The Storm: War's End, #1

by Christine D. Shuck

  Scott Cooper stretched out on the comfortable bed. At the corner of the bed on the floor, handcuffed to the bedpost, was a girl.

  Occasionally he would hear her sniffle or sob. For the moment he simply ignored her. They had been traveling for days, hitting farms but not staying long due to the local militias. Damn, but he was tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well and they’d been on the road way too long.

  Most of the area seemed to have wised up and organized themselves. Memphis had a particularly strong militia in place, which would have been effective except they were also dealing with a nasty case of cholera.

  Just north of Dyersburg they had managed to get a truck. It was a broken down rust bucket. The engine ran rough, and none of the men knew much about maintenance, so they kept nursing it along, hoping for something better.

  After they had pushed their way into Tennessee, in late November, two men left under the cover of night, while on sentry duty. Two more had died in skirmishes with locals as they navigated through a warren of tiny towns and backwoods hillbillies who were armed to the teeth.

  By the time Cooper’s band entered Memphis he was down to nineteen men. At that point the women they had had with them in Mississippi were all dead and six of the men who had been too scared to leave now realized they would die no matter what. Four of them managed to escape into the sprawling ruins of the city; and the other two were shot in the back as they ran. Four more men, a buddy of Riley’s and three more grunts were shot by the Memphis militia. This left him with nine men. He turned and hightailed it out of Memphis heading northeast up Highway 70. Arlington and Stanton that took two more of his men, and another was lost on the outskirts of Brownsville. They turned northwest then, passed through Ripley without incident before losing one more on the outskirts to Dyersburg. This left Cooper with Riley, Kimmel and Eckhardt. All of them were bad, all of them tough as nails.

  They weren’t an army any longer. But that was okay in several ways. None of the remaining men were stupid. They were all experienced fighters. And with only four men, there wasn’t much advertisement to their presence. Try moving 200+ people through an area and see if someone doesn’t notice. Four men, however, were easily hidden. And it was just the right amount for hitting the isolated farms along the way.

  The girl gave another hiccuping sob. That annoying sound and the accompanying rumble from his stomach, made him sit up. He stood up and pulled his pants on and reached over to the girl. She cowered from him. Her shirt was ripped and bloody, her mouth cut and the rest of her clothes were gone. Bruises ran up and down her legs. Cooper unlocked the handcuff attached to the bedpost and yanked the girl to her feet.

  “Come on, you’re going to fix us something to eat.

  He dragged her past the other bedrooms, where Riley and Kimmel were still busy with the girl’s mother, and down the stairs and into the kitchen. The kitchen was all done up in red and white checked curtains, red cabinets, and matching accessories. Above a small table in the kitchen was a plaque that read “Home Sweet Home” and under that, “Welcome to the Austins.”

  They had taken the house in the evening, shortly after dinner that evening. Under cover of darkness they had stormed both doors, two through the front and two in through the back, and the family had been taken unawares, without a shot fired, while sitting in the living room. The blood of the menfolk had splashed the floor and the walls and left dark, rust-colored drag marks out the front door and down the steps. They had put all the bodies in the old farmhouse, out of sight.

  Eckhardt didn’t seem to mind the blood and gore at all. He was snoring contentedly on the couch, his pants off. Apparently, he’d gotten first dibs on the mother. Cooper hadn’t bothered asking, the others knew the girl was his and his alone until such time as he tired of her. This time might come soon if she didn’t stop her damned whining.

  He kicked Eckhardt as he passed him and the man jumped awake, a sharp hunting knife materializing in his hand. Disconcerted and still in the throes of his dream, he snarled at Cooper.

  Scott just laughed. “Find me a chain for her.”

  He ordered, pointing to the girl. Eckhardt sheathed his knife and walked away muttering under his breath. A few minutes later a cold, rusty chain had been attached to the handcuff. The other end of the chain had been wrapped around a column that stood between the kitchen and dining room and locked in place with a padlock. Cooper slid the key into his khakis and sat down in the living room. Morning was dawning, he had worked up an appetite, and after he ate, he wanted to sleep.

