Twilight (15 page)

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Authors: Brendan DuBois

BOOK: Twilight
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THE REAL WAR CRIMINAL
I kept on looking at him, trying to think of what it must have been like, hanging up here exposed like this. This had to have been the Tornado pilot, the wreckage of whose plane I had found the day before. Shot down by the local militias who'd been using stolen Reserve or Guard munitions, he finds himself hanging in a tree. Maybe he's unconscious or semiconscious. All he
wants is to get down to the ground safely. A few minutes earlier he had been emperor of his own little universe, safe and secure in his cockpit, an elite pilot in an elite force, with ego and attitude to match. Flying to save the urban civilians of this frightened nation, urban civilians emptying out from the cities, looking for food, looking for safety, looking for shelter. Then, in a blur of noise and pain and shock, he's ejected from that safe world and is now on the ground, the deadly ground. He's there, dangling, probably injured, unable to move much. And then the men come, the men who he hopes are his rescuers. But no, they're not his rescuers. It's worse than that, much worse. They're the people who live here, who have been bombed and strafed and targeted by him and others who have traveled thousands of kilometers to wage war on this country, and the people who live here aren't interested in rescue. They're interested in revenge, pure and simple.
God, I hoped it had been quick for him.
There was a faint creaking noise from the branch as he swung back and forth. Again, I thought that I should at least do the right and noble and civilized thing, which would have been to cut him down and bury him. But I chose the coward's route, yet again. If I did that, it would tell every death squad in the area that a stranger was around, someone who didn't belong, someone who himself should be hunted down. I couldn't take that chance.
I reached up—I wasn't sure why—to touch one of his bare feet, but he was too high off the ground. I resumed my lonely walk and after a minute looked back. I wished I hadn't: in the interim a crow or raven had perched on the dead pilot's shoulder, and had gone to work on his face with its sharp beak.
I kept on walking, and didn't look back again.
 
 
ANOTHER HUNDRED METERS,
another signpost, but whoever had chopped this one down hadn't done a thorough job. Scattered in a drainage ditch were some color brochures of the kind handed out to advertise tourist attractions, and I pulled one free from the mud. Days of soaking and exposure had faded most of the photos and lettering, but what was visible told me where the road led—or had led—to, somewhere called Bronson's Works. I wasn't sure who Bronson was and what kind of work he did, but I probably had a fifty-fifty chance of finding out, depending where the dirt road ended up. The only other readable lettering was on the bottom side of the reverse of the brochure, in small letters:
NEW YORK PARKS COMMISSION
H. Lewis Tolman, Governor
I dropped the brochure and continued on my way. As it turned out, I didn't have that far to go.
 
