by James Tarr
Once he heard a furious firefight in the near distance, explosions and automatic weapons. Foolishly, perhaps, he ran in that direction, hoping to make contact. It was over before he got there, with only a burning vehicle and a fresh mangled corpse to mark the site.
The first body he’d seen was still fresh in his mind. It was his first day on foot in the suburbs bordering the city, moving south through the bedroom communities that, at first glance, seemed largely untouched by the war. Then he’d seen the corpse, stretched awkwardly across the curb, head in the gutter. A black man, his body stripped of everything but tattered jeans, covered in flies and just starting to bloat in the sun. The smell, he knew now, was but the merest shadow of what it would become, but still he’d vomited right there, on the sidewalk, untold eyes in the surrounding houses watching him.
Since then he’d seen dozens more bodies, some so decomposed they were hardly recognizable as human. Hardly recognizable as bodies. What shocked him was how they’d just been left there, lying where they fell. Was there no one to recover the bodies? No family members, no police? Were things that bad even in the suburbs, hundreds of miles from anything approximating a front line? Apparently. The smell was constant, always in his mouth and nose, even when he slept. The air tasted of smoke as well, acrid stuff, even though what fires he saw were small and scattered. He supposed what he was smelling were the burned-out houses. There were a handful on every block, even in the more intact neighborhoods. No fire departments meant fires were left to burn themselves out.
At first the suburban neighborhoods he was walking through—for he didn’t dare the main roads, not with a rifle in his hands—seemed fine. Sure, most of the lawns were a foot tall or more, but who could afford gasoline just for a lawn mower? He’d seen more than one homemade scythe at work in the past few years. Then he began realizing just how many of the intact houses were vacant. Saw that the windows weren’t crystal clear, they weren’t windows, just empty frames. He wondered if perhaps he should be walking at night and holing up during the day, but he didn’t know where he was going, and needed to talk to people. Plus, to be honest, the neighborhoods had started to feel like graveyards to him, the houses tombstones. He wasn’t about to go walking through them at night. Whatever kind of courage that took, he didn’t have it.
Finally, after five days in the suburbs, his food and water and spirits running low, he’d stumbled across a heavily barricaded residential subdivision. The old men guarding the place looked so hostile, staring down at him from the wall of junked cars blocking the street, that he hesitated even speaking to them. They had no visible weapons, but he wasn’t so naïve as to think someone didn’t have him in their sights, and he kept his rifle slung. It was one of the residents, leaving the place, who pointed him in the right direction. The woman, who was skinny as a stick, had seen him lurking nearby, trying to work his nerve up to talk to the hard-looking men. She’d taken one look at his young face and guessed immediately what he was after. She’d given him remarkably precise directions and in twenty minutes he was knocking at the door of a small house, nervously checking over his shoulder.
The woman who’d opened that door was now busy toiling over her little cookstove just outside the back door. It was soup in the small pot, and the smell had his shrunken stomach rumbling. He’d thought he’d brought along more than enough food—homemade horse jerky, mostly—but even eating it sparingly he was almost out, and was borderline dehydrated to boot, thanks to the unrelenting heat and humidity.
She looked like a grandmother—short, with dark hair halfway gone to grey. Her clothes were thin and faded, as tired looking as her cramped little pillbox house, stuffy and filled with derelict furniture. She’d invited him in and offered him water and crusty homemade bread, but had very little to say. He’d waited, and waited, expecting her to make a call, or go out to find someone. Finally he said as much. She gave a sad, patronizing little laugh.
“Oh no, dearie, I don’t know how to contact them.”
“You can’t call?”
“On the phone?” She laughed, but not unkindly. “Where did you come from? There haven’t been working phones down here in years. Sometimes I miss it. Most times I don’t. No, they show up unannounced. Safer that way, you know.”
“When?” he’d asked impatiently. He’d already been there an hour. She shrugged.
“Could be today, could be tomorrow, might not be ‘til next month. You’re welcome to wait as long as you like, but I don’t have any more food for you. That bread was all I could spare.” Colleen, she said her name was. Jason didn’t much care for her, but he was out of alternatives. At least the homemade bread had been delicious. Nothing seasons like hunger, as his mom used to say.
The two men had appeared silently, one knocking softly at the front door while the other checked around behind the house. Jason had spent the night on the lumpy couch, troubled by nightmares, and had waited out the length of the day badly, in an ever-darkening mood. The house was cooler than the yard, but not by much. He’d finished the last of the food in his pack, wondering where he was going to get more, and was eyeing the woman’s kitchen cabinets when the knock came.
Colleen had puttered around the house all day, but doing what he had no idea. He was distracted by his own thoughts, his head filled with images of his journey south. At the knock she jumped up from the battered chair where she was reading a two-week-old copy of the Times. The idea of an underground newspaper printed on actual paper was so old-fashioned it seemed absurd, but with the power out to the area and all the airwaves and internet controlled and patrolled by the government, there were only so many options. He’d seen issues of the underground newspaper fluttering around the streets, but had no idea where people were picking them up. Or who was printing them. Or if the stories in it were true.
“Saw your signal,” the man on the porch said.
