Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Disclaimer
Northern Map
More Fiction Books
PART I: THE ROAD
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
PART II: THE RIVER
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
PART III: THE DESERT
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
Journey By Fire, Part 1
Bruce W. Perry
Text copyright © 2016 Bruce W. Perry
All Rights Reserved
978-0-9889020-9-1
Email the author: [email protected]
If you liked this book, kindly consider leaving a review on Amazon, which helps writers reach a larger audience and gain recognition for their work.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Image credit: Google Maps
The northern route Michael Wade takes, originally starting in Denver. One "X" marks the former Grand Junction, CO, where he goes from road to river. Another "X" marks the old Page, AZ, where his journey takes him from river to desert.
More Fiction Books Published by Bruce W. Perry:
Barbarous Coasts (The first book in the Karl Standt detective thriller series)
Gone On Kauai (The second book in the Karl Standt crime thriller series)
Compulsion (The third book in the Karl Standt crime thriller series)
Ascent (An adventure story of survival and redemption)
Journey By Fire (Part 2: Mike Wade voyages through the bad lands of southern Arizona, amidst a foreign invasion and social breakdown. This "tautly told tale turns out to be a vibrant addition to the genre... an effective odyssey through a burned, blighted future America." Kirkus Reviews, 2017)
Guilt, A Novella (A sinister mystique seems to haunt three American businessmen when they hire a guide to take them into the Swiss Alps. "A fast-paced and engaging novella with an intriguingly dramatic twist." Self Publishing Review, 2017)
Devastated Lands (Young people fight to survive an eruption of Mt. Rainier. "A thrilling story set in an unforgiving landscape, as well as a personal drama of Shane Cooper, who is torn between his purely selfish need for survival and equally strong need to help others...an entertaining post-apocalyptic adventure pitting man versus nature." IndieReader review, 2017 )
Lost Young Love (Coming back from a devastating injury, a man reflects back on the peaks and troughs of his younger affairs. Owing a debt to satires like Henry Fielding's "Tom Jones," this novel is an honest, racy, self-deprecating romp.)
PART I: THE ROAD
CHAPTER 1
He got off the last train at dusk. He was in Denver, pulling into the ruins of the old city. He could see the tall skyscrapers with their lights off. Black sentinels against a purple sky with a faint glow of fires pulsating behind the distant peaks. Then one light on in a tall building; some squatter who's climbed the long flights of stairs and lit a cooking fire, he thought. Thinks the height of the building in and of itself will protect him.
The station platform was all but empty; he saw a few people but nothing organized. One remaining lamp flickered a jaundiced light onto the littered asphalt. The sun hadn't quite gone down.
He stood up and hoisted the heavy backpack onto his shoulder. The train slowed, almost soundlessly, then ground to a halt, wheels screeching, pushing him against the empty seat in front. He paused, more out of habit, before he entered the aisle, like he used to when he'd traveled on airliners and let other people go ahead. Out of an old-fashioned courtliness. Probably got it from his father, a normally circumspect and cheerful man who seemed to have predicted all of this. We're falling into another Great Depression, he'd said before he died. That president, he's opening up the gates of hell. Even though he obviously didn't want all of this to happen, he was proud of his late father's prescience and wisdom.
Now, it was just him and the old man sitting on the other end of the train.
###
He'd had the window down on the trip across the territories of Kansas and Nebraska (he refused to call them by the new names). He'd watched the countryside go by; he enjoyed the moist evening smells of long wet grass and tilled soil and the general wind and emptiness. It gave him pause. He was wistful, almost relaxed. Limitless fields with islands of woods dominated the few ratty remains, falling down billboards and abandoned malls and decrepit townships and torched filling stations. Here was a semblance of Nature reborn, growing back over the crumbling, graceless sprawl. The train knocked along as if on automatic pilot, except for the ludicrously cheerful voice that kept announcing the stops over a speaker wired to the train car.
He didn't know whether that was recorded or not; it had to be. No one could really be like that.
He'd passed some work details in the flat fields, hundreds of young men and women baking in the harsh sunlight. They were up to middle-aged and some teenagers, herded along by gruff overseers who gave off the vibe, even as Wade trundled along quickly by in the train, as being loutish and utterly stupid. They took revenge for something, for being born. So they sided with the lunatics when everything went to pot.
The train slowed into the siding and he stuck his head out the window, for one last look. The fetid smell that met his nose was of rotten food no one would scavenge, and worse things. He scoured the platform for people, still deserted. He found that reassuring. No one, these days, was always a better bet than a crowd.
He felt a stab of insecurity and patted around for his weapons and things. From now on it was going to be mostly walking.
###
The old man didn't move from his seat, which folded down near the exit from the car. He sat still as a statue. He had thick, white eyebrows and a white beard down to his coat lapels, which were part of a dark and dusty old worsted suit. Another previous generation, making sure they're dressed civilized no matter what has gone down, Wade thought.
The man held a black book in his lap, The Holy Bible, King James version. Finally he nodded in greeting.
