by Philip Webb
The lack of an apology smarts. Because we rode after her and she does not realize we had a choice. I stew in a righteous anger for a full ten minutes.
“Megan, look. Hold up. I’m sorry. Really I am.”
It would have been better if we had parted company with her in Fort Davis. But I say nothing.
“Seriously. I won’t hare off again. I’ll listen. Teach me, O Master. No, seriously. I goofed.”
She holds out a hand caked in fish slime.
It is pretty funny to see her doused head to foot in fish parts. Someone who detests fish. I’ll be damned if I’ll let it show, but then I can’t help myself. And it feels good to let go a little.
Finally, I take her hand. She makes a show of not being able to pry our fingers apart.
“Hey, is that a smile, folks?” She looks over her shoulder to an imaginary audience. “Megan Bridgwater — in severe danger of cracking her face. It’s a first, people. And you saw it here. Now we’re rolling! Check it out.”
Luis grins at me like a buffoon. He has a sprat in the breast pocket of his shirt. And my resistance crumbles.
“The whole sea falls out the sky and that’s your best catch?” Just for a moment, laughter runs away with my words, and I feel free.
“Can’t be a crab your whole life,” says Kelly with a smile. “We’ve haddock enough.”
Powell Ranch Road takes us east to join the head of Wild Rose Pass. We’re too visible from main tarred roads, so I’d prefer to steer clear of them. However, it is unavoidable for a stretch of perhaps twelve miles as we skirt around the northern edge of the Fort Davis Mountains. We leave the road as soon as the country evens out, hugging the foothills in a northwesterly slant.
The static position of the sun in the sky may cause confusion for the keeping of time, but in some ways it helps with orientation. In my locale of West Texas and the Mexican border, I am used to using my shadow as a compass to indicate an easterly direction. Of course, this cannot be relied upon for long distances — the farther west we go, by tiny increments, the sun will appear to rise in the sky, and eventually, after months of travel, the shadows will shorten and then flip to point westward. It is a strange prospect to me, that only by embarking on a grand journey will I ever experience those mythical sun positions associated with noon and sunrise. Or indeed the dark side of the Earth, where night prevails — a starlit terrain locked in perpetual ice. There are human settlements that cling to the edge of this lifeless territory, but explorers survive on the dark side only for as long as their supplies last.
I am on high alert as we cross I-10 where it intersects with I-20. But the highways are empty and desolate. We encounter only a couple of coyotes patrolling the edge of an old gas station that has long been stripped of any useful glass and metals. Under the canopy where the pumps once stood, there is evidence of a recent campfire.
Luis casts about for tracks away from the road. “Horses here, I think.”
“Could it be them?”
“I don’t know. Not so many. Maybe they split again to look for us.” He turns to Kelly. “You know how to read animal sign?”
“Only sorta sign I can read is ‘Exit,’ buddy. They don’t teach that kinda stuff at Taco Shacko.”
The country all around us is clear. We have been lucky to avoid them so far.
“If they’re splitting up, it shows they don’t know where we’re headed. We have to keep moving. Let’s get clear of the road.”
We meander north along dry gullies. After another couple of hours, we find a water hole fed by a clean brook. It feels good to drink our fill and wash some of the mess from our clothes. Kelly says she smells like a dead hobo in a trash can. Luis answers her banter with jokes of his own. It is effortless, the way they talk. I listen though I am apart. Always apart.
We travel on, encountering no serious peril for three days. This is the longest I have been in the Zone and it is becoming easier to judge its fickle ways. I am steeped in it, the shifting and the ebbing. Threats approach and retreat, but they do not engage. They are subtle — dispersing just before I can scout them out. As though the Zone is teasing us. Kelly and Luis bandy words, and I sometimes join in, but I pay mind to these conversations only because they are within my perimeter, my monitoring of the Zone.
At the brief camps we make, Kelly asks about the Zone. She is stunned at how big it is. I show her on my Rand McNally atlas.
“The territory is bounded here — the West Coast, the Pacific Ocean. And here, up through the Canadian province of British Columbia to the tundra wastes of Alaska. And here, where the Americas join at the narrowest point.”
