by Debra Tash
My teeth ground together as my better sense was shoved aside by a spike of anger at my sister’s show of hospitality. We had to have them in our house; we didn’t have to make them feel at home. I was about to lean forward, blow out the candle, and fetch the lantern burning on the white tile counter when I heard Poole say, “By the look on your sister’s face, I have to suppose you were the one to welcome us.”
Tina gazed at him over her shoulder. She looked so vulnerable, soft, her long, wavy, black hair haphazardly tied back.
“Let me thank you for your kindness, Christie, my darlin’.”
A nervous giggle escaped her parted lips. She took a deep breath and finally answered, “’Taint nothin’.”
The captain winked at her. He and Hernandez pulled out two chairs. Poole paused and motioned for me to take his seat. I grabbed hold of another chair, but he shook his head, hand still pointing to his place at our table as if he were a gentleman. He waited for me to sit before making himself comfortable.
Without asking me if it was a good idea, Christina had dipped into our frozen stash of meats. She cooked and served a rarity that night—steak, tender and exceptionally seasoned. Potatoes from our garden were alongside, mashed and creamy, and all of it accompanied by one of our father’s Cabarnets.
I kept my gaze on Poole, my stomach still in a hard knot. He would pause every now and then in his meal to compliment the lovely cook. His praise seemed to put Christina at ease, but it did little to calm my nerves. I kept watch for that look, a sultry longing, a demand of my sister. But Poole didn’t do anything inappropriate when it came to Tina that night. He was nothing but a gentleman, even insisting on helping clear the dishes and doing them.
That left me alone with Sergeant Hernandez at our kitchen table. I folded my arms over my chest and just sat there.
“Cold?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You?”
“I hail from the Pacific Northwest, remember? This is positively cozy.”
Poole snorted. “Well, I’m freezing.”
“We’re out of heating oil,” I explained.
“You and the whole northeast, Beck,” the captain said. “And there won’t be any shipments this winter.”
I turned in my chair to see him standing by the sink with a dishtowel in his hand. “People will freeze to death.”
“More than likely, unless they have a store of wood on hand and an illegal fireplace or stove to burn it in.” He took hold of another plate and started to dry it. “Take it your daddy stocked up on wood as well.”
I didn’t answer.
He motioned toward the kitchen window. “I’d wager, if I had anything left in my wallet to do it with, that shed out back is full of firewood.”
I remained silent.
“Maybe,” Tina finally conceded, her voice a bare whisper.
“Well, don’t you worry none,” he assured her. “Tomorrow when we come for your supplies, we’ll make certain to overlook it.”
Hernandez crossed his heart and held up his right hand.
Poole set the damp towel on the counter, his attention on me now. “I know what you’ve been thinking, Beck. But you have to trust me. Things are bad now and they’re going to get a helluva lot worse.” He grabbed his rifle, which he’d left alongside Hernandez’s by the kitchen door. He shouldered the weapon and signaled his sergeant to join him. “One day you’re going to count yourself lucky we struck a deal. And that day may come sooner than you think.”
With that, the two of them left us alone. I leaned over and finally blew out the candle.
CHAPTER 4
After First Call the next day, Poole returned, this time with his men, the full company of over one hundred and twenty troops. They were in combat gear, camouflage fatigues, helmets, shaded goggles over their eyes. Well-armed, they broke into teams and started to comb through our neighborhood, confiscating everyone’s personal stores. I went into the street and walked, my senses keen as I became witness to a nightmare world.
I stopped when I saw one of our neighbors, Lois Bradley, seated on an old bus bench not far from where she lived. Her son—maybe four, maybe a little younger—hung close as she shook her head. Her husband had died a few months ago, taken by the most recent epidemic, leaving the pair all alone. A handsome woman, she bordered on stunning with one exception—there was always something about her demeanor, the timidity of someone completely beaten down, and she looked it even more so now.
Her long blonde hair hung in tangles, her deep brown eyes wide with fright, as she sat on that bench and sniveled. “They didn’t leave us anything. Why?”
“Look, you don’t know my sister and me all that well. But you can come over to the diner. Maybe we can find something for you two to eat.”
Bradley shook her head once more and cleared her throat. “That’s not allowed. They said we have to come to the Distribution Center. And that’s what we’ll do. Soon I’ll be assigned a job. I’ll earn my share. But for now, they’ll take care of us. That’s what our government does. And those are the rules. We have to obey the rules or they could hurt us.” She rose to her feet and picked up her son. “Isn’t that right, little man?” She kissed his cheek and hugged the boy close as she walked away.
I stood for a moment, struck by her foolish trust in the almighty government. With a groan and a shrug, I continued down the street. I found the Youngmans, a couple in their late seventies, standing in front of their dry cleaning store. It had been shuttered months ago.
“They leave you anything?” I asked, a question I’d repeated over a half dozen times before I got to them.
“No,” Mrs. Youngman answered. “They even took Fred’s medicine.”
“Now, dear,” Mr. Youngman said, his voice quivering. “The men assured us there would be enough for all at the Distribution Center. Even my medicine. Their personnel will oversee our healthcare needs.”
“It’s not right,” I snapped.