"Aren't you getting off?" Wade asked.
"Where're you headed?" the man said after a pause.
"South…southwest of here."
"I suggest you turn around, young man. There's nothing that way for you. Only heat and wreckage, the worst of it is down there. What's your reasoning?"
"I'm looking for my daughter."
"Oh."
"This here's the last stop so…"
"I know that. What's your daughter's name?"
"Kara. Kara Wade. I have a picture of her." He fished into a side pocket of his pants and removed a zip-locked bag, from which he carefully took out one photo among a stack. He handed the photo to the man, who leaned forward and grasped it gently with his boney, blue-veined hand. The white laundered shirtsleeve slipped forward from the suit coat when he reached with his arm. He took the photo and fiddled with his glasses as he stared at it. "Tch-tch," he said, disapprovingly, that the world could lose such a girl.
"A delightful l
ooking girl. Radiant. I won't forget the face, even at my age." He handed the photo back. "May God's good fortune be with you. I have a good feeling about this one–the reuniting of your kin. But one can't do it alone." He wagged a liver-spotted, gnarled finger at Wade. "It's too much out there for one man only," he said in a gravelly voice. "The wickedness under the sun; the chaos, a world come apart at the seams…the darkness and fires," he intoned, as if giving a grave reading of Edgar Allen Poe.
Wade placed the photo bag back in his backpack and carried his belongings towards the door. "You should…" he fumbled, trying the give the old man some advice, knowing that in Denver began an "uncontrolled territory" of mostly free-ranging human predators.
"Mr. Wade," the man called him back, using both hands to hold up the black book. "I want you to take this book. I've no need for it anymore. It will offer you solace, nourishment, and maybe some protection."
"No, I don't have any room for extras," Wade said. He picked his backpack up again and strapped it on. It was heavy but well-organized, including a crossbow and quiver bound to the outside of it with cords and carabiners. He had only a dozen arrows and a small bag of replacement arrowheads; his methods involved recovering the arrows.
A rapid hiss of compressed air escaped down by the train's wheels. Steam rose to the window; he thought of the hot smell of an iron left too long on the cloth. He was impatient to get going.
He turned toward the exit then looked back. "Aren't you coming?" he said. "Where are you going from here? There's no place to go. Maybe another train is going east. You should wait for that one and get on it…this is no place…"
"No need," the man said, shifting in his seat. "I was born here. 1940. This is where I'll finish my days."
Wade did the math; it was 2025, hardly worth remembering since a grotesque timelessness had descended upon the world. That made the man 85.
"I have this notion I can find my childhood home, and curl up beneath the apple tree in the sun…" He shook his head bemused. "I never thought I'd make it this far."
He put the thick book into a leather satchel. Then he reached his boney hand across the aisle and Wade took it and shook it. It felt brittle, light as a feather. "Don't trust anyone along the way, unless you're sure of it," the man said with a sudden, fatherly, grim change of tone.
"And you're going to need help. You shouldn't go down there on your lonesome. Two is better than one," he quoted. "For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone." He removed his hand, set it in his lap, and resumed the statuesque pose. "There is great wickedness in this land. Be careful." His chin and long beard trembled slightly. "God bless your daughter. For it's the innocent that must be spared. The innocent, the humble, the righteous…will inherit this near Godforsaken world. I say near because God still exists out there, despite our sorrows…"
Wade nodded. "If you see her, my daughter, Kara Wade, tell her I'll be back through these parts." A pneumatic door opened and the train idled. "Last stop…" the loudspeaker croaked again. "Have a nice evening."
Wade walked down the metal steps into a strong gust of arid wind that almost blew the boony hat off of his head. The platform had fallen into shadows. A lone lamp fizzled and blinked, giving off a pallid, faltering light. He'd been staring at his map a lot of the time he was on the train. So he knew the direction he would take from the train station, but not his mode of transportation. He could steal a car, which would be a rare stroke of luck, or he could catch a ride with someone, which would be even less likely. Little fuel was to be had anywhere.
He kept walking along the platform to its exit, and when he looked back, he saw the old man in his black coat standing next to the train with his arm upraised. He waved back. He had to walk south to the outskirts of the city. Absent a car or pickup truck, maybe he could find a bike or a cart.
###
When he reached the end of the platform he heard voices from inside the neglected terminal. A low laugh, brisk cocky comments, then a door burst open and three young men came onto the platform. Wade ducked into an alcove, looking for an escape.
The old man sat down on a wooden bench down near the end where the train idled. The men wore t-shirts and bandannas; one of them was bald, the other two had long greasy hair and patchy beards. They were heavily tattooed. They laughed vapidly, looked around the platform, sizing it up and aching for trouble. Wade figured they were on something strong; a lot was available and around. It seemed more so than food. When they spotted the old man, they walked quickly toward him. He turned his head from the bench and Wade saw him cross himself.
"What do we have here?" the balder of the men said. He flicked a cigarette he'd been smoking into the greasy train-track bed.
