Revelations

by Mark Kelly

  Simmons seized the opportunity to negotiate. “Maybe we should just come back when you have healthy ones,” he said, turning away and waiting for the objection he was sure would come.

  “Hey…just a minute,” Wilson said in an annoyed voice. “These chicks are good and healthy. There’s nothing wrong with them. But I’ve had ‘em a couple of days now, and I can’t keep them. How about one chick for a dozen rounds? That’s a fair price.”

  “Hmmph,” Simmons replied with a grunt. “That’s expensive, even for healthy birds. Look, there’s another one that’s not moving.”

  “Where?”

  “There,” Simmons said, pointing vaguely into the closest box and hoping the shopkeeper wouldn’t see through his ploy.

  Saanvi leaned in and looked. “Which one, Professor Simmons? They all seem pretty healthy to me. Look, those two are even playing.”

  “How about two chicks for a dozen rounds?” Simmons asked, afraid he was about to lose his bargaining position. “I know you say they’re all healthy, but…”

  The shopkeeper shook his head. “Can’t do it at that price, but I can do six Leghorns and six Broilers plus a bag of starter feed for a hundred rounds.”

  He cocked his head and waited for Simmons’s response.

  “Throw in a pound of two-and-a-half inch common nails and you have a deal,” Simmons said.

  “Done.”

  They shook hands.

  Simmons handed Wilson the ammunition, and Wilson reached under the counter for two boxes. He threw in a handful of straw and counted out the chicks, placing six in each cardboard box.

  The bell above the front door jingled, and they all turned. Brandon McNee pulled his mask up over his mouth and waved hello as he stepped into the store. Simmons and Saanvi smiled at each other when Emma ran over to greet him.

  “Hi, Brandon.”

  “Hi, Emma.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good, How about you?”

  “Pretty good, thanks.”

  “What’s new?”

  “Not much.”

  Simmons groaned. He couldn’t take another minute of their inane conversation. “How’s your dad, Brandon?”

  “Uh…he’s good,” the boy answered, his eyes locked on Emma.

  Yoo-hoo! Over here. Simmons held back the temptation to wave his hand. “Tell him, I said hello.”

  “Sure, I will.”

  “What can I do for you, Brandon?” Wilson, the shopkeeper, asked.

  Brandon finally tore his eyes away from Emma. “There are roamers in the area. We found a campsite off the road near the farm. Dad wanted me to tell you so you could pass the word on.”

  Wilson raised an eyebrow. “Are they still there?”

  “No, but they left a motorcycle.”

  “Any fuel in it?”

  As if, Simmons thought, rolling his eyes at the stupid question. And if there ever was, the McNees would have it by now.

  “Nah, it’s empty. That’s probably why the roamers left it behind.”

  roamers were individuals who lived outside the small communities that survived the pandemic. Most were like the tinkers and peddlers from the 1800s, roaming from one town to the next, stealing what they needed if they couldn’t barter for it. But some had banded together in groups, not unlike the more organized motorcycle gangs that prospered in the lawless world left by the pandemic.

  Simmons had his doubts that roamers had abandoned the motorcycle, but regardless of who it was, it was strange enough to be worth a look.

  “Brandon, would you mind giving me a hand and then showing me the campsite?” he asked.

  “Sure, Professor Simmons. What do you need a hand with?”

  “Lucia wants to build a chicken coop, and I need lumber for it. How about we stop at the abandoned house just down the road from your farm? There’s an equipment shed next to it. We can pull the boards off the shed and put them in the truck. Then, if we have time, you can show me the campsite.”

  “Sure, but I need to pick up a few things from Mr. Wilson first.”

  “See you there in half and hour?”

  “No problem.”

  They unglued Emma from Brandon’s side and left the shop. Brandon’s horse, Autumn, was tied to the bicycle rack where the horse and cart had been before. Saanvi, who must have been feeling brave, reached out and patted Autumn on the side. The horse responded to her kind gesture by pooping.

