The Grantville Gazette - Volume 7 Part 15

Usually there would be a truck or a car with its tires whining out on Route 250, noises from the town below, and the gentle background hum of civilization. The neighbors at the end of the road were outside the Ring of Fire; the neighbors between their house and Route 250 were away to see their kids in Chicago. John wondered if he should still keep an eye on the neighbor's house. Suppose so. They might come back. Never know.

He opened the door, stood in the doorway, and listened to the house. Quiet. Just the tick tock of the grandfather clock that had been his mother's. The floor creaked, quietly as he entered. The smell offamiliar liniments for sore muscles, and the earlier chicken lunch were pleasant, gratifying, comforting. The same as always.

Millie pulled herself up the three steps to the porch using the railing, then stopped to listen to the quiet. Wheezing softly, she stood near him, barely touching. John knew they were both wondering what would come next.

The next morning John woke early. But Millie was already up and sipping coffee at the kitchen table.

It was still dark.

"You're up early," John said. He was standing in the kitchen door archway that led to the living room.

"Been thinking," she replied. "Thinking about a lot of things." John waited. You don't spend 58 years with a person and not learn when to listen.

"I've been thinking about this stuff," she said after a few moments, gesturing to the basket of medications. They kept the amber and white plastic bottles in a small white plastic basket on the kitchen table. She pushed them gently away from her, towards him. The red and white border on the Formica table was worn from years of use at their two places across from each other.

Millie had the most need for ongoing medication. Her stroke of a few years ago, along with her emphysema, had left her dependent on several medications. John was only on blood thinners and some occasional pain medication for his knees and lower back. "There's no chance of us getting back. We don't even know if there's a back to get to," she said. It was not a question. "Did you hear the wolves last night?" she added after a bit.

"Yes," he replied. He sat down across from her and took her hands in his. He looked at her for an hour while the sun rose. Millie had sharp, intelligent dark eyes that missed little, and white curly hair. They sat there, saying nothing, just looking at each other. They felt each other's presence, companionship and pain. They felt the house around them start to creak as the morning sun began to warm it. The east exposure popped and cracked as it warmed. Birds began to sing, and the flowers along the house began to open to face the sun. They sat for a while longer, holding hands, quiet, simply being together as they had done for so many years.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"I don't want to make a fuss," she said. "I've never wanted to make a fuss." She put her head down on the table, sobbing softly. "I don't want to make a fuss . . ." After a while, it was quiet again and she slowly raised her head and looked up. John returned her gaze, and smiled. Charming smile still. Finally she spoke. "Isn't it odd to see the sun come in that window that way, with the shadows going there. At this time of day the cat used to sit on the back of the couch there in the sunshine, almost all year. There's no sunshine there anymore. Everything is the same, but it's not the same. It's unreal on one hand, and on the other it's very real. Like the sunshine on the couch."

"It was the moon for me last night," he said. "The moon was in the wrong spot."

"I don't want to make a fuss," she said. "I've never wanted to make a fuss." There was hint of anger in her voice this time, mixed with frustration. She paused. "The chickens might have a few eggs this morning. Why don't you get some and I'll cook us a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs."

"Okay," said John, as he rose from the table. He straightened slowly and went out the back door, towards the small henhouse. It was adjacent to the garden. The back yard was expansive, running well away from the house. They had bought the house and the four acres of land up here more than thirty years ago, before he retired. Early in his career he had worked in the quarries in the area, as a heavy equipment mechanic. Then he spent forty years as a maintenance specialist in the mill industry, keeping the spinning machinery running. It was those places his hearing had been damaged by the constant noise of the spinning machinery. He'd torn out many machines over the years. Then he'd crated them up to send to India and Pakistan, as well as Mexico. Soon there were no more textile plants, except for a few.

The ones that remained were little more than antiques that made specialty products. It was okay. He wasready to retire. He always hated the business anyway. It was hard, always being away from home. Not to mention, he was constantly caught between labor and management in what was normally a hostile environment.

