FOXTAIL HARROW

CONTENT ADVISORY:

This work of fiction contains harsh language, violent imagery, and adult thematic elements. If you are sensitive to any, proceed with caution.

1.

I grow victory in my garden. That’s what it says on the crate. That Man there, in the noose—No. Not a Man. A Gopher. That’s what we’re calling them now. Yeah. That Gopher never grew a goddamned thing in his whole life. Its life. Because It was NOT Good Folk. Good Folk don’t steal food. They grow it. For someone else. For their Nation. For their Troops. For their Freedom. I did my good time. Back when I had two good legs. I gave my time with honor. Until I couldn't. And after that I learned to farm. It’s the least I could do. It was hard at first, but now I manage to produce just bout everything you can think of. Enough to bow my back every time I make the forty minute walk to the Good Doctor’s donation table. I grow everything a fighting man could ever need. Or at least everything I'd wanted when I was one. Potatoes for marching. Carrots for courage. Beans for bravery. Eggplant, squash, and tomatoes to burn you awake when you need it. And for everything else, I grew Corn. Corn to keep you moving. As it were. Matter of fact, I’ve gotten good at it. I grow enough victory every week to feed a four man squad and whatever hellspawna Reeks they might happen to capture. It’s not much. But it’s all I can do. Good Folk help Good Folk.

“And may God have mercy on your soul!” 

Guess the Chaplain was finishing up. There was a shout. Then a crack. Someone in the crowd started sobbing. I found that suspicious. But civilians are always weird around death. So I didn’t think it too long in the tooth. A big hush fell over that crunch of shoulders. All of them craning their necks to get a better view of our town’s new Justice Platform. Not me though. I’d always been tall. Even before my leg got mushed and my back got sponged. I’d had the height. So, I always got a top down view of just about everything that was happening around me. Only downside was everybody could see me. Head and shoulders above the rest. Not that I always enjoyed it. Because in times like these, I could see every bit of the show as it were. In real time. I could see every bit of that Gopher thrashing and gasping. The day was beautiful. Hot. Not too much sun. Good for beans. Bad for melons. Great for all forms of squash. I watched It spin on the spot, kicking and gulping. And even as It was dangling I could not help but admire the General Store’s new Justice Platform. Mark Squall had built it a few months back. Solid Cedar. Back when Gophers first started showing up again. Good Man. Good Family. Good Folk. Hadn’t cheaped out on the lumber. It would’ve been just as easy to use rebar. Or some sort of pig ironwood sheets. But Mark had sprung for the good stuff. Old growth. Real wood. The sort of tough shit that could only grow around here. And that sort that had all been cut down some time ago. And Mark had just…given it away. To the town. To us all. Good Folk. I’d actually walked by when Mark was building it. I’d been on my way to donate that day too. Back then, early fall, I could barely manage to produce a crate a week. He was a fat man. Always had been. You could see it in his face, even after he dropped the weight. He’d seen me and grinned with some tacks in his teeth. Told me that, “I bet Noah himself could’ve saved three of each if he’d had some wood like this.” I suspect he was right. Things were heating up. I watched the crowd start shouting.

“Thief! Thief! Thief!” 

“Give us a squeal, Lil’ Piggy!”  I didn’t appreciate that. Pigs were noble creatures. Anyone who’d ever been around a pig long enough could tell you as much. Pigs were gentle. And they were thoughtful. They did as they were told. They could sniff out anything a dog could, and knew their own names to boot. Pigs were loyal. And they are hard workers. They find mushrooms. Eat waste. Grow lard. Ribs. Bacon. That Gopher in the noose was no pig. Gopher suited him better. But strangely, Its neck did not break from the fall. If I was feeling charitable I might even have said that Gopher possessed a spine. At some point in Its life. Didn’t seem to wanna stop kicking either. In fact, I’d even go so far as to say it had a little fight in him. In IT. The Marshal, who was on extermination duty today, looked just as surprised at the rope’s turn of events. Usually necks snapped quick. And the rest was over soon after. Now, however, it was up to all of us to watch. To my shock, I watched as Its hands broke free from those cuffs. Solid iron cuffs. Snapped em like nothing. How the hell was it that strong? To me that cinched it. I decided it deserved a quick end. Man to man. I got ready to put it down. My hand was already dropped to my holster. I could hit it from here. No problem. I only had four bullets left to my name. But I did not feel any would be wasted on this. I got ready. But I stopped myself. For, instead of clawing at the noose as I expected a free pair of hands was want to do. It started waving. Waving Its hands about. Flashing fingers at the crowd. One last “Fuck You” to the people. My People. To all us Good Folk. And that. That made me angry. Not the gesture. Not the profanity. Not even the theft itself. But the goddamned waste of it all. Waste made me more mad than you can imagine. Real mad. Waste made my blood boil and my ears start ticking in a way that itched my back. And if that Gopher had enough fight in him to snap solid handcuffs—I mean if that Gopher had enough fight in Its last moments to flash a curse at us in the crowd, then that was a goddamned waste of potential. I pushed a bit forward in the crowd so I could get a better look at Its face. The crowd moved. They always moved for me. I saw the Gopher’s face twitching and wriggling. Its body was twisting to the left so I got a good look. This week’s Gopher was young. Younger than any so far. Young enough to have been of service. Strong arms. Like mine used to be. Damned if It wasn’t handsome too. Shock of bright hair and those bulging peepers. It could’ve damn well been on posters. Handsome enough that It could’ve inspired a whole new generation. It could’ve chose to be of help. But instead…It chose to steal. And to steal from old Mrs. Waller of all people. She was here somewhere…There she was. Up in the front. I could see that shaved head of hers gleaming beneath a hand-me-down cap. Her husband’s I think. Her two daughters stood to either side. I’d heard they had provided sworn statements. As the victims of the theft. I watched them now. Jeering. Jawing. Sweet voices. Singers, the both of them. But I thought it was pointless to taunt anything in that state. I knew when death was coming. Knew that that Gopher couldn’t hear a damn thing by now. I readjusted my arms. They were going numb. Today’s Victory Crate was my heaviest so far. Heaped up to the brim. Nearly flowing over. Little bits of dew still dripping off the top layer of summer squash. I had used bits of the rags I normally stuffed to pack my boots. And beneath that? Beneath all that, I had grown something special. A Masterpiece. A Miracle. Though I’d never call it as such. It was something I could not wait to show off. A gift I could not wait to hand over. To serve. To donate. To provide. By then, the Gopher’s eyes had begun to bulge like a mouse under a boot. Red as an heirloom tomato. Which, come to think of it, would probably be ready by next week. Weather willing. The Gopher twisted towards me. Me of all people. I don’t know why. But I felt sure It was looking right at me. I heard a squelch and some kids start laughing. Guess the time had come. Reminded me of a phrase I’d heard on deployment. “When the pants get brown, the End’s in town.” And I knew from experience that it would not be long now. ‘Creme de le Coward’ as I’d learned to call it. It was dripping to the ground. Through the cedar. I don’t know why I did what I did next. But I did. I lifted my crate and peeled back the top to show the Gopher what I had been hiding. I lifted my crate as high as I could without drawing attention from those around me. Nothing worse than a braggart. But, I wanted it to be the last thing he saw. I suspect it was.

2.

EVEN from two streets over I could still hear the crowd hooting. That Gopher had been handsome enough. I would’ve stayed longer, but I’d seen more than my fill. And as far as I’m concerned It got what it deserved. That being said, I was not a fan of what I knew would happen next. What always happened next. After the Deputy Marshal gave his go ahead, that Crowd would go up and start messin with the body. Piñata style. And then maybe Buffet. Maybe take something home with them for the road in a goodiebag for their dogs. Well. Not that anyone had dogs anymore. I didn’t much care for that sort of thing. There’s no dignity in waste. And no point in tormenting something that’s not around to feel it. If anything. That’s just wasted calories. I checked my watch. 13:09. I was already late. Very late. Usually I always tried to get to the Doctor before 11:00. Our Good Ol’ ‘Doctor Collector.’ A Surgeon. City Transplant of some kind. But he had ties to our town. Or so I heard. He'd moved in a while back. He was a man that liked his smokes but never took so much as a single one of them until he’d finished his delicate work for the day. Good man. Good Folk. Sharp with meat. Educated. Usually, I left my garden by 9:00. That way I’d reach the Doctor’s donation table on time and give him plenty of space to rail a cig or two before inspections. But today, I’d gone off schedule. Wasn’t expecting a hanging. Especially for a Gopher. I didn’t think there were any gophers left this side of south. I wondered how many more were out there. I wondered what that meant for my garden back home. I picked up the pace. I hobbled in between puddles. I sidestepped a little crater. I turned around the corner block and made my way into Belleseare Proper. That’s our town by the way. Belleseare. The Northernmost Town before the Southernmost front. The Valley Jewel. There used to be more cities up north, of course. But now…now it’s just Belleseare. And I’ll be the first to admit that our town had seen better days. Like everyone else in recent memory, she’d lost weight. She was a bit hollow at the moment. Most kids were sheltering somewhere further south. Most her fighting Men were all enlisted further north. And the ones that weren’t, moved with the factories. But our town, she made do without them. So I did too. The Valley always looked its best after the rain. And its worst between them. It was a sleepy set. Rolling hills. Big trees. Dark, dark soil. Smelled like Cowpies year round. Even after every last one of the cows had gone to pasture. Long gone. But something in the dirt remembered. Now, our hills were bleeding every shade of green. Normally they’d have been eaten clean. But with no more cows there was a new danger for us all. Grass. Tall sharp grass rolling every which way as far as you could see. All the way out to the mountains. To the forest. To the front. I didn’t like that. That meant, as soon as it dried, fire could be used against us. At least, that’s what I would’ve done. Way back when. I would’ve waited for the grass to dry and for the Men to go to sleep, and then FWOOSH. Light it all up. Then send my men to the roads to get the runners in one place. But, I told myself it would be fine. I was sure the Army Engineers could handle a bit of grass. They always kept us safe. They supplied us everything we needed. Tools, trades, extra tarps, you name it. And whatever they couldn’t give, God would provide the rest. Not that I'm a religious man. But in my defense, our town was in between priests. And churches, come to think on it. The Chapel was hit a while back. However, short a few communions every now and again, I’d learned to keep my faith in other things. Like the soil. And the rains. And the rains, in particular, had been nothing short of miraculous this year. As had our crops. It truly seemed that something up above was on our side after all. Like even some God himself knew what our nation was fighting for. What we were trying to do. Who we were trying to help. And what we were trying to defend. In fact, without that little spell of thunder last week, I doubted my grand prize would’ve grown at all. I hoped that it was alright. Still safe. Safe where I’d hidden it beneath the squash. I had to take care not to muss it. If I dallied too long, it would bruise. Or so I’d heard. Finally, I hobbled down to Grant Avenue. The main street of Bellesear. It was narrow, cracked, and lined with brick buildings that, like the soil with shit, remembered the hot stink of coal. Some of our buildings were built as factories. But now, most were nothing at all. The roads had been hit a long, long time ago. But that was no problem. No one ever bothered to fix them because hardly anybody used cars much anymore. Except for the military. And nobody was ever in a hurry here. Nobody except for me. Because I had to hobble double time just to make it anywhere. Today, the streets were empty. It was just me and whatever new posters that had been nailed onto brick.

‘Save your Fat! Bacon for Bombs. Talk to your Butcher today.’

As if anyone had bacon. 

‘A Penny saved is a penny burned! Buy the Bond, You Hear?’

As if any Patriot still had a cent. 

‘Lost Dog.’ 

Poor critter. I’m sure your meat was appreciated. 

‘Fight the Reeks! Join the fray! Your Country needs you today!’ 

That’s what a few of my posters used to say. I wonder if any of mine even still exist. I think I burned a few. For kindling. A while back. So probably not.

‘We take everyone!’ 

I stopped and caught sight of my wobble in some glass. I saw my leg. Well, I thought, almost everyone.

3.

MY right leg was stronger than it ever had been before. But the left? Mincemeat. Sausage. Kneeless. Nothing now but boneless ham where the patella used to be. It happened a long time ago. As such, I’d grown so lopsided over the last decade, I’d started to tilt like a goddam scarecrow. I swayed in the wind. Like Rex. Barely fifty and I didn’t look a day over two hundred. Maybe three. I wobbled back and forth for a while. And then I passed the depot. Inside it I saw canned goods being stacked and stored. Our Depot now doubled as a recruitment station. Inside, I saw younguns stacking what looked like Canned Corn. Could’ve been mine at some point. I saw Soldiers rustling too. Above the shops, there had once been some professional offices. Old rows of faded sign slips still there in most cases. Dentists. Lawyers. Taxers. Psychs. And best of all. Vacancies. Vacancy signs were dotting every last one of them now. Good. We needed more men in uniforms. Not men in suits. If you ask me, that’s we got us into this mess in the first place. The gravel was slick. But I managed to keep my footing. Ever since my final tour, my left leg always wanted to tip me over and spill me out. The meat stuck. It clicked and burned, pinching up my thigh like an angry crawdad and popping in the rain. Even after all these years, I still wasn’t used to it. But. I’d learned some tricks to living with it. For example, stack a couple rags under the right foot, that tends to even it out. I’ll still wobble, sure. But, so long as I keep a stack of rags handy, I can get around. And when I carried a fully loaded victory crate, I was almost balanced. I turned the street corner thinking about how my gift would be received on base. That was when it happened. A dog. A dog hit my leg. My bad leg. Probably rabid. Vet had been closed for weeks. It didn’t make sense to me. But it didn’t have to. Because it hit my bad knee and I fell like a sack of bricks. Fortunately, however, I was used to falling. I’d learned the right way to fall a long time back. Right back on my ass! That pretty Field Medic who had patched me up was also the one who'd taught me how to fall. God she’d been a looker. I still remember waking up in a mess of bandages. Seeing her through gauze. Could’ve sworn she was an angel. I always thought she’d liked me more than just some patient. Even on bad days she’d taken the time to teach me. She'd set up pillows on the floor every day and gave me lessons. I was so hooped up on morphine at the time, my best attempt to flirt back was a gurgle and a grumble as she helped me piss into a pot. After what happened, I was surprised I’d still had a cock at all. Most of one anyways. Or even a leg to boot. Matter a fact, I had been surprised to wake up. And I still am most days. But for that whole year following, I was nothing more than a mess of bandages. And she was my angel. That Field Medic. I never bothered to learn her name. Never wanted to. I was afraid it would disappoint me. But it always felt like she saw right through me. She skinned and retied me twice a day. And, once I could sit up, she’d showed me how to live as a cripple. 

“Things are gonna be different,” She’d said with a wink. “For you, I mean. Going forward. You’re gonna be a bit off balance. And that’s fine. It just means the ground’s your new enemy. So you need to practice. Practice, ya hear? Practice how to fall and you’ll fall the right way when you need to. Right on your tushy.” She’d slapped her ass and giggled. “That’s what its for. Otherwise what’s the point of all this?” And with another wink, she’d lifted her arms, whooshed out her hips, and fell ass first onto the pillows. Again. And Again. And again. And once I was able to stand, I got to try it for myself. And now, about a decade later, I’d learned how to fall proper. It was muscle memory. Hips back. Hands behind. I landed hard. Mud splattered everywhere, but I caught the crate before it slipped. And, before I knew what was happening, some older instincts came back too. Before that rabid mutt got a chance to sink its teeth into my denim, my old service pistol was already in hand. It was so natural, I sometimes forgot I even owned one. Forgot I polished, disassembled, and cleaned it every morning. And night. I had not fired it in years. But like a pianist touching ivory, my hands never forgot. And in less than a second I’d already locked in on that mutt’s center of mass and squeezed the trigger three times. But, somehow…it jammed. It had never jammed before. Not in my whole life. I lifted my right leg, ready to bash that mutt’s skull if it came closer to my crate. But, to my surprise, the mutt just bounced around off some bricks and bawbled away. Turns out, wasn’t a dog at  all. Just some fuzzy little tike. Couldn’t be more than nine or ten. Mess of bright hair. Dressed in men’s overalls. No shoes. Bawling and shouting. But not making a sound. Other than a gurgle. I watched it knock down the alley, bouncing wall-to-wall like a little pinball. I watched as that little shit hit a dumpster, and ricocheted outta sight. Didn’t even stop to apologize for knocking down a War Hero. Didn’t even offer to help me up. At that, I couldn’t help but gawk in disbelief. Part of me wanted to go grab them. Sit them down. Hit them. Yell. But the Doctor was still waiting. And I knew he would not indulge in his smokes until I arrived. So I clawed my way back to my feet. Got back to walking. Got back to wobbling. I don’t remember putting my pistol back. But I felt its weight. And I felt uneasy. Jammed? I thought to myself. Strange days indeed. 

4.

THAT damned little tike had gotten me all muddy. And the more I walked the angrier I got about it. I could’ve washed it all off. I could’ve scraped off the mud. But that’d mean I’d have to set down my crate. And that would make me even later than I already was. Still though. The mud was everywhere. And it was dripping. I hobbled past a group of kids with rocks. One of them had what looked like a finger. Probably taken off that Gopher. He was chasing the others who were all giggling and screaming. But as I saw them, I got even angrier. I watched them all stop dead in their tracks and stare. I knew they would see the mud up on me too. Sure enough they gawked at me like I was a freakshow. Watched me as I passed. People always got quiet when I walked around. I must’ve looked a fright. Like I’d just waded through a rice paddy. I felt my ears tick. They probably thought I put the mud on myself. One thing about me, I can’t stand those sissy-ass dressups. The sort of nail-painting cowards to rough themselves up for leave. Its like cutting your own schwisse for attention. Dressing up to look badass for nobody at all. The thought of people gossiping that I had dressed myself up in mud to look impressive for a donation run made my fuckin skin crawl. But, so long as the mud was there. And so long as it looked like I was only late because I’d been working in the fields. I decided I wasn’t gonna correct them. Besides. The Doctor would know either way. He always knew. Gradually, I wobbled my way downtown and hobbled into the donations center. The rundown lot of Vern’s Feed and Mill. By the time I made it out onto that old cracked pavement, my arms were fully numb, still latched around my victory crate. As per usual, our Doctor Collector had set up his donations table in the shady portion of the parking lot. Next to the loading bay. He didn’t see me as I hobbled over. I never learned what kind of Doctor he was. But it didn’t matter. He never given me reason to question it. One day he’d just showed up behind the register, and we’d all been the better for it. You gotta tooth ache? He’d fill it. Found a mushroom? He could tell you the species. And best of all, he could tell you what anything was worth. Down to the dime. And in any currency you please. Anytime. Anywheres. Dollars or barter. Deeds or dirt. He knew what a things should cost. And was always willing to explain prices. I'd heard he was some distant relative of Old Randal Vern. Verns were an old Belleseare family. One of its firsts. Or so I’d heard. They’d started the store from an old stagecoach stop. And it stayed in the family for as long as anyone could remember. But, apparently after Randal’s big accident, the Doctor had shown up to take care of the store in his stead. That was a few years ago now. Randal never did come back from the hospital. But the Doctor had stayed to look after things. Good Man. Bit odd. He was clean-shaven. Disciplined. And never showed an inch of skin he didn’t have to. It was like he was dressed for surgery. But with scrubs right off the feedstore rack. Same as the rest of us farmers he sold to. Gloves. Flannel. Boots. Jeans. Sunhat. Sunglasses. And sometimes a scarf in the heat. All pinned together by one of Vern’s old rodeo buckles. As usual, the victory crates had been heaped off in the shade. Awaiting pickup. The harvest was booming. And today’s batch of donations reflected that. It was full of every sort of gift Good Folk could give. And the biggest haul I’d seen to boot. More than ever before. All mixed together. Still dripping and dewey. Hand grown. Hand picked. And handed off to the Doctor who handled the paperwork for us all. By now I had a pretty good sense for where things were coming from. I could tell who’d given what. Squash was in season. So, everybody brought squash. However, I spied walnuts. Probably from the Callisters. Good Folk. Bad breath. To the left, there was a heaping crate of mulberries. Some of them already stewed up in preserve jars. Probably by Mrs. Squall. She and Mark always went the extra mile. I remember, she’d taught canning classes to some new moms a while back. Way back. But, most impressive of all, there was the Waller’s Wall. A huge mess of donations from the town’s richest family. At least since the Vern’s. The Wallers. They gave so many crates of produce, and gave them all so often, that the Doctor had started sectioning out a whole special portion of the loading bay wall just for their donations. The Wallers were Good Folk. Very Good Folk. They gave more of everything than everyone else combined. Their Family ran an apple orchard on the way to my haunts. And today looked like their biggest haul so far. So much that they had ran out of crates and were forced to use some of their own family’s own barrels. I counted fourteen barrels of apples, each with the Waller brand. Two ‘W’s in circle. And to top it all off seven ducks were blowing in the wind, along with three finches beside them. The Waller girls had strung the birds up by the neck and trussed up their wings like Christmas turkeys. Old Mrs. Waller was a proud one. Eyes like a hawk and a hell of a shot. Maybe the best I’d ever seen. Including my time in the service. She could’ve been the best sniper this side of south if she’d been born with a cock. Not to say women couldn’t be soldiers. But, she had other duties to attend, and she’d volunteered damn early. When old Mr. Waller was still alive, she and him had squeaked out four Soldiers and three daughters by the time they were forty. Now, Mr. Waller was dead. Long dead. Buried in Bellesear’s cemetery. And all the Waller boys were currently off enlisted. Two Officers. One Logistics. One Cook. I think some had died. Or went missing in action. One of the daughters had already married. A Petty Officer, I was told. They’d lived in Leades. Poor Folk. The other two daughters, Mariah and Val, they still lived at home. They had stayed behind to help work the orchard. They waved to me everyday. And every last one of them had been taught to shoot. As I got closer I looked at the birds they’d brought in. I saw each one of them had been shot clean through the head. Eye to eye in some cases. Even the Finches. And to think that Handsome Gopher had tried to steal from them. Them, of all people. Bad call.

5.

USUALLY the Doctor handled processing our donations alone. But not today. Today there were two new faces chatting him up. Soldiers. A young pair of them. A Man and a Woman. Hats off. Casual. Both with hair so slicked back with grease their domes looked like plastic wrapped watermelons. They had a full truck. You don’t see those much these days. It had been parked off to the side. I spied the Army’s crest peeling off its bumper. With another crest I didn’t recognize. Behind it, in the sun, twelve empty pallets were steaming. From the looks of it, the Soldiers had just finished loading something off for the Doctor. Now, they were all taking a load off themselves. Before tackling the town’s donations. Which meant they had all been waiting on me. Come to think of it, I’d never actually met the folks who collected from our Doctor Collector. I always knew someone had to be dropping off things in exchange for our fruits. But I’d never been this late before. Each of the Soldiers had a lemonade in their hand, cool and frosty, compliments of the Doctor. As I hobbled closer, the Doctor saw me and bared his teeth beneath his sunhat. He waved a dark red gardening glove my way.

“There you are!” The Doctor said, his singsong voice doing a little jig as his pen danced on beat. He was making notes on his clipboard. Even with a glove on, his pen cut mush like a scalpel. Muscle memory, indeed.

“Alright, you two. This is him.” The Doctor said, “King Louie. Our town’s one and only. Bellesear’s official national treasure.” 

I hated that damned nickname. It had been given to me in exchange for a knee. Along with some stupid award for getting myself blown up. Still, at the Doctor’s words, the two Soldiers stiffened up and saluted me. One of them sloshed lemonade down their front and dropped the glass. The Male Soldier broke attention and caught the falling glass. And he used the glass to collect the sloshed lemonade mid air. Didn’t waste a single drop. Good Folk. Once he’d set the glass safely back on the table, he returned in saluting me.

“It’s an honor, Sir!” They both shouted. They then rushed to liberate me of my crate. I told them I appreciated the thought, but that I was just a farmer now. And, that I would very much like to set the crate on the table myself. I’d brought the damned thing this far, after all. Just like I brought it every day. They bowed back, and I set the crate down on the table. The old wood of the table nearly buckled.

“Good haul!” The Doctor said, sniffing the air and clicking his pen. “And all that mud. Streets are getting rough, huh?” 

Streets. Not Garden. Like I said, he always knew. 

“But forgive me, Louie. You must be exhausted.” The Doctor continued, sliding his only chair over to me. “Have a seat here in the shade. I’ll step inside and get you a refresher before I start the tally.” 

I appreciated it. I told him as much. There were those teeth again. The Doctor left us at the table, but took his clipboard along with. He slid up the stairs, moving up the loading bay like cold butter on a hot skillet. Slippery. I missed butter. Come to think of it, I’d never seen the Doctor ever so much as break a sweat. I plopped down into the stool, shook hands with both the Soldiers, and got to setting out my donations in a regimented row. As I soon learned, the Soldiers’ names were Petty Officer Manny Guerrero and Special Officer Jazz. Special Officer. No last names for him. Or rank. Manny was short, squat, and had thick hairy arms. She was glistening with sweat. She must have done most the loading herself. That told me a lot. Meanwhile, Special Officer Jazz looked like an eagle hatchling. One that hadn’t quite grown into its feathers. But all the same I could tell he would grow into a right soldier. It was just odd to see him inbetween. Like a bearcub or moosecalf. Before it grew its horns. This hatchling had freckles, a babyface, and a dorsal fin for a nose. And not enough facial hair to get approved for a mustache just yet. But I could tell by the cuts on his lips he was trying. Shaving against the grain. Trying to get that razor burn clearance. He looked promising. As I set my squashes out, one after the other, I felt him gawking down that beak at me.

