by Penn Gates
She rummages some more in the desk and comes up with a bottle of Scotch. She's too tired to go for a glass so she takes a swig from the bottle. Smooth. So smooth. She has always had an amazing tolerance for alcohol, but she knows she's exhausted, drained. How much will it take to put her down? She plans to find out.
She's just getting mellow when a thought occurs to her. What if the St Clairs have some genetic resistance to the Geezer virus? She'd been in the thick of it without becoming infected. Gramps died not of Geezer, but a stroke. Cindi Lou could be out there, could show up tomorrow or next year. Shit! She takes another swig from the bottle. There are no more courts or judges. Reality is the only thing that counts any more, and the place belongs to her because she's in possession of it—and she plans on staying here for the rest of her life. But how long will that be? Her current resistance to the killer virus means nothing. That could change tomorrow. She needs to keep the farm safe from Cindi Lou.
Nix has gotten through half the bottle before George comes to find her.
“Perhaps you need to get some sleep,” he says, looking a little shocked at the sight of her with a bottle in her hand. “You have been awake for two days.”
“Hey George,” she slurs. “Come an’ have a drink to toast Alvin St Clair—may he rest in peace.”
“No thank you,” he says stiffly. “I am seventeen years old. You should be knowing it is illegal for me to drink alcohol.”
Nix blinks. “Right, right. Sorry—I forgot. You act so much older." She shuffles through a disorganized pile on the desk top. “C'mere George—want you to see this." She lifts a sheet of paper triumphantly. “There you are, you li'l devil!”
“We can talk tomorrow when you are not so—tired,” George says. “It is time to go to bed now." He studies her. “I will have Margaret come to help you.”
“Don't wanna go to bed,” Nix mumbles. “Plenty of time to sleep when I die." She squints at the paper she holds. “Yeah—that’s what I wanna tell you. In case the Geezer thingie catches up with me, I'm leavin' the farm to you and your family." She waggles her fingers at him. “Gramps left it t'me so Cindi Lou couldn't get her filthy paws on it.”
“Who is Cindi Lou?” George asks.
“My bitch of a mother,” Nix hisses. “I don't want her throwing you off the place if you decide to stay.”
George is one of those unfortunate people who flush when they feel strong emotion. He flushes now, either because he's pleased or because he's angry. Nix can't tell which it is, but when he stalks over and removes the bottle from her hand, she guesses it’s anger.
George taps the Bible with one long finger. “It says to honor your father and your mother.”
“If you knew my mother, you wouldn't honor her, either,” Nix slurs. “She tried to sell me to a guy who liked little girls—for dope.”
“How old were you?” George blurts before he can stop himself.
Nix reaches for the bottle and George shakes his head. She slumps into the chair and closes her eyes. “I was 12." She sits up and gives him a lopsided grin. “I knocked him out with a piece of firewood and kept on running 'til I got to town." A tear trickles from the corner of her eye and she swipes at it angrily. “Gramps wired me the money for a bus ticket back to Ohio.”
“I am sorry that happened to you, I truly am, but surely you were blessed with a grandfather who rescued you and gave you a home. And we buried him today. Say a prayer for his soul instead of cursing a woman who already has gone to meet her maker, like as not.”
Nix glares at him, then laughs. “Tough love, huh George?" She stands up, weaving a little and puts out a hand to steady herself. “About the only thing I've noticed about you that is tough.”
“Think what you like,” George says stiffly. “But I will give you a word of advice before I leave you. Stay off the stairs—or you will break your neck.”
◆◆◆
Nix wakes because her head is pounding. Or it's pounding because of the noise that makes further sleep impossible. She opens one eye and watches for awhile as Margaret cuts out biscuits at the kitchen table. For breakfast, Nix wonders? She tries to focus her thoughts, but they tumble around in her head and make her feel dizzy. If she can see into the kitchen she must be—in the dining room. She groans. She's lying on the bed Gramps died in, she knows she is.
“Oh God, somebody shoot me,” she moans into the bare mattress ticking beneath her cheek. Bits and pieces of last night come drifting into her thoughts and she grabs at them. George—disgusted with her—sanctimonious little prick.
As if summoned by her thoughts, George comes stomping in the back door. “Milking is done,” he says loudly to Margaret.
“There is no need to shout, George. I am right here in front of you,” Margaret says. “Will you let everyone know to wash up? The biscuits will be ready in twenty minutes.”
George sticks his head out the door and bellows, “Breakfast is ready! Come and get it!”
The kitchen immediately fills with kids, all talking at once.
“That is not what I said, George,” Margaret says mildly. She claps her hands. “Washing up is first while the biscuits are browning.”
More stomping feet. Scraping chairs. A moment of silence for grace, and then the din resumes.
Nix cringes. She feels like pulling the covers over her head and hiding until they all go away again. Except there aren't any covers. No wonder she aches so bad. She must have been huddled into a ball to stay warm. She knows that George is trying to humiliate her—and it's working. Her stomach lurches and she scrambles to her feet and runs toward the front door. She vomits over the porch railing and then hangs there for a few minutes. When she's sure her stomach has given up its protest against what she did to it last night, she wobbles back into the house and crawls up the stairs to Gramps' room.
