The Hunger's Howl

by A. D. Popovich

  “It doesn’t add up. Thirty-three plus the four of us,” Dean rasped. “They’ve been handing us bullcrap the entire time. The wedding . . . the whole shebang.”

  “So you think they were waiting for Ella to get better?” Justin wondered aloud.

  Dean shook his head. “They were waiting for the blizzard to cover their tracks. I recall the nurse fella sayin’ something.” Dean paused for a moment. “ ‘When the blizzard comes, you’ll be a Believer.’ ”

  “When they realized we weren’t buying their bullcrap, they got us to leave Ella behind, making us think she needed a longer recovery,” Dean rationalized.

  “And I left Ella with them like a total idiot,” Justin uttered, pacing around the room.

  “Hold on a minute. How’d they know about the storm?” Luther looked perplexed.

  “Hell if I know. Thing is, sometimes I know things. Things I ought not know. I get this feeling in my gut. And more often than not it’s dead on—if I’d just listen to it. For example, I never did like Father Jacob. I got a funny feeling he didn’t like me either. Figured I just needed to keep an open mind. Keep my personal bias about God out of it,” Dean said.

  “So,” Justin’s voice cracked, afraid to say what no one was saying, “what about Ella? You think she went with them? Or, do you think she was one of the people trapped in the church?”

  “It’s crystal-clear,” Dean said firmly. “She’s definitely one of the Thirty-three.”

  “Why’s that?” Luther asked.

  “The baby. Come to think of it, have you seen any children? None, whatsoever. Reckon, Ella’s the youngest person I’ve come across,” Dean said.

  “After the baby’s born—there’ll be thirty-four . . .” Justin jumped out of his chair. “We’ve got to find her!”

  “Let’s hash things out again. Justin, you were there. You happen to overhear anything? Anything out of the norm?” Dean asked. His eyes were still glassy.

  “Wait—I was eating lunch in the mess hall. Brother Michael was talking to some dude about vintage wagons and stagecoaches he’d found at a museum. In L.A.,” Justin said, thinking hard.

  “Could be the Gene Autry Museum. Been there,” Dean said, rubbing his chin. “They’ve got the real deal. Covered wagons and the necessary equipment to boot.”

  “The horses and horse trailers were gone,” Luther stated flatly in the background while he doodled on the whiteboard.

  “Here’s what my gut’s tellin’ me,” Dean croaked, his voice still weak. “I’m thinking Father Jacob and his Sacred Thirty-three skedaddled out of there soon after they dropped you off. They crossed the summit before the snow hit, thereby gaining as much ground as they could while we were snowed in,” Dean explained.

  “They took eight to ten vehicles plus the horse trailers. They’d go through a hell of a lot of fuel,” Luther said, attempting to draw a covered wagon, which he quickly erased with the back of his hand.

  “Yep.” Dean nodded.

  “So, why wagon train it? Like, it’ll take years to get to Texas,” Justin bemoaned.

  “Reckin three to four months tops, depending on the weather,” Dean guesstimated. “It’s a damn good plan when you think about it. Petrol for that many vehicles would be downright impossible. Not to mention, the roads are jammed. Even if you could outrun the roving hordes, with a convoy that large, you’re just askin’ for trouble. And, that’s the answer to your question.” Dean pointed to Justin.

  “So, how do we find them?” Justin said.

  “They could be anywhere by now.” Luther frowned.

  “Precisely.” Dean smiled. “Guess we ought to just head ’em off at the pass,” Dean drawled.

  “Say what?” Justin frowned.

  “Since I grew up on a ranch and all. My grandaddy told me a few tales about the Gold Rush Era.”

  Justin looked at Dean with growing excitement. A plan? Dean had a plan to save Ella!

  “Go on,” Luther encouraged.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking.” Dean rubbed his chin, lost in thought. “There are all kinds of old emigrant trails between here and Texas. We don’t have the time to dilly dally with all that. I bet you a chicken dinner sooner or later they’ll wind up connecting to one of the trails in New Mexico. And that’s where we’ll be waiting for them, near the New Mexican and Texan border.”

  “Awe-some!” Justin was ecstatic.

