The Last Pilgrims

by Michael Bunker

  He signed on as an adjutant to the King of Aztlan, not because he admired the King, or because he saw goodness and right in the Aztlani cause, but because of a modicum of stability he perceived in the system and the opportunity for a return to order amidst the insanity and chaos that reigned after the collapse. He shook his head. So foolish. Order out of chaos… isn’t that what governments and tyrants always offer men in place of their freedom? Safety and security have always been the legal tender used to purchase willing slaves.

  Before long, he had learned that Aztlan was just another type of insanity. His friend Phillip had, providentially, been with him on the day of the collapse, specifically in order to recruit him into the militia. It had been Phillip who had encouraged him to serve Aztlan. The militia leader wanted him to see from the inside what type of beast Aztlan might turn out to be. Now he knew.

  As he and Pano trudged their way through miles of Mexican tunnels, he didn’t know what future awaited him, but he did know that he was no longer going to be satisfied with a well-kept and immaculately tailored tunic. He wanted real freedom. Whatever that meant for him (and how could he know?), he did know it had something to do with the Vallenses. He was now a pilgrim, rather than a knight. It made it easier for him to see his journey as a pilgrimage, even if he didn’t know his ultimate destination.

  “I know, you’ve been so talkative, boss—a regular chatterbox—and I’d hate to encourage you,” Pano smiled at him, “but we’re getting close to the end here and I wanted you to know that… at the end of every tunnel, there is a silver lining.”

  “That’s not even good enough to be a mixed metaphor.”

  “Maybe, but it’s true. But I wanted you to know that I had your best interests in mind when I set about to get you out of the castle, and you need to keep that in mind so you don’t overreact when… you see what the reason was.”

  “Oh, you are just a fountain of information and encouragement.”

  “I’m just saying that you should keep an open mind.”

  He stopped and stared at Pano with a look of resignation. “Listen, Pano, I am thankful that you got me out and saved my life. And I’m tremendously sorry that I almost choked the life out of you. I’m just ready to get on with this, and it doesn’t help me for you to continue to act mysteriously.”

  Pano shrugged, and started to walk on before stopping to look back at him again, “I forgive you for choking me.”

  As they reached the terminus of the tunnel, he noticed that, on this end, the decrepit old ladder had been unceremoniously tossed to the side of the hole, and a newer version stood in its place. Someone is expecting us, he thought.

  Pano threw the torch back into the tunnel and then ascended the ladder towards the light that streamed in from the circle above. He followed and, in almost no time, they were standing in a ramshackle shed surrounded by four men in light uniforms, each with their hands at the ready on the hilt of a sheathed sword. Pano greeted the men in Spanish and answered their few questions, before indicating to English with a nod. The soldiers seemed satisfied with his answers, as they relaxed a bit and nodded a greeting to him before turning to leave the shed.

  The bright light and burning heat of the day reminded him that he was still in the desert, and that, despite the nice respite in the cool and damp of the tunnel, they had only traveled about ten miles from those who sought to kill him.

  Cresting a small hill, English saw spread out before him in battle array an army consisting of perhaps 2,000 predominantly Mexican soldiers. Several officers, upon seeing the party coming over the hill, began to ride out to meet them.

  When the mounted officers intercepted them, several of them dismounted and proceeded to greet Pano in Spanish. They then nodded their heads toward English in greeting, removing their hats.

  “We are pleased to meet you Sir Kerr of Aztlan. We hope that your subterranean journey was not unpleasant,” one of the officers, who seemed to be the highest in rank, addressed him. “I am General Rodrigo Loya, Commander of the armed forces of the Kingdom of Mexico. I am told that you prefer to be called ‘English’; thus, I do hope you will not find it disrespectful for me to refer to you in this way.”

  English shook his head, indicating that he was not offended, but remained silent, waiting for the General to continue.

  “English… We intended, all along, to remove you from your… situation… at the castle, but we were forced to move faster than we had originally planned. Apparently, the Duke desired to terminate the charade of your employment with him sooner than we expected. That, and another providential series of events has necessitated that our attack on La Chimenea be moved forward significantly.”

  English was taken aback. “Your attack on La Chimenea?”

  Pano leaned over to him and whispered, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Perhaps, boss, you didn’t see the huge Mexican army hiding over there behind the General?”

  English scowled at Pano, before turning back to the General. “I apologize, Your Grace, but would you mind filling me in on the details of the ‘providential series of events’ you mentioned?”

  “I would not mind at all. We have learned that your friend, the man they call The Ghost, recently delivered a stunning defeat to an army of several thousand men near the Vallensian village of Bethany.”

  The General paused, looking intently at English, and seemed to be examining his face as he watched the information sink in.

  “That victory, as unexpected as it was to almost everyone, has caused that ridiculous man who calls himself ‘The Duke of El Paso’ to make a horrible strategic error.”

