Palimpsest (Book 2): Of One Skein

  “Do you know what that means? It’s not like cartoons.”

  “I killed the one without a mouth, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you did.”

  “He’s not going to wake up, is he?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “That’s bad.” The emotion is fighting to get through.

  How do you explain to a little kid when it’s cool to shoot someone in the face and when it’s not?

  What kind of fucking question is that anyway?

  “Take it. Don’t worry; it can’t hurt anyone for now,” I say, holding the weapon out to her again.

  She shakes her head and hides her hands behind her back.

  “It’s okay, don’t be afraid.”

  “I don’t want to do bad things.”

  “You won’t…look, if not for you, that man last night…he would have hurt me. You’re a hero, like…like Anna and Elsa.”

  “I love that one!”

  “We all do. So how about it?” I ask.

  She gulps, like she’s trying to get her courage up, and then she gingerly wraps her little hands around the handle, tests the weight and then brings it up with both hands. She closes one eye and takes aim at an imaginary target, probably like she’s seen on television.

  She looks like she knows what she’s doing.

  She sure as shit killed that fat fuck last night.

  “Bang,” she whispers and twitches the barrel of the pistol.

  Jesus.

  I rub my forehead and cover my face. I can’t believe I’m doing this, the latest on a long list of shit I can’t believe I’ve done.

  She looks up at me. “Like that?”

  “Yeah, like that, Jem — just like that,” I say softly.

  She smiles, like she’s just come from the dentist — look Ma, no cavities.

  I squat down next to her. “Okay, pay close attention, if we shoot the gun, the bad guys will hear us, so we’re just going to pretend. Can you pretend?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Great. Please don’t shoot me. Can you do that?”

  She giggles. “That would be really bad, huh?”

  “Pretty bad, yeah. Okay, be serious now. If the bad guys come…”

  “The one’s with the elepunt trunks?”

  I sigh. “Yeah, them. It’s okay to shoot them.”

  “God won’t be mad?”

  “God’ll give you a goddamned pony.”

  She grins again. “You said a bad word.”

  “I do that a lot. Want me to teach you?” I can’t help but wink.

  A mischievous look crosses her face.

  I’m not sure if she’s a sociopath or not yet, but I’m beginning to like her.

  “Let’s start simple, ready?”

  She grins.

  “Shit, you know that one?”

  She nods. “I know lots.”

  “Okay, give it a try.”

  She looks around like someone will hear and she’ll get into trouble.

  “It’s okay, no one’s going to hear you.”

  She bends her knees and stares at the ground, like she’s casting a spell or something, and says it so softly I barely hear. “Shit.”

  I laugh.

  She looks up, her eyes wide, smiling from ear to ear.

  “The secret is saying bad words just right, not everyone can do it, there’s a trick,” I say.

  “I’ve heard lots of grownups say bad words. Oh, oh, oh, and I watch bunches of TV too.”

  “Well television was pretty cool, and that’s what you gotta be to do it right — cool.”

  “Are you cool?” she asks.

  “I wish. No, but I know the coolest girl in town, except for maybe you that is, maybe.”

  “Can I meet her too?”

  I stand back up and slide my hands into my back pockets. “Yep, her name is Sam, that’s short for Samantha.”

  “Does she say bad words?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Does she shoot elepunts?”

  “Not as many as you.”

  Jem puffs up. “What about Emily?”

  “You’ll just have to ask her when you meet.”

  She looks up at me and then down the road. “After we get Casey?”

  “Yep, after we get Casey and the others.”

  “Is it going to be scary, like last night?” she asks.

  I kneel down and take her hands. “A little bit, that’s why you have to listen to what I say, okay? That’s why I gave you the .22. It’s okay to be scared.”

  “Promise God won’t be mad?”

  “Promise.”

  She steps back and raises the .22 again and aims it down the road, tips it sideways gangster style, closes one eye and tilts her head. “I got this shit.”

  Jesus.

  §§§§§

  By late afternoon the temperature is falling again, the clouds have returned, and we have mud up to our knees, and everywhere else too from slipping and busting our asses. It’s a fucking mess out here.

  Pixie is snoozing inside my coat again, oblivious.

  Happy puppy.

  But not me, I’m out of cigarettes and it’s beginning to genuinely piss me off. I can take the apocalypse or quitting smoking, but not both.

  I pull my pack around to look through it again, hoping one fell to the bottom, but stop myself. It’s pointless.

  “Shit,” I hiss.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Jem says, and salutes me with a wry wink.

  We both laugh and I wonder again how much she understands about what’s happening.

  As we’ve been walking, the still overgrown and leafy woods have crept up to the sides of the road, all stealthy and shit, like we wouldn’t notice, and the rain and runoff have washed away the ruts we’ve been tracking. Hell, the rain has washed away the goddamn road. We’ve been wading through more puddles than mud, but up ahead — it’s permanency rising up out of the water. It may be a crumbling patch of asphalt, but it’s a goddamn road just the same.