  Dean reached for the over-sized Rand McNally road atlas on the coffee table. “The way I see it,” Dean said, spreading the map on the coffee table, “we’ll stick to the country roads as much as possible.” Dean traced his finger across the atlas. “When we get to, hmm, maybe Albuquerque or Santa Fe, we’ll shack-up and wait for them. That way Luther can avoid Texas.”

  “Ol’ Luther here likes your plan,” Luther mimicked Dean’s southern drawl. “What do you think? Jeep or the truck?”

  “Actually, I’m thinkin’ we should take the Travelall,” Dean stated.

  “The old junker in the garage?” Justin grimaced.

  “Don’t let the looks of it fool you. The International Harvester made good solid vehicles,” Dean continued, his voice returning to normal.

  Justin rolled his eyes in obvious sarcasm. “So, why haven't I heard of it?” There he goes again, thinking old is better.

  “I’ve heard of the International Harvester. They made durable farm equipment back in the day,” Luther agreed.

  “Thing is, it fits our needs just fine. It’s an all-terrain vehicle, tougher and more durable than the truck or Jeep. It’s got a hardy Clark T-36 5-speed manual transmission, 4-wheel drive, and a set of brand-spankin' new puncture-resistance tires. Sits high so we can see what’s coming, and the iron-caged roof rack can store our supplies. Plus, it’s a four-door, giving us easy access along with a door to the back compartment, which I recently converted into a sleeper cab when you two were out galivanting around for supplies. Not to mention all the other modifications the previous owner installed. The fella who restored this relic did a heck of a job,” Dean touted like an overly-enthusiastic used car salesman.

  “Sold!” Luther shouted.

  “Are you for real? ’Cause it looks like you salvaged it from the junkyard,” Justin spouted.

  “It’s primered-up pretty good. Looks like whoever was working on it was about to paint it,” Dean said.

  “You know what I like?” Luther looked at them. “I like that it looks like a piece a junk. No one will mess with it.” Luther nodded in agreement.

  “Heck, I found a slew of extra parts. If it breaks down, Luther and I ought to be able to make any minor repairs.”

  “How many jerrycans of petrol do we have?” Dean asked as if already calculating how much gas they needed.

  “More than we can take,” Luther replied.

  “There you have it,” Dean said in a satisfied tone.

  “Okay, okay, let’s get to the ‘how to save Ella part,’ ” Justin blurted impatiently.

  “Afraid that’s a plan for another day. I’d better eat and get some shut-eye. Think we should leave at the crack of dawn,” Dean said. His eyes were tired; the circles under his eyes edged deeper into his skin.

  “You rest. We’ll get everything packed,” Luther said.

  Ella, we’re coming . . .

  Chapter 10

  Memories of the Silver Lady’s surreal conversation penetrated Scarlett’s thoughts. She found herself getting angry as if secretly hoping the vision-like dream had been real. For despite its implausibility, it had at least attempted to explain mankind’s demise.

  “I can’t wait to see the horsey.” Twila was all smiles.

  What on earth is Twila talking about? Scarlett merely nodded. It was the sixth day, and even if she didn’t truly believe as the Silver Lady had implored, the snow had melted. She sensed the urgency to leave the cottage.

  By the time they began their trek to God knows where, the mystical dream was already dissolving into nothingness, stranding her in a disconcerted in-betwe
en-state of whimsical fantasy and the cold harsh reality of the post-pandemic.

  Scarlett stared at the compass’s spinning needle. Great, it’s broken. She guessed at the direction. “North goes the river,” the words reminded. Why go north? They’d eventually run into more snow. Nothing made sense to her anymore, so when they reached the river, she wasn’t surprised. And she was even less surprised when the compass inexplicably worked again.

  After walking two hours, Scarlett decided it was time to rest their tired legs. She found a fairly-secluded spot next to a downed tree on the edge of the wooded riverbank.

  “Mommy, we can’t stop. We’re almost there,” Twila scolded.

  Sometimes Twila said the craziest things. Scarlett shrugged internally. At least Twila had recovered from the treehouse catastrophe. Her golden-tinged skin seemed almost luminescent, and there was a spark in her voice.

  “What was that?” Scarlett quickly stood up and grabbed the gun tucked inside her vest.

