Roger collected each story, each nugget of information and stored it away in his head, a patchwork quilt of information. And while he loathed the Freedom Republic and what it stood for, he harvested the benefits of its protection and stability within its borders.
His letter was his only physical record, a clipped mass of papers kept in a worn manila envelope between mattress and bedspring.
Five years was the blink of an eye.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
“Roger.” Zulé’s face peers through her partially opened door. “Can we talk?”
Roger pauses on the way to the kitchen, an appetite building since earlier in the day. “What’s up?”
“Come inside.”
“I don’t think Maddox would be happy if he knew I was inside your room.”
“The old bastard is riding to the outpost. He won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Someone might talk.”
“It’s the second Friday of the month. Anyone not on guard duty is out getting drunk by the bonfires. Besides, I need your opinion on something important.”
“Alright.”
Zulé opens the door wider, and Roger steps into the room. She shuts it gently behind him, standing between him and the only exit.
“What did you need my opinion on?” Roger notices she has let her hair down from her ubiquitous ponytail, and her dark curls spill out over her shoulders.
“You don’t think of me as a child, do you?” The snaps on Zulé’s western shirt are undone several buttons lower than usual.
“You’re younger than I am.”
“Do you think I can lead? Handle myself on the front?”
“As well as any of the Enlisted, for sure. But I don’t make those decisions, or have any influence on them.”
Zulé steps in closer to Roger and her long fingers trace against his chest. “Sometimes a girl just needs a listening ear.” Her hand works its way lower. “And it seems like you hear what I have to say.”
“I can’t do this.”
Zulé’s voice grows sharper. “I’m not a kid, and I’m more capable than most of the walking dicks on this ranch.” Her hand clutches his sleeve. “You don’t think I’m sexy?”
“It’s not that…” Roger is a frozen deer, anxious, ready to bolt.
“Is it Esther?”
“What— I mean, how?”
“Please. I’ve read your ‘letter’ you keep hidden between your sheets like a porno magazine.” Zulé pulls Roger in closer. “I wonder what Maddox would think of your writing.”
“Don’t go there.”
“You’d rather jerk off to the memory of some dead bitch.”
Roger’s hand moves out and across Zulé’s face. The action plays out in stuttered frames, slow, obvious, but unstoppable. She is already clutching her face, blood from her nose on her hands, when she strikes out, scratching across his. Her hands find hair, then sleeve, ripping and tearing. Roger extricates himself with force, but not hitting, again. He has shocked himself.
“I’m sorry,” he says in panic, then flees.
This is what you get for tarrying, what you get for your comforts. This is your reward. There is no time, except to flee. Stuff a bag and steal a horse. Freedom flags and water. There is no safe route north. They’ll be expecting that. One step to take two steps forward. It’s worked for you before (ha, ha). Pack a bag, and steal a horse. The road to Fort Davis is the loneliest, the farthest outpost, bide your time in anonymity. The Pony Express goes there, but you have a name, and you have the price. You won’t wait again. You won’t tarry. You’ll make your plans and follow them. Get out of here, away from the sun. The desert and the heat. The cold desert nights. The leather-faced frowns and pats on the back. You know enough to hide. They won’t look in Fort Davis. Ditch the horse and wander in. When they do, you’ll be long gone. Long gone. You won’t make the same mistake twice.
Part Three: Esther
Chapter 19: North
Below the steep brambly hill an older man gimps along at a steady pace with his female companion of a similar age. They travel along Interstate 90 between somewhere and nowhere, around potholes and over spring heaves from the season before, unfixed, and likely never to be. Hand-painted signs glower at them in intervals, with crude lettering and stark messages punctuated by grim periods and copious exclamation points. Most are of a similar theme:
“Stay on the road!”
Or,
“Tresspassrs’ will be shot, dead.”
