Marching As to War: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel

by Justin Watson

  I put my wet boots and Mary’s book in the sun to dry. Then I stretched out on the ground, pistol in hand, and slept.

  I woke just before sunset and headed west again. I found a stream and drank my fill. Before long, I crossed a big road. On the other side, there were many houses along the smaller roads. I avoided the houses as best I could. In my filthy uniform, I looked like a deserter from the army. Someone might report me for a reward.

  I would be safer if I could get ordinary clothes. But I didn’t want to use the pistol to take them. I would have to kill anyone who saw me. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

  So I moved west through the night. An hour or two past midnight, I could see the dim outline of a big ridge to my southwest. I could follow it to get up into real mountains. I might find folks who didn’t give a damn for the Government and might help me get back home. But I might not.

  I turned north. There would be roads, many houses, and soldiers patrolling the big road, I-40. Going north could get me captured or killed. But John and Mary would help me if I could reach them.

  Just before dawn, I crossed I-40. When the sun started coming up, I hid in an abandoned building. It still had some sagging and rusted metal shelves, which once had been piled with food, medicine, or things people just wanted to have. Now the floor was covered with mud, broken glass, and dead leaves blown in through missing windows and holes in the roof. It smelled of old shit and dead animals. I huddled in a corner and tried to sleep with the pistol in my hand.

  I would nod off and then jerk awake, certain I wasn’t alone and that something had moved. But I went to sleep and dreamt again of sailing in the old man’s boat across the ocean of trees. Unlike the last time, no one was with me, and I didn’t sail here and there, confused about where to go. I sailed in just one direction, knowing the sharks were all around, knowing I was going nowhere.

  When I woke, a large rat was chewing through my britches above the knee. In disgust and panic, I hit at it with the pistol. And I almost shot at the fleeing rat before I got a hold of myself.

  It was already after dark, and I had no idea of the time. I was hungry, but it was my thirst that frightened me. How long had it been since my last water? A whole day? Had it been two? My thinking wasn’t clear enough to figure it out.

  Putting my pistol away, I took a few steps and felt unsteady, as though I was full of whiskey. I wanted to sit down again, but the thought of the rat drove me on.

  Outside, I felt better. Thinking about where to go next took my mind off my thirst and hunger. I had to find my way by the shape of hills I could barely see in the dark. Sometimes roads went where I wanted to go, and sometimes I had to cut cross-country. Slow going.

  Just before dawn, I saw some clothes hanging on a line behind a house. Someone had been too lazy to take them down last night. I grabbed a pair of britches and a shirt and ran until I found a patch of trees and brush. I changed into the damp clothes, buried the uniform in a shallow hole, and headed out again. Now I could risk daylight travel.

  It was sunset when I found John and Mary’s house. I knew I had to wait until after dark. So I worked my way over to the thicket in which I had hidden with Riley. In the fading light, I could still see his boot prints in the dirt. It had been just a few days, but it was all as far away and as innocent as my childhood on the farm.

  We had hoped we could save Jane. I remember thinking I would save her, or die trying. Well, I had tried, and Riley was dead, not me. He was beyond help. And so was Jane. I knew, finally and completely, what everyone else had known all along. It was impossible. Rank foolishness.

  “If it’s God’s will,” Jane used to say, “He’ll make a way.”

  Well, this time God had not made a way, and two good men had died. Jane would die too. I was still alive. I just could not understand why.

  Sitting in the thicket, I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark. A lamp glowed inside the house.

  I tried to stand, but the ground seemed to tilt. I shouldn’t have let myself rest. My body wanted to stay where it was. To sleep. I took a step, then lost my balance and sat down on a log.

  When I woke up, I was next to the log, my face in the dirt. It was still dark, and the lamp still glowed. Mary was playing her violin.

  I crawled to the edge of the thicket and, using a tree, got to my feet. Again, I wanted to lie down, to sleep, but the music reminded me of what I had to do. Once I was moving, it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have any problems until I reached the steps. I tripped and fell.

  While trying to stand, I realized I had forgotten the code. Was I Watson looking for Holmes, or Holmes looking for Watson? Riley would remember, I thought. Go back and ask Riley. Then I remembered Riley was gone. I began to cry.

  Mary told me later that was how she found me. Kneeling on the porch, weeping.

  I only remember waking up on a pallet in the basement, feeling cleaner, but still weak. I just stared at the dark ceiling until the door opened. It was Mary, carrying a lamp and a bowl of soup.

  “Hungry?” She put the lamp down next to me.

  “Yeah,” I said, smelling soup.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  I couldn’t work through how many days it had been. Going to rescue Jane, getting away, and coming here all felt like one long day.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It was the day after I left here.”

  “I would’ve fed you last night,” she said. “But you were too upset. It was all I could do to get you to drink some water.” She told me about how she had found me on the porch.

  I said nothing. I was ashamed anyone had seen me that way.

  She helped me sit up, and I ate.

  John came in and sat on a crate. He said, “We need to know what happened.”

  “Tell us everything, so we needn’t speak of it again,” Mary said.

