The Last Town on Earth (15 page)

Moments after gathering the wood, the soldier had fallen asleep again in front of the fire. As time dragged on, Philip also grew tired, so he had pulled a blanket over himself and put the rifle beside him, half concealed by the blanket. A young man sleeping with his rifle. They probably told you not to do it this way in the army, but he wanted to reduce the chances that the soldier would be able to take it. The pistol he stuffed in his left boot, beneath the wood block, confident the soldier wouldn’t think to look there.

Philip didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, didn’t know what time it was. He wished he hadn’t dreamed of his mother—there were enough reasons to be feeling bleak at the moment; he didn’t need to waste any emotion on her.

He lay back down, listening to the soldier’s heavy breaths. The man didn’t sound sick. The other soldier may well have been sick, but this one hadn’t so much as sneezed or coughed, not counting when he drank his water too fast and choked a bit. So there probably would be no outbreak in the town—no one would be harmed, and, hopefully, Philip would not be punished for his mistake. But that also meant he was trapped in here for two days for no good reason.

He wondered what Elsie was thinking, if she knew about his situation at all. Maybe they had called an emergency town meeting. Maybe all the workers were shaking their heads at the weakling gimp for letting the soldier in. Maybe all the younger boys were thankful they had this bad example to look down on, confident that when their time came, they would pass their tests with honor. Maybe Elsie would never speak to him again. Maybe Laura would face the unenviable task of having to defend her brother’s actions in the face of the other schoolkids’ taunts. Or maybe what he had done was indefensible, even to a sister. Not really blood, of course, but family nonetheless. Perhaps that was the difference—that a mistake like this was what would make a family that wasn’t really your family turn against you. The Worthys would cast him out of their clan, considering his brief time with them nothing but a regrettable error of judgment on their part, a story they would occasionally tell others after the passage of many years:
Oh yes, once upon a time we adopted a son. Seemed a nice boy—shame how it turned out.

But would even his true mother have accepted him after something like this? She had always seemed so close to leaving him, had used that threat to cow him into obeying her. Maybe a transgression like this would have provided her the perfect excuse to take the next night train without him.

Philip closed his eyes, trying to remember her without anger. It was cold in the storage building, but he had certainly survived worse. It didn’t matter anymore, he told himself. She hadn’t left him—for all her flaws and all her threats, she’d never walked out. The crash wasn’t her fault, nor was it punishment for any sins she might have committed. It had just happened. Sometimes things just happened.

The flu had just happened. So he would wait in here for two days, then he would be released, and normal life would resume. He clung to this hope more tightly than he could cling to wakefulness, and soon he was asleep again.

VI

W
hile the rest of Commonwealth slept, Deacon stood guard outside the storage building.

The sky was clear and the glow of the nearly full moon seemed unusually powerful, as though that one tiny circle, if punctured, would flood the world with so much brightness that every last pine needle would be illuminated, all the trees aglow.

Beyond the storage building, Deacon could dimly see an outline of the Cascades’ foothills. The trees beyond the building would have been too deep in the blackness to be visible if not for the moonlight, which coated them with an almost metallic shine. They glinted like blades in the distance.

Deacon was past forty, but when he was sixteen and living in Minneapolis, he had decided to become a priest, delighting his Catholic parents. They had thrown a party for him the weekend before he began seminary, and he felt he’d finally found a purpose in his life, even if he had been lying when he’d told the abbot that he’d heard the voice of God calling him. In truth, he’d only
wanted
to hear something. His parents, too, had wanted him to hear the voice of God, had wanted it when his grades in school had slumped and when the local druggist had caught him stealing cigars and tobacco, had wanted it when other parents had told him he was harassing their children, especially the girls. So he had prayed and studied the Bible for many a long night. He had lied about hearing God’s voice because he was tired of waiting for it, and because he assumed he would hear something eventually, would hear that voice call to him, a voice or something like it, a voice disguised as the wind or the tolling of bells at church or the announcer at the baseball games he sneaked into.

