by Reed, N. C.
“She is,” Robert nodded. “Abby has never been married. She's never actually had a serious boyfriend that I can recall.”
“The old ways would require that I now leave a horse outside your home, then wait to see if she cared for it. If she did not, after four days, then the answer was no,” Jody explained. “If she did care for the horse, take him to water, groom and feed him, then bring him to me in return, that would indicate the answer was yes. At that point, I would have to speak with you, inquiring of her bride price.” He smiled suddenly. Robert did not recall ever seeing the young man smile, before.
“I can't really see any of that working out for me here, Mister Sanders. Can you?”
“No, son, I can't,” Robert laughed at the normal taciturn Jody. “It would be absolutely hilarious to watch, though,” he added, laughing harder still. “She would just about have an apoplexy over that.”
“That is likely the case,” Jody continued as the laughing died down. “So, I have to alter what would be the custom for me if I were still among my own people. The best that I can do is inquire of you about her status, and then seek to ask for your permission to court your daughter. My people no longer have marriages after a mere week of interest,” he smiled yet again. “The influence of evil European culture, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” Robert echoed, still smiling. He stopped walking and looked at Jody.
“I like you, Jody,” Robert said frankly. “More than that, I respect you. Abigail has always been a handful and hard to deal with, and yet, you seem to be able to deal with her better than even her mother and I have ever been able to do. For what it's worth, so far as I'm concerned, you have my permission, and my blessing, to court my daughter. May God have mercy on you,” he added with a straight-armed tap to each of Jody's shoulders in a mimic of a blessing or knighting either one.
“I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, here,” Robert finished as he started walking back to the house.
“I've had that thought myself, Mister Sanders,” Jody admitted. “As yet I am not completely sure, but I am leaning toward it.”
“Where are you from, Jody?” Robert asked suddenly. “Who are your people, exactly?”
“I was born on the Mescalero Reservation in New Mexico,” the younger man explained. “My father was a Mescalero Apache, while my mother was one of the last pure blood Mayans of her family. The reservation was opened to other tribes in times past, but my father met my mother at UCLA. My mother was living in Los Angeles at the time, working at the university. My father was there on a tribal scholarship, studying in the medical field.”
“There was a good bit of bad blood between the two families,” Jody continued softly. “My mother's pure blood heritage was much sought after among those of the Mayan descendants who wished to keep purity among their people. And my father's people were not at all pleased with his decision themselves, to be honest, though the arguments on his side were simply that such a thing would interfere with his finishing school and returning to the reservation to help his people. Not to mention that he was supposed to marry a good Mescalero girl from a good Mescalero family, and raise fat Mescalero babies.” He paused for a moment, looking across the road into the empty field facing Robert's house.
“I was a half-breed,” he said after a few moments. “No good to either family, each for their own reasons. My parents were both well-educated and have, or at least had, a good life of their own within their own peoples. But I belonged to neither group, it seemed.”
“My paternal grandfather took mercy upon me, ignoring the old women in my father's family, and raised me in the ways of the Mescalero. From him I learned the ways of old, the things that would have made me a man in times past. I tried to learn the same things from my maternal grandfather, but he refused me in all ways. At fourteen I ceased to ask, or to have any contact with them at all. I am sure it broke my mother's heart, but there is only so much rejection a child can bear, I think.”
“At seventeen, I decided to put the skills my grandfather had given me to work in the Army. I would never have been accepted as a member of the tribe despite my father's hard work, or my mother's. More importantly, I had no place in either family. My paternal grandfather was the only member of my father's family who did not pretend that I did not exist. It is in his memory that I try to adhere to the ways of my father's people, not for any love of them. There was no place for me there, and I doubt there ever would have been, disaster or no. But I eventually found a place of my own, and men whom I could honestly call brothers. Brothers who did not care what my blood line was, or what side of some line I originated from. When Clay made preparations here for us to weather whatever the disaster was going to be, my choice was an easy one. I stayed with the men who had become my tribe. My family.” He turned back to look at Robert once more.