“It’s for equality. Social justice,” he countered as he put his arm around his wife. “Don’t worry, dear, the government will take care of us.” He steered Mrs. Youngman into their store, where they lived above it on the second floor.
I saw so much, people in tears, a few with the guts to protest becoming angry, if only for a moment, screaming, then cowed into silence. After all, Poole’s men were armed and no one had anything with which to defend themselves. These troops were the government personified. Who could war against them? Who could fight back? Rage? I watched as they went from house to house, rummaged through the shells of businesses, the empty places of commerce that had long since been picked clean. I watched as they went to the people I had known through a good chunk of my childhood. Yes, indeed, I became a witness to it as they—that enigmatic and all-encompassing “they”—robbed the people I had called “neighbor,” “friend,” the people who had comprised our small circle in a small corner of this world. It had all gone dark. I watched and smoldered and felt helpless as we were herded along and the last bit of our independence evaporated.
By mid-morning, with the task nearly complete, Poole finally came with two of his men to the door of our diner. One of the huge container trucks that had been moving along our street idled at the curb, the back panel rolled up to reveal the nearly full interior.
“By Federal order and for the good of the majority, we’re here to collect any personal food items,” Poole recited, as he must have recited countless times that morning. His goggles were pushed up as he stared straight at me. Three of my eggs were rolling around in his gut, spiced with salsa and doused with strong fresh coffee. Three eggs he had eaten because we had a bargain, an accord with a man in whom I had lost all trust. His face remained unreadable, masking what seemed to be an unmovable force.
My jaw clenched as I let slip a curse. “Bastard.” I aimed that single word at Poole, given to him for everything I had seen th
at morning.
Christina pressed up behind me, her soft form warm against my back, a reminder of that bloody deal, our very own, however small, conspiracy.
“Yes, ma’am,” Poole responded as if he didn’t care what I had just said or who I was. He signaled for his men to go inside.
They searched through the diner, finding little. The same with the upstairs kitchen. The men then went down to the cellar. Christina and I stood on the steps, observing them as they cleared the shelves. We stepped aside as the men trudged upstairs and carted away our goods. My sister caught her breath as they passed us. I took Tina’s hand in mine to calm her. Poole’s two subordinates never paused to notice the deep groove etched into the concrete floor.
When they had finished, the captain, still standing in the cellar, looked up at me. The pause lasted far too long, a silent form of torture. Then he climbed the steps toward us. I pushed Christina out the door and into the diner’s kitchen as the trio tromped about the room, their boots thumping against the tiled floor.
One of the men looked through the window at our backyard. “Sir, there’s a shed out back.”
Poole glanced out the kitchen window. I had taken our gardening tools and left them hazardously in front of the shed. “Nothing there,” the captain said. “Let’s move out.”
When they got to the front door, Poole looked over his shoulder at us. “Distribution is at two p.m. sharp at your local center. Don’t forget your ration cards.”
“Bastard.”
He saluted me. “Yes, ma’am.”
That night, Poole and Hernandez joined us for dinner. When he’d finished, the captain pointed to his empty plate. “The fried chicken was mighty fine, Christie, my darlin’. Mighty fine.”
“You said you missed fried chicken,” my sister said. “Glad you liked it.”
“That I did. And I appreciate you being such an accommodating hostess, unlike your counterpart here.”
“We don’t take too kindly to thieves around these parts,” I drawled.
My taunt didn’t seem to make a dent in his seemingly thick hide. Poole sat back in his chair, hands cupped behind his head. “Had orders, Beck.”
“Orders to leave children without food? To take away an old man’s medicine?”
“Orders are orders. And I follow them.”
“And you disobey them when it suits you.”
“Human nature, Honey Beck.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Do tell.” He snorted. “Then why’d you strike a bargain with me?”
I didn’t answer.
“Come on. Smart gal like you. A native of the Bay State.”
I hesitated a moment, then cleared my throat. “I had no choice.”
“And there you have it, Beck. You have it right.” He rubbed his stomach as his attention turned to Tina. “My, that was good chicken. Hope I didn’t just eat Henry.”
“That wasn’t our rooster,” my sister piped in. “Was it, Rib?”
“Henry’s just fine,” I grumbled, my gaze fixed on Poole.
Tina stood and began clearing the dishes. Poole didn’t make a move to help her this time. He didn’t make a move to leave, either.
“Dinner’s finished, Captain,” I said.
“That it is. Now I’d like to get warm.” He didn’t say another word, just sat there looking as if he planned to stay settled in that kitchen until I made the next move.
“The shed,” I finally conceded. “There’s a wood-burning stove in the den.”
“Didn’t I tell you, David?” Poole spoke to the sergeant seated beside him. “That daddy of theirs sure was a prepper to end all preppers. How’s about you go down and haul up some of that cut wood from the shed, Hernandez? And you, Honey Beck, fetch us a bottle of that whiskey I saw stashed in the cellar.”
Christina’s back stiffened as she stood at the sink washing dishes.
“It’s time we got back to base for final inspection, Captain,” Hernandez said.
“It’ll wait.” Poole had his gaze on Tina. “I’m so damned tired of being cold.”
