After the End: Survival (6 page)

"Thought those two were gonna eat me alive," Pete ventured, as he approached the house.

The man was silent. James Snyder was lean, and about six feet tall. His brown face had deep creases around his eyes and mouth. His forehead was a stark white, and the red crease above his brow indicated he'd just taken off his hat.

I've never been good at bullshit conversation, Pete thought. No use trying to screw around now.

"Mr. Snyder. Pete Wilson. We met about a year ago. I need to visit with you for a few minutes. Can I come up on the porch." The last was said as a statement.

"You may." Snyder gestured toward some metal chairs on the end of the large wooden deck. The two dogs disappeared under the structure, and the boy went back into the barn. Both men sat down.

"Two nights ago, a young girl was beaten, raped, and killed about three quarter mile west of here, near Palo Duro Lake. I'm wondering if you heard or saw anything unusual that night."

Snyder squinted slightly before answering.

"You're a medico. Why isn't law enforcement asking me?"

"I understand there's no love lost between you and sheriff's department."

The older man grunted. "The sheriff's department is a joke. They only exist to serve that bastard Blakely."

"Then why do you sell him your pot?"

"That wasn't part of your script," Snyder answered with a faint smile. "You here to ask about a killing or talk philosophy?"

"Just curious. It seems a little odd to be trading with someone you apparently don't care for."

"I despise the man." He turned his head toward the screened doorway. "Mother," he said loudly, "bring some water."

The smell of fried food was tantalizing. A thin woman, her face flush and perspiring emerged from the house carrying two glasses of water. Pete murmured his thanks.

"My wife, Virginia," said Snyder.

"I'm Pete Wilson. My pleasure."

She smiled, and extended her hand. "Hello, Pete. You gentlemen will have to excuse me." She walked back into the house. She had a facial tic and her eyebrows jerked upwards several times as she spoke.

"In the ‘60s, I was what you'd call a hippie. Peace, Love, Dope," he said, making a "V" sign with two fingers on his right hand. "I grew up around here, but just had to move to San Francisco to be a part of the grand experiment. Lived in a big old house with a bunch of other people, had a beard and let my hair grow down about half-way to my ass. But all those people coming and going, not doing a thing except drugs and screwing. I got kind of disgusted with the whole scene. So I moved out to a commune in Colorado. Drop City, we called it. Near Trinidad. You ever heard of it?"

Pete shook his head.

"That place was something. We built a bunch of geodesic domes out of the roofs of junk cars. Chopped them up in big triangles using axes. Those domes leaked like sieves, they were hot in the summer and colder than shit in the winter. But you know, for a couple of years that place was an actual, successful commune. We shared everything. Food, dope, clothes, chores, you name it. We were one big family. But it was our success that killed it."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the word got out. Groovy place to crash in scenic Colorado. Free food, free dope. Freeloaders. Dozens of them. They whined about the food. They whined about the weather. But what torqued me off was they wouldn't work. They didn't do a damn thing. All they were good at was complaining. So us pioneers, and that's what we were, pioneers, we got disgusted and left. And the whole thing just fell apart."

"And me, for a couple of years, I just kept drifting. No money, no car. You ever hear that Janis Joplin song, where she says ‘Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose’?"

Pete nodded his acknowledgement. The man's on a roll, he thought. Let him rip.

"Well, I was free, by God. Hitch-hiked all over the country. Picked up odd jobs when I had to so I could eat. And you know what? There I was, always minding my own business, not bothering a soul, but I got hassled by The Man everywhere I went. Strip searched, roughed up, thrown into county jails and drunk tanks. After about a half dozen times it gets kind of old, you know what I mean? Just because I had long hair and didn't have a nine-to-five job and a little house I could make mortgage payments on. You ever had the pleasure of wearing handcuffs and being worked over by four goons in uniform? Sitting on a concrete floor for three days while a parade of drunks pukes and pisses all over the place? And the only reason I was there was because I was different. Society condoned what was being done to me, even encouraged it. Society wanted nothing to do with me. I, therefore, decided to have nothing to do with society. The Pigs were the enforcers. The Change has not altered my way of thinking one iota."

