Shelf Life (15 page)

His jaw clenched as he watched Sarah climb a ladder and disappear into the foliage of an apple tree. He’d heard what she said about the size of his penis, and although he knew it was true—fucking steroids—it made him angry and hot with shame. Sarah was good at what she did, but she’d just crossed a line. She was replaceable.

Still, business was good. He hated to lose her when he was no longer around to recruit others in the high school. He’d tried to expand his business at the university, but stepped on some toes and nearly got outed to the football coach. He couldn’t afford that kind of exposure, or two broken legs, for that matter. Better to deal with stupid high school kids who don’t know better and don’t have options.

No, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he’d keep Sarah. Like she said, they were users. And boy did he plan to use her. He’d make sure she and the entire Wilson family suffered.

Carefully inching away, Jay moved north along the property line and into the corn field on his family’s side. All that was left was stover, but it was enough cover until he got to the trees. There, back in a little clearing, was the last of his special crop. He’d had a good growing season and planned to host many a college party with his profits. Once in a while, especially when he looked at his mom, he felt bad, but that was short-lived.

Truth was
, he didn’t want to inherit his dad’s giant commercial diary operation. He hated that the money from it funded his entire life, so he figured there was no harm in having some of his own money. His dad would argue that it was tainted, but Jay thought the same thing about his dad’s earnings. Everything his dad touched was tainted. How much longer would he make them pay for what had happened in the past, before Jay was even born?

He sighed and walked west, staying hidden by the saplings and brush. He emerged far away from the clearing and closer to the back of the house. From the small rise, he observed his dad’s barns and automated milking parlors, the muddy paths and now-empty veal hutches. Their pathetic cries were gone until spring, but he could still hear his dad’s laughter the first time
he witnessed a male calf being dragged from its mother and locked away. Eating a steak from a grass-fed, adult Angus was one thing, but veal was another.

Jay pretended to look the other way, but eventually the day came when his dad made him prove himself. He’d stayed up all night with a cow in labor, his father just a few steps away.
Please be a female, please be a female
, he’d silently prayed. When the spindly calf finally wormed its way out of its mother, he had to choke down bile. It was a male.

Except for breeding, there’s no need for male dairy calves, so it was off to a solitary hutch for this little guy. His father raised his eyebrows, daring Jay to hesitate. After the first surge of sickening bile, Jay steeled himself and shut down. He pretended he was his father and played the role. He grabbed the calf by two of its legs and swiftly dragged it down the hay-strewn concrete aisle, only stopping to open the barn door. Once outside, he kept moving. He knew if he stopped, he’d never be able to start again.

Out into the cloudless night he’d pulled the calf, until his father was no longer in sight. Then, Jay bent down and carefully set the calf on its hooves, encouraging him to walk as much as possible. He didn’t dare whisper soothing words to him or pet the space between his ears, but he made the trip to the calf hutch as comfortable as possible. Once there, he settled the little guy into place before securing the chain around his neck.

Jay heard movement behind him and turned to find his father standing over him with a large bottle in his hand. He took it and offered it to the calf. The formula was gone in a matter of minutes. What
remained, however, was the sound of the calf crying for his mother as Jay and his dad had walked back to the house.

Standing on the edge of the woods, Jay could still hear that calf crying. Hundreds of others had come and gone since that night, but that very first one had left an impression on his heart. He shook his head and set his shoulders.

Times had changed. It was just business, though one he didn’t want a part of. His crop out in the woods was a step away from the farm and toward something better, with or without Sarah Wilson.

chapter twenty-six

I
am so screwed.

It’s obvious the moment the bunker comes into view. Seeing the door ajar at the bottom of the steps makes my defensive instincts kick in, so I crouch low to the ground and take a mental inventory of my available weapons. The bowie knife I got for Christmas is tucked into my boot, and my fingers close around the pocket knife I’ve had since Grandpa died. It was the one thing of his that I specifically asked for when the old man finally gave up the ghost after a long battle with lung cancer.

“
Check your surroundings
.” I can practically hear Dad whisper in my ear. I flick my gaze left, right, up and all around. Whoever broke in is gone now. The birds’ calls are calm, and Bennie doesn’t seem agitated. If danger were lurking nearby, she’d be having a fit. Still, nervous sweat pools on my upper lip as I slowly inch closer to the bunker.

Whoever—or whatever—damaged the door must have seen one of us go in or out. A quick scan of the soft ground around the top step fails to reveal any animal tracks, and the marks on the door handle couldn’t have been made by bear claws. No, the scrape marks and splintered doorframe are definitely the work of a metal object, maybe a crowbar. My stomach sours when I see the twisted metal of a broken padlock on the ground.

They had guns
.
They shot off the stupid lock. Why?

A number of scenarios flash through my mind. The most optimistic is word’s out that we keep supplies hidden in the woods and desperation drove someone to break in. I can forgive that. It means they probably took what they needed—could carry—and left the rest. I understand hunger makes people do extreme things. Heaven knows Dad’s made me watch the nightly news to drive home the point.

