“Where would you move to?” Jim was sitting with all the others around a long, scrubbed pine table in the big kitchen of the farmhouse. There was the smell of cooking from the wood-burning stove in the corner.
“North. Heard folks say there might be some good things happening somewhere up around Seattle.” Bradley laughed. “‘Course, rumors since Earthblood are thicker than ticks on a coon dog. More bread, Carrie?”
“Thanks.”
Dave Bradley had a thin, lined face, topped with a scrub of silvery hair. His wife looked a few years younger, her long graying hair tied back in a roll. She wore an ankle-length flowered dress in faded gingham.
The food was excellent, a kind of stew made from canned vegetables but enriched with chunks of tasty meat. Slightly chewy, it had a tangy flavor that nobody could identify. Norma-Jean Bradley giggled at their questions and refused to tell them what kind of animal it came from. Jim guessed it was probably some kind of chicken, with snake and rabbit tying for second place in the possibility stakes.
The visitors were made very welcome. Dave showed the women and girls to a big dormitory room on the first floor, with beds stacked wall to wall. “Be surprised how many visitors we’ve had in the last few months,” said Bradley. “Still some folks on the move. Like those old vids about the dust bowl a century ago. Tom Joad and having the do-re-mi, boys.”
The males shared two rooms on the top floor. Jim shared with Sly and Paul, while Mac and Jeff had a smaller corner room with two single beds, just along the corridor.
“Those two rooms are for me and the wife,” said Bradley. “We choose to keep them locked. Mementos and stuff. Kind of private. Also keep the cellar shut up. Nothing personal against any of your party. No kind of personal offense meant.”
“None taken,” replied Jim.
SLY AMBLED UP to Jim, an endearing smile on his innocent, wide face. “Can me walk outside?”
“Sure, Sly. Want me to come with you? Or Heather, or anyone else?”
“No. Want to be alone. Talk to Dad.”
“You all right?”
“Sure.”
“Fine. But don’t go far and don’t be gone for long. It’s stopped raining, hasn’t it?” Sly nodded. “All right. See you soon, son.”
Sly walked outside on his own. He was aware that Christmas was somehow real special, and it seemed to him that this was an important time to speak with his father. The concept that Steve Romero had been dead for weeks hadn’t quite worked itself through. He still clung to the idea that his father had moved sort of sideways from everyone else, that he’d likely reappear one day. But in the meantime he could see and hear everything that Sly said and did.
The sky was clear, and he could hear the bubbling of a stream somewhere nearby. It was warmer, and he swung his arms like a windmill as he walked out through the rotting stumps of what would once have been a flourishing orchard.
He looked back to make sure that he wasn’t losing his sense of direction, checking that the lights of the house were where he thought they should be.
The land stretched for miles and miles, with no vegetation to break the monotony. To Sly’s left stood the fire-scarred ruins of the old barns, and he picked his way toward them, skirting the edge of the pond.
He felt a need to confide to his father his fears about all the traveling they were doing. So far, so often, his head was spinning, and he no longer knew where they were or when they might find something that he could call home.
The ground was uneven by the ruined buildings, and Sly concentrated on where he put his feet, using the streaks of pale moonlight to help him.
Suddenly someone shoved him in the back, and he tripped and fell over, gasping with shock as a flashlight dazzled him for a moment.
The voice was vaguely familiar. “Well, I’ll go fuck a camel, Alison. If it’s not your dummy son.”
“Mommy?” said Sly, hardly able to speak for the heart-stopping fear.