by Eric Keller
Jacob heard this before, but every time she tried to explain he could not understand. She was not alone, being with him kept her from being alone, yet she always stopped. He did not want to have this debate again, not tonight. He stepped away.
“I’m going back to the fire. Stephanie was going to tell me about her plan for setting up a rabbit hutch.”
With that, Jacob turned and strode out of the willows.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JUNE 7, 2046
DAY THREE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN
From his balcony, Harrison watched the group of fifteen men preparing to leave in the early morning light. He felt something he figured to be akin to jealousy at the way they listened to Hale, eagerly carrying out his commands while laughing and joking with one another. Harrison always received obedience but never so willingly or happily.
Uncertainty never troubled Harrison for long, he now knew, without doubt, he wanted Hale to fail. Success would mean a new source of supplies, buy him time for everyone to adjust to being more self-sufficient. However, it would also mean more respect for Hale making it harder for Harrison to retain his control. Having lived a decade being in charge, a decade of never taking orders or needing to ask permission, Harrison knew being relegated to a pawn was not an option.
Failure would remove Hale from the equation. Failure might also mean fourteen others being killed. Reduced numbers used to be a great concern as it meant fewer men for protection and for going to find supplies, but now Harrison figured fewer numbers meant less need for supplies and less strong men to oppose him internally. Regardless, if they all died that would not be best, never good to lose useful soldiers especially if their deaths could be blamed on him, so Harrison decided such an outcome should be avoided but, if necessary, it could be tolerated.
“You wanted to see me?”
Clarence’s voice came from behind him, the fact that someone actually startled him was more startling than actually being startled. Harrison needed to regain his alertness, maintain his focus, the strain of running the Bank was starting to show. He turned from the window and said, “Come in. We need to talk about this trip.”
Clarence sat on a stool by the counter. Ever since Harrison killed the Colonel and led Clarence out of that frozen forest, the helicopter pilot followed him loyally, realizing Harrison to be the sole reason for his survival, covering him in the cloak of a savior. Harrison rewarded him well for that loyalty, but he knew the others did not respect the pilot in the slightest, allowing him to exist at the Bank only because of Harrison’s protection.
Years ago Clarence tried to take a woman, but a scrawny original member named Bautista already had already claimed her as his own. Clarence ambushed Bautista, attacking from behind like a coward but, despite the surprise, Bautista immediately overtook Clarence, landing a flurry of blows as the pilot turtled on the floor. Harrison needed to physically step in and throw Bautista off. Since then Clarence was seen as nothing but Harrison’s dog.
Regardless, Clarence was fast thinking and generally got things done as ordered. He asked, “Sure. What’s the plan?”
Harrison calmly said, “A win. But not a complete win.”
. . .
Barely out of the rubble and remnants of Thule and Hale’s legs were already aching. Before the gas went bad, he only rode a bike as a child, laughing internally whenever he saw an adult in their stupid tight pants and plastic helmets. Now, he needed to pedal.
“Come on, it’s going to be a goddamn month ‘fore we get anywhere at this pace.”
Milo and Taco rolled up next to Hale, they were both pulling loaded carts behind their bikes, yet they were not even breathing hard. They were both originals at the Bank, former military men who came with Harrison back to Thule from the destroyed base. They had spent much of the last decade on patrol, pedalling was like walking to them.
Hale answered Milo, “Yeah, I guess I’m out of practice.”
Milo said, “You mean, you fat.”
Taco laughed his distinctive cackle before speeding a dozen feet or so up ahead. Hale laughed as well, “Ain’t no one fat anymore.”
“True that. Man, I miss worrying about how many calories stuff had,” another chuckle and he continued, “Remember when we took over that farmer’s house way back when?”
Of course Hale remembered. Besides sex and fighting, storytelling was the main form of entertainment within the Bank and tales of successful patrols were the favorite genre. The tale of the farmer’s house got heavy play.
Taco, his bright blue jacket flapping in the breeze, circled back and pulled in beside Milo. Without looking back, Hale could sense a few of the others creeping up closer on their bikes. He knew they were worried. Going on a lengthy patrol to face an extremely nasty foe when the guy in charge pulled himself out of the killing business years ago had them all concerned. This was Milo’s way of helping.
“Sure, I remember. Hard to forget that one.”
“All those jars of crab apples and raspberries in the basement, we ate ourselves sick.”
The version of the story told to the Bank en mass was somewhat censored. Even though common practice, speaking of how patrol members ate their fill of the choicest supplies before returning was considered taboo. Hale caught the hint Milo was dropping, time to bring the other men on this patrol into their full history, remind them this was not Hale’s first trip, let them know that he would not hesitate to do what needed to be done.
Hale said, “Taco threw up all over the damn place if I remember right. I didn’t get many of the apples.”
Milo took up the cause. “Yeah, yeah. We pulled that arrow outta your leg and set your busted arm. Me and Taco ate all night while you slept.”
One of the men behind them piped up, “I thought it was a crossbow bolt?”