 
THE DIRT ROADWAY
widened some before it was abruptly blocked. Somebody had plowed up the surface into a thick earthen berm, and then, in a creative burst of landscaping, had covered it with shrubbery and other small trees. I climbed up the berm, pushed my way through the thick growth, and then stumbled and fell down the other side. I got up, brushed off my hands and clothes, and walked a little further before I came out onto pavement.
A real road, this time.
I looked back the way I had come. It was easy to see, close up, the work that had gone into making the berm, but to a truck or other vehicle speeding by, the dirt roadway would have been fairly well hidden. Bronson's Works or whatever was back there was no longer open for business. I rubbed my cold hands together, looked over my options. There weren't many. I turned to the right, started walking again. I felt exposed, out there in the open and in plain view, but I was tired of creeping through trees and brush, walking slowly, pausing every now and then to see if I was being hunted. It had been more than a full day since the attack on our campsite. Remembering what Jean-Paul and Charlie had said, I recalled that the militias didn't like to stay in one spot for too long: too many chances of being spotted and arrested or attacked. So the little group that had killed Sanjay and had sent me running was probably far away on the other side of the county by now.
Still, I kept my ears and eyes open, always looking behind me, ready to duck into the side brush and drainage ditch if I heard a vehicle. But there was nothing. It was all fairly silent, save for the sound of my feet on the cracked pavement. My hair felt greasy, my face was dirty and covered with stubble, and I was tired and still horrified at what had happened yesterday. But I was on the move, heading—I hoped!—to where the highway ran. And before I took too many more steps, I tugged off my TLD and tossed it into the ditch. No need to advertise that I wasn't from around here; the locals didn't carry such dosimetry. And worrying about radiation exposure at a time like this seemed to make as much sense as worrying about my
Star
retirement plan.
Twice I passed farmhouses set far back from the road. Both times I saw woodsmoke coming up from the chimneys. So families were still here, still living. Each time I considered going up to the house and perhaps wheedling some breakfast or directions. But each driveway had been blocked by a
metal fence hung with signs that said NO TRESPASSING and NO SOLICITATIONS. Perhaps the signs were there just for show. Perhaps. But I kept walking.
Then the road climbed up some, and on the left-hand side I saw a large two-story frame building, with a porch and gas pumps out front. COOPER GENERAL STORE, said the black-and-white sign hanging over the steps leading up to the entrance. Out behind the store was a wire enclosure where a woman in jeans and a gray sweatshirt was feeding some chickens, scattering feed from a metal plate. She finished what she was doing and then entered the rear of the store, the door slamming hard behind her. I stopped, took in this domestic rural scene. The wind shifted—and then my stomach started grumbling, making a noise so loud that I'm sure farmers kilometers away could have heard me, for I had smelled fresh bread cooking. I started salivating so much that I had to spit on the ground, and I resumed walking. The store had rakes and shovels and other tools on the porch, and the two gas pumps had signs hanging from them, one saying NO GAS and the other saying DON'T EVEN BOTHER ASKING.
I stopped in front of the store, my need to keep moving running right up against my need to get something to eat and drink before I fainted. I licked my lips, looked up at the store and the door leading in. Yet another sign said OPEN.
Unbelievable. OPEN.
I checked my pockets. Empty. But in my wallet was a Canadian five-dollar note and some UN-issued scrip. I didn't want to try using either in this store. But there were credit cards in my wallet, MasterCard and Visa, and those little credit-card signs were snuggled up on the door, right next to the OPEN sign, meaning that this general store out in the middle of nowhere accepted credit cards.
OPEN.
I headed up to the entrance. After all, not only might I get something to eat—if I was lucky—I just might be able to get directions to the highway as well. It couldn't be that far to walk. And it'd be easier to walk on a full stomach, full of energy.
It made sense. It made good sense.
I walked up the porch, opened the door, and walked in.
A little bell over the door jingled as I entered, and I blinked my eyes, for the room was fairly dark. There were shelves of merchandise off to the right, mostly dry goods but some canned food, the cans lined up to make the shelves look full. The floors were wide and wooden, and had been worn down from years of use. To the left was a lunch counter, with a half-dozen stools lined up in front. Little metal napkin dispensers were each
flanked by a menu and bottle of ketchup or mustard. It looked so damn homey and safe that it almost made me cry.
The woman I had seen earlier, out feeding the chickens, was behind the counter, working on a ledger. She looked up, curious. She seemed to be in her early fifties, face worn but pleasant, black hair streaked with gray pulled to one side.
“Help you with something?” she asked.
My legs started shaking, just from the sheer pleasure of someone asking me that. The sheer joy. “Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if I could get something to eat. Some breakfast.”
She shrugged. “If you're not looking for fancy, sure. But I gotta warn you. I haven't had meat in a while. So no ham, bacon or sausage. Or orange juice, either. Can cook you almost anything else with eggs, if you'd like.”
My mouth started watering again. It had been more than a day since I had eaten. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, that would be great. But I have a little problem.”
The woman turned a page of her ledger. “Problems in this county come by the bucketful. What's yours?”
I shrugged and said, “My car broke down, a couple of … a couple of miles down the road. Thing is, I left my cash back there, in the glove compartment. The only way I can pay for breakfast is through a credit card. Is that OK?”
She smiled slightly. “Mister, last year at this time I'd have told you that no, it wouldn't be OK. I'd have said that my policy was that only the store goods could be paid for by credit card. I wouldn't let anybody—and I don't care if they was my neighbors—I wouldn't let anybody pay for breakfast by credit card. But you know what? Like they say, shit happens. Sure. Have a seat.”
I sat down and she got up, saying, “One more thing, though. You seem to be a nice enough lookin' fella and all, but I want to run that credit card through first. All right?”
“Sure,” I said, opening up my wallet and passing over a Visa card.
She took it and said, “Thing is, if the phone lines are down, like most days, then you get a free ride no matter what.”
“All right,” I said, sitting there patiently, hands folded in front of me.
The woman went over to the cash register and ran my Visa card through one of those little machines that rule your credit rating. “Hah,” she said. “I've got a dial tone. Then it's gonna be a good day. Took some rebuilding but the phone lines are back, some of the computers, and most days we got power for a while. Guess those assholes who nuked us won't keep us down long, right?”
I smiled and just nodded.
After some beeps and buzzes she smiled and came back and handed over the card. “You're good to go. What would you like?”
I smiled, hoping that drool wasn't running down my chin. “Sure. How about some scrambled eggs and toast?”
She nodded. “Two eggs OK?”
“Could I get four?” I asked.
The woman smiled. “My, you must have walked far. Sure. Four it is, though I'll have to charge you extra.”
“That's fine.”
“Extra toast?”
“Yes, please.”
“I've got milk and coffee, though I can only give you one cup of coffee.”
Hot coffee, I thought. Hot coffee and real eggs, not eggs served from a plastic pouch and made whole again with cold water.
She started working at the grill as things started heating up and sizzling. She slapped down a mug of milk and coffee in front of me and I put two sugars in the coffee and took a long, hot swallow. I wiggled my cold toes. Soon I'd be fueled up and ready to go. I asked, “Is the highway far from here?”
The woman's back was to me as she worked on the grill. “Oh, just up the hill and over to the right. There's an access road that hooks up to the interstate. You hopin' to hitch a ride or something?”
“I'm thinking about it,” I said.
She turned, passing the plate of eggs and toast over to me. “Might be your best bet. If you're broke down like you said, Jake in town might be able to give you a tow, but I don't know if he's got any gas. Here, eat up, 'fore it gets cold.”
I sprinkled salt over the scrambled eggs and ate two or three forkfuls so fast that I don't think I even tasted them. But my taste glands kicked in right away and I looked over at her and said, “Heavenly ambrosia. The best eggs I've ever eaten.”
The woman seemed to blush. “Well, there's something to be said for farm-fresh eggs and homemade bread. Look, would you like some raspberry jam for your toast? No extra charge?”
“Only if it's no trouble,” I said.
She waved a hand at me. “No, no trouble at all. It's back at the house.”
“No, really, you don't have to,” I said.
“Bah,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I've got to bring some over anyway. You just hold on.”
I just smiled, my mouth full of food, and went back to eating as the woman went out the rear of the store. I carried on eating the scrambled eggs but forced myself to slow down—I didn't want to show my appreciation for this nice lady by suddenly getting sick and puking up on her country-store floor. I took a last bite of toast—real butter, strong and flavorful, nothing like the margarine grease I had been used to. Then the door at the rear opened up and she came back in.

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