Emergence Read online

  But open door, step out onto porch — illusion fades. Popular fallacy attends mystique of small towns: Everyone knows are “quiet.” Not so; plenty of noise, but right kind — comfortable, unnoticed.

  Until gone.

  Silence is shock. Is wrong, but takes whole minutes to analyze why wrong; identify anomalous sensation, missing input.

  Strain ears for hint of familiar sound: Should be faint miasma of voices, traffic sounds drifting up from direction of Main Street; chatter, squeals, laughter from schoolyard. Too, is truly small town; farmlands close at hand: Should hear tractors chugging in fields, stock calling from pastures. Should catch frequent hollow mutter as distant semi snores down highway past town; occasional, barely perceptible rumble from jet, visible only as fleecy tracing against indigo sky. Should be all manner of familiar sounds.

  But as well could be heart of North Woods; sounds reaching ear limited to insect noises, bird calls, wind sighing through leaves.

  Visual illusion fades quickly, too. Knee-deep grass flourishes where had been immaculately groomed yards; straggly new growth bewhiskers hedges; softening previously mathematically exact outlines. Houses up, down street show first signs of neglect: isolated broken windows, doors standing open, missing shingles. Partially uprooted tree leans on Potters’ house, cracking mortar; crushing eaves, sagging roof. Street itself blocked by car abandoned at crazy angle; tire flat, rear window broken, driver’s door hanging open. Closer inspection shows Swensens’ pretty yellow-brick Cape Cod nothing but fire-gutted shell; roof mostly gone, few panes of glass remain, dirty smudge marks above half-consumed doors, windows; nearby trees singed.

  And the smell…! Had not spent last three months sealed in own atmosphere, doubt could have remained in vicinity. Still strong enough outside to dislodge breakfast within moments of first encounter. And did. Happily, human constitution can learn to tolerate almost anything if must. By time returned to shelter, stench faded from forefront of consciousness — had other problems more pressing:

  Learned what knee-deep lawns conceal. Three months’ exposure to Wisconsin summer does little to enhance cosmetic aspects of Nature’s embalming methods: Sun, rain, insects, birds, probably dogs too, have disposed of bulk of soft tissues. What remains is skeletons (mostly scattered, incomplete, partially covered by semicured meat, some clothing). Doubtless would have mummified completely by now in dry climate, but Wisconsin summers aren’t. At best, results unappealing; at worst (first stumbled over in own front yard), dreadful shock.

  Yes, I know; should have anticipated. Possibly did, in distant, nonpersonally-involved sort of way — but didn’t expect to find three bodies within ten feet of own front door! Didn’t expect to confront dead neighbors within three minutes after left burrow. Didn’t expect so many! Thought most would be respectably tucked away indoors, perhaps in bed. That’s where I’d be. I think.

  Well, lived through initial shock, continued foray. Was not systematic exploration; just wandered streets, let feet carry us at random. Didn’t seem to matter; same conditions everywhere. Peeked into houses, stores, cars; knocked on doors, hollered a lot.

  Wasn’t until noticed twin digging in claws, flapping wings, protesting audibly, that realized was running blindly, screaming for somebody — anybody!

  Stopped then, streaming tears, trembling, panting (must have run some distance); made desperate attempt to regain semblance of control. Dropped where stood, landed in Lotus. Channeled thoughts into relaxation of body, achievement of physical serenity; hoped psyche would heed good example.

  Did — sort of. Worked well enough, at least, to permit deliberate progress back to shelter, deliberate closing door, deliberate descent of stairs, deliberate placing of Terry on stand — all before threw screaming fit.

  Discharged lots of tension in process, amused Terry hugely. By end of performance fink sibling was emulating noises. Ended hysteria in laughter. Backward, true, but effective.

  Recovered enough to make previous journal entry. Granted, present (therapeutic) entries beyond capacity at that point; but after spent balance of day licking wounds, night’s rest, was fit enough to make present update, discharge residual pain onto paper.

  Amazing stuff, therapy: Still not exactly looking forward to going outside again; but seem to have absorbed trauma of dead-body/deserted-city shock, adjusted to prospect of facing again. Forewarned, should be able to go about affairs, function effectively in spite of surroundings.

