by Lake, E. A.
I followed like an obedient puppy, waiting for the right time to pop the question. “Can I ask you something?” I continued after a long silence.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she replied, stopping but not turning around.
“Nate talks about the bad men, a lot. Is he referring to what happened in Covington?”
Still she faced away.
“What does it matter,” she whispered just loud enough for me to hear.
“Was it that bad?”
She turned, staring at me, emotionless. “Yes, it was that bad.”
“Maybe he needs to talk about it, that’s all I’m saying.” I thought about reaching to touch her arm, or rub her shoulder. But the emptiness on her face told me it wouldn’t do any good.
“He needs to forget; he’s young enough. He can forget.” She sounded desperate.
“Are they coming?”
Her eyes flared for just a brief second before going back to her dirty hands.
“Violet says they are,” I added with a finished tone. “That’s why I ask.”
“What else do you know?” It was a question, wrapped in a demand that could be followed by shrieking I believed. The little bits and piece I received from her children were haunting. That’s why Marge looked like she did: scared, exhausted, almost dead.
“You know she killed the man who tried to kill me.” She nodded, her lips trembling. “And she did it in a rather efficient manner. And it didn’t seem to bother her.” I let the silence attempt to elicit Marge’s reply.
“And?” Either she wasn’t much of a conversationalist, or she was hiding something. And a bet of three cans of pork and beans told me it was the later.
“Has she killed before? Maybe after things went to hell in Covington.”
For the first time, I noticed the anger in her eyes. “She was protecting a friend. The man was hurting her. Violet had to do something; even if it was heinous.”
“So that’s why the bad people are coming, for her.” I knew it already; I just wanted confirmation before all hell broke loose.
She nodded and then sat on a nearby stump. “That, and all the drugs I took from the nursing home,” Marge admitted. “I knew they were looking for them. They were going to use them for some kind of trade. But I had hidden them. I knew we’d need them after our escape.”
“Why haven’t they shown up yet, these bad people?”
She looked flustered, her lips twisting from side to side, a tic forming on the right side of her face. “I have no idea. Maybe they’re waiting for decent weather. Maybe it took them a while to figure out who murdered their man, who exactly took the drugs.”
Something didn’t sound right. Even if everything were as Marge tried to sell it, why would anyone look for them here?
She must have read my mind. “We left a note of where we were going with a neighbor,” she continued. “I hadn’t seen them since everything went bad. And I figured if they showed up, they’d know where to find us.”
“Maybe the neighbor didn’t rat you out. Ever think of that?”
She sighed and rose from her spot. “Maybe they didn’t. But if they threatened to rape their daughters, cut them off from any food or water, how long would you hold out? Friend or not, since my parents haven’t found us, I expect the next people to come looking will have revenge on their minds.”
I released a great breath, making a gasping sound. “Shit,” I muttered as we began our trip back to Lettie’s.
Marge stopped and pushed my hair away from my face. “Yes, shit.”
Day 306 WOP
Trusting a 13-year-old killer with scissors near my face and neck didn’t really bother me. Violet did what she had to do if only to protect her friends. Even if only a little less than a year ago she would have been locked away for her actions.
My scalp had been itching for the past two weeks. Upon further investigation, Lettie discovered the culprit, lice. Lice, in both my hair and beard. They and most of the hair had to go. Enter Miss Violet and her self-professed talents with hair.
She began with long chops at the back of my neck. Watching nearly a foot of brown hair fall to the ground, it reminded me of watching my grandmother cut my grandfather’s hair at home. He was far too cheap to pay $1 (at the time) for a decent haircut, so Grandma always did it.
Of course, she’d never actually killed anyone. Either by three gunshots to the chest or a knife to the throat. Violet was quick to point out that the man she killed on the road was half-dead to begin with. So it wasn’t actually all on her.
The man she had protected her friend against was actually killed by the other girl’s boyfriend. According to Violet, all she had done was grab the man by the scalp and pull his head back. The boyfriend had plunged the knife into his throat.
“Mom never lets me cut anyone’s hair at home,” Violet complained, attacking the top of my head. While I assumed she would have a gentle touch, I assumed incorrectly. She pulled the comb through an area that hadn’t been groomed in like six months.
“Of course, I usually snuck over to Stacy’s anytime anyone needed a trim and didn’t have money for the salon.” I felt the edge of the scissors nick my head, causing me to jerk. “You need to sit still.” She emphasized her point by thwacking the side of my head with her stiff comb.
Her fingers dug through what was left on my head. “Whatever Lettie did to those lice, there ain’t none now,” she added, coming around the front to size up my beard.
“Kerosene,” Lettie called from the other room. “Nothing much in this world that good old kerosene can’t cure.”
“Yeah, and my scalp felt like it was on fire,” I countered, recalling her dousing me with the liquid. “I traded itching for burning.”
Standing in the doorway, leaning against one side, Lettie grinned. “But the lice are dead, and now you can heal. And it wouldn’t hurt you to clean up every once in a while.”
The days between showers in the makeshift stall were easier counted as weeks. Once the water warmed up in the lake, I would take bathing there. But as best we could tell it was only June 1st. We had a few weeks to go before the water warmed enough.
