Dark Land: An Apocalyptic Novel

by William Zeranski

  Everyone from around the valley was there. Mr. Marcus gazed over the size of the crowd spread out in a broad circle around the gravesite.

  Mr. Harper said a few words, because Mr. Marcus couldn’t speak. He tried, but his voice cracked every time he spoke. And Sara hung onto her father, one arm wrapped around his waist.

  I wanted to go to Sara, to talk, to say more than, “I’m sorry.” I did know how she felt. When the service ended and the crowd broke up and quietly melted away, I went to her. My mouth opened but when nothing came out, she nodded and hugged me with her free arm. Mr. Marcus clapped a warm hand on my shoulder. His lips pressed together making his cheeks bulge slightly as he held his grief in check.

  “You go inside,” Uncle Ray said.

  Mr. Marcus nodded and took Sara back to their house.

  Sara had both arms around her father’s waist. She quaked with heaving sobs.

  Uncle Ray and I filled the grave. We took our time, no rushing, as we carefully shoveled in the dirt, and smoothed the oval mound of dark earth.

  “We’ll put up a grave marker later.” Uncle Ray leaned on the long wood handle of the shovel. “We’ll leave Sara and her dad alone for now. Tomorrow, we’ll come by.”

  I looked to the house and then back to the grave. The odor of freshly turned earth filled the air bring up thoughts of growing things like trees and our garden, but those thought weren’t enough to cheer me up, not today, so I brushed the thoughts away.

  “Let’s go back to the cabin,” Uncle Ray said.

  We started back up the slope and crossed the valley.

  When we reached the cabin, I said, “I’m gonna stay out for a while. Just to walk or maybe hunt.”

  “Okay.” Uncle Ray took the shovel I carried. “You be careful.”

  ***

  Before I left the cabin, I heard Uncle Ray say, “But still . . . life goes on,” he wasn’t talking to me, but just talking. He turned the generator on in the backroom to charge some batteries, and then power up the Ham radio.

  In the past few weeks, we caught some radio traffic, some military or government stuff, but Uncle Ray wasn’t sure which. The traffic was coded and meant nothing. But someone was out there and hearing even the meaningless chatter was reassuring, even listening and adjusting the tuning dial was like holding on a thin line that might snap at any moment. But, today, I was sure Uncle Ray wanted to get lost in that meaningless traffic and static and not think about Mrs. Marcus’s funeral.

  “I’ll try and bring back something good for dinner,” I said, bow in hand.

  “Be careful,” he said and then glanced up from fine-tuning a radio dial. “Be very careful.”

  “I will,” I said, taking careful note of the caution in his voice. I nodded and headed out.

  By the look of the sun, midday was near. I slung my quiver over my shoulder and studied the cornfield.

  Mr. Harper told everyone they should be pleased. On the waist-high cornstalks the ears of corn grew heavy. I walked around the cabin and up the slope. The cornfield lost some of its detail, its importance, and became a simple long strip of green.

  With Mrs. Marcus’s burial, I worried. Her death made me think of Uncle Ray, Sara and her dad and everyone around the valley, and the fact that there were no doctors no hospitals . . . no medicines.

  Like Uncle Ray, I wanted to be lost in something else, something beyond the valley and the worries that came with surviving, but even being alone there was still no real escape.

  ***

  At the top of the ridge, I put a hand to my forehead, shielding my eyes from the sun. Pollen drifted in the air glowing like gold dust. I spotted Mr. Hansel on guard duty, to the south, walking along the edge of the cornfield. He’d work his way north and up onto the ridge at some point. I waved and got his attention. He paused, shielding his eyes from the sun as well and then returned the wave.

  I walked further on, moving to the other side of the ridge to get a view of the road that paralleled the ridge.

  The road didn’t have a name but a route number. But I could never remember it, so I called the stretch of blacktop the Ridge Road. Uncle Ray tried to correct me a couple times, and remind me of the number, but after a while he stopped, not wanting to be bothered anymore. But I suspected he may have realized that a stretch of road was just a stretch of road. The number didn’t matter. No one was going anywhere anymore.

