Each missing piece of equipment is described in both form and function, with just a dash of swearing added as garnish. Nowhere else on earth are you likely to hear the phrase: "sexy fucking twenty-five quart stand mixer."
During stage two, you're required to taste everything that Alex is cooking. This doesn't require a lot of arm twisting as Alex is an amazing cook even with jury rigged gear. Then, one by one, he'll explain to you why each dish is shit, and body parts he'd amputate get the correct ingredients.
Apparently "powdered", "frozen", "dried", and "canned" are all dirty words for Alex. The Deputies once killed a deer and spit roasted it, and I had to hear about if for the better part of a week.
"Burned on the outside, bloody on the inside, and dry all the way through. Jesus the ONE time we had fresh meat and they just fuck it up." Alex takes his food pretty seriously.
At stage three, we drink whatever's handy and bitch about what a mess Greeley has become. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't my favorite part. Alex and I talk about where we'd go, who we'd take with us, and who we'd leave behind.
Then he dropped a bombshell on me.
"Jonas, I'm leaving this fucking place at the first thaw. And I'm taking Wendell and Caroline if they'll come."
I was flabbergasted. This was something we'd talked about, but we talked about it the way friends talk about opening a store together, or backpacking across Tibet. Something to do before you die. We sat in silence for a while, then I asked him where he planned to go.
"Islands," he told me, "There are a thousand little Caribbean islands out there with tiny populations. They've barely got clock radios in some of them, let alone cell phones. No matter how bad it got there, they'd have weathered it."
I did what I could to try to discourage him. The corpses, the distance he'd have to travel, finding a working boat, navigating by maps alone. Hurricanes. It was too dangerous for just three to try on their own. Paradise Falls had proven that.
None of that mattered to him.
"Jonas," he said, "Franklin once said something along the lines of, 'Any asshole who'd give up his freedom to feel safe, is too much of a prick to be safe or free.'"
He was determined (and paraphrasing.)
We talked business and worked out a good deal on the food. If I brought it, he'd cook it, as long as he, Wendell and Caroline got reasonable portions. We shook on the deal and he warned me to keep Sarah at a distance.
"You're a rich man, Mr. Waight. And that bitch is looking to feather her nest," Alex said as he escorted me out of his kitchen. I was still stunned as I wandered out into the cold.
Alex Wilkes is leaving Greenly.
I wandered up to Sarah's home around nightfall, the rubbing alcohol hidden in the bottom of my backpack. If she tried to pull a fast one I'd just tell her I couldn't find it and that would be that.
Her house is a modest one story, white picket home on Greenly's 3rd Street, the sidewalks well shoveled (by the Deputies, no doubt.) Candles glowed in all the windows. A layer of condensation on the living room picture window promised heat, a rare luxury.
It used to be her family's home but now she lives alone. Her mother was one of the ones who couldn't pull away from the radio, and she stabbed her live-in boyfriend to death with a steak knife when he tried to move her.
No big loss there, he barely worked, and there were rumors it wasn't Sarah's mother he was after when he started dating her. Her real father's been gone for years. Town gossip is that he ran off a waitress and is now living somewhere in Utah, but Sarah insists he's in Iraq, fighting the terrorists.
Maybe the army did get desperate enough to recruit overweight forty year old alcoholics in it's final days, but I've got to side with the gossips on this one. She visits her mother regularly in the Civic Building basement (dungeon?) proving that everyone has at least one redeeming quality.
Sarah was at the door before I'd even struck the knocker. She opened it theatrically, a pale pink robe covering her curves like a kimono. Gone was the petulant little girl, replaced with a goddess, complete with immaculate make-up, perfect hair and painted red lips.
She didn't speak, just took my hand and led me inside. The living room had been converted into her main living space, with a large cast iron tub in the corner. There were several cans of Sterno underneath, warming the perfumed water.