“Desperate times,” he says. “The shit’s about to hit the fan, son.” But I know better. I know exactly what I’ll find down there, and it’s time to stop stalling.

I adjust the knife in one hand, and swipe my hair out of my eyes with the other. Four steps and
I’m face-to-face with the damaged door. It’s only open a fraction of an inch, affording me no glimpse at the state of things on the other side.

Crap. I forgot my flashlight.

Being a mile away from any other structure, the bunker isn’t wired for electricity. I stick the toe of my boot into the space between the door and its mangled frame, my arm up to protect my face from a potential attack. My heart speeds up and my underarms tingle with a fresh wave of adrenaline.

One…two …

The door shudders when I shove it open, revealing a crime scene that confirms my worst fears. The once-filled shelves now stand empty, looming over their former contents, which now form puddles all over the dirt floor. Sticky heaps of rotting fruits and vegetables surround my feet. Glass sticks out from the mounds. I’m standing in the middle of thirty jars of green beans, forty jars of sweet corn, ten jars of rhubarb, ten jars of picked beets, four days’ canning worth of tomatoes, and a dozen other varieties of fruits and vegetables we set aside for the long, cold months ahead.

My stomach turns over—but not at the sickly sweet smell of rotten vegetation. No, it’s the sheer waste of food and energy that has me tamping down the dry heaves. Dad will be furious. Mom will cry. Sarah will roll her eyes and retreat to her room. Without these jars, dinners this winter will be pretty bland and possibly sparse. We’ll have to slaughter our animals before their primes—more waste.

I turn and slam my fist into a wooden shelf post. It shudders, but my knuckles are no match for the thick slab Dad and I made out of a fallen tree last year. I hug my injured hand to my chest, but my anger hasn’t abated. It swells red and black behind my eyes, making me shake and sweat despite the cold of the underground room. I kick a pile of mushy goop. It makes a sickening sound as it splatters against the wall, and an even sicker smell rises from the floor. A mouse runs for the door, and I’m shocked when my body lunges after it. For a split second, I think of smashing the rodent with my boot for eating what rightfully belongs to my family.

I shake my head to clear it. Then I look up.

In the dim light filtering in from the half-open door, I see messy letters scrawled on the back of it. My heart drops into my stomach. With my uninjured hand, I rifle around in my pocket until I find what I’m looking for. I withdraw a matchbook and hastily yank one out and scratch it across the back. The sound and flame perfectly match my mood.

That changes when I hold it up and see what’s
written on the door: “Your mom is a whore.”

The match falls from my fingers and sizzles out in a puddle of pear syrup.

After a full fifteen minutes, I’m calm enough to move and not kill the first thing that crosses my path. In that time, the sun’s dipped even lower in the sky. I swallow the giant lump in my throat and set off toward the creek.

By the time the rushing water is audible, Bennie’s run ahead, barking her furry head off. It can only mean one thing—she’s located Dad. I sigh in relief, glad to know he’s where he said he’d be, though I’m worried that he’s late coming home.

Please don’t let it be another attack.

Without a flashlight, the trees ahead are blanketed in the purplish light of dusk. Finding Dad would be nearly impossible if it weren’t for Bennie. I’m so busy trying not to get whacked in the face with a branch that it’s not until I’m almost at the creek that I notice the sharp tone of Bennie’s barks peppered with soft whines in between. The sound sets off a wave of anxiety that sends even more adrenaline tingling through my limbs. The feeling that something’s wrong practically knocks me off my feet, but I keep moving forward, avoiding roots and rocks as best I can.

Finally, Bennie bounds back to me, circling around several times and nipping at my hands.

“I get it, girl. Something’s wrong. Show me where he is.”

She streaks off, showing me the clearest path through the tangle of branches and briars. It still doesn’t prevent one from whipping me in the face. I slap a hand over my cheek and when I pull it away, sticky blood’s smeared across my fingers.

Bennie comes back and tugs on my sleeve this time, practically dragging me to a spot on the creek bank. At first, I can’t make out anything in the deep dark of the canopied area except the silvery flash of water sluicing over rocks. Then I notice a dark spot where there shouldn’t be one. I kneel on the ground while my eyes adjust and reach out my hands.

They find fabric and a human form beneath it.

Chapter twenty-seven

“D
ad? Can you hear me?”

My question’s met by a low moan. I let out a breath, relieved that Dad’s alive. Tired of groping around in the dark, I pull out my matchbook again. In my haste to light it, the entire book tumbles from my fingers into the black water at my elbow. “
Shit
.”

“Don’t let your mother hear you talk like that.”

My nervous and relieved laughter echoes off the trees. “Sorry. You okay? Mom’s worried sick.”

“Not sure. Your old man pulled a bone-headed move.”

“Yeah?”

“Slipped on a rock and fell into the creek. Hit my head, then dragged myself over here to the edge.”

“Can you walk?”

