by Lake, E. A.
The rusty pump stood about four foot high, just into the woods where I remembered it from my youth. Though it didn’t seem like something that would still be working, Fred told me that these devices never gave out. As long as you had water in the well, the pump would do its job.
Just be sure to prime it first, he warned shoving a crooked finger at me. Prime is good and I should have water flowing within five minutes.
Acting like I knew what he meant, I nodded at his advice. If only I had asked what all was involved with priming such a device.
Thirty minutes of pumping only made my headache worse. Like it or not, I was going to have to slow down on the booze. That was okay; I only had four full bottles remaining. If this situation lasted longer than a week, and if I didn’t slow down, I’d be out of booze quick.
Out of breath, I stepped back from the pump, sweat stinging my eyes. Wasn’t priming just nice slow even strokes? Had I stroked the monster enough? Should something be coming out of the brown stained throat by now?
A little more pumping and I felt my anger rise. Not only was water absent from the scene, it didn’t even sound like I was close to having it spit out anytime soon. I was missing something. But another humble walk back and forth to Fred’s wasn’t the answer.
Back inside the cabin, I contemplated the issue. No water from the pump yet, though Fred claimed it worked just fine. Dad and Bud used it three to four times a year, again without issue, as reported by Fred.
The problem had two sides.
First, and this was a possibility, Fred was full of shit. Let’s face it, he was an old man, sitting around all day with nothing to do but wait for death. Maybe he didn’t know any of my family. Maybe he’d never been to the cabin, except to sneak around and pilfer tools when no one was here.
But that didn’t make sense. Fred knew right where the pump and well were. And he called my grandfather, father, and brother by name. If he was full of shit, I decided, it was only half-full.
The opposing side of the issue was me. Maybe I was doing something wrong. Either pumping too fast or perhaps, too slow. My knowledge of a hand pump was limited. As in pump the handle and water should come out.
My ignorance to this device, as well as the rest of the cabin, was far too great to write off as innocence. A strange world surrounded me. One that lacked the necessities and niceties that I was used to. If I ever wanted coffee and was too lazy to make it myself, I ran to the local coffee shop. Shelly was gone for the night? No problem. Dozens of restaurants sat within a few miles of my house. My car made a funny sound or wouldn’t start, then call the auto shop.
My life was easy, almost cushy. My before, that is. In the cool quiet cabin, I slowly came to the realization that I was unprepared for all of this…whatever this was.
Day 4 - continued - WOP
Standing in the doorway, I noticed something strange on the highway. Some 20 yards from my front door stood a woman. A middle-aged woman in a red sundress highlighted with large yellow flowers.
Stepping outside, she noticed me and smiled. Waving, she came closer. Like a long lost friend. Her blond hair hung past her tanned shoulders and as she came closer, I saw her red sneakers. Though it was hot and the world was without power, she was dressed for success.
“Hello,” she shouted. “I’m so glad to find another human in this Godforsaken place.”
I noticed the sheen of sweat on her face, pooling slightly on her upper lip. Yeah, she was not immune to the humidity either, regardless of how nicely she was dressed.
“I don’t suppose,” she continued, grasping my arms and squeezing. “I don’t suppose I could bother you for a sip of water and maybe a small bite of food, could I?”
“You see I took off from our cottage back down that road,” she pointed to the south where many dirt roads intersected the main highway, “and I didn’t realize how far it was to civilization. I guess I never paid that close of attention.”
She waved a sweaty hand at me. “I’m Barb, by the way.” Her smile was the best thing I’d seen in days.
“Bob Reiniger,” I answered, shaking her petite hand. I pointed to the door. “Why don’t you come inside and get out of the heat for a moment.”
Her smile was white and quite something to behold. She even took my arm to follow along.
And that’s when the lights went out…for me.
