Weasel was struck dumb.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m moving too fast for you.”
“Oh no, ma’m. It ain’t that.” He looked up at me and back at Sarah again. “It’s just that I never expected such kindness from strangers. You’ve only known me for a couple of hours.”
“Pretty intense couple of hours,” Sarah replied. “Plenty of time for us to decide. The amount of time Mac and I just spent with you is more than we’ve spent with anyone besides each other in …forever.”
“I’m hearing what she’s saying,” said Weasel. “But what about you, McCall. What do you think about this?”
I grinned.
“I’m with her all the way. Only one thing, though. You think there’s any way we could figure out how to see some of those movies you’ve been talking about?”
Sarah leaned forward and put her arms around Weasel, hugging him close, her head on his shoulder, looking up at me. His hands hung at his side, confused by what they should do, then went across her back in response. I could see the muscles in their arms tighten as they squeezed each other. A single tear coursed its way down from her right eye to her smiling mouth.
“Hot damn,” he said. “Just like in the movies. You two wanna see E.T.?”
• • • •
We never got around to seeing a vid that night, nor for several nights. We talked until dawn, the three of us sitting around the table, Duke slumbering at our feet. The conversation ranged from the frivolous to the deadly serious. Much of our time was taken up with movie and music talk. Weasel was a fanatic about vids; Sarah was pretty much the same way about music. With nicads or lithiums, a portable cd player and her solar battery recharger, Sarah could listen to music for hours. We knew about i-pods, but we didn’t know how to get music onto one.
We also discussed what Weasel saw to be our woeful state of defensive readiness. He possessed an extremely active and wide ranging mind; and, although he had little knowledge on the reason for the collapse, his take on the current state of affairs with the clans was far superior to ours.
“Don’t make a whole lot of difference how we got here,” he told us. “Stayin’ alive is what we should be thinkin’ about.”
We were still in the living room, sipping homemade wine, a couple of hours beyond the reciprocal hug that had sealed our new living arrangement. It was our first foray into serious subjects. Weasel was up now, wandering and browsing the books, touching the antiques, viewing the cornucopia of oils prints and photos that Sarah and I had adorned the walls with. The house was a big, fancy one, the country home of rich people in the 21st, no neighbors for an acre or so in all directions.
But it was ours now, the fifteenth one Sarah and I had looked at when we first went house hunting. We had seen others that suited us, but in them had found evidence of the horrors that accompanied the collapse, corpses—actually skeletons—of whole families, sometimes even their pets, bullet holes, ominous dark rusty stains, massive interior destruction, as if an uncontrollable rage had possessed the interlopers who had invaded the homes and butchered their occupants.
We left those charnel houses and moved on, unwilling to live in the sites of such tragedy.
The house we finally chose was what they called a “model,” the first finished in a development of country homes on wooded sites, surrounded by trees and invisible to the inquiring eyes of neighbors. A sign informed us we were at Falconcrest Glen where we would experience “Luxurious country living on private, wooded lots. From $1,200,000. Model Open.” Falconcrest was never finished. A dozen houses were planned. Some were foundation only. Others, roof and walls. But now, in 2053, our home was encircled by pine, maple, prairie grass, and scrub trees. And only during winter could we see the shells of the unfinished neighborhood.
Our house was spacious and elegant, finished and furnished, clean and virginal, untainted by death and suffering. Three car attached garage bigger than some houses we had seen. And it was totally isolated.
The perfect starter home.
Weasel stopped to admire some prints and oils in the living room. Most of the walls in the spacious house were hung with artwork from various centuries and countries, the bounty of our years of scavenging in malls, galleries and museums and private residences. Some were prints; many, originals.
“I really like these,” said Weasel, stopping in front of a grouping of four. “Kind of a dream like quality to ‘em.”
“Two of them are Atkinson Fox and two Parrish,” I replied. “Both guys are American. Worked in the early 20th. I agree with you. I think both Sarah and I like their innocent quality.”
“You mind if we take a look around upstairs?” Weasel asked.
Access to the upstairs was by a winding staircase from the living room or by the second story of a deck that wrapped around the back of the house. There were five bedrooms and three bathrooms upstairs. The bathrooms were nice to look at, but there was no running water. Our outhouse was a primitive reminder of the collapse.
“I think we can improve our bathroom situation and get rid of that pitiful outhouse,” Weasel said. “You ever seen them portapotties. Kinda looks like a closet, but it’s a shitter. We can get some up here and put ‘em in that big ol’ garage. Outta sight.”
“What about the smell?” Sarah asked.
“They got chemicals,” Weasel said. “We can get it figured out.”
We moved down the hall and Weasel chose a corner room with plenty of windows for his own. Not until later did he tell us he chose it for its defensive capabilities, rather than the view. There was plenty of art on his walls, oils and prints, pencil sketches of European cathedrals and watercolors of nature scenes. Even several framed photographs, some portraits, some nature studies.
“Would I be asking too much,” he asked, “if I wanted one of them scenes I liked downstairs for my room?”
Sarah was delighted. “Oh, Weasel, you can have one of each or even all four if you want. Everything we have is yours. If you see anything else you want for your room, just take it. You can check if there’s anything in our bedroom you’d like to have too.”
