August Ansel - The Attic

The cable’s soft plastic jacket made a stubborn knot, but he finally wrenched it loose. “What now?”

She had him bind the two bags together at arm’s length, doubling the wire between them. “Take that towel off the top of my carrier,” she said. This she folded into a padded rectangle and draped it across his neck and across his shoulders like a shawl. “Now yoke those bags over.” He did as she said, so they hung on either side between armpit and waist. “It’s bulky,” she said, “but you can keep a weapon in your hand.” She remembered what he’d said earlier about not being that guy. “Curran, do I need to unpack your hatchet, too?”

“No.” From a single shelf hung above the door, he brought down a machete. In the steady light of the lantern the length of blade was partially rusted and the wood handle cracked, but the cutting edge gleamed with fresh honing.

“Better,” she said. She looked around the snug space, which was still appealing even with his supplies stripped out. “This thing you made—it’s still a real thing in the world.” She rested a palm on the thick wall nearest her, and unconsciously her finger traced a labyrinth on the meticulously smoothed surface.

“What is that,” he said, “the pattern you’re making? I saw you on the roof.” He faltered, then went on. “I’ve been watching your house for a while. You probably figured that.”

Arie’s hand fell away from the wall. “I saw you,” she said. “Saw your shadow, anyway, easing into the trees. The day we had to kill the wild dogs. Saw her, too.” She looked at Talus, sitting quietly outside, patient as a stone, it seemed.

“This was a different time,” Curran said. “When you were on the roof alone. It was near dark, and you were doing that with your hand.” He moved his own finger in a rhythmic imitation.

“That’s mine,” said Arie. “A sacred thing.” She assessed him levelly, a dare in her expression, and she was pleased when he didn’t back down under it.

“I get it,” he said. He took the lantern up by its handle. “Ready,” he said. They stepped out. He set the peg in the door latch and extinguished the light. The little clearing went dark and made the bits of visible sky a pale gray. “Talus will be our eyes,” Curran said.

The dog was already right at his flank, alert and quiet.

They didn’t speak at all on the trip back. They moved slowly at first, cautious about hitting one of the noisemakers. Farther from his camp they picked up a little speed. Arie stayed close this time, and Curran was mindful of her. Every few minutes he glanced over his shoulder to see that he hadn’t gotten ahead. Crickets and frogs were starting to sing, and between treetops Arie spotted small bats stitching the early-evening air. Mostly it was quiet, the sound of their footsteps muffled and rhythmic.

Curran stopped so abruptly that Arie stumbled into his broad back. Then she could hear Talus growling quietly. She was looking back in the direction they’d just come from. Her rear haunch was lowered and tense, legs braced. Even in the near-dark, Arie could see that the heavy ruff of fur around her neck stood on end. All three remained frozen in place, Arie and Curran both looking in all directions, Talus staring behind them. Her growl intensified.

“We have to move,” Arie whispered urgently. She pushed at Curran’s shoulder. “Go, go.” The minute he did, Talus turned and hurried ahead. Despite their load of goods and Curran’s head injury, they set into a shambling jog. Arie could hear the fuel sloshing in the lantern, and she felt things shifting in the carry basket. She hoped the weight and bouncing wouldn’t tear the bottom out, but the goods would do them no good at all if they didn’t reach the house.

Talus ran ahead and waited for them to catch up, then she raced back to follow Arie and growl into the dark woods. She did this repeatedly, until finally the trees thinned and Arie saw first the houses on the far side of the gulch, then the space between the houses. The full moon had just risen, huge and yellow at the horizon, making the sky around it a deep purple. In its light, the old power poles—still standing sentry after all their long disuse—threw thin, spidery shadows over everything.

Curran was flagging. Arie put her arm through his. “Here we are.” Both panting heavily, they rushed across the street and into the backyard. Talus turned at the edge of the woods and barked several times, hunching with her claws planted in the tall grass. It was a deep snarl, a warning to whatever was behind them. Curran whistled, a single sharp chirp. The dog whirled immediately and sprinted to him. As they passed into the backyard, Arie pounded on the wall of the house. Handy was already letting down the rope ladder. Curran motioned her ahead of him and she started up.

“Handy,” she shouted. “Go downstairs, quick. Get the back door open.” He disappeared, and she heard him run across the roof. “Follow me,” she called to Curran. “Talus will be all right. We’ll let her in down below.” As she pulled herself hand-over-hand, Arie heard Curran tell the dog to stay.

The straps on the basket dug painfully into her shoulders and threatened to pull her backward off the ladder, but she finally got to the top and hauled herself up and over the edge. She let the basket fall off her. The binoculars were sitting near the sky panel where Handy had left them. She snatched them up and scooted up to the roof peak. It was a precarious spot but afforded the best visibility. She trained the binoculars first on the place where they had come out of the woods. Nothing there. She scanned up the street and down to the end of the cul-de-sac. Not a single thing moved except the cartwheeling bats, now clearly visible, hunting blind in the moonlight.

Curran got to the top and dropped his bags just as Arie had and pulled the rope ladder up. It clattered enormously against the side of the house.

“Arie,” Renna called from inside. “Are you all right?”

Arie showed herself at the sky panel. “Quiet,” she hissed. “We’re fine.” She clambered down, and Curran came right behind her. “Close that hatch,” she told him. He did, and threw the bolt. He was wide-eyed and looked ready to collapse. The bandage on his head was stained with blood, and Arie hoped none of the stitches had torn loose under it. “Over here,” she said. The sofa sat sideways, and the inside hatch was pulled aside. “Climb down through here,” she said. “It will be a squeeze. There are shelves—feel with your feet.”

Curran did as she said. His big shoulders were indeed a snug fit. Once he was down in the closet she saw how dark it was. “Hold on,” she said. “I’ll bring a light.” She lit one of the votives and reached the cracked saucer and candle down to him. He was so tall that he could easily reach into the open hatch from inside the small closet. “Follow the hallway out,” she told him. “Bear right toward the back of the house. You’ll hear Handy. And watch your step—as you said, conditions have deteriorated.”

“Thanks.” He moved out of the little bedroom in the narrow circle of light the stubby candle threw at his feet.

Arie sat back on the floor and heaved an exhausted sigh. A complicated rustle and scrape made her look up; Renna eased across the floor in her careful half-crawl, holding a cup of water aloft, judiciously working to not spill it.

“Here you go.”

Arie, touched by the small kindness, drank and sighed again. Most nights, by the time she climbed into her bedroll, she felt a sort of satisfied no-age tired. Right now her joints and back and the throb in her cut hand were proclaiming every one of her fifty-two years, and a couple of extra decades tacked on for good measure. “How’s the supply in here?” she asked, wiggling the empty cup.