57
Oliver’s House
It was near sunset when Kendall, Freda, and Lloyd returned home from their mission to talk some sense into Kimberly. Upon reaching Oliver’s house, they found a fire in the backyard with vegetables roasting over a metal grate. A couple of the children were using long pieces of wire to shift them around from time to time, making sure nothing burned.
Freda went to the fire to talk to the children. Kendall pulled Sharon to the side and could barely restrain his glee.
“You’ll have no more problems with Kimberly,” he reported proudly. “She gave it up in front of all of us. Said she was done.” He rested his hands on his hips and leaned back with satisfaction.
“That’s such a relief,” Sharon said. “I was worried about you all. I didn’t know how she’d respond.”
Kendall waved off her concerns. “I knew we could take care of this without anyone getting hurt. When she saw how many of us there were, she knew she couldn’t keep this up. This is the way they used to do things in my grandfather’s time. Community pressure. Peer pressure. People didn’t run to the law over every little thing. They settled matters personally.”
Lloyd had a lump in his stomach. He didn’t share Kendall’s glee but couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Several times he caught Sharon’s eyes boring into him but he looked away. Kendall reminded him of old men he’d met before who so desperately wanted to believe everything a woman told them. He was probably a sucker for every drug-addicted young woman wanting money for a bus ticket, a power bill, or food. Wanting to believe the best about people wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but neither was being naive a good thing. A fair degree of skepticism could keep you alive these days.
Kendall couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. “Well, I just wanted to share the good news. We need to get on home because I’ve got chores to do. Freda! You ready?”
She stood from the fire and hugged the nearest children. Those not close enough for a hug got a wave and a warm smile. She gave the horse an uncertain look. “How about we just walk, Kendall? I don’t think my backside can handle another minute on that horse.”
Her husband agreed. “That’s fine with me. Maybe we can walk off some of this soreness.” He hugged Sharon and gave Lloyd a firm handshake. When he was done, he untied his horse from the fence and limped off into the evening with his wife.
Lloyd started toward the barn. He needed to deal with his horse.
Sharon shot out a hand and latched onto Lloyd’s arm. When he stopped in his tracks she let go. “I take it you’re not convinced?”
Lloyd shook his head. “That woman wasn’t even a good liar. Those people just heard what they wanted to hear.”
“So you think we’ll see her again?”
“Yeah. I’m certain of it.”
Sharon’s face darkened with worry. She turned and headed toward the house.
“Sharon?”
She paused. “What?”
“It’ll be worse next time. Whatever it is, whatever she comes up with, it will be worse.”
58
Jim’s Valley
Ellen’s clan was preparing breakfast when a metallic clanging sound reached them through the open windows. For a moment Ellen flashed back to the initial days of the collapse when a hostile neighbor insisted on banging on the gate to get their attention. That hadn’t ended well.
“Can we not get through a single meal without being interrupted?” Ellen complained.
She grabbed a rifle and headed for the porch, Pete on her heels with his own weapon. Hugh was already in the yard. He’d been saddling a horse in the barn when he heard the same noise. He had binoculars pressed to his face, studying the figures at the gate.
“Looks like Mrs. Wimmer and one of her sons. There’s a woman with her but I can’t tell who it is,” Hugh said, passing the binoculars over to Ellen.
“That’s her daughter,” Ellen confirmed. “Only girl in the family.”
The Wimmers had initially been friendly with Jim and his family, agreeing that folks in the valley should stick together to better their chances of survival. They should keep an eye out for each other in the way good neighbors did decades earlier. Over time, however, their goals began to diverge. The Wimmers were not as paranoid and security-minded as Jim was. They hadn’t read the same books and didn’t understand the risks.
They didn’t really agree with Jim isolating the valley from the town by blowing up bridges. They didn’t care for his willingness to kill. When there was a bounty placed on Jim’s head for destroying the power plant, one of the Wimmer sons abducted one of Gary’s grandchildren. It had cost the kidnapper his life. Mrs. Wimmer understood why it had happened but it still left a bad taste in her mouth. She’d never forget that “those people” had killed her baby.
“This can’t be good,” Ellen said, starting for the gate. “I wonder what she’s wanting.”
Hugh slung his rifle onto his shoulder and fell in alongside her. Pete did the same but Ellen sent him back, advising him to watch from the porch. He grumbled but didn’t question her orders.
It was a long walk, but neither cared. Walking was the way of things these days. If the Wimmers got a bit aggravated at having to wait, it served them right for coming at such an early hour. When they reached the gate, Ellen stopped a good distance from it. Her rifle was at the six o’clock position but she was locked in. Her hands were in position, her grip was firm, and her safety off. The stock was locked into her armpit, ready to pivot the rifle into place at the slightest provocation. These people had been her neighbors for years but those bonds felt strained as of late. If they wanted a fight, she’d give them one.
Mrs. Wimmer had her hands on her hips like an angry woman complaining to the manager. “So, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Ellen was confused, trying to recall all the things Mrs. Wimmer might be mad about. “Is there something in particular that you’re talking about?”