  The area was remote. They were two miles or so out of town and there was plenty of cover of trees. He set his feet up on the couch, motioned to Eckhardt to keep an eye on the girl in the kitchen and settled back. Cooper closed his eyes and smiled, they could afford to take a break for a few days, maybe even a couple of weeks. By now they had learned the trick of it. It had actually become rather easy to take the locals by surprise. Just hit them at dusk when their defenses are down and it’s too dark to go running through the woods when you couldn’t see where you were going.

  From the kitchen he could hear the girl cry out as Eckhardt moved in and pressed her against the countertop. His hands groped her.

  “Leave her be, Saul,” Scott called out without opening his eyes, “I want some good old Southern cooking in me. You’ll get a turn at that before too long anyway.”

  He ignored the man’s mutterings as the sounds in the kitchen turned back to cooking.

  An hour later as he gulped down the biscuits and gravy the girl had served up, he smiled. Maybe they’d stay for a while.

  Something’s Wrong

  “Because I could not stop for Death—

  He kindly stopped for me—

  The Carriage held but just Ourselves—

  And Immortality.” – Emily Dickinson

  Liza pulled her prized stethoscope down to her neck and stared thoughtfully at Carrie’s stomach. “I wish we had Doppler to listen to the baby’s heartbeat. You just don’t seem to be gaining much weight.”

  Carrie rolled her eyes at her little sister, “I’ve only been able to keep down food for the past month, sis, give it time.”

  Liza sighed, “I just wish I had more sophisticated equipment. At least we got some prenatal vitamins for you to take. Try eating just a little more at meals for a while, okay?”

  She stared at her sister’s belly speculatively and Carrie grew impatient, pulled her shirt down and sat up. It was true, she was barely showing anything at all, and she figured it had to have been four months by now, or near enough. As skinny as she was, it was weird that she didn’t have much of a baby bump.

  “All right, all right, I’ll try and eat more. You’re such a worry-wort! C’mon, I promised Chris this would be quick and then we could ride the buggy into town and look for parts for the windmill he’s hoping to build.”

  Liza snorted and headed for the door, “What the heck do we need a windmill for, anyway?”

  “Electricity!”

  Liza scoffed, “No way!”

  “Yeah way.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Also he can build one that pumps water straight into the house...including the toilet and bathtub. Maybe we could even get the regulator on the hot water heater going if there’s electricity.”

  “Really?” Liza closed her eyes and imagined the luxury of a long hot bath. Sponge baths and scrubbing their hair in the sink were the norm, despite the jury-rigged shower in the garage.

  “Really. I’m taking him to Dorian’s Junkyard to see if we can rustle up some parts.”

  Liza looked starry-eyed at the thought of having running water in the hall bathroom. Not having to hunch under the spigot in the freezing cold garage would be such an unbelievable luxury...and no more flushing the toilet with a bucket each time? Sweet!

  Then her thoughts turned to town and visiting Carl, “Wait, let me get some books, and I’ll take them in to...uh...trade.”

  Carrie smirked at her little siste
r, “Trade, huh? Trade kisses, maybe trade some gropes,” she would have said more but Fenton limped down the hall headed for the bathroom.

  His right knee had been bothering him for weeks and their grandfather was a wretched old grump when in pain. He fluttered his fingers in front of him in a shooing motion.

  “Carrie-girl, take that sister and brother of yours away to town with you. Joseph keeps wantin’ to dive into my lap sayin’ he’s Superman and Liza’s bout to drive me up the wall with all her wantin’ to poke and prod on me. And this damn leg is aching till I’m fit to be tied. You all go and get out of my hair for a while. I want me a nice, peaceful nap in my easy chair.”

  He shuffled past them and closed the bathroom door firmly.

  Carrie winked at Liza, “Well, it looks like we’re all going into town. Best get those books to trade and I’ll round up Joseph.” Liza grinned and dashed towards her room to put on a touch of makeup and run a brush through her tangled hair. She pulled it up in a ponytail, shrugged into her warmest coat and was at the front door waiting, books in hand, before Carrie could corral ‘Superman’ and shove him in a coat. Carrie eyed her sister sternly, “But you have to take him with you.”

