Meg Elison - The Book of the Unnamed Midwife

The blond man came free with a jerk and she saw the two others outside who had hauled him back. Two dark-haired men, also bearded. They goggled at her.

She cleared her throat. “I told you fuckers this place was mine.” Her voice broke and she shook all over. They knew her then. It was all over their faces with shock and hunger, and one of the dark-bearded ones made to try his luck with the window.

Dead now for sure. Dead.

She opened fire, both guns blazing, not caring how many rounds she lost. She didn’t hit any of them, but they ran. She stood in the kitchen, waiting. She was making a high, keening sound. She wasn’t conscious of it and when she heard it she didn’t know where it was coming from.

After a few minutes, she quieted down. She didn’t have anything to block the kitchen windows. She closed the door and blocked it with the china hutch. The heavy unit scraped the wood floor as she shoved it in front. When it was there, she went and sat on the couch in front of the fireplace. She waited.

She nodded off, but woke every time her chin came down. She began to feel as if she were hallucinating. Dark shapes darted in her peripheral vision. She woke up swearing, she fell asleep muttering.

Just before sunset, someone slid into the kitchen. In an instant she was awake. She thought she heard two sets of boots hit the floor, but it had been three. The door she had blocked was the only way from the kitchen into the rest of the house.

They pushed against the door, but the hutch was heavy. A long, sustained push might have moved it, but the man on the other side rammed it with his shoulder. The hutch rocked.

She couldn’t get her eyes to focus. Terror fought exhaustion and she was ready to kill.

The door thudded against the hutch again. The hutch rocked. The banging grew louder as she assumed the other one had joined him. One became four became five in her frenzied imagination and she checked her clip. She had enough to kill ten, if she could hit them. She tried to steady herself.

I can still get out. I can still get out.

A few seconds of silence.

A splintering crash as the hutch fell facedown into the living room. The base of it was inches from the door. Hands worked their way into the opening and she could hear them straining. The top of the hutch was wedged against the corner of the staircase. She knew it wouldn’t move.

She waited. The straining stopped.

One of them spoke into the crack, his mouth pressed into the opening. “We’ll be back, sweetheart. All of us. Get ready to come along. There’s no other choice.”

Bullshit. Let me show you some choices. I’ve got a clip full of choices.

She heard them scrape through the window to leave her. She went upstairs to the window where she could see their place. She sat on the floor with her chin on the windowsill, watching as they went back into their house.

They waited for morning. She watched.

When the sun rose, she could pick out the shapes of a couple of them standing around their fire pit. They had knives and pipes and other improvised weapons. She knelt on the floor looking at the two guns, deciding. In the end, she chose the new one. She thought it was slightly more accurate at a distance. The shot was a hundred feet, easy. She lined it up slow, breathing deeply. She took the shot. She did not know to account for the drop as gravity acted on the bullet. She had been aiming for his torso, but she could see his kneecap explode when the bullet hit. The morning was still; she could definitely hear the screaming. It scattered the rest of them, and she took three more, wildly, heart pounding too hard to aim. One man dropped outright, and she assumed she had killed him. The other bent over, holding on to himself and screaming.

She got down below the window and waited for return fire, for the sound of someone breaking in downstairs. After a few minutes had passed, she was sure that there were no guns among them. She waited. No sound. When she dared to look again, they were leaving. They left the dead one where he lay.

It wasn’t the first time she had killed someone. Threatening close and threatening far away felt different. She sat there with her back pressed to the wall, thinking about that. Knowing she would kill again, deciding what that would change in her. She flashed for one moment on the man dead in her bed, pulling the sheet up over his face.

She didn’t look out the window again.

October

Fucking cold. Started trying on the winter gear I found. Got good wool socks and boots, a couple of sweaters and a ski parka filled with down. Nixed the one that fit me better- it was pink. Pink = girl. Any kindergartner knows that. Everything is baggy except the boots. Was so relieved that they fit I haven’t had them off in days. Had to strip off my compression vest and wash it. Standing there, topless and scrubbing this thing felt so strange. Me = not me. My breasts for the first time in ages. Washed them up with my hands and got lost in the sensuousness of it. My tattoo. Like returning to an old lover I left years ago. Can’t feel like myself. Finally put it back on when it dried. Felt better dressed. Not me = me. Me not now me then me new. Trimmed my hair again, not shaving it in this cold. Combed it and looked in the mirror. Too clean. Thought about it. Tried to stick some of the hair clippings to my face = doesn’t work at all. Used some makeup I found in one of the bathrooms with a sponge to give myself a 5 o’clock shadow. Not gonna fool anyone up close. Distance + hat = maybe?

Bitch I am a man. Females. Talk too much. Quit crying. So emotional. Be a man. Man up. Nut up. Jumpshot gunshot cumshot moneyshot. Posing but not to be sexy. Scare me. Lean a little forward. Invade my space. Quit crying. Give you something to cry about.

Back to the map again today. Have to look seriously at staying here for the winter. Don’t want to try and fight my way through snow, but that’s a long time from now. Part of the problem = don’t know where I’m going. Or what the point is of going anywhere. Going north seems very safe, but only because of the exodus to the south. Colder still and up against the snow = keeps people away. Growing food if I ever get past raiding = all but impossible. Expiration date of body > expiration date of canned tuna. Know when I get there. Maybe just stay here.

December

Christmas used to be the best time. Didn’t celebrate it, but it cheered almost everyone up. People wore Christmas scrubs and the whole hospital was decorated- almost as much as the stores. Miss Christmas movies and the baked goods. Shit. Baked goods. Fudge and cookies and Christmas cake. Chocolate everything. Rice krispie treats. Nuts and rum balls and brittle and cinnamon rolls in the morning. Donuts. Lonely lonesome only solo alone.

Food holding out just fine, but it sure isn’t Christmas. Kill for two hours with a DVD player and a slice of cake. Five minutes of the internet. Boredom is the killing thing. Haven’t read all the books here yet, but the day will come. Need more candles. Or a lantern. Something. These tea lights are almost gone. Don’t want to raid in the cold, but there’s no other way. Need more light.

Three days later and found = shit. 0 lanterns, 0 candles 0 boxes of matches. Went as far as the house where the men were camped out. Lots of porn and food and good knives. Nothing for light, though. Exhausted cold desperately want a fire. A few of the houses = good wood piles.

December almost January winter solstice? Days so short

Broke down and started lighting fires. Put out at dawn BUT burn all night = make a difference to my sense of well-being that cannot be overrated. Light from fire = incredible to read by, sound of the crackle = voice. Sleeping in front of it like an old dog. Last lighter is holding out, but have to find a replacement soon.