The older couple is the last trickle of a mighty flow of humanity that traversed the interstate by foot in the years following the apocalypse. The cities of downstate emptied, with singles, couples and entire families taking their chances on the road. Many headed southward, with warmer climes and easier winters on the mind. Others headed northward, then westerly, thinking they might carve out a little forest paradise, shooting deer, burning fires in cozy cabins—fewer people, friendlier faces, perhaps. But, as testified by the weathered signs, the masses were not so welcome, and the road was cruel, the weather crueler, and the natives perhaps cruelest of all.
But that was then, and today the only reminders of The Flood, as the locals call it, are the myriad crosses, pebble piles and other makeshift memorials to loved ones who died along the road, while the living were forced to march onward.
Overlooking the interstate from the hill is a young boy. His face is round, and though his clothing is rough, he is not emaciated like many of the walking. He follows the couple, treading lightly along the ridge of the hill, not for any particular reason other than he is young, curious and mildly disobedient for wandering outside his allowed boundaries.
Despite his practiced footwork, a loose stone betrays his step, and sends him sliding down the steep incline with a growing accompaniment of loose stones and detritus that scatter around him at the roadside.
“Hey there, boy, you alright?” The old man calls forth. “Took quite a spill.” The man is at the boy’s side, and pulls him up, brushing off his torn jeans and tattered sweatshirt.
“I’m fine,” says the boy, who is actually quite shaken up, and shows it on his face.
“You from around here?” The old man asks, as his companion joins him.
“Yes,” says the boy, although he knows he is not supposed to talk to strangers, much less be near the interstate. “I’m from the Elliston commune.”
Light of hope shines in the eyes of old man and his companion. “We’ve heard of the communes, that’s why we’re here. We’ve walked many miles in hopes of joining one.”
“They don’t take in many new people,” says the boy matter-of-factly. “And travelers even less.”
“I’m a skilled mechanic,” says the old man. “And my wife is an excellent gardener. We’re hard workers. Perhaps you could take us there and put in a good word for us.”
“Well,” says the boy, “that’s not likely. My dad, see, he’s like the leader of our commune. And he was just saying how we don’t got any more room right now. Plus, you gotta be careful. The commune folk, we won’t hurt you none, but the roughies, well, they do pretty much what they want.”
“The roughies?”
“The roughies don’t live in the communes, but they don’t bother us and we don’t bother them. They used to, but we made an agreement. My dad was an important part of that. But anyway, you don’t want the roughies to bother you. Best to stick to the road and keep on walking.”
“All right, son. Thanks for the warning.”
“You know, about ten miles down the road, there’s another commune. I heard my dad say they had some people fall sick and die. Well, they might take you in, especially if you’ve got skills like you say you do.”
“We’ll try that.” The old man picks up his satchel and hefts it over his shoulder. “Much obliged.”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
The unforgiving metal seat digs into Esther’s hamstrings. The town hall meeting, as is its tendency, runs deep into the evening. At the
forefront of her thoughts is Mackenzie and where he might be, and in the background, the repetitious voicing of pedestrian concerns.
Until the agenda turns to the Roughies and the Amish.
“They shot Shetland Sam,” the voices witness.
“Knocked him right off his buggy.”
“Ponies dragged it all the way back to Zook’s with a broken axle.”
“He might pull through yet. Left him in a ditch!”
“They have no ethics.”
“The Amish were under the truce.”
“Raids, they’ll raid us like before.”
“The truce is broken.”
“Fuck the Roughies!”
“Preemptive strike—that’s what I say!”
Before the swirling comments is Salvatore Ellis, commune steward and town hall officiator. He lets the voices crash over him like a wave, and in the ebbing raises his thick hands in a calming gesture. “We are all concerned with the events that took place on Hillock Road yesterday. Samuel Zook— Shetland Sam— is hanging on. He hasn’t come out of his coma, or been able to shed light on what happened. The rumor is that Randy Jr. was involved, probably drunk as usual. We’ve doubled the watch duty at key outposts, and a curfew is in effect to protect the citizenry. However, until the details are clear, we need to proceed with clear heads.”