  At Liza’s horrified expression, Carrie amended it, “He can play with Tabitha.”

  “Jeez, sis, and I thought you were cool!” Liza complained. Carrie just laughed.

  It was early February and Christmas had been the one and only snowfall that year. It wasn’t too cold, the thermometer on the side of the barn registered in the mid-40s, but everything around them was barren and dead except for the random patch of green grass. Winter had them in its grip for at least one more month, possibly two.

  The girls and Joseph pitched in and helped Chris finish with the morning chores. They hitched up the wagon, snuggled Joseph and Liza in the back under a thick lap quilt and Chris and Carrie shared another on the front seat of the wagon. Carrie had pieced the quilts together in the past few weeks, using her great-great-grandmother’s treadle-operated sewing machine to finish each quilt. It had been a surprising find. The sewing cabinet had sat in the guest room, served as a table covered with knickknacks. The sewing machine was intact and usable inside, and it had only taken some oil and a new belt to put it back into service. The quilts kept them toasty warm on the drive into town.

  Chris had never been to the junkyard. Jim Dorian was a collector, mainly of junk, but if you were looking for the odd or the innovative, then Dorian Junkyard was the place to go. When school had still been in session, the Tiptonville high school kids were taken on an annual trip to the junkyard. Here they learned to re-purpose old items into art, or cobble together eclectic furniture, and more. You never knew what you might find. After they dropped off Liza and Joseph, and made sure it was okay for them to visit, Chris and Carrie headed for the junkyard. Jim Dorian peered out of his double-wide, which was parked at the entrance of the fenced-in junkyard and grinned at Carrie.

  “Well, I’ll be. If it ain’t Miss Carrie Lynn Perdue.” He grinned at Carrie, “You made a lovely little charm bracelet, as I recall. Wore a sparkly blue tank top.” Carrie had tried to prepare Chris as they drove over.

  “Gramps says that Jim Dorian is some kind of savant. But he’s odd, I’m warning you of that right now. He’s got this amazing memory.

  Once he has been introduced to someone he never forgets their names and he remembers the strangest details. It usually weirds people out, but Gramps says he’s harmless.”

  “Morning, Mr. Dorian. This is my husband, Chris.” Carrie still loved saying that, “My last name is Aaronson now.” The disheveled man did not tell them congratulations as others had; he simply turned his attention to Chris.

  “Chris Aaronson, husband of Carrie Lynn Aaronson. Yes. I’ve heard of you. Wes says you were with the Western Front. He says you should go and not come back to these here parts.” Carrie gasped and Chris bristled. Dorian did not pause at their reactions, “One, two, three names, four if you count the old one, Carrie.” His hands fluttered, creating shapes, first a triangle, then a square and finally a ball-shape. He looked down at the ground for a long moment.

  “Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Grandma always said don’t let more than twenty seconds go by without making polite conversation.” He looked up and smiled pleasantly, “The weather is nice today, don’t you think?”

  Chris didn’t know how to react, but Carrie recovered quickly, “Lovely weather Mr. Dorian, the sun is shining. And it feels warmer than yesterday. We’re here to see if we can find the parts to make a windmill.”

  Jim Dorian’s eyes lit up, “A windmill! Yes. For water or for electricity. A majority of windmills have four sails, but really six or eight is best.”

  He began walking rapidly into the heart of the junkyard, “Come this way, twenty three paces straight, then five paces to the left.”

  He strode away, counting out loud and snapping his fingers at each step. They quickly followed him, exchanging glances, with Carrie shrugging her shoulders in an “I told you” fashion. Dorian was one odd bird.

  An hour later they had filled the back of the buggy with metal sheets, poles, struts, and what seemed like a million little components. “What can I give in trade, Mr. Dorian?” Carrie asked.

  Dorian’s eyes fell on her gleaming emerald and diamond wedding ring, “Five stones. One, two, three, four round ones, one square, that makes five. Em-er-ald and di-a-mond. Pretty.”