“The Wild West all over again, huh? Anyone got any idea what the Zone is, like why it’s here and not someplace else?”
“Some trackers believe the Zone is protecting something, or hiding it. Something the Visitors don’t want us to find.”
“Can’t we just send in an army to root it out?”
“We did. And the entire army disappeared without trace. Look, you can’t just blunder in here and force the Zone to reveal its secrets. You can’t send in airplanes or tanks or scientific instruments. You can’t even send satellites high over this land. Machines just don’t work here. And people soon lose their sanity unless they have tracking skills.”
She gazes at the atlas pages, the cities that have been abandoned, the interstates that will over time be overrun by nature.
“So maybe whatever the Zone’s hiding — we’ll find it in that cemetery at Spider Rock. Canyon de Chelly. In a grave.”
“Maybe. Do you remember a cemetery from your vacation?”
“Nope. Just old Injun graves with busted pots. You could buy all that junk in Rock Springs.”
“Many men die. Después de la Visita,” Luis reminds us. “Zona de Diablo is one grave, no?”
“What about this Mavis Pilgrim stagecoach?” asks Kelly. “How’s that fit in?”
“I’m not certain, but perhaps we must intercept it for a clue, something we must discover before reaching the cemetery.”
“Like what grave we gotta dig up?”
“Possibly.” It is not the first time I have thought about the cemetery the map refers to, the graves it might contain. My aunt had insisted Pa was still alive, after years of believing him dead. Getting hold of the map changed her mind. Who gave it to her? I banish the idea that the map will lead only to Pa’s remains. But perhaps it is true and that only by making the journey will I ever know the truth and lay his memory to rest.
We make steady gains — sixty miles over the three days by my reckoning. We could easily pick up the pace, but there are dangers in rushing. At this speed, the wrinkles of the mountains and riverbeds unfold at a safe remove. I can advance my perimeter with growing confidence, ready for any perils that lurk ahead. Luis, too, is becoming more adept at reading the Zone — at times he rides ahead, and the routes he picks are sound. I always pictured this journey as a solitary one like those of all legendary trackers, but how glad I am that he is here! Without his help in navigating, the strain of critter sleep and constant vigilance would have taken their toll already. But having him with me means more than that — it his companionship that sustains me. We have spent our childhoods wondering about the Zone, telling each other stories and sharing make-believe adventures about this place. Experiencing it without him would have seemed wrong, lonely even.
Sometimes Kelly sings to pass the time. She has a rich, fine voice. I tell her I don’t know any of the songs.
“That’s ’cause I wrote ’em, honey! And you woulda heard of ’em if the world hadn’t gone straight to hell. Saved five hundred bucks for a one-way trip to LA. Put my name in lights. Was gonna drive back in a pink Bel Air and give the finger to every lamebrain loser in the state of Texas who told me I couldn’t do it.”
“Destino,” sighs Luis.
“Damn straight. I’da made it to LA, I wouldn’t be here now, huh? Bet them East Coast places never did so good come Vistin’ Day, right?”
>
“The few trackers who have been that far in the Zone tell of ghost cities.”
“There you go — lucky break. Chasin’ fame’ll kill ya.” She winks at me and breaks into another song.
Our meals are taken quickly — cans of beans warmed in the embers if I feel that a fire is an acceptable risk, cold if not. In private moments, I pull the burrs from Cisco’s mane and whisper nonsense into his twitching ear. The words are just a soft babble, of a tone to comfort him. I sit with a blanket around my shoulders and watch Luis and Kelly curled on their bedrolls, like cocoons waiting to hatch.
At a watering place strewn with boulders, Luis shows me the brands he has found on the Appaloosa. They are fired into the hide high on the neck, hidden beneath tufts of mane. A pair of arched scorpions with their stings poised. It is not a brand I am familiar with.
“A ranch farther afield?”
Luis points out older brand marks on its shoulder flanks. “Tumbling three-stripe — San Jacinto River. Changed hands, see? Is Jethro Gang maybe with scorpion mark?”