  Which brings up entirely relevant question: Exactly what are my affairs, functions…? Now that am out, what to do? Where to go? What to do when get there? Why bother go at all?

  Okay, fair questions. Obviously prime objective is find Somebody Else. Preferably somebody knowing awful lot about Civilizations, Founding Maintenance Of — to say nothing of where to find next meal when supplies run out.

  Certainly other survivors. Somewhere. So must put together reasonable plan of action based on logical extension of available data. Sounds good — uh, except, what is available data?

  Available data: Everybody exposed to flash, to air at time of flash, to anybody else exposed to flash or air exposed to flash or to anybody exposed to anybody, etc., either at time of flash or during subsequent month, anywhere on planet, is dead. Period.

  Shucks. Had me worried; thought for moment I had problem. Ought be plenty survivors; modern civilization replete with airtight refuges: nuclear submarines, hyperbaric chambers, spacelabs, jet transports, “clean assembly” facilities, many others (not to forget early-model VW beetles, so long as windows closed). Ought be many survivors of flash, initial contagion phase.

  But — loaded question — how many knew enough; stayed tight throughout required month? Or got lucky; couldn’t get out too soon despite best efforts? Or, with best of intentions, had supplies, air for duration? Or survived emotional ravages; resisted impulse to open window, take big, deliberate breath?

  Could employ magnet to find needle in haystack; easy by comparison. Real problem is: Is needle in there at all?

  Well, never mind; leave for subconscious to mull. Good track record heretofore; probably come up with solution, given time.

  Other, more immediate problems confronting: For one, must think about homestead. Can’t spend balance of years living underground. Unhealthy; leads to pallor. Besides, doubt is good for psyche; too many ghosts.

  Where — no problem for short term; can live just about anywhere warm, dry. Adequate food supplies available in shelter, stores, home pantries, etc.; same with clothing, sundry necessities. Can scavenge for years if so inclined.

  However, assuming residential exclusivity continues (and must take pessimistic view when planning), must eventually produce own food, necessities; become self-sufficient. Question is: Should start now or wait; hope won’t prove necessary?

  Not truly difficult decision: Longer delayed, more difficult transition becomes. Livestock factor alone demands prompt attention. Doubtless was big die-off over summer. Too stupid to break out of farms, pastures, search for water, feed, most perished — “domestic” synonym for “dependent.” And even of survivors, doubt one in thousand makes it through winter unaided. Means if plan to farm, must round up beginning inventory before weather changes. Also means must have food, water, physical accommodations ready for inductees beforehand.

  Means must have farm.

  However, logic dictates commandeering farm relatively nearby. Too much of value in shelter; must maintain reasonable access. Availability of tools, books, etc., beneficial in coming project: provisioning, repairing fences, overhauling well pumps, etc.

  Plus work needed to put house in shape for winter. Wisconsin seasons rough on structures; characteristic swayback rooflines usually not included in builders’ plans, zoning regulations. After summer’s neglect, buildings of farm selected apt to need much work — none of which am qualified to do. Expect will find remainder of summer, fall, highly educational, very busy.

  So perhaps should quit reflecting on plans, get move on.
Best reconnoiter nearby farms. Be nice to find one with buildings solid, wells pumping, fences intact, etc. Be equally nice to meet jolly red-dressed, white-bearded gentleman cruising down road in sleigh pulled by reindeer.

  Hi, again. Surprised to see me? Me, too. Thinking of changing name to Pauline, serializing journal. Or maybe just stay home, take up needlepoint. Seems during entombment character of neighborhood changed; deteriorated, gotten rough — literally gone to dogs. Stepped out of A P right into -

  Nope, this won’t do. Better stick to chronology; otherwise sure to miss something. Might even be important someday. So:

  Awoke fully recovered — again (truly growing tired of yo-yo psychology). Since planned to be out full day, collected small pile of equipment, provisions: canteen, jerky, dried apricots, bag of parrot mix; hammer, pry bar (in case forcible investigation indicated). Went upstairs, outside.

  Retained breakfast by force of will until accustomed to aroma.

