Post-Apocalypse: Uncle Dan
Ray Carmody
The following is an excerpt from a novel series called Post-Apocalypse: Uncle Dan (working title). This section picks up with Cassie, a sixteen-year-old girl who lives in Oakland, Virginia, which is no longer part of the United States. Cassie found a mysterious book, only to discover it missing hours later.
It’s gone. How? Why? I had it for two hours. Three tops. I can still feel the worn leather in my hands.
I hated losing things. I always felt like there was a hole in me, an emptiness that comes with forgetting. Did I really stick it under my mattress, or did I put it behind the dresser? I sped to the colonial style dresser that had been part of a community project, much like much of our household furniture. It seemed the theme of every project we did was The Colonial Renaissance. That was an exaggeration of course. But I didn’t have the patience to scan my room for other amusing instances of floral carvings and prophets painted like Egyptian figures (as shown in our art classes). I thrust my arm behind the dresser, groping with outstretched fingers for something. Nothing. I drew it out and then threw my back against the side, pushing. My feet slipped on the hardwood floor and my butt hit the ground. I quickly wrestled my socks off, unclipped the top buttons of my overalls so that they hung at my waist, and went for it again. The thing didn’t have wheels on it, and the little pegs holding it up moved a few inches so suddenly I fell down, but quickly rolled over onto my knees. The dresser emitted a low moan, and a few of the drawers sprang open. But behind it, there was nothing but dirt.
I breathed in deeply—a calming technique I learned about a year ago. It usually slowed me down enough to think. My neighbors still called me Hurricane Irene. I’ve done my research, and I assured myself it was uncalled for. I pulled at the neck of my shirt, fanning myself.
I thought about what was missing, and my hands started to feel cracked too. I closed my eyes and rubbed my fingers together, but the feeling didn’t go away. I felt like an Oakland garden snake, lying there against my childhood dresser, as if my limbs were not a part of me. I imagined—I was the book. I am the book. I was here.
A knock sounded on the door. I automatically lurched into the standard ladylike sitting position everyone drilled into me. Back straight, shoulders square, eyes forward.
“Cassie,” my mother called, her voice stiff.
“Yeah, Mom!” I went to the door, unwound the twine, and opened it. She stood very straight, her hair tied back, and one hand in her hip pocket. “Hey, I was just doing my homework.”
My mother raised an eyebrow. “It’s summer.”
“Summer? Well, yeah, I’m getting a head start. Summer reading.” Her eyebrow slowly descended to just above its regular position. She was reserving her incredulity.
“I need you to go close up the barn. You can take a break.” I nodded, more than I should have, and the eyebrow went up a little again.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll go right now.”
She averted her eyes and fingered something small in her pocket. From the crinkling sound, I suspected it was a piece of paper. Likely a bible verse.
“And Romans tonight,” she said.
“Okay.” A little smile spread across my face. “I mean, oh man, Ro-mans again, ha-ha.” Watching my mother’s un-amused face was like witnessing a car wreck from too close. Her eyes darted to my clothes.
“Would you buckle those mangy things.” It was not a question. I pulled up the buckles and started fitting one of them onto the metal clip. “I don’t know why you won’t dress like other girls your age. Did your father give you those?”
“They’re from Cousin Terry.”
“Well you look like you should go stay with the cows in the barn. Is that what you want?”
I looked at her, her mouth twisted and eyes accusing, and felt a surge of irritancy like hot milk in me. Wordlessly, I fastened the other buckle. She narrowed her eyes in recognition of defiance, and walked away.
I spent some time in the barn before locking the gate, the cows still chewing cud and making heaping piles of manure in their stalls. We only had two, but there was enough poop to fertilize several of our neighbor’s little gardens. To the best of our ability, we were a self-sustaining town, but the mountains made it difficult to farm. The barn itself was on a hill, and there was still a tree trunk from a very wide oak that formed a fair portion of the floor. Out the door, I could see the sign on the floral shop. And though I couldn’t make out the bold, black lettering, I knew it read, What’s buried and dead is the Devil’s dough. Remember to alert the council if you find any objects or information that threaten our security. It’s our job to keep Oakland beautiful!
