Solaris Mortem: The New Patriots

by Rusty Henrichsen

  There were rumors that the President was dead, and the Chinese had invaded, taking over the country for defaulting on our loans. In a year’s time, we’d all be eating rice and worshiping the Buddha or some damn thing. Not the Wheatleys, though. They put their faith in the Lord. They always had and they always would.

  A seed of doubt crept into her mind briefly. She hoped her faith would be enough. She prayed it would be enough.

  Ted ate his breakfast with unrelenting urgency. He wanted to get outside and help his dad. Susie tickled her food with the fork and took a bite at last like it was a chore, her burden to bear.

  “Susie, eat your food. After breakfast, we can go outside and take the horses for a ride if you like.” Brandee hoped this would cheer Susan up.

  Susie nodded, her eyes filled with mist, and she sneezed again. “Thanks, mom, but I think I’ll go back to bed.”

  The sky opened up, and heavy rainfall beat on the old, metal roof.

  * * *

  Joe and Terry arrived in Woodburn late in the afternoon. It was still raining, and they ate a quick supper beneath a gas station cover and then began scouting around for horses.

  A wrought iron sign set high in the sky between log posts over a driveway drew them in. It read, WHEATLEY RANCH. It was a lovely sign; expensive—and in retrospect, a horrible idea.

  They peeked between the boards in the barn and saw three horses, a tack room, and an old tractor. The barn was at least one hundred feet from the house, and Joe was pleased. Terry was still apprehensive, but willing. He had to get back to Seattle one way or another.

  “This is it,” Joe said, “We wait until dark and then we ride. Do you know how to saddle a horse?”

  Terry had only ridden a horse once in his life. “I have NO idea.”

  “That’s okay; I can help you.”

  They leaned against the far side of the barn, waiting for dark, and trying to stay dry beneath a minimal roof overhang. The wind whipped and sent the drip wherever it pleased. An hour and a half passed and the outlaws were soaked and cold.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Joe said, “Cock your pistol and be ready.”

  “Cock my pistol? What are you talking about? We’re not shooting anybody.”

  “Just in case, now c’mon!” Joe said and rushed around the side of the barn.

  “Joe, wait!” Terry said as forcefully and as quietly as possible, but Joe was already gone. “Fuck!” Terry clicked his safety off, but he didn’t cock the pistol.

  Inside, Joe was prying the tack room door open with a bar that had been lying around. It sprung open, and the horses whinnied. Joe grabbed a saddle and a bridle. “Hurry, grab the other one there.”

  The first stall creaked open on rusty hinges, and Joe clipped a lead rope onto a spotted Palomino’s halter. “Here, Terry, hold her for me.”

  She was a big horse and holding her pretty much scared the shit out of him, but he found she held still if he just held the rope and gave her a small measure of slack.

  Joe draped a saddle blanket over her back, then threw the saddle over her. She jumped just a little, but not as much as Terry did. “Relax, she won’t hurt you.”

  “Sure…. Sure she won’t.” Terry wished he shared Joe’s conviction. Joe took the rope and hitched the horse to the stall.

  “C’mon, we’re almost outta here,” Joe said. He went to the next stall and led a tall, golden Tennessee Walker out. “This will be your ride. Walkers have a nice, smooth gait.”

  “Where’d you learn about horses?”

  “Huh? Oh. My parents had ‘em when I was a kid, and my wife and I had a couple.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Nah, divorced.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Terry said.

  “It was a long time ago, now here, hold him steady.”

  Joe was cinching up the flank strap when the unmistakable cha-chunk of a shotgun broke the relative silence. It was Daniel Wheatley, and he was not impressed. “Get the fuck outta my barn before I pump your asses full a’ buckshot!” he bellowed.

  Terry dropped the lead rope, turned slowly and put his hands in the air. “Oh shit, we don’t want any trouble, sir.”

  “A little late for that, don’t ya’ thi—” He was cut short by Joe’s 9mm slug, right in the heart. Daniel fell to the ground, lay there and gurgled.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Terry screamed, “You didn’t have to do that!”

