World After Geezer: Year One

by Penn Gates

  Martin looks guilty for having mentioned a tree. It hasn't occurred to Nix before now what cultural confusion the kid is wrestling with as he spends his days with people who view the world in a whole different way.

  “Don't worry, Martin, we'll have a real one,” Nix says. “Christmas is a time for tradition – and everybody has their very own idea of what that should be." She glares at George, daring him to contradict her.

  “Last year we had a hot pink tree with all black ornaments,” Brittany volunteers. “It was rad.”

  Nix shudders, but keeps her opinion to herself. After all, she's just declared that everyone has a cherished mental image of the holiday.

  “Mom came up with something different every year,” Emma says dreamily. “They had a big Christmas Eve cocktail party for the neighbors, and it got pretty hard for her to top herself. She was famous for her trees.”

  Nix nudges Michael with her elbow.

  “Yeah, sometimes she got a little out there,” Brittany adds. “But it was always fun.”

  “I am dreaming of ham for Christmas dinner,” Margaret tells the table at large.

  George frowns. This is a sore point with him. The piglet had been a male, as he'd hoped, but its mother's milk had dried up. She'd been weakened by hunger and the exertion of the constant search for food. Nix will never forget the image of George sitting in the hay, suckling the piglet with a rag dipped in cow's milk. Talk about multi-species interaction. But despite his heroic efforts, the little sucker had died within a week. Now the sow will either consume enormous amounts of food, with no return on the investment, or provide protein for a group of humans who could use it.

  Apparently, though, George is still hoping divine providence will send him another male pig from hog heaven. He doesn't respond to his sister's prompting.

  “We need to cut firewood today,” he announces instead. “After we are done with our eating, I will hitch up the wagon. Jason, you will gather up the chain saw and fuel can and meet me out behind the barn.”

  Jason nods sullenly. He hates taking orders from George. He's made that much crystal clear through body language alone, but he fears Nix enough to keep his mouth shut and do as he's told.

  George turns his attention toward his brother, but before he can speak Nix says, “Michael, you promised to teach me to hunt. Let's go get a dee—uh, some venison for Christmas dinner."

  That was in the nick of time, she thinks. Don't mention eating a deer in front of Martin, who still believes Rudolph's a great guy.

  “Just in case that ham doesn't come through,” she adds maliciously.

  Michael grins. “Good day for tracking.”

  “Can I come, too?” Martin says, in that sing-song-y teasing voice all kids think will get them what they ask for. “Please?”

  “Me, too,” Peter chimes in.

  Nix decides to sidestep the question of children hunting and just pretend Martin is asking to help cut wood.

  “Great idea,” she says. “You guys can gather kindling. Then we don't have to splinter up logs to start fires.”

  “I'm going, too,” Paul announces.

  “Then you best be doing your chores quickly,” George tells them sternly.

  The kitchen door opens as Peter leaves and a blast of frigid air swirls into the room. The large, unused room behind the kitchen is a sore point with Nix. It’s needed space, but the cold reminds her that nothing is going to get done on that front until next year.

  She’s gazing into space, thinking about how to use George’s carpentry skills when her attention is caught by Douglas Freddie Krueger. His slight frame looks almost robust under two of Gramps' old sweaters, but he hunches his shoulders against the slight change in temperature and shivers.

  “You're not the only one,” Brittany says to him. “My feet are freezing all the time.”

  “Keep moving,” Nix advises her. “I've always found strenuous activity gets the blood circulating and raises the body temperature."

  Brittany gives her a resentful glance before she turns toward Margaret, who has just spoken her name.

  “Brittany, will you please gather the dishes from the table for washing.” The Mennonite girl speaks very firmly to the pouting teenager, but she smiles at Emma. “You can dry.”

  “Why can't we go outside for a change?” Brittany whines.

  “Because you'll freeze your feet!” Nix snaps. In a low voice she says to Michael, “I’ll meet you in the back room.”

  “You can ride with us to the edge of the woods,” George offers.