Beautiful, I thought to myself, fingering my overalls. The truth was, I knew where some such objects were. Uncle Dan and my Dad had some of them. At least, my Dad used to. He got rid of some of them to integrate himself into the town. An army uniform, a helmet. There are some photographs he still has but only takes out if my mother or some other townsperson isn’t around. In them are images of a different place, of what I know as America. Garbage lines the streets like potpourri, and sometimes there are planes, distant in the sky. Sometimes they’re not distant. “They flew so close,” my Dad whispered when I was a child, hugging me with one arm, “it’d blow all the certainty out of you. It was like all the air got caught in its wake and took it away, and whatever you were doing or thinking, you couldn’t do it again for a long time.”
I grew up with these stories. It was so normal to my father and uncle that it rubbed off on me at an early age. Uncle Dan used to pick me up on his shoulders and pretend to be a helicopter. Back when he was careless enough for my mother to see that, she would scowl and threaten to not let him see me. I think that scared him, but didn’t deter him. He always seems to have some way of getting away with things. My Dad can’t do that as often. He’ll give me the occasional wink that means he’ll explain something or tell some story to me when we’re not under the auspices of other native Oaklanders. But my uncle has always been a close second father to me. I could always go to his house and hear about aircraft, my grandparents, or American history.
Yet one of the most important things he ever did was when I was nine. I ran to the tavern, where he works as the manager, crying. The patrons shooed me out, saying a little kid shouldn’t be there, but he took me into the backroom, sat me on a keg, and asked me what was wrong.
“The teacher said I can’t be an ar, an ar-chae-eologist,” I sobbed. We learned about the profession in social studies. They were people who went to other areas of the Republics, which stretched a lot of the area of the middle to lower Appalachians, found objects and turned them over to authorities. I wanted to dig. “But the teacher said I can’t dig because I’m a girl.” He looked at me, disbelieving
.
“I’ve seen you dig before,” he said sincerely.
“But the teacher said—”
“Apparently the teacher’s never seen you dig.” A smile spread across his face. I smiled back and blew my nose on my dress collar.
“Kiddo,” he said, handing me a hanky from his trouser pocket, “My mother, your grandmother, was an aspiring soldier. She told government officials to back off of her property with a shotgun under her arm when they came asking for it.” I sat there, my mouth hanging open. He had a way of speaking that was reverent, like it was coming from a place deep inside him. He always spoke carefully and clearly. “And if the teacher tells you differently, you tell her okay. But you speak to yourself. You tell yourself you’re stronger, and you find a safe place and dig.”
That was the first day I fantasized about digging a long tunnel that would lead me away, far away, up to America. As I lay in the thin layer of hay in the barn, I remembered imagining my grandmother, teaching me how to wield a gun.
It’s gone. How? Why? I had it for two hours. Three tops. I can still feel the worn leather in my hands.
I hated losing things. I always felt like there was a hole in me, an emptiness that comes with forgetting. Did I really stick it under my mattress, or did I put it behind the dresser? I sped to the colonial style dresser that had been part of a community project, much like much of our household furniture. It seemed the theme of every project we did was The Colonial Renaissance. That was an exaggeration of course. But I didn’t have the patience to scan my room for other amusing instances of floral carvings and prophets painted like Egyptian figures (as shown in our art classes). I thrust my arm behind the dresser, groping with outstretched fingers for something. Nothing. I drew it out and then threw my back against the side, pushing. My feet slipped on the hardwood floor and my butt hit the ground. I quickly wrestled my socks off, unclipped the top buttons of my overalls so that they hung at my waist, and went for it again. The thing didn’t have wheels on it, and the little pegs holding it up moved a few inches so suddenly I fell down, but quickly rolled over onto my knees. The dresser emitted a low moan, and a few of the drawers sprang open. But behind it, there was nothing but dirt.
I breathed in deeply—a calming technique I learned about a year ago. It usually slowed me down enough to think. My neighbors still called me Hurricane Irene. I’ve done my research, and I assured myself it was uncalled for. I pulled at the neck of my shirt, fanning myself.
I thought about what was missing, and my hands started to feel cracked too. I closed my eyes and rubbed my fingers together, but the feeling didn’t go away. I felt like an Oakland garden snake, lying there against my childhood dresser, as if my limbs were not a part of me. I imagined—I was the book. I am the book. I was here.
A knock sounded on the door. I automatically lurched into the standard ladylike sitting position everyone drilled into me. Back straight, shoulders square, eyes forward.
“Cassie,” my mother called, her voice stiff.
“Yeah, Mom!” I went to the door, unwound the twine, and opened it. She stood very straight, her hair tied back, and one hand in her hip pocket. “Hey, I was just doing my homework.”
My mother raised an eyebrow. “It’s summer.”