Falling into a familiar rhythm, Milo told the tale. Gas was still good back then, and they were in a truck when they found a snowmobile track winding its way off-road. Unable to follow by vehicle, they split up, the other men stayed to guard the truck while Milo, Taco, and Hale followed the tracks on foot. Unfortunately, a storm blew in, freezing the men and obscuring everything.
If they found something, the plan was to turn and head back to the truck, get the others and return in force. However, with the blowing snow, they got too close to the farmyard without knowing it, and the damn dogs caught their scent. Three massive, hairy beasts, bounding through the drifts in a snarling, barking mass. Hale drew his bow but let the dogs get close, Milo and Taco crouched next to him and followed his lead, shooting right after he did. The dogs collapsed, but their warning barks echoed about them.
An arrow thunked into the snow, an inch from Taco’s foot, followed by a second and a third. Running back was not an option, they would be easy targets for whoever was up in the windows. Firing blindly at the windows would be useless at this distance, a waste of their arrows. Hale, without hesitation, slipped his bow onto his back and charged the house, trusting Milo and Taco to follow.
Hale took over the telling. Describing how projectiles screamed past him as he ran through the deep snow. Somehow he reached the narrow porch without a puncture but, unsurprisingly, the door was locked. He drew his belt knife, reared back and kicked at the sturdy wood. Nothing moved. As he kicked again, Taco and Milo both darted past and crashed into the door in unison. It splintered inward, spilling all three of them into the house’s foyer.
A woman’s scream came from their left, and an arrow flew high above their heads as they stumbled to regain their feet. A man yelled, “Don’t move, turn and leave right now or I put this one in your guts.”
Looking up, they saw a heavyset man in a ski-doo suit with a high-tech hunting bow leveled at them,
his arm shaking from the tension. Next, to him, a woman fumbled at trying to nock an arrow in her fiberglass bow, more of a toy than a weapon but probably effective enough at the close range. If they turned, surely the arrows would be immediately buried in their backs. From his crouch, Hale charged forward like a Pro Bowl nose tackle.
The man fired. An arrow pierced his left leg, but Hale’s momentum carried him into the amateur archer, taking them both to the floor. From atop the man, Hale stabbed downward repeatedly until his foe moved no longer. Behind him, he heard the wet sounds and screams of the woman being killed by his companions.
Hale’s sense of relief that the violence was over proved short-lived. Thumping footsteps sounded above, at least two people moving quickly. Their options were limited. If they tried to leave they would be easy targets from the upstairs windows. If they headed upstairs, their opponents would have the high ground.
Forcing himself onto his injured leg, Hale looked at Milo and Taco who merely nodded their agreement, best to be the attackers. Milo moved to try and take the lead, but Hale ignored the pain and subtly stepped in front of him to slowly climb the narrow stairs as he stowed his knife to draw his bow.
Hale reached the top step without being attacked but, as his toe touched the upstairs’ landing a glimpse of movement came from his right, and he instinctively turned to shield himself. A heavy shovel smashed into his arm with a sickening crunch, but he managed to maintain his balance enough to swivel back and loose the arrow. An elderly man in overalls slumped to the floor, struck by a lucky shot to the throat.
A floorboard creaked, and Hale instinctively leaned back as a crossbow bolt sunk into the wall where his chest had been. He dove over the body on the floor, crashed into the wall across the landing and came up in an awkward stance before rapidly pulling the arrow from the old man’s throat, drawing back his bow and firing the bloody missile in one practiced movement before immediately nocking a new arrow.
A woman, also elderly, stood in a dirty parka, a homemade crossbow hanging limply from her hand, blood seeping around the arrow buried in her heart. She stared at him and opened her mouth to speak but no words came; she merely sunk to her knees and fell onto her face.
Behind the fallen woman stood a frail girl of about thirteen in a grimy, yellow coat. Tears made trails down her dirty face as she shook with fear and pointed a kitchen knife at him with a trembling hand. Straining to hold back his bowstring’s sixty pounds of draw with his ruined arm, this girl’s bleak future flashed through Hale’s mind in an instant. He might be able to protect her from the men during the trip back to Thule. But, even if he did manage to keep the patrol members off her, there were few women within the Bank, and they spent most of their time fulfilling the disgusting desires of the roughest and meanest of the men. Harrison would view this girl as spoils of their victory, another supply to be used for increasing the morale of the men. Hale let loose his arrow and did not miss.
As the men now pedaled towards another violent encounter, Hale and Milo both left out the dead girl at the end of the story, jumping ahead to talk of gorging themselves on preserves.
. . .
The ingenuity behind the sawmill continued to impress Jacob despite the endless hours he toiled over it. A canal dug out from the river bank created a channel of fast-moving water, well hidden behind thick willows and reeds. Built on a base of stacked stones, a wooden waterwheel dipped into the channel to turn a series of gears which eventually turned a circular saw blade.
Malden members told and re-told the story of how the sawmill came to be. Early on, Leo and Sam were out scavenging on the snowmobile and came across an abandoned, backwoods lumber operation. Extremely tired of the extreme effort needed to prepare firewood, the two discussed hauling the saw back to Malden. However, without a power supply, the system would be useless, and they immediately discarded the idea. The next morning, however, when they reached the river on their return trip to Malden, the plan struck Leo like lightning, and he made them return to get the heavy blade.
