Grid

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-482-0

Grid copyright © 2015

by James Wolanyk

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by David Walker

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

About the Author

1

He only recalled the number twelve-and-a-half because it seemed so trivial. Twelve-and-a-half—the number of amps drawn by the average space heater, a spike climbing the Y-axis along their readouts, cresting in the span of an hour—had warranted a death sentence.

At the center of the porch, huddled together like palisade walls, a dozen men formed a circle. Their silhouette was a tangle of camouflage parkas and rifle barrels. Daylight stained the surrounding hills and marshlands in shades of rust, and the trees loomed overhead in black lattices. This place wasn’t comforting, but it was more bearable than the circle.

Fletcher paced the edges of the porch railing, an outsider among the herd. The violence always forced itself upon him, and he recognized it in the air. He recognized it in the porch and its dark gathering. He recognized it in the bleach, turpentine, and radiator fluid, all fuming and rushing past on autumn winds. Those chemicals gave Fletcher headaches.

So did crying.

Hush, that’s quite enough, said Rusak.

Fletcher glanced at the militia’s formation and watched the hooded enforcer bend down, prodding the victim’s forehead with his handgun.

If you should die, it would be preferable to die with some measure of dignity, no? asked Rusak.

I’m so sorry, said the victim, the father. He had a name once, but now Fletcher couldn’t remember it. Perhaps it was a choice. Please, don’t do it. Don’t. She got worse this morning, and—oh, God, no. No, please. We ran out of peat for the furnace. I swear, I tried to reach you. I only turned it on for an hour.

Rusak leaned closer, lifting the father’s chin with a bony finger. When he stared into his victims’ eyes, he fed on their anguish, on tears and the taint of jaundice.

I can see that you’re not a bad man, said Rusak. His lips curled with a placid smile; his eyes grew alive in the light of a withering sunset.

Now the father nodded, hands clasped, praying for mercy at the foot of his new god. But he didn’t know Rusak. He didn’t know his tricks, his sadistic games and thrills.

However, I am torn, said Rusak. His tone flattened, and his gaze hardened. You made an error in neglecting to contact us. That heater may have only been on for an hour, but if we hadn’t turned on a second array in time, you might’ve blown the fuse. Anyone on that line could’ve died.

I’m so sorry.

Hospital patients, water filters, chickens in incubators, said Rusak, ignoring him. Your crime has not only endangered yourself, but all of us. It was a crime of necessity, perhaps, but a crime nonetheless. While I commend you for caring for your daughter, you need to understand that order has a place in society. Justice can’t be suspended because we feel someone tug upon our heart-strings.

I know. I’ll accept punishment. But please, I’m begging you. Don’t put me down like an animal. I’ve got a daughter in that house who needs to be raised, cared for. You understand, right? Right? He lifted his head, reddened eyes sweeping the crowd, searching for mercy somewhere in the shadows.

Rusak shook his head, toggled the safety lever on his pistol. Your dignity is damaged by involving your daughter. By dragging her into your punishment, you devalue her, as well as yourself. You imply that we don’t appreciate human life, especially that of a child. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I didn’t mean it like that. God, no. No.

Then how did you mean it? Anyone in the fences can raise your daughter as a responsible user of power. The more you plead, the more I see you as a mere supplier of sperm, and gatherer of food. I’d like to think we’re not such base creatures. Rusak studied the man’s face. Not anymore.

It was an honest mistake, Marko. More sobs. I’ll never do it again. I promise.

I know you won’t.

Rusak turned his head to the horizon, his eyes glinting like jarred fireflies. His skin had grown pallid from years in the bunkers, stretched over pointed cheekbones and a sharp jaw. It was nearly translucent around the rim of his eye sockets, revealing bluish veins beneath. Anybody who saw Rusak was never quite the same afterwards.

Certainly not Fletcher.

It’s growing late, said Rusak. He looked toward the other men. What do you think?

One of them, an electrician from the Ontario grids, gave a nod. Fletcher hadn’t spoken with him, but he seemed to be a lapdog for Rusak. We’d best wrap it up, he said.

I’m inclined to agree, said Rusak.

At that, the father pounded on the deck, his fists clenched and bloodied. He raked his fingers across rain-swollen planks, muttered pleas to the wind, convulsed in the circle’s shadow.

Please, the father managed to whisper. He began to repeat the lone word as though it might change his fate. Please, please, please…

He said it until Rusak stepped away.

