The Gift: A Short Story (Voices of the Apocalypse Book 4)

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About This Story

The Gift

Books By Simone Pond

The Gift

A Short Story

VOICES OF THE APOCALYPSE SERIES

By Simone Pond

Copyright © 2015 Simone Pond

All rights reserved.

This short story was inspired by the New Agenda book series, which currently includes The City Center, The New Agenda and The Mainframe, and The Torrent is coming soon.
There are ten stories in the Voices of the Apocalypse Series. For more information, visit:
simonepond.com
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R
ANSOM
S
HERMAN
AND
Keyla Johnson were probably the last two people you’d ever expect to find roving around together. But it was the end of the world and sometimes that was how these things went.
 

Ransom was a sixty-three-year-old retired farmer, living in a secluded spot in the woods somewhere in Lake County. He wasn’t retired by choice––the workhorse was no quitter––he had lost his Ohio dairy farm when the big corporations took control of the Midwest farming industry in the early 2000s. The big guns had shut him down and forced him off his land. A true survivalist, he stole back some of his own chickens and claimed a hidden location in the woods, where he’d been living for over two decades. Over the years, his eggs had become the most popular item at the weekly farmers market in the small town of Willoughby. He was heading to the market when he met Keyla Johnson.
 

He drove his rickety antique tractor along Erie Street, biting down on a piece of twig he had picked specifically for the ride to town. Chewing twigs had replaced his habit of chewing on wooden matches. Ransom often complained that “there weren’t no more matches to gnaw on no more.” He passed by the boarded-up shops and dilapidated brick buildings, remembering visions of the once charming town. The place had diminished in the last few years due to the Repatterning. Ransom had told the townspeople the Repatterning was a bunch of hooey, but nobody listened. He knew not to trust anything that worked so hard to sell itself. Just like the corporations taking over the farming industry, he knew the Repatterning was the beginning of the end.

The farmers market dwindled down a little bit more each week as the residents of Willoughby started disappearing. There were tales about “The Girl in Blue” coming from the cemetery to claim their souls, but Ransom knew it was the broken economy that had claimed them. Many folks had to relocate up north to work on the Chicago City Center. Ransom didn’t care about any foolish city center, and he wasn’t about to depend on anyone else to feed him so he stayed put. A handful of residents still lived in Willoughby because they were either too sick or old to travel. Ransom planned to stick around with those sad saps until the bitter end.
 

He was ruminating on those thoughts when he spotted Keyla crouched against the empty building where the town dentist used to work. The small black girl was gnawing on a raw corncob. The poor thing looked so scrawny and pathetic underneath her unruly mane that Ransom stopped his tractor. She couldn’t have been more than twelve-years-old. Someone so young shouldn’t be all alone.

He walked over to the girl. “That probably ain’t good fer your teeth.”
 

“Hahaha!” She laughed.

“What’s ticklin’ you?”
 

“That’s an amusing comment, coming from a man with hardly any teeth left in his own mouth.”
 

She sounded like one of those well-educated types from a good family. Ransom wondered how the girl had ended up all alone in the dying town of Willoughby. She continued biting down into the cob, pretending like it wasn’t bothering her.

“Hows about I get ya somethin’ real to eat?” Ransom tried to smile.

“I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know you.”
 

“I ain’t asking ya to go anywheres with me. I’m offerin’ to git ya fed.”

She flinched. “I’m not stupid. I know how these things go. You take me somewhere and tie me up and do horrible things. Then you kill me, or leave me for dead.”

Ransom stepped back a few inches, wondering if she was talking from experience. A sadness settled in his body. The world was all wrong, making victims out of its innocents. Now he had to help her. Though she was black and had a proper city accent, she reminded him of his daughter––the one he tried not to think about. The one he had lost in a farming accident about thirty years ago.
 

“Why are you crying, mister? I didn’t mean to insult you.” She stood up and held out her boney hand.
 

He frowned and reached out to shake her hand. “I ain’t cryin’, just caught somethin’ in my eye is all.”
 

“I’m Keyla Johnson. I’m originally from Washington D.C., but I had to escape with my sister because things got bad. I lost her along the way.” She looked away and wiped away a tear of her own.

 
“Name’s Ransom Sherman. I’m a farmer without a farm, but I figured out a way to make a livin’ in these tryin’ times. I’m offerin’ to give ya some real food, if that’s okay. I might look like a mean ol’ tough fella, but I got a heart of gold.”

Keyla smiled and patted Ransom’s brawny arm. “I appreciate that, Mr. Sherman.”

“I go by Ransom. Wait here, I’ll go git ya some eggs.”

Ransom walked over to his tractor, smiling to himself. He liked the idea of being a good citizen, helping out a starving girl who was down on her luck. Losing money on the eggs wasn’t an issue; he had enough surplus to get by just fine. What mattered was being of service to Keyla. Underneath all that sadness she had something special, a light in her eyes he hadn’t seen in a long, long time. Sometimes living out in those woods got lonely. Dusty memories he had tried to leave behind started to resurface. He missed his wife and daughter. Peggy was a stand up gal, the best wife any man could ask for, but she got real low after their daughter Emma died in the accident. She left Ransom and went somewhere south, and he never heard from her again.
 

“I miss you, Emma and Peggy,” he whispered under his breath.
 

“Who are you talking to?” Keyla asked.
 

His heart reared up; he hadn’t realized she had tagged along. “Oh, nobody.”

“I heard you say a couple of names.”

“My wife and daughter. Gone now. Haven’t thought of ‘em in a while.”

“I’m sorry, mister,” she said quietly.

