Cotton Crossing

  Everything in the Dinette was familiar—the red-checked vinyl tablecloths, the orange vinyl of the booths, the one crooked barstool on the end nobody sat on because it was where old Pop Fisk had his last coronary and hit the floor kicking. Fisk was a big man; one of his boots jackhammered the base of the stool, and that was that. There was the ancient pay phone in the hall to the restrooms, the glow of the scrubbed black-and-white linoleum, and the hiss of something hitting the grill. The Sunday rush left the place full of the ghost of bacon, toasted bread, all sorts of potato products, coffee, and the humid exhalation of a crowd bringing all its heat and noise inside because outside was too damn cold. It was gonna snow; the only mystery was why it had just threatened instead of dumping the season’s first frosting.

  At least Margie and Steph were too busy to bother him for a bit. So he could settle and look at the books. The card was in his breast pocket, and it felt…warm. Like a secret campfire, banked and hidden in a dell.

  When Ginny bent over, resting on the counter, her scoop neck had loosened a little, and made it hard to think. He’d barely noticed all the old-timers gabbing near the library tables—everyone who was dissatisfied with the mayor and the checkpoints on the highway would naturally congregate there, especially since the Elks Lodge used to be right next door. There was the Grange, of course, but it was on the outskirts of town, not right here convenient. Besides, YoYo Howison had the keys, and old YoYo was a cranky bastard who didn’t take to change in his routine well.

  The Jack London books looked a little thin. They were both about dogs. The Zane Gray…he hadn’t even cracked the ones he’d brought home, preferring that Louie Lammer guy. The Hemingway—the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Farewell to Arms. Huh.

  “Hullo, Mr Quartine.” Stephanie Meacham, with her daddy’s blue eyes and her mother’s wispy changecolor hair, halted breathless at his table. Her pink apron had a smear of ketchup right at waist-level, her hair was sliding out of its ponytail, and she looked flushed and lathered as a runaway horse. “Got your coffee right here. You want orange juice?”

  “No thank you. How’s your folk, Steph?”

  “Oh, Daddy’s fine. Mama’s upset over the news. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  All over town, jaws were working. “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” Steph set down a thick white china mug, and if his nose was still good, they’d made a fresh pot of coffee instead of giving him the cooked leftovers. Margie was all right. “You readin Hemingway? We read him in school.”

  “Didya?” He slid the gift bag off towards the ketchup and the salt and pepper shakers, standing to attention like good soldiers. “He any good?”

  “Real good, I think. He talks straight. Not like Shakespeare. I hate that shi—I mean, I don’t like him.” She pinkened afresh, and hurried away. The cash register near the front door began its usual clinking and dinging, and the bell on the door jangled as people filtered out. Rooster was listening to something in the kitchen—sounded like a news report. It took a while for the crowd to clear.

  By the time Margie brought his ham and eggs—over easy, white toast with no butter, the ham cut thick and a pot of gravy for dippin—he had already read the first few bits. It wasn’t bad. The words were short, and he understood them. They were laid out nice and simple. He’d never been assigned this to read in school. It might have kept him interested. He’d known soldiers like the one in love with the nurse, and wondered what the nurse saw in the man.

  Margie slid his plate easily along the table. “Never figured you for a scholar, Little Lee.”

  “Hi, Margie.” His choice of reading material was going to be all over the Crossing by dinnertime, unless she had something more interesting to pass along. “How’s you?”

  “Oh, running my ass off. Nobody going out to Lewiston anymore if they can help it, means they come back in here and to the Tasty Freez.” She rested her broad, capable hands on her ample hips, her big red hand-beaded earrings swaying. “Even the delivery trucks have a hard time gettin’ through. I swear, Lee, whole world’s gone crazy.”

  “So I keep hearin’.”

  “It’s terrorists.” Her voice dropped, low and confidential, and her blue gaze was unsettled and sharply intelligent. No moss grew on that girl, they all said. “They ain’t lettin anyone go east of Lewiston. Stoppin cars right on the road, especially out near base. I hear some of those roadblocks got soldiers with rifles, Lee.”