I came to just outside the cabin’s front door. Peering up from the sandy dust, I noticed the door sitting ajar. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
The back of my head ached terribly. Getting up on my hands and knees, I tried to shake off the grogginess. It was like waking up in the morning with a bad hangover, only I hadn’t been drinking.
Flopping onto my butt, I spied a chunk of cut and quartered wood next to me. About a foot long and just the right size for someone to hold in their hand…and whack me across the back of my skull.
The last thing I remembered was a pair of boots next to my face. Brown dirty men’s boots. Not the dainty pair of red sneakers that were on Barb’s feet. Nope, some male friend of hers had other plans, and it dawned on me that perhaps Barb did as well.
After crawling inside, things made a whole lot more sense to me. Gone was my attaché case, along with my laptop, cell phone, and several hundred dollars in cash. The door of my refrigerator sat open, the dark insides picked clean. That meant several blocks of cheese, some smoked sausage, and the rest of my water had left with the visitors, as well.
For some reason, they left the bourbon. Perhaps it was because it was hidden in plain sight on a cardboard box next to the front door. Still it surprised me they hadn’t bothered to look. Maybe they were teetotaler thieves. Go figure.
I checked the cupboard next to the sink and found a sealed tin with graham crackers inside. They were pretty soft and mealy, but they might have been my only solid food left. Grabbing a fresh bottle of liquor, I cracked the lid and took a healthy swig.
Still getting my bearings, I sat on the couch until the bourbon kicked in. Every other swig I’d take a bite of cracker.
“Well, this sucks,” I said aloud, though no one was there to enjoy my misery.
The cracker and booze came up so quickly that I didn’t have time to make it to the sink. Catching my breath, I wiped my chin and stared at the new pile of puke that would need to be cleaned up.
“Yeah,” I moaned, lying down on the couch, “this sucks big time.”
Day 7 WOP
“You got robbed,” the old woman said to me, between puffs of her menthol 100 cigarette. “You got to be careful up here, sweetie. There’s a lot of unseemly folks that wander around this place.”
Fred had told me, several days back, about another neighbor. This gal lived about three miles north of my cabin, just off the highway. Lettie Hamshire was a northwoods lady, through and through. Born in the house she still lived in, she had buried both parents somewhere on the property after their deaths. Never married, Fred claimed she was one of those kinds of gals. I knew what he meant, but doubted he knew much about the scenario.
She blew smoke in my face, waiting for me to speak.
“I figured that much,” I replied, chasing away the flies that circled us in her garden. Why she chose to stand there in the hot sun was beyond me. Her opened, shaded garage was a mere 15 feet away.
“You need to be mindful of strangers,” she continued, going back to her weeding.
Around us was one of the largest gardens I had ever seen. It had to be an acre, I surmised. Though I had nothing to gauge an acre against.
Beside us stood tall green tomato plants. To the left were some type of green beans, growing on poles and strings. Various types of squash and several watermelons sat further back in the garden. I had to admit, Lettie was quite the gardener.
She looked to be 60, maybe 65. Tan and fit the only thing lacking was her height. She stood a strong head shorter than me, but had more energy than most people I knew half her age. Dirt and weeds became airborne as she tended to he
r patch.
“Do you know anything about hand pumps?” I asked, following her down the row.
“I use one every day for the garden,” she replied, the almost used up butt hanging from her leathery lips. “Pump the handle up and down and water comes out. Pretty simple really.”
“That’s the problem. No matter how much I pump back at the cabin, water doesn’t come out.”
I studied the top of her sunbonnet as she lowered to pluck a weed by hand, one that must have been too close to use the tool. When she looked up, I noticed her short gray hair poking through several spots on the worn headdress.
“Did you prime it, plenty of water?” she asked.
I squinted at her. “Come again?”
“Did you pour a couple cups of water down the throat before you started pumping? You have to do that, otherwise you can pump from now ’til kingdom come and you won’t get no water.”
Ah, the missing step. But another problem.
