AFTER (8 page)

The woman reached into a pocket of her white slacks and withdrew a .38 revolver… the one Art had insisted she take on her signing tours, just to be on the safe side. There were only four bullets left in the gun. She had started out with five – with an empty chamber behind the hammer – but had wasted one shot chasing off a traveling preacher she had come across near Greensboro, who had been shouting the word of God and waving his Bible with one hand, while exposing himself with the other.

Phyllis crept a little closer, careful not to make any noise. She got within twenty feet of the squirrel, then raised the gun. Her hand trembled nervously as she attempted to steady her sights. She wanted to nail it in the head, to avoid damaging the precious and limited amount of meat on its body, but its skull was so tiny compared the rest of him.

Come on
, she told herself.
You can do this. Breathe in and hold it, just like Art showed you on the firing range.

Phyllis took a deep breath and calmed herself. The front and rear sights on the pistol aligned perfectly and, for a moment, she knew her aim was dead center. "Hold still, my little lunch buddy," she whispered.

She squeezed the trigger and fired. The bullet missed the squirrel, shaving bark two inches above the animal's head. "Damn!"

Phyllis considered taking a second shot, but the squirrel was already scampering up the trunk of the tree. Her spirits were sinking to the depths of despair, knowing that she couldn't risk another bullet, when something strange and totally unexpected took place.

The squirrel was five feet up the tree and climbing, when a white flash leapt from out of the thicket. It sprang upward, became airborne for an almost timeless instant, then snatched the squirrel from where it clung to the bark of the oak. The apparition – or so the thought crossed Phyllis's mind – landed nimbly on four feet and stood there, holding the lifeless creature in its mouth.

Phyllis stood there and stared. She couldn't believe her eyes. It was a dog, a large Malamute as white as snow. But it was the canine's eyes that were his most striking feature. The left one was as blue as the sky – or the sky that had been a reality two weeks ago – while the right was as green as an emerald.

Slowly, the dog padded to her and dropped the dead squirrel at her feet.

"Thank you," she said, not knowing what else to say. She stuck the gun back into her pocket, then knelt and stroked the thick white fur of the Malamute's neck. "What are you? An angel?"

In answer, the dog licked her face. Phyllis laughed and hugged him tightly. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, imagined that it was Sandy she was embracing, on the stone steps of her lighthouse back home.

When she finally pulled away, she looked into those mismatched eyes. "Where did you come from?" Phyllis searched his black leather collar and found a brass tag hanging from the front. There was no owner's address or phone number. It simply read COMPADRE.

"Well,
Compadre
, it's very nice to meet you," she said. "And thanks so much for lunch." The squirrel was a big one, about two or three pounds. "I believe I can prepare this quite nicely."

She took the squirrel in her hand and was amazed to find that it didn't have a mark on it.
Compadre
had dispatched the animal without even breaking the skin. Together, she and the dog continued up the hillside until they found a rocky ledge with enough room to sit down and rest for awhile.

Phyllis
unshouldered
a backpack and set it down. She had found the knapsack in a ditch just after leaving Charlotte and, out of convenience, swapped it for her rolling suitcase. She unzipped the upper section, rummaged around inside, and found a black leather roll secured with Velcro strips. She opened it and slowly unfurled it to its full length.

In loops and pockets were secured the tools of her trade: dozens of spices, an assortment of kitchen knives, cooking utensils, and even a spoon, fork, and knife. As
Compadre
lay on the flinty shale of the ledge, watching her, Phyllis went about the business of preparing the meal, which did wonders for her sagging spirit. Just going about the motions of doing what she did best made her feel useful and in control once again.

Phyllis first went along the slope above the ledge, finding bits of dry vegetation and twigs for a fire. Then, heaping the tinder on the rock floor, she lit it with a cigarette lighter that had been left in the front pocket of the backpack. Soon, a small but sufficient campfire was blazing. Phyllis took a filet knife and deftly slit the squirrel from chin to crotch. Without a trace of squeamishness, she skinned and cleaned the squirrel, then seasoned the raw meat with a delicate blend of spices: oregano, garlic, and a dash of rosemary.