You’re free to go, said Rusak, demure in his retreat. With a flick of his wrist, a jerk of his handgun, he pointed toward the man’s screen door. Go. Be with her.

Some of the men in the circle had been around long enough to share thoughts with one another, but nobody could tell what Rusak thought. That was the hallmark of a good enforcer, supposedly. The men exchanged glances and darkened stares.

It was best to let the recruits learn for themselves.

You mean it? the father whispered. His voice was frayed, straining. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Go on, said Rusak.

I’ll bring twice my offerings next time I make a trip to the fences. You don’t know how much this means.

He stood up from the deck, legs shaking, shivering as he stumbled toward the door. With trembling hands, he paused and worked to undo the latch.

It had only been a second, perhaps less. Rusak wasted no time.

Pop.

Some of the newer men jumped, but most remained still, unfazed or too numb to react. Most of them had never heard a gunshot that close. It rang through Fletcher’s ears like an ever-present alarm clock, maddening in tandem with the smell of smokeless powder and pine sap.

Bullets made everything messy.

The body slumped against the screen, neck limp and flopping freely. The man’s arms rolled to one side and hung there.

It never seemed any less surreal, or any less horrific. The more Fletcher stared at it, the more it resembled a wind-up robot that had simply run out of ticks, or a bird with a wrung neck.

The pulp dripped from gutters and rusted propane tanks.

Within fifteen minutes they’d cleared the house of anything worth keeping—dried wood, soup cans, charcoal—and Fletcher stood in the living room, drawn to the family photographs on the mantle and coffee table. The man’s wife had been beautiful, with long blonde hair and an affinity for cardigans. For a moment Fletcher forgot he was staring at dead people, and that it wasn’t his wife, despite how similar their eyes were. He had a habit of doing that.

Hallways branched off the main area, with closet doors thrown open and overturned cabinets spilling into the corridor. A pair of baby shoes sat unclaimed beside a gutted closet.

My wife will like this, one of the men said as he passed Fletcher, his pack overflowing with towels and socks. He held a blouse up to the window’s light and inspected it. Buttons and everything.

You know where the daughter is? asked Fletcher.

What? asked the enforcer. He rolled up the blouse and stuffed it into his coat’s front pocket. I don’t know. I think she’s only eight. I draw the line at fifteen.

Fletcher glared at him. That isn’t what I meant.

Suit yourself. I hear the guy has some nice books downstairs, if that’s more your style.

Under his breath, he muttered, And fuck you, too.

Fletcher wandered down the hall, using the barrel of his rifle to push open doors and ensure that the vultures had taken everything. Spilled boxes of laundry detergent, smashed jewelry boxes, jars full of half-pickled-vegetables. With a final prod and heavy footsteps, taking on the demeanor of the others, he stepped into the darkness of the last room.

Shafts of light streamed in from the hallway windows. Particles of dust met the sunset and sparkled in midair, drawing Fletcher’s eyes from the urine stains across matted carpeting. Shredded blankets and pillowcases formed heaps at the edges of the room.

Let’s roll, said somebody outside, and Fletcher paused, listening to boots stomp across hardwood and snap branches. Doors creaked open, slammed shut. Muffled laughter filled the air. Then it was silence.

Someone breathed.

It wasn’t Fletcher, no—he’d held his breath without realizing it since he stepped into the room. He let his rifle fall to his waist, listening with cautious ears.

Another breath. Delicate, faint.

Fletcher stared into the darkness. His eyes focused, grasping whatever light remained within the gloom, and noticed a shifting form. Beneath mounds of blankets, something was moving, rising and falling with biological clockwork. He stepped forward with as much grace as his hiking boots could muster.

Hard, shaking steps across the carpet.

Hello? he whispered.

He thought his own voice was too rough to even communicate with something so weak. He could taste tobacco on his own tongue, smell it on his clothing, and he wondered if it would be better off on its own.

Numbness seeped through his gloves. They wouldn’t last a day.

Someone called for him outside, but by then he was already crouched over the small form, and he understood what he’d found. His hands hovered inches above the blankets, trying to figure out how to pick her up without breaking the girl, imagining calluses against the wings of a butterfly. At last, he reached over her and tucked an arm beneath her. He felt her breaths through the blanket. He felt her spine, curved and fragile and apt to break in his touch.

Her breaths were shallow.

Time to go.

