Not a Drop to Drink

Five

The constant grating of Mother’s handsaw came from within the outbuilding as Lynn cut maple saplings out of the fencerow with her hatchet. Mother needed green wood to smoke the meat, and Lynn’s hands were soon slick from working with the living trees. The hard bulk of the handgun tucked into her waistband chafed against her ribs as she worked.

Making brine for the meat before smoking it was the next job, which required an unheard-of sin: pouring salt into water. Lynn balked at the thought, even after Mother had explained that it would kill the bacteria in the meat. The logic wasn’t enough to stop her from bristling as she watched Mother pour twenty gallons of water into buckets loaded with salt.

“Gotta keep the brine cool,” Mother said idly while she stirred. “We’ll leave it down here in the basement once I’ve shot a deer, and it’s curing. Should take about a week.”

Lynn only muttered in response. Gallons of the purified water she’d hauled into the basement bottle by bottle were ruined. Salted. As useless as ocean water.

Mother glanced up at her. “I know you don’t like this, but it’s for the best. It’s worked in the past to shoot a small deer and freeze the meat, but this way I can take something bigger down. We salt it, we smoke it. We can take it with us without having to worry about spoiling.”

“Take it where?” Lynn asked, her tone dark.

Mother kept stirring the brine, even though Lynn could see that all the salt had dissolved. “We got lucky the other night, Lynn. Real lucky. They weren’t expecting us to be anything less than an easy target. We put them down, and they’re not going to be happy about it.”

“But you said they’re set up in that little town that the stream runs through. Why would they want the pond?”

“Because the stream isn’t dependable,” Mother answered. “Those people to the east will learn it soon enough, I’m guessing the men from the south suspect it. But also they’ll come because we beat them. Because they’re men.”

Lynn ground a naked toe against the stone floor of the basement, ignoring the pain as it bent backward. Men. Mother always spoke that word with such malevolence that Lynn could not imagine what they must be like. The dangers they posed to her survival she was aware of. Other threats, only hinted at by Mother, remained a mystery.

“So what do we do?”

“We go south with canned food and enough meat to take us as far as we want.”

“You go on and make all the brine you want,” Lynn said, pushing hard enough on her toe to bust the nail. “You can salt up a damn bear and pack him into nice little bundles. I’m not going.”

Mother glanced at Lynn, her mouth twitching in a flash of humor. “Then I guess we’ll have to kill the assholes.”

Butchering was work. Mother had shot a much larger deer than usual, and the stripping of muscle from bone was exhausting. Once all the meat was immersed in brine, they looked at each other critically. The basement had a drain, but most of the blood was on them rather than down it. Even Lynn’s face had splotches on it where she swiped at her hair while working. Her arms were slick with blood, and it squelched between her bare toes.

“I’ll bring in some unpurified water,” Lynn suggested. “We can use the tub.”

Using the upstairs of the house was typically off limits. When it was warm, they rinsed themselves in the pond, and during cold months there was a claw-foot tub in the basement that could be used for bathing. But that would mean dragging it out from the backroom, and neither of the women had the strength. Mother nodded in agreement, and Lynn began gathering buckets.

“You go ahead,” Mother said when Lynn came back with water. “I’ll keep a watch.”

“You sure?”

Mother nodded. Rivulets of sweat ran down her face, cutting salty tracks in the deer blood. “I could use a break. I’ll be up on the roof.”

Lynn went inside, turning right on the landing instead of going straight to the basement. Five steps led up to a door that opened onto the kitchen, a door she’d walked through only a handful of times in her life.

She’d been taught to call out upon entering any house, something that had saved her skin once or twice when scavenging for food. “Hello? Anyone here?”

Nothing answered. Her voice echoed off the empty wooden cupboards. Even so, she felt a strange sort of comfort as she walked through the kitchen into dining room. It was still her house, even if she lived underneath it. In a different life, she would’ve known the creak of these wooden floors as intimately as she did the hatchet marks in the wooden beams that held them up.

Lynn made her way to the bathroom, leaving footprints in the dust behind her as she went. The bathroom was a minor miracle in her eyes, to think that water had once come out of the faucet at the turn of a knob. Mother had even said that it was hot or cold depending on how you turned the knob, not on what season it was outside.