The waterwheel instantly became invaluable. When the river ran fast, two men could section three sticks of firewood a minute, a task that could take half an hour and a lake of sweat using regular handsaws. Regardless, the morning after the Longest Night celebration, Jacob was cursing the machine as its clacking wooden gears rang like hammer blows inside his throbbing head.
“Quit trying to force the damn thing, you’re gonna bust something,” Griff snarled at Jacob as they fed a stubborn log into the saw.
Jacob barked back, “You worry about your end and I’ll worry about mine.”
Even though she was a few years younger than Jacob and Griff, Tina persisted in wanting to spend her time with them, even if their work was more physically demanding than what might be otherwise assigned to a fully able-bodied girl her age. Now using her one arm to sling the cut wood onto the sled, Tina called out, “Enough. I’m tiring of you two bickering all bloody day.”
The two boys returned to silently working. Despite his response, Jacob knew he was trying to hurry the process because, if they managed to work through the pile of logs the men falling timber upriver floated down to them, they could take a break, and his sore head could use a rest. Moving with the silent choreography of men who worked together repeatedly, they re-set the log to let the saw do its work three more times and were done.
Jacob said, “Something must’ve gone wrong up there, haven’t sent anything down in a while.”
Griff answered, “Probably as hungover and tired as us after last night.”
Tina tossed the last of the wood on to the sled as she laughed, “No one is as hungover today as you two fools.”
They moved down to the riverbank to wait for more timber. Griff plucked up the lightweight, yellow handled axe he somehow managed to co-op as his own years ago and tossed it between his hands as he asked, “You talk to Louisa this morning?”
Jacob normally ate breakfast in the common room with the other single people, but he did not want to face Louisa, so he snuck out early to eat with his parents this morning. “Nah. Did you see her?”
Griff answered, “Sure. She didn’t say much though. How bad a fight was it?”
Griff’s perceptiveness would surprise most people in Malden. His loud, occasionally abrasive, nature made him come across as rude and uncaring but, normally when they were alone, he could talk smartly and with profound insight.
Today, however, Jacob did not want to discuss Louisa. He was no longer mad, but he was not yet ready to eat his dignity and apologize once again. He mumbled, “It’s alright.”
Griff asked, “She still not overly welcoming?”
Tina flung a pebble at him, “Hey. Mind your own business, oh, right you ain’t got no business.”
Jacob picked up a handful of his own rocks and threw them at the ice bobbing down the river instead of responding, letting Tina and Griff fire barbs back and forth at each other.
“Careful there Tina, not like the world is filling up your dance card. And don’t blame your melted face, I think it’s all about your personality.”
Looking down at the stump of her arm before looking knowingly at her own right hand, Tina responded, “You’re right, I guess you at least got one more girlfriend than I do.”
That crudeness got Griff to laugh. “Good one. But I’ll have you know I’m currently in intense negotiations to get with your mother.”
“Great, I’ll be happy to tell her that news, she likes a good laugh.”
Griff spun the light axe, lifted it over his shoulder and flung it easily at a poplar tree. Shorter than a normal axe, longer than a hatchet, it perfectly flipped end over end twice before burying into the soft wood with a satisfying thunk. Griff said, “Sure, go ahead, women find my sense of
humor very attractive.”
Tina moved to retrieve the tool turned toy from the tree, and looked to Jacob and said, “It is your business Jake, but I wouldn’t push it. She’ll come ‘round soon enough, and you’ll both be happier if she can get there on her own terms.”
Of course, Griff interjected, “Andas I’ve told you, you’re a lucky asshole. You don’t want to be stuck with the scraps I have to pick over.”
This was a common refrain from Griff. Other than Louisa, and Tina who was too much like a sister to Griff and Jacob to be considered romantically, the list of available women around their age only included two more names, both of which despised Griff. This meant his prospects were essentially nil. The fact that he still advised Jacob to act properly in order to keep Louisa should have been taken as a sign of his true friendship but, instead, Jacob found the advice annoying.
Instead of joining the conversation, Jacob stepped in front of Tina to pull the axe from the tree. He turned and flung it at a log near the bank. The three of them played this axe throwing game for endless hours and, while Griff was best, it was rare any of them missed easy throws anymore, this time, however, the axe head glanced off the birch wood and clattered into the shallow water. As they hurried to retrieve the valuable item they saw them. An elk cow with two calves emerging way down the river on the far bank.
For a long moment, the three merely stared at the half ton of meat calmly drinking in front of them. Game was scarce. Big game like elk was practically extinct.
Griff whispered to Jacob, “Too far?”
Understanding he was asking if they could make a bow shot from that extreme distance, Jacob shook his head. Their bows, based on Leo’s design and carefully crafted out of scavenged rebar and pulleys leaned against the nearby wood sled as they always kept them close. However, even if they lucked into hitting something, at that distance, an arrow would not come close to penetrating elk hide. They would only be scaring away the meat.
