Dead Earth: The Green Dawn

by Mark Justice

  Dead Earth: The Green Dawn

  Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

  Published by Permuted Press at Smashwords.

  Copyright 2010 Mark Justice and David T. Wilbanks

  www.PermutedPress.com

  September 1, 2048

  The sky wasn’t supposed to be green.

  Jubal Slate may have been a small town guy but he wasn’t a dumb hick. He was educated, for God’s sake—two years at New Mexico State University up in Las Cruces. Of course, his field of study was law enforcement, not science, but he had watched enough New Mexico sunrises in his twenty-two years to know that their breathtaking displays of colors never included green before, unless maybe a bad storm was imminent.

  He stood next to his cruiser at the edge of Serenity by the empty boot plant and stared at the sky with growing apprehension.

  The sunrise wasn’t completely green. The color didn’t even dominate. Jubal saw the familiar red and orange, even purple, the way the sun had risen—and set—his entire life. But there was a plentiful helping of green there, too, and that’s what was worrying him.

  That, along with whatever had happened two weeks ago in Las Vegas.

  The worry had wormed its way into his dreams and forced him out of bed far earlier than he would have liked. Images of a tall figure, dressed in crimson, haunted him upon waking, but now the dream’s events had faded from his memory like the morning fog seared away by the sun. With the sheriff down, Jubal had more than enough on his plate. Sleepless nights wouldn’t help him deal with the work. But Jubal had never been one to wallow in self-pity. Once he was sure sleep had eluded him for the night, he had showered, dressed and gone to work.

  He had left the house as quietly as he could, hoping that he hadn’t woken his mother. It wasn’t likely. She had been down with something for a couple of days, just like Damon, and had been sleeping heavily.

  It was a little disorienting having the two authority figures in his life out of commission at the same time. Though Jubal would be married soon and, hopefully, have a family of his own, he felt strangely adrift, as though the world was changing and he was being carried along like an insect buffeted by a strong wind, helpless, without choice.

  All he knew for sure was that something nasty had happened in the Nevada desert and no one—the feds, the white house, the military—was talking about it. There was lots of speculation on the news and in town, but that’s all it was: speculation.

  He shook his head and chuckled.

  Silly, dark thoughts. His mom had always accused him of having too much imagination. “And I sure don’t know where you get it from, Jubal Slate,” she’d say, “because it doesn’t come from either side of this family.”

  Jubal climbed back into the cruiser and started the old combustion engine.

  He longed for one of the sleek new models with the large solar-powered motors. The city cops had them in Santa Fe and they were very popular on the TV cops shows. But not in Serenity. The county commission had twice turned down Sheriff Ortega’s request for upgrades, deeming them unnecessary expenditures. Jubal could see their point. Maybe it wasn’t necessary in a flyspeck on the map like Serenity.

  But it sure would be cool.

  Jubal chuckled again, his voice sounding loud in the emptiness of early morning. He took a sip from his coffee and turned the cruiser around. He had a pile of work waiting for him at the office and he aimed to put a dent in it before lunchtime.

  How could a sheriff’s department in a county where nothing happened produce so much goddamned paperwork?

  That’s what Jubal wanted to know as he stood up from the old chair with the broken leg and tried to ease the knot of pain from his back.

  Of course, if his mother or the sheriff were here, they would remind him that Serenity wasn’t always so uneventful. He didn’t need the reminder. If he wanted to recall how things in a small town could go horribly wrong very quickly he just had to walk over to the cemetery behind the Baptist church and stare at his father’s headstone.

  He frowned at the forms scattered across the desk: payroll, delinquent property tax records (since the primary duty of the sheriff’s office was still to collect the county’s taxes—a job Jubal loathed with a passion), subpoenas to serve, a passel of documents from the state requesting verification of officer training and continuing education requirements.

  Jubal swept the last of these into the trash.

  Screw the state. If they wanted to send someone down here to check on him, he’d welcome the company. Denny and Rafe, the other two deputies, both called in sick today, as did Nora, the office’s dispatcher-cum-receptionist.

