Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) (11 page)

19

The morning’s sticky dew clung to Joe’s face, which twitched away the flies that whisked and buzzed around his eyes. Dozens of boats floated along Slushland’s river coated in a pasty fog. Joe stopped what he was doing to watch the anglers cast their nets into the water. One sailor called out to another, his voice carrying across the water, and they began heaving up a net brimming with fish, some slipping free and splashing back beneath the rippling surface.

Joe slumped onto the back deck of the auto shop and picked up his steaming mug of coffee. Since working at the shop, he had forced himself to enjoy it black. Zeb refused to splurge on sugar and cream, claiming that they ruined the bean’s natural flavor. Joe wholeheartedly disagreed, but wasn’t about to waste money on something unnecessary. After drinking half the mug, he went back to work filling a cardboard box with tools, figuring that Zeb had a mind to ship it somewhere. Joe still wasn’t entirely sure why Zeb had hired him—there wasn’t that much to do around the place—but he definitely seemed to be preparing for something.

Joe picked up the cardboard box, determined to ask Zeb the truth about why he’d brought him on board. As he nudged open the back door with his knee, he heard the front door bell jingle, signaling new customers. Zeb greeted them with his throaty, ‘Hello fellas, what can I do ya for?’ Joe went into the side room and lifted the box onto a rack next to two others. Zeb’s personal safe, covered in dust, squatted in the corner.

‘We run into some car trouble onna way here,’ one of the patrons said to Zeb, while the other asked, ‘You got some water, partner?’

In his mind’s eye, Joe pictured Zeb pointing out the jug in the corner; then he heard the
glug glug
of the water churning.

‘What happened to your knee?’ Zeb asked bluntly.

Joe’s hand stopped short of the knob and he froze.

‘Some shit-dick jumped us onna way to town.
Been eating painkillers for weeks just to stay standin’.’ The jug glugged again as the man helped himself to some more water.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Zeb countered. ‘So you got some car trouble. Where’s the car in question?’

‘Right outside.’             

The bell jingled as the three men filtered out of the shop into the morning air.

Joe lingered in the side room for a moment, listening to make sure they had all gone, before walking carefully, nervously, into the foyer. He lifted the blinds just a fraction. Parked outside against the curb was the red truck. Zeb and one of the rapists were bent over the truck’s hood, examining something. ‘Hell,’ Joe breathed. ‘Oh, hell.’

The rapist with the knee brace threw something into his mouth and swallowed, chasing it with a sip of water. He looked around dangerously, watching some Slummers at the end of the street. Seeing the red truck brought a swarm of memories buzzing into Joe’s mind, images of the dead girl wrapped in her cocoon, the rapist’s white butt thrusting up and down noiselessly, the bloody bone jutting from his knee.

Joe scrambled back to the side room, shutting the door silently just as the three men came back into the shop again. Joe put his back to the door, not listening to a word being said but merely trying to control his breathing. If those men were to stumble upon him, they’d kill him without a second thought. He tried to think. Had they got a good look at his face back at the rest stop? He remembered one of the rapist’s faces vividly. But he had sneaked up behind them and the rest of the time they’d been unconscious. Joe could hardly believe that the one who’d been on the girl was still alive—he’d smacked him real hard. It’s an unfair universe, he mused, when rapists who are beaten with a tire iron live, but their victim dies and lies buried in a car.

The front door jingled.

‘Joe!’ Zeb called out. ‘Joe, they’re gone.’

He hesitated, even with Zeb’s reassurance.

‘Joe, damn it, get your ass out here.’

Joe left the safety of the side room and found Zeb locking up the front door and shutting the blinds. ‘Were those the guys you told me about—those guys from the rest stop? I knew right when I noticed that knee brace.’

‘Yeah, that was them.’ Joe leaned against the front desk, rapping his fingers nervously against the wood.

‘They’re not coming back. Those morons ran outta gas. I gave them a few gallons and sent ’em on their way. I’ve gotta hand it to you, you picked a fight with some raw characters.’

