In the seconds preceding, Roger has been anticipating this question and pondering his response. His impulse is to lie, for fear of being from New York and how that would play in the mind of his interrogator. Surely he would be judged and marked in black for being from the association with the city, the mecca of liberal thinking and other sins. New York was a singular entity in the mind of the southerner; the fact he lived in a part of the state obscure to the rest of the world would be difficult to explain. New York – the judgment would be made before the name finished leaving his lips.
Then again, if I lie will he believe me? What would I tell him? I’m no actor.
Roger chooses the truth, and hopes for the least worst. “New York State,” he says, hoping the emphasis distinguishes the location from the urban part, and that this white-hatted Texan had a basic grasp of geography east of the Mississippi.
“Whereabouts in New York State?” The rancher throws the emphasis back at him with an ambiguous smile that crinkles the crow’s feet of his eyes.
“The middle part,” Roger says awkwardly. “Not the city.”
“I figured that.” The Texan toys with the hilt of a knife sheathed at his side. What brings you down here, then?”
“Work. I’m… a manual writer.”
“Instructions and the like?”
“Pretty much.”
The rancher looks to the spectacled tyrant. “What’d he have on him?”
Dyne empties a small bag of Roger’s belongings onto the table, including the gun Ernesto gave him. “He also had some food and water in a backpack.”
The rancher thumbs over Roger’s wallet, looks at the ID, before handling the gun. “You steal this?”
“It was given to me.”
“Sure it was.” The rancher draws himself up out of the chair and cracks his knuckles. Taller than the tyrant, he is still a short man, a full head under the men at his side. “You got any marks on you?”
“No, sir.”
“Take his shirt off.”
The paint is a cool blast against Roger’s skin. As the crimson drops trickle down, they are already hardening over his chest. The red cross dries tight against his skin. As he is led out, Roger glances at the roll-off container cooking in the heat and is thankful he is not with those poor souls. For once the unknown was superior to the known.
Chapter 12: Induction
The speech of the rancher in white echoes in Roger’s ears as he is instructed with the other red-crossed to cart the less fortunate black-crossed to the main route heading through town.
You, are the Penitent. The mark you wear is not one of shame, but of hope. You are from different walks, but the sins you committed are equal in the eyes of the Freedom Republic of Texas, God bless her name. Your service is your contrition, your narrow path to inclusion in the folds of this new republic.
“Use the low points of the W,” cries out the tyrant Dyne. “If you can’t toss it over properly, then someone’ll have to climb up.”
The newly Penitent huddle in indecision under the towering Whataburger sign, dazed, dehydrated and not cohesive as a newborn group, yet the need for action is a common imperative. The red crosses have barely dried before this, their first act of service to the Freedom Republic.
“Whose face do I have to blast off to get someone up there?” Dyne clenches his shotgun and squeezes the stock, blood pumping into his irate face. Black eyes rove the group for someone to make an example of.
“I’ll do it,” says the man who had his tattoo branded off, before Dyne can settle on a victim. “I can climb it.”
A new republic arises, comprised of honest, hardworking and free individuals, brought forth by the compelling need in new and mysterious times. The old way is demolished, obliterated by its own inability to react to the inevitable, constrained by bureaucracy and reliance on technology. Today the strong protect the weak, rather than be led by the weak-minded. Out of chaos comes need, and The Freedom Republic fulfills that need, God bless her name.
The man shimmies up the blue-painted steel pole with a thick rope slung over his shoulder. His arms are just long enough to encircle its girth, and Roger can only imagine how hot the metal must be against naked skin. A large, rectangular letterboard sits atop the pole, just under the giant orange and white-striped W. The man pulls himself onto the letterboard, and catches his breath.
“So, you are capable.” Dyne paces beneath the sign. “Loop that rope up and over. The rest of you, toss him up more ropes and get that garbage over here.” Dyne is calm for a brief moment before he explodes again. ”Are you deaf? Get moving!”
The drug traffickers, thieves, murderers and rapists would run free in this chaos, harming the innocent and extinguishing hope for any future peace. But the Freedom Republic has already made its first mark, securing our streets and wiping clean the filth. We’ve pushed them back and rooted them from their holes—a message has been delivered, and that message is clear. While those who would freely enlist and take up arms are our brothers, those who would not are the enemy. You, the Penitent have been given a chance few receive. A chance to prove your worth.
“I forgive you,” a man mumbles as Roger grabs him up under his armpits. The black-crossed are pliant in the hands of the Penitent, resistance drained by the scorching heat.
“Thank you.” Roger can barely say the words; he can’t comprehend the situation fully. He wishes the man had not spoken at all.
The red-crossed are taking up roles and working as a unit, spurred to action by the climbing of the pole and the livid threats of Dyne. Bound with zip-ties, the black-crossed are dragged to the base of the sign where ready hands slip nooses over their heads and others hoist them up.
Roger’s man cannot stand on his own, forcing him to help support his weight under the dangling rope.
“I forgive you,” the man says again.
