I couldn’t stop watching them. I’d seen zombies before, but none this far gone. They looked like mummies. One of them looked at me, or rather through me, before clacking her teeth together fast, like castanets.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why’s it doing that?”
The Scavenger seemed to enjoy my discomfort. “Just something they do. Wait until they start talking. That gets real spooky.”
I downed the rest of my chikka and immediately poured myself some more.
“What is that?” asked the Scavenger, referring to the bottle in my hand.
“Chikka.”
“What’s chikka?”
“You don’t want to know,” said my dad.
“Is it liquor?”
“Worse.”
This only served to pique the Scavenger’s curiosity, and after he produced an old tin cup from one of his many jacket pockets, I reluctantly poured him a dollop.
“I’m warning you,” said my dad, “it’s not like other drink. I had one sip and I wasn’t right for days.”
Derek brought the cup to his nose, sniffed it and then gulped it down, only to grab his throat in shock. “Holy sh—”
His exclamation was cut short by a series of violent coughs, and he stood up, steadying himself against the table as the power of the chikka took hold.
“How … how … can you drink that?” he asked, hoarsely.
“You get used to it.”
“What’s it made from?” he asked, returning to his seat.
“Beets.”
The expression on the Scavenger’s face was one of shock. “Beets? You’re telling me that stuff is beet juice?”
“Well, there’s some other things in there, but yeah, it’s beet juice. More or less.”
“More or less.” The Scavenger smiled, studying me intently. “So where do you get this ‘chikka’ from?”
“He makes it,” answered my dad. “He’s got a distillery on the farm. Grows the beets, too.” He sounded almost proud.
The Scavenger held out his cup for more, and I obliged, still only giving him a dollop.
“So where did you, uh, where did you figure out how to make it?”
That was a good question. I’d never thought about it before. I searched back, trying to remember, but in the end all I could do was shake my head. “I don’t know.”
The Scavenger dipped his index finger into the contents of the cup, sniffing it before putting it in his mouth. It was like a game to him, I could tell by the glimmer in his eye, and the moment he was ready, he took a swig, coughing the majority down his chin while holding onto the table for support.
“Holy hell,” he gasped. His face was red, and he spent the following moments staring at the table while the chikka infected his bloodstream. “It feels so … warm. Like a pair of socks out of the dryer. And fuzzy, like my mind is wrapped in a … in a … blanket.”
He looked at me, calculating. “So how much you got?”
“I think I got another bottle in my parents’ trailer.”
“No, I mean how much do you have?”
I knew what he meant. “Enough,” I said.
“Ever consider selling it? I bet you could make a fortune.”
“Nah. It’s more a hobby than anything else. You know, to get through the day.”
This produced an eye-roll from my dad.
“So this distillery,” the Scavenger continued, “you said it’s on your farm?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, pulling out a cigarette. “It’s right behind the barns. Can’t miss it. Says ‘Distillery’ right over the entrance.” I paused as a glint of excitement flashed across the Scavenger’s eyes. “I’d give up any ideas of showing up unannounced, though. It’s a SYS facility. I’m the only one who can open the doors.”
The Scavenger leaned back in surprise. “SYS? Really?” He looked into his cup, frowning. “But it is beet juice, right? I mean, if I found a supplier of beets I could make this myself, couldn’t I?”
My dad shook his head. “To get chikka like this, you need to plant them in the back, back fields. And I mean way back. David’s the only one stupid enough to do that.”
It hurt every time he said that. Still, there was no point in getting angry. We’d had this conversation countless times, and I was too tired to get in yet another shouting match, especially in the presence of a stranger. Speaking of the Scavenger, he was looking at me with that same expression of morbid fascination as when we first met.
“That’s right,” he said. “You died back there, didn’t you?”
I didn’t feel like answering.
“So what was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“Dying. What was it like?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Don’t really remember much once the whale fell on me.”
The Scavenger regarded me with narrowed-eyed bemusement. “So it really was a whale, then? I know folks in Rockland said they saw whales coming up from behind the trees, but I assumed it was because of a lack of a better word. That must have been one hell of an animal if people all the way out there could see it.”
“No, it was a whale, all right. Had barnacles on it and everything.”
“So a whale fell on you, and that was it? You don’t remember anything else?”
“Next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed. Could have been a dream, that’s how painless the whole thing was. In fact, there are still times I wonder if it really was a dream.”
That was the cue for my dad to jump in. “It was real, all right. I saw the whales. I saw Rosie pull your body from the soil. I saw it all, and believe me, it wasn’t pretty.”
My dad wasn’t the type to get upset. Oh, he could get angry, but those outbursts were reserved for my mother and I. My death, though, that was different, and he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.
“So he died in the field, then?” the Scavenger asked.
“He was crushed. His head was caved in. I couldn’t even recognize him.”
“And you elected to make him a revenant. Why? I thought that process was for animals.”
“Because he’s my son! And besides, when the SYS people came and offered to bring him back, how could I say no? There’s not a person alive who can grow crops better than David can. He’s a genius.”
“Never heard about no farmer referred to as a genius before,” the Scavenger replied with a smirk.
