Echoes of a Dying World (Book 3): A Dream of Tomorrow

by Esquibel, Don M.

  A cloud of vapor escapes her mouth as she lets loose a long breath. “I was hoping I was wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  “I understand their reasons,” I say. “In any case, I think your father is a good man.”

  A small smile graces her lips. “Clever one, aren’t you?” she asks.

  I shrug. “You have the same eyes,” I say simply.

  We arrive outside the bunkhouse, neither of us reaching to open the door. We stand, facing each other in awkward silence, both of us unsure how to break it. I haven’t known the girl long, but I’ve grown to care for her. She’s strong and smart and stubborn. She reminds me only too much of Emily. Without warning, she wraps me in a tight hug and I find myself squeezing back automatically. When we part, she turns and hastily wipes at her eyes. I pretend not to notice.

  “Take care of yourselves, alright?” she says.

  “You too,” I say. “We’ll see each other again.”

  She forces one last smile before turning and making her way back to the house. I watch her go, wondering if my parting words to her were a lie. As she approaches the front door to the house, I turn to the door of the bunkhouse, my hand resting on the handle. For a moment I just stand, gathering my thoughts. With a deep breath, I open the door and enter. The heat of the woodstove hits me first, immediately followed by the eyes of the room, their collective stare somehow hotter.

  I deliver the news. There are curses. Arguments. Anger. But most of all there is stunned disbelief. I feel it, can see it with my own eyes as it spreads throughout the room. Their bodies slump. Heads hang. Their fear and hopelessness inhaled and exhaled with each breath they take, filling the place like a noxious gas. I tell them of what I discussed with Philip, but even that does little to lift their spirits. I can’t blame them. Even though I wear the mask, playing my part as an unflappable leader, I feel nothing but hollowness inside.

  It doesn’t take long for us to gather what little we unloaded yesterday and return to the trucks. When we arrive, Byron is overseeing the operation, ensuring the terms I discussed with Philip is carried out.

  “Good luck, Morgan,” he says. He extends his hand and I accept it.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I truly hope you create the community we spoke of.”

  He and his crew stand to the side as we return to the vehicles that brought us here. The slamming of doors and rumbling of idle engines fill my ears as I take one final look around the place, unable to keep the bitterness out of my thoughts at what we are losing out on.

  She joins me, her hand sliding into mine. I turn to her, her eyes both tender and fierce as they meet mine. She draws my face to hers till our foreheads rest against each other.

  “We’re still here,” she says, her breath warm against my lips. “There’s still reason to hope.” They’re the same words she spoke to me as I watched our home burn and ashes fell around us. As it was then, I feel my heart thrum to life inside my chest. She’s right. These walls, the resources within them, it’s what I want, what I will continue to fight for. But what I need is far more simple. Family. Friends. The beautiful girl beside me. They are what I need.

  I tilt my head and kiss her softly. “You’re my reason,” I say.

  Chapter 3: (Lauren)

  We move at a crawl, the deep snow nearly too much for our lone plow to handle. At times, it’s hard to distinguish the road at all, the embankments on either side almost uniform with the road itself. Somehow Leon manages it, clearing a path for our convoy to follow. Emily sits beside him, her eyes unfocused, staring out at the snowy plane we travel. She hasn’t said much of anything since Morgan broke the news that we were not permitted to stay, a reaction so unlike her. She’s never been one to shy away from making her opinion heard. Only now, it appears, words have failed her.

  Morgan sits next to her, his face like stone as he consults his paper and looks for the signs and landmarks listed. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, the fear he hides so well from the others shining through. I wish I could take it away from him. I wish I didn’t feel it myself. But I can’t, and I do.

  We’re still here. There’s still reason to hope. I want to believe my own words, but it’s difficult to feel hope when so much has gone wrong. Anger flares within me, not at our situation, but at myself. I vowed a long time ago I would never fall victim to self-pity. Not since it nearly destroyed me living within my mother's walls. The day I left with Grace was the beginning of a long and perilous journey, filled with dozens of winding paths: meeting Morgan and traversing the Colorado Trail; resurrecting Felix’s farm and making the choice to leave in search for Frank; all the violence and calamity that’s ensued. They were all part of the path that led me here.

