Authors: Robin Wasserman
Is that what she had done? Ellie wondered. Was that the prayer in her heart as the lightning cracked and the sky fell?
“And the Lord listened. You think it’s a coincidence that of all the churches, only hers was spared? You think it’s an
accident
that the roof was torn away but the building, and the pure soul within it, were left intact? He removed the roof of His own house, and now that it’s gone, now,
now,
we look up and we can see.
I
see a Lord who will reward us for our righteousness, as he punished us for our trespasses. I see a merciful Lord who wants us to repent, and quickly. I see a divine opportunity.”
“I see a fraud and a blowhard,” came a shout from the front row, where, as editor in chief of the local paper, Howard Schwarz had brandished a hastily improvised press pass in order to claim a seat. “You think praying is going to rebuild our houses? Or protect us from whatever’s bubbling up out there? You think it’s ever a
good
sign when the government cuts off all access to the media?”
“Well, now, I don’t know about that,” the deacon said jovially. “We still have the good old
Oleander
Post,
so things can’t be
too
dire.”
It punctured the tension in the room and scored him another laugh. Schwarz had taken over the paper three years before, turning what had once been a tired but dignified reporting of Little League scores and pie recipes into a weekly screed against small-town life. He didn’t have many friends left.
“He’s not lying!” a woman shouted from the back of the room. “I saw that girl walking through the storm like a crazy person.”
“I saw her, too!” another cried. “Headed to that church like she was on a mission.”
“A mission from the Lord,” the deacon said. “A mission to save the church, in which she succeeded. And a mission to save the town, in which… well, time will tell, won’t it? Ellie, perhaps you’d like to lead us in prayer?”
She’d never spoken before this many people, and she expected her voice to tremble. But it did not. As if some other voice was channeling through her, the words flowed, steady and clear.
“Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord. And by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thy only Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
They listened to her in silence. Most crossed their hands and bowed their heads, but a few stared with naked curiosity, as if she were a strange museum piece – or a holy relic.
The deacon believed that she could hear the word of God, and these people believed it, too. She knew it, the way she knew things now, deep within herself, clear and certain.
Maybe they were right. Maybe the voice knocking around her skull was neither a sign of madness nor the devil’s tease, but the Lord, with her before, with her still. If it taunted her, if it reminded her of all her stumbles and her great fall, then perhaps that was only God’s way of redeeming her inner Gomorrah, reminding her of that which must be destroyed.
As usual, the real action happened in the meeting before the meeting. Mayor Mouse and Deacon Barnes – habitual enemies who could each recognize a situation that required allies – hovered before the computer screen side by side, waiting for the duly appointed representative of the United States government to explain exactly what the hell was going on.
Mouse was already starting to consider resignation, and specifically what effect it might have on car sales. This wasn’t the job he’d campaigned for; this wasn’t the town he’d determined to lead. And he had no doubt the deacon would be more than happy to take the reins in his absence. It was the one thing they had in common: they were both ambitious, not just for themselves, but for Oleander. Sure, the deacon had a stick up his ass and was always harping on some lunatic cause or another, waging his endless wars against science textbooks and drugstore condoms. But at least he understood that the town could be something more. And no one agreed more than Mouse. Why else had he persuaded the previous mayor to lease the old power plant to a nameless consortium that, given its deep pockets and paranoia, was almost certainly a front for the military? Why else had he, as mayor, asked no follow-up questions and granted any permit requested of him? Because his reward was an influx of cash: payments for land use and taxes far higher than they should have been. His reward was a new Oleander, soon flush with prosperity. That was the dream, at least.
This was the reality: a “containment breach.” A quarantine. And only Mouse to blame.
Colonel Matthew Franklin explained nothing. Yes, there was a “situation.” Yes, communications lines would be restored when the government deemed it prudent. In the meantime, deliveries of food and emergency supplies would continue to appear at the border… as long as the mayor kept his people in line.
“And if I don’t?” Mouse said, striving for a boldness he didn’t feel.
“You have two choices, Mayor,” the colonel said. “You can keep your people in line, or I can have my men do the job. I’d rather you save us the trouble. In return, I’m happy to offer you complete autonomy.”