The hell took you so long? asked the electrician, nursing a new cigarette beside the truck column. We’ve been ready to roll out.

Fletcher ducked through the last of the roadside branches and joined the group, which seemed to be preoccupied with rearranging logs in the final truck’s bed. Dull, rumbling engines fought the storm gusts.

Let’s just go, said Fletcher.

He turned toward the western road, a dirt path that led into the darkness beneath blazing skylines. Clouds boiled in an attempt to smother daylight. Just as dusk reached its peak, truck headlights came alive, etching the dips and bends of the supply route. It was only a four-mile return trip, but nothing good emerged at night.

What’s that? asked someone from the second truck. They leaned out of the passenger window, hood-strings drawn tight. Is that a body?

Almost, said Fletcher. Some of the others turned their heads away from the roping, or began to wander closer. He tucked the blanket across her face. She’s sick. Don’t get too close.

How sick?

Flu, maybe.

Why are you taking her?

He hadn’t prepared an answer, and the others abandoned their work entirely, staring down from the truck beds with hooded faces. Glowing cigarette butts flared up in the gloom.

Well? asked the man.

Fletcher held her closer. No sense in wasting labor. Her family paid their tribute for years. If she can’t sew or cook, at least she can help clean. Maybe her arms are small enough to tighten bolts in the engine blocks.

Wishful thinking, Fletcher. She’s just another mouth to feed, isn’t she? A sick one, at that. Her dad was shit. She won’t be any better.

The hell am I supposed to do? Leave her here?

Why not?

What if wanderers find her, or worse, 63? asked Fletcher. He narrowed his eyes. The older ones might have enough sense to shut up, but an eight-year-old is going to tell them everything about us. Ever consider that?

So why don’t we just shoot her right here?

Fletcher’s grip tightened. He could hear her breaths in his ear.

Enough, said a flat voice, and then there was silence. Rusak emerged near the lead vehicle. I’ve known Peter long enough to trust his judgment. If he chooses to take her, let him. As I told her father, she is a member of this grid, and any man has the ability to raise her. Especially a leader. If she’s capable of earning a place within the walls, she’ll prove it in time.

Thank you, said Fletcher, and for once he meant it.

Make sure her food and clothing comes from your supply, however. The community aid stockpiles are already strained as is. We can’t take on another member. Rusak paused. A sick member, nonetheless.

I planned on using my own resources.

Rusak nodded, his face framed in headlights but revealing nothing. Good.

During the ride back, Fletcher requested the heat to remain on high, forcing the driver to unbutton his jacket. Every so often, the man glared at the child.

She remained asleep for the ride, but even in slumber, she rolled and fidgeted, hands pressed to the blanket and clawing at her cocoon. Fletcher pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. As expected, it indicated the opening stages of something worse, pale blue and glistening in the dashboard lights.

Fletcher glanced up as his peripheral vision turned to fields and hills. Headlights trailed the truck at their front, and a pair of burning eyes stared through the rear-view as another truck followed, maintaining a sizeable gap to prevent an ambush in the open. When the forest expanded into farmland, it became marshes and groves, with stars stretching to the farthest horizons and blending into the lights of distant settlements. Fletcher almost felt his wife’s hand on his, almost saw his daughter’s smile in the mirror.

He ran a hand through the girl’s hair.

They arrived in total darkness. Fletcher held the girl in his arms, trying to muffle her coughs, waiting as the others unloaded their supplies and carried out inspections on the vehicles. He stared out the windshield, watched the moonlight dance across the reservoir, catching the ripples of water as it flowed toward the pumps. Slate stacks and angled floodgates concealed where the water entered the filtration system. Beyond the reservoir and its shadows of fishing boats, Fletcher could barely discern the shape and curves of the barbed-wire fencing, its unending tail extending up and into the blackness of the surrounding hills.

Some of the residents emerged from the concrete stairways with their wives and children in tow, eager to get the best of the new deliveries. Rusak and his cadre stood in the truck bed and distributed the items to open arms. Tins of oats, carpenter’s nails, mouthwash—the poorest received what they needed.

On that evening, all Fletcher needed was the doctor.

So, where’d you find her? asked Rosan.

