by Penn Gates
He glares at her before turning on his heel and stalking off again.
“He doesn't like you much, does he?” Frank asks. He sounds pleased about it.
“Don't feel that you have to keep talking, Frank—just go ahead and eat.”
Nix notices that some of their guests look disappointed, as though they're being served an appetizer instead of a meal. Poor Margaret looks distressed, as if baking a dozen quiche from scratch and putting together a salad big enough to feed a couple of the dairy cows is somehow a failure. Nix, on the other hand, is well satisfied it wasn't a night when the smell of roasting venison was wafting from the kitchen. It's better if these guys think we survive on a strange diet of pretentiously named egg pies and weeds, she thinks. They'll be less likely to come looking for more handouts.
At some point Martin has appeared from under the picnic table and now he stands behind Nix, with his arms wrapped around her shoulders as if he's protecting her from Frank. She wills herself not to shoo him away because she knows he's scared. If his grandmother never warned him about talking to strangers, Martin learned that lesson in a way he's not likely to forget. Remembering the fate that was almost his, Nix reaches up and pats his hand reassuringly.
“How old is your son?” Frank asks pleasantly, but there's an undercurrent of disapproval that reminds Nix of one Frank's least appealing qualities. When she'd known him, he was an endless supply of veiled prejudice and misinformation.
“Martin is my adopted son,” Nix tells him. “I couldn't have made it all the way down here without his help." She feels Martin wriggle with pleasure.
“I didn't think he looked much like you,” Frank says in a wink-wink, nudge-nudge tone of voice that makes her want to hurt him.
“Don't you?” Nix asks coldly. “I think he's like me in all the ways that count. The kid has guts, that's for sure.” She pats Martin's arm again. “Listen, bud, why don't you go over there by Cash and introduce yourself to some of those guys. There's one of them who's actually a professional pizza maker—see if you can figure out which one.”
Frank laughs. “That shouldn't be hard. Just look for the goomba.”
“So what happened to your kids?” Nix asks, as if he's just mentioned them. “And I'm assuming there's a Mrs. Frank. Where is she? Have you been able to contact her?”
Frank looks as if he'd like to rewind for another take of the scene with some dialogue edited. “She didn't make it,” he says, with a quaver in his voice. “I mean, I assume she didn't. I kept calling and calling but it went right to voice mail. She never got back to me, and then the phones went dead, and—“ He pauses dramatically. “Geezer got most everybody over 35, didn't it?”
“What about your daughters?” Nix asks relentlessly.
“Never heard from them, either." Frank pulls a wallet from his back pocket. “Take a look at my babies.”
Nix glances at the photos of two vapid looking blonde girls, who could be Brittany's sisters. They look like they've come off an android assembly line.
“Cute,” she says briefly. “I hope somebody's watching over them. Young girls are vulnerable when there's nobody left to enforce the law.”
“My brother-in-law,” Frank falters. “He'll take care of them.”
“How old is he?” Nix asks. Frank doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. She can read the expression on his face. The man Frank just assumes will take care of his daughters is old enough to be one of Geezer's victims.
Nix stops herself from pursuing the subject with difficulty. She knows an excuse when she hears one, but who is she to judge? Maybe she should have stayed in Cleveland, fought her way back to the precinct, found out what happened to her partner. To everybody. We all want to live, she thinks. Me as much as anyone.
“How about you? Ever married?” Frank asks. “Any of these kids yours? The pit bull—what’s his name, Cash?—maybe he's your son. You two seem to have a lot in common. Or maybe you just adopted him, too.”
Wow, Nix thinks. I must have really hit a nerve—or two or three. She deliberately ignores his comments about Cash.
“I chose to stay single,” she says. “It gave me more time to concentrate on getting the garbage off the streets.”
“Well, you're certainly not living alone any more.”
“You got that right.” Nix stands and stretches. “God, that picnic bench is hard on the back.”
“At least we're still here to get old, right?”