‘What they were doing to that girl…there was only one choice to make.’

‘I’m not saying you made the wrong decision, not by a long shot.’ Zeb flipped off the Open sign. ‘Have you heard of the Arm?’

Joe eased off the front desk. ‘No.’

Zeb got another cup of coffee and led Joe to the deck. ‘Remember how I told you Slushland’s disease will spread to the rest of the south if somethin’ isn’t done? Well, the Arm is determined to spread that sickness as fast and as violently as possible.’

The sun had come up properly now, breaking through the fog that hung over the water and casting a yellow shimmer on its surface. ‘The Arm’s led by a guy named Townes, a real tough bastard whose goal is to break the south. Once it’s broken to his liking, the Arm will take over as some kind of chaos government. A buddy of mine named Phillip thinks that their end goal is to declare war on the North.’

‘That’s a tall order for a Slushland gang.’

‘They’re turnin’ into more than a gang. Townes knows what he’s doing, which is the bitch of it all. He’s a good leader. Crazy as hell, but good.’

‘What’re they doing in Slushland?’ Joe’s mind sifted through the articles he’d read, trying to remember anything about the Arm or this guy Townes, but neither name sounded familiar. It was disconcerting that this news hadn’t reached Hell Paso yet. If Townes and his gang were legitimate, it would have far-reaching consequences throughout the country. It sounded like even the North, cozily tucked away and doing its best to ignore any goings-on in the south, would have to deal with the Arm eventually.

‘This city is practically broken as it is. All Townes needs to do is take a stroll down the street and his job is half done. What’s really got me worried is that those two guys are out-of-towners.’ Zeb’s voice lowered. ‘They’ve got me nervous. I don’t think this city has much time. I think it’s come time to let you know the reason I hired you. But first, you should meet the guy who hired me. Up for a road trip?’

.........

The road coiled across the land, wrapping itself around fields of dead corn and dried up lakes. Zeb’s truck raced along, belching black smoke and moving so smoothly it felt like they were floating. Joe sat with his arm crooked on the open window, enjoying the rush of wind funneling against his face.

Zeb was smoking a cigarette, his window open only a crack. ‘Phillip’s an interesting guy. Damn smart. He was the ambassador to Mexico before the war,’ he explained.

Joe raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding? Did he know the war was coming?’

‘He claims he didn’t have a clue. And Phillip’s sharp as all hell. That just shows how sharp Buelly was to pull something like that over on the poor guy. Phillip’s had a tough time of it since the war. His wife died a couple years after from cancer’—Zeb swerved around an armadillo’s carcass—‘leaving him and his daughter alone.’

‘Shit,’ Joe halfway whispered, suddenly filled with pity for this man he hadn’t even met.

Zeb settled back in his seat and plucked the finished cigarette from his lips. He flicked it deftly through the gap in his side window. ‘He blames himself for a lot of what’s happened. Even if he’d known about half of it, I don’t know that he could’ve stopped anything.’

The truck purred up a steep hill. When they reached its crest, Zeb pointed to a house in the distance. ‘That’s it.’ It was barely visible through the trees, but soon Joe got a good look at what was one of the nicest houses he’d seen in a long time. As they neared it, he noticed how time and minimal upkeep had worn its beauty thin. Manila-colored paint peeled from the wood; empty squares pocked the roof where random shingles had been torn off by the wind; the windows were dulled and yellowed with dust; fence lines drooped clumsily into the overgrown grass beside the long gravel road leading to the house.

Phillip was waiting on the wrap-around porch to greet the visitors. He raised a hand when they pulled up to the front steps. Zeb got out of the truck and patted its roof, greeting Phillip in his twangy voice. Joe stepped out and glanced up at Phillip.

‘This must be the new employee,’ he said, padding down the steps, still wearing house slippers. ‘I’m Phillip.’

Joe introduced himself. As they shook hands, his eyes wandered to the imprint of the flask in Phillip’s front pocket.

‘Nice to finally meet you,’ Phillip went on. ‘Zeb tells me you know a good deal about vehicles. Said something about a motorcycle.’