  “It was him or us—now help me. We have to hurry.”

  Terry wanted to run away right then, but he feared Joe might shoot him if he did. He was in it now. He’d been in deep shit before, but not like this. Terry didn’t pull the trigger, but he felt just as guilty as if he had.

  Brandee came out onto the porch and cried, “Daniel! Are you okay?—Daniel!”

  Terry and Joe raced away on the Wheatleys’ ill-gotten horses.

  * * *

  It was still raining hard, and Terry and Joe rode much of the night. The horses' feet sank into the rain-drenched soil of the median, but they kept on under their new riders' direction. Terry wondered what the horses must think; being stolen away in the night, gunshot and a dead owner, being forced to plod through this downpour. He concluded they must not think much at all.

  They rode for hours though he wasn’t sure how many now that timekeeping was dead. He was doing well if he could keep track of the days, which he tried to do, but forget the hours. In time he would lose track of the days, then the months and then keeping track of seasons would be the best that he could do, but for now, he knew it was Friday…. Or maybe it was Saturday if midnight had already come and gone.

  He and Joe didn’t talk much. It was too loud to talk with the rain beating down on the pavement beside them. Terry was half thankful for that. He was beginning to question his choice of companions. Joe had just shot that poor bastard without a moment’s hesitation. Keeping company with Joseph Hughes meant trouble and Terry intended to make his exit sooner rather than later. He had a feeling he would wind up dead himself if he didn’t split.

  * * *

  They tied the horses to oversized entry posts at a Holiday Inn in Vancouver beneath a covered auto court. Dawn hinted its arrival in the eastern sky, but no harried business travelers graced the lobby, racing to their next stop, gulping cheap coffee and grumbling about the continental breakfast. Breakfast—now that would be a treat….

  “Joe? Why did you shoot that guy?”

  “Why? Are you serious? What do you think woulda’ happened if I didn’t, huh?”

  Joe didn’t give him the chance to respond. “We’d both be dead; that’s what. You should be thanking me, not scolding me. If it had been up to you, we’d probably both be buried in that farmer’s field by now.”

  “I dunno, Joe…. I just think you shouldn’t have been so quick on the trigger. He might'a let us go.”

  “I don’t think so, kid. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, especially now. What we shoulda’ done, is seen what else they had in that house we could use.”

  “You’re fucking crazy—didn’t you hear his wife on the porch? What would you have done…shot the whole family?”

  Joe ignored the question. “We need rifles and I’m sure he woulda’ had ‘em.”

  “What we need is to get to Washington and stop killing people!”

  “Haha,” Joe chuckled, “I told ya’ those Walkers are smooth. You musta’ been sleeping in the saddle—we’re in Washington.”

  “Fine, yeah, whatever.” Terry was getting flustered now. “We’re not killing anybody else….”

  “Terry, I’m always gonna do what needs doin’. Okay? Whether you know it or not, I saved your life back there.”

  Terry agreed, that might be true, but he didn’t say it. He also knew no one would have been getting shot at all if they hadn’t been in that guy’s barn stealing his horses. That was the important part. That was the part that really sank in. Had Joe and Terry wound up getting shot, it would have been their own damn fault. The ranc
her, on the other hand, was killed by no fault of his own. That’s what really hurt.

  “C’mon, Terry. Let’s get some rest. Everything will look better after a little sleep.”

  Maybe—but Terry didn’t think so.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Terry and Joe slept like the dead and woke a little after noon to feed and water the horses. They grazed contentedly at the lush lawn in front of the hotel. Beautiful animals and Terry was glad to have them, but not for the price paid. What’s done is done, he told himself.

  Muscles he didn't know existed, burned in his legs and back. Riding cross country on horseback would take some getting used to. As he rubbed the knots in his legs, a horse drawn carriage came into view. A driver and a rifleman sat up front, the back heavily laden with supplies. They stopped for a moment and appeared to be having a conversation about the two strangers at the Holiday Inn.

  “Be ready,” Joe warned.

