“I’ll be right back. Wait here, ‘kay honey?”
She laughed and kissed him again and then he was off, sprinting hard for Putt’s Mercantile. She watched him until he disappeared inside, oblivious all the while to the footsteps creeping closer on her blindside.
FIFTEEN
He chose stealth over force, his trigger finger ready, as he slipped silently down the first aisle. Racks of fishing gear—dusty bobbers and a few stainless steel rigs and even a couple of old rods—lined the back wall. He took a spool of line and some tackle, fumbling them into the pack.
The place was about what he expected—as filthy as the rest of the buildings he’d scavenged after the Reset. The shelves were mostly empty, aside from some moldering boxes of fertilizer and mole poison. There was a storeroom in back. The propane and kerosene cages had been looted. They’d made off with all of the work boots and rain slickers and hacksaws and hoses. They’d taken everything that had much of a use, and that part wasn’t a surprise.
“Might be going to Talmo after all,” he muttered, nosing the shotgun into a little office. There was a mattress in the corner with a set of skeletal remains atop it; the bones were clad in tattered dungarees, a moth-eaten flannel shirt and a cardigan sweater. A hole the size of a nickel gaped from the skull’s temple.
Someone had respectfully crossed the man’s hands on his chest.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered. The room had been looted, but the remains hadn’t been disturbed. Folks had exercised at least a modicum of deference for the person he assumed was Putt. Ben toed through the junk on the floor—papers and mildewed clothing and empty food containers—until he found the corner of a notebook just peeking out from beneath the mattress.
He flipped it open. Page after page of orderly print chronicled Putt’s meager existence after the Reset. There were photographs tucked into the spine of some pages. He checked his watch and found that he had just a few minutes left.
He flipped through the photos until he found one with writing on the back. It was an odd message, scrawled there in red ink.
Ol’ Farrah, though—that girl never let me down!
His eyes darted around the room. Old Farrah? Aside from a calendar (open to December of 2038) and a couple of yellowed promotional flyers for power tools and such, there was but a single decoration on the wall. It was a dusty poster of a woman in a red bathing suit. She was beautiful, sporting a playful smile and healthy, tanned skin; she wore an expression of vitality that felt so sadly wrong—so wholly incongruous—in that dank room.
He put his hand to the poster and felt the wall move beneath the weight.
“Hey now…” he said. He put the shotgun down and pushed with both hands. It was a false front. The plywood groaned and the ten-foot wall swiveled like a dumbwaiter, revealing a filthy crawlspace—a six-foot-deep hole stacked floor to ceiling with supplies.
Mostly, there was food.
There were pallets of canned goods and little boxes of fruit juice, shrink wrapped in plastic. Drums of freeze-dried soups and instant meals. Even a few industrial canisters of Envitasure, the same bitter protein powder he’d choked down daily through all those years in the shelter.
A boot-length duster hung from a nail on the wall, and there was propane and kerosene and lanterns and two hunting rifles, both still in their boxes. There were shells for the guns and a little pile of camping gear stacked in the corner. There were books—honest to goodness books. Ben pulled the top from the stack. He blew the dust off.
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
He considered bringing it before putting it back. Damn thing was a doorstop, and he was focused only on survival. He rummaged through the food. It made him dizzy, the variety of things Putt had put up. He opened a Hershey’s bar and wolfed it down, then chased it with an Almond Joy.
Whoo. That was something…
He was almost to the back wall of the crawlspace when he found it.
It was a little metal canister, no bigger than a cigar box. He undid the latch and found their salvation.
There were dozens of packets of seeds, held together with doubled-up rubber bands. He leafed through them—tomatoes and cucumbers and pumpkins and three varieties of corn. Beans of all sorts and carrots and lettuce. Mustard and collard greens and turnips and watermelon.
“Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Oh, my dear Lord, thank you! We’re home, Alice. We got what we came for.” Time was short. He stowed the seeds and decided to take the book anyway. Decent entertainment was about as valuable as the seeds. He filled the pack with food, slipped the duster on and crammed its pockets with canned tuna and chocolate bars. He pulled his pack on and grabbed the shotgun and closed everything up.
