After the End: Survival

by Stebbins, Dave

  "So, go back to the place where it stopped making sense," said Holtzmann, standing to clear his place. "I'm feeling a little tired. Not used to all this activity. I'm going home to rest. Amy, the high quality of your fresh baked bread surpassed even my wildest expectations. You are to be commended."

  "Thank you. You ought to try some of our cinnamon bread."

  "I'll look forward to it. Good afternoon," he said, walking out the front door.

  “‘You ought to try some of our cinnamon bread’," Pete said, in a high pitched voice.

  "You seem to like it well enough."

  "Hey. I can eat my own cooking and survive. What does that tell you?"

  "That you have a cast-iron stomach. Are you going to the funerals?"

  "Yes. You need a ride?"

  "I didn't know either one of them,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Why should I go? I've got things to do. See you later, if you're lucky."

  "See you. Thanks, Amy."

  He watched her leave, and looked at the dishes on the table, realizing that in three years, this lunch marked the most people he'd ever had over for a meal. Kind of nice, he thought, as he washed the dishes.

  The service for Laura Benchly was predictably somber. A Church of Christ minister presided and he dished out the usual stuff; how we couldn't know for what purpose God had wanted the young girl for, but it must have been pretty important for Him to take her from such a loving bunch of people as were gathered here today. Pete tuned the guy out, looking over the crowd. A lot of kids, boys in jeans wearing shirts with collars, hair slicked back, or in unruly bangs. The girls wore mostly dresses, hair pulled back in pony tails and tied in bows or in long braids. A few of the girls and the women present would wipe an occasional tear, the men and boys impassive. Frank Crenshaw kept his massive hand on his wife's shoulder and stared at the gaping hole in the ground that contained Laura's casket.

  After the service, Crenshaw walked over to Pete. The two shook hands.

  "Appreciate your coming by."

  "I'm sorry for your trouble, Frank."

  "Do you honestly think the man who did this to Laura is going to be caught?"

  Pete hesitated a moment before he answered.

  "I doubt it. Not with the evidence gathered so far. If he doesn't move out of the area, he'll probably try it again. Maybe we'll get lucky and catch him in the act. Maybe the next girl will get away. I wish I was more optimistic."

  "What can I do." He said it as a statement, not as a question.

  "I understand you build wind generators." Crenshaw nodded, and Pete continued. "There's a chance one of your machines could save some lives. Indirectly. Would you donate one?"

  Wind generators were scarce and the few available were expensive. A number of plans had been tried, and Crenshaw's design was one of the few that could generate power and still survive the fifty-plus mile-an-hour winds that frequently blew across the Texas plains. His unique machine consisted of fifty five gallon drums, split in half vertically, offset, and mounted on a vertical axis, their cup shapes rotating and applying power to a system of pulleys. A car alternator would spin fast enough to charge twelve volt batteries. It was crude but effective, and the low rotational speed of the device made balancing less critical, which was a problem with other designs.

  Crenshaw pulled a card out of his wallet and wrote on the back of it.

  "There you go. Redeemable for one wind spinner. I guess you've got a plan. Hope it works out. Thanks again for coming." Frank turned away and walked back to his wife. Hand-in-hand they walked toward their home, a half mile to the north.

  Pete drove east on Hollywood a mile and then turned north into the Valleyview subdivision. He parked his car in front of Easy's house. A dozen teens gazed sullenly at him as he walked up the sidewalk.

  "What’s up, Doc?" It was Easy, sprawled out on a couch in the front yard. He took a hit from a joint, passing it to a girl with a pinched face and greasy blouse.

  "Thought I'd say hello. Give you a present." He handed the youth a DVD.

  The kid took it and read the label. "Friday the 13th. Cool." He held the edge of the disc close to his face. "Oh yeah. Look at ol’ Jason. He's really gettin' it on. Great movie. The End. What am I supposed to do with this? Pop it into the old DVD player and watch it in living color? Did you forget something, Doc? DVD no worky?"

  "Easy, can we talk for minute? Just you and me. I've got something you might be interested in."

