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Authors: Brendan DuBois

Twilight (20 page)

BOOK: Twilight
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SOMETHING PUSHED AT
my foot. I pushed back, woke up and found that a dog was looking at me with soulful brown eyes. An English springer spaniel, white and brown, its stub of a tale wagging madly. In his mouth he had a dirty green tennis ball, which he dropped on my blankets. He gave a little muffled woof, and then nudged the ball with his nose.
“Sorry, pal,” I said, sitting up and wincing at the pain in my back. “Not in the mood for playing much.”
A voice from beyond the rocks: “Sorry, that's all that damn dog wants to do sometimes.”
“Really?” I said.
“Truly,” the voice said.
Some of the saplings and brush were pulled away, and an older man with a thick white beard, black coat and overalls was peering into my little resting place. A boy of about seven or eight was next to him, rubbing at
a red nose that was dribbling snot. The boy's hands were empty, but the older man had a shotgun, which at least wasn't pointing in my direction.
The man said, “The dog's called Tucker. My name's Stewart Carr, and this is my grandson Jerry.”
“Hello to all of you,” I said. “The name is Simpson, Samuel Simpson. If this is your property, I'm sorry I trespassed and slept here.”
“That's OK,” Stewart said. “At least you weren't partying or driving across my fields or shooting a cow and thinking it was a deer.” Then the English springer spaniel woofed again and started to worry at the ball. “Tucker … You see, the thing is, the dog just purely loves to play. You could spend hours just tossing that damn ball back and forth, and he won't get tired. But
we
get tired after a while, which is why he likes to find strangers to play with. He picked up your scent and saw a potential playmate.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said. “Look, if you don't—”
“Where you from, Samuel?”
The boy was sniffling some, still rubbing at his nose. He had on a red wool cap with a blue pom-pom that seemed about three sizes too big for him. I looked back at his grandfather and said, “Toronto. Canada.”
Stewart nodded. “I know where Toronto is. You lost?”
“Surely am.”
“Where you headed?”
“To the nearest highway.”
Another nod. “UN, am I right?”
The dog's tail was wagging and drool was actually running down his chin, he looked so excited at the prospect of playing with me or anybody else. I said quietly, not raising my voice, “Stewart, if you're going to turn me over to your militia, then send your grandkid away and go ahead and shoot me. Because I'm not going. I've already spent some time with them and I'm not going back.”
The boy's eyes were wide and Stewart spat on the ground. “Do I look like a monster?”
“Not particularly.”
“Who did you have a run-in with?”
“The county militia. Headed by a guy named Saunders.”
“Saunders? Fat and with a beard and not enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, even if the instructions were printed on the heel?”
“Sure sounds like him,” I said.
“Bah,” Stewart said. “'Fore everything started going to the shits he ran a lube-oil place, where you go in, get your oil changed, and then leave after twenty minutes or so. Then he got some surplus army gear, a few
weapons and some friends as dimwitted as he is, and poof! Now he's a colonel in a county militia. Well, shit, son, just 'cause my name's in a phone book, it don't make me a telephone repairman. I don't have nothing to do with him or his friends. But come along up from there, we'll get you fed and on your way.”
I got up slowly, started rolling up my blankets. Stewart nudged the young boy and said, “Crawl in there and give 'im a hand.”
So Jerry came in and said his first word since I'd met him—“Tucker!”—and pushed the dog away. He helped me roll up the blankets and I tied them off with the plastic strips. Then Stewart helped me out, back onto the field. It felt good to be standing and I said, “You don't have to feed me. Just point me in the direction of the highway and—”
Stewart interrupted. “The radio said a lot of crap is going on, so I don't think you want to be walking anywhere out in the open right now. And what's the problem? You ain't hungry?”
I think he could've heard my stomach grumble at the mere mention of food. I said, “I'm hungry, sure, but I do want to make some time. And no offense, the last time I got something to eat the woman feeding me turned me over to the militia.”
