Half Past Midnight

by Jeff Brackett

“Yeah,” I conceded. “You’ve got a point.” But there was nothing I could do about what she might or might not know, so I didn’t worry too much about it.

  Twenty minutes later, we were winding our way through the foot traffic at the edge of the market square. I parked the motorbike in front of an abandoned convenience store and killed the engine. Slinging one of the trade bundles over my shoulder, I tossed the second to Megan, took Zachary’s hand, and the three of us waded into the crowd.

  The market had started as a simple enough thing. With little to no electricity to run internal lighting or air conditioning, shopkeepers had taken to setting tables outside their doors. The practice had grown, spawning more tables and stalls, quickly spilling out into the streets until the town council simply barricaded off a four-block area of town and allowed it to grow into what everyone now referred to as the market.

  We wandered through the makeshift stalls, looking at some items, avoiding others, winding our way through the buzzing and shouting of the ever-present dickering. At the outskirts, we saw the normal handcrafted items: candles, soaps, woodcarvings, pottery. As we burrowed deeper into the crowd, we also came across plenty of scavenged goods such as canned foods, car parts, and some small electronics like CD players or flashlights still in the original plastic. We had found that many of the less complex, basic electronics that hadn’t been plugged in or connected to batteries on D-day still worked, and those still in the original packaging were almost guaranteed to work. The more intricate items that depended on delicate circuitry had a lesser chance of working. And of course, all of them still required some sort of power source.

  But here in the market, that too was available. Generator kits were prevalent, based on everything from bicycle generators, to automobile parts and current inverters. They were fairly common at the moment, but I feared the day would soon come when we would no longer be able to find the parts necessary to make them. Windmill and waterwheel kits to turn the generators were also a valued commodity and, when I heard some of the haggling being done for them, I was thankful we already had ours.

  I saw my goal ahead and shouldered my way through the crowd to Wayne Kelley’s booth. Wayne had been Rejas High School’s chemistry teacher, and had put his education to good use. He had everything from fuel preservatives to perfumes available at his booth. If you wanted something that required a knowledge of practical chemistry, Wayne was your man.

  “Hey Wayne, how’s business?”

  “Leeland!” He smiled. “Business is good. You here to make it better?”

  “I hope so.” I gestured. “Hand Mr. Kelley that bundle, would you, Megan?”

  She hefted the bundle off her shoulder and slung it to an empty spot on his table. Wayne untied the knot and unrolled half a dozen uncured goatskins. He thumbed through them, checking the thickness and quality of the skin. “Still no kids?”

  “Nope. We still don’t have enough stock to warrant slaughtering any of the kids. We need to let them breed another year or so. Maybe then.”

  Wayne sighed. “Well, Connie will be happy to get these. Same arrangement?”

  I nodded. “You process them and keep half.”

  Wayne stuck out his hand. “Deal. You want the skins from the last batch?”

  “If they’re ready.”

  “Just give me a second.” Wayne stepped back into his shop.

  A moment later, his wife came out to greet us. “Hi, Leeland, Megan.” She turned a special smile to Zachary. “My goodness, Zachary, you get bigger every time I see you. What are you doing in town?”

  Zach loved the attention. “We’re shoppin’ for Mom’s birthday.”

  Connie turned to me. “It’s Deb’s birthday?”

  “Day after tomorrow. But there’s no need waiting to the last minute.”

  “Two days before her birthday isn’t last minute?”

  I raised my hands. “This one’s just a matter of timing.”

  Wayne came out and saved me from further explanation as he handed a smaller bundle back to Megan. “Here you go. Four skins of the eight you brought in last month. Want to examine them?”

  “No need.” I leaned in close. “I know where you live.”

  He and his wife both chuckled.

  “Thanks Wayne, Connie. See you in class tomorrow?”

  “We’ll be there.”

  As we headed toward our next stop, Megan tugged my sleeve. “Dad, you mind if I stop by the library?”

  “I don’t see why not. What are you after?”

