• • • •
Progressed continued, each week or so bringing some small new skill into Stevie’s repertoire. But about himself and his past, Stevie remained silent. By mutual agreement, none of us pressed him on the issue. Stevie spent much of his time with Duke and all three of us had observed him conversing for long periods with—or rather at—the dog. Duke was the perfect listener, attentive and nonjudgmental, and never, ever broke a confidence or divulged a secret.
During the fifth month Stevie’s violent outbursts, now a seldom seen phenomena, stopped completely. They never returned. He did, however, remain quiet, reticent, reluctant to talk to any of us at length—except for school related questions and music or vid comments and discussions. His past remained locked.
In the middle of Stevie’s sixth month with us, Fall of 2054, all four of us were at the kitchen table hashing out a problem Weasel was having with one of his new ideas. He wanted to bring us portable toilets, like big boxes that had doors and a toilet inside. Portapotties, he called them. Stevie suggested shit stations.
Duke was asleep on the floor by Stevie’s feet. I was brewing coffee. Weasel, Sarah and Stevie were pouring over a stack of books on the table, looking for references to increasing production and strength of marijuana plants.
I had grown them for years. Weasel also smoked. We wouldn’t allow Stevie to partake until he got older, although he did sometimes drink home brewed wine with us at meals. We argued back and forth that we were being stupid, but Sarah put it to rest with, “His brain has been badly damaged. Let’s allow it to heal.”
Primo marijuana was a valued commodity to most of the population east of us and the clans controlled its sale and distribution. But much of the marijuana was planting your favorite seeds and smoking the crop or harvesting ditch weed. We were looking for the next level. Whenever we traded with the clans, they always asked for high grade marijuana and so we wanted to increase our production. All of us were looking for data on temperature and humidity control, proper soil preparation, fertilization, ph balance, and cross breeding.
Weasel closed the book he was reading with a resounding thud, frustration in his voice. “I remember a few years back seeing a magazine called HIGH TIMES. It was all about pot and mushroom growing. I’ve looked for it on discs, but can’t find any references to it.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it,” commented Sarah. “Pre-collapse they had all kinds of references to alcohol and beer and cigarettes and wine. But they seemed to be afraid of marijuana. Toward the end, several states legalized it, but most politicians were afraid of pot. But I can’t find any hard data on discs that indicate that it’s dangerous, like cocaine or heroin or meth.” I could see her starting to warm up to the subject. “You know what I think,” she said, not waiting for a response. “I think that men were afraid of pot. The legislatures were controlled by men and they were afraid of the reactions people had to pot.”
“How so?” Weasel asked.
“Think about it,” she said. “What does pot do to people? What reactions are common?”
“Well, they laugh a lot,” said Weasel.
“And they sure talk a lot,” I said. “It also makes some people spend their time thinking and ruminating. Although you can never remember what you’re thinking about. And it’s great when you’re making love.”
Sarah kicked me hard on the shin under the table, cutting her eyes over toward Stevie.
“Oops. Sorry.”
Stevie gave me a wink and a smile, kind of a man thing, brother to brother, although he hadn’t seen a grown woman besides Sarah probably in years—except in the vids.
“Now out of all those behaviors you mentioned, which ones are feminine in nature and which ones are generally associated with masculinity?” she asked us.
“All of those behaviors, except for laughing, are generally feminine attributes,” I responded.
“So there’s my point,” she said. “Male dominated legislatures would not allow a drug to be legalized that would cause men to behave in a manner that was generally associated with the female gender. Liquor was fine. It made men behave like men. Beat each other up. Holler. Scream. Break things. Rape. Pillage. But pot would break down communication barriers between the sexes. Not good. I rest my case.”
She crossed her arms and sat back.
“Do you think these guys who made the laws really knew they were thinking this at the time?” I asked her.
“Truthfully…No. But I think that’s what was going on. And remember, many states legalized or decriminalized for a few years. But then the feds cracked back down in what they called “The New Prohibition” in the mid 20’s.
