Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1)

by Blake Pitcher

  "Liberty and life," says Paltrow.

  "Liberty and life." Roger and Vane repeat the phrase back like robots.

  Paltrow hovers above them an eternal minute, fingers tracing his pistol’s grip, before trotting off with a dismissive flair. Anger and frustration well in Roger’s chest, but he’s also relieved the top representative of the Freedom Republic didn't get inquisitive about the picture. It was bad enough he had needed to bring Vane in on it; your past was something you kept to yourself, if you were smart enough to keep your mouth shut.

  Roger turns to apologize to Vane for her treatment, an awkward attempt to provide empty comfort, but she is lost in the creation of a new drawing, fingers tracing, always tracing.

  Chapter 6: Good Dixie Girl

  Roger is the intruder. Pulls himself out of the Resaca and crawls through the yard and into a garden shed. Sits among the rakes and hoses a day and a night, watching the house for signs of occupation.

  The growing void in his stomach first makes him feel desperate, then lightheaded. He samples from a bag of plant food, spitting out the bitter, burning pellets. He grabs at a gecko that wanders into the shed, but it skitters away as he clumsily lunges. The house waits, still quiet, still dark.

  Hunger, thirst and cramping limbs finally push him to investigate the large, ranch-style home. He waits until dusk and crawls again, up to the back patio and past the greened-over pool like a lizard on its belly.

  Under the eaves of the tiled roof, the back entrance is deadbolted. He breaks a window pane and carefully reaches through and unlocks the door. Not cutting his arm on the jagged glass feels like an accomplishment. The door swings open, and he pauses and waits, hearing nothing from within.

  The inspection begins, room by room. For Roger, the process is like winding away at a jack-in-box. Will Jack spring up behind the next door? Only this Jack might have a shotgun cocked and ready to blast.

  All around the Mulberry Bush…

  Downstairs—clear. Upstairs—clear. Room after empty room, he finds no signs of recent habitation. Relief wrestles with building tension at each turn of the crank.

  And then there is the garage. Roger opens the door, stands to the side, waits a moment, and peers in. Two stalls, a pile of boxes in the corner, some tools over and on a bench. Relief pins tension. Roger inspects the tools: a power drill, electric saw, electric this and electric that— useless artifacts now. But the simple items— a standard collection of screwdrivers and pliers, hammers and the like— could be useful. At least in the long term, because food is foremost on his mind. He had discovered a pantry on the search, and now that the tension has eased, it seems like a good place to take a closer look.

  Then,

  Pop! Goes the weasel.

  A cacophony of falling boxes and jangly pieces. Roger spins around, heart in mouth and screwdriver in hand. Boxes are toppled over in the corner, and a tackle box that must have been resting on top of them is knocked open, lures and hooks spilling out of it. Something from the side jumps up against him. He clenches the screwdriver tighter; the small Phillips head tool may be useful for household jobs but probably not so much for personal defense.

  Nails, digging through his jeans.

  And then the barking, and the wagging. It’s a young dog, a year or less, joyous to see him, jumping up in unrestrained bliss. The collarless, golden-haired mutt licks his hand and pleads with its shining black eyes.

  “Hey, girl.” Roger laughs out loud. The action is freeing; he hasn’t spoken for days. Although, if someone was around to hear, well, they were alerted now. “Hey, good doggie,” Roger says, bending down to scratch the dog’s back and sides and finding the ribs close to the skin. “You must be as hungry as I am, aren’t you?” The dog wags its tail and grins, panting heavily.

  “Follow me, little doggie.”

  The pantry is a miracle of preserved food, stocked with neatly organized cans and jars of legumes, vegetables, fruits, grains— food to last for weeks, if he rationed carefully.

  The dog stands beside him, at knee height, looks up and smiles.

  “How much do you eat?” Roger asks, skeptically.

  In the corner of the pantry he spots a partial bag of cat food. “Will this do?” The dog seems to nod. “It’ll have to,” Roger says.