“Guerrero, “ He barked. “Start loading that victory would you? I wanna get back before dark.”

Manny saluted me one last time, then tripped over herself as she got to loading crates. I suspected she was clumsy. Officer Jazz caught her. Red-faced, she started loading the Waller’s barrels right into the truck. One under each arm. Goddamn. She was strong. Officer Jazz clocked my squashes. 

“They look good. Might make a damn fine Macanockie.” Officer Jazz cooed, cocking that beak to the side. Birds never looked at you straight. One eye was on his subordinate. The other on me. That was a test. He was testing me. Seeing if I was still worth my salt. He was quoting one of my old radio commercials. I figured I’d play along. I told him that I wouldn’t wish Macanockie Stew on anyone. Well. Except maybe the ‘DS.’ He laughed. Apparently satisfied. As I set things out, he squared his shoulders back. 

“I grew up hearing stories about you, you know. We all did. I still got some of your original posters. You and your division. Twelfth raid. Operation Filament. Actually, I don’t think there’s a single one of us New Gens who doesn’t know the story.”

He asked me if I missed any of it. I lied. I told him I’d already happily passed that torch on. And I felt damn sure it was in good hands. Slapped him on the shoulder. The Eagle turned red and thanked me. But I saw his eye zero in. He was looking at my leg. Guess he’d heard about that too. 

“Petty Officer Guerrero!” The Eagle squawked. “Never stack anything on top of lettuce!” 

Maybe not. But he knew his stuff. Petty Officer Guerrero went bright red again and got to rearranging the produce in the truck. No. He was definitely looking at my leg. 

“When we first started seeing your name on our donations sheet, we all thought it had to be some sort of joke. No way in hell were we eating KING LOUIE’s veggies. Hand grown to boot. But, once the quack confirmed you was who you said, the whole barracks started trading your stem caps around like they were baseball cards. I know for a fact one of them keeps a shuck in his wallet. Calls it a good luck charm. And General Lorry? Him and HQ asked me to pick through your lots before anyone else. Says to bring your stuff straight to him.” 

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. So, “Teeny” Lorry was a General now? Good on him. I felt my pulse quicken a bit. I’d finished setting out the squash. I was getting ready to reveal what I’d been hiding. My masterpiece. But I was gonna do it snide. Not a comment. Let the Eagle’s eye figure it out. Mention it before I did. Like the mud. But before I could even lift the cloth, a frosty lemonade appeared in my other hand. 

“Stars above…” The Doctor said from beside me. “Seems the King’s brought something truly special for us today.”

I had not even lifted the cloth.

6.

OFFICER Manny set down the last of the Waller’s barrels and came by. Her muscles glistened in the sun. Her skin looked like a wheat field. Sweat always made people look their best. She looked strong. I missed that look. The Eagle summoned her to the table and turned its beak down my way. 

“Something special?” 

“Indeed…” The Doctor said, adjusting his gloves. “But, based offa the smell. I do believe it is fragile. King Louie, may I do the honors while you take a load off?” 

I said to go ahead. I sipped my lemonade. It was good. I mean, it was no coffee. But coffee was long gone. Just like the cows. But we had lemons. We had honey. And we had water. And somehow, the Doctor had managed to get his hand on all three of them plus ice. Gentle as can be, the Doctor’s red gloves clamped down over the dirty linens that I’d used to stuff the crate. Meanwhile, Manny and the Eagle crutched together. They leaned in real close as the Doctor began peeling off rags, one by one, layer by layer. It looked like a skin graft. Speaking from experience. As the last bits of flesh came scabbing off, the Doctor added a little flourish for the younguns observing surgery.

“Ey vualah!” The Doctor said. Or something similar. As the others gasped.

“That’s not…” Manny trailed, wiping sweat off her face. The Doctor assured her it was. Even the Eagle looked shocked. For a brief second both eyes were fixed in on the same thing. And he looked like a little boy. Opening his presents. I forgot. I forgot they started that young. I did too.

“But those…” The Eagle cooed, his feathers perking up, “Those don’t grow down here! Those don’t grow anywhere! Anywhere even close to near here!”

“They most certainly do not.” The Doctor said, his teeth flashing in the shade beneath the sunhat. “But it seems the soil didn’t dare tell that to Louie.”

Delicately, he got to draping the linens back over the top. Then, as an extra precaution, he added a layer of his own as well. A flannel. He was wearing three. 

“And that, my Friends,” The Doctor said slowly. “May very well be the first peach ever grown within 500 miles of this town.” 

The Eagle and Manny burst out into hoops and hollers. Then questions. At that, I felt my neck prickle. I hated those. 

“Reeks won’t let any peaches south! Nothing. Not even the damned seeds.” 

“They burn the trees anytime we advance. I mean we found the preserves sometimes, but I don’t think anyone under thirty’s seen a fresh peach their whole life. How on EARTH did you manage to grow one all the way out here? And all by yourself?” 

I told them the truth. That I didn’t know. I didn’t plant it at all. I just used the Doctor’s fertilizer and got to watering. Digging. And repeating. Then, one day, after a storm, a tree just…popped up. Ready for service.

“But how…how did you get it to fruit?” The Eagle asked, looking at me in confusion. “Our weather doesn’t…and certainly not here.”

I told them I didn’t know. But that I didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t grow it for me. And I suspect that helped. And I assured him that there were many more on the way. Soon enough I’d have a whole tree full. I told them that this was just the first fruit to be ready. I noticed, as I was talking the Doctor’s pen never stopped moving. Once I’d finished yawling, he ripped off the whole page and tacked it to the crate. While I did not read it in full, I did catch the address. To the Press Corps.

“Careful now.” The Doctor advised. He handed the crate off to Manny. For a second it looked like a physician, handing off a newborn infant to a Mother in bed. Or like a wetnurse returning their charge. Manny looked unsure. Scared even. Seeing the look on her face, the Doctor offered,

“Peaches are…delicate. They spoil quickly. Especially on those bumpy roads going back up north. But if you keep it covered and keep it cool. You’ll be fine. Just, take it slow, ya hear?” 

Officer Manny accepted the crate. She thanked me one last time, and returned to the truck, swaddling the wood and the cloth. She did not trip this time. It seemed she was dependable under pressure. Victory and story secured, the Eagle jumped into action.

“A whole tree full…alright. We’ll go straight to Maes. He’ll want to hear about this. Papers too.” 

Straight Maes Lorry? To the General? And he called him by his first name. I could not help but wonder what the Eagle’s rank actually was. I didn’t recognize any of the patches on his uniform. Maybe he was something new. They looked good. Beak on a swivel, he checked the parking lot, to see if anything else needed his attention. It did. He saluted me, thanked me one last time, put the hat back on his head, and shook the Doctor’s glove. With that, their railer old truck roared to life and peeled out of the parking lot. The Doctor waved a glove after them. 

“Good Folk. Glad you got the chance to meet them. Guarantee you they’re gonna be talking about this the whole way back.” 

Donations completed, the Doctor removed a leather tobacco pouch from the inside of his jacket. The same folds where I was trained to keep my pistol. Come to think of it I had bought my jacket from the Doctor too. I’d always heard good denim bent to the owner. Moved with them. But somehow, I didn’t see a single crease in the Doctor’s garb. In fact, his was downright starchy.

“Meeting you, I mean.” The Doctor continued. “They’ll tell everyone up there on the way to camp. And then the camp will tell everyone else. Speaking of. Can I expect you here tomorrow? Also you need, any fertilizer? I just made a new batch.”

I told him I’d be here tomorrow with more peaches. This time at a more reasonable hour. And that I would appreciate two bags worth of fertilizer. The sun was getting hot. I returned to my lemonade. I watched as each one of the Doctor’s red gloves performed a separate operation. The left made a few incisions with the pen. Meanwhile, the right, started rolling up a cigarette. Once his patients were both attended, I drained the last of my lemonade. The Doctor went in and grabbed two bags of fertilizer. When he returned, he was carrying a bit of steam along with him. He set the bags down in an empty victory crate. I asked if there was anything else I oughta know about.

“Eat honey.” The Doctor said, smoke pouring out from under his hat. “I have a feeling that’s what’s gonna be going next.” 

7.

THE following day I heard gunshots as I returned to Bellesear Proper. More than ten Peaches in hand. This time I was on schedule. I had decided to set out early as an apology to the Good Doctor, but I was getting low on rags. Linens. Padding. The Doctor said Peaches needed padding. I didn’t know that. So I had added a lot of it just to be sure. But I may have gone overboard. And I’d almost depleted my strategic reserve of linens. Cutting deep into my boot-stacking supply of rags. But I didn’t care. Today, my tree had produced eleven peaches. So sacrificing a few rags to the cause meant nothing. I locked up the fencing reems of what had once been my parent’s house. Oak trees rustled overhead. Dropping leaves. But they all kept their acorns tight. My backyard was open to the elements. My house was on its own little hill. A defensible hill. Everything was overgrown. Most of my shit was all but hidden a little jungle of things I’d let sprout. And whenever I left the cover of those trees, I was surrounded by grass. It made me uncomfortable. The grass was getting too high. It was eating the cow fields and covered everything from my hill to the mountains. The Mountains that rimmed our little valley were unusual. They were huge, wooded, and dark. Apparently spies had been seen up there. Folks gone missing. You could hear artillery shells every now and again. I hoped they were ours. I disliked having to leave my garden unprotected. Even in the day. I disliked the thought of somebody looking in on it. Thieves. Rodents. Gophers. I hated the thought of some Gopher chewing away on my roots while I was taking my time stepping. But that couldn’t be helped. That’s why I left my Rex on duty. My scarecrow. The only good use for the grass. I’d stuffed together an old uniform of mine and some burlap to make it. Left my medals on too. Warning to whatever came sniffing. I made my way out and around my hill with no event. But the weather had grown steamy. There were huge clouds out today. Looked like something out of an old west painting. Bad for the tomatoes. Good for Corn. Wobbling, I hefted up my crate and nearly toppled myself over. But, once I’d got my bearings, I made my way out back and down the dirt. I hobbled through the hills until I was on pavement. I passed the Quaids. The Landers. I passed the driveway that connected out to the rear entrance of the Squall’s lumber yard. It was mostly used for deliveries, but they were closest to the mountains. Good to have more than one exit plan. But as I approached the Waller’s Ranch, I heard gunshots. A .22 I assumed. Short burst. Two quick shots. I realized it was coming from the orchards. And that there was only one person who could be firing it. As I got closer, I heard her daughters singing. Eventually the Waller’s family apple trees popped up around me. Giant, cool, and perfectly maintained rows of apples that covered the sky. The trees were regimented. Fenced. Protected. Huge fruit givers that stood high-guard to either side of the road and stretched for as far as you could see. It was like a forest drawn to heel. I couldn’t tell you any of the types of apples that they had. Only that they were big. And that they were red. And that they were sweet as honeysuckle. Huge plump Christmas ornaments that dangled from every branch. And not a single one on the ground. No birds or pests in the branches. No squirrels underfoot. Damned if I didn’t see any ants on the ground either. Just feathers. And a bright shock of fur rustling in the wind. I couldn’t see Mrs. Waller. But I knew she could see me. Her house was somewhere off to the left. Deep in the Orchard. And her guard would definitely be up after catching that Gopher the other day. As the singing got louder I waved out to the trees.

One brach replied, “Morning Louie!” 

Sure enough, Mrs. Waller dropped out from one of the branches behind me. Puny. Rail thin. Skeletal. Her head was shaved. Her late husband’s infantry cap covered her eyes. Or maybe it was one of her son’s. None of my business. The rifle on her back though, that was all hers. Through and though. She was dressed simple. Looked like she’d cut a shirt from some old fatigues too. And cut down some slacks to size. Three dead birds dripped from either side of her neck. Shot eye to eye. That explained the gunshots. She’d strung twine through the eye holes as well, and then draped them around her shoulders to bleed down her chest. There was a crow. A sparrow. And what I could only describe as something a little more exotic. And tropical. I asked. It was a parrot.

“Not especially good for eating.” Mrs. Waller explained, plucking out the parrot’s brightly colored feathers with one hand. She sprinkled the feathers as she talked. Every couple a words, she’d pluck out a few and tos them to the breeze. She started walking along with me. 

“Good for sending warnings to the other birds though. I thought everyone got the message by now, but I guess not. Gophers. Can you imagine it? In these trees. Around my daughters? Can you imagine? What’s this world coming to.” 

I told her that I couldn’t. I told her I didn’t know. I thanked her for her work. I said she was a good Patriot. A good Christian. Good neighbor. Good Folk. Whole 9 yards. I told her about the honey. How the Army was going to need that next. She appreciated the warning. 

“Ah well, I just hope it helps.” 

So did I. And I said so. 

“Coffee was hardest to give up. But if I could give up coffee, I’m sure I can manage without a little sweetness. The Girls, though, they may need something to sub in. I’ll have them make some apple butter. Hand it out to the town. That’ll get people through. It’s no honey, but it’ll scratch that itch. ” 

Good Folk. 

“Speaking of. Girls! Get out here! It’s King Louie!”

The singing stopped. 

8.

OF the many things she’d grown in her orchard, Old Mrs. Waller was the most proud of her daughters. She had a bad habit of showing them off. And just like the trees, there was a system in place to profit. In fact, that was her business model. She’d show them off strategically. Carefully. And smartly. To anyone, and everyone that could buy apples. Under strict supervision, of course. Why? Well, because most folk at least, they'd fall head over heels on first sight. In fact, word had gotten out. People would travel from all over, just to come meet them. I heard Mrs. Waller collected propositions like candy. There was a rustling. Two women came out from the apple trees. One from either side of the road. Flanking me. Their names were Val and Mariah. They ducked out from under the branches and set down their baskets. Both girls were in their late teens. Or late-twenties by now. Hard for me to tell. But they were healthy looking. Getting chubby. Must be all the apples. Today they were both dressed for picking. Val gave me a smile and said,

“Mornin Louie! Its hotter than a bitch in heat if yo—"

“Fsst!” Mrs. Waller hissed, “Mariah! Show some respect! Come on now.” 

Guess that was Mariah. Huh. I told Mrs. Waller that I was just a farmer and a neighbor and there was no need for any respect on top of that.

“Yeah.” Mrs. Waller’s hand plucked a few more feathers. “Yeah I guess it was all a long time ago. Well, either way my girlies should know better.”

I wished both Val and Mariah a good morning. They smiled. Val was the older. Jugs like a milkmaid. Mariah was the prettier one, and built more like the cow. During war, health was wealth. And the Wallers were nothing if not healthy. Good Folk. Together, these three patriots grew so much victory, they could feed a small army by themselves. And they did. They made something an army couldn’t operate without. Liquor. Their brandies could strip the chrome off a trailer hitch. In fact I think they were contracted with the Engineering Corps for a quota. Either way, damn impressive they could still manage to keep some chub. All thanks to Mrs. Waller. She ran the orchards like a battleship. And meals like them too. Up before dawn. Rounds. Rounds. Night shifts. And sometimes, during harvest season, I suspected she never slept at all. Based off of gunshots I’d heard, I knew she spent her nights watching from the roof of their house. And their cellars. A steady stream of Soldiers always stopped by. Moving through our town on the long road up North. Or stopping by the lumber yard. Along the way they'd stop here for cider, apples, or something stronger. Maybe a bushel for the road. They’d have a glass or two and then they’d hear singing from the trees. Maybe catch a glimpse Val all gussied up. Working up a sweat. The Girls had it down to a science. Val or Mariah would come by at just the right time. Somewhere between glasses one and two. Within just a few seconds the customer, young or old, man or woman, would fall head over heels and start begging like a hound dog for attention.

“Lemme take you to town.” They’d say. “Lemme buy you something nice. What do ya’ll need?” 

And rest assured, the Girls always needed something. And they always rehearsed it as a group ahead of time. Something from the Doctor. Some new clippers. Some lumber. Something for the road. Something from outta town. Or maybe just some boxes carried to town. And some chores. Maybe some help picking. But, if the customer wanted to chat to either one of those goddesses, well… you’d need Mrs. Waller’s permission for anything like that. And she didn’t, in her words, "tolerate no lazybums, nosiree." 

“You want to chat? Pick up a basket.” Mrs. Waller would say. And they always did. Every now and again I’d pass through and see folk of every sort with baskets of their own, out picking apples along sides. Red-faced. Sweaty. Trying to impress them. Never aware that they were being bled like the birds that hung around Mrs. Waller’s neck. Never aware that Old Mrs. Waller was always watching too. Somewhere from the trees. I could tell she was watching me now.

“Ain’t they pretty, Louie! Look at em. Give ‘im a twirl.”

Neither of those were questions. They were orders. I answered in the affirmative. And the Girls twirled in turn. 

“You doin alright, King Louie?” Mariah asked, wiping sweat from her chins. She offered me a dazzling smile. I assured her I was. 

“Need a hand with that box?” Val grinned, brushing twigs off her chest. I thanked her. But I did not. I’d heard one of them had a suitor off somewhere in the north. A Colonel, I think. A good match too. But he wasn’t around too often, so she never wore a ring. Bad for selling apples I suppose. Mariah batted her eyelashes at me. I could feel Mrs. Waller’s eyes on me too. I sighed. My answer was unsatisfactory. And to pass through their trees, I supposed there was no getting around it. I told them both that they were looking so beautiful that I could not believe they were still stuck out here in the sticks. Not when they could be off on posters somewhere. Or off on the big screen. That made Mrs. Waller happy. And I think it satisfied her daughters. Val laughed, Mariah blew me a kiss, and Mrs. Waller tossed some more feathers to the wind. Green with pink at the tips.

“Yeah they’re something. And I know you of all people know what you’re talking about posters. You hear that girlies? We’ll have to take you to the city after harvest. See if we can’t find you a producer.”Val opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off,

"Alright back to work, Girlies! Chop chop.”

The Girls wished me a good day and got back to their picking. Once they’d disappeared into the trees and started up their singing again, Mrs. Waller shot me a look.

“Say, Louie.” She said, getting closer. She turned back the way I’d came. Walking backwards. Her eyes never leaving the path towards the mountains. She whispered, “Special Forces stopped by here the other day.” 

Beneath the cap I could see her eyes darting around. By now the parrot was fully bald and dripping down onto her ribs. Ribs where a chest used to be. Parrot plucked bloody, Mrs. Waller’s little hand moved on to the crow. Tossing black feathers and blood to the breeze, she warned, 

“They were headed back into the peaks. Full kit. They said to keep your eyes peeled. There’s been some trouble over the hill. Some…animal migration patterns they said. Said Gophers might be coming into season.”

9.

I passed by the General Store’s Justice Platform. The Grocer, Johnathan DeRounds, was out cleaning the wood from the day before. That Gopher’s shit had all but ruined the finish. And Johnathan was doing all he could to buff out the stains. He knew how much wood like that cost. Mark Squall had sprang for the best stuff after all, and that Gopher had stained it something foul. And the crowd fouled it up something worse. But I’d run into this problem before. I told Johnathan what I knew. I told him clay and vinegar should fix it up. And if that didn’t work. Lyewater and stump remover. He thanked me. We chatted a peck. 

“Corn syrup!” Mr. Rounds had exclaimed to me. “I been thinking about it. Don’t know if you heard but honey’s on the way out. Corn Syrup though. Corn Syrup’s just fine. And it doesn’t spoil easy. We can make it on the cheap too if you’re willing to sell me some of your crop. I’ll process it for free” 

I told him I’d already promised my corn to the donation table. He understood. I left. By the time I made it to the Feed and Mill, I was already late again. I saw the wall. The Victory Cates. The boxes. The produce. The barrels that had been stacked along the side. However, the Waller’s stuff had not arrived. I suppose it was peak harvest. They had work to do. And had not yet convinced some sucker to carry their goods over. And there was the table. Today, however, the Doctor was nowhere to be found. In his place there were two familiar faces. One of which I hated. One of which I liked. And neither of which I trusted. As I limped up, I saw Bellesear’s new, and unofficial Chaplain. Beside him was the Deputy Marshal that had been assigned to our zip sometime back. Good man. Kept the peace. I liked the Marshal. I did not care for the Chaplain. Both men were smoking. The cigarettes smelled like some of the Doctor’s handiwork. That meant the Doctor was probably within earshot. The Chaplain was smoking next to the vegetables. I didn’t like that. His name was Ida. Army Chaplain Ida Triage. I knew he served under General Lorry. I’d heard that he and some men had renovated a chapel about three hours north in what had once been the city of Leades. That way, Soldiers on the Front Line could have mass. Recently though, he’d been traveling down to Bellesear quite frequently. Not to hold mass, or anything like that, but to take confessions, perform funerals, and, of course, to observe pest disposal ceremonies. No weddings yet, though. The Chaplain was short, blonde, and balding. He had a flabby jaundiced face and bright red scabs on the top of his head. The same color as his clerical collar. 

“Mr. Louie!” Chaplain Triage exclaimed. “King. King. KING! Louieeeee, good God above, I heard a rumor.” 

Confession. He meant he heard a confession. 

“Whole camp’s a buzzing. Apparently…you’ve got yourself a green thumb.” 

I told him no. But that I was getting better at farming. I also told him that, no, he could not take the crate from me. But that I wanted to set it on the table myself. He began to pout. Like I said, I didn’t care for that Chaplain. He was the man who’d called that handsome Gopher a Pig at the hanging. I still resented that comparison. And I’d been seeing him in a different light ever since. I set my crate down on the table. Gently. 

“Mornin.” The Deputy Marshal nodded in between puffs. We shook hands. I liked the Marshal. He did his job and nothing else. Good Folk. Me and the Marshal got along well enough. He’d been assigned here a few months ago. Or maybe a year or two at this point. This was the first time I’d ever seen him without his mask. He usually wore it everywhere. But today, the black fabric had been pulled down past his chin. He had a red beard. He was built like an ox. He carried every manner of weapon you could imagine at his hip. And, funnily enough, a box of tissues lived where the handcuffs should be. Something I’d noticed was that the Marshal’s eyes always seemed to be watering. Hay fever. Something about Bellesear’s air just didn’t seem to agree with him. As such, water was always dripping down from beneath those shades. Happened so much one could be forgiven for thinking that the Marshal had a soft spot. He did not. But he did always keep the peace. I watched the Chaplain start sniffing at my crate. Scabs glistening. He exhaled smoke, and asked, 

“Mr. Louie, we’re actually here today on orders of General Lorry. May I?” 

He may not. But I was happy to do it for him. I pulled back the linens to reveal my donation. Both the Chaplain and the Deputy Marshal leaned in closer. The Marshal held his cigarette away. The Chaplain, however, lifted a peach from the wrappings right away to examine it in sunlight. Smoke pouring off his breath.

“Goddddam.” The Chaplain mused. “How many?” 

I told the Chaplain I had no idea. I said that I never counted my donations. He lifted one in the air. 

“Ten whole peaches.” The Chaplain mused. “Real, daggum peaches. Who’da thought?” 

“Eleven.” The Doctor corrected. The Doctor Collector had appeared beside us without a sound. “Good Morning, King Louie. Welcome back.” 

“Yes, yes. Eleven.” The Chaplain muttered, setting two peaches back in the crate. “I guess I must’ve…miscounted.” 

“It happens.” The Doctor mused, “But that’s why I’m here.” 

He handed the Marshal another cigarette. The Marshal accepted, but refused the light. Instead, he used the flaming butt of his old cigarette to light the new. Didn’t even waste a match. Good Folk. 

“Pardon me.” The Marshal said, giving us all a nod. He walked off around the corner.

“Look at those little hairs.” The Chaplain purred, peering over the edge of the crate. 

“Chaplain. Please take care not to exhale smoke onto these particular donations. Peaches are finicky little things.” 

“I understand.” The Chaplain agreed. He swallowed the smoke and stamped out the cigarette. It had only been huffed a quarter way through. What a waste.

“Oh and, Mr. Louie,” The Chaplain continued, not looking up from the crate. “Like I said, I think the Marshal has some words for you. Straight from the General’s lips. So while you two chat, would you allow to me bless this here fruit?” 

I told him to do as he like. Just so long as it didn’t disturb the Doctor. The Doctor waved a red glove. He must’ve known I was itching to leave. Kept things brief. At that, the Chaplain began muttering in latin. He raised a peach to the sun. Carefully. And then set each one of them right back down again. I suppose he was a man of God. And had been ordained. But I didn’t like that he was touching them with his hands. But, before I could say a thing against it, the Marshal had returned with something strange rattling before him. To my surprise he was pushing an enormous, top-of-the line, wheelbarrow. With a smile, he brought the great thing to a rolling stop right beside me. The wheelbarrow was red. And it was black. And, it was brand spanking new.

