by Bonnie Dee
“He knows,” Daylon said. “He’s seen the kid.”
“The kid has a name. Jeff.” She gazed into my eyes. “You’re not going to say anything to anyone, are you?”
Before I could answer, the sputter of an engine interrupted our conversation and two vehicles turned onto the road, headlights playing over the houses. The motor-scooters pulled up at the curb looking like clown rides beside the hulking motorcycles. Janice Myers and her yes-man, Barry Jensen dismounted.
Janice smiled as she walked toward us. “How’s everything? Are you settling in okay? All your people doing well?”
Ashleigh looked at me and I paused, considering what to say next.
* * * * *
Chapter Four
I held my breath and watched Brian, waiting for him to rat us out to that annoying Myers woman with her fake smile and her shellacked hair. Would she drive us out tonight? They had armed guards policing the town, but our people were armed too. It might come to a stand-off. Daylon wouldn’t want to back down and since we were already squatting, it would be hard to get us to leave. My mom and I had occupied more than one apartment after being supposedly evicted.
I cringed at the threat of confrontation. We’d all been through enough horror without indulging in this kind of drama and power games. God, I just wanted to crawl into a warm soft bed and go to sleep. Was that really so much to ask for?
The moment passed. Brian said nothing and Daylon walked toward Myers with an equally fake smile on his face. He threw off his gang-leader persona and reverted to the high school history teacher he used to be—something he could’ve tried earlier when we were attempting to make a good impression on the council. “We appreciate your hospitality. Everyone’s enjoying the amenities. You don’t know how precious running water and electricity are until you’ve lived without them.”
“I’m glad you’re comfortable. How about that older couple? Sytek I believe their name was. Traveling must have taken a lot out of them. I’m sure they’d appreciate resting up for several days.”
Daylon gestured toward the house on the other side of Brian’s. “The Syteks are staying there if you want to meet them.”
“That’s all right. It’s been a long day and I’m anxious to get home. I just wanted to stop by and make sure you’ve been taken care of. You mentioned earlier you’d be willing to help out,” Myers continued. “A local farmer could use help with his harvest. George Wilkins has made a deal with a rancher a few counties over. He’ll trade feed corn for the man’s cattle and the rancher will supply beef for the town this winter. But acres of corn must be picked by hand since we can’t afford gas to power the harvester.”
Daylon nodded. “No problem.”
“You’re welcome to stay in Durbinville as long as the harvest takes.”
“We’ll stay as long as we can, but if the weather changes we’re heading south.”
“Fair enough.” Myers extended her hand and the two leaders shook on the deal without bothering to consult with the little people who followed them.
We all watched until Myers and Santa had ridden away, then Daylon spoke to Brian. “Thanks for holding your peace.”
Brian stared back at him. “You’ve put the entire town in danger by bringing that boy here. I suggest you stay right by his side tonight because it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it till morning. I have an axe you can borrow.”
“I’ve got a weapon. I’m good.”
Brian dipped his head. “All right then.” He headed back toward his house.
I trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride. “I’m sorry about lying. You can understand why we did it.”
“I do and you’re right, Janice wouldn’t have let you stay if she’d known.” He paused on the doorstep. “I just wish you hadn’t lied to me after I vouched for you. You could’ve told me the truth.”
“But we don’t know you. We didn’t know what you might do.” I rested my hand on his arm, trying to recapture the earlier connection between us.
Brian looked at my hand then pulled away to reach for the doorknob. “You don’t have to be my babysitter anymore and I don’t expect any kind of ‘payment’ for letting you stay here so you can stop the games.”
He strode inside. I trailed after him, feeling as tacky and cheap as a Dollar Store Barbie knock-off. He’d read me right. I was back to my old games of manipulating a guy for my benefit. Recently I’d tried to stop doing that and stand on my own, but old habits die hard. Like mother, like daughter.
I followed Brian upstairs. Freckle-faced Fes had gone home and Jake and Maureen were already in their room. Brian closed his bedroom door without another glance at me.
I entered my little slice of Americana, stripped to my underwear and crawled underneath the wedding ring quilt. But as exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep thinking of Jeff dying next door and what poor Daylon might have to do to him afterward. Also, if I was being honest, thinking of Brian across the hall. He seemed to be a genuinely nice guy, the kind of guy I’d never been attracted to or dated. Unfortunately, an edge of danger and roughness in a man had always beckoned me. Yet here I was wishing I could cross the hall and climb into bed with good-guy Brian.
The simple truth was I didn’t want to sleep alone. The night was cold, dark and lonely and the landscape inside me was as bleak as the endless Midwestern plains. I turned on my flashlight, picked up the Magic Eye book from the nightstand and stared at a picture of blue waves until I could see dolphins swimming through them.
