by McBain, Tim
That was when she realized she was still wearing the belt. She stopped and looked down at the leather looped around her waist. She didn’t want to think about where it had been, but it was too late.
She took one last look at the strip of leather lashed around her waist and gave an involuntary shudder before moving on to the next house.
She’d keep it for now.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
Deirdre
The Hole
9 years, 22 days after
Her boots pattered on the soggy earth at the lip of the hole. She stopped. Squinted. Eyes trying to pierce the blackness and failing. She listened instead, hearing only the rain slapping against the mud, pelting the hood pulled up over her head.
There it was. Finally. The telltale sound of the shovel stabbing dirt, that gritty scrape of steel against soil followed by the load being flung away, landing with a duller noise as the dirt scattered somewhere off to her left.
She closed her eyes, a sigh puffing from her nostrils. A little tension let up in her neck and shoulders, and she adjusted her grip on the rifle. God, she hated guarding the hole, especially at night. So far, no one had ever run on her watch, but she’d heard the stories, knew it was a matter of time. The thought made her acutely aware of her esophagus, of the notion of bile spraying out of it in a projectile fashion.
All she wanted was to keep her head down. To complete this shift, and every other shift, without fanfare. To coast through the days as unnoticed as possible. Maybe it was as her mother always said, that these meek actions revealed a lack of character, a certain spinelessness. So be it. She cared not.
For now, she just wanted to get out of the woods, get under a roof. Kids told stories about things in the woods. Sometimes it was soldiers. Others it was an unusually tall man. She didn’t really believe them, but this place scared her anyhow, especially at night.
She walked back, the squish of the mud underfoot giving way to grass as she moved. Soon it would be the concrete slab of the guard booth. She had always thought that was an awfully fancy name for the shitty little shed they sat in, but she didn’t care so much about that just now. It was dry. Dry was good.
Soggy. Everything outside of her rain poncho was soggy like a sponge saturated to the point that it could soak up no more. Of her actual person, her hands were getting the worst of it. She balled them into fists and released them. They squished, almost giving a sense of being waterlogged, as though she’d be able to wring them out like a wet rag when she got back to the shed.
Father had talked plenty about plumbing, about running water and flushing toilets in every cabin, about the glut of waterworks they’d all soon delight in. But the promised plumbing had yet to come, just like all the other promises. For now, they only had the holes. Some poor sap that stepped out of line got hole duty as punishment. They dug all day and all night. No food. No sleep. Limited water and bathroom breaks.
And these holes out in the woods became their plumbing. All of the waste from the porta-pots got sucked up into a tanker that got driven out here and emptied into a pit once a month or so.
After each load of raw sewage was dumped, a new hole was started a little further on. The holes themselves varied in size depending on who had done the bulk of the digging, but all were gaping chasms sometimes as deep as 10 or 12 feet and 20 to 30 feet across. The morbid thought had occurred to her more than a few times – these were something like the size of a mass grave.
It was always a drag to guard the hole, especially when the weather sucked, and even more especially during the graveyard shift. Maybe tonight was worse still because she knew the girl down there. Shelly Taylor. A pretty girl just a couple of years younger than her. They’d sat together in class at times through the years, though they weren’t close. She always seemed a quiet girl, soft-spoken.
The main thing she remembered about her was actually her teeth. Something about Shelly’s teeth reminded Deirdre of her mom. Every time Shelly smiled, it was like her mom was there in the room with her, back from the dead, somehow younger with lighter hair.
Lightning flickered above, the flash lighting up the shed just a few feet before her. Good. She exhaled, the tense muscles uncoiling in her upper back, letting her shoulders sag just a little. She stepped through the doorway, the sound of raindrops hitting her poncho disappearing and the spatter assaulting the shed roof above taking its place. She inched forward until her hip found the table, and she laid the rifle upon it, taking another deep breath and releasing it all slowly as she did so.
Free of the gun, she peeled the plastic sheet off of herself, fingers hooking under the hood and sliding the whole thing up and over. She turned back and shook it once, flinging a spray in the general direction of the shed door, and tossed the poncho toward where she imagined the bench to her right must be. She was cold still, but it felt good to get that plastic off of her skin.
Now her hands groped around in the dark, fingers finding the edge of the table first, tracing along it until they reached the corner. From there she found the back of her chair and managed to sit in it.
She squirmed a little, settling into her seat. The rest of her back let go, all of those aching clusters of muscle releasing together, an embarrassment of relaxation. She leaned forward and let herself go limp on the tabletop, laying her head on her arms there. It felt incredible.
In time, she sat up, shoulders nestling against the back of the chair. It’d be too tempting to sleep if she stayed in that semi-horizontal position. Thinking back, the sound of the rain on the roof had seemed to fade out as she tilted toward slumber. Now that she sat up once more and opened her eyes, the drops detonated above as loud and plentiful as ever.
Her hands patted along the tabletop, feeling beyond the rifle to locate the lantern. She didn’t light it, though. She almost never did. She just liked to know where it was.
