Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1)

by Blake Pitcher

  Maybe it would be longer.

  The details are fading into the gray. The crows flap and caw lazily. One hour, two hours.

  I didn’t eat.

  Then, the whistle of a bird. No, not a bird…

  “Chick-a-dee” it warbles.

  Chelsey Dee emerges from the woods above and scrambles down an embankment to the highway, with the golden-haired Dixie at her heels and Mackenzie in hand. “Here we are,” she says.

  A wrapping hug squeezes the boy, searches for injury, finds the unlikely: he is fine, he is unharmed, he is himself. He is real.

  “Oh, Chickadee, thank you,” Esther says, through tears. She didn’t think she had those anymore.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Esther.” Chelsey Dee is a shrinking flower.

  “So they accepted the trade? Esther asks. “They got Randy Jr.?”

  “Yeah, they found him just like you said, in the basement. Not that the jackass deserved rescuing.”

  “Bob, the man on watch, is he…”

  “No one got hurt, on either side. So I heard.” Chelsey Dee looks back to the woods. “We’ve got to go, Miss Esther. You gonna be alright?”

  Esther shoulders her pack and takes Mackenzie’s hand in her own. “Yes, Chickadee, we’re going to be alright.”

  Part Four: Delivery

  Chapter 23: Return of the Pony Express Man

  The horseshoe thuds into the soft, upturned earth to the amusement of the spectators. “Why’s the Yank always on my team?” Joe Mercusio laments, adding up the current score in his head and unpleased with the result.

  “Cause he sure ain’t gonna be on my team,” Crimhauser chortles. “Step aside, son.” His ruddy, beet-like face is even more flushed than usual from the exertion of the competition as he lines up his next throw and tosses a leaner. “That’s how it’s done.”

  “I don’t have to play,” Roger says.

  “Everyone plays,” says Crimhauser, and even Joe has to agree. Paltrow agrees sitting on his horse, and Vane agrees cross-legged on the ground. The day is Sunday, and everyone plays horseshoes, except for the designated lookout atop Soldiers Hill. Today the rotation falls on Billy Mercusio, who complains bitterly each time his turn comes up. Roger would volunteer every day, if he could. The solitude that itches at Billy is a salve for Roger, who collects his thoughts and mediates on the issues of the present. He even risks writing his poetry, and grows his open-ended letter, now sent, although Paltrow would certainly frown on the distraction. The lookout is a mandated station by the Freedom Republic, one item on a long list of requirements and regulations in the handbook.

  Horseshoes is not in the handbook, although participation is just as strictly enforced. The exception is Vane, one of the few females at camp. She has been offered the chance to play, but competition does not entice her, and no one seems compelled to urge her.

  Roger’s performance in this game is especially pathetic, and each time he throws the heavy, metal shoes they are destined to be returned back to him for a repeat of the same fruitless effort. He lines up his toss. All eyes are on him—attention diverts to the great and the truly terrible—and he tries to concentrate on the motion of his arm. If he could but achieve mediocrity, perhaps he could fade into obscurity during the matches.

  “Hey! Someone’s coming!”

  The shouting comes from Soldiers Hill. Billy scrambles down the path kicking up dust and holding his hat to head, yelling the alarm. Horseshoes are replaced with guns, and spectators and players alike take positions. Vane reaches the locker first, handing rifles to reaching arms. Paltrow barks orders everyone knows by heart from the drills.

  Paltrow and Crimhauser meet the speeding Mercusio brother, who looks ready to collapse from the heat and exertion.

  “Man on a horse,” Billy heaves. “Hat covered his face, couldn’t see it, with the binoculars. Didn’t see a friendly flag.”

  “Armed?” Paltrow asks.

  “No rifle I could see. Big sack, though.”

  “Could be a test. Or could be just a loner heading through, unawares.”

  “Could be a lot of things,” Paltrow says. “Why didn’t you use the signal?”

  “Didn’t go off,” says Billy. “So I ran.”

  “Stick to the handbook.” Paltrow signals the positions that one man on horseback approaches, possibly armed and of unknown intent.