“This.” The Marshal said, pulling a note out from his tissue holster. “Is a gift courtesy of the 22^nd’s High Command. Meant for one, ‘King Louie of Bellesear.’ Honorable Discharge. Servant’s Cross of Honor. Recipient of the—” 

I stopped listening for a while. 

“Highest of Honors. And the Bastard who done saved my hide more times than I could count. Thank you, Soldier. Your donations are appreciated. As was your help. And as was your service. And as you have served our Nation both on and off the battlefield your whole life, I wish to thank you. Even after all your injuries, you’re still dragging us all ahead. Fueling the advance. Please. Allow us to assist the charge as best we can. I hear you’re quite the cripple now. So, here’s something to help with that commute. We found this at a Reek depot. Fresh off their production lines. Take it. It’s yours. As well as everything it can carry from the Good Doctor’s inventory. Put it all on our tab. Go wild. Signed. General Maes Lorry.” 

I felt something catch in my chest. A whole damned wheelbarrow. And everything it could carry. I ran a hand over the its metal finish. It was new. I hadn’t seen proper new in a very long time. No one had. As I thanked those assembled, the Chaplain began to sing. 

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” 

“PS.” The Marshal grinning over the gospel, with a watery wink. “Keep them peaches coming, ya hear?” 

10.

THE Feed and Mill didn’t stock much food. Human food anyways. But it stocked just about everything else. Everything a farmer might need to grow in our climate. As my dad used to say, "Shit wasn’t cheap, but it sure as shit wasn’t shit neither.” All of it, hand-made by Patriots. One's living here in this country. And in the last couple of years, some of it even designed by the Doctor’s own hand. High quality. High calibers. Everything a working man could possibly need in one store. The Doctor had organized it all by activity. And then by alphabet. The plastic roof panels let in green light. It steamed like a jungle. Plants, tools, and lassos lined the walls. Chicken feed must in the air. Taxidermied big game heads, the sort that no longer roam within shooting distance, they all looked down from the ceiling. Elk. Moose. Bison. Pumas. Gators. All of them dripping like the Marshal’s shades. The air was steamy. It felt like a greenhouse the second you stepped foot inside. Along every one of the aisles the Doctor had hand-written the prices. He did so every morning. He adjusted them based off of what he knew. Not in money. But barter. As per his calculations. Farmer Economy, we called it. Usually in Bale Prices. Bales of hay used to be the standard. Now, even with no cows left to feed, we still stuck to that measure. One bale of hay was currently worth three of chaff. Two bales were worth one bottle of insecticide. Three bales of hay would get you two pairs of new jeans. Old jeans, however, those were only half a bale. Pitchforks, axes, brooms, brushes, gunpowder, bullets, and riding equipment, that’s where all the price started going up. And above that was the military surplus section. All of it was damn expensive. Everything there at least four bales per item. But today…today everything was free. The Doctor had assured me of that. He’d given me his go ahead. Said anything and everything I could carry was up for grabs. Even the Chaplain had smiled. Said it was all on the Army’s Tabs. As much as I could fit in that new barrow. As soon as I’d thanked them both and hobbled up the loading bay, the Marshal had elected to accompany me inside. I suspect the Chaplain’s blessings had started to annoy him as well. He walked with me up and down the aisles. He trailed me. He was a large man. Almost the same height as me but more than three times my weight. If not four. His mask never stayed off long. That black cloth always covered his nose. For everyone’s safety. I saw salt stains on the fabric. He was a huge man. Over muscled. Over-fatted. And both to the point you couldn’t tell which was which. Like a prize bull left to graze. He waddled like a duck and his uniform struggled to keep all of his authority inside. One hand smoked, and the other rested on that box of tissues. He was a God-Fearing man. He said so himself. I didn’t know that about him. I assumed. But I didn’t know. He said he’d been put on this Earth just to protect his family. And maybe his country if he had the time. But as luck would have it, he had plenty of time to spare. The Marshal knew plenty of verses by heart and he liked to pepper them into conversation. Verses I’d never heard of. From books I didn’t know. He opened up about the Front too. Eyes watering. Teeth shining through his mask. He told me the latest. Probably said more than he ought to. But we both knew I was no vanilla, nor casual. I’d seen that shit before. And worse. He told me about the latest operations. Some of them still ongoing. Some of them not even started. He talked about the latest wins. The latest horrors. He told me how some of the Reeks had hidden a strategic weapons facility near the outside of our town. An impromptu lab. Hidden it in the mountains underneath some aid tents. Our mountains. I couldn’t believe it.

“Word is some spec-ops managed to ash it. They hit them while they were working. Fish in a barrel.” The Marshal laughed. “Good riddance.” 

I agreed. In the middle of the store, the Doctor’s handiwork was on full display. A huge, series of metal cow troughs now lined the center aisle of the store. Even after the Cows had all been rounded up, the Doctor had found a use for their troughs. He let nothing go to waste. Smart man. Now, the troughs had become mulch-pits. Filled with potting soil, compost, and fertilizer. The Doctor made it all in house. Some on contract. He made so much that the whole town had come to rely on it. And by proxy the Military too. Some of it was stamped, and the rest was pre-bagged up in burlap to be sent off with the donations. The other troughs though were all self service. That mulch was the source of the steam. It puddled on the ceiling. It dripped from the animal heads. It dripped down the walls. The steam filled the aisles. It collected on leather. It moistened the floor. It smelled like zoo. Once I’d filled up three bags, we made our way past the troughs. The Marshal finished his cigarette. When he was done, he tossed the butt of it into the open fertilizer trough. I didn’t mind. There was always a bunch of other trash in there too. The odd rag or banana peel was never out of place in fertilizer. I heard someone found a rat once. Poor critter. 

“But yeah…” The Marshal would chuckle every couple of feet. “That’s what Matthew said anyway. Saint Matthew that is. But, enough about me.” It wasn’t, though. I wanted more. I wanted to hear. So he continued. Apparently some sickness was going around. Folk everywhere were overcrowding the hospitals. ‘Purple Fever.’ Apparently the Reeks were the ones that made it. And the Gophers were the ones spreading it. Apparently our hospitals were so short on doctors, they’d started asking dentists to come in and help out. I said that I guessed a degree was a degree, after all. A quack is a quack. The Marshal laughed. I asked about the soldiers. How they were eating. 

“Three hots a day.” The Marshal grinned and slapped me on the back. That made me happy. I grabbed tools off the shelf. Tomato ties. Seeds. A watering can. Pest nets. Then, to treat myself, I took some .22 Caliber bullets. A lot of them. And some larger calibers too. Ten whole boxes worth. I grabbed everything. Everything I’d been missing. Everything I couldn’t afford. But, even after I’d splurged on all that, there was still plenty of room up on top. The wheelbarrow was massive. It barely fit down the aisles. I asked the Marshal what he’d recommend. Told him I’d heard Gophers were coming into season. I said I didn’t feel like my garden was safe. And that I possibly wanted a fence. 

“Oh.” The Marshal said, pulling his mask down once again. “Nothing’s safe these days. Nothing’s sacred. And plus now you got those peaches to worry about. I’m sure Gophers might try and get handsy. I know you’re a crack shot but a peashooter's only gonna get you so far. You need something to protect what’s yours.”

The peaches weren’t mine. They were for the troops. I said so.

“I know. But the tree is sure as hell yours.” The Marshal growled. “And the land beneath it. And the leaves underfoot. And the glory. Gophers don’t give a shit about none of that. They’ll take anything. Man. Woman. Child. Dog. Doesn’t matter to them. You heard what happened to the Dawsons right? In Leades?” 

I hadn’t. But I had a bad feeling about it. Belleseare was now the northernmost civilian town. But it wasn’t always that way. A little more than a year ago that title had belonged to the township of Leades. I had a sinking feeling. Nothing good ever came of discussing it.

11.

THE Marshal shook his head. He gave me the rundown. Apparently before he’d come to Belleseare, he’d been an assistant Marshal for the township of Leades. He said that back then, the Dawsons were Good Folk. A kind family. One that had lived out on the outskirts and never bothered nobody. Their cabin had been up in the mountains. Ten minutes from town. They’d actually been pacifists. Lotta good it did them. But one night, Gophers broke in. Broke in and killed every last one of them. But not before having their way with them. The father, the mother, and then the kids. The Gophers had gotten their fill. And when they had finished, they started ate all the food. And then, once the food was gone, the Gophers started snacking on the Dawsons themselves.

“Fuckin Savages.” The Marshal growled. His eyes were pouring. He grinned. Then he told me how he’d eventually caught them. The Gophers, I mean. 

“You want to protect something?” He said. "You gotta learn how to bait. And to wait. Gotta draw out all your threats into plain air. Tie your nooses loose, and you’ll catch that golden goose. Or whatever the sayings is. But me? Cause, I knew they’d be back. I set my trap. Gophers always come back.”

The Marshal grabbed an axe off the rack. Tossed it in the wheelbarrow. Along with a whetstone to sharp it. Then, after a moment’s thought, he added a snare trap as well because ‘tunny makes good eating.’

“That’s why I say, Gophers need justice. I’ve said it before. And I’ll say it again. We may be fighting the Reeks, but at least the Reeks…I dunno.  They’re warriors. Evil, sure. Wrong, one hundred percent. But they do got some honor among them. Or at least a few balls between them. That’s as good as Honor in a pinch. Means they respect you enough to shoot you in the face. They’ll come at you from the side. And ambush you from the back. But they won’t shame you. They won’t desecrate you. Gophers though. Those are the ones you gotta watch out fo—Look at me. Why am I even jawing? Telling you that? You of all people! You’re King Louie dammit! But…even still. You've been outta commission for a while now I suppose. Things’ve might’ve changed a bit. We’ve gotten…better tools in the last couple of years. Since…Since you been gone our Labs been making better and better shit. Better everything actually. And I know the uh…the Doctor…he just stocked up on some of it in the other day.”

We slowed to a stop in front of a huge wall of spools. The spools were wound up like thread. Every kind of chain, rope, and wire you could think of. Barbed. Razor. Chicken. Weasel? But the Marshall went for the finest. A thorny gold thread.

“This…” The Marshal grinned beneath the face mask. “This is what you need.” A hard-knuckled glove shot out with surprising speed and grabbed the skinniest of all the wires. Not the one I would’ve picked. It looked like…well it looked like nothing at all. Like silvery gold fishing line with little pompoms built in. The label on the spool read ‘FOXTAIL CWI: No 30644.’ I must’ve looked my confusion because the Marshal quickly came to its defense.

“Oh now, don’t give me that.” The Marshal chided. “This is good shit. Just recommended it to the Waller Girls the other day. After their little break in. I know the quacks gave it some fancy name, but I have a gift for naming things. I’ve taken to calling it ‘Gopher Gold.’ Ha! Go FOR…You get it?” 

I got it. He pulled some wire off the spool and stretched it out between us. 

“Imagine…imagine I’m a gopher. And imagine you’re…you’re a peach.” The Marshal sermonized and started reaching towards my throat. He reached past the wire, sliding his arm over the foxtails. His fingers were on my windpipe. My hand was already on my pistol.

“Oh hold on now, I’m just showing you.” The Marshal barked. “You asked me didn’t you?” 

I suppose I did. I took my hand off my pistol. And the axe. I don’t know when I’d grabbed the axe. Sweat was dripping down the Marshall’s brow. Or tears. I could never tell. But I tossed the Axe back to the barrow and he continued his demonstration,

“I want your shit. That’s what the Gopher’s thinking. They all think like that. I don’t wanna work. I don’t wanna grow. I don’t wanna be a uh….uhh…a person. I’m just gonna steal. Steal. STEAL! Steal from good, hard working Patriots. Oh, lookie here, what we got? A Peach? I ain’t seen peaches in a minute. I’m gonna take that and then go kill whoever’s living up in that house. Maybe I’ll eat them too. They must have some goooood shit up in the house. Oh, but I’ll just be taking this first. That’s what they’re thinking.” 

The Marshal stretched his hand further and further out towards my throat. 

“And that’t the thing.” The Marshal said, sliding it across the wire. “But this stuff is special. It’s not like bear traps, or pitfalls. It lets them steal. Let’s them pass. Doesn’t do a damn thing…that is…until they try to escape. Until they try to take something with them. It doesn’t respond until a Gopher decides to go all in. To go for…gold. Ha! That’s when it activates.”

The Marshal grabbed my collar, and tried to pull me towards him. I watched as the little pompoms along the wire unfurled, splitting down out into a hundred pieces of smaller wire. They split out like a foxtail, rupturing into bits and tines that speared the Marshal’s arm through the cloth of his uniform. The Marshal’s eyes watered. But he didn’t flinch. He pulled me closer. And as he did, the tines buried deeper and deeper into his flesh. I could see them digging through the jacket. Dripping red. The more he pulled the deeper they dug. Steam dripped down the walls. And the Marshal. 

“Now the Gopher can try to run.” He whispered. "But that fuckin rodent’s already sealed its fate. It stole food. And thus…your victory. Our victory. And every bite it takes, is theft. In other words, it tried to kill you! Your family! Your congregation! Tried to poison you and your community! And they know it. Some folk say they don’t got a brain among them. Gophers. But I met them. I seen them. And they know there’s no way they’ll ever be forgiven. But maybe…just maybe it could still get away?”

Steam was now billowing all around. The Marshal’s hand released my collar and tried escape back into his sleeve. But as that hard knuckled glove left my neck, the tines spread out. The foxtails gnawed deeper into the cloth, knitting the fabric together like rivets in his flesh. With every twitch, more and more of the little pompoms exploded out.

“See the barbs go in at an angle,” he explained, oblivious to the pain. “They shatter in towards veins. So the more the Gopher thrashes, the more will go in. That’s why you leave the wire loosey goosey. Bait it by letting it hang. And THAT. That’s when they’ll do anything ANYTHING to make it stop because the spines get to moving sideways too. Now the real question is…could they get away? Yeah. Some could, sure. But not in one piece. And not with any more of your shit. And if you smear some fertilizer on the lines, best believe their gopher friends will be spreading the good word. That bastard’s tough, they’ll say. That house is the real deal. We ain’t never gonna steal from round here again. We’ll never come within five hundred miles of this property ever again. That’s what they’re thinking.” 

The Marshal leaned in closer. 

“But that’s only for the ones that can break free. The ones that can’t? Well for them, there’s only one way out.” 

The Marshal grabbed some pliers from the shelf, and told me to twist along the base of the foxtail. I obliged. I spun it on the spot. Surprisingly, the pompom twisted right off the golden vine like a ripe tomato. In a matter of seconds, the foxtails had released the Marshal entirely, sending a gush of bright red blood down his sleeve. The steam began smelling like pennies.

“Of course…” The Marshal added, “At that point, legally speaking, you’d have to turn any and all Gophers you catch over to me. Me and the Chaplain I mean. That’s how Justice works. But between just the two of us. One Christian to another…”

The Marshal tossed four spools of the Foxtail Wire into my wheelbarrow. Next to the axe.

“Whether you found them dead or alive. That’s up to you.”

12.

I made my way back through town. Wheelbarrow heaped up to the brim. It shone in the sun. And, surprisingly, I felt good. Moved good. I didn’t wobble. I didn’t creak. At least not half as bad as I did that morning on the way into town. The wheelbarrow’s wheel was thick, and wide, and it slid over potholes so easy you’d think the road was paved with tallow. The rubber slipped over old craters like it was nothing. With my new rolling crutch in hand, I was almost balanced. My left leg still clicked and burned every step, but I quickly realized that I could even out my strides by leaning back and tilting the handles up. Suddenly, with that new wheelbarrow, I was faster. My back was straighter. I felt tall. I felt tall for the first time in years. I made my way back to the edge of Belleseare Proper in record time. Passed by the Callisters and their huge walnut tree. Saw Mrs. Callister out on the porch. Spitfire of a woman. She was an awful gossip. But, thankfully, she ran her hands twice as much as her mouth so it was a net positive. Just the cost of business. Today she was sewing blankets and talking shit on some poor soul. Victory crate beside her. Good Folk. She waved and I nodded. I saw her eyes tracking my new Wheelbarrow. She didn’t ask. But I told her. Because I was sure she’d spread the word. Good. As the sun dipped behind some greenish clouds, the air got thicker than syrup. The clouds were massive. Trees rustled nice and the wind was hot like a sauna. It was like the steam of the Doctor’s store had gotten into the sky. The grass beyond the fences was almost chest high. I was always on edge passing through grass that high. But now, it felt like the wind was pushing me along. And I felt sure I could kill whatever came at me from the grass. Actually, for the first time in over a decade, I think I almost felt normal. Almost felt like the soldier I used to be. I entered the Waller’s Orchards. Moving double time. I enjoyed the shade. I passed the turnoff to their driveway. I passed a big ass truck that had been parked off to the side. Army? No. National Guard. I waved to the trees. No response. But I heard a bird call and I understood. There was company. And Mrs. Waller didn’t want to give away her position. Soon enough, I heard singing and laughing from somewhere up ahead. Among the apples, I saw some Soldiers milling around in a heat. A whole group of them. All of them red-cheeked with baskets in hand. One young man, his cheeks glowing like a signal flare, was talking loudly about out he’d stormed "norman’s" land singlehandedly. I supposed the brandy was strong. It sounded like a three batch chore.

“I got nine scalps!” He bawbled. “Nine with my hens tied. They said...” 

“What’d they say, honey?” Val asked, reclining in the shade as her Marks picked apples.

“They said…” The Soldier hiccuped. “They said they wanted to give me a medal!” 

“Medals huh?” Mariah cooed from the ground. On her lap, there sat another soldier, a woman from logistics, I guessed. Based off of her uniform. She had short hair and a loving expression. Her cheeks as red as any apple and she was fanning Mariah like she couldn’t believe her luck as to be so close to such a Goddess. Mariah burped, and said,

“He must be a dead shot. Val! We got ourselves a hero over here!”

“A hero, huh! Bet he’d made a dang good husband.” 

“I—” The Soldier hiccuped again. “I could…marry a good…husband. Aren’t I! Could be a general, but they wanted to keep it…all, keep it under wraps.”

“Oh I’m sure…” Mariah purred, running fingers through her hair. “Big…Strong…apple-pickin war hero like you? The Generals were probably scared you’d take their jobs. Honestly I bet you could even pick this whole row yourself.” 

I caught Val’s eye through the branches. She had her own little gaggle of assistants buzzing around. She raised an eyebrow and winked. I waved. Poor suckers. Those fools had a long day of work ahead of them. And a hell of a hangover to deal with tomorrow morning. I waved goodbye. Moving faster than ever. Some feathers blew past me. Courtesy of Old Mrs. Waller. Red ones this time. As I marched, could not help but wonder what poor sort of bird had red feathers.

13.

MY parent’s house was about one mile past the Waller’s Orchards. Five point two acres. I’d got it on military pension. I bought it back from the bank the second I was out. My parents had up and died within a few weeks of each other. They’d left it a bit rank, and the bank never bothered to fix it up. But, at the time, it was nothing I couldn’t stomach. I sometimes enjoyed the moldy smell. The house itself was situated on the top of a hill. Wooded. With a single road curving up the side. The front yard faced town. My backyard faced the mountains. And my house was the highest place for miles. I could see a good chunk of the valley from my porch. And very few could see in through the trees. From my porch, I could see farms. The Squares. And all the little horse trails that once cut the space between them. And through it all there was that grass. Grass that reached out all the way to the Mountains. However. Those Mountains curved around my property to the right at such an angle that there was no break between me and them. It was the only vulnerability I was aware of. It bothered me. Enough that I always felt exposed. However, my leg grew stiffer throughout the day, and I never got around to addressing it. But, as I returned, I remembered the Marshal’s words. Ticking in my ears with activity. I remembered about what had happened to the Dawsons. I remembered Mrs. Waller’s warning as well. I suddenly felt as though the time for action had come. I moved quickly up the hill. Ducking through the trees. My house was an old junker with peeling blue paint. It looked run down. But I didn’t care about that. It was just a storage depot. I could sleep anywhere. Behind it though. That’s what I was worried about. That’s where I grew all my victory. Our victory. Twenty beds worth. All planted into the ground. Not raised boxes. Nothing on top neither. I don’t know why it grew so well around here. Maybe it was because I was close enough to the Waller’s property that most critters left me alone. The rats all knew about her. And birds did too. They knew to stay away. Even a mile down the road I’d still find bloody feathers stuck in the grass. Plucked. Copper and red dried on their tips. I pushed my new wheelbarrow past the house and into the garden. I saw Rex. My scarecrow. Bending in the wind. Medals and all. He always kept watch while I was away. He was a good soldier. And it seemed he’d done a good job. Nothing was missing. Nothing looked out of place. In that garden I grew squash, pumpkins, zucchini, corn and…I suppose lavender? I didn’t plant lavender. But there is it. Beans. Broad. Short. Lima. Truth be told I didn’t know I had no idea what on earth I was doing so right. But eventually I’d found that if I just minded my water, used the Doctor’s fertilizer, trimmed off any fights between the leaves, and kept watch, everything else seemed to take care of itself. Something about the soil here. I don’t know what. But something. Things were growing faster these days. A lot faster than they used to when I was a kid. At least that’s what the old folks say. The ones still with us. Blind as a bat, every last one of them. Apparently the days were longer back then. And brighter. After the Big Ones went off. Now, however, most things were mostly back to normal. But these days, everything seemed just a little bit…hungrier. Even the food. I made my way to the edge of the hill, out where my little orchard was rustling. There, at the lip of the hill was my castle. Seven fruit trees that overlooked the valley. All of them, barely a year old. I hadn’t planted a single one of them. But, one day, they’d just popped up and sprouted. Soon after that, they all started producing. I passed pecans. I passed olives. There were lemons, mulberries, and pomegranates. A palm tree with little dates. Best of all, there were the Peaches. The air felt different around a peach tree. The leaves make everything smell sweet. I’d never smelled anything quite like it. Like figs, jam, and overripe pineapple all mixed together and left out to stew. By now there were dozens of fuzzy little heads poking out from every leaf. Most of them still had some heavy green on the tops, but I knew they’d be right as rain by tomorrow. Hot winds were starting to shake the oaks above me. Unusually strong winds. I looked over the valley and felt my breath catch. Out there, I saw a monster peeking out from behind the mountains. A cloud. A storm giant. It was flashing purple, and sending waves of distress out through the grass. I felt I should go polish my pistol. The Marshal had spooked me. But I felt clear. Alert. Active. Danger always made me calmer. Now, I had enough bullets to feel secure in my decisions. Since it would be dark soon that meant I should’ve started dinner a while ago. But, I dumped out the wheelbarrow, gloved up, and I got to work. By the time the rain started, I’d already strung up foxtails over every last tree. Laced them on every branch. I strung them loose. But loosest of all on the peaches.

14.