She wants to go back to sleep, this time with a blanket over her, but memories of last night keep flashing into her mind. The will. The second will she'd scrawled leaving the farm to George Shirk. Right! First order of business—tear that damn thing into little pieces. At the moment, she feels like sending him back where he came from. And he can take the damn generator with him. She finally drifts off to sleep, dreaming of hot sudsy water and the peace and quiet to enjoy it.
When she wakes, the light coming in the window is rosy, colored by the setting sun. God, did she really sleep through the day? She had planned to go into Hamlin.
There's a light tap on the door. “Miss St Clair, are you awake?” Margaret's soft voice barely carries through the thick wood panel.
“Yeah, I'm up. Wait a minute." Nix crawls out of bed and staggers toward the door. She yanks it open, ready for a confrontation, but Margaret smiles sweetly at her.
“Are you feeling better?” she asks with real concern. “You must have needed that sleep badly. You have not stopped to rest since you left the city."
She brushes down her apron, an unconscious gesture that seems to help her organize her thoughts. “Are you hungry?"
She reaches to the side of the doorway, out of Nix's line of sight, and retrieves a tray. “I am bringing soft boiled eggs and a dry biscuit. Have a bite, and perhaps later you and I can talk about supplies we need. Would that be all right?”
“No problem,” Nix says, grateful to have something concrete to think about. It's so much easier to think about what to do than how you feel. She's never understood people who are constantly taking their emotional temperatures.
“Your backpack is over by the rocking chair,” Margaret says. “And there is a bowl of water and a cloth. I will see you in the office after I clean up from supper.”
Office? Nix thinks, then realizes Margaret means 'the library'. Well, office it is. It's a better name for it anyhow.
“How old are you?” Nix asks impulsively.
“I am fifteen. Well—almost fifteen and a half,” Margaret answers shyly.
Nix remembers being so young you included months to your age to seem older, at least to your
self. “You're very mature for your age,” Nix says.
Margaret blushes. “Oh no. I am not really.”
“Well, I'm comparing you to the teenagers I've known. Out there—” She waves her hand vaguely. “—they want all the privileges of being an adult, but none of the responsibilities." She puts a hand to her head. Oh God, the headache. Nothing like a hangover for a skull splitter.
“I will get you some aspirin.”
“No,” Nix says. “We should save what medicine we have in case of real illness. I did this to myself. I deserve the consequences.”
Margaret ducks her head. “As you say then. I will see you in a bit.”
◆◆◆
Nix feels surprisingly human by the time she goes down to the office to wait for Margaret. She knows she's delaying the moment when she'll have to face everyone, but she's content to leave that for tomorrow.
Margaret comes prepared with a list of supplies. “We are very close to being out of flour,” she says. “And sugar." She smiles at Nix. “And worst of all—we have no more coffee.”
“I could have used that today,” Nix says, deciding to be matter-of-fact about her recent bender.
“It was understandable,” Margaret murmurs soothingly.
“No, no it isn't,” Nix says. “I'm the one insisting we all stay alert for possible danger, and it's me who gets stupid and passes out." She drums her fingers on the desk top. “That's just hypocritical. And reckless. I'm sorry.”
“The fruit and vegetables my mother canned. We should get it as soon as we can,” Margaret says, tactfully changing the subject.
“Michael and I have already decided to make another trip,” Nix says, omitting any mention of the break-in. Somehow she’s sure Michael hasn't told anyone else about it—maybe not even George.
“Do you think things will get back to normal any time soon?” Margaret asks suddenly. “George is insisting it is only a matter of weeks." She starts smoothing her apron again. “But it has been weeks already and the electricity has not even been coming back on.”
Nix wonders if this question is the real reason Margaret wanted to have this chance to talk.
“I don't honestly know,” she says slowly. “So many of the people in charge of things are dead, it may be awhile before businesses—hell, governments—get organized again to handle all the problems out there. In the meantime, we've got to do the best we can to keep going." She looks Margaret in the eye. “And hope that the military has been able to restore order in the big city areas and supply the folks there with food. Because if they haven’t, there's going to be a lot of survivors heading out to look for something to eat. Even if they have to take it away from somebody else.”
Margaret looks stunned. “It is that bad?”
“It was pretty bad when I left,” Nix says frankly. “It may be better now. It may be worse. No way of knowing at the moment.”
Margaret shakes her head. “My father always said no good comes of too many people living in one place. When you do not know the names of the people who live around you, you are among strangers. And strangers do not care so much about each other.”
“You're father was a wise man,” Nix says briefly. “In the city, you can go for days without—”
The door bursts open and George stands glaring at the two of them.
“If you have something to discuss, please talk to me, not my family,” he says, speaking directly to Nix.
“And why is that, George?” Nix asks him.
“Because the head of the family should be making the decisions for the family,” he says in a tone that suggests all of this is self evident.
“Really? Then perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what food supplies are needed for meals—because I'm going into Hamlin tomorrow to look around.”