“Got someone here who’s been looking for you fellas,” Colleen said.
Jason had had certain expectations even before he’d begun his trek south, but after a week of bodies, fires, burned out buildings and distant gunshots, he just knew that these men who lived and fought in this hellhole had to be something special, had to be.
Ed was tall, maybe six-two, but looked like an accountant. A tired accountant old enough to be Jason’s father, and who needed a shave. Skinny, with a sharp nose and receding hairline, he even wore glasses to complete the picture of a complete and total elderly nerd. Jason’s sense of disillusionment was nearly complete; only the man’s equipment gave Jason some comfort—a military-style rifle, a pistol high on his thigh, and a small tactical backpack. He wasn’t wearing camouflage clothing, though—behind all the gear he had on a simple brown small-check plaid button-down shirt over khaki cargo pants.
Jason had jumped up from the couch when the figure knocked on the door, nervous as a kid on his first date, but the man had seemed less than enthusiastic upon seeing him.
“Looking to join up?” He didn’t just look tired, he sounded tired. His eyes roamed over Jason’s clothes and equipment, little more than a small backpack and a battered lever action rifle that was older than Moses. Jason had barely started to nod when Ed grunted and headed upstairs in the fading light.
The other soldier was just as disappointing. He was even older than Ed, who had to be at least forty. Ancient. He was a big guy, over six foot, with wide shoulders and a giant sunburned head atop them.
“How y’all doin’?” was the first thing he said as he stepped through the back door. At the accent Jason’s heart sank. A nerd and a bigheaded cracker redneck in Wrangler jeans, who looked like he used to have a sizeable beer belly.
“Call me Early,” he’d told Jason, wandering aimlessly through the house. Eventually he took a position before the front window, leaning against the back of the couch, resting his big rifle across his thighs. His hands were huge, and tanned as brown as the wood stock of his rifle. And just as scarred.
Colleen, the same woman who’d told J
ason she didn’t have any food for him, promptly began cooking up a pot of soup full of squirrel meat over a small fire behind the house. Bitch. Early just stared out the window, humming softly to himself.
“You don’t have to cook fer us, Coll,” he called out.
The woman was just outside the back door, stirring, and shook her head.
“Meat’s gonna go bad if I keep it any longer,” she called back. “’Sides, don’t tell me you’re turning down food now.”
Early’s big face broke out in a grin. “No, can’t say that I am.”
Jason was twitching with nervous energy. Were these the guys? They weren’t wearing any patches or insignia or even camo, although they both had angular vests strapped across their chests, filled with armor plates he was pretty sure. How come there were only two of them? Were they going to take him with them when they left? He tried to ask Early about it.
“Jes’ relax, Junior,” he drawled. “Sit down and we’ll have a little dinner first, soon as the Cap’n comes down. First rule you gotta learn is never do anything on an empty stomach if you kin help it.” And that was all he had to say, until Ed trudged down the narrow staircase.
The setting sun threw a few orange fingers into the living room but otherwise the house was a cave. Colleen brought the soup pot into the kitchen and set it on the stove, then went about lighting half a dozen obviously handmade candles. As the sun finally dropped out of sight the candles threw flickering shadows around the small kitchen, reflecting off the linoleum and Formica and spotted chrome.
At Early’s nod Jason joined them around the small table, leaning his rifle against the counter next to theirs. The sight was oddly disconcerting to him. His lever action was a family heirloom and, he had to be honest, looked a little pathetic next to Ed’s magazine-fed military rifle with its battered camouflage paint job. But it was all he had to bring.
“Colleen, you better sit down too. I’m not going to let you stand there and watch us eat.” Behind his glasses Ed looked cross. “You look like you’ve lost ten pounds since the last time I saw you.”
She emptied the remains of the soup into the third bowl then set the still-hot container back on a stove burner that hadn’t been lit for most of a decade.
“Don’t you try bossing me around in my own house.” She put her hands on her stocky hips. “I’m the only one in this house that has any fat on their body, don’t think I can’t skip a few more meals. You, you look like a scarecrow. I ought to give you Early’s portion.”
“Hey now.” Early put a protective arm around his bowl.
Ed laughed and held up his hands. “Okay, okay.” He cocked his head. “How much have you lost, now?”
The stocky woman gave a shy, prideful smile. “Hundred and eighty pounds, last I checked, but I think my scale’s broken now.”
“Hell of a way to diet,” Ed told her.
“You got that right,” Early nodded.
“I’m getting enough to eat, it’s just mostly protein,” she told them. “I guess that low-carb diet stuff was true. I must have thirty snares, one, two blocks in every direction, and let me tell you, the war might be hell on people but the animals are loving it. The long grass everywhere and the bushes going wild. I got squirrels, rabbits, even pheasants. Trade my extra meat for seeds for my garden. Another three weeks or so and the raspberries’ll be ready.”
“You have a garden?” Jason said, automatically glancing at the rear of the house. He’d looked into the backyard several times and not noticed it.
“Not where anyone can just stumble across it,” Colleen told him. She sat down. Jason grabbed a spoon and was about to dig in, then noticed both Early and Colleen had their heads bowed, their lips moving in silent prayer. After a few seconds they finished, traded a nod, and grabbed their spoons.
