She pressed the cloth hard against her nose, feeling bile rise in her throat, hardly daring to breath. The curtains were drawn and as her eyes adjusted to the gloom she realized that the terrible stench rose from what was left in the double bed. She felt unable to move, unable to scream and run away. As though a switch had been thrown and she was locked in place.
A sheet had been pulled up over the body, a grisly mask of decomposition soaked up through the white linen where it covered what had once been a face. Spilling out across the pillows was a long strand of brown hair, streaked with grey. A woman then, no doubt, Mr Jenkin’s wife.
Georgia stared at this solitary lock of hair then glanced over at the bedside table with its pink frilly bedside lamp. A book lay open, face down. A romance novel judging by the improbable cover; depicting a man on a white horse and a woman in wedding attire, clutching a posy of flowers as she lay back in his arms.
Next to the book lay a syringe amongst a scattering of empty ampoules, the torn red foil tops, shining like Christmas tree decorations. Dully she read the label across the grey and plum colored box. Insulin Lispro. She tore her eyes away, not wanting what she was seeing to be true. Looking around the room, her eyes searched for other boxes, full boxes. She wanted to see full boxes, as though that could help anything.
Her legs buckled, and she found herself sitting in the armchair at the foot of the bed, weeping uncontrollably, somehow unaware of the smell and the flies. Her mind going over and over what must have taken place in this room.
Mrs Jenkins had probably become bedridden, both of them knowing, as the last ampule was used, that time was running out for her. Had he read to her in those final hours? Taken her wandering mind, before she became comatose, into the arms of that man atop a white horse, back to their youthful days filled with romance and hope? Then, when she had died, had he placed the book face down on the bedside table, and drawn up the sheet?
Or perhaps he had bent down that one last time to kiss her. Then drawn up the sheet, walked slowly downstairs, washed the supper dishes, and once the house was tidy, shot himself so that he could be with her? In her mind’s eye she kept seeing him lay down the book and bend over to kiss her for the last time.
Eventually she became aware of the flies and the cloying smell that abruptly became dominant, crowding out every other thought. That terrible smell, oh God, she had to get out of the room, out of the house. She felt terrifyingly closed in. She needed to be in the fresh air.
She stood up, realizing for the first time that she was soaked with perspiration as her body had desperately attempted to protect her from the heat of the upstairs room. The fabric of her t-shirt was sticking to her breasts and back, adding to her sense of claustrophobia. She turned towards the open door leading out to the passage and it was then that she saw a rifle, leaning against the wall, nearly hidden behind the door. Next to the rifle, on the carpet were five boxes of cartridges.
She wanted to forget the weapon, wanted, needed to get outside, but she knew that she would never bring herself to set foot back inside this house. So steeling herself to the thought of remaining in this room even a few moments longer she knelt down, slipped her shoulder bag off and stuffed the boxes inside. Then she picked up the rifle and fled.
She stood outside the kitchen door. The sun was dazzling to her eyes after the half shadow of the upstairs bedroom.
‘The sun did this,’ she thought. The sun that warmed her cheek as she stood, taking in deep lungfuls of the fragrant air. The sun that sparkled off the rippling surface of the river, and brought color to the flowers and sent shafts of light down through the luscious green foliage of the surrounding trees. It was the very essence of beauty, and yet it had caused this terrible tragedy.
93 million miles away it had ejected a deadly flare and a woman down here on earth ran out of insulin. People ran amok and disease spread like wild fire. And she, Georgia, stood outside a house she hadn’t known existed before today, revolted, nauseous and angry at the helplessness Mr Jenkins must have felt when he pulled the trigger.
She stood not knowing where her own husband was, if he was alive, or even if she should still be thinking of him as her husband. Her shoulder bag filled with ammo that would end the lives of ducks and rabbits and deer so children could eat. And maybe in the heat of battle those same bullets would tear their way through the living flesh of people as yet unknown, ending their lives as effectively as Mr Jenkins had ended his own. Was that not the ultimate paradox? That which gives us sustenance, kills us?