  Food to last a few weeks, for sure.

  A terrible thought creeps in. What were a few weeks when you face of the end of all things?

  Over the next few days, Roger and the dog live quietly in the house, eating sparingly from the pantry. Neither ventures outside, for fear of being seen. Pillars of smoke by day and gunshots at night reinforce this decision. The dog shadows Roger as he familiarizes himself with the house and settles into a routine.

  Roger pokes around and looks in drawers, on edge, thinking the owners could return at any time. But as hours turn into days, the fear dulls.

  With no running water, using the bathroom is an issue. In the garage, Roger locates a few empty five gallon buckets. He considers using them to haul water from the Resaca to flush toilets— a tempting luxury— but thinks better of it. Being seen is the most dangerous thing. Instead, the garage becomes the commode, the buckets receptacles. Lids keep the odor bearable, even in the Texas heat.

  As far as drinking water, the pantry holds two five-gallon containers of spring water. Roger metes it out carefully for himself and the dog— after all, it is the mutt's house.

  Roger relocates bedding to the downstairs (upstairs is much too hot) and creates a nest-like sleeping area for himself in the central area of the house while the dog sprawls out over a pile of blankets, nearby. Roger listens to rhythmic breathing, spotted by occasional whimpers as it dreams. Roger also listens to the far off pop-pop sounds that flare up in the unknown distance, as cool night air breezes through a partially opened window.

  As the days progress, the property remains unmolested. Roger catches occasional glimpses of an older couple living next door, but they keep to themselves, perhaps even unaware of his and the dog’s presence at all. The house to the opposite side appears abandoned.

  In the fading light of another uneventful day, Roger sits by an open window with a composition book he found in a desk drawer upstairs. The dog is an appendage, always at his side.

  “What’s your name, girl? I’m sure you must have one.”

  The dog looks at his book with interest.

  “It’s not food, doggie. I’m going to write a poem. Or try to—I’m not very good. Then again, maybe I’m the best. Alive, that is.”

  The dog nudges at the composition book.

  “Poetry fan?” Roger scratches the dog’s head. “Emily Dickinson. How’s that for a name? Too long?”

  The dog stares up with its glistening eyes.

  “Dickinson?”

  The dog seems unimpressed.

  “Dixie?”

  The dog jumps up her front paws over his lap in approval.

  “Dixie it is.”

  After the existing three pages of bird observations written in fluid cursive, Roger begins to print his first poem in many years. Dixie is curious about the writing, but does not press too hard. She settles at his side, resting her chin on his thigh. Roger pauses to pet her, and repeats her new name a few times in varying pitch and cadence. “Dixie, good Dixie girl.” Roger sighs. “My handwriting is atrocious. I blame computers.”

  North is a place

  I want to be

  Esther is there

  Sunset, Sunset

  While tile floor

  Never

  It’s the

  End of the world

  Through the window, the orange-purple sky reflects into the waters of the Resaca with the black waving palms, and Roger thinks about the dwindling water supply indoors.

  Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to go out.

  Chapter 7: Ernesto

  “Wait until dark, or venture out now?”

  Dixie doesn’t seem to have an opinion.

  “If I go now, I’ll be m
ore visible in the daylight. But, when it’s dark the ghouls come out.” Roger thinks of the pop-pop noises that have been growing closer each night. The house’s side street had been quiet—so far. How long it would remain so was the question. Plus, the neighbors: the less they saw of him, the better.

  Dixie scratches at her side, sitting amongst an array of jars, ornamental pitchers, soda bottles pulled from the recycling bin, a mop bucket… anything that can hold water. Roger pets her and sighs.

  “Best get this over with.”

  A small dock shaded by a Live oak reaches out over the brown-green waters of the Resaca. Roger stands at the end, a mop bucket in one hand, and a yard hoe in the other (for defense), and surveys the surrounding properties.

