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

by Esquibel, Don M.

  She moves fast. One second she’s kneeling on the ground. The next she’s on her feet with the barrel of a gun resting against Morgan’s head.

  “I don’t want your fucking coat!” she yells, drawing the attention of the rest of the crowd. Tears well in her eyes. “I just want my husband back.” Her voice breaks, deep choking sobs escaping her.

  I have my rifle halfway raised when Felix stops me. I try and yank it away but his grip on the barrel is too strong.

  “Don’t!” he warns. “You might trigger her.”

  Through the fear and panic, I hear the truth. This woman just learned her husband has died. Her grief makes her unpredictable. I can’t risk setting her off. I let go of the gun, and Felix takes a hold of it.

  “I’m sorry,” Morgan says. Unlike me, he doesn’t sound afraid. He speaks slow and calm, a deep sadness filling his voice far too genuine to be fake. “Your husband didn’t deserve to die tonight. That’s why Barr has to be stopped. If he isn’t, more people will die because of him.”

  She shakes her head, gun trembling in her hand. “Blame Barr all you like,” she says. “But who put him in that situation?”

  A small tremor goes through him, one almost imperceptible to those who don’t know him as I do. He clears his throat, and I can hear the guilt coating his words. “We have to fight,” he says. He doesn’t speak with the same confidence he did earlier. It’s as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as her. “We have to.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” she says. The woman no longer sounds angry. She just sounds tired. “I just want my husband.” She and Morgan stare at one another for a long moment. Then the gun goes from his head to hers.

  “Don’t!” Morgan yells, reaching for the gun. Too late. She pulls the trigger and crumples to the ground. Morgan sinks to his knees, face splattered with the woman’s blood. He grabs her hand, angry tears falling from his eyes as the Animals who knew her gasp in shock. People press in on all sides as if they need proof of her body to confirm that she is really gone.

  Eventually, those gathered make their way inside. Several people linger, staring at the body in pity. Just as many stare at Morgan in blame, their glowers shifting from him to the rest of us. Thankfully, their stares don’t become words or confrontations. Not yet at least. Our people follow after them, grips just a bit tighter on their weapons as they do so. I wave away the rest of the family and wait with Morgan. He remains kneeling on the frozen ground, not even moving after a pair of Animals carry the woman away. I kneel beside him and take his hand in both of mine.

  “Was she right?” he asks after a minute’s silence. “Was this because of me?”

  There it is. That guilt he’s always felt for others—the same one that nearly destroyed him on the farm. I know how dangerous it is. How it will slowly eat away at him over time. Screw that. Now is not the time for that man to make a return. It’s the last thing we need right now.

  I let go of his hand and make him meet my eyes. He looks exhausted, the dark rings beneath his eyes the only color on his otherwise pale face. I don’t dwell on it, looking past his tired visage into the endless depths of his eyes, hoping that what I say hits home.

  “Absolutely not,” I say. “All you’ve ever wanted is peace. It’s not your fault men like Barr are so determined we don’t have it.”

  He blinks, tears that won’t shed threatening in his eyes.

  “We knew what this fight might cost,” I say. “It’s a terrible price to pay, but what choice is there? What will the cost be if we let Barr win?”

  I lean in closer, till all we can see of the world is each other’s faces.

  “I love you more than I can ever put into words,” I say. “This pain you’re feeling? The guilt? You don’t have to carry that burden alone. I’m in this with you. To the very end.”

  I rise to my feet and extend my hand. “Now I need you to get up. We still need you.”

  Morgan swallows the lump in his throat and takes my hand. He rises, his hand remaining in mine even after he’s stood. A minute passes, his eyes slowly hardening as he regains his composure.

  “Thank you,” he says. “I couldn’t do this without you. You know that, right?”

  Emotion builds behind my eyes, the earnestness with which he speaks nearly bringing me to tears. I blink them away. Now is not the time for them. I bring my hand to his face and he sinks against my touch, kissing the inside of my wrist.

