Ebenezer pulled in on his bike. He took off his helmet. His hair stuck up in comical sprigs.
“Petrol, garçon.”
The man just looked at him.
“Gas, please,” Ebenezer said. “Fill it up.”
The man hesitated, as if deciding whether he wanted to fulfill the order of a fellow with Ebenezer’s coloration. Then he uncapped the motorcycle’s tank and carefully filled it. The pump dinged at every half gallon. The man wiped a few drops of spilled gas off the tank and said, “Sixty-three cents. Pay inside.”
Micah said, “Do you have a water hose?”
The man shook his head. His mouth was sucked inward, and Micah wondered if he had a tooth left in his head. It looked as if something had been feasting on him from the inside. A parasite of some kind.
“Got a pump round back,” the man said.
The pump was old and rusted; a pail hung off the spout. Micah worked the handle until red-tinged water splashed into the pail. He filled it and went back to the car. The water hit the scorching radiator; steam boiled up. Micah waited for it to clear, then tipped the rest in.
The others were inside. The shop’s shelves were modestly stocked. Micah picked up a tin of Spam, a can of Hunt’s pudding, some wooden matches, and Tootsie Rolls. He added a quart bottle of Nehi grape soda from the ice chest, brushing past Ebenezer, who was picking up two bottles of Yoo-hoo.
“Elixir of the gods,” Ebenezer said.
“The gods of diabetes,” said Minerva. “Drink up.”
Micah took his goods to the cash register. “Nine dollars thirty-five with the gas,” the shopkeeper told him.
Micah informed the man that he needed a receipt. “Business purposes.”
The man scratched one out on a bit of scrap. His fingers trembled.
“We are looking for an encampment,” Micah said to him.
“It’s called Little Heaven,” said Ellen.
“The religious crazies?” the man said. “The hell you want with them?”
Eb said, “We are true believers who seek to walk in harmony with Christ Almighty.”
The man flatly scrutinized Ebenezer. “No, you ain’t.”
“So you’ve met them?” Minerva asked.
“They came in droves, what, going on half a year ago now?” the man said. “Them, their slick-talking leader, and all their earthly possessions. They hired a track machine—a flatbed on a tank chassis, yeah?—to haul everything up. It’s rough sledding through those hillside passes. Since then, I’ll see the odd one pass through on their way up.”
“Any of them ever come out?” Ellen asked.
“Not that I ever saw.” The man flitted his tongue on the tip of his left canine tooth, one of the precious few teeth he had left. “Naw, there was the one. Had to leave on account of a bust leg.”
Micah said, “They seem dangerous to you?”
“Not so much that,” the man said. “They seem stupid. Whole idea of it. Who needs to slog into a forest to commune with God? There are perfectly good churches with roads leading to their front doors. It’s damn dangerous out there. Floods, forest fires, wild animals… all sorts of things.” An apathetic shrug. “Ain’t my job to talk folks out of being stupid.”
“What about the guy in charge?” Ellen asked. “You met him?”
“Not myself, no. Arnie Copps, local guy who owns the track machine, had dealings with him. Short-assed little fella. Wears his hair in a greased-up duck’s ass kept in place with about a pound of pomade. The horseflies got to love him, walking around with that grease trap on top of his head. But his people bend over backward for him. Gobble up every word that falls off his lips, I hear.”
“What’s the best way to get there?” Ellen asked.
“Why in the hell would you want to do that?”
When nobody answered, the man came around the counter and toed the screen door open.
“Follow this road,” he said, pointing. “Three miles you’ll hit a cut. Walk the dry wash a ways and you hit a trailhead. I don’t know the exact spot. I wouldn’t go on a bet.”
Ebenezer peeled the foil off a roll of cherry Life Savers and popped one into his mouth. “You prefer to worship in a civilized setting, I take it?”
“Something like that,” said the man. “You talk queer.”
“I speak the Queen’s English. I can’t imagine you hear it often.”
They stowed their supplies in the trunk and made ready their departure.
“You got something to shoot with?” the man asked. “A rifle? Scattergun?”
Micah said, “We might.”
“Yeah, you seem the type. Don’t know it’ll be much use against whatever’s up there, but better to have than not.”
Ellen said, “What do you mean by that?”
But the man had already turned his back on them. The screen door shut behind him. Flies—dozens of them suddenly—battered their bodies against the wire mesh. The din of their wings was disquieting.
THEY DROVE TO THE CUT. Gravel popped under the tires. Road grit drifted through the windows and clung to their skin. The townsfolk watched them from sagging front stoops or from behind dust-clad windows. Their faces were uniformly ravaged, jaundiced, and cored out just as the man’s at the shop had been.
It was only later that Micah would realize that he had not seen any boys or girls—no kids, and none of their harbingers. No playgrounds. No tricycles or kiddie pools in any of the weed-tangled yards.
Grinder’s Switch was a village of premature ancients. Not a single child.
8
THEY REACHED the cut the shopkeeper had spoken of. They parked the Olds and stretched their road-stiff limbs. They pulled on their Danner boots and organized their packs. They tightened the straps and made their way to the trailhead. Ellen walked in front. She had a bouncy stride. Micah followed Ellen with his eye—then he caught Minerva watching. Minny shook her head with a wry smile. Micah pressed his lips together and focused on the trees. They were scraggly at the base of the valley, clinging to the ribs of rock, but they got taller and shaggier as the valley rose into the hills.
“Pitter patter, tenderfeet,” said Ellen.
A trail was grooved through the dirt. It steadily ascended. They would have no trouble following it. They walked under a canopy of knit branches. The sunlight fell through the leaves and touched their skin, making it look as though their flesh had been dipped in a faint green dye.
“Didn’t that guy say something about a tank delivering supplies?” Minerva said. “Why not just follow this trail?”
“It could get a lot tougher,” said Ellen. “It might cross creeks and mudholes as it winds up into the hills—steep grades, rockslides, that kind of stuff.”
They hiked a few hours. The day grew warm under the trees.
“Hey,” said Minerva to Ellen. “What do you think would be the worst radioactive animal to get bitten by?”
“What?” said Ellen.
“You ever read Spider-Man?” Minerva said. “Peter Parker got bit by a radioactive spider. He got all the powers of a spider. He can spin webs, climb buildings, he’s got a ‘spider sense.’ All in all, pretty good. But I got to thinking, what if he’d got bit by a dung beetle?”
“That doesn’t sound so hot,” Ellen said, laughing.
“You bet,” said Minerva. “Dung-Beetle-Man. He can roll boulder-sized rocks of shit up small hills! He can leap a pile of manure in a single bound!”
Ellen was laughing harder. “What about, I don’t know… Platypus-Man?”
“One day, on a research trip,” Minerva intoned, “a humble scientist, Peter Pancake, was bitten by a radioactive platypus. That day he became Platypus-Man! What can he do? Oh, he can open all sorts of tin cans with his bill! And…”