  "Sure," he said, opening his arms expansively. He looked every bit an aspiring used car salesman. "Hey. Mi casa es su casa, man. Come on in."

  The house was filthy. Empty cans of food littered the living room. Heaps of clothes and blankets were stacked in mounds. The place reeked of the musk of unwashed people. A young couple was on the couch. The boy had opened the girl's shirt and was sucking one of her breasts while roughly kneading the other. The girl looked bored and stared impassively at the two as they walked across the room.

  "There's a tree in the back yard, makes it kind of shady."

  The fresh air was a relief. Several empty chairs were under a red oak. They sat down. Easy's eyes were bloodshot. Inflamed pimples were erupting from his cheeks and forehead.

  "So, Pete. What can I do for you?"

  "Easy, I've asked around. And whenever I say, ‘Who's the best scrounger in town,’ your name always comes up."

  Easy acknowledged this by nodding emphatically.

  "So I'll get right to the point. I need drugs. Medical type. Can you help me?"

  Easy sprawled back in his chair and vigorously scratched the top of his head. Probably lice, Pete thought. His own scalp started itching, but Pete refrained from scratching.

  "If I say yes, I've got lots of drugs, then you go tell the blue meanies and they come here and bust a few heads and they take anything they want. If I tell you maybe I do, the same thing will happen. I end up with a bad headache and any drugs I might have had end up gone. So my answer will have to be, nossir, I sure don't have any drugs, and if I did, I sure wouldn't keep them here. I'd be a damn idiot to keep any here. You realize every one of those fuckers in the front yard can eat their weight in drugs?"

  "I get it. This is between you and me. Think about the advantages in working with me on this. The drugs I want, you can't get high on. They're useless to you. Another thing to keep in mind is that drugs lose their potency over time. Everyday, they get less valuable. You end up with little bottles of crap. Three years have passed. Now is the time to unload this stuff.”

  Easy considered this, picking at a pimple on his cheek, squeezing out the pus. He examined the exodus on his finger, wiping it on his jeans. He leaned forward in his chair.

  "Let's say I do have pills. A lot of pills. And they've been stored in a cool, dry place just like the label says. What's it worth to you? What have you got? You just said I was a great scrounger, right? So what have you got that I can't get?"

  Pete waited a few beats before he answered.

  "A twelve volt DVD player. Quality conversion job. The city engineer did it for me."

  Easy's eyes narrowed, considering the possibilities. When he spoke, it was casually, sounding disinterested.

  "A DVD player. Big deal. What am I going to do, watch The Lion King five times a day? C'mon, how about something I can use."

  "Easy, give me a break. You know damn well what it could mean. Here you are, champion scrounger of the world, right? You're living in a shit hole. Almost everything you eat comes out of a can. And there's not much of that left anymore. What have you got that people want? Some pot you steal out of some illegal garden? Some diamond jewelry like everybody else has got that you can trade for a can of beef stew? A DVD player is your ticket out. Man, you could set up shop on Georgia Street and run that sucker eighteen hours a day. People would come to you from miles around. You could turn it into something big. You're wanting to get rich, fast? I can't think of a better way. I'm into health care, O.K? It's all I do. That's why I want the drugs. To keep t
he general public healthy so they can attend movies. I think we can do business. This can help us both out.”

  Easy stared at Pete. Didn’t say a word.

  Pete listened to some mockingbirds in the tree. From the front yard, the angry, adolescent growl of two youths wafted over the roof. Most of their words were indistinct, but the essence of the conversation seemed to consist of a tired litany of, "You goddamn cocksucker."

  Easy stood and peered about for any onlookers.

  Apparently satisfied, he said, "Follow me."

  Pete followed the youth through a gate into the alley. They walked rapidly for about a half block, and then ducked into the break of a redwood fence. In the corner of the backyard was a small mound, perhaps three feet tall. A ventilation pipe rose from its center. It was a storm shelter, fairly common in this tornado prone area. Easy keyed a heavy padlock and opened the metal door, quickly reaching inside to deactivate a booby trap consisting of nylon fishing line and a sawed-off shotgun. They walked down the stairs into a cramped room, about eight by ten feet.