  The General paused again and moved a step closer to English before continuing. “In his rage, and in order to save face with the King of Aztlan, he has sent the remainder of his forces—except for a few hundred men left behind to guard his castle—an army of almost 6,000 men, to attack and annihilate the Ghost militia and all of the Vallensian people.

  “We intend to, as you English say, ‘seize the day.’ By order of our King, we are going to capture La Chimenea Castle and kill the Duke of El Paso… and you are going to help us do it.”

  Chapter 19 - Ana

  Nothing in her life had ever been more devastating to her than the news that Jonathan had been captured, not even the violent death of her husband Hamish. She knew that this was true, but she really didn’t know what that knowledge meant to her, or how she should interpret those feelings. She only knew that, no matter what the outcome of the war might be, she could not imagine her life without Jonathan in it.

  She was barely hanging on emotionally, and her work around the ranch, though hectic, kept her from breaking down in grief and despair.

  The aftermath of the battle of the Penateka Dam was traumatic and difficult to handle. Since the battle had culminated at the Wall Ranch, there were many wounded to attend to, and some of the militiamen had died within the first few days from their wounds, or from subsequent infections.

  The hay barn had served as the original triage area, and in the blazing summer heat, it soon stunk of death and decay—a scent she knew she would never get used to and never forget. Those who were treatable, and who had a high probability of recovery, were moved into the house or to other suitable lodgings in other buildings on the ranch.

  Those who were still dying in the hay barn were given whatever care and comfort could be offered them. Most of those who were left in the barn soon realized that they were still there because they were not expected to live. She was strengthened and heartened by how well the men accepted their destiny, and their strength made it easier for her to cope with the grim situation. She may not have been able to handle it if there had been hysterics and constant wailing in the barn. Perhaps that was her own selfishness, but she did have a grasp on the precariousness of her own emotional condition.

  She had seen to it that Prince Gareth was returned to his former room in the Wall’s home. So far, he had been spared the ravages of infection, and it seemed that he
would recover fully with treatment and a sufficient amount of rest. He made constant jokes about his need for beer and garlic, and his levity and wit did help make things easier for her.

  Ruth being gone had been one of the more difficult realities for her, especially since she was now worried sick over the absence of the rest of the Walls from the ranch. David was busy with Phillip and was away most of the time, so she was left in charge of both the hospital duties and the regular running of the place. Betsy and her family were still up north, and until she returned, there was no Wall presence at the ranch.

  Daily she made her regular rounds, and Wally was very helpful in keeping everyone well fed and as happy as he could. The cook was one of the bright spots in Ana’s rather depressing days. Wally kept the food coming, and the Wall’s ample storage of grains, vegetables, and meats made serving so many people much easier than it might have been otherwise.

  On the third day after the battle, Phillip and David arrived and reported that most of the Vallenses that had fled northward would be returning to the area around the ranch and should begin arriving soon. To her, the presence of the refugees would be a welcome sign, and with Betsy and Paul around, she knew that life on the ranch might soon return to some semblance of ‘normal’.

  The Vallenses, by their nature, were a very resourceful and helpful people. Most of them knew how to forage and hunt, and how to provide for themselves, as well as for any of their people who were weak or needy, in an ample way.

  The peach crop from the orchard was a few days past being ready to harvest, so she intended on recruiting some of the returning Vallenses to bring in that harvest, which would add to the available food on the ranch.

  With all of these thoughts running through her head, and as she busied herself with her duties, she was reminded of how thankful she was for God’s providence in bringing her to the Walls’ homestead in the first place. She had no just cause to be depressed. Not after what God had done for her thus far in her life.

  Her mind wondered back once more to the time she lost her husband and barely escaped with her life. She remembered walking south—away, she hoped, from the devastating reality of death and mayhem she had left behind in Albany, almost exactly a week after the collapse. All she carried with her was a plastic grocery bag with three bottles of water and three tins of tuna. She had found a survival pocketknife with a can opener on it in the Haltoms’ silverware drawer, and she was pretty sure she could make it work.

  After the first day of walking, she had only made it about six miles from the Haltoms’ house. She was slowed on that first day because she spent most of the time hiding—afraid of every shadow, every sound, and every movement.

  She decided to avoid both of the highways that went south out of Albany. Highway 6 went to the southeast, but that would take her closer to Fort Worth and she wanted nothing to do with any big cities. She realized that she didn’t want to go near any small towns either. The other highway, Highway 283, would take her straight south to the Interstate, avoiding any large metropolitan areas. However, she was just too afraid that she would run into the gang that had murdered her husband and the Haltoms. Best to stay off any paved roads.

  She headed cross-country, which made progress slow and difficult. Most of rural America was then crisscrossed with barbed wire, and this part of Texas was also pretty thick with brush, cactus, and mesquite trees, sometimes growing so thickly that she would have to walk a half mile to the east or west just to find a clear route back in order to keep heading south.

  Every so often, she would come upon a ranch road that continued for several miles almost straight south. Still, if she heard a sound or anything that might be construed as an engine, she would flee into the brush and hide—sometimes for over an hour—too afraid to move or to show herself.