  On top of everything else, the air conditioning in the old concrete building had gone out overnight. Jubal pulled his sweat-drenched shirt away from his back and decided to head to lunch.

  He locked the office and stepped outside, where it seemed ten degrees cooler than inside the office.

  It was nearly 11 o’clock. He could get a bite to eat at Conchita’s, then take lunch to his mother and Damon.

  Later, if the day were still as quiet as it had begun, he would slip over to the Rite-Aid and flirt with the cute pharmacist. He was pretty sure she’d flirt back.

  He drove to Conchita’s, mostly so he could feel the air conditioning against his face. He would also need the cruiser for his lunch deliveries.

  Conchita’s Grill was half full. It was usually packed during the morning and early afternoon. In addition to being the only restaurant in the city limits proper, it was Serenity’s best source of news and gossip. Since the credit card collection center closed down four years ago most of the town’s residents had little more to do than hang out downtown or stay home and drink. Jubal knew all the people in the restaurant and he imagined they did both. When the lunch crowd thinned out, he could picture the aging population of Serenity heading back to their modest homes and trailers, turning on the AC and the TV and opening a bottle.

  Several of the patrons greeted him by name. He took a seat at the counter.

  “What’ll it be, Jube?” Patty Felder ran the diner. Jubal figured there must have been an actual Conchita long ago, but for as long as he could remember the place had belonged to Patty.

  She was a large woman with short steel-gray hair and a body like a block of wood. She wore her regular uniform of jeans and a man’s white t-shirt. Her right sleeve was rolled up to display a faded tattoo of Elvis Presley’s face.

  “What’s the special?”

  “It’s Wednesday, boy. What do I always have on Wednesday?”

  “Lobster and Roasted Red Pepper Salad?”

  Someone once told Jubal that Patty had a laugh that sounded like a chainsaw stuck in a redwood. He decided that was an understatement. She bellowed out that painful noise, then slapped Jubal’s arm. “You always crack me up, Jube. You always have.” She wiped a dish cloth across her eyes. “So you want the roast beef and mashed potatoes?”

  “Yeah. And two to go.”

  “Your ma?”

  “And the sheriff.”

  Patty nodded. She pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen area.

  Jubal felt comfortable here. When his dad was sheriff, Jubal’s mother would sometimes allow him to ride his bike downtown to the station. Then he and his dad would walk to the diner and sit at the counter. Little Jubal would beam with pride as everyone came up to his father to greet the big man and thank him for some small service he’d performed.

  At his father’s funeral, no one had cried longer or louder than Patty.

  She was back in a minute with his plate. It smelled wonderful and his stomach growled in response. It may have been the only restaurant downtown, but the food was always good and Patty never
gouged you on the price.

  “I’ll keep the other two dinners warm until you’re ready to go,” she said.

  “Thanks. Hey, where is everybody?”

  Patty shrugged. “The flu or whatever it is. Half the town’s got it.”

  He nodded as he used his fork to cut a chunk off the roast beef and the toast beneath it. He dragged it through the mashed potatoes and gravy before putting it in his mouth. He enjoyed the experience for a moment before he noticed Patty staring.

  “What?” he mumbled.

  “Have you heard anything about...you know?” Patty nodded her head in the approximate direction of Nevada.

  Jubal shook his head. There was nothing he could do about Nevada, even though it worried him. For now, his boss, mother and half the town falling ill was his top priority. Besides, the Vegas incident was probably some sort of military mishap, even though the President himself put the blame on terrorists, but then he always did. If the powers-that-be wanted to keep it quiet, there was nothing little ol’ deputy Jubal Slate could do about it. The government, even the county government—his employers—always liked to keep their little secrets.

  “I heard you can’t call anywhere up there,” a voice said from down counter.

