I miss Esther.
I miss Esther.
I miss Esther…
Roger looks down at Dixie, who has drifted asleep. “Maybe I’ll read.”
Dixie grunts and flexes her paws as she dreams of chasing geckos and eating fish heads.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
“Checkmate.”
Roger stares blankly at the board. “That was fast.”
“Mostly luck.” Ernesto’s smug expression belies his modesty.
“I should have known you wouldn’t have given up your pawn that easily.”
“Couldn’t have done it without my pawn, God rest his tiny soul,” Ernesto says. “And just when you moved in on the sacrificial lamb, boom!”
“Not that you’d brag about it.” Roger smiles wryly. “I may not be winning, but at least I’m learning. Unfortunately, I seem to be learning about losing.”
“Play again?”
“Not much else to do. How many games have we played over the last couple of weeks?”
Roger and Ernesto face each other over a chess board on the dock. Roger’s fishing rod is propped against the rail, ready to be grabbed at the first sign of activity. They have played many games; Ernesto enjoys the strategy, and Roger likes the information Ernesto provides about the neighborhood.
“Tell me more about the neighbors on the other side.”
“The Hustvedts?”
“Yeah, the old couple. They seem… unfriendly.”
Ernesto doesn’t look up from the game. “Nah. They’re just loners. Loners from Minnesota.” Ernesto adds a Minnesotan flair to the pronunciation. “They retired down here, at least for most of the year. A lot of people do that, ‘Winter Texans’ we call them.”
“They haven’t said a word to me.”
“Be grateful. Mrs. Hustvedt has the personality of a banana slug, and her husband isn’t much better.”
“Has your friend come by, the one who has all the news?”
“Just the once. It’s crazy out there, man. He said there’s some group, a bunch of guys cleaning things up on the streets. Vigilantes, I guess.”
“Where’s the Army? Where’s the National Guard? ” Roger shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”
Ernesto toys with a pawn. “I think they may have other things to think about. The entire world’s gone to crap; I doubt we’re at the top of the list in San Benito.”
“Do you think it’s like this everywhere?”
Ernesto looks up at the sun, with its wispy fingers and strange halos. “Everyone’s under that. My theory is solar flares, but they just keep coming. You look up at the sun and it’s always changing. Nothing electrical works. Sometimes when the halos get more intense I swear I can feel something different in the air, something static, raising the hairs on my arms. Coronal mass ejection, man.”
“Could be,” Roger says. “Best theory I’ve heard, anyway.”
Ernesto finally moves his pawn. “Whatever it is, the result is the same. Nothing works. Well– except one thing. The day after everything crapped out I was able to start the lawnmower. For some reason, I thought mowing the lawn was a pressing issue.”
“Pull start?”
“Yep.”
“Too bad all these cars sitting around don’t have pull starts.”
“I wish my Xbox had a pull start.”
“Those plumes of smoke sure are ominous,” Roger looks out over the horizon. “I see a new one just about every day.”
“My friend says gangs of kids are going around burning down abandoned houses.
“Why?”
“Why do kids do anything?”
“Maybe those vigilantes will stop them.”
Ernesto raises his eyebrows. “Sometimes the solution is worse than the problem. My friend says these guys go around on horses, systematic-like. They root out an area and lock it down, recruiting as they go. Seems too organized to me. How the hell could anyone be ready for something like this? Just round up some guys with assault weapons and horses and shit?”
“I think I saw them,” Roger says, “Before I came here. Riding down the highway. They had a bunch of guys tied together with crosses on their chest. They didn’t see me.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“I wish we knew what was going on.”
“Shadows on the wall,” Ernesto says. “We’re in a cave watching shadows on the wall.”
“Aristotle.” Roger moves his bishop and takes Ernesto’s pawn. “You’re quite the learned young man. I probably shouldn’t be trying to beat you at chess.”
“I was hoping you’d take the bait.” Ernesto moves his knight. “Check.”