“Ransom. Call me Ransom.”
 

“Okay.” She patted his arm again. The human contact felt nice.
 

Ransom had rigged a large crate to the back of the tractor to keep his eggs. That week was a good one––over three-dozen.
 

“Hmm,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to put ‘em in. Don’t suppose you got something in that bag of yours?”

“I can wrap them in my sweater.”
 

Keyla opened the bag and pulled out a ratty gray sweater that had pieces of leaves and dirt all over it. She must’ve been using it for a blanket at night. He hoped she wasn’t shivering herself to sleep.
 

“Ain’t you got somethin’ else? A blanket?”
 

“I had to leave behind a bunch of things when I . . .” Keyla didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, she wrapped the sweater around the eggs and placed it gingerly into her bag.

“I’ll be down at the market.” Ransom paused. “If anythin’ happens to them eggs. Or if you want some company.”

“Thank you, Ransom. I’ll be okay. I’ve been on my own for a while now.”

He climbed back onto the tractor and turned the key. “Nice meetin’ ya, Keyla. You take good care.”
 

“You too, Ransom.”
 

“No more uncooked corncobs.”

She waved him off.

###

The farmers market was as empty as the rest of the ghost town. Only a few local farmers had anything left to peddle, and there weren’t too many buyers left. Instead of money they used other items to barter for goods––blankets, clothing, and jewelry. Some even exchanged booze, but Ransom always turned that down. Not a drop since the farming accident.
 

He parked his tractor at the far end of the block and waited for some customers. A couple came over and offered a handmade quilt that had been in the family for centuries. Ransom didn’t need another blanket, but he knew someone it could keep warm at night. He traded a dozen eggs for it.

Around noon, Ransom sat on the curb next to his tractor to eat lunch. The chicken sandwich was on hearty bread he had made using grains from a small wheat crop he had planted in a nearby field nobody paid attention to. The chicken was from one of the older birds that had seen better days. He glanced toward the corner and noticed a face peering out, then it quickly vanished. He chuckled to himself.
 

“You want some? It’s purty tasty chicken,” he yelled, holding up the sandwich.
 

Keyla came around the corner and shuffled over to Ransom. She sat down and gobbled up that sandwich faster than a cyclone. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, she looked at Ransom. “I can give you back the eggs. I don’t know how I’ll cook them anyway.”
 

“How ‘bout you exchange them eggs for this here quilt. It’ll keep you warm at night.”

“No, I couldn’t.”
 

She was prideful little thing, but he understood. “I don’t need another dang quilt, so I’m just gonna leave it behind if you don’t take it.”

“You’re fibbing.” She lightly punched his arm.

He winked and handed her the quilt.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” she asked.

“Probably ‘cause you remind me of my girl.”

She widened her eyes. “Your daughter was black?”
 

He shook his head, laughing. “Nah, just somethin’ in yer eyes is all.”
 

“I’m sure she was a good daughter for you to be so nice to me.”

“Emma was the best kid a parent could ever have.”
 

“What happened to her? The Repatterning?” Keyla asked.
 

Ransom was grateful for the approaching customer. He stood to greet Mayor Craig Parks, whose overcoat was swallowing him up. He used to be a husky fellow, but now he was loose skin on bones.
 

“Good to see you, Mayor, sir,” Ransom held out his hand and gave Mayor Parks a firm shake, setting the feeble man off balance.
 

“You too, Ransom. I don’t have much to barter, but I’m hoping you can help out. I have a sick wife at home. Your eggs might do her some good.” The Mayor gave a weak smile and held out a pocket watch. “It’s a family heirloom, but it’s not doing much good collecting dust.”

“I don’t feel right taking it, sir.”

“It’s all I have of value.” He lowered his head, shamefully.

“Hows about I give you the eggs free of charge. We can figures out somethin’ later down the road.”

Mayor Parks grinned and looked over at Keyla. “I might have something for your friend.” He dug into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of pearl hair combs, and pressed them into her small hand.

“Oh, sir, you don’t have to do that.” Keyla tried to give them back. “Though they are beautiful.”

“They belonged to my wife’s grandmother. Please take them. She’ll be happy to know someone with such pretty hair could make good use of them.”

“Wait.” She opened her bag and pulled out the sweater, offering the eggs.

“For cripes sake,” Ransom huffed. “That’s enough outta both of you. Keyla, you keep those eggs, you need ‘em you skinny little thing. And sir, I’ll give you a dozen eggs for those combs. That’s that.”
 

“Thank you, Ransom.” Mayor Parks wiped a tear from his sunken cheek.

“Now you git on home to that wife of yours and fix her up somethin’ real good.” He helped the Mayor back down the street toward his more recent living quarters––an abandoned hat shop. His mansion had been burned to the ground earlier that year.

“That was awfully nice of you, Ransom,” Keyla said, awkwardly jabbing the comb’s prongs into a tuft of hair.
 

Ransom chuckled. “Here, let me help.”
 

It had been a while since Ransom had done the task of taming a young girl’s hair. He fumbled a few minutes until he finally got the pearl combs evenly placed. With her hair pulled back, he could really see the depth of her sadness.
 

“Purty.” He patted the poof of hair.

“Thanks, Ransom. I’m glad I met you. It’s been rough.”
 

Ransom sat back down on the curb and Keyla joined him. A chilly autumn breeze picked up. She took the quilt and wrapped it around her scrawny shoulders. Ransom opened his thermos; the coffee was still warm. He poured some into a cup and passed it to Keyla.

“This’ll help,” he said.
 

She sniffed the coffee and shook her head. “No thank you.”