  The Resaca bustles with activity, just not the human kind. Fish flop over the surface; a shy turtle paddles lazily before darting into the murk below. But above all are the birds: an egret stalking in the shallows, ducks floating in pairs, soaring birds, small darting birds, and, overhead Roger in the branches of the oak, an agitated grackle hissing and whining like a poorly tuned AM radio.

  Dixie stands in attendance, against Roger’s better judgment. She had slipped out the door loathe to be left inside, and now growls softly at the birds on the water, tail erect.

  “Quiet, Dixie.” Roger lowers the bucket in and draws out it out sloshing. “Well girl, I don’t know if I can boil this water enough. Hopefully the gas grill is up to the task.”

  “I could also set out some of those jars to collect rainwater. Although, it hasn’t rained since I’ve been here. And someone could see the jars.”

  Dixie pants patiently in the thick heat by his side.

  “No opinion? That’s surprising. Let’s get moving.”

  Trip after trip, Roger dips containers into the Resaca and ports them back to the house, Dixie in tow. He places the wider, shallower dishes in clusters under the open sky, but down out of sight from general view. On his last trip, Roger passes by the fence and makes brief eye contact with the older man who lives with his wife next door. Roger suppresses the urge to dart and hide, but thinks better of it, and smiles and waves instead. The man frowns and disappears inside.

  “Well doggie, if they didn’t know we were here, they sure do now. Hopefully they won’t want to bother us.”

  Inside, Dixie laps the Resaca water from a dish without complaint. Roger decides to wait until he has to drink the canal water, boiled or not. About a quarter gallon of the spring water remained, and then he could tap the hot water heater. Roger surveys the waning contents of the pantry and thinks about all of the animal life outside.

  “I don’t know if I could catch a bird, or what I would do with it if I did,” Roger says to Dixie. “But, there’s that tackle box in the garage, and a fishing pole, too. And I know how to clean a fish. Maybe early tomorrow morning?”

  Dixie pants and grins, her golden beard matted with water.

  “It’s a date.” Roger feels the ache of his muscles and the exhaustion from working in the sun. “But now it’s siesta time.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The bobber drifts in the breeze, its red and white body unmolested by anything below. Spinners, jitterbugs, plastic worms – Roger has tried most of them without success.

  Dixie senses his frustration and whines softly.

  “You think can do any better?” Roger asks. A fish flops across the way, as if to mock his efforts.

  “Catch anything?”

  Startled, Roger nearly lurches into the water. “Hello?”

  A young face peers over a wooden fence that runs between the home’s property and the one Roger thought was abandoned.

  “Hi,” the voice responds, “I saw you collecting the water the other day. I live next door.”

  “Oh,” says Roger, at a loss for a reply.

  “My name’s Ernesto. What’s yours?”

  What could be the harm in telling him my name? “I’m Roger.” He pauses. “Say, don’t you think it’s dangerous to be talking to strangers, you know, with everything that’s going on?”

  “I think a guy who’s out fishing with a little dog is the least of my worries.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What’s the dog’s name?”

  “I call her Dixie, but I don’t know what her owners called her.” Roger glances back at his borrowed house. Shouldn’t the kid know the dog’s name? He lives next door…

  “It’s not their dog. They had cats. Two of them.”

  Roger wonders what the kid thinks about his house-squatting, and feels uncomfortable. “I… I didn’t… I mean to say, no one was in there, or cats or anything.”

  Ernesto chuckles. “Yeah, I know. They bugged out.”

  “Bugged out?”

  “Can I come over?”

  “It’s not my property,” Roger says. “So, sure?”

  Ernesto is a tall kid for fifteen, well-fed but not necessarily fat, with neatly gelled hair and an untucked purple button-down shirt over wrinkle-less khakis. Thick black plastic glasses frame kind eyes.

  And he likes to talk.

  “You ever hear of preppers?” Ernesto stands by as Roger jiggles the line, in hopes of attracting a bite.