He went to the henhouse and took a look inside. Whatever the Ring of Fire had done, the chickens didn't seem to mind. Plenty of eggs this morning. As he walked back through the garden, he admired his wife's commitment in the planting and maintaining of it. The garden was substantial. The decorative parts of it were more in the lines of a traditional English garden, with flowers and multiple plants and hedges in the front closest to the house. The back section was for cabbage, corn, peas and beans. There was rhubarb for pies in the spring. The whole thing was surrounded by a fence that was designed to keep the whitetail deer from eating everything in sight. He wondered how the deer were going to feel about the wolves.

The next morning started like any other. Breakfast early, then to the outside ch.o.r.es. Millie went to the garden, slowly, carefully. John had built her a small battery powered cart to sit on as she weeded and tended. The cart had balloon tires he'd salvaged off of a golf cart somewhere. There was a well used trolling motor and an old car battery, and some bits and pieces for a gear reduction steering. It also had a tiny differential and axle removed from a riding mower somewhere. It drove easily and was comfortable for Millie. There was a little shelf he built on it for small tools. They'd widened the rows of the garden to accommodate it. He smiled as he watched her head into the still small plantings.

John then went to the shed. He liked to call it a workshop, but it was just a small shed that had been built some years ago to hold a Model A Ford. Built by the previous owners, not him. It was small, but the roof was good. The floor was dirt, but packed and laden with seventy years of motor oil. It was nicely painted on the outside, like the rest of the place. There was a small electrical service that he had put in shortly after he retired. Inside, the shed was packed with the acc.u.mulation of a handyman who had grown up during the depression. That is to say, he threw away nothing that could remotely have another purpose, no matter how badly broken, worn out, or just plain junk.

There was another pile in the back of the shed, under a small lean-to that held bulk junk. Angle iron, a set of pulleys from an old flat leather belt drive that looked like undersized steel wagon wheels, with a broad flat surface where the rim should be. He was going to put them in the ground, half buried at the end of the drive one day. An industrial bit of humor at the expense of the many half buried wagon wheels. He thought that would be funny. n.o.body would get it except him, but that was okay. He chucked silently at the thought.

"I suppose all of my junk is going to come in handy," he muttered. His son-in-law had tried for years to get him to throw some of it away. "Throw it away," Billy had always said. "Heck," thought John, "he was just afraid of having to clean out the shed after we died." Today, John decided he was going to sort out some hardware in one of the jars. Somehow some metric nuts had gotten into the normal threaded stuff. Hated that. He could still tell from looking the difference between a ten-millimeter nut and a 7/16th nut. Hadn't lost that touch. He was just getting to work when he thought he heard a car horn in the driveway.

"Hallo, the house. John, Millie, you there?" John emerged from the shed into the bright sunshine. The air was very crisp and clean. The Grantville city police car had pulled up behind the Buick. When the weather was bad, he would pull the Buick into the barn, but they had left it out last night. The policeman, who looked familiar, was standing behind his open car door, both hands below the window and out of sight, his eyes moving constantly until he spotted John coming around the corner of the shed. As John moved closer, he saw another person, this one a woman, get out of the pa.s.senger side of the patrol car.

She too looked wary, eyes constantly moving to the tree line that marked the edge of John's property, to the barn, and finally to the shed.

"You remember me John? I'm Officer Onofrio. This is Maureen Grady."

"Hi, John," said Maureen, smiling broadly. She walked around the car and towards him to shake hishand, arm outstretched. She looked about thirty or so, light brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, with a flannel shirt and jeans. She also had a .380 semi-automatic pistol in a holster on one of her slightly wide hips. "I'm Maureen Grady. I think you know my father in law, Dennis Grady, Sr.?" She continued to smile.

John looked slightly suspicious. Maureen Grady had that same tone that his daughter had when she was trying to talk him into moving to Wheeling. Ingratiating, pleasant, and just a little too much smile. He shook her hand. It was small and smooth in his large and rough hand. "You married Dennis' boy? He is Dennis, Jr., if I recall?" She nodded in the affirmative to him, ponytail bobbing slightly, and he continued, "I was working with your father in law when Dennis, Jr. was born, I believe."

"You have an excellent memory, Mr. Trapanese," said Maureen, still smiling. She moved a step back, apparently to take him all in. She crossed her arms and smiled a little broader.

