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Authors: Ardath Mayhar
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"Now you're almost to the end of the road. The oiltop ends at the edge of the Greens' property – they're the only reason the thing ever got oiled at all, actually. From there it's a muddy lane that ends in Sim Jackman's woods. Sim's there, I'll warrant. It's possible he doesn't even know anything at all has happened. He shuts himself in down there and drinks steadily through until the weather clears in the spring. He makes moonshine, too, but his is strictly for drinking.
"And that's all. I'm tired, Lucinda. Help me to bed, please. " She closed her eyes, the purple lump an ugly splotch on her pale face.
When she was settled for the night, we sat about the fire. Zack, Mom Allie, Suzi , and I. We thought of tomorrow. I don't know about their feelings, but mine were filled with dread and a sick memory of Jess Sweetbrier's crushed head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was now the end of November. In the confusion, we had lost track of days, but as nearly as we could reckon, it was the thirtieth when we set out on our mission of rescue. It was one of those holly-berry days of dazzling sunlight and hard frost. We left the children spinning round and round in the yard, their bright jackets blurs of color. It was something cheerful to take with us on our journey.
And it was a journey, now. The violent weather of the fall had sent trees down across the road more than once, not to mention washouts and soft spots. Zack, ever practical, had brought his chain saw along, which sent us on fairly quickly. Mrs. Yunt's house looked as empty as it was as we crept by. Though we had secured things as well as we could, on the off chance of her return, it already looked desolate. And Grandpa Harkrider's place was a mess. One of his big old elms had split at its fork and crushed his front porch.
"It's funny how quickly things go when there aren't any people around who care for them," I murmured, and Zack reached over and squeezed my hand, which almost sent us sliding quietly into the ditch.
We were alone. The consensus had been that we might have a full load of passengers when we returned. We, being a pretty tough combination, were the logical ones to go. We were loaded for bear, too. In addition to my pistol, we had the .410 and my dad's deer rifle, a very old Springfield 30.06. We didn't intend to fall victim to the Ungers .
It was a relief to reach the hard-surfaced farm to market road . Even that, however, was littered with leaves and small branches and anonymous debris. Once, indeed, we had to edge around someone's shed roof, which had been blown over a fence and halfway across the pavement. The rest of the shed leaned awkwardly in the cow lot over the fence, its walls awry.
It was a long way around by the road, just as Lantana had said. Nearer twenty than the fifteen miles she had estimated. We reached the oiltop eventually, however, and turned off. We could see in the distance the house where we had found the dead calves. To our relief, there were no dead cows visible near the road, which made us think that our services had come in time for most of the herd.
The Londowns ' house was nearer the road, readily visible, and its column of smoke rose plumb-straight into the cold, still air. I wished them luck, as we passed, feeling that such determined people were quite capable of looking after themselves. The next turnoff was Nellie's. The house was hidden behind thick privet hedges, but we could see the top of its chimney over the bushes. I watched the dash, now, and when we neared a mile, I began to look for the big hickory that marked the Fanchers ' turnoff. It was impossible to miss. The thing must have been eight feet through at the base.
We bumped gently down the cross-laid pole drive. Obviously, nobody had driven out of it in a vehicle in weeks. Through a belt of young pines, down a slope, around an arm of the wood that thrust itself into the cleared ground, we followed the drive.
Then we saw the fence, and we stopped and honked twice.
"Now you're almost to the end of the road. The oiltop ends at the edge of the Greens' property – they're the only reason the thing ever got oiled at all, actually. From there it's a muddy lane that ends in Sim Jackman's woods. Sim's there, I'll warrant. It's possible he doesn't even know anything at all has happened. He shuts himself in down there and drinks steadily through until the weather clears in the spring. He makes moonshine, too, but his is strictly for drinking.
"And that's all. I'm tired, Lucinda. Help me to bed, please. " She closed her eyes, the purple lump an ugly splotch on her pale face.
When she was settled for the night, we sat about the fire. Zack, Mom Allie, Suzi , and I. We thought of tomorrow. I don't know about their feelings, but mine were filled with dread and a sick memory of Jess Sweetbrier's crushed head.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was now the end of November. In the confusion, we had lost track of days, but as nearly as we could reckon, it was the thirtieth when we set out on our mission of rescue. It was one of those holly-berry days of dazzling sunlight and hard frost. We left the children spinning round and round in the yard, their bright jackets blurs of color. It was something cheerful to take with us on our journey.
And it was a journey, now. The violent weather of the fall had sent trees down across the road more than once, not to mention washouts and soft spots. Zack, ever practical, had brought his chain saw along, which sent us on fairly quickly. Mrs. Yunt's house looked as empty as it was as we crept by. Though we had secured things as well as we could, on the off chance of her return, it already looked desolate. And Grandpa Harkrider's place was a mess. One of his big old elms had split at its fork and crushed his front porch.
"It's funny how quickly things go when there aren't any people around who care for them," I murmured, and Zack reached over and squeezed my hand, which almost sent us sliding quietly into the ditch.
We were alone. The consensus had been that we might have a full load of passengers when we returned. We, being a pretty tough combination, were the logical ones to go. We were loaded for bear, too. In addition to my pistol, we had the .410 and my dad's deer rifle, a very old Springfield 30.06. We didn't intend to fall victim to the Ungers .
It was a relief to reach the hard-surfaced farm to market road . Even that, however, was littered with leaves and small branches and anonymous debris. Once, indeed, we had to edge around someone's shed roof, which had been blown over a fence and halfway across the pavement. The rest of the shed leaned awkwardly in the cow lot over the fence, its walls awry.
It was a long way around by the road, just as Lantana had said. Nearer twenty than the fifteen miles she had estimated. We reached the oiltop eventually, however, and turned off. We could see in the distance the house where we had found the dead calves. To our relief, there were no dead cows visible near the road, which made us think that our services had come in time for most of the herd.
The Londowns ' house was nearer the road, readily visible, and its column of smoke rose plumb-straight into the cold, still air. I wished them luck, as we passed, feeling that such determined people were quite capable of looking after themselves. The next turnoff was Nellie's. The house was hidden behind thick privet hedges, but we could see the top of its chimney over the bushes. I watched the dash, now, and when we neared a mile, I began to look for the big hickory that marked the Fanchers ' turnoff. It was impossible to miss. The thing must have been eight feet through at the base.
We bumped gently down the cross-laid pole drive. Obviously, nobody had driven out of it in a vehicle in weeks. Through a belt of young pines, down a slope, around an arm of the wood that thrust itself into the cleared ground, we followed the drive.
Then we saw the fence, and we stopped and honked twice.
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