  “Nothing really. I just kinda wanted to look around.” Her voice trailed off as she looked away evasively.

  “She wants ta go see An-drew!” Zach squealed. Megan flipped a quick kick at the seat of his pants. “Ow! Dad, Megan kicked-”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “But she-”

  I pointed a finger in his face. “Not a word, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t pick fights, and you won’t get hurt.” I took the bundle from Megan and handed it to Zachary, while pretending not to notice the glare he shot at his older sister. “All right, Megan, meet us at Sarah’s shop in an hour.”

  She bounced up on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. “Thanks Dad.” And she threaded her way into the crowd.

  I watched her fade into the mass of market-goers for a moment before taking my son by the hand. “Okay Zach, now tell me about this Andrew kid.”

  Zachary grinned conspiratorially. “He’s not a kid, Dad. He’s the same age as Megan.”

  I smiled. “That old, huh?”

  “Uh huh. He’s Mr. Eric’s son.”

  “Eric Petry? From the morning classes?”

  “Yes, sir. I think that’s where they met.” He leaned close to me. “I caught ‘em kissin’ in the woods last week.”

  I was definitely surprised. Megan had never let on that she had a boyfriend. But I knew Eric and recalled meeting his son a few times. He had seemed a likeable enough young man. And Eric was a good friend. He was one of the town’s police officers, and a third-degree black belt in Shotokan karate. We had met him through the self-defense classes I had volunteered to Jim Kelland.

  Most mornings, we taught a growing number of Bruce Lee wannabes in the clearing behind Amber’s house at sunrise. Lessons usually lasted two to three hours, depending on the number of people who attended and how difficult the day’s activities were.

  When we had first begun the classes after the last of the burials, it had been just Megan and me teaching. Four of Kelland’s men had come by for training. We taught them exercises to stretch the tendons and ligaments in their arms and legs, and showed them the proper way to do some basic katas, or forms, to strengthen their legs and improve their balance.

  Then, we showed them some of what they really wanted to learn: the actual self-defense aspect of the arts-the innumerable joint locks of small circle jujitsu, basic grappling techniques, and the first twelve variations of Kali’s angles of attack. They had been impressed enough to convince others to join.

  Word of the Kindley Massacre-their name, not mine-had spread quickly after the article in the Chronicle and, as other attacks occurred, people began trickling in by twos and threes. Eric had shown up the second week to volunteer his skills, and we were soon teaching anywhere from fifteen to fifty people each day.

  While I considered the local police officers to be the core of the classes, there were also housewives, grocers, shop owners, and mechanics-to use a common cliche, people from all walks of life. I wished my school in Houston had been so full.

  And sometime during all that, Andrew had evidently gone from being one of the students to being my daughter’s boyfriend. It had happened under my very nose, and I’d been completely oblivious.

  I sighed and rubbed Zach’s head affectionately. “Well, your sister’s growing up. You’ll be better off staying out of her business.”

  He furrowed his brows and turned to look up at me. “Is she gonna get married and move
away?”

  “I’m sure she will, eventually. But probably not for a while yet.”

  He grinned. “When she does, can I have her room?”

  I laughed aloud. “We’ll see about that later.”

  “When?”

  “Later.”

  “Later when?”

  “When she moves out. For now, though, we have more shopping to do.”

  We shouldered through the crowd and eventually made our way to a darkened shop with an open front door. Walking in, I heard the methodical sharp tinging of metal on metal from the back room, and I shouted, “Travis, you here?” The tinging stopped, and a shuffling took its place. Seconds later, a white-haired, bespectacled head peered around the doorframe.

  “That you, Leeland?”

  “Yep.”

  “Gimme a sec, an’ I’ll get your order.”

  I heard more shuffling, and Travis came limping out of the back carrying several items. He casually tossed me a pair of hand-tooled goatskin boots. They were loosely cut, and gusseted to adapt for wear under or over pants. I looked at the bottom and laughed aloud. “Tire treads? Really?”