“Complete autonomy?” the deacon put in. “In what sense?”
“In all senses. Think of this as an opportunity. A gift from the United States government to you. Comply with our regulations – which, I should note, you
will
do, one way or another – and for the duration of the quarantine period, Oleander belongs to you.”
There was a rhythm to life in Oleander in this time, syncopated but steady. Even for those untouched by the storm, there was no business as usual, only business in spite of. Despite houseguests taking refuge on couches, despite downed phone lines and severed supply lines, there were still cows to be milked and fields to be mowed. The business of nature continued apace, as did the business of those whose job it was to keep the town in business, the mayor and the cops and the doctors and the carpenters and the plumbers all working overtime, as if to compensate for the rest – shopkeepers with no goods to sell, gas-station attendants with no gas to pump, farmers whose herds had taken flight. And then there was the business of recovery: cleaning up wreckage, tending to injuries of body and soul. They were two towns in one: those who bore only a faint battle scar living side by side with those who had been cut down where they stood and now struggled to rise.
It had been four days, but Jule could not get used to the house. Though she had, for the moment, stopped expecting the tap of a police baton against the solid oak door, the place showed no signs of becoming a home. Or rather, with its procession of family portraits marching up the stairs, its height chart carved into the kitchen doorway, its bookshelves cluttered with dried flowers and porcelain cats, it was very much a home – just not hers. For the first time in her life, Jule had a real bedroom, complete with solid walls, a full-sized mattress, and a door that locked. But she couldn’t sleep. Vaguely familiar faces grinned down at her from photo collages; a diary chronicled someone else’s dull, effortless life. Whenever she flicked the light switch, a neon sign on top of the bookshelf flared to life:
CASSANDRA
, in glowing curlicues of pink and blue. Jule was no stranger to labels; at home, her cramped scrawl marked half the items in the fridge, yogurt and soy milk and frozen pizza that she’d bought with her own cash. She had a feeling that Cassandra hadn’t needed labels any more than she’d needed that lock on her door. The fact that the diary was just tucked under the pillow for anyone to find – the fact there was a diary at all – suggested a girl who took walls for granted. That was why Jule wouldn’t let herself feel guilty about squatting in Cassandra’s bedroom. Well, that, and the whole baby-killer thing.
There were more than a few empty houses in Oleander this week. Some people had left town and been unable to get back with the roads blocked; some people had died. Some fled a couple of broken windows and the inconvenience of a leaky roof in favor of a neighbor’s couch or a room at the town’s only motel. The Porters were in a category of their own. Jule had heard that they left town soon after their daughter was sentenced to life in the loony bin, but who left town without taking a sliver of their life with them, or at least a couple of pictures off the wall? Who kept paying the electric bill for a house they never intended to see again? The place was eerie in its intactness, as if the Porters had walked up the stairs one night and never come down again, and Jule wondered how long her uncles had had their eye on the place. The Prevettes weren’t the only squatters, not this week, but somehow they’d managed to get their hands on the best vacant property in town. It probably didn’t hurt that they’d set up camp as the first clouds were still gathering in the sky – not that any of them had bothered to tell Jule.
That morning, she woke up to the smell of coffee and eggs, which was strange enough. Stranger still was discovering, when she padded downstairs, her mother pouring coffee for her uncles Teddy and Axe. The three of them sat around the kitchen table stuffing their faces while Scott, of all people, stood at the stove on frying-pan duty.
“We got peppers, onions, and tomatoes,” Scott said, bent nearly in half over the stove, which had not been built for someone of his height. “Take your pick, Jaybird.”
It was what he’d called her when she was small and he was still Uncle Scott, the big man who’d swung her in loop-the-loops like a stunt plane and promised to protect her from the big bad world. Over the years, both of them had gotten harder – with the world, and with each other. Maybe, Jule thought, the house was haunted by the ghosts of domesticity past, and even the fearsome Prevette brothers were unable to resist. She nearly smiled, and then she noticed Scott’s thick leather belt. Hanging from it, in a makeshift holster, was his favorite knife.
“Just tomatoes,” she said quietly. “Please.”
Her mother shifted to make room for her at the table. “Where’s the —” Jule swallowed the word
parasite.