Georgia had never felt as alone as she did then. She looked down to the river and her canoe. She had the extra rifle, she could look for bikes somewhere else, another day. She could go back to her family, hug the children and the dogs, and sit with Lola and drink coffee and pretend she had never been here. Lock up this memory firmly in the depths of her mind. Then maybe this dreadful feeling of isolation would fade away.
Instead she turned and walked towards the ramshackle building near the top of the hill. As she neared the building she realized that it was in fact three barns, butted up against each other. The middle barn had a large sign, above the door.
‘Jenkins Automotive Repair’, the flaking and peeling paint announced. There was a cartoon drawing of a blue car wrapped round a telephone pole and beneath that, the words, ‘You wreck it, we fix it’. A long white streak of bird shit covering the e in wreck. Nailed to the front of one of the sliding doors was another sign, this one looking much newer. ‘It’s not just by accident that we meet’.
She grasped the heavy metal handle and slid the weathered wooden door open, surprised at how easily it moved. It had obviously been well oiled.
She had hit pay dirt she realized as she gazed around. The air smelled of oil, and sawdust and metal. Tools and parts of every description hung on walls and were stacked on shelves. There was a car over the pit with its wheels removed, but she ignored that.
Leaning against the back wall were two bikes; mountain bikes, both in fairly good condition. She walked over to check them out then stopped. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed aloud, staring in disbelief. There in the corner was an oxy acetylene set. With shaking hands she checked the gauges, they were practically full.
Fingers trembling, she checked out the fittings. With this she would be able to rig up a bike so they could haul that trailer right across the country if necessary. She had never used one like this, she was used to her delicate jeweler’s torch with its tiny tips. But how different could it be? Soldering was just welding in miniaturized form. As she looked across the shelves for something that would be the welding equivalent of solder and flux she realized that there was no way that she could take all this back to Stolen Canoe Point. The others would have to come here, and somehow they would have to bring the trailer with them. She kept searching and finally found what she was looking for. A large clear plastic tube filled with whitish rods, labelled, ‘fluxed brazing rods’. Pay dirt indeed.
She was loathe to just leave her find behind. She needed to hide the bikes and the torch. She looked wildly around the place, her eyes settling on the car over the pit. The key was still in the ignition.
Twenty minutes later she headed back down the hill towards her canoe. The key tucked safely in her pocket. She had locked the car, and in the trunk lay the oxy- acetylene torch, and the two front wheels of the bicycles. The bottles hidden behind a stack of old tires. She doubted anyone would find them in there.
She had checked out the other two barns and found one to be full of old car parts. A long time ago there had been organization; the long shelves with peeling labels and neatly written descriptions. Things she had never heard of. But she guessed that over time as more parts arrived and were traded or bought they were just dumped in there. Now it was just a chaotic mess, stacked to the ceiling in places.
It had the look as though, if you tried to remove one thing, everything would collapse. The other barn was nearly empty. Like the other two, it had a packed dirt floor and in th
e corner pushed up against the wall, was an old wardrobe and a dresser with a cracked mirror. It was, she decided, where they would sleep.
She had just started paddling when she stopped and looked back at the canoes, lying turtle on the deck. She was going to need another one after all.
The woman was still washing, working on a sheet now, by the looks of it. How long had she been at the Jenkins place? It seemed as though she had been there for days, but it can’t have been that long.
‘Did you find your uncle?’ the woman called, as she neared her.
She toyed with the idea of telling the woman what had become of the Jenkins, then decided against it. She didn’t need to hear about death. There was too much of it, plus she didn’t want anyone else thinking they could go and strip the place now the owners were dead.
‘Yes,’ thanks for that.’ It wasn’t entirely a lie. She had found him, just not alive.
The woman nodded at the canoe trailing behind, the rope slapping against the water. ‘So he lent you one of his canoes?’
‘Yes, bringing it back tomorrow, when we come back to visit, and thank you for the directions.’
She nodded, standing to ease her back, her hands on her hips and Georgia realized she was pregnant, maybe five months she estimated. ‘No problem.’
