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Suddenly Missoula didn’t
seem so bad.
I pulled the borrowed
Forest Service uniform jacket tighter, glad the donor had
been a few sizes larger than me. Than I was now, anyway.
Even without the light snow falling, I needed those two
sweaters. The scene before me was chilling.
The garden was at least
50 acres. Farm, I guess, at that size. It filled the area
between a few low hills and spilled up onto the rise.
“Nice, huh?” the squeaky
voice of my guide asked. Little weasel looking guy matched
the voice. The words just sort of washed over me.
Missoula didn’t seem so
bad in comparison. Hunger pangs. The last stand at Mansfield
Library. The click of a service revolver hitting an empty
chamber as the door gave. Michelle’s long silent fall, not
even a sound until she hit, from the highest point she could
reach.
“Real nice,” I smiled
back, hoping they didn’t see the look in my eyes. Then
again, they all had it too. PTSD had nothing on us anymore.
Straight below us, at
the base of a short hill and continuing a long stretch, were
terraced rows. I recognized tomato plants and some lettuce,
I think, but the rest of it was just greenery.
“Little past prime
growing season, isn’t it?” I smiled again, hoping that was a
good Forest Service question. Looking like I already knew
the answer.
“We managed to fit three
crops in this year,” the other guide said. Big Indian guy,
long braids, totally from Central Casting. Other than the
ugly home-repair stump where his left hand used to be.
“Great,” I nodded and
they both smiled. They were happy. It was something to be
happy about, with no reliable sources of food in most
places. I remembered that devout vegan collapsing and dying
at UMT. What was her name? Already it was gone. I remembered
the taste of rat, pan fried over an open flame. The idea of
a fresh tomato almost wiped the other fears from my mind.
Almost.
The farmhands shuffled
around, completing tasks in a sloppy fashion. Two of them
were trying to dig a hole with their shovels upside down.
Another fell down every time he tried to pick up a heavy
water bucket. On the outside of the chain link fence, three
men with high powered rifles paced. Almost as sloppily as
their prisoners, I worried, but at least none of them
occasionally lost an ear or eye into the ground.
“How many you got?” I
asked, as if this was normal.
They laughed. They could
see it on my face, behind the scars and scabs. They knew
they were about a minute from seeing it on my shoes or in
the hardpacked dirt of this overlook.
“Seventy farming right
now,” the Indian said. “Another ten or so that couldn’t
handle it and we’re locking them up in case we find a use.”
I nodded, thoughtful,
like I was pondering what the USFS manual had to say about
grazing head per acre or whatever else. “And no problems?”
The little guy pointed,
by way of answer. A little fenced graveyard set just outside
the farm. There were three plain white crosses in one corner
of the chain link square. A dozing guard leaned up against a
tree on the outside. The other guards kept the workers in
the farm. This guy, I guessed, was keeping them planted.
“Single incident. Really
only one went wild, but the guys got nervous and put down
three.”
“Only one? That’s
surprising.” Usually it only took one. One smelling fresh
meat or blood, they’d move like a feral pack. Shambling but
feral.
“We’ve got a good
wrangler,” the little one said. “Let’s get some breakfast
now and we’ll take you up to see him after.”
#
Main Street was
frightening in the normalcy. I felt something in the pit of
my stomach at being someplace so unaffected. A few buildings
were boarded up and there were sandbags, some started to
leak and fall apart, on the way in. Other than that, it
looked like places I remembered. Kids even played on the
sidewalk in a couple of places, yelling and laughing under
the watchful eyes of some adults.
I didn’t see anyone with
a shotgun or hunting rifle, other than our group, as we
strolled back into town. A lot of people nodded to my escort
and even tipped hats at me, or at least at the jacket.
Pretty funny considering how unpopular the bureaucrats had
been in a lot of cattle country. Now a sign of law and order
was welcomed. That change was something I clung to. It was a
reminder that things had changed everywhere, even in this
little place. The world was insane, not me.
The diner was a
storefront place with four tables and a counter. There was
an old smell of grease and fried food, worked into the
walls. It was empty, but then it was early for lunchtime.
The breakfast crowd probably had been and gone early. Given
the amount of work it would take to keep the lights on and
food on the table, it wasn’t likely people lounged over a
third cuppa.
“Hey guys,” the waitress
said, seeing my escort. Her eyes were a little more guarded
around me. I couldn’t help but smile, though. I’d wished my
dark hair wasn’t matted down with grease and dust or that
I’d showered in the past few days. Or that my outfit hadn’t
been scavenged from dead people.
She was a couple years
younger then me, probably. More than small-town pretty. She
was the first woman I’d seen wearing makeup in about six
months. A little eyeliner catapulted her to covergirl
status. I had to make myself not stare. Not too
successfully, judging by her careful smile.
