couch and recliner and fireplace were right where I left them. Atop the dining room table were plates, flatware, and the remains of a recently-eaten meal. I remembered making love to Allison on that tabletop and determined it best if my guests remained ignorant of that information.
“Hello?” I called out.
A man in his late thirties emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel. He was short, broad shouldered, and had the same face as the boy on the porch, aged thirty years. He smiled and came over to offer me a handshake. His eyes registered recognition.
“Hi, Arthur Silverman. Call me Art.”
I accepted the handshake. It was calloused, strong, and gritty like sandpaper. The hand of a farmer. “Eric Riordan.”
He smiled. “I know who you are. Sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Your son told me what happened to your house. I’m sorry.”
The smile went away. His eyes dropped and he nodded. “Yeah. Burned all my crops too. I only had a few acres and some chickens, but we made it work. Don’t know what I’m gonna do now. Might have to sign on with a caravan and head someplace else.”
“There’s always the military.”
“No, I’ve been down that road already. Four years in the Army. Infantry. ’04 to ’08. Served in Iraq.”
I held back a grimace. “I know some folks who served around that same time. Tough years, from what I understand.”
“Tough enough I don’t ever want to go back.”
I unslung my rifle and hung it on a hook by the front door, followed by my MOLLE vest. The shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat. A long pull from my canteen eased the burn in my throat. I stared at my gear and worried over the fate of my pack. There were valuable things in it. But like everyone else, I had left it in the transport when the bombs started flying. Now that things had calmed down, I hoped someone from Delta Squad found it and kept it safe. If one of the troops from Second or Third Platoon realized it was a civilian contractor’s pack, it was as good as gone.
“I’ll get this mess cleaned up,” Art said. He began stacking plates in the dining room.
Normally I would have offered to help, but right then all I could think about was filling a bucket with water, wiping myself down with a sponge, putting on clean clothes, and sleeping for ten hours. After I gave Red his dinner, of course.
“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, how many of you are there?”
“Me and my two kids,” Art said. “My boy Brandon, and my daughter Jenny. She’s outside using the facilities.”
By ‘facilities’ he meant the outhouse. I’m proud of my outhouse. A friend of mine, who in my opinion is the Michael Jordan of carpenters, helped me build it. By post-Outbreak standards, it is downright posh.
“Take whichever rooms you like,” I said, “except my bedroom. I’m afraid that one is reserved for me and Allison.”
Art laughed. It was an awkward laugh, like he was out of practice. His expression held a kind of guilty tension I had seen on many faces since the Outbreak. The notable absence of his wife likely had something to do with it. He held up a hand.
“No argument here. I’m just glad to have a roof over my head tonight. Been plenty of nights me and the kids didn’t even have that much.”
I grabbed a towel from the linen closet and headed for the bathroom. “Make yourselves at home.”
*****
Allison came home late. I did not hear her come in, nor did I hear her cleaning up in the bathroom. She could have stomped into the bedroom with a knife and stabbed me and I would not have noticed. I did notice, however, when she slid in bed beside me and kissed me on the side of my neck.
“You awake?” she asked.
“I am now.” I rolled onto my back and pulled her into my arms. She slid against me like fine silk and lay her head in the hollow between shoulder and chest. Her left hand moved slowly over my lower stomach and she put her lips close to my chin. I knew what she
“Hello?” I called out.
A man in his late thirties emerged from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel. He was short, broad shouldered, and had the same face as the boy on the porch, aged thirty years. He smiled and came over to offer me a handshake. His eyes registered recognition.
“Hi, Arthur Silverman. Call me Art.”
I accepted the handshake. It was calloused, strong, and gritty like sandpaper. The hand of a farmer. “Eric Riordan.”
He smiled. “I know who you are. Sorry to barge in on you like this.”
“Your son told me what happened to your house. I’m sorry.”
The smile went away. His eyes dropped and he nodded. “Yeah. Burned all my crops too. I only had a few acres and some chickens, but we made it work. Don’t know what I’m gonna do now. Might have to sign on with a caravan and head someplace else.”
“There’s always the military.”
“No, I’ve been down that road already. Four years in the Army. Infantry. ’04 to ’08. Served in Iraq.”
I held back a grimace. “I know some folks who served around that same time. Tough years, from what I understand.”
“Tough enough I don’t ever want to go back.”
I unslung my rifle and hung it on a hook by the front door, followed by my MOLLE vest. The shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat. A long pull from my canteen eased the burn in my throat. I stared at my gear and worried over the fate of my pack. There were valuable things in it. But like everyone else, I had left it in the transport when the bombs started flying. Now that things had calmed down, I hoped someone from Delta Squad found it and kept it safe. If one of the troops from Second or Third Platoon realized it was a civilian contractor’s pack, it was as good as gone.
“I’ll get this mess cleaned up,” Art said. He began stacking plates in the dining room.
Normally I would have offered to help, but right then all I could think about was filling a bucket with water, wiping myself down with a sponge, putting on clean clothes, and sleeping for ten hours. After I gave Red his dinner, of course.
“Thanks,” I said. “By the way, how many of you are there?”
“Me and my two kids,” Art said. “My boy Brandon, and my daughter Jenny. She’s outside using the facilities.”
By ‘facilities’ he meant the outhouse. I’m proud of my outhouse. A friend of mine, who in my opinion is the Michael Jordan of carpenters, helped me build it. By post-Outbreak standards, it is downright posh.
“Take whichever rooms you like,” I said, “except my bedroom. I’m afraid that one is reserved for me and Allison.”
Art laughed. It was an awkward laugh, like he was out of practice. His expression held a kind of guilty tension I had seen on many faces since the Outbreak. The notable absence of his wife likely had something to do with it. He held up a hand.
“No argument here. I’m just glad to have a roof over my head tonight. Been plenty of nights me and the kids didn’t even have that much.”
I grabbed a towel from the linen closet and headed for the bathroom. “Make yourselves at home.”
*****
Allison came home late. I did not hear her come in, nor did I hear her cleaning up in the bathroom. She could have stomped into the bedroom with a knife and stabbed me and I would not have noticed. I did notice, however, when she slid in bed beside me and kissed me on the side of my neck.
“You awake?” she asked.
“I am now.” I rolled onto my back and pulled her into my arms. She slid against me like fine silk and lay her head in the hollow between shoulder and chest. Her left hand moved slowly over my lower stomach and she put her lips close to my chin. I knew what she
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