  “I’m ready,” Terry said. This time, Terry was ready. He had something to protect, something to lose and he understood how Daniel Wheatley must have felt.

  Joe stood with his hand on his pistol, and Terry wondered if he might just start shooting as soon as they got close enough. He was a little disgusted with himself to find a small part of him hoped Joe would. These guys looked like bad news. They drew closer; Joe and Terry waited.

  “Stop right there,” Joe commanded once they got within earshot. “What’s your business here?”

  They stopped, looked at each other, then the driver hollered back, “I was gonna ask ya’ the same thing. We don’t mean ya’ no harm, can we come on over?”

  Joe thought it over briefly and waved them over, much to Terry’s chagrin. Apparently, he didn’t have a say in these matters.

  “What are you doing? These guys look like outlaws.”

  “Don’t worry, cupcake. I’ll protect you.”

  Terry didn’t appreciate being patronized. He rested his hand on his own pistol now.

  “Howdy,” the driver said, and the rifleman offered a nod of his head. It was like a bad western just before the firefight breaks out.

  “Howdy,” Joe offered back, “What can we do for ya’?”

  The driver offered his hand. “Titus Clemens, pleased to meet ya.' This here’s, Bo, an’ we’re part of a group outside a’ town. We’s just gettin’ what we can get from town, then headin’ back. How about you folks?”

  “What kinda group?” Joe asked him.

  “Ah, just a group of us bandin’ together till this shit-storm passes.”

  “You got a place?”

  “Ya,' we got a real nice place, matter a’ fact,” Titus said and grinned.

  Bo nodded, then sneezed into his sleeve.

  “Got food, shelter, women and whiskey,” Titus said.

  “Well, well…pleased to meet you. I’m Joe and this is Terry. We’re actually on our way someplace, but—do you need any help out at this place of yours?”

  “Mister, I’d say we’re gonna need all the guns we can find, so yeah. That’s why we come over. To see if you fellas was lookin’ for a place.”

  Terry began to say, “Thanks, but we—,” when Joe cut him off.

  “That sounds like something we might want to have a look at, eh, Terry?”

  Terry’s heart jumped to his throat. As much as he wanted to break away from Joe, he was a little scared to. The other part of him was afraid Joe might make him go check out this camp. “I—I can’t, Joe. I have to get back to Katherine and the kids. I have to.”

  Joe looked at him like he was angry—how could you?—then brushed it off just as quickly. “Suit yourself, kid, but I gotta check this out. You might wanna think hard on this one. You think you can actually make it out there without me?”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Joseph Hughes had already taught Terry plenty. For example: you can’t trust people….

  Joe looked disappointed. His protégé was abandoning him. “Well, all right then. Good luck out there, Terry Burrows. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” As they shook hands, Terry had a sense he’d just shook free of shackles.

  Joe turned back to the men on the wagon and said, “You boys wanna give me just a sec to gather my pack?”

  * * *

  Terry was alone again, which wasn’t all bad. When he was alone, he didn’t have to worry so much about people getting shot unexpectedly, and that wasn’t all. Bo Wiley, the unspeaking rifleman, the man in the carriage who had sneezed, was also an H1N1 carrier. He and about a dozen others back at that place of theirs. In two week’s time, their camp would be decimated, taking Joe Hughes with them.

  Unbeknownst to Terry, Swine Flu was making a run up the West Coast and people were starting to die. What could have been reasonably well contained in the modern world would become a pandemic in this one. If dehydration, starvation, or looters didn’t kill you, then the flu certainly would.

  Terry rolled up his meager belongings in his bedroll and fastened it to the back of the saddle, then mounted his steed. “Easy now, boy.” Despite his guilt over what happened back in Woodburn, it was nice to have transportation—and a companion. “You need a name…. What was your name?” Terry laughed at himself for talking to a horse and stroked its mane. “I think I will call you—Blaze. What do you think of that, Blaze?”

  The horse snorted, so Terry took it as a sign of approval. “All right then. Blaze it is. We’re goin’ to Seattle, boy. You ever been there?—No?—I didn’t think so.”

