by Linda L Zern
The scrawny girl in the oversized army jacket had been creeping around now for a couple of months, always when the moon was fat and full, and the old man’s chickens were stupid with sleep. He knew what she was after. She was collecting up loose birds to take back to those juvenile delinquent killers camped over at the old armory building in Sanford, next to the big lake—junior militia types.
A chicken squawked. The girl must have managed to snatch one by its scaly legs. The kid had to have climbed pretty far up in the old elephant ear tree to get at it. They were roosting higher and higher lately, away from the raccoons and possums and coyotes, not to mention the feral cats that had started to infest the place.
Cats! Now those little buggers could climb, and the chickens were finding it harder and harder to find safe spots to sleep. Probably should think about locking up those dopey birds at night, make a coop of sorts, figure out a way to do it that didn’t tip anybody off that someone was still alive in Sanford.
The old man wiped sweaty hands on his coveralls. The name on the pocket said "Jacob." It wasn’t his name, but that hardly mattered anymore. The blue material was thick and kept him from getting ripped up by the blackberry brambles that seemed to be taking over the entire town. Blackberries were fine after the rains, and the berries were ripe, but for thorns, they were God’s own punishment.
Cripes! Blackberry spikes and vicious pets gone wild and now a creeping chicken thief of a girl. What next?
The crack of a tree branch coming down snapped out like a prepared answer to his stupid question. The girl screamed. Chickens protested. Moonlight drifted in a lazy rope across the sky.
The man wearing Jacob’s coveralls reached for his club. He stepped from the shadows and stared down at the unconscious kid on the ground in front of him. She’d fallen on the hen. It was dead. Maybe the kid was too.
The moon flirted over the scene, pouring light down one minute and then hiding away behind ambitious rain clouds the next. A shaft of light hit the kid’s face. A sheen of blood glowed wet at her hairline.
Probably should conk her and fix a couple of problems at one time: end her suffering if she was critical, keep his existence on the down low, and stop the sneak thief stealing his flock of chickens. Tempting. He lifted his club.
Moonlight made her look like something Rumplestiltskin might have spun up in a fairy tale. Great! A little white princess, falling straight out of the sky. Looked about ten, but it was hard to tell. He watched her hand twitch, sighed when she moaned and reached down to brush a twig of elephant ear tree out of her face.
Darby woke up to the smell of camphor. She knew that odor. She used camphor oil herself on the boys and young men still in the unit of the Junior Militia. A lot of them had died, but not if Darby had anything to say about it. Camphor was good for aches, pains, and colds. She reached up to touch her forehead.
“Don’t touch it,” a man’s voice said. It sounded like a rusty hinge that needed oil. “You don’t want that camphor oil getting in that gash on your skull. Too much absorbed in an open wound and you’re as good as poisoned.”
Darby blinked hard, trying to sort out the gloom around her. There was a curve to the roof above her. Smoke drifted up to the solid curl of cement, snaked along, and then finally disappeared out a crack in the ceiling. It all seemed so familiar that she felt she should know it, but her head hurt, and her eyes felt too heavy for their sockets. A concussion? She dragged at the last thing she could remember.
“I fell.”
“About thirty feet. That tree was an old one and pretty tired, branches come down all the time. Those chickens knew what they were doing. Here. Drink this. But you’re going to have to sit up.”
Darby pushed up on her elbows and set off a machine gun blast in her head.
The man’s dark arm braced her expertly across her back. “Slow down, girl, or as I used to tell my patients: Slow and steady beats throwing up!”
“Patients?” She looked into his onyx eyes. His hair hung in long twisting ropes, gray and black snarled together. She tried to imagine him in a white doctor’s coat. It wasn’t hard to do. The man still had a professional way about him, even after the years that had passed since the great power failure. He was cleanly shaven, which surprised her. Shaving was so much trouble these days: no razors, having to heat enough water, finding those last slivers of soap.
A lot of the men didn't bother with it anymore, disappearing behind their facial hair, hiding out; but not Ryan, not her brother. He always shaved. He said he wasn't ready to go wild man just yet.