Snyder paused for a moment, staring across the tops of the trees in his valley to the open plains beyond.

"Bet you think I'm a damn radical, don’t you? Well Pete, I'll tell you, I'm just a pussycat compared to what I used to be. You know what changed me? The love of a good woman. Sounds a little corny, but it's a fact. I met Virginia in Fargo, North Dakota. She was a waitress in a little greasy spoon." He smiled fondly. "I spent a winter in Fargo trying to convince that woman to come with me. I think it was the promise of warmer temperatures more than anything that finally did the trick. I got a job as a ranch hand fifteen miles south of here, and that was the start of our life together." He turned and faced Pete. "I've about talked your ear off. Are you going to sleep on me?"

"No, that's fine. I enjoy listening." Pete was thinking Snyders’ didn't get a heck of a lot of visitors. And he really did enjoy listening.

"Sure you do," Snyder said with a chuckle. "Are you hungry, Dr. Pete?"

"I could sure eat," Pete admitted.

"We can talk about that girl after we eat supper. Mother," he shouted through the screen door, "set another place at the table."

The meal was delicious. Fresh egg omelettes stuffed with cheese, bits of chicken, onion and green pepper. The elder Snyder made the introductions. Besides his wife, daughter Cathy, and six month old grandchild Wendy, there was seventeen year old Brent. The lanky boy bore a strong resemblance his to mother. Without the Change, the boy would have been active in 4-H and Future Farmers of America. The boy's idea of rebellion would have been sneaking a dip of Copenhagen. As it was, most of his conversation centered around drying the current crop of marijuana ("We plant at one week intervals in the spring so we don't get overloaded at harvest.").

Fifteen year old Cathy Snyder seemed the opposite of her brother. During the entire meal, Pete never heard her speak. She kept her head bent over her plate as she ate, her long brown hair framing the sides of her face as though to keep it hidden from view. Pete could see the girl's face when she would turn to feed the baby; her nose had been broken and a wide scar ran diagonally across the left eye.

Wendy, the infant, was propped upright with rolled towels in a high chair, and engagingly spat food on everything. She had fat cheeks and a wisp of black hair atop her head. Everyone in the family doted on her.

"Great food, Mrs. Snyder. What kind of cheese is this?"

"The name's Virginia," she said, not smiling but sort of crinkling her forehead. "Goat's milk cheese. Traded with a neighbor. We tried keeping a few head ourselves but they developed an appetite for our crops." Crinkling her forehead again. "Has there been much sickness lately?"

"Not too much, really. Some food poisoning, and there's a twenty-four-hour bug with fever and achy joints we've been seeing, but that's about the only thing contagious around."

"That’s good to hear. Brent, you may be excused from the table to finish your chores. Cathy, please help me with the dishes."

Pete and James Snyder walked back outside to the porch and sat. Without preamble, Snyder began talking.

"Around dusk, two nights ago, the dogs started barking at something off to the south. I came out and listened for a while and the dogs quit barking. I figured it was maybe a deer or a stray cow. We don't get many people coming around here," he said with a grim smile, "on account of my evil reputation. I do shoot at trespassers to protect our crop and I'll tell you this, I've got a few booby traps set up. But despite what some folks may say, if they thought about it, they'd notice nobody's ever been injured on my property. And I'm a damn good shot," he added. "Anyway, maybe an hour after dusk I was sitting right here where I am now and I thought I might have heard a scream. But hell, Pete," he said, sounding defensive now, "we get hawks, rabbits, owls, even coyotes that scream. I just didn't think much about it. Only heard it once." He swiveled around, facing Pete, pointing his index finger for emphasis. "I'm not a bad person, and the few people that know me well I think will agree with that. Most folks don't want to have much to do with us, because the Change didn't break up our family. I can't help that. I'll tell you this. I hate to see a child suffer. You saw my daughter Cathy. That girl is the light of my life. Used to be, she was always happy. Practically lived on the back of a horse. Then about a year and a half ago, her horse spooked and she got thrown off, and her face stomped on. Lord, the changes she went through. Then her getting pregnant." He shook his head. "I think little Wendy may be the only thing that keeps her going." He paused a moment before he continued. "I'm glad you weren't able to do what I asked you to do a year ago. Cathy's never said who the father is and I really don't care anymore."

