by Chris Pike
“You needed help. I couldn’t let you starve to death or die in the cold.”
“You could have, but you didn’t. I owe you my life.”
“Hank, you don’t owe me anything.” I was suddenly overcome with a welling of emotions I hadn’t had in a long time. My breath came shallow and hard. What was wrong with me? I turned my head away and rubbed my eyes.
“Ella, are you okay?” Hank asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I lied. “I have something in my eye.”
“Alright.” He looked down and scuffed his shoe in the dirt, perhaps embarrassed at my show of emotion.
I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you still collect things?”
“I do. I’ve been on a few salvaging trips.” Hank looked at me quizzically. “Ella, you don’t make idle conversation. What are you getting at?”
“Have you ever made it to the old cities? Houston, perhaps?”
“A couple of months ago I made a trip to the coast, and I tried to get into what’s left of Houston, but the perimeter is fenced off. Big signs in red letters say Do Not Enter.” He paused and took a breath. “There’s not much left. The skyscrapers are all gone. Houses, buildings, schools. Gone. It’s wild. Creepy.” He shivered. “So why’d ya wanna know?”
“I’m here to meet with some young fella who wants to record my life story. I’ve always wondered what happened to the big cities. I’d heard a few stories, but never talked to anyone who had been back.”
“From what people say, those old cities are dangerous. The zoo animals escaped and have taken over. Vines everywhere. Stay away from there, Ella.” Hank stole a glance at me. There was clearly something else he wanted to ask me. “You were from Houston, right?”
“I was. It’s where my childhood home was.”
“You were there when it happened?”
“Yes,” I said simply. I didn’t want to encourage more conversation about the subject. Fifty years later, the pain was still as raw as an open wound: The last memories of my mother, the confusion, the primal need to survive. Soon I’d have to spill my guts to a stranger, all for the education of future generations. I patted my horse on her coarse mane. It soothed me to feel the warmth and the strength of it.
“There ain’t nothin’ to go back to,” he said.
I’d seen that look before when people learn of my hometown. It was a look of pity and I didn’t like it. Hank mercifully changed the subject.
“What’s this fella look like? The one who’s gonna interview you?”
“Beats me. I haven’t met him. He’s some young guy from the university. We’re supposed to meet at the library at noon.”
I shifted positions in the saddle. Georgia, my horse, had been inspecting the car as we talked. She nosed the car along the sides, leaving smudge marks with her moist muzzle, probably trying to identify the strange metal object. I could tell she was getting itchy to move on because she always stamped her right hoof then shifted her weight restlessly. I patted her neck, my splayed fingers threading through her thick mane, leaving noticeable striations in her hair.
Hank scratched the side of his head. “I was eatin’ breakfast at Mabel’s Café this morning. Some new fella was in the booth next to me. I overhead him say something about being in a university. Mebbe that was him?”
“Perhaps.”
He took a step closer and petted Georgia with long, languid strokes. He glanced up at me. “Times are changing, Ella. I worry about you riding a big horse. Suppose you fall and break a leg? Nobody would find you. How ‘bout I find you a car, get it working, and give it to you?”
I shook my head and huffed. “I’m too old to drive. I’ve lived like this since I was eighteen. I can’t change now. Besides, I’ve forgotten how to drive.”
“It’s like riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget. But if you have forgotten, I could teach you.”
“No thanks.”
“Okay. I thought I’d try.”
* * *
Old memories were here in town, some I didn’t want to remember. Some good, some not, but I was glad the town was bustling with activity, with people milling around. Stores were open, children played in the streets, a dog barked.
I rode on until I reached the library. I glanced at the sky and shaded my eyes from the sun-glint. I reckoned it was noon by the position of the sun and the growl in my stomach indicating it was time to eat. For lunch, I had packed a sandwich from bread I made using wheat harvested on my land, and an apple I had traded for with another neighbor, plus a handful of pecans I picked from the orchard near where I live. For dessert I had a big piece of banana bread using a late crop of bananas.
Dismounting my horse, I tied her to a post under the shade of a massive live oak tree at the front of the library. The ground was dotted with acorns and a squirrel barked noisily at me, swishing its tail. I smoothed the winkles from my jeans and brushed off the trail dust that had settled on my shoulders.
The library hadn’t changed much since the last time I was there. Even some of the concrete sidewalk remained, and I imagined I was walking on what would have been the parking lot. The bricks were the same sandy tan color, although the front door was different, the glass long since broken. People had looted the store, seeking the books not for reading, but to use the pages as fuel for fires, or a substitute for sanitation purposes.
The door creaked open and I entered the library, greeted by the musty smell of books.
To the left was Jessica Harbaugh, who claimed to be educated as a librarian. I doubted it, but nobody questioned her, especially since there was no way we could check. She was my age, and she was a survivor who naturally commanded my respect.
“Good afternoon, Cindrella,” Jessica said. Her tone was formal, which was how most people addressed me. I was somewhat of a legend around there, a title I never wanted. I had escaped the ravages of ailments brought on by the germ warfare of The Event. Some suffered from a sort of dementia, remembering bits and pieces of their lives, with big holes missing. Like they had Swiss cheese for a brain.
