Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1)

by Blake Pitcher

“I’m no spy,” Mack says.

  “If you ain’t a spy, then you must be a thief,” Gram says craftily. “Then whatcha lookin’ to steal?”

  “I didn’t steal nothing,” Mack protests from the back of the cage.

  “Then you admit you was plannin’ to steal sumthin. But we caught ya ‘fore ya had a chance. You plannin’ on stealin a chicken or a rabbit, like some fox? We catch foxes and cut off their tails roun here.”

  “No.”

  “Or maybe you want to come steal my Jem, take her away from her poor Gram. Is that what? You come to fetch away my Jem?”

  “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “Didn’t do nothin’. Didn’t do nothin’. Gram paces before the crate. “But here you be.”

  “If you let me go, I won’t come back.”

  “Let you go?” Gram smiles at Mack, and prods him with the broom handle. “Let a thief go? You know what the Arabs do?”

  “No,” says Mack.

  “They cut off a thief’s hand. But we ain’t Arabs. You know what we do? We cut off both yer hands. Then you can do yer thievin’ with your feet.”

  Mack sits on his hands. “Please don’t.”

  “Well, you’re either a thief or a spy. So which is it?”

  “A spy?”

  “I thought so. See, we hang spies. You ever see someone get hanged?”

  “Yes,” says Mack. “During The Flood a lot of people were hanged.”

  “Then as you know, it’s mighty uncomfortable.”

  Mack could see someone getting hanged in his memory, an old tramp who had strayed from the interstate. His legs jerked about a full minute before they succumbed to little twitches. Mack also had seen plenty of people strung up along the known boundaries of the Roughie territory, left there to warn others away. It made his stomach feel weird.

  Gram seems ready to poke Lil’ Mack with the broom handle some more when the father comes through the door and hangs up his rifle and takes off his boots. “Leave the kid alone,” he says, “and get him something to eat.”

  “I was just having a spot of fun with the commo. I guess I can find him some turnip peels to chew on.”

  “You’re a tough one, Gram.”

  “Got to be. They get the message?”

  “Yeah, they got it. Don’t know what they’ll do.”

  “They’ll trade.”

  “Didn’t seem like it, but who knows. Randy Jr. got himself in this one, and now we gotta deal with it.”

  “Randy Jr. is young, dumb and full of cum. But he’s one of us, so dealin’ with it is our burden to carry.”

  “He’s a burden all right.”

  “We’ll deal with Randy Jr. when we get him back, as we see fit. But those commies don’t have no right to touch him. We’ll go down shootin’ to the very last one before we let go one of our own. We ain’t no turncoat commies like them. Gram looks over at the cage. “And if they take matters into their own hands, well, there ain’t one that’s innocent, not even one.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Somewhere in a pole barn Steward Salvatore and his council discuss the Roughie conflict with the Amish elders while Esther carries a covered basket through the village of Ellis. She turns down a nondescript alley and knocks twice on the door of an also nondescript house. Blinds peel apart, and the watcher must like what he sees, because the door opens and she is motioned inside.

  Bobby Smith closes the door behind Esther and pays special attention to the basket. “Hello, Esther. They back from their rendezvous, yet?” Bobby’s face is glum. “Sorry about your boy.”

  “I appreciate that,” Esther says. “And they aren’t back. I imagine they’ll be arguing about what to do until quite late.”

  “You’re probably right.” Bobby nods at the basket. “What do you have in there?”

  Esther smiles. “Well, Bobby, now that you mention it, I brought you a bite to eat.”

  “Aw, thanks Esther.”

  “Some goat cheese and Ellie Sikes’ pepper jam. And of course some fresh bread.” Esther retrieves the items from under the towel, placing them in Bobby’s eager hands. “I also have something for our friend down there.” Esther nods to the cellar door.

  Bobby frowns, his mouth already filled with bread and cheese. “Sal said no one’s to go down there,” he says with a muffled voice.

  Esther nods. “That’s right, Bobby. No one else can go down there. But Sal asked me to bring the prisoner some food to hold him over.”