  He follows her out to the haphazard line of coats hung on the old wire coat hooks screwed into the wall. It’s where Gramps always hung his work jacket, which smelled like—well, cow shit.

  “Then I will not be forced to listen to another 'Mennonite' joke from Jason,” George adds in a low voice.

  “What the hell is a 'Mennonite' joke?” Nix asks, pulling on her boots.

  “Hmm, let me think,” George says. “There are so many."

  Leave it to George to take her question literally.

  Just when she thinks the subject is closed, George says, “Here is one: What goes clip-clop, clip-clop, bang, clip-clop, clip-clop?”

  “Don't know,” Nix says. “Tell me.”

  “A Mennonite drive-by shooting,” George says. “I am not sure I even know what that means.”

  “It means stupid,” Nix says. “Does he bombard you with bad jokes all the time?”

  “Yes, he does." George wears his long-suffering look.

  “Well, that's easy. Just tell him to shut his face.”

  Michael returns from the basement in time to hear part of the conversation. “Shut it for him,” he suggests, standing in the doorway with a rifle in each arm.

  George looks grim. “That is not our way, and you know it, brother.”

  “It’s a Mennonite joke,” Michael mutters.

  “Let's get going,” Nix says, stepping between them. “George, are you taking an axe with you?”

  “Certainly I am. Why?”

  “Because I'm going to chop down a little fir. Martin will be disappointed if we don't have a tree.”

  “It is frowned on,” George says, and Nix thinks he might be talking more to himself than to her. But it gives her an opening, and she takes it.

  “I don't know if you've noticed, but the population of this farm is pretty evenly divided between Mennonites and, uh, non-Mennonites. So, here's the compromise. We won't decorate the tree with glitz and glitter. And anyone who wants to can make a special ornament. Or not.”

  “George doesn't believe in compromise,” Michael tells her when his brother doesn't respond to her suggestion.

  “Oh for God's sake!” Nix says in frustration. “Let's get out of here. I need to escape from this culture clash thing for awhile.”

  No one speaks as the wagon jounces across the barren fields to the edge of the woods. George seems to be at odds with everybody at the moment, and Jason has nothing to say as long as Nix is within earshot. Even the boys are subdued by the air of tension.

  Nix jumps down immediately when they come to a halt.

  Michael follows more slowly. “Hey Wise-acrer!” he yells in Jason’s direction, “Don't cut off anything you might need!”

  “OK, we can go now,” he says to Nix.

  “Mature. Real mature.”

  “He had it coming,” he says briefly and trudges off, intent on the ground in front of him.

  The great frozen silence is like a cold compress on an aching muscle. Nix feels herself relaxing into the peace of the woods. After awhile, she begins to listen to the sounds contained within the silence. Her own breathing, the creaking of the bare limbs overhead as they sway in the wind, the squeak of their boots on the snow.

  “Tracks,” Michael turns and exhales the word in a white cloud. They follow slowly, careful to stay downwind of their prey. “Big one,” Michael whispers. “Gotta be a buck. We're right behind him.”

  Without warning, a rifle
shot rings out somewhere ahead of them, an explosion of crows rise from the trees, and then a crack as sharp as a second shot pierces the air as a large branch breaks loose from a huge maple.

  “Did you see that?” Michael asks. “Something fell besides the branch." He repositions his rifle. “Whoever fired that shot, it came from up there.”

  Nix hands Michael her own rifle and pulls her gun from its holster under her jacket. “Cover me while I check it out.”

  She drops into a crouch and inches her way towards the base of the tree, trying to stay behind the occasional brush for what cover it offers. She sees the branch, which would be a decent sized tree on its own and, to the right of it, a figure in camouflage prone on the ground. She waits to see if he moves, but there's not even a twitch. She wonders if he's dead.

  Nix gives Michael a thumbs up and approaches the unconscious figure to assess the damage. The population of Planet Earth has probably been cut by billions over the past few months, and one of the survivors may just have killed himself falling out of a tree. “You dumb fuck,” she mutters.

