After the End: Survival (8 page)

"I’ve never had my period," she sniffed.

"I'll bet you start in the next year or so, don't you worry."

What a great time it was, he thought.

Then he smiled, raising his hands to shoulder level, shaking them like an actor in a vaudeville musical.

"Happy days are here again!"

Using his MURS radio, Pete called the S.O. The interview with Larry Maxwell had aired that morning and the radio announcer had followed through with his promise to air a description of the murdered girl a couple of times an hour. Pete was hoping for a quick identification but learned to temper everything these days with patience; there was no functional telephone system. For that matter, Pete mused, not everyone could listen to an FM radio. The radios were in abundance but keeping the batteries charged to power them was a problem. The area stock of AA batteries was dwindling, and new batteries in unopened packs were used in trade in lieu of money. Government officials could communicate with MURS radios that had a range of up to 20 miles. Some folks used FRS walkie-talkies for short range communication. CB radios were commonly available but ran through batteries in a hurry and had short range during daytime hours.

Guess it's time I checked my charging system, he thought ruefully. The clinic building had one of the better individual systems in the area, courtesy of the mayor. It had been built by radio station engineer Chick Barrett. Looking up, Pete observed the roof mounted wind generator turning lazily in the light breeze. Be hot up there. May as well get it over with.

Taking a couple of wrenches and some oil, he climbed the aluminum ladder that had been permanently mounted to the side of the clinic. Waves of heat radiated against his face. Walking along the roof ridge he approached the wind machine. The propeller shaft used permanently lubricated bearings, but part of the tail and high wind braking assembly was exposed to the weather and needed oil. He checked all the bolts for tightness.

The oven-like heat reflected from the roof was intense and moving back down the ladder provided instant relief. Once on the ground Pete grabbed an old coffee pot and filled it with water from one of the rain barrels. He went in the back door and walked up the stairs to a bathroom. In the bathtub were six car batteries, connected in parallel. A wire ran from the wind generator to the batteries. A much thicker cable ran through the floor to the clinic area below, providing lights, communications, and the ability to power several appliances. Pete had the convenience of charging his home batteries with this system, exchanging a couple of batteries every few days.

He carefully topped off the water level in each cell, cleaned and tightened all the connections. Still early afternoon.

Laundry time.

He walked across the street to his back yard. A piece of corrugated tin roofing in a bucket of soapy water was all he needed. White stuff got washed first, then shirts. His four pairs of jeans were the last to get the washboard treatment. A quick rinse in clean water and then everything was draped over a clothesline. Someday, he would remember to get clothespins. He'd always think about it on windy days when most of everything he hung would end up on the ground.

"Pete Wilson, S.O." Pete could hear his radio crackle. He pulled the unit off his belt to answer.

"S.O. this is Pete."

"Hold for the sheriff, please."

About twenty seconds passed.

"Hey Pete, we've gotten a few possibilities on that girl’s ID. Wonder if you could help run down a couple of them."

"Sure."

"We got calls from two ministers. Harold Dingman and Leonard Goss. You know them?"

"I know who they are."

"Harold said he'd be at his church. Leonard'll said he'd be working around his house all day and you can visit with him there. Let me know what you find out."

The sheriff gave Pete directions to both places.

"OK. I'm clear."

Harold Dingman's church was on Western and 44th, just south of the Albertson's food market and a block from the Southwest branch of the Amarillo public library. The church was pleasantly cool, the concrete floor and heavy brick walls moderating the summer heat. Pete commented on it when he shook hands with the minister.

"It does feel good, doesn't it? I think that's half the reason attendance is usually up in the summertime." His hands were smooth and a little damp. Harold Dingman was a big man with a once muscular body that had gone soft. His clean shaven cheeks flushed as though from exertion.

"I've always believed if you can provide a nice atmosphere for folks, it will pave the way to prayer and therefore to righteousness. Have you found a church home, Pete?"

No, but I've just checked another one off my list.

"Nossir, can't say that I have."