“The Roughies let Randy Jr. get away with murder, literally. Just because of who his dad is.” A voice pipes up from the crowd.
“We need to be very cautious in placing the blame. We all remember the raids and the loved ones we lost.
“Also, while we have pledged our protection to our Amish friends, we must remember that they operate outside of our protective walls – as is their choice. We must be very cautious in making rash decisions over an incident occurring outside of our commune.”
The comments dissipate, as do the commenters in a restless rising and confiding to those nearest them. Esther follows the other young women from the factory floor; Salvatore is still addressing questions and assuaging concerns, but his big winking eye finds her as she turns to follow the others out. She would wait, but her relationship is already scrutinized, as evidenced by the comments of the other women.
“Sal has really grown to be quite the leader,” says the shrill-voiced Blondie. “So different from in high school.”
“You didn’t know him then,” informs another woman. “Before everything went to shit.”
“I actually think this place has improved since it all happened,” says Blondie. “Elliston couldn’t have gotten much worse.” She looks at Esther with a coy glance. “Salvatore Elliston sure put his eye on you.”
“We have a connection.”
“I could use a connection,” says Blondie, “to get your gig. Watching a bunch of kids all day. How big was your connection? About this big?” She measures with her index finger and thumb.
“I’m fortunate to help out as I can.”
“Lighten up. I’m just teasing you.”
“I know.”
Mackenzie appears in the entrance, rosy-faced and slightly out of breath.
“There’s a troublemaker,” says Blondie.
“Where’ve you been?” Esther pulls a begrudging Mackenzie into her embrace.
“Nowhere.”
“This little fish’s got a secret,” says Blondie. “You got a secret, Lil’ Mack?”
Mackenzie blushes and extracts himself from his mother’s arms. “No.”
“Yeah, sure you don’t.” Blondie pokes at Mackenzie. “Is it a girl, you little flirt?”
Mackenzie blushes harder.
“C’mon Mackenzie, it’s time to get back to the house. Later, ladies.”
Persistent gray skies relinquish their hold on their contents, and a fine mist hangs in the air, a sheet of dampness reaching back up to the sky. Esther takes Mackenzie’s hand as they exit the once abandoned Beech Nut factory into the surrounding village. The sheet metal walls and beige chimneys rise up before the drab row houses with patchy roofs and failing vinyl siding revealing old clapboard through cracks and sagging. Red, matter-of-fact lettering reads “Beech Nut” across the side of the building, and a similar sign rises high against a metal grid above the entire complex. Once the bustling site of the manufacture of baby food, the factory was left to rust in the years before the apocalypse. The buildings enjoyed a revival of sorts following the end of the world, as it became the central refuge for the members of the Elliston commune, repelling Roughie Raids and providing shelter to masses finding strength in numbers.
Esther and Mackenzie turn into their home, a gray house in a row of gray under a gray sky.
“Is it cold enough to start a fire?” Mackenzie asks eagerly.
Esther hems and hedges. “Well, I guess so. We need to conserve wood, but I guess Sal won’t mind. It is pretty damp.”
“I’ll split the kindling,” says Mackenzie, who heads to the back porch that houses the wood and axe.
“Don’t chop your foot off,” Esther warns. “Although it probably wouldn’t slow him down any,” she says to herself.
Soon a fire crackles in the old woodstove and Esther prepares dinner, slicing bread and warming stew. Food is thin, but always available. Salvatore makes sure of that, though he is careful about appearances, never flaunting the advantages of his position as steward. Often he will take his share last, choosing from what has been picked over by the others in the community. He gets little credit for it, in Esther’s mind. People are suspicious by nature and jealous, too, with Esther hearing most of the just-loud-enough comments and shrewish observations.
