Dark Land: An Apocalyptic Novel

by William Zeranski

  The appearance and deaths of Robert and his killer made some people nervous and some plain scared. Again everybody realized—in a hard, serious way—that the world was still out there, and it was bad like a hungry jungle tiger circling a camp in the dark looking for the moment to lunge.

  In the days and weeks that followed, people visited and checked on each other more, and plans were even made for a harvest celebration, an event to do more than cheer people up but to show a visible sign of success. Also more people participated in patrols, watching the corn and the roads. The guards now patrolled in pairs.

  I walked an early morning watch with Mr. Becker. At first, I only knew him as the man who brought rope and helped move the Knapp’s SUV out of the stream. He was older than Uncle Ray, with graying brown hair, and a lanky build. He and his wife Helen suffered from the same problem, the same hurt, as a lot of people around the valley did.

  “I’d just like to know what happened to my son.” Mr. Becker stopped, tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, and gave out a big, tired sigh. A holstered 9mm automatic hung from his belt.

  I nodded. I wondered about my parents. Not about life and death, but what had happened, that moment when life changed.

  “Well, there’s nothing to be done now, or then for that matter,” he said.

  The terminal statement bothered me as if he was tossing in the towel, but I didn’t have an argument to counter him.

  “When the sickness showed up,” he continued, “in Los Angeles, San Diego and Sacramento and people started to realize how bad it was, well, all the airports were shut down by the time people in Colorado were showing signs of the illness. Kevin just couldn’t get back.” He pulled down the bill of his cap and looked at the ground. “You know how it was.”

  “Yeah.” I crossed my arms. I knew about that empty space that no amount of talking or wondering could fill.

  The company Kevin Becker worked for sent him out to L.A. to give some tech support on some graphic design software. But when the plague alerts finally rang out loud, the government stepped in and froze travel. For the West Coast and most of the country west of the Mississippi, it was already too late. That’s what the last news reports said or at least implied.

  The day grew hot with the sun glaring out of a faded blue sky. The collar of my t-shirt was damp with sweat. I rested a hand on the butt of the revolver belted in a holster Sara had made with heavy fabric. The pistol hung right in front of my stomach, so I could easily draw the pistol smoothly with my right hand. The revolver, which had belonged to Robert, was the one I used to kill his attacker, the man who had almost killed me. The use of the weapon had saved my life and it was mine now.

  Mr. Becker and I strolled along the shoulder of the road in the shade of the trees. Pollen hung misty in the air being pushed along by an occasional puff of hot air. I glanced along the south road, the one that cut across the valley, squinting against the brightness of the midmorning sun.

  “Damn,” Mr. Becker whispered.

  I turned and saw the car he’d spotted coming toward us from the east.

  I dropped my hands to my sides. The butt of the revolver within a short easy reach of my right hand.

  “Man, we screwed up, Mr. Becker,” I said.

  “Yep, we weren’t paying attention.”

  We should’ve stayed further off the road, watching from the woods, not walking the gravel shoulder like it was a picnic.

  “You see this.” Mr. Becker nodded at the oncoming Navy-blue sedan. “We’ve all worried somebody might show up. We all know coincidences happen, but nobody likes them. Not these days.”

  “So, what now?” I shifted on my feet a little, setting my boots into the loose stony earth.

  “Nothing, yet. Let’s wait. It looks like he’s slowing down. But he might just pass right by. So, relax.”

  But the sedan didn’t pass by; soon it moved at a crawl and then stopped about thirty feet away. Because of the shadows from the trees and the glinting of sunlight on the windshield, I could only see a driver and passenger in the front, and the dark shapes of people in the backseat.

  Mr. Becker took in a big breath.

  The front passenger side door slowly opened, and a man in a dark-gray suit stepped out. His short cut dark hair made him look official. He closed the door, again slowly, and waited. He seemed unsure, and I got a feeling he was not the kind of man to be unsure, and I didn’t think he liked it.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallow, hard, and then walk toward us, slowly, each step carefully measured as if he was moving through a minefield.

