“For what?” Confusion replaces the quick fury.
“For letting my dad use your place to practice shooting.” It’s the only thing I can think of that’ll hopefully make him feel like he’s earning it. I can’t stand the thought of him and his sister starving. “And you have to accept it as penance for dragging me into your criminal underworld.”
A low, long chuckle rumbles his chest, lifting my spirits. “Lookout, you drive a hard bargain, but I like you anyhow.” He gives me a fist bump and I grin, too.
Happiness warms my blood. It feels good being able to help him and his sister.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day, Daddy leaves for a noon meeting to create a schedule to patrol the city and ideas on how resources can be distributed to ensure basic needs are met.
Mamma and I clean up the dirty breakfast dishes from the table and carry them to the sink.
“I’ll go get some water.” Grabbing a couple of pitchers, I step into the backyard and head for the well.
Yesterday evening, Daddy scavenged an old-fashioned hand pump from God knows where, and with Mr. Miller’s help, hooked it up to gives us an easier source for fresh water.
Positioning my container underneath the spout, I grab ahold of the metal handle. It’s surprising how much muscle power it takes to get the water flowing. After several seconds of constant pumping, cold water rushes forth.
Above my head, the sun shines through the gaps in the tree leaves and sweat collects on my brow. It’s still eerily quiet without planes in the sky, cars on the road, or trains barreling along the tracks, but I think it’s something I could get used to—all things considered.
Several straight, white PVC pipes lay in the grass a few feet away. Daddy’s working on setting up a watering system for Mamma’s garden so she can pump the water and let it flow into the pipes, straight to a preset path. He says it’ll be less work than dragging heavy buckets to hydrate the plants.
In West Texas, from May until September, not much rain falls, and in the oppressive months of July and August, daily watering will be the only defense against the inevitable summer drought that kills all but native plant life.
The old metal squeals with each push.
Sweat pours down the back of my neck. I cup one hand under the spout. The water is crystal clear and icy cold.
I really need to take a bath, and right now, in this heat, I’d even take a cold one.
Leaning forward, my other hand still on the handle, I open my mouth and let the sweet liquid fill my mouth and wash the grime and sweat from my face. The freezing water is refreshing, and I laugh, dousing my hair and neck. It tastes like bottled water but purer somehow.
Finally getting my fill and cooling off, I release the pump and stand.
My hair drips onto my t-shirt, causing it to cling to my skin. A slight breeze moves through the yard, rustling the leaves of the trees and cooling my water-soaked chest.
Grabbing the pitchers, I return inside, dripping liquid onto the floor. My shoes squelch as I approach Mamma.
When she looks at me, her eyes widen and she laughs. “You look like a drowned rat.” Reaching forward, she takes the water and transfers it into the plugged sink, squirting a drop of dish soap inside and creating a sudsy bath for the dishes.
“I was hot and thirsty.” I wring my hair and flick the water into the other side of the sink, then fill it with water from the other pitcher. I’ll use it as the rinse side.
Mamma takes a blue sponge and scrubs a ceramic plate, then hands it to me. “I guess your daddy was right. It doesn’t look like the electricity is coming back any time soon.”
“At least we have everything we need.” Dunking the dish, I swipe its surface with my hand.
“Yes, true.” She works on a fork. “But I worry about what’s coming if things don’t go back to normal.” Her fingers drop it into the rinse side. “When people are pushed or desperate, bad things happen.”
A small shudder shakes her chest.
“I’m sure it’s going to be okay. Daddy’s already working on the problem by getting people together to keep an eye on the town.” I lay the fork into the drying rack.
“People like Leonard aren’t interested in working together, though. Men like him are snakes hiding in the grass, waiting for the opportune time to strike.” She scrubs another plate, her fingers furiously working on an outer ridge. “When I was growing up, I lived with a man like him. They don’t care about anyone or anything but themselves.” Her eyes narrow at the plate. “They see what others have, and they take it. It’s as simple as that.”
