High Ground: House of Adair

[Sheriff McClelland]

Excellent , I'm in !

[dogbane]

James walked to the base of the water tower. There had once been lawn here, but now it was thatched and had gone to seed. At the base of the tower, there was a pipe and spigot. He turned the handle slightly and a trickle of pretty clear water came out. He smiled. He took the top from his filter bottle and held it under, rinsed it and scrubbed scum out with his middle finger. He whistled in clear notes the Marty Robbins tune in his head.

Cindy heard him whistling as she and the children walked through the yard to the street. When he got to the chorus, he sang out, “Cooool clear water!” They crossed the street and stopped. He didn’t even notice them approaching.

“Excuse me!” James heard a very loud voice, too close. He looked up, startled.

Further from him than he had reckoned by the volume of her voice, stood a mean-looking woman holding a machete in one hand and a baby in the other. Behind her stood a boy about eight with a length of galvanized pipe held like a baseball bat at ease on his shoulder, and a girl about six with what looked like a steak knife in her hand.

“How did you get on this property?” the woman demanded. The boy squinted his eyes and scowled.

James smiled, turned off the tap and straightened. “I let myself in the back way.” He pointed toward the big house.

“Don’t you joke with me, mister. Did you cut that lock at the gate?” She gestured down the street with the machete. The baby looked curiously in that direction.

“No, seriously,” James said, still smiling. Despite her hostility, she was the first person he had talked to in three weeks—was it three since Sequatchie? Four? “I couldn’t get through the gate, so I climbed the bluff.”

Cindy looked alarmed. Her eyed widened, but her brow knitted and her jaw set.

“I saw you in that house last night. How did you get in?”

James stopped smiling. “It’s my house. I have the key.”

“Like hell it is. This is James County property and you are trespassing. I am the acting caretaker.”

“Well,” James said, rubbing his beard, “Ma’am. I very much appreciate you taking care of the place, and I have no bad intentions here. But this was my family home, and my great-grandfather personally gave me the key to this house and told me it would always be mine and I would always be welcome. Now, I can understand the suspicions of the welcome wagon.” He gestured openly to them, water bottle still in his hand.

“My name is James Adair the Second,” he said, with slight mock dignity, “last surviving heir to the House of Adair. I’m here to claim my birthright.”

Cindy considered him for a long time. James waited a moment, then he said, “We’re just going to have to be neighbors.”

But she wasn’t finished.

“How much water were you thinking of taking?” she asked.

He turned and looked up at the tower, deliberately putting his back to her. He put his hands on his hips. “See that pipe up there that runs to the roof of my house?” He pointed. “I’d like to supply my house with water from that tank.”

“There’s not enough water in that…” she protested. He cut her off.

“Let me finish.” He still had his back to her, but he had turned his head around and looked impatient. “I recall that this water tower has a hook-up to a well. The pump, however, is electric, and batteries won’t have enough juice to run a pump. I’ll need a generator. Or a car that runs.” He turned around. “Do you have a car?”

“My husband has the Explorer. He’s off on an errand, but he’ll be back, soon.” James saw the boy cut his eyes at her.

“Well, I’ll work out the problem somehow. But rest easy that I don’t plan to use up all of your water. I hope to have enough for the whole town.” He waved his hand down the street. He stopped, as if thinking of the street and the houses on it for the first time.

“Anyone else living here?” he asked.

Before Cindy had a chance to lie, the girl said, “Naw, it’s just us. Do you have any food?”

James smiled at her. “I have a little, and I can find more. But I don’t even know your names. I told you who I am.”

James stepped forward and held out his hand. Cindy looked like she might cut it off with the machete. But she tucked the blade under her arm and held her hand out awkwardly.

“I’m Cynthia McReady. This is Caleb and this is Janey and the baby is Robbie. My husband is Rob. He works for the county as the site manager for this place. He’s gone for…for food.”

“Well,” said James. “If you folks are hungry, I’d be happy to feed you. I don’t have much right now, but I have plans for supper. It would be an honor to have you all as my guests.”

Cindy considered for a moment, thought about the cat soup in the pot, and said, “Thank you very much for the invitation. It would be our pleasure.”

She nodded to James as if to dismiss him, but added: “Don’t use much water until we can refill that tank. Rob checked the level on Saturday and it only had a thousand gallons or so left in it.” Then she turned and walked back to the manager’s house. “Let’s go, children.” They followed, looking over their shoulders at him. Caleb looked wary and Janey looked hungry. Mrs. McReady did not look back.

James watched them go home. He was happy to have neighbors, even if they weren’t particularly friendly. He thought about the empty houses along the street and imagined them filled with people.