THAT conversation with the Marshal got me thinking. Had my gears turning. By the time night fell, I already decided I wouldn’t sleep at all. The storm was almost here. That meant cover. Not just for me, but for everything else as well. And now that I had a whole ass General looking forward to my peaches. I couldn’t let a single one of them go to waste. Or to bruise. Even by the storm. Once the foxtails were in place, I storm-proofed my garden. Tied town tarps. Stamped stakes into the ground and weighed stalks with rocks like I was setting up a sand bag. I even started scavenging too. Produce always ripened fast. And some of it ripened while I was away. Things spoiled faster now. Once my Victory Garden’s fruits were no longer fit for service, that’s when they became mine. And today a fair amount had spoiled. More than ever before. My wheelbarrow started filling up. Rotten. Half rotten. Past ripe. Mush. I took it all. Finally, the storm started to wail, and the sky turned black. Clouds flashed pink. The rain got hot. But by then, all the garden was safe. Tamped down and covered. The only thing left was to keep watch through the night. And for that, I knew I would need fuel. Soaking wet and shivering I dumped the produce onto my floor and left the back door wide open behind me. I toweled off. Set a fire. Fed it. And then I did my rounds. Braced doors. Checked windows. Set nails in cans and set the cans on strings. That night, I was going to war. And I’d be damned if something snuck up on me behind me. In a perfect world I would have coffee and reinforcements. Coffee and smokes to keep me up. To keep me sharp. But I didn’t. And I couldn’t let the mush go to waste. That could only mean one thing. Mudpot. Shitstu. Charboil. Snafood. Macanockie. It had a lot of names. And every group of guys always had their own slang. But the general idea was always the same. A Soldier’s field ration stew made with everything but love. And anything you had. Slop. Feed. The worst way to eat. And the best way not to die. Something hardy. Something hot. Something to keep the blood boiling in your hands on nights like this. And as the rain got to splattering over the tarps, I got to prepping that too. I took the worst of the carrots. The moldiest of the onions. Some mush of what used to be a squash. And some charred, sunburnt pieces of veg I couldn’t even decipher. I took it all. Tossed it in a pot. Earlier I’d said that the Doctor’s Feed and Mill never carried food. I said that they didn’t carry produce. And I do stand by that. But it's only half true. See, once a year the Doctor would stock a specialty item. A military surplus potted meat. Something that was about as far from food as a meal could reasonably get. Pure salt, protein, and gristle. No one else ever wanted to buy more than a few cans of it. That is, except me. So, once a year, I bought out his whole stock. Normally I’d eat it straight. Maybe with some mustard seed. But tonight was different. Tonight I was feeling alive. I cracked two cans of the shit and plopped them in a pan. Right on top of the mush. The wind was howling. I set the heat on high and let it simmer. Lightning. I stopped and counted five beats to the clap. The worst of the storm was yet to come. And it was coming fast. I cut the soup with two cans of black beans, a jar of tomato paste, some margarine to finish it off. I propped open the front door so I could let the fire light shoot out into the garden. I let the rain come inside. I sat at the table. No lights except the fire behind me. Wind rushing through. It fed the fire. The fire grew hotter and brighter than I normally would have allowed it. But tonight, it was fine. I had plenty of wood to spare. Plenty of grass that I’d cut. And plenty of darkness to watch. I got to cleaning my pistol, and as I did, the smell of the Macanockie stew hit me like a load of bricks. It was among my most practiced motions. The rod in the bore, and taking care to brush out the fouling. Not that I’d fired, in a long while, but I wanted to be ready. Once I’d greased and locked everything back together, I began loading bullets. As the stew started bubbling, I fired two shots out the front door, and out into the night. Just because. It felt good. I started mashing the beans, and cut the heat. Once the stew was all the same color and consistency, I dipped in an old coffee mug. I sat. I sipped. I chewed. I watched. I watched the night. And I remembered it all. I remembered the Dawsons. The handsome gopher. The war. The suffering of my brothers in arms. The nights I’d spent as a greenhorn little shit in weather worse than this. With nothing but my rifle and a thermos of watered down salt coffee to keep me from shivering. I remembered how fast I could run. How fast I could shoot. My last operation. My first medal. My first kill. And the last Reek I ever saw in person. The one who took my knee. My future. My career. The man with the pocket watch. It was on my last operation. I remembered I’d broke through the line. I mowed them all down. Didn’t even need a rifle for some of them. I remember how I found that dugout where all their officers had been hiding. How they’d all died. They’d died well. Quickly. And loudly. And by my hand. And at my feet. Pretending to be people the whole time. But only one of them had had balls. Full marks for that. I remember how I’d got him. Right through the neck. And I remembered my confusion. I’d found him sipping cognac. And eating chocolate. Alone in the back. And he’d been laughing. I didn’t understand what was so funny. Even as I caved his throat in, he kept grinning at me. Red and chocolate in his gums. I’d asked him why he was laughing. At that he’d lifted up his pocket watch. And it was ticking. And inside it I had seen some pictures. More Reeks most likely. He’d gurgled something I didn’t understand. But I didn’t need to. Because that was when I heard it. And we both knew…he’d beaten me. There was a howl of shells. And through it all, that goddamn watch kept ticking. Tick. Tick. That’s when I’d realized. He’d called in a strike on himself. On his own men. On his own base. On everyone. Just to get me. I’d had four seconds to skeddaddle. I must’ve made it 60 yards. I’d made it just far enough away to keep a little more than most of me. And no where near enough. But tonight, I felt almost whole. I remembered that hallway. The ticking. The sudden whoosh of wind behind me as the shells punched paydirt. The metal that came flying towards my leg. At that, I checked my own watch. It was ticking too. I set my pistol on the table. Pointed it out into the night. I stared off into that flashing dark, wishing something, wishing anything, would. 

15.

THE night passed slow. And the night passed cold. I spent hours just listening for twigs. Or screams. Or sirens. But the only howls I heard just came from the wind. And once everything got windy, it started getting worse. The wind began was beginning to get dangerous. Roaring. Not just yelling, but spitting entire branches into my windows. Into other trees. Kicking dirt and mud up into the sky. And splattering fertilizer out onto my floor.

That’s when it happened. 

A peach. Half ripe. Bright green. And wasted forever splatted into my window. And moments later I heard the sound I most feared. Wood. Fresh wood. Fruit wood. Snapping. Breaking. Ripping. Ruined. Before I could think, I was already running. Sprinting out. I ran, sliding on the mud. The Garden was in danger. There was no time for a lantern. The light from the fire behind me would have to do. And the lightning too. As the sky flashed pink I saw one of the fruit trees had fallen. It was laying on the ground. Wrapped up like a body bag in the wires and tarp. I peeled it back and felt relief. It was the palm tree. Not the Peach. Palms had shallow roots. But the others were in danger too. All of the trees were leaning. Bending. Breaking. Tarps flying off them. Fruit flying every which way. Victory, wasted. Lives ruined. And worst of all I could sense that the peach tree’s tarp was about to tear. To fly off. I knew I had to choose. Quick as I could I dragged the fallen palm tree. I rolled it down and lifted it high above my head. Something clicked. And then it snapped. And my whole body grew hot. But it didn’t matter. I set the tree off to the side, plunging it down into the soil. I twisted it in the rain. I set it up and pressed it against the far end of the Peach Tree’s trunk. Hoping that it would brace it. I secured the tarp. I pinned down the base of the tree. I tore down my pecan tree. I used its carcass to brace the roots and pray. Then, only then, did I move to the other side. The side of the tarp that was coming undone. I reached for the tarp’s corner, the one flapping in the wind. And that’s when I saw it. A hand. A human hand. Twisted. Strung. And rotten. Pistol already in its home, I jumped back and shouted. “Who’s there!? Answer now or I’ll end you!"

There was no answer. I aimed the pistol. But as I moved my arm to aim, the light from my kitchen slid past my shoulder. I saw something. Something twisted in the wires. I saw that the foxtails had done their job. They had caught me a Gopher. And just like the Marshal had said, the Gopher knew it was caught. I saw two ratty eyes reflecting the firelight. They were thrashing back and forth in the dark like a gut-hooked trout. 

“Stay still!” I shouted. “Don’t move a muscle!” 

But it didn’t listen. 

“You hear me?!” I fired the pistol by its head. Just to let it know I was serious. Still nothing. It just kept thrashing. But, in that moment, the flash from the muzzle lit up its face. For a split second I saw an open mouth with no sound coming out. Its eyes were wide. And I couldn’t quite tell what it was. But it was small. Very small. And in that moment, the peach tree snapped.

16. 

THE Storm had turned into something worse. Something most people don’t live to describe. The winds got so loud, everything else got silent. Lightning flashed. And in the sky I saw trees. Whole trees. A forest suspended in the sky. And what looked like a house. The wind started breaking the big branches. It threw planter boxes. Something hit my leg. I heard a spatter. Must’ve been the fertilizer. And it I could feel it was only getting worse. I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. My body telling me to move. 

“MOVE NOW. OR DIE.” It said. My gut told me if I didn’t high tail it inside as fast as I could, something in the air would kill me dead before I could even think. But I did not move. For everything I’d built was being destroyed. Everything I had hoped to give. And now, some damned Gopher had gone and tipped over my crown jewel. I could hear its fruits thudding. Peaches scattering in every direction. A gust of wind nearly blew me on my ass. In that moment, I suddenly felt so cold that I thought for sure it was death. I turned to go inside. I thought I was gonna hunker under my parent’s old book shelf. Maybe brace it with the gun safe. Anything. Maybe I’d use some lumber too, before it all got splintered. But for some reason my body did something different. I cut the gopher loose. I don’t know why. But I did. I didn’t cut it loose from the foxtails. But I did cut the foxtails from the tree. Just the tree. I tore apart the whole damn trunk. I didn’t have pliers. But in that moment, I doubt it would have made a difference. I tore the trunk apart like paper with my bare hands. It split how I meant it to. And that was that. And once it was free, I grabbed the Gopher by its pelt and strung it up across my back. That was when I heard death. A monster. The howl of shells. The rush of bombs, racing down from the heavens. It was the wail of shells. A Jericho’s trumpet screaming on the storm. And for a second, I was back in that hallway beneath the bunker. But this time, my leg gave out completely. Locked out like a log. Still…somehow. I made it to the steps of my house. Somehow. I made it out of that hallway. And then I crawled. I dragged us both back into the house. I pulled and squished through the mud coating my deck. Finally I pulled myself up the railing. I threw that muddy little shit past the door. It flew halfway across the room, hit the wall, and bounced off into the wheelbarrow. Both toppled with a thud into the pile of rotten fruit I’d refused to use in the stew. I slid into the house, and latched the door. It was everywhere. All over the place. Mud. Blood. Rain. Metal. It was everywhere on the floor. The Gopher though, it was just laying there. Motionless. Still trussed in the wires like a Christmas roast. Foxtail pompoms glittering in the firelight. So I got to work. I boarded the windows. I latched the door. I was fifty feet behind my eyes, but I braced it all. Blood was rushing in my ears. I could feel the groundmoving beneath my feet. And once everything was secure enough, I collapsed onto the floor. The room started spinning. And the last thing I saw was the stew I’d toppled. Bubbling down onto me. I felt myself slide into unconsciousness. And I knew, no way in hell would I be able to fetch the Marshal tonight.

17.

I awoke. The storm was howling. My gut told me that it was still sometime that night. Then I remembered. I was not alone. I wheeled over and saw a monster standing on top of me. Mud, blood, and wire. It was vomiting. Vomiting black bile onto my skin. Eating me. Killing me. Preparing me for digestion like some sort of spider. I jumped back and fell. Pain started shooting through my entire body. The kind of pain that catches in your back. Holds your breath hostage. Presses on your throat like a boot on your neck. The world was moving. Spinning. My vision was so blurry I could barely think. I knew I needed to take a defensive position. I had brought a gopher inside my home, and now it was just seconds away from killing me. But as I tried to jump up again, I fell. My foot was not where it was supposed to be. I crashed into the table. Pulled myself up onto the chair. On top of that table I saw my pistol, my watch, and some scattered ammo. As well as the macanockie pot. The one I’d toppled. Cold. I grabbed the pistol and trained it on the monster. It was disgusting. It had already slunk back, huddling by the fire. On top of my rotten produce. A mess of mud with black foxtail pompoms sticking out of it.

Black bile pouring out of its mouth. 

“What the fuck were you doing to me!?” I shouted. I pointed the pistol at its chest. It didn’t answer. But waved its paws a little bit. It blinked. It kept waving. 

“ANSWER ME!” I shouted. 

Still nothing. I fired two shots into the ceiling. The Gopher didn’t react. But the muzzle flash made it retreat closer to the fire. I watched as it waved its hands. It took some charcoal from the tray beneath the fire. It grabbed a moldy cabbage. And an onion. It started chewing them all together. 

“YOU GOPHER FUCK! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!” 

But instead of retreating this time, it approached. Pointing. Chewing. But not eating any of it. Not eating a damned thing. It kept taking huge bites of the charcoal and then more of the mush as fast as it could. That explained the black bile. As I watched, barely conscious, I saw more started dribbling down from its mouth. It approached me again. Pointing at my leg. Then, and only then, did I make the mistake of looking down at my leg. It was gone. Unrecognizeable. Bent. Bent so far sideways it was almost funny. All the way off to the right. And from that bend, there was wood. A jagged piece of wood sticking out like a cowlick. That explained a lot. That explained the itch. And that explained why I was seeing things. I was going in shock. I felt the room start to spin and grabbed the table. I felt my gut sink. Upside down I saw the Gopher try to approach me again. I shoved my back against the wall and raised the gun again. I fired a warning shot. Knocked some mud off its side. It didn’t react. But the muzzle flash made it blink its confusion. 

“I’M NOT GIVING YOU NO MORE WARNINGS! GET BACK OR DIE!”

No reaction again. All it did was point and chew. Point and chew. It made a grab at my leg. I pistol whipped it back to the floor. It came back. But I guess it saw by the look on my face I wasn’t to be messed with. It stopped. And held out its hand. There was a foxtail stuck in it. Deep in the mud. I watched as the Gopher pointed at its hand and began spitting the black mixture from its cheeks, spitting it out onto the wound. Then it made another grab for my leg. I pressed the gun into its head. It didn’t care. Or it didn’t understand. Suddenly, I was too shocked to react. It was trying to help me. I watched as it began spitting all the black mixture it had been keeping in its mouth like a chipmunk out onto my knee. Onto the wood sticking out of it. Onto the wound. I felt white hot pain shoot up my leg. Never a good sign. I pushed the gopher back and sent it skidding over towards the fire. The next couple minutes passed in silence. Apparently satisfied the Gopher returned to the warmth. It sat. Looking at me. Sitting on top of the muddy mass of moldy vegetables. Shivering. I heard its stomach growl. I watched as it began munching on a piece of squash so rotten that even I had passed it by. It was practically a liquid.

“STOP!” I’d shouted. Again it didn’t react. I could have thrown something to stop it. But I saw that this Gopher was not wasting a thing. Slurping down mud and moldy squash. Its eyes were wide. I looked outside. The storm had started to kick it into high gear. This was no longer anything short of a natural disaster. I sighed. I felt it catch in my chest. I was certain death could come at any second. I took stock of my situation. I had no desire to pass out again. I knew if I did, there was a chance I would never wake up. But, now that I knew what was happening I could handle shock. I just needed to stay awake. And there was still a mostly full pot of Macanockie on the table. Hand shaking I dipped a half shattered mug in, and set my leg on a chair with a gasp. I ate slowly. It was awful. But it was necessary. Particularly with blood loss. I heard the Gopher’s stomach growl. It was watching me. I finished. But I had made too much. And for some reason I slid the whole rest of the pot of stew across the floor. Towards her.

18.

MY great niece had come to visit. Actually, my Goddaughter. Yeah. That sounded better. My Goddaughter had come to visit. That’s what the Doctor told me as he examined my leg. He told me that my Goddaughter had been living with me for about a week now. And that last night, she had saved my life. He’d told me how the girl was the daughter of an old war buddy of mine. A good patriot. A brother who I’d served with in the same platoon. Way back when. He told me how I’d served with the man. How I’d saved his life. And how, decades later, as a show of thanks, that man had named me the godfather to his daughter. 

“That’s what happened.” The Doctor assured me as he examined my leg. “But then…tragedy struck. Purple Fever took out her whole family. And after that? Poor girl was all alone. So that’s when she came looking for Belleseare. It was her father’s dying wish, I’d say. She had a note on her. One from her Pa. Your old pal, right? He’d told her that if she was EVER in trouble…well, she should come find you. King Louie. And just like you saved his life all those years ago, you could save hers too.” 

“What the fuck are you babbling—” 

The Doctor poured Waller Brand apple liquor over the chunk of wood still sticking out of the side of my knee. It burned the curse right out of me. So I gave him another, free of charge. I called him a piece of shit. 

“It’s pronounced, thank you.” The Doctor said, digging through his leather bag. “She’s a smart one, you know.” 

I asked him what the hell he was talking about. 

“Look at the edges.” 

I looked down at my leg. The big shard of wood was about the width of my wrist. It made me dizzy just looking at it. The wood had entered my leg at an angle. While my leg had been locked out. It had entered just below the knee. The shin and foot below it bent out like a squiggle. And my whole leg had started to turn purple twinged with little blue spiderwebs. The foot had started to swell. But, the Doctor directed my attention to the edges of the actual entry wound. There, I saw some crusty black bits of bile the Gopher had spat onto the edges. Like an old scab. It was solid, but it was moving. Washing away in streams from my leg. Dripping off with the apple liquor. I told him what I could remember of the Gopher.

“Your Goddaughter, yes.” The Doctor explained, setting out some tools on the table. “If not for that poultice, I suspect you woulda bled out like a stuck pig. I see plant fiber, charcoal, and wood ash. But then again. I suspect you knew that already. That’s why you called me, isn’t it? Why you called me and not the Marshal? Or the Chaplain.”

To that I had no reply. But we both knew he was right. It was 11 am now. The following day. The storm was over. But the damage control had only just begun. The storm had been nothing short of catastrophic. Belleseare was left in shambles. She had not seen this much damage in all her years. Not even during the first raids all those years ago. Apparently our little town was all but ruined. Everything was in chaos. People were missing. The Gardens were ruined. The farms were mushed. The roads were destroyed. One of the Waller girls had been hurt. Bad. And, Old Mrs. Callister had taken an irrigation pipe to the head. And worst of all, the DeRounds were nowhere to be found. Along with their whole damn General Store. 

“Craziness.” The Doctor had hissed, sanitizing his instruments. “Never seen anything like it. The whole building was just….Fwoosh…carried away with the wind. And their apartment? The DeRounds? They lived on that second level above it. As their friend, I hope we find them. But as their Doctor…I can’t say I have high hopes.”

As I soon learned, the Doctor had been everywhere this morning. As the town’s only true medical professional, he was on emergency duty. Apparently I was his fourteenth patient of the morning. After my Goddaughter, of course. Early that morning, as soon as the winds had died down, the Marshal had arrived at my house. Five am. Him and four soldiers, all carrying lanterns and guns. I’d assured them everything was fine. I did not want them in the house, so I walked to the door and asked if they would kindly summon the Doctor. The Marshal had looked suspiciously around my ruined garden, eyes watering. But then he’d seen my leg. Bent off at an angle. The chunk of of tree lodged into kneecap. One of the soldiers had vomited. The others whistled.

“You tough sunuvabitch.” The Marshall had grinned. “I’ll get him. Hang tight. You alright to stay here, till then?” 

I told him I’d just be staying around the house today. And with that, him and his posse had all rushed off to finish their militia round. Later that morning, once all soldiers had been stabilized, once Val was in good shape, and only after Mrs. Callister had been given a full examination, the Doctor had made his way on over to me. He made the long trek out. The road was ruined so he didn’t get here until 10:45. As usual, the Doctor was showing no skin and was dressed in that starchy denim with dark glasses and a sunhat. But unlike every other time I’d seen him before, he was wearing some big rubber galoshes and carrying an old leather doctor’s bag. It looked expensive. After a brief explanation, and quick examination, the Doctor had concluded that the girl on the floor was indeed alive. And that she was my Goddaughter to boot. She had to be. And he assured me that she was not dead. Just, totally unconscious. Not that I cared. But when I asked him if she was in danger, he said no. Just that she was wiped out beyond belief. After an examination, he’d confirmed she was healthy, and in no immediate danger. And after that, he’d given me a choice. Liquor or morphine. I made mine accordingly. He handed me the brandy bottle. He took his patient into the other room. While I self medicated, he cleaned her up, washed off the mud, and plucked every last foxtail from her skin. He said there was a trick to it.

“In fact,” He began, his voice echoing unusually down the hall. “I heard a ru-rumor about these things you know. From someone...or another. Apparently whoever….designed these things originally made them as a….as some sorta unidirectional s-surgical aid. Something to stabilize tissues during oper—or….sa…some bullshit like that.”

The brandy was working. I kept chugging as he kept talking. I had some weird acoustics in my house. Kept cutting his voice off.

“He kept…kept mentioning something about how…they were originally designed in such a way that if you take em out right, they…they don’t leave so much as a goddamned mark. No stitches required. I don’t…imagine they were ever intended for…for…for any…anything like....”

The acoustics cut out for a while. A long while. But when the Doctor did finally return, things seemed to be in order. And in his arms, he was carrying a girl. Like a little rag doll. Without a word he set her down on my daybed, and as he moved out the way, I suddenly recognized that I had seen her before. Though at first, I did not recognize her. Turns out under the mud she had a bright shock of hair. I shouted that SHE was that little shit who’d knocked me over on the day of the hanging. The one who’d knocked me into the mud. Without saying sorry, I might add. I said so. The Doctor sighed.

“That makes sense then. Your Goddaughter has had a tough trip here. And if either of you wants to be safe, you’ll drill that story deep into that thick ass skulla yours. Now. I’ll ask you again. Are you sure you can take this? We can’t right go fetch someone else.”

I said I was. So, the Doctor gave my Goddaughter the morphine. The last of it. Her head lolled off to the side. I saw her face go blank. She looked peaceful. I recognized that look. Fairyland. I’d spent half a year that way after the accident. Maybe more. No pain. No thoughts. Just the best sleep of your life. I said so.

“Sleep heals more than just the body.” The Doctor agreed. “I recommend it to all my patients. But especially to you. Now, she’ll probably be asleep for the next day or two. So come and fetch me when she wakes up, would ya?” 

“Fine.” I said, gritting my teeth. With that the Doctor had started his full examination on me. As he worked, I felt the corn liquor i’d chugged start to go to my head. Numbing the dead meat behind my eyes. I’d barely eaten, so everything started swaying. Outside, in the distance, I heard military trucks, construction equipment, and men roaring about something or another. Screams. Shouts. Wind. Through my broken window, I couldn’t see a thing except brown. Spattered soil. Ruined earth. Roots. Rocks. A scene of total devastation. Soil deep.My backyard was mostly destroyed. The victory garden was dead. Torn. Every tree for the most part was gone. The soil, peppered with branches and trunks of things I’d never seen. Beyond that? In the valley below, it was even worse. All that grass I’d been so worried about the day before, was gone. All gone. Everything had been lifted and mushed around. Gigantic trees had been carried down from the mountains. Their huge trunks peppered the farms. The tight, regimented squares that usually made up Bellesear’s farm plots were now all but melted away. Their lines were crossed. The farms had bled together. It was like the entire world had gotten tilled. Made fresh. And strange.

“I don’t...need to say it, do I? Not to you.” 

I looked back to the Doctor. I told him he did not. I was well aware of my condition. At that, the Doctor nodded, and removed a saw from his bag. He handed me another bottle of corn liquor and some leather to bite on. He tied a cable belt around my leg. Just above the knee.  It started to tighten.

“Like I told you, that was the last of the morphine. And the storm knocked out all the roads so fair shot we won’t get anything new for a long while. This is gonna hurt. Hurt like nothing you can imagine. Heart might even stop. Even still, I can’t have you moving, you hear? Not a goddamned inch. And no swinging on the Doctor.” 

I reminded him, that I had made my decision. That I wanted the girl to have the morphine. And that I could handle a bit of hurt.

“Everyone talks big.” That Doctor sighed. “Although, truth be told, you’re the first one I’m inclined to believe. Just...do me a favor, look out at the window, would you? Out at your garden.” 

I told him there was nothing left to look at it. And also that seeing my garden in that state would be more painful to look at than whatever some two-bit quack in rubber boots could dish out. At that he had laughed. And began to saw. I bit the cowhide so hard I could taste blood. I wondered if the cow behind it, had once been raised in Bellesear. I watched. I listened. And I heard the second hand on the Doctor’s watch. Ticking.

19.

THE Doctor asked if he could take my leg with him. Said he wanted it for something. I said he could burn it for all I care. Not like I would be needing it. Seemed happy at that. He took out the mush of what used to be my kneecap. Way back when. He said it explained a lot. I didn’t understand what he meant. I was so hooped up on Waller-Brand apple brandy that my breath could’ve started a tank. He dropped some stuff into one of my mason jars. Poured some liquor on top of that too. I asked if I should drink that. He said that it was more of a souvenir. That’s about when we heard some screams drifting up from across the way. I heard engines. And gunfire. The Doctor jumped to his feet and tried to put me in my bed. I refused. Said I’d keep watch. I said I’d make sure she didn’t try anything. The Doctor glanced at my Goddaughter and nodded.

“Fine.” He told me. “But no falling over. Keep the knee dry. Keep it elevated. Stay alive. And drink some water for godsake.” 

He tightened the tourniquet on my leg, and got one of my good belts from the other room. With that belt he latched me upright to the chair. He set my bleeding stump on the other chair and propped it up with a collection bucket. Then he got to rummaging through my cupboard and started putting everything I might could need on the table. Within my arm’s reach. Water. Potted Beef. Canned corn. Whiskey. Pan. Bullets. Rags. Can opener. Good Folk. Most people wouldn’t thought like that. Towels. Bowl. Then he wrapped up my severed leg in a towel. He strung it across his chest like a baby in a sling. Or a market ham. The screams got louder. "Duty calls," the Doctor said. He said he would return with pain meds. When he could find any. With that our Doctor Collector left. He took my leg. I took his story. Fair trade. I don’t know how long I sat there. Must’ve been two days at least. During that time my Goddaughter barely moved a muscle. And as she slept, I practiced her story. Thinking back on my time in basic, I remembered there was one man who would fit the bill for being her father. A loser. A dipshit from my first platoon. I remembered watching him peel potatoes with a fork. Leeds. Something Leeds. I decided then and there that she was his daughter. And that she was my Goddaughter. Fortunately everyone who could fact check me on "Loser Leeds" was long dead, or long gone. And if anyone got suspicious enough to check records, well…that’d mean death for us both anyways so no use worrying about it now. The pain was less than ideal. Dull. Constant. But, not sharp. For some reason, it felt good. It itched something fierce. But it truly did feel good. Maybe it was the apple liquor. Maybe it was the blood loss. Or maybe I was just in shock. Probably all of the above. I started sweating bullets and kept pounding water until I couldn’t see. I pissed and shit into a pan as best I could. And I tossed it all out the window. I only  missed once. Ah well. I ate potted beef straight out the can. Tossed that too. Vomited. I got to looking at the souvenir from my surgery. The specimen the Doctor had prepared for me. At first I thought he had just put some blood and liquor in. But by then the blood settled down into the bottom of the mason jar. Along with most the color. Like river water left to set. And when it did all settle down to the bottom, I understood what the Doctor had been talking about.‘Explained a lot.’ Sure as hell did.  I shook it up. Sure enough, I heard a clanking. Lifted it to the light. Inside, there was sizable amount of metal shining through the glass. Metal and bone. Splinters of both. I realized that’s what had been digging into me all this time. Ordinance. Stabbing me every single step for the last decade. What a goddamned waste. That was about when she woke up.