  We waited. Mr. Becker didn’t say anything, but a tension moved between us like electricity; I knew if Mr. Becker went for his 9mm, I’d do the same.

  The man’s suit coat flapped open; I saw the shadow of something under his left arm that had to be a gun. But our visitor’s arms dangled at his sides.

  He stopped in front of us. Dark half-moons under his eyes showed how tired he was. Dark stubble of beard covered his cheeks and chin. He let out a breath, and very cautiously reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit coat, pulling out what looked like a wallet, but held a badge instead.

  I think the man knew we could’ve cared less about the badge. Some stupid movie line about badges came to mind, and I almost laughed out loud, but this stranger, he must’ve needed to produce the badge. The authority it once represented mattered to him.

  “Yeah.” Mr. Becker nodded once.

  The policeman paused, and then said, “I’m Lt. Brant. I’m . . .” nodding back over his shoulder, “we’re looking for the Valley of the Corn.”

  ***

  I ran.

  After Mr. Becker took me aside, out of the policeman’s hearing, he said, “Find your uncle—and find Marcus.”

  I ran until I thought I’d puke. And those words valley of the corn kept roaring through my mind as I took off down the road. I went westward and not directly into woods. I wanted to be out of sight of the policeman and the car. They were here but I didn’t want to give up any information of where I was going, not now.

  After losing sight of Mr. Becker and the lieutenant, I charged head long into the woods, tearing through the brush, batting low tree limbs out of the way. I burst from the woods into the cornfield, running alongside rows and rows of nine foot high corn stalks.

  My chest pounded. My mouth tasted pasty from the dry heat. I couldn’t breathe enough as hot air rushed in and out of my burning lungs. The world went by in a sun-glared blur. After the exhausting rush through the corn field, I darted up the western ridge and over the other side to the Marcus house.

  I ran past a large round wooden planter standing at the foot of the front porch steps. My footfalls thudded on each wooden step. At the top I headed across the narrow porch and threw open the screen door. The front door was already open, allowing for any movement of air to flow into the house. I burst into the kitchen.

  Startled, Mr. Marcus and my uncle looked up from a number of hand drawn diagrams laid out on the kitchen table. Sara sat at the other end of the table, running a knife over a whetstone, instantly set the knife aside.

  Between gulps of air, I told them about Lt. Brant’s arrival as I wondered how many more strangers were out there on the road and how many of them knew about us and the valley.

  ***

  Neutral ground was hard to come by. But as always there was the kitchen table at the Marcus house. Police Lt. Brant and Mr. Marcus sat cattycorner to each other at the table. I took a seat at the other end of the table by Sara. Uncle Ray leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand holding the barrel of his rifle, the butt of the weapon was set on the floor at his feet. Sunlight filtered in through the big window, which provided a view out onto the front porch.

  “Sorry about the long process of getting you here,” Mr. Marcus said.

  “I think that’s understandable,” Lt. Brant said. He closed his eyes and gently massaged them with one hand. The blindfold, a wide strip of red pla
id cloth from a shirt lay on the table.

  “My brother Tad was a little uptight about it, but . . .” The lieutenant shrugged.

  “That’s understandable also.” Mr. Marcus nodded. “He can come in if he wants. They all can if they want, too.”

  “No, not yet. Tad’s keeping an eye on Lee, my wife and our three-year old son, Kiel. He won’t get out of the car. Lee’s just trying to keep him calm and my daughter Jill, she’s back there with them and . . .”

  “Yes.” Mr. Marcus nodded again. “I appreciate the risk you took in wearing the blindfolds, and getting your family to do the same.”

  “Well, we’ve run out of options.”

  I looked out the window. The lieutenant’s blue sedan was parked in front of the house. Tad Brant leaned against the right front fender. He wore blue slacks that looked almost black, and the sleeves of his sky-blue dress shirt were rolled halfway up his forearms. He and Mr. Hansel were talking. Mr. Hansel sat on the rim of the big round wooden planter that stood to the right at the bottom of the porch steps.

  I chuckled, and everyone looked at me.

