Some had been torched and some had self-combusted, but most of the houses still stood — a curious mixture of white Colonials and shingled Capes and ticko-tacko pre-fab ranches that had been all the rage during the prosperous, inflationless fifties. There was no glass in any of the windows now. And the paint was peeling, the front walks and sidewalks cracked and crumbling. And the cars that were parked in the driveways were beginning to rust. Every tire was flat, and roamers had busted the windshields. The trees that once had shaded back yard barbecues now were blighted, their leafless branches waving in the wind like the thin fingers of a skeleton.
You could go on and on, but it only made you sick.
On the other side of Bradford, we smelled it: the unmistakable aroma of a campfire. It was coming from across the Quannapowitt River, and as we got closer, we could see flickering shapes. They were just beyond the bank of the river, roughly three hundred yards away, a band of people huddled in a circle on flat ground next to a burned out but still standing barn. We couldn’t make out the faces, but it looked as if there were a dozen of them, no more.
I was relieved. Unless some of their number were off somewhere in the shadows, this was going to be a milk run. It looked as if Mather’s fears might turn out to be pointless.
I pulled Pete close to me and whispered: “Piece of cake.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Because of that barn.”
“What good’s the barn?”
“Barn’s got a loft.”
“What good’s the loft?”
“Gives us a clear view of the entire camp. We ought to be able to finish the operation from a sitting position.”
Pete started to say something, but I motioned him quiet. From there on in, stealth was going to be important. Spook them now, and they might attack — or worse, scatter. We’d have a devil of a time tracking them down, and some would probably slip away, and then there’d be hell to pay with Mather. I didn’t need that just then, and I imagined Pete didn’t, either.
You didn’t need a historian to see that the Quannapowitt in the old days had been a healthy, full-fledged river — upstream a mile you could see the remains of a dozen mills. Since the sky blew off, the Quannapowitt had shrunk to a trickle, six inches deep at its deepest with no more power to drive a loom than water from a faucet. We waded across. The river wasn’t cool, no rivers were any more, but it still felt refreshing around the ankles.
Getting to the barn was easy: Crouching low, we simply followed a waist-high stone wall that ran up to it from the river. We let ourselves in a back door, then climbed on cat’s feet into the loft.
I wasn’t prepared for what we saw when we looked down.
What I was prepared for, I suppose, was the usual band of roamers: a group of men and women, middle-aged or younger, with one kid, possibly two. That was the description of all the bands we’d seen, and it made sense they were like that. Sun and disease had taken their toll, a toll few of the very young or very old were able to pay.
There were no grown men in this group — no able-bodied grown men, that is, only a wizened old character who looked to be eighty or more sitting closest to the fire. Close to him were the women: six in number, twenties and thirties in age. They were sitting, too. Huddled at their feet in the dirt were a half dozen children, most younger than the kid who’d made it to our perimeter.
If the empty cans were any clue, they’d recently finished dinner, but there hadn’t been much to eat. Now not much was happening. When they spoke, it was in low voices we couldn’t catch. I could make out only two faces from the shadows — the old man’s and one of the women’s. Except for the wrinkles, they wore identical expressions: that peculiar hybrid of fright and exhaustion and malnutrition I’d seen on roamers before.
Something else, too, a look I’d never seen on roamers. I hesitate to call it innocence.
Mather later theorized that they had been in hiding somewhere, and had recently been forced out somehow — maybe when their food ran low, maybe at the hands of some belligerent roamers. He was pretty sure there had been more men with them originally. He imagined they’d been killed, but there was no way of knowing.
At the moment, the origin of the roamers wasn’t the issue. The point was Pete’s reaction.
“I can’t do it, Russ,” he whispered. “There’s been too much already.”
I looked at him, his profile expanding and shrinking in the campfire’s glow. I looked at him long and hard, but I can’t say that I was surprised. Mather and I had had a private talk about him just before leaving.
“Don’t stare at me like that,” he said, “like I’m a criminal. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Mather’s crazy on this. Paranoid. Can’t you see it? There’s no need for this, Russ. No need.”
“What do you suggest then?” I said calmly. Below us, an infant started to cry. The night took that cry, twisted and deformed it, made it ghost-like and disembodied. Both of us were silent for a moment.
“What’s your idea?” I repeated.
“That we button up and go back home. Forget them.”
“And what about when Mather sees smoke tomorrow morning?”
“There wouldn’t have to be any smoke,” he said after a moment. “We could tell them to move on. They could be over the border in New York State by daybreak. It can be our little secret, Russ. You and me. Mather need never know.”
It went on like that for maybe ten minutes, back and forth, back and forth.
Finally, I gave in.
“You win,” I said.
“You don’t mean it.”
“I do,” I whispered. “Now, listen. It’s your idea. Why don’t you be the one to tell them.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Really, thanks. And, listen: Mather will never know.”
Pete started for the stairs. “Don’t you think you ought to leave your shotgun here?” I asked. “Wouldn’t want to create the wrong impression.”
“Sure. Right.” He handed his weapon to me and headed down the loft.
“Any hesitation,” Mather had said during our private chat, “and you have my full and complete authorization.”
I waited until Pete had reached the campfire. Then I shot him through the back. The noise was startling, but before anyone down there could react much, I emptied the shotgun in their direction eight times. In fifteen seconds, it was over. On my way out of the barn, I was lucky — I found a five-gallon can of gas, and it was full. I poured the gas over the bodies, stepped back, and tossed a coal from the campfire. It went up with a roar.
Standing at a safe distance, I lit up a cigarette. We were running low on tobacco, but this was one of those times that called for a smoke. I suddenly had an old fashioned thirst for an ice-cold beer, but there wasn’t any beer any more. What there was hooch, which Mather had discovered you could make from canned peaches, dandelions, anything that had sugar in it, even bark from certain trees. It wasn’t the smoothest stuff, but you could still get a decent buzz from it. I’d have a glass when I got home.
Whistling some old top-forty tune, I headed back. Mather would be pleased with the outcome of the operation. In the distance, the fire lit up the night. It would die down when it reached the river. A gentle late-night breeze was blowing up. As I walked, it began to dry the thin sweat that was covering my forehead.
Patchwork
by Janet O’Daniel
The village had stood there since before the Articles of Confederation were signed. It was busy and thriving before the Continentals made their stand on Breed’s Hill. It had hummed with life long before John Adams began writing to Abigail from far-off places — those measured letters of love and domestic concern. (“Pray how does your asparagus perform?”) In such a venerable town, it was not to be expected that twentieth century conventions would be entirely respected. Street corners did not meet at right angles, houses were surprisingly close to the sidewalks. Shops and dwellings alike could be hazards for those who were not natives. Floors dipped, steps wavered. Odd levels and corners abounded.