Afterward she impaled it on a long stick, which she held steadily over the fire. Phyllis had grown up with a father and three brothers who were avid hunters, as well as fishermen. She recalled childhood weekends when she would accompany them on hunting trips into the wilds of Maine. Even at a young age, she had possessed a love for meat and a knack for dressing out game, be it mammal, fish, or fowl.

It wasn't long before the flames had cooked the squirrel completely through. The aroma of the meat smelled absolutely delicious.
Compadre
rose up on two paws and whimpered inquisitively. "Your reward for a job well done, my friend," she said, twisting a hind leg off the
broasted
squirrel and tossing it to the dog.
Compadre
wolfed it down like he had been without food for weeks. Phyllis knew that simply couldn't be the case, though. The Malamute was too healthy; his coat was thick and glossy and there was no hint of weight loss.

Phyllis sat and ate her lunch slowly, giving her stomach time to adjust to the sustenance it was finally receiving. If she hadn't, she would have likely puked up everything that went down. She pulled an old plastic Coke bottle from the pack. It still had a little water left over from a stream she had come across earlier in the day. She took a swallow of the tepid liquid, then took another bite of seasoned squirrel.

She looked out across the landscape that lay before her. She saw no sign of a town or even a road. All she could see were treetops: pine, cedar, and scrubby mountain oak. Their foliage wasn't as green and full as she expected. Instead, it was dull and lusterless, some even turning yellowish brown. She lifted her eyes and stared at the sky. The baby-blueness that once comprised Earth's lower atmosphere was dyed an ugly pale brown, almost beige in hue. A few clouds hung in the sky, but they were no longer white and fluffy. Instead they were black and sooty, like the smoke of a wood stove.

"Who did all this,
Compadre
?" she asked out loud. "Do you know? Who caused the Burn?"

At the word "burn", the white Malamute bared his fangs and growled.

"Yes," she said, pulling at a stringy piece of squirrel with her teeth. "I know exactly what you mean."

A few moments later, after they had finished eating, Phyllis packed her black roll back into the backpack and stood up. "So, my benevolent savior," she said to the dog. "Which way should we go? Or are you ashamed to be seen with an old gal like me?"

Compadre
jumped up. Resting his large paws across her shoulders, he licked her dimpled face. Phyllis laughed. "Do you love me… or are you just sneaking one last taste of squirrel?"

The dog dropped to the ground and barked. It was a strong, throaty bark that reminded her so much of her Sandy. Then the Malamute turned and started onward up the slope.

Phyllis sighed. "Okay, you're the tour guide. Hopefully, you know this area better than I do." Cautiously, she started up the embankment after him, wishing she had more dependable footwear. Gucci was stylish and all the rage, but they were shit for walking in, especially beyond red carpets and the sidewalks of Rodeo Drive.

As evening fell, Phyllis and
Compadre
had navigated several hills and found themselves in a narrow valley with a stream winding through the center. It was a beautiful place, the sort you see in nature documentaries or on the pages of calendars.

Phyllis took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Just finding
Compadre
and eating the squirrel had lifted her spirits tremendously. She exhaled and instantly launched into a fit of violent coughing. She put her hand to her mouth and it came away covered with bloody spittle. That scared her… the same way the blotchy
discolorment
of her skin and a couple of ulcerated sores on her arms and hands did. If radiation was killing the plants, then naturally it was working on her as well. But Phyllis didn't want to think about that now. All she wanted to think about was making it past Washington and New York, and getting home to Art and Sandy.

The two hiked along the creek for nearly an hour. Phyllis filled up her water bottle, despite a couple of dead fish she saw bobbing in the current.

There was no getting around it; she had to have water to survive. Onward they trekked as the blistering sun began to drop to the west. The ugly brown sky altered into unnatural shades of purple and crimson as twilight began to settle.