She must be talking about her dad. I don’t know much about my grandpa, but Daddy told me he used to whip her and my uncle every day after getting home from work. And it wasn’t a normal spanking, either. He’d slide off his belt, loop it until both ends were clasped in a hand, then pull it tight, creating a terrifying snap.
After she and her brother begged for mercy, he’d let one end drop and strike out, ensuring the heavy, metal buckle slammed into their skin, whether it was a leg, butt, back, or arm. He didn’t care so long as it struck them over and over until his rage had been sated.
I’m glad the bastard died when they were young. I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like growing up with that kind of terror.
“Well, don’t worry, Mamma.” Snaking a wet hand around her shoulders, I give her a hug. “Daddy wouldn’t let anything happen. You should’ve seen him when that fuc—”
“Language.” Her lips press together.
“—that freak shot toward me. For a second, I thought Daddy was gonna kill him.” The sparkling plate slides into the clean water. “Instead, I think he broke his finger.” I snort. “It was great.”
“It was dangerous,” she huffs, working on a cup. “It puts a target on your dad and the town. You know those people over at that religious compound are crazy zealots. It worries me sick every day he’ll return with a group of his buddies.”
“I doubt—”
Outside, a high-pitched scream cuts off my next word.
Mamma and I jump and stare at each other.
“That sounded like a woman.” She dries her hands with a nearby dish towel and rushes to the front door, grabbing the shotgun leaning against the wall.
I scurry behind and grip a baseball bat I’d put there the night before, twisting my hands around its base.
She peeks through the peephole. “Oh, Jesus.”
“What is it?” My stomach flips with dread. I hold a fingernail to my mouth and nibble its edges.
“Quick. Go to the bathroom and grab the first-aid kit.” She yanks open the door. “Now, Tilly!” Her voice is sharp and strong, breaking through my mental fog.
I tear down the hall and slide into the bathroom, using the doorjamb to slow my momentum. Pulling open the bottom cabinet doors, I rifle through the cans of bathroom cleaner and toilet paper, wiping everything to the floor until I spy the white, rectangular carrying case of medical supplies wedged in a back corner.
With it now in hand, I scramble through the house, shoot out the front door, and through the opened gate.
Across the street, lying on the front lawn next to freshly turned soil, is a burly man clutching his chest, gasping for air like a fish.
Mamma’s bent over him, her red hair obscuring most of her face, but her voice is soft and reassuring, even though I can’t hear what she’s saying.
As I get closer, she glances my direction and twirls her hand. “Give it to me.”
I pass the kit to her and stare at the man, feeling helpless and shocked.
“Mr. Rawlings,” she says while flinging the kit open and searching its contents, “do you have a history of heart issues?”
He nods his head. His face is red and shiny with sweat. A fist clutches at his chest. “Yes,” he gasps. “I’ve got nine stents.”
“Do you carry nitro with you?” Mamma seizes a small package and rips it open.
“Usually.” He clenches his ja
w, as if riding a wave of pain. “But it’s in a fob on my keyring. I left my keys at home because the car no longer”—a quick gasp of air—“works. I came to help my sister with planting a garden.”
From the corner of my eye, I see an older woman with short, gray hair and a wide-brimmed hat pacing on her porch, her eyes glued to us and a hand in front of her mouth.
“I’m a nurse, Mr. Rawlings. I want you to swallow these, okay? They’re aspirin.”
He nods his head, and she pushes the two circular pills into his mouth. With three or four chews, he dry swallows.
“We need to get you to Dr. Kemperling.” Mamma looks to the woman on the porch. “Ma’am, are you his sister?”
Her wrinkled face is pale. “Y-yes.”
“He needs to be at the clinic.” Mamma glances to her patient again. “But there’s no way he can walk there.”
His grip on his chest loosens, and he doesn’t seem to be sweating as profusely.
She stares up at me. “Tilly, take your bike downtown and find your father or Dr. Kemperling. I think they’re both at City Hall. Tell them what happened. We need to get something to transport him out of here, like a wheelchair or something.”