  I try and convince myself that this is just the beginning of yet another path and that I’ll find a way to weather it as I have those that came before it. But I can’t shake the thought that something’s different this time around. It feels different. It feels...final. It feels like one way or another, this is the end of the journey I started so many years ago. And if that’s true, will there be another journey after it? It’s a question that chills my blood and makes my anger flare all over again.

  “This should be it on our left,” Morgan says.

  Leon signals and pulls slowly onto the narrow lane. Unlike Lylette and Byron’s ranch, there is no gate barring our entry, the road free of any obstructions aside from the snow that has fallen. Trees line either side of us, so thick and close to the road it’s as if we travel at the bottom of a canyon. The road opens suddenly into a wide driveway, a mountainous home sitting at its end. We park at its edge.

  “Doesn’t look occupied,” Leon confirms.

  “Only one way to find out,” Morgan says.

  Leon cuts the engine and Morgan signals to those behind us to do the same. My boots hit the snow, a cold wind slapping me across the face as I look up at the house before me. It’s massive, three stories of wood and stone. Huge windows adorn its face, staring down at us like cold, dark eyes. Richard is the first to move forward, taking the staircase that leads to the second story. We follow, leveling out on a long deck that spans the entire front of the house. Richard unholsters his pistol. Morgan and I follow his lead. Down below, Frank and his Animals will be doing the same. Richard turns the knob, the door opening without restraint. Silently, we enter.

  We sweep inside, using hand signals to communicate. We search the shadows and behind the furniture, breach closed doors and check the interiors of closets. All three levels, until we’re sure it’s only us inside. Holstering my Glock, I turn my attention to the house itself for the first time. Even at a glance, there’s no mistaking the wealth of the place. Plush rugs cover hardwood floors. Furniture of leather and handcrafted wood fills the rooms. Tapestries and framed works of art line the walls, their hues and patterns vibrant even in the dull light.

  I move over to a set of shelves, smiling faces staring out at me through their dust-covered frames. There are many faces, but it’s easy to distinguish the four whose home this belonged to. A young couple sits in one photo, a baby girl asleep in her mother’s arms and her toddler brother leaning over her in his father's lap. Two shelves above is another photo, the couple now well into their forties, their children young adults themselves. Between them tell a story, the photos offering glimpses into the moments that filled their lives. A sour taste fills my mouth but I can’t tear my eyes from the photos. These people were so happy, had so much love between them. Are any of them still alive, I wonder?

  “Philip didn’t do the place justice,” Morgan says. Finally, I look away from the photos and turn to him. The confidence with which he spoke when he told us of this place has left him. Uncertainty and worry fill his voice, reflect in his eyes. I know how badly he wanted to start anew on the ranch. Ever since we were taken in by Elroy all those months ago, he’s dreamed of such a place for his family. To have come so close only to have it snatched away is a bitter pill to swallow. We all feel the effects of it, but
Morgan has always felt more than most. I love his heart, but not for the first time I wonder if it’s not more curse than gift in the world today.

  “It’s...not what I wanted, but—”

  I put my finger to his lips to silence him. “We’ll make it work,” I say. “We’ll do it together.” I work my mouth into a smile, feigning confidence I don’t feel. He holds my gaze, and slowly I see resolve harden in his eyes. He returns my smile, nothing forced in his actions. Relief flows through me at the sight of it. I might not feel the confidence I project, but that’s alright. What’s important is that he does. I can’t hold this all together. We need him.

  We move away from the wall of happy memories and join the others. They are spread throughout the house, inspecting its many rooms and the contents within. But those we need to speak with most are found in the kitchen. We enter mid-argument.

