“We might enjoy a bit of mountain lion meat,” Marion said. “Why not?”
Now, he was scraping the hide with a drawknife that was just a little too dull. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw his grandmother standing in the doorway, hands on her hips as she watched him work.
“You’re doing a great job,” Tabitha said. “Keep it steady. Not too hard.”
“But what’s the point?” Darryl asked. It wasn’t a particularly large hide, but scraping the whole thing was taking such a long time.
“Maybe I’ll make a nice jacket out of it,” Tabitha said. “No, we don’t need the hide, you’re right, but it’s good practice. If the stores don’t open up again, we’ll have to learn to live off the land.”
Seeing his grandmother’s face when he first dragged the mountain lion into the barn had been well worth the hard work. It took a lot to impress her, and she was still beaming at him as he worked. That didn’t make scraping the flesh and fat off the hide any less disgusting, of course.
“Not too hard,” Tabitha said, wagging a finger at him. “You’re doing great, but if you scrape too hard, you’ll damage the hide.”
“Yeah, that’s what it says here.” Darryl nodded in the direction of the book.
Grandma had presented him with a picture book on tanning animal hides, and it was propped open on a nearby shelf where he could see it. Tanning Hide the Natural Way, it was called. The skinned carcass was hanging from hooks in the corner, and Darryl glanced at the big teeth. When he thought of how close those teeth had come to clamping down on his neck, he shuddered.
“The next step is the real fun part,” Grandma said. “We get to extract the brain.”
“Are you going to help me with that?” Darryl replied. “I never extracted a brain before.”
“You’re doing a fine job,” she said. “Tell you what, I’ll take your next fence patrol, and we’ll call it even. Now, I’m going to leave you to it. Careful with the brain. Don’t drop it!”
And with that, she left the room. He heard her moving across the barn, opening the big sliding door on its track.
“She just wants you to learn practical skills,” Darryl’s mom said. “Actually, she was pretty proud of you for bring down that mountain lion.”
“Yeah, I get it.” He had neglected to tell them just how close he’d come to getting eaten. A claw had nicked him on the shoulder, poking a hole in his jacket, but he’d cleaned the wound and bandaged it on his own.
He was roughly halfway done scraping the hide, but as he adjusted position, his shoe squished in a mound of blood and fat. According to the next page of the book, the next step was to crack open the cat’s skull and retrieve the brain. There were big, glossy pictures showing just how to do it. The room already stank, especially with no working AC or fans. He couldn’t imagine what the brain would smell like.
Despite the grueling work, he found he didn’t completely hate this. There was a part of him that had watched his grandfather work when he was little and felt awed by the man’s self-reliance and confidence. It was nice to discover that he could follow in Tuck’s footsteps when necessary.
“Get every bit of meat, fat, and flesh,” his mother said.
“Grandma said I was scraping too hard,” he replied, dragging the drawknife along one edge of the hide.
“You were, and now you’re scraping too lightly.”
“Feels like I’m trying to earn a scouting badge,” Darryl said, “but that was Emma’s thing. I never wanted to be a scout.”
His mother’s lips grew tight. Mention of their missing family members clearly bothered her. Did she actually think they were lost out there for good? Surely not. Not with Tuck and Tommy accompanying them. Those guys practically lived in the wilderness.
Once he finished scraping the hide, he dropped the big, dull drawknife onto the shelf beside the open book and grabbed a towel from an open drawer. He took his time wiping his hands, glancing at the nearby hammer and chisel that he would use to retrieve the mountain lion’s brain.
Yeah, this part is going to be disgusting, he thought, but there’s no getting around it. Gotta cure the hide.
At least it gave him something to do other than fret over an unfinished college paper that no longer seemed to matter. He was finding life without a smartphone a lot more challenging than he would have imagined. Focusing his mind on difficult tasks seemed to help, and this work was more interesting, and disgusting, than building the fence.
“We should make a hat out of it,” he said.