“No, I think my leg’s broken.
Been keeping it in the cold water to keep the swelling down. Getting pretty chilly now.”

My fingers automatically rake through my hair. If Dad hit his head, he might not be thinking clearly. It’s all on me.
“Bennie, go get Mom. Get Mom.
Go
!” I point in the direction of the house and she takes off into the dark on her mission.

I place my hand on Dad’s shoulder and wince at how hard he’s shaking—hypothermia, no doubt. “Does your head hurt?”

“Not as much as my pride. I’m okay. Just—ow.”

My dad’s a tough guy. If he says
ow
, he’s in serious pain. “Help me get my leg out of the water. Can’t feel my toes. Good thing you came along, huh? Do it quick.”

I squat near the edge of the creek and feel around until I have my hands on either side of Dad’s calve. Within seconds, my fingers tingle painfully then go numb. Dad will be lucky if he hasn’t permanently damaged his limb.

I quickly lift his leg out of the water, my clothes instantly soaked through by Dad’s cold, dripping jeans. The sound of a frog getting run over by a car escapes from Dad.

“You can still feel that?”

“Yeah,” he grunts.

“That’s good, Dad. Can you feel this?” I pinch the toe of Dad’s boot hard.
“Anything?”

“No.”

“What about this?” This time, I squeeze his calve.

“Huh-uh.”

Time for the real test. “This?” I squeeze his thigh and the burly man nearly shoots straight off the ground. Then he lets fly with a string of words I can’t repeat. “Sorry.”

“
S’okay. Guess that’s where you learned them words, huh?” I smile in the dark, but more from the fact that Dad still has feeling in his upper leg than at his lame attempt to lighten the mood.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

“Mom will be here soon. It’ll be okay. We’ll get you to the hospital and get you patched up.”

He nods, mumbling something under his breath.

“What?” But he doesn’t answer. I stand and call
for Bennie. She must be back by now.

Just then, the faint sound of an approaching engine reaches my ears. A few seconds later, lights slice through the dark and bounce shadows off the trees. I stand but practically get knocked over by a giant ball of fur.

“Down, girl. Good job. Good girl.” I pat Bennie and move toward the source of the light, a few hundred feet away. “Stay. Stay with Dad.” Bennie whines, but does as she’s told.

“Your face!”
Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me into the beams of the headlights from the pick-up truck.

“It’s fine, it’s just a scratch. We have to get Dad out of here.”

“So you found him? Is he okay?”

“He broke his leg and hit his head. And he’s shaking.”

She sets her jaw and looks in the direction I just came from then grabs the portable stretcher and emergency thermal blanket from the truck bed. “Take me to him.”

While we walk, I think about Mom’s steely resolve. She doesn’t freak out in an emergency. Sure, she’ll freak out later when all is said and done, but in a pinch, I can count on her to do what’s needed. The woman has an iron rod for a backbone.

“
Bennie?
” I holler. She responds with a series of barks. We follow them until we reach the creek bank. Mom kneels in the mud next to Dad, taking his pulse, shining her tiny emergency flashlight into his pupils and covering him in the thermal blanket. I hang my head, feeling like an idiot for not doing those things myself. I could have at least given him my coat. I really blew it.

Slowly, she begins unlacing his boot.

“Won’t that make his foot swell?” I ask, hoping I’ve retained at least a small piece of my training.

“Yes, but I bet he wants to keep all his toes, so we need to get this off before frost nip sets in, if it hasn’t already. How long you have your leg in the creek?” she asks, turning back to Dad.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he begins pushing her away.

“He’s in shock,” she says. “See if you can get him to lie back while I get his sock off. Make sure that blanket’s tight around him.”

This is my fault. He was talking and joking a few minutes ago. If only I’d given him my coat. Taken off his boot and wrapped my shirt around his leg. Made him lie back with his feet up. Sure, now that Mom’s here, I remember what I was supposed to do.

“Dad?
It’s Pete. You okay?”

“F-fine.
Your mother’s overreacting.”

“Let her do her thing, Dad. No use fighting when she’s got it in her mind to do something.”

Dad tries to laugh, but his teeth are chattering too hard.

“Pete, help me get your father onto the stretcher.”

His eyes fly open. “Don’t need a stretcher. Lean on you. Hobble out.”

“Don’t be a hero, Michael. The trees are too close together here anyway. We couldn’t get through three across.”

“No way you two—”

“Stop arguing. I’ll take your feet and let Pete stand
at your head.”

“He’s not—”

“Have you seen your son lately? He’s nearly as big as you. Now stop being ornery or I’ll have to gag the patient.”

Dad and I exchange a look, but he doesn’t protest any further.

A few minutes later, we’ve scooted him onto the stretcher without too much additional pain or swearing. Rather than dwell on my First Aid failures, my mind wanders to Mom’s comment and whether it’s true. Am I really almost as big as Dad? Last time I checked I was still Twig. I’m pleasantly surprised when I grab hold of the stretcher and lift with little resistance.

I should have known. Mom’s always right.