by Penn Gates
“May be a good idea to take along some boxes or somethin'. That's a lot of jars to carry up the stairs, two at a time.”
“Duh,” Nix says. “Thanks for the reminder."
She puts the truck in reverse and backs it into the old barn where she hopes to find the wooden crates which have been stacked there for years—unless somebody has chopped them up for kindling.
The Mennonites' farm seems much closer now that she has the truck. She doesn't relish going into the Shirks' dank, empty farmhouse by herself. She feels vulnerable without a gun in her hand, but it can't be helped. It's pretty hard to hold a weapon and carry heavy boxes at the same time.
It takes her the whole damn day, but she does it. The pickup is loaded with enough food for a couple of Sunday school picnics. She's used blankets and pillows, clothes and towels, between the jars to keep them from breaking. She's tried to grab anything useful, but at this point, who really knows what will be needed in the future? Her back is killing her. My kingdom for a hot shower, she thinks. But who would want it?
She drives home slowly, which is agonizing for someone who loves speed. It gives her too much time to think about what might have happened to George and Michael, or what very well might happen tomorrow. She knows getting through the winter is going to be tough without the Shirks to help. No matter how many generators she finds, milking that many cows is an almost impossible job for one person who doesn’t know what she’s doing.
She hates the thought, but she'll have to put down some of the herd. God! She can't shoot a dairy cow! No gentler, more placid creature exists. They've been tended by humans their whole lives. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel—except fish wouldn't look at her with big, brown, reproachful eyes.
“Shit! Shit! SHIT!” she yells at the top of her lungs, pounding the steering wheel.
◆◆◆
She arrives at the farm to find that the Shirk brothers are still out there somewhere. Nix fights the impulse to jump back into the truck and go looking for them. The only thing that stops her is the thought of the pickup bed awash in tomatoes, peaches, and green beans. She didn't kill herself all day to end up with garbage.
Margaret has been busy herself today, scrubbing cupboards and shelves that reach to the ceiling. Nix can't remember the last time she was in the long narrow pantry running between the kitchen and dining room. When an old man and a kid were the only occupants of the house there was not a lot of need for food storage.
An unpleasant memory rises to the surface of her mind. As a child, she'd hidden in the bottom cupboard farthest from the door, hoping Cindi Lou wouldn't find her and take her away again. Nix pushes the image away. No time for a walk down memory lane.
“Hey Lizzie,” Nix says to the youngest Shirk girl. “Go find your brothers and Martin. We need all hands on deck for this job."
Elizabeth giggles, but throws a knitted shawl over her shoulders and flies out the back door. Nix realizes she has yet to hear Elizabeth actually speak. She shakes her head. The girls are all quiet. Maybe because they can't speak without being corrected or interrupted by George. What a pain in the ass, she thinks again.
Nix positions herself on the tailgate of the pickup and addresses her troops. “We're going to form a relay team." They all look at her blankly, as she expected, but now she has their attention and she quickly explains what she wants them to do.
They've just gotten the last of the jars out of the truck when they hear the wagon jouncing up the drive. Nix takes a deep breath. Thank God.
For the first time since she's met him George has nothing to say. He sits on the wagon seat, obscured by the growing twilight, while Michael climbs down. Then Racer trots eagerly toward the barn and a bagful of oats.
“Go inside, kids, and wash up. Tell Margaret and Mary we'll be there in a minute.” Nix waits until they're alone on the back steps. “So—what happened?”
Michael shrugs. “The place was all boarded up, but they left a note. They decided to go back to the Lancaster community." He looks at her. “There were twenty-five or thirty young folks left, some of them girls. They will be traveling hundreds of miles to Pennsylvania by horse and buggy, with no way to defend themselves." He pauses. “Not that they would, anyway.”
“Jesus,” Nix breathes.
Michael raises one dark eyebrow. “Was that a prayer?”
“Sort of,” she says sheepishly. She can't get used to this kid flipping back and forth between Mennonite and GI Joe.
“Looks like we'll be staying on,” Michael says, unnecessarily.
“Frankly, I think that's good news for all of us,” Nix answers. “Although I'm pretty sure George doesn't think so.”
Supper consists of big bowls of peaches with whole milk so rich it's like cream. Nobody complains. Who doesn't enjoy desert without having to eat your vegetables first? Well, George for one. His discovery that he's stuck at Nix's farm heightens the tension between them. Their mutual silence dampens everyone's mood, and even the younger children are subdued.
Nix sneaks a look at Martin, who seems particularly distressed. He's loving the idea of being part of a family, Nix thinks, and that prick George would have left him here with me without a backward glance. She realizes that thought is bitchy—and borderline irrational.
How the hell are we going to get through the winter locked up together? If only we all had a TV to stare at, the silence would seem natural, she thinks. Technology did have its uses.
“Hey Martin, where's the flashlight?” Nix asks suddenly, making more than one person jump.
“Bottom of the stairs—for going to bed,” he answers in a small voice.
Nix glances around the table at the other kids. “Let's go for an adventure,” she says. “Who wants to go rummage around in the attic for old board games and stuff?”
