Not a Drop to Drink

Seven

Lynn’s war against the coyotes had caused a complication. Deer wouldn’t venture within her range. After dropping her response to Stebbs at the rock, she tried to ignore the blooming hunger in her belly. Long months of vegetables for breakfast, lunch, and dinner lay before her. There was still a chance that she could hunt, take down a small deer sufficient for herself. If she wanted meat for the winter she’d have to leave the roof.

She lay prone, silently watching everything around her. Stebbs had not come for her note yet. Lynn bit her lip as she watched his red bandanna moving through the woods as he went through his evening routine, as familiar to her as her own. Smoke bloomed to the east and the south, and Lynn looked at both pillars with suspicion.

She had come to think of the people to the east as the Streamers, which was a nicer name than Mother had used when they kept burning green wood. The lone boot print at the edge of the pond strayed through her mind. It could have been a Streamer, but what use would they have for her water? If it had been one of the men from the southern camp she doubted he would’ve overlooked the chance to take the house while it was unguarded. Stebbs was not in doubt; never in all her life had he approached her pond.

The white smoke of the Streamers dispersed into the evening sky, sending out a gray pall over the fields. There was no breeze; the smoke hung densely in the air. An evening fog rolled in from the west to join the haze, making the boulder stand out in stark contrast. As Lynn watched, a figured appeared beside it. She raised her binoculars to watch Stebbs.

She thought she detected a laugh go through his shoulders as he read her note. He scribbled an answer on the same piece of paper. Lynn didn’t dare venture out until morning. The fog that had formed was becoming thick, and she might get turned around in the night. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. There was a chill in the air, enough that she gathered up her rifle and descended the antennae.

A night’s uninterrupted rest would be welcome. If she couldn’t see, they couldn’t either. Lynn settled into her cot, oblivious to the complete darkness of the basement. When Mother had been alive, they would light the oil lamps and stay awake to talk, planning the next day’s activities. Lynn needed no light to lie alone, wondering what the note waiting at the rock would say.

Lynn could live on her own. The daily duties of survival were well within her capabilities, but she couldn’t defend herself constantly. The pond was foremost in her mind, and she couldn’t keep a watch over it while cutting wood in the fencerow. Trips to the forest for larger loads of firewood were out of the question, as was any foraging of neighboring houses for the little things she would inevitably need.

Stebbs suffered the opposite problem; his daily chores were a trial because of his lame leg. They would benefit each other; he could watch the pond while she cut wood, and she would give him half in return. Water she would not part with. It seemed Stebbs wasn’t in need of any, even though she never saw him hauling water to his shack from some unknown source.

Her ankle was taking weight more easily, though she still wore the makeshift brace under her boot. She was able to walk, but the stench of the coyotes choked her throat nearly shut as she made her way out to the boulder. Her shirt was tucked over her nose and she had her nostrils pinched shut through it by the time she opened the note. It read:

There are people at the stream.

She stared at it. She’d been expecting an offer of help, questions about Mother, or the burning of her outbuilding. Instead it was a statement so obvious as to be nearly insulting. She was chewing on the end of the pen that she had brought, debating on an appropriate response when the man stood up from behind the boulder.

Lynn’s instincts were too finely honed to allow for screaming. The rifle that had been lashed across her back snapped to the front so quickly that she would find a burn between her shoulder blades from the strap that evening.

He looked much different than she remembered. Years of watching Stebbs through the binoculars had not prepared Lynn for the reality of his person, the fine lines around his mouth, the brightness of his eyes, or the silver-streaked hair that peeked out from underneath his hat. She backpedaled, even though his arms were in the air and he had no weapon. The closeness of anyone other than Mother was so alien to Lynn that she had to smother the need to run away from his strangeness.

“Lynn,” he said calmly, “it’s all right.”

She had never heard her name spoken by a man before. Even when he’d recuperated at their house, Mother had not allowed Lynn to be near him. But his voice brought long-dead memories to the surface, the pleasant sound of his tones seeping through the floorboards above her head, murmured conversations not meant for her ears. His voice hadn’t changed, but there was a calming note to it now, which her addled brain had a difficult time placing.

There was a brief time as a child when a fever put Lynn in her cot for a week, and Mother’s entire demeanor changed. She had barely ventured to the roof, even neglecting to collect water as the fever spiked. The lines around her eyes, harsh from years of squinting into the sun, had softened during those few days in the basement. And her voice changed. The factual, clipped manner of her speech had dropped, to be replaced by a softer, more comforting tone.

Lynn recognized the same elements in Stebbs’ voice. Her muscles relaxed slightly and she brought the barrel of the gun down, but ready to spring back to his center mass if necessary. Her throat, still constricted from the smell of rot, tightened further as she wondered what to say. Mother was the only person she could remember ever speaking to.

“Why’d you surprise me like that?” Lynn asked.

“I’m sorry.” He came around to the front of the rock and sat on it, pulling his hat off his head and running his hands through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d come if you saw me here, and I didn’t want to waste days writin’ if we could have a talk.”

“Uh-huh?”

He reached for his inner jacket pocket, and Lynn’s rifle snapped upward. “Whoa,” he said in the same calming voice. “Just getting my hankie.” She nodded for him to go ahead and he did so, slowly, keeping an eye on her trigger finger. The red handkerchief appeared and Lynn resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.

