Jess’s mind flashed to the two days spent outside of Clinton after they had left the cave. The man Brad, a very pregnant Serena, and the two kids, Max and...Annie? Yes, they had called the girl Annie. The baby continued to wail and Jess’s breasts swelled in response, filling with milk, threatening to leak through her shirt.
“I’ll take her,” she said, and held her hands out to the baby. She was tiny, smaller than Jacob had been at that age, and she loosened her jacket and looked for a quiet corner. “I...uh...”
Sarah’s eyes widened, “Oh, of course! Perhaps you should come into the other holding room. It’s vacant, and there is a chair and a bed inside.”
Jess nodded, “It won’t take long. She’s just hungry, that’s all.”
Sarah ushered her into the holding room while Todd stood back, looking uncomfortable. The door closed and Jess lay the baby down on the bed, slipped out of her coat and loosened her shirt. Little Becka did not hesitate and eagerly began to suck on a breast, drawing in the milk with a desperate hunger. How long had it been since this child had been fed? Jess could feel the baby’s body relax; here was comfort, warmth, and food. It wasn’t until that moment that it felt strange at all—nursing another woman’s child—and Jess thought of how it must have been in ages past, before there was formula. Would a woman do this for another? They must have and it seemed like the right thing to do. Moments passed and Jess could hear the baby’s rhythmic gulps as she took in the nourishment. Sarah had said that she thought Serena had lost her milk; how long had she been without it? How long had this baby been hungry?
It would be a solid thirty minutes before the baby stopped nursing and fell deeply asleep in Jess’s arms.
Young Love
“Love possesses not nor will it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love.” – Kahlil Gibran
The knock on the door came early; the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. Fenton, an early-riser out of decades of habit, muttered with no small level of concern as he limped over to the front door. He peered out of the window first; the kidnapping of Liza and murder of the Austin family the year before had left an indelible mark on everyone. Even young Joseph was armed with a small pistol when he ventured outside the house.
In the gloom Fenton recognized Carl Owens. His black hair was tousled and he looked worried. He had just brought his hand up to knock again when Fenton opened the door.
He nodded at Fenton, “Morning, sir. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I need to speak to Liza, if you please.”
Fenton was perplexed. Carl was a nice young man, and certainly had his manners, except for the showing up at the crack of dawn part of things.
“Son, don’t you think it’s a tad early to come a’visitin’?”
Carl had become a regular visitor on the farm during the past summer. At first he had come with the excuse of helping out on the farm, something he had done in the past, but when he and Liza would scoot off together to go “work in the field” or “check for blueberries,” Fenton had been sure it was more than helping out.
He hadn’t been so keen on Carrie and Chris, and Liza was a full three years younger than her sister. The world might be different from when he was growing up, but some things didn’t change that quickly so he had decided to keep a close eye on the two.
Carl blushed red, right to the tips of his ears, “No sir...I mean, yes sir, it’s too early...I mean...” The boy took a deep breath and started again, “My mom’s asked for her to come and see to Dad. He’s not been feeling well. She said it’s urgent, sir. She asked me to fetch Liza right away.”
John Carter had been in Carl’s life since he was a young boy. Fenton had always wondered why the man hadn’t gone ahead and adopted Carl, especially since it was obvious how devoted he was to the boy and his mother. But for whatever reason, Carl’s last name was different, and even after they had married and Tabitha had come along, that had not changed.
Chris had appeared at Fenton’s elbow and Liza called from down the hall, “I’m coming! I’m coming! Just let me get my bag.” Her voice still sounded heavy with sleep. There was still a congested wheeze to it. They were all recovering from the inevitable winter cold, with Joseph still in bed with a fever, coughing and whiny.
Chris nodded to Carl, “It’ll take her a minute, Carl, why don’t you come on in?”
Fenton looked embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to ask the boy in out of the cold before Chris did. He shooed the boy inside, closing the door, and wished his knee didn’t ache so during the winter. It made him more irritable than usual and he still felt bad for snapping at Joseph the night before after the little boy had whined about his congested nose.