And that homemade shower was a pain in the butt. It actually took two sessions to get clean. One to get wet and soaped up, and a second to rinse as much of the soap away as you could. I was sick of standing around naked, waiting for the second batch to warm for use. So showers weren’t high on my list of priorities.
Thus, the lice. And patchy flaking skin. Maybe Lettie had a point.
Short hair and lice free, I walked home midday. Spending time with others helped keep me sane, I knew that much. But spending too much time with them made me feel a little crazy as well.
Lettie was fine, for the most part. Besides being generous with food and aid, she was overly generous with advice as well. I hated when my mom or dad tried to shove their knowledge down my throat. But an older woman I’d known for nearly a year? That wasn’t my idea of fun.
Shelly claimed I was too independent. Maybe she had a point. But in my defense, I knew what I was doing…most of the time. When in doubt, I asked. Hell, I’d made it this long pretty much on my own.
Then there was Marge. If she wasn’t walking around like a zombie, add in depression, she was off somewhere crying. I got it, really I did. She missed her husband, was scared for her family and her own safety, and let Lettie make most of the decisions lately.
One thing Shelly wasn’t was a weeper. And rarely was her mood anything but cheery. Hell, she’d sent me north with an amazing long kiss, rubbed my face, and told me to unwind. The time away would do me good, she claimed. I often wondered now how she felt about her encouraging our separation.
Another thing I had no time for is teenagers. In Violet’s defense, that meant girls and boys. And this teen was no different. One moment everything would be fine, the next, screaming and tossing of silverware. Sometimes I could speak with her rationally. Then, mere moments later, she spewed vitriol in my direction. She
wasn’t my kid, so let her mother or new grandma (Lettie) deal with her gargantuan mood swings.
The boy was fine in my estimation. He knew his dad was gone and not coming back. I can’t say he was happy about the situation, but he seemed to make the best of it. He was eight and resilient. But he also needed a man around.
That man couldn’t be me, at least not all the time. At 25 I wasn’t qualified, in my mind, to be a father of a newborn baby. An eight-year-old lad? Full of energy and questions? No. That was more Dizzy’s speed.
Day 311 WOP
Another thunderstorm issued in another day in No Where. This one waited for mid-morning to strike, though I noticed the dark clouds on the horizon long before the first drops of rain kicked up the dust on the road for me to smell.
Being cooped inside my small cabin was actually a blessing. I had a few problems to figure out. And no better time than when the weather doesn’t want you out cutting wood, hunting game, or working in Lettie’s garden.
First was my trip home. The mere mention of this to my small band of friends brought tears, and moans, and gnashing of teeth.
They claimed I needed to stay. They even said it was for my safety, but I knew better. Lettie and Marge both wanted a man around, even if he lived three miles away.
“But I have a life back in Chicago,” I stated during our latest argument, spreading fertilizer in Lettie’s massive garden.
“You’ll have no life if you leave,” Lettie warned, waving her cigarette at me. “You might make it as far as Green Bay, but the road trash will eat you up if radiation doesn’t get you first.”
Leaning on a four-pronged pitchfork handle, I shot her a toothy grin. “I’ve made it this long just fine. What makes you think I can’t handle myself on the road?”
Now it was Lettie’s turn to grin. “I’ve patched you up twice. Marge here probably another three or four times. Hell, even Violet saved your scrawny ass once.”
I rubbed the sweat away from my brow before starting in on the dirt again. “I could do it you know.”
I felt a hand on my arm. Looking back, I noticed Marge there. “Please don’t leave,” she begged.
That was the problem I had — no way could I counter begging. Nor the tears, acting like I was special or something. My guilt held me back. Well, guilt and a few other things.
Lack of decent footwear was a big problem. Who knew when you had to walk everywhere all the time you’d wear a pair of shoes out in a month or two? Certainly not me. Whatever socks I’d brought, let’s just say three pairs, were shot by the time the snows came. Only a stash of six new pairs in Dizzy’s shed saved me on that front.
We, Dizzy and I, had yet to set out scavenging the promised cornucopia of places nearby. Something always came up. Something always came up on Dizzy’s end at least. And he was always evasive when pressed for a reason. Eventually, he’d toss his hands in the air and walk away. “Just ‘cuz,” was his only explanation.
But I knew better. Dizzy was sweet on Marge. Now the same couldn’t be said about Marge’s feelings for Dizzy. But she could play him like cheap dime store harmonica when it came to getting what she and Lettie wanted done.
My stamina still wasn’t good either. Not to make a 400-mile trip…alone much less.
Three hundred and eleven days had passed since the power went out. Well the power, the communications, and the working cars, and basically most of life as I knew it. According to Lettie’s scale, I was 41 pounds lighter in that time. Standing naked in my cabin, staring into a full-length mirror, I appeared scrawny almost. I always assumed it was just that mirror.
It would probably take all summer to build my strength enough to make the journey. That would give me the fall to get home. Two, maybe two and a half decent months of weather. But that was only if I was strong enough by the end of August. And each week I was still losing weight. That was a problem, and I still didn’t have a decent solution.
