by John L. Monk
“Gasoline. We’ll run out fast if we gotta run the cars every day.”
He was referring to Jack’s policy of running some of the fuel cars for ten minutes a day to keep the batteries healthy. Lisa was busily reading everything she could on batteries, and she’d begun taking apart old ones that wouldn’t charge in an attempt to figure out why. So far, she’d learned they got corroded by sitting around. Before the trouble with Carter, she’d asked the scavengers to keep an eye out for something called a “desulfating charger.” Now, with everyone out looking for chickens, that was no longer a priority.
“We’ll do what we can,” Jack said. “All right, let’s get back.”
All but one of the “chicken hunters,” as they jokingly called themselves, returned before dark. Their maps—scrounged from gas stations—were now covered in circles, squares, triangles, and diamonds for the different animals discovered along the way: cows, sheep, pigs, and horses, respectively. If they found chickens, he had them put an X on the spot. Out of the twelve cars that returned, only three of them had Xs. Lots of other symbols, though. Jack hoped he had time before any serious snow to deal with those.
By the next day, one of the cars still hadn’t arrived. Steve had been part of that group, and Molly fretted all night over his fate.
“They probably had car trouble,” Lisa said in the morning after the hunters went back out.
Jack nodded. “Steve’s smart. He’ll be home soon.”
Molly worried anyway. It was cold out, she said. They reminded her he had that ridiculous orange coat, but she shook her head and wouldn’t listen.
Jack regretted not assigning specific places for people to search. If he had, they’d know where Steve was.
The next day, Jack adjusted the plan, sending the hunters to specific destinations. He also had them pack food, lighters, extra clothing, and blankets. When Molly saw the hunters loading safety supplies, she broke down in a fit of sobbing that no amount of reassurance could ease.
Then she saw Jack.
“Asshole!” Molly screamed. “I already lost my mom and dad, and now Stevie? For what? Chickens!”
Jack’s tone was concerned, but calm, because—as everyone knew—pregnant people were delicate. “He’ll be fine. He’s smart. He’s with good guys.”
If anything, she got even angrier. “Are you gonna look for him? You better!”
She clearly wasn’t thinking straight. To find Steve, he’d have to search three different counties, but he didn’t tell her that.
“Just have patience,” he said and smiled the calmest smile he’d ever attempted.
Molly clenched and unclenched her fists several times and her face underwent a series of strange and unsettling expressions. Then she stalked back to the Paul Bunyan and slammed the door behind her.
The teams stood around looking at him, provisions lying at their feet or draped over their shoulders.
“Go on, guys,” Jack said tiredly. Then, if only for appearances, he added, “And keep a lookout for Steve and the others.”
While the teams were out, Jack and Lisa hit the road looking for the X-marked discoveries. In a stroke of genius, he’d invited her along—because of her “expertise with electricity.” She’d quirked an eyebrow at that, letting him know she wasn’t buying it. But she did come.
Furtively, Jack glanced at her, and noted her straight-ahead stare. Neither had said more than a dozen words to each other in the last two weeks. Not since the big shootout at the Skyline cabin when she’d strangled Carter to death with a pillowcase.
“So, what’s up?” he said lamely, mortified at how loud his voice sounded in the tiny space.
Lisa snorted. “We gonna talk about the weather?”
He smiled. “If I knew it, I would. Right now, it’s all I can think about. It was warmer today, but not much.”
Lisa sighed. “And the weather it is.”
He took a chance. “We still haven’t talked about what happened that night in the Skyline. About what Carter, uh … you know. Tried.”
There. He’d said it.
Oh shit.
Lisa whipped around and stared at him. Then she faced forward.
“Tried is right,” she said angrily. “And he failed. Miserably. And I killed him for it. Now, does everyone know or just you?”
As far as Jack knew, everyone thought she’d killed Carter for shooting Greg in the leg, and she hadn’t disabused them of that notion.