“I don’t know. I mean, rustlers don’t normally brand their horses. They might tamper with existing brands so they can sell them on. But this one still has its original mark.”
“The Jethro Gang ain’t your regular outlaws,” chips in Kelly.
“But why hide the brand like this?” says Luis.
“Pretty rough and ready, too, huh?” Kelly is right — it’s like the brand wasn’t made with an iron at all, more as though it has been drawn on the hide with a hot wire or something.
It is strange and unsettling. I don’t share my thoughts with the others, but maybe the Visitors have done something more to the horse than just brand him. Finding the scorpions feels like a warning. Still, we cannot afford to set the horse loose — we will make poor progress with just Cisco among three.
I consult my atlas. We are close to the Guadalupe Mountains.
Kelly points at a place just south of Route 62 marked with a scribble of huts. “Brokeoff? I ain’t never heard of that.”
“It is a new town. One that has arisen since Visitation. There are some doldrums places in the Zone where folks can settle without always being on their guard.”
“Well, thank Jesus. I’m real sick of canned beans …”
“We will be avoiding Brokeoff. I do not want to draw attention. Besides, all Zone towns are rough and lawless places.”
“Are you kidding? We’re all baked here. You ain’t laid down in days.”
“Is true,” agrees Luis. “Maybe news of Mavis Pilgrim stagecoach, eh?”
He gives me an exhausted smile and it nearly sways me — what harm will one night do? But I must be strong.
“It’s too dangerous. Even if the Jethro Gang isn’t there, Brokeoff is still a wretched hive of murderers and gamblers.”
“They got hotels?” asks Kelly.
“Megan, is good place for supplies, no?”
“Hey, I’m choosing this time,” says Kelly. “If I eat another goddamn bean, I’m gonna hurl.”
“We’re not going,” I insist.
“Two to one.”
It is true that our canned goods will not last the journey. And I look again at my companions — they are practically asleep on their feet, the horses, too. I don’t have the heart to keep pushing them. Rest outweighs risk.
“All right, but we stick together and we keep our heads down.”
Kelly pumps her fist. “Baths all around, people. And featherbeds. And all you can eat …”
I have not been to Brokeoff or any Zone settlement, but I cannot imagine it will match Kelly’s expectations.
I am right — the main drag of Brokeoff Town has little to write home about. The silence from Kelly is telling. Even I am disappointed. It is a ramshackle affair — one-story cabins and tents, corrugated lean-to shelters, and trailer homes that sag to one side as though hurled there by hurricanes. Doors bang in the wind. Feral dogs beset by mange lie flaked out in the dust. The boardwalks are in ill repair and serve as shelter for a number of desperate-looking families. The children all wear smocks and hard frowns, and squat in the street to make their ablutions.
“Jeez, why don’t they come abduct this crap hole?” mutters Kelly. “Be doing them a favor.”
We skirt around mules and goats too tired to move.
Luis asks someone in Spanish for the nearest hotel. The man, a vaquero in a stained straw hat and a pueblo blanket of red and brown bands, stares at us for a long time before gesturing toward the only building with more than one story. It looks like an old barn for livestock, but there is a balcony and a saloon entrance, and above the swing doors hangs a crooked steer’s skull.
The vaquero says something I cannot understand. Even from here I can smell the liquor on his breath. He holds out a grubby hand flecked with blood.
“He says the Drunken Steer is too much dollars,” announces Luis. “He says we stay with him for less.”
Kelly snorts. “Yeah, well, tell him it’s a hell of an offer, but if that’s the classiest place in town, I say we stick with it. No offense.”
We tie up the horses and push into the saloon. Some cowhands are at the bar drinking from cloudy bottles. One of them is trying to pick out a tune from an upright piano so warped and dusty, I figure a merry refrain will cause it to collapse. A card game is in progress in the far reaches of the gloom — serious by the looks of it, for the players do not look up from their cards as we enter.