  “Absolutely, not,” Richard says. “It was your choice to come here. I don’t like it, don’t agree with it, but given the situation, I didn’t stop you. But I’ll be damned if I’ll see you take food from my daughter’s mouths.”

  He senses us and turns his glare on Morgan. Of course. He’s never made an attempt to hide his disdain for Frank and his group of Animals. If it were up to him we would have parted ways the moment we left the ranch’s gate. Morgan and Mrs. Taylor were the ones to convince the rest of the family to allow them to follow us. And while they succeeded, it was hotly contested. And though they are here, I know the issue is far from over.

  “What’s the problem?” Morgan asks.

  “They want access to our pork and our supplies, even though they have no right to either,” Richard says.

  “No right?” Frank asks. “Without our plows, your pigs would have been left behind. Without our trucks, Philip would not have agreed to trade. I’d say we have as much right as you.”

  “Without your trucks and your plows, your people wouldn’t have been able to attack us in the first place,” Richard says. “They’re the reason we lost three of our own.” He takes a step toward Frank. “You’re the reason.”

  Frank doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step back. He holds his ground, meeting Richards stare with hard eyes. “Yes,” he says. “I’m the reason you lost three of your people. Without me, it might have been all of you.” He points, his finger hovering an inch from Richards' chest. “It most certainly would have been you. That’s the real reason you hate me so much, isn’t it? You can’t stand the fact that I’m the reason you’re still alive.”

  Richard goes rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring. One breath. Two. On the third, the spring snaps. His hand curls into a fist and he swings in one fluid movement. Frank moves fast, dipping his head at the last moment so the punch flies over him. He uses the momentum, lowering his shoulder and barreling into Richard as he takes the fight to the ground.

  It takes four people to pull them apart, each of them catching fists and elbows in the brief and violent exchange. Frank holds up his hands.

  “I’m good,” he says, sounding surprisingly calm despite what just happened.. “I’m good.” The two Animals who holding him back release him.

  “Get the hell off me,” Richard barks. Unlike Frank, there is nothing calm in his voice. Morgan lets go and I half expect Richard to go on the offensive again. I let out a breath of relief when he doesn’t.

  “Are you finished?” Morgan asks. Richard’s only response is an ugly glare. The commotion has drawn the attention of the rest of the house. Their eyes dart from Morgan to Richard, to Frank; the adrenaline and tension both at dangerous levels. It won’t take much for Richard and Frank’s fight to spiral into something much more damaging.

  “We are not enemies,” Morgan says, raising his voice. “But there’s no sense pretending that we are friends either. In any case, that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about friendship; it’s about survival. We know Barr is looking for us. We know what he’s capable of. If we don’t find a way to put our differences aside and work together, neither of us will survive if he attacks. We need each other. We need all the help we can get.”

  “And how can we be sure we’ll have their help if it comes down to it?” Uncle Will asks, glaring at Frank and the Animals who flank him. “They’ve already turned their backs once. Who’s to say they won’t do it again?”

  “Because doing so would accomplish nothing,” one of the Animals says. I forget his name, but I recognize him as the man who knelt for nearly an hour, sobbing into his hands when he learned of his son’s death. Even now his eyes are swollen and bloodshot, the dark rings beneath them showing his lack of sleep. “Barr’s only thanks would be a bullet through the head instead of the slow torture that awaits us if we are taken alive.”

  “So says you,” Uncle Will says.

  “So says me as well,” Morgan says. “Richard, you were there that night. You saw what Barr did to that couple he cornered after the breakout.”

  I wasn’t there, but I heard of that night in detail. Morgan told me how he and the others watched it unfold from their hidden position on the hillside, unable to intervene without giving away their location. He told me how Barr and his pack cornered the fleeing couple and coerced them for information. When they mentioned Trent and Julia, he put the pieces together quickly. Barr thanked them, telling them they had saved themselves a lot of pain and suffering. Then he lowered his gun and shot them both through the head. His thank you, just as the Animal described.

