The Hunt for Pierre Jnr

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The Hunt for Pierre Jnr

[Pierre Jnr 01]

David M. Henley

No copyright 
 2014 by MadMaxAU eBooks

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Pierre Jnr is

eight years old

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Newton Pembroke was happy to be home. He’d flown back from his prospecting in the midlands with a buoyant heart and an appreciation for everything that met his eye. He landed his squib outside his house and, grabbing his aluminium attaché, sauntered inside.

‘Darlin’?’ he called.

A woman with overlapping curls of short blonde hair came out from the kitchen. There was flour on her hands, forearms and the navy dress she was wearing. Gail was obviously experimenting with manual cooking again. Normally when Newton saw the ridiculous occupations his wife employed to pass the time he would sigh; today, he smiled.

‘What is it, Newton? I’m in the middle of some scones.’

‘So it would appear.’ He grinned, and came close enough to give her a small kiss on the cheek.

‘Despite appearances, I did not mean that literally.’ She liked it when he was nice to her. Not that he was ever 
mean 
to her; it was just that life hadn’t turned out for him as he had planned and he was sometimes a bit dour. She turned back to the kitchen and spoke over her shoulder, ‘How was your day then? Something has put you in a good mood.’

‘Yes. I do seem to be in a good mood, don’t I?’ Newton’s search for reasons was short and ended with a shrug. ‘Nothing in particular, except I did come across this remarkable family today.’

‘Remarkable how?’ Gail was bent over a bowl of wet off-white mixture, brow furrowed and not really listening.

‘Well, it’s hard to explain really. I was out in the midlands looking for acquisitions and I stopped at this farmhouse where a family was outside, playing.’

‘Uh huh ...’ Gail nudged the story along while trying to understand the instructions in the recipe book beside her. She couldn’t tell if the mixture before her matched the description of what it was supposed to look like. Were her circles ‘short’?

‘Anyway, the thing is, the entire family was focused on the little boy. I can’t quite explain it, as it took me a moment to realise what was happening, but they orbited him like planets, bringing him food, water, or wiping his chin. He just sat on the grass as the others moved around him and he didn’t say a word the whole time I was there.’

‘Maybe he was shy.’

‘Maybe, but it was almost unnerving the way he watched me. He seemed a very strange little boy — intense, murky — but he left me with a good feeling about him. You should meet him.’

‘Me?’ Gail squawked. Newt sometimes had odd ideas. 
Why in the world would I want to go to the midlands to meet some creepy child?

‘He wants to learn to read. Didn’t you say you wanted to help people? Now’s your chance.’

‘I never said I wanted to teach midland lumps.’

‘They’re not lumps. Their farm is functional, and their house is quaint and clean. You’d love it.’

‘I would?’ Gail was beginning to wonder what had got into her husband. Did he really expect her to squib out to the midlands to teach a lump the alphabet? ‘Really, dear, I’m not sure.’

‘Trust me. Tell me you’ll go. What if I went with you?’

‘Well, maybe.’

He nodded with pleasure, so glad that he had made her agree. Gail looked down at her hands and began scraping the mixture off her fingers. She had lost the impetus to cook.

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It was, as they say, only ‘a hop and a squib’ to get to the midlands. The Pembrokes lived in old Tennessee, just on the edge of the metropolitan area, and the squib needed a quick recharging to make the distance. The midlands were the unprotected zones between the two weather-controlled areas of the east and west coasts, where the big farms used to be. Now, any farms that still existed struggled with temperamental grazing lands and scattered herds. Making a living out here was a risky — some might say unnecessary — pursuit for throwbacks and reclusives.

Husband and wife spoke very little during the journey; she had become used to him having notions and found that the best way to deal with them was simply to let him tire himself out. Why it had to involve her, she had no idea, but she was happy when they began descending toward a double-storey whiteboard house. At least now her husband’s fascination might be explained.

They landed on a patch of previously flattened dry grass. The squib doors opened and Gail stepped outside. 
It’s often hot in the midlands,
 she thought, and she raised her hand to protect her eyes. When it wasn’t hot, it was typically raining and being decimated by twisters. The midlands took the brunt of the weather’s extremes.

‘Come on, Newt, let’s get this over with. Newt?’ She turned around to find him slumped over the dashboard. ‘What are you doing?’ She leant in and shook his shoulder. ‘Newt?’ In alarm she clambered back inside and felt for his pulse. He was alive, but unwakeable. She pushed him back into his seat and ordered, ‘Computer, patch me into Services, quickly.’

There was no response. All the power seemed to have drained from the vehicle. Gail screamed in frustration and panic. After a final ineffective shake of her husband, she rushed into the house, calling for help, but received no answer.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness inside, diminished only by the dry light pushing through the brown curtains into the haze. The place was like a museum, one dedicated to the poverty of a previous century, and she sniffed at the baked air and the smell of degrading synthetics.

Her next call for help caught in her throat as she recognised shapes in the room: a man lying on the floor, a pair of children folded over the arms of a giant settee, a woman slumped in the doorway to the dining room as if she’d become exhausted trying to push the doors closed. They were alive, breathing dully, like Newton, but flopped carelessly about like dirty laundry.

‘I am glad you came.’

A voice from behind made Gail jump. It was a boy about eight years old, obviously the one her husband had spoken of. ‘What’s wrong with everyone?’ she asked.

‘Nothing is wrong. Do not be afraid.’

Newton never mentioned the size of the boy’s head. She was surprised he could stand up straight. ‘My husband has collapsed. I need help.’

‘It is okay. I understand.’ He didn’t speak like a little boy. His diction was immaculate with a confidence bordering on arrogance. ‘They are just asleep. It is good to let them sleep when you are not using them.’

Though she looked at him from above, it seemed that he was beginning to tower over her. She was in his shadow and he tilted his eyes down upon her. His lips pulled back as if smiling. She was terrified and then her fear was slipping from her as though a drug was calming her, stripping her emotions while keeping her conscious, and she knew that it was because of him, and it was good that it was him. He was inside her head, where she wanted her darling little boy to be.

She reached down and he reached up, their hands meeting with a friendly squeeze. ‘Am I your mother now?’ Gail asked.

‘Yes. You shall take care of me and show me the world.’

‘I love you, Pierre.’

‘I love you too, Mother.’

His whereabouts are unknown

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