“I…ah,” I stammered, shifting from foot to foot. “I lost the rest of my clean water to those bandits a few days back. Can I borrow a jug from you?”
I had spent the last three days lying on my couch, drinking and feeling sorry for myself. Only a terrible thirst and large pangs of hunger had driven me from my spot this day.
“You can use river water to prime, sweetie. It won’t affect the well at all. Hell, you could probably drink the river water up here. You might have a bad case of the trots for a week or so, but eventually you’d get used to it.”
She paused her maniacal weeding, pulling her pack from her shirt pocket. I watched as her lips twisted, pulling one of two available death sticks out.
“Dang it all,” she complained. “I think I only got one pack left in the house.”
Big deal, lady. I didn’t smoke. Not my problem.
“You’re gonna have to be a dear and run up to Dizzy’s for me tomorrow. Fetch a cartoon of menthols and tell him to put it on my tab. I’ll get over there to pay him when the power comes back on.”
Wiping the river of sweat from my chin, I peeked down at Lettie. Was I supposed to take her serious? Did she somehow think one little nugget of advice on a pump equaled an all day trip on my part to support her habit?
“And Dizzy’s is in Covington?” I asked, hoping she’d notice my skepticism of the 20 mile journey for cigarettes.
“Oh heavens no,” she cried, slapping my forearm. “He’s just up the road a mile or two from your place. On that dirt road to the east, the first one.”
“Does this road have a name?” Seemed like a decent question.
Her crooked gray smile displayed several missing teeth. Probably rotted out from too much tobacco.
“We just call it Dizzy Drive. You’ll find his place about a mile back in there. Just after the crick crosses under the road. You tell him Lettie sent you and maybe he’ll be friendly. Though sometimes he’s nasty man.”
I headed back to the cabin with a small bag full of beans, three cucumbers, four green tomatoes, and a jar of preserved venison. Lettie also gave me instructions to arm myself. Maybe that would keep the burglars away.
“And don’t forget my carton of menthols,” she shouted as I was about to lose sight of her home. “And bring them to me right away when you get them. One pack ain’t gonna last me all that long, sweetie.”
She was awfully generous with both advice and food. I guess that made up for her bossiness. Now, I had to find a place to hide my supplies. Then, I remembered the pit.
Day 9 WOP
It rained like a son-of-a-gun for the 36 hour period after I returned from Lettie’s. Just before sunset, I heard the rolling thunder. Within an hour, rain came down in sheets.
I thought about the old gal, watching the water pour off the front roof of the cabin. She was out of smokes, maybe. Though I had strict instructions, from a complete stranger mind you, to return the following day with her menthols, I knew she understood the weather. Add to that the sneaking suspicion she had a stash somewhere and my guilt never reached a critical level.
The road leading to Dizzy’s place was muck and mud. The whole road. The ditches were filled with leftover rainwater and some of the sparse remaining gravel had been washed away in the low spots. It was a good thing I had three pairs of shoes with me; the boots on my feet were going to need to dry out in the returned sunshine and warmth.
Combating the nasty bugs was an issue I hadn’t lived with in Joliet. There we had a mosquito patrol squad run by the city. The flies were only bad about two weeks of the year. If I set up a poop-slurry (don’t ask) in the backyard, most nights were tolerable.
Here, in the precise middle of nowhere, the flies lived without worry of destruction. According to Fred, they only went away in the winter. Otherwise, they were just a fact of life. Having killed maybe a thousand in my first week, I realized that hadn’t made a tiny dent in their population. Nor did the deaths of their family and friends quell their quest for blood.
It took almost an hour to hike back to Dizzy’s place. Either Lettie sucked at distances or the mud had slowed me that much. I’d have plenty of time to consider that on my swatting walk back to my cabin.