It was the only element of the outside world that had ever spoken of hope; a flash of red in the woods that had assured her they were not the only people left. Stebbs was proof that not everyone would attack them for the sake of drinkable water while they slept. For sixteen years, that splash of color had been her only proof of decency in the world.

Up close, details sprang out at her. The hankie wasn’t solid red, but decorated with a black-and-white-paisley pattern. One edge was frayed away, and she could see awkward stitches in the splitting, brittle fabric where he had tried to prevent it from unraveling.

She’d seen many exactly like it, in the farmhouses she raided across the countryside. In one house, there’d been an entire drawer filled with red like his, and also navy blue ones. No doubt he’d come across them too, yet he stuck stubbornly to this one, with its patched holes and dangling strands. The handkerchief—familiar and yet foreign—drove a spike of emotion through her heart so unexpected her legs buckled underneath and she crumbled to the ground.

“I shot her.” The words tore from her throat, a confession she’d not made aloud even in the solitude of the basement. “I killed Mother.”

He was beside her in a second, strong hands on each of her shoulders. His touch was not the shock she had expected. Her skin did not recoil instantly, though years of being warned of the danger posed by all men had been ingrained in her. Instead she leaned forward and put her head on his shoulder, relishing the feel of his jacket against her face.

“I heard shots.” His hand patted her back, awkward but soothing. “What happened?”

“She’s dead.” Lynn pulled back from him, suddenly embarrassed at their closeness. “There were coyotes, and I . . . I missed.”

He nodded that he understood and patted her shoulder with one hand. A flicker of deep emotion passed beneath his eyes, but with a single blink it was gone. He swallowed once, hard, and rose to his feet. She wiped her eyes quickly dry and he did the same. Stebbs cleared his throat and faced east.

“There are people over to the stream,” he said.

“I know,” Lynn clumsily rose, her ankle throbbing inside the tight boot. “Mother thought the Streamers wouldn’t last the winter. They’re burning green wood.”

He grunted his agreement. “No shots from that direction. They don’t have guns. They’ve stayed next to the water even though it’s cold. I think they’ve got someone sick who can’t be moved.”

“Or they’ve got no way of hauling water,” Lynn added, glad to be able to play a familiar game, even if it was with a new player. “So they weren’t smart enough to bring a bucket.”

They shook their heads at the same time. “City people,” they said in unison, and Lynn caught herself smiling, her face creasing into the familiar pattern before she was aware of it.

Lynn jerked her head to the south. “Those men, they’re bad news.” Mother had used that phrase to describe the worst possible things in life: the haze of a hot summer morning that meant storm clouds but no rain; black, fuzzy caterpillars warning that the winter would be especially harsh; the tiny, black droppings of mice scattered in their makeshift basement pantry.

“Bad news for sure,” Stebbs said, shifting his weight off his twisted foot. “I heard them try to take you girls down.”

“Didn’t work,” Lynn said stiffly.

“No,” he said, his voice trailing off in a wave of nuance that Lynn wasn’t practiced enough to understand. The sound of his voice was unfamiliar to her ears, and only Mother’s small actions, mimicked and perfected forms of communication, were translatable.

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments, sharing their dread of the black column of smoke to the south. “I don’t know what to do about them,” Stebbs said, and Lynn nodded her agreement.

“They’ve got a decent-sized group,” she said. “Mother picked quite a few off in the dark, that one night.”

“Did she?” A smile skimmed across Stebbs’ face as he continued to watch the south. He lowered himself slowly to the rock, resting his crooked foot at an odd angle. “What will you do if they come now?”

“Shoot them for as long as I can.”

Stebbs nodded. Lynn’s eyes trailed to his foot, her plan—labor in exchange for his guarding of the pond—seemed insulting with his mangled limb stretched out in front of her. He didn’t appear to be in need of anything, from what she could see. His skin was tan, his color healthy, his arms heavily muscled. Making the offer would only make her seem weak, the deal balanced in her favor.

After a few moments rest, Stebbs propped himself on his good leg, jerking the other one underneath him as he rose. “You gonna be okay, kid?”

Lynn kept her sight trained in the distance. “Yup,” she said dismissively, “I’m fine. Mother didn’t raise any idiots.”

“Didn’t expect she would.” Stebbs motioned toward the smoke of the Streamers’ pitiable fire. “After their smoke’s gone for a few days, I’m going over there, see if they had anything useful.”

“Okay,” Lynn said, surprised at his freedom to wander without worry. His little shack must hold nothing of value, and his source of water well hidden. She took a sideways glance at his injured foot. “It’s a decent hike.”

“Yup.”

“I could go,” she offered hesitantly. “If you’d stay and watch over the pond.”

Stebbs rotated his twisted foot for a moment, considering. “You trust me to do that?”

“You could have killed us at any time.” Whether Mother had liked him or not, Stebbs had been a constant presence that never threatened them, even when their defenses were down. “You don’t need our water.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t.”

Lynn nodded, letting the conversation drop there. To ask where he got his own would be the highest of betrayals in their world. “So, two days, do you think?”

“Two days of no smoke from the stream, and I’ll come.”

“All right.”

They nodded stiffly and parted ways, each picking their path carefully through the bloated, rotting bodies of the coyotes.