Getting into the flow, I offered my original Stan Lee posters, framed and signed. Fortunately, he only took two. But I still have visiting privileges.
“Let’s go down and check the basement and that little ol’ tunnel you got,” he suggested.
“You know about our tunnel?” we both asked simultaneously.
“Shit, I know what kind of music you both play, where the dog sleeps, who reads what, what kind of weapons you got and a whole bunch of other stuff.”
We were astounded.
“You mean you’ve been in the house?”
“Hell,” he said. “Just because I like you don’t mean I ain’t gonna check you out before I make such a big decision. If you two were a couple of idiots, I might not have wanted to join up. Actually, that ain’t exactly true. If you were dim wits, you’d need me more than ever. But I had to see what kind of people you really were. From what I saw, it was too good to be true, all that happiness and stuff. Remind me to show you LEAVE IT TO BEAVER when I get the vid equipment set up.”
He paused and judged our reaction. “Jesus, I hope you ain’t mad at me. It’s my nature to check things out. I never came into the house when you were in it.”
“No, I don’t think we’re upset,” Sarah responded. “Just a little dumbfounded. We kind of thought the grounds were secure. How did you ever get past Duke?”
“Dipped my clothes in pig shit,” he replied. “He never knew I was here. Had to throw away some nice duds though.”
“Gee, what a shame,” I replied.
“No problem,” he responded. “Found a nice little Lands’ End Outlet warehouse down south in an industrial park. Hope you don’t mind if I borrowed a couple of books while I was here.”
“Damn. I thought I was missing a couple. THE MOTE IN GOD’S EYE, right?”
“And another one called MORE THAN HUMAN,” he replie
d. “Never read any books that long before. But I really liked ‘em. I’ll bring ‘em back when we go over to get some of my things.”
“What do you think of the tunnel?” I asked.
“Well, to tell you the truth, it’s pretty pitiful. How do you think I got in? You can’t let anybody get in that easy!”
Weasel steered us back into the living room and sat us down, standing before us, a professor fronting his students.
“Before we do any more looking around, we gotta talk some more.”
He paused, thinking, I supposed, about presenting some tough material to us.
“You know,” he began, “how I said I been watchin’ you for a few months now?”
We nodded in affirmation.
“Well, I’ve been watching the clans too. Been into the city. All over. Different territories. Just easin’ in and out. Hardly anyone ever knows I’m there.”
“What happens if someone sees you?” I asked.
“Depends on the situation,” Weasel replied, smiling grimly. “You saw how I travel. I carry at least ten weapons. So will both of you from now on. I always run first if I’m seen. Or else I try to talk my way out. Every once in a while, I get cornered or surprised. You saw the scars.”
“I’ve never had any major problems.” I said. “Well, amend that. I ran into The Babe a couple of years ago. Ever heard of him?”
“You sure it was the Babe?” Weasel asked. “Only askin’ cuz you’re still alive.”
“Huge. Vicious. Smells like a sewer. That the one?” I asked.
“There’s gotta be a story there. Tell me about it.”
“There’s a story alright, but I’d rather hear yours right now.”
“You can thank God and good luck you’re still walkin’ and talkin’. They say the Lord looks after the feeble minded,” said Weasel. “Cuz when you find the Babe, it it usually ends bad if you ain’t wearin’ the colors. Most of the time, it would probably be just me and Sarah here talking. It’s only a matter of time until trouble finds you again.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Sarah. “We chose this place because it’s so far out from the clans. They have plenty to keep them supplied where they are now. There’s thousands of stores and shops and warehouses. And more deserted homes and apartments than any of us can count. It will be another twenty years until they need to spread out into our part of the country.”
Weasel come over and sat next to Sarah and me on the couch and turned to face her.
“Now please listen to me good, Sarah. It’s real important you and Mac hear what I’m saying: It don’t make no difference where you live. Trouble is gonna find you. Some one’s gonna try to hurt you. Take away what you have. When my family got killed, we were over a hunnerd miles away from anything that looked like a city. Only about thirty of us. Doin’ nobody any harm. Bunch of dirt farmers in a dip-shit abandoned town in Bum Fuck Egypt. A few huntin’ rifles and dogs. We didn’t have nothin’ of any value. But we was easy pickings for them who like to take things from others.”
“When I was a kid,” I told Weasel, “we didn’t have anything. Just indie farmers. But they still wiped us out.”
Weasel fiddled with the silverware on the kitchen table, hesitating before he spoke. “Listen, Mac,” he said. “They found you because they could see you. What I’m tryin’ to say is you don’t need to be stronger. Or tougher. Or have a big wall.”
“Well then what in the hell do we need?” I asked.
“Invisibility,” he said. “This place needs to disappear and look like every other abandoned or burnt out hulk in this little,” he waved his hands, indicating the outside of the house, “neighborhood or whatever they call these things.”
“But Weasel,” Sarah said, “we’re so far away. We chose this very carefully. There’s nothing attractive to clans out here.”