  Other than fallen leaves and branches the asphalt was clear and in good shape. No traffic had a lot to do with the condition, no doubt. No cars, no trucks, nothing. Everyone walked where they wanted or needed to go. I couldn’t think of the last time I saw or heard an airplane. Maybe somebody flew somewhere in the world.

  Only birds flew now.

  A Blue Jay darted by, flying low, wings flapping, sharp and fast, and then arced upward into the branches of an oak tree.

  I couldn’t see the Blue Jay’s nest as I passed the tree, but I heard the squeaky sound of the bird’s call. I walked on, listening as the whistling grew more faint and then stopped, leaving a deep silence. But then, there was something else.

  I stopped and listened intently.

  I heard music.

  I’d put some distance between me and the cabin, about a mile, and at first, I thought I heard wind chimes, but the sound wasn’t random notes but a melody. The sound moved on the wind, and pulled at me, leading me further north along the ridge like some kind of hypnotizing ghost music.

  I listened intently, not wanting to lose that sound. The whisper of each plucked note grew louder. An excitement filled me and my heart started beating faster. Music. Real music played by someone, not the twitter of birds or wind rushing through the leaves but music, strummed and rhythmic. I walked faster, taking longer strides, almost at a jog. The music grew louder. I worked my way down the gravel slope, loose stones rattling to the pavement. Heat rose from the blacktop. The trees were thick on the right side of the road.

  Ahead, seated in the shade of the maple trees along the roadside, a black man played a guitar.

  And then he saw me.

  Chapter 9

  He stopped playing as we gave each other long studied looks. At first, he tensed. He straightened up, leveling his shoulders. He didn’t seem surprised to see me or at least to see someone, but then that tension left him and he appeared relieved. He glanced up and down the road, and set his head back against the trunk of the tree, legs in faded-at-the-knees blue jeans. Sweat stained the collar of the button-up shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Next to him on the ground lay a green duffle bag.

  I moved closer, about fifteen feet away. I wasn’t afraid, but wary, wanting to keep a little distance just in case.

  He eyed my bow. He pursed his lips as if making a decision, and then gave a friendly smile, but no teeth showed.

  I nodded, returning the same kind of tentative smile.

  He brushed a thumb across the guitar strings. The chord swept from the six string guitar: a ‘Hello’ from a long lost friend.

  “Play,” I said and moved from the hot asphalt into the shade of the trees at the side of the road.

  He closed his eyes, and his long fingers strummed and picked. Each note hung in the air, sweet and clean like the way a short summer rain dampens a hot day.

  He listened to himself play. His eyes moved under closed lids and his lips moved to the music. He hummed, and then sang a little. Not loud, hardly more than a throaty whisper, deep and sad.

  I’d closed my eyes, slipping into a drowsy state.

  “You do like the sound, don’t you?” His voice startled me.

  My eyes snapped open. I was more than a little uneasy.

  But his eyes were still closed and his smile broadened as if he knew that I’d drift off with his music.

  For a second, a strange kind of embarrassment gripped me and I said, “Yeah, I like it a lot.”

  “I thought so.” He continued to smile and play. “I thought so, because you walked here like a man needing a long dr
ink of water.”

  What he’d said seemed odd, but only for a moment, because he was right.

  “Yes,” I said. “I haven’t heard music in a long time.” A weighty sadness came over me.

  “Music is good for . . . everything.”

  “You play real well, mister.”

  He chuckled, brushing a hand over his stubbly face.

  “I guess it’s a little silly, me telling you how good you are.” I leaned against the trunk of a maple.

  “No, I like that. It was the mister part that got me laughing. Thank you for the complement, but I’d like you to call me Robert. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I eased down into a sitting position, legs bent at the knee.

  Robert picked at the strings.

