Veronica imagined the farm by day, in spring. She painted the pale grey canvas of the predawn moment with the vividness of her artist’s eye. She imagined the rows of corn or cabbage, their striated patterns across the thick green bands of verdure. She imagined the fields beyond it. Her mind considered the fertile land and the crops that exist in imaginative possibility. She thought of other fields, other cups of coffee, and she wondered whether her friend Clay was sitting on his porch in Ithaca, drinking coffee. She thought of her folks back in Trinidad. She listened out across the quiet of the air and she heard the quiet, but only for an instant—a butterfly’s wings on the air.
Then, the rooster began to ruffle his feathers. The light in the sky began again.
****
The sky was the color of an almost purple. It was the hour of dawn. Clive and Red Beard let the screen door slam as they walked out the door, and it made a sharp crack across the silence of the cool air of the farm complex. The fireball in the sky that heats our planet, and threatens it always with its ever-present violence, had just begun, with the faintest tremors of the slightest waves of light, to push across the lightening atmosphere. It was as inevitable as the tide, really, the light.
The eastern sky began to glow, and the light slowly crept into the outer reaches of the gaseous firmaments, and it crept in and invaded even the night. The earth, Veronica thought, was moving out of its own shadow.
This is a day, she thought, of import. She could not say why she thought that.
It was as if the death and destruction taking place in the distance, out beyond the boundaries of the farm, and beyond that the county, and beyond that the country, rising up like smoke into the stratosphere and filling the middle horizon, was just a part of the magical reality of now. It was as if all of that—the smoke and the dust particles hanging there, filling the sky with a rich purple hue, well… it was all beautiful. Maybe, none of that, the thing outside the fence line, had occurred after all. Maybe it had never happened. It was as if the farm was in Clive’s Amazon forest somewhere, or in one of those ancient tribal locations where news of the world’s end had been slow to reach, or where it wouldn’t have mattered if it had reached there.
Such, on that morning, was Lancaster County.
She finished her last swig of coffee and wondered what that portentous day would hold, and if the earth even cared.
CHAPTER 39
Peter and Elsie checked the bodies of their attackers to make sure the men were dead. They were. All four of the slain wore the worn and soiled uniforms of the MNG. Without a word, Peter and Elsie went through their pockets and pouches for valuable items. In this way, over the last few days, the three travelers had steadily upgraded their own equipment. Up until now, Peter, mostly through personal preference, had stayed with the Russian AK-47 that he’d taken from an accountant who had attacked them ages ago. Now, he picked up the AR-15 from the fallen point man. Maybe, he thought, it’s time to make a change. Most of the rifle ammo they were coming across was in the .223 caliber utilized by the AR-15, or a larger caliber, like the .308 used in many sniper rifles. He liked the AK, and felt a bit nostalgic for the weapon, since it was the rifle he’d been trained to use as a young man and in his years as an instructor in the Charm School. Still, wisdom dictated that he use the weapon for which he had access to the most ammunition. The AK would have plenty of value in trade, or as a gift weapon to the FMA.
Ace had taken three lives with perfect headshots from several hundred meters, and the men’s deaths had been immediate and without suffering or drama. Ace, the silent sniper who almost never talked, and rarely ate, had become… well… an Ace in the Hole, and Peter couldn’t even imagine what life would be like if they hadn’t found him.
Peter grabbed a web bag that held seven full magazines for the AR-15 from one of the corpses, and hauled the weapon and the ammo up to the camp.
Elsie gathered up handguns, magazines, and useful gear from the other fallen soldiers and added them to the increasingly heavy bag of weapons and gear the three travelers had acquired in the past few days. She also took the jewelry – the rings and necklaces and watches. Most of the gear would end up with the FMA, once their reconnaissance scouts came around. The other valuables would stay with the group.
This region of Pennsylvania had become home to a cat and mouse war between two opposing forces of former National Guardsmen. Every day or so they’d run across a military unit that was made up of friends and not foes. The Free Missouri Army, acting as a guerrilla resistance force, had patrols out searching, looking for and hoping to engage MNG units. Peter tended to like the men from this group. The FMA had shown themselves to be mostly benevolent. There had been incidents—things that will happen in the fog of war—but for the most part the FMA had proved to be good guys – better guys at least – in the battle that now raged throughout the area.
Nobody wanted to run into an MNG unit. If refugees were spotted by the MNG, the situation immediately became a choice between ‘fight’ or ‘flight.’ No one expected good treatment from the Missouri National Guard troops. The MNG soldiers usually shot first and asked questions later, but anyone they did manage to capture they sent by horse cart to Carbondale.
The word “Carbondale” had become a byword among the few refugees that still traveled through the area. When Peter, Ace, and Elsie would run across other folks moving from place to place, the object of universal scorn was the MNG. The two terms had become synonymous with death, both the place where the group was headquartered, and the army that might show up at your door to send you there. “You’d rather be dead than to end up in Carbondale,” people would say.