Do not let fear keep you from attempting this noble goal; fear is the road to death. Do not let false conscience confuse your intention; false conscience is the devil looking for sympathy. People will die, yes, but our involvement is confirmation of the inevitable. Tomorrow, we will all die. Today, we will work. Work is the true freedom.
“One last thing,” Dyne calls up to the man crouching on the letterboard. “Then you can come down.”
The man reaches down through the ropes that hang bodies, swaying in bunches like clusters of overripe bananas. He rearranges the black, uppercase letters to a message provided by Dyne.
Roger stares up with the other Penitent, shielding his eyes from the glaring, new sun. The message is succinct, the call to action clear.
Enlist, or be judged.
Chapter 13: Walking and Heat
The end of the world is walking and heat. The end of the world is bodies and flies. The cars are silent and the crows are raucous. The nights are more alive than the day. Stars multiply in the absence of the sun, a distorted stranger who waves her bent arms in madness. Strange hues belt the skies. Only the moon is the same, if not closer, and clearer.
The moon is the same, and people are the same— clearer in intent and the depth of their valleys.
“My feet are killing me.” The shaved youth pulls off his boots and rubs his feet.
“At least there’s no shortage of new boots to choose from. Plenty of those to pull from the dead.” A gaunt woman with cropped hair peels an avocado with her fingers before taking a bite.
A balding man with a brown beard covering his soft face leans in. “They’ll hurt more before long. We’re getting close to the city. The suburbs are going to be a disaster.” The man lowers his voice. “Hell of a lot more people to worry about. These Freedom Republic pricks must be insane.”
“Hell of a lot of us, too,” says the youth. “People are joining up like crazy. I swear, most every ranch and home we come up to we’re greeted like saviors.”
“Us? There’s no us, kid. There’s them and we’re just the slave labor,” says the bearded man. “We didn’t choose this.”
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“Yeah, that’s true,” says the youth. “We’re the expendables.”
“But this could also be our chance.” The bearded man looks over the small group through his busted and tape-repaired glasses. Roger, the youth, the woman, and the bearded man rest themselves after a long day’s march. The roadside is scattered with Penitents who find reprieve from the grueling walk and hawkish observation of their handlers.
“Chance for what?” says the woman.
“To break away, get out of this mess. Hell, every one of us was thinking it early on – you can’t deny it. Then we walk a few hundred miles doing their dirty work, get tossed some moldy fruit, and everything’s copacetic.”
“I don’t know,” the woman says cautiously.
“What about you?” The bearded man looks over at Roger. “You’ve been awfully quiet. What do you think? This might our chance, right?”
Roger is quiet a moment before answering. “I think we need to be careful talking about this while our handler’s nearby.”
“Him? He’s dead asleep and will stay that way a good long time, if we’re careful. He won’t hear anything. Even he could, his inchoate, peanut brain wouldn’t understand.”
“The only thing more dangerous than a clever man is a simple one.”
“So what are you getting at then?” the woman asks the bearded man.
“I’m just saying we need to be attentive to opportunities should they arise.”
The woman licks the pit of the avocado clean and tosses it aside. “And then what? Get away to where? Eat what?”
“Here, at least we got a chance to become regular members,” the youth adds.
“Haven’t seen that happen yet. But I have seen us caught on fire while torching buildings. I’ve seen us pot-shot when we’re sent up ahead as decoys. I’ve seen us black-crossed when we say the wrong thing in front of the wrong person. And I’ve seen us put down like old dogs when we can’t keep up, with a prayer to comfort our departing souls.”
“You some kind of motivational speaker?” the woman asks.
“High school history teacher.”
“Lord help us.”
“If you’re a history guy, tell us what’s going to happen next. If history repeats itself as they say,” Roger says.
The bearded man’s face wilts. “There isn’t history anymore. It’s been erased. There’s only the unknown future.”
“You crying?” The youth looks embarrassed for the bearded man.
“We should all be crying,” Roger says.
“All I ask is that we’re open to opportunity.” A tear streaks through the dust on the bearded man’s face. “Is that too much?”
“I’m open,” says the woman. “I’ve already lost everything I have, and been given more than I want.”
“I’ll do anything,” says the youth. “Just don’t leave me behind.”
“I’m open,” says Roger. “But I’m not making any promises.”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Stranger Sun replaces moon. The Penitent march before the denim cavalry, and behind the cavalry marches a multifarious infantry of young and old, mostly men, but not all, white collars and blue, suburbanites and farmers, the once wealthy, and the still poor, brought together by the collapse of everything and the hope for something: the hope for order, the chance to kill, the hope to protect, the chance to survive. Disenfranchised from individually-held delusions of the meaning of existence, hands on steel and eyes straight and narrow focus on a new purpose.
The subjugate Penitent are as diverse as the freely enlisted, save for the common red mark emblazoned on their chests. The miles and the terrors have kept their heads down, while food, water and the faintest element of hope keep their legs churning. The tyrant Dyne trots along the side, lusting for his chance to scourge.
In the fore, flanked by his most trusted, rides the White Texan, a name born from both respect and fear. The girl from the warehouse rides double, her face and arms browned dark from the days beneath the sun.
