Scorched Earth (Book 1): Good Fences

by Craven III, Boyd

  “No, Pete wouldn’t let me go. He said it was really ugly. You almost killed George.”

  “Yeah, yeah I did. I don’t like that man.” I told her.

  “He’s dead, you know.”

  That floored me. “What?”

  “He hung himself a day or two ago. George Jr. buried him in the garden in the back, next to his potting shed.”

  “Oh God. I think I’m going to head that way.”

  She nodded to me and turned, carrying the raccoon by one leg in front of her and marched to the house. I walked down the fence line and stopped three hundred feet away to look at the McMansion that had fallen into disrepair. The edges near the house had tall grass, but the rest of the yard had been meticulously weeded after I’d tilled it up. I wondered what I’d say to Jr. What would make things right?

  “Hey, Mr. Cartwright,” his voice startled me so bad, I almost dropped my rifle.

  “George? How you doing, kid?”

  “I guess you heard?” His voice was flat and emotionless.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry if that means anything to you.”

  “It does. Thanks,” Jr. said, stepping over rows of late veggies and potato plants.

  I looked at him; he didn’t look as pathetic as he had when I’d first put in the gardens for them. He looked a little older, more fit… Definitely thin, but he didn’t have the markings of youth on him anymore. George Jr. leaned on a hoe and stared at me, lost in thought.

  “You know, it’s a good thing you guys found all those potatoes on the railcar,” I told him, trying to break the awkward silence.

  I’d heard about it from Brenda who had talked to a neighbor she was somewhat friendly with while on patrol one night.

  “It was good luck, I just wish we would have looked there sooner. As it was, most of a whole railcar was rotten. It was a mess,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I didn’t know what to say.

  How can you talk to a kid whose father you hated, especially when the father is now dead and there’s no one left alive to blame? I didn’t know but I stood there, not wanting to leave just yet.

  “Where did you find all the seed packets at?” I asked him.

  “Some at the closed up hardware store a mile from here.”

  Ahhh yes. Goldie’s Hardware, fish tackle, booze barrel. The man who used to run it had died a few years back and all of his kids lived out of state. They’d paid somebody to board it up so vandals wouldn’t break in. Apparently somebody had broken in, but they weren’t stealing from anybody, not really.

  “Good. Any news to share?”

  “You’re supposed to be the one with the radio,” George said, and I wondered who’d let that slip.

  “There’s nothing local. It’s all FEMA bullshit, listing to NATO operations scooping people up and putting them into camps. People liberating the camps. Really sad, depressing news. You haven’t heard anything?”

  “We had a few people move into the abandoned houses. They were pushed out of their places by some gang. Other than that, somebody shot a deer yesterday on the state land. Pete’s wife is offering—“

  “Yeah, let’s skip that.”

  “Trust me, I did,” George Jr. said and I started chuckling.

  “Nothing big, just this gang?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I guess they’ve moved from one sub to the next. I heard it was the one a few miles further down the road. Folks here are worried that we’re going to be next,” George said, scratching his nose before leaning back on the hoe.

  “What have you all been doing for water?” I asked him, curious myself and wanting to talk about something more pleasant.

  “The drainage ditch. We boil it now, after a bunch of people got sick, and a couple died. Tastes like crap, but you don’t shit yourself to death.”

  “Ouch. I’m sorry man. Listen, if you have enough potatoes to bargain with, want to trade for some corn in another couple weeks?” I asked him.

  “Sure. Now that dad is gone, I should have more than enough. I’ll probably see about working some for you in trade for some meat, or do some hunting. My canned stuff is almost out, but it’s just in time for this stuff,” George pointed to his garden.

  “Ok, well, I’m going to get going. I’ll see you.”

  “Later, Mr. Cartwright.”

  With a heavy heart, I walked away. Things were grim, but if we got the harvest out, we’d be in really good shape.