Jeff was still alive the next morning. All of us gathered in the house where he lay breathing in, breathing out, holding on to life by sheer willpower. Most of us were convinced he’d be dead soon and that he’d rise and have to be put down. Only Lainie, who’d been mothering the kid since we found him wandering by the side of the road, still clung to the idea that he had some other illness. As if that would be any better with no hospital or doctors to treat him.
Our group’s mood was low. We huddled, talking and snacking on coffeecake some kind soul had sent in our care package yesterday. I spotted Brian passing out cups of instant coffee and made my way over to him, intent on trying to patch thing between us, but before I could say anything Daylon made an announcement.
Darkness shadowed his eyes from his night-long vigil. He looked worn and older than his forty-some years. “We’ve been asked by the town council to work on a nearby farm today. I’ve agreed—work in exchange for the town’s hospitality. Hope nobody has a problem with that. But somebody has to stay with the boy. I volunteer to do that unless any of you is prepared to follow through.”
“I’ll stay with you,” Lainie said. “He might regain consciousness and need me.”
I suspected she also wanted to make sure Daylon didn’t jump the gun. Not that he’d kill Jeff, but he might behead him afterward as a preventative measure. Lainie would rather see the boy buried intact.
No one else volunteered. Who would rather sit a deathwatch than be outdoors on a cloudy October day? There was nothing more to say so we filed outside, leaving Daylon, Lainie and Jeff behind.
“Fes will give some of the group a ride,” Brian announced. “We’ll be working for George Wilkins. His family chose to stay on their land rather than move into town. Now their crop’s ready and they’re harvesting and trading it for beef for the town.”
Fes’s dusty pickup turned the corner and pulled up to the curb. Jake and Maureen, the Syteks, Mary, the other Mary and Tanesha all piled in the truck bed. The rest rode their cycles. I rode in the cab between Fes and Brian and with the hamper of food for lunch clasped in my arms.
“Where’s the big guy, Daylon,” Fes asked.
“He’s sick,” Brian answered.
“Sick?” Alarm bells went off in his voice.
“Just a stomach bug. Maybe food poisoning.”
“Oh.” Fes turned the wheel, heading for the main road. “I heard this morning that two of the patrols took down out-of-towners again yesterday. The Winchells ki
lled one and George and Jim bagged three. With our two that makes six in two days.”
“You don’t usually have that many?” I asked.
Fes shook his head. “After those first weeks, things died down.”
I smiled at his unintentional pun and looked out the windshield at the guard tower by the gate. The guards waved us through with smiles far too chipper for so early in the morning. Then the open road was before us with fields of corn rolling by on either side. Those acres of corn were daunting. The idea of a little over a dozen people making any kind of dent in harvesting it was ridiculous. But there were worse things to do with a day then pick corn. I wouldn’t complain. The labor was worth the soft bed and hot shower I’d enjoyed.
“How’s the farmer going to transport the corn?” I asked.
“Get ahold of a semi and figure out a way to gas it up, I suppose. He only has to drive as far as the next county.”
“This is corn for cows not people, right?” I knew little about anything green and growing.
A small smile tilted Brian’s mouth and I felt a spark of happiness at the break in his somber expression. Maybe I was forgiven. “That’s right. Feed corn is fed to animals or ground into cornmeal or used for a lot of other products. Ethanol for one.”
“In the future I suppose we’ll all be planting gardens and hunting if we want to eat,” I said. That’s a bit too Little House on the Prairie for me.”
“It might not come to that,” Fes replied. “Things could be back to more or less normal by next year at this time.”
I bit my tongue. Denial was clearly Fes’s drug of choice. Who was I to take it away from him. But I exchanged a look with Brian in which we both silently acknowledged that things would never be anything close to the old “normal” again.
We drove about a half mile out of town before pulling up in the yard of a farmhouse that looked like it had stood there since pioneer times. The siding was weathered gray wood and the shingles were a patchwork of colors. There were about a half dozen coops and barns, silos and storage sheds and more rusty vehicles than should be seen anyplace outside of a junkyard. The only thing that looked new and shiny about the whole place was a bright green machine parked near a pole barn. I guessed it was a harvester and that Farmer Wilkins polished the machine daily and maybe even slept with it on occasion.
“How does that thing work?” I asked after we climbed out of the truck.
“The combine blades mow the stalks. The corn gets separated from the cob, goes up the conveyor and comes out that chute into a wagon or truck,” Brian explained.
“God bless technology.” I looked beyond the farmyard to the field that stretched out forever. I wasn’t looking forward to this back-to-our-roots experience.
A chunky, bald man wearing stereotypical overalls and a cap with a feed store logo on it came out of the house. He was followed by a couple of young men who looked pretty much just like him and some women who must be the sons’ wives. The family shook hands with us all around.
“How are you doing? I’m George Wilkins. Thanks for working today. Sorry I can’t pay you—not that money means anything these days, but my wife, Ann will have a good lunch ready at noon.”