“Billy?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” her mother said. “He’s doing some work for your uncles.”
“Billy?
Work?
”
“You’d be surprised how useful your stepfather is making himself around here.”
Axe scowled. “Shut up about that, Annie.”
“Useful as a human garbage disposal, maybe,” Jule said. “Or if you’ve got a burning need to turn beer into piss. But I’m not sure that qualifies as work.”
An uncomfortable glance passed between Teddy and Axe, and then a plate slammed down in front of her.
“Eat,”
Scott said.
She asked no follow-up questions.
After invading the house, Scott had claimed the master bedroom. It meant Jule’s mother and the parasite were consigned to the pullout couch in the office, while Teddy and Axe and the girl they shared got stuck in the guest bedroom, with its two twin beds. Jule had no idea how she’d scored a room of her own, and the not knowing didn’t sit easy with her. It was like the omelets, and the specter of Scott Prevette with a red-checked apron tied around his waist – pieces that fit together into a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve.
Scott’s latest woman, another dishwater blonde whose name Jule always forgot, had not made the move with them, and it seemed wisest not to ask where she’d gone. As a rule, Scott was almost never without female companionship, but lately, his interest seemed to have waned. His interest in everything had waned, except for his hunting knife. Even the business fell mostly to Axe and Teddy these days. Of course, that was before the trailer camp had been wiped out, and with it, the padlocked trailer and whatever was secreted inside. Now it was the basement that had been declared off-limits. Jule didn’t want to know. Not that it mattered what they were making down there, if they couldn’t move their product – so Axe and Teddy had spent the last several days hunting for a way out of town. But the government cordon was tight, and enforced with more firepower than the Prevettes were willing to take on. Frontal assault wasn’t Scott’s style: he liked to stay a shadow, slipping through the gaps. They’d yet to find him one. Jule suspected they were starting to get a little desperate.
After four days stuck in Oleander with no phones, no Internet, tanks at the borders, and an expanse of toxic
something
lurking just beyond, a lot of people were getting desperate.
“Those FEMA people are shipping in more food this afternoon,” Jule’s mother said. “I’ll see what I can get.”
“Get more eggs,” Axe mumbled around a runny mouthful of omelet. He scraped a last bit off his own plate before scooping a forkful off his younger brother’s. Teddy whacked his knuckles, which were tattooed
HATE
and
PUNCH
,
the
C
and
H
crammed together on his pinkie – Axe was better at fighting than counting. Axe was, in fact, better at fighting than he was at anything. He claimed that the red devil flames he’d had tattooed across his face and shaved head were intended as a warning, but he loved nothing more than when people failed to heed it.
“FEMA.” Scott snorted. “Some people will believe anything.”
Scott’s world was a web of conspiracy. His catalog of nefarious plots against the common man expanded every year, and currently included: driver’s licenses, fluoride, taxes, email, flu shots, parking tickets, and pretty much every governmental program and department, from the EPA to UNICEF. Sometimes his caution was warranted – it’s not generally a good idea to declare meth-generated income to the IRS. Other times – as when he’d spent several weeks hiding in the swamp, convinced that defense contractor Gold Mountain Trust had teamed up with the FBI to assassinate him with a fleet of robotic drones – it was less than productive.
Jule’s mother rolled her eyes. She was the only one who dared poke fun at his “theories.” “Your uncle here thinks we’ve all been duped, and the army’s taking over.”
“What the hell would the army want with Oleander?” Jule said.
“Whatever they want, they’ll get it.” Scott drew his knife and laid it flat on the table. “’Less someone stops them.” His eyes were redder than usual, his motions fluttery, with a telltale twitch. Teddy and Axe were nearly bouncing in their seats. There’d been a time when Scott was good about keeping himself and his brothers to a low level of consumption – enough to enjoy the party, not enough to crash it, he liked to say. It was a long time ago.
“Scotty says they’re why the phones still don’t work.” Teddy looked to his big brother for approval. He was no good at thinking for himself, and so more than willing to let anyone else do the thinking for him. It made him everyone’s favorite, at least now that James was gone. “And the computers.”