  Travis nodded. “Plenty of it around, and it’s made to last with two tons of metal ridin’ on it. Figured it’d last with yer ornery ass walkin’ on it for a while.”

  I held one boot to the bottom of my foot to check the size. “Looks perfect.”

  “Well, that ain’t no way to check it. Put th’ damn thangs on. I wanna see how they fit, too.”

  I wasted no time skinning off my worn out tennis shoes. I was embarrassed by the condition of my socks, but didn’t let it stop me as I slid my legs into the calf-high leather boots. I wove the leather thong through the grommets on either side of the folded gusset and tied it over my pant legs. Standing tentatively, I took a few steps.

  “Well? How do they fit?”

  After walking around the room, I finally turned back to him. “They’re a little stiff, but they’ll wear in soon enough. I think they’ll do, Travis.”

  He harrumphed at me. “’Course they’ll do. I don’t make crap. That’s why you come to me.”

  “That’s true enough. You have the rest of it?”

  He pointed to the bench, and I walked my new boots over to see the other items. Travis glanced over at Zachary. “Yer daddy made you a knife yet, son?”

  Zachary mumbled something.

  “Sorry, son, but ah couldn’t hear ya.”

  “Yes sir, but I lost it.” He hung his head as he said it.

  Travis looked at me, and I nodded.

  “Well, mebbe this’ll help ya keep track better.” He tossed something to Zachary. The boy caught it and yelped in delight when he realized what he held. I had made him a pair of throwing knives that Travis had fitted with arm sheaths.

  “Whoa!” He immediately began strapping the left sheath on his forearm.

  “Zach, what do you say?”

  The boy never even paused. “Thanks, Mr. Travis. This is wicked cool!”

  Travis smiled. “Yer welcome. ’Course it was yer daddy what made them knives fer ya.”

  Zach grinned at me. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome. But I need you to listen to me a second.” He stopped and turned his attention to me. “You leave those blades in their sheaths while we’re at market. You only take them out when you’re completely alone and practicing, or if Megan or I are teaching you. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “All right. And you know what happens if you disobey?”

  “You’ll spank me?”

  “And you’ll lose the knives. Those aren’t kid’s toys. You can’t treat them like it.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  I held his eye for a minute to make sure he understood how serious I was, then turned back to Travis and winked. He stifled a smile. “I’ll wrap Megan’s set in with the rest of the stuff.”

  “Thanks. So, you want to see what I brought you?” I pushed the bundle of tanned goatskins across the counter, then started rummaging through the leather goods Travis had made. There were three leather aprons with various pouches and loops, designed for working the forges, and another pair of throwing knives in arm sheaths for Megan.

  Travis ran his hands over the cured goat skins. “Kelley tanned ’em?”

  “He did.”

  Travis harrumphed. “Man does good work.”

  “Yep. He doesn’t make crap, either.” I unrolled a sewn cloth bundle on the counter. “And here are the tools you wanted.” I laid out several punches of various sizes, a half-moon shaped blade, and two small curved knives made to his specifications for working leather. He turned to me grinning from ear to ear.

  “Lordy, lordy. These look like they’ll fit th’ bill jus’ fine.” At that moment, I was struck by how much the leatherworker’s expression resembled Zachary’s from just a few minutes earlier. “You ain’t got no idea how much easier you jus’ made my work.”

  “Glad to hear it. So we’re square?”

  “Ah believe so.” He stuck out his hand, and we closed the transaction with a handshake.

  “Good. Then we’ll see you next time we’re in town. I know Ken will probably want a pair of boots like these when he sees mine.”

  “Well, send ’im on over, an’ I’ll give ’im a good deal.”

  “I’ll do that.” I saw Zachary trying to strap the right-hand sheath on his arm. “Here, Zach.” I helped him lock it in place. “Now, let’s go. There’s more to do.”