There was no chairs or couches to speak of, just cushions and pillows around the sides, with scented candles on every shelf. The rose wallpaper was almost completely covered by cut out pictures of celebrities. Collin Farrell, Josh Hartnet, Gwen Stephanie... Fergie. The likely now-dead faces of America's royalty stared at me through the candlelight.
In the center of the room a crate had been converted to a dinner table, covered with a checkered tablecloth. On the table were ten cans of some of the rarest foods I've seen in months seen. She smiled at my obvious delight.
I'd make a shitty poker player.
Salmon, tuna, tinned beef, condensed milk. Spices. She was offering double my price. Considering we hadn't made a deal on the rest of the things she'd stolen, I was fairly OK with that. It might have slid into over-compensation, but some compensation was due, and I was willing to take it. I went for my pack and she stopped me.
“I made supper,” she said sweetly.
Something was cooking in the kitchen that smelled incredible. She took my coat off (and I have to admit that I didn't try too hard to stop her.) A propane heater sputtered in the corner and for the first time in months I was able to get out of my winter clothes somewhere other than the church or Civic Building.
It was probably sixty five degrees at most in the room but to me it felt like the tropics. Paradise.
Alex's warnings were there in the back of my mind, but growing dimmer and dimmer as Sarah folded my coats and set them neatly in the corner. He might be right, but I was warm, and I was starting to think warm might be better than right.
I suddenly caught a foul odor, and was horrified to discover that it was me. A month in the same coat, same clothes, changing only on days where it was warm enough to do so had rendered me foul. I became self-conscious. She smiled and pointed to the tub.
"That's for you Jonas," she said, "I feel so bad for how I treated you. Don't worry, I wont peek."
She wandered off through a beaded curtain into the kitchen, humming a tune that sounded oddly familiar to me. Comforting, like a lullaby
I stripped self-consciously, and slipped into the tub. I don't have words to describe the sensations I felt at that moment as I slid into the warm, soapy water. Luxury is hard to come by in Greenly, and to be suddenly surrounded by it was intoxicating.
I immerse myself in the tub and close my eyes. Then I start to clean the filth from myself, my mind drifting.
I start scrubbing, slowly at first but then frantically, realizing how filthy I am. It's been months since my last proper washing and the dirt, sweat and grit come off me in sheets.
But I can't get it all.
The more I scrub the dirtier I feel, and the murkier the water becomes around me. Like a man possessed I begin to frantically clean myself, disgusted and horrified by what I've become. I'm repulsive.
“It's all right Jonas,” Sarah says. But it's not all right.
A gentle, tinkling tune drifts in from the kitchen; a wind up music box. One by one the candles die out, blown out by some unseen draft. Sarah doesn't seem to notice, so I ignore it.
I scrub even harder, starting to dig my fingernails at the dirt and scum. No matter how much I clean there's always more and more filth. I can't get it off me and even when I do I'm still submersed in it. The water turns completely black.
Somewhere, outside, the Dark Thing roars in the distance. Even the soft hands beginning to caress and massage my shoulders don't distract me from my work. The black water turns pink as I flay parts of my skin off that are too dirty to clean with my fingernails.
“It's all right, Jonas,” Sarah whispers. But she's not in the tub. Hands on my shou
lders. Blood dribbles down from the furrows my nails tear into my skin.
I realize in horror that it's not hands on me, but black, sinuous tentacles. Massaging me. A lyrical voice whispering in my ear. Half Sarah's voice, half.... something else, every word and idea vile... obscene... and I'm ashamed to say, tempting.
“It's all right, Jonas,” Sarah... and the other, whisper in stereo into my ears. Outside the house the Dark Thing slams against the front door, screaming at her... at them. Growling and snapping.
She laughs at his rage, long and deep and mocking and I don't know if “she” is Sarah or something else. All I want to do is get this grime off me and feel normal, and I can't, and the tentacle-hands are there, and Sarah is there and-
I panic.
They're together now, she and it.
I turn to look at it, the but the last candle blows out, and suddenly I'm in the dark. The girl thing slips into the tub with me; a wet, smooth abomination. Sarah laughs. I'm not sure if she's close, or in here with me.