  Carrie smiled, “It is very pretty, Mr. Dorian, but I can’t offer it in trade. It was a gift and it’s my wedding ring.”

  She said it gently but firmly, making sure there was no misunderstanding. His face was blank in response.

  “Perhaps some food to trade, Mr. Dorian? Eggs through until spring? Two of our goats will be birthing soon, would you like a goat in the spring?”

  Dorian looked thin and a tad malnourished. His hair was dull, and his eyes were sunken with dark circles underneath. Not particularly surprising.

  His grandmother had died five years ago. In good times, everyone pitched in to help keep him fed. In a small town like this, everyone knew everyone else’s business. But it was winter now, and the good times were certainly absent. Most people were struggling to make it through the winter. The residents of Tiptonville weren’t bad people, maybe a tad neglectful, but Dorian never asked for help.

  Nelda Dorian, Jim’s grandmother had raised him since his parents died in a car accident when he wasn’t yet out of diapers. A hard-working, proud woman, she had instilled in him the basics – politeness, hard work, and an independent spirit despite his disabilities.

  Jim Dorian smiled in his peculiar way, one side of his mouth curled up, while the other stayed level. He always looked decidedly lopsided. “Pickled eggs, Miz Carrie?”

  Carrie smiled back, “Mr. Dorian, I will bring you all the pickled eggs you care to eat!” She was determined to slip in some jars of green beans and some fresh potatoes. They still had plenty of the russets left.

  A haunch of meat would do him good as well. She promised that one of them would bring it to him next visit into town which was sure to be soon, what with Liza liking to visit Carl. A sharp cramping in her abdomen halted her step up into the buggy.

  Chris had been helping her up, when she doubled over in agony.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, panicked. In the past few months their relationship had changed as her pregnancy progressed. Despite the fact she was barely showing, their lovemaking, once so frequent (as evidenced by the child growing inside of her) had vanished. He insisted that he was ‘just too tired’ and treated her like a fragile little china doll, handling all of the chores that required any lifting and bending. All of the chores, really, except for feeding the chickens and goats which Joseph was able to do.

  “I’m fine, I...ooh!” It felt like she was being stabbed, “Let’s just get Liza and Joseph and get out of here okay? Help me up in the buggy and we’ll get on our way.” But before he could even help her
up, trouble arrived.

  “What the hell are you doing here, soldier?” Chris felt his anger rise. It was, of course, Wes Perkins. He stood there, his hands on Ichabod’s reins. The horse shifted slightly, uneasy. Even Ichabod could tell Wes was bad news.

  “Good day, Wesley Perkins,” Dorian piped up, “Two names, no middle name, no middle name, none. Went to Iraq in oh-three and returned in oh-five. Two years gone, eleven years returned. Eleven is a good number. Very good, will be twelve soon.” He nodded, examining the ground. “They’re gonna make a windmill. Electricity, water, windmill, yes. Six blades, not four.”

  Wes took this in. He might have been a prick to everyone else, but for some reason he was always kind to Jim Dorian.

  “That’s good Jim, very good.” He handed the man a small sack, “I brought you some of that food I promised you last week. Why don’t you go put it away?”

  Dorian nodded to Carrie and Chris and walked away, peering into the bag and muttering as he did. He climbed the steps to the front door of his decrepit double-wide and went inside without another word.

  Wes’s eyes narrowed, “Building you a communications array there, soldier?”

  Carrie gripped her husband’s shoulder, trying not to scream as another horrible twisting pain hit.

  “Give me a hand into the buggy, Chris.” He helped her up, keeping eye contact with Wes the entire time.

  Chris sounded calmer than he felt, “I’ve told you. I’m a friend of the family, well more than that, now that Carrie and I are married. And you heard yourself what we need the parts for, so why don’t you just back the hell off, Wes? What is your beef with me, exactly?”

  That was all the challenge Wes needed. The man closed the space between them with one fluid stride. His face was inches away from Chris’s.

  His words were low and menacing, “I know a soldier when I see one. You’ve seen action. I know about that uniform you tried to burn and I am watching you, every day.” His breath stank and he obviously didn’t bathe often.