Youngblood

by H. Peter Alesso

  He mocked, “I was born with the luck of a black cat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m cursed and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

  Kira furrowed her brows.

  Youngblood tried to toss off his gloom and asked, “Why did you take such a big risk to help me?”

  “I believe in ‘paying it forward.’ Someday someone might do me a good turn,” said Kira without hesitation.

  “Well, those guys don’t follow your philosophy,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the hills.

  “There are exceptions to every rule,” she smiled, then added somberly, “I saw that gang hanging about earlier this evening and I decided to keep an eye on them; for my own safety. Lucky for you.”

  “Lucky for me, indeed. What does that gang want?”

  “Everything. Jarod rules the valley. So, he takes what he wants and hurts anyone who stands in his way.”

  “Isn’t there any no law and order?”

  “Jarod’s is the law and he orders us to do whatever he wants.”

  Youngblood frowned.

  “You better get some sleep. You take the bedroom tonight. I’ll use the lounge chair.”

  He wanted to protest, but she insisted and before he knew it, he was sound asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  A ray of sunlight streamed into the bedroom of the tiny cabin, waking Youngblood. But even if it hadn’t struck his eye, the smell of eggs and bacon cooking over the fire was already arousing his attention.

  He swung his wobbly legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward. He was able to check his momentum and stagger to his feet. He opened the door and took a tentative step into the main room.

  Kira’s cheerful smile welcomed him. “You’re up. Good. Breakfast is ready.”

  “Morning,” was all he managed before he dropped into a chair at the table where he gobbled all that was given him.

  A gratified smile crossed Kira’s face as she watched him. “Here. Have some coffee. I’m afraid, it’s the last I have, but I’m going into town to get more in a few days.”

  “Thank you for last night.”

  She nodded as if it were no big deal.

  He asked, “Is anyone else here?”

  “I live alone. I patched up this homestead cabin as best I could several years ago. It rests against the cliffs of this box canyon buried deep in the countryside, away from hurtful hands. The nearby stream is a tributary of the river and irrigates the fruit trees that line the nearby dirt road. That orchard is a major source of food. I fill baskets which I sell in town in exchange for my provisions. There’s a barn and a corral for my two horses, and a couple of days a week, I go hunting for small game for food and fur. The pelts make for a good trade.”

  When he finished eating she handed him a pile of clothes. “Here try these on. They were my father’s.”

  He went into the bedroom and changed from his soiled coveralls. When he emerged, he was wearing a thick black leather belt around his waistband holding up a pair of too large dark serge trousers which were tucked into tall black boots. He touched the belt and felt the intricate tooled design along its length.

  Sheepishly, he thought . . .

  This was a very personal item.

  A tan shirt of fine-spun linen and a red handkerchief knotted around his throat finished his attire. He held an old broadbrimmed heavily creased hat loosely in his hands.

  “Try it on,” she commanded.

  He did as she asked. The brim swept down across his windswept sunburnt face, shadowing his eyes. It must have triggered some memory because Kira wore a faraway pained look on her face and she cast her eyes out the window.

  He followed her gaze to two grave markers.

  Near the markers was an ancient single-seat jet-flyer that must have been manufactured decades earlier. It looked like a flying motorcycle, all black and chrome and undeniably loud. It suited Kira’s character—an unlikely combination of free-spirited wildfire and obsessive-compulsive.

  She said, “That cycle has a glossy liquid silver finish and is fast as hell.”

  “You’ve flown it?”

  “Not yet. But someday I’ll rocket over the mountains at a reckless speed to dizzying heights even under ferocious weather conditions,” she predicted, breaking into a broad grin, “but it’s wrecked, like everything else of the past.”

  She added, “The old lady who lives down the road said, ‘You’re lucky it doesn’t work, or else we’d find you smashed against the side of a cliff by now.’”

  He smiled. “She might be right.”

  Kira nodded.

  He asked, “How did you end up here?”

  “My parents sacrificed everything to smuggle me across the valley when I was fourteen.”

  She pointed out the window at two grave markers under a nearby tree. “I dug those graves myself.”

  He saw the hurt in her eyes as she whispered, “I moistened each shovel of dirt with a tear.”

  Her expression changed to one of grim resolve as she added, “I haven’t shed a tear since and I swore I never will, for as long as I live.”

  They sat quietly for a minute, then he said, “I can return your kindness.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “I can fix that flier.”

  “That’s impossible. You don’t have the tools, or the parts, or the know-how.”

  “I have the know-how and I know where I can get tools. We should be able to scrounge up serviceable parts from some of the junkyards around here. You never know what precious commodities lie buried under junkpile rust.”

  “That would be great,” she said, smacking her hand against her knee, “but what do you want in return?”

  “Food and shelter while I recover. And I’ll need your help to get to my ahh . . . the place where the tools are, but you’ll have to keep it secret. I don’t want Jarod’s friends to find it.”

  “Okay. So, tell me how did those guys get the drop on you? Why didn’t you take better precautions? Everyone knows to be alert for the gangs.”