“Enough of this philosophy crap, you two,” interjected Weasel. “We got a problem to solve here so we can increase our value to the clans. Might save our lives when we’re passing through their territory. Might help us acquire some supplies or information we need. I need more references. Wish I had that magazine.”
“I know where there’s 100’s of magazines,” said Stevie, shocking us all into silence.
Weasel was the first to recover. “That’s great, boy. Unbelievable. Where. How’d you come across ‘em?”
Stevie had a strange look on his face. Pensive. Fearful. He didn’t respond to Weasel’s questions for several minutes. He looked at the three of us, his teachers and friends, his adoptive parents, his long-time tormentors. Duke, roused from his sleep by something beyond our senses, yawned and took a wakeful position by Stevie’s chair. The boy reached down and stroked the dog’s neck.
Stevie kept watching us, challenging each with his eyes, not backing down, finally concluding he was unafraid of what he saw reflected there. With a sigh, he made his decision, cast his eyes downward and very quietly, haltingly began telling the story of The Babe and Satan’s Messengers.
He faltered several times. But always gathered his strength and continued. We never spoke a word. None of us moved from our chairs, fearful a small noise would make us miss his softly spoken, compelling words or perhaps startle him into silence.
Two hours passed. When Stevie finally finished, his tear-filled eyes came up and met ours. He saw our tears and bowed his head and began to softly cry. In that instant when his eyes met mine, I saw relief and gratefulness and shame in his eyes.
It was the first time he had ever trusted us. Probably the biggest risk he had ever undertaken in his life. For if we had let him down, then all of his fears and hate would have been justified. And he would have returned to his world of silence and violence.
Sarah recovered first, rushing to him and whisking him into the living room, arm across his shoulder, gently comforting him.
Weasel and I sat facing each other across the table, fire and loathing in our eyes, jaws clenched, still fighting back tears. I gave up the battle and wept softly.
I heard Weasel say, “That man is gonna die real hard.” I could only nod my head in affirmation.
After Sarah had worked her wonders soothing Stevie and we had regained our own composure, Weasel and I went to Stevie. We told him he did good. We were proud of him. Eloquence abandoned us.
Stevie, Sarah still by his side, her arm across his shoulder, said to us: “Thanks Mac. Thanks Weasel. I didn’t think I could ever tell that story. Was even beginning to think maybe it wasn’t real. But I know it is now.”
He paused and looked to Sarah, then back to us. “Me and Sarah been talking. I’ve never felt like this in my whole life. I never imagined that anything like this could exist.”
His hands spread apart and swept the house, then came together and pointed to Sarah, and then to Weasel and me. He looked us in the eyes. “Sarah said I should ask you guys. Can we stay like this? Can all of us keep on being together? Me, you guys, Duke?”
It was Weasel who responded. “Goddamn it, kid, we sure as hell can. Welcome to the family. I’m glad you’re one of us.”
With that he gave Stevie a hug and we became five.
CHAPTER TWELVE
&
nbsp; SEPTEMBER 2054 TO AUGUST 2055
On the morning following Stevie’s catharsis, Weasel woke us all before dawn and herded us into the kitchen. He was wearing his usual outfit, Merrill hikers, some kind of jeans or sweats, and a ratty old t-shirt. Usually with some country band’s name. Today it was Steve Earle. When it got cold, he would add a hooded sweat shirt. This morning he was wearing an apron over his shirt and carrying a spatula. When Weasel cooked, it was a big deal. He waved us to the table. It was set. Even napkins. Cloth ones.
“I got bacon from the pig we shot when it got in our garden, eggs from our chickens, biscuits from the flour indies down near Monee gave for a bag of Starbucks beans. Butter from that damned goat. And, blueberry preserves from them hippies out in DeKalb. I’m cookin’. Then we’re talkin’.”
No arguments. Weasel was a breakfast genius.
“You know,” I said, pointing a buttery knife, “back in the good times, they had restaurants that served only breakfast. See them all over the place.”
