Shadows of the Emerald City

by J. W. Schnarr

  He sat and listened to her slurp beans, and listened to the wind outside, and thought about the days when he was the lord of the Winkies and his life had a point. Finally Dorothy tossed the can in the fire and wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

  “That’s the last of it,” she said, watching the yellow flames lick green and blue out of the can.

  “What happened to Kansas?” Tin Man said.

  “There was a war,” Dorothy said, huddling under a blanket. Her feet were inches from the dirty fire, soaking up all the heat they could. “Russia and America. World War Three. Though as I remember it, there wasn’t much of a war. Only a lot of bombs dropping. Hydrogen Bombs. intercontinental missiles. Short-range tactical nukes dropped by fighters and shot from tanks.”

  “I don’t know what any of that means,” Tin Man said. “But it sounds terrible.”

  “You can’t imagine the death toll,” Dorothy said. “All it took was one or two bombs dropped on a city and millions were dead. And it happened over and over again. Not just here and there. Everywhere. London, France, Canada…all gone. We drew a line in the sand, Russia walked over it. So we nailed em. And they nailed us.”

  “But why?” Tin Man said.

  “It doesn’t matter, I guess,” Dorothy said. “Uncle Henry used to say ‘They got all them bombs and such built up, now they’re just lookin for an excuse to use ‘em’. I guess he was right. Afterward, there wasn’t much left. Fallout from the bombs came down in rain and ash and killed most of the survivors. Made the water poison, killed all the plants, and made everything pretty much what you see now. I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun. It’s just this old gray as far as you can see, forever.”

  “That’s what happened to Oz,” Tin Man said. “The clouds came, and everything got cold and died.”

  I guess it was fallout then,” Dorothy said. “We killed it.”

  “What is that?” Tin Man said.

  “Fallout is like these little particles of radioactive shit. Radiation,” Dorothy said. “You touch it and gives you cancer and messes with your body. If you eat radioactive food and water the shit gets inside you. It’s like cooking you from the inside. Uncle Henry said that. I seen drifters with radiation poisoning before. Their hair falls out. They get sores on their bodies. Ones who got it real bad, they’re begging to die. It looks plain awful.”

  Tin Man looked down at the Scarecrow. He’d been quiet for quite a while. His gaze was glassy and cross eyed. His mouth hung open like he was about to speak.

  “Scarecrow,” he said. “Hey!” He banged the bucket. When there was no response he shook it. He reached in and pressed on Scarecrow’s face. There was nothing, but a burlap head half filled with straw. Tin Man sighed and put the bucket down. Dorothy was watching him. he shook his head.

  “It’s for the best,” Tin Man said. “He was hardly even there.”

  Dorothy turned and looked at the fire. After a while she grabbed Scarecrow’s head and tossed it onto the flames. Then she buried her head on Tin Man’s shoulder and cried.

  Tin Man watched his friend burn. Scarecrow’s potato sack flesh turned black and erupted into bright flame, then dulled and was gone. He left ashes in his wake. It seemed fitting.

  Dorothy didn’t talk much after that. A few days after Scarecrow’s funeral pyre she helped Tin Man get the sand out of his torso and then the two of them walked the tree line of the Gale property. She had an idea, she said. Something she’d wanted to do for a few months but hadn’t been able to. The walked for an hour until they reached a neighbour’s house, where tall grain bins stood like dull sentinels overlooking a gray and rotted farm. Dorothy lead Tin Man to the base of the silo, and she pointed to the heavy padlock.

  “He was a corn farmer,” she said. “I tried to get the lock off but I didn’t have anything to do it. I didn’t want to waste bullets trying to shoot it off. I come up here sometimes and try to find the keys, but the old man must have taken them when they left.”

  “Where did they go?” Tin Man said.

  “No idea,” Dorothy said. “Off to die maybe. I didn’t find no bodies out here anyway. Can you get that open?”

  “Yes,” Tin Man said without looking. “What’s in here? Corn?”

  “If we’re lucky,” she said. “If I’m lucky.”

