The Alliance (17 page)

I listen to the sound of the tires rolling over asphalt, the inhalation through everyone’s nostrils with no audible exhalation, making it seem that the air itself lacks the ability to sustain life. My hair stands up on end, and I wonder if it’s because we are in immediate danger or if it’s because I am expecting, at any moment, to be fired upon.

Charlie motions to the building. “There must be something good in there.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

He shrugs, already making his way up the sloping drive, the structure’s corrugated roof glinting. “I could take ’im,” he says.

I keep my mouth shut, since he’s the one driving and
wouldn’t listen to me anyway, but it seems pretty stupid to enter a building we know is occupied simply because it might have something we want. This thought process reminds me of those two high school boys who tried penetrating our gate, which doesn’t bode well for our reconnaissance mission. A small black-and-white dog comes trotting down the center of the street, still wearing its collar. I can tell by the way it’s reacting to the sight of our vehicle that it’s been abandoned. In a few weeks, maybe less, that dog will starve to death or, worse, become a starving person’s next meal.

“Anything back there?” Charlie calls to me.

“Nope. Nothing but a hungry-looking mutt.”

“Good. Who’s staying with the truck?”

Jabil says, “I will.”

I look at him, wondering how he’s going to protect himself and the vehicle without a weapon. “Take this.” Jabil eyes my gun that I’m trying to pass over the seats. “Just take it,” I say. “You don’t have to shoot it, but the sight alone might give you an edge.”

Jabil takes my gun, holding it by the barrel as if it can shoot by itself. Charlie drives around a landscaped stand of trees and parks next to a storage shed behind the center, where the Suburban will hopefully remain out of sight of anyone patrolling the street. He switches off the engine, but neither he nor I make an effort to get out. “Well.” Charlie
clears his throat and fidgets with the keys. “I reckon we’re not gonna find out what’s in there just sitting in the truck.”

The two of us exit the vehicle and walk in silence up to the building, which is elevated above town, providing a rather unsightly widescreen vista of the destruction and desolation of what was once, no doubt, the beautiful town of Liberty. My chest tightens as I pause in front of the national and state flags, flapping in the same gusts of air twirling the litter in the streets below, and I see that someone had the forethought to lower them to half-mast. I am surprised the flags haven’t been stolen for cover, or for spite, since our government has failed its citizens—or at least the citizens of Montana, since we don’t know how far the tentacles of the EMP have reached. But perhaps even mendicants have their looting limitations.

I continue walking, keeping the AR-15 ready and my head down low. Charlie is ahead of me by about ten steps. We move around the side of the building, searching for the emergency exit the man used. I glance over my shoulder at the Suburban. Jabil is sitting on the passenger side. His straw hat blocks the upper part of his face so that I can only see the firm set of his jaw and mouth. In front of me, Charlie’s boots clang on the metal steps as he goes up to the door, propped open with a tennis shoe. An invitation or a lure. Either way, not a good sign.

Before opening the door, Charlie pauses just long enough
for me to know that most of his machismo is for show. Without thinking, I pad up the steps as quietly as possible and slide in front of him. I can tell he’s scared. I’m scared too, but I’ve been trained to master fear and use it to focus instead of letting
it
master me.

I ease in through the propped door and hold it open for Charlie with the side of my shoe. I shoulder my weapon, my eye taking everything in across the iron frame of the sights. The hallway’s white tiles are illumined by the sunlight streaming in through the sparsely placed windows. The space itself is musty and rank. If someone’s living in here, I imagine they feel safer with the windows shut. Humans tend to revert to their basest—almost childlike—instincts when faced with insurmountable fear. I’ve also noticed that those who most fear losing their lives usually do. Maybe this is why I have lived through so many deployments: I don’t fear dying, so death does not come for me.

Seeing nothing of alarm or interest, I turn and start making my way down the hall. I hear Charlie trudging along behind, as light-footed as a gamboling bear. There is no use telling him to be quiet, so I just keep moving. A row of rooms, apparently offices, are on our left. To our right, on the wall, numerous iconic national images hang, set off by heavy gold frames: the Empire State Building, the White House, the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore, and the three New York firefighters raising the flag in front of the
remnants of the World Trade Center . . . all such symbols of national pride. The irony of it does not pass me by, for who knows what has befallen these symbols now.