I scream.
I awoke to Sarah holding my hand. "Don't worry, I have bad dreams too," she said.
I sat in the warm water, shaking, unwilling to look at her. We sat together quietly together for what felt like a long time, but was most likely just a few minutes. She kept holding my hand and I let her. My heart was pounding.
I have to admit I was embarrassed, wondering how loud I'd screamed. I mumbled some sort of apology that I don't remember and she nodded and patted my head affectionately. It was disarming.
She was being... kind.
She gave me some clothes; a tee-shirt, pair of jeans and some boxer shorts, and I dressed self-consciously while she cooked. She hummed a little tune that sounded familiar as she cooked, wearing an apron, moving gracefully, but competently.
From the kitchen the smell of tomato soup drifted in, rich and sumptuous. Not the kind made from ketchup packets and dried herbs that I'd grown accustomed to. Her round hips swayed to the tune she hummed as she plated the meals on a small tray.
“Soup's on,” Sarah said with a genuine smile.
She spread a tablecloth over the table-crate, her kimono opening slightly. I pretended not to notice and she pretended she hadn't noticed me noticing, and as she sat down I was struck by something I hadn't considered.
Was this a date?
The meal, the bath, the company, any of them were worth nearly as much as the trade. Did she need it that badly? Was she insuring herself against me not selling to her? I'd already agreed.
Or was it a pretense to get me alone. My rational mind knew there was danger in that place. There was no non-manipulative reason for her to act like this.
The rest of me smelled the food, and felt the clean and heat, and saw the beautiful girl in the lamplight serving me, and told my rational mind to shut up.
I knelt at the small table, Japanese style, as Sarah brought in two bowls of fragrant tomato soup, and two glasses of dark, purple liquid on a silver serving tray.
She served with grace, kneeling next to the table and setting each bowl down without so much as a sound. Then she sat cross-legged on the other side of the table. I kept my eyes level, conscious that this had exposed part of her thigh. We hadn't done business yet. I raised my glass skeptically, swirling the dark liquid around.
Sarah laughed.
"Now Jonas, do you think I'm going to poison you?" Sarah asked with mock severity.
I lied and said no.
"Try it," Sarah said, "It's pomegranate. I've been saving it for a special occasion." Then she leaned over and took my glass, taking a long, slow sip. She smiled, handing the glass back to me and then, convinced, I drank.
It was amazing. Tart but sweet, and silky. After spending months drinking boiled snow and potato moonshine, the liquid was more than I could handle. I drank the pomegranate juice greedily, like my first drink at an oasis in the desert.
I knew she was trouble. I knew that it was obscene for her to have so much when the rest of town had so little, but at that moment, I was the one taking advantage of that fact. I did not want to leave that room. I'd forgotten what comfort and civilization felt like.
I took a spoonful of the soup next and shivered a bit at the silky texture of it. She'd made it with condensed milk and some sort of exotic, dried herbs. After a few spoonfuls, the spoon was too slow for me. I picked up the bowl and finished the soup in one less than polite gulp. Sarah giggled.
The room started to feel small and I was becoming very aware of her. When we made eye contact, she lowered her eyes quickly,. Demurely. She was almost shy, but not quite.
Coy.
The scents from the candles, cinnamon and vanilla, surrounded me. When you've been living in your own sweat and grime for so long, it's amazing how powerful a pleasing scent can be. A reminder of a “home” that didn't exist anymore, and a welcome one at that.
Sarah barely ate. She just gracefully swirled her soup, making patterns in the liquid. When she arched her back under the pretense of getting comfortable, I snapped back to reality.
She was working me, and I was letting her.
I started to get concerned about the pull the room (and perhaps the girl) had over me, and the sensible part of me decided it was time to leave. This was her paradise, not mine, and I didn't want to get too comfortable.
