by Urban, Tony
Papa placed his hands against the armrests and with considerable effort, forced himself into a standing position. The effort left him short of breath and soaking in perspiration. He pulled his slacks away from his crotch and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “That damn vinyl gets my taint all sweaty.” He raised his hands toward the sky and looked to the gray nothingness. “My kingdom for some Gold Bond.”
Listening to the old man complain about his moist genitals wasn’t how Seth wanted the conversation to go but he made the rare wise decision to keep his mouth closed. Eventually Papa returned his attention to him.
“I was at work when the bombs started falling. It was panic unlike anything I’d seen before or have seen since. I tried to drive home but the highways were jammed. So, you know what I did? I ran. Almost seven miles. It was a miracle I didn’t have a coronary, but I didn’t. I made it home to my wife and my boys. And the house was unharmed. I knew when I saw it my family was okay, and I thought I was destined to take them away to safety.”
Seth saw tears in Papa’s eyes, a sight that made him even more uncomfortable than talk of his sweaty taint. He considered telling him he didn’t have to go on but understood this was a tale he needed to hear.
“I barely made it through the front door when the second wave of bombs hit. Next thing I knew I was on the other side of the street staring at what remained of my house. And let me tell you son, it wasn’t much. A few bits of siding. Chunks of smashed wood. But it was my home!”
Tears streamed down his scared face and the man made no effort to wipe them away. His eyes had turned cherry red and snot bubbled from his right nostril. Seth wouldn’t allow himself to look away.
“I found them in the rubble. Their broken and burned bodies. I swear, I can still smell their flesh cooking. It was beyond my worst nightmares. My life had turned into a horror story and I was helpless. All I could do was stand there and watch the flames eat away at their remains.”
“The bombs put out my family. I should have been, too and that infuriated me. So, I walked into that fire to be with them again. In death if not in life.” His fingers subconsciously dragged across his scarred face.
“I woke up, days later. And the first thing I saw was the pastor that had rescued me. He said it was a miracle. And he was right.”
“But your whole family died. How can that be a miracle?”
“Oh, believe me. I thought the same thing then. But over time, he taught me about Yahweh. About the love He has for us. It was in the subsequent months spent with that man, as he helped me recover physically and mentally, that I knew what I had to do. Gerald, the pastor, and I became quite the team. And we saved others in the same way he had saved me. Body and soul.”
Papa was short of breath. Seth wasn’t sure whether it was due to exertion from standing or from the long, rambling speech. The man returned to his scooter and sat.
“Eventually, we ended up here. And we built this place so others could join us and be a part of something good again.”
“What happened to him?” Seth asked.
“After a while, Gerald felt called to move on. He realized his mission was to find others adrift in this sea of chaos and to save them.” Papa looked to the casino and smiled. “So here we are, honoring the memory of my friend.”
“He’s dead?” Seth asked.
“I choose to believe he is not. Nothing would warm my heart more than to know he’s out there, spreading Yahweh’s love to those less fortunate than ourselves.”
Papa used the scooter’s joystick to make a one quarter turn. The angle gave Seth his best look ever at the festering sores on the man’s face. They looked infected and angry and red streaks trailed down his neck before disappearing under his shirt. Seth realized the man’s condition was more dire than he’d initially thought.
“Gerald raised me up from the ashes to become Yahweh’s vessel. Now I must do the same for you.” Papa rested his hand atop Seth’s forearm and gave it a firm squeeze. “You are the future, my child.”
Papa removed his hand and drove the scooter to the casino.
“Seth?” Papa called.
He turned to look at the man who was half in, half out of the building. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you come up to my room in about thirty minutes. I’d like to introduce you to someone. Someone I think you’ll quite enjoy meeting.”
Seth had never felt so much trust put on him before. Not from his parents. Not from Wyatt. Not from Trooper. Yet here was a great man, maybe the greatest he had ever met, telling him that he was not only special, but chosen. His arms erupted in goosebumps and he unleashed the grin he’d been holding back.
Chapter 17
Wyatt moved with Alexander’s crew as they approached a few ramshackle buildings which stood in stark contrast to the flat land around them. Burying the bodies of their own had put them more than two hours behind schedule.
The act of putting the dead in the ground was awkward for Wyatt, who hadn’t known them. The others in the group shared anecdotes and stories of better times as they shared their grief, leaving Wyatt feeling like a fly on the wall observing private, secret events to which he shouldn’t have been privy. He wondered how long it would take for him to shake that feeling of being an intruder in their midst, then thought that might never happen.
The realization that he was with others but still alone hit him harder than he’d expected, and he’d spent much of the subsequent journey separated and inside his head. He knew he was expecting too much too fast. These people had spent months, even years together. He’d been there mere hours. But the isolation, coupled with the brief but bloody battle, had made him question why he wanted to come out here in the first place.
Would he even stop being stupid?
As they neared the land on which the hermit lived, Wyatt thought that it might easily be overlooked if you didn’t know it was there. The buildings were coated in mud and debris. At a distance, they’d looked like random bumps in the earth. It was a sloppy, yet effective, camouflage and wholly different from the casino which may as well have still flaunted neon lights while someone on a loudspeaker beckoned, ‘Come on in!’