“Okay.” My heart thunders in my chest. I don’t even wait for further instructions. Instead, I sprint toward our house across the street, grab the bike, and pedal as fast as I can.
It’s afternoon, and heat shimmers from the black asphalt in unforgiving waves. Wind flies past my face, whipping and tangling my long hair around my neck. I throw the bike into the highest gear and push, push, and push until I’m a panting, gasping mess.
As I round the last corner before City Hall, a stalled SUV lies in my path.
Even though I squeeze the brakes with everything I’ve got and swerve, it’s not enough. The front tire hits the bumper of the car and I fly off the bike, soaring through the air. My torso flips toward the pavement as my legs tumble into the air. Out of reflex, I grasp at anything.
In the median of the town lie ornamental bushes placed by the Women’s Club five years ago. When I land on my back into their scratchy arms, pink blossoms fly into the air in a giant poof, fluttering in the breeze and raining on and around me.
For a moment, I can only stare at the cobalt sky. A high, wispy cloud sails across, and a flock of birds fly in an undulating wave.
Taking in several breaths, I carefully disentangle myself from the green bush.
Two deep scratches on my forearm bleed, and my back feels like I bathed with a wire brush, but other than that, nothing’s broken as far as I can tell.
Thank God for the shrubbery. I try to collect my thoughts. What was I doing? Mr. Rawlings needs help. Right.
Limping toward City Hall, I increase my pace, working out the soreness. Reaching the four steps, I take them two at a time and throw open one of the double glass doors.
A dark counter greets me, and I push toward the back, where I know the council meeting room lies.
Daddy stands at a podium. It’s darker farther in because there are only a couple of windows for such a large room. Fifty people or so are seated in chairs and nodding or shaking their heads.
Several candles and two kerosene lamps burn at regularly spaced intervals, though, giving enough light to make out what’s going on.
“It’s imperative we work together.” Daddy points a finger at someone in the front row. “Charles, you own the hardware store and people need supplies. Several said you refused to trade with them.”
“I paid for my inventory with hard-earned cash.” His bald head twists around to take in his fellow neighbors. “I gotta eat too, you know. I can’t be giving stuff away for free.”
“Goddamn it.” Daddy pounds a fist on the podium. “You can’t eat paper money, now can you?”
“I’ve got plenty—”
“For now,” Daddy interrupts. “But what happens in a month when you and your family run out of food? Those people who needed your help—the ranchers, the farmers, and the back-yard gardeners—will be filling their bellies with fresh produce and they’ll remember how you spit in their faces in their time of need.”
Several men nod their heads in agreement.
“Work with us—not against us—and no one will go hungry. I promise.”
There’s a makeshift aisle leading toward the podium, and I drag myself through the narrow opening, still limping but not quite as badly.
Charles crosses his arms over his chest and coughs. “Maybe I could figure out some kind of bartering system.”
“Good.” A small smile tugs at Daddy’s mouth. “That’s all I’m asking—try to work with us, because if we don’t pull together, then this world, and whoever or whatever the fuck’s out there, is going to rip us apart.” His eyes land on me and he rushes forward. “Half-pint. What’s wrong?”
I stop and drag in a deep breath. “Daddy, something bad happened. We need Dr. Kemperling.”
“What?” He grabs my shoulders and shakes. “Your mother? Is she alright?” Fear flashes in his gaze and twists his mouth. His fingers dig into my arms. I don’t even think he’s aware how hard he’s gripping.
“Mamma’s fine, but I think a man is having a heart attack. She said to find you so we can get him to the clinic, but we need a wheelchair or something to haul him in because he can’t walk.”
He sags, letting his shoulders slump for a few seconds. “Thank God,” he whispers under his breath. Letting go, he scratches his beard and stares at me, his gaze going to the blood on my arms. “You’re hurt?”
“It’s just a few scratches. I fell off the bike.” Well, more like flew, but that’s not really important right now. “We need to hurry. Mamma said he needs help.”