The way the old man stared at her made her realize she'd drifted.
"Sorry."
He handed her an enameled blue camp cup with warm water. "Don't worry. It's been boiled clean. I mean what's the point of surviving a fall like that, only to die of dysentery."
She drank.
"Where are we?" Darby's voice jumped and bounced. "What is this place?" She squinted at the name on his chest. "Jacob?"
"This place is just me hiding in plain sight." He reached up and rubbed his fingers across the name. "But not Jacob." He considered a moment. "Doc. Just call me Doc. I don't know what might have happened to this grease monkey Jake, but I'm grateful for his sturdy uniform."
"Was it white?" The question popped out.
Doc looked confused. "What?"
"Your doctor's coat. Was it white?"
His lip twitched when he almost smiled. "Yeah. Why?"
She settled back on a mound of folded blankets. "A white doctor's coat, that's what I would have liked . . . if . . ." She let the sentence trail away. She'd broken the unwritten law. What was possible from before did not exist. There was only today, and tomorrow hardly mattered if you starved in the right now. Talking about what might have been was close to murder because it reminded people of a future that had died.
Doc didn't press her to finish.
"What is this place?"
He settled back into the curve of the wall and rapped his knuckle against the cement. "Home. It's an old culvert in a stack of culverts, and it's all I need or want." He gave her a narrowed look. "You going to let those miniature G. I. Joes know about me? Because if you are, I'm going to have to insist that you don't." His voice had taken on a brittle, slicing edge.
"No. I won’t." She shook her head and regretted it. Moaning, she covered her eyes with her hands.
"For a chicken thief, you're not too tough." He reached for a crumpled ladle with part of its handle missing. "Eat something. You're malnourished—a lot or a little—I can't quite tell." He leaned forward, first stirring a cook pot and then dipping a scoop of whatever was steaming into a stone bowl. Handing it to her, Doc explained, "It's a dog bowl, but don't worry, I'm not serving dog tonight."
Darby sipped the broth and scooped the meat into her mouth. It was smooth, long muscled, better than chicken. Ahhh, rabbit stew. "It's good."
"You killed my chicken when you fell." He kept his eyes on the pot.
She shuddered thinking about the sickening drop. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know they belonged to anyone. I've got a truck rigged up with wire so the chickens are safe and so we can find the eggs. Darby's Egg Truck. That's what they call it. The boys." Their names rolled through her head like a mournful wail: Titus, Merritt, Parrish—Ryan, her brother’s nickname—the new kid, Tallahassee. She didn't mention her two sisters being part of the camp. It was better to keep some things quiet.
"Is that what you call them? Boys? That hasn't been my experience with them—pretty brutal to be called boys."
She must have flinched because his eyebrows lowered as he studied her. His look was quick and knowing. "They keeping you against your will,
Girl?"
She didn't want to shake her head again and risk setting off the pain that made her want to throw up. "No," she said, but her voice quivered, even she could hear it. "My brother and sisters, we're part of the militia. I mean we were." She paused. "Back when the militia was still around. Now—”
He cut her off. "Now, you're part of a gang of chicken-stealing marauders." He took the empty cup out of her hand.
It sounded so harsh, but when she glanced at him, there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—laugh lines—her daddy had them too. For the first time since she'd opened her eyes, she relaxed. He was teasing her. Teasing was something her brother did.
"How old are you? Do you know?"
She huffed, insulted. "Of course I know. I'm thirteen, almost fourteen. I remember birthday cakes and candles and balloons. I'm not stupid. I'm not like one of those little kids too young to remember anything, not even their names—those Doe Kids."
Surprised, he sat up straighter, his head brushing the top of the half circle of concrete. "Well, I guess you aren't stupid. My apologies."
The fire was small and nearly smokeless. It was the fire of a careful man. He fed a few small, dry sticks into the flame. A cheery crackle filled the space.