“Putt, you have no idea what this means to us. If we can see clear to finding our way back here, we’ll give you a proper burial. That’s a promise.”
He went to the front window and checked the road before sprinting for the blackberry bramble, canned food clanking as he ran. He was elated, and he covered the space like an Olympic sprinter.
“Alice!” he hissed when he found their spot.
She was gone.
He checked his watch. He still had ninety seconds. “Alice!”
He could see where the blackberry vine had been crushed beneath their weight and there were footprints—some larger than others.
And there was a pattering of fresh blood.
“Christ!” he yelled, charging onto the road. “Alice!” he shouted, frantic. “Alice!”
But the world was empty.
She was gone.
He turned his gaze to the overcast sky. Far in the distance, a carrion bird—perhaps that same old buzzard he’d seen perched on the sign—was gliding in circles high above the Earth.
Maybe they had ten minutes on him—probably less. The tracks pointed toward Bickley, and Ben set out in pursuit.
SIXTEEN
At least she’d drawn blood.
It was Quade that she’d stuck, and she was glad for it, even if the damage was minimal.
It hadn’t been Quade’s first time on the wrong end of a blade, either. The man was built like a lugnut, and he had a thin, shiny canyon of pink scar tissue snaking down across his face, from above his right eye to the edge of his left jaw. It must have been a real feat just to keep that pug nose intact.
“You won’t be so feisty once you meet Mr. Talmidge, miss,” he drawled. He’d torn a section from his t-shirt and tied it tight over the gash she’d made in his forearm with the little pocket knife Brian had given her for her birthday so many years before. She’d finally had a chance to use it for something other than picking splinters.
Quade flanked her while Pinnock paced them from behind. They’d disarmed her, and her own revolver was now fixed on her kidneys.
“You attacked me,” she replied. “What did you expect me to do?”
Quade leered at her. His teeth were rotting. “Like I said, Mr. Talmidge will take some of that starch right out of ye when we get back to town. Besides, it’s not much of a hurt anyway, miss. Just adds to ol’ Quade’s mystique, s’all it does.”
“Mystique,” Pinnock brayed. “Yeah, you got that in spades, Quade. Mystique! That’s rich!”
They had an odd relationship, these two—like a couple of contentious siblings. Maybe she could take advantage of their squabbles.
They had deserted the road from the start and were travelling a well-worn trail through a cypress slough. The ground squelched beneath their feet and she stepped heavily, leaving a trail for Ben to follow.
They walked like that for more than an hour—Pinnock and Quade sniping at each other like a pair of competitive sisters—until the trail opened up onto what had once probably been a municipal park. There was an old gazebo lurching into decay in the center of the park, and a forlorn play structure stood unused in the center of an ash-flecked sandbox.
The outskirts of a small, crumbling town were visible on the far side of the park.
&nbs
p; “Welcome to Bickley, Georgia,” Quade said. “Finest little outpost there is between Macon and Waycross, miss. Come on, now—step lively. We got us some introductions to make.”
She looked at Pinnock, who scowled a little and made a lackluster motion with the gun. Pinnock didn’t scare her at all—he wasn’t the same type of person that Quade was.
“Okay,” she said, and they crossed the park and walked into the village of Bickley.
SEVENTEEN
Ben caught up to them just after they’d entered the cypress swamp. The relief of finding her alive rumbled through him like an August thunderclap, and he muttered a silent prayer of thanks. His relief was quickly replaced by rage, and he debated whether or not he should make a move on the men with his shotgun right then—maybe catch them off guard.
He decided against it, opting instead to blend into the landscape as he tracked them through the swamp.
He watched from the brush as they marched her through the park before vanishing down a narrow alleyway. When they were gone, he scampered through the park, angling toward a cluster of houses on a hill overlooking the little town.
He was sweating by the time he’d finished the run, and he took cover in a stand of saw palmetto and put the binoculars on the nearest house.
Someone was outside.