  I told them about the man with the pipe and Biltmore. About getting into the big house. The guard and the empty cells. Riley’s death. What the officer had said about Jane not being there. How Biltmore had died and how I had made my way to their house.

  I told them what I reckoned they needed to know. It wasn’t everything. It would be a long time before I could do that.

  “No one followed you?” John said.

  “No one,” I said.

  “If they had followed him,” Mary said, “we’d be dead or in an interrogation cell by now.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” John said and went out.

  “What about Jane?” I said.

  Mary said, “Nothing has changed.”

  It was another measure of how I had failed. I felt foolish and hollow.

  Mary stood up, and started to pick up the tray. Something caught her eye and she smiled. She reached over and picked up the book. “I see you managed to keep this.”

  “It got wet in the river. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

  “Oh, it’s not ruined. I know how to fix it.”

  She took the book and the empty bowl and went to the door. “Rest a while. After you eat again, I’ll play the violin. Would you like that?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  “Sleep now.” She went out, closing the door.

  I slept without dreaming until Mary woke me, one hand on my shoulder. The lamp glowed, illuminating her face. I could smell the rich stew and bread she had brought me on a tray. Outside, rain was coming down hard, pounding on the roof, slashing at the walls of the house.

  Sitting up, I ate and felt almost well again. I asked Mary how she had learned to play the violin.

  “It’s a long story,” she said. “But we have time now, don’t we?”

  She told me the Plague came when she was seven years old. Her family had been wealthy and owned several houses. One of these had been in the country, far from any city. They hid from the Plague there.

  They had jewelry, and other things made of gold and silver, to trade for food. That kept them eating for a while, but soon they were like everyone else, getting by
on what they could grow and gather.

  Mary’s mother taught her to read and write using the books in their house. When Mary was a little older, a man who lived nearby taught her how to play the violin.

  “His name was Jacob Needlebaum,” Mary said. “I called him Mr. Jacob. Before the Plague, he taught music for a living. We paid him a potato or carrot for every lesson.” She smiled. “I think we kept him alive with those lessons. Not just the food. Teaching gave him a reason to live. Anyway, before he died, he gave me his violin. That’s the violin I play.”

  “You gave up food for music? Not many folks would’ve done that. Especially in those days.”

  “Well, Father didn’t like it. He used to have arguments with Mother about it.”

  “So why did she do it?”

  “She said the beautiful things we’ve created--art, literature, poetry, music--are like a flame we pass from generation to generation. If the flame goes out for even a single generation, it might never be rekindled. The world could go dark forever. It could happen. So easily.”

  I guess she could tell I didn’t understand. “There are the things we do to survive,” she said. “And there are the things we do to live.”

  I guess I still looked puzzled.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll play something for you.”

  It was strange and wonderful, something from that old world I would never know. As she played, I thought about what she had said. A flame we pass from generation to generation. What about her son? Had she taught him to play? She wouldn’t talk about him. I wanted to ask, but I didn’t want to cause her pain. Maybe later, I thought.

  She finished. I thanked her, and we said good night. When she left, she took the lamp with her, and the room fell dark. I could hear the rain and booms of thunder.

  I dreamt of the old man and his small boat again. He saw a storm gathering, moving toward him. The storm hit, and now I was in the boat, not the old man. I didn’t know what to do against the wind and the rain and the waves. The weight of the great fish was pulling the boat down into the deep dark water. Lightning showed me the eye of the fish, staring at me, accusing me.

  I woke up, breathing hard. It took me a moment to remember where I was, in a house, not in a dugout cave, a thicket, or an abandoned building. There were no rats. I wasn’t in the old man’s boat. It took a while, but I fell asleep again.

  John shook me. “Wake up. It’s morning. Come upstairs.”

  I said I would come. He nodded and went out. I dressed and put my pistol in a pocket of the britches.

  Upstairs, John and Mary sat at the kitchen table. When I came in John looked at me without expression. Mary smiled, but I saw trouble in her eyes.

  She gave me some tea and bread and asked me how I was. I said I was better. I ate the bread and waited. They were the ones with something to say. They would have to say it. Finally, John did.

  “Jane’s going to be executed. Hanged. Today at noon. In Asheville. ”

  Jane’s death. It had a time and a place.

  “How do you know?” I said.

  “The Government has been announcing it on the radio,” John said, “They want a big crowd. At the old city hall in the center of town.

  I stared at them and tried to control myself.

  “There’s something else you ought to know,” Mary said.

  Again, I waited for it.

  “They say she signed a confession. They say she’s terrified of dying,” Mary said.

  “I’ll believe that when I see it with my own eyes,” I said.

  There it was. I had to see Jane die.

  I looked at Mary and felt she already knew. But I said it anyway. “I’m going.” I had to make it real by saying it.

  “What good will that do?” John said.

  “Maybe if she sees me, it’ll be easier for her. I don’t know. But I have to do this.”

  “We can’t let you,” John said, “If you get caught, they’ll make you talk. You’ll bring them here.”

  He was right, of course, but I had to go. I glanced out the back window and saw John’s horse was already saddled, tied to a post outside the shed. So I stood up pulled out my pistol. “I’ll need that horse.”