“For the moment." Nix hesitates, then asks, “You ever wonder why you didn't catch the virus? Sometimes I think it'll catch up with me a few years down the line.”
Frank looks distressed. “Don't think like that. Let's just be glad we're alive right now, OK?”
“For sure,” Nix says. “Just hope I'm around long enough to pass on some survival skills.”
“From what I saw today, some of your kiddies are doing quite well in that department." He nods toward where Cash is still talking to a few of the guys, his arm draped casually over Martin's shoulder.
Nix laughs. “You're right. I could die tomorrow and they'd still have someone with the survival skills they need.”
“No doubt,” Frank says with a hint of—resentment? He extends his hand. “Thanks for dinner. Now that we're neighbors again, I hope we'll see more of each other.”
Nix takes his hand briefly, then drops it. “Listen, Frank. It's none of my business what you do, but you might want to consider a little planning now for next winter. It's not like there's a Walmart up the road.”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” he smirks. “They built one of their super stores off the Interstate a couple of years ago.” Frank shrugs. “It's just not open for business—but the boys and I might take a run over there and borrow some canned goods.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Nix says. “Get all you can before somebody else thinks of it.”
“Looters you mean?” he asks, and his jaw clenches. “People have turned into savages.”
Something about the way he says it hits Nix wrong. She knows she thinks the same thing, even if she keeps it to herself most of the time. But Frank's ability to see his fellow survivors as 'savages' for doing the same thing he plans to do is hypocritical. We've all become scavengers, she thinks, but as long as we don't take it away from others we're most definitely not savages.
◆◆◆
“Finally!” Nix says to Cash as they watch the tail lights of Frank's bucket of bolts disappear into the gathering twilight. “I haven't thought about smoking in years, but right now I'd love to sit on the front porch with my feet up and have a cigarette.”
“That bad, huh?”
“We haven't seen the last of them. It's obvious nobody's doing any planning, let alone work. By this winter they'll be well and truly fucked.”
“Actually, there's a couple of 'em that have some smarts. They know they're in a tight spot, but hey, they're kids from the suburbs.”
“We've reached our quota on suburban immigrants.”
“That many young guys with guns could be a hell of a defensive force.”
“That's probably true, but Frank would be the negative to that idea. He'd want to run things, be the boss, like he was at his car dealership. Frankly, if I had to be around him much, I'd be tempted to shoot him.”
Cash peers at her quizzically. “I thought he was a friend of yours.”
“We were never friends. We dated. Big difference.”
“No shit. For how long?”
“What are we? Best friends? Are we gonna give each other manicures next?” She stalks away from him.
“Sorry. Had no idea it was such a sore subject.” He falls into step next to her. “Hey, I thought we were gonna compare notes?”
“Sounds like you've already identified the makings of a Hatfield militia. Good for you.”
“Quit bein’ such a bitch, St Clair! It's not my fault your dreamboat of yesteryear turned into a big, fat loser.”
“What did you say to me?" Nix snarls, tur
ning on him.
“You heard me,” Cash says. “I'm not one of your tweenies you can take to the principal's office. What are you gonna threaten me with, huh? Banishment? Go ahead—I’ll survive." He stands glaring at her, daring her to ratchet up the tension some more.
Nix glares back, fists clenched, digging her nails into her palms to keep herself from blurting out something she might be sorry for later. He's right, the bastard. He doesn't need this place to stay alive, but—this place needs him. But he didn't say that, she thinks. I would have used that like a bludgeon, but he didn't. Jesus! What does that say about me?
She holds out her hand. “Truce?”
Cash shakes his head in disbelief. “I guess that's close enough to an apology if I squint."
He takes the hand she's offered. “Hey, you're bleedin’.” He holds on as she tries to pull away. “What happened to the palm of your hand?”
“Nothing,” she says and yanks harder.
He releases his grip. “You just did that, didn't you?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Damn splinters on the edge of the picnic table.”