“Hello! I’m over here.”
I glanced in the direction where the male voice came from. A young man with round spectacles, diminutive in stature, hurried over to where I was standing. This must be my interviewer. He clumsily walked into a library cart, stumbled, and a few books thumped onto the wood floor. He bent over, picked up the books, and shoved them back into the cart.
He thrust out a hand to greet me. I removed my riding gloves, one finger at a time, then shook his hand. It was limp and moist. Our eyes met for a second, then he glanced away.
“I’m Cindrella Strong, but you can call me Ella.”
“I know.”
His lack of manners caught me off guard, and I stood there, befuddled. He pushed around some papers on the table, obviously unaware I was still standing.
“Where do you want me to start?” I asked him as he scooted his chair closer to the table. The squeaking of wood on wood sent a shiver up my spine. Those types of noises still bothered me. I cleared my throat in an attempt to make him notice me.
My interviewer glanced at me, and I gave him a motherly scold. His eyes nervously flicked to the right and left. “Oh, uh, right. Please, let me get the chair for you.”
“Thank you,” I said graciously while he seated me. He was eyeing me over, studying me, like I was some sort of exhibit at a zoo.
“I’m preparing my thesis on the early 21st century,” he said. “I intend to compare the theological thinking of the 20th century and how it affected the decisions, which led to The Event.”
He rattled on about how he had studied that time period, especially the years before the Event. His platitudes completely bored me.
“I’ve studied and I’ve pored over old school yearbooks,” he explained. “I gain a lot of information from old pictures, for example, like how people stand, their body language, facial expressions, the clothes they wear. Things of that sort.”
“That’s nice,” I said,
unimpressed, my intonation flat.
He looked at my jeans. “I think I recognize the brand of your jeans advertised in old magazines marketed to teenagers.”
Mr. What’s-his-name was clearly unsure of his account. His eyebrows furrowed, and he lifted his hand, rubbing what little stubble he had.
“It’s amazing the jeans have lasted so long, and they look practically brand new. The fit is good too.”
He must have been thinking about how a mature woman can still wear jeans meant for a teenager.
“I work every day at the ranch. It’s like having a four-hundred acre gym in the back yard.”
“Oh,” he said.
“Besides, quality is quality.”
I didn’t want to disclose to him I had dressed up for the meeting. It was only the fifth time I’d worn the jeans. I was old, but had been told I could pass for younger. I was still strong from working the ranch, tossing hay, and tilling the soil. My back was straight too, but in the winter my aches and pains reminded me of my age.
We sat at a large mahogany table. My hands glided over the dark, smooth wood, and I admired the pattern of the grain.
Mr. What’s-his-name fumbled around in his backpack and took out a tape recorder. He set out a tablet of paper and two sharpened number 2 pencils.
After much prodding from the university heads, I had agreed to let him record my life story. Perhaps I’d be in the history books someday. A giggle escaped my lips.
“What’s funny?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing.” I dismissed his comment with a wave of my hand.
The chairs were uncomfortable, and I wiggled around trying to find a spot that didn’t hurt my backside. In the corner of the library at the brightly colored plastic children’s table, a relic scrounged up from a pediatrician’s office, sat a mother and her unruly children. She shushed them to be quiet. The librarian stopped the click-clack of the manual typewriter to make sure the children noticed her disapproving stares.
I rather liked the noisy children. There was a time when there were no children. They were the favorite targets of the tearawolves.
“You can start your story anywhere you want to,” he prompted.
“Alright, what did you say your name was?”
“Theodore Olson.”
He was of Norwegian heritage. His last name translated to “son of Ole.” I should have already guessed that by his ruddy complexion and blond hair, although his eyes were brown. Quite a few people of Norwegian heritage survived The Event. They were sturdy people who could live off the land on practically nothing, using what little soil they could find among the rocky ground. The cold didn’t bother them as much as other folks. I guess it was in their genes.
“Theodore Olson,” I repeated.
“Call me Teddy.”
“I prefer Mr. Olson.” I sighed. “Where are my manners? First of all, thank you for allowing me to tell my story.”
“No problem.” He let out a condescending laugh, shrugged, and flippantly said without looking up at me, “There aren’t many old gals like yourself whose memories are still good.”
I glared at him, heat rising in my neck and burning my cheeks. He was too busy fumbling with the recorder to notice his transgression. All my senses zeroed in on my surroundings. The whispering of the children became noticeable, their words as clear as if they were speaking into a megaphone. The clock ticked like a drum beating, echoing off canyon walls. The odor of musty books hit me full and strong. I locked eyes with Jessica, who was peering at me over the rim of her glasses, and her gaze bounced from me to my interviewer.
“If you insult someone, you should at least look at them.”
“What?” he said with a perplexed frown.
I lowered my voice, challenging him to look at me. “Old gal indeed!”
“I, uh, I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” I cut in, my voice tight and sharp.
He sized me up. He immediately recognized his mistake and shrank down into his chair. He glanced at Jessica, pleading with his eyes for her to help him. She shook her head and flashed her eyes wide, indicating he was on his own.