Fletcher had requested the examination be done in an unofficial location, mainly because he didn’t trust the other men who guarded the infirmary. They’d shown their feelings toward fringe migrants back at the house, and on a dozen other prior raids. So instead he sat at his dining room table, an antique piece imported from Paris, listening to the filtration machines whine through the ceiling and beneath the carpeting. Rosan seemed less awake for the examination than Fletcher, her graying hair tied back, mascara applied in sloppy streaks. Everybody did their best to look good when they spent so much time underground.

He sipped at his coffee. Back at the Roux place. I found her before we left.

Doctor Rosan nodded. So, then, did Rusak have his way?

What?

My guess is that the insects are going to be eating Frank at dawn. Right?

Fletcher said nothing. He drank more of the coffee, eyes following the hands on his clock.

I thought so, said Rosan. She folded her hands on the table’s wood top. It’s a good thing you got her out of there, you know. Don’t let the others make you think you screwed up.

I know.

No, really. Look at me. You did a good thing. Rosan’s eyes were bloodshot, but full, hopeful somehow. What’s her name?

Sarah. I think, anyway.

Rosan nodded. Well, she’s beautiful. She has her mother’s face, too.

You knew her?

Practically her neighbor. I lived down near the interstate with her. She shrugged.

Fletcher didn’t want to prod any further. In the first years of knowing her, she’d been open and honest. But after he began to ask her questions she didn’t like, the truth shrank away.

Ah, well, said Fletcher. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded. There wasn’t much I could do for Frank.

I know. Marko has a way of stirring people up.

He did what he thought was right.

I’m sure he did. Rosan crossed her legs. "You’re lucky you’re friends, Peter. Well, maybe were friends. If he knew you had a conscience, he’d have killed you off by now."

You seem to be making out fine.

She laughed. Right. As soon as he finds someone who can disinfect a wound better than me, I’ll be gone. I’m the best he’ll get for now. There’s a reason I don’t have an apprentice.

I’m sure the loyal public would have something to say if they were going to string you up, Jess. Or so he hoped.

I can envision it now. Farrow would be front-and-center, throwing himself in front of the tanks to protect his dear friend.

Fletcher smiled at that. As far as he knew, the bastard hadn’t been in contact with Rosan since she attempted her four-day addiction treatment on him. Four days in a cell with only water and oats was enough to drive any man to murder. Maybe, maybe not.

His friends are needles, said Rosan, smirking. But with friends like Rusak…

Fletcher hung onto Rosan’s first statement. Still?

In a manner of speaking, he’s over it. Rosan swirled her coffee with a spoon, her eyes vacant. He doesn’t do heroin anymore. His supplier was carjacked and dismembered near Madrid. Now he just does amphetamines, coke. He says the Colombian trains always arrive on schedule.

A little incentive never hurt anybody.

Farrow had been the designated programmer and network operator on the grid for as long as they’d had a network, and in some ways, Fletcher had taken a liking to him. Perhaps in the same sense as caring for a junkyard dog. He worked for drugs, and drugs seemed to work for him.

Peter, this is not what a doctor likes to hear from a council member.

Fletcher gave a half-cocked smile, draining the rest of his coffee. He stood up, walked to the counter, poured himself a second cup. No sugar, since the supply train hadn’t arrived for the month.

She should be warming up, said Rosan, peering through the open doorway and into the guest bedroom.

Sarah slept on a cot with quilts draped over her, a heater waiting by the nightstand.

When do you think she’ll wake up? asked Fletcher. He leaned back against the counter, cradling the coffee with both hands. I mean, what the hell will I say?

Do you think you can tell her the truth?

She’s a little girl.

Rosan kept her eyes on the girl. She’s eight. They’ve seen a lot, Peter. If you think she can’t handle it, then maybe you’d better consider the alternative. Wait until she realizes her father never went on a hunting trip at all. Worse, maybe she’ll sit around all day thinking he’s coming back for her. Which is worse?

We’ll cross that bridge when we reach it, I guess.

Get ready. She’s been out for a while. She might wake up before the sun rises. Cranky, crying, angry—you’ll have to deal with that. Prepare yourself. If you need me, you let me know.

The heater’s whispering filled the pause. Fletcher set his mug down at last, wandering to the doorway. He turned to Rosan.

Maybe I’m not fit to take care of her.

As he turned to watch Sarah, the chrome refrigerator reflected his face. It reflected its square shape and prickly, emergent beard. He saw his hair, black and buzzed to a quarter-inch, covered in old scar tissue. Even in that millisecond, his eyes stunned him, so sunken and distant that he could not recognize