  “Goddamnit,” he said. “You’ll get us killed.”

  “I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

  John glared at me. Mary looked calm. She didn’t seem surprised at all.

  I kept watching both of them as I went out the back door. Outside, I ran to the horse, unhitched it, and mounted.

  Mary came out of the backdoor. She had the book in her hands and walked toward me.

  She said, “Just be gentle with the pages.”

  “Thank you,” I said, putting the book inside my shirt. I glanced up and saw John was watching through the kitchen window.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “I will.”

  I gave the horse a little kick, and it carried me out into the beautiful summer morning. I was going to see Jane for the last time.

  CHAPTER 33

  I went east, forcing the old horse to keep a quick trot. I did not know how far I had to go, or how much time I had. I remember almost nothing of what I saw along the roads that day. My mind was too full of thinking about Jane.

  We had all heard stories about the things the Government did to prisoners. Starvation. Beatings. No sleep. John was right to worry about my being taken prisoner. They could break me. Easily. But Jane? I couldn’t imagine her strength failing her. I couldn’t imagine her crying, begging for her life when she saw the rope.

  My first year in the militia, I saw a man hung. It was some drifter, who had raped and murdered a woman. When we caught him, his clothes were still bloody, and he had the woman’s locket. There was no doubt about it.

  We weren’t any rougher with the man than we had to be. We even made sure he had a final chance to get right with God, but the man just cursed at the preacher who tried to help him. When the man saw the rope, he bucked and squirmed, wailed and cried. We gave a chance to say some last words, but all he did was beg not to die.

  I even felt some pity as we sat him on a horse and put the noose around his neck. I felt pity until I noticed again the woman’s blood on his clothes. Somebody slapped the horse on the rump, and it ran.

  Now, I have seen men die since then, and none went out with less dignity than that piece-of-shit we hung. He was guilty as sin itself. He did not even deny it. He was not sorry for it. He just did not want to get what he deserved.

  I didn’t care if they had broken Jane, even if she cried and begged before the rope. She didn’t deserve to suffer or die. If she was guilty of anything, no men, least of all the Government’s men, had a right to judge her.

  I didn’t care how Jane died. I could forgive any weakness in her because I knew I was so much weaker. But I wondered if Jane could forgive herself. If it came to that, I hoped she could. I said a silent prayer to God, who had been so silent for so long, to help her, to give her whatever she needed.

  As I traveled, I saw more and more people on the roads, all moving toward what I took to be the center of town. I followed them. For many, the hanging appeared to be a holiday, a party. I saw some passing around bottles of whiskey and wine. There was laughter and loud talk. I wanted to pull out my pistol and make them be quiet. Instead, I rode on so I wouldn’t have to listen.

  And there were soldiers along the road, sitting in their big trucks, watching the people go past, waiting for trouble. I tried not to look at them and to keep moving.

  Finally, I came to the center of town. There was a four-sided pillar of stone, fifty or sixty feet tall. I had never seen anything like it and wondered what it was for. It stood at the western end of a big open area, which sloped down to the east. There were also large buildings surrounding the area. A couple had been gutted by fire, but most looked like they were in use. Probably by the Government. Soldiers with rifles and machine guns were on top of all the buildings, watching the people below.

 
; At the far end of the area, behind a barrier of barbed wire, stood the gallows. It was a broad wooden platform ten feet high. Above was a big crossbeam. A single noose hung from the center, waiting for Jane.

  I tied the horse to a long fence on one side of the open area. From the sun, I judged it close to noon. The field was filling up with people, but there was room in front, close to the gallows. I worked my way forward until I was five or six paces back from the wire barrier and right in front of the rope. I just stood looking at that noose, not quite believing what was going to happen.

  Nearby in the crowd, a man started talking about hangings. I couldn’t see him, but he sounded like the sort of man who liked to hear himself talk. He went on about the hangings he had seen over the years and the different ways to hang people. He said the fanciest way was to have a kind of door in the platform right underneath the person. When the door opened, they would fall.

  “Snap!” he said with a sharp clap of his hands, “their neck gets broke. Dead.” He said with a chuckle, “If you’re gonna get hung that’s the way you want to go.”

  He said what was more common was to stand the person on a chair or sit them on a horse. When the time came, the chair would be kicked away, or the horse made to run. This was like the hanging I had seen. If the person on the rope was lucky, it was a quick death.

  I wanted to ask the man which way they were going to hang Jane. I didn’t, of course, but someone else did.

  “You’d think they’d do it up right, do it the fancy way, with the door in the platform,” said the old man, “but no. They’re gonna do her the hardest way. Gonna put the rope around her neck and haul her up inch by inch.” This was the way David Winslow had hung those men right after the Plague.

  The old man pointed out the rope went up through a pulley and down to a hand-cranked winch. “Yes sir, gonna kill the bitch slooooow.” He made some choking sounds, as though the rope was around his neck. Then the old bastard said, “I hope you didn’t eat much this morning. You might lose it.” He laughed.

  So Jane would die the hardest way of all. I looked up and told God, She did everything you asked of her. Everything. And you let her die like this.