John Adams - Wastelands - Stories of the Apocalipse

The next morning I saw footprints and it looked like somebody had spent some time behind my shed.

I keep hoping it’s my brother, though I wouldn’t want him to be the one killing those poor men, but you’d think he wouldn’t be afraid of coming to his own house. Of course he doesn’t know that Mother is dead. I can understand him being afraid of her. They never got along. When she was drunk she used to throw things at him. If he got close enough, she’d grab his arm and twist. Then he got too strong for her. But he couldn’t be afraid of me. Could he? I’m the baby sister.

Mother was nicer to me. She got worried I’d stay out of reach or not help anymore. I could have just walked off and left her but until she died I didn’t think of it. I actually didn’t. I’d looked after her for so long I thought that’s just the way life is. And I might not have left, anyway. She was my mother and there was nobody else to look after her but me.

If it’s my brother been looking in the window, he must know Mother isn’t here. She never left her bed. The house is small and all on one floor so he could have looked in all the windows. We have three tiny bedrooms, and one kitchen/living room combined. Mother and her big bed took up wall to wall space in the biggest bedroom.

I posted Clement’s picture at the store and the library, but of course it was a picture from long ago. In it he has the usual army shaved head. I drew a version with wild hair. Then I drew another of him bald with wild hair around the sides. (Baldness runs in our family.) I drew a different kind of beard on each of them. I put up both versions.

Leo at the store said, "He might not want to talk to you…or anybody."

But I know that already.

"I think he’s come looking in my window."

"Well, there you are. He’d a come in if he’d wanted to."

"You went to war. How come you’re okay and most all the other men have gone wild?"

"I was lucky. I never saw real horror."

Actually he may not be so okay. Most of us never married. We never had the chance with all the men gone. He could have married one of us but he never did. He lives in a messy shed behind the store and he smells, even though the ditch passes right by his store. And he’s always grumpy. You have to get used to him.

"If my brother comes around, tell him I’m going out to look for him in all his favourite spots."

"Even if you find him he won’t come back."

"So then I’ll go after that crazy person who’s been killing those men."

Truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know how to live with just me to care about. I can go anywhere and do anything. I ought to find the man who’s the killer. I have nothing else to do. Who better to do it than I?

But I might find that man right here, hiding at the edge of the village-or most likely looking in my window. Maybe I can trap him in my house. He must have been looking in for a reason.

I pack up and pretend to leave. I stay out of sight of the village. This is wild rock land-lots of hiding places. Nobody will know I didn’t go anywhere. My backpack is mostly empty. I have pepper. Pepper is hard to get these days so I’ve saved mine for a weapon. I have a small knife in my boot and a bigger one at my belt. Streams aren’t stocked anymore but there’s still fish around, though not as many as before. I bring a line and hooks. I’ll use those today. I won’t go far.

I catch a trout. I have to make a fire the old-fashioned way. No more matches. I always carry a handful of dead sage fibres for tinder. I cook the fish and eat after dark and the half-moon comes up, I sneak back to our house as if I was one of those crazies myself.

The door is wide open. There’s sand all over the floor. Couldn’t he even shut the door? These days we have sand storms and dust devils more often than we use to. Doesn’t whoever it is know that? And that’s another reason to move higher up into the trees where it’s less deserty.

I smell him before I see him. I put my knife up my sleeve so it’ll drop down into my hand.

I can hear him breathing. Sounds like scared breathing. A man this frightened will be dangerous.

He’s huddled in Mother’s bedroom down between the bed and the bedside table. All I see is his hat, pulled low so his face is in shadow. I see his bare knees showing through his torn pants. I have a better look at them than his face.

Right away I think my brother wouldn’t be in Mother’s room, he’d be in his own room. Besides, the room still smells of death and dying. I call, "Clement?" even though I know it can’t be him. "Come on out."

He groans.

"Are you sick?" He sounds sick. I suppose that’s why he’s here in the first place. I wish I’d lit a lamp first. I was counting on the moonlight, but there isn’t much shining in here. It still could be my brother, under all that dirt and wild hair and beard, gone crazy just like everybody else.

"Come out. Come to the main room. I’ll light a lamp. I’ll fix you food."

"No light."

"Why not? There’s only me. And there’s no war going on anymore. It’s most likely over."

"I pledged to fight until I died." (I suppose my brother did, too.)

I finger my knife. "I’m going to go light the lamp."

I deliberately turn my back. I go to the main room, light the lamp with the sparker, keeping my back to the bedroom door. I hear him come in. I turn and get a good look.

Pieced-together hat, long scraggly hair hanging under it. I can’t tell if he’s a brown man or just weather-beaten, sunburned, and dirty. A full beard with grit in it. Eyes as black as the enemy’s always are. Eyebrows just as thick as theirs. He has a broken front tooth. Nowadays that’s not unusual. Nobody to fix them. He has a greenish look under his tan and dark circles around his eyes. If he thinks he isn’t sick he doesn’t know much.

"You are the enemy. And you’re half-dead already."

There’s a chair right beside him, but he sinks sideways to the floor. Ends up flat on our worn linoleum. If he thinks he’s still fighting the war, I should kill him now while I have the chance. He looks such a mess and smells so bad I’m almost ready to kill him just for those reasons alone. After Mother died I thought I was finished with disagreeable messes.

"Hide me. Just for tonight. I’ll leave in the morning."

"Are you crazy?" I kneel beside him. "You’re the one killing people. I should kill you right now."

He’s trying to prop himself up against the wall. I don’t want to touch him but I grab his shirt front to help him and the rotten cloth rips completely out.

"You stink something awful. And why would I think you won’t kill me? You’ve been killing everybody else."

"I don’t have a weapon."

"Strip."

"What?"

"Take those filthy clothes off. I’ll burn them. I’ll bring you a basin to wash in." (And I’ll find out if he has a weapon.)

He hasn’t the energy to undress or wash. I hate to touch him but I do it. I’m used to it. Mother was a mess as she was dying. (At the end I sprinkled pine needles all over but it didn’t help much.) I thought that was the last of that sort of thing I’d ever have to do. I thought I was free. But, all right, one more thing. I wash him and dress him in my brother’s old clothes, and… what then? If I kill him, the town will be grateful.

At least his body is entirely different from Mother’s, thin and strong and hairy. It’s a nice change. If he wasn’t so smelly I’d enjoy it. Well, I do enjoy it. He’s half asleep through it all.

I burn his clothes in our little stove. After I’ve washed him, I feed him jerky broth with an egg in it, though I keep thinking: Why waste my egg on him? He falls asleep right after he’s finished the broth. Slides down the wall flat out again, in what seems more a faint than a sleep.