  “I ain’t seen any yet.” He weighed up the likeliness of it. “That’s serious, if they got ’em out where anyone can see.” Grandon’s visit was taking on a different tone, now. Still, some stubborn part of Lee didn’t want to open the damn envelope the old man had left, or that package. If old Hold Yo’ Balls Grandon was expecting Lee to jump into shit headfirst again and get drowned, he had another think coming.

  “Don’t I know it. Percy and Blotzer are both takin’ orders from some colonel.” Both of Margie’s sons had gone into the Army. Both had been sent to Afghanistan, too. One had come home in a box, the other was on his second tour of duty. “I don’t like this, Lee. What if it’s the UN? They gonna come take our guns away and burn our flags.”

  I think they’d have to vote on that shit first, Marge. “Wellnow, that would be quite a feat.”

  She agreed with a wry half-smile and a toss of her bright-red head. “Half the people at First Baptist didn’t show up for church today. And then there’s that crazy talk about things in the woods. You hear about that?”

  “Some.” He wanted to go back to the book, but Margie wouldn’t let him until she’d unloaded her cargo. So Lee ate a few slow bites, not tasting a single bit of it, and nodded and made the right noises until the bell over the door jangled again and Mark Kasprak stepped in, thin and nervous, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his indigo parka big enough for two of him.

  “Margie?” Kasprak was so pale he looked damn near transparent, his straight thick dishwater hair a bird’s nest. “You, uh, you might wanna close up.” He took a deep breath, hectic color high on his thin cheeks. “There’s something in the road.”

  Stay With Me

  It didn’t take long to load the car and make sure her plants were all watered. The sky was still a dark-gray pan and the wind getting ready to cut everything in its path when Ginny pulled out of her driveway. She turned the heat up, glad she’d stopped to change into jeans and her hiking boots. A few feathers touched the windshield—tiny snowflakes, dashed away as she drove back into downtown Cotton Crossing. She didn’t have to go towards Lewiston, she could head north for a bit and then try working east.

  She hadn’t heard back from Bobbie, but that seemed a small consideration now she was packed up and ready. She’d stop at Landy’s just before they closed. The place had no decent cheese, but it had about fifty different types of pop—and quite a few energy drinks. She could drive all night if she had to, then make decisions in a hotel closer to her goal.

  Motton’s Coffee was still open, and the diner, too. A little caffeine pregaming was probably a good idea. The best thing about being a confirmed tea drinker was that coffee wired you right up when you occasionally partook.

  Sunset dyed the west bloody behind the low end of the mountains, a furnace that made the moaning wind even colder. Ginny turned left off Main and pulled into one of the angled spots on Third, the Toyota’s nose whispering into kissing distance of an old discolored brick wall. On its other side was Happy Cow Feed Store and Dry Goods, and you could still see a mural on the brick proclaiming as much. Faded, pitted, and worn, it had obviously been painted in the fifties. Postwar boom had come tardily to the Crossing and left early, and the reverberations could still be seen if you knew how to look.

  You could find history in the oddest places, she thought, bracing herself for the cold. It wasn’t that bad while she was between the buildings—Third was really a glorified alley, when all was said and done—but the instant she stepped out onto Main she got a faceful of small icy snowflakes, sti
nging her cheeks. Motton’s was across the street, and maybe, just maybe, she could get there and score a decent espresso before they were really for-truly closed.

  There was a strange popping, zinging noise. Ginny swung around, staring up Main Street, and at first the shapes she saw didn’t make any sense.

  Something was in the road, straddling the anemic yellow line on cracked pavement brushed by long tails and feathers of hard small snow-pellets whisked along by the wind. At first she thought it was a dog, because it crouched, then it swelled upwards and she saw it was human-shape. There was another zinging noise, snatched away by the wind, and a chunk of the paving near the thing threw itself into the air.

  What the hell? Her mouth fell open a little, and she stared, trying to figure out what on earth was happening.

  Another shadow darted from the mouth of Fifth Street, which ran at a slight angle because of the slope of downtown. More pops, zings, and now she heard faint yelling. Headlights bloomed behind a wispy veil of dry snow, coming over the crest of Cotton Hill.