“Morning, Natasha,” the
Indian said. He’d set his pistol on the table, close to his
right side.
“Hi, Tash,” the little
guy said. Both of them looked to be crushing on her too.
“This is Ed, from the FS office at the U.”
I nodded, but didn’t
shake hands. Then again, she didn’t hold hers out either.
“Today’s special is
omelets with tomatoes and cilantro. Sound good?” All of them
gave a little laugh. I smiled in confusion.
“Real funny,” the Indian
said. Then he turned to me, “That’s all they have. We’re on
rationing a couple days of week to keep our stores full.”
“Smart, smart,” I
agreed, or at least I tried to look like I followed. Natasha
brought us all glasses of room temperature water, which was
surprisingly clear and refreshing. Five minutes later, we
all had a big plate of eggs.
“This is rationing?” It
was more than I’d eaten in a sitting in at least a week.
“Rationing by category,
I guess,” the little one said.
“We have plenty of eggs
and tomatoes at the moment. The eggs get replaced and the
veggies add that necessary touch to keep us sane. Eggs don’t
keep anyway and we’re also canning the veggies.”
“Fruits,” Natasha said,
stopping by with a pitcher to fill up our glasses.
“Our little bio major,”
the big one nodded. “You’re right, tomatoes are a fruit.”
“She helps plan our crop
cycles,” the little one said. “Took some ag electives,
right?”
She just nodded as she
dropped a couple napkins. “Whoever knew that might be
handy?”
I laughed along with the
guys. One fun little group.
The food was good.
Freshness made it better than anything I’d had from dented
cans over the past month. Or better than anything we’d
trapped in the campus quad. I put it away too quickly and
then leaned back as my stomach grumbled in protest.
“Good, huh?” the bigger
one laughed, delicately picking at his with his one hand.
The smaller guy was eating just as slowly. Savoring, but
also letting less food fill him. They’d learned to eat
smart. I looked like a raw rookie in comparison. They didn’t
say anything. No one said much as they finished eating. I
caught them both passing quick glances with Natasha a couple
of times, probably some flirtation. My attention was on my
pained stomach.
“Ready to go see the
wrangler?”
I felt a bit of panic at
that. Fluffy eggs and bright cubes of fresh tomato had been
filling my brain. Not to mention the occasional glimpse as
Natasha walked past, cleaning or sorting. We were still the
only customers.
“Yep,” I answered,
dabbing my mouth with a cloth napkin. In my stomach, my meal
tossed as I felt the worry grow again. The smell of grease
and eggs hung heavy now, no longer attractive. The gurgle
wasn’t a new sensation. It happened every time I found a new
place and came close to following up on whatever leads and
traces were still out there. I never liked it.
#
We walked back outside
of town. There were a few trucks I saw moving around, mainly
hauling kids to school or produce into town. They seemed to
be conserving gas, too. Resourceful. Everyone seemed to be
walking, including a few people we passed on the road. A
couple armed men, too, looking like they were patrolling.
The ranch house was
small. Barely more than a double wide trailer, which it had
been at one point. It was now staked into place by
unfinished additions and a big carport. Tarpaper and tyvek
covered most of the outside surfaces. Two big work trucks
and a motorcycle were in the carport.
“Sorry for the smell,”
the Indian said, before I really noticed it. Once he said
it, though, it hit like a two by four. Decay. Death. The
bile was in my mouth instantly.
They were in a pen
beside the house. Two men with rifles watched lazily. Ten or
fifteen of them, all different sizes. Some were barely
moving, having lost limbs. Others just had the stupid look
of so much brain damage they couldn’t function.
“These the ones that
can’t work the field?”
“Nah, these are the
special class,” the little one laughed. No one else joined
in. “The healthier ones are in the barn out back. These are
just pets.”
The Indian looked as
disturbed as I felt. Two of them moaned loudly as we walked
past and threw themselves at the fence. One had been a
woman. The other had been a child. Maybe a boy, maybe a
girl. I couldn’t tell. Both had long, jet black hair. Their
eyes had the slight angle of my big guide. The skin was dead
pale, but I could guess what shade they’d been. I just
didn’t know which one had gnawed off his hand. He didn’t
look at them once.
“Welcome, welcome!” a
new voice yelled, startling me. I jumped and both my guides
laughed. The Indian was a bit slower to join in.
An old man stood on the
porch. He leaned on two canes, both carved from some sort of
off-white wood. His hair was grey, flecked with black. His
eyes were a dark brown that was unremarkable in its color,
which surprised me. The man behind the curtain was supposed
to be impressive, I thought.
“Hey Mike,” the smaller
guide said. The Indian didn’t say anything, but nodded in a
friendly way.
“This our visitor?” Mike
asked. His voice was clear and strong, without any of the
signs of age that I expected from his look. There was a
little accent to it, maybe Italian. Without waiting for an
answer, he turned and clicked his way inside on the two
walking sticks. My guides started walking so I followed.