But the silence dragged on, and it worried Deacon, and as the months stretched into a second silent year, he became angry. He grew quick to argue and lashed out at his instructors; he scared parishioners on the rare occasions when the diocese allowed him to participate in mass. The silence was mocking him, mocking his earnest studies and all the hours he spent on hard floors, his knees aching. The silence and the smugly devout looks on the faces of the other deacons finally drove him to rage, until he ransacked the seminary library and hurled a Bible at a priest, fleeing into the soundless night and jumping a train up north, someplace where silence would be expected, normal. Someplace where he could be surrounded by other men who neither heard the voice of God nor expected to.

At his first lumber camp he had introduced himself by his given name, but once the other men had heard his story, they couldn’t resist calling him Deacon, either out of misguided reverence or as a taunt. The name had stuck.

The silence again settled upon Deacon as he stood there, staring. The prisoners inside the building never coughed or sneezed, never spoke loudly enough to be heard. Occasionally, the silence was broken by the hoot of an owl, but that was all. Even the wind had fled the scene.

Deacon wondered if the man in the building had brought the flu with him, wondered if he himself was only a few yards from that bit of evil. It was the invisible things that were most dangerous in this world, he knew.

His watch had stopped that morning and he’d neglected to wind it, so not even its ticking could disturb the calm. The hours passed like an unnoticed procession of ghosts. He would stay there all night, until someone showed up to take his place, and the silence would follow him home.

VII

I
t was surprising how dark the inside of the building was even during the day.

Philip opened his eyes to the morning wake-up whistle. Another thirty minutes or so passed, the soldier still sleeping blissfully, before Philip heard a knock on the door. It startled him so much that his legs, folded beneath him, kicked out a bit, one of them smacking the butt of the rifle. So clumsy I’m going to shoot myself, he thought, moving the rifle a few feet farther away. Still the soldier slept, heavily exhaling as if trying to shuck off a great weight. Philip thought he could probably fire a shot and the man wouldn’t wake.

Philip lit the lamp, illuminating the stark surroundings. The huge room was empty, save one of the far corners, where the possessions of Commonwealth’s few enlistees to the American Expeditionary Force were stacked. The dozen or so men who had gone off to war more than a year ago had opted to move their belongings into the storage buildings so that their homes, where they had been living for only a few months, could house new workers during their absence. Boxes were stacked in the corner, and Philip could make out such objects as a banjo and a large ceramic jug. He wondered where the men themselves were, if they were hiding in a trench or nailed inside a box.

Philip waited the prescribed amount of time after the knock, then opened the door. It was indeed day, but barely. Two bowls of oatmeal, their contents still steaming, sat on a tray alongside two large pieces of cornbread, most likely Laura’s handiwork. Coffee, even some lumps of sugar beside the mugs. No one had taken sugar in coffee lately—more of the war rationing. He needed a moment to register the magnitude of this act. He had expected to be punished, but the sugar seemed like an apology for keeping him in here. He felt a knot in the back of his throat, and his eyes watered.

He pulled the tray in and shut the door, head down, waiting for the tears to fade.

“Mornin’,” the soldier said, sitting up as Philip carried the food toward him. “Nothing quite beats breakfast in bed.”

“I’m not your waiter,” Philip grumbled, sitting down by his own “bed” and placing the tray beside him.

The soldier stood up and walked over. Despite his cheerful spirits, he seemed almost menacing for a moment, hovering above Philip, who was divvying up the spoils.

“Why don’t you get a fire started?” Philip said, to get the soldier to move away.

“Yes, sir. Just like being in the army again—taking orders. Thank you for keeping me in my place.”

Philip had been getting cold, but the fire changed that. When he lifted his bowl and set it in his lap, he noticed that it had been sitting on top of an envelope. He picked up the letter and saw his name written in his father’s hand. He placed it on the ground beside him and covered it with a bit of blanket.

The soldier sat back down, and Philip handed him one of the bowls and a mug of coffee. Philip used two lumps of sugar and handed the soldier the others.

“Coffee and sugar,” the soldier said. “Haven’t had two lumps in a while. I normally don’t take it that way, but I might as well treat myself.”

After a mouthful of oatmeal, the soldier noticed that there was a discrepancy in the portions.

“How come you get all the cornbread?”

“Because my sister made it for me.” Philip replied without looking at the soldier, but still he sensed the man smiling.

“Awfully nice sister you got.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

“Aren’t you about old enough to be having a sweetheart cook for you instead of a sister?”

“What’s it to you?”

The soldier’s smile widened.

