“Oh yeah.”
After we eat I put what’s left over into an old bear-proof can, take it to the irrigation ditch, and sink it in wet mud to keep it cool.
I don’t know if I should go to bed without barricading my door some way. I wish I still had our dog but Mother and I ate him long ago. He’d be dead by now anyway. It would be nice to have him, though. I’d feel a lot safer. He was a good dog but getting old. We thought we’d better eat him ourselves before somebody else got to him. That was before we were eating rats.
Tired as I am, it takes a while for me to get to sleep. I keep telling myself, if he’s going to sneak into my room, I might as well find out about it. But I put the chair against the door in a way that it’ll fall. At least I’ll hear if he comes in.
Mainly I can’t sleep because, in spite of my better judgment, I’m thinking of keeping the man. Trying to. I like the idea of having him around even though it’s scary. I make plans.
It’s logical that somebody coming in to our new higher village would come to my house first. Perhaps an outsider with news from the North. And it’s logical that I’d take him to a town meeting to tell the news.
What news, though? In the morning (the chair hasn’t fallen), we make some up. Carson City is as empty and rat-infested as our town. (It’s a good bet it really is.) I remember an airplane (I think it was called the gossamer condor) that flew by the propeller being pumped by a bicycle and doesn’t need gas. It can’t go far or we’d have seen it down here. Joe can say he’s seen it.
He says, “How about an epidemic of a new disease passed on by fleas? It hasn’t reached here yet.” He says, “How about, way up in Reno, they found a cache of ammunition so they can clean up their old guns and use them again?”
I give him news about Clement to tell people. I’ll say that’s another reason Joe came to me first—to give me news of my brother. (I think I made up that news because I know my brother’s dead. Otherwise I’d not have mentioned anything about him. I’d keep on thinking he’s out in our mountains as one of the crazies, but I don’t think I ever really believed that. I just hoped.)
Once he takes my hand and squeezes it—says how grateful he is. I have to get up again, turn my back. I wash our few dishes, slowly. I’m so flustered I hardly know what his hand felt like. Strong and warm. I know that.
Lots of good things happen in those town meetings. We give each other our news. We have all kinds of helping committees. In some ways we take care of each other more than we did before the war. People used to bring in their deer and wild sheep and share the meat around, except there’s less and less wild game and more and more mountain lions. They’re eating all the game and we’re not good at killing lions. I’ll bet Joe would be, with his crossbow.
So I bring him to the meeting. Introduce him. They crowd around and ask questions about all their favourite spots, or places where they used to have relatives. He’s good at making stuff up. Makes me wonder, was he once an officer?
Or did he act?
I admire him more and more, and I can see all the women do, too. He could have any one of us. I’m worried he’ll get away from me and I’m the only one knows who he really is. Whoever gets him in the end will have to be careful.
He’s looking pretty good, too, horrible haircut and all. My brother’s blue farmer shirt sets off his brown skin. It’s too large for him, but that’s the usual.
The women have been out at the bird nets and had made a big batch of little-bird soup. I was glad they’d made that instead of the other.
There’s a Paiute woman who comes to our meetings and reports back to the reservation. She’s beautiful— more than beautiful, strange and striking. I should have known. At his first view of her you can see… both of them stare and then, quickly, stop looking at each other.
Later he sits drinking tea with several women including the Paiute. They all crowd around but I saw him push in so that he was next to her. The tables are small but now nine chairs are wedged in close around the one where he sits. I can’t see what’s going on, but I do see her shoulder is touching his. And their faces are so close I don’t see how they can see anything of each other.
I sneak away and run home. I wish I’d saved his smelly, falling-apart clothes. I wish I’d saved the dirty, tangled hair I cut off, but I burned that, too. I do find the old hat. That helps them to believe me. I bring the crossbow. It also helps that he tries to get away.
They hung Joe up in the depository. I told them not to tell me anything about it. I’d rather not know when we get around to using him.
GINNY SWEETHIPS’ FLYING CIRCUS
by Neal Barrett, Jr.
Neal Barrett, Jr. is the author of more than 50 novels, including the post-apocalyptic novels
This story, which was a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, introduces readers to Ginny Sweethips and her traveling roadshow that makes its living selling sex, tacos, and dangerous drugs. Her companions are her driver and carnival barker Del, and Possum Dark who lives for the moments when he can spray lead across the land.
So, without further adieu, here she is, gents: Ginny Sweethips. Isn’t she all you ever dreamed of?
Del drove and Ginny sat.
“They’re taking their sweet time,” Ginny said, “damned if they’re not.”
“They’re itchy,” Del said. “Everyone’s itchy. Everyone’s looking to stay alive.”
“Huh!” Ginny showed disgust. “I sure don’t care for sittin’ out here in the sun. My price is going up by the minute. You wait and see if it doesn’t.”
“Don’t get greedy,” Del said.
Ginny curled her toes on the dash. Her legs felt warm in the sun. The stockade was a hundred yards off. Barbed wire looped above the walls. The sign over the gate read:
The refinery needed paint. It had likely been silver, but was now dull as pewter and black rust. Ginny leaned out the window and called to Possum Dark.
“What’s happening, friend? Those mothers dead in there or what?”
“Thinking,” Possum said. “Fixing to make a move. Considering what to do.” Possum Dark sat atop the van in a steno chair bolted to the roof. Circling the chair was a swivel-ring mount sporting fine twin-fifties black as grease. Possum had a death-view clean around. Keeping out the sun was a red Cinzano umbrella faded pink. Possum studied the stockade and watched heat distort the flats. He didn’t care for the effect. He was suspicious of things