  She reaches out and gingerly feels his neck for a pulse. It's strong and steady, but he's still out cold. She takes a quick look at his face. For an instant, for one weak moment as she'd crossed the clearing, she'd hoped that maybe she might look down and see someone her own age. But no such luck. This one's a kid, too, probably no older than the teenagers she's forced to live with. He has a face that's all angles and a prominent nose.

  Michael joins her. “He got the buck. Clean shot,” he says admiringly. He stands looking down at the hunter. “Is he dead?”

  “Nope, but he probably has a concussion. I can't tell if he broke any bones, but nothing's twisted at a funny angle." She looks around. “You get his rifle?”

  Michael nods.

  “Let's grab the tarp we brought and roll him onto it. He survived a hell of a fall. Would be a shame if he froze to death before he wakes up.”

  Michael nudges the still form with his toe. “Maybe we should build a fire.”

  Between the two of them they drag the dead weight of the kid onto the plastic and fold the top loosely over him, like the flap of an envelope. Hopefully, once they get a fire going, some of the warmth of it will be trapped inside the makeshift shelter.

  Nix pulls out her Zippo and lights the small pile of dry twigs and dead grass that Michael has gathered. The tinder catches immediately and she begins adding larger sticks, slowly building a decent fire.

  “Now what?” Michael asks.

  “Why don’t you run back and tell George what’s going on. If they haven't already loaded the wagon with wood, it would save them from having to unload it so we can cart this guy back to the farm.”

  “Be quick as as I can,” Michael says, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Keep—”

  “—my guard up. Hey, I invented the phrase." She smiles at him. “Go.”

  Nix listens to the cheerful crackle and hiss of the fire as she adds deadfall within easy reach of where she sits. She takes off her gloves and holds her hands over the flames, working the stiffness out of her fingers. When she hears the kid groan, she glances across the bonfire at him. “Hey—don’t try to move yet. God knows what you broke falling from that height.”

  He ignores her and sits up anyway, pushing the plastic away from his shoulders as he looks around. “Where's my rifle?”

  “Amazingly, it survived the fall, too,” she tells him. “Don't worry about it for now. It's safe.”

  “Easy for you to say. You got a gun stuck in your belt.”

  “Why so I do!” she says in mock surprise. She squints through the smoke, her eyes watering a little. “Times being what they are, we all gotta be careful, don't we?”

  The kid nods in agreement and then puts his hand to his head, as if he's dizzy.

  “Since you're sitting up, I think we can rule out a broken neck, but you probably have at least a mild concussion." She holds up her hand. “How many fingers?”

  Surprisingly the kid smiles, and suddenly the angular face is attractive. “One middle finger. Very classy, ma'am.”

  “Ordinarily I'd be aiming a gun at you. I'm making allowances because you fell on your head.”

  He starts to laugh, which turns into a cough. “You got water?” he chokes out.

  Nix grabs a bottle from her pack and tosses it to him. “Take it slow.”

  He nods and drinks, then tosses the bottle back to Nix. “Thanks." He looks around, moving his head carefully. “Where's your son?”

  “My what?" She frowns. “He's not my son,” she says with a little more emphasis than necessary.

  “Sorry. I meant no offense.”

  Nix narrows her eyes. “So you were playing opossum,” she says. “Waiting for an opportunity?”

  “An opportunity for what?” the kid asks, and he looks angry. “Lady, you flatter yourself. You're not that appealin’.”

  The comment throws Nix off balance for a second. How appealing do you have to be to get robbed? Then she realizes he thought she meant rape, and she colors.

  “Never crossed my mind, little boy,” she snaps back. “Looks like you have enough trouble holding on to the limb of a tree.”

  His response is cut off by the sound of voices in the distance. She feels a twinge of disappointment. Trading insults was the sport of choice in the squad room. She kind of misses it.

  Michael is first into the clearing. “Everything OK?" He stops when he sees that the hunter is conscious. “You didn't kill yourself after all,” he says to the guy rotating his shoulder to get the kinks out.