  Bobby looks uncertain. “Well, okay. If that’s what Sal wants. Just be careful—he’s a mean one, but he’s handcuffed to the boiler. Just don’t get too close, and give a shout if you need me.”

  “I will, Bobby.”

  Esther steps carefully down the stairs into the cellar. Her eyes adjust to the dim light produced by a tin can turned oil-rag lamp flickering from the barren floor. Its pungent smog hangs over the earthen floor, and across the way a wiry young man has his hands pulled above and behind him, handcuffed to a solid-looking pipe protruding from an old boiler. He is constrained in such a way that he can rest on his knees, but not fully sit down. Bruises and dried blood decorate his face and shirtless, tattooed chest. He lifts his head as Esther approaches.

  “About time they send down a pretty one for me.”

  “I’ve brought you some food.”

  “Listen pretty one, if you’re smart you’ll let me go before my brothers arrive. They won’t be merciful, like me. I’ll treat you as gently as you deserve.”

  “No one is finding you here,” says Esther. “They’ll storm the jailhouse and find nothing. And if they do, you’ll be put down like a dog in this lonely cellar, and buried in the dirt.”

  “I like you.” Randy Jr. looks Esther up and down. “Whatcha got in your basket?”

  “Bread, and some cheese. Water.”

  “I wasn’t talkin’ about that basket,” says Randy Jr., leering.

  Esther takes out a glass soda bottle filled with water. “Thirsty?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “Let’s cut the shit, shall we? I’ve got a proposition for you, that might just save you from your imminent demise.”

  “I’m listening,” says Randy Jr. “But I’d pay better attention if you took your shirt off and showed me your goods.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The antique oil lamp lighting Esther’s bureau had transitioned from functional and ornate, to purely decorative, and now, functional once again. The cranberry glass shade seated above the brass base emits a warm luminescence that shimmers over Esther’s still smooth skin. Nine years of survival has only made shallow imprints on her: a strand of white hair here, a fine wrinkle there. Roughened skin covers the elegant bone structure of the hand that grips her pen. Writing implements are not difficult to come by; few are interested in putting information down on paper amidst a daily struggle against entropy and hunger. Paper is scarcer— it burns— but Esther has stowed some away for her lessons. Her hand flows across the rules, smooth strokes making graceful characters, words and sentences. Urgent yet composed, she commits thoughts to record—ideas expressed and one step closer to being realized by the very virtue of being written. She completes the letter, and it waits on the bureau for a long moment before being placed in the back of a drawer.

  The bed she shares with the steward is wide in its emptiness, as wide as the house is barren without Mackenzie sleeping in his cot in the room nearby. Night has arrived, and Esther waits under the sheets with her mind on little Mackenzie, and where he might be sleeping. Is he warm? Is he well? The letter also floats into her thoughts, sealed and waiting to be sent in the bureau drawer. The absence of the steward is in the periphery, a fringe abstraction of what a relationship might be. Will he seek his release tonight in the comfort of her arms, or will he have already found it somewhere else? The darkness takes hold and the night drifts on, yet Esther cannot sleep, until she hears the footsteps of the steward and his weight presses down on the mattress beside her. For all p
urposes she is dreaming now, as the steward closes his eyes beside her.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The village surrounding the old Beech Nut factory is a ghost town, and perhaps Esther is a ghost, spiriting through a gap in a lonely section of wire fence on the outskirts. The members of the commune hole up in the factory itself, prepared for the worst should the Roughies come raiding. Only essential positions remain at their posts: a pair of sentries at the bridge, the fake guard outside the county jailhouse, and Bobby at the secret location of Randy Jr. The rest prepare to meet the Roughies, either at the tense rendezvous or against a surprise raid in the factory.

  Except Esther, slipping through the fence, and down to a bend in the river where the willows grow thickly. She removes her hand-sewn shirt and slips off her well-worn shoes, and then her loose-fitting workpants. She rolls up the articles and stuffs them in a plastic grocery bag, pulling the handles through each other and tying them down tightly.

