Chapter Thirty-Four

Nevermore

The hog farm was a hell of a lot farther than Levi had claimed. Either that or Dez had already passed it by. He supposed the fact that he was dead on his feet might have something to do with it, but feeling sorry for himself would do no good. He wished Jim the Werewolf hadn’t reclaimed his truck. Dez could sure as hell use the Dodge right now.

It was midafternoon when he first spotted the graying barn. Like Levi had said, there were no woods around the hog farm, only cornfields. Thankfully, after two years of neglect, the fields had all run to riot, and though very little of the vegetation was comprised of good, healthy cornstalks, the switchgrass and brome provided decent cover as he made his way nearer the two-story farmhouse.

It was white, with aluminum siding, and at some point in the not-so-distant past, the farmer who’d lived there had invested in one of the metal roofs that had been in vogue before the bombs. The sheet metal was an inoffensive hunter green and cut a stark contrast with the dimpled red barn roof, which had undergone no such renovation. The pair of farrowing houses, just as Levi had described, were arranged on the western portion of the property. Dez wondered how long the hogs that had lived within those white cinder block buildings had survived after the four winds, then banished the thought with a shiver.

Levi was waiting for him in a yellow folding chair in the side lawn. Dez was worried the boy would come running, enfold Dez in some gushy cinematic embrace. He considered drawing the crossbow just to disabuse Levi of the notion.

But the kid seemed to sense Dez’s extraordinary weariness and settled for a grin and a companionable squeeze on the shoulder.

Dez asked where Michael and Iris were.

“Michael’s asleep in the back bedroom,” Levi answered. “Iris is cooking a wild turkey she shot.”

Dez’s mouth flooded with saliva. He hadn’t recognized the sharp stomach pangs as hunger until now. He moved toward the front porch, Levi walking apace. “Any sign of Keaton’s people?”

Levi shook his head. “We saw a Jeep go by this morning through the garage window in Buck Creek, but other than that, nothing.”

Dez mounted the steps. He was too tired to shrug Levi off when the boy put a steadying hand on his back. “How was the garage?” Dez asked.

Levi chuckled. “Iris and Michael were pissed at me. Said it was the least comfortable place they’d ever tried to sleep.”

As he neared the door, Dez glanced at him. “Did you sleep?”

Levi grinned. “I did. I don’t think the others….” His grin faded. “You didn’t find Tom?”

Dez fought off a wave of nausea. He told himself it wasn’t guilt. “No,” he said. “No sign of him.”

If Levi had doubts about that, he didn’t verbalize them.

“Hey, Dez?” Levi said.

Though bone-weary, Dez waited for Levi to speak.

“That doorman,” Levi said.

“Lefebvre,” Dez supplied.

“Him,” Levi agreed. “Why’d he call you the Raven?”

“Maybe because I wear all black.”

“Lots of things are all black.”

“Lefebvre had an overactive imagination,” Dez said. “Let’s get inside.”

But Levi made no move for the door.

Dez exhaled and studied the sky. “I used to teach the poem.” He glanced at Levi. “You ever read it?”

“Sure,” Levi said. “Poe’s my favorite.”

Dez closed his eyes and sought for a snatch of it, and despite his lassitude, despite the fact that he hadn’t read it in years, the words came easily:

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore—

Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

When Dez opened his eyes and looked at Levi, the kid was watching him with a look somewhere between fear and fascination.

“What?” Dez finally said.

“That’s you,” Levi said.

Dez frowned at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“‘Desolate yet undaunted’,” Levi said.

“Enough,” Dez said, brushing past him. “I’m about to pass out.”

They went in, and the scent of cooking meat nearly bowled Dez over. The farmhouse was furnished exactly the way he’d have imagined it: outdated furniture, oak trim, curios and knick-knacks on every shelf and table.

Dez followed the scent of cooking meat until he reached the kitchen, where Iris stood at the stove, her back to him. For a time, all Dez did was watch Iris’s arms move – she’d donned a navy-blue sweatshirt – and inhale the maddening smell of frying turkey.

When Dez finally tottered into the kitchen, Iris glanced at him over her shoulder and said, “Don’t get used to me cooking for you.”