"Not like dough, bread dough or something like that?" He kept his face turned to the fire; his dark cheeks gleamed with light. The impossible summer heat had finally broken, and there'd been the first hint of fall air. She waited for him to finish the sentence. Silence settled over the man and the moment.
"No," she continued. "Like the people who died and no one knew who they were, and when you went into the ground they called you a John Doe or Jane for girls. So many kids out there who were too young when the cities went dark to remember. You know? They lived through it, but they don't remember why, or who it was that helped them get this far. Kids without their first names."
"Doe Kids,” he repeated. “Pretty sad." He blew air out as he sighed. "You come up with that?"
The question surprised her. She couldn't remember when she'd first heard the phrase “Doe Kids,” and that bothered her. She shrugged and felt a warning prickle on the back of her neck. Why had he asked that? What was he trying to figure out about her? About their camp?
She suddenly worried that she'd said more than she should have. Hadn't her brother warned her about giving up too much information to strangers who could be enemies, who probably were enemies? Must have hit her head harder than she thought. Darby shoved the blanket off.
"Hey now, girl, you sure you want to try and leave?"
She froze. "Are you saying I can't leave?"
He snorted. "Ease back. I'm saying I don't want to find you face down in a fire ant hill tomorrow." He took the blanket from her.
"I have to get back. My brother will be worried if I'm not at breakfast roll call." She leaned forward, braced against the lip of the tube, and pulled herself to standing. His hidey-hole was the bottom culvert in a forgotten stack. The other culverts were half filled with dirt and weeds. Moonlight highlighted the tangle of brush and brambles that covered the pile, growing up in a thicket. Blackberries grew right up to the opening. She couldn't see a footpath that led away.
She looked at the man tucked in his stone burrow. "How do I get out of here?"
His eyebrows winged up. "If I show you how to get out of here, what's to keep you from sending your kill team back here to wipe me out?"
So she wasn't the only one worried about giving away all the secrets, she decided. "We don't have a kill team, first of all. And second of all, I'm not like that. I wouldn't do that."
He folded the blanket into a neat square and tucked it away. "I noticed you said 'I'm not like that' not 'they aren't like that.' Don't make me regret this." He reached up and pulled a rope dangling next to his head. A pile of tangled hedge rolled back, exposing a well-worn footpath through the savage thorn bushes.
She couldn't stop herself. "Hey! That's pretty cool, Doc."
“Thanks. I find that giving myself something to invent keeps the old gray matter happy.”
The flash of his smile from behind the fire made her lightheaded. No, not the smile; it was probably the bonk on the head that made her dizzy, but it was so surprising and oddly comforting to see this grownup smiling at her.
"I won't tell."
He smiled again and nodded. "Thanks. And I won't shoot you the next time you come to steal chickens. Just ask. I'll share."
It was her turn to grin and nod.
She turned to go. Doc's next question came softly on the wet night air. "What's your name, kid?"
Names. They were important. It gave people power over you when they knew your name. That’s what her brother said, her sisters too. She hesitated and then said, "Darby. My name is Darby."
In the morning, sitting on a length of cypress log, Darby watched the squad peel hardboiled eggs, tossing the shells into the smoky fire in the center of the parking lot. A couple of the boys wouldn’t have eaten a hardboiled egg on a dare if they’d had choices. But life wasn’t about choices anymore. You ate what there was and hoped that when tomorrow came, there'd be more to eat.
The new kid with his crazy thatch of thick red hair plopped down next to Darby, gave her a big goofy grin, and then chomped his egg in half. “Thanks. They told me the eggs were because of you. Darby’s eggs.”
She shrugged. Didn’t pay to be too friendly. Parrish wouldn’t like it. She realized she thought of her brother as Parrish when she was in camp, not Ryan, but Parrish, a leader who kept his own councils and enforced order. And then there were others in camp who wouldn’t like her chatting with one of the new boys, the ones they called puppies.
But this kid was around her age, probably. She was shocked to find herself curious. Darby scanned the faces around the morning fire. No one seemed to pay any attention to one green recruit and one quiet girl in oversized clothes. It felt like hunger, the curiosity.