  Twila let out a glee of laughter. “The horsey! She told me I was getting a new friend.” Twila giggled.

  Twila was right. It had sounded like a horse snorting and whinnying.

  “The Silver Lady told you about a horse?” Scarlett pried, irritated she didn’t recall anything about a horse.

  “She told me some things and told you some things. So the bad people don’t know everything,” Twila stated simply.

  Hmm, like a jigsaw puzzle, Scarlett thought. It would take time for the Ancient Bloodlines to decipher the code if the bits and pieces were sporadically scattered about. Then again, part of her—most of her—believed the Silver Lady was a mere figment of her subconscious, rationalizing the whole End Of The World thing. Occasionally, Scarlett indulged herself and tried believing. Because hope was for those who believed. And she had hope.

  Nevertheless, she had definitely heard a horse. Scarlett grabbed Twila’s hand. They continued following the river. She crouched down at a bend in the river, not knowing what was beyond. To her amazement, a horse drank from the river’s edge. Scarlett yanked Twila’s hand, ordering her to stop. A man wearing a brown coat and jeans stuffed inside brown boots turned in her direction. He held up his hand as if telling her to halt, and then he casually stroked the horse’s mane. Scarlett heeded his unspoken warning. Now what?

  She overheard another man’s voice. An angry voice. Scarlett took the cue. They crept to the trees and waited. Twila seemed frightened, too. Scarlett decided it was a good thing, which meant Twila might actually behave. Meanwhile, Scarlett listened to the men’s conversation.

  “You’ve got some balls tellin’ me this is the only horse on your horse ranch,” the man accused with obvious anger. “The deal was two dozen.”

  “Give me a break. You took all my horses last month.”

  “A deal’s a deal.” The angry tone ended with the cocking of a gun.

  “The weather is the deal-breaker. Not me.”

  There was a long pause. “R doesn’t have time for your lame excuses.”

  “I can assure you, my men and the herd of horses are on their way as we speak.”

  “Prove it,” the angry voice demanded.

  “Sure thing. Let me borrow your cell phone?” The man in the brown coat goaded.

  Cell phones hadn’t worked for nearly a year as far as she knew. The man with the gun pointed to his head had better tread lightly, because the man with the gun didn’t sound like the reasonable type. She wanted to laugh. There was something about the man in the brown coat, his attitude, who reminded her of someone.

  “Wise asses don’t have much of a shelf life around here.”

  “Just saying, if you shoot me, who’s breaking in the wild horses?” the man in the brown coat had the gall to say.

  “I call the shots around here,” the man with the gun warned.

  “Exactly. Ultimately, it’s your decision on whether or not we supply you with horses. I’m talkin’ about a long-term relationship, not a one-time screw.”

  From her view, Scarlett watched as the man in the brown coat casually stroked the horse’s mane. How does he stay so calm?

  The man with the gun, a Raver from what she gathered, spat into the river and uncocked the gun. “I’ll be back in three days. No horses—someone’s going to die.” He grabbed the reins out of the man’s hands. “I’ll be taking this one.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. She was put to pasture years ago. This old hag won’t even make it halfway down the mountain.”

  “Why keep it? My men could eat a week off the meat.”

  Scarlett’s stomach turned in disgust and the tears welled in Twila’s eyes.

  “Wouldn’t do that. She keeps the other horses calm. She’s what you might call a role model.”

  “You bullshittin’ me?”

  The man stopped stroking the horse. “Hey, I’m just saying what works. Besides, when this old hag dies on you, how do you plan to haul the meat?”

  “If you’re screwin’ with me, there’ll be hell to pay. You got three days. Better have me them horses or else. Before we leave, my men need to eat. Tell your old lady to cook us some chow.”

  “Certainly,” the man in the brown coat said. The two men made haste up the hill. The horse followed.

  “Stay here,” Scarlett whispered in Twila’s ear.

  Scarlett followed from a distance, close enough to see the huge ranch house. Three all-terrain vehicles were parked on the gravel road under the entrance’s old metal sign arching over the property: MARIO’S RANCH. She scurried back to Twila, afraid to leave her any longer.

