Fortunately, this stretch of land always held a low population. We pass homesteads, most of which show signs of occupation. But then there are those who have a distinct and forlorn look of abandonment about them. Once, we pass by a ruin of what must have formerly been an impressive home, but which has been reduced to a husk of fire blackened wood and ash. I have to look away then. No doubt there is a mournful story being told if you search hard enough.
Late that morning we make it to Silverton, the small mountain town just north of my home. Getting through the roadblock is no problem. Apparently this isn't Elroy's first foray into town since the collapse. We travel through the main street, and past another roadblock before stopping. Elroy puts the truck in park and everyone flies out, stretching after the long ride. We collect our belongings, double checking to make sure everything's accounted for.
"You got everything?" Elroy asks as we walk up to him. "It'd be an awfully far walk back if you don't." He barks out a laugh.
I smile. I barely just met the man, but I'm going to miss him. "Now that you mention it, I think I may have forgotten the rest of our whiskey in your liquor cabinet."
He barks again. "You sneaky little bastard," he says. "Told you, a couple bottles was plenty."
"Call it a gift among friends then," I say.
He nods. "Aye’. I can agree to that." He holds out his hand and I clasp it quickly and shake. "You take care of yourselves," he says to the group. "And if you ever find yourselves this way, you're welcome anytime." I nod, recognizing the truth beneath his words: that if we don't find what we're after, he'd welcome us back. With that he tips his hat, enters the cab, and continues on his way.
I turn my attention to the south, to the rolling hills and mountains, and where some fifty miles away lies my home. After so long it doesn't seem real to be so close. I drop my gaze to my friends who look as restless to start hiking as I do.
"Alright," I say. "Let's get going."
I know the trees we weave between. The air I breathe is that I have breathed my whole life. The rolling gurgle of the Animas River hums into my ear, steady and familiar, whispering songs I grew up on. To the south stand rust colored cliffs which stand sentinel, cradling the green valley below. We stick to the treeline beside the river, opting to avoid the highway where we could be spotted from miles away. From what Elroy told us the caution we take is necessary, but it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Durango is my town, my home, as it was my parents before me and their parents before them. To have to sneak in like a thief in the night was never something I thought I'd be forced to do.
We make good progress, fueled by real calories, and a renewed determination to find our families. We break less and hike longer, till the last trace of daylight is no more than a purplish smear to the west. The light is low, but after so many weeks on the trail, setting up camp is a well choreographed dance. After we've eaten our dinner and everyone sits around the campfire, I sneak away into the trees for a moment alone. There's a tall hill near our camp I begin to climb, yearning for a vantage point that might give me a glimpse of home.
When I reach the top I spot our little camp below, no more than a small pool of orange from this height. But when I look south I don't see my home, only a sea of black forest and outlines of ridges in the distance. Still, being here, knowing my home is out there even if I can't see it, opens a floodgate of memories: driving up and down main street with the music turned loud, revving the engine on red lights and cat calling passing girls as we wasted away summer afternoons; Sunday mornings, the smell of sugar and cinnamon luring me out of bed and into the kitchen where my parents nursed mugs of coffee and read the paper, a platter of still hot cinnamon rolls lying between them; my first ever fight back in grade school, Leon by my side as we raced to the aid of a fallen boy, a group of four circling him, taunting him to get up and shoving him back down when he tried, watching them scatter, confused and bloodied and yelling curses for us to watch our backs, extending an aching hand and hoisting the boy up as Leon collected his things, telling him he'd be alright and asking his name, and then his reply, voice thick from a bloodied nose—"Felix. Felix Chavez". Times that may be gone, but will never be forgotten.
Eventually, I make my way back down, and not long after yawns erupt and people retreat inside the tent. I stand watch alone most the night, insisting everyone get some rest and ignoring their words that I need the same. They're not wrong, I just know sleep won't come easy tonight. Might as well let them have what's already lost on me.