The other thing on my mind, every day now, was the safety of the four at Lettie’s place. I had good reason to be worried, though I hadn’t shared it with any of them yet.
A few days back I was north of Lettie’s, tracking down a bear Dizzy thought might be in the area. While I had no desire for any more bear meat, Dizzy had other plans. He was going to make sausage.
While he waited at Lettie’s place, I went in search of said bear. And I wasn’t having any luck finding any signs that he described that would mean I was close.
Wandering north still on the blacktop, I noticed a man approaching at a meandering pace. He shot me a smile when he got close enough to notice the 45 in my hand, Frank’s old gun that I now carried when hunting.
He took a sip from his canteen, wiping away perspiration that had accumulated on his long, thin dirty face.
“Howdy,” he called out from about ten yards away.
By this time I focused on the single man, the bear could wait. While I’d witnessed a number of travelers on the road this early summer, this man didn’t look like the rest. Something, somewhere in my gut, told me he was trouble.
“Heading somewhere?” I asked, knowing that Amasa was miles to the south. At his current pace, it might be fall before he ever got close.
“Looking for someone,” he replied, offering me his canteen. I showed him mine and he withdrew it, smiling as he did.
“Looking for a man and his wife, two kids,” he continued. My stomach tightened.
“Can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that down this way at all.” I lied and something told me he knew I had.
He nodded several times, studying the waves of heat rising from the stint road. “She took something that wasn’t hers,” he went on, staring at me, seeking a twinge of betrayal. “My boss would really like to have it back.”
I considered his vague words. He was trying to draw something out of me. However, I wasn’t inclined to bite at his offering.
“She who?” I replied, trying to give him a puzzled expression. One that told him I had no idea what he was after. “The wife or the daughter?”
He took another swig from his canteen and wiped away the excess moisture. His eyes narrowed and focused tightly on my face.
“The wife,” he snarled. I couldn’t tell if he was upset by the wasted walk or my attitude. I guess I didn’t care either.
“If you find a gal named Marge Luke,” he continued, “tell her Mr. Callies knows what she did and she needs to return what she took. Got it?” Man, this guy was a jerk. And to think he felt like I gave a crap about his problems.
“Sure,” I replied, watching him turn and head back north, towards Covington. “What does she look like, this Marge chick?”
Still walking, he glanced back. “Husband, two kids, 40ish, brownish hair, about 5-6, thin. She’s a nurse too. Just ask names of strangers, okay?”
I nodded, not that he saw. He gave a fairly good description of my friend. Of course, she was missing the husband now, but I still got his message. Marge had their drugs; they wanted them back, and they were willing to travel to make it happen.
Something told me we hadn’t seen the last of this guy or his friends.
Day 315 WOP
We worked through the ankle deep water, my tagalong and me. The water was a shortcut, saving a half-mile backtrack on our snare lines. I didn’t mind, but the young man with me hated wet feet.
“I don’t have that many pairs of shoes,” Nate whined, rapping another tree with his walking stick. “My mom is gonna be mad at me for getting these wet.”
Good, since he brought her up I had my opening.
“How’s your mom been lately?” I asked. I moved Nate ahead of me to lift him over a windfall. “She hasn’t had much to say the last few times I’ve seen her.”
His frown spoke volumes. “She still cries a lot. Grandma Lettie says she needs to get it all out…even though it’s been a while. I miss Dad too, so I don’t blame her for crying.”
I gave him a soft smile and wrapped my arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay to
cry, and I miss my dad too. So, I know how you feel.”
“Violet tells me to quit crying like a little boy every time she sees me doing it. She makes me feel bad.”
Yeah, unfortunately for him his sister was 13. And even in the middle of hell, her teenage mentality came through. Selfish, bitter, needy. A whole bunch of not so fun emotions.
“Don’t let Violet bother you,” I replied, noting a dead rabbit in our nest snare.
It had been Dizzy’s idea, the snare lines. Early to mid-summer was when does typically dropped their fawns. At first, I thought the man had a big heart, not wanting us to kill a mother while a baby laid in wait for her return.
Then he informed me it was because of the wolves. Hunting deer while wolves hunted the same wasn’t a good plan in his experience. If things went bad, they, the wolves, could end up hunting us. Needless to say, I saw his point.
Nate watched me pluck the dead rabbit from the snare and place it in the pack on his back. “I hate cleaning rabbits,” he commented as I pointed him toward the next snare.
“Because they’re cute furry animals?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nah, because they stink when you clean them.”
Yes they did, I thought. But when Lettie made a stew with half a dozen of them, they sure smelled good.
“What do you know about the bad people coming, Nate?”
Shrugging several times, I watched his lips twist. He knew something; he just wasn’t a big talker.
He sighed and looked up at me. “I heard Mom and Grandma Lettie talking about it the other night. Grandma said she would shoot them with her gun when they showed up. Mom just cried a bunch. Said she was worried about me and Violet.”
“Did your mom say she was sure they were coming?” I know grilling a young child isn’t the most honest way of gathering information. I did feel bad, sort of. But my safety might be at issue as well in this situation.