  Inside were nine plastic garbage cans, each filled to the top with vials of drugs. Pete felt like he'd just entered a cave filled with treasure chests of pirates' gold. He randomly picked up a small bottle. Doxycycline, 100 MG #14.

  Eureka.

  "One barrel of drugs. One video machine," said Easy.

  "This shit's expired. Probably no good any more. Four barrels. One machine."

  "You're crazy. Expiration dates don't mean squat. This stuff is primo. Great storage conditions. Two barrels. One machine."

  "What are you going to do with all this? Sprinkle it on your canned pork and beans? Nobody wants it, nobody can use it. I'm offering you salvation. Four barrels. One 12 volt video player. It's a gift.”

  "What do you mean, nobody wants it? You want it. Two barrels. Take it or leave it."

  "One DVD player. Plus a fifty two inch TV with a sine wave inverter. You'll be in business, ready to go. Eight barrels."

  Easy's eyes narrowed.

  "You didn't mention the TV and inverter before," the boy said. "I'll give you four barrels. You know, I haven't even tried to find other buyers for this shit."

  "The mayor finds out you've got it and you'll end up with nothing. I'm straight, you can work with me. Eight barrels."

  "Hey doc, you make it sound real good, but I'll be running through batteries like there was no tomorrow. My overhead would be outta sight."

  Pete pulled Crenshaw's card out and used two hands to display it.

  "One DVD player. One fifty two inch TV with inverter. One Crenshaw wind generator. All nine barrels."

  Easy was looking at the card, fidgeting, like his bladder was full.

  "Eight barrels. Leave me with something, O.K?" he pleaded.

  "All nine barrels. It’s your ticket out. Take it or leave it."

  "Fucker. O.K. Let's do it."

  Ten minutes later, Pete drove around the block and parked in front of the vacant house with the storm shelter. Easy was there waiting with two barrels of drugs. Pete surrendered the card for the wind generator. The rest of the transaction would be completed the next day. Together they loaded the barrels into the back of Pete's SUV.

  Easy looked a little uncomfortable, and then extended his hand.

  "I sure hope this works out," he said.

  "It'll be fine. Take some hard work on your part, getting the thing organized, but a year from now I want to be able to walk into your theater and watch The Wizard of Oz."

  "Not on Saturday nights, man. I'll be doing Fast and Furious flicks, back to back."

  "Whatever. See you later."

  "Yeah. Later."

  Jay Flood looked up from his desk as Pete entered the hospital. Pete placed a single, brown plastic vial in front of the doctor.

  "Your wish is my command," Pete said.

  Jay frowned, then picked up the container, first reading the tiny letters penned on the side of the plastic vial.

  "Antibiotics by Wilson."

  Then reading the label.

  "Levaquin, 250 milligrams." He looked up at Pete. "Is this for real?"

  "Yep. And there's more where that came from."

  "Yeess! Yeess! Yeess!" The last shouted out. Lateesha Williams came in, hands on her hips.

  "Do I need to remind you gentlemen this is a hospital?"

  "Yes ma'am, you're right about that," Jay Flood said. "It sure is."

  CHAPTER 25

  Judy Gilliam, RN, was having a blast. After transporting five year old Brandon King to the hospital and getting Shorty's dislocated finger put back in place, she picked up a few supplies from Lateesha Williams and walked out to her car. Shorty was standing next to the driver's door.

  "Oh that's all right," she said. "I can drive back."

  The cowboy hesitated, and slowly walked around to the passenger side and got in.

  Shorty slouched against the door of the vehicle, his hat pulled down low over his face. She tried making small talk, but he only responded with a few grunts.

  I know the man's quiet, but this is ridiculous. She gave him a sidelong glance.

  Maybe he thinks he should be driving. Because he's a man.

  She decided to test her hypothesis. As she approached a group of pedestrians, Judy slowed down, honked and waved enthusiastically. The passerby’s waved back, smiled and peered closely to see who was being so friendly.

  Shorty shrank farther down into his seat.

  Bingo.

  She rolled down her window.

  "Y'all doing all right?" she said.

  "Yes ma'am. We sure needed this rain."

