Planet Purgatory (2 page)

“David! David! Come here and see if there’s anything worth taking.”

I stared into the fire, my father’s voice barely registering through the warm haze of the
chikka.

“David! Are you listening to me? Come here and see if there’s anything worth salvaging!”

“What do you need me for? It’s probably all just garbage anyway.”

“Put that drink down and get over here!”

Rising stiffly from my chair, I slowly made my way over to the Scavenger’s wagon and looked inside. Telephone books, sweaters, broken pencils, and clothes hangers littered the wagon bed. Just like I thought. Garbage.

“Any Bibles?” I asked.

The Scavenger glanced at my dad, confused. “I don’t think so.”

“What about hymn books? You got anything like that?”

“Nope.”

I continued rummaging, taking care not to catch myself on anything sharp.

“Is he the revenant?” the Scavenger asked.

I hated being referred to as that, but I was too tired to respond, and after a final once-over, I lit a cigarette.

“I told you it was a waste of time,” I muttered.

The Scavenger studied me, and I responded to his hawkish gaze with a prolonged exhale of smoke. He was a beefy bugger, with thick veins traveling the length of his forearms. No doubt he was more than capable of defending himself if the need arose. Probably had several weapons hidden on his person and in his wagon. But all scavengers were like that; they wouldn’t last long if they weren’t. Not in that line of work.

“Name’s Derek,” he said.

I didn’t answer; I knew he knew who I was.

I was about to return to my chair when Rosie appeared. I always enjoyed watching people’s reactions when encountering her for the first time. She trotted right up to Derek, sniffing his waist while he looked down in shock.

“Holy hell! What kind of animal is that?”

“Ignore her,” instructed my dad with a wave of his hand.

Rosie continued her investigation, sniffing the Scavenger’s stomach while he pressed his back defensively against the side of his wagon.

My dad, crotchety old man that he was, shoved Rosie with his boot. Might as well have shoved a boulder. She kept sniffing until, satisfied, she trotted back to the orange warmth of the campfires.

Derek watched her departure with squinty-eyed shock. “That’s a bitch?”

But my dad was already leaving. “Get your kit in order and then you can join me and the missus for some grub. And you too, David. Mummy says you’re getting skinny.”

I groaned, and loudly, too. The last thing I wanted was to spend time with the Scavenger. I could already tell he was a scumbag; I could feel the dishonesty oozing from his pores. But I was hungry, and retrieving my bottle of chikka from my chair, I trudged over to my parents’ camp and slid onto their picnic bench beside my dad.

My mother was hunched over a cauldron, lovingly stirring the contents as it bubbled away over a fire. She wasn’t very old, only fifty-seven, but her lack of teeth and scraggly white hair made her look like an old hag.

“Makin’ your favorite, Davey,” she said.

My stomach rumbled, and I poured myself some chikka as the sumptuous aroma of beef stew swirled in the air.

“Scavenger’ll be joining us,” announced Dad.

Mother nodded. No surprise there. Dad fancied himself an authority figure in these parts, and maybe he was, but one thing was certain — when someone new arrived in Harkness, particularly someone of use, Tag Eno was there to welcome them with Mother’s food.

“You
ar
e getting skinny,” said my dad. He was looking at me, the light from the campfire playing with the creases in his face. He’d been a handsome man, once. And he was still handsome, in a mature, weather-beaten kind of way. Like Cary Grant with a Clark Gable mustache.

I gulped some chikka, ignoring the burn as it disappeared down my gullet.

“It’s that damn drink! I’m serious, David. How many bottles of that stuff did you have today?”

“I don’t know. One?”

“Bullshit!” He glared at me while pouring himself a mugful of cider.

And so I stared into the fire, watching the colors flicker from yellow to orange, until the sound of chains rattling popped me from my haze. It was the Scavenger, and he was pulling behind him a pair of
zombies
. The sight of them, emaciated, with their eyes rolling about their sockets and their hair falling out, made me shudder.

“You’re not seriously bringing them here, are you?” I asked.

The Scavenger looked at me. “Is there a problem?”

“They’re disgusting!”

“Settle down,” said my dad. “Derek is our guest. If he wants to bring them, he’s more than welcome.”

I could tell my dad found their presence as distasteful as I did. However his desire to appear magnanimous was keeping him from saying so.

“Well, they’re not sitting next to me,” I said.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” explained Derek, and in a display of callousness, he kicked the zombies to the ground, where they remained while the Scavenger took a seat directly opposite me. “I really appreciate you inviting me to share supper with you, Mr. and Mrs. Eno. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Sure smells good, whatever it is.”

While Derek and my parents chatted, I turned my attention to the zombies on the ground. They were people, or used to be, until the
aliens
appeared and took away their souls. These ones were in particularly bad shape: living corpses, skin and bone, to the point it was difficult to identify their genders. They were oblivious not only to their surroundings, but to each other, their constant rocking betraying an inner turmoil that made my insides turn.

“Don’t go anywhere without my girls,” said the Scavenger with a wry grin.

My dad lit a cigarette, tossing the match on the ground. “They’re women?”

“Yeah, they’re getting a little long in the tooth. Not sure how much more use I’ll get out of ’em. Which is a real shame. Saved my hide more times than I can remember.”

I couldn’t stop watching them. I’d seen zombies before, but none this far gone. They looked like mummies. One of them looked at me, or rather through me, before clacking her teeth together fast, like castanets.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Why’s it doing that?”

