by Urban, Tony
Through his own racket he heard movement. Someone walking, approaching.
The darkness gave way to murky illumination, but he still couldn’t see anything other than shapes.
But he could sense he was no longer alone. And that realization brought with it no relief because he didn’t know who was holding him captive.
The musky, masculine smell of body odor invaded his nose. And then he felt a touch against his face. He flinched, but his retreat was limited to a few inches.
“Hold still now. I covered your eyes because you kept ‘em open too often. Made me afraid they might dry out and shrivel up in this torrefied hellscape.”
A pair of hands fumbled, fingers fidgeting, and then he felt a cloth that had been tied around his head come loose.
And he could see. Almost. The rapid shift from dark to bright blinded him and he squeezed his eyelids closed. That didn’t help much as light stabbed its way through and he instinctively tried to cover them with his hand, forgetting about his tethers.
“Those were for your own well-being. Don’t you be getting the wrong idea about me now.” More fumbling fingers. “A restless one you were. Made me afeared you’d dislodge your IV.”
His hands came free. Then his legs.
His first instinct was to sit up, but that brought with it a thunderclap of pain.
“You might ought to take it easy for a spell. Let yourself acclimate. You’ve been insentient for a long while.”
His eyes began to adjust, the blinding brightness became tolerable, normal. And he saw the man who hunkered beside him.
The hermit.
He shared a rueful smile, then spat a mouthful of chewing tobacco onto the floor. “I’m Gerald. And I never did catch your name, newcomer.”
“Wyatt,” he said, although his mouth was still as dry as sand.
Gerald patted him on the thigh. “Nice to meet you. Sit there for a few minutes while I put on some coffee. Then we’ll talk.”
He stood and left the room and left Wyatt to wonder what the hell had happened to him.
“I never saw a man as close to dead as you were who found a way to fight back. Not sure if that makes you resilient or obstinate,” Gerald sipped his coffee.
Wyatt did the same, trying not to let on how terrible it tasted. He could discern no coffee flavor, instead finding only dirt and possibly shit. But he didn’t want to be rude and even this foul-tasting concoction was welcome against his parched throat. “Maybe some of both?”
Gerald nodded. “That sounds accurate.”
He’d already told Wyatt about finding him washed ashore beside the creek. Told him how he thought he was dead, until he kept bleeding. Told him how he’d brought him back to his settlement in a wheelbarrow (the same one on which Wyatt had cut his hand). And told him how he cleaned out his wounds and sewed them closed.
They were still at the beginning though, and Wyatt had the feeling there was much more to share.
“After 48 hours I had the feeling you might stick around, but you were comatose, so my concern shifted to keeping you hydrated. I concocted some saline solution by boiling water and salt and hooked you up to a drip. Not all that different from my irrigation emitters when you think about it.”
The thought of being kept alive in this shack by a man who thought of him as akin to a tomato made goosebumps flare on Wyatt’s flesh and he folded his arms to conceal them.
“Your pyrexia was uncontrollable for the first week. Must have been full of infection from whatever the cannibals shot into you. I truly believed I’d find you expired every time I checked in, but you muddled through.” Gerald tilted his cup toward him in a toasting gesture.
Wyatt mimicked him and both drank. But there was one question Wyatt needed answered before he could embrace the celebration. “That was a week ago, you said?”
Gerald’s proud smile faltered. He covered well, but Wyatt knew something was up. “No, Wyatt. It was considerably longer than that.”
“How much longer?” He’d felt the facial hair that had sprouted across his chin and jaw. There was even something resembling a mustache on his upper lip. He rarely went more than three days without shaving, even when they were on the road, so it was difficult to estimate how long it would take to get this furry.
“Let’s see…” Gerald set his coffee cup aside and stood, turning his back as he shuffled through some journals. He found the one he wanted and opened it. He turned page after page before stopping.
“Well?” Wyatt asked.