The little ones look at George, who sits stoney-faced.
“I'll come,” Michael says suddenly. “There's nothing else to do.”
“I will come, too.” Margaret says. “I will get another lamp.”
The younger kids begin to speculate noisily about what they might find. Apparently Margaret's approval of the project overrides George's lack of enthusiasm. The sound of many shoes on wooden stairs is deafening.
“Wow,” Nix says to Margaret. “Is this 'the patter of little feet' I've heard so much about?”
“I have lived with noise my whole life,” Margaret replies. “It is silence that seems loud to me.”
“Like at the supper table, you mean?”
“George is very disappointed,” Margaret says. “He will be feeling better after a night of sleep." She changes the subject. “But this is a good idea for the kinder. They need their lives to be as much the same as we can make it for them.”
The attic is large and very dark. Nix moves the flashlight beam from side to side. Dust particles float in the light like planets moving in space. Shapes loom and disappear. The kids' chatter has stopped and they move closer together, glancing around nervously.
“Hmm,” Nix says, “Maybe you guys want to postpone our big search until tomorrow when there's some daylight.” She focuses the light on a rough shelf filled with books and long, thin boxes. “But I bet I know where the games are hiding.”
“Martin, you're the flashlight expert,” she says. “Come here and keep the light steady on the shelf while Margaret and I go over and pick out a couple of things.”
Nix grabs checkers and Monopoly and an old deck of playing cards titled ‘Authors’, but Margaret is reaching for the books. “Oh my, there are so many! And look at these—Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Nancy Drew! Enough for a whole winter of reading.”
“Those books were old when I was little,” Nix says, as the two of them follow the kids back downstairs. “But I loved them. They're classics.”
“To sit and read sounds so very relaxing,” Margaret says. “Especially since we seem to be having an adventure every day.”
In the parlor, George stands peering out the side w
indow.
“Get away from there!” Nix snaps at him. “You make a perfect target.”
“I am trying to see what is making that snuffling sound,” George says stiffly. “Someone could be hurt and needing our help.”
Nix reaches for her gun in its holster beneath her unzipped hoodie, then thinks better of it. Maybe she is too quick on the draw. But then again, maybe not. She extends one arm behind her. “Martin, flashlight. Now.”
Nix steps out into the darkness and gropes her way around the side of the house. She flattens herself against the rough siding and listens. Still those odd sounds. She flicks the switch as she brings up the flashlight, hoping to momentarily blind whatever it is.
“Dang!” Michael says behind her. “It's a pig!”
“Don't do that!” Nix yelps. “I might have shot you." But she's pleased he followed without being asking. George, on the other hand, she could do without, but he’s right behind his younger brother.
“There is a shoat, too,” the older Shirk says, pointing. “The big one is its mother. We might have the beginning of a herd of hogs—if the piglet is of the right—persuasion.”
Nix gives him a disgusted look. He can't even say the word 'sex', for Christ' sake! How is it they manage to have so many children?
“Just how do you catch a pig?” she asks aloud.
“Carefully,” George says. “Pigs can be vicious when they feel trapped. And this one will be defending her baby.”
“All righty, then. I'm going to leave this round-up to you guys,” Nix says, backing away. “I have no experience with hogs.”
“So, perhaps there is something you are afraid of after all,” George comments.
“I could shoot it if it charges me,” Nix answers, “But unless I can use handcuffs I wouldn’t know how to take it into custody.”
“Don’t waste your time with the dummkopf,” Michael says. “I'll come inside with you to get a lantern and some rope.”
Nix hands the flashlight to George. “Try and save the batteries,” she says. “I still haven't been able to get into Hamlin for more. Things keep coming up to delay me.”
“I love pork chops!” Michael says on the way into the house. He's practically doing a jig. Ah, the kid in him makes another appearance.
“Do you guys know how to butcher a hog? I don’t think I could execute it—unless it was committing a crime, of course.”
“Sure,” Michael says, ignoring her joke. “It's just like field dressing a deer.”
“If we ever get a break, how about taking me out and showing me how it's done? Deer hunting, I mean.”
“I can trap, too. Rabbits, squirrels, all sorts of stuff,” Michael says, warming to his subject. “And pheasant—I love pheasant.”
Nix smiles. “Looks like you got yourself a job this winter. You're going to be in charge of providing meat for the table. It'll probably be awhile before George is ready to butcher a hog. He sounds likes he's thinking of becoming a swineherd.”
“That can be his job,” Michael says. “And praying.”
Nix might have the same opinion, but she's not going to add fuel to this sibling rivalry thing. “Praying couldn't hurt, at this point. I’m hoping George knows a lot about dairy herds, too—and farming, come spring.”
With her hand on the cellar door, Nix says, “What do you say to a trip into Hamlin tomorrow to look for gas and ammo along with the supplies for Margaret's kitchen?”
“Hell, yeah!” Michael says.
I'm gonna really have to start watching my language, Nix thinks. There's enough disagreement between George and me on the basics, and neither of us will back down on those. The least I can do is tone down the vocabulary.