She twisted her finger around the faucet, imagining how amazing it would be to turn it and hear the splash of water into the porcelain tub. Mother had seen such things, had lived in a time when taking a hot bath was a relaxing thing, not a job that required hauling and heating water. Mother had used this room when she was Lynn’s age, soaking in the heat and not worrying whether someone would kill her that night.

Lynn wondered what that would feel like as she stepped into her chilly bath and the blood slid from her skin, turning the water pink.

Four days after butchering Mother said it was time to smoke the meat, and they spent most of the morning hanging the large chunks of venison from the rafters with hooks. Cold salt water dripped onto Lynn’s shoulders and back as she dumped the last bucket of pinkish brine down the drain. Lynn was pouring fresh water over the bloodstains when Mother began unhooking chunks of venison from the ceiling.

“I’m carrying a load out to the smokehouse,” she said. “I don’t see anyone nearby, but come out and cover me with the rifle when I get ready to start the fire.” Lynn nodded, ducking under a dripping hunk of shoulder meat. She hurried to finish cleaning the floor as Mother’s feet disappeared up the steps.

Lynn shivered once she made it outside and the cold air struck her wet shirt. The days had ceased to be pleasantly cool and were now downright cold, with a breeze that made Lynn wish she’d thought to grab a coat before rushing outside. She climbed the antennae before Mother made it out for her second trip, giving her the all-clear signal. An hour later, Lynn had set her rifle down and was lifting her shirt away from her skin.

Mother signaled that she was on her last trip, and Lynn waved back that she understood. Lynn flexed her fingers against the chill. Mother would be starting the smoke fire soon, which could attract attention. She was reaching for the rifle when she saw the tall grass swaying in a pattern that could not be caused by the wind. Three straight lines took shape, moving fast and headed toward Mother.

“MOTHER!” Lynn screamed. She was on her feet in an instant, the rifle aimed at the largest of the coyotes as he broke through the grass. She fired as she screamed, and Mother spun toward the sound.

The bullet caught Mother in the thigh, and the spurting blood drove the coyotes into a frenzy. They leapt at Mother, knocking her on her back and sending venison to the ground all around them. The salted meat was ignored—they were onto something fresh.

Lynn sprinted across the roof and flew down the antennae, skipping the last four rungs. She fell to the ground, her left foot folding underneath her. The cracking sound from her ankle drowned out her cry and she propped herself upright with the rifle. The triumphant high-pitched hunting song of the coyotes rang in her ears as she pulled herself to her feet and lurched around the corner of the house.

Big Bastard had Mother by the throat, while the other two tore at the wound that Lynn’s bullet had opened. She fired again, from the hip, catching one of the smaller ones in the shoulder. The force of the shot threw the smaller coyote off Mother, and its partner backed away, head close to the ground and eyes glued on Lynn. Blood was no longer spraying from Mother’s wound in an arc, but gushing as her heart slowed.

Lynn fell forward, her injured ankle refusing to support her. She landed on her stomach, knocking the wind out of her lungs and losing her grip on the rifle. Big Bastard still had a firm grip on Mother’s neck. His ears flattened as his eyes met Lynn’s, and he growled deep in his throat, claiming his prey.

“Bastard,” she screamed, her throat clenched tight with tears.

The injured coyote struggled to her left, its leg dangling uselessly from the ruined shoulder. Its partner circled Lynn, sensing her weakness. She lunged for the rifle and it bolted away, dragging a piece of venison behind it. She swung the barrel and fired, but the Big Bastard was gone, leaving deep footprints in the ground that were steadily filling with Mother’s blood.

Lynn dragged herself on her elbows to Mother’s side. “Mother? I’m sorry,” Lynn sputtered. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see them, I wasn’t fast enough—”

“Shhhh,” Mother muttered weakly, causing blood to bubble from the tooth marks in her neck. “Shh . . .”

Lynn leaned over her, plugging the holes with her fingers. When Mother spoke she could feel the air pulsing underneath them.

“When they . . . do that. Best thing in a . . . dog fight—” Mother inhaled sharply. “Try to . . . shove your arm . . . down its throat. Can’t bite then.”

Lynn nodded, tears dropping down onto Mother’s upturned face. “Okay, Mother. I’ll remember that.”

“Didn’t know if I . . . had told you that . . . should work . . . but my hands . . . were full.” Her last words faded away, and Lynn hunched closer, desperate for more.

But all she heard was the death rattle.