  Blaze continued walking, and Terry continued talking. “My sister lives there, Katherine. You’ll like her and she loves horses. She also has two kids. There’s my nephew, Jonathan and my niece, Tabitha.”

  The horse turned his ears backward occasionally like he was listening. “They’re great kids, they really are. You’ll like them too. You know how some kids are just rotten, and you can’t wait to get away from them? Well, Jonathan and Tabitha are not like that. Not at all. Nope—they’re really great.” I’ve gotta stop talking to this fucking horse. I think I’m losing my shit.

  They kept walking and got to a small town. The horse took a startled step back when a wino on a park bench erupted into a violent coughing fit. “Whoa, boy, easy.”

  The guy was in rough shape. Sweating bullets, delirious, hacking up a lung—“Hey man, you got anything to drink?” More coughing, this time with blood.

  “No, sorry,” Terry said and nudged Blaze into a gallop. “We need to get outta here, boy.” Terry was getting the hang of riding, the feel for a horse and was surprised how much he enjoyed it. He had never thought of himself as a horse person, but suddenly he saw the appeal. The appeal was easy to grasp in a post-automobile world, but putting that aside, horses were actually kind of cool.

  Terry and Blaze got back on the interstate and continued their sojourn north. Terry babbled on and Blaze walked on. “Just a few more days and we’ll be home, boy.”

  * * *

  If there was one thing Terry would miss about Joe Hughes, it was his coffee. He was dragging ass and missing that sweet, brown, liquid love he had grown accustomed to in his adult life. If there were two things, then it would have to be conversation. Talking to the horse, or the occasional insane person was getting old. And if there were three things, then it would be the extra gun. Things were getting weird; people were getting weird and Terry didn’t much care for it. It was every man for himself, and you stood a better chance of getting your throat slit for your canteen than you did of getting a little help from anyone.

  Terry and Blaze happened upon an early-outer, swinging from a maple tree in his own front yard. His face was purple and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Pinned to his shirt was a note, detailing his many regrets, and proclaiming, ‘There is no God!’

  “So, this is Castle Rock…. Not what I expected,” Terry said, “Let’s go, boy.” He nudged Blaze to a gallop and didn’t stop until he happened upon a little hardware store. There wasn’t much left, but he did find one piece of the missing puzzle:
a shiny, blue, enamelware percolator.

  “You were wrong, bud. There is a God and here’s proof. Now...where’s the grocery store in this joint?”

  Castle Rock was small, and it didn’t take long to find it. It was just a hole in the wall, mom and pop shop with a hand painted banner on a bed sheet. ’CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS. GOD BLESS!’

  Beside the banner was the other storefront window, busted out, mostly lying on the sidewalk. Apparently, people weren’t waiting for God or for the shopkeepers to reopen shop. God helps those who help themselves and help themselves they did. The place was trashed and mostly empty, but Terry did find a can of coffee and a carton of smokes. He didn’t smoke, and he didn’t plan on taking up the habit anytime soon, but he did think they may come in handy for bartering. After all, what good was cash? Well, it was good to wipe your ass or start a fire with, but that was about it. The new currency were things like ammo, booze, toilet paper and food.

  Terry and Blaze rode along toward Olympia. The people were getting thicker now. They were everywhere. Militant survival types and religious zealots filled the streets. The helpless and the hopeless meandered about; many were sick.

  “The time of judgment is here! Repent ye’ sinners!”

  Some threw stones and bottles at the urban preacher while others sang his praises, “Hallelujah!”

  “Get me the fuck out of here,” Terry muttered. Blaze didn’t seem to care much for the commotion either. He was high stepping and fidgety. His ears darted to and fro and back and forth, making Terry nervous. He was getting more comfortable on the horse, but he was still a long way from being an equestrian.

  Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the street behind them and a German Shepard dashed directly in front of them. This was the final straw for Blaze and he went positively apeshit. Or is it horseshit? Kicking and bucking, he threw Terry off into a light post. He made a beautiful arc through the air, then stopped short with a dull thud and slid to the ground. So much for my eight seconds of glory, went through his mind before he blacked out.