I spend much of the watch gazing up at the starlit sky, allowing myself to get lost in the hugeness of it. I've always loved sky gazing, bearing witness to all the colors and textures with which it can be painted: from the bright pink that lights the sky at night during winter storms, as snowflakes tumble down to earth like pirouetting ballerinas; to the bright blue of a summer day, with great puffs of clouds lazily drifting across its expanse; to crazy multicolored sunsets, with hundreds of different shades and hues seamlessly bleeding into one another—so you can't even tell when one color ends and the next begins. Even the ugliest, most ominous skies: like the dark rolling greys of hurricanes and tornadoes, with winds so fierce they topple phone poles and wreak havoc—or the blindingly bright whiteness of a howling blizzard, when snow falls so hard and thick you can't see more than feet in front of you—are all beautiful in their own way if you look hard enough.
And another thing, the sky doesn't change for you. It couldn't care less about our whims or desires, only changing when it's good and ready and not a moment sooner. It is how it has always been, and how it will always be. Even after we're dead and gone, our bodies decomposed back into the earth, the sky will still envelop the world with displays of brilliant beauty, but on its own terms, no one else's.
I don't know why, but I find the thought comforting. Perhaps because it reminds me that the earth knew a time before man, and no matter how hard we battle for survival, eventually a day will come when we will be laid to rest, the same as all those who've passed before us. Time is a foe which cannot be beaten. This was as true in the old world as it is in the new, and realizing this helps put things in perspective. I will continue to do all I can to keep us alive, because even though there must come a day when we will lose, I want to keep swinging—to keep enjoying the thrill of the fight, so long as I still have something worth fighting for.
The sound of an unzipping tent draws my attention. I look over to see Felix walking my way. He stops, arms crossed before me, so much more hardened than the boy I hoisted up all those years ago.
"You need to get some sleep," he says. It's not a suggestion.
"I can't sleep," I reply.
"Then close your eyes, and fake it."
I laugh at that, unable to resist myself. "You telling me what to do, or describing your love life?"
"Ha-ha," he responds dryly. "Funny, douche. But you know I'm right."
I do know it, which is why I clasp his hand and let him help me to my feet. "Alright, Chavo. If you insist."
Chapter 25
I wake to a smell so intoxicating and familiar, I half expect to open my eyes and see white ceiling instead of the dull gray of the tent. I take another breath, confirming it is what I think it is. My shoes are on and I'm out the tent in no time, drawn toward the fire where Leon and Felix sit. I hear meat sizzling and grease popping before I locate the frying pan, laden with thick strips of frying bacon.
"Morning sunshine," Leon says when I reach them. "Had to see with your own eyes you weren't dreaming?" My laugh comes out as a croak, sleep still caught in my throat. "Exactly," I reply, inhaling deeply. "I swear there's no better smell in the world."
The smell turns out to be all the wakeup call we need, luring the remainder of the group out of the tent, longing in their expressions. I feel like a savage when I take my first bite, an involuntary moan escaping me. We are each allotted three strips and two boiled eggs, a feast compared to what we've endured before Elroy's farm. It's our lar
ge meal of the day, giving our bodies the fuel it will need to push through. There will be no lunch today and the breaks minimal. Today we have one goal: make it to town.
As we pack camp, I see that look in my friend’s eyes—apprehension and nerves clashing against excitement and determination. If I had a mirror, I'm sure I'd see the same reflected in my own eyes. Just before we leave there is a moment we all share, when nobody moves and not a word is spoken, yet we are all saying the same thing: today things will change, and while that may be scary, we will face it together.
"Alright," I say, breaking the stillness. "Let's head home."
The familiarity of the landscape strengthens as each hour passes. The approaching season is evident as we hike: leaves beginning to flare at the edges, on the cusp of transforming into a canopy of orange and red and yellow; the slight slant of the sun which no longer bears down on us with oppressive heat; the crispness in the air, edged with an undercurrent of woodsmoke. I've long since lost track of the date, but I would guess we're into mid-September. My stomach sinks when I think of the coming months. I've been so obsessed with making it home and finding my family, I never gave much thought to what happens after. Not as much as I should have anyway. Durango winters have a habit of cutting autumn short and delaying spring. It won't be long before the leaves fall and cold winds start rolling in. And where will we be then? And who will be with us? I wish I had an answer. But that's all a problem for another day. Worrying over it won't do anything but drive me mad. For now, I must stay focused on the goal at hand. For now, it is all that matters.