By contrast, whenever the travelers would come upon an FMA unit, they’d barter their excess guns and ammo for food or supplies. If the FMA group didn’t have anything to trade, Peter would just give them the guns and ammo anyway. Carrying the bag of weapons had become another burden, but Peter was firmly against leaving valuable weapons on the ground, when he knew the MNG might find them, and he knew that the FMA could use them. The FMA recruited heavily from among survivors they came across, and they were always in need of more battle tools.
****
Kolya Bazhanov, who had taken to himself the nameCole, was knee deep in garbage, going through it with stoic disinterest and gloved hands, separating items into different rubber bins. He and ten other prisoners stood yards apart from one another amid the piles, processing the seemingly endless supply of trash and waste. Everything was reused in the camp. Paper, depending on the shape it was in, its type and condition, could be composted, used to start fires, or bundled and hauled to the waste buckets to be used as toilet paper. Aluminum cans were washed out, and the soft aluminum would be re-used for dozens of alternative purposes.
The buckets full of human waste had been composted for a time, but now the sheer amount of the stuff had overwhelmed the garbage detail, and most of it was being burned in open pits dug for the purpose. Human urine was hauled in buckets to a location that was set up for the manufacture of saltpeter and gunpowder. The amount of waste that thousands of imprisoned humans could produce was beyond anything Cole could ever have imagined. This is saying something, since Cole was a man of vivid imagination. He was imagining it now, the sheer amount of it all. Simply mind-boggling, he thought. Most of the waste still consisted of consumer goods manufactured before the crash, but there was a lot of it. More, since the MNG was constantly on the move in the area, confiscating goods wherever they could be found. In this way, Carbondale had become like ancient Rome or Athens before those cities had collapsed. Armies were forever on the move, seizing goods out there to be used by the people in here who consumed, but didn’t produce much of anything at all.
Cole threw an aluminum can into the rubber bin marked cans, and then turned to the man next to him with a smile on his face.
“Robert! I have a question for you,” Cole said.
“It’s not going to lead to you quoting Whitman or Emerson is it?” the
older man working next to Cole replied as he bundled up some cardboard and tied it with a short piece of string.
In the old world Robert had been a grade school teacher, and during the days spent among the garbage, he would usually work his way until he was somewhere near Cole, because he secretly appreciated the generally higher quality of conversation. He liked Cole a lot, but he always acted like he was frustrated with Cole’s constant and humorous banter.
“I assure you, good sir, it will not.” Cole paused as if to take a little silent bow.
“Okay, what’s the question?”
“Right now, would you rather have money, or a good and honorable name?”
Robert paused and pondered the question for a moment before completing the knot he was tying in the string. “Neither one means much to me in here.”
Cole frowned at Robert, and then broke into a smile. “You aren’t playing correctly, sir. If you had to have one or the other, which would it be? Choose! Money? Or a good name?”
“Money, I suppose.”
“Well, your first answer was right. Neither one does us much good in and amongst this trash; but, since we’re just talking, and since you have forbidden me to quote from Whitman or Emerson, let’s hear from the Bard on the subject…”
Robert rolled his eyes, but smiled. His protest was weak and amiable. “Ahh, man! No!”
Cole dropped the paper he was holding in his gloved hand, and spread his right arm out with the palm facing upward, in the manner of orators of old.
“Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls.
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”
Robert sighed deeply and Cole smiled.
“That, dear man, is from Shakespeare. Othello, I think,” Cole said.
“I wonder if Shakespeare ever had to shovel garbage,” Robert sneered, light-heartedly.
Cole thought of a few of the minor plays. “I suppose he did on occasion.”
Cole did not notice that Mikail Brekhunov, now known as Mike, had approached and was standing behind him.
“Bravo, Cole. I see you’re keeping the settlers entertained,” Mike said. His eyes did not betray his intent, and his delivery was deadpan.
“Settlers?” Cole spat the word out, sarcastically. “I see you’re piping that tune, too.”
“I am,” Mike replied, and something in his voice suggested that in fact he was doing more than merely piping the tune—that he was also writing the music. “I’m not going to argue with you about it. Words are powerful tools. You of all people should know that. You, too, should call us ‘settlers,’ if you’re smart enough to know how perilous your position is here.” Mike waived his hand dismissively at the muck covered floor as if to suggest that there was a level even lower than that.
Cole either did not see the implied threat, or did not care, and he pressed his case. “Yes, words are important, Mike, but in the end, isn’t it something more that is needed? Something more.” He emphasized the words, indicating that what he was saying was actually the something more of which he spoke. “Like the more powerful cousin of words… action? Or… well…”
He was about to say “truth” but he didn’t get the chance. Mike snapped at him and showed some wit of his own.
“What does Orwell have to do with it?”
Mike patted the gun at his side as he said it, and Cole flinched. “I tire of your quibbles, Cole. It’s ten o’clock, and your crew was supposed to be done with this load twenty minutes ago. We get behind, and we get buried in garbage. You do understand, right?”