  “Yuck…that’s just gross,” she cried out as Emma burst into laughter. Seconds later, Saanvi brought her hand to her face to cover her nose. “Oh, that’s beastly! What is that horrible smell? Is that the horse poop?”

  Simmons took a sniff and recognized the odour immediately. It smelled like someone had vomited up a bucket of rotten fermented cream corn.

  “It’s a corn mash that’s gone a little bad,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

  “What’s a corn mash?”

  “The first step in making moonshine.”

  He pointed his thumb at the house where he suspected the stench was coming from. “There must be a still in there. I’ll bet the Gourley brothers are making moonshine.” And I’ll bet Wilson is involved, he thought, remembering the farmer with his hay wagon full of corn.

  “How do you know so much about making moonshine, Professor Simmons?”

  “I have a Ph.D. in chemistry.”

  Emma gave him a dubious look and he grinned back at her.

  “I wasn’t always an esteemed professor. Back when I was an undergrad at Stanford, we had a still in the basement of our frat house.”

  “Come on,” he said, stepping off the sidewalk into the empty street and leaving the smell of moonshine behind. “Let’s go get the lumber and check out this mysterious campsite.”

  4

  The campsite

  They made a quick stop to fetch the boards needed for the chicken coop, and then Simmons followed Brandon’s directions to the field where the motorcycle had been abandoned.

  The grass around the gate was trampled down. A trail led through the shoulder-high corn to a row of trees on the far side of the field. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a Smith & Wesson M&P. Until a few months earlier, he had never held a gun in his hand, but carrying a weapon was second nature now.

  The clip-clop of hooves announced Brandon’s arrival. Simmons watched the young man dismount from his horse and tie the reins to the truck’s driver side mirror.

  “Come on and I’ll show you where the campsite is, Professor Simmons.”

  “No need, I see the trail,” Simmons replied, unable to shake his feeling of discomfort. “Stay here with the girls. Do you have a gun?”

  Brandon patted the rifle scabbard attached to his horse’s saddle.

  Simmons nodded and climbed out of the truck. As he made his way through the tall corn, yellow pollen from the tassels tickled his nose and dusted his clothing. When he reached the trees, he spotted the motorcycle immediately. It was lying on its side next to a lean-to made from the bottom boughs of a nearby spruce.

  A knot formed in the pit of his stomach as he studied the dull green and brown motorcycle. It had large knobby tires and a rugged frame and was clearly built for heavy-duty off-road use. A khaki-colored saddlebag lay draped over the bike’s rear wheel. He bent down and searched through the bag, but whatever it had once contained was gone, either taken by the McNees or the bike’s owner.

  Noticing the bike’s gas cap in the dirt, he peered into the tank out of habit. The tank was empty as he suspected, but the distinct odor of diesel surprised him.

  That’s strange, he thought, stepping back from the motorcycle. He’d heard of diesel-powered bikes before but never seen one.

  He crouched down by the fire pit in front of the lean-to and stirred the cold ash with his finger. A small piece of charred paper with the words “…NT PROPERTY” printed on the bottom floated to the top. His pulse raced. It was an MRE wrapper, most likely government or military.

  As he rose to his
feet, he caught a glimpse through the trees of a pair of tracks in the field next to the one he had just walked through. The second set of tracks were a few feet apart and ended at another gate further down the road. It was impossible to know if the tracks had been made by one or two motorcycles, but his intuition told him it was two.

  Whoever it was, probably came through the field on two bikes, camped overnight, and then left on one bike the next day.

  He returned to the abandoned motorcycle and studied it. Why did they leave it behind? Was it because they ran out of fuel, or did it break down? Are they coming back?

  He had more questions than answers and the thought the motorcycle might belong to Raine’s men, and not roamers, wasn’t far from his mind. He reached down and wrestled the bike up by its handlebars. When he pushed the motorcycle out of the trees, the kids were busy talking and didn’t notice him.”

  “Brandon!”