Between the two, he thought the hermit might have the better idea.
Alexander had been in the lead and now he turned to face his people. “Everyone knows the drill here except you, Wyatt. Follow in my footsteps. Don’t deviate so much as an inch. This place is boobytrapped out the ass. Got it?” He didn’t wait for an answer before proceeding ahead.
So much for thinking he had any input. He was just another mindless grunt. Wyatt took a look back at the two men who hauled the wagon which held not only a variety of electronic gadgets, but also the injured cannibal. He found the boy's eyes, which were half-open and delirious.
One of the soldiers saw Wyatt staring and snickered. “Don’t worry. Your butt buddy’s alive. For now,” the soldier said.
Wyatt looked away. He supposed he deserved their scorn. After all, he was the reason they had the extra workload. The reason they were carting around someone that killed their friends. The reason the cannibal was still alive.
For now, anyway.
A balding, middle aged man named Zak had cleaned the cannibal’s wounds with water, slapped on a 4x4 bandage, and taped it fast. At first Wyatt thought Zak to be kind. Then he saw the man grab the kid by the balls and squeeze hard enough to turn his knuckles white. The injured boy writhed in pain while Zak cackled like a giddy hen.
Wyatt considered speaking up in protest but knew that would be unwise. Unwise? Hell, it would have been so fucking dumb it might have got him shot too. So, he stayed silent.
He followed behind Alexander, leaving barely a yard between the two of them. They stepped toward a low fence that was handmade from sticks and sagebrush and, Wyatt thought, wouldn’t have discouraged a determined prairie dog.
As Alexander took a step over it, Wyatt noticed metal glint under his legs and saw a blade protruding from the debris.
Alexander looked at him over his shoulder. “Like I said. Booby trapped out the ass.”.
“I see,” Wyatt said in disbelief.
“This guy knows his shit. Crazy, but crazy smart, too.”
The fence was one of the more well-built structures on the property. Ahead were three buildings, all in various states of disrepair. Only, upon closer inspection, Wyatt thought they’d never been in repair.
The main shack was leaning at a fifteen-degree angle and didn’t look capable of resisting a strong breeze. A greenhouse, of sorts, was cobbled together from assorted plastic and tape, all domed together to make a large sized igloo. The other building, maybe a supply shed Wyatt thought, was a cross between a broom closet and teepee.
Alexander stopped a few yards before the structures, cupped his hands to his mouth and did his best impression of a crow.
Kaw. Kaw.
That wasn’t half-bad, Wyatt thought.
Twenty seconds of silence followed and then Alexander spoke. “We’d like to trade. Have some merchandise that might interest you.”
Wyatt wondered who the hell was he talking to and followed Alexander’s gaze to the shed. He saw light reflect off glass and, after a moment, realized he was looking at binoculars hidden amongst the menagerie of junk.
The reflection vanished and then a door made of pallet wood and vines swung open. Behind it was a black hole.
Wyatt waited, nervous to see who might emerge, and his fingers tightened around the rifle. He shifted on his feet and the noise drew Alexander’s attention.
“Hold still. And don’t so much as twitch that AK or we’re all dead.”
“Uh, sure.” Wyatt stopped fidgeting, now afraid to move. He did his best impression of a statue for what felt like an eternity before a figure emerged from the darkness.
The white hair caught his attention first. A wild mane of it surrounded a small, pinched face that was etched with wrinkles deep enough to get lost in. An equally unkempt snow-colored beard covered the bottom half of that face while somewhere in the midst laid beady eyes and a ski-slope nose. Wyatt presumes a mouth was there too but couldn’t see it through the forest of follicles.
The hermit stepped into the open, bent at the waist like he was carrying an invisible anvil on his back. Despite his advanced age and poor posture, Wyatt was downright shocked to see that the man looked healthy and well fed. How was that possible in the middle of this vast nothingness?
He moved toward the soldiers, not bothering with greetings or small talk or even polite nods. His course took him straight to the cart which he leaned over and peered into. When he saw the injured cannibal, his face darkened, and he finally spoke.
“Got no use for that,” he said to Alexander.
“Ran into some trouble along the way.” Alexander motioned to the men who’d been handling the cart. “Get that out of there.”
The men grabbed onto the boy’s arms, caring little that he was shot and maybe near death as they jerked him from the wagon and dropped him onto the ground. A low, tired groan escaped his lips, but he made no effort to move.
With that out of the way, the hermit rummaged through the goods. There were computers and cell phones. Batteries by the bucketload. Motors big and small. Assorted wires and transistors and cables that Wyatt imagined would have given the average Radio Shack nerd a hard-on, but he saw no use for such things now and couldn’t imagine why the hermit would have any interest in the pile of junk.
The man hummed as he sifted through the lot of it, separating it into two piles. One was quite large, outpacing the other rapidly. As he sorted the goods, he shot a glance at Wyatt.
“Got yourself a new guy there. He know what he signed up for?”
Wyatt turned his attention to Alexander, wondering what that was about, but the man ignored him.
“You interested or not?” Alexander asked the hermit.