If his wife Molly were still alive she would have gently reminded him that children were only small for a painfully short time, and to be patient, and not to snap. He sighed; how he wished Molly had lived to see their son Isaac’s children...she would have loved being a grandmother.
But Molly had died when their son was still in high school. Isaac had grown up, gone off to college, and found the girl of his dreams in that bustling metropolis New York. Fenton had looked forward to each summer and winter visit when the kids were small. First it was just the three of them visiting, Isaac, Amy, and little baby Carrie. Before long they had added Liza, and then long after Liza, when Carrie was a teenager and Liza not far behind, Fenton had gotten the news.
“We’re having one more, Dad.” Fenton had heard Isaac’s voice, excited and tinny over his cell phone, “Amy and I decided we would try just one more time. She’s just entering her second trimester, so it’s safe to tell everyone. The baby’s due in mid-March and we just had the ultrasound done. She’s having a boy! Amy and the girls are so excited! But hey, I gotta go, my train is here. I love you, Dad and we’ll be heading down for Turkey Day, we’ll see you then. Love you, Dad.”
The phone had cut out before Fenton had a chance to tell his son he loved him too. It was the last conversation they would ever have. Hours later, in the deep of the night the phone rang again. He had answered it and heard the awful news. Isaac would never get the chance to meet his son. A series of terrorist bombings had taken the lives of over 1,600 innocent victims. Isaac’s body, along with 83 others, was never found.
By Christmas, Fenton’s home was full; Amy and the girls had packed up their tiny New York apartment and moved to Tennessee. Amy’s parents had both died years before and she had been an only child like Isaac. With a baby on the way, and Amy a stay-at-home mom since Liza was born, it made the most sense. They settled into the farm and the girls adjusted to small-town life and living on a farm.
After little Joseph was born two weeks early, Amy’s will to live just seemed to vanish. Amy had slowly faded away, consumed by grief at the loss of Isaac in the Amtrak Train Bombings, and the undiagnosed cancer that the doctors found far too late. They had buried her in the family cemetery, with Joseph barely six months old.
“He’s been vomiting for a while now, but there’s nothing left, and he’s complaining of pretty severe cramping. Mom’s worried it might be his appendix.”
Fenton’s knee ached, creaking painfully as he shifted his stance, bringing him out of the past and firmly back to the present. Liza was questioning Carl about John as she pulled on her boots. There had been a recent snow and now the roads and paths around the farm were nothing but mud. Chris made a mental note to start collecting and hauling the smooth river rock near the cabin to pave the most heavily used paths. It would cut down on the mess, complaining, and cleaning that everyone seemed to be obsessed with by mid-winter.
“How long ago did he start vomiting?” Liza asked Carl. She was in her element, not fluttery or lovesick or making moon-eyes at her boyfriend. Instead she was focused, intense, and professional.
“I think it’s been since last night. He did some fishin’ down at Reelfoot, spent the day,” Carl answered, running fingers through his tangled hair, suddenly fully aware of his appearance, even if Liza wasn’t.
/> Liza nodded and pulled on her coat, reaching down for the medical bag. “Right, well, let’s get going.”
Carrie appeared at that moment, yawning, “What’s going on?” Chris explained and Carrie just smothered another yawn and offered to make coffee. Liza shook her head and headed for the door, Carl trailing uncertainly behind.
Liza kissed Fenton on the cheek as she left, “Love you, Gramps.” She turned and waved to the rest of them. “See you all later, please make sure and cover for me on chores, I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
And with that, she was out the door, Carl close on her heels.
Fenton stared at the closed door, unsure of what to do. Liza was barely fifteen years old, and people were sending for her as if she were a full-fledged doctor. It boggled his mind. This was the first pre-dawn trip anyone had ever made to the Perdue farm asking for the girl, but from the looks of it, it wouldn’t be the last. For a moment the old man was disconcerted and uneasy. What was this world coming to, that others would look to a teenage girl for their doctoring?
Chris put a hand on his shoulder, “We should all be proud of Liza, Gramps. She’s taking on a lot, learning medicine like she is. She’s taken care of you when you were hurt and I wouldn’t be walking as well as I am if it hadn’t been for her.”