"Pete, I'm sorry to hear that." Looking earnestly into Pete's eyes. "You know, when I played defensive guard for Wayland Baptist University, we used to pray before every game and at half time. And I can truly say there were times I know God heard our prayers. We could feel it. The power of prayer defies human comprehension!"

And I always thought He was an Aggies fan.

"Sounds like it’s working for you." Pete nodding thoughtfully a couple of times, reaching into a manila envelope to retrieve a copy of the girl's portrait before the good reverend could get his second wind. He wasn't quick enough.

"Pete, it works for everyone! Even when the Lord doesn't grant you what you prayed for, He gives you what you need, what is truly best for you. The Change was only a test, a supreme test for all of us! The world had been on a downward spiral for years. Those of us who believed, who knew the Lord, we understood it was just a matter of time before the judgment would be handed down. Look at us. Wretches that we are, we have been given an opportunity, a chance to recreate our world in His eyes! The glory of God is everywhere. Can you feel it Pete? Can you feel it!" The man was on his feet, arms extended straight out from his sides. His florid face wet with perspiration. Pete was watching the preacher's eyes, fascinated. They were deep blue, and totally without expression. He was reminded of a friend's Siamese cat. The animal languidly observed everything around him but his eyes never registered any emotion.

"I can't disagree with you, Harold." You wouldn't listen anyway. "Take a look at this, would you?" Handing over the portrait.

"Oh my God." Sitting down, shaking his head, looking at the copy of the dead girl's face. "Dear Lord, it's her." Shaking his head some more. "The murdered girl, am I right?"

"You recognize her, then?"

"Oh yes, I have no doubt. It's Susan. Susan Shupe. Oh, this grieves me. She'd been coming here, to this church, every Sunday and Wednesday. I had taken a special interest in the girl. Lost her family in the Change, of course. The church gave her comfort, as it does for a great many of us." He stared at Pete significantly.

"About a year ago she stopped coming. Just all of a sudden. I visited with her adopted family to try to understand why. As I said, I'd taken an interest in the girl's wellbeing. They said she'd just left and wouldn't tell me why or where she went. It sorely disappointed me. I prayed for her, for the Lord to watch over her, that she might find peace and salvation. I can only believe that she was needed in Heaven. Did she...die quickly?"

"No. She died a slow, miserable death. She fought with her attacker. She was in pain for a long time."

"He performs His work in mysterious ways." Harold shaking his head some more. The room grew quiet.

"You said you knew her pretty well?"

"Yes, I did. Mind you, we’re all in a unique situation. Our family and friends, all dying over a period of just weeks. There’s been nothing like it in history. We all respond differently. But Susan, she was...there was just a special quality about her. Calm, quiet, but you could feel an inner strength there. And a pretty girl. Always dressed in white. With her black hair, she looked just like one of His angels. Beautiful. And now, you tell me she's dead. Poor little Susan."

More head shaking. Pete decided the guy looked like one of those little dolls with the spring loaded heads that people used to put in the back windows of their cars.
Boing, boing.

"Is this picture a true rendition of her face? She looks a little thin."

"She was thin."

"She must have lost some weight."

"Reverend, I'd like to visit with her family. Where do they live?"

"Oh yes, the Langleys. They don't live far from here." Harold wrote directions on a small card.

"Please tell them hello for me. I'm afraid they were rather hostile towards me the last time I saw them."

"Why?"

"Jealousy. Because of her strong religious belief. They're a Godless couple. They actually believe that I had some responsibility for Susan leaving their household. That girl was this close," holding a thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, "this close, to reaching salvation. I only needed a little more time with her. Such a pretty little girl." His entire face was crimson.

"So why do you think she left?"

Those deep blue eyes never left Pete's face.

"I have no idea."

The Langley house was eight blocks south of the church, a single story ranch style house. A tall woman with a white blouse and jeans met him at the door, pulling unruly strands of hair from her face.

"Good afternoon. My name's Pete Wilson."

"I thought that's who you were. I recognized your car but we've never met.”

A girl about five banged up against the woman's leg.

"Who is it, Momma?"

