Black Autumn: A Post Apocalyptic Saga

by Jeff Kirkham

  She could live with that. It held back the ennui that might overtake her if she thought too much about the horror just a couple of miles down in the valley. Columns of smoke, snaking up from the city below, haunted the bucolic fiction of the Homestead, where the aroma of baking bread intermingled with the titter of playing children. Like a phantom lurking just out of reach, she knew that the malignancy among the fires could gobble up this refuge. It was never far from Emily’s mind that the poor masses weren’t strangers. They were people. They had been her friends.

  • • •

  Jacquelyn heard the commotion that morning but couldn’t bring herself to look at the dead body in the OHV. She and Tom had talked about the death that would accompany a social collapse and they had known it would come to this.

  The first dead body had arrived at the Homestead, and she had chosen not to look at it. Based on what she had heard about the shooting, she assumed the dead man had a family and children. His only sin was to be desperate and careless. Even so, her own children came first, and that meant she would refuse to take the journey of conscience. She would refuse to dwell on the morality of killing a man to protect herself and her family.

  Screw it all, she thought, intentionally throwing off the version of herself that had taught New Age consciousness classes, counseled people on spiritual health, and lived life by a modern ethic.

  She remembered all her fancy New Age beliefs about a universe that could be trusted to deliver on positive mental attitude. She found those beliefs irrelevant in a world where her child’s chest could be pierced by a bullet at any moment.

  She dedicated her adult life to higher thinking and now, with her children filling her whole heart, she abandoned those beliefs wholesale. Like rejecting the idea of buying an expensive car because the family budget couldn’t bear it, Jacquelyn left behind the carefully laid philosophies of a hundred self-help books and countless hours of soul-searching. She believed in just four things now: her husband and her three children. One. Two. Three. Four.

  The rest were luxuries she could no longer afford. It wasn’t that she had become a woman without principles. Quite the contrary, her principles were now embodied in four human beings.

  Jacquelyn’s mind wandered as she hung Tom’s camo pants on the clothesline. The forest outside the kitchen and wash area was festooned with a massive amount of drying clothing, with yards and yards of parachute cord strung between the trees. Homestead residents had finally run out of clean clothing, and had at last resorted to washing their clothes by hand in the large, tin wash basins, complete with old-fashioned washing boards.

  It had come like the ultimate surrender to the Apocalypse—finally washing clothes by hand. The women admitted to themselves that no help was coming. In the strange calculus of large groups, the women had given in to that truth all at the same time. That first wash day meant they were in this for the long haul. It also meant that an enormous number of garments needed to be air-dried at the same time.

  How’re we going to dry our clothes in the winter? Jacquelyn wondered.

  Between the forest of trees and the forest of hanging clothes, she saw Alena hanging her own family’s clothing, more denim than camo. Jacquelyn debated approaching her. Both women had emerged as natural Homestead leaders, even though Alena was actually on the committee and Jacquelyn was not. Jacquelyn hung her last pair of pants and walked over to Alena.

  “You doing okay?” Jacquelyn touched Alena’s arm lightly, startling the nurse out of her reverie.

  “I guess I’m all right,” Alena answered. “I’m just so angry about the killing of that poor man.”

  Jacquelyn hesitated. “Yeah. Who would’ve thought a month ago we’d be responsible for something so terrible?”

  “We don’t need to kill people,” Alena exclaimed, her voice climbing an octave.

  Still touching her arm, Jacquelyn stepped up to the conflict. “I wanted to make sure you knew where I stand on that… seeing as we’re a couple of the ‘power ladies’ around here.” They both laughed.

  “I support Kirkham and the military guys in doing what they have to do to protect our families,” Jacquelyn said without ambiguity.

  Alena’s face screwed a little tighter, rising to the disagreement.

