Defender Page 3

  He wasn’t especially thirsty; there was still a canteen full of fresh water and another two bottles stowed away in the bike’s left-side pannier. It was the quenching of his curiosity that was of more interest to him today.

  ‘You seen anyone pass by here?’ he asked. ‘Any groups of people?’ He’d sighted a large travelling troop, five or more vehicles in convoy, only a few days ago. A distance away, they had made a strange sight, their dust cloud eating up the road around them. Nomadic groups of that size were unusual. The speed and direction of this one had appeared purposeful to Pilgrim, though, and he’d wondered briefly where it was heading.

  The girl was already reaching for the big silver Thermos and pouring out two cupfuls, one piece of lemon dropping into each. ‘No, sir. I’ve been looking out for folk, too. All I’ve seen are a fella on a bicycle and now you. Why? You looking for someone?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No one in particular.’

  She set the flask aside and lifted both cups, offering one to him, having to lean far over the table to reach. The reflections from the lemon slice dappled a dancing yellow over her fingers, her skin seeming to absorb the colour until her fingertips glowed with it. The golden light dissipated slowly, fading until the glow winked out altogether, her fingers returning to normal as he took the lemonade from her. He hid his surprise when his hand closed around the cup.

  Another surprise? You’ll have to be careful not to overexcite yourself and have a coronary, Voice said.

  Pilgrim paid him no mind. He was wondering how the girl had chilled the lemonade, especially since useable gas was scarce and only a generator could power a refrigerator for any length of time. Electricity hadn’t run through these lines for years, the grids shutting down in a matter of weeks in some lucky places, only days in others, their systems sabotaged from the inside by angry, scared, self-destructive workers with whispering devils in their ears. For so long, humans had been resigned to the probability of nuclear bombs dropping, or wars breaking out, or the fickle tantrums of Mother Nature putting them back in their place, but nothing had prepared them for an internal attack. No defences had been built against the dangers hiding within. So, in fear they had scattered, running away from each other but unable to hide from themselves. Paranoia and survival became the new laws of the land.

  And I became your trusted compadre, Voice said, somewhat smugly.

  Pilgrim hmphed, unconvinced. Less ‘trusted’ and more ‘burdened with’, he’d say.

  That’s unfair, Voice complained. I could be a whole lot worse, you know.

  The girl held her plastic cup aloft in a cheery salute, oblivious to Pilgrim’s internal meanderings. ‘Chin chin,’ she said.

  He lifted his own cup while pulling down his neckerchief.

  She chugged hers down, the yellow glow from the lemon dappling over her slim throat as it moved with her quick swallows. Pilgrim watched closely until half of it was gone before taking a mouthful of his own. It was tangy, verging on being sour, but a perfect measure of sweetness balanced it out so that, when he swallowed, his mouth was already watering for more. He drank the entire cup in three long pulls and gasped slightly when he was done, his tongue licking at a drop he had missed which was winding its way down the side of the cup.

  The girl was watching him with a self-satisfied smile. ‘It’s good, huh?’

  He narrowed his eyes at her, even though she couldn’t see it from behind his sunglasses. ‘It was OK,’ he allowed.

  She laughed at that, the sound high and tinkling and natural. It pulled him up short, its effect surprising him. It had been a long time since he had heard laughter.

  Strike three! Voice crowed.

  ‘Now,’ the girl continued, ‘on to the payment part.’

  The payment part. Of course.

  Pilgrim remained silent.

  She reached towards the sign and tapped her finger against where it said ‘Sale’.

  ‘Nothing’s for free, my man,’ she said.

  ‘Right. So what do I owe you?’

  ‘A ride.’

  His stomach tightened and a sinking sensation lowered his brow into a frown. ‘No,’ he said.

  His dark look and blunt refusal didn’t faze her.

  ‘You should have asked my price before you drank my wares. You didn’t, you drank, and now you have to pay up.’

  ‘A glass of lemonade isn’t equal trade for gas.’

  ‘Maybe it isn’t. But such times call for inflated pricings.’