  * * *

  I called everyone in so we could have a sit down and talk. Everyone showed up except Brandon Sr. He was sitting with his wife. I relayed my conversation with George Jr. and a few of them seemed shocked at the suicide of his father. I didn’t know the old man’s reasoning, nor did I want to. It could have been anything. Guilt, shame, feeling helpless, feeling hated or maybe simply wanted to give his son a better chance to live on their limited resources. No matter what though, the part of the conversation that had stuck with me was the gang taking over things.

  It was the second time I’d heard about them and I had no clue what, where and why. Most importantly, it sounded like the subdivision where Frank lived. Randy was rocked by that news and we decided in a heated debate to head in that direction. We’d be sitting ducks on the road, so I showed them my proposed plan. Two or three of us would go overland, which would be slower, but four miles wasn’t that horrible of a hike. When we got close, we’d use a large storm drain that drained the edges of a field underneath the road. As a kid I used to play in them when it wasn’t springtime, always when I tried to play hooky from school or was in trouble with my parents.

  We could follow the ditch right back into the subdivision itself. We’d find a spot, observe for a while, and then come home. Easy, right? Not when I mentioned I wanted to go.

  “No way,” Lucy stated, with a tone of finality.

  “Why not?” I asked, “I’m the one who knows the way.”

  “I could do it easy enough,” Ken said.

  “I kind of figured on taking you along anyways.”

  “Who else would go?” Brandon Jr. asked.

  “I don’t know, Maybe Randy,”

  “So this is a boys’ club only?” Brenda challenged.

  “I mean…” I looked around the table and threw up my hands, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Kristen, Ken, Brenda and me,” Randy said pointing at himself.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Kristen, Ken and Brenda are expert marksmen. Ken has military training. Me? I don’t trust Brenda to be alone with Ken, Lord knows what she’d get up to with him in the tall bushes—“

  A playful smack stopped his words and Brenda turned four shades of red, glaring at her husband.

  “Why leave me here?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s kinda your place. Plus, we need you and Lucy to watch the kids. I trust you all,” he said to the Sandersons, “but Brian is kinda their second father. If something were to happen to Brenda and I, I’d expect him to raise them for us.”

  That was touching and the objection I was going to voice floated away into the ether. Lucy looked at me and nodded.

  “I don’t want you to go. We’re supposed to play cars tonight, remember?” Spencer said bouncing and jumping onto me in a crushing version of a bear hug.

  “Ok, ok. You guys convinced me. I’ll stay back.” I told them.

  Lucy visibly relaxed and the Sanderson boys looked relieved.

  “Good, besides. You lost at cards yesterday, you have dishes!” Kristen told me, laughing.

  “Do you think this should be a night trip?” I asked.

  “I’d like to get there close to dusk,” Ken said, “If we wait too late, we risk not seeing any activity. Only two of us have NVGs and I’d like to save those for walking back, so we don’t walk into an ambush.”

  “OK, you’re the expert on that.”

  “Good, let’s suit up,” Brenda said.

  In a flurry of activity, the four of them got their camo and gear together. Their nerves prevented much
in the way of hunger, so at about dinner time, they all got a quick bite to eat and then split, with Ken leading the way. The house was almost quiet when Brandon Jr. cleared his throat.

  “Yeah?” I asked him.

  “Uh, can I take the kids out to the barn and teach them how to milk the goats? I know it’s a little early, but there’s more light,” Brandon said, but he was red in the face, and not from anger.

  “Uhhh, ok,” I said, feeling confused.

  “Come on kids, you’re going with Brandon to play with goat babies!” Lucy said in a cheerful voice.

  They followed Brandon and his brothers out, the other two heading for the gate and one to check on their dad. I sat down at the table and considered my egg salad on sourdough sandwich.

  “Hey dummy, the house is empty,” Lucy said, undoing the buttons of her shirt before disappearing into the bedroom.

  “Yes Ma’am!”