20.

“SHE a retard?” I asked the Doctor. I was getting nervous about my Goddaughter. I didn’t know if I could care of one of them. Least of all without a left leg. I didn’t know what was required of me. And I was getting worried. Because, as soon as my Goddaughter had woken up, she had rushed for the rest of the bowl of Macanockie. Three days old at that point. Maybe more. Mostly flies. She ate it all. Flies to boot. No permissions. No questions. No apologies. She was starving. So she ate. I respected that. But that was when I started to get nervous. Once she was done she sat right back on the couch. Swaying. I tried telling her the story. Our story. Told her she was my responsibility now. And if she wasn’t she was dead. We both were. But she just sat there. Sat and stared. Waving her hands. It was unnerving. The whites of her eyes were a bit yellow. And the rest of them were an odd ambery brown. It made her look feral. It was almost like being stared down by a little hawk. Or a bird that flew into your house. The bones in her face were all showing at weird angles. She was rail thin but her belly was stuck out like a balloon. And her feet were the size of bowling balls. Made it her look all the stranger. She tried walking over to the door. I shouted at her. She didn’t respond. I threw something. She stopped and walked back over the couch. Waving at me. I slid over some water. She drank. She fell right back asleep. The Doctor returned later that night. Sometime around seven. I had been waiting for him. Nervously. I watched him slide up the drive. He didn’t walk, by the way. He slid. Even through all the mud he just kept moving. Didn’t slow him down a tick, He came in. Debooted. Debagged. But kept everything else on. He said he was off duty for the day. Everyone in the town had been attended to. As well as everyone in the hills.

The Doctor apologized. I’m not sure why. But he did all the same. He said he had even been called up north for a time. Bad news. It was all bad. But now he was back and could be of service. He said it was just the three of us. I asked for the news. He looked shaken. Even beneath all the clothes. I realized with so much fine work to attend, he probably had not gotten a chance to smoke. I said he should. Might do us both good. The Doctor agreed. He rolled up two. He lit mine as he started inspecting the stump of my leg. His handiwork. He peeled off my dressings. I hadn’t smoked in a minute. It felt wonderful. It was like a flock of bees were stinging me back to life. From the inside out. They stung me down to my spine. Trickled up my neck and back down my forehead. But, it made the stump start throbbing something horrible. It started bleeding again. Dripping. Beneath the dark of his hat, I saw smoke pouring out from the Doctor’s nose. “How’s the pain?” He asked. I told him it was nothing I couldn’t manage. At that, he poked where my bone used to be and I yelped so loud I almost swallowed my cigarette. I called him a piece of shit. The Doctor’s teeth flashed in the dark between puffs of smoke.

“Come on now.” He’d said. ”You should be thanking me. Clearly I don’t hate you nearly half as much as whoever the hell patched you up the first time. Whoever it was. They left you with half a damn mortar inside your leg. Maybe two from the looks of it.” He shook up the mason jar for emphasis. The liquor inside had been died pink. Its contents tinkled and cracked. It glittered like the like the little foxtails on the wire.

“So that’s what was causing me all the problems?” I asked. 

“No.” The Doctor said in between puffs. “But I’d wager that’s what was causing all the pain. And why you’d walk around like the tin man with tetanus.” I don’t know what he meant. But I suspected he was being an Ass. He had a strange way of smoking. He’d inhale it into his mouth, but then push the smoke up into his nose again. Made him look like a dragon when we was talking. “But I suppose I can’t blame your surgeon too much. You’re the fool who insisted on walking on that knee every day. Carrying boxes. Gardening. Making it enflamed. Oh, good morning by the way, little Missie.”

The Doctor didn’t turn. Not even sure how he knew. But sure enough, he was right. Behind him, I saw those two yellow eyes staring at us from behind the couch. The Doctor left my stump uncovered. It stung. 

“We’ll let that air dry for a bit.” The Doctor had said. He extinguished his cigarette. Stamping it out on the bloody linens he’d used to wrap me up. I noticed that he extinguished the cigarette before walking over to the girl.

“Hey there little Missie. You alright? How you feeling?”

He started poking and prodding. Tapping her neck. Flashing a light into her eyes. She started waving. I voiced my concerns about her. I said she hadn't so much as said a word to me the whole goddam time. And that I was worried she was retarded. Or the storm had scrambled her head. At that the Doctor had gotten real quiet. He took a step back. That only confirmed my suspicions. 

“I knew it.” I told him. “She is isn’t she?” To that, the Doctor didn’t respond. Instead, he just put a glove on her head. After a moment, he came back over. 

“Doctor. What do I—”

“Hush up a moment.” The Doctor cut my question in half, slicing it at the joint. He waved a leather glove at me and started rummaging through his bag. After a sec, he grabbed his trusty clipboard and got to scratching. Cutting that up too. He showed it to the girl. At that her eyes lit up and started flooding. She started nodding vigorously. Like a little bobble head. The Doctor sighed and showed me the paper. On it he had written just one word. A question. DEAF?

21.

MY Goddaughter’s name was Viol Ames Leeds. And it always had been. That’s what we said. But I ended up calling her Macanockie. Mac for short. She was twelve. Or. Thereabouts. As far as she could say. She’d had a rough go of it. She was deaf. She was mute. And she was the only daughter of Vincent Leeds. A good man from my first battalion. A few months ago, that Purple Fever that’s been going around, it got to him, his wife, and all three of his sons. Took 'em all out in a single week. Mac was the only one to survive. But, after that sickness, for some reason, her hearing never did come back. And that’s when she decided to come looking for me. She’d gotten lost on the way. On account of her being newly deaf. And not being able to ask for directions. So it took her a while to find me. She could read, though. And she could write. And she could do both of those tasks much better than I could. And, on top of everything else, she was damn hungry. But if she was going to fit in around Belleseare, that meant she would need to start working the soil. Because that’s what Good Folk did. Round here anyways. I was worried there’d be more questions from the town. From the Military. From the Marshal. But, fortunately, Belleseare had much, much bigger problems at the moment. And so did the Boys. The storm had hit us hard. But it had hit the north much harder. General Lorry had been forced to issue a full retreat. He’d had to drag the front line back almost 32 miles. Naturally, the Reeks had pursued. They’d been hiding in wait. They’d set explosives in the mountains and detonated them as the army passed through. Triggered mudslides every chance they got. It was like the rain was on their side. General Lorry had been killed. A lot of folks were missing. Poor Folk. Dead. Not just them. But the town too. Everything was ruined. Everything was broken. And whatever wasn’t broken had gone missing, or in some cases, had been carried miles. Some of the Waller’s Orchard had been ripped out the ground. Our main street had been shattered. And strangest of all, the General Store had been lifted up into the sky. It floated off with Mr. and Mrs. DeRounds still inside. The Hanging Platform though, that was still just fine. Mark Squall had sprung for the good stuff, after all. I heard things were changing quickly. Broken towns needed hands. Broken soldiers needed a place to recover. The broken High Command needed a new forward base of operations. Belleseare fit the bill. And the valley around us was defensible. In short, it was a match made in heaven. Everyone needed hands. In the hubbub things happened quickly. The Military set up camp in and around the town. They all got to work. The broken trees were gathered to build a church to help shade the hanging platform. The vacant apartments started being used as field offices. Broken homes started quartering officers. And no one said a thing. Apparently the broken children were being left with the Church. Poor Folk. Because, unfortunately as well, that Chaplain Triage came with the military. I heard he was gonna start teaching a Sunday School for the children’s parents who’d gone missing. Or were off working rebuilding the town. The kids were staying him him. He’d already started drawing up plans for the new church. But until it could be finished, his pop-up confessions booth would stay where it was. In the back of a truck. He said that, from now on, services were to be held every Sunday at nine am sharp. As the cleanup continued, more and more soldiers kept pouring into the valley. The hills became dotted with tents. The mountains with fire. Bugles sounded before the sun. Mess was at 6. Then at 12. Then at 19:00. Even latched to my chair, far away from town, I could tell that everyone was working. Everyone except me. Which meant that I had to recover quickly. For Mac’s sake as well as my own. But in the meantime, I knew I had a story to practice. A prayer or two to rattle off. A Goddaughter to train up. I made Macanockie write lines every night. And then burn every last paper when she was done. And then I made her repeat the same thing every morning. And whenever she wasn’t doing chores. I told her to write it as much as possible. And she was happy to. She was a strange one. The Doctor was right. It took me a minute to see it, but she was damn smart. And she could read books from sunup to sundown. However, I quickly learned that it was all worthless. She was so goddamned spacey sometimes it didn’t even seem to matter how smart she was. She would pick things up and then just leave them wherever. Or forget why she had them at all. I wrote her to get her shit together. I told her the details were important. It’s what Men like the Marshal had been trained to look for. What Good Folk would notice.  She said she didn’t know what I meant. So I had to spell it out. Again. And again. And again. And again. Until I think she got it through that thick skull of hers. And once she did, I had her write it all down again. Eventually, the Doctor found his way back with some pain meds in hand. He assured me they were not morphine. I took them. That was when he delivered my bill. He said the pills were something he’d gotten on surplus, so they were only worth two bales of hay. However, the amputation, the checkups, and the treatment of my Goddaughter, they were all worth at least fifty. I gave him a few of my medals and we called it square. Their melt value alone should put me in the green. He also dropped off some books for Macanockie. As well as his clipboard. That and a fat stack of paper for her to write on. I asked him how much for all that. He said it wasn’t his, so he didn’t feel a need to charge. I didn’t understand. But he looked exhausted. So I said he should use the wheelbarrow. Figured he could make more use of it at the moment. He left. 

22.

AFTER that three weeks went by in the blink of an eye. Not a soul. Not a one, other than the Doctor, came by to check on me. The Doctor only made it on Sundays. People were busy. And that was good. That gave me time to recover. Time to practice. As per the Doctor’s orders, I began scooting my chair around the whole of my house. He said to squirm and move around as often as I could. Nothing worse than a pressure sore. I didn’t like it. But I did as he recommended. I scooted the chair in and around my house. And eventually I found a way to get it out to my porch. And as I did, I finally got to looking around. I discovered that my property had become much bigger than I remembered. Every large tree that had once surrounded my house had either been tipped over or ripped out entirely. And the garden as well. But on the plus side, I had not seen my family’s hill this clear since I was around Mac’s age. It was wider, steeper, and larger too than I ever would’ve expected. Now that everything had been ripped out of the ground, I could see just how overgrown my parents had actually let it all get. And how overgrown I had chosen let it stay. I quickly made it my new habit to scoot my chair out to the porch every day. My porch wrapped around the edge of my house. On it, there was a little table that my Dad had won from a Squall back in the day. It was the only piece of furniture out there that had survived the storm. In fact, it looked unchanged. That elder Squall must’ve sprung for the good stuff as well. In better times, I would’ve sat out there with a cup of coffee, and some stew. But now, the world was different. And the coffee was gone. However. The soil had been tilled to the bedrock. As far as I could see, the entire Valley had since changed color. It smelled of fertilizer. Smoke. And new growth. Like there was something heavy in the air. Something happening. Even as I heard the occasional screams from medical tents, I felt good. Everywhere I looked, I saw a fresh start steaming in the sun. Upturned earth, wire, and tipped trees. Nothing remained. Excepting potential. Macanockie started reading. Reading everything. Books from the Doctor. Books from my parents’ shelf. No asking. No permissions. She was hungry? She ate. She wanted to read. She read. Matter of fact, reading and eating was about all she wanted to do. She understood that she could not leave the property. But I told her she needed to learn how to dig proper. I told her she could read all she wanted. Only after she cleaned the hill. I told her to clean it all day. And then, once she couldn’t rake it any more, and once all her other chores had been done, she could eat. And she could read. THAT she understood. She waved something at me and went out. I told her where all the tools were. Or rather, where they had been. Most had been blown away. But she found the important ones. She told me she never used tools before. I drew some pictures to show her how. She learned it instantly and flipped me off. However, on one of his weekly visits the Doctor informed me that all Mac’s little waves that she did were actually some odd way of speaking. A way for deaf people to talk. Without paper.

“However…” The Doctor had trailed off, watching Macanockie try to dig out a branch. “She does not seem to have been educated in any of the major sign languages.” I asked how he knew. He shrugged. But, he did say that almost all of her waves he’d seen so far did not look traditional. That they were most likely things that had been made up by her family. He told me that he had tried to find a book on sign language, but had not been successful.

“That means,” He informed me. “You’ll both just have to figure it all out yourselves. That or just make up your own from scratch.” And as I quickly learned. THAT was a goddamned pain. I didn’t want to have to think. Least of all when I was hooped up on pain meds. In fact, even after cutting the doses in half, it got to the point that I was becoming worried about how stupid I was on the pills. What if someone came by when I was hopped up. What if I was loopy and forgot my lines? If I said the wrong thing? I told the Doctor that that was way too big of a risk. For all of us. So, I stopped taking them. Cold turkey. I managed the pain. Better that, than to let something slip. So with my head clear and my knee scabbing, I got to learning a bit of Mac’s lingo.

I got ‘YES.’ Thumbs up. 

I got ‘NO.’ Thumbs down. 

I got ‘WATER.’ Holding an invisible glass. 

I got ‘HUNGRY.’ Same thing but angrier. 

Turns out, I was a natural. So I taught her some of mine too. She got ‘SHUT UP.’ Zipper across the mouth. 

She got ‘DON’T FUCKIN ARGUE.’ Same thing, but angrier.

She got ‘ARE YOU STUPID?’ Zipper and dumb face. 

But the one she got the most ‘SHUT UP AND GO DIG.’ A middle finger, and a point out to the dirt. And for everything else, we had paper and pen. 

23.

OUTSIDE of me and the Doctor, Mark Squall was the very first person to meet my Goddaughter, Macanockie. That was what me and the Doctor agreed on. We agreed he’d be the safest bet. We strategized for a long while. Until finally, on a Tuesday the Doctor went over to discuss prosthetics with Mark. After all, I would be needing a new leg soon enough. And when it came to crafting, there was no one better in this world than a Squall. Sure enough, that very afternoon, Mark came by with a roll of his family chisels and a big ass grin on his face. He had gotten some specs from the Doctor but needed to measure me himself. We also had some catching up to do. This was the first time Mark and I had seen each other since that Gopher Hanging. As per the Doctor’s recommendations, Mark found me out on the porch, still strapped to the chair, trash all around me, and less than half a leg stumping out from cut denim. He whistled in shock.

“I heard it was bad.” He mumbled. “But, my God. That’s…that’s something else.” I agreed. I showed him the mason jar of ordinance. I shook it and said that’s why I’d been limping for so long. Said that had been inside my leg for over a decade. Mark gawked. Asked how in the hell I’d been walking around at all.

"Come to think of it.” He asked, holding the jar up to the light. “How were you carrying those veggie boxes around every day too? Didn’t you know that was in there? Your leg I mean." I told him the truth. That I didn’t really notice it until it was gone. That’s about when Mark saw her. Just as planned.

“Well who in the heck do we have here?” Mark had asked, watching Macanockie dig lines in the dirt. I felt annoyed. She had already missed her cue. I threw a rock where she was digging. She looked up. Her face got wide and she ran over, slipping in the mud. She did a little curtsy in her overalls. Then, remembering the script that the Doctor had prepared for us, she rushed off to get some water. She brought it over, but left some mud on the glass. I asked Mark to take a seat and I spun him a yarn so sad it would satisfy the town. I told Mark about my glory days. How there was many I’d saved but none that had been closer to death than my best friend in the world, Vinny Leeds. I told Mark about what happened. About the Purple Fever. And how it took everyone from her except me. And how the fever still had not given back her voice or ears. He nodded. Looking thunderstruck.

“You know…I heard the Reeks made that fever.” I nodded and said I believed it. He said he’d ask his wife if she had any advice. Exactly as planned. The Doctor had been right.

“Maybe we could spare some of our kids' old clothes. If she hasn’t tossed them already I mean. But if she has, we’ll ask around for you. I’m sure someone has something in your Goddaughter's size.” I thanked him. Genuinely. I asked about payment for my leg. Mark shook his head. Said he had his eye on something else entirely. Apparently, of the many trees that had landed on my property, one of them was actually quite rare. He asked if I’d been out to see it. I told him I’d been indisposed. Doctor’s orders. He laughed. Good. He started describing the wood’s properties. I’d negotiated enough to know how to play these things. I told Mark I had planned to chop everything into firewood once my stump had healed. I watched the color in his face drain. He said I’d be making a mistake. He said the wood had his name on it. Said he’d passed it on the way in. Said it was worth more than gold. To a carpenter at least. He asked if he could have some. I told him, and I quote, “As long as I got a good leg out of it, I could give less of a damn what happens to the rest.” He looked happy, but told me not to swear in front of a child. I informed him that she would be unlikely to overhear. He turned bright red and apologized. We listened to Mac’s rake scratching over roots and broken tile. I cut the tension and told Mark he could have the whole damn tree if he wanted it. At that, Mark’s face lit up like a firework. 

“You got yourself a deal!” We shook on it. He raced off to the back of the property and got to chopping. In under a minute he had roughed out a piece, just about the size of what I was looking for. He measured me. He measured my good leg. He measured my boots. Then, once he’d jotted it all down, he wrapped up the wood with a grin and said he’d get to work.

“Disasters mean no rest for Carpenters like me. So there may be a bit of a backorder. Also prosthetics you gotta waterproof them or they start to rot. Takes a while.” I told him that there was no rush. I said that the Doctor had ordered me to stay off my legs for as long as I could. And that meant no walking for at least another month. Bare minimum. Mark looked pleased. He said that was good, because he liked to take his time with these things. Said it was a disrespect to the tree if he didn’t. Not to me, I noted. I asked him how much of the town had been wrecked. He said enough to keep him busy for the next couple of Squalls. I asked him if he’d talked to the Wallers. I asked about Val. He told me it was actually Mariah. Apparently a dresser had come loose and fell on her foot. Mushed it. But that she’d be fine.

"You know them.” He sighed. "The Wallers will always be fine. It was only a foot, but Mrs. Waller had her put the whole damned leg in a cast. Now, they’ve got half the military checking in on her. If they snare any more, they’ll have to make her a General.” Mark started. I guess he thought he said something wrong, because his face got red again, and he apologized for swearing in front of my Goddaughter. I reminded him that it was fine. It’s not like he wrote it down. Mark nodded. After that, we both watched Macanockie dig for a while. She could barely swing the hoe. He asked if it was ok for her to be doing all that.

“Especially when it looks like she can barely stand. What’s going on with those feet?” I said that movement was the best thing for her to be doing. He asked if I could feed her proper. In my condition. I assured him that we were fine. I said I was teaching her how to farm too. I swallowed. The most important part had come. The part the Doctor had underlined in red. I sighed. Mark cocked his head at me. It was time.

“Say. Mark. Think you could do me a favor?"

“Of course.” Mark nodded, eyes wide. Good Folk. I asked if he could keep quiet about Mac. At least for the moment. I informed him that she was shy and still recovering from the death of her parents. And from the loss of her hearing. I told him that she had had a rough ruck on the way here. And that I’m not sure she was up to meeting everyone. Not just yet anyways. But I assured him that as soon as I got my leg, I’d bring her into town to go meet everyone. To meet all the Good Folk. Mark agreed with a smile. He tipped his hat to Macanockie. I watched him go. I thought it worked. The night before, the Doctor and I had both decided that Mark was the best person to call. The best way to spread the news. To spread the story of Mac’s arrival. He was Good Folk, you see. He was liked. He was needed. His family built this town. Literally. He’d raised a couple of sons. And they were all off on deployment. Somewhere. And best of all, we knew, that no matter what he told me, he would immediately go tell his wife. And that his wife, who regularly entertained the company of Mrs. Callister, would accidentally let something slip. That meant the story would get around fast. And knowing her, she’d probably blush it up with each telling. That meant I didn’t have to. That meant the Doctor didn’t have to say a word. And that meant Macanockie didn’t have to do much anything neither. Just to keep digging and looking pathetic. Mission accomplished. I watched him go. Whistling. With a hunk of wood that one day be my leg, on his back. I considered the cost. Some good gossip for a good quality leg? Fair trade as far as I’m concerned. 

24.

MY parents had gathered a small library in their time. After they went blind, there was no need for them to keep any books around. But, then again, there was no need to put in the effort of throwing them. That’s how they lived. My parents were lazy folk. And when I got out of the service, I’d bought the house back from the bank. Turns out, the house came with everything they’d been too lazy to throw away. The bookshelf was full. Stacked ten rows deep with trinkets and useless stories. The only thing I had ever taken from it was kindling. And the only thing I had ever added to it was the deed, receipts, and effect binders from my service and discharge. The house had four rooms. A bedroom. A bathroom. A kitchen. And a porch. I’d grew up sleeping on the kitchen couch. Now, it was Macanockie’s. But soon enough, once she got settled, she stopped sleeping on the couch at all. Started sleeping wherever she happened to be reading. Meanwhile I just I stayed in the chair. I kicked my legs every couple of minutes when I was awake. Leg. Just one leg, I mean. Still getting used to that. I kept wiggling as much as I could too. Didn’t want to get stuck to the wood. I started drinking a bit. Time started passing even slower. During those days Macanockie and I got our story straight. I taught her how to make the stew. I told her that cooking had become her chore now as well. On account of me being stuck in the damned chair she’d have to step up. Be the man of the house. I wrote out a full list for her. Chop wood. Light a fire. Start the stew. Gather greens. Sweep. Dig. Repeat. That was the law. She had no energy at first. It was like she was sleepwalking. I’d be writing her something and I could see her eyes fuzz out. That would piss me off. So I drew pictures of people hanging. Let her know as best I could. Let her know the stakes. She got it real quick after that. After that, she locked in. She started picking up the pace. She started working harder. Started reading harder. Started working until she couldn’t stand. And then reading until she couldn’t see. After chores she would pass out face down in a book. Wherever that book happened to be. Solid wood. Couch cushions. Same difference to her. 

25.

Once things calmed down in the Valley, the Doctor started dropping by twice a week for our checkups. Usually he arrived with a pile of supplies heaped over in my wheelbarrow. However, this particular morning he’d brought a guest along with him. It was the one person I’d been dreading above all others. Well, almost all others. Even still, it was an introduction that Mac and I had been rehearsing for weeks. Still, I didn’t know if we were ready. I felt my ears itch. And tick. Why? Because today, at 9 am sharp, the Doctor arrived with the Marshal in toe. I barely recognized the man at first. The Marshal had lost a ton of weight. You could see his orbitals. Even through his mask. He looked lethal. Walked like a real soldier. Sharp. Wire thin. Head on a swivel. Masked up. Eyes watering. He said he’d been walking ten miles a day minimum just keeping the peace. Or digging people out from the mud. Dragging logs. Catching Gophers. Breaking up fights. Signing for shit. He said Belleseare was changing. Or rather, it already had. Forever. He said that the Valley was a natural fortress. And that it would be made to be as such. He informed us that his family, as well as many other Military Families, were already on their way. He said that they’d all decided to move to Belleseare. To fill in the town’s holes. I welcomed him, and said it was about damned time he started setting down roots. I said that he was one of us. He liked that. But then he got all sour in a matter of seconds. He said that I should have told him about Macanockie. He said the town records would have to be adjusted. He’d have to make some calls. He said that meant more paperwork for him. I apologized and showed him the note. The one Macanockie had brought with her. The one that had been written by my best friend in the world. The Man I’d saved in the heat of battle. As it happened, this was about the fortieth draft of the note. I had instructed Mac to rewrite it every night. Of the many versions she’d written, this was her best work. It touched on the nation, on God, on Family, and on the duties of Man. The Marshal read it with his mask on. Started nodding. Real fast .

“And she made it all the way here? No hearing, no nothing?” He muttered, approvingly. “That’s some god-damned grit if I’ve ever heard of it. How’d she lose it?” 

Purple fever, I informed him. I also said that she had run out of provisions on her ruck to Belleseare. I said she had all but starved herself to death, because she had refused to take any food. In other words, because she could not ask for it, she made  do without it. I said that she arrived on my doorstep, three quarters dead, and two feet like bowling balls. I said the reason I had not reporter her was that I had been quite certain she would die. I said that I did not want to bother the Marshal with twice the paperwork, until I was sure she would live. The Marshal nodded. Eyes watering. I could tell I’d said the right thing. Twice. The Doctor assisted me. From the Marshal’s shoulder, he asked if Macanockie was the reason I had wanted to build a fence. I told him he was correct. I said that I felt I had to protect her. As she was fighting to live. I said that I felt my honor as a Man was on the line. With her, and my garden. And that now that my garden was gone, I would be goddamned if I let something happen to her. I said that I had intended to bring her into town sooner. That is…until my leg. I kicked my stump for emphasis. The Doctor clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“Keep still, you Old Fool. You’ll break the stitching.” The Marshal nodded again. He didn’t respond for a long while. It made me nervous. But the Doctor wasn’t giving a thing away, so I suspect the conversation was going to plan. The Marshal’s mind was racing as he watched Macanockie dig through the fields. I asked what he was thinking. He said that he actually had a son about her age. He said that, as a father, if he had gotten purple fever, he would not have died like Macanockie’s folks. Cowards, he’d called them. For abandoning their child in the face of some little cold. However. He said that he was happy that she had made it to me safely. He said that if she was in my care, rather than some Cowards’, that she would surely turn out alright. Phoenicians. Something or other.