  It was Pops Perez who had spoken, the oldest citizen of Serenity, who always had time to share his opinion with whomever would listen. Today, he wore his fancy straw hat just as he had every day for as long as Jubal could remember. He never removed it: not to eat, not for anything—not that anyone in the diner would care; the town had grown used to his eccentricities. Nothing ever changed with Pops, and that went for his carefully groomed white moustache too; he was a dapper little man and a town fixture who everyone loved and watched out for, just as he had watched out for them when they were children.

  Jubal recalled Pops handing out quarters to the kids when Jubal was a boy. Whenever he’d see the old man, he’d run up to him, knowing a shiny quarter would be his reward for a friendly chat. Not that he minded chatting with him; he was a funny guy who knew a lot of jokes, tricks and stories.

  Jubal wondered what the old man handed out to the kids these days. Five-dollar bills?

  “You mean to the military?” Patty said.

  “No, not only the military. I’m talking anywhere in Nevada,” Pops said, lighting one of his thin brown cigars. Hardly anyone smoked these days, but that didn’t stop Pops Perez from lighting up. He was the only person Patty would allow to smoke in her diner.

  Jubal had a college buddy who lived up near Vegas, in Pahrump. He made a mental note to call him later. Pops’s statement could be accurate or it could be another of his wild stories. Like the time he’d said a UFO landed in his back yard and he’d spent the whole night teaching the skinny little aliens how to play poker; it seems that aliens love betting games. So sayeth Pops Perez.

  “I don’t know no one up that way anyhow,” Patty said, wiping down the counter. “Maybe whatever happened up there—some explosion or something—knocked the phones out of commission.”

  Pops picked up his cup of coffee, and a saucer he used as an ashtray, and moved closer to Patty and Jubal. He sat on the stool two down from the deputy.

  “Did you see the sky this morning?” the old man said.

  “What’s the matter with the sky?” Patty said, her eyes widening.

  “It was the wrong color.”

  Patty looked toward the front window, that funny look still on her face. Jubal knew she could only see the dry cleaner and hardware stores across the street from her vantage point. And even if she could see the sky, the green had faded...for now. Jubal hoped he’d never see it again.

  “Now don’t get Patty all riled up. That could be pollution making the sky green,” Jubal said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  The smile on Pops’s face told Jubal the old man knew he was full of shit.

  “Pollution? When was the last time you saw the sky green, my boy?”

  Jubal chewed his potatoes for a while, as if taking time to contemplate the question. “Never, but there’s always a first time...”

  “‘Never’ is correct. We are out in the middle of nowhere here. In all my years living in Serenity, I have never seen a green sky. But today at dawn? Today was very different, si?”

  Jubal shrugged.

  Patty had moved her bulk from behind the counter and was at the front window now, looking at the sky with her mouth open. A couple of the diner’s patrons did the same. They swiveled their heads back and forth, looking for green.

  “See what you did, Pops?”

  The old man smiled at Jubal, but the smile did not reach above his cheekbones. The deputy could not bear the emotion caught in Pops’s dark, brown eyes. He looked away. Jubal had never seen fear in Pops’s eyes before, but a trace of it was there now.

  “I don’t see no damn green in the sky,” Patty said, walking back to the counter. “I think it’s another one of Pops’s crazy stories.”

  “Sure,” Jubal said, standing up. “Pops is pulling a fast one on us.”

  Pops swiveled his stool away from them, puffing on his cigar.

  “So, Patty. How about those dinners for Damon and Ma?”

  “Sure thing, hotshot. I’ll be right out with them.”

  After Patty left, Pops swiveled his stool back to face Jubal.

  “I also heard they’ve closed the roads into Nevada, Jubal,” the old man said in a tiny whisper of a voice that the deputy did not like one bit. Pops Perez scared? He couldn’t fathom it.

  Jubal had heard that the roads into Nevada had been closed, but like any rumors these past few days, he couldn’t get confirmation. The newspapers only guessed at things and so did the talking heads on TV. Everything seemed to be going to shit all at once, but Jubal refused to let it frustrate him. Sheriff Damon Ortega wouldn’t get his feathers ruffled in a situation like this, so neither would Jubal. He’d take things a step at a time.