“Now you know about me, as is proper,” Jody said. “I ask that this conversation remain between us. Those who need to know, already know, save for Abigail. I will tell her when the time is right, with your permission.”
“It's yours to do,” Robert nodded. “And for what it's worth? Your parent's families are dumber than dirt. No offense. You're a fine young man, Jody. Assuming Abigail doesn't kill you for this,” he grinned suddenly, “Patricia and myself will be proud to have you be part of our family.”
“Thank you, Mister Sanders,” Jody said, his tone solemn. “That might be the nicest thing ever said to me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It would be two weeks before Lake Adcock made his way back to the Sanders' farm. The days were getting shorter all the time as the world spun into early autumn. Leaves were turning and falling in showers when the wind blew.
Almost every day of that two weeks, the back country 'sawmill' made of chainsaws was in use, as the trees saved during the forest fire were turned into usable lumber, which was then stacked beneath an unused, wall less pole barn to dry. Housing was currently at a premium on the farm and the lumber was needed for building.
Everyone on the farm that could not ride a horse had been receiving lessons for that two weeks, and some longer than that. Charley Wilmeth was still the primary person responsible for training, but Gail Knight, one of the young women rescued from Peabody, had been a calf-roping competitor before the lights went out. Being more than a merely competent rider, she was now added to the list of people teaching others to handle and care for horses as well as to ride. Between the two of them and Kurtis Montana, and with occasional assistance from Abigail, Gordy and Ronny Tillman, everyone was learning at least the broad points of horsemanship.
“It's the way of the future, like it or not,” Clay was fond of saying.
That was not all that was happening in that two weeks.
-
“I don't really have time today, Pat-,” Gordon started.
“You've used that one too many times, Dad,” Patricia cut him off firmly. “I promised Clay I'd look into this, and I'm going to. I've already let it go longer than I said I would. He asked you to come and see us, and then I asked, and you said you would, both times. Here it is, two weeks and several days later, and you've not been to the clinic. I want you there, today.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“Patricia, you know as well as I do that if there's something seriously wrong with me, you probably won't find it, and if you do, you can't treat it,” Gordon told her gently. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to all of us,” she informed him. “What if it's something simple, and I can fix it? Hm? Why should you sit and suffer in silence when I might well be able to help you?”
“Fine,” Gordon surrendered. “I'll be by in a few minutes.”
“I'll wait here while you get ready,” Patricia said, getting comfortable on the sofa in the den of Gordon's home.
“Fine,” Gordon repeated, waving his hands in exasperation as he went to shower and change. “Do what you want.”
“I was going to, anyway,” she called after him
. Silently she was praying that Gordon was wrong, and that whatever was wrong with him could, indeed, be fixed.
-
“Mister Sanders, how long have you been feeling so fatigued?” Jaylyn Thatcher asked. Gordon was sitting on one of the clinic beds, hooked to the EKG machine.
“I'm old, Doctor Thatcher,” Gordon chuckled. “I've been tired for some time.”
“Of late, Mister Sanders,” Thatcher smiled. “You have been showing signs of fatigue, minor issues with your short-term memory, and what could be described as chronic joint pain.”
“Again, at my age, I think joint and muscle pain are part and parcel, are they not?” Gordon replied. “As to your question, I think it's gotten worse in the last. . .month, I guess. Month-and-a-half, maybe.”
“How many hours of sleep do you get a night, on average?” Doctor Thatcher asked him, looking at the EKG readout as she spoke.
“Not as much as I would like,” Gordon admitted frankly. “If I get six good hours of sleep, I'm lucky. I'm rarely lucky.”
“Your heart seems to be in good shape, Mister Sanders,” she smiled, looking up from the paper. “Your blood oxygen level is also good, holding steady at ninety-eight.” She folded the paper and set it aside. She looked at Gordon for just a moment, studying him.