Chapter 8: Intruders
And here is Roger, clenching Dixie’s muzzle closed, willing her to stop whining, listening to the men outside the utility closet and wondering why he ever deluded himself into believing he could ride out the apocalypse like it was some kind of summer vacation with sport fishing, grilling and games of chess on the deck.
The dog squirms in Roger's grasp. He has a thought, hates it, and then has it again. "Hold still, little one," he dares to breathe. "Shh."
You’re going to get us killed.
The men who would do the killing rummage through kitchen cupboards, saying nasty things about the Hustvedts who until just recently, had lived quietly next door. God rest their souls, Roger thinks.
Roger wishes he has a gun as he listens, to shoot them, or perhaps himself— a better fate than the neighbors endured, if the intruders are honest in their bellicosities. But Roger does not have a gun, nor has he ever shot one. Shooting himself is a lunatic fantasy brought on by fear. Roger has cowering. Roger has a doggie that keeps whining.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
Beyond the closet door, the men search, foul things on their minds and tongues. Negative energy pulses against the beat of Roger’s heart, the trembling of the Dixie and the clatters and bangs that tauten the wire-tight tension.
All the pretty girls— where are all the pretty girls? Another grove, another grandma, another grave. Let loose your belongings to fill our pockets and sacks; we’ll sack you if we see you, but not before having a little fun. At the end of the world there is no law, except our whim. We are here to loot, to kill, to rape and to laugh. We spend and you pay. Tomorrow is an idea we never cared for.
In the futility of the moment, Roger doesn’t think about self-preservation. He thinks about Esther. He wonders how much farther north he could have been. He vows that should he leave this closet alive, he will head out the very next day.
Should he leave alive.
The intruders have come across his nest of bedding. Dixie spasms in his grasp; the tension is too much for her to bear. Her head jerks free, and out comes one, tiny yip. Outside, the cursing and belligerence pauses.
Instructions are whispered.
Footsteps approach.
The door creaks open.
Roger backs himself into the coats, as dark and deep as he can. Back against wall, in the most literal interpretation. His heart pounds, it must be audible. He must be visible. They would see him. Shoot him. Or worse.
Like a magic trick, Dixie is loose and bolts through the partially opened door, barking maniacally.
A man shouts and a gun discharges. Roger’s heart sinks as his ears recoil and his nose tastes the acrid discharge.
“What the hell?”
“Fucking dog bit me.”
“You almost shot my leg off, asshole.”
“Where’d the little bastard go?”
“Fuck this, dogs in closets.”
“I’m gonna kill that mutt.”
“Forget it, man. It’s gone. This place’s got nothing.”
“Ain’t no dog that’s gonna bite my leg and live.”
“It’ll burn when we torch the place. C’mon. Marcus is outside.”
Roger listens as the men exit out the back entrance. I need to make my move. Get the hell out of here before I burn. Has it been long enough? Now? He crawls toward th
e closet door, keeping his head low, trying to make as little noise as possible. Pokes his head out, cringes, waiting for the sharp retort and the hollow end, it must be a trick, it must be a trick… But nothing. At the moment. They might come back in. Dixie. Friggin’ dog. Roger knows he should just slip out. But I can’t just leave her. Friggin’ dog.
Upstairs, no Dixie. Roger ducks under windows and hisses her name through his teeth. Calls for doggie. Calls for Dixie. But her pugnacious face doesn’t appear.
Time is not on his side. The hourglass drains.
The invaders convene the driveway; Roger can hear them through a screened window.
“Marcus, get me the gas can. We’re burning this place down.”
The one called Marcus is impudent. “Marcus get me the gas can. Marcus wait outside. Marcus, the fucking dog—is that what I am?”
The bitten one grabs the container away and shakes it violently. “You ain’t got bit. You ain’t been wronged.”
“Whatever, dick.”
Downstairs, no Dixie. Roger smells gasoline and the first traces of noxious smoke. Only the garage is left to search, and he scans desperately for a wagging tail. Nothing.