  Tin Man grabbed the lock and twisted it in his hand. The steel bent easily enough, but it flaked and dented his hand badly and after the lock broke he realized he couldn’t close his hand properly anymore. The index and middle finger on that hand were bent at the second knuckle. Dorothy slid past him as he was looking at his mauled digits and threw open the loading door.

  The bin was three quarters filled with dried corn, mostly still on the cob. There were thousands of ears, mostly black with rot, but Dorothy reached in and pulled them out of the way.

  She stepped back away from the bin with two handfuls of dried yellow cobs.

  “It’s cow corn,” she said, smelling them. “Cows are all dead though, so I don’t think they’ll mind. I want to fill you up with this, is that alright?”

  Tin Man looked down at the hole in his stomach.

  “I can’t carry as much as you can,” she said. Her voice was soft. “I’ll have to keep coming back here, and it isn’t safe. Someone could be watching.”

  Tin Man reached down and grabbed the edge of the hole with his twisted hand.

  “I can take a lot,” he said. “It’s nothing but an empty can.” He pulled on the side of the hole and tore the rusted flesh away. The hole in his stomach was now twice as big. Dorothy would be able to easily get her hands into it.

  “Watch the edges,” Tin Man said, as she started filling him up.

  Afterwards he felt clunky and heavy. The corn was worse than the sand; it knocked and banged and shuffled inside him and he felt every shift in weight up through his torso and into his teeth. He walked slowly, head down, and let Dorothy bound ahead. She moved like a cat, rifle in hand, stopping every twenty or thirty feet to scan the horizon. More than once she motioned for Tin Man to stop, or get down, at which point he’d kneel where he was standing and wait for her to motion that it was alright to move on.

  He wasn’t accustomed to sneaking; wasn’t used to hiding or slinking. So when they approached the Gale farm and Dorothy suddenly dropped to the ground in front of him, he simply stood there like a fool, wondering what all the fuss was about.

  “Get down,” Dorothy hissed. “There’s someone in there.”

  Tin Man knelt beside her, his joints creaking angrily and spitting rust.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We wait for them to go,” she said. She was wound like a spring. In a way, Tin Man was happy to see this Dorothy. At least this one had something to live for. It was a nice change from the other Dorothy who stared at the fire and pretended to sleep and wouldn’t talk about where her family was.

  Eventually two men came out of the house. They were dressed in army fatigues, and one of them was wearing a white motorcycle helmet. He also had a dirty looking rifle with a rag tied around the barrel. The other one was carrying a wooden baseball bat stuck with five inch nails.

  They moved like Dorothy; a survivor’s walk, considering each step carefully and constantly scanning the area for things to salvage or hidden dangers. Tin Man wondered how long it took for men to revert back to this careful animal approach to life; and how many had managed to relearn the ancient skill before being wiped out by someone doing a better job of it.

  Dorothy clicked the safety off her rifle and laid it across a rotting branch. She blew some lint off the sight, checked her aim, then snapped the action into place.

  The rifle roared to life. The man with the rifle was her target; she made a hole about the size of a blueberry in the center of his back. He pitched forward, his wind screaming out of him. The other scavenger dropped into a squat then dove back into the house.

  Dorothy stood up and started running toward the building.

  �
��Come on!” she barked, waving the Tin Man on with her free arm.

  Tin Man tried to follow, but he couldn’t run. He was full of corn. His leg was bad.

  Worse, he’d never imagined he’d ever see Dorothy kill something.

  She killed Scarecrow, his mind whispered. True. She had done that. He was dead already though. Mostly.

  Dorothy threw herself against the side of the house, then peaked around the corner where the downed scavenger lay. He was grunting and screaming. Dorothy didn’t seem to care. She was focused on the other man, the one with the baseball bat full of nails. The one who was still dangerous.

  Dorothy checked the side of the house again. Her rifle was up. Her breath came in hard, jagged gasps. Her hair stuck to her sweaty face but she didn’t bother wiping it away. There was no time to look pretty. There was only time for killing.

  Tin Man was still fifty feet away from the building when the second scavenger made his shot at freedom. He jumped out the window in Dorothy’s bedroom. He tripped himself on the window and fell face first into the dirt; but then he was up and bounding away from the house as fast as his legs would move.