“Why is that?” his mother asked.
“So I can tell people, ‘A mountain lion tried to bite me, but I made a hat out of it.’”
It made him chuckle, but his mother didn’t seem to find it funny.
“Did it really almost bite you?” she asked.
“It was doomed the second it hissed at me,” he replied. “Don’t worry, Mom.”
He picked up the hammer and chisel and carried them over to a table behind the hanging carcass, but he heard the barn door creaking again, the distinct sound of Grandma’s heavy boots on the floor. Suddenly, she pushed past Marion and entered the room.
“Darryl, come with me,” she said, out of breath.
“Right now?” he replied, gesturing toward the mountain lion carcass. “I was just about to…” He waved the hammer. “You know, the fun part.”
Tabitha glanced at Darryl’s mom. “Can you handle that part, Marion? I need the boy’s help.”
Marion made a brief disgusted face before saying, “I suppose so. Dad taught me well, but…there’s a reason I became an engineer and moved to the big city.”
Darryl handed his mom the hammer and chisel and followed Tabitha out of the room. She led him out of the barn and toward a large shed behind the house, moving so fast Darryl struggled to keep up with her. His arms and shoulders ached from all the work of dragging and skinning the mountain lion, but he didn’t mind. At least he was going to stay in good shape in the apocalypse.
Grandma finally stopped when she reached the shed door, spinning her hand at him.
“You thought skinning a mountain lion was fun,” she said, swinging the door open. “You’ll really enjoy this.”
She waved him inside. When he stepped into the large shed, he saw the cow in the corner, and he felt instantly sick to his stomach. Yes, they’d talked about this, and he was familiar with the process. But he’d never been responsible for doing it. The cow was in a narrow pen, its head held fast by a head-gate, staring with perhaps a glint of curiosity but no real fear. Darryl knew this animal. He’d seen her in the pasture. He remembered the shape of her spots.
“It has to be done,” Grandma said. She’d clearly read the expression on his face. “The herd’s too big. They won’t all survive, and we need the meat.”
“Yeah, I know,” Darryl said with a sigh. “I get it.”
Grandma reached onto a nearby table and picked up the 12-gauge shotgun she used for such occasions. Then she grabbed a large folding knife and passed it to Darryl. He unfolded it, marveling at the whiteness of the blade. His hand was trembling.
“You know how this works?” she asked.
Darryl nodded. “You shoot. I immediately cut her throat.”
“Don’t hesitate,” Tabitha said, racking the shotgun and moving toward the cow. “It’s more humane to do it fast. Cut deep, all the way through, and all the way across.”
“I know,” he said, moving up behind her.
“Thanks to all of that curing salt from the Carmichaels, we’ll have steaks and burgers for weeks.”
I just want to buy my steaks pre-cut at Loblaws, like normal, he thought, as his grandma pressed the barrel of the shotgun against the cow’s head, at a spot right between her eyes.
The blast was so loud inside the shed that Darryl’s ears immediately began to ring, but he rushed forward with the knife. The cow lurched once in the pen, then seemed to settle back in place. Raising the blade, Darryl jabbed it into the side of the
animal’s neck and, steeling himself, dragged it across her throat, cutting deep, as blood gushed all over the plastic apron he was wearing. Some of it seeped under the apron. He felt it soaking into his shirt.
Yep, this is gross, too, he thought, even as he continued to cut. It’s all disgusting and bloody and smelly. Welcome to the apocalypse. I hope all of these ANPRIM guys choke on their own stupidity.
18
Skinning and butchering the cow turned out to be a much bigger job than skinning the mountain lion. In fact, it took them most of the afternoon. The reek of blood and offal soaked into everything, and Darryl felt hot and sticky by the end. The cow’s carcass was hanging by the tendons of its back legs from massive hooks in the ceiling of the shed, all bled out and bloodless. The head had been removed, the forelimbs cut and snapped. They’d gutted it and buried the massive bile-spewing and feces-oozing guts.