  "Isn't that the truth? Everything smells so nice and clean. You have a nice day!"

  "You do the same!"

  She repeated variations of this performance seven times in eighteen miles. Shorty had practically disappeared under the dash board.

  The drive to Claude was most pleasant.

  When Judy arrived at the Claude clinic, Shorty bolted from the car and swung up on his horse, riding off without a word. There were two patients waiting inside and she expected a few more to drift in over the afternoon.

  As the day progressed, she saw a few more patients but was able to concentrate on giving the clinic area a good cleaning. Her garden was overrun with tomatoes, watermelons and mint. Judy was able to weed with a vengeance, the moist, soft earth offering little resistance.

  A little after three, a horse drawn buggy pulled up smartly to the clinic. A tall, spare man and a pale, teenaged girl stepped down.

  "Go on in," said Judy, taking off her cotton gloves. "I'll be right there."

  She followed the two into the clinic.

  "James Snyder. This is my daughter Cathy. First time we've been here," he said, making a point of looking the place over.

  "Pleased to meet you both. I’m Judy Gilliam. How can I help you?"

  The man looked at his daughter, but said nothing. Finally the girl spoke.

  "I've been cramping real bad. Bleeding a lot."

  "O.K., we'll check that out. Mr. Snyder, I'll need at least a half hour with your daughter, a lot of that time will involve taking a medical history since she's a new patient. Just letting you know, so if you want to water your horse and stretch your legs, that would be fine. There's a windmill with a water tank two houses north."

  "I guess I'll do just that." He glanced at his daughter, like he wanted to say more. The girl stared at the floor. After a few seconds, he walked outside.

  Judy turned to her young charge.

  "Cathy, I'll need some help with the paperwork. Your full name?"

  "Cathy Lynn Snyder."

  "Age?"

  "Fifteen."

  "Address?"

  "Just off Washington, north of Palo Duro Lake. . ."

  Judy completed the form. Vital signs were normal. She had Cathy partially disrobe for a physical exam and was not surprised the girl had a small .22 pistol tucked into a belt holster under her shirt. Carrying firearms was commonplace.
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  Initially, Cathy was quiet, answering questions with as few words as possible. Judy attributed the girl's shyness to a disfiguring scar that ran across her nose and one cheek. Gradually, though, she opened up. When she started talking about her infant daughter, she became almost radiant.

  "Wendy is just so cool," she said. "She'll pull herself up next to a chair and get this look on her face, like, ‘Hey, look what I can do!’ And I'll start clapping, and she'll try to clap too and she falls down. And then we both start laughing!"

  Judy had lost a husband, three children and two grandchildren to the Change, but the girl's joy of new motherhood was infectious.

  "She sounds adorable. Wait until she starts walking! You'll lose five pounds the first month trying to keep up with her! Has she started talking yet?"

  "Oh yeah, you wouldn't believe how smart she is! She says mama, gwada, that's my dad, and gwama, and Brwaa, that's my brother, Brent."

  "You'll have to bring her by sometime I'd love to meet her." Noting the infant apparently did not say, ‘Dada’.

  "Cathy, I think as far as your cramping and bleeding go, it's just your hormones trying to get back into a normal rhythm after pregnancy. It happens to a lot of new mothers and I'll bet your next period won't be as intense. I'm going to give you some ibuprofen now and for the next few days as you need it. I'm also going to give you some tea. It's a combination of feverfew, chamomile and yarrow. Sip a cup, a two times a day. You’ll want to eat liver once or twice a week and green leafy vegetables. We need to build up your iron. Those foods will help. Cathy, forgive me for asking, but I couldn't help notice you didn't mention anything about Wendy's father."

  The girl was quiet for a moment. Then her once shy face became defiant.

  "I don't know who he is. But I hope he burns in Hell."

  "Why do you feel that way, Cathy?"

  And like a dam bursting, the words flowed in a torrent as the girl recounted her child's conception.

  It was near dusk. Cathy was on horseback, four miles from home. Maggie was her favorite horse, quick and intelligent. The summer sunset imparted a reddish glow and the soft breeze whispered the promise of a cool evening.