by Eric Flint
"He's doing well," said the policeman. "Thanks for asking, sir."
Millie came rolling out of the garden on her little electric cart. The cart was very low to the ground; John had built it that way. It moved quietly towards the house. At the side of the house there was a short ramp that went up about eighteen inches and leveled out, ending in a handrail. Next to the handrail was a small box with a cord coming out of it. The ramp and the railing were attached to the house. Millie piloted the little cart alongside the house and up the small ramp, her back to the house and her feet progressively getting higher from the ground. When the ramp leveled out, it was exactly the right height for Millie to slide out of the seat and stand up, supporting herself on the railing. Steadying herself for a moment, she reached around and plugged the battery charger into the cart. Then she began to walk towards them, wheezing slightly. The ramp was something John was proud of. It made it easier for her to sit down and get up from the low cart.
"That's very nifty," said Maureen. She sounded like she meant it. "Did you build that?"
"Yes. The ramp and the cart. Cart came first." He smiled. "Not the horse."
Maureen paused a moment, like she wasn't sure what to say. Then it dawned. "Oh, cart before the horse. I get it." She laughed, a real spot of laughter, that was clearly different than her earlier smile. "I didn't quite expect that," she said, still smiling. Officer Onofrio gave a small smile, too; he had heard the joke before. He had been out here on two separate ambulance runs that had taken Millie to the hospital a few miles away.
"May we go inside and talk?" asked Maureen. She gave a quick glance to Onofrio, who nodded slightly in the affirmative. "Do you want to wait out here, Officer?"
"That would be fine, ma'am," replied Onofrio.
***
As the three of them eased into the vinyl kitchen chairs with a cup of coffee, Maureen saw the neat kitchen, the white plastic basket on the middle of the table with medications, and the worn table. It reminded her of her parents, years ago. The details were different, but the feeling was the same, they were living out the last years as best they could. This was going to be hard. "Well," Maureen said, letting her smile return, the one that made both John and Millie look at her with suspicion, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here?"
"Not really" said Millie, cutting into the flow of where Maureen was going. "You want us to move out of here, don't you? Too dangerous, or too far from town? For our own good?" Millie was smiling, comfortable, and just a bit argumentative.
Maureen stopped for a moment and blinked a bit. She finally sighed, resigned. "You're right, Mrs. Trapanese. We think it's too dangerous."
"Who's we?" John asked, flatly.
"Well, we're organizing as best we can, and trying to think of everything that might happen. You know Dennis, Jr., my husband is a-was a police officer over in Clarksburg?" They nodded. "Well, he's helping out as best he can, and so am I."
"How are you helping?" asked John.
"I've some experience in social work, and I just thought I could help him and the police force out. This is a good way to help. I've some help watching the kids. You wouldn't believe how this has brought the town together. Everyone is looking for something to do to help. Kind like after the tornado a few years back in Clarksburg. Everyone just stepped up, and did a job, no complaining. This is one of those times."
"There's not much we can do," said Millie.
"You can help us by moving into town," replied Maureen.
"Why is that a help?"
"Basically, this is not a defensible position-we can't defend this part of the road easily. You are not safe here. In town you'd be a lot safer, closer to help. And we don't have to spend the effort to keep you safe all the way out here. We're stretched way too thin as it is." She sat back in her chair. "It's not safe out here on your own."
"Have you had any more incidents since Dan Frost was shot on the first day?" John asked.
"No, just some refugees coming in. Mostly on the other side of town, but a few from this way. They say that the main army has been moving off, away from us."
"Well, Miss Grady," John continued, "I don't think we're in any real danger out here. The barn and yard are well lit, and the phone is working again."
Maureen was getting a little impatient. "What are you going to do for supplies? And how are you going to get to town? What about groceries? Have you thought these things through, Mr. Trapanese? Mrs. Trapanese? Our response time out here will be significant. And out here at the edge of the Ring of Fire, you're the most vulnerable to outsiders. Do you understand how serious this is?"