  “Oops, sorry,” I said.

  “What?” Lt. Brant asked.

  “Well, your brother and Mr. Hansel, they’re talking now. Before when Mr. Hansel was going to drive your car, I thought we were going to see the O. K. Corral all over again.”

  The lieutenant grinned, but the expression didn’t last long as he pointed a quick finger at the small revolver holstered on Mr. Marcus’s belt. “You ever need that?”

  “No. Not yet,” said Mr. Marcus.

  “And how about you?” The lieutenant looked at Uncle Ray.

  “It’s good to have around.”

  The lieutenant eyed my uncle a second longer.

  “What brings you here?” Mr. Marcus set his elbows on the table and rested his chin on intertwined fingers.

  The lieutenant moved in his chair, and straightening up, he said, “A rumor.”

  “That’s what brought you out here? A rumor.”

  “Of sorts.”

  Mr. Marcus and Lt. Brant looked at each other. Uncle Ray stood a little straighter, but said nothing.

  The room rumbled with a silent quake. A rumor. The very word caused me to sit up straighter. Rumors were dangerous. Rumors like gossip spread like a wildfire. Who else could we expect?

  Chapter 11

  “How are things here?” The lieutenant folded his hands on the table.

  “Good,” Mr. Marcus said.

  “No, problems?”

  “Problems?” Mr. Marcus’s eyes narrowed.

  “Lieutenant,” Uncle Ray said, resting both hands on the barrel of the rifle. “I don’t believe this is the time for you to interrogate us. I also don’t believe jurisdictions of any kind much matter anymore. And you’re being more than a little cagy here. You mention a rumor or something like a rumor that brought you here. Now, what is on your mind?”

  “Well, Mr. . . .” Lt. Brant began.

  “Ray, just call me Ray.”

  “Okay, Ray, I’ve been a cop for over fourteen years.” The lieutenant looked from my uncle to Mr. Marcus. “Fourteen years. And in the last couple months, I’ve shot more people than I care to remember.”

  “Things are that bad?” said Mr. Marcus. “Not that I’m surprised.”

  “Of course, not, why should you. Why should anybody? But in some ways I can’t think of any words to describe what’s going on.”

  “But you can tell us something?” Uncle Ray asked.

  “There was a shift going on.” Lt. Brant set back in his chair crossed his arms. “Masses of people were moving constantly. There’s no reliable power sources and the lack of food.”

  “The National Guard was brought in some time ago, right?” asked Mr. Marcus.

  Lt. Brant nodded. “Soon after, the power problems became overwhelming. The Guard was called out, but only those units that could or would respond, showed up. And people were already heading to the coast looking for food, something—anything. They massed in the urban areas and along rivers and streams for water, but they’d swim, and crap in the water they were drinking! What Guardsmen there were couldn’t stop them. We couldn’t stop them. No one could stop them. Summer is here and with the hot weather Typhoid and Cholera will come, too. It’s . . .”

  “What?” Sara leaned toward the table. Her eyes hugely round.

  “Honey, I don’t mean to frighten you, but if this is the apocalypse, I don’t want any part of it.”

  I gnawed my lower lip.

  “But I’ve come here. I’ve looked around. I see you.” Lt. Brant smiled at Sara, “and you, Ray, all of you. I see the sun and the trees and things growing, and I know I’ve come from another planet.” He pressed his lips together hard, squeezing back a sadness in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

  “It happens,” Uncle Ray said.

  The lieutenant’s shoulders drooped. He seemed overwhelmed by fatigue. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go head.” Uncle Ray said.

  “Not with them here.” Lt. Brant meant Sara and me.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “No, please,” Lt. Brant said.

  He had much to say and I didn’t want to leave. The same desire to know showed on Sara’s face, but she rose and I followed her out to the porch.

  I left the front door open to catch the breeze. The screen door hissed shut. Through the mesh screen, voices murmured.

  “Come on,” Sara said. “No eavesdropping.”

  I glanced around, through the window. Uncle Ray eyed me, with pinched eye brows.