  He didn’t answer.

  The girl frowned. ‘Look, you can either be a decent fella and pay your side of the deal, like an honourable trader, or I can sit here till another traveller passes on by and hope to get a ride from them. Who’s to say if the next traveller is honourable, though? Or isn’t set on kidnapping a girl such as myself? Even set on having their way with me.’

  The way she said ‘way’ left no doubt in his mind what kind of ‘way’ she meant. A sixteen-year-old who didn’t use the words ‘rape’ or ‘fuck’ and believed that some kind of honour system still existed. Such old-fashioned beliefs and ways of speaking. He squinted up the road to the farmhouse. How long had she been holed up here?

  And how does she know that we don’t want our way with her? Voice asked.

  The cat, which had been in some kind of vibration-induced stupor through most of the exchange, roused itself and gave a languorous stretch. It hopped from the bike on to the tabletop and began sniffing at the empty cup Pilgrim had placed there.

  The girl absently reached out to the cat, her fingers stroking between and around its ears. The animal delighted in the attention, tilting its head and rubbing its face into her hand.

  ‘C’mon, Boy Scout,’ she said quietly, looking him dead in the eye. ‘I just need a ride to Vicksburg. It’s in the direction you’re heading anyhow. Then I’ll be out of your hair, I swear.’

  He glanced away from her again and stared into the distance, his thoughts turning over.

  Even if that convoy didn’t come this way, Voice said, doesn’t mean there aren’t others roaming about. She’ll get herself hurt hanging around out here, asking strangers for rides. But if you want to drive off and leave her here, that’s fine by me. The cat disembarked, too. Could be me and thee again: two hombres on the open road. Catch us some quality time togeth—

  ‘To Vicksburg, and no further,’ Pilgrim said, cutting Voice off, keeping his eyes on the road’s faded yellow centre line winding its way to the horizon. He made a point of not asking why she wanted to get to Vicksburg. It was none of his business.

  ‘No further,’ she agreed.

  He didn’t have to look at the girl to know she was smiling. He could hear it in her voice plain as day.

  ‘And bring the lemonade with you,’ Pilgrim added.

  The girl had slipped neatly and easily on to the pillion seat behind him, despite the rucksack on his back. She wouldn’t reach the top of his chest if they stood side by side. He wondered how she had managed to survive so long by herself.

  She directed him to the farmhouse and asked him to make a quick stop so she could pick up her stuff. He pointed the bike off road and headed directly for the house. He admitted he wanted to scare the girl a little, deliberately going too fast for the uneven terrain, maybe scare her out of coming with him, but on every bump and accelerated slide he heard an exhilarated giggle from behind him.

  He eyed the farmhouse as he approached, checking for twitching curtains or shadows passing behind windows, but there were no signs of life. The large picture window at the front had been boarded up and slats were missing from the roof. The siding was bleached a pale, sickly grey, its paint peeling away like flaking skin. It had seen some hard living, this house. A decaying, sepulchral vibe emanated from it. He kept his guard up regardless.

  Jamming the brakes on, he skidded to a halt in front of the porch steps and waited for the girl to climb off. He met her smiling eyes and felt something akin to a rock being dropped into the deep well of his gut.


  ‘You’re going to be trouble,’ he said. ‘I can tell.’

  She grinned wider. ‘Don’t be so negative. I’ll be right back, OK? Don’t go nowhere.’ And with that she disappeared inside, leaving the front door wide open.

  She’s going to be more than trouble. She’ll probably get us killed. Voice sounded resigned at the thought.

  ‘That’s even more negative than what I said,’ Pilgrim said.

  It’s my job to be extra negative. You’re too dull-witted to consider such things.

  ‘She’ll only be with us a couple days. She’ll be long gone before we even know her name. Besides, it was you who talked me into it.’

  What can I say? My good senses deserted me for a moment.

  Pilgrim spent five minutes stroking the cat before impatience got the better of him. He nudged the cat aside with his boot and took the porch steps in two strides. He halted just inside the door, his eyes darting around, probing every nook and crevice and cranny.