  “Yeah, Professor Simmons?”

  “Come here and give me a hand.”

  It took the strength of both of them to roll the motorcycle through the thick corn. Simmons cursed every rut and rock that littered the ground. Covered in sweat, he collapsed against the truck when they reached it.

  “What are you going to do with it, Professor Simmons?” Emma asked, casting a skeptical eye at the bike.

  “Fix it and ride it,” he replied. But first, he had to get it home. It weighed close to five hundred pounds and even with Emma and Saanvi’s help, lifting it would be a challenge.

  He glanced at the planks of wood in the bed of the truck. Each of the planks was ten feet long, a foot wide, two inches thick, and close to a hundred years old.

  “Come here, Brandon.”

  With the boy’s help, he pulled three of the long pine planks from the truck’s bed and leaned them against the tailgate. He stepped back and assessed the make-shift ramp. It looked solid enough, but god help us if it breaks.

  “Okay, you guys, it will take all of us working together to make this happen. Saanvi and Emma, you push, while Brandon and I each take a side.”

  After they all had taken their positions, he started to count out loud.

  “1…2…3…Go!”

  The pine planks groaned and cracked, but didn’t break as they pushed the motorcycle up the ramp and into the bed of the truck. After carefully laying the bike on its side, Simmons plopped down onto the wheel well and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Do you really think you can get it running?” Brandon asked.

  “If it’s something simple, I should be able to fix it,” he said. “I had a motorcycle in university and no money to spend on repairs. I learned a lot keeping my old Triumph on the road.”

  “Even if you can fix it, where will you get the petrol?” Saanvi asked.

  “It’s a diesel engine, not gasoline,” he answered. “But finding any type of fuel will be a challenge. That stinky corn mash we smelled earlier gave me an idea though.”

  “What’s that?”

  He smiled. “I might be able to make a batch of biodiesel.”

  “I think Dad knows farmers that use biodiesel in their tractors,” Brandon said offhandedly.

  “Around here?” Simmons asked, excited by the news. “Where do they get the alkaline lye? Are they using sodium hydroxide or potassium hydroxide as the catalyst?”

  Brandon looked confused and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know anything about that stuff, Professor Simmons. The farmers I’m talking about are out west. All I know is they get their biodiesel from a company that uses Canola oil to make it.”

  It was too good to be true, Simmons thought.

  He glanced at his watch and then at Saanvi and Emma. “We should get going before Mei and Lucia have a conniption. It’s already been a couple of hours longer than I told them it would take.”

  Brandon and Emma looked disappointed. Simmons had a thought. “Brandon, if you’re free tomorrow, I could use a hand taking the bike out of the truck.”

  “Sure thing, Professor Simmons—and afterward, I can help you build the chicken coop if you want.”

  Emma’s face lit up.

  Simmons winked at her and said, “I’m sure we’d all like that, wouldn’t we, Emma?”

  5

  Visitors

  The sound of the truck’s tires on the gravel laneway brought Mei and Lucia to the farmhouse’s front window. Simmons watched as they disappeared and then reappeared a second later at the door. He knew something was wrong before the truck even came to a stop.

  “Looks like you’re in trouble, Professor Simmons,” Emma said with a laugh as Mei and Lucia ran down the front steps. “I told you we should have come straight home.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” he said, rolling down the window as Mei approached the truck.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a roamer gang headed this way. We need to get a message to Tom McNee.”

  Simmons’s chest tightened. Maybe McNee had been right about the motorcycle after all.

  “How do you know they’re coming this way?”

  “From her,” Mei said, looking over her shoulder at Samantha, who stood by the door with her daughter tucked under her arm. “When you and the girls didn’t return on time, she panicked and told Lucia that she and Callie were with a gang headed this way, but they escaped. She’s petrified, Tony.”

  He glanced at the mother and daughter and then looked back at Mei.

  “Do you trust her?”

  “I’ve seen a lot of worried mothers, and she’s as worried as they get.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Samantha thinks no more than one day.”