I stare for a second and then shift my eyes to the left again, peering down through the row of offices. Most are locked when I try the doors, and then I see that the fourth has been jimmied with a crowbar. I push the door with the barrel of my gun, scanning behind it and the desk before stepping inside. The desk drawers have been dumped onto the floor, documents and papers crumpled and stamped with shoeprints. On the desk are three framed photographs. The first is a picture of a family on vacation, all lined up against a backdrop of snow in thick winter coats and clutching skis. Next is a picture of them at the beach: same people, same blond hair, but now all tanned and lined up against a backdrop of water. The last picture—a 4×6, like the rest—is just of the parents twenty or so years ago. They’re holding each other close and smiling, like they can never imagine anything going wrong in their picture-perfect world.

“See anything?” Charlie asks, poking his nose around the door.

“Not much. I’ll be right there.” For some reason, I can’t leave without turning all three pictures facedown, as if I’m closing the eyelids of someone who’s died. Then I pull the door behind me, and we continue walking down the hall. I peer through the rectangular window on the left side of
two huge wooden doors. Basketball nets and the polished gleam of the court make it easy to discern that the space is a gymnasium. I take a breath and push the right door open.

Immediately, I know the bathrooms along the back wall are the source of the horrible stench that hit us as soon as we stepped into the building. The trash, sleeping bags, suitcases, and clothing strewn in front of the bleachers reveal that many people were using the civic center for shelter and therefore were probably also using the toilets as if they still flushed.

If so many people were staying here, where are they now? And why did they leave their sleeping bags and clothes behind—if that is what they’ve done—since they are going to be wishing for every layer come winter? Moving closer, I spy children’s toys among the tangled detritus—including an unmoving figure that makes my pulse skip until I reach down and touch the synthetic blond hair of a life-size doll. There are plastic bags, cooking pots, plates, a broken flashlight, and numerous candleholders, the wax burned down to the bases’ metal disks.

Charlie crouches beside me to examine the goods. I didn’t hear him come up, which is annoying. But I know that my audible range, after such proximity to the bomb’s explosion in the desert, is not what it once was. I used to take comfort in my hearing loss after I received my father’s phone call, trying to get me to reenlist. I figured it was bad enough
that—even if he somehow talked me into it—my failed physical would exempt me from another deployment. Yet now I take no comfort in my minor handicap; I know it’s liable to get me killed.

The gymnasium door opens, and Charlie and I both whirl to face it. But it’s only Jabil, his straw hat haloed by the sun filtering weakly through the skylight above.

“Why aren’t you watching the vehicle?” I ask.

Pocketing his Bible, Jabil makes his way over to us while examining the pile of refuse. “Thought I saw somebody else come in the building. I worried that you guys were trapped.” Stepping over a sleeping bag, he stops and opens it with his foot. Inside is the emaciated figure of a man, his face so lifeless that I know he’s already dead.

“Be careful,” I warn as Jabil rests his hand against the man’s forehead—checking, I guess, for the warmth he’s not going to find.

“He—he’s dead.” From his horrified expression, I deduce that Jabil’s not seen many bodies. Charlie has no such qualms. He strides over and peers down, focusing the lens of his headlamp on the corpse. The man’s condition tells me he’s been living this kind of lifestyle for far longer than the three weeks since the EMP. He was possibly homeless—a drifter who ambled around the streets and then took advantage of the abandoned center and the items that the citizens of Liberty left behind.

“Well,” Charlie says, “this is most likely how he died.” I think he’s referring to the quart jar next to the body, which is filled with a clear liquid resembling homemade moonshine. But then he leans down and plucks a prescription bottle from the sleeping bag’s zippered mouth. He holds it a few inches from his face and reads, “Boulder Drugs, Melinda A. Clarke, eszopiclone.”

“Melinda?”
I snatch the prescription from Charlie and glance at Jabil. “Isn’t that the name of the woman who was in the community?”

He nods, paler than when he first touched the corpse. Rising to his feet, he takes off his hat and reaches for the brown bottle in my hands. He holds it at different angles in the muted light, as if he thinks that will somehow change the words printed on the side. Clearing his throat, he says, “Boulder’s in Colorado. It’s her. She must’ve come here first.”

“You think?” I say. “Of
course
she came here first. What I want to know is where she is
now
. And how this dead guy got her stuff.”

