"Can I come?"
"Ya," he replied. "We'll go together," which made her very happy and she smiled for a moment before her face resumed the distant, deadpan expression that she wore most of the time.
He still wanted to travel at night without headlights rather than take a chance in daylight of being discovered. He had kept his travels to the dark hours and had not run into anyone, figuratively or literally. But each time his anxiety about the girl had increased until he decided that she would have to stay with him all the time. She might be safe in the tomb for a few days but what if he didn't make it back and she remained locked in there? The food and water would last about a month, but long before that she'd be wading in her own shit and piss.
She automatically strapped herself into the seat belt and sat quietly with her hands in her lap. He glanced over at her but her face revealed nothing.
As they traversed the field in twilight she looked out the side window and began to hum. He didn't recognize the tune, if that's what it was. It was a good night to travel. A gibbous moon hung over the eastern sky and intermittent clouds permitted enough light through to mark the road but also allowed his black truck to blend into the soft, spring darkness.
He pulled into the bean farmer's driveway and turned off the key. He waited a few minutes, watching the house for movement.
"You must wait here," he told her. "I'll be right back."
She didn't reply and he touched her shoulder. She looked at him blankly, as if she didn't recognize him.
"Wait here," he said again.
She resumed her pose.
The door had sprung partially open and some of the smell had escaped. He waited until he was inside to stretch the gas mask over his head, afraid of how she might react to it. It made him look like a giant insect with a thick, pendulous proboscis and he wasn't sure she could understand that it was just a mask. He went right to the television and unhooked the cable and the various attachments, including a DVD player. He carried the TV outside and saw that her door was open and the cab light was on. She was gone.
He carried the television to the truck and laid it down as carefully as he could and whipped around frantically to find her standing right behind him. She looked at his face but said nothing. If extraterrestrials landed she'd probably hug them or take off her clothes and lie down. She didn't even start at his appearance. He lifted the mask and her eyes showed recognition and she embraced him.
"Where did you go?" he said, pushing her gently away.
"I went pee, over there," she pointed.
He put her back in the truck and told her to stay there but his heart was racing and he heard ringing in his ears.
He went back into the house without the mask, grabbed the DVD player and returned to the truck. She was still sitting there, placidly, looking out the window. She waved her fingers at him.
He replaced the gas mask and went back a third time, searching for the children's movies he knew must be there. He searched around the living room, rats scurrying out of the way with little shrieks. The farmer's stomach had been opened from the outside by gnawing teeth until the hole was almost as big as a basketball. He found what he was looking for on a shelf and grabbed them all in one hand.
He drove to the farmer's drive-shed and went in the man door, taking her with him, this time. His flashlight jumped about, outlining the equipment neatly parked, the tools and chains hanging from spikes, the calendar over the old wooden desk... He found the family car but the door was locked. He looked around briefly, found a pipe wrench and smashed the driver window. Ginny stood close to him, one hand hooked into the back of his belt. He popped the hood and in a few moments had the battery out and on the fender.
"Come on," he said and she followed him back out to the truck. He laid the battery in the bed beside the TV and in a moment they were back on the road.
"Hey mister, it's time to eat."
He looked across at her and she was gripping the dashboard and staring out the windshield. He hadn't thought to bring anything.
"We'll eat pretty soon," he said.
She went silent and leaned back. Her eyes closed and her head rocked back and forth on the rest.
He drove about two miles down the county road, stopping for cars that had simply been left in the ditch and noting the numerous farm houses and trailers that seemed to have been left completely intact. It didn't seem possible that everyone in the county had died. There had to be some survivors, maybe watching him this very moment. He had collected seven batteries and thought about turning back. She would awaken and start complaining about food and he didn't want to be caught out here with her having some kind of tantrum or fit. The road curved sharply, crossed an ancient steel Bailey bridge and pitched down into what was commonly called the Wilmot Valley, though it was not officially designated on any map. The hamlet of Wilmot was planted at the bottom on the edge of Emit Creek where a man named Wilmot had been hung for something in the 1700s and then found to be innocent some years later. Albert decided to go down into Wilmot and then turn around and head back. The truck rumbled over the bridge planks and climbed the short rise to the top of the hill. He stopped when he saw the orange glow burnishing the air over the town. Then he smelled the smoke.
He crept to the top until the nose of his truck was pointed down hill again. The church was in full bloom and flames licked the half dozen other buildings. He saw several men standing at the far edge of the penumbra, watching, rifles clearly silhouetted against the flames. He couldn't tell if they were militia or marauders or just the typical morons of the area.
He stopped the truck and reversed. The road was very narrow and without headlights he couldn't see the shoulder and had traveled no more than a few feet when he felt the rear end starting to slip. He swore and hit the breaks, stalling the engine but the truck slid down the greasy bank of the ditch until it was resting on the rear differential. He quickly threw it in four-wheel drive and the heavy Ford rocked back and forth, the tires singing in the spring mud but it would not climb out. He tried reversing but the same thing happened. He tried four-wheel low and it just dug him in deeper.