  George approaches the stranger without hesitation and holds out his hand. “I am George Shirk. Are you feeling well? What can I do to help?”

  The kid looks at Nix and back at George. He's trying to fit together people who are obviously very different. I’m guessing this one doesn’t miss much, Nix thinks.

  If George notices the lack of a response, he ignores it. He points to Nix. “That is Nix St Clair. And those are my brothers, Michael, Peter, and Paul. The big one is Jason. He glances down when he feels a tug on his coat and smiles. “And Martin, too, of course.”

  “I'm Cash Hatfield,” the stranger says slowly. “I take it you're not all related.”

  “What kind of name is Cash?” Nix asks, watching him add things up in his head and suddenly wanting to interrupt those calculations.

  “What kind of name is Nix?” he retorts.

  “I was born in Phoenix, Arizona—what’s your excuse?”

  “My daddy drank way too much moonshine and thought Johnny Cash was God Almighty.”

  “In that case, shouldn't he have named you Jesus?”

  “Miss St Clair!” George says. “That is blasphemy!”

  “Mexicans name their kids Jesus,” Nix says defensively.

  George turns his back on her. “Can you walk?” he asks Johnny Cash’s namesake, still channeling the Good Samaritan.

  “Haven't really tried yet,” Cash says. “Been too busy gettin' acquainted with St Nix over there.”

  “That's St Clair,” Nix snaps.

  “Yeah, whatever." Cash pushes himself to his knees and then to a standing position, weaving slightly. “Yup, I'm fine,” he says. “I'll be on my way then, soon as you return my rifle."

  He staggers over to the tree he'd been using as a blind and retrieves a well-worn back pack. “Enjoy the venison, folks,” he slurs and collapses in the snow.

  “I just keep collecting 'em,” Nix sighs to herself.

  Chapter 10

  “He's not that good-looking,” Brittany says. “But he's got a hot bod.”

  Nix hates overhearing snatches of conversation not meant for her ears—especially Brittany's —because usually it's something that demands a firm response before a comment becomes a full-blown infraction of the rules.

  “You never disappoint me, princess,” Nix says, walking into the parlor from the center hall.

  “I'm not doing anything wrong,” Brittan
y says in that annoying little-girl voice she affects. “You're always picking on me.”

  “I have to agree with you,” Nix says. “You're not doing much of anything at all. And that's the problem.”

  Nix glances at the Christmas tree they set up last night. It looks pretty pathetic without either decorations or lights. The kids are going to make some strings of popcorn, but there doesn't seem to be a lot of raw material around the house for ornament-making. There must be something in the attic, she thinks. I need to go up there before dark for a change.

  “The other problem,” Nix continues, “Is that you seem to be taking way too much interest in our temporary guest. As soon as he can walk, talk, and chew gum at the same time, he's out of here.”

  “It is so boring,” Brittany complains. “And when someone new comes along, you won't even let us get to know him.”

  Nix ignores the whining and calls to Margaret in the kitchen, “What's Brittany supposed to be doing right now?”

  Margaret appears, wiping—not brushing—her hands on her apron, Nix notes. Much more assertive.

  “Come help cut up potatoes, please,” she says to Brittany. “Douglas has already peeled them because you were not around.”

  “Who's Douglas?” Nix and Brittany ask at the same time.

  “The young man who was so ill when he arrived,” Margaret says shortly. She takes Brittany by the arm. “Come along, and be quiet. Our other guest is asleep in the office.”

  Nix isn't thrilled to hear that the guy is taking an afternoon nap in her office. His recovery has been amazingly quick, and when he joined everyone at the breakfast table this morning, Nix took it as a sign he'd be leaving shortly.

  After sprinting to the attic for a quick scavenger hunt, Nix makes a dash to the cellar while supper is still cooking. Gramps always kept a makeshift workbench down there for small household repairs, and it's become Nix's only refuge during the day. She spreads out her gun supplies and sets to work, the cleaning ritual familiar and soothing. The thud of many feet on the old plank floor over her head seems like a distant echo.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”