Jabil crouches again and squints at the corpse. Charlie obliges by angling his headlamp and switching on the high beams that he turned low to conserve the battery. Even Charlie keeps quiet as Jabil continues staring. Finally, Jabil puts the prescription bottle in the sleeping bag where we found it and stands. He puts his hat back on. “Who knows
how he got it,” he whispers, as if at a wake. “I just hope she’s okay.”

“Maybe he killed her.”

“Charlie!”
Jabil and I cry in unison, though he’s speaking our own thoughts.

Charlie grins to himself, pleased by our reaction, and I feel like smacking his headlamp against the wall while it’s still on his head. Then Jabil and I look at each other, and Jabil’s expression morphs from shock at Charlie’s callous remark to contempt aimed, I believe, at me.

Out of habit, Jabil clears his throat. “We can’t let Leora know what we found here.” He glances at Charlie, who’s busy adjusting the strap of his headlamp. “You listening to me, Charlie?” Charlie lets go of his headlamp, abashed, and nods. “She’s been under a great deal of stress. She doesn’t need to think her old roommate’s dead on top of it.”

“But doesn’t she have the right to know what we found?” I ask.

“Maybe. But I don’t want to tell her until we know more.” He pauses. “What’re we going to do with the body in the meantime?”

Charlie says, “Who says we need to do anything? He could be a murderer.”

“He still has a soul.”

I sigh. “We’ll have to bury him later, guys. We don’t even have a shovel.”

Charlie shakes his head and strides toward the gymnasium doors. Jabil follows. I lean down and retrieve the prescription bottle from the sleeping bag and slide it into my pocket. But before I pass through the emergency exit, I remind myself that what Jabil said is true, and I decide not to show Leora the bottle. It’s better not to put unnecessary stress on her at this time. We are dealing with her heart, and Jabil’s not the only one who wants to protect it at all costs.

Leora

M
Y BASKET IS HALF-FILLED
with a cornucopia of root vegetables—the richly fertilized soil caking to the tapered ends—when the Suburban crackles down the lane and deposits Moses and Jabil in front of the Snyders’ house. I rest my palms on the edge of the raised bed and watch both men turn to watch the vehicle pull away, a tail of low-lying dust trailing behind.

From the back, they appear oddly similar despite their differences in height, coloring, and dress. Perhaps this is because their appearance is overshadowed by the characteristics of their inward man, which matters to me most: integrity, work ethic, and a desire to protect the weak.

Wanting to find out if they had any success at the armory, I wipe my hands on my apron and rise from the garden, crossing the stretch of lawn between the Snyders’ house and ours. Moses and Jabil stop speaking when they see me coming. They look at each other, their expressions pained in a way that makes me want to turn back.

Overcome with shyness—and more than a little confusion—I ask, “Find anything?”

Jabil woodenly replies, “A pack of toothbrushes, fire starters, some blankets, and a case of refried beans probably looted from Burt’s Grocery.”

“No ammunition?” I look at Moses.

He shakes his head. “Finding stuff like that was just wishful thinking. You wouldn’t even recognize Liberty, Leora. Two and a half weeks of scavenging has totally destroyed the buildings—some still standing, most burnt to the ground. But the flip side is that I was also expecting to be faced with more danger than we were.”

Jabil adds, “Yeah, we barely saw anything.” This unnecessary echo confounds me less than his flexed jaw and hands that make his entire body appear constricted in warning. However, I came over not only to find out if they had any success, but also to show my appreciation for everything they’ve done for Mt. Hebron. So with considerable effort I soften my features and ask if they’d be interested in joining my family for lunch.

I watch them visibly brace before accepting my invitation. I feel a moment of anxiety, picturing Jabil bonding with Moses during their foray into town. And if they do, what might such bonding mean for me? I collect my basket of vegetables and go up the back porch steps.

Inside, I slide a tray of cooked butternut squash onto the countertop and place a fresh loaf of sourdough bread on the table. Jabil and Moses enter.

Moses takes off his shoes and washes his hands at the sink. “Need help with anything?”

The men in our community consider the kitchen a
woman’s domain, just as we consider the logging pavilion a man’s. Recovering from surprise, I respond, “Guess you can help me peel the squash.” In silence, Moses and I stand side by side as the steam rises between us, redolent of our treasured hoard of nutmeg and cloves. I take off my spectacles, clean the fogged lenses on my apron, and slip them into my pocket. The kitchen brightens. Over my shoulder, I watch Jabil light the kerosene lamp hanging above the table. The use of fuel seems an extravagance, considering the sun is shining outside. Then Jabil looks at me, and I can tell he has lit the lamp not for illumination as much as to thwart the intimacy fostered by the dimness.

