Defective

four days and that meant that the Piggy Gristle would be full. That usually meant trouble.

  He blew his whistle three times.

  "He’s expecting you."

  "Thank you," said Porkchop.

  "If the snows don't come too early, I’ll check in when I come by this way again."

  He heeyapped at Josephine who turned and started back up the road, her hips swaying with the movement of the cart, leaving the children standing by a muddy ditch filled with brewers’ blooms and fuggetaboutits. They hoisted their packs over their shoulders and began the trek down the road.

  Porkchop led the way, then Santa who carried Mixer in the sling, followed by Titania, Forest, Narrow, Bull, and Jelly and Jones, who walked beside each other.

  Porkchop was a plain young woman, tall with long legs and a short waist. She was bosomy, like her mother, but no one would have known it by the plaid flannel shirts she wore. She looked more like a lumberman in her canvas pants and black leather lace-up boots.

  Santa was shorter, plumper and more bosomy than her older sister. Ma said she took after her grandmother, Ma's ma. Her thick dirty blonde hair hung down her back in a tight braid, out of reach of Mixer's fingers. Mixer was awake, peeking out from between the folds of the sling, his mind tuned to Forest.

  Titania was the tallest of the sisters; thinner and less voluptuous. She walked down the road with a fluid grace but, despite the flannel underwear she wore, she shivered when the cold wind whipped up her wool skirt. She pulled tight the shawl she used to cover her head and face.

  Forest opened the top of his jacket. He was sweating under his arms but his nose and the tops of his thighs were cold. He took off his cap and ran a hand through the dark waves of his sweaty hair. At fourteen Forest was the same height as his oldest sister but weighed less.

  Forest had been thinking about his parents' deaths. Neither made sense; neither should have happened. There was always a rope ladder inside the vat; Narrow had only recently fixed the top rung and Forest had seen Pa reattach it a few days before he died. Why hadn't Ma used it? Pa wasn't allergic to stinging insects; in fact, they seemed to leave him alone even when he occasionally stumbled into a hive when he was drunk. They'd sting him once or twice then fly off. Pa had been hung over that morning, he remembered. He felt a sudden jolt of pain in his head and he stumbled a bit on the road. When he regained his footing he couldn't remember what he'd been thinking about.

  "What do you think it'll be like?" Narrow asked Forest in front of him. Forest shrugged.

  Narrow was a copy of Pa. The same open, friendly face, the same smile that leaned more to the left. The same colour hair, although Narrow's light brown hair was corkscrew tight whereas Pa's was wavier. Narrow preferred his hair long but Ma didn't. She cut or trimmed all but Jelly's hair every few weeks. He hoped that Porkchop wouldn't make him cut his hair. Narrow was small for his age, agile, with slender hands.

  Bull was eleven, almost twelve, but was the tallest and largest of them all. He was over six feet tall, broad and well muscled but he also had a heaviness about him that belied his age. Bull moved with calculation, with deliberation. He trudged along the road, his nostrils thrown wide open to catch anything unusual on the air.

  Jones and Jelly walked beside one another as they always did when they were together. They were identical twins; the only physical difference was in the length of their hair. Both were tall and thin, taller than their older brother Narrow, although Jones was ever so slightly taller than his sister. They had soft, triangular-shaped faces that widened at their foreheads and slimmed to a point at their chins. They moved silently over the stones and dead leaves on the road.

  Halfway down the road, a stick-thin figure with a nose like a rotten tomato and wearing faded long red underwear emerged from the house. He held a bucket filled with what looked to be brightly coloured balls. This must be Pater, Porkchop thought, and raised an arm in greeting. Pater reached into the bucket and lobbed one of the balls in her direction. It hit Forest in the head and exploded, spraying him and Narrow and enveloping them in a stench that made them gag.

  "It’s piss!" Narrow hollered.

  Pater chucked one urine-filled water balloon after another at them. He had surprisingly good aim. The children dove into the yew ferns that lined the road.

  When the bucket was empty and the road was littered with thin pieces of coloured rubber, Pater turned on his heel and stomped back up the porch. He removed a piece of paper from inside his long underwear and tacked it to the door then went inside, slamming the door so hard it shook the house.