Lighting the lantern made her feel more like a target than anything, made her feel exposed. Others could wait out there in the dark, staring into the light without her knowing that she was being watched. It kicked up all kinds of paranoia. She’d rather sit in the dark.
Still, if something came up, she might need it. Always good to know its location.
The rain picked up, and the sizzle of it draining off of the roof and drizzling into the soil sounded like someone pissing on the ground. Someone with a mighty large bladder, she supposed.
Lightning flashed, lighting up all of the branches and leaves out there for a split second, and thunder rumbled almost right after. Damn. The storm was right on top of them now.
She stood and walked to the doorway to watch the world in flashes. The spray of the water beating on the ground kicked up and misted her face. She thought about Shelly Taylor down in that hole, shoveling dirt for no good reason. Poor girl.
Another bolt of lightning split the sky in half, and everything looked like a washed out version of itself for half a second before the black returned. The thunder shook everything a little, made her heart beat faster, and she backed out of the doorway, feeling for her chair and sitting in it.
Poor Shelly. What a nightmare to be down in a ditch during a storm like that. The notion of going and getting the girl out of there crossed her mind, but she didn’t know if that might be against the rules. Better to err on the side of avoiding anyone’s notice, as always.
She rested her head on the table again, this time putting her forehead directly to the timber. The raindrops made for soothing white noise, even if the violence of the thunder and lightning undid the effect every few seconds. Still, her eyes drifted closed, and her thoughts slowed down. Her brain wormed its way toward sleep again.
Something rustled outside, the scrape of twigs and leaves, and her spine bolted to an upright position. The volume of all sounds turned back up, the sizzle and the patter and the wind noises fading back in. One hand fumbled along the table, finding the assault rifle, not lifting it but wrapping her fingers around the grip and leaving them there.
/>
She swiveled her shoulders to face the doorway, seeing only darkness there. Had she been asleep? If so, for how long? The sky offered no real clues, as black as ever.
She waited. Held her breath. Listened.
Nothing else stirred outside, however. Nothing but the raindrops bursting everywhere. Whatever had been out there seemed to be gone. Probably just an animal passing by, trying to get out of the rain.
She closed her eyes, a deep breath inflating her all at once and seeping out in slow motion. Her fingers untangled from the gun’s stock and released it, and she brushed her hair out of her face. The muscles in her back relaxed once again, her posture sagging.
The lightning flashed then, revealing the silhouette, the black figure standing in the doorway.
Izzy
Presto, Pennsylvania
168 days after
Izzy slid her backpack from her shoulders and hung the straps over the handlebars of her bike. The two cans of creamed corn she picked up from the brick house rattled against one another.
What was creamed corn anyway? It didn’t sound very good. Made her think of cream of wheat, which was disgusting. She was glad they hadn’t found any of that so far. They’d found some oatmeal, but Erin was always stingy with the sugar. Izzy knew it took a couple heaping spoonfuls to make oatmeal edible.
It was too bad she couldn’t carry more food. But then it was probably for the best. She had to sneak it into their stash bit by bit, or Erin would figure it out. Still, it always felt strange leaving the brick house knowing there was still food left inside. Every time she came back, she worried that it would be gone.
Her task for the day was done, though. Now it was time for the reward. She left her bike in the bushes at the side of the road and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. When the roof of the little cabin came into view, she instinctively hunched over. She scooted to her favorite vantage point and stretched out on her belly to wait.
Smoke coiled out of the chimney of the cabin below, so she knew he was still there. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Sometimes she came and nothing happened.
“Come on, Squirrelman,” Izzy said under her breath. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
She fidgeted, shifting her weight in her sprawled out position. She couldn’t wait long. She never knew when Erin would return, and she had to beat her back to the house. And besides that, she had to piss. Or pee, rather. Stupid Erin and her potty mouth. It was starting to rub off on her.
The door opened. It popped a little in the frame, probably the wood warping with the weather change. Izzy held her breath. It wasn’t a conscious thing. It was automatic.
Hinges squealed as the door swung into the cabin. And then Squirrelman stepped forth.
He was tall and thin with dark skin. Black skin. Izzy guessed he was probably about Erin’s age. Maybe a little older because he had some scruff around his jawline. He had a big puff of hair, curly and crazy like hers.
Squirrelman clutched a pile of empty cans to his chest, heading for the garbage pile across the driveway. Izzy and Erin had a similar pile going back at their place. Erin called it Mount Trashington.
Izzy wriggled again with impatience. Sometimes she came and didn’t see him at all. Sometimes she came and caught a glimpse but nothing cool happened. That’s what it was like last time.
Squirrelman took three steps into the yard and stopped. He turned back to the house and made a clicking sound with his mouth. A tiny reddish brown creature bounded out, scampering across the withered grass and up Squirrelman’s pant leg. It came to rest on his shoulder.
“I told you it was nice outside today,” Squirrelman said. The squirrel on his shoulder shook its tail and chittered, before crawling around his chest, under his arm, and across his back, circumnavigating Squirrelman’s body as if he were a tree and not a man.