“Listen here, sonny,” I said through tight lips, “I’ve plowed fields, dug fence posts, and bagged a deer in sub-freezing weather when we had nothing to eat. I came close to dying once when a tearawolf attacked me, clawing at my leg, ripping through fabric and flesh.” I took a slow breath. “Tell me, have you ever seen a tearawolf?”
He didn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to. He only sat there, his downcast eyes focusing on his hands.
I raised my voice an octave. “Have you?”
“No,” he squeaked, then announced proudly, “but I saw one in a museum.”
“Oh did you now?” My voice was slow and purposeful. “Were the six inch razor-sharp claws filed down so little children couldn’t slice off their fingers? Were the fangs removed?” My eyes burned into him, the contempt in my voice palpable. “Have you ever been so close to one of them you could feel their hot, stinking breath? Or seen the excitement of the kill in their eyes when you’re the kill?”
He did not answer me, and the silence in the room was deafening. The clock ticked, the second hand magnifying each stroke. Jessica stopped typing again. The young mother and her two children stopped their make-believe playing, and sat dumfounded, transfixed on me, their mouths wide open. The mother brought her children closer to her and whispered to them. Whatever she said worked, because those children didn’t move a muscle.
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Ever had to run for your life?”
“No,” he timidly replied.
Rising from the chair, I paced like a wild animal caged too long. My hands were on my hips, and my poncho swung when I pivoted. The thumping of my boots on the wood floor echoed in the silent library, announcing my anger.
I skirted the table and moved closer to Theodore, my face brushing against the day old stubble on his face. I placed a hand on the table, the other on my hip. With the look of a scared rabbit, he moved to the right, trying to distance himself from me.
“Have you ever had to run for your life?” I asked again, this time quietly. “Ever been afraid if you made one wrong move you’d be ripped to shreds by one of those beasts?”
I glanced at Jessica, who was as mesmerized as the children were.
“Have you?” I whispered into his ear. “Do you want to know what a tearawolf can do to human skin?”
Theodore didn’t answer, nor did he blink.
I lifted my leg and planted my right foot firmly on the chair he was sitting on. I bent over and slowly rolled up my pant leg.
“Take a good look. This is what a tearawolf could do to a human. Hideous isn’t it?” With raw emotion, I commanded, “Look!”
Theodore’s eyes were big and round, his breathing fast. Out of curiosity he took a quick peek, then grimaced and glanced away.
“I was lucky not to lose my life or my leg. Perhaps you can write about that!”
I edged around to the other side of the table opposite Theodore. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. Fear flashed in his eyes. I’ve experienced fear, death, hopelessness. Fight or flight. And I’ve done both.
“I could teach you a thing or two. I’ve seen more in my lifetime than you would if you lived to be two hundred years old. So don’t you Old Gal me!” I slammed my hands on the table. He flinched at the demonstration.
“I’m sorry,” Theodore said, his eyes darting around nervously. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“Is everything okay?” Jessica asked.
I nodded.
“I meant there weren’t many ladies your age I can interview who survived The Event.”
I should have socked him right then. He couldn’t have put up much of a fight. Physically I was bigger, and my silver hair and wrinkled skin belied my strength. Although he was younger than me by forty years, I could have taken him. His hands were smooth with nary a scar on them, certainly not the hands of a working
man. Those who ride a horse, or build a house, or cut cedar with an ax. Handle a gun, put food on the table, or who can bury a child and not be afraid to cry about it. I admire men at whose side I can stand as an equal. Kyle was one of those men. I doubt Theodore ever handled a gun or cut cedar in freezing temperatures. I doubt he ever tussled with a strong woman. I had my fair share of tussles in my younger days. A brief memory of Kyle interrupted my anger, and I smiled.
“I’m sorry, Ella. Are you alright?” Theodore asked.
“Huh?”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I lied. My heart was pounding, and the walls and ceiling were closing in on me, suffocating me. My chest was tight, my vision blurry. I blanked out, my mind a jumble of memories. All I wanted to do was run, but run where? Home? I racked my brain trying to remember where home was. The man sitting across the table from me was looking at me oddly. His mouth moved as if he was talking, but no words were being spoken.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re in the library, Ella.”
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Theodore Olson, and over there,” he said, motioning with his hand, “is the librarian, Jessica.”
And like a light switch had been flipped on, I knew exactly where I was. “Oh, of course. I remember now.”
“Can I get you something? A glass of water?” he asked.
“No. I’m too old for this nonsense. This was all a mistake.” I reached for my satchel so I could leave.
“Wait,” Theodore said, rising from his chair. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked hopefully.
“You have coffee?” I asked incredulously. I sat down and put my hands on my lap. “Where’d you get it?”
“At the grocery store, where else? Coffee has been available for over a year.” He squinted, giving me a puzzled look. “When was the last time you were in town?”
“I don’t remember. I have no need to come into town. I grow my own food. The land has pecan trees. There are wild berries and grapes to pick. I hunt and grow crops.” He must have thought I was some crazy old hag. “When I need something, I trade with my neighbors, but I haven’t had coffee in a long time. You have coffee?”