“Where was that?”
“A general store. The Cooper General Store.”
Stewart nodded and started walking, and I went with him. “She's another one. Sweet Jesus, Samuel, you sure had a run of bad luck, hooking up with her. Look. If you're dead set on making your own way, fine. I'll point you there. But your face is all cut up and you look like you could use a wash and a meal. Then you can get going. The choice is yours.”
By now the muddy field had joined up with a dry and unkempt lawn. In front of us was a two-story farmhouse, with an attached barn and a couple of outbuildings. A dented red pickup truck was parked in a dirt turnabout. I coughed and looked over at Stewart and his grandson. “That's a nice offer. Really it is. I'm just gun-shy, that's all.”
A firm nod. “'Course you are.”
I shifted the blanket roll in my hands. “Why, then?”
“Why, what?”
“Why are you feeding me, a stranger and trespasser? I mean, you could have just sent me on my way and I would have been happy with that.”
Stewart slung his shotgun across his back, slapped me on the shoulder. “'Cause that's a neighborly thing to do, that's why. Something a lot of us forgot last spring. Now let's get going.”
I walked a couple more steps and then the dog cut in front of me, dropping the tennis ball again at my feet. I picked up the ball, warm and slimy
with dog drool, and tossed it down the gravel driveway. The dog raced after it, moving almost at an angle, before snapping it up and then trotting back proudly with it in his mouth.
“Tucker,” the boy said.
The dog dropped the ball at my feet, and Stewart laughed and kicked it away. “You get caught up in that, you'll be here till suppertime. Come along, Tucker. Jerry, get the leash and bring that damn dog in.”
“OK,” I said.
“OK,” Jerry said.
Then we went into the house.
 
 
THE KITCHEN WAS
cluttered and had a big range and a refrigerator that had drawings secured to it with little magnets. I apologized for tracking mud in with my soiled boots but Stewart just waved me off, putting his shotgun down in the corner next to a collection of boots, shoes and half-chewed dog toys. Tucker came in, gulped down some water from a dish and then collapsed on a blanket by the refrigerator, breathing hard, tongue hanging out. Stewart pointed out an adjacent bathroom and I went in and used a real flush toilet for the first time in a long while. I washed up with hot water and soap and examined my face. I was about another week away from having a serious beard—which was probably for the best—to cover up the bruises and scrapes along my forehead and left cheek. I scrubbed my face, winced a couple of times, and then dried myself on a towel that proudly stated it was from the Buffalo Hyatt Hotel.
Back in the kitchen, waiting for me at the table, there was a mug of tea, which I sipped, enjoying the strong taste. My stomach was now wide awake with the smells of wonderful things cooking. Stewart said, “'Bout another ten minutes or so, we'll have something good to eat, just you wait.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I don't know how to pay you, but—”
Stewart moved his bulk over to the refrigerator, popped open the door and bent down, coming back up with a fistful of eggs. “You get back to the UN, you just might say that not all people out here are killers. You think you could do that?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Then you'll have paid me back,” he said, returning to the stove.
I took another sip from the tea. Jerry was on the other side of the table, tongue sticking out from his mouth at an angle, drawing something on paper. I said to Stewart, “You mentioned something about the radio. What's going on?”
“Depends on what station you listen to. The local stations, most of 'em
run by the militia or their friends, say the UN and NATO violated the armistice agreement and it is now defunct. Now, defunct. That's a hell of a word. Didn't think most militia types could use such a word. The local stations, run by what's left of the state government and the UN, they don't say much. Just to stay in your homes and listen to the responsible authorities. But when the weather's right I get the BBC World Service, late at night.”
I rubbed the tea mug, enjoying the warmth on my fingers. “What does the BBC say?”