  Something jangled behind her, but she didn’t move. What the hell was that thing? The shadow was moving at a ground-eating lope, and even though it was human-shaped, nothing human moved like that. It was wrong, and more chunks of pavement began to evaporate, jumping like popcorn.

  Wait a second. Those are…that’s guns. Someone’s shooting at those things.

  What were they? She squinted, trying to see clearly through the haze of tiny whirling white. A third creature showed up, scuttling out from Fifth Street on the right, and someone was calling her name.

  “Ginny!” He grabbed her, and she let out a hurt little cry, because he had an arm over her chest, picking her clean off her feet and dragging her backward. “Goddammit, woman, they’re shootin! Come on!”

  The headlights glared from a Jeep, dabbed and splashed all shades of military green, its engine suddenly revving to shred the wind’s low moaning. One of the things had turned, its head making a queer quick fluid movement as if it was sniffing, and it surged upward right before flashes poured from the throat of a gun mounted high up on the Jeep’s back end. Ginny, transfixed, watched as the exploding chunks of pavement stitched busily up Main Street and caught the sniffing thing. It twisted and jerked like a wet sheet on a clothesline in a storm, and now she heard yelling and the deep barking of a helicopter’s blades. There were men in uniform in the Jeep, one of them working the gun that was making all the popcorn, and Lee Quartine, his shearling jacket flapping, dragged her bodily through the diner door and spun, flinging them both to the ground.

  Ginny’s head hit something hard and she yelped again; someone else was saying ohmyGod oh my God they’re shooting, a woman was yelling get the fuck down, you idjit!

  She lay on sticky linoleum, staring at a line of barstool posts bolted to the floor, their flared bases marching away down the long counter. A trickle of gummy heat slid down her forehead; she began to thrash because someone was on top of her, he had her pinned and nothing made sense, there was a rushing in her head and—

  “Calm down!” he yelled, practically in her ear, his breath brushing her cheek. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, just calm down!”

  She froze. Her heart thundered so hard it threatened to push her right out of consciousness. The noise in her head made it hard to think. He was heavy, and the chaos was now large and furious. Glass shivered into breaking, the windows chewed by the yells and the hideous chuggachuggachugga of the gun. The man atop her tensed, curling over like he wanted to shove them both into the linoleum, and Ginny Mills began to scream.

  * * *

  It seemed to stop all at once, but maybe that was only because she ran out of breath for screaming and could only make soft, choked sounds. Or maybe it was because Lee Quartine rolled off of her and gained his knees with an easy, reflexive movement, hunkering low and peering out the diner’s shattered glass front. Cold poured over her—of course, the windows were broken. It all happened so fast. Someone was heaving, deep retching sounds. Someone else was sobbing, and for a moment she thought it was her sister. Flo cried like that when she was a kid, making little shaking, sucking noises on the inhale, messily and completely.

  Ginny’s breath came in huge shudders. She blinked, swallowed, and tried to think.

  “Lee?” A woman’s voice, from the other side of the counter. “Lee, is it safe?”

  “Hang on.” He moved forward, duckwalking, his boots grinding on broken glass. It was everywhere, the whole front of the diner was shattered except for the knee-high brick wall that had held the window up. The bell on the door made a soft tinkling as the wind keened, bringing in the reek of exhaust and fresh air as well as a funny coppery smell. “Just everyone stay where you are.” His back looked very broad under the shearling, its hem brushing the floor behind him.

  The gunfire was retreating down Main. Ginny looked to her left, to her right. Her hair was probably full of crap now, the floor was filthy. She rolled carefully onto her side, pushing herself up. The car. I have to get back to my car.

  “Stay down, Miss Virginia.” Lee didn’t even look back. Could he hear her moving? “Just stay where you are.”

  Oh, hell no. “My car.” Her throat was so dry, the words were a frog-croak. “I have to get back to my car.”

  “It ain’t gonna go bad, and you don’t want to be out there right now.” Lee shifted easily in his crouch, peering over the window-brim. “Kasprak?”