He put the truck in neutral and turned it off.
Ginny woke and looked around.
"I'm hungry," she said.
"I know...we're stuck here for a minute," he said, trying to keep the growing rage from his voice.
He ordered her to remain in the truck while he unwound the winch cable and started dragging it across the road. The nearest tree that could handle the force of a 10,000 pound winch pulling two and a half tons of truck out of a ditch was ten feet past the end of his line. The smaller trunks within reach would bend right over or snap almost immediately. He felt his chest constricting as he walked the radius of the cable, trying to find something to hook it to. There was nothing. He'd probably picked the only spot on this road without a usable trunk. He hauled the line back across the road and began searching the shoulder on his side. Maybe he could pull the truck into some kind of alignment with the ditch that would allow him to drive it out at an angle.
He slogged through the bush to a good ash tree about thirty five feet from his bow and wrapped the cable around it and cinched the slip hook. He was going to pull the front end of the truck over until the right front wheel plopped into the ditch as well. That would give him two wheels in the ditch and two on the road. Either he'd be stuck here forever or he'd be able to coax the vehicle along the ditch until he came to a place that allowed him to drive out.
He pulled the switch and the winch began to grind very slowly, tightening the half inch cable, cracking and groaning as the tension mounted. He watched the truck start to swing around, its left front wheel dragged against the axle. It slid and jumped a foot and then caught again and slid and jumped and finally it was right at the edge of the ditch. The left rear wheel had dutifully climbed the bank and was now back on the gravel road, the truck rolled dangerously close to its tipping point.
Ginny was pressed against the door,
her hands on the glass. He heard her shouting at him.
"Hey, come on mister...Hey!"
He went around to the driver side and stood on the running board.
"It's okay, just relax. We're stuck and I'm trying to get us out of here, okay?"
"No," she screamed at him. "No! No! I don't like it in here."
She popped the door open and hit the ground with a yelp.
He ran around and picked her up. Her arm was sore, now she said. Her head hurt. She was hungry.
"No," she yelled again and ripped her arm out of his grip. "I'm hungry now..."
"Shut. Up," he snarled at her. "Shut your fucking mouth."
She looked at him, not quite comprehending or not quite believing, he wasn't sure which. But she went quiet and docile as he led her to the edge of the woods and told her to sit down.
"Quiet," he reiterated and then left her sitting on a log, her hands in her lap. He could hear her crying, quietly.
He would have to pull the truck farther down before he could get it out. He loosened the cable and unhooked it from the ash tree. He was swinging the cable back into line when he heard a car engine coming towards them.
They were closing and there was no way to avoid them. He dropped the cable and rushed back through the brush to the truck. Ginny was still sitting where he'd left her, sobbing quietly. He opened the passenger door of the truck and the cab light popped on. He almost shouted out loud at his own stupidity. He grabbed the shotgun and closed the door quietly and then taking her by the arm, drew farther back into the trees. In a few seconds they would crest the hill and come right up on his truck.
"I'm cold," she wailed.
"I know, I know," he whispered harshly. "You must be quiet. You must."
He pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her but she was shivering and crying again.
The sudden silence told him they had found the truck.
Albert left her sitting by the tree and moved away slowly. She looked up at him and shouted: "No."
Her voice carried through the trees and gave them a location. He heard several rough shouts but he couldn't make out the words. The insects and frogs had stopped, like an audience quieting down before a performance in a theatre. Whoever they were, they weren't afraid of being found. They crashed through the woods, their flashlights striking wildly at the branches. They seemed to be veering off away from them until she called him again.
"Hey mister," she wailed, "I'm cold..."
They stopped, localized the sound and Albert saw the flashlights all turn towards them. They were a few hundred feet away. He watched the flashlight on his left flank making a beeline for them and moved in behind a trunk with low branches he could use for a rest. He leaned the shotgun against the tree and took out the 1911 with its fat, overloaded, 230 grain hardball ammo and laid the barrel along a suitable limb. He cocked the hammer and focused on what he believed was centre body mass of the approaching shooter. He presumed he was carrying the flashlight in his left hand and a pistol at least, maybe a rifle in his right.
Come on...
The man stopped and the flashlight danced around, searched the trees above and then came back to earth. The man resumed his approach, his boots sucking lightly at the forest floor.
Albert counted as he came on...three one thousand, two one thousand, one one thousand-
He pulled the trigger three times as quickly as he could, trying to keep the barrel from leaping. A split second later the flashlight hit the ground and he heard the body fall. It couldn't have been twenty-five feet from him.
Ginny began to scream.
He looked around and she had covered her ears and was screaming, not so much out of fear as to block the sound of gunfire which immediately began to slice through trees and thud into the wet trunks. The other two were firing semi automatics, which could be anything, he knew. He could not tell caliber from sound except to distinguish a shotgun from a .22 or perhaps the unbelievable roar of a .44 Magnum. They were spraying the forest ahead of them as they approached, their flashlights now turned off and only the flashes from the muzzles giving any indication of their location.