  The place was tomb silent but very bright. Sunlight streamed in through all the front-facing windows, the musty net curtains doing little to dampen its power. A fine covering of dust lay over everything: the banister, which led up the staircase in front of him to the first floor, the floral-patterned carpeting, the side table, where an old-fashioned rotary-dial telephone sat, with a walking stick propped up against it. He took another step, his boots sounding heavy and hollow on the thinly carpeted wood flooring. Through an arched doorway to the left was a comfortable-looking parlour with plump sofas and an old flagstone fireplace, and to the right, through a second archway, an unused dining room. The large fake-flower arrangement, which formed the centrepiece of the eight-seater dining table, was faded and grey. Of the girl, there was no sign.

  He wanted the kitchen, so he headed right and cut through the dining room. He removed his shades, the light no longer stabbing daggers into his eyeballs, and left them dangling from their cord. His hand came to rest on the grip of the 9mm semi-automatic holstered at his hip.

  He pushed the flat of his palm against the swinging door and pushed through into a bright and airy kitchen. This room was spotless; not a pinch of dust in sight. The centre island was covered with an assortment of bowls, jars, spoons and a scored and well-used chopping board. There were a few lemons left over from the girl’s earlier preparations. But still no girl.

  He caught a flash of movement out past the window and spied her in the backyard. She was kneeling down next to some sort of rock formation.

  She’d better not be praying. Gods and religion are tricksy things these days.

  ‘Hush,’ Pilgrim said, distracted, moving closer to the window to watch.

  A loud clatter had him half ducking and spinning, his hand snatching out his handgun. The cat was licking at the sugar that had spilled on the table, an upended jar rolling next to its back paw. It seemed oblivious to the fact it had a gun pointed at its head for the second time in one day.

  I think it wants to get shot.

  ‘It’s going to get it, too.’ He holstered the gun and turned back to the window. The girl was on her way towards him, a dripping aluminium container clutched in her arms. She passed between a child’s swing set and a long mound of earth with a blanket of flowers sprouting from its top.

  He met her at the back door.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ he asked.

  She flashed him a suspicious look. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘Well, if you want to take it with you, it’s going to have to fit on the bike. And because it’s my bike, I get final say what it carries.’

  She frowned at him, and he had to fight an amused stirring at the stubborn tilt to her jaw. She let out a sigh and said, ‘Meat.’

  ‘Meat?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Meat. You deaf?’

  ‘No, not deaf. Just surprised. Where did you get meat from out here?’

  She smirked. ‘Same place all meat comes from – an animal.’

  She traipsed past him and dropped the container on to the centre island. The cat gave a surprised yowl and streaked off the tabletop and out of the kitchen.

  The girl went to the larder and disappeared, coming back out with a roll of greaseproof paper and a reel of string. She talked while she went about transferring the meat from box to paper.

  ‘Grammy kept chickens. A couple goats, too. Though goats aren’t too good to eat – they’re kind of tough and stringy. Their milk lasted some before they dried up and turned into glorified lawnmowers. They sure did keep the yard nice and trimmed, though, I’ll give them that.’

  He was impressed with how quick and efficiently she wrapped the meat packages up. She’d obviously had practice.

  ‘Once I done decided to leave this place’ – she ran the string lengthways over one side of the package, flipping it over to repeat on the other side, doing a neat little twist then flipping a final time to make a tidy crossed-stringed parcel – ‘there was little reason to leave the chucks out here by themselves. The things would only starve – they’re sure not the brightest eggs in the box. They’d stopped laying, too. So I killed and cleaned ’em up so I could take ’em with me. Left them down in the well to keep cool until I got me a ride.’

  ‘A well,’ he said, an ahhhh of realisation yawning in his head. ‘Explains how you chilled the lemonade in the first place.’

  One mystery solved, Voice said.

  ‘Yup. Grammy showed me the trick. Our genny was always conking out during storms when the electricity cut off.’