I think I lost my appetite about two hours ago, Darryl thought. All of this for a few hamburgers? Is it too late to go vegan?
“I remember helping my father butcher a cow when I was just a few years younger than you,” Tabitha said, using an enormous saw to cut through the sacral vertebrae. “I should have passed these skills on a lot sooner to my kids and grandkids. You wouldn’t be having so much trouble right now. We killed her as humanely as we could, you know. She had it a heck of a lot easier than the calf that got chewed up by the big cat.”
“I know, Grandma,” he replied, slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t complained, or said much of anything really, but she had apparently read his emotions on his face. “We have to do what we have to do.”
“That’s exactly it,” she replied. “That’s the attitude that will get us through all of this. Don’t you forget it.”
She wore out eventually, and Darryl had to take over, sawing down the backbone to split the carcass.
By the time they were done, the carcass cut into individual slabs of meat according to a butcher’s chart that Tabitha had produced, Darryl felt absolutely drenched in sweat, grime, blood, and unidentifiable biological filth. He was thoroughly exhausted, and he had not a shred of appetite left, but he also felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment.
We can take care of ourselves, he thought. We can feed ourselves. We don’t have to become desperate little schemers like some of the people in town.
That, at least, was reassuring.
Just as they were finishing up, Darryl’s mom appeared, sweating and out of breath. She approached the big table where they’d displayed all the large cuts of meat. Grandma made a broad gesture with her hand, as if she were a game show host presenting the grand prize.
“Well, what do you think?” she said. “Me and your boy did this all by ourselves.”
“Where do you plan to store all of this meat?” Marion asked. “Surely we can’t leave it sitting in a shed like this, even if it’s packed in salt.”
“Actually, I have an idea about that,” Darryl replied. He’d thought quite a bit about storing the meat. In fact, until the raw grossness of butchering had stolen his appetite, he’d spent a lot of time thinking about how they were going to make it last. Maybe someday I’ll be hungry again. There are some good cuts of meat here.
“Let’s hear it, son,” Marion said.
“The root cellar,” he replied.
“The root cellar collapsed a long time ago,” Tabitha said, wiping her hands on a towel. “My parents used it when I was young, but I never had a need to store vegetables like that.”
“Okay, then we’ll dig it out,” Darryl said, “reinforce the walls, make it better than before. We can use it to store the cured meat, as well as any other supplies that need a cool, dry place. Heck, we could store your diabetes medicine down there, or just about anything that needs safekeeping.”
“I don’t need any medicine,” Tabitha grumbled. She seemed strangely offended, as if somehow Darryl had insulted her. She huffed out a breath before speaking again. “Diabetes has been a part of my life for years now, and I have never needed to take meds for it. I know what I’m doing.” As she headed to the shed door, she said, “Let’s go get the salt. We don’t want to leave the meat sitting here.”
And with that, she walked out of the shed. Darryl was so taken aback that he didn’t follow her right away. His mother gave him a sympathetic shrug.
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“She’s always controlled her diabetes through her diet,” Marion said. “I guess she just hates the idea of having to depend on medication for anything. Don’t take it personally.”
Grandma was moving fast, heading to the porch, where they’d stacked the big bags of curing salt. The Carmichaels had been quick to let them have it, which Darryl found strange, and they’d only said, “Maybe you can pay us back sometime down the road.”
“We need to keep an eye on your grandma,” Marion said. “With all the extra work she’s doing, she’s burning a lot of extra calories, but she’s not eating more to compensate. I don’t think she can keep this up. I tried to convince her to let you and me handle the work today, but she insisted. Help me keep an eye on her, would you? I’ll feel better.”
“What am I looking for?” Darryl asked.
“Symptoms,” Marion replied. “Fatigue, irritability, blurred vision, thirst…actually, just anything unusual. She might try to hide obvious symptoms. She’s determined to be self-reliant, and she’s never liked having to take medications, so we’ll have to make sure she eats and rests. Your grandma is healthy, but the world has changed and watching her diet may not be enough anymore.”
