Oil Apocalypse Collection

by Lou Cadle

  When Kelly came up the road two minutes later, Sierra made quick introductions. “They’ll go in the Morrow house, I was thinking. I’m going back for Dev now.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s angry at me, thirsty, and hungry, but otherwise fine.”

  “Okay, go on. I have this.”

  Sierra went back for Dev, driving fast, risking headlights to let her go that fast.

  He was silent as he climbed in the car. Halfway up the hill, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Look. I’m sorry. Not that I did it, but that I didn’t talk it over with you.”

  “Sorry enough to change?”

  Sierra wasn’t sure, and she didn’t want to lie to him with a false promise. If she could be transported back in time twenty-four hours, she’d probably do it exactly the same way.

  They were nearly home when he spoke again. “It isn’t that I think what you did was wrong. Morally, it was right.”

  She could tell he wasn’t done. “And?”

  “I also worry there will be hell to pay for doing it. I think now, it might be that a lot of our choices could be between morally right and practically right. Do you get me?”

  “I get you.”

  “Next time, think of the practical. Think of strategy first, logistics second, and whatever you think the right thing to do is last.”

  Sierra didn’t know if that was possible, to change her thinking that much, but she meekly said she would. Intuitively, she understood that Dev needed a victory here, and she’d be as agreeable and compliant with him as she could manage. At least for the next few days.

  Chapter 10

  His father hadn’t let him sleep last night until Dev had given him a brief report, and his mother, who had come back as he finished, hadn’t let him crawl into bed until he had showered and had confirmed that he’d eaten. This morning, his mother had let him sleep in, a rare treat, and he lay under the crisp sheet and thought back to the end of last night and tried to remember what he’d said to his father. He’d been nearly sleep-talking, whatever he’d said. He hoped he hadn’t been too hard on Sierra. He didn’t want to incite his father to yell at her. But he must have said something about her because he wouldn’t have lied.

  He had always believed liars must have a hard time keeping their lies straight. Whatever he’d said, it was the truth.

  After the past five days, he’d be happy to stay in bed all day, but he’d never be allowed that indulgence. And there were chores that had no doubt backed up in his absence, with his father still injured. So, get out of bed. He had to say that to himself a second time to be convinced, but he did sit up, feeling the twinge of muscles strained by the cross-country hiking. His jaw hurt too, probably from grinding his teeth in frustration, and he rubbed it, feeling the roughness of his beard. He only shaved once a week, but it was past time to do that.

  He shaved first, and then took a hot shower. The sun was high enough so that the first stage of the two-stage water heater was engaged, a passive solar system that used a long, square black tank. A smaller electric water heater inside the house was the second stage, just five gallons, and at nights in winter, that’s all the three of them had to share. Lots of bathing schedules were worked around dishwashing in winter, and sometimes they went ten days with nothing more than a sponge bath.

  But today, with the sun high, up early, and setting late, there would be plenty of electricity and hot water, and so after his hair was clean he stood in the shower, head bowed, until he felt the water begin to cool. The electric heater would have the five gallons hot again in a half hour with the solar panels making electricity at near maximum.

  His mother had left a dishtowel-covered plate in the middle of the kitchen table. Under the towel were blueberry muffins. He checked the refrigerator for butter—that wouldn’t last long, he knew—and ate six muffins before stopping. He could eat six more easily, but his body was craving protein. Anything but peanut butter and boiled eggs. A note on the fridge said, “leave ham alone.”

  Inside the refrigerator was a ham that looked all the better for being forbidden, and one grilled chicken leg, a little dry. Perfect. He ate it standing over the sink, washed his hands, and grabbed another muffin before leaving the house.

  His father was with the hens, working one-handed at raking their yard.

  Dev crammed the rest of the muffin in his mouth and went over. “Should you be doing that?”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Dev swallowed. “I asked if you should be doing that.”

  “The boss says it’s fine if I keep my bad arm out of it.”

  “Do you?”

  “Hurts if I use it too much.”

  His father wasn’t the type to complain about pain. Dev assumed that meant it hurt a lot.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Off with the new people. Kind of a strange group to pick to invite to live with us, Devlin.”

  “Can’t disagree with you.”

  “But your mother says it’ll work out.”

  “I hope so. We need to get them trained on weapons as soon as possible.”

  “My weapons, I don’t doubt. You couldn’t have dragged back a family with firearms?”

  Dev didn’t say their new neighbors hadn’t been his choice. In a sense, it was. He could have put a stop to it when Sierra walked up to the car last night with the exhausted family in tow. But they’d been so pitiful-looking. And then there was this. “They got the dog to us.”

  “Not sure that will be of much use. Have you heard the dog bark yet?”

  “No. But it might, when it gets used to us. When it senses that family as its pack, it’ll be more likely to bark to defend them, right?”

  “Hope so.”

  “Better her than a yappy dog, who’d let passersby know we’re back here.” His father couldn’t find a word of praise? The two of them had come back alive. They’d brought news, at least one more defender, and the girls could be taught to stand guard, even if they weren’t strong enough to hold a rifle steady enough to fire it. With the dog, the abandoned gardens, the information they had gleaned, and no one hurt, he thought it was a pretty successful trip.