“Don't lie to me, Nix. If I grab your other hand, I'll see the same thing." When she doesn't respond, he says, “So, wanna arm wrestle? Or maybe try talkin' instead.”
Cash pats his shirt pocket and points to the front porch. “I got a couple of loosies from one of those guys. I'll share, if you will.”
“How did that even happen?” she asks. “You don't smoke—do you?”
“You're not the only one who feels like kickin' back with a butt. It's been a hell of a day.”
“All right,” Nix says. “It's not like I'm gonna rush out and buy a pack if I have one. These could be the last two cigarettes in the world.”
“Maybe we should plant tobacco,” Cash says. “If we find enough survivors who smoke, we could be in on the ground floor of a new cigarette industry—‘cause who gives a fuck if they kill ya or not at this point?”
Nix digs out her Zippo and lights Cash's cigarette, then her own. She takes a deep drag and chokes. She grabs the railing. “Shit! I'm actually dizzy. You sure this isn't crack or something?”
Cash blows a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “How long since you smoked?”
“Ten years or so.”
“I smoked until I couldn't find any—which was last winter after I fell out of a tree." He sits on the edge of the railing. “Turns out when you have a concussion it kinda takes your mind off nicotine withdrawal.” He laughs. “Who knew?”
“Frank and I went steady in our senior year,” Nix says suddenly. “Appalling as I find that fact now, it's true.” She takes another drag, and this time she savors the taste. “OK, I told you something about me. Now it's your turn.”
“I lied to you,” Cash says solemnly. “I really have eaten rutabagas, and they taste like shit.”
Nix punches him in the arm. “You better come up with something better than that. You're the one that started this truth or dare bullshit, and you know I don't like to be suckered.”
“I did two tours in Iraq.”
“See any action?” Nix asks, although she's pretty sure she already knows the answer.
“Your turn,” he says. “When was the last time you saw Turner before today?”
Nix heaves a sigh. “When he left for college the autumn after graduation.” She takes one last drag from the surprisingly satisfying cigarette and flips it toward the gravel drive. “And so we can hurry this along, college was such fun, he didn't come home much, and then not at all, so I got on a bus headed north and ended up in Cleveland. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Do you think you'd have become Mrs. Frank if he'd kept comin' home?”
“I believe I have a question on the table.”
Cash field strips the last of his cigarette and sticks it back in his shirt pocket. “I'm not tellin' war stories,” he says shortly.
“Oh darn,” Nix says sarcastically. “And I was looking forward to sitting around comparing body counts with you.”
“Why? You got one?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Congratulations.” Cash jumps down from the railing. “I'm headin' back to my shack.”
“No—I wouldn't have married Frank,” Nix says, wanting him to stay for another minute or two. “It was fun to be the football hero's steady, but at the same time, deep down I knew that he bored me to death.”
Cash is down in the driveway, stooping to pick up the butt Nix threw there, when he calls to her. “Maybe someday you show me yours—body count, I mean—and I'll show you mine.”
Chapter 15
Nix is deeply tired of being around Brittany, day in and day out. She's calmed down a lot and no longer bitches about every detail of her life. On the other hand, she still seems committed to the idea that the only road to being attractive is acting like an airhead. Or maybe she really is that stupid.
With the garden tilled and planted, Nix returns to the attic project. She insists they work rapidly because the summer heat will soon make the third floor unbearable. Sadly, by the time they've finished searching and organizing, they're no closer to discovering the whereabouts of the book of herbs and potions, as Brittany insists on calling it.
“It could have been destroyed a century ago,” Nix says. “Fire, water damage, religious crazies—a book is a fragile thing.”
“Nothing else has been damaged up here,” Brittany says, betraying a surprising sense of logic. “I mean, it looks like everything your family ever used is still here.”
“They were packrats, weren't they?” Nix rakes her fingers through her short hair. “Let's get out of here,” she says. “We've searched everywhere and listed everything. Nothing else to do.”
“Let's not give up,” Brittany says. “Didn't you say those rooms above the back wing are full of stuff, too?”