“Mister Sanders, I think you're suffering from something called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome,” Thatcher said finally. “Essentially, a long period of little or no sleep at night eventually leads you to be chronically, or continually, tired. That in turn will cause aches and pains that you shouldn't be having, and it can eventually lead to much more serious problems.”
“I sleep when I can,” Gordon shrugged. “I just can't sleep often.”
“Has this been a problem before?” Thatcher asked.
“Not really, no.”
“I think I can solve your problem, at least in the short term, Mister Sanders,” Thatcher told him. “But I doubt you will approve of the treatment.”
“If we're going to be honest here, Doctor,” Gordon looked extremely tired, all of a sudden, “I am willing to do just about anything for even one good night of sleep. Of rest,” he added.
“I think I can give you that and a little more,” Jaylyn promised. She walked to a small cabinet and took something from inside. Returning to his side, she handed him a small bottle.
“There are seven compressed wafer tablets of cannabis in here, Mister Sanders,” she told him quietly. “Before you ask, yes, that means marijuana. Pure grade hemp, grown right here. Well, in a greenhouse behind your residence,” she amended.
“Dope,” Gordon sighed.
“Many of the medicines that we might prescribe for you to help with this problem would be derivatives of hemp or poppy, Mister Sanders,” Jaylyn informed him. “The truth is that those drugs are worth a great deal more to legitimate healthcare workers than they are as illicit drugs. It's just that the illicit users have given them a bad name.”
“I've heard the arguments,” Gordon nodded. “Including that marijuana should be sold and regulated, and taxed, just like alcohol.”
“Not a bad idea,” Jaylyn nodded as she began to remove the EKG leads from his chest and sides. “Or wouldn't have been. Doing so would have cut the illicit drug runners out of business and raised an incredible amount of revenue. Not to mention ending a great deal of violence that was part of the drug trade and trafficking issues.”
“And you're sure this will help,” Gordon held up the tablets.
“I'm almost positive,” she nodded. “There are usually a small percentage of people who are simply immune to the effects of the drug. It's possible you'll be one of them. If not, then you will begin to feel the effects within minutes after ingesting the tablet. I suggest you do so about thirty minutes before you plan to retire for the evening. You will begin to feel woozy, as well as drowsy, and there may be some slight dizziness. All of that is quite common. I would also suggest that you be finished with your preparations for bed before you take it. Once the drug takes effect, you should begin to feel relaxed, and then drift off to sleep.”
“For how long?” he wanted to know.
“Depends on your constitution, and how badly you're affected by your fatigue,” she shrugged. “I would guess that within the first three nights you will be completely relaxed enough to sleep eight to ten hours. Maybe more. Again, it will depend on your body's reaction, and how exhausted you are. And that's what this is, make no mistake, Mister Sanders. You are exhausted. And while that sounds mild, it can lead to any number of much worse problems. Take this seriously, please?”
“I will,” Gordon buttoned his shirt as he stood. “I wasn't kidding you when I said I'd do just about anything for one good night of actual rest.”
“I think this will do that very nicely,” she smiled. “Let me know if you have any problems at all. It won't matter what time of night.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
-
“What are you guys doing?”
Amanda Lowery looked behind her to see Kim Powers watching as she trained with Xavier and Zach.
“We are in the midst of a training session, Miss Powers,” Xavier replied with his usual painfully polite manner.
“Wait,” Kim frowned. “I thought we trained for this on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the barn.”
“The group does, yes,” Xavier agreed. “I'm afraid this is a somewhat more stringent environment than what you are accustomed to, with training that is a good deal more, harsh, shall we say.”
“Can anyone join?” she asked, looking at each one in turn.
“I'm afraid not,” Xavier informed her. “Miss Lowery was allowed to participate due to her training in martial arts. She possesses the base abilities needed for this type of combat.”
“What base abilities?” Kim inquired.
“Primarily? To be limber enough to withstand the strain placed on the body in this type of training,” Xavier answered. “We do not pull punches, here. Someone who is stiff is more likely to be injured.”