The Scavenger seemed to enjoy my discomfort. “Just something they do. Wait until they start talking. That gets real spooky.”

I downed the rest of my chikka and immediately poured myself some more.

“What is that?” asked the Scavenger, referring to the bottle in my hand.

“Chikka.”

“What’s chikka?”

“You don’t want to know,” said my dad.

“Is it liquor?”

“Worse.”

This only served to pique the Scavenger’s curiosity, and after he produced an old tin cup from one of his many jacket pockets, I reluctantly poured him a dollop.

“I’m warning you,” said my dad, “it’s not like other drink. I had one sip and I wasn’t right for days.”

Derek brought the cup to his nose, sniffed it and then gulped it down, only to grab his throat in shock. “Holy sh—”

His exclamation was cut short by a series of violent coughs, and he stood up, steadying himself against the table as the power of the chikka took hold.

“How … how … can you drink that?” he asked, hoarsely.

“You get used to it.”

“What’s it made from?” he asked, returning to his seat.

“Beets.”

The expression on the Scavenger’s face was one of shock. “Beets? You’re telling me that stuff is beet juice?”

“Well, there’s some other things in there, but yeah, it’s beet juice. More or less.”

“More or less.” The Scavenger smiled, studying me intently. “So where do you get this ‘chikka’ from?”

“He makes it,” answered my dad. “He’s got a distillery on the farm. Grows the beets, too.” He sounded almost proud.

The Scavenger held out his cup for more, and I obliged, still only giving him a dollop.

“So where did you, uh, where did you figure out how to make it?”

That was a good question. I’d never thought about it before. I searched back, trying to remember, but in the end all I could do was shake my head. “I don’t know.”

The Scavenger dipped his index finger into the contents of the cup, sniffing it before putting it in his mouth. It was like a game to him, I could tell by the glimmer in his eye, and the moment he was ready, he took a swig, coughing the majority down his chin while holding onto the table for support.

“Holy hell,” he gasped. His face was red, and he spent the following moments staring at the table while the chikka infected his bloodstream. “It feels so … warm. Like a pair of socks out of the dryer. And fuzzy, like my mind is wrapped in a … in a … blanket.”

He looked at me, calculating. “So how much you got?”

“I think I got another bottle in my parents’ trailer.”

“No, I mean how much do you
have
?”

I knew what he meant. “Enough,” I said.

“Ever consider selling it? I bet you could make a fortune.”

“Nah. It’s more a hobby than anything else. You know, to get through the day.”

This produced an eye-roll from my dad.

“So this distillery,” the Scavenger continued, “you said it’s on your farm?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, pulling out a cigarette. “It’s right behind the barns. Can’t miss it. Says ‘Distillery’ right over the entrance.” I paused as a glint of excitement flashed across the Scavenger’s eyes. “I’d give up any ideas of showing up unannounced, though. It’s a
SYS
facility. I’m the only one who can open the doors.”

The Scavenger leaned back in surprise. “
SYS
? Really?” He looked into his cup, frowning. “But it is beet juice, right? I mean, if I found a supplier of beets I could make this myself, couldn’t I?”

My dad shook his head. “To get chikka like this, you need to plant them in the back, back fields. And I mean way back. David’s the only one stupid enough to do that.”

It hurt every time he said that. Still, there was no point in getting angry. We’d had this conversation countless times, and I was too tired to get in yet another shouting match, especially in the presence of a stranger. Speaking of the Scavenger, he was looking at me with that same expression of morbid fascination as when we first met.

“That’s right,” he said. “You died back there, didn’t you?”

I didn’t feel like answering.

“So what was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Dying. What was it like?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Don’t really remember much once the whale fell on me.”

The Scavenger regarded me with narrowed-eyed bemusement. “So it really was a whale, then? I know folks in Rockland said they saw whales coming up from behind the trees, but I assumed it was because of a lack of a better word. That must have been one hell of an animal if people all the way out there could see it.”

“No, it was a whale, all right. Had barnacles on it and everything.”

“So a whale fell on you, and that was it? You don’t remember anything else?”

“Next thing I knew, I was waking up in bed. Could have been a dream, that’s how painless the whole thing was. In fact, there are still times I wonder if it really was a dream.”

That was the cue for my dad to jump in. “It was real, all right. I saw the whales. I saw Rosie pull your body from the soil. I saw it all, and believe me, it wasn’t pretty.”

My dad wasn’t the type to get upset. Oh, he could get angry, but those outbursts were reserved for my mother and I. My death, though, that was different, and he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

“So he died in the field, then?” the Scavenger asked.

“He was crushed. His head was caved in. I couldn’t even recognize him.”

“And you elected to make him a revenant. Why? I thought that process was for animals.”

“Because he’s my son! And besides, when the
SYS
people came and offered to bring him back, how could I say no? There’s not a person alive who can grow crops better than David can. He’s a genius.”

“Never heard about no farmer referred to as a genius before,” the Scavenger replied with a smirk.

“Scoff all you want. Nobody grows vegetables like my son. They’re the closest thing you’ll find to being back on Earth.

The Scavenger studied me some more, observing with great interest as I inhaled a lungful of cigarette smoke. “So the
SYS
people came, did they? Wow. So what is he? A robot? A clone?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” answered my dad.

“You must have some idea. Come on, Dave. What are you? A clone? I bet you anything you’re a clone.”

I had half a mind to ignore him: calling me Dave like he knew me. Instead I rolled up my sleeve to show him a scar running the width of my forearm.