“It appears you’ve been cohabitating with me the better part of 51 days.”
Wyatt felt his stomach drop. Almost two months? How was that possible? He jumped to his feet. That was a mistake as pain raged. He stumbled, putting a hand on the nearest wall to steady himself.
“Settle, please. You’re still recovering. It’s impossible to know the amount of internal damage you sustained.”
“I have to get home,” Wyatt said.
“No,” Gerald said. “What you have to do is rest and eat and get your strength back. You’ve been living on saltwater and pureed vegetable smoothies for nearly two months. If you leave here now, you’ll expire from exhaustion before you go a mile.”
That wasn’t what Wyatt wanted to hear, but his body told him it was the reality of his situation. And what good would it have done to survive the attack only to die alone in the desert?
“Alright. Then can I please have something to eat?”
“Of course.” Gerald nodded.
Chapter 42
Over the following two weeks, Wyatt gorged himself on the riches of Gerald’s garden. He’s never been big on veggies as a kid, but now he couldn’t get enough of the stuff. It was as if his body was screaming for nutrients and minerals and, given the choice, he’d have turned down a truckload of Cheetos for a few ripe tomatoes.
He felt bad for eating so much of Gerald’s food, but the man was willing, even eager, to share. He seemed to enjoy the company and Wyatt shared that opinion. Although the man was eccentric, maybe even a little squirrely, he seemed more relatable than most of the folks at the casino. There were no airs, no pretenses. Life with Gerald seemed almost normal.
Wyatt guessed he’d put on twenty pounds since emerging from the coma. The ribcage which had poked so notoriously against his skin was now hidden. And the six pack he’d developed during his slumber was gone. He didn’t miss it.
He’d been helping Gerald around the property. Fixing his fence, harvesting crops. It was the least he could do, after all. As each day passed, he felt stronger and more energetic. And, more eager to get back to his family.
Because, as much as he enjoyed the quiet life at Gerald’s shack, he missed his mother and brother. Allie and Supper. And he wondered if they were safe. Two months was a long time in this wretched excuse for a world and he worried some other terrible thing might have happened.
He needed to move on, and Gerald must have known it was coming because, the next day, Wyatt awoke to a hiker’s backpack filled with food. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, so Wyatt slung the pack over his shoulder and left the shack in search of the man to whom he owed his life.
He found Gerald digging a hole for a fence post at the edge of the property. Sweat slicked his body, but dust had mixed in with the moisture to form a paste. Wyatt thought he looked a little like a suburban housewife getting a mud mask beauty treatment, but Gerald was far from beautiful.
“Suppose you’re heading out.” Gerald plunged his shovel into the ground and let it stand upright.
Wyatt nodded. “Yeah. It’s time.”
The man sat down in the dirt. “I could see it in your eyes. You can only keep a horse in a stable so long. And you’re ready now. Physically, anyway.”
The last comment made Wyatt curious. “You don’t think I’ve got my head on straight?”
Gerald patted the earth beside him. Wyatt wanted to get on, but he also couldn’t be rude, so he took a seat. “You’re bereft of vital information. And
if you’ll humor an old man, I’d like to educate you before you go on your merry way.”
Gerald passed Wyatt a dented canteen. Wyatt took a drink, gasping when he realized it was whisky and not water. The old man gave a low chuckle. “My own recipe,” he said.
“So, what do you need to tell me, Gerald? I’m all ears.” Wyatt’s hand drifted to the ear which had been shot way back in Big Josh’s town, tracing his fingers over the ragged bits. He wondered how many more times he’d be able to dodge death.
“That casino you call home. It’s not the mecca you think it is. More of a mirage if you ask me.”
“Did Alexander tell you about it?”
“No,” Gerald said. “I know because I was the founder of that place.”
That didn’t sound possible at all. To the people at the casino, Gerald was a nut living in the wild. “Papa said he--”
“Pfft. Papa.” Gerald spat into the dirt. “Who calls themselves that anyway? No sane person, let me tell you.”