Stewart reached up to a cabinet door, opened it and took out three thick white plates. “The BBC—and, man, I do like hearing their voices, they sound so civilized—anyhow, the BBC says that the armistice with the militia units has broken down in some counties in Michigan, New York, Vermont and New Hampshire but seems to be holding on in Texas, Idaho, New Mexico, Kentucky and Tennessee. Most other states are still quiet, the ones not really hurt by the bombings. And nobody's too sure when the armistice might be up and running again.”
From outside I could hear a thrumming noise, which seemed to get louder and louder. Helicopters. Stewart stopped his work and looked up, a spatula in his large hand. Jerry stopped drawing and his eyes grew wide as he looked up at the ceiling. In the corner Tucker even whimpered some. The vibration from the helicopters' engines made the dishware rattle as they flew overhead. I thought briefly of racing outside and waving a dish towel or something to attract their attention but I knew how fast they flew: they'd be over the horizon by the time I found the door.
Then the sound drained away. Jerry picked up his pen and Stewart looked over at me.
“I guess the armistice won't be up and running again today,” I said.
“I guess you're right,” Stewart said.
T
he late breakfast was eventually served: scrambled eggs again—and I sure as hell wasn't complaining—with a sausage link apiece and toast made from homemade bread. We ate quickly and Stewart raised his voice only once, when Jerry tried to give a piece of his solitary sausage to the dog.
“Jerry, that sausage is special. It's been in the freezer for months, and I'll be goddamned if a dog is going to eat it, even if it is Tucker,” Stewart said. “Now, you go ahead and eat, so you can grow up and be strong. And don't pout.”
And the little guy didn't pout, just held on to his fork with a pudgy fist and kept on eating. His eyes were shiny and I had a feeling that he and his grandfather had this dog-eating-from-the-table discussion on a regular basis.
The food was hot and went down quickly. I had another cup of tea and when we were finished eating Stewart said quietly, “Now, you go and clean up, and go into the living room. All right?”
Jerry looked over his empty plate. “Can I watch TV?”
“Only if you turn on the VCR and run a tape,” Stewart said.
“Which one?”
“How about
The Jungle Book?
”
Jerry nodded enthusiastically. “Yep. I'd like that.”
He got up, cleared the dishes and placed them by the sink. When he was done, he said, “Tucker,” and the English springer spaniel followed him. Stewart leaned back in his chair to catch what was going on in the living room. He lowered his voice. “Just want to make sure he's watching a tape,” he explained. “I don't want him watching the tube in case one of the militias is running things for a day or so on one of the local cable stations. The crap they put out over the airwaves … You know, racist warfare, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, white power, red state versus blue state … Bad enough things are happening on the ground, then the clowns who seize the television stations have to pollute the airwaves again.”
“I see,” I said, sipping from the tea mug.
“You do, do you?” Stewart asked skeptically. “Tell me, Toronto man, what exactly were you doing, working for the UN?”
I tried to gauge his expression, what was going on in his mind, and decided to hell with it. “I was assigned to an investigation unit, looking into war-crime sites. We were investigating allegations around this county and others.”
“Find much?”
“A little,” I said.
“Bah, whole place is one whole war crime, if you ask me. So, Canadian man that you are, what do you think of our poor misguided country?”
I said, “I'm not sure I can really answer that.”
“Oh, give it a try,” Stewart said. “I read the papers, watch the news. I know that you nice folks up north have always had a strange relationship with us Yanks. Who could blame you? Here we are, overbearing and powerful and full of ourselves, and there you were, peaceful and trying to choose a path that didn't involve our rough-and-tumble way of doing things. Bad enough to have our kind of nation as a neighbor. When that terrorist attack hit Manhattan late last year and then came the follow-up balloon bombings … it was the tipping point. Hard to believe that one coordinated strike would cause all this chaos, even with that damn EMP effect …”
“Up north, although we didn't get zapped like you people did, it was hard to understand what was going on,” I said. “The news coverage was spotty and all we heard were the worst of the stories. Exodus from the cities … lack of food and fuel … refugees being shot at by the militias …”
Stewart looked like he wanted to slam a fist on the table. “Damn it, we had years of warning. We should have been prepared for all types of attacks, but we never are. Never prepared for a boatful of explosives motoring its way up to a moored warship. Or some guys armed with box-cutters and knives, flying planes into buildings. Or some group stealing suitcase
nukes and detonating them to fry all our electronics. The population looks to its leaders and their leaders fail them, and then the poor, scared, frightened people take matters into their owns hands. But then again, people … sometimes they get the government they deserve, you know?”