  “Hop in and we’ll drive over to the McNee farm right now.”

  “There isn’t enough room in the truck for everyone,” Mei said. “Take Samantha and Lucia with you and I’ll stay here with the girls.”

  He shook his head. If there were roamers in the area, everyone should stay together. “It’s safer if we all go. You and Samantha can ride up front with me, and Lucia and the girls can ride in the back. Get everyone and we’ll leave right now.”

  Mei called them over and explained. “Tony thinks it’s best if we all go to the mayor’s farm.”

  “No, Callie and I need to leave,” Samantha said panic-stricken. “We can’t risk being caught by them.”

  Mei took her by the wrists and looked into her eyes. “Trust me…you’ll be safer with us than out there on your own.”

  Simmons nodded in agreement. He turned the truck’s ignition on and glanced at the fuel gauge. Almost empty—they’d have enough gas to get to McNee’s farm, but they wouldn’t have enough to get home.

  “Come on everyone, let’s go.”

  When Mei made a move towards the truck, Lucia stepped in front of her. “Where is your gun? You are not going anywhere without it.”

  “She’s right, Mei,” Simmons agreed.

  Mei gave them both a dirty look. Then she turned and ran back into the house, returning a moment later with her gun and the medical kit.

  “Happy now?”

  Lucia nodded.

  Hopefully, we won’t need either, Simmons thought as Mei and Samantha took a seat in the front and Lucia and the girls climbed into the back of the truck.

  “What took you guys so long?” Mei asked him. “We were about to send out a search party.”

  “That—and a few other things,” he replied, nodding towards the motorcycle lying on its side in the back of the truck.

  When she raised an eyebrow, he said, “I’ll explain later.”

  The McNee farm was a painstakingly slow drive down a series of back roads littered with garbage and cast-offs from the refugees who had fled the southern cities at the height of the pandemic. Most of them had come looking for sanctuary in the country-side, but as they became sick from the bacteria, it was death they found instead.

  As Simmons drove past a large wooden cross stuck in the ground in a pasture off to the right, he rem
embered something Tom McNee had said at a town hall meeting. “They may not be your friends or relatives, but they deserve a proper burial.”

  McNee’s words had stirred the locals into forming burial details—and now McNee would have to do the same to form a militia.

  At the turnoff to the road leading to the McNee farm, their passage was blocked by a large camper trailer abandoned in the middle of the intersection. Simmons stopped and slipped the truck into four-wheel drive.

  “Hold on tight,” he yelled out the window to Lucia and the girls as he steered the truck into the ditch. After he had passed the obstruction, he gave the accelerator a shot of gas, bringing the truck back on to the road. He took a quick look in the rearview mirror to check on his passengers. Callie had a wide smile on her face, Lucia was grim-faced as always, and Emma and Saanvi both looked scared to death.

  “Piece of cake,” he said to Mei, who judging by the expression on her face didn’t agree.

  “Tony, look,” she said, pointing to a flock of birds circling above a distant field.

  Gulls…looking for an easy meal. He guessed McNee was preparing one of his fields and headed in that direction.

  A short while later, they saw a green John Deere tractor with a flock of seagulls following it. Occasionally, one of the birds would swoop down and pick a snack out of the freshly turned soil.

  Simmons pulled the truck to the side of the road. When the tractor came back towards them, he jumped out, climbed up onto the truck’s bed, and waved his arms in the air. The tractor’s driver saw him and steered the machine towards the edge of the field.

  When the tractor stopped, Tom McNee hopped out.

  “There’s a Roamer gang headed this way,” Simmons shouted over the din of the tractor’s engine.

  McNee shook his head and put his hand to his ear. Simmons jumped down from the truck’s bed. He took a step towards the field and yelled as loud as he could.

  “Roamers…coming this way!”

  McNee left the side of his tractor and jogged to the road. “How do you know?” he asked, his face fraught with concern.