“Summer? Well, yeah, I’m getting a head start. Summer reading.” Her eyebrow slowly descended to just above its regular position. She was reserving her incredulity.
“I need you to go close up the barn. You can take a break.” I nodded, more than I should have, and the eyebrow went up a little again.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll go right now.”
She averted her eyes and fingered something small in her pocket. From the crinkling sound, I suspected it was a piece of paper. Likely a bible verse.
“And Romans tonight,” she said.
“Okay.” A little smile spread across my face. “I mean, oh man, Ro-mans again, ha-ha.” Watching my mother’s un-amused face was like witnessing a car wreck from too close. Her eyes darted to my clothes.
“Would you buckle those mangy things.” It was not a question. I pulled up the buckles and started fitting one of them onto the metal clip. “I don’t know why you won’t dress like other girls your age. Did your father give you those?”
“They’re from Cousin Terry.”
“Well you look like you should go stay with the cows in the barn. Is that what you want?”
I looked at her, her mouth twisted and eyes accusing, and felt a surge of irritancy like hot milk in me. Wordlessly, I fastened the other buckle. She narrowed her eyes in recognition of defiance, and walked away.
I spent some time in the barn before locking the gate, the cows still chewing cud and making heaping piles of manure in their stalls. We only had two, but there was enough poop to fertilize several of our neighbor’s little gardens. To the best of our ability, we were a self-sustaining town, but the mountains made it difficult to farm. The barn itself was on a hill, and there was still a tree trunk from a very wide oak that formed a fair portion of the floor. Out the door, I could see the sign on the floral shop. And though I couldn’t make out the bold, black lettering, I knew it read, What’s buried and dead is the Devil’s dough. Remember to alert the council if you find any objects or information that threaten our security. It’s our job to keep Oakland beautiful!
Beautiful, I thought to myself, fingering my overalls. The truth was, I knew where some such objects were. Uncle Dan and my Dad had some of them. At least, my Dad used to. He got rid of some of them to integrate himself into the town. An army uniform, a helmet. There are some photographs he still has but only takes out if my mother or some other townsperson isn’t around. In them are images of a different place, of what I know as America. Garbage lines the streets like potpourri, and sometimes there are planes, distant in the sky. Sometimes they’re not distant. “They flew so close,” my Dad whispered when I was a child, hugging me with one arm, “it’d blow all the certainty out of you. It was like all the air got caught in its wake and took it away, and whatever you were doing or thinking, you couldn’t do it again for a long time.”
I grew up with these stories. It was so normal to my father and uncle that it rubbed off on me at an early age. Uncle Dan used to pick me up on his shoulders and pretend to be a helicopter. Back when he was careless enough for my mother to see that, she would scowl and threaten to not let him see me. I think that scared him, but didn’t deter him. He always seems to have some way of getting away with things. My Dad can’t do that as often. He’ll give me the occasional wink that means he’ll explain something or tell some story to me when we’re not under the auspices of other native Oaklanders. But my uncle has always been a close second father to me. I could always go to his house and hear about aircraft, my grandparents, or American history.
Yet one of the most important things he ever did was when I was nine. I ran to the tavern, where he works as the manager, crying. The patrons shooed me out, saying a little kid shouldn’t be there, but he took me into the backroom, sat me on a keg, and asked me what was wrong.
“The teacher said I can’t be an ar, an ar-chae-eologist,” I sobbed. We learned about the profession in social studies. They were people who went to other areas of the Republics, which stretched a lot of the area of the middle to lower Appalachians, found objects and turned them over to authorities. I wanted to dig. “But the teacher said I can’t dig because I’m a girl.” He looked at me, disbelieving
.
“I’ve seen you dig before,” he said sincerely.
“But the teacher said—”
“Apparently the teacher’s never seen you dig.” A smile spread across his face. I smiled back and blew my nose on my dress collar.
“Kiddo,” he said, handing me a hanky from his trouser pocket, “My mother, your grandmother, was an aspiring soldier. She told government officials to back off of her property with a shotgun under her arm when they came asking for it.” I sat there, my mouth hanging open. He had a way of speaking that was reverent, like it was coming from a place deep inside him. He always spoke carefully and clearly. “And if the teacher tells you differently, you tell her okay. But you speak to yourself. You tell yourself you’re stronger, and you find a safe place and dig.”
That was the first day I fantasized about digging a long tunnel that would lead me away, far away, up to America. As I lay in the thin layer of hay in the barn, I remembered imagining my grandmother, teaching me how to wield a gun.