Cole smiled, as if to offer a silent bow.
“It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags:
'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.”
Mike did not smile or laugh. He stepped closer to Cole and stared into the younger man’s eyes.
“’All the world’s a stage…,’ blah, blah, blah. Get it done, Cole.”
Mike spit his angry, rancid breath into Cole’s face from a distance of inches. Cole noticed that detail because it was the only one that really made him uncomfortable. He could deal with the threats, but that breath…
“You’re wearing down my good will and patience, my friend,” Mike leaned into the last word.
Cole clicked his boots. There was a slight mockery in the motion. “We will re-double our efforts, Comrade Mike.” He said the whole sentence with a smile. He then removed a glove, pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a small corner of cloth he’d found in the trash. He noticed the smell of urine. Really, it is mind-boggling, the amount of waste this place produces, he thought, his mind already turning back to his work.
Mike stood and watched him and glared at him. “One day. One day soon, Cole—,” he let the threat dangle before his prey, “—your mouth will get you into trouble that your charm and wit cannot get you out of.”
“Yes, Mike. You are undoubtedly correct. And, when such a day comes, I hope to have enough grace to accept it.” He spat on the ground and then looked back up at Mike. A small bit of spittle still clung to the corner of his mouth.
Mike wheeled on his heels and walked back towards the administrative tents. His bulldog walk was emphasized by the way he worked his jaw as if rehearsing some argument. The effect made him look like he’d sunk his teeth into something, and his shoulders hunkered over slightly as he tracked his way back down the small slope through the snow.
When he was gone, Cole looked over at Robert and shrugged.
“He thinks I’m charming and witty,” Cole said, laughing. He put out his hand again, and this time he spoke with a British accent.
“Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans… everything.”
****
Peter, Elsie, and Ace were now safely behind the lines of the FMA. A hard half-day’s walk brought them to an FMA encampment only ten miles from Lancaster County.
While “safely” had most certainly become a relative word, they knew that they now could feel more comfortable bunching up in a group, talking, and going through their gear. They’d traded their entire stash of extra guns and ammo—including the AK-47—for twenty pounds of dried sausage and a bag of key limes. In the old world, such a trade would have been ludicrous. In this world, Peter almost felt like he’d taken advantage of the FMA officer with whom he’d bargained. The sausage would come in handy as a means of getting protein and quick calories while on the run. The limes would help keep them from getting scurvy, or any of a dozen other diseases and afflictions that are caused or exacerbated by a lack of Vitamin C. Peter had tried to get a roll of baling wire thrown in with the bargain, but the officer had just laughed at him. Peter would have to deliver him a battle tank, the man said, in working order and loaded with fuel in order to get a roll of baling wire. Some things couldn’t be had at any price.
Matches, duct tape, aluminum foil, aspirin, and chocolate—these were gotten in dreams, not often in reality.
“Getting that dried sausage was a Godsend, Peter,” Elsie said.
Ace just nodded his head in agreement, as he sucked the juice out of a key lime.
“We did well to get so much for those guns. With all the deaths and sickness and so many battles, guns and ammo are going to be easy to get for a while. Someday, they’ll be precious again, but right now, they’re out there lying around for any scavenger willing to go spend a day looking for them
. Glad we found a man who didn’t over-value his meat supplies.”
“What news did you hear from them, Peter?” Elsie asked.
“They said another ten miles and we’d be rolling into Amish country. There are heavy-duty checkpoints on every point of ingress into the area, even the back roads. Some militia—a well-funded and highly able group—has taken it upon themselves to protect the Amish. Probably it’s a brilliant idea, and that’s something that Uncle Volkhov hinted at before the crash. He thought that somebody with resources might realize that it was in everyone’s best interests to keep the Amish alive and working. Neither the FMA nor the MNG are messing with these militia guys.”
“That sounds frightening, Peter,” Elsie said. “What will we do?”
“The officer I traded with said that these militia guys are hard core, but reasonable. He said they’re letting people in who belong there, who know someone in the area, or who have verifiable business with the Amish.”
“You think they’ll let us in?”
“I have no idea,” Peter said, shaking his head. “He says that from here on in—since they’ve pushed the MNG to the north—we should be able to travel on the main road and not have to go cross country.”
“Do you think that’s so? Is that a good idea?”
“I trust him. He says it’s dangerous to go cross country into Amish country. The militiamen guarding the area are more nervous about people trying to sneak in than they are about folks who just come up to a checkpoint and make their case.”
“That makes sense.”
“What do you think, Ace?” Peter asked.
“I’m with you,” was all Ace had to say about that. He smiled, though, which was as rare as hearing his voice.
“Okay,” Peter continued. “The guy said there is a town up ahead. Only a few miles up the road. It’s a mess, but we have to go through it. It’s been the focus of a few major MNG offensives, but the FMA holds the town now. To try to skirt the town by going through the forests or the fields is way too dangerous. So we’ll just try to get through it as fast as we can.”
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