  Took bike from garage, rode downtown (first ride in three months; almost deafened by twin’s manic approval). After three months’ neglect, tires a tad soft (ten-speed requires 85 pounds); stopped at Olly’s Standard, reinflated. And marveled: Utilities still on, compressor, pumps, etc., still working — even bell rang when rode across hose.

  Started to go on way; stopped — had thought. Returned, bled air tanks as had seen Big Olly do. Had explained: Compression, expansion of air in tanks “made water” through condensation; accumulation bad for equipment. Found was starting to think in terms of preserving everything potentially useful against future need. (Hope doesn’t develop into full-blown neurosis; maintaining whole world could cramp schedule.)

  Set about conducting check of above-ground resources: Eyeball-inventoried grocery stores, hardware, seed dealers; took ride down to rail depot, grain elevators. Found supplies up everywhere; highly satisfactory results. Apparently business conducted as usual after flash until first symptoms emerged. No evidence of looting; probably all too sick to bother.

  And since power still on, freezers in meat markets maintaining temperature; quantity available probably triple that in shelter. If conditions similar in nearby towns, undoubtedly have lifetime supply of everything — or until current stops.

  (Personally, am somewhat surprised still working; summer thunderstorms habitually drop lines, blow transformers twice, three times a year — and winter…! One good ice storm brings out candles for days; primary reason why even new houses, designed with latest heating systems, all have old-fashioned Franklin-style oil stoves in major rooms, usually multiple fireplaces. Doubt will have electricity by spring.)

  OH HELL! Beg pardon; unladylike outburst — but just realized: Bet every single farm well in state electrically operated. I got troubles…!

  Well, just one more problem for subconscious to worry about. Can’t do anything about it now — but must devote serious thought.

  Back to chronology: Emerged from A P around ten; kicked up stand, prepared to swing leg over bike. Suddenly Terry squawked, gripped shoulder so hard felt like claws met in middle. Dropped bike, spun.

  Six dogs: Big, lean, hungry; visibly exempt from “Best Friend’ category.

  Given no time to consider strategy; moment discovered, pack abandoned stealth, charged. Had barely time to toss twin into air, general direction of store roof, wish Godspeed. Then became very busy.

  Had not fought in three months but continued kata; was in good shape. Fortunate.

  First two (Shepherd, Malamute) left ground in formation, Doberman close behind. Met Malamute (bigger of two) in air with clockwise spin-kick to lower mandible attachment. Felt bones crunch, saw without watching as big dog windmilled past, knocking Shepherd sprawling. Took firm stance, drove forward front-fist blow under Doberman’s jaw, impacting high on chest, left of center. Fist buried to wrist; felt scapula, clavicle, possibly also humerus crumble; attacker bounced five feet backward, landed in tangle. Spun, side-kicked Shepherd behind ear as scrambled to rise; felt vertebrae give. Took fast step, broke Malamute’s neck with edge-hand chop. Spun again, jumped for Doberman; broke neck before could rise.

  Glanced up, body coiling for further combinations — relaxed; remaining three had revised schedule; were halfway across parking lot.

  Looked wildly about for Terry; spotted twin just putting on brakes for touchdown on shopping-cart handle 20 feet away. Wondered what had been doing in interim; seemed could have flown home, had dinner, returned to watch outcome.

  Retrieved; lectured about stupidity, not following orders — suppose had been flankers? Would have been lunch before I got there.

  Birdbrain accepted rebuke; nuzzled cheek in agreement, murmured, “You’re so icky-poo!”

  Gave up; continued sortie.

  Wondered briefly at own calmness. First blows ever struck in earnest; halfway expected emotional side effects. But none; only mild regret had not met attackers under favorable circumstances. Doberman in particular was beautiful specimen, if could disregard gauntness.

  Decided, in view of events, might be best if continued explorations in less vulnerable mode. Decided was time I soloed. Had driven cars before, of course; country kids all learn vehicular operation basics soonest moment eyes (augmented by cushions) clear dashboard, feet reach pedals.