  Roger crouches behind a makeshift pallet wall on the right wing of the entrance to camp. Even though the threat is low, he is tense. That’s a good thing, he thinks. Keeps you sharp, keeps you on edge. Weekly drills and two false alarms. Never the real thing, never a shot fired. Would this be the time?

  The lone horseman enters into sight, and Paltrow parries the approach, rifle in hand. The man may be an invidious troll, but he’s no coward, Roger surmises. If bullets were to fly, they would be heading toward Paltrow first.

  “Hold up,” Paltrow calls out.

  The approaching man reins in his horse and lifts the brim of his hat. Paltrow’s shoulders relax the slightest bit.

  “You’re two weeks early.” Paltrow says. “And where the hell is your friendly flag—you wanna get shot?”

  “Coyote took it,” the Pony Express man says. “Was hopin’ you could get me a replacement.”

  “Bullshit,” says Paltrow. “And why are you here then?”

  “Special delivery.” The rider produces a sealed envelope and holds it up in the air. “For your man Roger.”

  Paltrow fully relaxes and lowers his gun. “You gonna get yourself shot riding around without your flag, son. I’d hate to be the one that does it.”

  “I’m sure,” says the man. “Now what’s for dinner tonight?”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  No pig roast for the boys at camp tonight. Crimhauser ladles out a thin stew of diced cacti pads and stringy goat meat.

  “Ever hear of salt?” Joe Mercusio grumbles.

  “Ever hear of ‘shut up?’” Crimhauser retorts.

  “Good to see you boiled the goat hot and fast,” says Jake Mercusio chewing ostentatiously.

  “Such a generous serving, too,” pipes up another voice.

  “Ingrates.” Crimhauser finishes the portions with his own and looks to the Pony Express man. “What does our esteemed guest think of the meal?”

  The man raises the bowl to his mouth, sips the broth, lowers and wipes his chin. “Best meal I’ve had, today.”

  “So tell me about that coyote that gone stole your friendly flag.” Paltrow’s voice is a drop of water on a hot stove. Aloof from most campfire meals, this evening he has taken a seat across from the Pony Express man, set back and frowning.

  “Not much to the story, really,” says the man. “Thought maybe you could hook me up with a replacement.”

  “I’ve got to account for each one I give out. And I only have so many. So maybe you can spin me a compelling story as to why I should.”

  The man sets his empty bowl to his side and wipes his mouth with his sleeve a final time. “Well, I was headin’ from Odessa when I settled in with these refugees for the night, Freedom Republic sanctioned, of course – I avoid unregistereds as they are the plague, metaphorically and literally – and this wild lookin’ mutt was hanging around grabbing what scraps it could. Guess it took my friendly flag for a game, cause it snatched it up and ran off with it, wagging its tail and such. I chased it around like a fool, it running around tents and dodging this way and that. Refugee rats had a good laugh at it, anyway.”

  “Whyn’t you just shoot it?” Paltrow asks.

  “You know us Pony Express types aren’t authorized to carry firearms in the Freedom Republic. Besides, even if I did have a gun, more likely to hit one of the little rats playing around. So anyway, this coyote-dog is playing keep-away with me until I just grab up a rock and bean him with it, right on the side. Mutt ran off, still carrying the flag; go figure.”

  “That mutt’s put you in an awkward situation, to be asking me for a friendly flag.” Paltrow fixes on
the man through the flickering flames of the campfire, his narrow features extruding starkly in the shadows of the end of day. “How is it you were up Odessa way? I thought your route was between here and San Antonio.”

  “You’re not wrong. My route’s between here and the outskirts of San Antonio. Ain’t no one want to venture into the city proper.”

  “We all know that. So Odessa?”

  “Had a message to take up to Odessa. Obviously I can’t speak of the contents of that message, but I figure you might be curious about the recipient.”

  “Might I?” Paltrow holds his stare.

  “A gentleman by the name of Donald Maddox. You folks might know him better as the mythical “White Texan.”