"Of course, I don't understand young lady," Millie harrumphed. "Who can understand this nonsense? The sun is in the wrong spot, the moon is in the wrong spot. How can anyone understand this?"
"Mrs. Trapanese," Maureen began, "may I call you Millie?" Millie gave her a nod and an additional harrumph, just a bit disdainfully. "Thank you, Millie," she continued. "You're right. Nobody really understands what's happening. It may be that in a few weeks it will sink in. Right now we're just dealing with the reality that we have. And that reality is that this is now a much more dangerous place. It may look the same, but it's not the same. And we don't think it ever will be the same." She paused. "I know you don't want to give up your home, but why don't you come into town? It will be better for you in the long run."
John and Millie exchanged glances across the table. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Millie spoke. "I don't give a shit about the long run."
Maureen blinked again. She started to open her mouth to protest and stopped. She looked at the basket on the middle of the table, and back to Millie and John, who returned her gaze.
"I don't," continued Millie after a time. "Please don't take offence, Maureen. It's just that it's a little too much for us old folks to take in."
"But Millie, you shouldn't think like that," said Maureen. Maureen didn't believe her own argument.
"Then how should I think, Maureen? Should I pretend that the Walgreen's is still in Wheeling?" Millie kept her voice measured, calm, and strong and met Maureen's gaze full on. "I've a few weeks supply of medications, and I know what to do to make them last. Been doing that for years. Too expensive otherwise."
John leaned forward, placed his hand on Millie's, and said, "We're not moving into town. It's not safe there, either, so far as I can tell. The difference between here and down there isn't very much. I don't think it really matters all that much where we live." He too looked at Maureen, with kindness, but also with determination. "And if you're wondering, yes, I do have some weapons here. We met in Greece when I was serving with an Army transport unit right after the war. I should be able to defend us against whatever bad guys are lurking in the shadows. Not that I think it's necessary."
***
Maureen and Officer Onofrio drove back to the police station in silence. The V8 drone of the cruiser was the only background noise, along with a couple of squelch tails on the two-way. After a couple of miles, Onofrio spoke up. "I don't know if I'd do anything different, Maureen. I mean, that is where they retired to, where they wanted to spend as much time as possible. Can't really disagree a whole lot."
"I know." Maureen sighed. "I'm just worried about them. What are they going to do? It's dangerous out there on the edge. We just don't know what's going to happen."
June, 1631
Heinrich was famished. His vision was foggy. As he came to the ridge, he paused. The land below him seemed different somehow. Where he now stood the land around him was colors of gray, brown and black. Below him, the land-sharply cut as if by a knife-was a brilliant green. The trees, the grass, all looked alive. He looked down at the farmstead below him. It looked prosperous and untouched by battle. Surrounded by green, with a garden. His spirits lifted. Perhaps he could get a meal, for himself and… he looked back to the stand of trees near the ridge. They would be safe there. At least for now. He began to pick his way down the ridge. The ground was soft, and fell away easil
y. Caution, he told himself. Caution, don't fall and break a leg.
Heinrich was leading the horse. It had no strength to bear any riders; the hipbones were protruding over the loose flesh. The horse couldn't go much further. The young German looked back and gave the lead a tug. "There may be some food down there, my sturdy friend. Lets go and see." So together they walked down the ridge, until it reached level ground. He looked to the farmhouse, and saw the two farmers standing under an extended roof that formed an overhang to the front door.
He paused, trying to regain his bearings. He then trudged to them, head down. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was all he could do. He looked at the man. A big man in front of the farmhouse. The man was peering at him with some sort of a short telescope; he saw the flash of light off of the lens. The man then began to look above him, at the ridgeline. The woman then took the telescope, and handed him what looked like some sort of a small farm tool. From this distance, and his foggy state of mind, that was all of the analysis he could do. He knew he would be at the mercy of the farmers-to a point. All he wanted was food.
