Living With the Dead
Rebecca M. Senese
With Complete Bonus Story
Food for Survival After a Disaster, With Plates
Living With the Dead
Copyright © (2012) by Rebecca M. Senese
Food for Survival After a Disaster, With Plates
Copyright © (2011) by Rebecca M. Senese
Published by RFAR Publishing
Cover Design copyright © (2012) by
RFAR Publishing
Cover art copyright ©
norriuke/SXC.hu
Smashwords Edition
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Table of Contents
Food for Survival After a Disaster, With Plates (Bonus Story)
“Stop whining, Margie, and get your grandma,” Momma said.
“But mom, she smells,” Margie said with a stomp of her foot.
“Just you hush about that now,” Momma said. “She don’t need to hear that kind of talk.” Momma cast a furtive glance around, just in case anyone heard. “Now go get grandma.”
Momma’s insistent whisper finally nudged Margie into action. With a heavy sigh, Margie turned and headed back up the darkened path to the house. Why they were packing up the van in the middle of the night, she didn’t know. First Dadda had gone off with the soldiers, then Uncle Paul, then the schools were closed due to contamination, and now they were packing up the van. She just knew Momma wanted to go on a road trip somewhere which was all fine if it was just her and Margie and Donny but grandma was all smelly now. Why did they have to bring her along?
She climbed the stairs of the porch, avoiding the third step which creaked. Momma was insisting they be quiet so as not to bother the neighbors. If they waited to pack the van tomorrow, that would solve that problem, Margie thought but no one ever asked her.
She eased open the door and slipped inside. The interior of the house was cooler than the heavy heat of the summer outside. In the pale light from outside, Margie saw the outlines of the furniture, each arm of the chairs and couch covered with crocheted doilies. The tables had crocheted center pieces. Even the mantle had a crocheted cover. Grandma had gone a little nuts with the crocheting since grandpa died.
Margie slipped up the stairs. As she reached the top, she heard the telltale click of nail tapping on a hook. Grandma was crocheting again. Well, at least when she was doing that, she wasn’t flapping her mouth and moaning at you, Margie thought.
The door creaked as she opened it but grandma didn’t pause in her crocheting. A bomb could go off in here and grandma wouldn’t drop a stitch. She sat in her rocking chair in the corner. Margie thought she would want to be near the window but Momma wouldn’t let the chair sit there anymore. The neighbors might see. Margie didn’t know why Momma worried so much about the neighbors. Would they want some of grandma’s doilies?
To Margie’s surprise, grandma was crocheting in the dark. Strange, she thought, but the old woman had been doing it for so long she could probably produce a pattern in her sleep. Margie crept across the floor and tugged on grandma’s sleeve.
“Time to go, grandma,” she said.
The old woman stopped rocking. “Uhh?”
She hardly ever talked in words any more. Just grunted. So annoying, thought Margie. She tugged harder on grandma’s arm.
“Come on, we’re going for a ride,” she said. Then inspiration struck her. “You can bring your crocheting.”
That elicited a grunt of excitement. Grandma rocked back and used the forward momentum to push her up onto her feet. She grabbed the bag of yarn at her feet. Margie hurried to fetch her favorite cardigan sweater. She draped it over grandma’s shoulders. The old woman shuffled forward, but instead of heading for the door, she headed for the closet.
“Grandma, we have to go,” Margie said.
Grandma waved at her and commenced fussing about in the bottom of the closet. With a heavy sigh, Margie headed over to see what was the matter. Grandma was picking up different balls of yarn and tossing them in the bag. Others, she threw farther into the closet. She’d spend all night sorting if I let her, Margie thought.
“That’s enough, grandma, we have to go.” Margie tugged on the old woman’s sleeve but grandma ignored her. Okay, that was it.
Margie snatched the bag from grandma’s hand and darted toward the door.
“Ahhhh!” Grandma turned to glare at Margie at the door.
“We have to go, grandma,” Margie said. “Come on!”
The old woman’s mouth closed in a pout. She clenched her bony fists so tight Margie thought her knuckles would pop through the skin.
“Come on, grandma,” Margie said. “You can show me how to crochet on the trip. Would you please?”