  Question of which car to appropriate gave pause. Have no particular hang-ups: Familiar (for nondriver) with automatics, three-, four-speed manuals, etc. But would be poking nose down vestigial country roads, venturing up driveways more accustomed (suitable) to passage of tractor, horses; squeezing in, out of tight places; doubtless trying hard to get very stuck. Granted, had been relatively dry recently; ground firm most places. But — considering potential operating conditions, physical demands…

  Would take Daddy’s old VW. Happy selection: Answered physical criteria (maneuverable, good traction, reliable, etc.); besides, had already driven — for sure could reach pedals, see out. Did give thought to Emerson’s Jeep, but never had opportunity to check out under controlled conditions. Further, has plethora of shift levers (three!). True, might be more capable vehicle, but sober reflection suggested unfamiliar advantages might prove trap; seemed simpler, more familiar toy offered better odds of getting back.

  Pedaled home quickly, keeping weather eye out for predators (can take hint). Arrived without incident. Found key, established blithe sibling on passenger’s seatback; adjusted own seat for four-foot-ten-inch stature, turned key.

  Results would have warmed ad writer’s heart: After standing idle three months, Beetle cranked industriously about two seconds, started.

  Gauge showed better than three-quarters full, but wanted to make sure; lonely country road frequented by hungry dog packs wrong place to discover faulty gauge. So backed gingerly down drive (killed only twice), navigated cautiously to Olly’s. Stuck in hose, got two gallons in before spit back. Beetle’s expression seemed to say, “…told you so,” as capped tank, hung up hose.

  Went about tracking down suitable farm in workmanlike fashion, for beginner. Picked up area USGS Section Map from sheriff’s office. Methodically plotted progress as went; avoided circling, repetition. Drove 150 miles; visited 30, 35 farms; marked off on map as left, graded on one-to-ten basis… Were many nice places; some could make do in pinch. But none rated above seven; nothing rang bell until almost dark.

  Found self at terminus of cowpath road. Had wound through patchy woods, hills; felt must go somewhere, so persevered to end, where found mailbox, driveway. Turned in; shortly encountered closed gate. Opened, drove through, resecured. Followed drive through woods, over small rise, out into clearing, farmyard. Stopped abruptly.

  Knew at once was home…

  To right stood pretty, almost new red-brick house; to left, brand-new, modern steel barn, hen house; two silos (one new), three corn cribs — all full.

  Got out, walked slowly around house, mouth open, heart pounding. No broken windows, doors closed, shingles all in place — grass cut! For glorious moment heart stopped altogether;
thought had stumbled on nest of survivors. Then rounded corner, bumped into groundskeepers — sheep.

  Owners quite dead. Found remains of man in chair on porch. Apparently spent last conscious moments reflecting upon happy memories. Picture album in lap suggested four impromptu graves short distance from house were wife, three children; markers confirmed. Fine-looking people; faces showed confidence, contentment, love; condition of farm corroborated, evidenced care, pride.

  Grew misty-eyed looking through album. Resolved to operate farm in manner founders would approve. Had handed me virtual “turnkey” homestead; immeasurably advanced schedule, boosted odds for self-sufficiency, survival. Least I could do in return.

  Farm nestles snugly in valley amidst gently rolling, wooded countryside. Clean, cold, fast-running brook meanders generally through middle, passes within hundred yards of house; and by clever fence placement, zigs, zags, or loops through all pastures. Perimeter fence intact; strong, heavy-gauge, small-mesh fabric. Probably not entirely dogproof, but highly resistant; with slight additional work, should be adequate.

  Contents of silos, cribs, loft, product of season’s first planting; second crop still in fields — primary reason stock still alive, healthy. Internal gates open throughout; allowed access to water, varied grazing (including nibbling minor leakages from cribs, silos). Beasties spent summer literally eating “fat of land”; look it.

  Besides five sheep are nine cows (two calves, one a bull), two mares, one gelding, sundry poultry (rooster, two dozen chickens, motley half dozen ducks, geese). No pigs, but no tears; don’t like pigs, not wild about pork either.

  From evidence, losses over summer low. Found only three carcasses: two cows, one horse. Bones not scattered; doubt caused by dogs. More likely disease, injury, stupidity — salient characteristic of domestic ruminants: Given opportunity, will gorge on no-no, pay dearly later.

  Wandered grounds, poked through buildings until light gone. Found good news everywhere looked. Nothing I can’t use as is, put right with minor work.