  “Can you move this over to the compost heap?” his father said, pointing at raked-up chicken waste.

  “Yeah. Then I’ll work on the garden, since Mom is busy.”

  “Don’t get too involved in it. She has a lunch planned at the Morrow house—or Kershaw house, we should learn to say—on the back deck.”

  Must be what the ham was for.

  Dev worked the garden until his father told him it was time to go. Then they walked together up the road to the Morrow house, his father carrying the ham.

  He waved at Curt Henry, who was on watch on the road while the rest of them met. He wasn’t the most sociable of men, so that made sense. Someone would have to catch him up on the news. “Do I have a watch today?”

  “Your mother said to give you and Sierra a day off that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank her.”

  “Sir, are you angry at me about something?”

  “What? No.” His father’s voice was sharp. But when he spoke again he spoke more kindly. “I’m out of sorts about this arm. Your mother barely slept while you were gone, and I know that was my fault. I should have been the one who went.”

  Dev wasn’t sure how to answer that. He tried for sarcasm. “Yeah, you asking to get shot like that. Bad choice. I hope you learned your lesson.”

  “Don’t sass me,” his father said, but his voice was more amused than angry.

  “Never,” Dev said. “Can you do much at all with the arm?”

  “Too soon to say about the future, according to your mother. She says six more weeks until the muscle heals, and then we’ll be able to guess how bad any nerve damage is.”

  Six weeks was a long time, and his father was likely to be frustrated and out of sorts the whole while. “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction,” he suggested.r />
  “What is that, Old Testament?”

  “Romans, I think.”

  “Point taken, son. I’ll try to be less of a pain in the ass.”

  “You got hurt defending our home and food stores. You want to complain some, you’re entitled.”

  They turned up the Morrow driveway. Kershaw driveway. Dev was going to have a hard time adjusting to that. It wasn’t a month yet since he’d spoken with Mr. Morrow, enjoying his quiet wisdom. Or since he’d found him dead and dug his grave.

  Pilar and Sierra were already there. Pilar walked out to meet Dev and shook his hand. “Thanks for getting her back in one piece,” he said, too quietly for Sierra to hear.

  “That’s not quite how it went. She takes care of herself.”

  “She said you’re mad at her.”

  “It’s fading.” Plenty of sleep in a soft bed had helped improve his mood.

  Out in the yard, the little girl, Misha, was running in circles with the dog, who was happily chasing her, running from her, and letting herself be hugged when she was caught.

  Joan Kershaw came out carrying a big bowl. “Hi, Dev. And you must be Arch.”

  She put down the bowl, brushed her hands off, and shook hands with his father. “Please, make yourself comfortable.” She gave a wry smile. “It feels odd talking like that, as if this is my place, but Kelly says it will be.”

  “That’s right,” his father said. “If you want to join us.”

  “I definitely don’t want to go back to town.”

  “Where’s your other girl? Kelly said there’s two?”

  “She’s inside. I don’t think you’ll see her today. I’m guessing not for a few days.”

  “I’d like to talk to you about weapons training with them. And for you.”

  His mom came out, carrying another bowl. “Later, Arch. Let’s eat and get to know each other. Then I want a more detailed report from Sierra and Devlin.”

  The first bowl was filled with vegetable salad, and the second with a brown rice salad. The ham was one of those spiral-sliced ones. One swipe of the knife and the slices slid off the bone.

  They sat to lunch and the adults asked Joan about herself. Dev’s father came close to grilling her when he asked about her skills, but she didn’t seem to mind. She could do minor repairs, had helped replace the roof on the church so felt competent at that, cooked, cleaned, mended, had briefly held a gun as part of a gun awareness class for clergy but had never owned one. “I barely touched it, to be honest. Just passed it on to the next guy.”

  Misha didn’t want to sit still, and her mother stopped her from feeding the dog twice. The second time she spoke sharply. “There’s not a lot of food any more. And people food can’t be wasted on the dog.”

  “But what will she eat?”

  Sierra said, “We have some dog food in the barn. You can have all of that. And then I guess Curt’s traps might come in handy.”

  “It looks to be a hunting dog,” Dev’s father said.

  Pilar said, “I was thinking the same thing. She can be taught to provide her own food.”

  “Yeah. It had its eye on the hens. I saw it go down at one point, looking at them. It’s a setter, and it sat.”

  “What’s that mean?” Misha said.

  “When she crouched down real still and stared at the hens,” Pilar said. “That’s setting. It’s what the breed is named for.”

  “Like the kind of dog she is?”

  “Right,” Pilar said. “An Irish setter.”

  Misha looked to her mother. “Can I name her?”

  Sierra said, “I wish there was some way of knowing her previous name. She must have one she is used to.”

  Dev’s father said, “You be careful with that dog and the hens. If it’s a bird dog, it thinks birds are to eat. You don’t want it killing your hens.”

  “She won’t kill anything,” Misha said. “She’s a nice dog.” Then to her mother: “I’m done. Can I play?”

  “Until I need you for washing dishes.”