That part Wyatt could agree with.
“I saved that fat charlatan's life. And back then his name was Bernie. And he was a glorified maid. Or, I’m sorry entrepreneur.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Bernie didn’t know God from a gopher back then.”
Wyatt decided to take another drink of the whisky. He had a feeling he’d need it by the time this story was done.
“When the bombs hit, I was a pastor and some of my congregation and I started going door to door looking for survivors. I found Bernie, half-buried under the fallen roof of his house. His family was there. All dead. But he survived. I thought it was a miracle then. Time has changed my opinion on that, however.
“The suburbs were gone, everything either destroyed or burning. So, we sought out somewhere people could be safe. Where they could be loved and heal. Where we could all work together and become stronger.
“Bernie seemed to be the same as all the others, at first. He listened to my sermons. Took part in our prayers and worship sessions. I was proud of him, Wyatt. And, though I’m loath to admit it, I was proud of myself because I’d saved not only his life but his soul. I led him to God, you see, and for a pastor that’s one of the greatest gifts. But I was punished for my pride.”
Wyatt shifted, uncomfortable with where this was going as he knew it was nowhere good. He wondered if he could believe everything this man was telling him, but he couldn’t see a reason why Gerald would lie.
“Bernie studied the good book and learned the Word of God better than me. He started his own worship groups in the community - Papa’s Prayer Warriors, he called them. I was pleased at first. Until I sat in on one of his services.” He reached for the canteen. “Give me that.”
Wyatt did and Gerald took a long swallow.
“You see, Bernie perverted God’s word. He pulled things from the bible, especially the old testament, and twisted it all. I don’t know if it was watching his family die in front of him, or maybe the fallout was rotting his brain or maybe he was just plain wicked, but it was horrifying to listen to the way he spouted fire and brimstone and sacrifices and offerings. There was nothing about Christ in his sermons. It was all about fear and revenge. Fucker.”
Wyatt raised a questioning eyebrow. Gerald saw it and smiled.
“I used to be a pastor. Doesn’t mean I’m not still human.” His smile quickly left his face. “While I preached love, Bernie promised retribution. And, I’m sad to say, his voice was stronger. The community gravitated toward him and embraced his message.”
“You couldn’t stop him?” Wyatt asked.
“Fighting is not my way. God gave us all free will. The choice was theirs to make and they made it.”
“Did they throw you out?”
“Nothing that dramatic. One morning I packed my suitcase and left. I wanted no part of what that place had become.”
Wyatt remained silent for a long minute.
“You’re disappointed in me,” Gerald said.
“No. I…” Wyatt struggled to find the right response.
“It’s fine. I’m disappointed in myself.” Gerald screwed the lid back onto the canteen. He set it aside and rose to his feet. He grabbed the shovel and resumed digging.
“Why’d you tell me all that?”
“Information is power, Wyatt. Now it’s your turn to make a decision.”
Wyatt stood. He shifted the pack into place. The pain in his body had alleviated to the greatest extent, but some lingered. He had a feeling that would last a long while. “I have family. I can’t just leave them.”
“Then God help you,” Gerald said. “Because I won’t.”
Wyatt understood his man’s position, but he wasn’t going to run like Gerald did.
Chapter 43
Allie felt Franklin’s hardness as he pressed against her. His hands were all over her in a way that felt more like an excavation than a romantic interlude. His mouth sucked at her neck; his lips dragged across her cheeks. Only well-timed dodges kept his tongue from ending up in her mouth.
But that was coming soon enough. Because Franklin was wound up and raring to go and blind to her body language. And she didn't have the heart to tell him out loud to stop. To keep his desperate paws to himself. To tell him to fuck off.
Had she led him on, she wondered. Sent messages that he misinterpreted? She was sure she hadn’t but that desperate need to be nice, to avoid confrontation with the man who’d shown her nothing but kindness since she came to the casino, kept her from speaking up.