“I'm pretty limber,” Kim stated flatly. “You can't be a cheerleader and not be. I've been stretching as an exercise for years. I've also been doing yoga for nearly two years. And while I don't have any true martial arts training, I know how to box a little.”
“Let me see your hands, Miss Powers,” Xavier said suddenly. Surprised, the young woman nevertheless stepped forward and held her hands out for Xavier to inspect. He looked at the back of her hands, studying them carefully before turning them to look at her palms, her fingers, and then finally at her nails. Releasing her hands, he looked closely at her face, holding her eyes. While she wanted to shy away from Xavier's predatory look, she refused to do so, standing tall in the face of his scrutiny.
“Very well,” Xavier said suddenly. “Catch,” he tossed her the rubber training knife he was holding. “Defend yourself. Miss Lowery?” he turned to Amanda.
Amanda struck immediately, sweeping Kim's legs from beneath her, then landing on top of her, rubber knife to her throat.
“Well done, Amanda,” Xavier complimented. It was the first time he'd called her anything other than 'Miss Lowery'. She felt a flush of warmth at the realization, but tried not to let it show.
“I wasn't ready for that,” said Kim, but with a laugh rather than as a complaint.
“One must always be prepared for just such an attack, Miss Powers,” Xavier told her. “Here, we train as we would fight. Are you sure you want to join in? It will be painful. As I told Miss Lowery when she began, this is the real classroom.”
“If it will make me a better fighter? Yes. I'm definitely sure,” she nodded as she brushed herself off. “And savor the flavor, Mavis,” she told the other woman with a smirk. “You won't get another one that easy.”
“Well said,” Xavier approved of her attitude. “Make ready then, and try it again.”
-
Lake Adcock once more arrived in a lone Hummer, with just himself and a driver. Clay was waiting for
him on the pad when the Hummer pulled in. The first thing Clay noticed was that the Captain looked haggard.
“Well met, Captain,” Clay smiled, hoping Lake was just tired.
“Clayton,” the other man nodded tiredly. “How are things going?”
“I'm guessing we're doing better than you are at the moment,” Clay dropped his attempt at humor. “What's up?”
-
“The entire town?” Clay mused.
“There are maybe five to six hundred people still there at most, at a rough guess,” Adcock made a wagging motion with his hand. “Most all of them mimicking that idiot on the radio. Creepy as hell, too,” he muttered.
“And they claim the rest were purified?”
“That's the word they're using, yeah,” Adcock confirmed. “One guy who was apparently faking it told us that there was a raid by a militant arm of this Worthy bunch, and they carted off a lot of people. The ones they didn't kill, at any rate.”
“Damn,” it was Clay's turn to mutter. “I was hoping this was all a bunch of bull, but that sounds like anything but.”
“We looked around for a week, but nothing,” Adcock shrugged. “No vehicles, no white robed idiots spouting garbage, and no townspeople. No 'Army of God' either,” he used air quotes. “It really was creepy. It's like they're carving a swath around the region through small towns like that.”
“They may be,” Clay nodded. “Too dangerous to go into the larger cities. Too much resistance. Even though people in rural areas are more likely to be armed, they're also likely to be spread thin. It's not a bad strategy if you're a bad guy or a zealot trying to take over the world, or whatever.”
“We don't technically have any authority there, since it's over into Alabama, but I haven't been able to make any contact with any Alabama authority of any kind,” Adcock told him. “Worse, it seems like Lewiston will be the next target, if they don't all toe the line.”
“What did your boss say about it?” Clay asked.
“Nothing we can do unless and until they show up,” Adcock clearly didn't like that. “It's all he can do. We're spread very thin, Clay. There's just not enough of us to do everything that needs doing, and this isn't the only problem we're facing. We're getting a few new folks here and there who hear we're working and report in when they see us, but with the communication problems, a lot of people won't know where to go.”