“She’s going to need meds eventually,” he said. “Will we be able to convince her to take them?”
Instead of replying, Marion just sighed. It was answer enough.
“Let’s go help,” she said, heading out of the shed.
Darryl started to untie the heavy, plastic apron, which was splashed with blood and gore, but then he decided to keep it on a little longer. He wasn’t done handling meat yet, after all. He followed his mother outside and across the yard, where Grandma was already trying to wrestle the first big bag of salt off the pile.
“Our family can survive out there, you know,” Marion said suddenly. “Emma did her research before the trip, and my dad has plenty of experience. They have hunting and fishing gear, good camping gear. They’ll be fine.”
The change in subject caught Darryl off guard, and he didn’t know what to say. However, the quaver in her voice, the way she nodded to herself, struck him. Suddenly, she seemed so unsure. He watched the way she fiddled absently with a button on the sleeve of her shirt.
“Don’t you think so, Darryl?” She glanced at him and managed a faltering smile. “Tell me you think so.”
It was perhaps the first time in his life he’d caught a glimpse of the real person named Marion Healy, and not just his mother. Nervous, unsure, needing reassurance.
“I suppose they could last up there indefinitely,” he said, after a moment. “Plenty of fish, deer, edible plants. Even if they run out of ammo, they have fishing poles, tackle, and all sorts of game roaming about. Grandpa also knows how to trap small animals. I wouldn’t worry about them. Heck, they might be better off than us.”
He watched in amazement as his words strengthened her smile
“You’re right,” she said. “Of course, you are.”
Had she ever confided in him like that? His mother was smart and highly educated, but she’d always come across as somewhat aloof, analytical, and practical. On the one hand, it made Darryl feel good that she’d confided in him, that she’d turned to him in a moment of flagging confidence like he was an adult. On the other hand, if the veneer of aloof practicality was falling away, maybe she knew things were worse than she was letting on.
19
They made camp in the early afternoon on a small, grassy hilltop in sight of the endless pipeline. Greg would have preferred to keep going—the way station was getting close—but poor Tommy was in a miserable state. Th
e tables had turned, and now it was gnarled, old Tuck Healy constantly encouraging his friend to keep going, calling the rest of the group to slow down when the little guy started to lag.
As Eustace and Greg cleared space, cutting or ripping out the tallest grass, Emma unrolled their small tents. Tuck and Tommy came trudging up the hill last, the smaller man bent over and panting loudly. He was drenched in sweat, and he’d unzipped his jacket despite the onset of colder air. His messy hair had wilted like rain-drenched wool.
Greg moved close to Eustace and spoke softly. “How much farther to the way station? Our friend isn’t doing too well.”
Eustace sighed and stabbed the machete into the ground. “It’s a heck of a lot farther when we’re just creeping along like this and stopping to camp in the middle of the day,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at Tuck and Tommy, who were shuffling toward the tents. “I hate to say it, but it might be better if we just leave him.”
Greg looked for some indication the man was joking, but he had an ugly scowl on his face. It didn’t help that his beard had grown wilder in the last few days, making him look increasingly savage.
“We’re not leaving him behind,” Greg said, trying not to raise his voice. Nothing good would come from a shouting match with Eustace. “If it comes down to it, we’ll make a stretcher and carry him.”
“Who’s going to carry him?” Eustace said. “You and your old man? Hardly. Look, I want as many people as possible to survive, that’s all I’m saying.” He gave Greg a long, hard look, eyebrows slowly descending like the shutting of gates.
“Let’s just drop it,” Greg said. “Everyone’s tired and cranky. We’ll talk about it after we’re all rested.”
And with that, he turned and walked toward his daughter, but he heard Eustace grumble, “I’m not cranky. I’m just honest. Maybe you don’t know the difference.”
Survive the Fall (EMP: Return of the Wild West Book 1) Page 12
