The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [136]
"May?"
"Yes, grandma."
"Where are we, May?"
"At home," the girl says. "Your home." Then she looks at me and brings up that smile again, saying, "If you can each get on one side and lift. She'll help us, I think. And we can get her outside."
I don't want to touch this strange old woman. It amazes me how hard I'm looking for any excuse.
But butchers are made of tougher stuff. Jack leaps to work, and the force of his example causes me to grab hold of the other arm and shoulder. Grandma is a pale soft and very cool piece of humanity. I can't feel the bones for all of the fat riding on her. Yet as promised, she doesn't fight us. We grunt and get her to stand on her own mammoth legs, twisting her sideways to leave room in the aisle, and with her granddaughter in the lead, coaxing and tugging, we herd the old lady up the length of the RV, giving her just enough lift that she doesn't collapse, at least until we make it to the front.
"Oh, damn," the doting granddaughter exclaims.
But the old woman falls like an expert, crumbling without complaint or noticeable damage. The man with the bad back pulls himself off his bench, getting in our way. Everybody is tugging on the limp arms and up from under the shoulders, and May says, "Try to stand, Grandma." She says it several times, her voice not angry but insistent. Then she turns, suddenly shouting into the vehicle's cab. Somebody else, someone I hadn't noticed, sits behind the steering wheel, watching the drama with utter indifference.
"Get off your ass," the girl tells him.
The man is barely adult, maybe a couple years younger than her, and judging by appearances he is a close relative to the others. But where grandma has bulk, the boy has muscle. If I have ever seen a bigger, stronger fellow in my life, I can't remember it. He fills the huge leather chair, enormous hands clinging to the armrests. And he has no intention whatsoever of moving.
Now the girl's father says, "Help us."
But the strong man shuts his mouth in a defiant fashion, delivering his answer without making noise.
"Goddamn it, son. We need your help here!"
My dislike for the boy is immediate and scorching. But anger has its functions, and I'm not exactly weak. As if to show the idiot what courage and determination look like, I grab grandma under both arms and grunt, lifting with my legs, dragging her limp body up to where the others can help, pulling her skyward until those puffy legs remember that they're supposed to walk.
"This way, grandma," the girl coaxes.
"Who are you?"
"Your granddaughter. I'm May."
"Where are we, May?"
We've made it to the steps. That's where we are. I've taken over for everyone but the girl. I'm holding the old woman under her damp cool armpits, keeping a couple steps above her as I steer her out into the open air.
May keeps saying, "This is home, grandma. You're at home."
Saintly people talk this way to the senile. Home is a magical place of rest and security, and I assume that the girl is misleading the old woman with a small, sweetly intended lie.
The first slipper hits the ground, and the old woman nearly collapses again. But I jerk hard, holding her steady until the second foot finds its way. Then with an exhausted smile, May says to me, "Thank you. You've been such a help."
I'm gasping and my back burns, but I feel proud of myself just the same.
"Winston's such a dick," she confides.
"Your brother?" I guess.
"So they tell me." She says that, and like you do with any new audience, she feels free to laugh hard at must be a very old family joke.
"I'm Noah," I tell her.
May doesn't just smile. She repeats my name, making it sound better than it normally does, and she offers a little hand that feels warm and comfortable, shaking my hand and then letting her fingers linger inside my grip.
Inspired by sunshine or the fresh air, grandma stands without aid. The good residents of Salvation come close and look at her and study the machine.