  "Jones," Porkchop said, "go get that."

  He was back in a moment with the paper. His brothers and sisters had barely seen him move.

  It was a crude drawing of Pater's house with a large X through it and nine stick figures standing in front of what Porkchop deduced was the barn.

  "Nice welcome," said Narrow.

  Porkchop pointed her chin at the barn. "This way."

  Inside, the barn was warm and dry and smelled familiar. In the growing gloom Porkchop had a cursory look around. Wood pile, huge cast iron stove, dark corners filled with shapes. She looked up. High in the rafters was a loft with hay bales and blankets piled in one corner. She looked at her brothers and sisters; they were tired. She knew they should eat but she dared not approach the old man for food. Not after what had just happened. They'd wait for morning. She ordered them up the long ladder to the loft where they stripped off their clothing, draped it over the railing and fell asleep in the hay.

  ___

  Mixer lay awake beside Santa. He was furious. His vague plan had been coming together so well until this happened. He didn’t want to start over; he needed to be at the orchard. He forced himself to think.

  He totted up what he knew. It would be useless to run away; his abilities were growing but his brothers and sisters had size and speed on their side. He needed to know more about the county law that the Constable had told Porkchop about. He also needed to find out more about the old man.

  There was little he could do tonight. He closed his eyes but when sleep wouldn’t come he snuck into Santa’s head. Inside it was quiet and peaceful; a midnight blue sky punctured with the bright eyes of stars. He soon drifted off.

  ___

  PC Pierre hadn’t wanted to leave the children with Pater so abruptly but he'd promised the old man.

  If only Porkchop were just a little older, he thought. He would have been more worried about them surviving the coming winter had it not been for her. She was sensible and would do what was best for the others.

  Just as he'd studied Pater, he had also observed the family for years; watching the children grow and seeing some of their talents emerge. Unlike the Landlord, he always spoke to them whenever he stopped by the orchard on his rounds or delivered a message from the Landlord, or the times he brought their father home drunk from the Piggy Gristle. His visits rarely lasted long; Ma usually shuffled him out the door the moment his business was concluded.

  But he had been there the day Titania was burned, five years ago. The Landlord was spending a week in Andrastyne and had asked PC Pierre to pick up that month's cider. He and Pa had just loaded the last of the kegs into the cart when they heard a scream.

  Titania had always been the most beautiful of all the children. Her eyes saw everything and everything she saw became beautiful to everyone else. She would have grown up to be a beautiful woman had Ma not accidentally backed into a pot of boiling hot water on the stove when Titania was eleven. It crashed to the floor and the water splashed into Titania’s face, leaving most of the left side disfigured. Ma, who never felt remorse for the beatings she laid on her children, was inconsolable and promised Titania that nothing bad would ever happen to her ever again and that from that day forward, the family would do everything for her.

  Winter, PC Pierre thought. I could use a rest. It was hard work being the only police officer in a county this size. All the towns and villages were spaced far apart
and in the woods and forests between them there still lived a few old survivalists who could be dangerous. Every now and again he would also discover an infected colony of adults. They’d either moved or been forcibly moved from their town and were now living along the rivers and streams. They never survived long. By comparison, the family at the orchard was only a little odd.

  He spent the winters in Battery, a town of about one hundred people. It was primarily a through-town for lumbermen but had diversified over the years into a fruit and vegetable hub. A tidy but tired row of wooden homes lined either side of Main Road and beyond them was forest. The line of homes was divided by the market square. On one side of the road were a few shops that sold fruits and vegetables, meats, cheeses and milk, grains, hardware and farm supplies. On the other side of the street, two buildings dominated the property.

  The first was the Piggy Gristle pub, a two-story wooden house. In the back, on the main floor, the Landlord had his office and upstairs his private quarters. At the back of the pub was a barn that housed the Landlord's horses and wagon. The Gristle was also, technically an inn, with three extra rooms on the second floor, although few people ever slept there. They preferred Baker's Yard if they had to spend a night.

  Baker's Yard, an immaculately maintained three-storey, red brick house, contained the town's bakery, a small