  Jacquelyn’s hand left Alena’s arm and she continued before Alena could interject. “I understand your position on this. I truly do. But I’m going to stand firm on any choice that makes my kids safer, even if that means we do things that are hard to understand. Alena, please consider the possibility that the world has changed very quickly. If we don’t change with it, I’m afraid our families won’t survive. It’s nothing personal, but I’m going to stand with the gun guys whenever this comes up. I choose my kids over anything else.”

  Alena looked at Jacquelyn, not sure how to answer. After a second, she asked, “Even if that means killing innocent people?”

  Jacquelyn nodded. “Yes, innocent people are going to die. I’d rather the innocent people be people other than my children. I can’t afford the same kind of principles I could a week ago.”

  Alena nodded. “I disagree, but thank you for talking to me directly. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying that we stand a better chance if we do what’s right.”

  Jacquelyn reached out and pulled Alena in for a hug. It started awkwardly, but melted into a sincere embrace. Alena’s body shuddered as she stifled a sob. Jacquelyn held her until she stilled.

  They drew apart and Alena wiped her nose.

  “Sisters, no matter what, right?” Jacquelyn asked.

  Alena looked up, a little embarrassed. “Sisters, for sure.”

  They both went back to hanging their laundry, a slightly uncomfortable silence between them.

  • • •

  The Avenues

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  In 1860, the Mormon settlers in the Salt Lake Valley laid out a neighborhood proximate to downtown, but far enough away that small merchants could afford to build. The Avenues were originally without water, shoehorned between the Mormon temple, the state capitol building and the University of Utah. Over time, the “Avs” evolved from being low-income merchant housing to the preferred neighborhood of Mormon prophets and politicians. The neighborhood would ultimately become one of the premium locations for up-and-comers, as well as old money of Salt Lake City.

  Just nine days after two nuclear attacks and the crash of the American stock market, residents poured out of the Avenues, fleeing death and destruction, almost all of them barefoot. Gunshots crackled every minute or two, and fires crept from “A” Street steadily toward Virginia Street.

  The Los Latigos gang had ballooned to somewhere around a thousand men by the time they went to war in the Avenues. It had been a stroke of genius to send hand-delivered messages to all Latino communities. Only a tiny percentage of Latinos came, but a tiny percentage of three-hundred-thousand Latinos added up to an army.

  Few of the Latino men had guns when they arrived in the Avenues, walking in small groups down the corridor Francisco mapped with his lieutenants that morning. For the most part, only gangsters carried guns and they weren’t ideal for house-to-house fighting.

  But every second or third house in the Avenues had its own stock of rifles and handguns. After raiding just a few blocks, the Latigos gang accumulated more guns and ammunition than they would ever need.

  Francisco joined the first raids to show his men he hadn’t lost his edge. They burst through the front doors, usually unlocked, and moved room to room. When they found residents, they herded them into the family room and pointed their guns at the kids. After that, the adults would tell them anything: where to find guns, ammunition, drugs and alcohol. It was a piece of cake—the easiest score Francisco had ever made.

  It amazed Francisco how reluctant the white people were to shoot back. A lot of the gringos had guns when the gangsters entered their homes. But most white people wouldn’t pull the trigger. His men were ready to pull the trigger in the fi
rst instant of confrontation, and it lead to many unnecessarily dead whites, though that didn’t matter to Francisco. The evicted white people were likely to starve in a week or two anyway.

  Killing the residents proved disgustingly easy. It wasn’t until an hour or two later, after the area had experienced extended gunfire, that some residents began to shoot from their windows as the gang approached. Rather than execute the white people in their living rooms, Francisco ordered that all residents be permitted to walk away, so long as they went shoeless. He had made the decision on a whim, but it turned out to be another stroke of genius. Somehow, sending white people away shoeless lit a fire in the hearts of his Latino fighters.

  He didn’t want to wax too dramatic, but this was a glorious day to be a Mexican, and watching the shoeless exodus of white people, abandoning their haciendas, made the perfect picture of social justice. Generations from now, children would read about this day in their history books. As his men fought their way through one of the richest neighborhoods in Salt Lake City, they took up the chant: “¡Vive Villa!” Whenever he heard it, Francisco felt the pull of fate. He was the right man at the right time.