The old rundown trailer that came into view as I rounded what I hoped was the last corner of my journey was nothing short of underwhelming. It was hard to believe anyone, even a man who went by Dizzy, lived in such a dilapidated place. The yellow siding was dulled from what could only have been years of neglect. I could see dull blue tarps lying across the roof, flapping in the warm breeze. Not one window looked clean. Perhaps the cleaning lady had skipped Dizzy’s…for the past decade or so.
The collection of junk in his front yard was amazing. Old lawnmowers, both the walk-behind and riding variety, took up a large chunk of land nearest me. Behind them, and to the rear of the home sat a half-dozen or so faded routing trucks. All had their hoods lifted high. Most were missing any sort of window glass.
Rounding the trailer, I spotted a large pole barn absent any door. Just an open area full of more crap: washers, dryers, a cement mixer, what looked to be part of a satellite — all tossed about in a random pattern.
A bearded fat man came from the shed, wiping his hands on a rag. It was hard to tell which was dirtier, the rag or his hands. He spotted me, then reached and jerked a pistol from his rear pocket.
“Stop right there!” he shouted, waving the shiny metal gun at me. “I’ll drill you right where you stand if you don’t state your business instantly.”
The thought of dying this far off the beaten path, in the middle of sheer madness, at the hands of a middle-aged wild man wasn’t too tempting. I froze and raised my hands as instructed.
“Dizzy?” I asked, a quiver finding its way into my voice.
He shot me a mean glare, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Who wants to know?” he barked, the gun still pointed at me.
“Lettie sent me,” I replied, daring a step in his direction, seeing the recognition of his neighbor’s name cross his face.
The gun lowered, not all the way but it wasn’t pointed at my body any more. “You with the IRS?” he demanded.
Another couple of steps and I felt brave enough to lower my arms. “God, no. I’m a neighbor. Bob Reiniger.” I extended my hand before noting his weren’t just dirty, they were full of grease.
“Reiniger?” he asked, shaking my hand with a firm grip. “Down my road and south on the highway?”
“One in the same.” I was glad the standoff was over.
“I know your old man. And your brother shot a big buck practically on my front step a couple years back.” He began to amble towards his dwelling. “Come on inside, I’ll grab us a beer. Too damned hot to be standing out in the sun without something to drink.”
Bravely, I followed, wondering if the inside was any better than the outward appearance of this place. But I was hot, and beer sounded pretty good.
Day 9 - continued - WOP
Dizzy shoved some dirty clothes from a
chair and pointed for me to sit. Meanwhile, he opened a stained blue cooler, pulling two beers from inside. Popping the tops on a kitchen counter edge, he handed one to me.
I expected it to be warm, almost as hot as the day. Instead, it was only tepid. Bonus points for Dizzy.
“I suppose you want to talk to me about raking your roof this winter,” he began, leaning on the counter casually paging through a nudie magazine. “Not sure I can do that this year. Not ’til my truck works again.”
Okay, I was thoroughly confused. First off, why would he think I wanted to discuss snow removal on perhaps the hottest day of the year? Further, it seemed he was ignorant to what Fred had informed me had happened. If that weren’t bad enough, why did he toss me another magazine from his two-foot stack on his counter? I couldn’t imagine what disgusting things I might find inside, both printed on the page and more organic.
“Actually,” I said, taking a slug of some of the nastiest brew I had ever tasted. “I’m here because Lettie needs another carton of cigarettes. Apparently you’re her dealer.”
His face screwed up something wild. “That old bitty still owes me for the last two,” he raged, pounding his fist on the counter. I noticed dirty dishes leaped up and down with the anger. “Her credit ain’t no good with me no more. You go tell her that.”
Me? Did I look like the messenger service to this hillbilly? Add that to the fact that I had never met two people more willing to pawn their chores off on complete strangers.
“You can probably tell her that yourself.” I gave him a half-smile and took another large gulp.
He shrugged, tossing the magazine aside. “Truck’s broke down, so I can’t.”
Pausing for a moment, I wondered just how aware he was of the current situation we were facing.
“Power seems to be out too,” I offered.
