There were just too many damn concerns. A continued food supply was a constant concern. Safety was a constant concern. Health, dietary, and sanitary conditions were constant concerns. Pam’s pregnancy was a concern. Claire’s diabetes and her stock of supplies were concerns. And now our water supply was a concern; and it was one I just didn’t want to add to everyone else’s list.
Joanna had been the only other person who knew about the mysterious tracks I saw at the pond the day we’d traveled there together, and we’d agreed not to say anything to the others. And with Joanna’s departure, I remained the sole barer of this worrisome revelation.
During my water collection excursions, I continued to find the occasional tire track or foot print that I knew was definitely not mine. While I didn’t particularly like the fact that someone else was sucking precious water from our pond, I also recognized that it wasn’t exactly our pond. It was just a pond, in a field, out in the middle of nowhere. For all I knew, it could very well be their – whoever “their” was – pond just as much or more so than ours. More than anything, I was curious about who was visiting the pond, where they lived, and more importantly, whether they could pose a threat. But I figured that as long as our paths didn’t cross, hopefully we could share the pond amicably and without dispute.
So when the 4th of July rolled around, I did my best to set my troubles aside and enjoy myself for a day.
We’d been planning something special for the holiday since before Joanna and Shane had left, and we did our best to convince them not to depart until after the celebration. We told them to wait another week as the festivities just wouldn’t be the same without them. But once Joanna had made up her mind to go, she was antsy to be on her way.
We began our Independence Day celebration at noon. It was kind of weird. It was our first such celebration since the flu had ravaged America and destroyed our nation as we once knew it. Were it not for the holiday’s ingrained presence in our being, we really wouldn’t have had much of a reason to celebrate it. The United States, as it once was, no longer existed. We were now all on our own. States were only represented on old maps or in name only. In a way, the flu had made our independence complete. We as a people were no longer reliant upon governmental services at any level. There was no longer a centralized banking system. There was no standard health care. There was no IRS or income taxes to be paid. Heck, there weren’t even incomes. As far as we knew, each man, woman, and child who remained in the confines of what was once considered a land of states united by a common government, common society, and common vision for life and living, was now solely responsible for his or her own care, well-being, and actions. Talk about a true Independence Day. I thought about moving the holiday’s date to the first known reported case of the flu for next year’s celebration. But upon further consideration, I decided that while more fitting, it would also be a somewhat macabre reminder of those we’d lost, and might be better fit to a new Memorial Day rather than a new Independence Day.
If nothing else, the date of July 4th now represented an opportunity to take a break from our normal routines, relax, and enjoy one another’s company while celebrating our common pasts and shared memories formed in a land once known as the United States of America.
We began our celebration with noontime beers. Actually, we made our drinking into a kind of game…a modified “century club” in which we took a shot of beer every five minutes – rather than every one minute as the standard game dictated – for a period of 100 minutes. We hoped that this would slow our drinking and allow us to make each shot count and better stretch our beer supply throughout the day.
Even with our slowed rate of consumption, after about a dozen shots or so, we were feeling the effects of the beer due to our reduced tolerances. Each small shot came with a brief toast made by someone in the group, either to a person or an event, past, present or future. Ray and Pam’s brewing baby was toasted. My mother was toasted. Claire’s father and brother were toasted. Janet was toasted. Our new home in Olsten was toasted. Joanna and Shane were toasted. Our future – as unclear it was – was toasted. As we got further into our drinking, I made a toast to old Poobah, the horse I’d been forced to put down back at Jonah and Wilma’s farm. Claire toasted Bessie the cow for the meat (the very last bits of Bessie) she’d provided us for our celebration. Everyone raised their shot glass to that one except for Sharron. Even Cashmere the cat was toasted. And by two o’clock, all the adults in the group were pretty well toasted too.
It was a searing-hot afternoon, and between our lowered tolerances and dehydration from the amount of moisture our depleted bodies were losing to sweat, we were feeling the alcohol’s full effects – and it felt good.
Even I was able to forget my troubles for a while and lose myself in just enjoying good drinks, good family, good friends, and good food.
Speaking of food, we had a lovely spread from which to choose when it came time to eat. Will and I worked the grill, cooking up the last of Bessie for our burgers. For an appetizer, Sharron brought out fresh-baked bread. She served it warm and with apple butter that she made with apples gathered from several trees on the outskirts of town. It was delicious.
“I wanted to make corn-fritters in the shape of hot dogs for everyone, but our corn isn’t ready yet,” she sighed.
She was right. While the corn was certainly coming along, and was well past the “knee high” level on today’s benchmark, it still had a ways to go.
Along with her bread and apple butter, Sharron also made rice balls that she rolled in a salt and powdered parmesan cheese blend and that we dunked in a marinara sauce made from our own homegrown tomatoes. These items hit the spot and were extremely filling. They probably could have been a meal in themselves, but it was a party, and the rest of us were ready for meat.