“When the world gets sane,” Sarah said, “we’re opening one of those with Weasel as chef.”
Weasel was still at the stove. Finishing up the bacon. Duke was a statue by his right foot. He knew Weasel would be dropping a scrap. Weasel turned and smiled wistfully, “That’s a hell of a dream. I could do that. Or maybe fix stuff.” He went back to the bacon. “I think there’s gonna be a few years before we have restaurants.”
He finished the bacon, threw a dozen scrambled eggs on a platter, and magically produced a doggie bowl bacon and egg breakfast for Duke. He served us with a flourish. “Dig in everyone. After breakfast, we’re going to work.”
• • • •
We ate seriously, no talking. Silverware clinked and scraped, frequent “mmm’s” escaped, salt and pepper journeyed back and forth. We didn’t applaud when we were done, but Weasel was gratified with by our performance. Finished, Stevie and I cleared, Sarah started to wash, and Weasel and Duke searched for that special last scrap. As we took the breakfast plates to the sink, Weasel started.
“If a clan finds us, we run. So first plan is more escape tunnels and ground routes.”
Stevie returned to the table and jumped right in. “Why can’t we fight them? There’s four of us and we know how to survive.”
“Think about it. Think about our lives,” Weasel said. “We all shared parts of our stories. Each of us has had to fight. But mostly we ran. They never come alone. Always seem to have numbers. We run. We survive. We ain’t ready to fight yet.”
Stevie hunched over his coffee. I wondered how long the anger would remain so close to the surface. Maybe forever. “I want to get those fuckers,” he said. “I don’t want to run. I want to see them lose like we do.”
“Tell you what, kid,” Weasel said. “I got that same fire burnin’ in me. And so does Mac and Sarah. But we can’t do nothing until we’re safe. Ain’t no revenge in dyin’. And this here,” doing a 360 with his hands, “This ain’t losin’.”
“Weasel’s right,” Sarah said. “This is special. The five of us. We need to build and protect what we have. All of us should be safe.”
“Let’s start basic here,” Weasel said. “Toilets, water, tunnels. Toilets get us comfortable and … what’s a word here Sarah?”
“Sanitary.”
“Yeah, sanitary. We keep that part of our lives separate.”
“Uh, Weasel,” Sarah said. “Remind me again about the portable toilets. How’s that work?”
“It looks like a closet and uses chemicals to keep the stink away. Findin’ ‘em is easy. Gettin’ one here is hard, but not impossible.”
“Uh, Weasel,” Sarah repeated. “Ever thought about two? Toilets, I mean. I don’t really desire to share a sanitary facility with the three of you.” She eyed us like one of those school marms from the vids. “No disrespect intended. You three just seem to have different…philosophies…when it comes to that entire excretory area.”
“Not sure what you just said,” Weasel replied, “but takes a day or two to get one. No problem in getting another. We ain’t keepin’ them forever. This place has a well somewhere. All these houses had to have water and I don’t see any signs of underground piping. We find a well, power it into the house with a big pump, and we got indoor plumbing. We already got a septic field. We get water to the top, gravity does the rest and no one can see it.”
“You mean like showers and baths and such?” Sarah asked.
“You bethca. But…portables first and then tunnels before finding the well. I know you like your little tunnel, but we need more and better.”
“Well, shit,” I said. “That’s the hardest, dirtiest, most boring job ever invented. Sarah and I looked like pig farmers at the end of every day. And we went through ibuprofen like M & M’s.”
“Weasel,” Sarah asked, “how did you build all those tunnels by yourself?”
Weasel’s eyes squinted and he tried to suppress his sly I’ve-got-a-plan smile. “Technology, Little Miss Missy Miss,” he said. “I got me some technology on one of my missions. Sometimes I call ‘em a “foray,” he said with a hand flourish. “Got that one on my vocabulary dvd.”
“How in the hell did you get a tunnel digger?” Stevie asked. “Don’t imagine they’re very easy to carry around.”