“At least.” He trailed. “So long as you get her to church that is. Gotta keep younguns on a short leash. But then again, I’m sure any Goddaughter of King Louie will turn out to be Good Folk.” 

I thanked him. And that was that. Still, he watched her dig a little too long. She was moving through the dirt like I’d taught her. Slow. Filthy. Not caring how you looked so long as the work was done right. I assured him again I’d whip her into shape.

“If you say so.” He grumbled. “By the way. Chaplain’s been asking about you.” 

To that I did not respond. I didn’t know how to. But, the Doctor cut the tension by stabbing me in the stump. Draining whatever pustules had been building up inside of it. I yelped like a puppy and shit myself on the spot. At that the Marshal forgot everything else we’d been talking about. He dropped right to the floor and started laughing so hard his eyes stopped watering. Macanockie saw us. Her eyes got wide. Real wide. She tripped, and ran over. Bright shock of hair going every which way. She brought him water. And a tissue. No mud on the glass this time. He accepted them both with thanks. He wrote his name down for her and she nodded. She curtsied. I sent her back to go dig. 

“Mac’s alright.” He said, wiping his eyes with a tissue and laughing as the Doctor continued messing with my stump. After a few more questions, the Marshal got up and patted me on the shoulder. 

“Well, I gotta get going. I got honey to collect. Speaking of, you don’t still have any, do you?” 

I said if I did, it was nothing but crystals. And that those would be up in the cupboard. He nodded. He said, 

“Well I’ll be taking whatever you’re willing to give. Iffin' you please.”

He marched inside. He found it. Sure enough it was practically solid. He took it all.

“Much appreciated, King Louie.” He’d laughed, tossing the bottle up and catching it as he walked. “I’ll leave you to your Doctor then. And hey, once you’re potty trained again, get back to growing us some victory, ya hear? I think the boys could all use a little pick me up.” 

He left, hooting and hollering as the Doctor wiped up my shit. The Marshal tapped Macanockie on the head as he left, still laughing. No one said a word. Not till he was long gone. We watched him go. Macanockie though, she watched the longest. She watched him twist away through the hills and off towards the Waller’s orchard. After that, she started digging. Digging until the sun went down. Until her hands bled. I asked her what was up. I congratulated her on a convincing performance. I asked her if she had seen the Marshal before. She said no. She didn’t eat that night. And I don’t think she slept either. Just kept reading nothing in the dark.

26.

I told the Doctor to keep using the wheelbarrow. He said that he appreciated it. He said it was a lifesaver. Literally. 

“I used it to carry four different patients, just this last week.” 

I told him to keep it until his work was finished. So, with that, the wheelbarrow became Belleseare’s chief ambulance. The Doctor’s shining standard. I’d see it flashing through the hills long before he ever actually showed up. And when he did, he didn’t look he was walking at all. Sliding. Just like how the barrow had made walking easier for me, it seemed to all but give the Doctor new wings. He would glide everywhere, slipping through mudslides and puddles everywhere like a specter. Nothing slowed him down. Which was good, because Macanockie and I came to rely on his deliveries. Not just for food. But for paper. Mac had begun passing notes like clockwork. I told her not to write so damn big. I said that paper cost money. Or hay, in the Doctor’s case. She asked what the difference was. I said that it didn’t matter because I was short on both. In response to that, she wrote something so damn small I couldn’t read it at all. I had to go grab my dad’s old magnifying glass just to see the letters. 

‘LIKE THIS?’ She’d written. 

Little shit. I crumpled the paper and threw it at her head. She flipped me off again. Laughing. I sent her to go dig. She’d already gone. But, I couldn’t complain too much. Because, through it all, she kept working. I taught her how to garden. At least, taught her how I'd been doing it. First step was to dig. Then to pat it all back down. Then to water. Then rake. Then fertilize. Then water. Then prune. Then, most importantly of all, just leave it the hell alone. No planting. No seeds. I told her that if she just let things grow wherever they wanted, things would grow like nobody’s business. And if you happened to be growing them for someone else, they’d all take the hint and grow double time. She informed me that her gardening books said something different. She said it had said some bullshit about nitrogen whatevers. I told her to shut up and dig. She took the hint and got back to it. Eventually, the field started to turn color again. Started looking like an actual garden patch. It started getting flatter. It started getting cleaner. Ever since that day the Marshal came by, Macanockie had been working herself ragged. She worked as much as she could every day. Dawn to dusk. Her belly started shrinking. And her feet stopped looking like balloons. Even started to get stronger. That was good. Because she had her work cut out for her. The storm had left a lot of big stuff all over the place. She couldn’t move any of that. And that was fine. I told her move everything around it. Once the hill’s surface started to get a little smoother, I told her to mush out all the dirt and drag through it with a rake. I told her to do that until everything was smooth as butter. From my porch to the north forty. She didn’t know what that meant. I had to explain everything. I had to draw a lot of pictures. I told her that the ‘North Forty’ was the plot ahead of us. And the ‘LONG Forty was the plot behind us. And I informed her that she was gonna till it all. She looked out around the hill. Horrified. I told her that ‘Them’s the rules. And you’s the mules.’ And more importantly it was also the market price of room and board. She cussed me out with her hands, but sighed and got right back to it. Over the next few months, she got into a rhythm of her own. Once she had finished up her work for the day, washed up, and ate, that was when the questions started coming. She hit me over the head with so many questions it felt like getting run over by a damned freight train.

“Whats this?” 

“What’s that?” 

“Where’s that?” 

“That’s not how you spell that. Don’t you know?” 

“Why don’t you dot your I’s?”

“That’s a bit audacious.” 

I told her to use normal words. But suddenly, I found myself reading more than I ever had before in my goddamned life just to keep up. Eventually, we came to understand each-other. A bit. Built a ‘rapport.’ That was one of her words too. French. Eugh. But the word was good enough. From how she described it, I understand it to mean something along the lines of ‘a way to live.’ Or something of the sort. My parents’ bookshelf had no kid books in it. But it did have histories. And whatever else. And Macanockie read all of it so many times I lost count. She plowed her way through every last shelf before too long. And then read them all again. She asked if she could mark the pages up. I told her I could give less of a damn. She read with a pencil in one hand, and a cold mug of stew in the other. After that, she reread her favorites. Again. And again. And again. Dictionaries. Fairy tales. War Stories. My old service documents. The backs of boxes. The labels on cans. Anything. Everything. And after that she’d fall asleep wherever she happened to be reading. Farting in her sleep. I started throwing blankets on her just for goddamned some peace and quiet. After that she would get right back to workin in the morning. All just so she could reread her favorite pages some more. I told the Doctor. I said she’d memorized most of the books already. I asked him if it was normal. He got an odd look under his hat. I assume. He said that was not standard. Didn’t think much of it. But, after that, he started bringing by more deliveries of his own books. They were the real deal. Medical books. Science books. WEIRD books. Ones that the Doctor, himself, had memorized a long time ago. I looked at a few of them. My head started spinning in just a page or two. I doubt that I could have remembered a single sentence if my life had depended on it. Eventually, once Macanockie had smoothed out a decent portion of the front half of my hill, the Doctor started bringing in some Fertilizer too. Shit and books. Freshly made. He said that he had a surplus of both because the Military was all here now. After that, the days started blending together.

27.

ABOUT two months later, the Doctor said my wound had officially closed. And that I was ready for a prosthetic. The next day, Mark and the Doctor came by together. They said they needed to take measurements for my leg and to do some math. The Doctor emphasized that it would need to be ‘Dead to Rights.’ As they were working, I asked the Doctor about getting more paper. He said that it was getting harder to find. But that I could always use chalkboards like a schoolhouse. I asked him how much chalk was. He said chalk was better than free because the military used it for marking their fields. He said he had a surplus. But, he also said they had no chalkboards to spare. Neither did Mark. So we left it at that. Kept with the paper. At least for the moment. As the weeks ticked by, I started losing feeling in my ass from sitting so long. But I listened to my watch. Every hour I’d do a little jig in the chair. A little dance of scooting, twisting, and moving around. The more I shimmied, the more it hurt, but the less that I went numb. Doctor’s orders. One morning in June The Doctor came by and said that it was time. He unstrapped me from the chair. My back was stone. My legs were jelly. Leg. And my missing foot itched. Itched like you wouldn’t believe. Itched like I’d left it in a nest of fire ants. I told the Doctor and he nodded. 

“Scratch your ear then. And go wash up before I get back. You smell like you look.” 

He was right. He handed me a cane. Handed Macanockie a book. And he took off down the hill to fetch my leg. I hobbled. But it didn’t hurt. I took my first real steps, and then my first real shower in three months. Had to bring my chair inside just so I didn’t fall. And truthfully, the chair could have used a good scrub too. Once I got dressed, shaved, and set, I hobbled out to the porch. Standing on my own for the first time in months. Back at my usual height, I saw that Macanockie had cleared most of the property. Not the trees. But the wood shards. The wires. The nails. And the rest of whatever else a country house accumulates in its soil. She’d put them all in a pile by the road. Soon enough, the Doctor and both Squalls arrived for their visit. Mrs. Squall immediately started gushing over Macanockie. 

“Ohhh look at her hair. Her eyes! What a doll. What a DOLL!” I told her to write it down. Gave them both the rundown again. They’d brought gifts. Good Folk. Walnuts. Jam. As well as something wrapped in cloth. And to top it off, a whole tub of clothes and such for Macanockie. As Mrs. Squall got to pruning and brushing out Mac’s hair, Mark and the Doctor sat down. Mark looked excited. Like a kid at show and tell. Sure enough, out of that cloth he pulled something spectacular. My new wooden leg. It was adjustable. Padded. Beautifully carved. And best of all, it was strong.

“Fair warning, Louie.” The Doctor said. "It’s gonna hurt. But that being said, try not to scuff it. Because I do think Mark here outdid himself.” And to that, I had to agree. 

28.

IRONWOOD. 27.45 inches. Reinforced with a curved head cup. Studded with poplar and metal screws. Able to be affixed up to a belt for running. Mark asked me if I wanted it painted. I told him I think I’d rather die. He laughed and showed me how to wear it. The leg was curved like a cup at the top. It fit over my stump like a glove. But the second I tried pressing into the depression, I thought someone had begun stabbing me in the shin. I went to reach for a rag but the Doctor stopped me. He said that under no circumstances was I to pad the cup. He said it would cause problems down the road. Back problems. He said the only way to do it proper was to build up some scar tissue as fast as possible. He said that was the only way the measurements would work out. After that, the Doctor pulled some strange leather straps out of his bag. Leather and iron. I realized that it was the remains of what was once a horse’s halter. One from the Feed and Mill. Leftovers from when this town had real beasts of burden. He said he’d cut the leather specially. Just for me. Now, it would attach to my jeans at the belt. It was like an extra net of leather that looped down around my thigh and latched onto the studs Mark had built into the prosthetic itself. The Doctor showed me how to tighten it. I cursed them both out. Mrs. Squall clicked her tongue. The Doctor and Mark laughed. They said I’d get used to it. And when I did, I’d be walking around better than I did before. I told them I liked the sound of that. I thanked them both from the bottom of my heart. I told Mark he was a marvel. Macanockie brought everyone water. I showed Mark how to do the ‘thank you’ symbol with his hand.

"Take your left hand and press the palm in against your chest.” Macanockie smiled and I sent her back to the fields. Mrs. Squall stayed at the table. I explained to all those assembled that she was looking for the last pieces of the foxtail wire. Anything she could find. I said I had big plans. And that now I possessed a leg, I was fixing to build a fence. One that went around the entire outside of my property. Around the whole hill. Mark grinned. The Doctor smoked. But I think he was grinning too. From under the hat. Because I was sure he knew what was coming next. 

“I assume…” The Doctor said in between puffs. “You’ll be needing some materials.” I would indeed. I handed him a list. I handed Mark one too. The Doctor whistled smoke.

“Won’t come cheap.” Mrs Squall had told me, reading over her Husband's shoulder. I forgot she did the accounting side for all of Mark’s carpentry. I assured her that I was well aware. And that I was good for payment. That I’d done the math already. And that Macanockie had corrected it. I said I needed 143 Fence Posts, 44 Spools of Gopher Gold. I needed nails, ties, and enough gear to get it all going. I said that they could take anything they like from my house as payment. At least, so long as it wasn’t Macanockie’s books. The Doctor got to looking right away. He pulled a clipboard out of his bag and started searching. He gutted every last drawer in the house. He checked the attic. Did calculations. Trying to decide what would be of an equivalent value to those fencing materials. Eventually he found my gun safe. He asked if he could open it. I said yes. So he did. I didn’t even give him the combination. He just figured it out. Somehow. Inside the safe he quickly found the only things of value in my whole damn house. My mother’s jewelry. Her mother’s too. My father’s guns. And everything I’d gotten from my tours. Pins, junk, souvenirs, medals, and whatever else. As soon as the Doctor saw everything inside he got real quiet. He got back to calculating. Meanwhile, the Squalls and I got to chatting about what types of wood would be best for my soil. I didn’t care. But Mark did. And Mrs. Squall cared about what Mark did. Good Folk. As we were talking it all though, I heard the Doctor performing checks on the guns. And as he did, I realized with shame, I that I had not cleaned my pistol a single time since the storm. Strange days.

29.

IN the end, Mrs. Squall took seven necklaces and the Doctor took three of my dad’s rifles, four rings, and an ironclad promise to buy all future repairs from his Feed and Mill. As well as preferential access to any trees that might fall on my premises. I agreed. We shook on it and Mrs. Squall acted as witness. After that, the Doctor told me that my dad’s rifles were damned impressive. Said they would be in high demand. He also asked if he could borrow a tarp for taking everything back into town. 

“Just to cover the wheelbarrow.” He explained. "Best not to attract attention when carrying anything made of gold. Or anything that fires lead."

I agreed. I sent him off to the hill. I said Macanockie would show him where the tarps, blankets, and everything else was. Meanwhile I started explaining things to the Squalls AND the town, because I knew they would blab. I told the town that I was going to rebuild my property into a fully fledged orchard. I wanted to make everything bigger and better than ever before. And that me and Macanockie were going to turn this whole hill into one giant victory garden. I said that we were gonna grow enough capital V to win the whole damn war. For the troops. For the town. For the nation. And for all the Good Folk. Wherever they may be. Mark patted me on the back. Mrs. Squall started crying. They said I was Good Folk. I thanked them. But I asked them not to spread it around. Just yet. They swore on the Lord they would not. That was good. We wanted everyone to hear. Mark started talking about his own big plans. He started explaining how he’d always wanted to build a church. A church to rival some French one I couldn’t begin to pronounce. He said that he was working with the Chaplain. The Chaplain had given him permission to rebuild the Town’s Church. And that he was going to utilize the golden tree in my backyard to it. The one I’d promised him as payment for my leg. He said he had something big in the works. But that he would need the whole tree to do it. He was testing me. He wanted to make sure that I didn’t forget my promise. He wanted to know I did not accidentally chop it up or something. I assured them both that the tree was his and his alone. But I added that if he was nervous, that he was welcome to go put the Squall name right up on it. If they wanted. Just so everybody else would know too. At that, Mark’s face had lit up like a firecracker. He jumped up with that goofy grin of his and rushed off into the backyard with his chisels. Mrs. Squall followed him with a sign. I didn’t see any them for a while. Eventually the Doctor came back inside with something under his arms. I realized it was Rex. My scarecrow. The one I’d left on duty during the storm. The Doctor said he was shocked that I would put my old dress uniform out on a scarecrow. I said there was nothing scarier. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. The storm had done Rex pretty dirty. The winds had bent him every which way. He was moldy, damp, and rank. The grass I’d stuffed him with had started to fester. I mentioned that I had told Macanockie to sun him out. The Doctor asked me if I knew what the medals on his chest were worth. I told him it wasn’t gold or silver, so "fuck all." Give or take a penny? He gawked at me from behind his shades like I was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen. His teeth got to shining. Deep in the dark shade of his hat. For a while he didn’t say a thing. Then, quietly, he went over and put all the guns back in the safe. He said that King Louis’ uniform was worth more than all I had in the safe put together. Maybe more than the house. It was my turn, so I looked at him like he was crazy. I said no way in hell was it worth any of all that. He brushed me off. Said he’d get me what I needed and more. He wrapped up Rex in the tarp and stashed him in the wheelbarrow. After that he took off for the day. But before he left he warned me that I should not be so wasteful as to let good things go to rot. At least not without getting paid.

30.

ON a cool morning a couple of days later a truck arrived to make a delivery. It was the materials for the fence I’d bought. Courtesy of the Doctor and the Squalls. I met the truck in the drive, standing as best I could. Macanockie beside me. The prosthetic stuck. It stung. And it wasn’t quite tight enough. There was a gap between when I’d step and when it would connect. Even still. I moved free. And I felt tall. Taller than I ever had been. I was sure the Doctor or Mark would be driving. But, to my surprise the truck was not being driven by either the Doctor or any of the Squalls. Rather, it was being driven by Val Waller and the Eagle hatchling. Special Officer Jazz.

“Look at the both of you! Oh, Louie you are lookin sore. And this must be your little goddaughter. I heard so much about her!” Val said, gushing out from the drivers side. She ran over and started hugging Macanockie like a new puppy. I greeted them. I’d begun carrying paper and pencil. I introduce Macanockie proper. To both Val and the Eagle. 

“Oh isn’t she just a doll?” Val said, playing with Macanockie’s hair. It was mostly dirt. 

“A stand up little Missie.” The Eagle agreed, removing his cap. “Out here helping her new Papa with the garden. Good on you.” 

Macanockie blinked at them both and I showed them the procedure. I had them write it down. I lied and told them she couldn’t read lips just yet. Once everyone had been introduced I sent Macanockie back to work. She trudged off. I threw a rock in front of her. She realized her mistake. She turned around and she gave both the Good Folk a little curtsy, then ran off to start digging. When I saw the shovel started moving, I asked Val about Mariah. Val said that she was good. And that I was truly 'such a sweetheart' for asking. Val admitted that it’s been murder on her back, trying to cover all her sister’s work. She pouted that this was the first time she’d been outta her momma’s sight for the last couple months, if I could believe it. I could. 

“But we’re managing OK,” She said, running a finger down the Eagle’s arm. “Speaking of, Honey, you need me to help unload all that? Or would you mind if I go chat a peck with my new little dolly-girl?” Neither of those were questions. She’d learned from her mother. Though I’d never dare say it. The Eagle got bright red and said she should go chat. He said that he was gonna unload it all by himself. 

“Such a strong soldierboy…” Val cooed, and skipped off into the muck, taking my clipboard with her. She pranced over to where Macanockie was digging. The Eagle watched her go. Rearranging his feathers. I spied some smeared lipstick on his neck. But that was his business. Then he asked about mine. He asked about how my leg was doing. I told him the truth. That I needed to break it in some. And the stump too. I said that the fence would be a perfect way to start building strength again. So we got to unloading. Him in the bed. Me in the dirt. As I learned the Eagle had just been made a General. I didn’t ask. But he told me. He said the promotion would be announced the coming Monday. And that I should keep it quiet. Because these were the last couple of days of freedom the Eagle was ever gonna get. I congratulated the General. He looked like he was about to burst. He said until Monday I was still to call him ‘Jazz.’ He said he wanted to spend his last bit of time-off lounging around and doing nothing related to the military at all. I said getting drunk on Waller Brand cider was a damn good start. He agreed.

‘But…” he admitted, “Somehow, I got roped into doing deliveries. All I did was ask about Mariah’s leg.”

At that I could not help but laugh. It seemed even Generals were not immune to the Wallers’ special brand of hospitality. We worked for a while. And I felt my back tense. Felt muscles I had not used in years.

“You look healthy.” The Eagle said after a while. “More like how I thought you would. Straight off one of those old posters.” 

BHe added that he also was worried. Worried that I was too weak to carry things on the leg just yet. I told him that I was itching to grow some more peaches. And that I, myself, was worried he could not unload such heavy things without me. He laughed, and started squawking something about insubordination. He started throwing things at me faster. 8 Foot Fence Posts. Concrete bags. Wire. And some new shovels. Boots. And little boots for Macanockie. A little belt and a cowboy hat too. Apparently the Doctor was away on business. But the Wallers still owed him for treating Mariah. As payment, they offered to help him with his deliveries for the week. And, as such, the Eagle had been enlisted. Or rather, drafted.

“Hey! Stop it.” The Eagle chirped.  “Seriously. M-Mr. Louis you should take a load off. No need to overdue it just yet.”

I thought he was looking at Val. But he was actually looking at my leg. I looked down and saw what he was talking about. The Denim in my jeans was turning bright red. And had begun steaming the morning dew. I laughed. I jumped. I felt it crunch. It felt good. I said so. And said that I needed to tough it. Doctor’s orders.

“Y-yeah.” The Eagle admitted. “I heard the Doctor took out some shrapnel. But… still. No shame in takin it slow.” 

I told him I’d been taking it slow for ten years. And trapped in a chair for longer than I could bear. Now. I didn’t care. I could walk. I could move. And that meant, god-willing, I could carry. And to me, the pain of getting to move was a privilege. It felt better than any morphine could imagine. And after that, just because, I picked up the pace again. 4. 5. 6. 7. 11. Bags upon bags. Stakes upon more. I could move it all. Pain be damned. So long as the wood didn’t break. Neither would I. In fact, the more I moved, the lighter I felt. I could feel the Eagle keeping an eye on my bleeding. The other must’ve been on Macanockie and Val. I watched them too. They were passing notes back and forth like classmates. The Eagle asked about her nickname. I told him that Macanockie was her favorite food. He said, 

“She musta had a rough go of it. Personally, I wouldn’t wish that shit on anyone. More power to her.” We finally got to the heavy stuff. Railroad ties. 222 pounds a piece. He handed them down, struggling, and red in the face. They were slick. Oiled. Pitched black and sapped with creosode. I missed that smell. I felt my leg squish and meltch around in the cup. I felt it sliding it around. I tightened the horse halter belt, and found that I could carry the ties no problem. In fact, I found that I could carry three. We finished in no time. And to my shock. I found that I was not even tired. The Eagle though, he had to take a load off. But I didn’t hold it against him. Judging by the lipstick on his neck, I suspected that this was his second PT of the day. Maybe third. 

“Tough Bastard.” He panted. Leaning against the truck tire. “Glad to see you’re back in fighting shape.” We jawed for while. Talked shop. News. Reeks. Talked about nothing at all. About feed. About plans. That was until I got smacked by something hard, upside the head. 

“Uh oh.” The Eagle laughed. “Looks like you’re in for it.” I turned around ready for a fight, and saw Val in my face. Her face was the same color as a tomato. Looking angrier than I’d ever seen her.

31. 

APPARENTLY I’d been treating Macanockie like a ‘ranch-hand.’ That’s what Val said. And apparently that was a bad thing. And apparently Mac was a lady. As such. I got hit upside the head a few more times, and got an earful from Val all the time. She demanded that we all go back over to her place this instant. All so that Macanockie could get fixed up proper. I had no choice. We all hopped in the truck and the Eagle drove us over. I hadn’t been outside the property since the storm. Neither had Mac. It was bad. Everything was. But I could see motion all around too. Stumps had been dragged. Fallen trees were being dried or chopped. Piles of broken homes everywhere. As such, I had been expecting the same thing in the orchards, but as soon as we entered the Wallers’ track, I was surprised to see that everything looked pretty alright. The old growth was good on the left. The right, not so much. But even still, they had been busy. A good portion of the damage had already been replanted. In the mud, I saw at least thirty soldiers, men and women, all milling about. Rushing around. Helping. Red in the cheeks. We pulled up their drive, and took the cul de sac up into their base of operations. Their house was half mansion, and half storage. It was big. Colonial style. And completely invisible from the road. There was a crows nest up at the top. And a widows watch right beside it. One with a nasty angle looking down. Around the house there were army trucks parked all around. At their center, I saw the injured Mariah. Her foot was in a cast. Along with the rest of her leg. She was laid up in a bathrobe, on an outdoor sofa, under an umbrella. She was being fanned by a familiar face. I recognized the Petty Officer Manny Guerrero. Though I’m not sure she saw anything other than Mariah. And to her right, an unfamiliar soldier was holding a tray of apple slices out at an angle for Mariah. Soon as the truck rolled to a stop, we got a royal welcome from just about everyone. Whole time, Macanockie was gripping my sleeve like a tick. Wouldn’t let go. I gave her a thumbs up. A zipper across the mouth. And a grimace. She got it. 'Play nice. Or else. People are watching.' The Eagle helped Val out of the truck. She ran a finger down his neck as thanks. Someone whistled. 