  Paltrow’s stare is broken by a fleeting blink. A tiny crack in a wall of indifference. Roger notices it. Everyone notices it.

  “And what’s that got to do with us?”

  “After his business in Odessa, I hear his next stop is out here.”

  A collective catching of the breath is shared around the fire. He’s got everyone’s attention. The Mercusio Brothers are jaws agape. Vane is ashen and terrified. Even Crimhauser seems devoid of his usual color.

  Paltrow’s cool is now a complete façade, yet he keeps building on it with his words. “So Pony Express man, you mean to tell me that an inconsequential scrub like yourself has meetings of significance with the leader and founder of the Freedom Republic of Texas, God bless her name?”

  “Meetings? No. Significance? That would be new. But I handed him a letter and he shook my hand with the same grip that’s brought judgment to so many others. And I heard clear as day that his next stop is here, the Fort Davis camp.”

  “Wouldn’t want to get caught up by his company without your friendly flag,” says Paltrow with a sneer.

  “Oh, I’ll be long gone before then, with or without a flag.” The Pony Express man stretches and yawns. “This ain’t my home.”

  “So why are you here again?” Paltrow looks to Roger. “Oh right. A special delivery.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The young newcomer stays off to the side of the group, as they forage in the sparse greenery, but attention is still given. The oldest goat, a bearded, muscular beast, makes a point of crossing paths with him, brusquely shoving the runt aside with the weight of its body. The runt consents to the aggression, in hopes of placation, but the action provokes as the other males surround him. He attempts to weave his way out of the encircling brown and rough-haired bodies, but escape proves futile as one young ram winds up and violently butts into the victim’s flank.

  Roger watches the runt topple over from the shade of the trees at the edge of the Catclaw Glen, but remains as he is—leaned against the trunk of the mesquite, and feeling the weight of the un-opened letter in his front pocket. He empathizes with the young goat Crimhauser added to the flock, but knows intervention is pointless. Goats will be goats, and they will bully and ram from the strongest down to the weakest. And a newcomer is almost always perceived as the weakest.

  “Buenas.” Vane’s voice lilts from the opening of the glen. She carries a woven basket draped with a cloth and seems happier than usual.

  “Hello, Vane. What brings you out here?”

  “Your lunch.” Vane sits next to Roger and hands him a sandwich from the basket along with a clear, corked bottle filled with honey wine.

  Roger bites from the hard bread and cool prickly pear slices, and holds the bottle up to a shaft of light coming through the branches. The golden fluid shimmers in the bottle. “Crimhauser parted ways with some of his precious mead?”

  “I know. He was nearly stung to death getting that honey out of that hive he found.” Vane smiles. “He was even more puffed up than usual. He’s not so bad, really. I think he likes you. Enough to let me bring you some.”

  “I thought Joe was running errands today.”

  “I asked if I could bring it to you instead. Crimhauser said they could use the extra men at camp and Paltrow’s riding around on the double, inspecting this and that. What am I good for, to them, anyway?”

  Roger sips the mead and reflects as the golden liquid gently warms his belly. “I’m just worried for you… I mean, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, is all.” His voice feels husky and strange. “Me being out here alone with you.”

  “Most everyone already has an idea about me.” Vane’s face is solemn. “I don’t care what they say, what they do.”

  The two sit quietly and watch the goats as Roger finishes his sandwich. Something is on Vane’s mind, and her curiosity shows through a restlessness of small movements and expressions.

  “What do you think about the White Texan coming to camp? Do you think it’s true?” Vane bites gently at her lower lip.

  “Probably.”

  “So you think he’s real, the White Texan?”

  “I know he’s real.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  Vane sits erect and gives Roger a small push on the shoulder. “You’re kidding.” The motion is half in jest and half in anxiety.

  Roger stares out at the goats, cool as a stone. “No, but I wish I were.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to go into it now. But I know him, and he knows me. And his coming to this camp won’t be a good thing for either of us.”

  “Does it have to do with the letter the Pony Express man brought you? Everyone at camp’s talking about it, making up theories and such.”