So when are you due?’ patting her own tummy emphasizing her meaning.
‘Christmas time, if all goes well. My neighbor has five children, she’s going to help with the birth.’
The canoe caught in a side current and began to turn, the other canoe drifting off, stretching the rope. Georgia picked up her paddle and straightened the canoe with a few deft strokes then she said,
‘I heard there’s a midwife living in a trailer camp on the other side of Warsaw, her own daughters having a baby in November.’
‘Don’t know her name do you?’
‘Sorry, no, but…,’
‘No problem, next full moon when this quarantine is over then I’ll get my husband to ride over there and find her. Might be he can persuade her to come live over here.’ She brayed again. ‘Lots of empty houses, can’t imagine it is going to be easy living in a trailer.’
You’re right there,’ Georgia said, ‘I met her husband, his name, by the way is Harold, Harold Fargo, tell him Georgia from Kansas City recommended his wife’s services.’
‘I’ll do that Georgia, thanks. Say, maybe you can come and visit sometime, when this quarantine is all done.’
‘Sure thing,’ Georgia said, silently adding to herself, ‘but hopefully we will be long gone by then.’
Chapter Sixty Two
Georgia was bursting with enthusiasm as she pulled the canoe out of the water back at Stolen Canoe Point and rushed up to the house. She couldn’t wait to tell everyone what she had found. But when she pushed open the front door and called ‘I’m back,’ only Ant came flying down the corridor, yapping excitedly. No one else was there to greet her and in fact the place seemed oddly quiet.
‘Hey, my little princess, how come you are all alone?’ she asked, bending down to picked her up. Ant snuggled under her chin, making those soft little contented noises that just made Georgia want to cover her in kisses.
Still holding her, she set her shoulder bag down onto the floor and did a quick search of the house, concern mounting within her as the house appeared to be empty. Finally she pushed open the lounge door, finding Ruby on the sofa, apparently lost to the world, totally absorbed by her well-thumbed Agatha Christie book. Having sporadic senility definitely had its advantages. On the ‘bad’ days, one could read the same book as though it were for the first time. Somehow comfortably familiar, yet full of surprises and unexpected plot twists.
She was so engrossed in the story that she jumped when Georgia went over to her and gently touched her shoulder. ‘Oh, my goodness, you quite startled me, I quite forgot you were here.’
‘I wasn’t…,’ Georgia began, then stopped, no point confusing her, ‘I was just wondering where everyone else is.’
Ruby frowned. ‘Oh have they gone out? Oh dear, let me think, oh yes, what’s her name? That fair haired slip of a girl.’
‘Lola?’ Georgia offered.
‘Is that her name? She wrote it down for me, I have the piece of paper somewhere.’ Georgia waited patiently as Ruby opened her handbag and searched inside. Slip of a girl indeed.
‘Ah yes, here it is.’ She peered down through her reading glasses. ‘Jamie and Deedee have gone hunting, and Lola and Rebecca have gone to get apples with Badger and Millie.’
‘Apples?’
‘Yes, it says apples.’
‘And what about Josh?’ Georgia asked, reaching out for the note.
‘Oh, it doesn’t say anything about Josh, but now I think about it, he went to sit out the back. Poor lad, he wasn’t very happy about being left behind. They told him he had to stay, to keep an eye on me you know. But of course that couldn’t be right, I expect it was really so that I could keep watch on him.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ Georgia said, ‘perhaps I should go and check up on him.’ Apart from anything else, she wanted to talk to him about the rifle she had managed to acquire and while she was about it, she could find out if he had any experience with guns.
‘Yes, you do that dear, meanwhile I will make us all a lovely cup of tea.’
Georgia found Josh sitting against the barn, his knees drawn up, and shoulders hunched, lost in thought. He only noticed her when she stood in front of him, casting a shadow over his face.
‘Do you want some company?’ she asked, as she settled down next to him. For a moment he said nothing and Georgia began to stand up again, feeling that perhaps she had intruded.