  “Hey!” Tin Man rasped, pointing at the man. Dorothy was on the other side of the house, moving toward the scavenger she’d already downed.

  Dorothy looked back. Heard the noise. Saw Tin Man pointing. Put it all together in a heartbeat, then scrambled around the house at a full charge. She was across the back of the house before Tin Man had taken five strides, and then she was out in the field, her rifle barrel coming down toward the man running for his life. The gun roared and she missed. The ground vomited dirt straight into the air about a hundred feet in front of the man, causing him to swerve to his left. Dorothy hitched a breath and bared down on the weapon. It bucked again. This time it looked as though the man’s chest puked a big spray of strawberry wine. He staggered and dropped to his knees before falling flat on his face.

  “Fuck,” Dorothy said. “Just like Hollywood, right?” She dropped the barrel of the rifle down but continued to watch the man for signs of life. She turned just as Tin Man was coming up behind her. Limping badly, and leaving cobs of old corn in his wake.

  “You killed them,” Tin Man said. His voice was devoid of emotion; he was simply stating a fact.

  “Had to,” Dorothy said. “They’d have doubled back later and got me while I slept. Raped me. Probably ate me.” She saw the impassion on Tin Man’s face, mistook it for grief.

  “That’s just how it is,” she said softer. “The whole world is about staying alive now. I got it pretty good, compared to most. I got shelter and water. Most people just wander the country looking for scraps and dying of radiation or starving to death. These two was lucky, Tin Man. They died from a bullet. It was quick. In the end, it’s all any of us can hope for.”

  “You have shelter, water, and corn too,” Tin Man said. “Lots of it.”

  Dorothy banged his chest. It made a muffled thump, and she smiled up into his face.

  “That I do,” she said.

  Dorothy went back to the first man she’d shot; the one with the rifle. He had a bubbly, frothy wound in his back that whistled when he breathed out and made a slurpy noise when he breathed in. It was the sound a rubber boot made when you pulled it out of deep mud. Tin Man hated it instantly. The man had quit screaming at least, and didn’t even move when Dorothy kicked at the wound with the side of her boot.

  “Lung shot,” she said. “You can hear him takin’ on air. Christ, I bet that hurts.”

  “What do we do?” Tin Man said. He knew the answer already. It was obvious. For some reason though, he just wanted to hear her say it. Maybe it would cause another tick in his chest, like the one he’d felt earlier. A semblance of life. Humanity.

  Dorothy checked the safety on her rifle.

  “Dun do nuthin’,” she said. “Drag his ass out about five hunnert feet. See if he attracts any birds.”

  “You’re just going to leave him?” Tin Man said.

  “It’s either him or me,” Dorothy said. “I can’t afford to waste bullets on a dead man.” She turned around and went into the house.

  “Grab that other one while your at it,” she said over her shoulder. “Pile em up out there, toward the road.”

  Tin Man pulled the man up into his arms and carried him like a baby. He tried to be as gentle as possible, even though he was about to leave him so the elements and Dorothy’s handiwork could finish him off. The man had never done anything to Tin Man personally, and while he didn’t care enough to make an effort to save the man or disobey Dorothy he didn’t wish the man any direct harm, either. Once out by the road, he laid the man down on his back and placed his hands over his chest.

  The man coughed, and a line of blood ran from his mouth down into his ear. He coughed. More blood. His mouth moved but no sound came out. It took Tin Man a moment to realize the man was trying to speak.

  “What was that?” he rasped. The sand in his voice was easier to hear when he spoke quietly.

  “Fuh-huckin water heater,” the man said. the “F” made a mist of blood splash from his mouth.

  “I’m a man,” Tin Man said. “Just like you. I just don’t look like you anymore.”

  “Finn-hish me off, Water Heater Man,” he said. “Fuh-huckin robot.”

  Tin Man stood up.

  “I’m not a robot,” he said quietly, lifitng his leg.

  When Tin Man checked the second man and realized he was dead, he simply grabbed the scavenger’s leg and dragged him out to where he’d lain the first one. Then he came back to the house. Dorothy had cleaned up a bit and was already boiling water in an old brown pot.