  “Where are you from?” I set the bow alongside and rested my forearms across my knees.

  Robert stopped playing, one arm hung lazy over the guitar.

  “That’s a good question,” he said, and then he was quiet as if searching for an answer. “But I don’t think it matters.” He shrugged and picked the strings again.

  I considered his response and it made sense, especially the way life was now. Any other answer would add complications and require explanations, and it was obvious that Robert didn’t want to offer any. I wasn’t interested in complications either. I only wanted to listen.

  “You good with that?” Robert asked, nodding at the bow.

  “Yeah. I was hunting when I heard you.”

  “Hunting . . . that’s very important. I guess you might want to get back to it, right?”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “You’ve got time,” he said and sighed. “It’s nice to have time.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant, so I just nodded, and he grinned.

  “I’ve walked a long way. Right down that road.” Robert gestured north with a tilt of his head.

  “All by yourself?”

  “Yeah, sure, all by myself. I’m a big boy!”

  I chuckled, shaking my head.

  “But don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m traveling with friends.”

  “Friends?” I glanced around, a tension tightened my body.

  “Relax,” he said. “Look here.” He tugged open his shirt. Inside, tucked in the waist of his jeans was a revolver. “But here is my best friend.” He reached into the green duffle bag next to him, and brought out what looked like a sawed-off, double barreled shotgun, but along with the shortened barrel, the stock of the shotgun had been cut and shaped into a handgrip. “My hog’s leg.”

  “A hog’s leg?”

  “Yep.” Robert slipped the weapon back into the duffle.

  “Have you ever seen a real hog?” I grinned.

  “Hell, no!”

  “I have, and they’re loud, stinky and they crap a lot.”

  We laughed together.

  The time spent talking and laughing was like being in a different time, a different world. Liking Robert was easy. He played and we talked of little things like the weather, the road, the beauty of the day. He was someone new—different, and he didn’t seem to be afraid, but resigned to something I couldn’t define. Like everyone else there was a sadness.

  “You gonna keep going?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Going somewhere? Hell, I just got here!” He chuckled; then grew quiet and nibbled at his lower lip. “The truth is I wish I didn’t have to be here. Nothing against you, you understand?”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “I believe you do, too.” He strummed the guitar. “You live around here?”

  “Yeah, I live with my uncle.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “Yeah, my mom and my dad . . .” What? I thought. What about them? I knew what had happened. I saw the flash of the bomb, but that word dead, I couldn’t let it come out of my mouth, not then. I sighed and said, “My brother’s dead.”

  Robert nodded.

  “But, I’m okay.” I lied. “Other people have been through worse.”

  “Worse? You think?”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess it’s pretty bad in other places.” It had to be.

  There was a long pause, and then Robert said, “Yes.”

  “So, you had to leave where you were?” I pushed thoughts of my parents away.

  “Yeah, I had to.” Robert looked at the sky; then up the road, and picked at a string. “My friend, there are some bad people in this world.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Robert leaned forward. “Can you tell what they look like?”

  I shrugged.

  “Can you tell me what a good person looks like?” He grinned.

  “No,” I said.

  “What do you think about me?” Robert’s eyes narrowed.

  Somehow, I thought he looked lost, like he’d come a long way and didn’t care for where he ended up. But I wasn’t sure what to say or what he even wanted to hear.

  “I think . . . ,” I began.

  Robert sat up a little straighter, expecting something.

  “I think you play real good guitar.”

  Robert laughed.

  I shook my head. “You don’t understand.”

  “What?” He still laughed.

  “You play good. You make me happy. That’s good. I like you for that.”

  Silent now, Robert stared; then he smiled. “That’s a very nice thing you said.”

  He was happy in a way I didn’t understand, so I just nodded.

  Robert looked up into the sky again, and then back up the road.

  “My friend, I’ve got to be going, so why don’t you be on your way.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere. “Go, my man,” he spoke in a low, serious voice.