One of the women passed out burlap sacks with a strap to hang from one shoulder. “Sewed these myself so I hope they hold. We’ve never harvested by hand before.”
The elder of the two Wilkins boys explained how to pluck the ears of corn efficiently. He told us to fill our bags then empty them into the wagon at the end of the row. I began to think the entire harvest was a pointless exercise. It would take hours and a lot more people to fill the enormous wagon. We were lost, helpless babies without our machines, fuel and electricity.
“I’m running the harvester on the next field over,” Old Man Wilkins informed us. “Tank’s almost full so I’m gonna run it dry and get some acres covered. Myers and her crew can go fuck themselves.”
“No argument here,” Fes said. “We’re not her police force.”
I put the bag’s strap over my head and onto the opposite shoulder so it cut across my chest then pulled on the pair of work gloves I’d been given. Wilkins powered up the harvester while the crew of hand-pickers headed toward the field behind the house. I noticed that there were no townspeople other than Brian and Fes to help out. Fine. We’d slave for food and shelter then be on our way.
Walking into the tall corn stalks was like entering a dry, dead jungle or maybe the set of a horror movie with eerie little children. All that was missing to complete the mood was an evil-eyed scarecrow. A breeze rustled through the leaves making an eerie sound like rattling bones. I tripped over a clod of dirt and grabbed for a stalk to keep my balance. I was surprised by how crispy and brown the leaves were.
“What happened? You have a drought here?” I asked Brian who was walking a couple of rows over.
“Seed corn isn’t harvested until late in fall. You don’t pick it when it’s green like sweet corn.”
I snapped off my first ear of corn the way I’d been shown and stuffed it into my bag. One. I reached and pulled again. Two. Three. We were ants moving a mountain grain by grain. Four.
This was the first hands-on hard labor I’d ever done, except for bussing tables. Trays could get pretty heavy. Dancing around a pole, showing off my tits and shaking my ass couldn’t count as hard labor although it more physically demanding than people thought. Five.
I scanned the rows on either side and couldn’t see anyone. Was I moving too slow? Falling behind? No. Through the leaves I caught a glimpse of Brian not too far ahead.
“Hey,” I called out. “Should’ve brought my mp3 player. What’s on your playlist right now?”
His voice floated back to me. “Preacher’s Kin, Life Fail, and some other bands you’ve probably never heard of.”
“What’s that? Like Christian rock or something?” I guessed.
“No. Alternative.”
I recalled the high of standing under stage lights with Jeremy setting the beat behind me, Ry and Paul sandwiching me between solid bass and whining guitar. There I was, in the middle, screaming till my vocal cords were shredded, whispering seduction or nearly weeping, letting everything inside me flow out.
“The band I used to sing with was called Never a Dull Day,” I told Brian. “We weren’t bad, just not good enough to keep it together and make the right moves. Maybe if we’d had a real agent.”
“Sing something. I’d like to hear you.”
I glanced around. There were other people within earshot. I could hear snatches of conversations floating through the air. I’d never been shy to perform before yet suddenly my cheeks burned at the thought of singing out loud. It had been a long time since I’d sung anyplace besides the shower.
“Okay. Here’s a ballad one of my band mates wrote. Most of our songs wouldn’t sound too good without a band backing the vocals, but this one’s slow and kinda pretty.”
I began to sing Ry’s ode to his girlfriend Shelly. The girl had been a bitch and broken his heart, but at least he’d produced this great song. The melody reminded me of some old-time Appalachian tune. The words were pretty good, nothing too cliché, just raw pain from Ry’s gut.
I searched for the second verse in my mind, found it and spilled it out while continuing to mindlessly pull corn. “And if you ever make a plan, and if you ever see your way clear, and if you ever find your road at last, you know I’ll be… I’ll be someplace else.”
“That’s beautiful,” Brian said when I finished. “You have a really good voice.”
“Thanks.” My face heated more and I was glad he couldn’t see me blush. “What about you? It’s your turn to entertain me.”
“I don’t sing.”
“Then tell me something interesting, a story about yourself as a kid, or explain algorithms or something. It’s either that or we sing Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”
“Algorithms, eh? Do you know what they are?”
“Obviously not or I would
n’t be asking.”
“Basically an algorithm is a problem-solving method, a list of very precise instructions for completing a task. The computation proceeds through successive states resulting in a final ending state.”
“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer,” I interrupted.
He laughed, a nice warm sound amidst the cool whisper of leaves. “You asked.”
“Maybe steer away from the math stuff and tell me something about yourself instead.” I picked a little faster to catch up with Brian. It seemed he’d slowed down too, because now I could look through the leaves directly at him. “Tell me more about gummi dinosaur-eating Brian. I bet you loved Jurassic Park as a kid.”