"It's Grandpa Jed."
"Jed Clampett!" said a shorter hanger-on with a high voice.
"Or Moses," the cueball said. He stopped near the bench and stood over the man. He reached out and ruffled the white hair. "Is that real? I'll be darned. When'd you get your hair done?"
"Sump time back around 1919 I figure," the other hairy one said.
"It's a wig!" the third one said in his high-pitched tone, pathetically trying to keep up with the juvenile commentary.
The bald one gave off a "leader" and instigator vibe. Then the man who had just spoke kicked out at the old man's legs, and the force of the kick uncrossed them so that he slumped down on the bench. The priest put up his hand. Wade heard him say something, faint and even. Wade looked around the platform, forming a plan, then laid the backpack gently against the wall of the alcove where he hid.
The third one reached for the leather satchel, and the elderly gentleman put his hand on it, saying all the time, loud enough for Wade to hear, "You're barking up the wrong tree lads. I don't have any food. No water. I'm looking for them, just like you. I'm just an old man at the end of his journey."
"I'll say," the stout head of the gang quipped.
Then the medium-height one who'd tucked his pants into a pair of black Army-issue boots unbuckled his trousers and began to urinate on the old man's pant leg. The shorter one, who was insanely scratching himself, burst into his high, idiotic laugh. The bald one gave the back of his hand to the scroungy kid with the unbuckled trousers, so that he fell to his knees, and he shoved the other one, whose laughter shrank to a whimper.
"We're wasting our time! Listen Methuselah, cough up whatever you have, food, cash, pills…I know you're on something. Show me the meds. Let's see them!"
"I have nothing but my faith," the old man said quietly. Then the burly bald one grasped the old man by a thick lock of his hair. Wade saw the elderly man wince. He pulled the bowed head closer and removed what looked like a truncheon from his bulky trouser, which he brought down abruptly on the side of the man's head.
He raised his club again. "You've got about three more seconds Methuselah! Show me the goods! One, two…" But the "two" came out all choked and gargled just as the sharp end of an arrow, now painted crimson, jutted out just beneath his chin. The arrow had rent the air with a whir that lasted only a second. He stood frozen with a look of blatant shock in his flat red-rimmed eyes, as his companions went dead silent. Then both of his hands flew to his neck and he fell to his knees, making the gargling noises and the hands fluttering around the foreign object coming out of his throat, as if out of curiosity. He fell over on to his side and Wade could see the feathered end of the arrow coming out the back of his neck, and he'd rearmed his bow. The old man lay on the bench bleeding from his head and pressing a kerchief to it.
Wade didn't want to waste his arrows. Neither did he want to use the handgun, as he was almost out of ammo. Precisely two .38 Special bullets left, hidden in his backpack.
Wade stepped out of the alcove and the other two men, standing with mouths agape, turned and ran in the opposite direction. Wade lowered the bow, looked quickly behind him for any more city denizens he had to deal with, then walked toward the bench and the old man.
He sat up, and
he didn't seem too badly hurt. He was now tying the kerchief around his head to tend to the wound near the ear.
CHAPTER 2
When Wade got to the old man his breathing was raspy. He held up the hand not holding the kerchief to his head, as if to signal, "Don't bother. I'm alright."
"You should come with me," Wade said.
"Nonsense. I'm too old. I'd be a burden to you on the open road." He caught his breath again. His tone was stoic and weary. "You have to find your daughter. I'll go to the Church of the Ascension. It's only a few blocks away. They'll leave me alone in the church. They usually do. Remember that. God maintains his influence, even with what the world has become."
"Okay," Wade said, then he moved to the big body sprawled on the asphalt in a spreading pool of blood. He wanted his arrow back. First, he checked for a pulse on the carotid artery, then determining the man was dead, he put one of his knees on the body's back and gripped the feathered end of the arrow and summarily drew it out. It felt like pulling a stiff plant up by the frozen roots. Then he wiped the blood off the steel arrow and carefully placed it back in its quiver, with the bow. He made sure everything was tight again on the backpack. He'd become fastidious and organized in a way he'd never been before.
Then they began walking slowly together through Union Station. Night had fallen. Things were consequently more treacherous. The terminal was empty and echoing, save for a few sleeping and destitute residents who weren't targets because they'd lost everything already. They were wrapped up in old sleeping bags and shipping boxes and had slunk to the shadowy corners of the terminal. They didn't even bother to raise their heads.
The interior was fetid and humid and it was a relief to push through the shattered front door to old Wynkoop Street.
The regime had failed to reclaim Denver and probably wouldn't, due to the fires, Wade thought. Everything had been left to burn out because the resources didn't exist anymore to fight an inferno nearly one-third the size of the North American continent. Even if they did exist, the rising temperatures would simply relight the smoldering landscape, and all its ashen homes, businesses, and cities. It was a vast complex of interconnected fires and no one could tell you when it would end, not even Wade, who knew forests and maps.
Journey By Fire Page 1