  “Yeah,” I said and trotted down the porch steps.

  At the bottom, Dan Hansel, who still sat on the edge of the planter, held the barrel of a rifle in his hands, the butt resting between his booted-feet. Behind him, in the planter, young tomato plants sprouted out of the black earth. “We do appreciate what you brought,” he said.

  “Glad to help.” Tad Brant leaned back against the car. His hands rested on the fender. His dark-blue suit lay cross the hood of the car.

  “What are you talking about?” I gave Mr. Hansel a light punch in the shoulder, which he returned.

  “They came bearing gifts.”

  “In the trunk,” the lieutenant’s brother gestured with a thumb, “there’s some firearms, ammunition, and walkie-talkies, a number of them and extra rechargeable batteries.”

  “We can use that stuff. We can use anything.” I grinned, and scratched the back of my head.

  “Now, how’s it going inside?”

  “Okay. Your brother just wanted to talk to them. So, we got kicked out.”

  “Oh.” He grinned. “Sorry to hear that.”

  I shrugged. “You a policeman, too?” I hooked my thumbs into the front pockets of my jeans.

  “Doesn’t it show?” He smiled.

  “I guess that was a silly question, huh?”

  “No, not really, I guess. But, yeah, I’m a cop.”

  I put out a hand. “It’s nice to have you here. You planning to stay?”

  He took my hand and said, “We hope to, yes, and you can call me Tad.”

  Through the rear passenger window, I saw Lt. Brant’s wife, sitting in the back of the car, her arms wrapped around a little boy with shaggy brown hair. Mrs. Brant smiled, but frown lines cut into her forehead. I smiled back, and waved to the boy whose eyes grew round in fear as he tried to sink deeper into his mother’s arms.

  “He’s really scared,” Sara said.

  “Yeah, he’s had it tough lately,” Tad said.

  The sunlight reflected off the passenger window catching me in the eyes, and sweat bubbled up on my skin. “It’s got to be hot in there.”

  “Yeah, but my nephew Kiel won’t get out of the car yet.”

  “That’s Jill, right?” Sara waved to the girl, a few years older, who leaned forward to look at us from where she sat on the far side of the passenger seat.

  “Yes.”

  Jill waved back.

/>   Muffled voices came from inside the car as the mother and daughter spoke to each other.

  “She’s getting out of the car,” I said.

  “Good,” Tad said. “Spend some time with her. Go talk. She’s been quiet lately, too quiet.”

  Jill stepped out of the car, and the door clunked shut. She looked at us as if she was trying to make a decision. In the bright sunlight, her skin looked sickly pale. The pupils of her green eyes were dark pinpoints.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello,” Sara said.

  Jill looked at us a little longer, and then nodded, stuffing her fingers into the front pockets of her blue jeans. Her long, straight red hair hung down to her shoulders like a hood.

  Sara and I walked around the car, not toward Jill, but past her.

  “Come on,” I said.

  She nodded, again, and dropped in behind Sara.

  I walked a dozen or so yards, wading through tall grass, and sat down under a lone maple tree that stood outside the tree line that marked the edge of the Marcus property. A picnic table stood in the yard, but I wanted to be in the shade, away from everyone, and Jill might’ve wanted that, too.

  Sara dropped down next to me and crossed her legs.

  Jill stood, looking at us.

  “It’s kinda hot,” I said. “I figured sitting here was better.”

  She looked back to the house. Tad Brant waved.

  “He’s my uncle,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I like him.”

  “And your dad, we like him too,” Sara said, and patted the ground next to her. “Sit.”

  Jill sat, and looked at the ground for a moment. “My dad’s been in the house for some time. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “No,” I said. “He wanted us to leave.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you know why?” Sara asked.

  Jill crossed her arms and ground the heel of a sneaker into the earth. “I think . . .”

  Sara and I waited in the quiet, but I didn’t know what to ask or if I should. I pulled up a leaf of grass and stuck it between my teeth.

  “It’s hard . . . ,” Jill began again, but stopped and gazed across the field. “It’s a nice house.”