Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1) (12 page)

For those who do not know, the war is over. We won, if you call the murder of thousands of innocents winning. I’ve walked along the border of Mexico and Texas and seen the bodies of men who gave their lives protecting two glorious countries. But when historians hundreds of years from now look back on this time, and when children in classrooms read about this war, they will know one thing: we began the war when the Desaparecidos stormed Mexico City, and we ended it when the bombs fell.

Right now, we truly understand the meaning of the axiom ‘you reap what you sow.’ We spread the seeds of violence by allowing one man to control our lives, our thoughts, and our government. When his silver tongue turned to ash, we found ourselves waist deep in the embers.

There’s little point in my continuing with this editorial. This magazine will never be printed again. We backed a man and his lies, spun his bullshit into gold and fed it to all of you. Our judgment is now suspect, and rightfully so. For all these things, I am sincerely sorry. An apology means little I know, but it is all I have to offer.

Good luck and God bless as you create a life in this new world.

Joe’s eyes wandered to the top of the article and settled on Buelly. Although he hadn’t heard every detail about the war, about what actually happened, he’d heard plenty about Buelly. People called him the White Devil all over the south. Warmongering Coward was another favorite throughout Hell Paso. Joe stared him down as if staring down the real man, as if they’d bumped into each other on a street corner somewhere in the North. He wondered what that confrontation would be like. Would he simply kill the man who caused the deaths of so many innocents? Or would he ask him first why he did it?

It often baffled him how an entire country could at one point have rallied behind such a man. Joe was only nine or ten when the war began, maybe six when Buelly came to power—much too young to understand the headlines and the reports on television, too young to understand why his father had to leave for this thing called
war
.

‘It’s hard to believe this really happened,’ Joe said, breaking the silence that had filled the kitchen.

One moment, Buelly was the country’s crowning glory, the man that would lead them into a prosperous era, lead them into the next renaissance; a week later, he’d fled to the north-easternmost point of the country, leaving the rest of the country to clean up his bloody mess.

Phillip put an empty beer bottle onto the countertop. ‘The proof is in the pudding. I suppose you noticed my honorable mention in there. If I had known what was going to happen, I would have strangled Buelly with my bare hands.’

Phillip seemed sincere, though Joe had a difficult time understanding how he could have been so close to Buelly and not have known. Then again, the fact that Buelly hadn’t trusted Phillip seemed to prove Phillip’s credibility as a decent, sane human being.

‘Does anyone know exactly where he is?’ Joe asked.

Zeb answered. ‘There’re rumors he’s in Boston somewhere, living like a king when he should be strung up on one of Slushland’s skyscrapers.’ He leveled a finger at the article. ‘He’s gonna pay for his crimes sooner or later. I’d like to be there when he does.’

Joe walked away from the clipping and went to another picture angled beneath the window. Dust covered the glass, obscuring the image. ‘You mind?’ he asked.

‘Go ahead,’ Phillip said.

Joe wiped away the dust with the bottom of his shirt and lifted the picture for a better view. A surprised grin spread over his face. The photograph was of three people: Phillip, a woman who was presumably Phillip’s deceased wife, and Amanda—Joe recognized her straight away, even though she was much younger in the photograph. They were standing on the beach, the sun setting metallically behind them. Phillip’s wife’s head was wrapped in a colorful bandana; Amanda looked like she had enough hair for the both of them—it fell to her shoulders in waves. She couldn’t have been older than ten, but Joe was positive it was her. Then he recalled her mentioning Midland and her father who, in the picture, looked healthier and happier: demon free.

.........

That night, Joe sat with Amanda on the front porch swing while Zeb and Phillip stood in the yard grilling burgers and hot dogs. Phillip hadn’t stopped drinking since they arrived that morning, eventually switching from beer to whisky as the day wore on. Joe quit after two beers. Zeb hadn’t touched the alcohol at all, though he wasn’t without his vices: his once full pack of cigarettes now contained only two and he refused to share them with anyone.

‘What’re the odds I come home and find you?’ Amanda said, pushing her feet against the deck, swaying the swing back and forth.

Joe smiled and took a sip of the iced tea Amanda had made him.
‘Anything happen at work today?’