Dr. Kemperling pushes through the gathering crowd. “What’s this about someone having a heart attack?” He’s a small, trim man with curly white hair and round glasses. When he speaks, his voice comes through his nose with a bit of a nasal pitch.
Daddy turns to him and relays my message. Three men and two women volunteer to run over to the clinic, which is a block away, and gather a wheelchair and several other things the doctor asks for.
Sighing, I gladly relinquish the responsibility to Daddy. He and the doctor cut a path to the front door.
I follow with the rest of the crowd, wondering if my bike is rideable.
Daddy stops for second and looks back at me. “You sure you’re okay, Half-pint?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. It was a hard ride.” I wave him onward. “Hurry up, they need you.”
With a stern nod, he trots down the steps, saddles his bike and hits the road with Dr. Kemperling in tow. The other volunteers head toward the clinic and everyone else either lingers to gossip with one another or walk away, probably heading for home.
Heading to the bushes that saved my life—or at least my skin—I plop onto a wooden bench positioned in-between and hold my head in my hands.
Is this what our world is descending into—something dangerous and wild?
My mouth is hot and dry, and I crave the cold, sweet water from our well. Stretching, I’m in no hurry to get back home because I’m terrified of either seeing a man’s corpse or people rushing him down the road in a damn wheelchair, when a week prior, it would’ve been nothing to pull out a cellphone, call for an ambulance, and get him help in a matter of minutes.
A few steps take me to the stalled vehicle which tried to kill me. The front tire of my bicycle is jammed under the bumper. When I pull it out, the rim’s warped into a squiggly oval.
Nope, there’s no way I’m riding this back. Guess I’ll walk the mile or so.
Sighing, I turn and cross over to the sidewalk, where the awnings above throw shade from the angry sun.
I pass the thrift shop called Second Time’s the Charm. Many times, I came here to buy new-to-me books and video games. Right now, the closed sign hangs from its door. The windows let in the outside light, and a small refrigerator—dark and obviously dead—protects several rows of cokes
and bottled water.
I lick my lips and hesitate. Just one drink, that’s all I need.
Swiveling toward the door, I pull on the handle. Nope, locked up tight.
Hands cover my eyes and I scream, jabbing an elbow backward. Another hand clamps around my mouth. “Jesus, Lookout. It’s me.”
Relief flashes in my veins only to be replaced with anger. I ball my fists and turn, glaring up into his face. “You son of a bitch.” I push at his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Ha.” He swipes hair from his eyes and grins. “Did you know you scream like a girl?”
I slam a fist into his shoulder.
“Ouch.” He rubs it, his smile changing from amusement to appreciation. “You sure don’t hit like a girl, though.”
Still fuming, I push him away and try to shove myself around his body.
He blocks me and grabs an arm, his stare zeroing in on the skin under his fingers. “Why are you bleeding?”
“Because,” I rip my arm from his hand, tearing open one of the new scabs, “I was trying to save a man’s life.” Swallowing, I lick my lips again. God, I want something to drink. The bottles of water draw my attention again.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me what happened.” He slips past to move before the glass door.
“W-what?” My attention wanders to the water again. One little sip, and I’ll be able to concentrate.
Metallic scraping noises break my daze. Click.
Max chuckles and pushes open the door. With a quick glance toward the street, he grabs me around the neck and drags me inside.
“Hey, let go. I’m not going in—”
“Yes, you are.” After my body clears the threshold, he closes the door, locks it, and pulls the blinds. “Your lips are cracked, and you’ve got dried blood all over your arms. If you’re so worried about taking someone’s stuff, then come back tomorrow and pay them back, or flog yourself in penance, offer some Hail Marys, or whatever it is you think you need to do.”
“You’re a jerk face,” I mutter, though my argument is losing steam. The outside light still pierces through the closed blinds to land on the clear plastic bottles, creating sparkles inside the dark cooler.
The Intrusion: Baltin Prequel Page 9