Mackenzie ponders over a vintage Tuco Puzzle as Esther keeps the meal warm, waiting for Salvatore to arrive. He must be getting double the usual questions following the town hall, she thinks.
“Need a hand?” Esther asks Mackenzie who holds a puzzle piece in one hand while tracing the completed portion on the card table with the other.
“No, I can do it.”
“What Blondie said back at the town hall, you got a crush I don’t know about?”
“I don’t know,” says Mackenzie.
“You can tell your mom,” nudges Esther. “Is it Cindy?”
Mackenzie rolls his eyes without looking up from the puzzle. “Please.”
Esther stands over the puzzle. In the picture a surprised and jubilant kid reels back as he lands an equally surprised catfish – who’s facing off with a shocked black and white puppy. Mackenzie’s engrossment in the puzzle makes her happy—electronics and glowing screens are no more than a distant fantasy to him, and yet here he is, entertained by a static, tangible distraction.
Esther points to the upper left. “There.”
“Aw, I just saw it,” Mackenzie says, fitting the piece into place.
The door shuts in the foyer. “I’m home, finally,” booms Salvatore’s voice. “I brought something special.” Salvatore brushes back the dampness in his thick, curly hair and sets a wine bottle down on the kitchen table. “Finch has been fermenting some of his famous merlot. I think we’ll be able to drink it, this time.”
“Me too?” Mackenzie asks.
“When you’re old enough, Lil’ Mack.” Salvatore grabs up Esther and presses her into his rough overcoat. “When your momma says so.”
A candle burns in the center of the maple drop-leaf table as the three eat their dinner and Salvatore and Esther sip the merlot from crystal glasses. The glasses refract the candlelight against the antique wood, ringed and stained from decades of use.
Esther waits until Salvatore has made good headway into his glass before asking him about the town hall meeting.
“Yes, it’s serious,” says Salvatore, swallowing broth and swirling the red wine about in his glass. “Whether or not Shetland Sam dies, the incident may prove provocative. It’s been difficult keeping things calm around the community. And it just became more difficult, between the meeting and here.
“What do you mean?”
“Right after most everyo
ne had cleared out, the Johnson boys showed up, hootin’, hollerin’, and dragging Randy Jr. behind them. Had the asshole trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Way the story goes, some Amish lads had been tracking him since the incident and passed on his whereabouts to the Johnsons. They weren’t terribly gentle with him, but he’s intact. Especially his mouth—asshole won’t shut up.
“Randy Jr. might be guilty, might not be. Roughies are responsible in the minds of many. So whether he did or not, that’s where the blame flows. But, if it’s true, then it’s not good. We may have to take up arms again, like in the Bloody Winter."
Esther feels a sinking in the pit of her stomach. The Bloody Winter is recalled by many in the commune as the most difficult period following the apocalypse, worse than the summer of The Flood— all-out war with the Roughies before the truce. Although, to Esther, the first winter was the worst. She thinks of it as the Winter of the Dog, although she tries to put it out of her mind while she is eating.
Salvatore reaches over and scruffs up Mackenzie’s hair. “That’s why it’s more important than ever that you stay on our grounds.”
“Can I go back to the puzzle?” Mackenzie looks to Esther.
“You hear me?” says Salvatore.
“Yes, sir.”
Salvatore takes another sip from his glass.
“Can I?”
“I don’t know if you can,” says Esther. “But you may.”
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The sun lurks at the east of the valley. Water in the canal is morning-still glass and a light fog hangs above. Mackenzie sees his breath in the cool of the late summer morning as he approaches the bridge that crosses to Palatine Flats.
"Hey Lil' Mack," greets a sunken-eyed sentry. "You're up early."
"Yeah."
"You crossin'?"
"Yeah, mom asked me to find her some flowers in the old Brennan fields."
The sentry yawns wide, and scratches under his armpit. "Don't be goin' farther than that. Roughie trouble, you heard?"
Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1) Page 11