‘Tom’s acting weird again.’ She looked at Joe and brushed her jagged hair behind her ears. ‘I think he’s back on drugs.’

‘You know what kind?’

‘Seedjoi probably.
That’s what it was last time.’

‘My mom’s boyfriend was big into serratone. He couldn’t afford seedjoi luckily.’ Joe scratched his head. ‘Have you two ever dated?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

By the look on Amanda’s face, he knew he’d failed miserably. ‘Why? Are you interested in him?’

‘I was just thinking, you two work together and…I don’t know, I just wondered,’ he said, shrugging it off and hoping she’d move onto a new subject. He felt like a moron for even bringing it up.

‘You and Zeb work together. Where’d you take him on your last date?’

‘Okay, okay,’ Joe said, drinking some tea and trying to hide his face. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. But you never did answer my question.’

‘I’d rather put an icepick through my eye than date Tom. How’s that for an answer?’

‘That’ll do.’

Amanda went inside to refill their glasses, leaving Joe time to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around a girl this pretty, certainly not in Hell Paso. His determination to stick it out in Slushland was stronger than ever now that she seemed to be a permanent part of his life. The thing he liked best about her, Joe thought while he rocked on the porch swing, was her strength, considering what she’s been through—losing her mother after the war when she was still so young, watching everything around her change, and yet still growing up to be kind and good-humored.

Near the grill, Phillip laughed at something Zeb said, which gave Joe another thing to tack on his list: every day Amanda had to watch her father fall deeper into his addiction, just like he’d had to watch his mother grow weaker every day, eventually supporting herself using addicts who couldn’t even care for themselves.

Amanda returned with two full glasses of tea and eased down onto the porch swing. ‘Where did Zebulan get a name like Zebulan? Were his parents from outer space?’ she asked.

‘I think they must’ve really,
really
liked science-fiction,’ Joe answered.

Later, the four of them ate dinner at the circular kitchen table. Burgers, hotdogs, coleslaw, baked
beans, and another two beers for Phillip. Joe ate slowly, enjoying the meal and amazed that Phillip maintained his composure after drinking half his body weight in alcohol. Zeb hadn’t been lying when he’d said Phillip had a problem.

Out of nowhere, Phillip asked, ‘Did Amanda
tell you that she writes poetry?’

Joe shook his head, smiling at her. ‘No, but I’ll have to read it sometime.’

Amanda slid her father’s beer away from him. ‘I think that’s enough for you, old man.’

Enough arrived about four hours ago, Joe thought.

After clearing her plate, Amanda hugged Phillip, said goodnight to the rest, and went upstairs to sleep. Joe stood up to go clear his plate, but Phillip waved a hand towards him. ‘Later. There are things we need to discuss.’ He brought a whisky bottle and three glasses to the fireplace. ‘Help yourselves,’ he said, then turned to light the logs.

Soon, flames licked the air, spitting black smoke towards the flue. Joe poured himself some whisky and leaned back in the wooden chair near the hearth.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ Zeb said, and reached forward for a shot of whisky.

‘Let’s get down to brass tacks, gentlemen,’ Phillip said, bending forward, bunching his hands together on the coffee table beside his full glass. ‘Zeb already knows a good deal about the project that I and some others have been working on. I’m not going to tell you everything tonight, Joe, but I’m going to start you off with more than I told Zeb when he first signed up. The more I trust you and the more you prove yourself, the more you get to know.’

Joe nodded, not breaking contact with Phillip’s eyes. They were watery and yellow, but somehow sharp and focused all at once.

‘Zeb and I have been looking for another mechanic who can help Zeb throughout the last stages of the project for close to…I don’t know—’ He looked to Zeb for an answer.

‘—five months,’ Zeb said. ‘Most of the best mechanics died in the war.’

‘When this project is complete, Joe, oh lord, it is going to change everything. That gaping
hole Buelly ripped into the world? We’re going to sew it up. Have you heard of Gregory Tesh the Third?’

‘No.’ Joe ran his thumb round the rim of his glass.

‘That’s fine. There aren’t many people left who would remember him. He was a brilliant entrepreneur before the war. Made millions by investing in start-ups. For the past year, Tesh has been hiring smugglers to sneak into the North and bring out all kinds of things—weapons, food, blueprints, sometimes people.’