“Scoff all you want. Nobody grows vegetables like my son. They’re the closest thing you’ll find to being back on Earth.
The Scavenger studied me some more, observing with great interest as I inhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. “So the SYS people came, did they? Wow. So what is he? A robot? A clone?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” answered my dad.
“You must have some idea. Come on, Dave. What are you? A clone? I bet you anything you’re a clone.”
I had half a mind to ignore him: calling me Dave like he knew me. Instead I rolled up my sleeve to show him a scar running the width of my forearm.
“See this? Got it when I was fifteen when I fell through a plate glass window.”
I watched with satisfaction as the significance of my statement trickled into the Scavenger’s brain.
“So, is he any different?” he asked, turning to my father. My father merely shrugged, meeting the Scavenger’s gaze with that faraway look he wore when he didn’t feel like answering something.
“I’m a better farmer,” I said.
The Scavenger looked at me with surprise.
“It’s true. It’s like I can feel the plants talking to me. The soil, too.”
“You were like that before,” said my dad.
“But not like this. It’s different. If I close my eyes, I can feel the energy in the ground. And if I really concentrate, I can feel the whales.”
The Scavengers eyes widened. “Get out!”
My dad hated it when I talked about this, and he picked up his mug of cider, sha
king his head in frowny-faced disapproval.
“When I’m standing in the fields, and I close my eyes, I can feel them swimming around below. And they can feel me too. It’s like we’re connected.”
My dad was getting well and truly bothered now, and he called out to mother. “Mummy. Is that stew ready?”
Almost immediately we were each given a steaming wooden bowl of beef stew, complete with a hunk of freshly baked bread.
The Scavenger wasted no time, hungrily ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it into his stew before stuffing it into his mouth. It was graceless, and I watched in irritation as he went about emptying his bowl, holding his spoon like a farm implement.
“What about those two?” my mother asked, referring to the zombies rocking to and fro.
“Forget about ’em,” mumbled the Scavenger through a mouthful of bread. “I’ve got some old biscuits in the wagon they can have.”
My mother paid him no heed, placing before them their very own bowls of piping hot stew. She even offered them spoons.
“You’re wasting your time,” said the Scavenger.
“I’ll just leave them here, then,” she said.
She hadn’t even put them on the ground when one of the zombies scooped up some stew with its hand and brought it to its mouth. It was hot, nearly boiling, yet it ate as though there was nothing wrong.
“Oh, dear,” my mother exclaimed.
“Told you,” said the Scavenger.
The second zombie did the very same thing, licking the still scalding liquid from its gnarled fingers like melted ice-cream.
It was horrible to watch, yet there was something about the awfulness of their condition that kept me from looking away.
“Eat, Davey! Before it gets cold.”
My mother’s voice ripped me from my daze, and I took my bread, diverting my gaze to the bowl of stew in front of me.
“They bother you, don’t they?” I heard the Scavenger say.
I looked at him, or should I say, at his yellow-toothed grin.
“It’s not right, what you’re doing. The state they’re in, it’s not natural. They should be dead.”
The Scavenger laughed. “The same could be said about you.”
It got very quiet, the only sound being the tunk of our spoons hitting our bowls until the Scavenger leaned back and patted his stomach.
“Mm-mm! I haven’t had a meal like that in a very long time. Since Earth. Yes, your culinary skills are otherworldly, Mrs. Eno. Otherworldly.”
Mother cackled. “You’re very kind. But it isn’t me you should be thanking. It’s Davey. It’s his vegetables what make my food special. Now, I hope you left yourself some room, because I made some pumpkin pie for dessert.”
The Scavenger’s eyebrows nearly leapt from his forehead. “Pumpkin pie? Surely you’re teasing me.”
My mother disappeared into her trailer, returning with a perfectly baked pie, which she then proceeded to cut into even pieces. The Scavenger was mesmerized, following her movements with wide-eyed anticipation.
“Oh, my goodness,” he breathed, as she placed a piece in front of him.
My farm was the only one that could grow things like pumpkins and squashes, at least consistently. I had an apple orchard as well. For most folks outside Harkness, the closest they got to dessert was some jam on toast, and maybe some marmalade. Out here, a piece of pumpkin pie was gold.
The Scavenger had just picked up his fork when Rosie appeared, looking first at his slice of pie before staring menacingly into his face.
“She wants your pie,” I explained.
Rosie had a sweet tooth, the likes of which I’d never encountered in a dog before. She loved any kind of dessert, but there was something about pumpkin pie that brought the animal out in her. More than once she’d forced her way into my parents’ trailer, breaking not only the door, but dishes and cups as well, all to get to my mother’s latest sugary creation.
The Scavenger tried to laugh it off, but there reached a point when her staring became too much. “Go on! Get out of here!” he barked.
But Rosie would not be deterred, staring into his face while he picked up a broken branch from the ground, brandishing it like he meant to strike her. “I’m serious! Call off your dog!”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I said, half-smiling.
“David, quit being a jackass and get her out of here!” scolded my dad, kicking her with his boot.