Izzy had to bite her lip to keep from squealing with delight. How? How had Squirrelman tamed the tiny beast? He must have magical powers or something. As far as magic powers went, Izzy ranked being able to talk to animals pretty high on the list.
Squirrelman closed the gap between himself and the trash pile and tossed the cans on top. The aluminum rattled and clanked, which seemed to agitate the squirrel, who ran from shoulder to shoulder, tail quaking.
Just before he reached the door, Squirrelman paused and looked around. Izzy realized she’d propped herself up on her elbows and was likely visible from his position. She pressed herself flat against the ground and stopped breathing. Had he sensed her watching?
Then Squirrelman raised his arms over his head and stretched, gazing at the sky. He let his arms flop down to his sides and yawned, scratched himself, and went inside.
Izzy let herself breathe again. That was a close one.
She counted to one hundred before she scrambled back up the hill on all fours and disentangled her bike from the brush. She couldn’t stop grinning the whole ride home, and the cool air blowing against her teeth made them hurt like when she used to eat ice cream.
There wasn’t ice cream anymore, which used to make her sad. But there were people that had animals as friends, and maybe that meant things weren’t so bad.
Deirdre
The Hole
9 years, 22 days after
She was on her feet without realizing it. Her arms twitched, hands lunging for the rifle again. She banged the stock of the weapon with the heel of her palm, however, and sent it careening off of the table. It clattered to the floor, skidding away. Her fingers still scrabbled like spider legs, crawling over the vacant tabletop for a moment even after it was clear the gun was gone.
Shit.
The lightning blazed again, its glow revealing once more the shadow in the shape of a human standing in the doorway. Deirdre backpedaled a few paces, almost tripping over the leg of the chair. It was a girl, she realized. Her wet hair flattened to her head in a way that made her look decayed, but it was just a girl.
“Who’s there?” she said, though the thunder swallowed the end of her question.
No answer came. Only silence. She bit her lip before asking again.
“I saw you in the doorway. Who is it?”
The answer came in a quiet, controlled tone just above a whisper.
“I need your help.”
She knew the voice.
“Shelly?”
“It’s me, and I need your help. No one else will help me, but I know you, and you’re not like them, at least I don’t think you are.”
Deirdre felt her way back to the chair and sat. She fumbled along the tabletop again, finding the lantern and then the matches and lighting it.
The flame started small, growing into a full-on glow, casting yellow light that reflected off all four walls as she twisted the knob. The bright overwhelmed her pupils, her eyelids cinching shut of their own accord.
“Come sit down.”
She peeled her eyes opened to slits to look upon Shelly. The girl couldn’t be more wet, her hair matted flat and dripping, beads of water collecting on her nose and along the top of her brow, clothes hanging funny like they were just about to slide off. A soggy sound squished out when she sat, like a wet towel slapping the bathroom floor.
“What’d you do?”
Shelly’s eyebrow crinkled as she considered the question. She’d always had sad eyes, but now they looked sadder than ever. That familiar smile seemed about 1,000 miles away.
“What did I do?”
“To get stuck digging a hole to nowhere.”
“I ran.”
“Ran?”
“I ran from my fiancé.”
Dierdre sat back in her chair, her hands pivoting on her wrists to rise and fall on her lap. Her tone changed as she asked her next question, like she might already know what the answer was.
“And why’d you do that?”
“Because he… Because I hate him.”
“An arranged engagement?”
Shelly nodded, and Deirdre’s wrists flop
ped again like a pair of flounders beached on her lap.
She could relate with Shelly, of course. An arranged marriage was her worst nightmare, maybe the primary motivator in her lifestyle choice of keeping her head down in all things. Better to live a life covered up than have someone else thrust into your space, your time, your person in ways beyond your control.
“He hurts me.”
Deirdre closed her eyes.
“How does he- Actually, don’t answer that. It’s… unnecessary.”
“I need to go. Need to leave this place, but I can’t do it myself. You’d know how to do it, though. You know all the guard posts and what time the shift changes fall. You know all the weak points.”
“If you leave now, on my shift, it’ll be me down in the hole flinging dirt come this time tomorrow.”
“I know that. You think I don’t know that? I’m not leaving tonight. We’ll work out a time. Together. Patience is not a problem for me. For now, anyway.”
“I…”
A branch snapped outside, a loud crack that rang out through the night, somehow violent. Someone had stepped on it, she was certain. Her voice fell to a whisper.
“Get under the rain poncho and stay out of the light.”
As Shelly scrambled past her, she scooped the lantern from the table and lowered the light to a tiny speck of orange glow that barely produced enough illumination to light the whole tabletop.
A man cleared his throat in the doorway, which made her jump. Even three feet away she couldn’t see him at all.
“I guess technically you’ve got the lantern going, eh?” he said. “Better than last time I checked on you out here.”
“There’s no rule specifying the required brightness of the lantern, Curtis. Just so long as it’s on.”
A man appeared at the edge of the table, stepping into the light. Stubble shrouded his jaw, and he slid a hood back to reveal his downturned eyes. He flung water off of his hand and propped his rifle against his shoulder.