‘I read about the stolen blueprints in the paper,’ Joe said.

‘That was Benjamin you read about. And those blueprints have already been delivered to us. They’re for a hovercraft the northerners dubbed 340-Flytop. We prefer to call it the Cloudhorse.’ Phillip took a sip of his whisky, then another, before continuing. ‘The fact is, Joe, we need two Cloudhorses built within two months. Zeb is the best mechanic around, and he’s told me that you’re up to the task. You work for Zeb, but you don’t yet work for me. Having spent the day with you, I like what I see. You’re capable, not like the Slummers who are fine with wallowing in a diseased city. I’m asking for your help with the project. Are you up for it?’

Joe thought about his father who had gone to fight and die in the war. His father had believed he could help save the world for his son and wife; he’d believed it so strongly that he’d died for it. Maybe he could pick up where his father left off.

‘I’ll help,’ Joe said firmly.

Phillip leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. ‘I knew Zeb was right about you, son. It’s good to have you aboard.’

20

A bunch of crazed-looking Slummers had collected in front of the Queen Bean, each with their own sandwich board covered in scratchy black-and-red text. A young girl stood beside her father, clutching his hairy leg with one hand and holding a sign that read THE END IS NIGH with the other. Joe pulled into his spot in front of the restaurant. When he shut off the engine, one of the Slummers moaned, ‘The Guttermen will be thou reckoning! Oh this world of lost morals and forked tongues. Woe, oh woe is all of us.’

Joe walked over to them. They went quiet, obviously not used to people paying them any attention. He spoke to the Slummer in the center whose sandwich board cried out FEAR THE GUTTER: ‘Have you met a Gutterman?’

The Slummer’s wild eyes flitted all over Joe,
then he answered through his unruly beard in the most prophetic voice he could muster: ‘Oh, but I have my child. It happened but three nights ago. The vision, the sight, will be forever burned in my memory.’ He spread the skin around his bloodshot eyeball with his fingers. ‘It came from the water. Soaking wet, covered in the world’s filth and trash, and lo, the Gutterman held a horn that he put to his lips and blew into the night sky. I saw the sky split open. I saw the world’s end. Upon his arms were tattooed thusly: a city in the sky’—the Slummer slapped his right bicep—‘and upon this arm, a horse with black eyes and fire snorting from nostrils agape.’

Around Slushland and Almost Sunny Springs, these Slummers were branded the Saneless Sect. An inbred family obsessed with their own fabricated psychobabble, they were notorious for starting small riots at the local shops that had managed to stay in business. Joe hadn’t seen them around the auto shop yet. He could only imagine the wrath Zeb would unleash on them if they started anything outside his shop. Business was bad enough without crazed Slummers thrusting pickets around at their imaginary Guttermen. Joe left them scuffling around in their bare feet on the sidewalk and went inside the Queen Bean.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he walked through the door: it was silent and Amanda didn’t greet him with her usual quip. He walked to the front desk and looked towards the closed kitchen door. The sound of a dragged chair brought him to the eating area on the right. There he found Amanda sitting on the chair with her back to the front door, her face in her hands.

Joe quickly crossed the room and dropped beside her, a hand on the back of the chair. ‘Amanda, are you okay?’

‘I thought I locked the door,’ she said. By her voice, Joe could tell she was holding back tears.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Amanda shook her head, her hands still covering her face. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Joe.’

‘Amanda—
look at me!’ He reached forward, taking one of her hands in his. She allowed him to gently pull her hand away from her face. A purple bruise was forming around her left eye; a splotch of blood smeared the skin below both nostrils.

‘No! Oh, no, Amanda! Are you okay?’

She put her forehead on his shoulder and started crying. Joe placed a hand delicately on the back of her sweat-soaked head. Had Phillip gone off on her in some drunken rampage?

‘I’m going to get you some ice.’ He rushed to the soda fountain, threw off the top and grabbed a handful of ice, which he wrapped in two napkins.

Amanda cupped the ball of ice over her eye. Joe dabbed another damp napkin beneath her nose to get rid of the blood.

‘Who did this, Amanda? It wasn’t…?’