“HEY! BACK TO WORK! I’M NOT RUNNING A CHARITY HERE!”

The crowd dispersed. Mrs. Waller appeared out of nowhere behind the Eagle, a basket in her hand.

“Ya got time to flirt, you got time to pick, Mr. Big-shot.” 

The soon-to-be General took his lashes and the basket before moping off into the trees. Muttering something or another. Mariah waved after him. We got some introductions again.

Immediately, Val, Mariah, and Petty Officer Guerrero started fawning over Mac. I told them the story again. Macanockie looked pitiful. She was a natural. 

“Well, I’ll be darned.” Mrs. Waller had said, pulling her cap back. “Didn’t even see her pass by. To think she found her way to…” She trailed off. Guerrero had found a mud mat in Macanockie’s hair. The assembled stopped what they were doing to shoot daggers my way. Mrs. Waller sighed. Then shouted. 

“GIRLIES! Go get her cleaned up.” 

Val started pulling Macanockie inside. Macanockie got scared and came over. I wrote down that it was OK. That she could go with. And that they were just gonna help clean her up, or something. Girl talk. She nodded, and took Val’s hand. Mariah waved Guerrero to go with. Guerrero obliged. Val took them both inside. I saw Macanockie look at me through the window, and I gave her a thumbs up. Then, came the lecture. I got an earful from Mrs. Waller. Finally she finished it all off with, 

“Damned brute. Letting her hair get like that?” I could not help but notice that Mrs. Waller was not one to talk. She didn’t even have eyebrows, let alone hair, so I didn’t see what she was so pissed about. But I took my lashings and once they had been administered, I joined Mrs. Waller at her little tea table. I suspected the table was also some Squall’s work. We sat in a double bay window, looking out over the orchard. I heard some giggling from upstairs. Meanwhile, Mrs. Waller gave me a glass of something strong. It was her most recent batch of brandy.

“New recipe, ya hear?” She’d droned, pouring herself a third cup with a chuff. “Not that I had a choice. Normally you cut the head off.” Head. She meant wood liquor. The bad stuff. The cleaning stuff. 

“But.” She continued.” We had so many apples go bad after the storm, this last batch was mostly head anyways. Only got a few drinkable barrels outta it.” 

I asked about the rest. She said if I ever needed some stump remover, to let her know, because that’s about all it was good for. I tried the drink. It was good. I said so. But as I did, I felt my leg start to bleed. Heard the denim drip out onto the floor. I apologized. 

“Oh hush.” She said. “I got helpers for that. I’ll have one of them come clean it once y’all head out. So bleed all you like. Besides. It’s good to see you, Louie. Haven’t seen you looking like this in a long, long time. You’re looking tall.” I had to agree. Good Folk. 

32.

THE fallen tree. That massive one on the back of my hill. The one I had promised to Mark. I learned that it was to be carved into an altar. A dais for the Chaplain’s new church. It was all still under construction but Mark had a vision for it. I discovered this when Macanockie and I walked back from the Wallers’. Macanockie looked like a tree ornament. She’d had her hair brushed, makeup did, and been given a big bag of girlie whatevers from Val. Good Folk. We had left the Wallers’ house with a promise to come by once a week. And it seemed there was enough witnesses that neither Mac nor I could get out of it. As soon as we made it out of those orchards, Macanockie started rubbing dirt in her face. Meanwhile I adjusted my prosthetic. It was slipping. Moving around in the cup. Sloshing and scabbing. It itched. And it stung. But it did not ache. Stepping took more work. But it felt good. I was moving free. Moving faster. No swaying. Macanockie rushed to keep up. She said ‘TIRED.’ I could not help but agree. I congratulated her on a successful deployment. Said she had earned herself extra reading time. At that she looked happy. But as my hill came into view, I saw an unfamiliar truck had parked at the drive. I told Macanockie to be on guard. We made our way up the curving road. The driveway cut into the hill at an angle. It circled up to the left. On the backside, I saw a most unwelcome house guest. It was the Chaplain. Ida Triage. Standing atop that gigantic fallen tree. His arms outstretched to the sky. He was posted up like a statue. Looking up at my hill. At my house. He heard Mac and I approaching. Seeing us both he jumped down from the pulpit, and rushed on over to greet us . 

“Mr. Louie!” He bleated. “King, king, king…..LOUIE! The man, the myth, the legend! Up and walking around. Oh my, my goodness how good it is to see you. And how good it is to be able to express my gratitude in person for all of your donations. And for your generosity! Good Folk, you are. Good Folk! You hear?” I asked him what in the fucking hell he was talking about. And who in the goddamned Christ allowed him to step one single foot onto my property. Politely. And in different words. To that, Mark Squall came out from behind the tree. Sketchbook in hand. Chisels latched to a bag on his leg. That was when I learned of the tree’s purpose. And how it was going to be carved. It would be made to fit the Chaplain. According to the Chaplain’s specifications. Mark showed me the beginnings of his sketch. And of his plan. He showed me a massive, two story altar piece. It looked more like a cliff with faces. Complete with a basket and scenes of salvation. I was blown away. I asked if the thing would even fit into the church. The Chaplain and Mark laughed. Mark explained he would build the church around it if he had to. The Chaplain shook my hand, beaming.

“And none-a this coulda been possible without you. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. You DO have a gift...for receiving gifts, don’t you now!” He gestured to my hill. My leg. And then my goddaughter. Taking the hint, I introduced the two of them. He shook her hand. Kissed it too. And started asking all sorts of questions. To that, Macanockie didn’t move a muscle. She looked like she was biting through the inside of her cheek. I apologized to the Chaplain. From the bottom of my heart. And I said he’d have to write whatever he wanted to say down on her little clipboard if she had any hope of understanding him. After all. She had not learned how to read lips just yet.

“Poor child.” The Chaplain sighed. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh aw—” 

“Chaplain!” Mark barked from behind the tree. “Please, the light is fading.” 

And he was right. The sun was beginning to set. 

“I need to see you in it.” Mark continued, his pencil tapping. “We came all this way so I could see you in action. Just. Hop back up for a moment. Would you? I want to see you moving around before I get to carving.” 

“I know!” The Chaplain said in a huff and got to climbing back up the tree. He was surprisingly agile. I watched in disgust as he scaled the trunk like a mountain goat, hoofing up bark like flat rock. He hoisted himself up between the branches and towered far above the rest of us. The trunk must have 20 feet high. I had not ever been this close to the fallen tree. I had not been walking long enough. But it was larger than any tree I had ever seen. How it had even been lifted at all, I could not imagine. Mark did circles around us. Sketching the Chaplain from every angle.

“Say Mark.” The Chaplain groaned. “As you sketch, would you mind too greatly if I was to…talk?” Mark said yes. But that the Chaplain should pretend like he was giving a sermon. 

“Artists.” The Chaplain said dramatically, clicking his teeth. “Pity them all. For I am of the personal opinion that God’s gift of talent, is sometimes given in place of manners.” We all got to laughing. Macanockie did not. I told the Chaplain that she was tired. 

“Well of course!” The Chaplain said, waving his hands like he was directing a crowd. Or an orchestra. His shadow was getting bigger as the sun set behind him. Stretching across my hill.

“I imagine being pretty’s hard work!” The Chaplain winked. “Don’t have to tell me. I do it every day.”

We all bust out laughing again. I elbowed Macanockie in the ribs. She laughed a snorting little laugh. The Chaplain asked if she could hear a smidgen after all. I told him that she was merely trying to be polite. And that I would communicate his joke to her in writing when the moment presented itself. With that, I sent her up the hill to go start dinner. He watched her go. Curving up the hill to the house. He asked if she'd been reading the Bible. I assured him she was. He asked if she had been baptized. I said twice for good measure. He offered to tutor her. I told him she had farm duties to attend to. But that I truly appreciated his offer. He asked why I had not brought her to church? I said that her time would be best spent getting him peaches. That’s when I told him that I was planning an orchard. And that in order to do so, I would need her here on the farm to help manage. I said that I had recovered my leg, but not my youth. That seemed to satisfy him for the moment. The thought of peaches. I heard the door slam up top. His eyes were still locked on my house. He raised his arms higher. So I took it a bit further. I said that it was a hard decision, but that in her particular case she would not benefit from church. Only because she could not hear his wonderful voice. And that until she could read lips properly, I feared his sermons would be wasted on the deaf. I pretended to pause. Then had a genius idea. I asked if he would ever consider writing his speeches down. For her. For us. He liked that. Very. Very much. He said he would get into the habit of it. And perhaps create a book of his own with enough of them. We talked like Good Folk do. The world got yellow around us. And then red. Swallowing us up. I said that I hoped some of the sprouts growing around us were peaches. And that I wanted to donate them to the town.

“Good man! And speaking of…” The Chaplain said, stretching his arms even higher up into a capital Y. “I plan to work Mark here to the bone. You see, I commissioned him to build a central donation center for all of Belleseare. Right smack dab in the middle of the Church’s lot. It’s what the DeRounds would have wanted to be built on their lot. God rest their souls. That way it’ll be easier on everyone. Easier on your leg. Easier on your Goddaughter. And best of all, easier on the Good Doctor. Oh. And, of course, I’ll be overseeing the whole thing so don’t you worry. You just focus on growing.”

I did not know what to say to that. So I thanked him. 

“Now, Louie. King Louie! Would you mind terribly if I was to bless this here land?” I did not know what to say to that either. So I begged him that he would. He liked that. The sun had all but set behind him. He raised his arms even higher. His eyes rolled back. And he started to sing.

“In the name of the Lord, may this land be blessed. May all those that till its soil be kept healthy. And may the blessings of the Holy Spirit guide its bounty. And may your blessings of plenty abound. Sow. And Sow.” 

“Amen!” We agreed. And as the sun sank into blackness, the Chaplain’s shadow reached higher and higher up my hill. Up towards the house. 

33.

I decided that Macanockie must learn how to shoot. Immediately. I told her that I would teach her everything I knew. Everything I had learned as a Soldier. Everything she would need to survive on her own if the worst was to happen to me. She said she didn’t like guns. I told her guns like everybody. She said she didn’t want to. I said ‘tough shit.’ And I threw her my dad’s hunting rifle. The following day I got to digging, and then I set up my first fence posts. It took the whole morning and made my prosthetic drip blood like a faucet, but it was worth it. Because that afternoon I was able to set up tinned beef cans along the fencepost tops. With these targets in place, I taught Macanockie everything I could. I taught her were to aim on a human. How to point between the shoulder blades. How to exhale before firing. How to respect the firearm. And how to always ALWAYS check the safety. How to breath in a square when you were scared. How to brace for recoil. How to carry high. How to carry low. How to keep safe. I taught her where to look for snipers. I smacked her on the head. I told her she was deaf. Which meant she would be a sitting duck at night. And that she did not realize how much sound she made when she walked. I also explained that no goddaughter of mine would ever be caught off guard. As I built more and more of the fence, we finished off every day of work with shooting. I taught her to shoot proper. To aim not for the cans. But two inches above them and one inch to the left. Well, right in her case because she was a leftie. Most people flinch when they hear gunshots. But because she had no sense of sound, she was a natural. She did not flinch in the slightest. I told her to think of it all like math. She liked that. I told her to aim for the cow on the tin. She was a natural. Soon enough, she shot an outline around it. I told her to aim for the birds. I said she needed to start practicing on a moving target. She refused. I said not to worry because we would eat the birds. They would not go to waste. She nodded and said that she would catch some for dinner. Then, she instantly became the worst shot I’d ever seen. Little shit. I let it go for the moment, but explained that she would need to get over that impulse. Quickly. I taught her strategy. Opsec. Disassembly. Maintenance. Sapper skills. How to make what she’d need when she needed it. I taught her the cues. I added gun cleaning to her chores list. Every morning. And then after firing practice every evening. I told her to watch out for the trees. She said she liked trees. That pissed me off. But as it happened, she had a talent for that too. As I got stronger. And as I got more and more fencing done, I put her in charge of the orchard. Of watering. Of weeding. Of tying off the saplings. Things started to grow quickly. Time started slipping by. We got into a rhythm. Macanockie did not want to visit the town. But it was unavoidable. I took her around. She was liked. She met all the Good Folk. And everyone more. They understood her position. We started getting letters in our mailbox. More than I ever had before. Well wishers from the town. That rhythm continued for a long while. And the shooting did too. The military needed flour next. Then baking soda. Then beer. The Marshal or members of his possee came by to collect. One remarked that Macanockie was a damn good shot for a lady. I suppose that was the highest compliment she could have received from the likes of him. Acknowledgement. Eventually, Macanockie became more than just a deadshot. She got good. Real good. As she practiced my skill, I started to read a bit more for myself. Once a week we went over to the Wallers’ for tea. Once a week, the Chaplain would come by and drop off his sermons. I appreciated it. Now that Macanockie was actually reading my parent’s books, I had a new need for kindling. The Doctor was still using my wheelbarrow, and he usually came by once a week as well. My deliveries began to include bullets, and warnings. Meanwhile Mark came by every now and again to carve at the tree. Bit by bit. Soldiers came by to meet me. Some wanted stories. Some offered to help. I refused them all. Some wanted to see what I was growing. I let them. Meanwhile, Macanockie continued to read everything she could get her hands on. Most of all, she read about plants. She got to helping the saplings along however she could. Better than I ever did. Corn started to grow everywhere in the valley. On every hill. And beside every road. Faster than you would believe. It got to swaying high over my head. It made the whole valley smell like grass honey. By the time I put in my last fencepost, we had over 148 saplings growing proudly inside. All chest-high on me. And all flowering. Of the many trees in our orchard, Macanockie and I suspected around 123 of them to be peaches. And the others were probably apples. The Doctor confirmed. 123 peach trees. It was, in the Chaplain’s words,

“Nothing short of a miracle.” Eventually the whole town came in to check them out. Looks of awe and disbelief cut on their faces. Not even the Wallers’ had ever managed something like that. 

34.

GOOD Folk smile. Good Folk build. They help. They hurt. They grow. And always in view of as many others as possible. Otherwise why bother. So, soon as I could handle the pain of walking back into town, I began to make that trip every single day. However I did not let Macanockie stay home alone. I offered my help wherever I could. My hands for chopping. My back for carrying. Her math for planning. Once the orchard had been set, we could do that more often. And for more people. Lumber at the Squalls’ Yard. Groceries for the old. Leather scraping for some of the Soldiers that shot deer. We helped with bracing. With beams for the church. Poles for the field pots. And Macanockie helped every time. She got to know all the Good Folk. Not just in the town. But the military as well. Every last one. I made sure of it. Made sure that we were not only seen helping. But hurting as we did it. Once I felt confident we had built up a decent amount of goodwill, I started sending her out on small missions of her own. Off to the Callisters. Down to the field office. She helped climbing trees or getting walnuts shucked. I sent her to every house. To help. Meanwhile I began moving wood for the church. I sent her all the way to the Morgans on the far side of town. With extra paper and some prewritten explanations. She started carrying signs around with her. Notecards. the one she held up the most was:

“HI! I’m Viol. But you can call me Macanockie! I’m King Louie’s Goddaughter and I’m here to help. However I can. Whatcha need?”  Stuff like that. I told her to work until she couldn’t and then we’d walk back together. During that time, I cut grass. Got it out of the way. I carried tents. I did my morning chores. And everyone else’s I could manage. I reinforced fence holes. Tended the peaches. Then, I worked in town until I couldn’t. Food was short. But it was our responsibility to make it stretch. As far as we could. To make it go longer. Fighting men needed food. More food than anyone of us. And because we weren’t fighting, we had a responsibility to cut back. And as it happened, that meant Mac did too. So we got to scrubbing dishes. Helping with the soldier’s mess. The soldiers all laughed when they met Mac. Said she was practically a cadet. They said I was putting her through bootcamp. They started called her ‘Little Boots.’ Or ‘Stewey.’ But most of all, those young recruits all wanted me to talk. To talk about war. To talk about my time. My service. I told them as much as I could. And that my orchard was coming along nicely. I smelled something familiar. I did not know the Soldiers had access to coffee. But they did. And had access to as much of it as they could drink. I saw one of them put honey and cream in his. Good. He’d need it. Which meant I could live without it. So Macanockie would too. We both would. Publicly. And we’d be seen doing all that publicly as long as there was daylight. Every day. Rain or shine. And soon enough, as the years began ticking along, I realized I was getting stronger.

35.

I could run. I didn’t know that I still could. But then all of the sudden, one day, it occurred to me that I might be able. On a day like any other, I was just plunking along on the way to town beside Macanockie and mentioned I used to be fast. She flipped me off and took off sprinting with the wheelbarrow. She said I couldn’t catch her. And before I knew it I was racing after her. And then I passed her. By a mile. After that day, I ran every day. Started getting much stronger. Damned if I wasn’t faster than I ever had been before. Goofy-footed, sure. But I could sprint. And thanks to Mark’s handiwork, I could wear boots over my prosthetic. I started feeling like my old self. Better than my old self. Gradually, Macanockie got taller too. And a troublemaker, as well. One day, she painted my leg when I was asleep. Just to mess with me. But, jokes on her. I wore a boot over it. Once the fence was complete, I added another ring around it. 8 feet tall. Then, I began to string them all with the foxtail wire. After that, the trees began to fruit. And the corn grew higher. And the Grass grew higher. And the peaches started to turn from green to orange. No one could believe it. The whole damn town started celebrating. Soldiers came by and gave me gifts. A reporter from the military came by to do an interview. Took a pic of me and Macanockie for the press corps. The new General, no longer a hatchling, brought by gifts to both me and Macanockie. Recognized us for our service. He brought by supplies. Bullets. Leather. And of course, promises to help. Everyone suddenly wanted to help. Said ‘King Louis’ Peach Hill’ might go up on posters. Maybe even on a coin. I restrung more foxtails around the fences. It was slow work. But I felt that it was necessary. However, I could not finish my castle wall in full. Mostly because the Chaplain and Mark had yet to collect the altar tree. That meant there would be a hole in the wires until they did. However, they’d assured me that they were coming by in the morning. Strange thing about my hill was the sun. Things ripened faster here than anywhere else. Macanockie told me to be ready for dinner. To my surprise, that night, the Doctor came by. With Treasures. Flour. Butter. And milk. I asked him what the hell they was fixing to do. He said not to worry about it. Macanockie came in with a bushel of peaches. The first of our crop. She said not to worry about it either. They’d been colluding. She said that these peaches had fallen. And would’ve gone to waste otherwise. The Doctor and her got to cooking. Together, they made something I had not seen since I was a child. A peach cobbler. I said they’d gone crazy. The Doctor disagreed. Macanockie said it was my birthday. I supposed it was. I had not thought about that in years either. I smoked. I ate. It was nice.

36.

THE rotting carcass of Mrs. DeRounds was found under the tree in my backyard. Jane DeRounds. She’d been seventy four. When the Chaplain and Mark came by the following morning, they had a gaggle of soldiers with them. They’d come to help move the tree. All in their trucks. Their plan was to carry the tree off to the Church. But as they lifted it, they found her. I suppose. Squashed underneath. I didn’t see it, but I heard. They put the tree to the side. Called me out. The Chaplain sent some Good Folk to get a sheet. Twenty minutes later, some kids about Macanockie’s age came by. I could tell by the look of them that they were all in Chaplain Triage’s Sunday School. They delivered his clerical robes. His effects. And everything else he might need for an impromptu funeral. Once Mrs. DeRounds’ spirit had been attended to, the half-carved Altar was sent on ahead. To the new church. And, incidentally, to the same plot of Belleseare that the DeRound’s old general store once stood. Mrs. DeRounds however, she stayed behind. As the Soldiers checked my property and the surrounding hills for any sign of her still missing husband, the Chaplain got to work. He blessed the body. From mash to squash. As he was doing so, the Chaplain said that all things must remain where they are. And no one could argue with him on that. The General was in control of every living soul here in Belleseare.. However, once that life was over, THAT was where the Chaplain’s authority began. After the Chaplain conducted his own spiritual examination, the Marshal and his posse went off to fetch our Doctor Collector. As per usual, the good Doctor was high-busy making fertilizer. General’s orders. But he came sliding up as fast as he could. He had been the DeRound’s Doctor too, after all. He arrived at 2 pm. Denim starched. Bag in hand. Meanwhile, the Chaplain came into my house. He sat down at my table. He stepped on my floor. He looked at the dishes in my sink. The one’s from my birthday celebration. They had been left there to stew. Soon enough, the Sunday School kids limped along into my house as well. I told Macanockie to go play with them. She’d been hiding in her room. All day. But she did as I asked. The Chaplain asked about the smell. He said it smelled like sweets. I told him it was the trees. Peaches in bloom made the air sweeter. He agreed. Over the course of that afternoon many more people trickled into my property. Or just trickled by. Soldiers passed. They came into the orchard. Through the hole in the fence. Looking around the trees. Upturning soil. Looking for any sign they had missed. But as they all searched, I saw them marveling at the peaches more than anything else. The peaches had begun to fruit in full. They were green and fuzzy. But some had begun to turn the  the color of hay. Later that day. When the sun got red. The Doctor concluded that there had been no foul play. The altar tree had crushed Mrs. DeRounds. Skewered her somewhere else. Probably mid air. The branches and their break patterns were enough for him to deduce that as such. He said that Mrs. DeRounds had most likely been long dead by the time the tree had landed here. 

“And that,” in his words. “Was that.” Following the investigation, the body was transported into town, and by a much smaller procession than the one that had carried the altar tree. After dark. Once everyone had searched the surrounding hills twelve times over, I waved everyone good night. I waved the Chaplain off. I said goodbye to the Marshal. Once I’d thanked the Doctor. Once I’d talked to every last one of the people who came by. I got to work. 11pm. I went out to work on the fence. I finished lacing the foxtails across it. Over the opening. Twice over. Some loose. Some not. Just to be sure. Because I could not stand the thought of all those people in my trees. I did not sleep that night. At least, not until the fence was complete. 

37.

YOU can skip weddings. But, unfortunately, you cannot skip funerals. We’d skipped the Eagle’s wedding. The Eagle and Val. They’d got married last year. She was pregnant. He was 180 miles east last I heard. He was a General after all. And Val was gettin real far along. Last I saw. We got outta skipping their wedding on account of it being real far away. But you can’t skip funerals. And the funeral for the DeRounds ended up being held two days after the incident with the tree. The service would be for both of them. Mr. and Mrs. DeRounds. Up until that point, some Good Folk had been holding out hope that one or both of the DeRounds would just come waltzing back into town. As such, there had never been a proper send off for either one of them. But the tree sealed it. And there was no getting out of attending. Least not for the Good Folk. So, late in the morning, Macanockie and I walked over to the Wallers. I informed her that this was going to be her most important mission so far. That’s what I said. She scribbled something, but ripped up the paper before ever showing me. Then she stuffed it in her pocket. When we finally got there, the Wallers’ place was already buzzing with activity. Some men were loading up barrels. Others attending to the Wallers themselves. As Mac and I walked up their drive, I felt on edge. I didn’t like standing out. But I was dressed for the occasion. I saw the soldiers turn and gawk as I passed. Started whispering in the trees. Pointing. That was when I saw Mrs. Waller and the Chaplain. The Chaplain was dressed as usual, with a red Collar and a black shirt. But he had combed his hair. Today, his scabbing scalp was on full display. But other than that, the same. Mrs. Waller, though. She looked unrecognizable. Great blonde wig, and rouged cheeks the same color as her apples. She had tanned her skin with an orange blush, and drawn on a single eyebrow. That eyebrow alone looked so heavy it seemed to be pulling the rest of her face down with it. Either that or she was angry. That seemed likely. For it appeared as though she was called away out during the middle of her ‘Beautifications.’ Someone had interrupted a painting session. Ordinarily I would not have recognized her at all, if she did not have a crow dangling from her neck. She was plucking the feathers off and talking to Triage about something. Pointing around her like a lunatic. I waved to them both. They waved back. Then did a double take.

“Kingggg Louie? That you?!” The Chaplain hollered, looking me up and down. “My stars it is. I barely recognized you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you all clean shaven in my whole life. And I’ll be damned if you don’t have a whole jewelry box there on your chest. My goodness, are those medals all real?” They were. I thanked the Chaplain. And he was right. I was in my highest dress uniform. Something I hadn’t worn since my honorable discharge ceremony. The Doctor had taken my service fit along with Rex. But this particular uniform was special. It hadn’t left my closet in over a decade. When I had taken it out earlier that morning, I had also been worried that it would be too big. But to my surprise it still fit nicely. In fact, it fit better than ever. I had most my old medals on my chest too. And they looked good. Felt good. Felt heavy. And with the pant leg pulled down over the prosthesis, you couldn’t even tell I what I was missing. I bet I looked like a proper fella.

“And my goodness!” The Chaplain smiled, kissing Macanockie’s hand. “I could say the same to you little one. You usually got three layers of dirt on you by now. Speaking of, how them peaches coming?” Macanockie pretended to look confused, and wrote out something I didn’t see. The Chaplain hooted.

“Oooweee! I’d say that’s about right.” 

“Mac!” Mrs. Waller snapped. “The Girlies need you inside. Could you be a doll?”Mac squinted her confusion. Mrs. Waller tossed some feathers. Annoyed. 