“Where the hell are you, girl?”
In the corner he sees the cat door. He’s never questioned why or how Dixie was in the garage that day he first arrived. She wasn’t this home’s dog, but just another mangy intruder. She must have squeezed in through the cat door. No other explanation. It had to be. And now he had to give up the search, hoping she escaped the same way she entered so many weeks ago.
Roger pulls his shirt up over his mouth and nose and exits through the back, waiting to be spotted, grabbed, or shot by the men. Instead, as he creeps toward the darkened Resaca ready to take another dip, he hears a hushed voice calling his name.
“Over here, it’s Ernesto.”
“Have you seen Dixie? She ran out…”
“Shh. This way, mister.”
Roger looks over his shoulder at the grounds and the now flame-engulfed house one last time before following Ernesto’s voice into the bushes.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Ernesto’s dark form squeezes through a gap in the fence between the two properties.
Roger is at his heels. “Those guys out there, they’re armed and dangerous. We’ve got to get out of here and hide someplace until this blows over.”
Ernesto puts a finger to his lips and beckons him to follow with a militaristic wave of his other hand, leading them both farther away from the burning house and laughing men standing outside of it.
“Okay, I don’t think they can hear us from here.” Ernesto faces Roger, his figure illuminated by the now-raging flames. A bandolier is strung across his button-up shirt, and an aggressively styled rifle is slung over his shoulder. Grease marks have been dabbed beneath his eyes.
“Let’s light these sons of bitches up.”
“Are you serious? Where did you get that?” Bewildered, Roger looks to Ernesto and back to the fire. “This isn’t one of your video games.”
“This is Texas,” Ernesto says. “We have guns.”
He draws a pistol from a side-holster strapped over his khakis and hands it to Roger. “Know how to use this?”
Roger looks at the gun, dumbfounded. “Not really.”
Ernesto slides the bolt back and flicks the safety off. “Just pull the trigger. You’ve got ten shots, should you need them all. I’m guessing you won’t.”
“This is insanity. Let’s just hide. These guys are going to move on.”
“Or maybe they’ll burn down my house, too.” Ernesto’s face is grim.
“There’s four of them.”
Ernesto grips his rifle and shrugs. “Not for long.”
“You stay on this side of the fence, but closer to the street,” Ernesto says, “and I’ll cut around the back of your place and down the side of the Hustvedt’s property to flank them. Let off a shot or two in their direction. When they turn their backs to me, I’ll open up on them and mow them down. If they manage to head toward you, just pop off a few shots at them. You won’t hit anything, but it’ll keep them scrambling. Got it?”
“Yes?”
“Good enough.”
Ernesto jogs off, and Roger sneaks down to the end of the fence, closer to the street. He fumbles on his stomach, hesitates in different positions. Over the fence or under the fence? The gun isn’t natural in his hand. If I see them, can they see me? The four men stand in the street watching the house burn. He crouches, and firmly extends the gun in front of him with both hands. How do they do it in the movies? Roger closes one eye and squints down the barrel with the other. The sight gently buoys with each breath as he lines it up against the head of the nearest (but still pretty far off) man. Can I do this? Shoot a person? He recalls the vile snippets he overheard from their conversation in the house, breathes out, and pulls the trigger.
The gun makes its loud sound. The recoil is strong, but not as bad as he had imagined. Somewhere in his vague expectations, a man would topple over, or spurt blood, or grab his arm, or something, but none of these things happen. The men are at attention, turning in his direction, grabbing at weapons.
The whip-crack of rifle fire chatters in the night, and the men cower then scatter. Two fall to the pavement and remain still. One dodges behind a brick mailbox post, and the fourth limps into the darkness across the street. The man behind the brick abutment fires off some shots without really aiming, and is answered by a spray of rifle fire that chews up the abutment and sends brick chips flying. The man scrunches behind the post, back against brick and exposed to Roger’s vantage. Roger levels the gun again and takes another shot. The man is still several seconds before slumping over onto the lawn.