The boy chewed like a big, contented goat. Darby closed her eyes and let the sun warm the bruise on her head, soothing her thumping headache. She reached up and flinched when her fingers found the lump under her hair. She opened her eyes.
The boy frowned down at her.
“What’s up with your head? You sick? What happens when you get sick? I thought you were the medic. Or is it that other guy? Is he the medic?” The boy pointed at a guy they called Brevard.
She shrugged him off. “Just bumped myself. I’m not sick. Just tired.”
“Why aren’t you eating anything? I’m always hungry.” He licked his fingers.
Darby’s stomach rolled at the thought of eating breakfast. Maybe she was getting sick.
Maybe.
“Hey! How old are you anyway?”
He wasn’t prying. He seemed to really want to know. Hadn’t been around the militia long enough to learn all the rules. Poke your nose into other’s business, you might get poked back. He grinned again. She couldn’t stop herself. She smiled too.
“Thirteen.”
“Hey, me too. I kept track on the side of the storage unit in Tallahassee where I lived. When’s your birthday? Mine’s soon. Your brother’s the quiet tough one, right? He’s a little scary, but in a good way. Me, I’m not scary. I’m just fast.”
He talked fast too and was full of a bright, happy energy that matched his quick blue eyes. How was that possible? She knew something of his story; beaten up, orphaned, half-starved, living in a junk-filled storage unit—alone. Tallahassee. Born in Tallahassee, so that was his name now. He took a breath and then plunged ahead.
“I’ve heard them,” he said, nodding at the other members of the unit, “call you a regular name: Darby. How come?”
“Well, it’s my name. But we were all born in the same place, Richmond Parish, Virginia. So they call my brother Richmond Parrish, or just Parrish, but not us. Kind of confusing to all be called the same thing, my brother, my sisters, Brittany and Ella, and me. Besides not too many girls around, maybe the others like to hear girl
names.” She glanced up to find Commander Titus staring at them. Darby fought down a slimy combination of fear and anger. Let him look. She turned back to the boy next to her. “How about you? You okay with the name Tallahassee?”
He shrugged and wrinkled up his nose. “It’s okay. If that’s what it takes to get one of those.” He pointed to the rifle slung over Sergeant Merritt’s shoulder. “Then they can call me whatever they want. Got to show the bosses I've got what it takes.” His stomach growled. She handed him the egg she hadn’t peeled.
“Here. I’ll be fine. I don't want it.” Even the thought of water sounded gross.
His eyes sparked blue glee at the gift, and then his body convulsed forward, the egg flying into the fire. He sprawled at Darby's feet in the dirt. Commander Titus stood behind Tallahassee, his boot still raised. “We need more latrines dug. Get on it, and leave our women alone.”
Tallahassee cut a quick look at Darby and winked. Winked! He scrambled away.
Feeling a little hysterical, she covered her laugh up with a theatrical fit of coughing.
“Darbs, stay away from the new guys. I mean it.”
She refused to look up at him, knowing his brown eyes would hold the dull sheen of possession. He was stocky and solid and stronger than her, maybe even stronger than Parrish. At least, that’s what he boasted.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Titus. I thought I told you to call me Titus.” He flipped the long fringe of his hair out of his eyes. “I thought we’d agreed. I would call you Darbs and you would call me Titus.”
She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The roll of her stomach thumped up into her throat, gagging her. “Yes, Commander Titus.” Her stomach did a sickening back flip as she said the words. She hung her head, her shoulders jerking as she tried not to dry heave. She failed miserably and threw up in the dirt between them.
Titus's face turned an icky green. “Damn it. What’s wrong with you? Is it the flu or something worse than that?” He stumbled back away from her. “Merritt, get over here. Take care of Darby. What the hell?” He stomped away.
The tubby guy that served as their medic hustled over, avoiding the pool of sick on the ground. He yanked her up from her seat, and hissed, “Don’t think I’m going take on your shift. Sick or not, you lazy twit.”