“I’m talking about the bridge?”
Ellen nodded slowly. They had to be talking about the bridge the Wimmers had just constructed, reconnecting the valley to town. “We know you built a bridge. We may not agree with it but we kept our mouths shut. We understood your reasons.”
“If you understood our reasons, why did you burn the damn thing down?”
Ellen was floored. “We didn’t burn your bridge down. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Mrs. Wimmer looked skeptical. “Can’t you smell the smoke in the air?”
Ellen took a whiff and did indeed smell smoke. “It always smells like smoke anymore. That’s how most people cook. I didn’t pay it any mind.”
“It smells stronger up at our place,” Mrs. Wimmer said. “My boy there was headed into town this morning with a wagon full of corn. When he got to the bridge he didn’t find nothing but ashes.”
“There are farm roads that ford the river,” Hugh said. “You can still get your corn to town.”
“That ain’t the point! The point is we spent a month of our summer, no help from y’all, building that bridge. All that effort was wasted.”
Ellen was getting angry. “I told you we didn’t burn your stupid bridge.”
“You’re a damn liar!” Mrs. Wimmer spat.
Ellen couldn’t believe her ears. She’d never heard this sweet old lady utter a harsh word in all the years she’d known her. Was this what things had come to? “I’ve said all I have to say about it. There’s nothing we can do for you. It was probably kids from town. You know they’ve been burning down empty houses just for the heck of it.”
“Could have been kids,” the son said. “Or it could have been y’all.”
“I think we’re done here,” Hugh said. “You all are pissed off and we’re getting that way. We aren’t going to solve this matter here so we best just go home and go on about our day.”
“I think you should rebuild that bridge!” Mrs. Wimmer called as Ellen and Hugh backed away from the gate.
“You bitch!” the Wimmer daughter said, the first time she’d opened her mouth throughout the entire exchange. She rushed the gate and started over.
Hugh and Ellen aimed their rifles at her but the gesture had no impact on her. She kept coming until her brother lashed out and grabbed her by her belt, tugging her off the gate.
“You’re going to get your ass killed,” he warned.
The daughter was spitting and fuming.
“Good fences make good neighbors,” Ellen said. “Just stay on your side and you’ll live longer.”
“This the way it’s going to be?” Mrs. Wimmer asked.
“That’s up to you,” said Ellen. “I told you we didn’t burn the bridge. I suggest you ask your questions elsewhere.”
The Wimmers didn’t look like they were done but Ellen was done with them. She gestured at Hugh and the two of them continued to back away from the gate, unwilling to turn their backs on the angry neighbors. Seeing they weren’t going to get anything else from Ellen, the Wimmers left the gate and headed home.
“You didn’t burn that bridge down, did you?” Ellen asked. Her tone wasn’t angry or accusing, just curious.
“No. I was up late last night but I stayed around the property. After the dust-up at dinner, I wanted to make sure the couple from town didn’t come back.”
“Maybe it was them that burned down the bridge,” Ellen suggested.
“Maybe.”
When they neared the house, Ellen told Hugh that breakfast was nearly ready.
“I appreciate the offer but I’ve already had some jerky. I’m going to hit the road. Maybe go see this burned bridge for myself.”
“Be careful,” Ellen warned.
“Always.”
Hugh didn’t head immediately head for the bridge; he headed for Randi’s house. She was already up and working in her garden. She waved as he rode up to the house and dismounted his horse.
“Charlie up?”
“No, I think he was out late last night. I didn’t hear him come in but he was there this morning.”
“Mind if I speak with him a second?”
“Knock yourself out,” Randi said. “If you can wake him up.”
Hugh crept into the house, not wanting to wake up the rest of the family. He crept to Charlie’s room and opened the unlocked door. Charlie was sprawled out on top of his sleeping bag.
The light coming through the blinds revealed Charlie’s boots and clothing on the floor beside the bed. Hugh picked up a shirt and took a whiff, noting the powerful scent of smoke. He examined one of the boots and found black, sandy grit packed into the deep lugs. It was the soil of the riverbank. The type of dirt you’d be standing in if you were at the base of that bridge, perhaps building a fire.
“Find what you were looking for?”
Hugh snapped around to find Charlie’s eyes open and looking up at him. “You burn that bridge, Charlie?”
The boy stretched and yawned, the gesture morphing into a nod. “Yeah, I did.”
Hugh shoved Charlie over to make room, then sat down beside him on the cot. “I was hoping you’d talk to me before making any more big moves on your own.”
“I didn’t see nothing to talk about.”
“So suddenly you’re the one making decisions here? No one in this group acts alone, Charlie. Every decision we make is discussed first. We might not always agree but it’s good to get other perspectives. Someone else might see sides to an issue that you don’t see.”
“Jim never asks,” Charlie said. “He does what he wants.”
Hugh took in a long breath and released it slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. “If that’s what you think, you’re not paying attention. He always discusses the implications of his actions with others in the group. He may not be discussing them with you because of your age, but he’s discussing them with me, Gary, Lloyd, Ellen, and other folks. He always gets advice before he acts.”
“Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a fucking problem, Charlie,” Hugh hissed, struggling to keep his voice low. “The Wimmers were at the gate this morning accusing us of burning the bridge. Things have been tense with those folks for a while but not openly hostile. Now they’re ready to go to war with us, all because of this damn bridge.”
Charlie’s face clouded. “I didn’t figure they could trace it back to us.”
“They didn’t trace it back to us. We’re the most obvious choice. They probably thought of us as soon as they found it.”
“I never thought about that.”
Hugh reached out and flicked a finger into Charlie’s forehead. There was a hollow thump, like tapping a watermelon. Charlie winced and rubbed his head.
“That’s why we talk about these things. Other people may see aspects you didn’t see. I get your motivation here, man. I understand that you’re wanting to help people, but you don’t want to make things worse for everyone.”
“Like Jim?”
Hugh stared at Charlie. “What do you mean?”
“Like him trying to help everyone by flooding the power plant, but only managing to make life worse for everyone.”
“Exactly like that, Charlie. You don’t want this kind of responsibility. You don’t want to bring pain to the very people you love and are trying to protect. Jim doesn’t want it either, but he doesn’t always have a choice. That level of responsibility comes with being a leader. You have a choice. You need to man up and stop being a lone wolf. That’s not the kind of operation we run here.”
Charlie looked at the wall, tracing a finger down the rough groove in the paneling. “I guess I fucked up. What do I need to do about it?”
“You need to keep your mouth shut is what you need to do. Don’t tell anyone about this. Not Pete, not anyone. I’m going to try to spread some propaganda. I’m going to mention the trouble we had at dinner last night and try to convince people it might have been that couple that burned the bridge.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Don’t you worry about it,” Hugh said. “Just promise me you won’t do anything else without talking to me first.”
“I promise.”
“You swear on it?”
Charlie nodded.
“Say it,” Hugh demanded.
“I swear.”
59
Oliver’s House
“We’re picking corn today,” Sharon announced at breakfast.
“All of us?” Nathan asked.
“Yep.”
Tara giggled. “Even Mr. Lloyd?”
“Yes, even Mr. Lloyd.”
Tara cackled, finding it hilarious that Sharon was putting Lloyd to work.
“Corn day!” Stevie sang. “It’s corn day!”
Oliver had a massive cornfield below his house. He raised corn for cattle and deer, as well as a few varieties for human consumption. The field was around seventy acres but within that space there were individual blocks that separated the different varieties. He had everything planted to maximum yield last year but had not been able to harvest it because the fuel ran out. The fields sat all winter, the standing corn drawing game into the valley.
This spring Oliver had planted as much as he could using hand tools and hiring labor when he could. The result wasn’t attractive. It wasn’t the beautiful rows of neat corn that farmers and neighbors admire from a distance. It was a jumbled thicket of year-old stalks and new growth. Still, it was an edible resource and Sharon couldn’t let it go to waste. There was corn they could eat as ears, corn they could dry for their animals, and corn they could attempt to grind into meal.
When everyone had eaten and was thoroughly hydrated, Sharon had them fill more water bottles to drink over the hot morning. They scoured the barn for plastic bins, five-gallon buckets, and milk crates for hauling corn. The plan was that they’d all work together to strip ears f
rom the plants while Sharon used her cart to haul them back to the house. Nathan would ride with her and unload the corn onto the porch. Sharon had originally wanted to let Nathan operate the cart while she picked corn but they’d determined that the field was too rough for her to negotiate in the chair.
They loaded their containers into the cargo bed on the rear of the golf cart and Sharon drove it down to the field. Some of the smaller children chose to ride with her, while Nathan and Kay walked with Lloyd. It was a beautiful morning. The grass was damp with dew, the air was still, and wisps of fog hung in the distant hills.
They walked the road for a short distance, then turned onto a weedy access road that separated two blocks of high corn, where a herd of deer picked at the stubble. Startled by the appearance of the humans, they bolted in all directions. Some plunged into the corn with agile bounds, while others ran a short distance and paused warily. Two spotted fawns seemed unsure of what to do but eventually followed their companions. Though they saw deer nearly every day, the children never tired of it. They were part of the magic of the place, the manifestation of wildness.
“How do we do this?” Lloyd asked. “I’m a banjo picker, not a corn picker.”
Tara laughed, nearly as amused with Lloyd as he was with himself.
“What about you, Tara? Are you a corn picker or a guitar picker?” Lloyd asked.
She grinned. “I’m a corn picker.”
Sharon rolled her eyes. “Everyone is a corn picker today. Everyone takes a container. If we have more containers than we need, dump them out on the ground here. Everyone goes off into the corn and fills their containers. When we have a load, Nathan and I will haul it back to the house and dump the containers. We keep picking, filling, and hauling until we’re too tired to do it any longer.”
Lloyd decided to dive right in, picking up two five-gallon buckets and stalking off into the corn, singing at the top of his lungs. “She walked through the corn leading down to the river. Her hair shone like gold in the hot morning sun.”
The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos Page 35