  She only drank half of the first bottle of water on the first day, and she abstained from eating any of the tuna.

  The first night, she found an empty cattle shed, and she slept—or tried to sleep—in an old 1940s era bathtub that was evidently used as a seasonal cattle feeder. She didn’t sleep much. Every animal sound frightened her, and every gust of wind made her sit straight up in the tub; her heart would pound in her chest and her imagination would create scenarios of horror that she could not ignore or forget.

  At last, not long before dawn, she drifted off for an hour. She awoke more exhausted than she had ever been in her life. The sun, streaming through a crack in the corrugated steel of the shed roof, announced to her the coming of the new day.

  The second day of her walk went much better as the ranches were large in this area, and she encountered fewer fences. She found a ranch road running mostly southward, and at some point, she estimated that she was about a half-mile from the highway because she could hear an occasional car or truck pass by.

  She figured she had walked around 10 miles when she suddenly heard loud gunfire from the direction of the highway. She bolted into a copse of trees and stayed there until the sounds faded away once again. She could not help herself from wondering what had happened, and who—if anyone—had been killed by the gunfire.

  By midday on that second day, she noted that she had never been so hungry or thirsty in all her life. She knew that her water and food would not last long and that she had to ration carefully. Eventually, she lost the self-control and drank the second half of the opened bottle of water, as well as another full one. Famished, she opened and ate one tin of tuna.

  Towards the end of that day, she came upon an abandoned hunting camp. Whoever had leased the land had placed two campers and a picnic table there. She watched the area for a long time, making certain that no one was around—or, at least, no one appeared to be.

  She didn’t want to steal any food or break into the campers, but she found a well with a long garden hose running from it to one of the campers. The well obviously wasn’t working—probably from the lack of electricity—but there was still water in the hose, so she used it to fill her empty bottles and she took a long drink to satisfy her thirst.

  She didn’t want to hang around too long for fear that someone might be using the campers, perhaps as their survival retreat. Maybe they were away hunting, or maybe they might be arriving at any time, so she quickly decided to continue on her way south, greatly refreshed in her mind and spirit by the acquisition of more water. She was no Survivorman, but neither was this the Serengeti. A spark of hope was enough to keep her moving.

  She spent the second night in a low hollow in a copse of oak trees. Maybe it was because she was so tired, but she slept for a good part of the night and awoke rather rested. She ate her second tin of tuna, hoping that it would offer her enough energy for the day. Starting her trek south, she noticed that the early morning sun was still barely breaking above the horizon to the east, and the sun glistened off the little bit of dew that had collected on the tall grass.

  After walking for only a few hours, she came upon a shallow draw that ran to the south. It was lined with tall oaks and pecan trees, so she walked along the side of the draw until she came to State Highway 576, which ran east and west. She took her time, just waiting and watching from the trees—making sure that there were no people around—before sprinting across the highway. After another quarter of a mile, she found another ranch road heading southward.

  It was on the third day that she arrived at Interstate 20 and had to come up with a plan to cross it. It would turn out to be the most frightening endeavor of her life. In such a short time, she had already developed a survival instinct, and she knew that being out in the open where people were likely to be moving or traveling, was a very bad idea. She hadn’t heard any news for almost a week, but everything that she had seen indicated to her that, globally, the situation was not getting any better.

  In just a single week, her most basic instinct—her desire to avoid predators, especially the human kind—had developed to the point that she automatically knew that she needed to avoid any paths or patterns where “game ani
mals” (people like herself) would normally travel. Thus, crossing the Interstate was, to her, a very dangerous prospect, but one that could not be helped or avoided.

  She found a place where she could remain hidden, but where she could still command a good view of the Interstate and, for the rest of the day, she just watched. What she saw both sickened and saddened her.

  That day, watching over the Interstate, she learned what a thin and really imaginary veil of civility had separated the bulk of “polite” society from the more deadly and dangerous types of humanity. She was almost unable to tell the predators from the prey, as groups of relatively normally dressed people walking along the freeway would suddenly and violently assault any individuals or smaller groups approaching them, in order to rob from them whatever meager belongings they carried. Sometimes these attacks would lead to gunfights, and only rarely were those being attacked able to fight off and escape their assailants.

  Sometimes cars and trucks would drive by at extremely high speeds and, in a few cases, the robbers would run out into the roadway and try to shoot out the windshields or the tires. Occasionally they succeeded.

  She could not believe how quickly the world had descended into sheer barbarism, murder, and treachery. She supposed that if she had really been paying attention, she would not have been surprised.

  One large group decided to make the hunting easier by making a roadblock. Whenever a vehicle approached, the bandits would shoot at the car and its occupants, then rob them of whatever they could find that was valuable. Some type of predator instinct prevented them from stealing the vehicles that still worked. They knew that they would become prey once they decided to get behind the wheel and drive.