  “Yessir?” A young male voice behind her. Ginny flinched, her head whipping to the side to see a skinny teenage boy who had taken shelter in a booth midway down the diner. He had a shock of dark hair, big muddy-dark eyes, and looked about as scared as Ginny felt right now.

  “How many of them critters did you see?”

  The kid’s Adam’s-apple bobbed. His hair had started out with an emo-fringe across his forehead, but it was a bristling tangle now, ratted up by wind, motion, and sheer terror. “Just one, and the Army guys.”

  “How many Army? Walkin’, not ridin’.” Lee sounded very calm. He kept peering through the now nonexistent window, let out a sharp breath. Ginny pulled her knees up, hoping she wasn’t sitting on broken glass, her right hand braced on the only piece of floor around her that wasn’t full of sharp edges, dust, and other crap. Shards of a thick white ceramic plate lay under the counter; she stared, trying to figure out how they got there. Something sticky dripped in her eyes; she seemed to be moving through mud, lifting her free hand to rub at her forehead. Had someone spilled something on her? Coffee? Syrup?

  “Two-three?” The boy’s throat moved as he swallowed. “On foot. Looked like they was tracking the…the critter. The thing. Lee, I could swear to God that thing was…”

  “What?” Short and even. How could he sound so…so unruffled?

  The kid shook his head, ducking back into the booth for cover as a spatter of popping sounds drifted on the wind. He looked like he was peering over a bannister on Christmas morning. “It’s crazy.”

  “Well, spit it out.” Lee shuffled back, still duckwalking, and half-turned on the ball of one booted foot, looking down at Ginny. The color drained from his shaved cheeks.

  “I could swear it was wearing old man Sandleford’s coat. That blue one. With fur.” The boy hunched, his fingers braced on the booth-back, trying to make himself smaller. His parka was so huge, he was almost lost in it.

  Ginny could relate. Okay. First step, standing up. Then get to the car. Go home.

  Everything around her went away with a whoosh, receding in a gray haze. She sagged, and Lee caught her shoulders, his fingers sinking in. “…shock,” she heard him say, from very far away. Motion all around her, and someone brushing at the sticky mess on her forehead.

  “Ginny. Ginny.” Someone saying her name. “Ginny, honey, you stay with me now. You just stay with me.”

  I don’t want to, she thought, syrup-slow. I want to go home. Going upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door, and getting into bed sounded like the best option, given
the situation, and to do that she needed to get to her car. Once she got home, she could think, and…

  Hands on her. Her arm lifted, someone holding her waist. Ginny tried to help, staring numbly downward, struggling to think.

  Later, all she could remember of the next twenty minutes were vague flashes. Her own voice, answering persistent questions, someone holding something to her mouth. Liquid scorched as it went down her throat—it was coffee, strong and sweet, and she would be awake for driving if she could just get to her car.

  The only other thing she remembered was Lee Quartine’s voice, slow and patient but with a snap of command.

  You stay with me, Ginny. You just stay with me.

  No Secondaries

  He got every civilian into the kitchen with a minimum of fuss, all but carrying Ginny. Little Steph Meacham caught a chunk of glass through the top of her arm, but the ancient first-aid kit was still good. Mark Kasprak got a pressure bandage on her while Rooster hit the gas shutoff valves for the grills and turned the deepfryer and everything else off. Margie got everyone’s coats, it was getting cold as fuck in here with the windows gone, and Lee lifted Ginny’s hair, checking the shallow slice along her forehead.

  Bright blood streaked Ginny’s chalk-white face, and she shivered, clutching at her purse. “My car,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”

  “I know,” he told her, grimly. Shock was dangerous—he wiped at the blood with a wad of paper napkins, then grabbed a fresh pad of them and clamped them on. Head wounds were messy, but this one was superficial. He checked her pupils—dilated so far her irises were thin rings, like the gold bracelets she wore. “We’ll figure it out. Just stay with me, Ginny.”

  “I want to go home,” she repeated. She wasn’t shivering, and that was a bad sign.