“What’s going on?” May asked.
“They makin’ room for somethin’ in there. Tossin’ all our stuff inta trucks. There goes the Mayor’s ol’ tinsel Christmas tree.”
“Bastards.”
“Yep.”
May went back to her book. She was now reading Joseph Conrad’s novella, Heart of Darkness. She would have it read in an hour. Winston fretted about their food and water supplies. They had both consumed more water than they planned, and neither of them had evacuated their bowels yet, which would require even more water usage. He shook the worry from his head, eager to understand just what the enemy had planned for the barn. Half of the sixty or so soldiers marched off down the road toward Calef’s, while the other half cordoned off the Sparrow property, erecting chain-link and razor-wire fencing, building fortified gun positions and a gated entry point at the end of the driveway. Winston sighed loudly.
“What’s going on out there now?” May asked.
“They fortifyin’ the property.”
“What you mean, they fortifying the property?”
“Razor fences. Guns. Big guns. Looks like we in here for a spell.”
May put the book down, her hands to her face, and sighed heavily.
“Okay, Winston, I hope I can do this.”
It was an accusation.
“You can. We can, May, jes’ stay with me here.”
“I’m trying to, Winston, I’m really trying.”
“That’s a good girl. We’d already be dead if I…”
Winston let it go.
“I know.”
May went back to Heart of Darkness while Winston watched through the slits. The clatters of wood crashing against the false wall alarmed them. Winston kept two cords of firewood stacked neatly in the center of the barn (usually five cords, but not this season since they were under siege) so he could easily walk around the perimeter and use the outside walls to hang tools and the like. Plus, rodents were less likely to nest in the center of the barn than in the crevices against the walls the stacked firewood created. It sounded like the soldiers were tossing the firewood against the false wall to open up space in the center of the barn. Winston quickly placed his back against the apartment door — it wasn’t that sturdy. May looked up from the book, her face ashen with the possibility of what would happen if that door did spring open. The soldiers continued to heave the firewood into the door when, suddenly, the bottom of the door jerked inward a good two inches. Winston shoved a foot against the bottom of the door, but he couldn’t push on it hard enough to close the gap. May could see the soldier’s hands shifting the firewood from one stack to the other.
“No! No! No!” came a sudden command from the barn. “Stop!”
The wood tossing stopped.
“You idiots! What are you doing?”
Winston presumed that an officer discovered the soldiers tossing the firewood unsystematically against the wall when he had ordered them to stack it neatly. The next sounds Winston could visualize — the officer demonstrating how to restack the firewood neatly against the wall, utilizing what remained of Winston’s meticulous example, the soldiers watching on intensely.
“Like this! Move this wood outside, now!”
The officer’s loud footsteps rang hollow as he stormed out of the barn. Winston couldn’t move just yet for fear of the pressure pushing against the agape apartment door. He maintained his defensive position while the PLA soldiers restacked the firewood like the officer had demonstrated, outside with the other cords of wood.
“I’m no idiot. He’s an idiot,” a Russian soldier mumbled to himself as he grabbed a handful of the firewood. As the pressure on the door was relieved, Winston closed the gap with his foot until it was back to normal. It took less than a half hour for the soldiers to finish and exit the barn. The immediate threat over, May went back to her book while Winston gawked at the soldiers outside and listened to the soldiers in the barn complain in Russian. Soldiers came and went during the course of the day, many with supplies for the razor-wire fence and guns and ammo, and others with provisions. At one point, a large American truck backed into the driveway and box upon box of foodstuffs was offloaded and delivered into the house. Winston noticed one large cardboard box in particular mixed in with several boxes that appeared to be Russian-made versions of U.S. military ready-to-eat meals (MREs): it was a case of Twinkies, which caused him to immediately salivate. Winston slumped next to May, defeated and craving a Twinkie. It was silly, he knew, and he didn’t share this feeling with May. She seemed to be okay, keeping her head in her books and her mind off the war. But there was something symbolic in that case of Twinkies that stirred Winston’s emotions. He couldn’t quite place it, but it felt like good old American pride — freedom, perhaps. Seeing that familiar Twinkies logo made Winston want to take up that little .22 rifle of his, storm out the barn door, and take out as many of the enemy as he could — just for the satisfaction. But he wouldn’t — his place now was here, to protect May, and that was that. This was not a time for bravery — it was a time for quiet survival. It would take a lot more than a Twinkie to pull Winston out of the apartment and risk losing everything he had worked so hard to save.
Still, Winston craved a Twinkie.
The day in the apartment crept by slowly, with May reading and Winston gawking. He sat on an old wooden Coca-Cola box at the lower slit that faced the driveway. It was the perfect height, so he didn’t have to constantly stand. Neither of them had defecated, though they were both eating well enough and drinking often. Winston mastered the art of urinating down the shaft without it causing any bubbling noises, but May, because of her female plumbing, had to urinate into a large, plastic Tupperware bowl and pour it down the drain. It had already become old hat.
Winston watched the soldiers complete their fortification by installing three large generator-operated lights, like those he used to see often on Interstate 75 when the crews worked on the road at night — big, bright lights, on wheels, staged along the driveway flanking the port-a-potties, with a fifty-five gallon drum of gasoline staged near the back porch and Med’s head. Next came two industrial gasoline-powered generators that looked capable of powering half the neighborhood. Soldiers functioning as electricians wired the generators, running two heavy-gauge wires through the living room window to two separate electrical panels that powered all of the equipment inside, and another cable to a panel outside that powered the lights. The soldiers tested the lights in the daytime, and the bulbs were so bright that Winston squinted. Soon, the Sparrow property looked like an internment camp — he and May its sole prisoners.