The two men sat quietly, hearing the bawling of a calf in the distance, birds chirping, and leaves rustling in the breeze. It was warm, but pleasant, and Pete felt comfortably at peace.

"Are there any trails south of the creek?" Pete asked.

"Yes. One that runs right alongside the creek and another one that meanders along that little mesa over there.” He pointed with his chin to a low ridge. "Tell you what. You have any clothes or anything that might have that girl's scent?"

The dogs. Didn't think of that.

"David Rodriguez does. You know him?"

"I notice you didn't say Deputy David Rodriguez." Snyder chuckled. "I know Deputy Dave. He's actually a pretty good ol' boy. For being law," he added. "You want, send him over here, and we'll go out with the dogs and see what we can find."

Pete stood up.

"Much obliged for the meal. You have a nice place here."

"Thanks. You didn't ask for any free samples."

"Samples?"

"Pot. You don't indulge?"

Pete shook his head.

"I'm on call all the time with this medical thing I do." Pete hesitated. It had been a long time since he'd talked about himself to anyone. "I used to drink a lot right after the Change but I've pretty much quit. I like having responsibility for something greater than myself. I find solace in work and having people depend on me." He paused. "Besides, I have enough brain cells dying of natural causes."

Snyder smiled. "I understand. We never smoke anymore. You come back and visit anytime."

Walking back to his SUV, despite a full stomach, Pete's steps felt lighter, as though he'd lost a little weight.

Must be that goat's milk cheese, he thought ruefully.

Fourteen miles to the east, a man sat under a lone elm tree. He was slowly gutting a rabbit. Though still alive, the animal only quivered as an incision was made from it's anus to the base of its throat.

"See there, I can be gentle. Now you just watch. I'll bet I can take off your whole hide and you won't feel hardly a thing. You hold real still for Daddy."

Dark eyes wide with fear, the animal obeyed.

It took twenty-three minutes for it to die.

Pete was up early the next morning. His first stop was the hospital and getting Dr. Flood up to speed.

"You’re making good progress," announced Jay Flood. "Please accept my ever humble offer of assistance. Naturally, in return for this generous offer, I'll expect a full update of your progress this evening at the dinner."

"It's a deal. Get me through the S.O. if you need me for anything."

"Thanks, but I'm not that way. Paula takes care of my needs."

Paula. Dr. Flood's significant other.

"She has my sympathy. Later."

Next on the agenda was to talk with Larry Maxwell. Pete headed over to the radio station a little after seven, knowing this was the disc jockey's busiest time of the morning. An expedient way of keeping the conversation short.

The door to the radio station was unlocked, and Pete walked in. A small lobby with a few chairs and a large desk completed the public area. Through a large double glass window he could see Larry Maxwell at the control board. He was motioning to Pete to enter the control room.

"Good morning, Pete. Be right with you."

Pete had been in the radio station maybe half a dozen times, most recently to record public service announcements on animal slaughtering and safe food handling. But he still felt a sense of amazement watching Larry work. Sitting in front of a control panel with almost twenty slide switches, the announcer's every move seemed to be a study in time/motion efficiency. A bank of six CD players sat on his right, while to his left were two cassette tape players and what appeared to be a stack of eight-track tape players. Directly in front of Larry was a microphone, and centered on the wall behind the control panel was a large clock.

Larry inserted three small plastic boxes into slots in the tape players.

"Is it OK if I talk now?" Pete asked.

"Sure. As long as you hear something coming out of that speaker," he said, pointing with his chin to a wall mounted enclosure, "then you know this microphone isn't hot. But when you hear the room get quiet, you do the same, because the microphone switch automatically mutes that speaker. Prevents feedback," he explained, all the while stacking CDs in some specific order.

"Those aren't eight track tapes, are they?" Pete asked, pointing to the gray plastic boxes.

"Kinda sorta," Larry replied, holding up one of the rectangular units.

A little larger than a pack of cigarettes, Pete saw the top of each box was clear. Inside was a roll of brown recording tape.