“I didn’t know,” Jack said. “Not really. I just guessed. You know, because of how he was with the Dragster girls.”
“You mean how he raped them.”
Feeling as if he were drowning, Jack said, “Anyway, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m—”
“Some things are personal.”
He nodded uncertainly. “I know that, but … I’m just saying if you ever want to, we can. What’s the point of having friends if you can’t talk to them sometimes?”
She turned in her seat and regarded him. “Friends? Do you really mean that? Because I think you want more.”
“I thought you wanted more,” he said. “I figured that’s why you kissed me.”
“That was dumb of me,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t want a boyfriend—and no, it’s not because of Carter.” She snorted derisively. “We have to worry about surviving first. The last thing I want is to end up like Molly.”
Molly?
When he realized what she meant—pregnancy—Jack blushed to the tips of his ears. “We wouldn’t have to … not like that … Jeez. I just turned fifteen for crying out loud.”
She shook her head. “You say that now. If you want to be friends, fine. But I’m not ready for anything else. You’re not either. Not right now.”
They traveled in silence after that.
He’d never had a girlfriend before. But that didn’t matter because she’d dumped him anyway. Out of nowhere, for the first time since his parents died, Jack felt like pulling over and crying. The thought of falling to pieces right next to the girl he loved both shamed and angered him. They were perfect for each other, or so he’d always thought. She was smart and he was smart. She was pretty, and he wasn’t ugly. Also, they usually got along.
And she kissed me first!
Not fair at all, but there it was.
“You okay?” she said about five minutes later.
He breathed steadily in and out—because she hadn’t finished killing him yet.
“Sure,” he said lightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her tone softened. “It’s not that I don’t … that I wouldn’t want you. There’s too much to do right now. Can’t you wait for me?”
It helped that she was asking for time and not saying she didn’t like him. But he hated how desperate it made him feel, clinging to a ghost of a promise. He really did love her. So what if she didn’t want to kiss him like he’d seen Molly and Steve and so many of the Dragsters doing? Kissing wasn’t all that.
Yeah, it kind of is. Big time.
“Maybe you’ll have to wait for me,” he said. Then he smiled. “Pretty sure Carla’s available.”
Lisa laughed. “To you and every other boy.”
The ride went more comfortably after that. Twenty minutes later, he knew they’d found the X on the map when they saw a handmade wooden sign advertising, Farm Fresh Eggs!
5
They arrived at a one-story farmhouse with a covered patio running its length. The property had a small barn, some fenced-off acreage with an open gate, and several chicken coops about the size of the one at Freida’s farm. These coops were a little nicer, with bright red paint, evenly spaced boards, and shuttered windows. Freida’s single coop, in contrast, was weather-faded and rustic, and there weren’t little signs everywhere showing business hours, local trivia, a website address, and friendly warnings not to feed the chickens.
“Wonder how many are left,” Lisa said.
“Me too,” Jack said. “Let’s go see.”
The doors to t
he coops were all closed. They each had flaps near the ground, sized for chickens, but only one of them was open. The other coops … if they’d ever had chickens in them, they were definitely dead by now.
When they got to the one with the open flap, Lisa said, “Jack, I hear something!”
The door had a latch with a peg on a string pushed through the hole. Jack removed the peg and tugged the door open on creaky hinges. Now he could hear it too—groaning notes that seemed to say, Don’t mess with meeee … not with meeee … not with meeee.
He flicked his LED flashlight and saw a grid of open-faced boxes with four chickens in them. Rhode Island Reds. To his right stood a tall metal feeder with nothing in it. Beyond that, a sloping rack of perches holding two more chickens spanned the width of the coop.
The growling intensified. One of them—a brighter, more colorful bird—stood up tall and fluttered its wings provocatively. The rooster.
“I thought there’d be more,” Lisa said. “Where do you think … oh, Jack, look at the ground!”