  The air is cool, but the water is just warm enough as Esther slides in, rippling the water. She swims on her back, her head tilted just above the surface as she thrusts her legs and free arm underneath, careful to avoid splashing. In the distance, the bridge rests over the water, and the sentries, too, with eyes focused on the other side rather than scanning the dimness for a head drifting through the fog.

  She emerges from the water under the cover of low hanging branches.

  Time is precious.

  Dry clothes stick to wet skin and her feet jog along the path.

  Randy Jr.’s instructions are repeated in the spaces between hungry breaths. She has heard of the Roughie outposts, a secret network of hidden locations singly manned by solitary volunteers to convey vital information across a disparate collection of rebels. Places to hide, to find shelter, to send a message.

  The German Settlement has been in ruins for over a hundred years. Forgotten in the century prior, the old foundations and stone walls succumb to the environment, crumbling and covered, sinking and slipping into nothingness. The old pond is thick with lily pads and algae, remembered by only the occasional fisherman or youths looking for a place to have a fire and drink.

  Esther catches her breath beside a section of stone wall, meticulously built by hard-working hands, and looks out over the pond. All is still, save for a surprised and indignant water snake that writhes away through the lilies.

  Esther calls out the Roughie passphrase given to her by Randy Jr. and waits. Marsh Wrens chatter back and forth, and dragonflies hover over the green surface of the pond, but no human answers or stirs. She repeats the code, with sagging shoulders, and a hopelessness that sets in. Is this Randy Jr.’s final prank? Sending her out to this crumbling ruin to say a silly phrase, the victim of the cruel humor, little Mackenzie, held against his will in some Roughie slum? Esther slumps against the rock wall, and puts her face in her hands. The tears won’t come; haven’t since the first winter.

  A dog’s bark cuts the air and the wrens go silent.

  “You’re no Roughie,” says a raspy yet feminine voice. Behind Esther stands a willowy girl wearing a mossy oak camo sweatshirt with the hood pulled tightly around her face. “But you know the code.” The girl’s hands are firmly in the spacious, concealing pockets of the sweatshirt. At her side is a golden-haired mutt, ears erect and black eyes shining.

  “I need to send a message,” says Esther. “To your people.”

  “Miss Esther.” The girl’s face is neutral. “You don’t recognize me?”

  Esther stares hard at the face, which is familiar. A formal name eludes her memory, but she recollects a nickname.

  “Chickadee?”

  The girl’s face relaxes. “You do remember.”

  “Chelsey Dee.” The pre-apocalypse memories flood back to Esther. “My 2nd grade class. Loved everything nature. Wanted to be outside all of the time, even when it was raining. You were a cute little girl.”

  Chelsey Dee kicks the dead leaves. “I’m not Chickadee anymore, but I’m glad you remember. It was a long time ago. I always liked you for a teacher, even if you did keep me indoors too much.”

  The dog relaxes and wags its tail as Chelsey Dee scratches the top of its head. “This is Dixie,” Chelsey Dee says. “You probably don’t remember, but I was born down in South Carolina, before my family moved to Elliston. She reminds me of a dog I had back then, that’s why named her that. Dixie makes me think of it back there, you know? Anyway, she just showed up one day looking hungry, so I keep her with me.”

  “I remember, Chelsey Dee. You came up here from the Charleston area.” Esther wonders how to broach the pressing issue at hand, but Chelsey does it for her.

  “Not many know the code, and those that do don’t use it too often.” Chelsey doesn’t blink. “So I guess you have something important to tell me.”

  “Yes, Chelsey, I do. It has to do with Randy Jr. and my son, Mackenzie.” Esther pauses. “Can you get my message to the right people in time?”

  Chelsey nods. “We’ll run our fastest, Miss Esther.”

  “Tell them I’m giving them Randy Jr. for Mackenzie.”

  Chapter 22: The Switch

  Where the old county roads meet at Palatine Corner Steward Sal waits unarmed with his right-hand man and a white flag that hangs limp for want of a breeze. In the old German church up on the hill overlooking the rural intersection, commune militia riflemen keep watch. Down in the overgrown fields, more commune men lie on their bellies, have since the crack of dawn. The sun is high in the sky but the Roughies still haven’t arrived.