“Scotty probably also thinks the government fascists made the storm in the first place,” Jule’s mother said. “All part of their evil plan. Go ahead, tell them.”
“I never said that.” Scott rubbed the knife handle between his palms. For a moment, the silver blade looked to be coated in blood. Jule blinked, and the crimson stain faded – just a trick of the light. “But I wouldn’t put it past ’em.”
Before he could elaborate on Uncle Sam’s dark intentions, there was a squeal outside and then a loud crash. Everyone froze.
Scott jerked his head at Axe. “Check it out.”
Axe shrugged. “Sounds like raccoons getting into the garbage.”
“How about you go see for yourself?”
Axe nodded at his plate, which was now heaped with leftovers from Jule’s and her mother’s plates. “Can’t it wait till I’m done?”
Scott snatched the plate and flung it against the wall. Omelet and ketchup spattered against the beige paint. “You’re done.”
No one spoke as Axe trudged toward the back door to investigate the noises, and no one made a move to clean up the mess. Scott played with his knife. A few minutes later, Axe reappeared. Dangling from his hand, like a kitten wriggling from its mother’s jaw, was a child. Scruffy and gap-toothed and certainly no more than seven or eight, he didn’t look nearly as frightened as he should be.
Axe dumped the boy on the floor. “He was looking in the window. Trying to spy on us.”
“Was not!” The kid scrambled to his feet, but couldn’t get very far with Axe’s meaty hand locked on his collar. “Let go of me.”
“How about you tell us what you’re doing here,” Scott said. “Someone send you here to spy on me? You working for someone?”
“He’s seven,” Jule snapped. “He’s not working for anyone. He’s probably just lost.”
“I’m eight,” the kid said, like out of everyone in the room, she had now caused him the greatest offense. “And I’m not lost.”
“Not too smart, either, apparently,” Jule’s mother said wearily. “Axe, let go of the boy.”
Axe looked to Scott, who nodded. He let go.
“Boy, what is your name?” she asked.
He pressed his lips together.
Scott lumbered over to the child, and looked down at him from what must have seemed a great distance.
“My sister asked you a question,” Scott said. It was not the voice he used on children he liked.
It turned out, the kid had the capacity for fear after all. He’d gone pale and shaky. “Milo. Ghent.”
“Son of a Preacher Man!” Teddy laughed. “That’s who we got here, Scotty. Son of a Preacher Man!”
Of course, that was why the kid looked so familiar, Jule realized. Daniel had the same scruff of hair and the same crooked nose. This was the little brother he’d been so keen to find the day of the storm – the one with, as Daniel had put it, an inconvenient urge to wander.
“Your daddy send you over here?” Scott favored the boy with a lopsided grin that revealed his blackened teeth. “He want you to tell me I’m going to burn in hell? Because he’s passed that message along already, loud and clear.”
“No one sent me,” Milo said. “I, uh…”
“You, uh, what?”
“I guess I’m lost.”
“You guess you’re lost.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Scott’s smile widened hideously. “You’re not planning to tell anyone what you saw here,” he said. “Or who?”
Milo shook his head solemnly.
“I’ll take him home,” Jule said quickly.
“He goes home when I say he can,” Scott said. “And I don’t recall saying that yet.”
“You didn’t say it yet,” Teddy said.
Scott glared down at Milo. “You know what we do to spies around here?”
Milo shook his head again.
Scott drew his knife and ran the blade along his index finger.
Jule gripped the edge of the table. Scott just wanted to scare the kid, that was all. That’s what she told herself. But Scott was high, and when Scott got high, he got dangerous.
And, crazy as it sounded, there were times when she thought the knife might have ideas of its own.
“I’m taking him home.” Jule grabbed Milo’s hand and pulled him out of the kitchen before anyone could argue. “Now.”
“You do what you need to, Jaybird,” Scott called after her. It was the voice of the knife. “That’s our only job on this earth, ain’t it? But you remember who’ll always be here waiting for you when the doing’s done.”
Jule shoved Milo onto the doorstep and rang the bell. Daniel opened the door with murder in his eyes. “You have
got
to be kidding me,” he said.
“He was poking around places he shouldn’t be.”
“And that’s my fault?”
“Did I say that?”