Part of me was hoping he would hit her with the branch. Instead I took a swig of chikka, and patted my thigh. “Come, on, Rosie. Leave the poor man alone.”
Giving the Scavenger one final, pointed stare, Rosie-dog came and sat beside me, whereupon I threw her a piece of my own pumpkin pie.
The Scavenger returned to his seat, regarding the both of us with red-cheeked irritation.
“That’s one badly trained animal,” he muttered.
I threw Rosie another piece of my pie.
“You should be eating that, not the dog,” said my mother, crossly. “Look how skinny you are. It’s not healthy.” To emphasize her point, she cut me another piece of pie, placing it in front me with a firmness I’d learned not to defy.
It was then that I sensed someone behind me. Laurie Crawford. She stood there, wrapped in a green felt blanket, raven hair spilling over her shoulders.
“Hello, David,” she said.
I nodded, and proceeded to cut myself another forkful of pumpkin pie. I knew why she was there, and after a few more for mouthfuls of pie, I disappeared into my parents’ trailer, returning with an unopened bottle of cider.
“Is it all right if I pay you half now, and the other half later?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, returning to my seat. She was older than me, by several years, but she had the most beautiful eyes, and I’d taken to avoiding looking at them in case I started to stare.
“Would you like some pumpkin pie, Laurie, dear?” my mother asked.
I could feel Laurie watching me, and after several moments of silence she quietly announced she had something to attend to at her own campfire.
The Scavenger practically exploded with surprise. “My God, man! Didn’t you notice how she was looking at you? Why didn’t you ask her to sit down?”
I shrugged, and lit myself a cigarette, preparing for the inevitable pile-on from my mother.
“I know! Every day I ask him, ‘Davey, why don’t you talk to her?’ It’s obvious she likes you. Yet you ignore her. It’s so rude!”
“I know I wouldn’t be passing that up,” said the Scavenger.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” my mother continued. “I’m not going to be around forever. And then who will look after you, hmm?”
“Yeah, another woman in my life. That’s the last thing I need …”
“You’re wrong, Davey! Look at you! You’re falling apart. You need someone to love you.”
“I’ve been married twice, Mummy. It doesn’t work. Not with the farm. You know that better than anyone.”
While my mother muttered to herself cleaning away the bowls and plates, the Scavenger took a silver lighter out of his breast pocket and lit himself a cigarette.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said, smoke escaping into the night sky. “Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this godforsaken place, it’s that you seize opportunity. Especially when it comes to women.”
I stared into the campfire, memories of my ex-wives playing dimly through my mind. I loved them. Or had loved them. Especially my first wife, Jackie. I was a fool pushing her away. Truth was, I missed having a woman around. Laurie was beautiful, and there were times I wondered if I should invite her for dinner and maybe get to know her better. But who was I kidding? It could never happen. The farm wouldn’t allow it.
I fell into a daze, absently playing with one of Rosie’s floppy ears, when a demon landed on a tree branch not even twenty yards from where we were sitting. It surprised me. I hadn�
��t seen any since my death, and I watched with quiet appreciation as it took in the scene below, its pupilless eyes glowing in the twilight. It was such a curious thing, looking at one campfire to the next, little hands clasped together like a diminutive old woman. I was picturing a purse dangling from one of its arms when the Scavenger picked up his rifle.
“Don’t!” I said
The Scavenger merely looked at me, and with his cigarette dangling from his mouth, he shot the demon, sending its leathery carcass plummeting to the ground.
“I told you not to shoot it!”
With nary a word, the Scavenger ambled over to the demon’s carcass, hunting knife in hand, and proceeded to saw away at the dead creature’s spiral horns. He returned looking pleased.
“Gonna make some money off of these,” he said, with a satisfied grin.
I wanted to hit him. No, I wanted to more than just hit him, and I stood up from the table to grab my gun leaning against my parents’ trailer. I was angry, angrier than I’d been in years, and I pointed it at his chest. My intention was to scare him. Instead, he smiled.
“What is that?” he asked, referring to my yellow SYS branded rifle. “A flare gun?”
“David!” my father shouted.
I knew I’d made a mistake. I was always so calm. Distant. That’s what the chikka was for. But this man, this Scavenger, he’d woken something in me, something dark. I continued pointing the gun at him, finger on the trigger, until the familiar weight of my indifference brought me back to my seat.
My father and mother took turns berating me while I hid behind a mugful of chikka. That Scavenger didn’t know how lucky he was; one more comment about my gun and they would have been picking up his pieces from the neighboring campfires.
I sat there, feeling the liquor chase away the adrenaline from my system.
The Scavenger, meanwhile, looked unperturbed. In fact, I think he enjoyed my outburst, and seemed intent on provoking another.
“You’re a miserable bastard, aren’t you?”
I glanced at the gun at my feet and then into the fire. I wasn’t going to let him goad me into something I knew I would regret. Not now.
“Was he always like this?” he asked, turning to my father.
“What, you mean since the incident?” I could see my father was really beginning to dislike this Derek the Scavenger. He was hiding it well, but there was something in his tone that I recognized.
Planet Purgatory Page 2
