The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [131]
"Damn."
"There's the problem's heart," he says. "Our local market is just about saturated."
I used to worry about my neighbors turning into hunters, particularly as the elk and buffalo grew common. But killing is easy work. Gutting the beasts is hard, and smoking that lean flesh is an art form. If I hadn't come to town today, I'd still feel like a wealthy man. But now I'm destitute, wrestling with my terrors, wondering if weeks of labor are going to count for nothing. And worst of all, my best friend in Salvation is delivering the deathblow.
"You've still got your loyal customers," Jack repeats.
I nod.
"And remember, we've got more mouths in town. Twenty more than last year, nearly."
I wait.
He offers a sum. It's half what I expected, but I know it's more than he has to pay me. This is charity, and I have to smile. Then he calls out his four sons to help unload the meat, and I catch myself watching for his notorious daughters. I don't see them anywhere. Once his boys are working, he turns back to me, saying, "Things won't get any better, Noah."
"You mean with the Martins?"
"No, it's the darn Mennonites," he says, waving toward the southeast. "Those hill families are clearing pastures, putting up fences and breeding with some quality bulls."
"Tigers like beef," I point out.
And Jack nods, wanting to believe that too. "But they may have solved the predator problem," he warns. "Big dogs trained to watch the herds, and when there's trouble, the dogs bark. Cougars, wolves, even tigers ... they're all going to think twice when those bearded men start firing their big rifles."
I laugh sadly.
Jack shrugs. "Next year, in a small scale, they'll be putting domesticated beef on our tables."
And I curse.
Which he expects. And with his own sense of impending loss, he adds, "Mennonites are smart businessmen. Always have been. They'll eventually build their own cooler and slaughterhouse. And at that point, both of us will be scrambling for work."
So everybody's in a tough place. Except that I don't care about Jack's troubles. We're friends, even partners. But when your life is tumbling down, it's amazing how little you feel for the rest of the hapless debris.
Visits to town usually include the only official bar, The Quilt Shop. Christians don't like public drinking, which is why the town policy is one beer every day -served in a very tall glass, of course. But the barter papers from Jack won't cover the food and cloth that we need. In an ugly, sober mood, I walk past the bar, aiming to visit my mother instead. Marching across the town square, I pause here and there to chat with the faces I know. Nobody mentions Lola; nothing of substance is discussed. They want to know how I am. They tell me that I look fit and fed. What's the news from the wilderness? Did I bring in my usual venison? Is the weather cold enough? This winter must be like the old winters, young voices claim. But Old Ferris knows better. "I've seen bigger chills and a lot more snow," he says.
"And I grew up in Oklahoma."
Oklahoma used to be a real place. Now it's a word that a seventy-year-old man might as well have made up.
"Off to see your mom, are you?"
"I am."
Ferris nods. "Say a good prayer for me, would you?"
"Yes, sir. I will."
The cemetery sits on north-facing ground too steep to be planted, affording a view of the rooftops and solar panels, bottomlands and the hills and prairie reaching to the rolling horizon. Looking east and downstream, the distant country changes from dead brown to sterile cold gray. That grayness marks crisscrossing paved roads and too many houses to count. I'll never go into the city again. It's a vow I made years ago, and I've kept it better than most. A few slumping buildings can look noble and important, but a landscape where hundreds of thousands of people lived and died is never noble. Cemeteries are beautiful places in comparison, even when the grass is brown. A cemetery doesn't smell, and it doesn't cry out in pain, and looking at neat burial sites never makes me think about