The inside of the
trailer was pure Western Americana. Stuffed carcasses,
plenty of U.S. flags and enough cowboy motif to last a
lifetime. A crucifix hung just to the left of the front
door. I felt myself relax a little at that. I immediately
noticed the rosary on the table next to the easy chair where
Mike settled himself. Whatever this was, it wasn’t what I
was looking for.
“Sorry it’s not more. I
suppose you’re used to a little better at the research
station at the U.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine. I
like what you’ve done with it.”
Mike smiled. His teeth
were even and white. They weren’t fangs or marked with
blood. Somehow I always hoped I’d be facing monsters, not
just men. “But you’re wondering awfully hard what’s going on
here, aren’t you?”
“A mite curious,” I
answered automatically.
Mike had a revolver. It
came from the magazine pocket on the side of his chair. It
might as well have come from this air as fast as he drew. I
felt the guides stepping away, their own weapons aimed at
me.
“You ever been to the
University?” he asked.
Had I. The memories came
flooding back.
Mike nodded. “Yeah, I
guess you have.”
I nodded back. He was in
my head. I couldn’t really tell how, but I could feel
something. Not the first time, but I didn’t like it. Not all
the wranglers could get into living minds. Mainly, somehow
they controlled the dead ones. The few that could get into
my head was too many for my comfort. One was too many for my
comfort with that service revolver aimed at my head.
He ignored the angry
thoughts I was having. He knew what he was doing. “You’ve
never been to the ag research station, have you, though?”
The memory came back
before I could stop it. I wanted to think of anything else.
Michelle in my arms, a candlelit dinner among the
greenhouses, a bed on an empty desk.
“To work there?” he
clarified. He looked embarrassed. I’m sure I was bright red.
“No, Sir,” I shook my
head.
“That cute little
Natasha? She used to work there part time, to pay for
school. We brought you by the diner so she could get a close
look. So why the disguise?”
“It’s just the warmest
jacket I could find.”
He smiled a little at
that, knowing that was at least partly true from my mind,
but it was with a wary look. “Ever read Brin?”
“No. But I saw the movie
you mean. I couldn’t get into the book.”
“We’re not having any of
that, ok?”
“No, sir,” I said, and
then his gun snapped back to aim right between my eyes. I
didn’t get it at first. I hadn’t thought anything about him.
Then the little corner
of a thought I had entertained, without realizing it, grew
as he pulled it out. The thought of what I had come here to
do. He was more than a wrangler. He made me relive the
images, blanking everything else.
Costner hate faded. The
memory of Sid Bramley, pentagrams on his hands and virgin’s
blood in a cup, falling over as the rat poison swelled his
throat. The memory of Ron Penhollow, Mike’s age but faded
and dying, pinned to his black altar with pruning shears.
That nameless woman in Idaho, dead from half a mile away
with a sniper rifle I sorely missed, even if I had needed
water badly enough to trade.
“I’m not one of them,”
Mike hissed. There was hate in his voice. Not for me. The
link between us let me feel that. He was scared of me. He
didn’t trust me. He was glad they were dead.
“No, sir,” I said
quietly, tilting my head slightly toward the crucifix.
“That’s the wrong way up for one of them.”
He nodded. “That’s
right, son. God gave me a gift and I’m honoring him by
helping people.”
My guides shuffled
nervously. They weren’t party to most of what was happening
here. Then again, I’m not really sure God was party to what
went on anywhere in the world anymore.
“You don’t have to like
it,” Mike said, seeing that in me.
“I don’t, but I know how
much that really matters.”
“Not at all, you think,
but you have to have faith. So I’ll give you a choice, son,
because I’m a Christian man. Either you walk back out of
here and forget you’ve been here or else you start a new job
farming.”
“That’s not a choice.”
“I hope not. I don’t
want you to put us in a spot that I’m going to regret.”
“I’m gone within the
hour. You’ll never hear from me again.”
“I know,” Mike said.
“Because if I do, or even one stranger starts nosing around
and I see you in his head, we’re going to hunt you like
you’re hunting your list of suspects. Capiche?”
I nodded. He smiled. He
lowered his weapon and the guides did the same. We all
breathed a little easier as the tension faded.
Ten minutes later, I was
back on the remnants of some two lane road. I had fresh food
in my pack and a whole lot of scary new memories. The Indian
guy’s sad eyes would probably keep me awake just as often as
Michelle’s silent fall.
I checked the list in my
pocket. Two hundred miles to the next rumor. An alleged
voodoo priest some people thought was responsible for the
death of the world. One last look behind me, at where the
guards were watching me more intently than the farmhands,
and I set off. I wasn’t sad to leave this place behind me. I
had too much sad and angry to fit in any more. |