  “Then it’s a good thing you’ll never have to,” I say.

  We enter the hotel and begin assessing the damage that has been done. The lounge beyond the lobby has been transformed into a makeshift hospital ward. There must be close to thirty Animals who were injured in the shootout with Barr. Thankfully, most should recover with time according to Felix. He barely had a minute to spare, busy as he was. He and Julia are still there, helping assist the Animal’s doctor, Sonya. I only saw a brief glimpse of the woman, but from what I’ve heard from others, she’s quite capable. It was her skills that made Barr recruit her in the first place. I look at the small row of the dead lying off to the side, soiled sheets covering their bodies. I feel a shiver go through me. As good as she might be, her skills are not without limits.

  After briefly going through the medical wing, we meet with a coalition of leaders to go over our most pressing concerns, security chief among them. Give Barr credit, he had the place locked down pretty tight. We don’t see the need to change much, the one exception being more lookouts near the south wing of the hotel. If we made it in, so can Barr. We also do away with the patrols. They’ll be too vulnerable to attack. Instead, we increase the guards at the entrances and add more snipers to the upper floors. Each unit we try and mix in some of our people with some of theirs. It’s the only logical thing to do, especially considering the fact that Barr received a radio transmission warning him of our arrival. Until we can flush out whoever sent the message, we have to remain vigilant.

  “Why didn’t we pick up the message on any of the radios here?” I ask. Two were left with their crew, neither of which made so much as a peep since we took the place.

  “One of the guards could have got a message off before we got to them,” Leon says. “One of the snipers maybe.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says. “All the radios are on the same signal. We’d have heard it.”

  “He had two radios,” Frank says. “Had to have. One on the main signal, and the other on a secondary. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “I’m less concerned with how the message was sent as I am with who sent it,” Richard says. “If it wasn’t one of the guards, we have a hell of a problem.”

  Out of the twenty guards that held the place, over half are dead. Those that remain are currently locked up on the basement floor. At least until we can figure out a more permanent solution for them.

  “Speaking of the guards, why are we keeping them alive? We should just get on with it and kill the bastards. It would serve them right.”

  The speaker stands opposite me, the same man who delivered us the news that Barr was aware of our takeover. He’s since introduced himself as Owen, and his hate for Barr rivals anyone here.

  “Death begets death,” Morgan says.

  Owen snorts. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that killing them would be easy,” Morgan answers. “It’s what they would do—what Barr would do. But we’re not them. We need to be better. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?”

  “The point?” Owen asks. “The only point is to survive.”

  “Then why go against Barr?” I ask. The man’s flippant attitude is starting to get under my skin. It’s as if he resents us being here, having a say in things. It’s obvious he doesn’t trust us. The hypocrite. Without us, he’d still be under Barr’s thumb. “Why risk so much if you would run things the same way he would?”

  “You know nothing of how Barr ran things,” he says. “So don’t lump me in with that psychopath unles
s you what the hell you’re talking about.”

  He glares at me, and I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. Frank is quick to intervene before I can reply.

  “She may not know Barr, but I certainly do,” he says. Owen’s glare moves from me to him. “And she’s right. Killing them is exactly what he would do. I’m tired of this cycle of violence he and his brother started. We need to move on from it.”

  There are some nods at this. Words of agreement from the recently liberated Animals. Some have been here since the beginning. The haunted look I’ve seen in Frank fills their eyes now. They’ve seen things, done things. They’ve been at the forefront of the violent cycle Frank speaks of. Nobody wants it ended more than them. Sensing he’s outnumbered, Owen goes with the majority and reluctantly nods his head in agreement.

  Hours pass, our discussions covering everything from finding Barr’s messenger, to our combined arsenal of guns and ammunition, to the amount of food on hand. I always assumed the Animals were sitting on a mountain of food—that they were here stuffing their faces while the rest of us starved. Now I know that’s not the case. There is food, certainly. But it’s not as bountiful as I believed. Still, if we’re careful, it should be enough to see us through the winter. The thought alone is a boost to the psyche. If nothing else, it will be a relief not to worry about where our next meal will come from.