  * * *

  After we made love, we both washed up and headed back to the kitchen to sit. From the window by the doorway, I could only just make out a goat on the stand.. So they were still out there. I smiled and looked at my sandwich I’d neglected to eat. I took a bite and marveled at the flavor. The mayonnaise was home made. One cup of oil and one egg. Whip it. Easy right? Only if you have an old hand crank mixer. Luckily my mom did. We’d been experimenting with adding onion or garlic into it for flavor by crushing it in a spoon, and then using the droplets of oil or moisture and mixing it in. This batch was by far the best.

  “Hey, that’s Brandon Sr.,” Lucy said, already halfway done with her sandwich.

  “He don’t look happy,” I noticed.

  “Do you think it’s Kristy?” Lucy asked.

  I nodded.

  Brandon walked in and sat down across from me, his grief stricken expression telling.

  “Did she pass?” I asked; we all knew she hadn’t had long left, even if she’d still had the medicine and chemo.

  “Yes. She was real lucid and then straightened up. She kissed me and told me there was no more pain. She sat in my lap and fell asleep. I felt it when she quit breathing. She just…”

  “Easy, Brandon,” I said standing up putting a comforting hand on his shoulder as he bent over and cried.

  I knew those tears, I knew what it felt like. God had taken another angel home. It hurt. We waited and, when he finally took the offered Kleenex, we sat back down.

  “So, the offer, is it still there? For her grave?”

  “Of course. You pick a spot.” I told him.

  “I think she’d like the top of the hill, between the corn and the back of the property. Under that big willow tree?”

  “That’s fine. How are your boys taking it?” I asked.

  “Much better than me. They’ve known for a year this day was coming. It’s easier on them I think,” he told me.

  “Lucy, let’s go get the kids so Jr…”

  “Why don’t you, in case Jr. Wants to talk?”

  “Ok,” I told her and took my sandwich with me.

  The sandwich wasn’t an acknowledgement that I didn’t care, it was fuel. The same way that the gas went into the tank of the quad, tractor or truck. Even thought I was fueling my body, the constant toll and struggle sure was draining. Bad news after bad news. It was depressing to turn on anything on the radio except Rebel Radio. We’d taken to start taking notes on survival tips and life hacks, and not all of it was coming from Blake. When he wasn’t online it was anybody and everybody who could be heard.

  Survival was the thing that tied us all together, and it sounded like the information was making a big difference for a ton of people. A lot of the tricks I knew from boy scouts and farming, but there were some that were just too cool. For example, a kid on the west coast ran out of water and was having a hard time finding fresh water. Salt water? Oh yeah, everywhere. He found a sunny spot out of sight and dug a hole in the ground, then put a stockpot in the middle of the big round hole. Small plastic tubing from his fish tank bubbler was clipped to the side, and the rest of it was pulled out of the hole and weighted down.

  He said he found the clear plastic somewhere in his father’s garage, though he wouldn’t say what happened to his family. He’d stretched the plastic over the six foot round hole, weighted it down and buried all the edges with sand and put enough rocks in the middle to dimple the plastic over top of the pot. Every few hours, he could come back and get several mouthfuls of pure water out of the bubbler tube, distilled from the sun. On rainy days, he put out every container he could, but it hadn’t rained much.

  Little tricks and life hacks like that were flooding in from all over, but the part that really bugged me about the radio broadcast was loved ones looking for others, and for the hour after Blake logged off, everyone talked about loved ones lost. The losses were horrendous and it was heartbreaking, and a little reality couldn’t do more than sap my spirit some.

  Spirit! That’s what I’d been missing. I paused my walk to look up at the stars that were starting to show. I had been missing my church and, though I thought of my spirituality often, I think I had been missing the good news and the raw faith. Somehow, I decided, we’d figure out a way to fix it.

  “Brandon?” I asked pushing the door open.

  The kids were sitting on the dirt floor, pushing cars. Brandon was putting the goat up, his movements slow.

  “You ok, man?” I asked him.