"I knew I should have brought a set of golf clubs," Leon says late that afternoon.
A smile from ear to ear stretches across my face. Not at his words, but at what I see. Big square houses and long banks of grass, yellowed from lack of maintenance lying in the distance to our right. Dalton Ranch. I've never played at the overpriced club, never felt justified spending the money, but seeing it makes me feel as if I’m greeting an old friend.
"Why?" I ask. "You're about the worse golfer I've ever seen."
He turns toward me, smiling. "First off, I'm not the worse: Felix is." Felix shrugs and agrees, not at all offended. "And second, you don't have to be good at golf for it to be fun." I laugh, remembering summer afternoons spent with Leon and Felix, racing the golf carts down fairways and draining as many beers as puts. He's right. I couldn't tell you my best round of golf, but I could tell you about the time Leon lost his footing and fell into a water hazard, swinging at a ball at the water's edge.
"You’ve got a point, Lee," I say. "You should have brought a set."
We abandon the treeline as the outer limbs of town reach us, opting not to cross onto private property where trigger happy owners might watch. CR 250 is our obvious path to follow, considering it’s both lower profile than the highway and lets out at Florida Rd., only two miles from my parent’s home. Cars litter its expanse. Some lie stalled between the traffic lines, perfectly preserved, as if only waiting for someone to come along and get behind the wheel. Others are hulks of twisted metal, lining the ditch to our left, wrapped around trees, and smashed into other vehicles. I don't look too closely at the wrecks, afraid of what I might see inside them.
The closer we draw to town the more on edge I grow, sensing the presence of more people in the area. Curtains flutter in some of the houses we pass, and twice I see the barrels of rifles sticking out of windows, as if daring us to make a move toward the house. I get the impression though that many of the homes are unoccupied, abandoned sometime after the collapse. I find myself wondering what happened to their owners, of what lead them to abandon their homes. Did they flee to somewhere they felt safer? Were they even able to make it home after that first day? Or perhaps they aren't unoccupied as they look. Perhaps now they simply serve as tombs to their fallen owners.
Dusk settles around us, shades of violet spilling out from the west. And then within minutes, the sun disappears behind Smelter Mountain and we're plunged into twilight. Still, we don't stop. Not even when we reach Florida Rd. and the night makes its presence felt. I've never known the town to be so dark: no streetlights, no glow from the surrounding buildings, no beams of headlights from passing vehicles. Only dark, the moon barely providing enough light to give it texture. But this is where I've lived all my life: I don't need light to find my way home.
So in darkness we walk, not willing to risk giving our location away with flashlights. We move slowly, the need to remain stealthy not disappearing with the light. When we reach N. College we turn left, entering the first real neighborhood since we've arrived. If appearances held true, the place would be deserted. No light glows from any of the homes. No movement catches our eyes. The only sounds are that of our shoes on the sidewalk and labored breaths as we climb inclined area. I know others are out there, but fortunately, they don't make their presence known. Soon we are past the cluster of homes and moving up the steep hill beyond. Weighed down and weary from a long day of hiking, it's all I can do but not collapse once we reach the top. But I keep my feet and continue down the road, not willing to stop with my goal so close.
Hillcrest Golf Course looms to our right, and it's only through sheer force of will that keeps me from sprinting the rest of the way. We turn left onto Jenkins Ranch Road, my heart thumping hard in my chest, the weariness I've felt disappearing in a surge of adrenaline. When I reach my parents street I lose all self-restraint, lengthening my strides into a run and only stopping once I reach the end of the driveway. The house is dark as any other we have passed, but I find it lit in memory. From the overgrown lawn to the big bay windows, from the cobblestone path to the grand oak door it leads to, I soak it in like an art connoisseur might do a masterpiece. I blink and am surprised to feel wetness running down my cheeks. When did I start crying? I wipe away the tears just as the rest of the group catches up to me.