  His lieutenants marshaled their forces, moving the conquest steadily eastward through the wealthy neighborhood. They had experienced only a few casualties, three men shot by homeowners. A Latigos victory seemed assured.

  Francisco ordered the finest homes to be left untouched so that the mothers of his fighters could enjoy them, furnished and pre-supplied. Francisco sent a runner back to the Salt Lake County Fairgrounds and ordered Bastardo, his man coordinating the fairgrounds, to send families of his lieutenants to the staging area at the LDS Hospital on “C” Street. He could see no reason not to move families into the haciendas they had already taken, making the most of any food and supplies left behind.

  A couple of hours later, two school buses arrived carrying Latino families. His men had cleared almost ten blocks from North Temple to the top of the Avenues and east all the way to “K” Street. The Latino families could barely hear gunfire as they came down off the bus and were led away by his men, a few at a time.

  One of the most impressive homes, an old-time mansion, had been set aside for Francisco’s mama. She climbed off the bus, holding the handrail as she took the last step down.

  “Mama, come see. I’ve found a new home for you.” Francisco held out his arm.

  She took his arm, apprehensive. “But I was comfortable in our home in Rose Park. You didn’t need to get me a new one. And where’s my food? I have a good stock of frijoles and rice set aside back at our home.”

  “Si, Mama. I know. The boys are bringing your clothes and your frijoles. They’ll be here shortly. Come see your new home.” He led her away from the bus drop-off.

  They walked a block and a half to a three-story home owned by one of the old Mormon prophets of years gone by.

  “Oh, Francisco, it is so beautiful. I don’t need a home like this, but it is pretty to look at.”

  He didn’t argue; he just walked her through the gates and into the rose gardens.

  “Dios mio, the roses,” she shouted in glee. “How can these gardens be so lovely?”

  Francisco grinned. The whole revolution drew down to this moment―his mama enjoying a beautiful rose garden, no doubt every rose bush planted and pruned by Hispanic men. His mama deserved this home and this garden as much or more than any human being alive.

  She had suffered through Francisco’s many incarcerations and through the death of his father. She had taken tireless care of her children and her own mother. Thousands of meals. Thousands of hours doing laundry and washing dishes.

  Wasn’t this justice? His sweet mama enjoying her sunset years in this rose garden?

  “But, Pancho, where is the family who lives here?” she asked as they walked through the stained glass front door. Pictures of happy white people lined both walls of the entryway.

  “Mama, they’ve traded houses with us. They’re ready to live in a smaller house now.” It was a small lie, but essentially true.

  A cloud passed over her face, distrust of her oldest son lingered on her brow, but she moved deeper into the house, oohing and ahhing at the delicate craftsmanship of the small mansion.

  • • •

  “Señor Francisco.” One of the young messengers approached him cautiously. “Crudo is asking for you to come up to “K” Street. He needs your orders on something he’s found.”

  Francisco knew better than to ask what. Crudo had always been his most reliable lieutenant and he would never call him forward without good reason.

  A pickup truck appeared, sent by Crudo. Francisco grabbed the lever-action rifle and a bandolier of bullets he had found that morning and climbed into the passenger seat.

  The truck turned uphill and carried them to the top of the Avenues to an otherwise uninteresting home. Crudo met Francisco in the front yard.

  “Pancho, I thought this might be worth your time. It’s around back. The family’s inside the house.” Crudo led Francisco through a small gate in the side yard around back to a tiny garage that opened onto a narrow alley behind the house. The garage looked well-kept but, strangely, it bristled with antennas and solar panels, like someone’s private, cobbled-together cell tower.

  “¿Que cosas?” Francisco wondered out loud. “What the hell is this?”