Taking the hand beater, I puree the goldenrod-colored vegetables into soup. Somehow, Moses anticipates my every need—mashing the roasted onion and garlic, adding a pinch of cayenne and sage, the two of us moving in a culinary dance whose steps are improvised yet sure. I lift my gaze to his, and we stare at each other in the vivid light. I am painfully conscious of his warmth and of his breathing, which is as hitched and uneven as mine. For the first time, I am grateful I am not hiding behind my lenses or behind my unnecessary desire to be the stand-in patriarch of my orphaned family, so that I can never allow myself to be just what I am: a young woman with the desire to be desired and loved.

When the soup is prepared, the table spread with a cloth
my
mamm
once kept in her hope chest for special occasions, along with a crystal relish tray of pickled baby corn, okra, and cheese, I find that I am shaking from the revelation of my hunger. Not wanting to reveal my unsettled state, I wait a moment to let my flushed cheeks subside and then return to the table to see that Jabil has already claimed my seat. Over the years, he has attended enough meals to know that this was my
vadder
’s old chair, so I am sure this is a hated move.

I sit down and fold my hands on the table. Moses, also having attended enough meals to anticipate our actions, bows his head. Then, feeling a gaze upon me, I open my eyes. But Moses is still praying. I glance over and see that Jabil is perusing my features as I had seen Moses earlier perusing the map of Liberty that was spread across the hood of the truck, as if searching for dangers not readily foreseen. Our gazes remain locked as the silent prayer continues and the grandfather clock marks the seconds pouring through the accelerated hourglass of our world.

Contrite for keeping my eyes open during prayer, I reach down into my apron, withdraw my spectacles, and put them on. Truth be told, they are not needed. My minor astigmatism improved more than three years ago. But by that point, my
vadder
’s unstable presence in our home left me longing for something behind which I could hide, even if it was made from a medium as unstable as glass.

The prayer time ends. Young Colton opens his mouth
like a little bird as he waits for
Grossmammi
Eunice to fill it with a spoonful of soup. Sal, his mother, has disappeared again. The third time this week. Anna dips a torn portion of sourdough into the soup and munches happily, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I pass a napkin to her. She smiles and cleans the corners of her stained lips. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that my sister probably does not comprehend what happened to her that night in the field.

Anna hasn’t allowed me to examine her, and I’m not sure I would have the stomach even if I could. It is hard enough to see the scratch on her face and recall the blood marring her gown. Later, I checked that Anna was sleeping and got up from our bed. I carried her nightgown out to the woodstove, stoked the fire, and tucked it down into the box. Watching the flames devour the soft cotton, I viewed the action as a portent of my future revenge.

I hear Seth asking, as if from far away, “How’d you learn to fly?”

I glance over at Moses, to whom, no doubt, the question was addressed. “My grandpa.” Jabbing his spoon in Seth’s direction, he smiles. “Actually, I was about your age when he took me and my brother up for the first time.”

“Did you ever fly a fighter plane?” Seth’s eyes gleam with interest. I watch Jabil shift in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction of conversation. Or maybe he’s uncomfortable that the conversation is not being directed by him.

“No, but my grandpa did. He was in Vietnam.”

“Did he—?”

I break in. “Seth, that’s enough.”

My brother glances at me. “Don’t treat me like a kid.”

I am taken aback by his resentment and am preparing to defend myself when Jabil says, “Thank you for the delicious meal, Leora, but we should be hitting the road.”

“Again?” I ask. “You just got back.”

“We had to come get some things for Charlie.”

Seth looks at Moses. “Can I come too?” His voice fissures on the last syllable, and his face grows red. Moses, with his airplane and his gun, is every boy’s childhood hero brought to life. But I fear the adult awakening Seth would experience if he ventured into Liberty with him.

“I’m sorry,” Jabil answers before I can tell Seth no. “It’s not safe.”

Jabil’s caution brings sorrow to my eyes. My sister was attacked by something—or someone—because I wasn’t cautious enough. Maybe if I’d married him like
Mamm
wished, it wouldn’t have happened. Setting my napkin beside my plate, I murmur good-bye to the men and leave the room. Even with our bedroom door closed, I can hear the restrained hum of voices in the kitchen, the clinking of cutlery against plates, followed by the shuffle of boots crossing the hardwood floor. The front door closes as Jabil and Moses leave to scavenge for supplies.