Amanda glared at him with her good eye.

‘Who?’
Joe pleaded.

‘Tom. I told him he couldn’t do drugs in the kitchen and he just went crazy on me. I told you he was acting weird. It messes with his head.’

‘He’s still back there?’

‘I don’t know.’ But her face told Joe otherwise.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he said, momentarily placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

He found Tom stooped over the cutting board mashing up seedjoi bulbs with a spoon.

Tom glanced up at Joe. ‘Hey, man, look, listen, she shouldn’t mess with me like she done,’ he spluttered. ‘I just pushed her away. Was an accident, I swear.’

Joe’s vision tunneled down to Tom with his drugs and a red sheen of anger descended over everything in the room. The familiarity of the situation flooded his senses like a rush of grim nostalgia. He grabbed Tom by the throat and swung him against the edge of the sink, scattering pots and pans, ringing, onto the floor. Tom screeched as his hip dug into the sink’s sharp edge.

‘It sure as hell didn’t look like an accident,’ Joe growled. ‘You think you can beat on her and just walk away?’

Joe dragged Tom by the throat to the dough flattener and smashed one of his hands flat on the feeding tray. Sensing the weight, the flattener turned on automatically. Tom’s face scrunched up in horror. He watched as his hand crept closer towards the rolling pin. Joe let go of Tom’s throat and wedged his forearm beneath his chin, pinning Tom to the wall, his hand still on the flattener.

‘Are you ever gonna touch her like that again?’

Tom shook his head violently. His fingernails were skimming the rolling pin.

‘If you touch her, next time I won’t go easy on you. Got it?’

‘Please don’t hurt me,’ Tom screamed, his fingertips crunching beneath the pin.

Joe pulled Tom’s hand back off the tray, tearing off the tip of one of his fingers. He flung the whimpering addict to the ground, where he scurried under a table as fast as he could, his maimed hand cupped to his chest.

Joe was shaking with adrenaline as he led Amanda to his bike. He helped her on,
then slid in front of her. Somehow, the sensation of her head against his back and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist helped to calm his shaking limbs and his hammering heart.

The Saneless Sect were still picketing outside the sandwich shop, the prophetic Slummer stalking around his ratty congregation, sizing up each Slummer’s faith with a glance.

Joe whistled at them to get their attention. ‘Hey, there’s a guy blaspheming Guttermen in there.’ He nodded towards the front door of the Queen Bean, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.

Behind him, the Slummers filed eagerly into the shop, their leader chanting something about the wrath that befalls heretics.

.........

Amanda fell asleep almost as soon as she’d crawled into bed at
Midland, the sheets pulled up so far all Joe could see was the top of her sandy blonde hair. Phillip was in Dustmouth for the night and Joe didn’t feel like Amanda should be alone. He sat at the side of the bed, still rattled by his fury at the restaurant. Even when he’d caught those two men raping that woman, he’d stayed calm. But when he found Amanda like that—nose bloodied, eye purpled—he just flat-out snapped. Tom didn’t know how lightly he’d got off. Joe had been ready to inflict some real damage—and he wished he had. A torn finger wasn’t just desserts for hitting Amanda. Yet something had held him back. Maybe he didn’t want Amanda to see him really hurt someone. Maybe he didn’t want to see any of Terrance in himself.

Joe had always wanted to be like his dad, willing to give up his life for the good of family and country. His father had known when to fight and when to back down—at least, that’s what Joe’s mom had always told him. What scared Joe most, though, was his acute fear of
dying. He worried that when the rubber hit the road his fear would be crippling. To his shame, there were times when he lay in bed or sat on the back porch of the shop and considered how lucky he was that he’d only been a child when the war began. But Amanda was a strong girl, brought up to weather the storms and brush off the debris. Joe knew he was seeing a vulnerable side of her that she usually kept hidden.

He eased himself off the bed and on his way out of the room, stretched his arms up, gripping the top of the doorframe, swaying there for a moment,
thinking. Then he went through the kitchen cabinets and poured himself a small tumbler of Phillip’s bourbon. He drank it sitting on the porch swing, rocking gently and watching shadows eke down the hillside like curtains being slowly drawn.