  He leaned on the counter, his head close to the old man’s.

  “Listen, Pops. Everyone in Serenity is under a lot of stress right now due to the weird rumors flying around. On top of that, everyone’s getting sick, and poor Doc Mitchell has his hands full trying to keep up. What would really help me would be if you could keep these wild speculations to yourself for a while. Just until everything settles down a bit, which I’m sure will be any time now. Can you do that for me?”

  “Wild speculations? So you are saying the sky was not green this morning?”

  “No. You and me know it was, but there’s no sense in working folks up about it. Not until we determine there’s a real reason to inform everyone.”

  “Sure, Jubal, I’ll keep quiet. I’ll do that for you. I am sorry if I caused any problems.”

  “No, you’re fine. Just keep these things to yourself for now. And try to show a strong face; do it for the town. Do it for Serenity.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s no problem for me.”

  Jubal laid his hand on Pops’s back. “Good man.”

  “Here’s your grub,” Patty called, bursting from between the swinging doors. “Now you tell your mama and the sheriff to get well real soon and that I’ll be keeping them in my prayers.”

  Jubal took the dinners from her and winked at Pops. The old man puffed on his cigar, a sad, worried look on his face.

  “I’ll tell ’em, Patty.”

  Jubal stood outside Conchita’s with the Styrofoam-encased meals cradled in his hands. He looked at the sky, relieved to see endless blue surrounding the blazing sun. There was nothing as beautiful as a New Mexican sky, and he’d hate to see anything ruin it.

  “This will all blow over,” he said aloud, then abruptly shut up. He’d been talking to himself a lot this past week, not that there was anyone around to hear him. They were all in bed, waiting for Doc Mitchell to pay a visit. But from what the doc had told Jubal, he wasn’t having much luck determining what ailed everyone. Some sort of virus, he’d said, trying to keep a smile on his red, sweating face but fail
ing miserably. There are lots of viruses going around, he’d said.

  So, maybe the sickness would blow over soon, the sky would remain blue and everyone would go back to town business.

  Or maybe not. Jubal wanted to be an optimist; they seemed like the happiest people. But with all that life had shown him, he figured the closest he could get was to be a realist.

  His father—the real guy, not the uniform with the shiny badge that most of Serenity looked up to; the man Jubal remembered as sometimes cranky, sometimes drunk and always, at least until that last day, somewhat careful—once told him that the world could go tits-up at any moment and all any man could do was be prepared. Danny Slate’s glass was always half empty. He would routinely stave off his pessimism through charitable acts, while secretly suspecting that mankind’s innate badness would someday be the ruin of everything.

  Forcing a smile, Jubal tried to be cheerier.

  As he drove the mile to his mother’s house, he turned the cruiser’s radio to a classical station; the music always soothed Jubal. He needed a break from the news about the aggressive talk from the new China-Russia Consortium and the endless speculation about Nevada. Somehow, the knowledge that all of the classical composers and many of the musicians he was listening to were long dead calmed him, gave him hope that something good could survive what increasingly looked like bad times.

  He turned into his mother’s driveway and found the house exactly as he had left it that morning. The porch light was on and the curtains were drawn.

  A fresh knot of anxiety bloomed in his stomach as he rushed up the steps, but when he stepped into the living room he found his mother on the couch watching TV.

  She slowly lifted her head and gave him a faint smile.

  “I brought you some lunch, Ma.”

  “Just put it on the table. I’ll feel like eating later.”

  She looked worse than she had the night before. Her skin was pale and the circles under her eyes were the color of day-old bruises. Strands of white hair stood out in sharp relief to her original, lustrous black. Surely the white hadn’t appeared overnight; he must have missed it before. She wore a frayed housecoat and was covered to the waist by a thick comforter adorned with Navajo artwork. She’d had it since Jubal was a child.