"We made it?" Emily asks, her voice full of disbelief. I turn and see her staring transfixed at our childhood home. Before I can respond she wraps her arms around me and squeezes for all she's worth. I don't say anything only hold her tight, needing this is as much as she does. "You got us here, Morgan," she says, a sob caught in her throat. "You said you would and you did."
I look down and meet her eyes, and it's as if see all the different versions of her at once: from the young, uncoordinated little girl chasing after my friends and I, to the incredible young woman she has become. I don't know where the feeling comes from. Being here, at the house where we lived together most our lives, I suppose. Or perhaps because some small part of me didn't think this moment would ever come.
"A promise is a promise, Princess," I say with a smile. Regardless of the doubts I may have held, we're here. That’s a victory if there ever was one. For once she doesn't call me an asshole, only lets out a breath of laughter and grabs my hand, pulling me forward with everyone falling in behind us. Flowers line the walkway on either side, wilted from lack of maintenance. Halfway down is a faux rock I pick up and open, finding the spare key inside. "Some things never change," I smile.
I lock eyes with Leon when we reach the door. "Your parents next," I tell him. He nods, stealing a glance at the house next door. I unload my pack and lean my AR against the house. I draw my Glock even though the thought of doing so disgusts me. But I know that just because this was my parents home doesn't mean they are here, and that someone else might be. Maya hands me a flashlight and I flick it on, crossing my hands at the wrists so I can aim them simultaneously. Felix has his own Glock out and Leon holds his shotgun ready. I look to the others. "Us three will clear the house," I say, pointing to Leon and Felix. "Keep your eyes and ears open, and your weapons ready."
"As is our way of life," says Maya. Her tone is mocking, but there is more truth behind the words than I would like.
"Unfortunately," I reply. I look to Leon and Felix, focusing on the task at hand. "On me." I unlock the door and quietly slip inside, sweeping the flashlight around the living room as I go. The room
is exactly as I remember it: hardwood floors, leather furniture, flat screen television mounted on the wall to my left. Tall shelves filled with books line the right wall, ranging from advanced accounting textbooks, to Harry Potter. Straight ahead lies a cut-out bar lined with four stools, behind which lies the kitchen. The glint of framed photo's blink at me from all angles. I do a double take, fixing my light on the space that for as long as I can remember housed our family portrait. The frame remains, only it sits empty. I scan the walls and countertops, finding more and more empty frames, the memories they once held gone as if they couldn't stand their own remembrance. I wipe my finger over the coffee table leaving a dark streak where the thick dust has been parted.
All at once I feel the air pulled out of me. A quick scan of the house; from garage to kitchen, from bathrooms to bedrooms, from every nook and cranny a person might hide, confirms what I knew the moment I saw the empty frame: my parents aren't here. We give the group the all clear and leave them inside while I move with Leon and Felix next door. Like my parent’s house, the place is exactly as I remember it. Unfortunately, we also find it abandoned. I take a deep breath and let it out long and slow, attempting to keep the disappointment from consuming me. In heavy silence, the three of us trudge back to my parent’s house and find the girls waiting.
"Place is empty," Leon says shaking his head, answering the unasked question. "Has been for a while by the looks of it." Nobody knows what to say to that. We pushed ourselves so hard today, and even though we knew there was no guarantee our parents would be here, it still feels like we've lost out on something. Suddenly, the adrenaline I’ve been riding since reaching my parent’s block pours out of me, leaving me exhausted and leaden.
"We're not going find answers tonight," I say. "We should get some rest and reassess everything in the morning." Without a better alternative, everyone agrees. My parents turned my old bedroom into an office not long after I moved out, leaving only two beds in the house: the master and the guest room (formerly Emily's bedroom). Lauren and Grace take the master, Emily and Maya settle into the guest room, leaving Leon, Felix, and I in the living room. After making sure the house is locked tight I barely find the energy to remove my shoes and plop down on the sofa before falling asleep.
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 1) Page 28