Siris, Head Chef

We're back on the road with the companions in this, the next chapter of The ShambElla Saga.

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***** * *****

Siris, Head Chef

At Colt’s unspoken suggestion they used the other goons as pack mules. Each carried a hiking pack with different provisions, instruments, or tools, so, though they didn’t have everything they could possibly want, they had all they needed.

Interstate 65 was littered with broken down vehicles. The goons, ever helpful, scouted ahead and rifled through the cars and trucks for extra provisions and tools.

They found more guns and ammo. Well preserved spices and canned goods. First aid kits. Just to name a few things.

Sometimes their finds were not helpful but provided comic relief to the point that it seemed it might be one of Colt’s many silent jests, and the goons were complicit.

Among the foibles Colt showed the companions:

A dildo shaped like a wizard’s wand, accompanied by a manuscript of lurid Harry Potter fan fiction.

Blow-up dolls, gimp suits, and other such paraphernalia.

A stack of the sort of love notes that wives write to husbands who work on the road, except they were from many different partners, and all bore annotations written in the same neat scrawl. Things like:

This one’s Mandy. Sandy’s the other one!

The boy’s name is Tom! From her first marriage!

This is the one with the stupid dog that gets so excited it pisses itself every time you come home. Use the basement door to go in and out and it won’t think you ever left! Spare the little shit a golden shower!

Sam counted notes from eight different women, and two men, all addressed to a guy named Major.

“Major asshole,” Ella remarked, and they all laughed and agreed.

They made their way south through many long days. At the end of each, when they stopped to make fire and eat, the companions were heartened, for it turned out that Siris was a damn good cook!

“Siris, I gotta say, you have a masterful knowledge of spice and cooking technique,” Sam said one night.

“Thanks!” As Siris spoke he used the knife his pa gave him to cut up some wild green onions and thyme he’d pilfered along their way. “Pa wasn’t always a good man. He spent a lot of time away, drinking and gambling, I think mainly to get away from ma, but when he did take me out camping, he showed me things, and he always said that these things were more important than any other things, cuz they was about survival, not makin’ appearances. Huntin’, trappin’, storin’. I could survive out in the wilderness from a young age, if I’da wanted. Gram, now she could cook! I loved helpin’ her and picked up a lot of things from her too. Ma always said I was an idiot, but Gram told me when I was helpin’ her cook that I was her smartest little assistant.” He wiped a tear away. “Sorry, I miss her most.”

Siris was making some catfish in a big iron skillet. “I only wish there was butter,” he said, and licked his lips at the recollection, “but lucky for us, I was able to find a good bit of olive oil, which don’t go bad, and I suppose it’s better for ya anyway. But butter, man. I’d love some butter!”

Sam smiled. Butter! That would be something alright! He was so delighted when the goons found an unopened can of coffee. Even using it sparingly and having only a cup a person every morning, it was already almost gone. He’d always liked it with sugar and milk, but black coffee was better than none at all.

Since the park and the debacle with the Beast, they’d been travelling along 65 for two weeks.

Where they found water they put out nets for fish, and in the forests, traps for small game. The goons could speed up and down the highway, collecting and redistributing these wares and snares.

As far as cleaning and cooking, Siris’ expertise was extremely advantageous. No more squirrel jerky!

The autumn cold was setting in, but as they travelled south, the temperature remained about the same. Their nightly fires warmed them, and their shared company kept them upbeat.

David made Sam somewhat uncomfortable, knowing where the cat came from; but he didn’t fear that it might do something bad. He feared what it could mean to keep encountering these strange, magical creatures.

Before The Rusty Barrel, he settled into the idea of protecting Ella and teaching her everything he knew, but he never anticipated that they would get drawn into this. He knew he must die one day, but figured it would happen quietly, just the natural end of a long life at the end of the world.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

These events were bigger than him, beyond him. The sort of things Ma had whirling around in her head. Pop used to dismiss it all as nonsense, but, though he was a good provider, he spent most of his time in front of the TV, waiting to fall asleep and do it all over again the next day.