Now John was very suspicious.

"Where is Mrs. Trapanese?" asked Officer Onofrio. His question came out a little strong, edgy even, John noticed. His eyes were still scanning, not stopping, moving from the tree line, to the garden, the corners of the house, and the sides of the barn. He still stood behind his open door, the motor still running. "Is she in the house?" he asked. This time the question was a little softer, friendlier. As if to make up for the abruptness of the first question.

"Nope," answered John. "Garden." He gestured over his shoulder towards the garden. "How is Dan Frost doing?" John had heard the police chief had been wounded on the first day of the Ring of Fire in a skirmish with some German troops. Tilly's men, they were called. They had just destroyed some big town and killed just about everyone in it. They were still out there, roaming the countryside, destroying, burning, killing and stealing all in their path. They said Dan Frost was doing okay at the meeting the other night, but to not ask would be impolite.

"He's doing well," said the policeman. "Thanks for asking, sir."

Millie came rolling out of the garden on her little electric cart. The cart was very low to the ground; John had built it that way. It moved quietly towards the house. At the side of the house there was a short ramp that went up about eighteen inches and leveled out, ending in a handrail. Next to the handrail was a small box with a cord coming out of it. The ramp and the railing were attached to the house. Millie piloted the little cart alongside the house and up the small ramp, her back to the house and her feet progressively getting higher from the ground. When the ramp leveled out, it was exactly the right height for Millie to slide out of the seat and stand up, supporting herself on the railing. Steadying herself for a moment, she reached around and plugged the battery charger into the cart. Then she began to walk towards them, wheezing slightly. The ramp was something John was proud of. It made it easier for her to sit down and get up from the low cart.

"That's very nifty," said Maureen. She sounded like she meant it. "Did you build that?"

"Yes. The ramp and the cart. Cart came first." He smiled. "Not the horse."

Maureen paused a moment, like she wasn't sure what to say. Then it dawned. "Oh, cart before the horse. I get it." She laughed, a real spot of laughter, that was clearly different than her earlier smile. "I didn't quite expect that," she said, still smiling. Officer Onofrio gave a small smile, too; he had heard the joke before. He had been out here on two separate ambulance runs that had taken Millie to the hospital a few miles away.

"May we go inside and talk?" asked Maureen. She gave a quick glance to Onofrio, who nodded slightly in the affirmative. "Do you want to wait out here, Officer?"

"That would be fine, ma'am," replied Onofrio.

As the three of them eased into the vinyl kitchen chairs with a cup of coffee, Maureen saw the neat kitchen, the white plastic basket on the middle of the table with medications, and the worn table. It reminded her of her parents, years ago. The details were different, but the feeling was the same, theywere living out the last years as best they could. This was going to be hard. "Well," Maureen said, letting her smile return, the one that made both John and Millie look at her with suspicion, "I suppose you're wondering why I'm here?"

"Not really" said Millie, cutting into the flow of where Maureen was going. "You want us to move out of here, don't you? Too dangerous, or too far from town? For our own good?" Millie was smiling, comfortable, and just a bit argumentative.

Maureen stopped for a moment and blinked a bit. She finally sighed, resigned. "You're right, Mrs.

Trapanese. We think it's too dangerous."

"Who's we?" John asked, flatly.

"Well, we're organizing as best we can, and trying to think of everything that might happen. You know Dennis, Jr., my husband is a-was a police officer over in Clarksburg?" They nodded. "Well, he's helping out as best he can, and so am I."

"How are you helping?" asked John.

"I've some experience in social work, and I just thought I could help him and the police force out.

This is a good way to help. I've some help watching the kids. You wouldn't believe how this has brought the town together. Everyone is looking for something to do to help. Kind like after the tornado a few years back in Clarksburg. Everyone just stepped up, and did a job, no complaining. This is one of those times."

"There's not much we can do," said Millie.

"You can help us by moving into town," replied Maureen.

"Why is that a help?"

"Basically, this is not a defensible position-we can't defend this part of the road easily. You are not safe here. In town you'd be a lot safer, closer to help. And we don't have to spend the effort to keep you safe all the way out here. We're stretched way too thin as it is." She sat back in her chair. "It's not safe out here on your own."

