August Ansel - The Attic

“It’s mine,” Arie said. “My weapon, my work.” Her heart sank a little. He must already have seen Handy. But she kept the concern out of her voice. “My place. No he here, though. Just us.” She gestured with her bound hands. “All in decline, as I said. You saw for yourself. Man big as you really will fall through the ceiling. Best watch your step.”

“Ah,” he said. “So I may just as well move on, is that it? Nothing here worth having?”

“It does for one small woman near to death and one crippled-up girl no use to anyone. We can maybe find you something for the road. But this place? There’s surely better.”

“Better?” he said, and made a derisive sound. “I guess you’ve been tucked up in here for the duration.” He secured the short spear under his own belt—which gave Arie an angry jolt to the gut—and patted its handle, tightly wrapped with sinew. “Here’s a thing not in decline. All this,” he said, gesturing at the shelves and boxes and baskets of goods, “is about staying alive.” Swallowing the last of the apple, he came close to Arie and Renna and squatted down, wiping his hands on the knees of his pants. “I’ve been watching you on and off for a pretty long time,” he said. “I’ve tried to be patient and I’ve tried to be careful. I know your coming and goings, and I’m not buying your sob story. No more bullshit,” he said. “Where is he?” Perhaps he meant to sound stern, but what Arie heard in his tone was entreaty.

“Gone,” Arie said. “On to greener pastures.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I saw the two of you, up there slinging rocks together, tag-teaming to take out those dogs.” He ran a hand through his short black hair, making it stand up in greasy shocks. “Thanks for that, by the way. I’m pretty sure they were getting up the nerve to eat us.”

“They already tried,” Arie said, laying her palm on Renna’s thigh. “Made an appetizer of her. She’ll not walk again.”

“Is that so?” He studied Arie’s face. “It would be great if we could be straight with each other, wouldn’t it?”

Arie stayed silent.

“I could tell you that I’m only trying to get myself safe. That I could be of help here—maybe we could be of help to each other,” he said, and shook his head again. “But you have no reason to trust me and I have a hunch it’s not be in my best interest to buy everything you tell me.” He glanced at Renna then back at Arie. “I’m not so sure she’s as helpless as you’re letting on. And I don’t think your slingshot buddy is gone for good.”

“You think it’s a lie?” Renna said. “Look here, at me. See for yourself.” She turned sideways, facing Arie, and there was something on her face, a bright, desperate hope that made all of Arie’s senses rise to full alert. Renna used her tied hands to yank her skirt up nearly to the waist. She was bare under her clothes. Even in the dimming midday light the bite marks, in their various states of healing, stood out garishly on the taut, pale skin of her leg and buttock. The bandaged area on her hip had seeped pink and yellow fluids and had a grotesque caved-in look. “Want me to peel the bandage off for you?” she said. He stared at her ruined flank, mild revulsion on his face, and to Arie’s surprise, Renna laughed.

It was at that moment, while the intruder’s attention was caught, that Arie saw from the corner of her eye what Renna must have seen first: a flicker of movement at one corner of the sky panel.

Handy.

Arie tensed. Everything seemed to happen at once. He flung a handful of stones into the attic. They banged in, rattling into corners, bouncing against wall and floor and ladder. At the same time, he must have thrown a handful at the turbine vent. They clanged and clattered against the spinning metal. The intruder, still squatting slightly, recoiled. He raised his elbow in a warding-off gesture, and Renna drove her foot squarely into the side of his head, her heel slamming him in the eye. Arie heard Handy hit the floor of the attic, but she couldn’t wait for him. She dove from the Packard seat and fell on top of the man, pulling Renna with her by the cord holding them. He was already on one knee, pushing himself up and bringing Arie with him as if she weighed nothing. Renna was dragged onto the floor, landing on her bad side. She howled, but braced her feet against the rough attic floor, using her weight like an anchor. Arie clung to him and managed to throw her arms over his head. He pushed her off, but Arie pulled backward on the cord, now at his throat. It all happened in seconds. Then Handy was there with a river rock in his hand. The man twisted his chin up, trying to reach around the cord that was biting deeply into his flesh, and Handy hit him squarely in the jaw. He swung so hard that he fell forward, ending up on his knees next to Arie. The stone flew across the attic and crashed into the outside wall with a percussive thud. Blood flew from the man’s mouth; he slumped to all fours and over on his side, unconscious. The split skin of his face bled freely, quickly creating a small pool under his head.

They all sat there for a moment, panting. Renna lifted her head and howled again, not in pain this time. Triumph. Arie, her breath coming in shaky tatters, stared. She had a terrible momentary sense that the girl would dart her head forward and bite the man. Renna yelled again, not so loud the second time, then leaned her head back on the car seat and started to cry. From far down in the gulch came a thin answering call from one of the rightful inheritors.

HE WAS OUT COLD. Handy held his knife at the man’s throat while Arie and Renna untied themselves.

“Help me pull him,” he said. He and Arie dragged the man by the armpits, dead weight, to an upright post. While Handy trussed him hand and foot, Arie washed and wrapped the gash on her hand and swabbed at the small one on her throat as well. One thing was certain in the new world after the Pink: every small break in the skin was a septic threat in this post-penicillin era. She stripped out of her bloody shirt and pulled on a clean one, guzzled a full mug of water and part of another. The rest she carried to Renna, who drank greedily. Arie thought she’d have to scrape her off the floor in a heap of anxiety, but she was sitting up, looking clear, watching Handy tie the intruder’s ankles together. Plugged in, thought Arie, with a single wistful pang for the careless luxury of electricity in the walls.

“Good thing you got back when you did,” Renna

told Handy

He gave the rope a final firm tug. Hands on knees, he leaned there for a moment and sighed. His long ponytail pointed at the floor, a straight brown line. “I was up there for a couple of minutes,” he said. “Couldn’t judge when to move, with him holding that blade. We all got lucky.” He straightened stiffly and hobbled to the water jug. “He left the rope ladder hanging,” he said between sips. “When I saw that, I figured it was trouble. Arie, you’re all right?

“Fine, if I can keep this clean,” she said, holding up her hand, now wrapped in a strip of rag. “Are you limping?”

“Landed funny,” he said, slapping his left thigh. “My ankle. It’s fine.”

“Baby Moses, what a motley crew we are,” Arie said. “Can you manage that panel?” she asked Handy. “Let’s bolt ourselves in before one of his friends comes visiting.”

“What do we do with him?” Renna said, studying the intruder. His head slumped almost to his breastbone and the scalp wound where Handy hit him had bled copiously, leaving a gruesome stain down his face and the front of his jacket.

“We’ll decide that when he wakes up,” said Handy. He climbed topside, navigating the rungs slowly, favoring his ankle.