[wee drop o' bush]

Could you make each instalment a leetle longer?
Or are you keeping us hanging on in purpose

[FlashDaddy]

Nice post dogbane! That was a gutsy move on Cindy's part, but he was theatening her water supply.

[mr_slappy75]

Could you make each instalment a leetle longer?
Or are you keeping us hanging on in purpose

Far be it from us to rush an author in the creative process; I mean, what with it being your world and us having the privilege of being allowed along for the ride. If you are not happy with something, don’t force it out because of us pestering you.

*ok that concludes the ‘polite responsible adult’ portion of my post. Moar soon plz?!?! KTHXBAI!!

[dogbane]

I get the opportunity to write about three pages per day, and I post them as I have them. They already seem rushed to me, but writing is rewriting.

Yeah, Cindy made a gutsy move. Was it believable? I've been working up to the meeting, and it could have gone many different ways. Maybe I keep taking the safe route.

[TacAir]

I get the opportunity to write about three pages per day, and I post them as I have them. They already seem rushed to me, but writing is rewriting.

Yeah, Cindy made a gutsy move. Was it believable? I've been working up to the meeting, and it could have gone many different ways. Maybe I keep taking the safe route.

Believable in as much as she had to do something to protect 'her' water.

Cat soup - heh, good one.

If I may make a suggestion, one likely to get me lynched - if you can only write 3 pages a day - do that. Then go back over it until you're satisfied. Gather several days work together, then post a longer segment. Or not.

As far as the Amazon route - it costs nothing to publish, just a bit of effort. And good cover art. I've seen 'books' as short as 40 pages that sell well @0.99 USD per book - several folks publish 'books' that might better be considered as chapters (10K words or less) as a continuing story and enjoy some success.

Thanks for sharing your work.

[dogbane]

Thanks for the feedback. I may wait until I have the next full chapter written before posting.

[Bearcat]

Well that's just great. Another story I'm tied to now. You better not leave it hanging like 90% of the authors around here do. I can't take another heart breaking loss of moar.

[dogbane]

Well that's just great. Another story I'm tied to now. You better not leave it hanging like 90% of the authors around here do. I can't take another heart breaking loss of moar.

I promise to finish this story in around 200 typed pages (unless I die or become mentally incompetent) by sometime in September.

[TacAir]

Well that's just great. Another story I'm tied to now. You better not leave it hanging like 90% of the authors around here do. I can't take another heart breaking loss of moar.

I promise to finish this story in around 200 typed pages (unless I die or become mentally incompetent) by sometime in September.

What??? You have a life???!!!

LOL, looking forward to the next installment.

[dogbane]

I'm embarrassed at how badly written some parts are. Remember, this is a first draft y'all are reading. The next installment will be a long one. Probably tomorrow night.

Does anyone think Rob will make it back from Uncle Dave's? Will there be visitors along anytime? How secure is the perimeter, really? What are James' priorities now that he is where he thinks he is meant to be?

[DAVE KI]

I'm embarrassed at how badly written some parts are. Remember, this is a first draft y'all are reading. The next installment will be a long one. Probably tomorrow night.

Does anyone think Rob will make it back from Uncle Dave's? Will there be visitors along anytime? How secure is the perimeter, really? What are James' priorities now that he is where he thinks he is meant to be?

It's a good story but me thinks we must be in a different time here.Way different.

[wee drop o' bush]

I think Rob will but he'll be infected & dying so his wife will have to kill him.
She could be potentially even tougher than the dude.

[Sheriff McClelland]

I think wdo'b has it nailed about Rob coming back infected if he does return .

I'm curious to what Jimmy finds in the secret rooms he has yet to discover .

The way the family hides at night makes me wonder if there are infected still inside the wire .

I thought it was strange that after being clean/sober for all that time that Jimmy dove right in to the juice . High stress I assume .

[dogbane]

I think wdo'b has it nailed about Rob coming back infected if he does return .

I'm curious to what Jimmy finds in the secret rooms he has yet to discover .

The way the family hides at night makes me wonder if there are infected still inside the wire .

I thought it was strange that after being clean/sober for all that time that Jimmy dove right in to the juice . High stress I assume .

The secret rooms will be interesting to write. It won't be a Bat Cave or secret room full of AK-47s, though. He might find something interesting, however. Note that he found bootleg Prohibition-era Canadian spirits in the cellar. Pop-Pop might have been into more than textiles.

Cindy doesn't trust the fence. The implication is, of course, that they have been through some scary moments that left a stamp on her mind. One reason they eat so poorly now is because she won't venture far in search of food out of fear.Of course, there may be food right under her nose that she doesn't recognize as food. Rob didn't leave them very well prepared. He is essentially doing an "I'm bugging out to your place!" to Uncle Dave. I don't have a lot of faith in Rob at this time, but he might surprise me.