  They stepped through the small door into a room packed with gadgetry. An old white man sat on a stool, with a Latino guard standing over him. The man’s face was twisted into a look of fierce defiance, his eyes boring into Francisco with hatred.

  Francisco almost laughed. The man had to be eighty years old.

  “You go ahead and kill me. I’m ready to meet the Lord and the Prophet Joseph. Get it over with.”

  Francisco couldn’t help himself; he had to laugh. “Señor,” Francisco used a title of deference, “we’re not going to kill you. If we wanted to kill someone, we’d kill your family.”

  The old man’s face came undone, like it had been held by a drawstring in back and someone suddenly cut the cord. “Don’t you touch my family!”

  “Señor,” Francisco began again with feigned gentleness, “I will personally protect your family. But I need something from you.”

  “What?” the old man sneered.

  “I need you to tell me about this.” Francisco motioned to the equipment. “What does it do?”

  The man began slowly, but picked up speed as he explained. He couldn’t help his enthusiasm when it came to the shelves of gadgetry, even when discussing it with a mortal enemy.

  Francisco understood only half of what the old man said, but he didn’t want to interrupt. The value of the find was becoming increasingly apparent as the man blathered on about his roomful of toys.

  Francisco interrupted with a question. “So, are you saying this equipment can talk to people anywhere in Salt Lake, and then listen to people anywhere in the United States?”

  The old man went off again, talking about weather conditions, line of sight, repeaters and a bunch of other jargon that didn’t mean anything to Francisco. The gist of it was, yes, the equipment could communicate with Francisco’s men all over the valley, as well as listen in on events across the globe. But they would need more handheld radios in addition to the four little radios lined up on charging stations on the old man’s desk.

  Crudo and Francisco stepped into the backyard to talk in private.

  “Send a team to look for any other homes with these antennas.” Francisco pointed to the rooftop array. “And carefully bring every piece of equipment you find back here.” He wished they had known about this earlier. Francisco could have ordered his men to detain anyone with radio equipment. For now, he would have to count on this one old man to run the equipment. By the look of him, he might die any minute.

  “Pick three of the boys—the smartest ones. Have them sit with the old man and learn everything they can. Oh, and if you find another radio like this, don’t send the family away
. We’ll need leverage.”

  “Okay, Jefe,” Crudo said, heading back around to the front of the house.

  • • •

  Ross Homestead

  Oakwood, Utah

  Jeff startled awake with ice-cold feet against his legs. His middle son, Erik, had climbed into bed between Jeff and Tara, taking Jeff’s body heat like a birthright. From her stirring, Jeff could tell the boy had awakened Tara, too.

  With one hand, Jeff lifted Erik and pulled him onto his pillow. He pressed one of Erik’s cold feet between his meaty hands, slowly warming the six-year-old. When one foot reached body temperature, Jeff switched and massaged Erik’s other foot as well. After a few minutes, the boy’s feet weren’t so shockingly cold. His hands on Jeff’s chest were chilly, too, so Jeff warmed them one at a time as well.

  “What’re you doing?” Tara asked, perplexed by the movement in the dark.

  “I’m warming up his hands and feet. He’s freezing.”

  “The other boys must’ve stolen the covers,” she guessed.

  “He has piano player hands,” Jeff mused.

  Like a lightning strike building in the clouds, the atmosphere between Jeff and Tara turned ominous, even in the pitch dark. Voltage crackled inexplicably from her to him.

  “There is more than one way to be a man, Jeff,” she said with deadly seriousness, flat-toned and pregnant with enmity.

  In the shorthand of a couple who had been married more than fifteen years, volumes were spoken in that sentence, the import slowly descending on Jeff. It occurred to him that he had stomped on a mother’s love for her child and a daughter’s love for her father all in one sentence.

  He has piano player hands…

  Jeff had been holding Erik’s cold hands and warming his son’s long, slender fingers—a genetic curiosity, considering Jeff’s own stumpy, cigar-shaped fingers. Erik’s hands had skipped a generation, getting their form from Tara’s father.