"Have you had any more incidents since Dan Frost was shot on the first day?" John asked.

"No, just some refugees coming in. Mostly on the other side of town, but a few from this way. They say that the main army has been moving off, away from us."

"Well, Miss Grady," John continued, "I don't think we're in any real danger out here. The barn and yard are well lit, and the phone is working again."

Maureen was getting a little impatient. "What are you going to do for supplies? And how are you going to get to town? What about groceries? Have you thought these things through, Mr. Trapanese?

Mrs. Trapanese? Our response time out here will be significant. And out here at the edge of the Ring of Fire, you're the most vulnerable to outsiders. Do you understand how serious this is?"

"Of course, I don't understand young lady," Millie harrumphed. "Who can understand this nonsense?

The sun is in the wrong spot, the moon is in the wrong spot. How can anyone understand this?"

"Mrs. Trapanese," Maureen began, "may I call you Millie?" Millie gave her a nod and an additional harrumph, just a bit disdainfully. "Thank you, Millie," she continued. "You're right. n.o.body really understands what's happening. It may be that in a few weeks it will sink in. Right now we're just dealing with the reality that we have. And that reality is that this is now a much more dangerous place. It may look the same, but it's not the same. And we don't think it ever will be the same." She paused. "I know you don't want to give up your home, but why don't you come into town? It will be better for you in the long run."

John and Millie exchanged glances across the table. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Millie spoke. "I don't give a s.h.i.t about the long run."

Maureen blinked again. She started to open her mouth to protest and stopped. She looked at the basket on the middle of the table, and back to Millie and John, who returned her gaze. "I don't," continued Millie after a time. "Please don't take offence, Maureen. It's just that it's a little too much for us old folks to take in."

"But Millie, you shouldn't think like that," said Maureen. Maureen didn't believe her own argument.

"Then how should I think, Maureen? Should I pretend that the Walgreen's is still in Wheeling?" Millie kept her voice measured, calm, and strong and met Maureen's gaze full on. "I've a few weeks supply of medications, and I know what to do to make them last. Been doing that for years. Too expensive otherwise."

John leaned forward, placed his hand on Millie's, and said, "We're not moving into town. It's not safe there, either, so far as I can tell. The difference between here and down there isn't very much. I don't think it really matters all that much where we live." He too looked at Maureen, with kindness, but also with determination. "And if you're wondering, yes, I do have some weapons here. We met in Greece when I was serving with an Army transport unit right after the war. I should be able to defend us against whatever bad guys are lurking in the shadows. Not that I think it's necessary."

Maureen and Officer Onofrio drove back to the police station in silence. The V8 drone of the cruiser was the only background noise, along with a couple of squelch tails on the two-way. After a couple of miles, Onofrio spoke up. "I don't know if I'd do anything different, Maureen. I mean, that is where they retired to, where they wanted to spend as much time as possible. Can't really disagree a whole lot."

"I know." Maureen sighed. "I'm just worried about them. What are they going to do? It's dangerous out there on the edge. We just don't know what's going to happen."

June, 1631 Heinrich was famished. His vision was foggy. As he came to the ridge, he paused. The land below him seemed different somehow. Where he now stood the land around him was colors of gray, brown and black. Below him, the land-sharply cut as if by a knife-was a brilliant green. The trees, the gra.s.s, all looked alive. He looked down at the farmstead below him. It looked prosperous and untouched by battle. Surrounded by green, with a garden. His spirits lifted. Perhaps he could get a meal, for himself and . . . he looked back to the stand of trees near the ridge. They would be safe there. At least for now. He began to pick his way down the ridge. The ground was soft, and fell away easily. Caution, he told himself. Caution, don't fall and break a leg.

Heinrich was leading the horse. It had no strength to bear any riders; the hipbones were protruding over the loose flesh. The horse couldn't go much further. The young German looked back and gave the lead a tug. "There may be some food down there, my st.u.r.dy friend. Lets go and see." So together they walked down the ridge, until it reached level ground. He looked to the farmhouse, and saw the two farmers standing under an extended roof that formed an overhang to the front door.