"As soon as I tell them that I will not harm them, they will feed me. The others have. At least those that were alive when we found them." He tightened the belt of his long leather coat, and patted his side. His saber was still in place, out of sight, and his small dagger in the sheath in the small of his back.
He continued with his head down, focusing on walking. The ground was very smooth and covered with the green of spring grass. So green. It looked like another land to him. As if spring came here early. He shook his head again. Focus. Focus, he told himself. This is risky. But they always stop being afraid as soon as I make them understand. ..
As he neared the farmhouse, the farmer said something to him. Heinrich blinked, shook his head and tried to listen. What language was it? The man said it again. It sounded strange. Heinrich stopped. He could feel the horse drop its head behind him. It sounded like the man was giving him a command. He raised his head slightly. Heinrich tried to no longer look people in the eyes. He had seen too many eyes, blank, white, staring at the sky. All dead. No more eyes. "Please," he said, quietly and sincerely. "Please, I need food. Can you give me a meal?" The farmer straightened. He was a big man, larger than he had first thought.
The man said something again. He could not understand. Heinrich lifted his head, and looked to his side. The house was strange, unusual. Fog again, and he shook his head. Focus. Try again, polite. "Please, sir. All I ask is a meal and a place to sleep tonight. I have companions and we have come far to escape the fighting. Can you help me?"
The man said something, and shook his head sympathetically. In the negative. He held out his hand and repeated his commands, and continued to shake his head no. The young German clenched his fists, and relaxed them. He took a step to the man, and pleaded again. "Please, we have no food. We have not eaten in many days."
The man was still shaking his head no. When Heinrich took another step, entreating, he saw the man change his grip on what looked like a farm tool. He heard a click from the tool, and the end was pointed towards him. It was a tube, like a small arquebus. He paused. Was this a weapon of some kind? Farmers did not have weapons such as this. It was finely made, wood and dark metal, and worn in spots from years of use. He focused on the weapon-tube?-and instinctively loosed the belt on his coat. It was an automatic motion; he made it when he felt threatened.
The farmer sensed this, and raised the-what was this thing-weapon. Yes, it is a weapon. The way he holds it, and the way that he speaks. He does not fear me. Heinrich's blood ran cold. This was not supposed to be dangerous. "Just a meal. Please." He felt himself swaying, lightheaded. The old farmer held out his hand, palm out and facing him. He said something like sounded like "halt." He said it strongly. Heinrich stopped, and looked into the face of the man. He was unbelievably old, and wrinkled, but he stood like a much younger man. The farmer dropped the weapon away from his face slightly, and he was speaking again. He was entreating to him for something. Most farmers simply pleaded for their lives, thinking that they were going to be killed. This old man was pleading something else. The young German listened closely. The language sounded vaguely familiar yet unintelligible. The farmer was shaking his head again. Firmly. No. But the meaning of the old man's words came to him in a flash of understanding.
This farmer was not pleading for his life as he had seen so many do before. This farmer was pleading that he wouldn't have to kill. He saw the farmer's eyes fully for the first time. His eyes were not dead. This farmers eyes were shining and clear. Remarkably clear. Alive. He tried to not look at eyes any longer. So many dead ones, staring at the sky and empty. Heinrich swayed briefly, and raised his hands away from his leather buff coat, now only loosely tied in the front. He stepped back. "Please. I just want something to eat." He once again timidly looked into the eyes of the farmer. He saw two things. Bright and remarkably clear eyes for one so old. And genuine relief. Relief that he would not have to kill.
The old woman came out of the doorway, took three steps to the post that held up the overhang, and leaned against it. She smiled. She asked him a question. He struggled to place the language. It was so familiar. He saw the old man look at her quietly, and say something. It sounded like a question to her, incredulous. He was questioning her actions. She answered in a cheery voice that caught Heinrich off guard. The old man stepped back, and made an almost comical harrumph. He lowered his weapon slightly.