  “What did you see?” Twila’s golden eyes widened.

  “Ravers. We need to leave,” she said in a hushed voice.

  “But he’s a good guy. I wanna stay.” Twila pouted.

  “It’s too dangerous.” She was tempted to stay. It looked like the man in the brown coat had intended on helping. She couldn’t risk it. Ravers were definitely a bad sign.

  They continued hiking northbound along the river. Scarlett didn’t dare stop for lunch, wanting to gain as much distance from the Ravers as possible. The terrain abruptly turned rocky, with piles of boulders blocking their path. Scarlett stopped to scope the area for an alternative route and turned around just as Twila slipped on a boulder. She splashed into the knee-deep water with a high-pitched screech.

  “Twila!” Scarlett dropped her pack. She waded through the icy water and tossed Twila over her shoulder. The poor thing was soaked. Scarlett carried her shivering body to a bed of damp, brown underbrush. She’ll die of pneumonia. Please help, she shouted in her mind, hoping for a visit from the—now, I believe in her—Silver Lady. Even if the woman was her imagination, Scarlett needed something to hold on to. The Silver Lady didn’t appear. And no mysterious voices told her what to do. She was on her own.

  Instead of letting despondency take hold, Scarlett got angry. No! Twila’s not dying like this. Not from some stupid accident, not when there were so many dangerous ways to die. Quickly, she stripped Twila of her wet clothes, dried her off, and then dressed her in pajamas.

  “I’ll start a fire. Watch what I do. You might have to make me a fire someday,” Scarlett hinted. The school teacher in her took over, hoping to put Twila at ease by giving her something to think about, something other than freezing to death.

  Unfortunately, the fire was more like a pile of smoldering leaves. She held Twila’s body in her arms, rubbing her briskly, warming her limb by limb. A series of splashes—louder and louder—closer and closer! Scarlett panicked. A deer? A person? The spluttering-neighing of a horse urged Scarlett to her feet. She pulled out the 9mm just as a man on horseback came into view. It was the man in the brown coat. No use hiding. The smoldering fire on the edge of the river had given their position away.

  Scarlett didn’t falter, didn’t even flinch. She pointed the 9mm. “I’m a hell of a shot!” She let the warning speak for itself as if daring the rider to challenge her.

  “I don’t doubt it.” He raised
his hands slowly. “I’ve been looking for you. The Ravers left. You part of Peter’s group?” His horse slowly cantered around the rocky foundation.

  Twila screeched.

  Twila? Scarlett dashed to Twila, suddenly feeling no threat from the man on the horse. Twila thrashed about on the ground. The next thing she knew the man was next to them. They both tried to subdue the child. Twila’s body convulsed; her limbs flailed in contorted spasms.

  “What happened?” The man seemed genuinely concerned.

  “She fell in the river. The cold must have activated one of her seizures,” Scarlett said in alarm.

  “She’s freezing to death.” The man retrieved a woolen blanket from the saddle bag. “Wrap her in this.”

  Scarlett wrapped Twila in the thick, woolen blanket. “Thanks,” Scarlett said with a finality, dismissing him.

  “I don’t know where you think you’re going out here all alone. She’s certain to freeze to death. She needs a fire before nightfall, or she’ll never see the light of day.” His words were ominous. “You sure you don’t know Peter?”

  Scarlett stared at Twila shivering in the blanket, her face a pasty white. Think, Think. She didn’t feel any bad vibes from the stranger.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not one of them,” the man said.

  “A Raver?” Scarlett asked bluntly, staring him down.

  “Hell no, lady. Come with me. My wife will fix us a hot meal.”

  Scarlett debated internally. “How long will it take to get there?”

  “A good thirty-minute ride on horseback. Take the horse. Follow the trampled path. Turn right at the two big boulders. Heck, Willow knows the way.”

  “I can’t ride a horse—” Scarlett started.

  “Sure you can.”

  She strapped her pack on.

  “Put your foot in the stirrup like so . . . and up you go.” The stranger helped her on. Between the two of them, they lifted Twila onto the horse. Scarlett held Twila securely between her arms.

  “What about you?” Scarlett looked down at the man in the brown coat, who didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Something about his demeanor reminded her of someone.