  Eventually, we adjourn for the day, all of us spent after the night we had and the lengthy discussions that followed. More survivors of Barr’s attack have returned while we met, filling the med bay near its capacity. I survey some of the newest arrivals, most of them so injured it’s a wonder how they made it back at all. Then I look at the families that flock around them, the relief and concern radiating from them only too easy to notice. They are the reasons they made it back.

  Unsurprisingly Lylette is here, looking over her injured. What is a surprise is the man next to her. Morgan closes the distance when he notices him and extends his hand.

  “Byron!” he says. “Thank God you’re alright.”

  Byron accepts Morgan’s hand and shakes. “Thank you,” he says. “I just wish my people were so fortunate.” He looks away for a moment, and next to him Lylette blinks back tears. I feel a sinking feeling in my stomach for what I know will come next. “We lost four of us last night when the shooting started.”

  Those deaths weigh heavy on me—deaths that occurred because of the plan I made. “I’m so sorry Byron,” I say. “None of this was supposed to happen.”

  Byron shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “Lylette told me this was your plan tonight. If it wasn’t for you, who’s to say how many more of my people might have died before that man was through with us?”

  A lump rises to my throat, leaving me at a loss for words. Byron nods, understanding what goes left unsaid.

  “Any word yet on when the bus will be ready?” Morgan asks.

  Half their people are still on their ranch. Had things gone according to plan, there would have been a convoy sent to pick them up already. The firefight with Barr changed that. The remaining vehicles are barely running. They’ll need to be patched up before they are in any shape to go anywhere.

  “Hopefully by tonight,” Lylette says. “If not we’ll send a party out on foot.”

  “Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Morgan says.

  We leave them a few minutes later, giving them space to grieve.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” Felix says. He’s only now finishing with helping stitch up the wounded. He looks dead on his feet. “Most of them should heal up just fine with some rest.”

  “You could do with some rest yourself,” I say.

  Morgan nods. “She’s right, Chavo. We have a block of rooms on the second floor. Go grab yourself a bed.”

  He smiles. “A fine idea,” he says. “I think I'll do just that.”

  “A fine idea, indeed,” I say, watching him go. “We should get a room ourselves.”

  Morgan lifts an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?” he asks.

  I smile coyly. “What if I was?” I ask.

  He smiles and grabs my hand, making me laugh as he drags me along. He’s only half joking. We’re halfway across the lobby when a guard up front shouts that he has eyes on someone crossing the highway toward the hotel. I glance at Morgan and he drops my hand as we change course for the front entrance. It’s not until we reach him that I recognize the guard as Ben, Lylette’s right-hand man. I see the person now, a woman just entering the edge of the parking lot. She draws closer, and Ben lets out a curse. Without a word, he’s out the door and sprinting toward the approaching woman.

  Morgan yells at Ben to get back, but he doesn’t even turn around. He slows just enough to keep from knocking her down and wraps her in his arms. It’s hard to tell from here, but it looks like both of them are crying. The woman pulls away and starts speaking, the glass and distance making it impossible for us to hear what is said. Whatever it is makes Ben shake his head vehemently, a violent curse escaping him we can hear even from here. This time, there is no doubting the tears Ben sheds.

  Morgan and I lock eyes once again, both of us drawing the conclusion at the same time.

  “Get Lylette,” he says.

  I take off at a sprint across the lobby, finding her and Byron where we left them earlier. I tell them what’s happened in one quick breath. Their off a moment later, their strides quickly outpacing my own. Ben and the woman have moved inside, Morgan and a few others keeping the area around them clear as people gather to see what the commotion is.

  “Mary!” she says, wrapping the woman in her arms. “What’s happened? How are you here?” The woman’s face falls at the question, her eyes squeezing shut as if pained. Lylette’s eyes slide from her to Ben who avoids her gaze. She turns back to the woman.