They finished their meal in silence. Philip still felt guarded around this man, uncomfortable in his weirdly dual role of being both the man’s guard and co-prisoner.

Philip noticed while they ate that the soldier’s right fingers were wounded, red marks gashed along the upper and middle knuckles. Scabs were just starting to form.

The soldier coughed suddenly. It started as a short cough, perhaps even a clearing of the throat, but it spawned several more, a long succession growing louder and more forceful. Philip turned his head away, considered standing up and walking to the other side of the room. Finally, the soldier stood, coughing still, and wandered over to the fire. His coughing grew calmer, and then he made a short retching sound. He spat something into the fire.

He walked back toward Philip, picked up his mug, and drained the last of his coffee. He seemed fine.

“Don’t suppose there’s a bathroom around here?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Should we pick different corners of the building?” The soldier smiled. “I’ll crap in one side and you crap in the other?”

Philip smiled despite himself, unsure whether he was being joshed or if the man was serious.

“Hey, he can smile,” the soldier said. “There’s a start. Stop being so grumpy, kid, or I’ll piss on you while you’re sleeping.”

“Check the cellar,” Philip said, trying not to laugh. “Maybe there’s a hole or something.”

After the soldier had descended the stairs, Philip reached under his blanket and tore open the letter. Charles had written it the night before. Philip wondered if his father had had as difficult a time sleeping as he had.

Philip—

It pains me to think of how you must be feeling right now. I apologize again for the situation, but Dr. Banes has impressed upon us all the necessity of quarantining the soldier, and since you and he had come into such close contact, we felt we had no choice. The feeling of standing there talking to you through those walls was a terrible one.

It is still unclear to us what exactly transpired while you were at the guard post, but there will be plenty of time for explanations later. I have my suspicions as to why you acted as you did, but I want you to know that I do not rush to judgment. I feel I am to blame for putting you in an impossible and thankless position, and for that as well I apologize. You did yourself and this town proud when you and Graham defended us before, and whatever happened earlier today is something of which I am sure we can be proud as well.

Dr. Banes has assured me the chances that the soldier carries the flu are exceedingly slim. We are taking these precautions only because it would be folly not to. I have always marveled at your ability to continue unperturbed by any obstacles, and can honestly say that if there is one person in this town best suited to the unusual task before you, it is you.

Remember, too, that because there are guards stationed by the building, there are always people within earshot should you need help. Neither I nor anyone else knows who this visitor to our town is. The fact that he is a soldier makes me confident he is a man to be trusted, though it is regrettably true that not all of them are the doughty souls we would hope them to be. Also, I assume that you still have a rifle in the building with you—if the rifle’s presence concerns you, you could always slip it outside the door. In any case, I trust that you will take care of yourself in the same steely way you always have.

I regret that Dr. Banes has forbidden us to retrieve any notes from you, but it will not be long before we can speak in person.

Your sister sends her love, as does your mother, as do I.

Father

Philip felt the knot in the back of his throat again. He was unfamiliar with hearing Charles express such sentiments. During his first few months in the Worthy clan—months of being treated with extra care as he recovered from his injuries, recovered from his loss, taught himself how to walk again—Charles had been especially attentive, helping Philip with his studies so he could keep up, showing him around the Worthy mill in Everett, teaching him how the whole operation worked. But once the novelty wore off and the family grew comfortable in its new shape, Charles became more distant. Many were the nights when he was at the mill past his children’s bedtimes, fewer were the fishing trips or the rides into town to see a moving picture. And when Charles was at home, he expressed just enough interest in his son to show that he wanted him to succeed—were his studies going well? was he making new friends?—but nothing more. He seemed to see his role as shepherding Philip into his new life, and now that young Philip was secure enough to walk on his own, Charles could retreat back into his adult world, his books and charts.

Philip reread Charles’s comments about the rifle. Ever since he had won himself food and shelter, the soldier had acted quite uninterested in causing trouble, but now that he was warm, rested, and well fed, perhaps he would become a threat again.

The soldier started ascending the stairs, and Philip slipped the letter into his pocket.

“Well, the good news is, I found a bucket. The bad news is, it’s a small bucket. Lucky for you I haven’t eaten much over the last three days.”

“You’ve been in the woods that long?”