He squinted, focusing the lenses, and saw a small girl swinging beneath the boughs of an enormous oak tree. She wore a plaid dress and had a doll tucked beneath her arm, and she pumped her legs as the swing climbed higher and higher.
“Good God,” he muttered, “what is this place?”
Bickley was an utter mystery to him. He’d been delirious with hunger and fatigue on his last trip north, and he’d chosen to avoid the place all together. He remembered seeing signs on the road but, instead of risking a trip into town, he’d trudged through the cheerless countryside on the path that had delivered him to the miracle farm.
The little girl slowed her pendulum arcs on the swing until it was safe to dismount. She jumped, and her dress billowed briefly in the wind before she tumbled to the ground. She stood, dusted off her knees. When she turned toward him, he discovered that she was sightless. Bulbous scar tissue covered her eye sockets, and her skull was misshapen—her forehead jutting prominently over those pockets of flesh.
“Ah, shoot,” he whispered. He knew there were muties—that reproduction had been difficult in the aftermath of the Reset.
She felt along the ground and collected her dolly before disappearing around the corner of the house, obviously comfortable in her surroundings. He spent the rest of the afternoon huddled there in the bushes, studying the houses and waiting for nightfall.
The little girl appeared one other time, just before nightfall. She brought a few dollies this time, and she served them tea, sitting on a blanket beneath the boughs of that great oak. She played there by herself and his heart ached for her.
After a time, she went back inside and the rest of the day’s light slipped away. When darkness fell on Bickley, he clutched his shotgun and made his way to the little girl’s house, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead of him.
EIGHTEEN
Main Street was deserted, most of the buildings little more than piled rubble. But, here and there amongst the ruins, a few structures had persevered. Quade offered a rolling commentary as they marched her down the street.
“The post office is still there. No letters, of course, but it stands nevertheless. It has other uses now. There’s the old VFW Hall, and Peterson’s Floral and the Quik Stop Grocery. Couple of decent houses still standing up on Banker’s Bluff there,” he pointed to a smattering of decrepit colonials in the distance, “and here we are—your temporary home, miss: The Bickley Tavern.”
They stopped before a nondescript cinderblock building—a dingy little place with two small, ash-streaked windows. It had a blue tin roof that was rusting around the bolts and a pair of black-tinted doors, one of which Quade opened with a flourish before bowing a little to allow their passage.
“After you.”
She stepped into the dim tavern. They had electricity—honky-tonk music poured from an old jukebox in the corner—but they weren’t using it to light the place. Instead, there were candles on every table, and lined up in rows on a shelf behind the bar. Her eyes adjusted and she saw that the place was packed.
All eyes were on her. Somebody loosed a small, celebratory yip from the back of the room and a current of nervous laughter rattled through the place.
“Go ahead, miss,” Quade said. “Take yerself a seat at the bar there, and I’ll go fetch Mr. Talmidge. He’s mighty anxious to meet you. As you can see, you’re a bit of a celebrity around here tonight.”
She and Pinnock went to the bar. Pinnock sighed heavily as he sat, placing the gun nonchalantly on the bar.
“Orange juice?” the bartender called.
Pinnock nodded and the bartender poured him a tumbler of something that looked like the real deal; Alice felt her stomach jump a little at the sight of it. She was salivating, and she swallowed thickly.
“Anything for you?” he grunted.
“Water, if you can spare it. Thank you.”
Pinnock touched her forearm and gave her a little nod of the head. “We’re fine for now, Griz. Mr. Talmidge’s orders.”
Griz sneered and retreated to the far end of the bar, where he was cleaning dishes in a plastic tub.
“Don’t eat or drink anything, if you can help it,” Pinnock whispered. “You and the rest of the girls—you need to keep your wits about you. You never know what they might do to your food.”
“The rest?”
“Mr. Talmidge, see, he works for someone else. Part of his job is to…”
“Pinnock, Pinnock, pinhead, pussy!” boomed a gruff voice from across the room. “Stop boring that pretty lady with your bullshit stories!”