The sergeant opened his mouth as if to offer another reason to leave. Instead, he just pressed his lips closed, let out a grunt, and got up from the table. The sound of his footfalls retreated as he headed down the stairs and out to our backyard. Poole cocked his head, gaze now on me.
I slapped my napkin onto the table, slid back my chair, and went to get the asshole his bottle of whiskey.
Part office, part living room, the den had been our gathering place as a family. Here we would come together as our father worked at paying the bills or went over his accounts. There he’d be seated at his old wooden desk that had been scarred by time, its dark finish scratched and badly chipped in places. The couch, a faded green tweed, was always occupied by Vera and Tina. Vera was my mom in every sense of the word except having given birth to me. She would be knitting while my sister read some ridiculous novel. Tina favored fantasy, lush worlds, bright and colorful and always complete with a mandatory happy ending. I’d sit on the floor poring over homework or reading the latest news on my tablet. Reality fascinated me, even though the truth had been getting harder and crueler with each passing day. My delicate sister could never take reality. She didn’t need it, this dreamer from a lost and untroubled world.
And that night when Poole had invaded what had always been our safe haven, my sister, as always, didn’t want to see the truth. Tina staked out her place on the couch and had her legs tucked beneath her, her flowered skirt fanning out over the cushion as she chewed on a fingernail until she peeled off a sliver. How many times had Vera scolded her for that?
Poole made himself comfortable at our father’s desk while Hernandez saw to our wood-burning stove. “It must be one of those high-efficiency models,” the sergeant commented. “Not much smoke.”
“It’s EPA approved,” I snapped, seated on the wooden floor near the stove’s brick hearth.
Poole leaned forward, hand clasping his glass of whiskey, elbows planted on the desk. “EPA approved until the agency made it a crime to burn wood in stoves and fireplaces. We all had to cut down on our CO2 gases to help the planet. Bullshit.” He pointed to the iron stove. “David, keep the fire small. Not much smoke with small fires. And that wood is seasoned. It’ll burn clean.”
“What difference does it make?” I asked. “There’s no one out now to smell the smoke.”
Poole took a sip of whiskey. “No one but the patrols.” He tipped the glass one way, then the other, spinning the liquor in a slow amber whorl. “You sure are treating me like I’m the devil’s spawn.”
“I’m sure I’m not alone after today.”
“You really think so, Beck?” He stood and came over to the fire. Poole watched the dancing flames for a while, taking small helpings from his glass. A long stretch of silence passed. “You have a mouth. No doubt about that. Strong-willed. But the town out there? Those people you were so rattled about at the dinner table? How many of them have any spine left?” He looked at me and waited. But when I didn’t give an answer, he set his attention back to the fire and muttered, “All sheep. They’re just thinning the herd. Then pushing what’s left of them into the cities. Worker bees…just like the authorities always intended…yes, ma’am.”
“Is that what you think of us?”
“Not me, Beck.” Poole tipped back his head, took a long drink of whiskey, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Never me.”
For several more long moments, he kept gazing at the spare blaze in the iron stove. Its warm light played across his strong features. Those features softened after a while, replaced by a longing of sorts, a kind of wounded yearning.
Hernandez went to the couch and pointed to the opposite end of where Tina was seated. “Is it okay if I sit over there?”
My sister looked at him, eyes wide as she nodded.
<
br /> The sergeant took a seat, then picked up his full glass of whiskey from the side table and took his first taste. He coughed. “Excuse me.” He coughed again.
Poole looked at him. “It’s like the fire.”
The sergeant nodded. “Definitely like heartburn.”
The captain focused on our stove again, his gaze set on the wood being consumed. “It’s liquid fire.” He took a long draw from his glass. “These flames. You see the colors? The glowing light. It’s like home. Being back in the hill country. The dusty stretches of land and the oaks all twisted and gnarled. The wind coming through to set their leaves to chattering. And how it all turned to gold at sunset.” He threw back the remainder of his whiskey. “Dear God, it’s just like home.” He handed me the empty glass. “David, you finished?”
The sergeant placed his nearly full drink on the table. “Sure.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
David Hernandez left the couch and followed Poole out of the room and out of our house, neither giving us so much as a farewell. My attention focused on the fire. I contemplated the flames as they flickered and sparked, the color, the glowing light, peering hard into their display of glory, however temporary it may be. Somewhere in their depths, somewhere buried deep inside that light, Jason Poole had just seen home.
CHAPTER 5
Our arrangement with Poole continued as October vanished and November began to age. Near month’s end, the first snow arrived. Ill-kept lawns were dusted with white powder, and the trees, long shed of their autumn trappings, were bare reminders of a softer season. That morning, Christina and I headed to the Distribution Center as slate gray clouds painted the sky, announcing that another snowfall would soon blanket the earth. We were in no need of supplies, but if we didn’t show, there would be questions, and none of us wanted questions.
Our breath steamed in the freezing air as we waited in line. We danced from foot to foot, trying to keep them from going numb. Mrs. Bradley and her little boy were just ahead of us. How isolated the pair looked, desperate and in need of protection. Without Mr. Bradley, they had no one, no close relative or real friends, no one but each other.