Any question about crocheting caught grandma’s interest. Her fists loosened and the pout faded from her face. She made a high pitched sound of excitement and started shuffling toward Margie.
Margie backed out of the room, coaxing grandma toward the stairs with a wave of the bag.
“Just think of all the new doilies we can make,” Margie said.
Grandma followed her all the way to the van.
* * * *
“I’m hungry, momma,” Donny said several hours into the trip.
“Margie, give him a cracker, would you?” Momma kept both hands on the wheel and stared out the windshield. In the weak lights from the front of the van, Margie could see light standards lining the highway, disappearing into the darkness, but none of them were lit.
“Can I have one too?” Margie said.
“Just one for each of you.”
Margie unwrapped the box of crackers and slipped her brother three and then took three for herself. She held a finger up to her mouth. Donny nodded. He might be a boy and younger than her but at least he knew when to shut up.
In the front passenger’s seat, grandma hummed to herself, still crocheting away. Once in a while Margie noticed Momma glancing over at grandma before she turned to look at the road. Through the rearview mirror, she thought she saw tears in Momma’s eyes.
That was her first inkling that maybe this wasn’t a normal trip after all.
“Momma.” Margie kept her voice casual. “When will Dadda be home from the soldiers?”
Momma’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Beside Margie, Donny paused with a cracker halfway to his mouth. He stared over at his sister, as if in shock that she’d asked such a question.
Margie saw Momma’s gaze flick up in the rear view mirror before she looked back at the road. “Just be quiet, Margie.”
“But Momma...”
“I said be quiet!”
Even grandma’s crochet needle stilled for a moment after Momma’s outburst. When the silence lengthened, grandma’s nails clicked on the needle and she started working again.
Margie sat back and watched Donny nibble on his cracker. His eyes looked big over top and shimmered with tears.
So he understood too.
They wouldn’t be going home after this trip.
* * * *
The tire blew out about an hour later. The van skidded down the asphalt. Momma twisted the steering wheel and hung on. Donny flew against Margie and before he could be knocked back, she wrapped her arm around him and hugged him close beside her. The squeal of the tires shrieked in Margie’s ears, making her shoulders hunch up her neck. The darkness around them seemed to swirl then the van stopped moving, shuddering to a stop.
Momma sagged in the front seat. Even grandma sat still. Donny sniffed beside Margie but instead of pushing away from her like usual, he clung on.
Momma brushed several strands of brown hair from her face and twisted in her seat. “Everybody okay back there?”
“We’re okay, Momma,” Margie said. She felt Donny tremble against her. She tightened her arms.
“Okay,” Momma said. “Everyone just stay in the van.”
She undid her seat belt and then got out of the van. Margie saw her walk around the front. The yellow light gave her brown skirt a muddy look. She put a hand on her head the way she always did when facing a big problem. Her head tilted then shook slowly from side to side. After a moment, she turned her back to them and Margie thought she saw Momma’s shoulders tremble in the headlights, but she couldn’t be sure. Then Momma turned back around and she had a big smile on her face.
She came back and leaned in the driver’s side window. “Change of plans everyone. We’re going to campout tonight.”
At the mention of campout, Donny pushed away from Margie. “Can we really, Momma?”
She nodded. “Yes we can.”
Donny gave a cheer but Margie wasn’t so sure it was a great idea.
They gathered sleeping bags, some of the food and cookery from the back of the van. Grandma insisted on bringing along a bag of yarn and rather than argue with her, Momma let her bring it. They trudged a ways from the road, far enough to not be seen but to still have a glimpse of the van.
Momma spread out the sleeping bags, making sure the kids were in between Momma and grandma.
“Are we gonna have a fire?” Donny said.
“Not right now,” Momma said. “In the morning we’ll use one to cook breakfast.”
“But what about now?”
“We don’t need one now. You’ve already had your supper.”
“But...”
“Hush now, Donny. Get in your sleeping bag and go to sleep.”
Momma gave Donny that no nonsense tone. He stuck out his lip in a pout but climbed in the bag. Margie climbed into her bag but noticed that both Momma and grandma stayed out of theirs. Grandma was still crocheting and would until the end of time but Momma sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, looking out around them.
“Momma?” Margie said.
“Go to sleep, baby,” Momma said. She kept looking around.
Margie stayed silent but she didn’t sleep for a long time.