  “I was there too,” Vince says. “It was like he said. They gave information on us and Barr thanked them by executing them on the spot.”

  Morgan nods. “Exactly,” he says. “That’s the man we’re dealing with. It doesn’t matter what we’ve done to cross him, his response will be the same for all of us. Like it or not, we’re in the same boat. We can either row together, or capsize as we fight over the oars.”

  Richard continues to glare, but he doesn’t lash out and challenge what Morgan says. Nobody does. The room all but holds its breath, waiting for him to continue.

  “So unless somebody objects, those trucks outside aren’t going to unload themselves.”

  With so many hands, the trucks don’t take long to unload. It doesn’t hurt matters that so much of what we had was lost in the fire. The Animals have even less. What’s more complicated is deciding on what to do with the supplies we received from Philip. Medicine. Fuel. Food. Other items that are invaluable in this post-EMP world. It’s nowhere near what we had on the farm, but it could still mean the difference between life and death. I wasn't the only one surprised by our good fortune.

  “And he’s just giving us all this?” Richard asked, skeptical.

  “Of course not,” Morgan said. “It will cost us a truck, and one of the horses.”

  It was a measure of our desperation that nobody hesitated at the trade.

  “Steep price,” Uncle Will said. “But at least we’ll still have three.”

  “Two,” Morgan said. “It will cost us another for Philip to stable them through winter.”

  There was hesitancy at that.

  “Two horses?” Richard asked. “Do you have any idea how much they are worth?”

  “They won’t be worth anything to us dead,” Morgan answered. “We have nothing to feed them, and Philip has assured me anywhere within fifteen miles is either cleared out or protected.”

  “You’re putting a lot of credence on what Philip says,” Richard commented. “How do you know he’s telling the truth? Even if he is, what’s to stop him from keeping the other two when we come back to collect?”

  “Nothing,” Morgan said. “But I believe he’s telling the truth. If you have a better suggestion though, then by all means, we’d love to hear it.”

  Neither Richard or anyone else made a suggestion. Which brings us here. They’re valuable supplies, but there is not a lot when you factor in our numbers. And given their variety, splitting it would be nearly impossible, not to mention contentious. Morgan knows this. So does Frank. T
he two discuss the problem while the trucks are unloaded, agreeing to store them with us but that all will have access to them if need be.

  “It’s not ideal, but I don’t know how else to make it work,” Morgan says.

  Frank runs a hand through his beard and sighs. “No, I don’t suppose there is,” he says. He extends his hand and Morgan shakes it. “We’ll figure this out, hermano.”

  “Ever the peace-maker,” I say, hugging him from behind.

  He lets out a tired breath. “More like bomb defuser.” He grabs my hand and squeezes. “But at least it’s progress.”

  Once everything is unloaded, we give the place a more thorough search. Forest surrounds us on all sides, only a half-acre or so has been cleared for the house and two storage sheds out back. The house itself sits at the base of a series of rolling foothills, the sun already sinking toward the closest though the night is still hours away. It’s well tucked away, and according to Philip, free of any neighbors, most of which have relocated to his ranch. Its seclusion is our biggest asset, but obvious measures must be taken.

  “We never should have been able to drive in here so easily,” I say. “Something needs to be done about that.”

  We gather on the second story, the open design between the kitchen and living room allowing us the most space to meet. I take a small bite of carrot, doing my best to ignore my gnawing hunger and devour my meager ration in one go. Instead, I space out each bite with a large drink of water. It does little to help.

  “Yes,” Frank agrees, gracing me with a small smile. “We need a gate at the very minimum.” He looks thoughtfully at the windows. They’re large and ornate, reaching from floor to ceiling and spanning the entire length of the eastern wall. They’re beautiful, and no doubt designed to capture the sunlight, but I can see how Frank has an issue with them.

  “We need to do something about these windows as well,” he says. A means to deflect bullets, at least along the bottom. And drapes. We’re too exposed right now. It would be only too easy for someone to spy on us or a sniper to pick us off.”