  “I think so,” he said softly, without meeting my gaze, “I knew it was coming, prayed for it to come, but now that it’s here… I just want my Momma back.” He said, silent tears pouring down his face.

  The twins looked up and stood, helping each other. They pulled Spencer to his feet and whispered something to him. Spencer started the running wobbling toddler sprint and when he was halfway there, the girls took off on their own. When they were in range the two almost ten year olds practically tackled Brandon Jr. in a flying hug. He let out a surprised laugh despite the near sobs and hugged them back.

  “I got this, you go be with you dad and brothers,” I told him, “and when you guys are ready, and I’ll give you a hand with stuff.”

  Kristy’s death didn’t bother me as much as I felt it should, but I really didn’t know her. She’d spent her time at the farm in the sickbed or knocked out by the pain. It was almost a blessing to the family that she went so peacefully in her husband’s arms. I think Brandon Sr. could accept something like that a little easier than if it was painful and ugly.

  “Come on kids, I have to watch the monitors,” I told them, corralling them towards the door.

  Spencer paused long enough to collect the matchbox cars, and then he took off running to catch up.

  “Don’t worry buddy, we’re holding the door for you.”

  20

  Ken, Kristen, Brenda and Randy made it back to the house after we’d gotten the kids to bed. I had been halfway dozing off, but Lucy was already awake, watching the monitors. She let out a small gasp and I bolted awake.

  “What is it babe?” I asked, “Trouble?”

  “No it’s… Ok, It’s our guys coming back in. I saw the fence opening and couldn’t really make out people behind it until the gate moved.”

  “Ok, good. Probably doesn’t help they are wearing camo and the night monitor gives everything a green tint.”

  “Right?” Lucy said, stretching and yawning.

  “Was Brandon ok when you last talked to him?” Lucy asked after a minute.

  “Yeah, he seemed relieved. Sad. He’s taking things a lot better than I would,” I admitted.

  “She’d been sick a long time,” Lucy said.

  “I know, I don’t think that makes anything easier.”

  “Probably not,” she told me, standing up.

  I stood as well and headed out to the porch. The night was the darkest I’d remembered in a while, with the clouds hiding what little moonlight we’d normally get. Adjusting to no power and no lights hadn’t been as horrible as I’d thought it was going to be, at lea
st in the summer time. We’d had running water, thanks to the windmill, propane to cook with for the stove and oven, and some firewood stacked and ready for the winter time. We’d need about five times more, otherwise I’d be hooking up the two propane wall heaters I’d bought and stored.

  Michigan winters are either mild or raging snow or ice storms. There is hardly a day that there’s middle ground as far as temperatures. It’s either cold, or ouch-my-breath-is-freezing-my-nose-shut cold. -30F isn’t that unusual in the central parts of the state, whereas the lake sides are a little warmer, and they get lake effect snow. The past two winters had been brutal, with three to four feet of snow staying around until March. The ground stayed frozen and wet for a while longer.

  Mr. Matthews always wanted to turn the soil and get started as soon as he could, and I guessed that job would fall to me. The coming week I’d be learning how to run his combine. I’d sat on his lap once as we did harvested, and he’d hired a truck to drive by while it was going. Once I knew how to run the machine, I’d need to have a truck or other tractor ready with a big trailer to get it done. Storage could be done in the crib or the silos at Mr. Matthews’s old place, but I didn’t think there was going to be enough storage, and we’d also have to set some aside for replanting. I’d leave a small stand up for it to finish drying out, and that could be my seed stock for the next season.

  “Hey,” I said when the four of them came into sight, their footfalls easily heard in the silent darkness.

  “Hey,” Randy said, his voice pinched.

  Everyone else was silent and they looked at me uncomfortably.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Are the kids asleep?” Randy asked.

  “Yeah, they’re out cold.”

  “Good, I’d rather talk in here after I clean up real quick,” Ken told me.

  They all started to file in.

  “How bad was it?” I asked Kristen.