‘Why?’ he asked, so softly that Georgia barely heard him.
Georgia sat down again, not sure what he was asking.
‘Why?’ She echoed.
‘Yes, why did they have to die? Why didn’t I die? It was my fault. I mean, if hadn’t needed to pee so badly they might still all be alive. My family died because I didn’t go to the toilet earlier when we stopped at the gas station. They all used…,’ his voice trailed off.
‘Oh Josh,’ Georgia said, as she reached over and took one of his hands in her own. She didn’t really know what to say, instead she stared down at his wrists. Though the rope burns were beginning to heal, they still looked angry and pink in places. She squeezed his hand gently. She couldn’t help him with the why, because she didn’t understand it all either, but perhaps she could help with his misplaced sense of guilt.
‘Well…,’ she began, but he interrupted her,
‘And don’t you come at me with all that bible crap that God has some great cosmic scheme because…,’ he stopped, his voice choking up, ‘because that’s all just bullshit.’
‘Actually, what I was going to say, was that I don’t believe it was your fault. If Three-eighteen hadn’t happened, then your family would still be alive. They died because of that, not because you needed a bathroom break. How could anyone have known? You are alive because of that.’
Josh shrugged dismissively, his eyes following Ant antics as she suddenly took off after a butterfly. Fortunately it seemed to become aware of its precarious situation, darting skywards and out of sight, leaving Ant looking around in confusion.
‘Who knows,’ Georgia continued, ‘if you hadn’t stopped then, you might have died too.’
‘I wish I had,’ he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘I just want to die. I want to be with them.’
‘Don’t wish that, don’t ever think like that.’ Georgia said, ‘too many have already died,’ and as she spoke she thought of an upstairs bedroom full of flies, and a romance novel, face down on a bedside table.
As they sat shoulder to shoulder, Georgia shut her eyes, trying to clear her mind of such memories; concentrating instead on the rat-tat-tat of a distant woodpecker and the far off sound of bees. A light breeze brought with it the fragrance of wild roses and calamint.
�
�I know it’s not much comfort right now,’ she said finally, as she looked over at Josh, ‘but you carry a little of your family in you, genetically, and you carry the memories of your parents and your sisters, your other family members. One day…,’ she paused, she had nearly said, ‘One day, God willing’. ‘One day,’ she began again, ‘you will have children yourself, and you can tell them about their grandparents, and their aunts and other relatives, the little details, what they liked, what they thought funny, what they were good at and in that way you will be keeping their memory alive.’
‘You think that’s why I didn’t die? So I would be the memory keeper?’ He said this thoughtfully, as though coming to terms with the idea.
‘Memory keeper?’ Georgia repeated, ‘I think that’s a good way to look at it. I honestly don’t know if that is why you survived, but it is a bloody good reason to keep on living.’
Josh nodded slowly. ‘I guess,’ he said, ‘but it isn’t fair and it isn’t easy.’
‘I agree,’ Georgia said, ‘and that is one of life’s truths. Life is not easy, and it isn’t fair and we just have to do the very best we can, no matter what the circumstance.’
‘Yeah, that’s what that Crazy Horse dude said, that we must endeavor to persevere.’
‘Yes,’ Georgia nodded. ‘And he was right, sometimes that is the only choice left to us.’
Josh suddenly squeezed her hand. ‘I guess it can’t have been easy for you guys either. Rebecca was telling me about some of the stuff that happened on your way here.’
‘She did?’
Josh nodded. ‘Yeah, she did. You sound surprised?’
‘I am rather, she has been very closed off about it, but then to be fair, I guess we all have. Maybe it’s been a coping mechanism, but we just don’t seem to talk that much about the bad stuff that we see.’
‘Maybe that’s because what seems terrible one day, almost becomes normal the next. Like with me, for example, after searching hundreds of cars for food and gear, and finding bodies in so many, it stopped being shocking.’ He looked hesitant. ‘At least that is what I found. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still feel sad for those folks and all, but they are dead, and it’s not like I can help them or anything.’
Survivors of the Sun Page 59