The soldier sat down and exhaled deeply. “Yes. I walked all over looking for shelter, unsuccessfully, till yesterday. I did find a cabin two nights ago, with some beans in the kitchen—about one meal’s worth.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty lost.”

“They don’t really teach us tracking skills over there. Just how to follow orders.”

The soldier certainly smelled like someone who had been wandering around for a couple of days. Philip was grateful for the smoky scent of the fire.

“You said it was a naval accident?”

The soldier nodded. “I don’t know what happened, though—it was at night, and I was below deck. Suddenly, everyone was hollering, telling us to get to the lifeboats. Some people were saying it was sabotage, a German spy or something. I don’t know.”

“Like a U-boat?” People all along the Northwest coast had been worried about a naval invasion—a German U-boat or even a Japanese warship, the yellow menace deciding to use Europe’s Great War as the perfect cloak beneath which to launch its long-desired takeover of the coastal states. There had already been several false rumors circulating about U-boats sinking commercial vessels in the waters off Washington and Oregon, and no matter how many times they were disproved by the patriotic press, the fears remained.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t see anything, though.”

“What happened to the other soldiers?”

Philip had the sense that the man would rather drop the subject, but he wanted to know more. After reading those kids’ books about doughboys and fighter pilots, after seeing the news clips before the moving pictures, here he was with a real, live, honest-to-God soldier.

“I don’t know. Me and one other guy were in our lifeboat, and all the boats got separated. We were a ways from the coast, and the weather was bad. I don’t know where the others landed. If they landed.”

One other guy
in the lifeboat. Philip fixated on that comment. Surely that was the soldier Graham had shot. And surely this man had figured that out, had realized it when Philip showed him the grave. Philip hoped they weren’t good friends, that this man wasn’t looking for vengeance.

“So how’d you lose that foot?” the soldier asked.

Philip looked at him carefully, as he often did when someone mentioned his injury. But the soldier didn’t appear to be trolling for a weakness or looking for an easy joke or insult.

“Automobile accident,” Philip said, looking away. “I was trapped in a snowstorm. It got frostbite pretty bad, so they had to take it off.”

“When was that?”

“Five years ago.”

The soldier nodded. “You walk pretty good for a guy with one foot.”

“They gave me a block. I have to wear boots, so I can lace ’em up to my shins real tight. A shoe would come right off.”

“So you’re a guy who’s lost a foot from being left out in the cold, but you were still going to make me sleep out in the cold last night?”

“You were going to
shoot
me, so don’t think you can make me feel guilty.”

“I could have shot you dead if I’d wanted to, kid. With my first shot. You’ll notice I had a free shot at you, but I hit that stump. I’m not that bad a shot.”

“You missed because I pulled my trigger, too. And you were going to shoot me again in the woods, only you tripped.”

The soldier exhaled dismissively. “I could have done it if I’d wanted to kill you, but I didn’t.”

Philip looked at him closely. “Say whatever you want. I still don’t buy it.” “Well, I guess we’ll never know what the other was going to do, will we?”

“Guess not.”

They sat there in silence for a while. At some point, Philip gave a quick glance at his rifle, gauging its distance from the two of them.

“Stop looking at the gun, kid. I ain’t about to grab it. I’ve got shelter and two days’ worth of free food, so I don’t plan on shooting my way out.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting back to your base?”

“I’ll get there eventually. My only fear is whether my commanding officer will believe me when I tell him I was taken prisoner by a town of crazy lumberjacks.”

“We’re not crazy for wanting to keep the influenza out.”

“All right, you’re all perfectly sane. But you’ve taken an American soldier prisoner, and I’ll be the one has to explain it when I get back.”

For the first time, it occurred to Philip that someone in the town could get in trouble for doing this. “What are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t know, kid. Maybe you should be a little nicer to me, and I’ll have nothing but good things to say about the fine people of…where the hell am I?”

“Commonwealth. What did you say your name was?”

“Frank Summers. And you are?”

“Philip Worthy.”

Frank leaned forward, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Philip.”

Philip hesitated only a moment, then shook Frank’s hopefully healthy hand.

“I think the pleasure’s been all yours so far. No offense.”

Frank smiled at the riposte. Then he stood and wandered over to the fire, jostling it back to life. He threw two more pieces of wood on top of it and sat back down.

“Have many of the soldiers at your base fallen ill?” Philip asked.