“Shit.” Roger lowers the gun, hands trembling. “I hit him. Shit.”
Ernesto reappears, victorious and glorious.
“The one guy, he ran off,” Roger says.
“And he kept on running. I had a line on him for quite a ways.” Ernesto claps Roger on the shoulder. “Nice shot, Mr. Sharpshooter.”
“I don’t know… I’ve never…”
“And you think I have?”
“It’s just…”
“The bastards would have done worse to us. And you got one of the assholes. Revel in it.”
“Oh.” Roger doesn’t know how to feel about that, and says as much.
“We did what we had to.” Ernesto grins. “With flair.”
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Morning brings smoldering and shallow graves. Roger’s compass is set to north, and Ernesto outfits him with a Texas A&M baseball cap and a knapsack filled with basic supplies.
“And this,” says Ernesto, slipping a revolver into his hand. “And a handful of bullets for your pocket.”
Roger accepts, and looks down the bloodstained street. “I guess it’s time.”
“Sam Houston Boulevard will take you to Route 77. And 77 will take you north of Corpus. After that, well, you can stay on to remain due north, or veer off toward Houston. Might be best to skip that. That’s if you can make it that far. If you make it out of Harlingen just north of here, there’s a whole lot of nothing for a long ways.”
“If Dixie comes back…”
“I’ll take care of her.”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
“Choose,” the sign reads in large, scrawled letters above a heap of bodies in a parking lot on the corner of Sam Houston Boulevard and Route 77. “Liberty and Life or Judgment and Death.” In smaller size, below, reads: “Freedom Republic of Texas.”
“Well there’s that, then,” says Roger. He points his boots north and keeps walking.
Chapter 9: The Cave
“Is it much farther?” Vane jogs along with Julius’s steady strides, and Roger trails behind, although not for an inability to keep up.
“Sí, chica. It’s close.”
“Good, I’m getting tired.”
Julius slows his stride and takes Vane’s hand. “We’ll rest s
oon. But we have contraband to hide.” Julius taps the burlap sack slung over his shoulder. “Before the White Texan arrives.” Julius says this as if the White Texan were a boogeyman or other intangible threat.
“What if Paltrow finds us? I’m nervous.”
“He’d help us— he wants the White Texan to find this about as much as I do. Besides, he won’t be riding this far out. He’s got his hands full cleaning up the Mercusio Brothers and the rest of the rabble back at camp.”
“What do you think, Roger?” Vane asks, looking back.
“Julius is right,” Roger says.
The three approach a rocky outcrop that juts from the soft, triangular hills goose-bumping the landscape. It stretches long, and rises steeply, with sets of square stones that want to separate along their perforations and tumble down to pile with their brethren.
“Up there.” Julius points to a small bush struggling to grow from a stony seam about two thirds of the way up, just before the face went completely vertical.
“We have to climb?” Vane is dismayed. Roger is uncertain, too.
“It’s nothing.” Julius shrugs off their concern. “I have a way.”
“Then it’s safe?” asks Vane.
“Yes, sí. Of course. Just watch where you place your hands and feet. If you hear a rattle, be still. And don’t listen to the stones that wobble and say they are reliable.”
The ascent up the base is easy going with the occasional pause and look about for reassurance. But the slope steadily grows steeper, and stonier. Julius is a mountain goat, or perhaps a bobcat – stalking up a well-learned trail that only he can predict.
Vane follows second, and Roger watches both their footsteps: Julius’s to see his placement, and Vane to check her balance. Yet despite his concerns, she is more able-footed than Roger, readily climbing the trail with little worry on her face.
Roger pauses for a breath, and looks out behind him. The hills sprawl out in a sweeping vista, and he realizes they are farther up than he thought. In the distance wisps of smoke trace the sky from the fires at the camp. Lightheadedness unbalances him, and he presses his body into the stony face.
Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1) Page 5