“God know what's in there,” Nix says. “It's been locked for years.”
“Why?”
“You know, I'm not really sure—but, what the hell? I guess we could find out easy enough.” As they clatter downstairs, Nix says, “I'm curious. Why the eagerness to keep going? Something else you're trying to avoid?”
Brittany looks hurt. “I really do want to find the book of herbs and potions,” she says. “And anyway, you said I could do whatever I want with all the clothes—if I find the book.”
“Ah, now the truth comes out.” Nix says. “Go get us some cold water while I dig around in the desk and see if I can find the key we need.”
Actually Nix knows there's a ring of old keys, but the only way to find the right one is to try them all, one at a time. What a great way to keep Brittany busy and grab an hour or so of peace and quiet.
But Murphy's Law, Section B, is still in effect—Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong—unless you want it to.
“It will probably be the last key on the ring,” Nix jokes to Brit. “But remember, try them one at a time and don't lose track of which ones you've already tried or—
“I know,” Brittany says. “Like when we did the attic and kept track of each section.”
“Uh, yeah. I'll leave you to it." Nix has forgotten about the locked door and what's behind it by the time she finishes the sentence. She's thinking about the cool cellar and her work bench and a spell in the no-zone while she cleans her guns.
“Nix! Nix! I got it—the very first key!" Brittany's shriek could shatter a crystal goblet. “Oh my God, oh my God! We're in!”
Shit! More rubbish sifting! Aloud, Nix says, “Is that luck, or what?"
She stays back and allows Brittany to open the door and step through. A dark, narrow hall runs the length of the new wing. It's dark because all the doors along the corridor are shut. Nix wonders if each of them is locked, too. She perks up a bit. If so, that should keep Brittany occupied the rest of the afternoon.
The girl eagerly grasps the first door knob to her left and turns. The door opens right away and immediately this end of
the hall is brighter because of the daylight that streams from the window opposite. The room is full of cardboard boxes and piles of old newspapers.
Brittany starts to enter, but Nix stops her, coughing at the dust stirred up by their feet. “Let's get all the rooms opened up first, air the place out a little."
“Good idea,” Brittany says cheerfully and crosses the hall. The room to the right opens, too. They continue down the length of the wing, revealing four large rooms. The last two doors are locked, and since they've almost run out of hallway, whatever space is behind them must be fairly small.
“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo—” Brittany chants and chooses the door to the right, which is locked. This time she goes through five keys before finding one that works.
The hinges creak with age, and Nix wonders how many decades since it was last used. It's pitch black inside, but even though Nix can't see a thing, the space feels—cavernous.
“Don't go in, Brit, before we take a look." Nix gropes in her overall pocket for the Zippo and extends its flame into the dark space. A steep stairway is revealed, festooned with cobwebs. Nix closes the lighter hastily. “I'm guessing cobwebs burn.”
“A secret stairway!” Brittany says excitedly.
“More like a forgotten one,” Nix tells her. “Lots of big old houses have a front and back stairway. Saved a lot of steps for the people who had to do the work." She makes a face. “And kept the hired help out of the way when their employers wanted a little privacy.”
“Like Downton Abbey,” Brittany gushes.
Nix looks at her blankly. “What?”
“It was a TV show about this aristocratic family and their servants, and—”
“We're probably talking about a girl from a neighboring farm who helped with housework or minded little kids. For sure, she didn't run around in a maid's uniform, if that's what you're imagining.”
Brittany looks crushed.
“Try the door behind you,” Nix says. “Last chance for a surprise.”
It’s locked, too, and it takes Brittany quite a bit longer to find the correct key this time. While she methodically works her way around the ring of keys, Nix rifles through rooms until she spots an old metal curtain rod. Lighting her way with the Zippo, she uses the rod to pull down the curtain of cobwebs in the stairwell. There's gotta be spider webs in here, too, she thinks. The very idea makes her feel itchy.