Chris was referring to the two separate ankle injuries that Liza had helped splint and heal for him. Fenton had managed to split his scalp open enough to need stitches more than a year ago. Recently the old man had figured out that Liza was adding some stuff to his coffee that thickened it up. He couldn’t even pronounce the first word.
“Dia...diatom...”
“Diatomaceous earth, Gramps,” Liza had told him patiently. “It helps with your blood pressure and cholesterol levels, and it helps a little with your knee pain and flexibility.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with my knee, young lady,” he had told her, feeling old and weak and not liking the feeling of his own mortality at all that morning.
“Oh Gramps, just drink your coffee.” She had watched him stand there, digging his heels into the rug at the base of his easy chair, the cup of untouched coffee in his hand. “Please, Gramps? It’s good for you, I promise.”
“Gramps?” Chris was still there, his hand on the old man’s shoulder. Fenton came back to the present, with a soft sigh and shook his head.
“That doggone girl left without givin’ me that diatom, that diatom...”
“Diatomaceous earth, Gramps?” Chris asked, a small smile on his face. He turned toward the kitchen, “She’s told me how much to add; c’mon, I’ll make you some.” And Fenton followed, lost again in thoughts of how proud Molly would have been of her grandchildren.
Carl had not driven the Carter’s van, which had been converted to biodiesel. They still had to go to a great deal of trouble to make the biodiesel, so a horse worked best for trips that didn’t require hauling the entire family. One of the other families in town had started a small horse-breeding business. It was just enough to ensure that there were horses available for riding any time of day or night. They were housed in a communal stable near the Trade Mart and were guarded by the town watch at night.
A placid dappled mare was standing in the front of the Perdue house, reins lashed to the railing of the wrap-around porch. Carl held Liza’s bag while she slid onto the horse and then climbed up behind her.
They hadn’t been this close since the fall, when he had come out to help with picking the bushels of apples in the orchard. They had escaped to the woods, to the old cabin there, and made out for a few minutes, the most they could manage without Fenton’s intervention. He had almost caught them kissing once and Liza had told Carl to stay away for a full month afterward. Liza’s grandfather had not taken well to how Chris and Carrie had started their relationship, and he was even more watchful now as a result.
The mare started out at a good trot. It wasn’t far to town. Carl was distracted by Liza’s warmth and close proximity. He nuzzled her ear.
“So he’s been vomiting for most of a day. Did he bring back any catch?” Liza said all business and not the least bit distracted or interested in his romantic advances.
Carl sat back, embarrassed; after all, his dad was sick, and he should be focusing on that, not trying to make moves on his girl. What was he thinking?
“Yeah, about six bass, maybe seven.”
“Did he eat any out at the lake?”
“I dunno...maybe. Why?”
“Well, it could be that he undercooked the fish and has gotten some parasite, but that would be awful fast. Or possibly if he drank the water that could be a contributing factor.”
She stared off in the distance and the horse trotted along, working at the problem, occasionally asking questions that Carl struggled to answer. It was a different side of her, one he had barely seen. He stared at her thinking she sounded so, so, clinical. Part of him, the young hormonal side, stung from the utter lack of response his advances had garnered. The other side of him was experiencing a dawning level of deep respect for Liza. She was focused and intense and dedicated. How often could you say that of a fifteen-year-old girl?
Carl thought about the hybrid bicycle he had been working on with Wes Perkins and Jim Dorian, who owned and ran the town’s junkyard. Wes was his mom’s cousin, and he had explained that Jim Dorian was autistic, but smart, “kind of like the guy in Rain Man,” and then had to fill in the story since Carl had never seen the movie. Carl hung out with Wes far more than his mom knew or would approve of. Carl’s mother Abby, a kind and down-to-earth woman, was uncharacteristically disapproving of her first cousin and sternly ordered Carl to stay away.
Carl had heard the talk and he could barely remember his cousins, a boy and a girl, he had played with when they were all very young. Their mother had disappeared with them years and years ago, taking them away from the angry, hard-drinking, abusive man that had returned from the Gulf War.