  “I wasn’t expecting an attack. Things were different where I’m from.”

  “Where arrre you from?”

  He pretended he didn’t notice the slight stutter in her speech. He said, “Nowhere near here. I’ve been in seclusion for a long time, out of touch.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “Everyone else died.” He bit his lip.

  I want to trust her. But I’m just not quite there, yet.

  Kira frowned. “You can be depressing.”

  “Sometimes the layers of my problems weigh me done like a stack of heavy blankets.”

  “Well, throw those covers off and embrace life,” she said, spreading her arms wide.

  “I’ll try, but it’s like leaning forward into the face of a hurricane that’s trying to blow you over. As you lean farther and farther into it, it supports you. If it stops, you’ll fall over.”

  “Find positive things to support you, instead of negative ones and you’ll be better off. I don’t want to be stuck here with a ‘Gloomy Gus.’”

  He smiled, “You’re looking for the ‘bluebird of happiness,’ but I have other needs.”

  “What are those?”

  He shook his head. “Not now. Tell me about this valley.”

  “I only know what my Mom told me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s not a pretty story.”

  “I need to hear it. For starters, why didn’t the nuclear war that destroyed the cities to the west, create a nuclear winter?”

  “Huh? You are out of touch.”

  “I know. Please tell me.”

  “Some say it might have been better if there was a massive nuclear exchange. It would have gotten things over with,” said Kira. “But that didn’t happen. Isn’t it funny how things never seem to go as you expect?”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  She frowned.

  Youngblood said, �
��Assume I know nothing and tell me what you know about the war. It’ll help me get oriented.”

  “Since the Little War . . .”

  “The what?”

  “Don’t they call it that where you’re from.”

  “Uh, something like that. Go on.”

  “We called it the Little War because it was one of the little countries that started it. They only had a couple of dozen EMP nucs, but tons and tons of nerve gas and biological weapons. The EMP bombs were enough to destroy most of the world’s satellites technology infrastructure. And the biological plagues did the rest. Without advanced technology, or a global medical infrastructure, it took the medical community years to stop the worst of the plagues, but by then, most of the world’s population was dead. That little country was pounded back to the Stone Age, but it didn’t matter anymore. Civilization had completely broken-down. There was more fighting and disease as the survivors fought over the remaining scarce resources. That pretty much finished organized society.”

  After several minutes, she continued, “It’s been five generations since then, and today things look more like the early 19th Century than the late 22nd. The valley settlers are lucky that enough safe land remains for our subsistence existence, even if it’s under the indentured servitude of Jarod’s gang. Areas farther away still suffer from radiation or plague.”

  Youngblood shook his head. It was interesting, but disheartening, to hear about events he had slept through.

  “How do the valley settlers survive?”

  “We farm and hunt. Some tend small herds of cattle or sheep. I like to hunt and gather fruit, but we all pay tribute to the gangs.”

  “They extort protection money?”

  “Yeah. I lost my Mom and Pop to gang attacks. My sister died of dysentery and my brother died of some disease I have no name for.”

  Despite all her bravado, Youngblood saw her pain.

  She’s suffered so much that she wouldn’t let grief touch her.

  She continued, “The gangs leach off everybody. The biggest gang around here is Jarod’s. He charges a percentage of the crops and possessions to ‘protect us’ from other marauding gangs. But, the Marauders are his own men who freelance and stir up business for him. Whatever trucks or cars that were still working have been confiscated by them. They don’t have much gasoline, so we use horses since oats are easier to produce than petrol. Jarod confiscated all the guns too, except for a few we use for hunting. He keeps us down so he can thrive.”

  It serves no purpose to dig too deeply into this.

  She asked, “Was it any better where you were?”

  Youngblood said, “When I was a small boy, I dreamed of changing the world . . . of making a difference. I don’t dream that anymore.”

  You should,” she said, “sometimes dreams come true.”

  “After a life filled with such tragedy, how do you still find a way to be optimistic?”

  “If I didn’t have hope,” she blurted out, “I couldn’t go on.”

  After a moment, Youngblood said, “I can’t believe the entire world has degenerated into tiny fiefdoms run by petty criminals. Aren’t there any pockets of advanced technology or medical facilities?”

  “None that I know of. It doesn’t matter much, anymore.”

  “It does to me. I need to find a cure.”

  “A cure for what?”

  “Never mind. Aren’t there any phones, or computers, or televisions?”

  “There’s limited trading between towns because we travel on foot, or horse, and Jarod limits even that. I’ve seen phones and computers, but none that worked. I’ve heard about television, but it’s not real. How do you get people into a little box?”

  “How about electricity and running water?”

  She blushed as her eyes flew around the austere cabin.

  Youngblood cast his eyes down, ashamed for embarrassing her.

  She said, “There is limited plumbing in a few towns and Columbia has enough electricity for lights in the town hall. They turn them on for meetings, or to hold big sales,” her voice trailed off, “but the power isn’t reliable.”

  He noticed a box of batteries in the corner of the room, and to make amends for his careless remark, he asked, “Any of those good?”