He looked, and what he saw made him flinch. Feathers, bones, and eggshells were strewn throughout the coop. The bones had all been picked clean.
“Foxes?” she said.
“I think a fox would have grabbed a bird and left,” he said. “Probably would have come back every day and killed the rest by now. The books say chickens eat each other sometimes. Usually if one’s sick. Or they’ll peck a bird to death and then eat it. I tried telling Freida that but she wouldn’t listen. They also eat the eggs.” He pointed out the eggshells. “When that happens, it’s really hard to get them to stop.”
“It’s been a long time,” she said. “They could have been eating other things too, right?”
He nodded. “Bugs, seeds, worms … Chickens eat anything. But I’d hoped for more.”
“Don’t get all gloomy,” she said. “Let’s look around.”
They quickly searched the barn and found it empty. No cows or horses, dead or alive.
The property had a woodshed, and they found another chicken there. It clucked angrily at them while flapping and jumping in its haste to get away. The dust kicked up thickly and they had to get out of there.
“That’s seven,” Lisa said, coughing and rubbing her eyes.
“There might be more somewhere.”
A creek ran behind and around the house leading to—wonder of all—a cave in the hollow of the hillside the farm nestled against. White plastic piping ran from the cave and disappeared behind the woodshed. They walked along the creek a ways, and even peeked into the cave, but didn’t find any more chickens.
“Chickens probably hate caves,” Jack said.
Lisa grinned.
“No such thing as a cave chicken,” Jack said, hoping she’d smile again.
Instead, she pointed at the house. “Jack, look!”
The curtains in one of the upper windows were moving ever so slowly, as if a fan were blowing inside.
Quickly, they unslung their rifles.
Jack led the way, going left around a wire fence tall enough to keep the chickens out of the front yard. In a section closest to the gravel drive, a gate with painted white flowers stood open, held in place by overgrown grass reaching nearly to the top.
Directly ahead, a couple of steps ascended to a front door that was locked when he tried it. He raised his fist and knocked loudly, but nobody answered.
“Let’s try this way,” Lisa said off to the right.
On that side, a covered porch ran the length of the house. Plexiglas windows were spaced evenly down the side. Each sill held buckets and boxes and loose tools going to rust. Along the other side were narrow tables loaded with rolled-up fencing, farm equipment, and even an old-fashioned refrigerator with a metal pull handle. There was also a screen door leading into the house.
The screen was busted at the bottom and the inner door stood wide open to an anteroom. Inside was a chest freezer, a wall with coats hanging on it, a concrete water basin, and another open door with a dining set visible beyond it.
Jack shouldered his rifle and pulled his pistol.
“Hello?” he shouted. “Whoever’s here, come out! We only want to talk!”
Shouting was as useful as knocking. Nobody answered.
“Something sure smells,” Lisa said, pulling her shirt over her nose. “Not just dead people.”
He was about to agree, when a chicken stepped into the open doorway and looked at him. A second later, another appeared. The birds made those same low warning sounds, telling him in no uncertain terms, Stay away from meeee … stay awaaaay.
“That’s nine,” Lisa whispered.
He edged cautiously through the anteroom and into the house. The chickens freaked out and darted around them, heading for the porch.
Jack and Lisa stood in a kitchen with a cast iron stove on the right, a sturdy-looking dining set, and another old-fashioned refrigerator on the left. Either the owners had been big into antiques or they were so frugal their family had never thrown anything out.
“Oh, whoa!” Jack said.
An opening on the left led to a living room with a coal stove against one wall and a couch on the right with a corpse lying on it. The body was stripped of flesh down to the bone. Beneath it, the upholstery was stained black from whatever juices had leaked into it.
Lisa stared at the ghastly mess for a moment and then up at the ceiling. “Jack?”
“Hmm?”
“I think there’s chickens upstairs.”
The question popped out before he could stop it: “What for?”
She snorted. “Must not know chickens aren’t allowed there.”