“It will not be necessary to purchase supplies for us,” George responds, “Because I—and my family—will be leaving in the morning to rejoin our community.”
Nix notices that Margaret seems surprised at this news.
“When were you planning on telling them?” Nix asks sarcastically. “Or don't they deserve to know until you order them into the wagon?”
“We need to leave this place!” George says angrily. “You will corrupt us if we stay. Already you have filled Michael's head with shooting guns at people! I will not allow this! It is not our way!”
Nix stands up so abruptly that George flinches. “Your family business belongs to you—and each one of your brothers and sisters. I haven't interfered with shit. I'm doing what I think is best for my family farm, myself, and Martin."
“But I'll give you my opinion for free,” she continues. “You gotta be out of your ever lovin' mind to take little kids into a situation blind! You should check out the bishop's farm by yourself and make sure this community you keep talking about is still there.” She glares at him. “It's one more day. Be smart and know what you're walking into before you drag your family with you."
She pauses for a beat. “Speaking of Michael, did he not tell you that your farm had been broken into?”
George's face is turkey red. Nix isn't sure he won't start gobbling in the next few seconds, but he closes his eyes and seems to say a quick prayer, then takes a huge gulp of air and opens his eyes.
“Margaret, you will please follow me. We will have a family conference right now." He turns on his heel and leaves the room.
“Oh my,” Margaret says softly to herself. She glances apologetically at Nix as she hurries after her brother.
Chapter 6
In the morning, Nix decides to join everyone at breakfast, the better to savor the stares or glares she's sure will greet her for a variety of reasons. A cup of coffee would help a lot, but that isn't going to happen until she gets into town.
“Nix!” Martin squeals in delight and jumps up to give her a big hug. Far from making her feel warm and fuzzy, it just makes her feel guilty. She hasn't thought about him for 24 hours. He must have felt abandoned by her, although she hopes he felt safe among the Shirks. Well, that's not going to be an option for much longer. She's going to have to do better in the foster parent department.
Michael nods his head in her direction, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smirk. George ignores her. The rest of them say good morning and go back to what they were doing before she entered the room.
Fried eggs over fried potatoes are what's on the breakfast menu, but nobody complains. Nix eats quickly and signals to Michael to follow her outside. She feels a sharp jolt of irritation when George interrupts her exit. Maybe it's better if he does leave, because she doesn't know how much longer she can keep from bitch-slapping him.
“Miss St Clair,” he says formally. “I would like to speak with you privately before you start your day.”
“Let's get this over with,” she says immediately. “I've got things to do." She stalks to the office and plops down in the desk chair. “By the way—when you leave take your damn generator with you. I'll find another one somewhere.”
“I have decided I am taking your advice and checking at Bishop Oberholtz's farm before I bring the family there,” he says stiffly.
“Smart.”
“I will take the wagon there today.”
“Great." She rises. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head silently.
“Good luck,” she says and heads for the truck.
Michael is there waiting, with his rifle and the shotgun.
“Didn't expect to see you here,” Nix says.
“Why not? This was the plan, right? Go to Hamlin. Get supplies.”
“That's my plan, but apparently George is going exploring. I thought you'd be going with him.”
Michael looks into the distance. What is he seeing, Nix wonders? Is he picturing deer in the woods? Admiring the autumn foliage? This kid is hard to read.
“George is the one who wants to know what's happening at the bishop's farm. Let him go find out.”
Nix bites her lip. She might want to
smack the hell out of George, but she really doesn't want to see him dead.
“Listen, change of plan,” she says. “You go with George and make sure he’s safe. I'll go over to your farm and get all the canning. Margaret sure does want that stuff.”
“I don't want to,” Michael says, actually sounding like a kid for a change. “He'll complain about my rifle the whole time. Even if I saved his life, he'd still say I was sinning.”
“I know, I know. But if you don't go, then I will, which would be an even bigger disaster.”
“If they're still there he's gonna want us to pack up and leave tomorrow.”
“Maybe he's right,” Nix says. “Maybe I am a bad influence.”
“I'll tell you true, Nix. I never could understand not fighting back. I didn't need you to tell me." Michael frowns and those dark brows underline his words. “I always been in trouble for one thing or another, long as I can remember. I thought about leaving more than once—and here's my chance.”
Michael is a minor in the eyes of the law, and as his oldest living family member, George has the legal right to decide what's best for his younger brother. But how George handles his rebellion will only be entertainment viewed from the sidelines for Nix. Because she most definitely is not getting involved.
“You'll have to work that out with the patriarch over there." Nix points at George on the other side of the farmyard, hitching up Racer. “Just go with him today and keep him alive.”
Michael makes a face, but he slings his rifle over his shoulder and walks toward the wagon. Nix doesn't have to be a lipreader to know what George is saying, or what Michael is replying. Siblings. She's pretty sure she lucked out being an only child.
She stows the shotgun and checks to make sure she has extra ammo before she fires up the truck. She flips the Shirk brothers a quick wave as she passes, but brakes when she sees Michael waving her down.