  The next few stops were pretty straightforward. At the first, I traded a pair of razor-sharp eight-inch combat knives with staghorn handles for four automobile leaf springs and made arrangements to pick them up on my way out. Each spring was nearly four feet long, and they would be too heavy to lug around the market. At the second stop, a meat cleaver got me two solid walnut table legs. I figured each leg would yield enough wood to make at least five or six knife handles, maybe more if I could split them straight enough. Without a power saw, that was never guaranteed.

  Finally, we got to Sarah’s shop. She greeted me as we walked in. “Heya, Sensei, what can I do for you?”

  Sarah was another one of my students. A tiny slip of a girl, she moved like a tiger on amphetamines in a fight. She was also head of the scavenging committee and, as such, was often able to find items that others couldn’t.

  “Debra wanted me to see if you have any more of that condensed milk.”

  “Yessiree. I have three cans left. Four, if you don’t mind going past the expiration date.”

  “How far past?”

  She pulled the fourth can out and checked the label. “What is this, March?”

  “April.”

  She thought for a second. “Looks like four months over then. You feeling lucky?”

  “What do you want for them?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Need any nails?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no use for them.”

  “Goat jerky?”

  “No thanks.”

  I opened my backpack and dug through it, looking for something she might have use for.

  “What about that?” I looked up to find her pointing at the PRD dangling from my neck.

  “The radiation detector?”

  “Yeah. I could use something like that.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah. I only have a few left.” That was true enough. Between the ones I’d given Ken, Cindy, Amber, and the trucking crews, plus the ones I’d already bartered away, I only had six left. Those last six were still in the wrappers, though, and they weren’t doing anyone any good there. “All right, but you’re going to have to sweeten the deal for one of these.”

  I got the four cans of condensed milk, as well as two bags of macaroni, a can of aerosol cheese, three cans of corn, a jar of local honey, and a hydrometer. Megan wandered in while we were dickering and helped me load the items in my backpack.

  “Dad? This one’s swollen.”

  Sure en
ough, the top of the can bulged outward with the pressure of growing bacteria. Obviously embarrassed, Sarah grabbed the corn from Megan. “Shit. Sorry about that. I try to check them all before I bring them in. That one must’ve gotten by me.” She grabbed another one from the shelf. “Here you go.”

  “No harm done.” I handed her my PRD. “Wear it in good health.”

  Slipping it over her head, the girl nodded. “That’s the idea.” She stuck out her hand. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

  I handed the backpack to Megan, and she “whuffed” as she slid it over her shoulder. I slung the other bundles over one shoulder and hefted the table legs. “All right, guys, one more stop and we can head back.”

  Zachary and Megan both grinned. We were all looking forward to the next stop. We tromped back down the street, making our way to a quiet little side alley, then knocked on the door of a house on the outskirts of the market.

  Our knocking set off the dog alarm, and loud barking underscored our arrival. From further back in the house came a sharp command, “Blackie, Cricket-quiet!” Several seconds later, the front door opened, and an elderly woman squinted out at us. She smiled in recognition. “Hello, Leeland. Hi, Megan, Zachary. Ain’t you two growin’ up!”

  The kids returned the smile and replied in unison. “Hi, Miss Phillips.”

  By this time, the dogs had also recognized us, and the barking gave way to wagging tails and whining. Judith Phillips pushed open the screen door and stepped back in invitation. “Well, don’t just stand out there in the heat. Come on in and sit a spell.”

  We slipped past her and into the darker confines of her home. All the windows were open, but the temperature inside was only a little cooler than out.

  “Sorry, Judith, but we can’t stay. I have some goods I need to pick up on the way out and, if we don’t get back pretty soon, Debra’s gonna wonder what we’re up to.”

  When I saw the disappointment written briefly on her face, I felt more than a small twinge of guilt. But she covered it gracefully with a smile and ruffled Zachary’s hair. “Well, then, let’s head out back and look at some puppies.”

  Both of the kids scrambled for the back door. Seconds after the door opened, I heard excited barking, the yipping of puppies, and the giggles of a happy ten-year-old. I smiled and offered my arm to Judith. “Shall we?”