“That's what I've heard,” I said.
He gave me a wry smile. “You see, a few years back I worked on the planning board for our little town here. I'd retired from a machine shop and thought I'd give something back to the community. You know? And you know what happened after that?”
I rubbed a finger around the rim of the tea mug. “What's been said before: ‘No good deed goes unpunished.'”
A firm nod. “Absolutely right, Samuel. A little job like the planning board, making sure any new construction comes in and follows the rules. And you'd have thought I was wearing jackboots and a peaked hat with a goddamn swastika on top. We had people coming into meetings, screaming and yelling, I got hate mail and I got phone calls at midnight, wanting to know why I was giving my neighbors a hard time about what they could or couldn't do with their property. I mean, shit, some people thought owning a piece of land gave 'em the right to store drums of toxic waste on the back forty. So what if it leaked into the ground water, or seeped into a stream that went into a reservoir? Man's home is his castle, et cetera, and all that crap. So I gave it up, after one term. I'm getting older and I don't need the aggravation.”
“Why so much anger?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Stewart said. “This isn't a bad place. Not very rich, mind you, but it was peaceful enough before the troubles. Hell, even had a nice little state park on the other side of the county. Bronson's Iron Works, one of the earliest mine and iron forges in the state. But when people started dropping out and not caring, when government becomes something to be hated and feared, and when rumors and half-truths are believed, over and over again, well, that's when the bad times come. And when the bad times come people want to hate somebody, and when those somebodies are poor refugees from the cities, trying to get some food and a place to sleep, it's easy to do.”
From the living room came some boyish laughter, as I heard the rollicking tunes from
The Jungle Book
. Stewart saw that I was paying attention and said, “Thank God for VCRs. I'd hate to try to take him into town now to see a movie.”
I said, “A couple of days ago I saw a road overpass that had been taken out by a bombing raid. That sure looked like something that came from the movies.”
“Yeah, and you know what? Even with the killing that was going on, lots of us were humiliated when the UN approved the intervention and when NATO came in. I know they had their reasons. From state to state, you didn't know what the hell was going to happen. Some states didn't have any militias, any trouble, and their governors just used any National Guard units that weren't overseas to take care of any problems from the refugees. Other states fell apart and couldn't hold back the militias once they started gunning. And with our power and our nuclear weapons, it didn't take much to see that the world didn't want another Russia out there, a country with nukes falling apart, you know? But still, the hell of it, being bombed and strafed by countries who were supposed to be friendly to us. Not that some of the militia units didn't deserve it, but a lot of innocent civilians, in Idaho and Texas and Kentucky and Tennessee and here, they were killed by those raids, before the armistice.”
I remembered the schoolteacher Gary, and what had happened to his fiancée. “But when the news footage came out, showing homes being burned and so many people being killed and hurt, and some of the rioters raiding National Guard armories and some other military bases, there was a lot of pressure to intervene. It was a bad choice, but I think sitting back would have been an even worse one.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stewart said, finishing off his own mug of tea. “Even now, even with that humiliation, I wish you guys had come in earlier. It could have made a big difference.”
“I know,” I said.
His eyes flashed at me. “No, you
don't
know. I don't mean to get pissy, but you
don't
know.”
I just nodded. “Yes, you're right. I don't know.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning over again to look at his grandson in the living room. “I can't help it; I'm sorry. You see, it all has to do with little Jerry over there.”