  And then the woods suddenly pull back, giving an open field space to breathe.

  Civilization.

  Once we reach the road, I stop, kicking and scraping the mud from my boots and Jem tries to do the best she can with her sneakers. I should be colder, hungrier, exhausted — way more miserable than I am, but I’m not, and I don’t think Jem is either.

  We’ve made really good time today.

  I glance down at Pixie.

  She’s awake and staring back at me with those way too knowing blue-white eyes.

  Is this her magic at work?

  I’ll take it for as long as it lasts.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask Jem.

  She shrugs and walks up the road a little, her .22 swinging at her side.

  I think we’ve covered all of the firearm safety in the last couple of hours that we can. She’s picked up as much as she’s going to this afternoon, which is a lot considering she’s a second grader.

  I’ve learned something about Jem while we’ve been walking and talking; she’s quick, wicked quick.

  Jem suddenly stops, and then she holds her arms out to her sides, staring at me ominously.

  I pause, tightening the grip on my.45.

  She looks down at her shoes and then hops, just once — mud flops and water splashes.

  Jem looks at me again as a grin spreads across her face.

  “Squishy!” she shouts.

  She jumps up and down, giggling as her shoes squish with water.

  I laugh and she giggles more, jumps higher and her smile threatens to melt winter all of the way back to August.

  Okay, she’s still a little kid — I hope there’s always time for that.

  I follow her up the road and as annoying as my squishing squeaking shoes are, it feels good to walk on even ground again.

  The sun peeks through the clouds, throwing sunbeams around the clearing as if in response to Jem’s smile. Her hair may be filthy, but it glows in the late afternoon light just the s
ame, reminding me of spring.

  An unbelievably green lawn stretches up from the road to a white-sided farmhouse nestled in among the trees. An old fashioned windmill stands vigil, overlooking the home. A long driveway leads from the far side of the house back down to me and Jem.

  On the other side of the house is another road, a bigger one, in much better condition. They meet at a four-way stop, and set back on the left side of the road, across from the house, guarded by an army of mismatched antiques, is a yellow sided country store. The sign over the simple shingled roof reads: “Canning Corners”.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Pixie is suddenly restless.

  I turn back, and jog over to the corner of the store, but there’s nothing there, just the woods and bushes growing up against the back of the building.

  Something feels wrong.

  I glance back to the postcard-house poised at the top of the hill, the windmill reluctantly spinning. We’d be an easy target for even an average shot.

  I set Pixie down and she backs away from the store, growling.

  Okay, that’s not cool.

  Jem looks to me and then moves away with Pixie.

  I follow, squeezing the grip on my .45.

  “Safety,” I say and Jem points her .22 straight up and turns it on.

  I take stock of the clearing again, the store, the lack of blood or tire tracks on the road, no fires, no bodies, nothing between us and the house…

  The broken street runs back under the canopy of branches, into the temporary pond we forded on the way here.

  The water is sparkling against the light breeze, little ripples catching the sun.

  Something shiny catches my attention.

  I turn back and take a few steps closer, trying to figure out what it is.

  “Come on,” I say to Jem.

  She follows me as we head back to the flooded roadway.

  It’s a tube sticking up out of the water. I’m not sure how we missed it earlier. It’s covered in plants and shit, I’m still not sure what it is but it’s out of place somehow.

  We stop at the edge of the water.

  I glance back at the store, up to the farm house, and all around the clearing once again, trying to catch anything out of the ordinary, any movement, for any sign that we’re not alone, but it’s quiet.

  What am I missing?

  “Stay here,” I caution and then wade back into the water.

  As I get closer, I stumble, tripping over something and almost fall. I catch myself on the pipe and suddenly realize what it is.

  I shove my .45 into a pocket and then peel the vegetation off of the clutch lever before planting my feet and leveraging the motorcycle back up onto its tires.

  I drop it back into the water just as fast.

  It’s green.

  It’s the dirt bike from back at the caravan.

  This is the bike, the one we’ve been following.

  It must be.

  Christ.

  One of those things is nearby.

  My .45 is back in my fist as I crouch, frantically looking around.

  But I don’t see anyone.

  It’s quiet…still.

  I splash through the water and grab Jem by the waist and run as fast as I can back to the side of the store.

  We’re so goddamned exposed out here.

  Now the farm house is just fucking taunting me.

  Should we cut through the woods and get as far from here as possible or check it out, scavenge, take what we need?

  There’s a window higher up on this side of the store.

  “Drop the pistol and come here,” I say to Jem. “I’m going to boost you up, tell me what you see.”

  She sets the .22 on the railing of the porch, repositions it just so, takes a step toward me and then goes back and moves it again.

  “Jem, let’s go.”

  She glances at me and then takes another look at her .22, turns it slightly and then pats it like a puppy. “There,” she says, and then skips over.