Mom didn’t see it, but Carl did. Wes had changed. Slowly, but he had changed. Although, the man had practically become a walking arsenal after the attack a few years back by the Western Front. Wes’s girlfriend, Angie, had died in the attack while Wes had been off hunting.
That had really shook Carl up; he had liked Angie. More than that, he had liked how Angie had settled Wes and made him not so hard around the edges. For a while after she had died, Wes had taken to spending long days on watch and riding the others to establish the town watch in a more formal manner than they had before. It had saved lives, and there wasn’t much anyone could argue with his methodology after that.
After the raid and murder of the Austin family and kidnapping of Liza, Wes had changed again, in a good way, at least in Carl’s estimation. Even Mom had noticed.
Abby had said drily, “I didn’t think it was possible, but Wes isn’t quite the bastard I’d thought him to be.”
Carl had overheard her say it, with her not realizing he was close by. When Carl had the idea of creating a hybrid bicycle and cart, one that would work on human pedal power but also carry a light electric charge and make pulling heavy loads easy for one person to do, he had stopped by Wes’s and then they had headed for Dorian’s Junkyard.
Pretty soon they had found an ancient moped, one that actually included pedals along with its tiny motor. At present they were weighing the need for a bigger engine with the priority of keeping it as lightweight as possible, two conflicting goals. Every time he managed to escape from chores, or when he wasn’t trying to see Liza, Carl had been at the junkyard, up to his elbows in grease and dirt as they worked to rebuild the ugly creation into a hybrid of lightweight efficiency and power. Like Liza, Carl was just as focused and intense. The realization struck him that it wasn’t a bad thing, how clinical she was. Just as it wasn’t a bad thing how involved he had become in the hybrid bike. It was the new normal.
They had passed the sentries, waved at the men in the towers and tried to ignore the ruined vehicles with the grisly blackened skeletons i
nside. Wes had explained what a deterrent the sight was to those infrequent visitors who came to town. They were usually traders, as Tiptonville didn’t get many passersby since the town had never been on what would be described as a major thoroughfare, but Wes had told Carl and countless others that one never knew a man’s intentions.
“They could be scouts, remnants of a renegade army, like those four men were, you never know. Those corpses on the side of the road will remind outsiders that we fight back, and win. It’s a better show of force than the men in the towers will ever be.”
Still, the sight of the grinning, blackened skeletons turned many people’s stomachs. They understood the necessity, but in a way it seemed inhuman. Those men had been people, and many of the residents murmured that they deserved a decent Christian burial. Carl wasn’t so sure about the Christian part, but he agreed it was hard to go through here without feeling a crawling sense of disquiet. If Wes could hear Carl’s thoughts, he would have pointed out that that was exactly the point in having them there.
“I’m sorry,” Liza’s said abruptly.
“Huh? What for?” Carl asked, wondering if he had missed something she said.
She turned back and kissed him. “I didn’t mean to ignore you earlier. I was concentrating on the symptoms and all that.”
Carl grinned and kissed her back. “Never feel sorry for being who you are, Liza.” He pulled her close, “I think it’s pretty cool that you are the town doc.”
As the buildings on the outskirts of Tiptonville appeared, they pulled apart and Carl quickened the pace of the mare with a click and sharp rap of his heels in the horse’s side. Within moments they had arrived at the small, nondescript house that John Carter had bought for his wife and stepson. Along with Tabitha, Carl’s younger half-sister, they had lived there comfortably before The Collapse. Now the tiny yard sported a chicken coop, cold frames, and several projects at various stages of completion.
One of them was a windmill, inspired by the two that Chris had made at the Perdue farm. The first windmill that Chris had created powered the pump that brought water directly into the house from the well, just as was done in the days before city water. The water tower had been felled by the invasion of Western Front troops over two years ago and the citizens lacked the tools and materials to replace it. This meant that many wells had needed to be dug. Water became a precious commodity, hard to obtain, and nearly impossible to store.
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