  “It’s related,” Roger says.

  Vane hesitates. “Is it from Esther?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Pony Express found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I’m asking so many questions,” says Vane.

  “It’s alright.” Roger touches her arm. “It’s nice having someone to talk to.”

  “No one else really talks to me,” says Vane. “Not with me.” Vane moves in closer to Roger, the fine dark hair of her arm brushing his. “The letter, have you read it?”

  “Not yet,” says Roger.

  “She is very pretty, the way you described her.”

  “She is.”

  “Roger?” Her voice is vulnerable.

  “Yes, Vane?”

  “Is it okay if I just lie here with you a while?” Vane’s warm body presses into Roger’s side, and her small hand comes to rest on his chest. “In the shade?”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  The goats have stopped harassing the runt and have sought the refuge of shade as peak heat of the day beats down. Roger watches and feels the envelope in his pocket. Soon he will open the letter that Esther herself sealed. See the fine print of her graceful hand. Read the words he had waited for so many years. Know the things that cannot be unknown. Soon, but not yet.

  Chapter 24: Decisions

  “What’s that under your shirt, boy?”

  “What’s under my shirt?” Joe Mercusio squints at Crimhauser. “Ain’t nothing.”

  The camp buzzes with hurried preparations, but Crimhauser doesn’t let it interfere with his eye for detail. A slight bulge protrudes at Joe’s side, and Crimhauser raps it sharply with his spatula, producing a metallic clang.

  “Hey now, watch it!”

  “Your nothing sure sounds like something.” Crimhauser points with his spatula. “Give it up.”

  Joe Mercusio reluctantly raises his shirt, revealing three flasks belted around his waist.

  “What foolishness is this?”

  “Emergency supplies. What’s the big deal?”

  “What’s the big deal?” The red of Crimhauser’s face deepens to a dark crimson. “We all be running around this camp, against the clock, cleaning up and preppin’ for the arrival of the goddamn White Texan himself, and here you are, carrying on like this is some kind of big joke. Well, let me tell you— you won’t be thinking it’s some kind of joke when the White Texan takes those flasks and jams ‘em down your throat, or hell, maybe up yo
ur ass, paints a big old black cross on your chest and strings you up from that tree over there. You think you be laughing then?”

  “C’mon ‘Hauser, don’t you think all this White Texan stuff is a bit exaggerated? I mean, we dumped out half my stash already. You think this ain’t all played up by Paltrow, like some big fairytale?”

  “Spoken like a true neophyte who ain’t been nowhere or done nothing never. Dump ‘em before I dump you in the brig.” Crimhauser’s chest heaves in the heat.

  “Neo-what now?”

  “I’ve seen the White Texan, boy. Spent three years cooking chow for the Enlisted front. Seen things you can’t unsee. We’re going to get the camp clean, keep quiet, and get him in and out as fast as we can. Lord save us from being strung up before he leaves.”

  Joe Mercusio bows to Crimhauser’s finality. “Yeah, well okay. Don’t have to be a dick about it.”

  Thundering horse hooves plow through the anxiety of the camp, stopping people in their tracks. Paltrow reins in his steed at the center of camp, shoving a slumped figure off and into the kicked up dirt and dust. The horse foams from the run, and Paltrow pats its side reassuringly. Camp members begin to circle around.

  “As the rest of you were working diligently, preparing the camp for our most important day, others were less piously engaged.” Paltrow looks down at the prone figure, a sprawl of dark hair and scuffed skin, with an expression of suppressed gloating.

  “Vane?” Joe Mercusio says under his breath. Crimhauser stares ahead coldly.

  “I caught this floozy, doing what comes natural to her, in the arms of Roger. While charged to keeping watch over some of our most valuable assets, Roger found himself beguiled by this harlot’s charms, in the tall ferns beside the glen. I’d like to tell you I was surprised, but I doubt any of us are, having witnessed the flaws in her character as a resident of this camp.”

  Dark and inscrutable, Julius speaks from the nucleus of the assembled. “And where is Roger?”