Talmidge wore black, head to toe, and he walked with a swagger, his boots clomping loudly across the room. He wasn’t particularly large, but he had flowing black hair and a trim goatee and he wore a pair of holstered pistols, one beneath each armpit. Talmidge had presence—that much was clear.
He stomped up to the bar and slapped the back of Pinnock’s neck, causing the poor man to spill his juice. There was laughter and Pinnock’s cheeks flushed a bright red.
“I’ll take it from here, pinhead. Thanks for your help. OJ’s on the house.”
Pinnock went to retrieve Alice’s gun but Talmidge snatched it before he could. “Not! Yours!” he said, slapping the man’s hand. “Nice piece, lady. Buzz off, Pinnock! Go on, git!”
Pinnock cut his eyes at Alice, flashing an expression—sadness, maybe even regret?—that she couldn’t quite decipher. He left the tavern altogether and Talmidge slid into his place, smiling like a famished alligator, one elbow on the bar. “Welcome to my town, sweetheart. I hope you enjoy your brief time with us here in Bickley. What’s your name?”
“Alice,” she replied.
“Alice, Alice, Alice,” he said, playing with the word. “I like it. Pretty name for a pretty woman. You, uh…where are you from, Alice?”
“Arkansas,” she replied immediately. It wasn’t exactly a lie. She’d lived there for many years, back in another life.
Talmidge fished around in his pocket. He pulled out the apple she’d lost in the ditch. “And does this—this beautiful treasure—also hail from that backwater cesspool we once called Arkansas?”
She nodded.
“Is it safe to eat?” Talmidge asked. He wore a quizzical smile, the lines at the corners of his eyes revealing genuine curiosity. The man was enjoying himself.
“Yes.”
He bit into the fruit, chewing slowly. After savoring the flavors, he swallowed, smiled and put the apple back on the bar. “Damn! Damn, that’s good, Alice. I think I’d like some more of those. I surely would. The name’s Eddie Talmidge, although I know you’ve been briefed on that already. You took a nasty bite out of Mr. Quade back there on the road, b
y the way. Good for you!”
His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “Now, tell me the truth, Alice. Where’s your boyfriend?”
She frowned. “I watched him go into Putt’s and then your men attacked me. I had to defend myself, Mr. Talmidge. I’m not sorry that I cut him.”
Talmidge just grinned at that. He made a shooing motion. “Ah, he’ll get over it. But your boyfriend running around out there—that’s a bit of a problem for us, I must admit. He, uh…is he the big hero type? Gonna come busting in here with guns blazing?”
Alice shrugged. “He’s persistent. If you let me leave, Mr. Talmidge, I’ll walk right out of Bickley and never come back. Let me go and you won’t be bothered by him, I promise.”
“No harm, no foul, eh?” he said with a chuckle. Griz brought him a whiskey and Talmidge took a sip, smacked his lips, and fixed her with a level stare. “I’m afraid I can’t let you go, Alice. You see, it’s pure, absolute, 100%, Southern serendipity that you wandered into my life. You see these people here?” he indicated the smattering of folks chatting and drinking with a little nod of his head. “These are my people. Friends and family, mostly, but some others too. We’ve managed to make a little life for ourselves out here in Bickley, and it’s been damned hard work. But it doesn’t mean that we’re all alone. It doesn’t mean that we don’t have to make concessions to keep the things we’ve built here. Part of our—autonomy, I guess you would call it—comes as a result of an arrangement I’ve had to make with a fellow from Atlanta. A very powerful fellow. One time every year, I send the man a shipment. Just once yearly, is all, and the rest of the year we live out here in peace and harmony. And it just so happens that I was a tad short of his quota this year. Times are tough. Things don’t seem to be turning around much, if you see my point. I was…” he sipped his drink, “I was mighty worried, until you came along.”
Alice looked away. This was bad.
“Now this man, he has ambitions. Can’t say I agree with everything he does, or how all those ambitions are supposed to play out. But I do what he says, because what are my alternatives? Try to see this from my perspective, Alice. He’s got more men, more resources. More firepower. He could make life very hard for us down here. And he’s trying to rebuild, see? The man’s trying to start over.”
The Reset Page 10