  “Mary, I need you to tell me what’s happened.” She tries to sound firm, but I can hear the dread in her voice. The fear that laces her words.

  “They came back,” Mary finally says. “The man who attacked us before...he came back.” Lylette inhales sharply. Byron stiffens beside her, his hands curled into fists at his side.

  “You escaped?” Lylette asks. “You came to warn us of what’s happened?” She asks this because she has to. Because she doesn’t want to let go of the hope that her people might still be alive.

  “No,” Mary says. Her voice is soft but carries throughout the lobby. “I didn’t escape.”

  “Of course you did,” Lylette says, still refusing to accept the truth staring her in the face. I feel my heart breaking for her.

  “What about the others?” she asks, barreling on. “Did anyone else escape?”

  “They’re gone, Lylette,” Mary says.

  Lylette shakes her head. “No,” she says. “You’re just not thinking straight. You must be exhausted.” Lylette rambles on, insisting Mary is mistaken and that she should get some rest. Mary speaks Lylette’s name, trying to get her attention and cease her rapid flow. But Lylette just barrels on, drowning out her words.

  “Don’t worry, Mary. Everything’s going to be fine. We just have to get the bus—”

  “Damn it, Lylette listen to me!” Mary cuts her off. She takes Lylette’s face in both her hands, ensuring her attention. “I didn’t escape. I was let go...I was the only one who was let go. Your father, everyone else back home...they’re all gone. That man and his followers killed them. I’m sorry...But there was nothing I could do.”

  Tears stream down both their faces, Lylette coming absolutely undone in the older woman’s arms. Byron stands rigid, trembling slightly, whether from grief or anger I cannot tell. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

  “Why did he let you go?” Byron asks. “Why kill everyone but spare you?”

  “He let me go so I could tell you what happened,” she says. She reaches into her coat pocket and withdraws a single sheet of paper. Her eyes slide from Byron to Morgan. “He also wanted to make sure you got this.”

  The
eyes of the room are drawn to the paper. They slide from it to Morgan, their tension mounting as he takes it with a distasteful frown. He reads it to himself.

  “It’s a radio frequency,” he says. He locks eyes with me a moment, a flash of fear crossing his face before he withdraws his radio. He dials in the frequency.

  “Barr,” he says.

  The reply is slow in coming, the radio remaining silent for so long I almost believe there will be no answer. But of course, it comes.

  “Fifty-nine people.” Barr’s voice issues out of the radio, cold and heavy. “That’s how many lives were lost last night.” He pauses, letting the number sink in. “I never wanted this, Morgan. We could have had peace—could have built something great together. Instead, you’ve chosen war. Fool. You can’t beat me. My people will never be your people. You’ll learn that soon enough. Until then, rest well knowing how many people have already been a victim to this fruitless cause of yours.”

  The radio goes silent, but it’s nothing compared to the silence that has descended upon the room. Nobody moves or speaks for the longest time, each as lost for words as I am. Morgan clicks the radio off and stuffs it back inside his coat, hardly aware of the stares surrounding him.

  “Morgan...” My voice trails off. What can I say? He turns his head, eyes lost. Haunted. With words failing me, I reach for his hand but he pulls away with a small shake of his head. Without saying a word, he turns and makes his way across the lobby, every eye in the place on him as he goes.

  Chapter 14 (Morgan)

  Fifty-nine. No matter how many times I repeat the number it sounds absurd. Fifty-nine hearts that will never beat again. Fifty-nine souls who survived this harsh world only to die at the hands of a mad man. I know hatred. I’ve felt it many times since the world went dark. But this? It’s something different, something I can’t put into words. I can feel it blooming within the deepest part of me, a hate so raw and pure it's almost painful. I welcome it. Better to feel this than the grief and guilt hiding within the shadows. But no matter how much I feed into the hate, I can’t escape the truth. I am guilty. Blood is on my hands.