His foggy attention went to her. He searched for her eyes. They too were alive. Unafraid. They were dark. Darker than he had ever seen. There was wisdom there. He just blinked at her. Those eyes were sizing him up. His character. His soul. He felt ashamed and lowered his eyes to the ground. There had been no challenge from her that required him to back down. There was only a desire to understand him. He was afraid she would.
She addressed him directly, and made a motion to her mouth as if eating. Startled, he looked at them each. She said a word that was familiar. Eat. It was an English word. He could feel his face light up. Tears wanted to come over him. He was going to be fed. "Yes, Yes," he said. "Eat, yes, eat." Thank you, thank you.
No tears, he told himself sternly. He swallowed back his raw emotion and buried it. Putting it away in a dark corner. He shook the fog away, and smiled "Yes, eat, yes."
There was another exchange between the man and the woman, and the man looked relieved..".. almost killed him…" sounded a lot like English. English? Here? Thuringa? Heinrich took a step towards the open door. English? He tried to remember a language he had partially used six years ago when he was in England with his father. He didn't study it. He didn't like England, or the people he encountered there. They were not true Catholics, his father always said. Heretics. He tried to stop at that thought. Heretics. He was so sure back then; everything was simple. There was one true faith. And he was a soldier of that faith. He was going to rid the world of the heretics; convince them of the error of their ways; defeat their armies; and bring them to the church for the glory of God and the Emperor. That's what his father had said, what the priests had said, what everyone had said. For the glory of God and the Emperor. He took another step towards the dwelling.
The man raised the weapon again, this time very quickly. It was still pointed at him. The man gave him a command; holding his hand out again and saying something that sounded once again like "halt." This time the young German stopped immediately, but he was confused. He looked to the farmer for an explanation. The old lady glanced at the farmer quizzically too, he noticed.
Heinrich looked back to the farmer, who made a motion for him to open his coat. He complied, slowly, with his hands up near the collar, so that there would be no mistake. He was almost embarrassed when they saw his cavalry sword hanging from his side. The farmer made a motion for him to put onto the floor. Carefully, he removed it from his scabbard, using only the tips of his fingers, and placed it on the wooden floor. As he stood up, he felt dizz
y and off balance, and he grabbed the wooden post that supported the roof to steady himself. He still had his dagger. He had used it before; he could use it again if necessary. Somehow, he didn't think it was necessary.
He paused before entering the home to look at the door. Strange, delicate construction; it would keep nobody out who wanted in. The glass in the door was very clear. Once inside, the room was opulent, with a padded couch and a massive padded chair, rugs on the floor, and mysterious, highly accurate paintings on the wall of people's faces. More paintings of carriages like the large one outside. The detail was amazing. He shook his head; trying to process the things he saw, define them in the range of his experiences. These people must be very rich. The old lady was saying something to him, and clearly wanted him to move forward towards the open archway.
Heinrich approached the archway, but stopped. There was a shelf on the wall. The shelf was covered with small figurines, no bigger than his fist. When he saw them, he stopped and stared. They looked like a representations of small children. Some had puppies and other pets, some were shy, and some seemed playful. But they all had large eyes. Mournfully peering at him. Eyes. Eyes of innocent children. He tried to break his stare off the objects, but he could not. Their eyes held him. He was far away. He heard the old lady speaking, something about "Precious Moments."
She touched him on the arm, and he came back to the present, weak, hungry and confused. He looked down at her. She looked back up to him and smiled. That smile drew him to the next room where the smells hit him like a hammer in the stomach. The smell of the rich food, made his stomach cramp, and he grabbed his sides to quell the pain. He couldn't identify the smell, but it was far too exotic to be simple peasant food. He was desperately hungry. He felt dizzy.
"Please," he said to her. She led him to a padded chair with a very smooth red and white table, and placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. She called it "beeeen zoup." He briefly glanced at it, picked up the bowl and drank the broth down. It had small beans in it that barely needed chewing. The lady made an exclamation that sounded like "jeepers," and went to the counter, returning with several pieces of thin sweet bread that was white and soft. It was almost like eating air, it was so light. He sopped up the bowl with one of the pieces.