“Got a little story here,” he said. We all hunched forward. His stories always had potential.
“Told you I’d been up here for a few years. Lot a wandering about the territory in that time. In my head, I have to know the land. I see it like a picture. Lot a mind mapping and even some drawings about what’s over here and what’s over there. Who’s got toilet paper? Where’s the coffee? Winter gear. Building supplies. This here 20-30 square miles,” he waved his arm around his head, “there’s treasure out there no one knows about. ‘Cept me, of course. And now you.”
“Like what?” Stevie asked. “Me and Mac and Sarah live here too. We been around. Know where stuff is. How you think we stayed alive all this time?”
“Well, I’ll give you that, boy,” Weasel said. “But all of us are survivors. Let me ask you some questions. All of you. Just jump in when you know the answers.”
“Fire away,” Sarah said.
“OK. How about well pump repair?” No reply.
“Let’s try this, then. Small engine parts.”
“Got lawn mowers all over the place,” Stevie answered.
“Ok. I’ll give you that.”
“I know where 25 boxes of powdered milk are,” Stevie said.
“Good. Need water for that. How about water filtration?” Weasel asked. “We only got about three months of them Brita things left.”
Silence.
“Ok, then. Name five armories that ain’t been found.”
“You know to get more guns and ammo?” I asked. “That’s big.”
“Yeah, too big for the clans to know. How about water purification pills. Antibiotics. Pain killers. Grenades. I even got me a missile launcher with five missiles. Lucky we don’t need ‘em.”
Stevie was smiling. I could tell he was thinking about one of those James Bond movies.
“Check this out” Weasel continued. “I know where there are at least a thousand rolls of toilet paper. The good stuff. Not that stuff in rolls as big as tires that chap your ass.”
That got everyone attention. Nothing worse than red ass.
“Here’s the big one,” he said. “Can you tell me where to find a compact horizontal drilling auger?”
“Shit, Weasel,” I said. “We can’t even say it. What are you talking about?”
“Few minutes ago,” he said, “Sarah asked about how I built those tunnels and you were cryin’ about how hard it is. On one of my forays in ’53, I came across a huge construction site. Big rigs, cranes, trucks. Tires bigger than one of them old time basketball players. One company had some crazy looking machines. Like a praying mantis on steroids. Bigger ‘n one of them semi-trucks.”
“What was it?” Sarah asked.
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“I got curious and started looking in the buildings to figure stuff out. Couldn’t read, but most places had these papers with pictures and such. These machines were giant drills for making tunnels. Tunnels big enough to drive trains through and small enough to run water pipes or electric wire. So I figured some of these augers might have what you call ‘labor saving potential,’ and I stayed for a week looking at them papers and crawling over machines. Finally found myself what I now know was a 36 inch horizontal drilling auger. It was a machine that could dig tunnels. But…and here’s the real big thing, it was about the size of one of them big Harley motorcycles. Little longer but near the same.”
“Interruption here,” Stevie said, waving his hand. “How far away from your secret castle were you?”
“Maybe eight, ten miles.”
“How’d you carry a couple of thousand pound machine ten miles, let alone get it running?”
“I can get any small engine runnin’ that ain’t froze up,” Weasel said. “Gettin’ the fuel’s a whole ‘nother matter.”
“The tunnel digger,” Stevie said. “How’d you get it back to your basement?”
“After I checked to see if it ran, I took it apart and brung it back piece by piece. Took me a month to break it down, bring back the pieces, and put it back in working order.”
“Amazing,” Sarah said. “Do you have any idea how smart you are, Weasel?”
“Well, Sarah, I don’t know about all that smart stuff. Seems to me you got all the brains. And the rest of us is just waitin’ to see where you take us.”
Sarah gave an aw shucks gesture, waving the compliment away.
Weasel continued. “Figure that tunnel digger that took me a month is gonna be in our basement in a week with all four of us hauling and Duke doing the guard duty. That’s our first job.”
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