Chapter 7
Nix takes her foot off the accelerator and pulls to the side of the road. Before Michael can ask, she tells him, “We're almost into Hamlin. Can't hurt to sit here a minute and see if anything moves.”
For awhile the only sound in the truck is the ticking of the engine cooling down. The damn thing needs a tuneup. “You or George ever work on engines?”
“Father tried teaching that to George. He's hopeless at it, though.”
“How about you?”
He stares out the windshield. “Me? I kept the dairy equipment clean for the inspectors.”
“How does that work?” Nix asks. “I mean, what do you do when you grow up and have a family? Does the family help each kid get a start, or what?”
“If they're prosperous enough,” Michael answers. “But mostly, the younger boys go work for another farmer. If we're lucky, we apprentice with a mason or an electrician—learn a trade."
After a few minutes she says, “Wonder where all the people went to?”
“They died,” Michael says bluntly.
“I'm talking about the young people, wise guy. And the kids. This place wasn't a retirement community. What about the ones who didn't die?”
Michael shrugs. “Maybe they had the same idea as our people and headed for a place where they hoped folks would know what to do.”
“Good luck with that,” Nix says. “The last humans that faced a plague like this lived over six hundred years ago.”
Michael looks interested again. “What—”
Nix cuts him off. “We've sat here long enough. Let's take a closer look." She turns the key and the truck coughs to life. “Remind me after dinner and I'll tell you about the Black Plague.” She pauses again. “Here's something I should have asked you before we left the farm—do you know how to drive?”
“I've driven a tractor, on the road even.”
She opens the door and climbs down. “Slide over,” she says. “You're going to be the wheel man.”
Michael adjusts the seat and rolls down the window. “You gonna get in or what?”
Nix steps onto the running board and grabs the window frame for balance. “Take it slow. When we get to the edge of town, I'll walk the rest of the way in, have a look around. If everything's OK, I'll signal. And Michael, if there's trouble, turn this thing around and get the hell out of here—uh, heck out of here.”
Michael pats his rifle on the passenger seat. “Why bring me along, then tell me to run if there's trouble? Don't make sense.”
“Do you ever just not argue?”
“Nope,” he says. “That's why I'm always in trouble.”
She slaps the roof of the truck. “Let's get this show on the road.”
Hamlin grew up around the intersection of two main roads. One traffic light, which was never really needed, hangs over it. There's a row of storefronts on either side of the north-south route, most of which have been in place for at least a century, although many of them were modernized in the early 50's. The updates might have appealed to returning soldiers who'd seen big cities during World War II, but the materials were cheap and time has not been kind to them. The whole place looks shabby and uncared for.
You’re not looking for trouble, Nix reminds herself. Stick to places you can duck out of sight in a hurry. She squints into the watery sunshine of late October. She decides a quick survey, up one side and down the other, is in order before getting supplies. She peers through the window of Crider's Hardware and stands looking at the shiny new generator displayed in the window like a kid picking a Christmas toy. Bet Santa has more of those in back, she thinks. She stands motionless for a full minute, straining to see any movement in the dim interior. Nothing.
Next stop, the village police department, such as it is, or was—the chief, his deputy, and two part-timers on call in case of a really bad traffic accident. She peers through the glass of the door. The place looks deserted. I want to report a crime, she thinks. Somebody stole my life. Before she steps inside, she tosses an empty pop can. It rolls across the floor. She waits. Nothing. She enters soundlessly, and it hits her immediately—the smell every cop dreads. Something in here is dead, and it's a lot bigger than a breadbox.
She follows her nose to the chief's office. His corpse is slumped over his desk. She su
rveys the scene quickly with a professional eye. No sign of foul play. Looks like the Geezer Flu got him, but somehow he managed to remain at his post until the end.
She stands at attention and salutes. “Good for you, sir. You died a hero.”
The gun safe in the corner is closed. She wonders if she can find the combination somewhere in the drawers of the desk, then decides against it. Her goal today is food. And gasoline. If they can't run equipment, they'll be reduced to subsistence farming with the horse, and that high-spirited bugger won't last long dragging a plow. She decides to come back another time for a more thorough search—and to give the chief a decent burial. She suspects there will be more than one of those, but right now the living take precedence.
She walks past the local pizza parlor, which had only delivered to the folks in town. There are several empty storefronts, a small, old-fashioned post office, and a thrift store with stock consisting mainly of sticky plasticware and well worn clothing.
She crosses to the other side of Main Street, but before she completes her circuit she stands contemplating Hamlin's little county library, a surprisingly modern brick building. Besides a couple of churches and the grange hall, the library had always been one of the centers of community life. It had been new when she was a teenager, and she'd loved to borrow crime novels and mysteries. Gramps grumbled that the books she carted home were not suitable for a young girl her age, but she'd told him that Nancy Drew was so old she was solving crimes in a nursing home. Now Nix wonders if she can keep up with the times. Things are changing too fast.
She makes a mental note to explore the library the next time she comes into town. No doubt Margaret knows how to can, and Michael claims he and George can butcher meat. But how about preserving it without refrigeration? She'll be lucky to keep the generator up and running for the dairy barn, and another one to use a few hours a day for the water pump and water heater in the house.