  “I don’t think they’re coming boss.”

  Sal bites his lip. “You think they’re raiding?”

  “Doesn’t seem too bright, even for a Roughie.

  “Well, they sure aren’t here. I’m worried we didn’t leave enough men back at the commune.”

  “The factory is secure. And if they storm the jail, there’s nothing for them to find.”

  “Something’s up. I just have a feeling.”

  “They aren’t going to do anything to risk Randy Jr.”

  “Not with who his dad is. This whole incident is playing to our advantage. With Randy Jr. in our possession and guilty as charged, we can finally get them to make some meaningful concessions.”

  “Them having the kid’s gonna complicate things.”

  “I already told you, it won’t be a problem.” Sal scans the tree-line bordering the back of the old field. “We’re not making a lop-sided trade, no matter what.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  One last swim across the river. One last sneak through the village. One last crossing of the threshold into the old townhome to be followed by the last exit soon after.

  Esther retrieves her letter to Roger from the bureau drawer.

  No time to reflect, to contemplate, to change her mind.

  The message is clear.

  Trembling lips seal the envelope and chilled white fingers slip it the pocket of her warmest coat. And then the methodical dash around the house, collecting the few essentials that could be stowed in a beat-up backpack.

  Can’t quite catch her breath, despite the breathing.

  Can’t quite warm up, despite the moving.

  If it’s in the bag, then it’s coming, if not then see you never. Esther’s leaving and Mackenzie with her. She hopes, no— feels.

  Mackenzie’s puzzle lays spread out on the table, unfinished. The unplaced pieces call out to her, and she picks up one, rubbing the shiny side with her finger. She puts it in her pocket, doesn’t know why. Goodbye house.

  Roger’s package of letters still rests under the stone in the tall grass. No time or room for it now. Esther imagines it as it dampens in the rain and freezes under the snow. In the spring tendrils of grass would push up through it and pull it down to be one with the earth. Spring is a fantasy, revealed to be so by the separation of the brown, crisp leaf from the branch that heralds the reality of winter and all it brings.

  She prays Chelsey Dee remembers the d
etails of the message, that she makes it on time. That her contacts listen. Esther exits the commune through a gap in the back wire fence, and up the steep hill. Below, the houses of Elliston sit steeped in late afternoon gray, still and silent like a painting. The interstate is a good walk away, but the deer paths will take her, the ones Mackenzie would follow. Her feet are not as nimble, but her direction is just as sure.

  The Pony Express rider smokes a hand-rolled cigarette, as Esther approaches. Barely a man, but too old to be a boy, he sits on the corroded guardrail his horse is tethered to. Dark hair struggles to cover his cheeks, and more escapes from under his cap. He sees her coming, but is intent on inhaling the final vapors before he draws himself up and straightens his messenger bag.

  “Thought maybe you wouldn’t come at all.”

  Esther pulls the letter from her pocket, and hands it forward. “I have my reply. You said its postage has already been paid?”

  “That I did.” He snuffs the tiny stub and presses it into his front pocket. “So, are you going to take up the offer?”

  “Yes,” she says, “but there’s more.”

  “More?”

  “Another traveler. A boy—my son.”

  The man looks at Esther and then all around. “Don’t see nobody.”

  “I need time… to collect him.”

  The man unties his horse and adjusts the saddle. “I’m staying one night at the next commune up. Getting my drink and getting my wiles. And I’m not sleeping in. So when Stranger Sun rises, you best be at the gate."

  “We will be.”

  “This,” the man motions with her letter, “will travel faster than you. But if you show up on time tomorrow morning, then I’ll get you started in the network. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be fast.”

  “I understand. We’ll be there.”

  “Sure.” The Pony Express rider mounts his horse and digs his heels into its sides. “Whatever you say.”

  Esther watches as he disappears around the curving highway. She takes up his place on the guardrail and looks at her wrist, except she hasn’t had a working watch in almost eight years. Maybe the wait would be faster without checking every second.