Enough time passes for me to drift into a restless sleep. I awaken to a hand touching my shoulder. I lift my face from the quilt—my vision blurred—and see that Sal’s returned and is staring down at me with Colton on her hip, his mouth still bearing traces of butternut soup.

“You okay?” she asks. “Upset about Anna?”

I nod and glance over her shoulder toward the door, wincing as I see she’s left it cracked. Wiping my eyes, I get down off the bed and close the door with one hand. I turn back and say, “I’ve come to my own conclusions about who attacked her. But that doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

“Your own conclusions?”

“That night, after I found Anna, I saw a light on the lane. Charlie’d been wearing a headlamp when he was guarding the gate.” I shrug. “It’s not much, but it makes me wonder if he was returning to his post after what he did.”

Sal moves to sit down on our bed but then keeps standing. “Have you talked to him?”

“You can’t just come out and accuse someone of something like that. Can you?”

“No,” she murmurs. I look at Sal’s downcast face and am shocked to see that the same person who usually never displays any emotion appears about to cry.

I place a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

Sal glances up and meets my eyes, her own potent with
anger. “I was here,” she says. “I should’ve heard something. I should’ve
known
.”

“And I
wasn’t
here. Don’t you think that haunts me, too?”

She reaches up to clasp my hand that’s resting on her shoulder. Her nails are ragged and filled with dirt. When she sees me looking down at them, it’s as if an unseen portal between the two of us slams closed. Her face resumes its unmalleable veneer, and she leaves without another word, the soil left by the treads of her boots the only proof that she was in our room.

Moses

As planned, we return to the civic center to bury the dead man. Jabil remains outside, standing like a defenseless sentinel halfway between the vehicle and the emergency exit. Charlie trails me down the hall, covering my back more thoroughly than he did before. At first, everything appears the same as it did this morning: the smell, the hodgepodge of possessions, the shining expanse of parquet floor marked for a basketball game no one might ever play again.

But then I come to the section where the body used to be. The sleeping bag and the mostly empty jar of moonshine are gone. I glance over my shoulder and spot a bearded man curled up on the bottom row of the left-hand bleachers. As I draw closer, the man stands and holds up his hands, fingers
spread, like he’s expecting a fight. He appears younger than the dead man, though just as weather-beaten and thin.

Charlie must see him too. He opens the gym door. “You all right in there, Moses?”

The bearded man looks from me to Charlie and then down at my hands.

I lower my gun. “Everything’s fine.”

The door closes. The man blinks at me. I’m not here to cause trouble, but I’m not sure the same can be said for him. I take a step closer, and the man takes a step back, his calves pressed against the bleacher’s varnished wood. He looks to the right and then to the left—trying to decide, I guess, which would be the best route of escape if the need should arise.

“We came earlier,” I explain. “That’s when we found the body. What’d you do with it?”

“Buried him. Waited ’til you left. Thought you were the gang.”

“The gang?”

“They were here last week. Didn’t give people time to pack—” he motions to the items scattered around the edges of the court—“just drove them out the doors with guns. Then they went through the building, picking out what they wanted and leaving the rest behind. Once Victor and I knew they were gone, we came here to stay, figuring they wouldn’t be back.”

“Victor? Was he . . . ?”

“The dead guy?”

I nod.

“Yeah. He was.”

“Were the two of you homeless?”

He smirks. “Let’s just say I haven’t had a roof of my own in the past two years.”

On a whim, I pull the prescription bottle from my pocket. I toss it to him, the pills clinking. He catches it in one hand. “We found this on the body. Mean anything to you?”

He turns the bottle over. “Victor musta stole it from me.”

“You’re the first man I ever met who’s named Melinda.”

The man looks up and squints. “I got this stuff fair and square.”

“Guess that depends on your definition of
fair
.”

“Look, all I know’s some woman came here about a week or so ago, telling me she’d do just about anything to get home. I have some connections, so I directed her to a friend of a friend, and she gave me some pills as repayment.”

I quip, “How generous of you to help her. You’ve not seen her since?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t take advantage. I swear. I’m not that kind of guy.”

Anger deepens my voice. “No. You just turned her over to those who are.”

“You know nothing about me, man. I got a wife and kids.”