Weasel took Sarah’s hands in his. “Please listen to me. Both you and Mac,” he implored. “Some day—next year, five years, whenever—someone is gonna find this place. Just like I did. And they will want what you’ve got here. They will take what you love. Both things and people. If they can’t carry it, they will destroy it.”
“Why? Tell me why,” Sarah begged.
“Because you have it and they don’t. Because there’s beasts out there. Human hunters and destroyers…and there ain’t no rules.”
CHAPTER FOUR
JANUARY 2053
HOME
Several hours after sunset and several glasses of wine later, Weasel pleaded exhaustion and went to bed. His stories and pleas for vigilance had frightened us. His character and ideas gave us hope.
Sarah and I cleaned up a bit and followed half an hour later. Duke walked up with us, but instead of coming into our room, his usual habit, he positioned himself outside Weasel’s door. Whether it was because he didn’t trust having a stranger in the house or liked our new house mate, we couldn’t figure. Turned out to be the latter. We found them both sharing Weasel’s bed in the morning.
I shut the door to our room, closed the shutters, lit three of the lamps and then stoked the wood burning stove. It would warm the room quickly. We used it only at night, afraid the day smoke would attract visitors.
I undressed and then engaged in one of my favorite hobbies, watching Sarah do the same. She folded or hung each article of clothing as it came off, lingering over the tasks as I knew she would. Dirty clothes went into our shared laundry basket, which was, fortunately, a walk across the room from where she shed her clothes. Naked, she returned to her dressing table, early American oak with a large shell mirror, sat on the bench and brushed out her auburn hair, shoulder length now, the way she wore it in the winter.
“Well, sweetheart,” she said, smiling at me in the mirror, “we just changed the course of our lives forever. How do you feel?”
I sat on the bed and spoke to her reflection. “I was just following your lead. And Duke’s. Weasel seems fine to me. I was surprised that you welcomed him in so quickly, though, without running him through some tests.”
“Me too,” she said. “It just happened. He struck a chord in me, that sad little man. There is warmth in there, Mac. I know he’s battered and mean-looking in his scrawny little way, and probably as tough as any clan soldier, but he has the eyes of a poet…or philosopher. He’s just so…”
“…Vulnerable,” I said, watching her hair expand under the strokes of her brush. “And interesting. Not that our life is boring or any way lacking. But I was still surprised when you moved so quickly.”
She looked at me through the mirror. “It’s not the first time,” she said. “It happened once before, you know. Acting on instinct like that.” She grinned, teasing. “Turned out OK, didn’t it?”
She was right. There was no time for her to think about it when she saved me, blasted her way through, pulled them off. Nothing but instinct. Whatever extra sense she possessed had guided her snap decision. She could have been killed as easily as I. And after it was over, and she patched and sewed me up, she could have given up some food and ammo and left me on my own. Didn’t have to spoon feed me that soup. Sure as hell wasn’t anything I did to impress her, being mostly unconscious and completely incomprehensible when I was awake.
“It was my rugged good looks back then,” I said. “Made your heart flutter. You had to save me.”
“You looked like a bowl of minestrone,” she said.
“Before they got me.”
“I couldn’t really tell. You were moving too fast.” She was almost laughing now. It was a ritual. We’d been through it many times. I think it reinforced our interdependence. We liked it that way, after those years alone—having another person to rely upon, even to the point of risking life.
“So what was it then, that drew you to me? Made you risk your life?”
She laughed then. So did I. “I had been following you for a couple of days,” she recited. It was almost the same words each telling. “There was something about you. You seemed so sad…alone. You
avoided the clans, the indies, the dog packs. But not because you were afraid. I could tell you were brave. Because it was smart. When the pack caught you in the open, it was just bad luck. But I figured you’d get out. Didn’t know you had no ammo. When they took you down…” I started mentally recited with her, “…I could feel your pain. In my head I could almost hear you saying, ‘Don’t let me die alone.’ I had to save you, Mac. You were only the second good man I had seen in my life. And the only one still living.”
She turned from the table, rotating at her waist, and looked at me. Her eyes were misty. Always the same when she told the story, once every year or two. So were mine.
“And Weasel might be the third,” I said.
“Right.”
She turned back to brushing her hair. I was torn between my two views of her. I gazed upon her back, watching her shoulder muscles flow smoothly, hard and defined as she brushed, then allowing my gaze to drift down, tracing the curve that flowed into her waist then swept back out again over her hips. I loved her back and silently willed her to stand, offering me a full view.
I pulled my eyes back up to hers, willing my thoughts back to the conversation. “He’s going to change our lives radically,” I said.
“If he’s right about…”
“He is,” I said. “We just don’t want to see it right now. We’ve got it too good—me, you and Duke. Weasel is going to change that outlook. The way we see things through rose tinted glasses.”
“But you know something, Mac?” she said. “He’s going to surprise us often. Bring joy to our lives. You wait and see.”
“And he’s gonna make us work,” I said. “Everything we’ve done is coming down. We have to make our home look like every other abandoned home. No walls. No fortifications.”
“Let’s start that in the morning, sweetheart.” That was a good sign. She continued brushing. “Are you tired?” she asked.
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