  “We need to empty you out,” she said when she saw him.

  “I can do it,” Tin Man said. “It feels weird when people touch my insides.”

  “Is that blood on your foot?” Dorothy said.

  “Where do you want the corn?” Tin man replied.

  Dorothy watched him for a moment, then slowly pointed to the kitchen counter.

  “There for now, I guess,” she said. “Gotta separate the good ones and the bad ones.”

  “I imagine the worst ones are the ones that look good, but are all bad on the inside,” Tin Man said. “The ones you look at and couldn’t tell they’re rotten until it’s too late. Next to them, the ones rotten on the outside hardly seem dangerous at all.”

  “Whatever you say, Tin Man,” Dorothy said. she crossed her arms. “You the big expert on corn now? You been here three fuckin’ days.”

  “Nope,” said Tin Man. “Not an expert. Just a fast learner.”

  Besides, he thought. We’re not talking about corn anymore, are we little girl.

  He walked by her then, dragging his bad leg and pulling corn out by the fistful. Dorothy followed him into the kitchen and sat by her fire, checking the water. When it was boiling she pulled a little pouch out from under her sweater and produced a couple tea leaves and a bay leaf; she put them into a cup and dipped it into the water, filling it. Then she sat back against a stack of cushions and sighed.

  Tin Man finished emptying his chest and brought two handfuls of corn over to where she was sitting. He crouched beside her and placed the corn between them.

  “I’m sorry,” she said suddenly.

  “I know,” Tin Man said. He added the corn cobs to the boiling pot. “I’m sorry too.”

  They sat in silence while the corn boiled and then Tin Man pulled corn cobs out of the water bare handed and gave them to Dorothy as fast as she could eat them. She refilled her cup of bay leaf tea with steaming corn water and pulled her sweater sleeves over her hands to hold the corn.

  “I know it’s just a bunch of old cow corn,” she said after the third one, “but I tell you if we had some butter and a little salt, we could serve this at the county blue ribbon barbecue and it would be a hit.”

  “You could serve it with your corn water tea,” Tin Man said.

  Dorothy laughed.

  “I bet I could
at that,” she said. “I bet Ozma herself would have even popped her royal ass down in the grass and drank a big cup of the famous Dorothy Gale Fallout Tea and chewed down as many old corn cobs as she could handle.”

  “I doubt it,” Tin Man said. “She turned into a real priss once she got turned back into a girl. Making up for lost time, maybe, from when she was a boy.”

  Dorothy giggled and spit chewed corn. It made her laugh harder and she covered her mouth.

  Tin Man smiled.

  Dorothy refilled her cup one last time then took the leaves out and left them to dry on the floor. She had Tin Man fish her out another corn cob, which she sucked the water off while she waited for it to cool enough to eat.

  “They do look pretty good,” Tin Man said. “It’s been so long since I tasted corn I almost forget what it’s like.”

  “The corn in Oz is nothing like Kansas corn,” Dorothy said, blowing on her tea. “Everything tastes like magic over there. Magic candy, magic fruits and veggies. It’s wonderful, to be sure, but sweet Kansas corn is what I grew up on, and that’s what I love.”

  “Tasted,” said Tin Man.

  “Huh?”

  “You said tastes. It’s tasted. Everything tasted like magic in Oz. It’s all gone now. If you found food in Oz now it would only taste like charcoal and bitter ash.”

  “Yeah,” Dorothy said quietly. “I suppose you’re right.”

  Tin Man stared at the fire. He wished he could have taken that back. It had been so long since he’d seen anyone smile, and he’d reminded the one girl with the most beautiful smile that ever graced Oz that there was nothing left to smile about. Worse, he didn’t know if it would happen again anytime soon. Dorothy certainly had nothing to smile about here in Kansas. There was only the two of them, and all the corn she could eat. He wondered what would happen when Dorothy died. He might wander the fields then, looking for a tornado to hitch a ride back to Oz. Or maybe he’d be like that apple tree he and Scarecrow had seen when they crossed the bridge, and go find a brook to lay down in. Let the sludge and poison wash over him til he dissolved and the nightmare came to an end.