“Ahhhh. Damn, that’s right. I always forget. Louie, could you…tell her… you know.” She tossed some more feathers and gestured randomly. “Mariah’s having some trouble today. I was in the middle of cleaning her up when… well. Now I got simply cannot wait.”

I obliged. I wrote Macanockie to go inside and help the girlies get ready. She left at once. As I listened to Mac creaking up the stairs, I saw two soldiers trip behind me. I rushed over and caught the barrel they were carrying before it hit. 

“Louie!” Mrs. Waller grimaced. “Thank God you’re here. Boys! That's what a REAL man looks like. Take a gander.” 

The Soldiers muttered something or another. Sulking like puppies. Unfazed, Mrs. Waller continued, 

“You see Louie, Mr. Chaplain here has informed me that the post funerary mixer MUST and positively HAS to have both cider and brandy. And what’s more, it MUST be mine. I obliged. As always. But told him he was not to interrupt me while I was getting ready. He agreed! But for some unknown reason, the men he brought can’t seem to lift a single goddamned barrel. Could you be a dear and show them how it’s done?” 

I supposed. I asked her to hold my jacket. She did. The Chaplain took it from her and started looking at the medals. That made me load faster. I helped them out. I started carrying the barrels from the cellar out into an Army truck that was parked there, idling. Most barrels needed two or three people to carry one of them. I carried two each trip. One under each arm. Once I had finished, and once the soldiers were done ogling me, the Chaplain thanked me with his whole chest. He said he’d see me at the church. And that he’d pour me a damn strong drink as thanks. I thanked him. I asked for my jacket back. He forgot he was carrying it. He dropped it off and then sped out of the driveway with all his helpers. Off over to the Church. He was cutting it close. 

“Gooood riddance.” Mrs. Waller groaned. She spat on the floor. I couldn’t help but agree.

“Not to the Chaplain, mind you.” Mrs. Waller explained. “He’s Good Folk. But I’m…I’m done with brandy, Louie. I think Cider’s plenty strong enough. I said they could take my whole damned stock for all I care.” 

That explained the cellar trip. She took me inside. She left the crow hanging on the door. Half plucked. As she washed up in the sink, I learned why she was in such a dizzy. Mariah was a mess. A real mess. Val was upstairs comforting her. But she could use Macanockie’s help too. Apparently, Mariah had really liked Mrs. DeRounds. A whole lot. She’d worked at the DeRound’s General Store. It had been her first job as a kid. And before she’d actually heard the news about Mrs. DeRounds, she’d seen the procession passing by. As she’d been rolled out on her sofa to see what was happening, the sheet had fallen off the body. She’d seen the body all up close. And, as such, she’d been on a bender for the last two days. A bad one. Apparently the whole family had all gotten in a big fight. Bigger than any so far. Val had got her to stop drinking early that morning. But stopping had made Mariah puke even more. Mrs. Waller interrupted her sermon with a cup of tea. She set it on the table before me. I smelled it. It was good. She made the tea in house, out of herbs and the dried apple skins. Good Folk. A couple hours passed in silence. I’d hear the occasional sob or squeal from upstairs. But, much later that evening, everyone was ready and sitting around the table. Val looked liable to pop. So pregnant she’d barely made it down the stairs. Mariah was looking sour. Black bagged, and deflated. Loose skin dripping from her waist. Mrs. Waller was in a pants suit she’d cut down from her husband’s fatigues. Even Macanockie had gotten all dressed up. I asked what we were waiting for. As if on cue, a big old truck pulled up. A soldier hopped out. Real young fella. He said the truck was here ‘Courtesy of the General.’ At that Val had blushed. The Soldier helped us all into the back of the truck. He lifted Macanockie up into the seat. She thanked him with a note and a piece of paper.

“Well ain’t you a little doll!” he laughed, and booped her on the nose. Mrs. Waller asked the Driver if her Girls were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. Not a question. But I’m not sure the driver even heard. 

“And we are LATE!” he said, checking his watch. “Hold on to that thought.” 

With another word he jumped into the front seat, put the car in gear and sped out of the drive. The wheels kicked up little bits of hay. And feathers.

38.

THE service was brief. The night was hot. The Church was unfinished. The Bugs were murder. I saw the beams I had helped to lift were still unplastered. To my great shock, the Altar had been mostly carved already. Kudos to Mark. The figures were there. The Pulpit too. Half formed. The details only beginning to take shape. Damned impressive for less than two days work. It looked a bit like they were pushing out. A bit like Val’s belly. I spied Mark in the corner. He looked as bad as Mariah. But twitchy. Like the thought of letting people see his work only half done was causing him physical pain. I understood. Meanwhile, the entire left wall of the church had yet to be completed. Once the Chaplain had concluded his account of the storm, we celebrated the DeRounds. And bowed our heads. Then, he directed everyone out through the missing wall. Out into the courtyard for a mixer.

“The DeRounds were Good Folk!” He bellowed. “And we best send them off with a bang!” Outside, in the empty street, some tables had been set up. The Hanging Platform had no noose, but several balloons had been tied around from the notch. Beneath it, there was a true feast. Courtesy of the General as well. A feast the likes of which Belleseare had not seen in many, many years. Something not just for the town, but, I supposed, mostly for Val as well. Val looked over the table, turning the same color of the Chaplain’s Collar. And I could not blame her. For on the table, there was an enormous assortment of food. I saw sandwiches, salads, and pasta. There was apple cakes. Apple cider. Apple brandy. Punchbowls. Baked delight. And most beautiful of all, a whole gallon of sweetened condensed milk. Donated by the military. So to celebrate the DeRounds, we all got to drinking. Me. The Marshal. The Doctor. The Good Folk. All of us, laughing and jumping around. Some music started up. I heard violins. Guitars. Someone had brought out a bugle. And then came the hornline. One last surprise from the General. It seemed the Army band had come to play. There was a cheer and then there was dancing. Everyone started reminiscing, and hiccupping. I saw Macanockie even come out of her shell a bit. She had been wanting to go home right away, but kept being asked to dance. Again, and again, and again. Some people had even started learning her hand signals. Others were writing down as much as they could. Good Folk. Neither Val nor Mariah was dancing. Mariah drank too much again and needed to be taken home. They’d hitched a ride with someone. Night fell. Bonfires started lighting up. Soldiers started joining in the party. I saw the Chaplain fixing me a drink. He summoned me over to where he and Mrs. Waller were chatting. We talked about the good times. The War. We toasted. We ate. And we celebrated the lives of the DeRounds. In the same lot they had once called home.

39.

I couldn’t move. Macanockie helped me home. I drank too much. I must have. I couldn’t even make it back past the orchard. Mac had to go ahead and get the wheelbarrow for me. That worked a bit. She got me all the way up to the fence. I couldn’t unlock it, so she took the key and started heaving me up the hill. Pushing me in my wheelbarrow. Up my drive. I tried getting up. I couldn’t. But I watched from the barrow. The peaches were mostly ripe. The distant corn and the peaches made the air smell like heaven. A full harvest. She kept tugging on me. Trying to write me something. Looking back at something. I dunno. I couldn’t read a lick. We curved up through the hill and I collapsed onto the steps. Must’ve hit my head because my tooth got hot. Blood on my face. Things only got worse from there. Macanockie got me into the house. Set me up on the floor. I started vomiting. My insides started to boil. It felt like my heart was beating in my stomach. I couldn’t even see. That’s when things started to spin. I saw Macanockie scribbling something. Maybe she was reading. Then everything went black.

40.

A Gopher was shot and killed trying to massacre the Waller family. They’d been trespassing. Stealing. Getting ready to kill. That’s what the Marshal said. He’d collected it. Earlier that morning. I was too sick to move. I couldn’t move. In fact I could barely see. Breathing felt like I was pushing something through my forehead. Also. I had killed Mr. and Mrs. DeRounds. I supposed. Four people had seen me do it. There was...witnesses. The Marshal had evidence. He’d gotten a tip from the Chaplain. Val and Mariah had confirmed. I had been seen digging. I had passed them by with blood stained tools. Probably the same ones that had killed the DeRounds. The Marshal found the murder weapons out back. And then, after an examination, found fibers of my uniform on Mrs. DeRounds’ body. It was official. I was to be tried. I was to be punished. And there was no running away. To ensure that I would not skip town, I was handcuffed. Beaten. Kicked. Stomped on. Not that I could move anyways. The Marshal and his black mask posse showed up around me. They got to searching. They found evidence everywhere they looked. Or so it seemed. So they took everything. My furniture. My bookcase. Books. My clothes. My gunsafe. My knives. My kitchen. Him and his posse searched my property. Once they had finished, they came back for me. They stripped me. They took my pistol. My leg. The Marshal came in with an axe. The one he had picked out for me all those years ago. He said he believed it to be the Murder weapon. Then his posse found proof.

“You vile DOG!” He kept shouting, eyes pouring. “I trusted you! You Godless scum. I trusted you! I don’t even want to look at you.” So, he didn’t. He left. 

“Men! Show him what happens to traitors. I got something in my eye.” The Marshal walked outside to look somewhere else. That’s when they all took their turns. Giving me the axe handle, every which way they could think of. Again. And Again. And Again. And when they were done, once his men had finished, the Marshal came back with his hard knuckle glove. Got to rearranging my face. Once everything was loaded up in their truck, the Marshal threw me in a chair and tied my handcuffs to the back. He used some spare foxtail wire he’d found in my shed. More evidence, I was told.

“I don’t want you moving.” He growled. “But I know you will. So I invite you to move around alllll you like.”

He quoted Genesis. Then. After all that, wasted a bullet on my knee. My good knee.  Job done, he tied me upright. Ran the wire around my throat. And said he’d be back in the morning. To administer Justice. With the Chaplain. And the town. He closed the door behind them. The house was empty. Empty except a note. One that had been tacked to the back of the door. 

‘Off to get help.’

41.

THEY were all in my house. Or gawking in at me through the windows. The whole town had come for my trial. Plus some soldiers. And, I was guilty. They had all decided on that. They just spent some time disagreeing on what crime to charge me with. So, my trial was quick. Took the Chaplain all of five minutes to get to the bottom of my master plot. I was a monster. I was training Gophers to kill. Mark Squall confirmed. Val and Mariah bore witness. And Mrs. Waller said she’d seen the whole thing play out like a bad dream. She was wearing a dress and sobbing. Several soldiers pleaded forgiveness. Guerrero was one of them. They corroborated that I came over every week just to threaten the Wallers. And that they were so scared of me that they did not come forward. The congregation forgave them. And with that, it was all made official. I was guilty. Beyond any shadow of their doubt. Verdict decided, the crowd got to sentencing. The suggestions came pouring in. 

“Now…Now….King Louie is our hero. He served this country well.” The Chaplain sobbed. “But that man here is NOT that hero. That Hero’s been dead a LONG, long time. THAT is just the husk. A DEMON walking around in his face. A disgrace to everything he stood for. So I pray that GOD have mercy on your soul. A mercy that you never showed to any of us. BUT.” Wind was blowing through the house. The Chaplain continued. 

“We do acknowledge your gifts. So don’t worry. We’ll help you pick them.” He pointed out at my orchard. 

“Your final donation can still reach salvation.”

The crowd started jeering. Mariah cursed me, Val too, hand on her belly. The Squalls were seething. I saw the altar guild peeking up from behind the trees like cherubs. 

“Convict.” The Marshal growled, lifting his pistol. “You got any last requests, this’d be about the time to make ‘em.” 

My jaw wasn’t on properly. I realized that now. It had been hard to speak before. I popped it. I told them the truth. That the peaches would be ready in a day. And I asked only that my execution be stayed until their harvest. I wanted to see them picked at their proper time. The crowd muttered. The Marshal agreed. The Chaplain did too. 

“A reasonable last request.” The Chaplain bleated. “But, seeing as you are such a dangerous man, I will watch over your soul until it is released from that sinner’s body. Though, from the look and smell of ya, I propose we call in some backup. It would be a shame if your soul was to vacate your body before the administration of the Lord’s Justice claimed it properly.” 

“Very well.” The Marshal agreed. He put my pistol back into his holster. “I’ll send for the Doctor. He’ll get you stitched up.” And with that, he led everyone outside. He locked the door. Outside, I heard the Chaplain assure the Marshal that he would be fine. And that he would keep the watch. 

“My boys are out front.” The Marshal informed him. “I’ll have ‘em lock up the fence. Leave the key with one of them. You need anything, they’ll come running. And keep the safety off, for Godsake. That one’s not even human.”

The Chaplain assured all those assembled that the Lord would surely protect him. After that, I heard the Jury crunch away down the drive. Every last witness. I could see their crowns glinting through my window as they walked down the hill. I saw Mark Squall was walking away with the table that had been on my porch. Mariah was comforting her mother. And that whole long night I heard the sloppy chewing of peaches from the Chaplain, rocking in the chair outside the door. 

42.

THE Doctor was a Coyote. Half of one anyways. That’s what he told me as he patched me up. He couldn’t untie me. Chaplain’s orders. Couldn’t take out the foxtails. Marshal’s orders. But he was supposed to at least treat my knee. Enough so that I’d survive till the hanging. He’d been told it was the injury I’d gotten from trying to run. From trying to resist. He kept telling me things. I didn’t stop him. Not like I was gonna write him a bad review. Outside, the Peach Harvest was just ramping up. It was evening. On the following day. The grass was high. And Peaches were all about ripe. As such, the whole town had come out to help pick. And more. I saw soldiers. Officers. Linemen. Cooks. And all the Good Folk. They all came out for a piece. They’d trickled in through my front gate. I could hear it being opened and closed by the Marshal’s men. I could hear it being locked again with every one of them. I’d only had the one key. So that meant the Marshal was patrolling the outside. Him and his posse. Round the outside of my fence. I had made a damn good fence. After all. In my trees, I could hear countless voices. Hungry souls. All of them making sure nothing would go to waste. Good Folk helping each other out. I could see flesh picking every last fruit it could and teeth sucking down the ones they couldn’t. Or just smashing them all into buckets. Bruising them. I could see the Chaplain every now and again too. I could see his orange head bobbing up and down through the trees. Red cheeked. Red collared. Slobbering. I had moved myself to the window to watch. They had tied me tight. But I was used to scooting chairs. My house. It was empty. Guards outside. But on the inside, it was just me and the Doctor. Thankfully, we had been given some privacy. To spare the Good Folk the horror of watching a Monster draw breath. The Doctor worked on me. He looked like he always did. Cool. Smooth. Four layers deep in denim. Along with shades, hat, bandana, gloves, and a bright red-scarf to match. He said it helped him stay out of the sun. I said we weren’t in the sun. He said he tanned quickly. And that even while inside, he did not want to take the chance. I asked him to smoke. He said he would not. I never heard his voice break. I realized we were friends. He was my best friend. I didn’t know his name. He started telling me his story. He told me how Randal Vern had gotten married to a Professor. How Randal had been the Doctor’s real father. And how his mother had been the death of their family. And also, the only reason he was even still alive. The Doctor had been born in Belleseare. But when the fighting got bad, the People got worse. The Doctor was never taken outside to meet the Good Folk. And neither was his mother. So. They moved to the city. It was safer out there. Different kinda folk. More places to hide. While they were out in the city, the Doctor’s mother had drilled it into him. Every language. Every book. Everything she could manage. She’d had him read everything he could get his hands on. And he’d gotten good at it. He told me how he’d had big plans. And terrible, wonderful ideas. The sort of ideas that burn things on their own. And just need a strong wind to catch. The Doctor said he’d gotten smart. Very smart. Too smart. Much too smart to stay quiet about any of it. He told me how he’d gotten educated in record time. Twice. And how, after all his time inside, he even looked pale in some lights. How he’d made inventions. Some weapons. Some chemicals. And some of everything. And he told me his parents were spared the worst of it. For a time. At least. Because Randal was Good Folk. Because his wife was educated enough to keep herself hidden. And because the Doctor was a goddamned Genius. No matter what the newspapers may say. Every country needed genius. Wherever and whenever they can get it. Apparently, so long as they stayed in, they lived good. For a time. The Verne’s had been rich. Very rich. Richer than the Wallers. Richer than everyone in town put together. Rich enough to keep running the Feed and Mill from a distance. They’d been rich enough to keep a full belly too, for a time. But, just like his mother had expected, it didn’t take long for the city to turn. When the Good Folk had finished dealing with the Squirrels. And the Rats. They’d gone on to the Cockroaches. They worked their way up. And. Eventually, a Black Mask Posse came calling for…whatever it was they were looking for that week. The trial was quick. And much like mine, it had been conducted on the ground. In a kitchen chair. But, the Doctor informed me, HE had been of use. HE had been acquitted. His genius had been enough for one acquittal. But not a second. And certainly not a third. Tara. That was her name. Tara Calea Verne. She’d been a Doctor too. A Professor of Economics. Out at some school I hadn’t heard of in a very, very long time. But, the Doctor said, even that was not enough. And the Doctor had watched. Justice. After that, he’d been given a simple choice. Enlist. Or don’t. Do. Or Die. He’d made his choice. And as such, he had vowed to do whatever he could to keep being of use. To honor the efforts of his mother. And his father. And as he quickly found. He could be very, very useful. I told him I knew about the fertilizer. Said I recognized the smell. And that I always knew. And that I had never once in my life, held it against him. Then he told me something odd. Something he’d been thinking about.

“A mind of use is spared the noose so long as it’s in use. But…” The Doctor spat. “Nobody needed economists back then. Did they. They needed men like you. Ones to be on their posters. You. YOU made the right call. You were useful to the right people. She just…had the wrong interests. I suppose. Chose the wrong specialty. And she wasn’t gifted. Like me. That’s why…she made sure I had all of them. All the specialties. Every. Last. God. Damned. One of them.”

He wrapped a towel around the mince meat that used to be my good knee. I fuzzed out. I woke up again. The Doctor was injecting me with something. I asked him it was morphine. He said it was the opposite. He was right. I felt my heart start racing. My legs start dripping. There was silence for a while. He said he was done. Asked what I was gonna do. I told him whatever I could. He took off his jacket and set it on the chair behind me. Its weight tugged on the wires. Made the foxtails dig a little deeper into my neck. 

“Hurt don’t they?” the Doctor sniffed. I asked him to smoke. He nodded. Took out his tobacco pouch. Got to rolling. His gloves were shaking. 

“Why the hell didn’t you just keep her inside? You fool. You goddamned fool.” He let me have a drag. I smoked it through. We listened to all the Good Folk collecting what they’d expected from the start. Laughing. Drinking. Someone had started playing the fiddle. 

“I could do it you know.” The Doctor said. Glove hovering over his bag. “I could—could make a mistake. I could—if you…if—” 

“Genius don’t make mistakes.” I told him. He nodded. 

“They do not.” He got his effects together. Stopped at the door. Behind the note. The daylight was fading.

“I…don’t need to say it do I?”

He did not. And that was that. The Doctor left without another word. Sliding off into the dusk. He forgot his jacket.

43.

“PEACHES” the Chaplain told me. He had a bucket of them. A huge plastic bin that sloshed around with crushed peaches floating in Waller brandy. 

“A rube like you wouldn’t know it, but these things go DAMNED good with a Tawny. Good with anything really. But this is the best way to have them. Give ‘em a squeeze and drop ‘em straight in. They’ll soak it all up. And you can just…eat it right up.” He took a sloppy bite. Juice dribbled down his chins. Popping the red collar off to the side. It was later that night. The harvest was almost over and I was in the middle of receiving my last rites. He told me IT would happen in the morning. Right here. No platform required. But until then, everyone had decided there was no need to leave the orchard just yet. No need to bother. The Picking was over. So, it was time for a cookout. For a party in the trees. My trees. The Chaplain leaned in. He brandished what I saw to be my key to the gate.

“You thought you could keep it allll for yourself. And allll of these trees on top. But I got it. And I want you to know. Oh. I hate you. I hate men like you.” He was standing over me. Slobbering. Speaking. I was still in the chair. Head upright. I couldn’t lean it. Couldn’t move a muscle. Foxtails in my neck. My wrists. My chest. The Handcuffs tied to the chair. The Chaplain got close. Eyes bulging. 

“I hate you. I hated you from the start. I hate you more than some sorry ragdoll could ever imagine. I hate the way you walk. I hate your soul. You…Pig. You disgust me. I’ve hated you since the first moment I heard your name. I knew what you were. I knew since the first time I saw that wrinkly ass mug. Since the first time I smelled that rancid ass breath. I knew you were holding out on me. I KNEW you were holding out on all of US. On all the Good Folk. On the town. On the nation that gave you EVERYTHING! On victory! And still. You gave us scraps. You walled yourself away and sat here all pretty. With everything. EVERYTHING! And I wished. Ohhh I wished that God would just strike you down himself. I thought that storm woulda got you for sure. So I prayed. Others prayed too. But somehow…you just couldn’t take the hint and die. And then you started running around. Beating me over the head with all your…blessings. Lording it. WE hated you. I heard the confessions, you know. All of them. And I heard the whispers. But they were scared. We were scared. All of us were scared of YOU. Scared of those hands. Scared of what you might do if we asked about that Gopher. So we got to praying. Because praying to God was about all we could do. But," The Chaplain got flushed. He sniffled with a grin. 

“I had, in my righteous indignation, forgotten. Forgotten that the Lord helps those who help themselves. And through me, his will was done. I helped myself. And look at you now. Pig.” 

The Chaplain spat a peach pit at my jaw. Syrup spilling down his front. Dripping down my chest. The brandy was making his eyes water like the Marshal's. He’d been drinking. Everyone had. They were all still out there. I could hear them. Singing. Dancing. Slobbering. Music had started up. A fiddle was playing. Drums barking. The wire was scabbing around my throat. And my ass had all but scabbed to the chair. My leg was gone. My knee was mush. I could hear the Marshal singing. 

“I hope he eats you.” The Chaplain smiled. “Tortures you. Tortures you for all eternity for what you did to us. For what you kept from us. From me. It’s…what you deserve. You damned disgusting pig. You hoarding…uh…Harod! Yeah. Ha! Yeah, that’s good. I’ll need to remember that one. A Harding...Harod! I gotta tell that to the intercoms. We could use that. Something…something….Herons! they could be the next gophers!” The Chaplain was sticky. Syrup and liquor bubbling at the side of his mouth like a rabid dog. He licked at his lips. He set down the bucket and came round behind the chair. Ran a finger along my shoulder. Leaned against the doctor’s jacket which was still draped over the back of my chair. 

“The Doctor’s? Hmm. Guess he forgot it. You must’ve scared him too. You monster. But…I bet he’s having fun. I wanted to do it myself. Savor it. But…I suppose you’ll have to do. I mean. You’re still holding out on me. You got…more to give.” 

He dipped his hands into the liquor. Cupped them. 

“Dontcha.” He poured the liquor over my head. “So repent before it's too late. And I’ll let you atone…atone…with flesh.” 

He took his time. I let him. He ran his fingers down the wire. Down my back. He peeled off the jacket. I let him. And that’s when he saw it. The pair of pliers in my hands. 

“Gua—” 

I pushed up with all I had. Raised the chair and my shoulder to the heavens. It caught him in the throat. We both rolled and I ended up on top of him. I got to freeing myself as he started to crawl. Eyes wide. Bulging. Gulping. Screaming nothing at all. No sound coming out of that gash but a gurgle. I didn’t kill him. I knew that. But I did crush some of his windpipe. Just enough. Enough for me to get free of those wires. The Chaplain tripped and slipped over to the door. Blood and syrup spilling from his neck. He crawled. I let him. I had all the time in the world. After all. I had taken the key. I sat up. I put on the Doctor’s jacket. And clawed my way across the floor. The foxtails burrowed deeper. I followed the Chaplain out onto the porch. Out there I found buckets upon buckets of peaches marinating in Waller Brandy. The Chaplain had already crawled past them. Knocking some over. Doing his damndest to reach the cookout. With no air, he’d begun sliding on his belly like a trout release gone wrong. His mouth was open. He was trying to yell. Bouncing like a pinball from tree to tree. Gurgling a warning that not a single damned soul would ever hear. I watched him tumble his way down the hill. Down towards the music. That’s when I saw it. Through the trees. A beast. A great writhing mass of flesh and fruit. Tentacles. Hair. Liquor. Seed. Swaying and screaming to the beat. Shouting, and writhing to the fiddles and drum. And in that moment. As I watched the Chaplain tumble into their midst. I had a truly wonderful idea. I reached into the Doctor’s jacket and found a trusty booklet of matches. I lit them all at once and I dropped the flames into one of the buckets. It caught like jet fuel. Whooshing. Blue. Flickering. And sweet. It spread to the others. And to the grass. I reached my hand into the liquid fire and began tossing peach after peach into my trees. I heard them catch. So I threw more. As far as I could. I heard some shouts. Heard a chainlink rattle. It was a damned good fence, after all. I swallowed the key. My vision grew darker. But the night got bright. I smelled smoke and heard the music pause. Some Good Folk had realized what was happening. Others were still drinking. I heard screams. Footsteps. I wanted to be the last thing they saw. I suspect I was. 

THE END.