* * * *
A snarling howl woke her up. She didn’t really pay attention until she heard Momma cry out and Donny’s scream. Then her eyes snapped open.
Early dawn light spilled across the sky. A whole group of people were surrounding them. Hunched, lumbering figures moaning and drawing closer. Momma clutched Donny to her. Grandma clutched her crocheting. Margie stood up from her sleeping bag, surveying the approaching figures.
They looked like nightmare people, faces slack, some covered in blood, others with sores or cuts that didn’t heal. They lurched and reached with grabby hands. In a few minutes they would reach them and tear them apart. One of the figures even had a soldier’s uniform on. Could that be one of the soldiers that took Dadda?
She felt panic clutch at her but she pushed it down. Screaming and crying like a baby wouldn’t help and they were in real trouble. She had to think. Momma was too busy with Donny and grandma was too busy crocheting. It had to be Margie.
She caught sight of grandma’s crochet needle. Wait a minute. Grandma sounded just like these people. She had the same slack jawed look, the same moans. What if...?
Margie darted to grandma’s side. She grabbed the bag of yarn and tossed the balls into the air. They fell into the crowd around them. Grandma howled. She grabbed at the empty bag in Margie’s hands.
“Show them, grandma, show them what to do with the yarn,” Margie said.
Grandma moaned and shook the empty bag.
“You still have your crocheting,” Margie said. “Show them how.”
She picked up grandma’s discarded doily, half finished. She held it up above her head.
The moans around her changed in pitch. Now they sounded curious.
Grandma snatched the doily away from Margie. She stuck her crochet needle into it and started crocheting. The closest of the figures bent over to watch. One of them had a ball of yarn. He started plucking at it, trying to make his fingers work the same as grandma’s.
Margie picked up one of grandma’s extra croquet needles and held it out to the man. He took it from her, holding it the wrong way. Grandma snarled. She jumped forward, grabbed it from his hands, flipped it around and stuck it back between his fingers. Then she moaned and shoved her work forward, showing him how to move the needle.
After a few minutes, the man started crocheting. Within twenty minutes, all of grandma’s five extra needles were being put to use. Margie organized the ones not crocheting into lines that wrapped and rewrapped the yarn.
Soon they all hummed and looked happy as they made doilies and table coverings.
Momma was the one who discovered they weren’t only good at crocheting. Several liked painting and were patient even with intricate trim. She had them practice on an old barn out in a field. Soon the barn still looked sagging but the fresh coat of yellow paint made it look like a new sagging barn.
It took time for Momma to convince the town that there were better ways to deal with lurching, moaning people than fighting them. Some still tried to be bitie but if given fresh raw meat and some work to do, most were happy to crochet or paint or do whatever craft they were good at.
Soon they were able to return home and Momma was the first to have the whole house painted by them.
Before long, the rest of the neighborhood clambered for their chance.
For Margie, the best part was seeing all the lumbering, lurching forms carrying paint cans, or carving tools, or even the ones who sat on the porch with grandma and crocheted up a storm. They all hummed and tried to smile at her. Often the smiles looked like grimaces but she knew they were trying.
She could see it in their eyes. Especially the ones who tried to keep giving her doilies.
But the very best day was the day Dadda returned from the soldiers. His eyes grew wide at the sight of all the crotcheters on the porch. He didn’t even seem to notice when Momma came out to give him a hug or when Donny wrapped himself around Dadda’s legs.
“What is going on?” he said.
“It’s okay, Dadda,” Margie said. “We figured it out. They just wanna help out.”
“That’s right, hon,” Momma said. “You should see what they can do.”
Dadda scratched his head. “I never wouldn’t thought.” He noticed the van in the driveway, still listing to one side where the tow truck had dumped it. It had turned out to not only be a blown tire but some other problem that Margie didn’t understand.
“What happened to the van?” Dadda said.
“Momma broked it,” Donny said. He laughed as Momma’s cheeks turned red.
“Hmm.” Dadda rolled up his sleeves. “Well, let’s see if any of them are good with cars.”
He ruffled Margie’s hair before he headed over to the van. Before long, a few of the lurching folk staggered over to bend over the motor with Dadda. And just like Dadda thought, some of them were good with cars.