escape, but I'm not sure. He could have been. They look a lot alike, you know?"
"They all look alike to me. Why did you start raising bunnies, Bugs?"
"For food. After the virus and the panic, meat was hard to come by. I found some rabbits at a house. People had died. Poor little things were hungry. You know what happens if you find a few rabbits?"
"No, what happens."
"Before long you have one hundred and fifty-one rabbits. New Zealand Whites."
"One hundred fifty. Makes sense," said George.
"So, the only meat you are eating is rabbit?"
"It's not bad. Lots of ways to cook it. Tastes a bit like chicken, but gamier."
"Doesn't everything taste like chicken?" said George, taking another gulp from Fred's bottle.
"We know a better way," said Fred. "We have a French chef. An attractive French chef. We also have vegetables and some pigs. And chestnuts. Why don't you bring
some of your rabbits and come to our place. You can show us how to start farming rabbits."
"You also need the right food."
"We have vegetables and some pigs and chestnuts."
"For the bunnies?"
"Oh, no. We have a greenhouse. Built it with my own two hands," Fred said, raising his hands into the air. Noticing the bottle in his right hand, he took another drink. "We raise lettuce. And carrots. But we also have acres of grass."
"Sounds good. They would like that. How far away do you live? Anything left in that bottle?"
Fred handed Bugs the bottle. "Around forty or fifty miles -- from home -- we are. A couple hours."
Bugs looked down at Fred and George's feet. "You guys must walk awful fast. Don't think I could keep up. You know this stuff is good. Real smooth. You should call it Fred's extra special and real smooth white lightning. Might be hard to put on a label, though."
"Sure," Fred said, grabbing the bottle. "We drive a train. George built it. With my help. Goes on the rails."
"That's funny, Fred. All trains go on rails. Did you know that?"
"I think so, George. Goes fast. Pedal power. George is real smart. He drove another one to the coast a month or so ago."
"Really? Catch any fish?"
"I forgot all about that, Fred. Hey Bugs, if you like fish, we just came back from the coast with a pile of fish. On a different train."
The Weak Shall Die: Complete Collection (Four Volume Set) Page 77