Phyllis was beginning to worry about where they would camp for the night, when
Compadre
lunged forward, barking. Frightened, she picked her way through kudzu and blackberry bramble, trying to keep up with him. She certainly didn't want to lose the dog now, after having just found him.

When she finally made it through the thicket, she found him sitting on his haunches, waiting for her in front of a little
graywood
shack with a rusty tin roof. The structure looked as though it hadn't been lived in for years. The door hung partially off its hinges and the glass of the windows was completely gone.

"Well, it's not the Waldorf Astoria, but I suppose it'll be a roof over our heads," Phyllis said. Tentatively, she stepped past the sagging door and entered the structure. She took a small flashlight from the knapsack – not a leftover from the backpack's previous owner, but her own. Phyllis had a bladder problem and it was handy for helping find the bathroom at night, especially if she was in some strange place away from home.

The interior of the little shack stank of dank earth, cigarette smoke, and urine. Evidence of several small campfires could be seen on the shed's dirt floor. Apparently, this had become a way station of sorts for travelers and transients. Against a far wall stood the metal frame of a twin bed with a mildewed mattress within its cradle. On the other side of the room were a small table and one rusty folding chair.

"Like I said before, it's not five-star accommodations, but it'll have to do."

Phyllis tossed her backpack on the bed and looked around, rubbing her hands. She was more than a little compulsive about cleanliness and the nasty state of the shack made her skin crawl. Again she reached into the pack and, this time, withdrew a lavender aroma-therapy candle – again one of her home-away-from-home items – and, placing it on the tabletop, lit the wick. It didn't cast much light, but it was enough to give a clearer – and more dismal – picture of her surroundings. "Well, we can do better than this."

For the next hour, Phyllis went about the almost impossible task of tidying up the shed. She tossed much of the debris – empty soda cans, food packages, and even a used condom or two – out the back window. Then she rearranged the furniture a bit to suit her needs. "Hmmm, not bad," she said to herself. "Not bad at all."

Night descended and, for a while, Phyllis simply sat in the folding chair, staring at the flicker of the candle and trying to avoid the darkness beyond the windows and open doorway. She had attempted to straighten the door earlier, but it had threatened to fall off entirely, so she had left it alone.
Compadre
lay at her feet, his head on his paws, looking bored.

Phyllis's stomach grumbled. "Another squirrel would sure be nice right about now," she said. As in agreement, the Malamute's tummy rumbled noisily.

Outside the side window, an owl hooted, causing Phyllis to jump.

Compadre
jumped, too, but not in fright. The dog rose to his feet, cocked his head until the owl hooted again, then bounded out the door.

"No, boy! Don't go out there!" she called. "A bobcat or something could get you." But what she was really thinking was
Please, don't leave me
in here alone!

Phyllis waited for what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than four or five minutes. Then she heard a sound at the door.

Abruptly,
Compadre
strolled in, dragging a huge horned owl into the shack by its foot. The bird was dead. Looking at the sharp talons on the owl's feet, Phyllis wondered how the dog had managed to catch it without being clawed half to death.

"How did you get this thing, boy?" she asked him. "You didn't climb a tree, did you?"

Compadre
sat there, mouth open and tongue dangling, as if amused by her question.

Phyllis prodded at the owl with the toe of her shoe, just to make sure it was actually dead. It was. She picked it up and turned it over. "It's a big one, to be sure. There's got to be a lot of meat under all these feathers."

It took Phyllis the better part of an hour to pluck and dress the owl. But she had been right; it was a whopper, just a bit smaller than a young turkey. Phyllis built a good-sized fire outside the front door – she was hesitant to build one inside, for fear of burning her only source of shelter down. Then she rigged a spit using tree branches and a broken broom handle she found. Soon the pale body of the owl was browning over the flames, the aroma of Cajun spices and cayenne pepper filling the air.