“Lord, you have the patience of a meerkat on cocaine, Alexander. You’d think you could humor such an aged gentleman. Especially one who you depend on for nutritional needs.” He looked from the junk to Alexander. “Tell me. How does your garden grow?”
Alexander’s nostrils flared but he remained silent.
“Not well, I see. Not well at all.”
He continued splitting the goods up, not speaking again until he was finished. Then he motioned to the large pile. “I’ll accept this. The rest…” He motioned to the smaller pile, which was mostly electrical cords and various plastic pieces. “Is trash. I’d think by now you’d know the difference between useful and useless but alas, I expect too much from a bunch of aspiring jarheads.”
He spun on his heels and walked toward the greenhouse. “You wait where you are. I buried a landmine somewhere in the vicinity last month, but I’ll be damned if I can remember the precise location. Better I go boom than the lot of you.”
He disappeared into the plastic dome and Wyatt took the opportunity to speak up. He leaned into Alexander and whispered. “What’s the deal with this guy?”
“Not much to say,” Alexander said, keeping his eyes forward. “There are useful people outside the walls, but there are no friends out here.”
“What about me? My family?”
Alexander lifted an eyebrow. “That’s different. You were passing through. People like the hermit, they live in isolation for a reason. Not fit for communal living.”
Wyatt knew this was true. His time on the road had shown him that people out here were dangerous at best, deadly at worst. “Then why do you trust him?”
Alexander shrugged his shoulders. “Our relationship is symbiotic. We gather things he needs when we explore the cities. He helps us out when supplies run low. But know one thing, the hermit needs us far more than we need him. And he understands that.”
The hermit emerged from the greenhouse pushing a rusty wheelbarrow. When he got closer Wyatt saw it was filled with vegetables. Most were green and leafy. Lettuce, cabbage, Brussel sprouts, celery. But there were also carrots, beets, radishes, and squash.
“Here you go. Should last you a spell unless you get glutinous.”
The hermit sat the wheelbarrow at Wyatt’s feet and the smell of the fresh food had his mouth watering. He wanted to see what other gold awaited and began exploring. There were turnips and peas and, he thought, rutabagas. He pushed into the wheelbarrow for a better look, only to catch his palm on a rusty shard of metal that poked from one of the wagon’s many holes.
“Fuck.” He retracted his hand as blood oozed from the cut.
Clark barked out a derisive chortle. “Survive a gunfight and get attacked by a wheelbarrow. Classic.”
“I’ll get some antiseptic,” the hermit said as he retreated to the shack.
“Fucking moron,” Laurie said, and the group shared a laugh at Wyatt’s expense.
“Enough,” Alexander said. He looked at Wyatt’s sliced palm and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “When we get back to the casino tomorrow, you go straight to medical. I don’t need you getting an infection.”
That was the last thing Wyatt wanted too. He’d heard the horror stories about tetanus and, as far as he could remember, his last vaccine was over ten years ago. He wondered how long they remained viable as he blotted blood from his hand with the cloth.
“What about tonight?” Wyatt asked.
“We spend tonight in there.” He motioned to the larger building. It was about six feet wide by twenty feet long and Wyatt couldn’t imagine spending the night in such tight quarters with these people who had such a low opinion of him. But he’s already defied Alexander once today and wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
Chapter 18
Spread out on the bathroom vanity was a variety of makeup the women of the community had gathered and given Barb as part of a welcome gift. She appreciated the gesture, but as her attention drifted from the various products to the reflection of her mangled face, the more she wondered if it was some sort of cruel joke.
After all, what good was makeup
when half your face looked like it had been run through a meat grinder? People always joked about putting makeup on a pig but at least pigs had two good eyes.
She grabbed a tube of mascara, unscrewed it, and sighed as she examined the brush. It was the same brand she’d used at home and wasn’t cheap. The bristles were clean and fresh, not gunked up.
What the hell, she thought. She was alone in her room. No one was going to laugh at her for trying to beautify the pig.
The mascara went on smooth, just like the good old days. When that was finished, she took the eyeliner, gliding it around. She then covered the scars with her hand and examined her better half in the mirror.
Barbara was never vain, but she’d always taken care of herself. Had always believed that making a good impression meant looking presentable. Seeing herself with makeup again for the first time in years was startling and, to her surprise, pleasing. “Not too bad for an old broad,” she said.
But then she removed her hand. The difference was so jarring, so hideous, that a wave of self-loathing washed over her, and tears spilled from her remaining eye and down her cheek. The freshly applied makeup went along for the ride, making the situation even worse.
And then someone knocked on her hotel room door.
“Fuck!” She muttered.
She searched the vanity for tissues but found none so she grabbed a hand towel and dragged it across her stained face, trying to remove the foundation so whoever was banging on her door wouldn’t see her looking like a disfigured clown.
Another knock. Why were these people so damned persistent?
“Coming!”
She tossed the towel aside and went to the door, caring little about what kind of impression she made and eager to ask whoever was out there if they’d ever heard of privacy.
When Barbara unlatched the safety chain and spun the handle, in the perfect frame of mind to go on a rant, only to find Richard’s smiling face.