“How could they know that?”
“Residual energy markers.”
Tow knew exactly what the AI orb was referring to—the turbulence left behind a moving spacecraft. An energy wake, of sorts. “This vessel is not supposed to leave those kinds of markers,” Tow said.
“The Evermore’s sole remaining drive is malfunctioning. Out of alignment. On the positive side, the markers are undefined. They may not point directly to our current location. There is no way to know, for sure, though.”
Suddenly feeling trapped—that the Howsh were again closing in on them—he felt the muscles in his abdomen go taut. He said, “I need to get the repairs started as soon as possible. Determine what can be worked on in spite of the hard systems reset. We must hurry, get systems back online. Am I making myself clear, orb?”
Chapter 4
Cuddy and Rufus walked along the old two-track road leading into town. Cuddy couldn’t understand why his dog was walking so slow today. As he waited for him to catch up, he adjusted the brim on his baseball cap. “You know… I’m going to have two helpings of Momma’s peach cobbler pie. But you’re not allowed to have any. Momma says it makes you farty.” Cuddy laughed at that.
Rufus glanced up at him. Panting, his long tongue curled; moisture dripped from his mouth.
Cuddy knew the way to town—two miles there and two miles back. On the way, they would pass three farms, a set of train tracks, an abandoned junkyard, and a school. Cuddy had never gone to a real school, though someday he thought he might want to. Momma called his schooling—home schooling. He was learning to read. He knew certain letters, but had trouble stringing them together.
As they approached the second farm, Cuddy hurried his pace—leaving Rufus to lag behind. Elma and Rutherford White lived there. They liked to sit on the porch in their rocking chairs. Cuddy stood tall and raised his chin, craning his neck in the process. A rusty, beat-up old tractor—parked next to a large mound of dirt—blocked direct views to their house, but he was tall enough to see over the dirt and even the grassy clumps atop the dirt.
“I see Elma!” Cuddy glanced back to see if Rufus was still behind him and ran ahead. He turned the corner at the leaning mailbox post, and half-ran, half-walked toward the Whites’ house.
He saw Elma—not sitting, like usual, in her rocking chair but sweeping the porch instead. “Hi Elma!” Cuddy yelled, out of breath.
Elma turned, looking to see who was coming down her dirt drive. Cuddy liked Elma better than Rutherford. The old man never said much. She smiled and waved but didn’t stop what she was doing. Elma was a big, solid woman—both wide and tall. Her dark chocolate skin glistened with perspiration. As Cuddy reached the porch, gasping for air, he leaned over—hands on knees—and asked, “Where’s Rutherford?”
“I don’t know… might be in the shed. He’s been looking for something for the last few days, but he won’t tell me what it is. I could help him find it, if only he’d tell me.” She watched as the dog dropped down by Cuddy’s feet. “That dog of yours looks all worn out, boy.”
Cuddy patted Rufus’s head. “Maybe he’s thirsty.”
“Take him round the side of the house… the spigot there has a hose attached.”
Cuddy, taking ahold of Rufus by the collar, steered him around the corner and into the shade. He turned the spigot knob and waited for some water to drip from the faded green hose. As water slowly trickled out, he put his mouth to the nozzle and drank some before lowering the hose down to Rufus. The dog lapped up the water; then, suddenly losing interest, sat back down.
“Better?” Cuddy asked.
By the time they reached the edge of town, Rufus seemed to be back to his peppy, playful self and ran off ahead, knowing exactly where they were going. Woodbury was not a very big town. There was a much larger city, called Evans, right off the interstate—a few hours’ drive away. Cuddy had only visited the city twice—first, when taken to the hospital, at age seven, and again, when his molars were pulled out, at seventeen.
It usually took Cuddy a long while to walk up the street, since he knocked on most of the storefront windows, waving to each proprietor as he passed by. He typically would wave his hand until they waved back. Gordon’s was the only grocery store in town, though no one named Gordon had ever worked there. He had asked. No one seemed to know where the store’s name came from. Momma called it a general store because it had all kinds of things for sale—like milk, and loaves of bread, and snow shovels, and eggs, and hats. It was where Momma had bought the hat he had on now.
Rufus anxiously pawed at the door as Cuddy approached the store. Letting him enter first, he followed closely behind. The dog ran to the back of the store, disappearing down a hallway.
The store was square built. Five parallel aisles ran down the middle, and a U-shaped counter ran around the store’s periphery. Mr. Maxwell, helping a lady at the cash register, said, “Help you in a minute, Cuddy.”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell.”
Cuddy strode toward the rear of the store and turned into a hallway. Passing three closed doorways, he found Rufus—lying on the cement floor next to Trudy. Trudy was another yellow lab, belonging to Mr. Maxwell’s daughter, Rita. The two dogs were brother and sister. Cuddy, sitting down on the floor between the dogs, gave Trudy a pat and a kiss on her nose.
Mr. Maxwell entered and, looking down at them, said, “Give me your daypack, boy, and I’ll go fill it with your Momma’s grocery list items.”
Cuddy had forgotten he was even wearing the pack. Slipping one arm out and then the other, he handed it to the store proprietor. Mr. Maxwell, unzipping the pack’s zipper, fished his hand around inside and brought out a piece of paper. That’s Momma’s grocery list, Cuddy thought. He’d forgotten all about that, too.
“Cuddy… there’s um… no money in here. No means of payment. I’m assuming this is going on Momma’s tab again?”
“Um…” Cuddy wasn’t quite sure what a tab was. “Maybe,” he said.
“Well… come on… let’s go get your supplies. I think I may have some ropes of licorice about… let’s go see.”
Cuddy jumped to his feet.
They’d reached the halfway mark back home. Cuddy knew it because he was standing on the railroad tracks. Halfway to town going—halfway to home coming back. He pulled a red licorice rope from his pocket, filling up his mouth. An old Beatles song kept ringing in his head—actually, only a small part of the song. He sang the one line he knew, over and over again: “Hey Jude, don’t let me down. Take a sad song and… na na naa na na na naaaaa…”
Rufus was walking close by his side and he could feel the dog’s warmth leaning in against his leg. Cuddy said, “Too close… Rufus,” and gave the dog a soft nudge to back off a tad. Up ahead, he watched as a truck approached, music blaring out through its open windows. He saw two large figures in the front seat but couldn’t make out who they were. He didn’t recognize the truck as it drove closer. Moving to the side of the road to let it pass him on his left, Cuddy noticed it was an old, faded green, F150. It was riddled with rust along the fender, and also low along the side door. The two guys inside were laughing at something one of them had said to the other. The music was loud. Airborne dust swirled around him as the truck came to an abrupt stop nearby.
Momma didn’t like him to talk to strangers. She said people didn’t understand. Cuddy knew what she meant. That he wasn’t smart, like most other grown-ups, because of the accident. She said people could be mean and to just ignore them.