“Did you say you saw her signal?” Jason said to Ed around a mouthful of soup. It tasted amazing. He looked at Colleen. “Did you call him or something?” He hadn’t heard her make a phone call. Did the phone service still work down here? He was under the impression it didn’t.
Ed and Early traded a glance. “Ancient Chinese secret,” Early finally told him, and Ed snorted.
Jason frowned, but didn’t press it. He knew Colleen hadn’t made a phone call. Heck, she hadn’t left the house since he’d arrived except to hang some laundry in the side yard. That thought made him stop, and blink. Hmm.
CHAPTER THREE
“How much action have you seen?”
Ed stood along the wall near the stairs, almost hidden in shadow. The candles in the kitchen didn’t carry into the living room. Jason wished he could see the man’s face, but was glad they couldn’t see his own. He tried not to sound intimidated as he answered.
“Some. Three or four big gunfights. Probably doesn’t seem like much to you guys, all the fighting going on around here, but we don’t see that much army up north. Not as much as there used to be, I guess. And most people just don’t…aren’t…interested in fighting. That’s why I came down here.” He could describe, in detail, each and every incident for them if they wanted.
“You’re so far behind the lines you might as well not exist to them, you’ve got nothing they want, and they’re stretched thin as it is,” Ed told him. His voice sounded hollow, bouncing off the drywall. Jason didn’t know what the man meant by his comment. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, not sure what to say.
Early sat on the couch across from Jason, his big frame leaning back against the cushions. Slowly he leaned forward, set his elbows on his knees. “How old did you say you were agin?”
“Nineteen.” The blonde kid sounded angry that he had to repeat himself. Early made a sound and looked over at Ed. Their faces were unreadable in the dark.
Glasses catching a faint gleam from the starlight trailing in through the front window, Ed motioned at Jason’s rifle. “You been using that the whole time?”
His hand went out reflexively to touch the battered lever action leaning against the wall. Most of the bluing was worn off the receiver, but it was free of rust. “Yeah. I—I’ve had it a long time.”
“How many people have you shot?” Early cocked his head, face still unreadable in the dark. The woman was silent in the kitchen, reading by candlelight, studiously ignoring their conversation.
“I—I don’t know. I wasn’t the only person there, you know, and things got a little…confusing. Six or seven, maybe.” If there’d been any light at all they would’ve seen how badly he was sweating, but they seemed not to notice his quavering voice. Early leaned back on the couch, clasped his hands over his belly.
“You go for headshots, or you shoot ‘em center mass, so you’d be less likely to miss?” His slow drawling voice was like molasses creeping from a jar.
“Uh, yeah, center mass.”
“Mmmmm.”
“How many rounds you got for that thing?” Ed asked from his spot.
“Uh, I’m not sure. Let me check.” Nervously he rummaged through his small pack. He pulled items out and set them on the floor around his feet—it was too dark to see into the canvas pack.
“With, um, with what’s in the gun, thirty-eight,” he said finally. He heard Ed sigh.
“Well, that’s better than thirty-seven, I guess.” Ed scratched his forearm, then jerked his head at Early. “Earl? Give us a minute,” he said to the blonde kid. He and Early stepped through the back door and stood in the cool night air. Early looked up at the sky, picking out the constellations. Both men carried their rifles, having grabbed them reflexively, but held them down along their sides, doing what they could to conceal their shape from aerial surveillance.
“Earl?”
Earl dropped his gaze and shook his head. “If that kid’s nineteen, Cap’n, I’m Winston fucking Churchill,” he said softly. “If he was over eighteen he should have been drafted.”
Ed nodded. “What about his dad not letting him off the farm until now?”
Early chuckled. “Now that I believe. My mot
her would call that boy apple-cheeked, looks like he should be in choir practice after pulling straw out of his hair, working up his nerve to kiss a pretty girl. But…walking around with a rifle in his hand for a week or two, that’s not nothing. Decade in a government lockup if they don’t decide to shoot you outright. Mostly I hate looking at his face, it reminds me of how old I am. And how long we’ve been at war. I doubt that kid remembers a time when this country wasn’t at war, which is just sad.” He sighed. “Still, you never can tell. Intelligence is getting pretty slick these days, whenever they remember this patch of heaven ain’t quite pacified.”
“Nothing’s ever simple, is it?”
Early smiled, his white teeth glossy pearls in the starlight. “Let’s take him back, give him a Shake Up Wake Up, see if his story changes.”
“Better be careful, Earl, the kid’s a confessed killer.” His wry smile was almost hidden in the night.
“Sheeeeit,” Early drawled, following him back into the stuffy house.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen.”
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the living room. Ed was jabbing his finger as he talked.
“We’re going right out the front door and heading straight west, pretty much. I’ll be on point, and Early’ll bring up the rear. I want you in the middle. We’ll go single file. I want at least a thirty-foot space between us, you hear me? I know you’re going to want to hurry, and crowd me, but watch your interval. Thirty feet. Mark a spot when I pass and count how many steps it takes you to reach it. Any less than ten and you’re too close. If you can spit and hit me, you’re too close.”