  Then Misha and the dog were off again. Dev had mixed feelings, watching them run after each other. At one level, it was a nice thing to watch. But he also wished he had time to mess around and do nothing. But childhood was far behind him, passed into memory.

  “Isn’t your other daughter going to come and get a plate?” Pilar said.

  “Probably not,” Joan said. “But that gives us a chance to talk now, just the adults, about whatever you want.”

  Kelly said, “Dev, Sierra. Time to tell us everything you’ve found out these past five days. I know your father asked you last night, but we need to know more. First, are we in immediate danger?”

  “We could be,” Dev said. He told most of the story, with Sierra chiming in only when he skipped over something or to add in her part that he hadn’t witnessed. Joan clarified what she’d told Sierra about the invaders, their numbers, weapons, and attitudes.

  “So we have two possible sources of attack,” his father said. “The people who shot at you in the neighborhood on the other side of the road, and the Payson invaders.”

  Dev nodded. “Two we know of. There might be others out there. Small groups wandering around, hunting for food, that sort of thing.”

  “Sounds like the other neighborhood is more likely to come than the Payson gang,” his father said. “I’m not sure that was a good idea, leaving them groceries, getting them thinking about who is growing food and where.”

  Sierra didn’t look very repentant. “A friendly gesture seemed the best way to make friends.”

  “The days of making friends may be over, young lady,” his father said.

  Sierra looked pointedly at Joan.

  Pilar said to Sierra, “I need your assurance from now on that you won’t keep doing things without thinking, or without talking them over with whoever else is around.”

  “Even Dev?”

  “Him in particular,” Pilar said. “He knows how to shoot, how to hunt, and I think he has a more cynical—and that means realistic—view of the world we find ourselves in than you do—or than I do, for that matter. That attitude will be a good balance to yours.”

  “I’m cynical. Remember, I was attacked. I saw Bodhi get killed. I’ve killed.”

  “I know, hon. But I want you to be careful not just for your own sake, but for everyone’s sake. Remember, thanks to your generous heart, now we have two little kids to think about, and they aren’t going to be able to defend themselves for some time. So think about their vulnerability and how it changes things before you go haring off the next time.”

  “They’ll learn to defend themselves,” Dev’s father said.

  “Do I have anything to say about that?” Joan said.

  “Well, say it then.”

  “I was actually asking. Do you want to hear what I have to say about my daughters?”

  Kelly said, “Go on.”

  Joan said, “I think Misha is a little young. Not just in years. She is young for her age. You should think of her as a nine-year-old, not ten and a half, which is what she is. So it might be better to teach her to hide for now. I’m saying that I wouldn’t trust her with a gun yet. Maybe in a year, if we’re still alive in a year. Or maybe she’ll grow up faster now and it will be sooner.”

  Sierra said, “Is she a fast runner?”

  “Pretty fast, yeah.” Joan half-pointed at the girl, who was still at it. “She has good stamina, but when she crashes, it’s quick and hard.”

  Dev said, “They hiked a long way yesterday.”

  Joan nodded agreement and went on. “I’m not sure about Emily. Not this version of Emily. She hasn’t spoken for nearly two weeks, not since the first time they took her.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then Pilar said, his sympathy obvious, “They’ve been raping her all along?”

  “Rape, no, not technically. But forced oral sex, which is every bit as bad for a thirteen-year-old.”

  Sierra said, “Why? Why not pick on girls my age?”
r />   “They did at first. Some ran. Some got shot running. Many of their families got shot defending them. Two hung themselves, I heard, or maybe it was just one and I heard about it twice. One or two, rumor has it, seem to have gone over to the group. Survival strategy, I think. If it’s going to happen, try to win favors from the people who are going to abuse you—that must be their thinking.”

  “What did you do to stop them?” Dev’s dad said.

  Dev cringed at the directness of question, the tone of accusation. Though he’d wondered the same thing himself, he would never have asked her why she didn’t stop it.

  “I fought. I threatened. I begged. Here.” She was wearing a T-shirt with sleeves that ended just above her elbow, and she pushed them up. Her upper arms were covered with bruises. “And my neck.” She pushed back her hair, cut blunt at her shoulder, to show the fading fingerprint bruises on either side of her neck. “I was kicked in the back. One of them shoved a handgun between my legs and threatened to pull the trigger.”

  “Good God,” Pilar said, and he glanced at Sierra. Dev imagined he was thinking what he’d do to protect her, and how he’d feel if he could not. To Joan he said, “I’m sorry. I know it’s a useless thing to say, but I am.”

  She didn’t respond to that. “And they had found my church’s membership records, and they threatened to shoot every man from my congregation if I kept fighting them.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know what else to do. I failed my child, and I know it. But they had guns, and I was just one person. They said they’d shoot me. And then who would take care of Misha? I was still willing to fight. But then.” She stopped and closed her eyes. A deep sigh. “They said it was one or the other. Misha or Emily.” She glanced at Dev’s mom. “That’s when I stopped believing in God, at that moment. ‘This one?’ they asked me, holding on to Emily.” She dropped her head. “I nodded. I wonder if Emily quit talking to me, not to everyone. Maybe she’ll talk to someone who didn’t betray her like her mother did.”