As for James diving into the juice, he might have thought it was a proper reward for his efforts, a way of celebrating his return. In some way, he felt entitled.

[dogbane]

BTW, when I cast this movie in my mind, I see Robert Downey, Jr. as James Adair, Casey Affleck as Rob McReady, and a young Holly Hunter as Cindy McReady. But I haven't described any of them physically in detail, so you can picture them however you want.

[wee drop o' bush]

Oh lord no! I think R.D Jnr is like a Toad

[dogbane]

Oh lord no! I think R.D Jnr is like a Toad

He's an oddball, but he has the intensity, eccentricity and physicality I imagine for the character. Picture someone else if you want. Christian Bale comes to mind. Or Billy Crudup.

[Sheriff McClelland]

The secret rooms will be interesting to write. It won't be a Bat Cave or secret room full of AK-47s, though.

Exactly . i was thinking more like some 1920's period Winchester 94 30-30 , Win 97 12ga pump or a high grade Westley Richards or Purdey British 12ga double . Maybe some old Colt or S&W handguns

[wee drop o' bush]

I don't have a mental picture of any actor for the characters yet. I like when movies have an unknown for key roles.

[SByrd89]

This story is great, I cant wait to read the next installment and see what the future holds gor James Cindy and Rob.

[dogbane]

Chapter 3

Throughout the day, each saw the other, going about their business. Cindy with the kids and the wagon filled with water jugs passed in front of the Adair place, and that fool was flower gardening! Digging bulbs in the August heat! James smiled at them, his hands dirty as he dug and pried with a curved, sharpened stick. He put the bulbs in a bucket and went up the steps toward the house.

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned. “Hey? See any rabbits around here?”

Cindy looked at him. He was dirty, with his sweaty hair in his eyes, holding two big buckets of lilies. She suddenly saw him as comical. She smiled.

“Nope! Too many cats!” she shouted back.

James nodded thoughtfully, as if that news confirmed something in his mind. Then he called out, “See you all tonight.” Cindy waved her hand ambiguously without looking back as she and the children walked up the brick path to their door. “Kids,” she said quietly, “we’re all going to take a bath today.”

Caleb and Janey cheered. Robbie was indifferent.

James walked to the left—south—side of the house. There was a gate leading into a large walled patio courtyard overlooked by the tall dining room windows. There was a broad, shallow, raised circular fire pit of stone. Around the fire circle was a ring of free-standing, post-and-lintel doorways, a modernist Stonehenge. There was a cut stone table and benches, and a large cut stone charcoal cooking grill.

James had searched the storerooms around the greenhouse in back and found a good galvanized watering can, a washtub, a dishpan, a large cast-iron kettle—a cauldron, really—weighing at least eighty pounds, and several buckets. After several trips to the water tower, he half-filled the kettle with water and built four small fires around it. He set another bucket of water on the table.

He set the washtub in one of the doorways of the stone circle and threw a length of cord over the lintel.

While the water heated, he sat at the table cleaning and cutting lilies. The roots, with some non-dairy creamer, would make a soup. The green leaves go in the soup, giving it an oniony flavor. He would stir-fry the flowers with a package of honey-vinaigrette dressing he found at that fast-food joint. He had some other ideas, too, but he would have to see.

James looked at his the kettle. A watched pot, he told himself. He checked the smoke and satisfied himself that his fire wasn’t going to be a signal to the whole valley to come here for a visit. He tested the water. Almost warm enough. He retrieved the watering can and undressed. He checked the water often enough that he laughed at himself for it. He thought of the story of the frog in the boiling water.

Finally he dipped the watering can in the kettle and filled it with water hot enough to steam in the summer afternoon. He carried the can, a small bar of motel soap, and a small bottle of shampoo to the washtub. He tied one end of the cord to the handle, and he tied a shorter length of cord to the spout. He hoisted the can up to the lintel overhead, stepped into the tub, and tied the distal end of the longer cord to the washtub handle.

James pulled the cord and tipped the spout, showering him with warm—no, hot!—water. But he couldn’t bask in this shower like he might have once at the motel chain whose shampoo he lathered into his hair, whose soap took off days and days of road grime, poison ivy oils, and blood. He used the water sparingly, but the can was empty earlier than he cared for, so he slapped wet feet across the stones and dipped the can in the kettle again. It was a bit too hot now so he cut it with cool water from a bucket, and took a second shower, just because. He checked himself for ticks and found none in any uncomfortable places.