He paused, trying to regain his bearings. He then trudged to them, head down. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It was all he could do. He looked at the man. A big man in front of the farmhouse. The man was peering at him with some sort of a short telescope; he saw the flash of light off of the lens. The man then began to look above him, at the ridgeline. The woman then took the telescope, and handed him what looked like some sort of a small farm tool. From this distance, and his foggy state of mind, that was all of the a.n.a.lysis he could do. He knew he would be at the mercy of the farmers-to a point. All he wanted was food.

"As soon as I tell them that I will not harm them, they will feed me. The others have. At least those that were alive when we found them." He tightened the belt of his long leather coat, and patted his side.

His saber was still in place, out of sight, and his small dagger in the sheath in the small of his back.

He continued with his head down, focusing on walking. The ground was very smooth and covered with the green of spring gra.s.s. So green. It looked like another land to him. As if spring came here early.

He shook his head again. Focus. Focus, he told himself. This is risky. But they always stop being afraidas soon as I make them understand . . .

As he neared the farmhouse, the farmer said something to him. Heinrich blinked, shook his head and tried to listen. What language was it? The man said it again. It sounded strange. Heinrich stopped. He could feel the horse drop its head behind him. It sounded like the man was giving him a command. He raised his head slightly. Heinrich tried to no longer look people in the eyes. He had seen too many eyes, blank, white, staring at the sky. All dead. No more eyes. "Please," he said, quietly and sincerely. "Please, I need food. Can you give me a meal?" The farmer straightened. He was a big man, larger than he had first thought.

The man said something again. He could not understand. Heinrich lifted his head, and looked to his side. The house was strange, unusual. Fog again, and he shook his head. Focus. Try again, polite.

"Please, sir. All I ask is a meal and a place to sleep tonight. I have companions and we have come far to escape the fighting. Can you help me?"

The man said something, and shook his head sympathetically. In the negative. He held out his hand and repeated his commands, and continued to shake his head no. The young German clenched his fists, and relaxed them. He took a step to the man, and pleaded again. "Please, we have no food. We have not eaten in many days."

The man was still shaking his head no. When Heinrich took another step, entreating, he saw the man change his grip on what looked like a farm tool. He heard a click from the tool, and the end was pointed towards him. It was a tube, like a small arquebus. He paused. Was this a weapon of some kind?

Farmers did not have weapons such as this. It was finely made, wood and dark metal, and worn in spots from years of use. He focused on the weapon-tube?-and instinctively loosed the belt on his coat. It was an automatic motion; he made it when he felt threatened.

The farmer sensed this, and raised the-what was this thing-weapon. Yes, it is a weapon. The way he holds it, and the way that he speaks. He does not fear me. Heinrich's blood ran cold. This was not supposed to be dangerous. "Just a meal. Please." He felt himself swaying, lightheaded. The old farmer held out his hand, palm out and facing him. He said something like sounded like "halt." He said it strongly. Heinrich stopped, and looked into the face of the man. He was unbelievably old, and wrinkled, but he stood like a much younger man. The farmer dropped the weapon away from his face slightly, and he was speaking again. He was entreating to him for something. Most farmers simply pleaded for their lives, thinking that they were going to be killed. This old man was pleading something else. The young German listened closely. The language sounded vaguely familiar yet unintelligible. The farmer was shaking his head again. Firmly. No. But the meaning of the old man's words came to him in a flash of understanding.

This farmer was not pleading for his life as he had seen so many do before. This farmer was pleading that he wouldn't have to kill. He saw the farmer's eyes fully for the first time. His eyes were not dead.

This farmers eyes were shining and clear. Remarkably clear. Alive. He tried to not look at eyes any longer. So many dead ones, staring at the sky and empty. Heinrich swayed briefly, and raised his hands away from his leather buff coat, now only loosely tied in the front. He stepped back. "Please. I just want something to eat." He once again timidly looked into the eyes of the farmer. He saw two things. Bright and remarkably clear eyes for one so old. And genuine relief. Relief that he would not have to kill.