Joe looked over at Zeb who crossed his arms and leaned against the passenger door. He couldn’t tell if Zeb’s smile showed pride in him or smugness that he’d been put on the spot. ‘Yeah, I like to think I know a bit about vehicles. We haven’t had much work yet at the shop. Back in Hell Paso I worked on a couple of cars a day.’

‘There’s going to be plenty of time to prove yourself in the weeks to come. Come on in, both of you. It’s one of the hottest days of the year right now.’

Phillip lifted his cold beer off the porch railing and opened the door for the two mechanics. Joe shut his eyes and savored the cool air pumping from ceiling vents. A television hung in a niche on the wall in front of a long couch that could easily seat six people, and a fish tank glowed blue and green beneath a painting that Joe recognized but knew nothing about. A fireplace full of wood was built into the stone wall.

‘Anyone care for a drink?’ Phillip asked.

Joe wandered over to the fish tank and stooped in front of the glowing lights. ‘I’ll take a beer,’ he said. Misery loves company, he thought.

‘Zeb—anything?’ Phillip asked.

‘I’m good.’ Zeb held up a hand.

Phillip finished off his current beer and pulled two more from the fridge.

‘Thanks,’ said Joe, taking the cold beer.

Zeb dropped wearily into a seat around the circular kitchen table. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands. His eyes were distant, his thoughts clearly taking him somewhere very far away. From the kitchen Joe could see Midland’s hills rolling against the skyline. Somewhere behind them, Slushland, with its single river and collapsed bridge, was just waking up from its regular nightmarish sleep.

‘Townes is recruiting outsiders,’ Zeb said to Phillip who leaned against the counter cupping the beer with both hands.

Phillip nodded, unsurprised. ‘I guess he exhausted all the resources that Slushland had to offer. Once he takes Slushland and really makes a name for himself, that’s when new recruits will be arriving by the truckload. I’d wager he has a couple hundred people at his disposal right now. That number will reach a thousand before month’s end.’

Now that Joe had a chance to get a decent look at him, he noticed the tired red rings branded around Phillip’s eyes, the dehydrated pupils streaked with yellow.

‘You think he’ll make a move by then?’ Zeb asked.

‘Honestly, I don’t know what he’s waiting for.’

Joe thumbed through a stack of newspapers on the counter that dated to almost three months before. Phillip watched him for a moment before asking, ‘You interested in old articles?’

Joe laid a hand flat on the top of the stack. ‘I missed a lot of what’s happening in the rest of the country, living so close to the border. The random paper picked out of the trash was my news source.’

Phillip pointed with the tip of his beer bottle to a framed newspaper-clipping hanging on the wall. ‘Take a look at that one. It might interest you.’

The frame was made of worn wood heavily sanded and coated with a maroon-colored finish. Inside was the front page of a newspaper. One of its pictures showed a middle-aged man with long thin hair and bleached white skin. His lips were fixed in a straight line—neither a smile nor a frown. The caption told him it was Buelly the White. Next to Buelly was a picture of a desert with mangled buildings rising up out of the sand like half-buried corpses. Beneath the picture it said ‘Mexican Ruins’. The article’s headline blared in solid black lettering: THE PURGING OF MEXICO: AFTERMATH.

‘This is dated three days after the war ended,’ Joe said without looking away from the clipping.

Behind him, Phillip grunted confirmation. Zeb shifted in his chair, trying to get a better view of the article. Joe put his hands into his pockets and bent closer to the glass to read the small print:

I write this with a trembling hand. Friends, loyal readers, forgive me if I venture into the realm of subjectivity during this short editorial. With all that’s happened, I don’t see how a human of sound mind could look at the events of the past few years objectively.

We’ve been reduced to nothing by so many forces of evil at work in this world: Buelly, Barrett Wheeler,
the Desaparecidos, to name a few. There remain people whose evil hasn’t been uncovered. Phillip Goodwin, who still pleads ignorance, is one such man. As always, time reveals all things, and his role in the War of Borders remains a mystery.