  She stops in front of me, looks up, and then stretches her hands up over her head like a toddler and grins. I shake my head, trying to ignore her lethal cuteness, and grab her by the waist once more, this time lifting her as she climbs up and balances herself on my shoulder and head.

  I toss her high enough to grab her by the legs, trying not to lose my grip in all of the mud.

  She leans against the window and cups her hands around her eyes.

  “What’s inside?” I whisper up to her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Store stuff?”

  “Jesus, you’re killing me kid, do you see anyone?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Do you see any lights?”

  “Nope. Can I come down now?”

  I gently lower her and then she jumps to the ground and heads straight for her .22.

  I need to get her a holster.

  “We’re going to go in, but we need to be quiet,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “Stay close, and be ready to run or hide.”

  “Which one?”

  “Which one what?” I ask.

  “Run or hide?”

  I take a deep breath and then motion for her to follow me.

  We skirt the porch and the clutter that’s stacked up against the railing; a rusted hand crank washing machine, a Texaco glass fuel pump, a pile of wooden farm tools, a plow and then we’re at the steps.

  They creak under my weight.

  Jem is right behind me.

  Pixie is already on the porch, crouching and softly growling.

  Old state license plates and bullet-ridden road signs are nailed to the front of the store in an overlapping mess. The front door is in the middle.

  It’s painted blue and has a wood framed window in the top.

  The window is broken.

  The door is open, not much, but enough. It reminds me of my dream and the open red doors of the Del Ray Motor Inn.

  I look back up the driveway to the house. I’m sure the store belongs to whoever lives up there. Are they watching us, or did they take off when the world went to shit?

  This is pretty out of the way. There’s no reason for them to go anywhere.

  And then I look back to the motorcycle.

  Is he watching us too?

  “Go back,” I say, and gently push Jem down the steps. Pixie looks unsure, but follows us down to the road.

  “Let’s go see if anyone’s home,” I say and nervously head up the long driveway.

  What the fuck, no one has taken a shot yet.

  Jem nods and falls into step beside me.

  Pixie runs ahead, and then races back, circles us, pounces and then does it all again. I swear she grins at me every time she runs by.

  The house has black shutters and round posts holding up the roof over the porch. The woodwork and siding look freshly painted. The brick chimneys at both ends of the house are in good condition too.

  The yard needs mowing and a good weeding, but otherwise, this place looks like the end of the world passed it by.

  We follow the driveway around the far side to a two-car garage sitting behind the house. In front of the black garage doors is a new-looking gray Audi covered in birdshit.

  “Stay close,” I remind Jem and continue around the back of the house.

  At the corner is one of those outside basement doors, like barn doors set on an angle against the side of the house.

  One of them is laying over onto the yard. Rust and golden leaves have blown down onto the steps.

  I stop and look in.

  It’s like a goddamned abyss down there.

  I lift the door and quietly lower it back into place. I look around and find a hoe lying near a coiled garden hose. I jam it through the basement door handles — just in case.

  A big deck runs along
the back of the house and out to a pool.

  The pool has a few feet of swamp water in it.

  “Careful,” I say to Jem as I walk up the stairs to the deck. The back of the house is all windows, from the kitchen all the way down to the family room in front of the pool.

  Everything looks normal, like they’ve gone on vacation, but then what would an ambush look like? If they survived out here…there’s a reason for it.

  Except for not raking the leaves, nothing seems out of place.

  Apart from being deserted.

  Pixie stands at the edge of the pool and growls like she did down at the store.

  I walk over to the sliding back door and give it a tug.

  It’s locked.

  I can’t think of a plan that doesn’t put Jem at risk. I can’t leave her alone, but I can’t really storm the fucking castle with her, either.

  Pixie would probably protect her, but she’s just a puppy. How much can she do?

  Fuck it, back through the woods and we’re gone.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and back away from the house, heading for the far side of the Audi. “Pixie,” I call.

  She races around the house and catches up with us, staying close.

  We walk across the driveway and just inside the tree line for cover. Maybe they haven’t seen us yet.

  “What are we doing now?” Jem asks.

  “Going to look for Casey, isn’t that the plan? We’ll eat in a little while, deal? I think we have some more pork rinds.”

  Jem nods as she practices aiming her pistol at every tree we encounter.

  I have no idea which way to go at the intersection, and I’m not feeling very confident that we’ll find any more clues after the rain, but I’ve been surprised before.

  Casey and her friends need to surprise us if we’re going to be able to help them.

  We’re halfway to the road when I glance back at the house, just to make sure we’re not being followed, and see a curtain move in one of the windows upstairs.

  “Someone’s home,” Jem says and starts to point, but I push her hand down before she does, trying not to attract attention. Maybe if we keep moving we won’t get shot.

  “Just keep walking,” I say.

  A shrill voice shatters the idyllic afternoon. “Help!”

  I turn back to the window and see two people, one bigger, one less so. The voice belongs to the bigger one, a man.

  “They’re outside, they’re insane, my wife, please God, help us,” he shouts.