Forager (9781771275606) (16 page)

Moving down the hallway, I came to a bathroom, and then a
bedroom that was just as neat and orderly as the living room. I
opened a few drawers in the dresser, but they were all empty.
Further down the hallway was a final room. It, too, was a bedroom,
but the ambient light filtering in from the living room and kitchen
was so faint, I could barely see.
Thankfully, there was no sign of any skeletons, but searching
this room would require more light.

Sawyer’s words came back to haunt me. “There’s always going to
be something you didn’t take and wished you had.” Even though the
mayor would’ve had a fit, a flashlight would have been useful. I’d
have to settle for using LEDs and homemade cells.

Heading back to the kitchen, I made a mental list of the items
needed. I hadn’t expected to find a sign that said, “The keys are
here,” but that’s almost exactly what was hanging on the wall
behind the now only half-open door.

Gravity, a bad hinge, the house settling, or some other force
let the door drift back so that it now stood perpendicular to the
wall. I wanted to kick myself. Had I simply looked behind the door
when I first entered the kitchen, I’d have seen the four-lettered
wooden plaque with hooks. The sign was made of a beautiful dark
wood, walnut maybe. Each letter was as precisely cut as only the
machines of old, or a master craftsman, could make. Those four
masterfully worked letters spelled the word KEYS.

It was almost insulting, the obviousness of the sign.
Thankfully no one saw me. Regardless of what I’d told myself
earlier, I’d made myself look like an idiot—again.

Only one key ring hung from the plaque. Six keys, arranged by
size, dangled from it like an inverted staircase. I scooped up the
keys and hurried out the door as fast as the pain in my legs would
let me.

I wanted to run to the sheds and try the keys. I wanted to
fling the doors wide and find, on my first try, the alternator my
town so desperately needed.

The sight of a persistent horse stopped me.

She was back in the clover, contentedly munching away. I threw
both hands in the air and yelled, “Frrreeeddd!”

She poked her head up just enough to roll her eye at me and
flick her ears. I’m positive if she could talk she’d have said,
“Duh, I’m not going to eat that grass out front when there’s good
clover back here.”

I wondered if I put the hobbles on wrong, which wouldn’t have
surprised me one bit. But when I checked, for once I’d actually
done something right. The hobbles were on the way they were
supposed to be. “How did you get back here?” I pondered out
loud.

It was only a few seconds later when Fred gave me my
answer. By walking. That was all it took. She walked from a gnawed
patch of clover to a fresh one. I guess I hadn’t really thought it
out—the hobbles were never designed to keep a horse from
moving
. They were only designed to keep a horse from
moving
fast
.

I left Fred to graze, and hoped she’d be where I could find
her when I was done in the sheds.

The pain in my thighs was easing. Good thing, because no
matter what I found, I’d soon be back in the saddle.

Reaching the shed doors without dropping the key ring was
something I was quite proud of. Only the two smallest keys looked
like they would fit the padlock. The first one slid into the lock,
but didn’t turn. I whispered, “Please, please, please, work,” as I
tried the second.

Holding the key between my thumb and forefinger, I slowly
and steadily twisted. Nothing happened.
Pushing a little harder got me nothing. I pushed harder still,
fearing the key might snap off inside the lock. Instead, there was
click and the arm of the lock popped free from the body.

In a rush, I slipped the arm out of the hasp on the doors and
let the padlock fall to the ground, keys and all. They disappeared
in the tall grass. I bent down and ran my hands through the rough
blades. I know it only took a few moments to recover the keys and
the padlock. It seemed like forever.

Hooking the padlock back into one side of the hasp, I put the
keys safely in my pocket. The steel door was stuck. The rollers
hadn’t moved in their tracks for a long time. The first shove was
the worst, but once those old rollers began turning the door moved
much easier.

A tractor rested on one side
of the building.
The other half of the shed held two vehicles, both under
tarps. Guessing by their shapes, one was a pickup and the other a
car. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t what I was looking for.

I moved across the front of the house to the second shed.
Naturally, I used the wrong key first. This lock wasn’t as stiff as
the first. It easily released when I turned the right key. Fighting
the doors, I pushed with all my strength. The doors grudgingly
opened an inch at a time against the thick grass and weeds impeding
them. I couldn’t get either one fully open, still, the opening was
wide enough for four horses to pass through side by
side.

Inside sat a planter and plow, which my gaze quickly passed
over. My heart beat like a hammer when I spied a familiar shape
inside the shed—a combine. It only took a second for my heart to
calm. This combine was red, not green. I walked around its side
anyway to check the numbers. Sure enough, they weren’t even
close.

My foot found the side of
the shed.
After all the effort I’d gone through locating the keys,
fooling around with a horse who had a mind of her own, and
struggling with the locks and doors, I needed to vent. I kicked the
shed a second time, then a third. After the third kick, enough pain
transferred from my toes to my brain that I stopped.
It only took a few minutes to close and lock the
sheds. Then I did the same with the front door of the house,
remembering the deadbolt. After hanging the keys in the kitchen
where I’d found them, I locked the back door and pulled it
shut.
It
seemed right to leave things the way I’d found them.

I trudged my way to Fred. Several patches of bare earth
revealed where she’d eaten the clover right down to the ground.
Despite my failure with the combine, I smiled. At least Fred was
well fed.

Removing the hobbles, I took Fred over to the pump, and we
both took a long drink. It was only when I put my foot in the
stirrup and grabbed the saddle horn that I realized what it was
that I’d forgotten. Fred’s saddle. She’d worn it the whole night
through.