  Pilgrim noticed she used the past tense when speaking about her grammy. Next to the sink, on the counter, he spied a single glass and an empty bowl. He also remembered the dust-covered walking stick propped up against the telephone table in the entrance hall. It appeared Grammy was no longer in residence. There was sure to be a long, sad story behind that observation, but he didn’t ask. Everyone’s story was long and sad.

  The girl wiped her hands on her faded jeans, all the meat now safely wrapped in greaseproof paper. She had made four compact packages.

  ‘You think you can just about fit these on to your bike, Mr Boy Scout?’

  He gave her a patient look, deliberately leaving the silence too long. ‘I think we can manage.’

  She seemed to hesitate a moment and then came over to him. When she slipped her hand into her front pocket he slid his hand to his gun, but all she pulled out was a small red ball. She offered it to him.

  He eyed it warily.

  ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it. I had two but I already ate mine outside.’

  A tomato. Of all things, she was offering him a tomato.

  ‘I don’t like tomatoes,’ he said.

  Her head went back, an expression of confoundedness dropping over her face. ‘What? I bet it’s been years since you even saw a fresh vegetable, never mind tasted one, and you’re passing it up ’cause you don’t like tomatoes?’

  ‘Correct. And it’s a fruit, not a vegetable.’

  ‘A fruit. Whatever. You really don’t want it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. But thank you.’

  ‘Going once, twice . . .’ She slowly lifted the fruit to her mouth, patently expecting him to stop her. He didn’t, and she popped the entire tomato in, bypassing the time to savour it, eating it whole.

  He openly watched her while she went about the business of chewing.

  She spoke to him through her mouthful. ‘You’re not gonna tell me your name, are you?’

  He became cautious. He didn’t want to exchange names. ‘It’s two days to Vicksburg, then we’ll be parting company. No need for names or personal histories. It’s easier if we keep things simple.’

  Her head cocked to one side while she considered him. ‘You’re going to be a tough nut to crack.’

  He decided to treat her like he did the cat. Ignore her. He turned on his heel and headed for the swinging door, directing his words over his shoulder. ‘Gather up your stuff. You’ve got five minutes, then I’m pull
ing up stakes and heading out.’

  ‘Yessir,’ she said.

  He had the feeling she saluted him, too, but he didn’t pause to look back and check.

  CHAPTER 4

  She didn’t know what to make of him. He was brusque and his eyes were too watchful and she was pretty sure he didn’t know how to smile, but to chance waiting any longer for someone else to pass by would be stupid. And Lacey wasn’t stupid.

  Even if, by some crazy miracle, another traveller did appear – which, frankly, was unlikely, considering this man and the bald old fella on the bike were the only two people she’d seen in the past three months – how did she know their intentions would be any worse or any better? The answer was she didn’t. As it stood, her gut wasn’t sending up any alarms, and neither was any other body part, and that was all she could hope for.

  This would mark the second time she had left the farmhouse since her new life started (a life consisting of the farmhouse’s four walls, her grammy, their animals, the yards, and her daily, never-ending chores). Six years had passed since the first and only time, and that had been a run to collect supplies from the nearest town. The journey had been short and fast, and Grammy had given her the strictest of instructions to keep her eyes on her feet and don’t look up. Lacey knew better than to disobey; she was getting pretty good at gin rummy and didn’t want her punishment to be Grams refusing to play with her, especially now she was finally getting close to actually winning.

  As they had driven into town, Lacey had glimpsed the bodies, but only from the corner of her eye (she hadn’t been brave enough to sneak a look from under her bangs). She had kept her eyes glued to the footwell of their old station wagon, her heart pounding so hard she almost missed Grams telling her it was finally safe to raise her head. By then, they had pulled up outside the store.

  Stepping out into the hot day, Lacey had been struck by how quiet it was: no running traffic, no rattling wheels of shopping carts, no din of people talking or outbreak of laughter, no kids younger than her crying, miserable at being dragged around the aisles and not allowed to touch anything. No bloop-bloop-bloop of items being scanned at the checkout. Nothing but the uneven clomp of her grammy’s boots and walking stick as she came around the front of the car.