Something cold started tickling the back of my throat. “His parents?”
“Yes,” Stewart said quietly. “My daughter, Kelly. And her husband, Ralph. She went to school in Manhattan, learning about sculpture. Met up with a nice fella named Ralph Powell. Got married and came back here, opened up a little studio. He worked on-line for some brokerage firm, got to work out of the house. Beautiful little house, beautiful little boy.”
I kept silent, letting him tell the story. He took a breath. “They've been missing ever since the troubles. I keep telling Jerry, don't worry, your mom and dad, they're on vacation. They'll come back when they can. But I don't know how much longer I can keep telling him that. I … I just don't think it's going to end right. And you want to know why?”
“Tell me,” I said.
“Because in some people's eyes what Kelly did was a crime. And her crime was to marry a black man from New York City and to have a child with him. And in those people's eyes that's a crime worth being killed for.”
 
 
I HELPED STEWART
wash up the dishes and then we went out to the living room, where Jerry was enraptured, staring up at the colors on the television screen. Tucker was on a dog bed of sorts, snoring fitfully. Stewart said, “You OK, kiddo?”
Jerry still stared up at the screen. “Yep.”
“Tucker OK?”
“Yep.”
Stewart said, “We're going upstairs for a couple of minutes, so you stay down here, right? And remember, stay away from the windows.”
“'K, Grandpa.”
Stewart managed a smile, glanced at me and said, “Come along. Let's go upstairs and see what's going on in the world. Maybe then we can figure if it's safe to get you out of here.”
“How's that?”
“You'll see.”
I followed Stewart up the narrow wooden staircase, past little framed sketches of skiers hanging on the right-hand wall. At the top we went straight through to a small room filled with radio gear. A quick glance to the left and the right showed a bedroom on either side. With my UNTRAINED investigative know-how I figured which one belonged to Stewart's grandchild by the toys on the floor. In the small room were three metal tables, each set against a wall. There were a couple of amateur radios set up on two of the tables, and in front of them was an old office swivel chair, its back repaired with some gray duct tape. There were maps on the wall as well, ranging from one of the world to some that depicted the several counties in this part of New York state. Stewart flipped a few switches and sat down. I perched myself on a corner of a desk and watched closely.
“Nice old stuff, huh?” Stewart said. “That's what saved it, when the balloon strikes came. Old electronics could muddle through better than the newer stuff. That's how some of the militia units communicated with each other at the start, when they started setting up roadblocks and such. The old gear still worked, while the newer stuff—belonging to the cops and National Guard units—got fried.”
“There doesn't seem to be a microphone,” I said.
“Don't need one,” he said, rotating a dial slowly. “You see, Samuel, I don't particularly care to talk to people. I'm just a goddamn big snoop, that's all. Used to be I'd get a kick from catching some obscure regional station in China, or an American task force in the Persian Gulf, but fortunately—or unfortunately—the really interesting stuff now is nearby. So I don't have to worry about getting a weak signal. The thing today is, I take a gander at what's going on out there, then I can get an idea of how safe it might be before you start walking.”
“All I need to know is how to reach the highway,” I said. “If I get there, then I'll just hang tight until a UN convoy comes by.”
Stewart turned in his chair, looked up at me. “Where the hell have you been the past few days? Under a rock?”
“No,” I said. “I've been running through the woods, being chased by your gun-toting neighbors. And I spent a couple of days at a militia camp, held prisoner, seeing lots of nice touristy things. Like men being shot in the back of the head for the crime of being in this country without your militia's permission. So I haven't really been up on the news.”
“Well, bully for you, sport, 'cause things have really gone to the shits for you UN folks these past few days,” he said. “Like I said, the armistice has collapsed here and in a few other states. Which means some of the resettlement camps are under siege, your UN investigators have scurried back to their base camps, and the open highways—like the one nearby that you're so goddamned keen to visit—have been closed.”
BOOK: Twilight
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