Could she be ridden? Would
the girth chafe her? Or would something worse happen. Moving her
away from the pump and onto the gravel drive, I took the saddle off
and groomed her. She nickered in appreciation.
I checked her for any roughness
or irritation along where the girth went, but found
nothing.

Fred seemed fine, and I set about saddling her
again.
Not wanting her to be uncomfortable
after being saddled all night I left the girth a little
loose.

Placing my foot in the stirrup and my hand on the horn, I
started to mount and found myself on my back in the dirt. Fred
turned her head and snorted. I swear that horse was laughing at
me.

It took longer to brush the
pieces of gravel off my clothes than it did to tighten the
girth.
I
finally mounted up.

Birdsong carried from a roadside tree, and accompanied Fred
and me as we continued east. I figured the best way to keep from
getting lost was to continue down this same road. It would be easy
enough to turn around and follow it back to the
blacktop.

The next house was near a crossroad. I stayed mounted. There
was only one outbuilding large enough to hold a harvester, a
crumbling wooden shed with an open front. I could clearly see a
tractor and some other farm implements, but no combine.

Fred and I continued on, wasting the rest of the morning,
stopping every now and then to check sheds and barns. The day grew
warmer as the cool breeze from earlier disappeared. I stopped at
several sheds and found more combines. None of them matched the
numbers.

Riding along, I tried not to
think about an unhappy mayor, banishment, or my overdue
jolts.
Instead, I tried to focus on Chane, but thoughts of her
only made me remember that she was a captive.

Somewhere around the tenth combine, I wondered why we were
still using our rusty old machine. Why hadn’t the mayor called for
a Forager to bring us a better one? It would mean pulling some
people away from their usual work and rigging up some way to get
one back to town, but I didn’t think it would be all that
difficult. If nothing else, at least we’d have a backup. Was it
possible the mayor didn’t know all these combines were out
here?
Deciding that when I got back to
town, providing the mayor didn’t banish me on the spot, I’d
ask.

Around midday, I stopped at the next promising site. The house
must have been built not long before the Collapse. It looked newer
than any house I’d seen. The one steel outbuilding was painted a
dull red to match the brick of the house.

The sun was directly overhead and my stomach rumbled. I pulled
two apples out of the food bag and gave one to Fred.

This outbuilding had the same type of large panel doors as
the first place,
except this one came
equipped with a regular-sized door on one side. I slipped the lock
with my pry bar only to discover the shed held only cars.
There were five
under tarps, and one sitting without a cover. On the car’s gray
door was a magnetic sign.

SCOTT COOK PHARMACY

DELIVERING YOUR TRUST

SINCE
1931

SCOTT COOK
was the name printed in big bold letters on the pharmacy on
Main Street. I thought of Sawyer and the infection in his leg and
of Dr. White cursing the lack of medicines.
Peeking in the window of the car, looking to see if I could
spot
any of
the helpful remedies promised on the side. The car was
empty.

I strolled over to the first of the covered cars, thinking I
might find some medicine in one of them. Dust flew everywhere as I
pulled off the cover. This car was older. It displayed the same
signage, except in paint. Moving on, each car I uncovered was older
than the last, but each at one time had delivered medicines for
Scott Cook, or his descendants. None of them held any
medicines.

With nothing left to see in the shed, I closed the door behind
me and stared at the house. Had Scott Cook taken his work home?
Were there medicines in the house just waiting to be foraged? I
pondered over those questions while chomping the apple.

Sawyer had told me not to get sidetracked. The most important
thing I could do was find the alternator. The infection in his leg
made me wonder it that was still true. He’d claimed to be feeling
better, but the inflammation in his leg spoke louder. There might
be something inside that house that could help him.

I considered finding a way in, but decided that finding the
harvester took priority. Besides, I could always sneak back and
search the house another time. At least I hoped I could.

For the rest of the day, I rode down the gravel road. More
often than not, barbwire fences fringed the road beside me. It did
nothing to keep the tall yellow prairie grass and the occasional
wildflower from growing right up to the road, and sometimes on it.
All of the barns and sheds were faded and worn. There was either no
combine, or the wrong one. The uncaring sun continued to march
across the sky, and I lost count of how many buildings I searched.
There were red, yellow, blue, green, and gray combines. How was it
possible for there to be so many different kinds? I’m not even sure
any two had the same model number on any of them.

Frustration built in me, rising higher and higher until I
wanted to scream. It was maddening, entering all those dimly-lit
barns and sheds. The worst buildings were those that held green
combines. My heart always sped up. I’d try telling myself to calm
down, to make sure it was the right one before I got excited.
Nothing helped. It was such a letdown when the wrong numbers
appeared on the big side panels. I wanted to give up. People were
counting on me, though, especially Sawyer. I couldn’t let him
down.

The sun, now low in the western sky, was almost finished with
its daily chore. The light wouldn’t last much longer, so I called
it a day and start looking for a place to spend the night. I didn’t
want to repeat last night’s uncomfortable bed. Granted, there were
worse places to sleep than a hard concrete patio, but there were a
lot better ones too.

Fred and I rode to the next farm. There was a small barn, and
the small white house appeared ordinary enough. The doorknob turned
freely under my hand.

This house was more my style than the one I’d entered this
morning. A few magazines and newspapers were spread on an old
coffee table in front of a soft-looking couch. That was as much as
I needed to see.

Putting Fred in a small
fenced-off area near the barn, I even remembered to take off her
saddle. Behind the barn, a bucket hung from a water pump.
I filled the bucket,
fed Fred her ration of oats, and gave her a really good
grooming.