“A coward Maddox is not,” says the bearded man as he treads next to Roger. “He’s always up front, whether it’s riding or sermonizing. You know, I’d love to take a shot at that brave man during one of his motivational speeches.”
“I’m just trying to avoid being shot, or worse,” Roger says, nervous a handler might overhear the man’s dangerous comment.
“He’s always looking to ease consciences of his men, not that it takes much. ‘Looting is random, violent and self-serving. Appropriation in the name of the Freedom Republic is a purposeful action to better the common good.’ What a lark!”
“What’s with the girl he always has at his side?” Roger asks. “Daughter?”
“They call her Zulé,” the bearded man says. “Damned if I know where he picked her up.”
The Penitent number in the hundreds, now, and the enlisted are in the thousands. Food and water is acquired along the way, with the methodical collection of some supplies and the destruction of others. Small squadrons are formed and left behind when an area is secure, headed by the most trusted.
Tonight, the army rests on the shores of a small, bean-shaped lake. The surrounding trees give Roger a sense of protection, after so much marching through open farmland. The camp stirs with whispering and rumor. Small cooking fires dot the shore. Even the Penitent are allowed fires, tonight. Roger sits in his group of four, a generous length of rope shackling them together. Tin cans and other clanking items hang from the ropes, ready to alert nearby, if aloof, handlers to any movement.
“At least they’ve given up tying up our hands,” says the youth.
“Too much doing and undoing,” says the woman. “We’re not running far strung together like a bunch of wind chimes.”
“The camp is nervous. I can feel it.” The bearded man sits cross-legged. “And I know why. We’re almost to San Antonio.”
“But we just walked through a bunch of farmland,” says Roger. “There’ve been more people, but isn’t San Antonio a big city?”
“Second largest in Texas,” says the bearded man. “But it sneaks up on you. Another mile or two we’ll be knee deep in it.”
Roger feels weirdness in his stomach. The idea that a large city looms in the darkness ahead of this peaceful, wooded lake is difficult to comprehend. The repercussions of its proximity are difficult to comprehend.
“People are nervous because they don’t see how we’ll take a city like this?”
The bearded man nods. “Yes. And for good reason. It’s ludicrous to think a couple thousand rednecks who play at soldiers can take on a mission this huge. The numbers don’t add up.”
“So we’re screwed,” says the woman.
“We’re screwed anyway,” says the youth. “This’ll just speed it up.”
“I don’t know,” says the bearded man, scratching his beard and staring into the fire. “Perhaps we are.”
“Or maybe, this is the opportunity,” suggests Roger.
The bearded man looks up, eyes shining. “Yes.”
“How do you figure?” asks the woman.
“The streets, the confusion, the population density… this is our best chance to slip away.”
“And the sooner, the better.” The bearded teacher man. “Yes. Of course. If I’m right about where we are, then I’m somewhat familiar with this area.”
“When they send us out ahead, when there are more buildings, maybe we can cut our ropes and push ahead deeper in,” says Roger. “When we meet resistance and they’re distracted.”
“That might work.”
“We’ll look to pick up something that can cut our rope.”
“What we pick up, we must use right away,” says the woman. “Or Dyne will have a good time using it to cut us up if we’re found out.”
The four think of Dyne and his atrocities and fall into silence.
“If we do something, a plan…” The youth draws his finger across the ground in spirals. “I mean, should we tell each other our names? Jus
t for ourselves? I know Penitents aren’t supposed to use their names and all.”
The bearded man nods. “You’re right, kid. We need to share our names as a pledge of our bond to the plan.”
“Before we were grouped together, I knew the names of my first group,” Roger says. “I’m not sure I want to get that close again.”
“My name is Saul,” the bearded man says. What’s yours, kid?”
“Mason.”
Saul, the bearded man, looks to Roger, who sighs before shrugging and sharing his name as well. The three look to the woman who stares into the flames.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t have a name anymore,” she says bitterly. “I’ll honor whatever plan you come up with, but I’m not sharing something I don’t have.”
Saul begins to protest, but is quieted by Roger’s hand on his shoulder. “So be it.”
Shouts to attention spread along the shore. Heads lift, and fingers point. A flat-bottomed skiff has been pushed out into the water. Standing in the boat, holding a burning torch, is Maddox. Men waist-deep in the water hold the sides of the boat steady as he faces the army of Enlisted on the shore. In the back of the boat sits Zulé, her arms wrapped over her knees as she braces against the wind.
“Brave and loyal members of the Freedom Republic, I speak to you tonight.” The commanding voice of the White Texan resounds over the water as the camp collectively hushes.
“Above us lies the city of rivers, the home of the Alamo. My advisors have told me many things. That there are too many people, that the military presence is too strong, that the city is too big.” The White Texan pauses, before raising his voice. “And all these things are true.” The shore is silent, waiting.
“But I have something to tell them, and you. I have been given a prophecy, a revelation of divine certainty. We will enter this city and it will be given to us.”
“Remember Brownsville?” The camp acknowledges with a volley of agreement. “Remember driving the narcos over the Rio Grande? Remember our trail of victory and support?” The camp crescendos into a mass of cheers.
Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1) Page 7