  “Yeah.”

  “Bugging out is when preppers ditch town after the shit hits the fan.”

  “So these folks, they just left? Where?”

  “Beats me. Preppers aren’t keen on disclosing their bug-out locations.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Them and their cats just got in their SUV and drove out of here right after the power went out. They trained their cats to jump right in, can you believe it?”

  “That’s crazy.” Roger thinks about reeling in the line to make sure the bait is still attached.

  “They spent hours training them out in the driveway with a special whistle. When they blew that thing the cats would come running. Pretty hilarious to watch, but it sure worked. We used to say their car must smell like catnip and tuna. Now they’re probably in some underground bunker out in the desert, all decked out with supplies and shit.” Ernesto looks Roger over. “Where are you from? Guessing it’s not from around here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “A few things. One is you don’t look like you’d have a gun.”

  Roger’s hackles rise. “So?”

  “Everyone ‘round here is armed.”

  “You got me. I’m from New York.”

  Ernesto’s eyes widen. “No shit? I’d like to visit there. Statue of Liberty and all that.”

  “I’m more from the middle part of the state. Not the city.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Almost as boring as it is here.”

  Ernesto laughs. “Especially without my video games. Do you play any?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about board games?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Backgammon?”

  “No.”

  “Monopoly?”

  “I’m just not much for games.”

  Ernesto looks thoughtfully at the motionless bobber. “Not much for fishing, either.”

  “So, what about yourself,” Roger asks, annoyed. “Where’re you from?”

  “Next door.”

  Roger sighs. “Okay.”

  “Sorry, can’t help myself,” Ernesto says impishly. “I’m by myself. My parents were visiting my grandparents in Oaxaca when it all happened.”

  “How far is that?”

  “It’d be a long walk.”

  “You heard from them?” Roger instantly wishes he hadn’t asked such a silly question.

  “They’re fine. They’re probably more worried about me, but I’ve got lots of food and water to last a long while. The neighbors weren’t the only folks who did a little prepping.” Ernesto says smugly.

  “You should probably be careful about who you tell that,” Roger says.

  “You seem like a nice guy,” Ernesto says. “Besides, I’m pretty confident I’m more he
avily armed than you.”

  For a long moment the two are silent, in the absence of anything to say.

  “How about chess?” Ernesto says this as if he had just invented the light bulb.

  “Chess?”

  “Do you play?”

  “Actually, a little. I’m not very good though.”

  “Neither am I. Want to play sometime?”

  “I guess so.”

  Roger’s bobber ducks down under the water and the suddenness of it surprises him.

  “Looks like you got one,” Ernesto says as Roger reels it in.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Two panfish sizzle as Roger tends the grill in the cool night air just outside the back door. The fish are skinned, gutted, and rolled in seasoned flour. Roger remembers the preparation from the times he camped with his grandfather in the Adirondacks. He wishes he had done more of that, and not just because the skills would be useful now. He misses the companionship of friends and family, and wonders if he will ever experience those types of moments again.

  The pop-pop of gunshots still echo in the distance but Roger is inured to the sound. It is one with the croaking of frogs and chirping of crickets.

  “Not much to them, but as a meal it sure beats another can of beans.” Roger eats the fish and tosses the heads to Dixie, who wolfs them down greedily. “We’ll catch some more tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s tomorrow. Was this a plan? Could he just carry on indefinitely? And what about Esther? She was probably better off than he was, he reasons. It is impossible to know. New York might as well be on the other side of the world. Hell, he didn’t even know what was happening across town where pillars of smoke billowed high into the air.

  The prudent plan was to wait it out as long as he could in relative safety. The fires had to be extinguished sometime. The guns would run out of bullets eventually. Calmer heads would prevail, and order would return. It was just a matter of time.

  “Eat, sleep and write,” Roger says to Dixie. “That’s what we’ll do.”

  Roger puts pen to paper, but he keeps inscribing the same line again and again.