The old woman came out of the doorway, took three steps to the post that held up the overhang, and leaned against it. She smiled. She asked him a question. He struggled to place the language. It was so familiar. He saw the old man look at her quietly, and say something. It sounded like a question to her, incredulous. He was questioning her actions. She answered in a cheery voice that caught Heinrich off guard. The old man stepped back, and made an almost comical harrumph. He lowered his weapon slightly.

His foggy attention went to her. He searched for her eyes. They too were alive. Unafraid. They were dark. Darker than he had ever seen. There was wisdom there. He just blinked at her. Those eyes were sizing him up. His character. His soul. He felt ashamed and lowered his eyes to the ground. There hadbeen no challenge from her that required him to back down. There was only a desire to understand him.

He was afraid she would.

She addressed him directly, and made a motion to her mouth as if eating. Startled, he looked at them each. She said a word that was familiar. Eat. It was an English word. He could feel his face light up.

Tears wanted to come over him. He was going to be fed. "Yes, Yes," he said. "Eat, yes, eat." Thank you, thank you.

No tears, he told himself sternly. He swallowed back his raw emotion and buried it. Putting it away in a dark corner. He shook the fog away, and smiled "Yes, eat, yes."

There was another exchange between the man and the woman, and the man looked relieved. ." . .

almost killed him . . ." sounded a lot like English. English? Here? Thuringa? Heinrich took a step towards the open door. English? He tried to remember a language he had partially used six years ago when he was in England with his father. He didn't study it. He didn't like England, or the people he encountered there. They were not true Catholics, his father always said. Heretics. He tried to stop at that thought.

Heretics. He was so sure back then; everything was simple. There was one true faith. And he was a soldier of that faith. He was going to rid the world of the heretics; convince them of the error of their ways; defeat their armies; and bring them to the church for the glory of G.o.d and the Emperor. That's what his father had said, what the priests had said, what everyone had said. For the glory of G.o.d and the Emperor. He took another step towards the dwelling.

The man raised the weapon again, this time very quickly. It was still pointed at him. The man gave him a command; holding his hand out again and saying something that sounded once again like "halt." This time the young German stopped immediately, but he was confused. He looked to the farmer for an explanation. The old lady glanced at the farmer quizzically too, he noticed.

Heinrich looked back to the farmer, who made a motion for him to open his coat. He complied, slowly, with his hands up near the collar, so that there would be no mistake. He was almost embarra.s.sed when they saw his cavalry sword hanging from his side. The farmer made a motion for him to put onto the floor. Carefully, he removed it from his scabbard, using only the tips of his fingers, and placed it on the wooden floor. As he stood up, he felt dizzy and off balance, and he grabbed the wooden post that supported the roof to steady himself. He still had his dagger. He had used it before; he could use it again if necessary. Somehow, he didn't think it was necessary.

He paused before entering the home to look at the door. Strange, delicate construction; it would keep n.o.body out who wanted in. The gla.s.s in the door was very clear. Once inside, the room was opulent, with a padded couch and a ma.s.sive padded chair, rugs on the floor, and mysterious, highly accurate paintings on the wall of people's faces. More paintings of carriages like the large one outside.

The detail was amazing. He shook his head; trying to process the things he saw, define them in the range of his experiences. These people must be very rich. The old lady was saying something to him, and clearly wanted him to move forward towards the open archway.

Heinrich approached the archway, but stopped. There was a shelf on the wall. The shelf was covered with small figurines, no bigger than his fist. When he saw them, he stopped and stared. They looked like a representations of small children. Some had puppies and other pets, some were shy, and some seemed playful. But they all had large eyes. Mournfully peering at him. Eyes. Eyes of innocent children. He tried to break his stare off the objects, but he could not. Their eyes held him. He was far away. He heard the old lady speaking, something about "Precious Moments."

She touched him on the arm, and he came back to the present, weak, hungry and confused. He looked down at her. She looked back up to him and smiled. That smile drew him to the next room where the smells. .h.i.t him like a hammer in the stomach. The smell of the rich food, made his stomach cramp, and he grabbed his sides to quell the pain. He couldn't identify the smell, but it was far too exotic to be simple peasant food. He was desperately hungry. He felt dizzy.