Jack moved through the living room toward a flight of stairs—and spied another nearly fleshless body in a side bedroom. Another chicken was in there, too, hiding under the bed. It flapped madly to get away, banging its wings against the box spring and floor.
He peered up the stairs and holstered his gun.
“Fearless leader,” Lisa said.
Jack smiled weakly and started to climb. Grouped at the landing were five more chickens. They burst into full panic and ran into two of the three upstairs rooms. Both of these had bodies in them. When he tried the door to the third room—which resisted him at first—they found yet another body … and a whole lot worse.
“Holy cow,” Lisa said in a strained tone. “That’s the grossest thing I’ve seen in my life.”
If she hadn’t been there, Jack would have fled down the stairs and out the front door, hacking and coughing in revulsion. Bodies he could deal with. But this body was covered in cockroaches. The whole floor was covered in them, piled up ankle high. The walls and curtains wore a textured coating of the little brown bodies, sticking to them and not moving.
“I think they’re dead,” Lisa said. She nudged a trough through the mass of shiny brown bodies. “See? Probably the cold.”
“I thought nothing could kill cockroaches,” Jack said.
“That’s what I thought. Tony said they sometimes find houses like this, but they never go in them.”
Jack shook his head. “Now we know what the chickens were eating. Pretty lucky, I guess.”
“Like winning the lottery.”
Upon exiting the house, the two friends spent a good five minutes breathing the clean, country air, forcing out the musty stink of cockroaches, chicken droppings, and old death.
“We need more luck,” he said. “Only fifteen birds.”
“That’s not enough?”
He thought about it. “Maybe. A lot of inbreeding if we can’t find more.”
“We could mix them with Freida’s.”
Jack frowned. “Hers are … I think most of them are hybrids. The white ones are Leghorns. They lay a lot of eggs. But Rhode Island Reds are special. They’re good for meat and making eggs, and they’re good in cold weather. I’d hate to lose those qualities by mixing them all up.”
She nodded. “Maybe we’ll find more.”
“I hope so. Let�
��s have another look at that coop.”
The coop had a built-in heater. Lisa thought she could hook a generator to it by removing the connectors from the cabins. They both agreed it needed a good cleaning, as well as a daily caretaker. And the chickens needed feed. Jack couldn’t … wouldn’t allow them to keep eating cockroaches like that. It was the principle of the matter.
He went to the car and came back with a big bag of grain from the silo the Dragsters had found last year. Using a mortar and pestle he’d brought along for just this purpose, he crushed some of the grain into meal and collected it in a large bowl. When it was full, he poured it into the feeder and waited expectantly while the four birds stared at him like he was crazy.
“Maybe they’re shy,” Lisa said. “If they can eat bugs, they’ll eat that.”
“Gross as it sounds, those bugs probably had a lot of protein. The books said they need that. Pure grain doesn’t have enough nutrients.”
They left the coop and shut the door, leaving the little flap open so the ones in the house could filter in if they felt like it.
Lisa said she wanted to have another look at the barn, and Jack followed her.
The barn door slid back on a metal track. They found a ladder leading to a loft with no hay in it. Outside one of the empty stalls was a stack of wire cages for transporting birds. They also found a wooden bin with a sliding cover, about eight by four. Inside were three sacks of commercial chicken feed.
“Yippee!” Lisa said.
Jack smiled, pleased with the discovery, as well as her excitement. He liked seeing her happy again and not moping around everywhere.
“You think the feed’s any good?” Lisa said.
“Looks dry. That’s what’s important.”
He brought a bag back to the coop and filled the feeder from the top. This time, the birds got really excited—their low growls became downright agitated, and they fluttered their wings quite a bit at the sound of the grain pinging through the metal chute.
“They probably remember the sound,” Lisa said.
“Yeah.”
One brave bird actually jumped down, causing the others to cluck loudly in protest and flap about. At the last second, it lost its nerve and ran beneath the rows of perches to get away.