Just put up with it, she told herself.
Her eyes drifted across the desert, desperate to send her mind somewhere else while Franklin did whatever he was going to do to her. Why aren’t there stars, she wondered. If there were stars, I could make a wish.
But what would she wish for? For Franklin to come to his senses? For the world to be normal again? For Wyatt to come back and save her yet again.
The last one, she thought. Definitely the last one.
No matter how much she told her she was over his death, that she was ready to move on, her heart refused to let go.
Why’d you leave me, Wyatt? Why didn’t you come back?
A few floors below the balcony where she was trapped with Franklin, Allie heard the guards shouting to each other, but she couldn’t make out their words. Just random mumbles against the silence of the dead world.
At least their noises gave her a distraction as Franklin’s hands found their way under her shirt.
It’ll be over soon enough, she told herself.
Franklin spoke too. Passionate ramblings that he probably thought were romantic or seductive, but she found cloying.
“You’re so damn sexy, Allie. I never met anyone as hot as you. I want you so bad I feel like I’m going to explode.”
Wyatt never felt the need for such hollow utterances. His words had always been genuine. Tender.
At the fence below, the guards were now down from their perches. The four of them had gathered at the gate. Their voices were louder, their tones more anxious, but their words still indecipherable.
Franklin’s walkie-talkie, which lied on the table beside their leftovers, crackled.
“Franklin, this is Jorge. Come in.”
Thank God, Allie thought. This is my out. He’ll have to attend to some issue, and I can run back to my room, lock the door, and hide the rest of the night.
But Franklin didn’t let up. His hands squeezed her breasts. Fingers spun her nipples like they were dials on a radio.
Maybe he thinks that’s the way to turn me on, she thought, and almost laughed out loud.
“Franklin. Come in. Someone’s approaching the gate,” the voice on the walkie said.
“Fuck!” Franklin withdrew his hands from under her clothes. He moved to the table and grabbed the radio. “What?”
“There’s a man about forty yards out.”
Franklin looked to her. “Wait here, okay? This won’t take long.”
Allie wasn’t about to obey. �
��Alright,” she lied. She’d deal with the consequences in the morning.
Franklin brought the walkie to his lips. “I’ll be down in two minutes.”
He clipped the radio to his belt and as he turned away from her, Allie heard words that couldn’t be true. Words she must have imagined.
“Holy shit! It looks like Wyatt!”
She saw Franklin’s body tense. He didn’t acknowledge the transmission, instead doubling his pace and leaving her.
Allie spun toward the balcony, staring at the open land. She squinted, trying to focus, but couldn’t see anyone outside the fence.
Don’t get your hopes up, she told herself. If you don’t expect anything you can’t get hurt. Because what she thought she heard couldn’t be true. If Jorge had said Wyatt’s name, he was wrong. It had been two months. Too long. Wyatt was dead.
But what if he wasn’t? What if Wyatt really had returned to save her one more time?
Chapter 44
“Who goes there?” The voice asked.
Wyatt didn’t recognize it and was almost scared to answer. For all he knew cannibals had taken over the casino and wiped out everyone else. Of course, if that was the case, he’d just as soon be dead anyway.
“Wyatt Morrill.” He continued walking, closing in on the gate hoping there’d be someone who’d recognize him.
“Bullshit,” the same voice said. “He’s dead.”
“Not quite. Not yet anyway.” He’d been walking almost nonstop since leaving Gerald’s and his still recovering body was exhausted.
Soon, the guards were visible. Their faces were of the ring a bell variety, but he knew none of their names. He realized there must have been quite an adjustment at the casino, and he wondered if any of the other protectors made it back.
Wyatt saw Franklin rush from the casino, beelining it toward the guards. He grabbed a pair of binoculars and stared. Even without visual aids, Wyatt saw Franklin’s expression change. It wasn’t shock or relief. It was anger.