Besides Sharron, everyone had Bessie burgers. These delectable treats were served with pasta salad that included some of our own garden’s fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, as well as olives from Mary’s diner. There was an array of salad dressings from which to choose. Sharron begrudgingly allowed us servings of her bread to use as buns for our burgers after buttering her up by telling her how awesome it tasted and how “it would just make our burgers.” We used tomatoes, pickles, olives, and salad dressing to top our delicious meat treats.
While the adults continued their beer binge, going for an extended version of our drinking game, the kids were allowed to indulge in any type of soda they desired.
Sweet Paul, not wanting to leave Cashmere out of the celebration, presented our dear kitty with a live mouse, much to his mother’s distaste. Sharron gave him a good scolding for allowing the cat to “torture the poor thing” but looked the other way nonetheless. Meanwhile, Cashmere was in heaven, playing with her new toy. Later that afternoon, I caught her sitting on the front porch, a tail protruding from one side of her mouth.
“You’re one sick puppy,” I smiled at her.
She just gazed at me contentedly. It almost looked as though she were grinning. I figured she probably had the whole damn mouse in her mouth.
“Happy Fourth of July,” I bent, scratching her between the ears. She toppled over on the porch, rolling back and forth in the sun.
For dessert, Sharron broke out surprise peach and apple pies as well as an oatmeal apple cobbler that was to die for. We found ourselves salivating at the mere sight of them and found that they tasted even better than they looked. We thanked her profusely for her efforts and ensured that she remained in steady supply of pumpkin ale – her drink of choice – for the remainder of the evening.
After dinner and dessert, we sent the kids to burn off some calories playing hide-and-seek while the adults waddled to the front porch and collapsed into our chairs to digest.
“Man, I could really use another beer to keep this booze buzz I’ve got going,” said Ray.
“Me too,” said Will. “What about it, bro?” he looked over at me.
I thought about it for a minute.
> “Come on,” moaned Claire. “It’s the Fourth of July. Let’s celebrate.”
“Yeah,” Sharron cajoled. “Stop being such a stick in the mud. You can stop worrying about conserving supplies for one day.”
The others watched me with little hope of me giving in.
Finally I said, “Fuck it. Let’s drink!”
“What?” cried Will in disbelief. “You’re giving in?” He looked around wide-eyed at the others. “I can’t believe it! My brother…the planner, the preparer, the organizer, the rational rationer? Amazing! Absolutely amazing! I guess he’s just given us the go ahead to really open this party up!” he laughed to the others.
And so we did.
The next hour or so we spent comfortably drinking on the front porch. We chatted, told stories, laughed, reminisced, and drank more than we should have. It felt good to finally throw caution to the wind a little bit and let my guard down. Did I think about all the beers that we were consuming too fast and how they could be extremely difficult to replace? Yes. But did it feel fantastic just to try to focus 100 percent – or at least 95 percent – on relaxing, having fun, and enjoying life for a few hours? Hell yes!
As the beer intake grew, my worries faded until they eventually disappeared completely. And with the setting sun came the cool of the evening which helped us rouse ourselves from our languid lounging on the front porch to amble down and join the kids who were still frolicking out in the street and doing laps around the store.
I felt kind of bad for Jason. He lagged so far behind the older children. But he didn’t seem to mind, and as I watched him forge ahead, I was glad to see that he was pushing himself extremely hard to keep up. I reasoned that this sort of drive and motivation would likely be just the kind of thing he needed to succeed in our harsh new world.
We watched as the kids finally began to slow, tired by their rambunctious rampaging. Eventually they stopped – panting and out of breath – by the front porch where they fished cans of soda from the ice-filled cooler where we’d placed our assortment of beverages.
“Make sure you’re getting soda out of there,” Sharron chided. “I don’t want any drunk children on my hands this evening,” she muttered.
“A little beer might do them some good,” Will said. “Give us a little privacy later tonight,” he gave his wife a double-eyebrow raise and a sly grin.
“Keep dreaming,” she gave him little encouragement with a narrow-eyed stare in return.
“Awww,” he moped as he leaned up against one of the porch pillars near the steps. “I remember my grandfather giving me beer when I was only five,” he said, taking a deep drink from his bottle and then holding the glass up to cool his forehead.
“Yeah, and do you remember how that turned out?” Dad asked from his seat beside Emily on the other side of the porch.
“Kind of,” Will said.
“You were sick all night. Your poor mother stayed up with you while you threw up in the toilet until the wee hours of the morning.”
“Yeah…I guess I do kind of remember that now that you mention it,” Will nodded.
“I would highly advise against letting the kids partake,” Dad continued, “especially if you have any real hopes of getting some alone time with your wife later tonight.”
The kids were now trying to organize a little baseball game, but with just three of them, one of whom was too small to contribute much to the contest, they were failing miserably.
“Reminds me of when we used to get neighborhood games together,” I said. “Remember that, Will?”
“Good times,” he agreed. “Guess they’ll never know what that’s like,” he said, nodding somewhat sadly toward the kids. “They’ll never go to a pro ballgame and eat a hot dog, or try to catch a foul ball or home run. They won’t get to see a World Series champion crowned. Heck, they’ll never even get to watch another ballgame on television.”