  I looked up the road and at the sky, and then at Robert. I said, “Play.”

  And he did.

  I walked slowly away and didn’t look back.

  The high, hot sun beat down. I didn’t want to hunt anymore as I worked my way back up the slope. Robert’s playing grew faint and slowly faded away. At the top of the ridge, I went on a little further, and then plopped down in a shady spot under a couple of sumac. I spotted a small, wild strawberry in a patch of green, plucked it up and ate it. The music was gone, and a bird’s chirping wasn’t enough.

  Gunfire quieted the bird. I bolted to my feet and ran back. My grip tightened on my bow. I charged along the ridge, tore through brush, and then took a shorter path down to the road. I was tempted to keeping running, but the thundering blast of a gun stopped me. I moved off the road into the trees, and carefully moved forward from tree to tree. I swallowed, but my throat was dry. My knees seemed to float. My insides quivered with the tension, but I took my time.

  The odor of burnt gunpowder drifted in the air.

  I scanned the road and trees. Up ahead, over some bushes, I saw two bodies lying on the road. I edged my way out of the trees onto the blacktop and jogged up the road.

  I reached Robert first. He lay on his back near the tree where I’d left him. Still and quiet, his chest gently rose. A red stain covered the left side of his shirt.

  Another man, lying a couple yards away, tried to sit up and cursed, “You bastard! But I got you—I got you, and I’m gonna watch you die!” An automatic pistol lay next to him. The man pressed his left hand against his right shoulder, trying to ease the flow of blood which ran over his dirty orange T-shirt.

  Robert had shot him with the hog’s leg.

  The wounded man glared at me, a broad, angry smile on his lips. He tried to push himself into a sitting position, but didn’t have the strength. “What do you think you’re going to do, boy?”

  I knelt down by Robert and lifted a corner of his shirt to look at the bleeding.

  Robert’s attacker reached for his automatic pistol; fumbling because of the arm wound, he snatched up the gun.

  A gunshot thundered, loud and echoing.

  The man’s head jerked as his body fl
opped back onto the hot asphalt.

  Smoke puffed from the barrel of the revolver I’d drawn from inside Robert’s shirt. A tremor ran through my hand.

  “Hey, you okay!”

  I looked around.

  Mr. Hansel came trotting down the road, holding a rifle, ready to aim.

  I nodded, still keeping the revolver pointed, prepared to fire again, but the man was dead. My pistol hand began to shake. I took a deep breath, and dropped back onto the pavement. I sat staring at the killer, and then Robert’s wheezing breaths grabbed all my attention.

  Mr. Hansel’s shadow hovered over me and across Robert’s still form. He reached down, took the hog’s leg from my friend’s hand and set it aside.

  Robert’s eyelids fluttered but remained closed. The bloody spot on his shirt continued to grow.

  Chapter 10

  Robert died two days later, never regaining consciousness. We buried him next to my brother. That was something I wanted and it was hard to explain to Uncle Ray. But meeting Robert was one of those times when the first meeting was enough. It meant something, the quiet conversation and the music. It made Robert a friend. Not knowing why his attacker wanted to kill him didn’t even matter. My guess was it was a grudge, an old grudge from a world gone by. Of course, Uncle Ray didn’t understand. There was no way I could explain. Robert was that long lost friend. His dying was something I could talk about like he was one of my best and closest friends. And the other thing I knew, which Uncle Ray didn’t, was that Robert could really play guitar.

  Robert’s murderer was taken to the quarry, a place where I could forget about him. Uncle Ray took possession of the unknown man’s automatic and a number of clips. The kick from the short-barreled weapon made the hog’s leg too much for me to handle. But I had Robert’s acoustic guitar. I couldn’t play, but I kept it in the living room by the fireplace. I could pick at the metal strings or not, but the instrument was there, a sentimental remembrance. Once there was music, not just mp3 players and CDs, but music coming from the hands of a talented man.