"This is Dr. Wilson, honey. He takes care of sick people."

The girl looked at Pete for a few seconds.

"Oh." Then she tore off back into the house. He heard voices of several children playing.

"I'm Sarah Langley."

"Yes, ma'am. Harold Dingman said I might find you here."

At the sound of the man's name, the smile left her face and her eyes became hard.

"I don't know him well," he added, noticing she obviously was not on friendly terms with the minister.

"He's a slime ball."

"Do you know who this is?" He handed her the girl's portrait.

"Why sure, it’s Susan." Then she put her hand to her mouth and inhaled sharply. "Is this who they found? The dead girl? Oh, poor little Susan. That poor little girl."

"Mrs. Langley, I'm sure sorry for your trouble. I'm working with the sheriff's department, trying to find out who did this. When did you first meet Susan?"

She handed the copy back to Pete.

"Well, let's see. I first met her four? No, five years ago. Her family moved into that blue house, see it down the street there? Her and my daughter were friends, they were both the same age. Then the Change came, and I lost all three of my kids and my husband, and little Susan lost all her family too. So, she just sort of moved over here? I was glad for the company, to tell you the truth. You know, a familiar face? For a short while it was her and me against the world." She made a crooked smile and looked away. "Anyway, a few other kids came by and stayed, then my current husband, Travis? Well, he needed to be around kids so he started hanging around, too. He's a good man, great with kids, always fixing things and trying to make it a little easier around here. So anyway, looks like I got a family again."

"Tell me about Susan."

"Oh, she was pretty good, mostly quiet but she didn't take any sass from anybody. I remember once a boy came around, bothering the other kids. I was watching from the kitchen. She didn't say a word, just walked over to the grill, picked up a cast iron skillet, and proceeded to lay into the side of that boy's head." She chuckled. "That boy didn't come back again for a long time, and when he did he was real polite."

"She was pretty serious about her religion."

"Yeah." She pressed her lips tightly together for a few seconds before continuing. "Maybe six months after the Change that man Dingman came through the neighborhood, visiting with all the families and telling them how important it was that the kids know about Christ and all, you know, how religion could help them? Well it seemed like a good idea at the time so we let all the kids go. Most of them just liked the stuff they made in Sunday school, but Susan, she swallowed all that religion crap, hook, line and sinker. She was spending three or four evenings a week over at the church and getting all dreamy eyed about Dingman, about how Christian he was. That went on for, I don't know, a year or maybe a year and a half? Then one night I hear the shower in the backyard and I go out to see who's using all the water? It was Susan. And I said, ‘Honey, what are you doing?’ And she says, ‘I gotta get clean, I gotta get clean.’ She just says that over and over. Then she came inside and threw up a couple of times. Just dry heaves. No fever or anything. She kept going back to that church for a while, but then she'd take these long showers after. She got real quiet. I mean she was always quiet, right? But I mean where she wouldn’t hardly talk to anybody, not even to the other kids. Not even to me. And we were...close, you know? So one night, I ask her, I say, ‘Susan, I know you better than anyone in the world, and I know something's wrong. Tell me what it is, honey, and maybe I can make it better.’ Well, she was quiet for a spell, and I thought maybe she wasn't going say anything and then she just comes right out and says, ‘Does Travis ever come at you with his thing?’ Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather, but I tried to stay calm and I say, "Honey, Travis and me are husband and wife and when two adults love each other, like we do, they do things with each other that are private and real special." She doesn’t say anything else but then I put together all that stuff with her that had been going on and I get a real bad feeling. And I say, "Has Harold Dingman been coming at you with his thing?" And she doesn’t say anything but she looks at me and I knew. She's twelve years old, right? And that bastard's been taking advantage of her. God, I was mad. I wanted to kill that man. So I start yelling and I take her by the arm, trying to get her to tell me, but she wouldn’t say a word. The next morning she was gone and I never saw her again." The woman's eyes were welling up with tears, but she made no move to wipe them. "She was my poor suffering little girl and I couldn't do anything to help her. Sometimes I feel like that's the story of my goddamn life."