A large woman tends the bar. She wears girlish pigtails though she is perhaps fifty years old. Her considerable bulk is barely contained by a frilly polka-dot dress. She does not smile as I approach, just scratches the sores on her elbows and rearranges the holsters on her hips. Her handguns are the largest I have ever seen — like blunderbusses. It is clear she is the boss.
“We’d like a room, please.”
“And a bath,” adds Kelly.
“And food,” chips in Luis.
She shuffles out from behind the bar to take a closer look at us. Her feet are bare. Her legs are those of a man, sturdy and thick with hair.
“A room and a bath and food.” She glances at the cowhands, who snicker into their bottles.
One of them makes a show of pinching his nostrils. “Poo-ee, sure figure they be wanting that bath, Josie!”
“You don’t smell so good yourself, mister,” snaps Kelly.
The cowhand splutters on his drink and slams down the bottle, spoiling for a fight. Luis moves to intercept him, but Josie beats him to it. She fells the man with one devastating punch. The cowhands make no move to pick up their companion and they quickly settle down.
“Well, now, you’ll have to share a bed. I got the one room left.”
She waits, daring me to object. It throws me that we’ll all be bedding down together, but what did I imagine — three luxury suites? Besides, we’ve slept side by side in the wilderness for nearly a week …
Josie has a wry look on her face — as if taking me for a prude.
“How much?” I ask hastily.
“Four bucks a night — twenty-six for the week. Bath’s down the hall. Two nickels for water, dollar for hot. We got a pot of coney on the go. That’s on the house.”
I have no idea what coney is. I look at the others. They nod.
“We just need the one night.”
“Suit yourself, sister. There’s a stable out back.” She tosses me a key. “Show that to Hodges. He’ll see your horses right. Don’t speak none to him. He’s deaf and mute, and he gets mad if you try conversin’.”
We take the horses to Hodges. The man is a lantern-jawed giant who looks like he could strangle a moose, but he’s gentle with Cisco.
The room is not as bad as I feared. It is a minor mystery how the good iron bedstead has arrived here in this gritty town. The linen is a little musty but a month of Sundays cleaner than me. I lay down on the mattress, too tired to wash.
“The provisions …” I murmur. Already the soft downy bedclothes are lull
ing me into slumber.
“Don’t worry. Me and Luis’ll take care of that. But first things first.”
“What are you doing, Kelly?” My voice seems far away.
“What do you think I’m gonna do? I’m gonna scrub up so I don’t stink like a cat’s dinner, and then I’m gonna stuff myself stupid with coney, whatever the hell that is.”
“Just stay out of trouble, Kelly. Stick together, OK?”
“No, I figured I’d get all fancied up and take old Hodges out on the town. I’m kidding.”
Strangely, I feel as though I continue speaking with Kelly. But I have no recollection of the words. My dreams come in a jumbled race, falling one over the other. I am in a stagecoach with Pa — we’re trundling through a vast cemetery. He stares out the window, watching the graves go by. The stagecoach pulls up and I follow his gaze outside. Only one grave remains — freshly dug. When I turn back, Pa has gone. I am alone cradling a scorpion in the palm of my hand. I should be scared but I’m not. It stings my finger, and a single drop of blood wells up from the tip. And as the blood runs into a dribble, it catches fire.
I wake with a start — groggy and uncertain where I am. The last dream lingers. It has the urgency of a message, nagging me to decipher it. I must go to the cemetery by stagecoach? The Mavis Pilgrim perhaps? There is just one grave that matters. A new one. My father’s? He was in the stagecoach before he disappeared. I cling to the memory of his face, serious but strangely untroubled. Perhaps the message is from him, which would mean he is alive. Maybe he watches over me somehow on this journey. I think of the flash migraine at Fort Davis — the visions of three that helped me decide to bring Kelly with us into the Zone. Visions that all featured Pa in some way.
Then I remember the scorpion, but this part of the dream makes little sense. Do scorpions even draw blood? It represents the Visitors? Why wasn’t I scared?
My train of thoughts is broken as Luis comes into the room. He thrusts a warm clay bowl into my hands. There is a rich gamey smell from the steaming juices.
“Coney?”
He grins and hands me a spoon.