A man could get used to this, and I think that's sort of the point. Everything she has she owns because someone gave it to her. And they probably all started just like this. This wasn't hospitality, this was seduction.
I was here for business, and too much pleasure was getting in the way of that. I was about to get taken.
I had no idea.
I went for my pack over her objections, and rummaged around until I found the rubbing alcohol. I set it on the table and said nothing. She pouted as I filled my pack.
"But there's still something I have to show you! Aren't you curious what I need it for, Jonas?"
I did my best to ignore her as I stuffed cans into my backpack. The house was closing in on me; a silken prison that, if I didn't get the fuck out of, and fast, I'd end up trapped in. She doesn't deserve any of what she has, she just uses kids like Fetch for it. And people like me. Weak men.
Still, I probably could have shown a little more backbone when I let her drag me to the bedroom.
Sarah Goodman's bedchamber was as obscenely lavish as her living room. Taking up the majority of the room was a massive king-size bed with red satin sheets and fat white pillows. At the base a pile of quilts and comforters were neatly folded, promising peaceful, warm sleep in any weather (while the other 127 of us shivered our nights away.) She even had a second heater just for the bedroom.
Every wall was covered with photos, like a shrine to herself. Sarah with her friends. Sarah as prom queen. Sarah at a party waving around a bottle of beer. In nearly every photo she was hugging someone. A friend, her mother, a parade of dark haired broad shouldered boyfriends.
I started to feel sorry for her. The rock stars and movie stars decorating her the living room. The friends, well-wishers and hangers-on covering the walls of her bedroom.
Shrines to a time when she mattered, and to the things she cared about that no longer matter. The popularity and adoration of so many made null by their deaths. The end of bullshit hit Sarah harder than anyone else in town.
In the world before, her looks and popularity gave her status. She had a place and a purpose, to represent beauty, and to be well liked, and she was doing her part.
No one cared if she could chop wood, or shoot, or cook. All she had to be was lovely; the world took care of the rest for her. No one had ever prepared her for the real world... let alone this world
"Would you like to hear some music, Jonas?" she whispered conspiratorially, and before I could stop her she had a wind up radio out and was frantically winding it.
There was a look of a look of pure mischief in her eyes and I stood there, horrified, as she flicked the radio on. Immediately the room was fi
lled with the otherworldly sounds of the mummer. She jumped onto her bed and started dancing, writhing to some unheard beat.
“Turn it off Sarah, That's dan-” I started.
And then, just barely, under the sounds of the signal that drove men mad, I heard the music. Something recent, I couldn't put my finger on what, but I was suddenly excited.
“You hear it, don't you Jonas. I just knew you would,” Sarah said.
The song changed, and this song I was familiar with, an oldie. One I liked. Otis Redding's voice came through, crisp and clean and clear, singing about a man alone on a dock, waiting for destiny to find him. A free man, without a care in the world, save for being able to do what he wants, when he wants.
The mummer continued to fade, the music coming in more and more clearly. The excitement of the song lead me to a thought that filled me with even more comfort and hope.
Someone, somewhere was transmitting!
People were still alive out there somewhere! People with electricity, and enough technical know-how to run a radio station. Not only that, but they had enough free time to actually broadcast music. They weren't just talking, they were idling. Civilization! Waiting somewhere beyond the wall!
I was thrilled.
Then I realized that the song I was hearing... it was different than the one Sarah was dancing to. We were both hearing music, but it was music that spoke to us. Whatever she was dancing to, it wasn't this song.
I wasn't listening to the music. I was listening to the Murmur, as it slid around inside my mind. This was madness.
This was how the signals took you.
I dove for the radio but she deftly leap away from me, cradling the radio in her arms like a child and never missed a step in the obscene burlesque she was performing. The song changed, and the somber tones of "If I Didn't Care" by the Ink Spots drifted in.
“If I didn't care... more than words can say...” the radio crooned.
"Do you want to see what I've been working on Jonas? What I'm becoming?" Sarah asked.
Safety (One Eighteen: Migration Book 1) Page 5