James air-dried, breaking more deadfall branches to feed the fire, spreading the coals around the kettle. He dumped the lily bulbs and leaves into the water and stirred it with a stick. He wished for more pepper. He wished for garlic. The kitchen and pantries here were empty. He had found an old back of salt rock in a gardening shed, pure sodium chloride. He pounded it and ground it with his empty whisky bottle as a pestle and added it to the lily soup.

James dressed in fresh(er) clothes, combed his hair (handy things, combs, especially in tick country) grabbed his bag and his rifle, and stepped out the front gate, which was similar in construction and design to the back gate. An empty bucket banged against his leg as he descended the steps to the street. He glanced at the manager’s residence and wondered if eyes were upon him. A few houses down the street on the right was a bungalow with a wide front porch. He stopped at the weathered fence and cut several large sprigs of rosemary from an overgrown bush.

A thought occurred to him. A bungalow on the south side of the street, with rosemary growing in the front yard, might well have had a kitchen garden. Maybe something is growing feral. He walked around the house through a corridor of giant shady crape myrtles to the back yard. There was a long porch on the back, too, and James imagined the trees being smaller years ago, and the view that would have been enjoyed by the people who lived here. He could glimpse the horizon through the trees, but that was all.

The yard had once been far sunnier. James could see landscape timbers forming rectangles in the weeds and leaf litter from gardens past. He wagered the soil was fine in this yard. He walked among the planting boxes and found what he had been looking for. It was late in the season and the green was withering. He pushed his digging stick into the soft, yielding soil and twisted, tuning up a big bunch of feral garlic bulbs. He realized he was grinning. He had a plastic grocery bag with a large yellow smiling face on it. He filled it with bulbs and tossed the rosemary on top.

Still smiling, he looked around and thought he recognized potatoes. He had plenty of starch for tonight, so he would come back for them. He saw some onions gone to seed and he dug some up. There was some Queen Anne’s lace near the fence, which he dug up. He cut the stalks and left them on the ground. This was going to be a fine soup!

He walked jauntily back to the street, with another house in mind. One he remembered. It was a Tudor style of post-and-beam construction. He remembered eating grapes there. He found the house a couple of lots down on the left. It had diamond-pane windows and a high, pitched roof. There was a conical tower with bay windows at the back. He went through the collapsing garden gate to the back yard. The yard sloped steeply and was terraced. At the back of the first terrace, a fieldstone patio with a waist-high wall at the rear, overlooking the hillside. Below the wall, there was a thick mat of green vines that the untrained eye might mistake for kudzu, but which was in fact the interwoven thatch of various grape varieties. The arbors had collapsed here and there from neglect, but the vines looked healthy enough—no Japanese beetle infestation—and he thought he spied some bunches in the tangle.

He looked out from the terrace and saw that the trees were not deep here, for the hillside dropped precipitously not far beyond the third terrace. He could see the par and the ballfields. There were humanoid figures walking slowly and aimlessly about, through the tall weeds, across red clay diamonds, among the playground equipment. He wondered if a good marksman could discretely put them out of their misery from the tower on this Tudor house with the grapes.

He filed that thought and waded into the tangle. He reached into the leaves and pulled the vines, looking for berries. Some were hard and green. Some had already withered. But he found some Concord-types, that had big seeds and tough, tart skins, but the meat was sweet and juicy. He filled—overfilled—his bucket with grapes, and climbed the steps to the patio.

James decided to try the back door. It was locked. He filed that thought, too. He went back out the way he came in.

About thirty minutes had passed since he left the soup cooking. As he passed the brick house, he saw faces looking at him. He waved and lifted the bucket, pointed at the grapes. Whether they saw or not, he didn’t know. Through the courtyard gate he went and to the table. He cleaned and cut his garlics, his onions, and his wild carrots and put them in the soup. He stripped the rosemary with his thumbnail into the brew. The coals were fading, so he added fuel to get it going again. He rinsed the grapes and piled them in the middle of the table. He realized he didn't have any bowls for guests. Well, they can share my bowl if we have to.

It was late afternoon now. The pot began to simmer again. James put a few more sticks on and went into the house through the kitchen door near the back of the courtyard. He entered the pantry, unlocked the secret cellar door and clicked on his light. He scanned the bottles to see what might go with lily soup. Deep in the cellar he found a rack of white wines. Most will taste terrible now, he thought, but maybe a Riesling or a Chardonnay will still be drinkable…. He found one of each from a later vintage and started to leave.

Then he stopped, because he noticed a thin disc on the wall behind the wine rack where the Riesling had been. He pressed his finger to it and pushed it laterally. It swiveled on a pivot and exposed another secret keyhole.

[Ike]

Moar please, been waiting all night for the update.