Albert had one advantage. He knew where they were, but they were still unsure about his location. He moved along the wet ground headlong into the oncoming target. He heard a sound, too far off to expect to hit, but he threw a few rounds at it and the shooter immediately turned the rifle in his direction and started firing. Albert crawled along the floor of the woods towards the man until the firing stopped and he could hear the click of a magazine being extracted. He stood up and followed the sound until he saw the man clumsily trying to fit the next mag into the mouth of the AR15. The man heard his approach and turned his face into the oncoming rounds. A hail of counter fire rained down on him and he hit the ground again and started moving back to Ginny. Her screaming had stopped at least depriving the last man of her location. He heard him crashing back through the woods. Albert knew he couldn't let him go. He could be waiting anywhere to hit them again and he still had to dig the truck out and get back across the bridge.
He moved at an intersecting line with the crashing sounds of the man running away. The man tripped and fell, giving Albert a few seconds to catch up and then get ahead of him. He saw his dark shape a few times as he shrugged off the clawing branches and unhooked his rifle sling from tree limbs. He was heading right for the truck. Albert scrambled along the ground and fell in the ditch, the gun slapping his jaw as he tried to save himself. He felt unconsciousness spreading and he fought it off, the neurons in his head firing randomly in little star bursts from the shock. He flipped over onto his back and gasped as the near freezing water in the ditch flowed into the back of his pants and under his sweater and began to curl around his ears. The cold actually helped him and he regained full consciousness a moment or two later. He heard the man arrive at the truck. Then, inexplicably, he opened the passenger door lighting himself up. Albert sat up and fired his last two rounds into the man's back. They shoved him against the truck and then he rolled to the ground.
Albert rose from the ditch, his body shaking from the cold water and the adrenalin and he pulled the man on the ground back into the light of the cab. He didn't recognize him, but he recognized the uniform. It was the haphazard, piecemeal accouterments of the Liberty Militia. He stripped the man of all his hardware and rolled him into the ditch, then pulled the body into the woods.
He immediately turned and started back through the brush, unaware of the branches slapping his face and trying to grab his wool sweater. He stumbled on the second man, briefly looked at him and recognized his face from among the overseers he'd seen in town. There was no question in his mind, now. These men had been sent here by Dusty or George Griggson to burn the town.
He was approaching the point where he'd left her. He opened his own flashlight and it caught the barrel of the shotgun still leaning against the tree. But she wasn't where he'd left her.
"Jesus Christ, Ginny. Not now." He swung the light slowly through threes.
Ginny, c'mon," he called. "Where are you? No more noise."
He took a few steps and found his jacket.
"Ginny," he called again. "It's time to eat."
And then he saw her in a small copse of cedar and fern. She looked like a rag doll someone had dropped.
At first he didn't approach the body. He blinked in disbelief a few times. He felt his heart starting to race and he thought he was going to vomit. He drew the flashlight along her very slowly, counting each entry wound. Seven. They had hit her seven times. He started to pant and afraid he would lose consciousness, he sat down on the ground. He felt a few tears sprout but they didn't amount to very much. He finally went over and bent down and turned her face up so he could see. One of the bullets had gone right into the brain.
Now he is walking again. He does not try to hide himself. He turns on the flashlight and wades through the brush, crashing into the stiff branches, breaking his way through to the road.
&n
bsp; Now he is hooking the cable up to another tree. He presses the lever and the cable tightens and groans, slowly, drawing the truck along the ditch. He loosens it and does this until he reaches a spot where he can force the vehicle back onto the road.
Now he is pulling away from the Wilmot Bailey bridge which is receding slowly in the rear view mirror. Now he is cutting across Magneson's field, heading for the limestone. The truck bounces and twists through the oxbow trail and then he pitches down across his own field to the house.
Now he opens the door.
He wanders down the hallway to the bathroom. He opens the light. He looks in the mirror. He bids himself goodbye.
PART 2, CHAPTER 1
So now, some months have passed since a fifty-three foot dry van carrying twenty tons of tomato soup pulled into traffic on the Triborough Bridge and the breaks gasped as the big-rig coasted to a halt. The driver looked out his window at a woman riding shotgun in the car beside him.
"Nice tits," he thought. She felt his gaze and looked up at him. He was a young man, not yet thirty, good-looking the way youth is always good looking, with a full head of hair and a reserved smile, much the same as his own father who was a taciturn but open-hearted man. The woman smiled back, maybe even thinking that this fellow was her son's age, for she was about fifty, but despite a little weight and some lines she knew how she affected men. And it still worked.
Then the truck exploded in flames as the ten-pound pipe bomb that had been tucked up against the fuel tank detonated, enveloping the tractor in a splash of shrapnel and burning diesel and engulfing the Toyota, blowing auto glass into the woman's face, decapitating her and then slashing her husband's body to ribbons. The last thing either knew was their exchanged look of interest and humor, the young truck driver ogling the lovely, rounded slopes of an older woman's still pouting bosom and the woman enjoying the sun from a young man's eyes as desire shone down upon her for a moment.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 20