We all sat quietly, our enjoyment of the evening somewhat tempered by Will’s gloomy realizations.
“They may not ever know enough kids to even play a real baseball game,” Ray added.
“Nothing more American than baseball and apple pie, right?” said Claire.
There were murmurs of agreement from among the group.
“Well, we have the apple pie, thanks to Sharron,” Pam said, “just not the baseball.”
We fell quiet again, still considering these thoughts before I said, “Well, if they won’t get to watch baseball on television or play it with the neighborhood kids, we’ll just have to give them a taste of what it’s like.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pam.
I picked up my beer, walked down the front porch steps, and turned back to the others who were watching me. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get a game going.”
“But we don’t have gloves,” said Claire.
“Come on,” I grimaced. “All we’ve been through and we need gloves? We’re hardasses now. We don’t need gloves. Sharron’s probably got so many calluses on her hands from all that gardening she could catch a major leaguer’s line drive and not even feel it.”
She nodded, inspecting her hands, “He’s probably right.”
The others started to stir, hefting themselves from their comfy positions. It took quite some effort to overcome the effects of the beer, full bellies, and contented relaxation, but we were willing to do it for the kids.
Everyone made sure to bring their drinks along with them though.
As we got our blood flowing again and found our motivation to play, we took some time to split up into teams. Even pregnant Pam played. We just made sure she stayed out of harm’s way and that we used a softball we’d found at the resale shop rather than a regular baseball to make things a bit safer for all involved.
It was a wonderful end to a wonderful day. We played until it was so dark out that we could no longer see. We kept score for a while, but by the end of the game, the adults were so drunk and the kids were so confused and wound up on late-evening wildness and sugar-highs from their soda binge that no one knew what the score was, nor did they care. All that mattered was that things almost felt like normal again, and for a few brief moments, it was as though we were back living in the pre-flu world. You could have told me we were normal Americans enjoying a normal 4th of July, and I would almost have believed it for a minute.
But we weren’t – not here, not anymore, not in the post-flu age. This wasn’t the second millennium AD; rather, we were approaching 0001 AS – “After Su.” And no matter how hard we tried, there was no escaping this harsh new reality.
CHAPTER 16
Ava stared at the back of Bushy’s baseball cap-adorned head. She felt her finger tighten on the trigger, squeeze it, and then relax.
She exhaled heavily, the gun starting to drop. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t shoot Bushy. Maybe it wasn’t that she couldn’t, but she didn’t want to, and she shouldn’t have to. She’d been with Jake for too long for this type of shit. She shouldn’t have to prove her worth.
Suddenly the sound of gunfire rang out somewhere behind her and bullets ripped into the side of the gas station above and around where the men were lined up for execution. Ava whirled around along with Jake and the rest of the men just in time to see a spray of gunfire issuing from three vehicles approaching up the street. Their soldiers instantly sprung into action, hustling to take cover and return fire.
“Get the Strykers on ‘em!” Jake yelled.
As the vehicles neared, Ava could see they were pickup trucks mounted with heavy machineguns in the rear beds. She also noted that each was painted with a large and very bright orange “X” on their side panels and hoods. It was the sign of the X Family. The families painted most of their property – their own or that of which they were protectorates – with the X insignia. The particular gas station that they had just attacked was a new acquisition – something Ava knew because of the intelligence report from Bushy but that Jake wasn’t aware of. It had therefore yet to be painted wit
h the Family’s “X” brand insignia and had in turn made for the perfect target for Ava’s intentions.
“Take the Strykers and…” Jake started to yell, but a bullet zinged off the curb beside him and a fragment zipped into the side of Jake’s leg. He collapsed on the ground, holding his leg and writhing in pain.
Ava rushed over and helped him to his feet, more anxious to extract herself from harm’s way and the role of executioner than get Jake out of the line of fire. “Come on, you’re hurt; let’s get out of here,” she urged.
Jake was a tough guy – or at least he acted the part in front of his men. The sight of someone else’s blood didn’t bother him in the least. But when it came to his own precious body, he didn’t handle injuries well. He turned into a whiny, sniveling wimp who required constant attention, and Ava decided to use this fact to her advantage to get out of her current predicament with Bushy. Ava had the ability to cast a sort of spell over Jake when it came to injuries. He allowed her to baby him, and she played the role of nurse and caregiver well when he was hurt.
Ava quickly helped Jake back to a waiting Stryker. “Back to base!” she cried, as Rambo assisted her in getting Jake in through the rear of the armored vehicle.
Typically, she knew that Jake would want to stay and fight. But she realized that right now, he would be more concerned with his own injury than fighting it out with the X Family’s men just to preserve his image. She also realized that he’d be more willing to go along with a tactical retreat if she was the one to order it rather than him. This way, he could blame her for the whole debacle when they got home, using her as the standard scapegoat to explain why they hadn’t held their ground. He could tell his men that it was Ava who had screwed everything up in the first place with her poor planning.
The Systemic Series - Box Set Page 73