Sofia Shumbolt, known to Sam as Ma, told him there was no such thing as fate when it came to God working his will in the world.

Of course, the religionists wanted you to believe they had the inside track. How else could they convince you to give them your cash?

“But the real God doesn’t have to tell anybody anything, Sam, and He’s prone to changing His mind so long as we’re willing to change our hearts.”

When Sam, Sr. overheard this talk he would chide her for filling the boy’s head with nonsense, but that was as far as it went. He didn’t argue with his dear Sofie, who he really loved more than anyone in the world and always admitted was wiser than him. He just rolled his eyes, grabbed a beer, and went back to watching the tube.

The distinct feeling was growing in Sam that this had been their Great Flood. Precisely because it was so absurd and unexpected, The Turning seemed like a reset. But he and his travelling companions were not anything like the inhabitants of Noah’s Ark.

They weren’t here to repopulate the world animal by animal. There was plenty enough left for that to occur on its own.

They were here to find and cleanse the world of its sickness.

Like the Beast, the insatiable hunger.

It could not really be killed, Sam knew, but he also knew they waylaid it for a while, sent it packing, back to that void where Ella found David.

The cat, almost as if he knew Sam was thinking about him, walked over and curled up in his lap, purring.

Sam stroked his fur as Siris divvied out the fish.

“Put David’s portion on my plate, and I’ll share it with him,” Sam said, and David mewed his approval.

As Sam fed David and himself, he mused over the idea that things were not preordained, thinking of something else his ma said.

He asked her about what his science teacher taught, that all the planets and stars were locked in orbits that we could measure and calculate going back millions and millions of years.

“Well, of course they are, dear son,” Sofie said. “Just like all the parts of a clock have to be in their proper relations for it to run and tell time, so too does the machinery of the universe have to fit gear to gear and stay in motion, or else we wouldn’t be here talking about it! But the clock is just a machine. The hand that winds it—our hands!—why, those are just machines too.”

Then she leaned in, kissed her son on the forehead, smiled her big beautiful smile, met his eyes with a twinkle in her own, and said, in a conspiratorial tone, meant to indicate that—SH!—this is just between me and you, kid:

“God, as some folk call it, well, that’s just the ghost in the machine, the mind in and over the matter. It’s not the great mystery many of ‘em make it out to be. They just get so attached to their machines that they forget they’re the spirit that animates it! Don’t you forget!”

“I won’t forget, Ma!” he said. He sealed his vow by jumping forward into her arms and giving her a tight hug. She hugged back and nuzzled her head against his.

All these years later, surrounded by friends, he was able to say he kept his promise to his ma. Debra took the girls to church, and he would tag along sometimes, but he always remembered that the spirit that drives one machine drove all the others, and that was the spirit they should all honor.

He honored it in his family by respecting their choice to engage even where he abstained. This wasn’t hard to do. He just wanted them to be happy.

He honored it in David by feeding him from his own plate.

He honored it in Ella by protecting her innocence from the hostility of others.

He honored it in Siris with warm regard and fellowship. In the last two weeks they shared many interesting conversations. The guy had a hard upbringing, but he didn’t really understand that. Like David the Man, it seemed normal to Siris until he saw a different example.

He honored it in Colt and the goons by sharing in their jokes. After all, there was no better example of an alien animating spirit than Colt and the goons!

Something was brewing here, and it wasn’t just a good cup of coffee in the morning.

David stood and stretched, then trotted over to lay by Ella.

Sam finished his fish in silence, thankful that his new family was safe, at least for now; but he also wondered about the times he failed to honor that spirit, when he made his money dealing death from the shadows.

But that was a story he’d only hinted at to the others. He was still ashamed of how he’d made his living.

Debra never knew the whole story. It would have broken her heart, and he could never bear that weight.

Perhaps he needed to unburden himself to these good people—and skeletons and cat—that life had so fortunately placed in his path.

“I wanna tell you all a story,” Shamblin’ Sam said, and everyone turned to listen.

***** * *****

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