  “No. I wish they were. I could sell them for a few bucks.”

  He picked up his discarded coveralls and reached into a pocket. He said, “I have a solar powered battery charger. I can charge several per hour. If you’ll let me?”

  “Of course, that would be great. They’ll be in demand when we go to town.”

  He set up his charger in the sunlight and connected the batteries. They started charging and he rotated them as they talked.

  “Tell me more about the people here?”

  “There are small subsistence farms, but crops need water which means irrigation and pumping which require more power than is usually available from windmills, or waterfalls. There are a few small cattle ranches farther south. Some people hunt the antelope and wild turkey that are abundant in the forest, but not everyone is good with a bow. Some fish. There are plentiful carp and catfish in the river. There are also the trappers who set out to catch fox, lynx, and beaver for their fur. Most folks don’t venture too deep into the woods since there are grizzlies and cougars.”

  Youngblood nodded.

  “In fact, I was going to go hunting today. I have a hunting blind in a tree a few miles from here. I wait for the game to come to me. When I first came here I stole eggs from nests, caught fish, and shot a squirrel, or rabbit, if I was lucky. But you can do some fishing while I’m gone if you feel up to it.”

  “Great.”

  “But keep a sharp eye out for snakes.”

  He said, “I’m not entirely helpless.”

  Youngblood found a shaded restful spot under an oak tree, cast his fishing pole into the stream, and spent the afternoon fishing using grasshoppers as bait. It was pleasant, but he caught nothing.

  When Kira returned, she said, “Look what I shot,” holding up a rabbit which she had already skinned and gutted.

  In minutes, she had it roasting over a fire.

  The delicious smell wafted throughout the room making his mouth water.

  After the dinner, he said, “That was great.”

  They sat pleasantly enjoying the stillness of the evening until Youngblood blanched. He recognized the onset of symptoms of his disease. The illness came in waves, first lethargy, then muscle weakness.

  Kira asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he protested. “I just need to rest.”

  Chapter 5

  Jamestown

  Youngblood opened his eyes and sat up in bed.

  Kira was gone, but her warmth lingered on the chair where she had spent the night watching over him.

  He went to the window and scanned the orchard. Catching sight of Kira perched high in a tree, he followed her cat-like motion as she clawed her way from branch to branch. Her boots dug deep into the trunk as she stuffed pears into a sack that was tied with a sash around her waist. Finally, her sack full, she descended from her lofty roost.

  He recalled the trees that once grew in his own backyard. The rich ripe peaches dripped juices with each bite. His mother baked fruit pies she would set on the window sill to cool, letting him smell the sweet pungent scents carried on the warm spring breezes. He would sit on the porch and eat those pastries as if he never had a care in the world. Those days were gone.

  He went outside and waved.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. It was a relapse from a past illness, but I’m fine now. Thanks to you.”

  “I was worried. It came on so sudden. I didn’t know how to help.”

  “It’s over. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay,” she replied uncertainly.

  “Why are you collecting so much fruit?”

  “I’m going to sell it in Jamestown.”

  “Jamestown?”

&nbs
p; “Yeah. It used to be famous as a gold-era landmark, one of the Yosemite mining towns that became a tourist attraction after the gold played out. Today, there’re still a few rock-hounds who pan for gold, though it’s rare to find a nugget. Nowadays, it’s mostly fine grains.”

  “Let me help pick fruit.”

  “First, no offense, but you can use a bath. There’s soap and a bucket over there. My father’s shaving kit is on the bureau. Take them to the river and get cleaned up. I’ll make some breakfast and you can help me pick after that.”

  Youngblood smiled and shot her a look.

  I like her.

  A few minutes later, he sat in the river bathing himself. Wiping away the grime and disappointment of the previous day, he let the water current strike his body, massaging the sore muscles.

  Refreshed, he returned to the cabin for breakfast and soon they worked together in the orchard with Lady standing guard.

  Kira stuck her fingers into the ground.

  “Needs water.”

  “No irrigation?” he asked.

  “Pumps don’t work. There’s no power for them anyway. But the nearby stream keeps the water table high enough to keep these trees healthy.”

  Youngblood looked up at the bright red apples hanging from high branches. The plums were lower and easier to pick. The pears were in between. A cherry tree poked its head out from the end of the orchard and there was a makeshift greenhouse with a dozen square feet contained greens and tomatoes.

  “It’s remarkable what you’ve done here.”

  She said, “You work on the plums. I’ll get the apples.”

  But before he could get started, she detailed, “Don’t mix the fruit in a basket. Put all the apples in the back, down low, and then place the baskets of cherries on top. Watch the weight in each basket so you don’t squash fruit. Then . . .”

  She took a breath, but before she could continue, he said, “Huh, huh.”

  She huffed, “I like it my way. Because my way is the right way,” she emphasized. “Do it my way and we’ll get along just fine.”

  He smiled at her peccadillo and followed orders. He began picking the low hanging fruit while she climbed the trees as if she had never heard of gravity.