“Roger’s still at Catclaw Glen. He’ll be dealt with later. However, the lion’s share of the responsibility rests upon the sinner in front of you.”
Crimhauser steps forward. “You witnessed this?”
“With my own eyes, how I wish I had not. The fruit of the tree was in her hands and on his lips. I left the glen, considered turning a blind eye. But when I saw her return from her deed down the path, the scarlet 'A' upon her shone too proudly for my conscience to ignore.”
“Then what is your judgment?”
Paltrow takes his wide-brimmed hat in his hand, and stares into it, as if seeking knowledge from a deep and knowing well. “My first impulse is mercy,” says Paltrow, sorrowfully. “To err on lenience and take our chances that the chastity of our camp not be sullied by her predilections once more.
“But I fear this would not be judicious. In light of the imminent arrival of the White Texan, any display of weakness could ruin us all.”
Vane pulls herself to her knees, with difficulty. She seems dazed, unbalanced from the roughness of the ride.
“Are his accusations true?” Crimhauser asks.
Vane shakes her head. “No,” she says quietly.
Paltrow steams, at the denial and also at Crimhauser’s implication, not lost on him, that his accusation may not be true. “Don’t speak lies, girl.”
“Fuck you.” Vane grits her teeth and stares down.
“Profanity, and insurrection. Blatant disrespect of an authority.” Paltrow smiles widely. “Companions of darker deeds. Or should I say, bedfellows of darker deeds.”
Paltrow looks out over the camp. “Actions deserving of a black cross. Certain death.”
The camp is silent.
“And yet, against my better judgment, my heart pleads for mercy. But here is where I call on you, on this eve of the arrival of our great leader, the founder of this republic. Black cross, or red cross?”
Crimhauser leans into Billy Mercusio, and whispers in his ear. “Slip off and bring back Roger. And don’t waste a second.”
The camp stirs. Silence gives way to murmurs. Red cross. Black cross. Judgment. Mercy. Penitent and slut.
“Red-cross her,” cries an old hand, covered in bristle and wire. The crowd twitches. The crowd seethes. Mercy is not without punishment. Mercy is not turning a blind eye. Mercy is good for all parties. It feels so good to be filled with second chances, to be so giving, so benificious. Youth is not an excuse. Innocence is something no one knows since the sun stabbed all their brains.
Yes, the sun. Burning holes and vibrating the soft tissues until they grow rigid in decision.
Julius stands, cold.
Crimhauser waits, grim.
The others find their hands and their voices as the circle tightens.
Paltrow gloats.
Vane prays.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
The letter is a sacred thing.
Fingers adorned with ten years of callous trace the imprints created by the pen, follow the strokes made by a distant hand. The ink is subservient to the words, words that might float off of the paper and into the madness. Ten million miles away, fifty million light years of travel, infinity and impossibility. To mere inches from the eye.
The sun was strange, and he was stranger, even unto himself. But the words were as familiar as the day he boarded the flight to South Texas over ten years ago.
The wheels were off and spinning through the desert.
Roger doesn’t read, but rather, lives..
The pressure rises in his chest.
Ten years, ten years.
Back at camp, the preparations would be underway. And though he had never planned on returning, this afternoon, in the shade of an old, bent tree, he knew for certain. He would never compromise again. He would be true to himself, and live the consequences. No more blowing in the wind, no more excuses. No more weakness disguised as strength, and no more denial of the deepest truth inside of himself.
His pack waits in the tall grass, but now his direction is certain.
Roger reads the last line again, before folding the letter carefully into thirds and slipping it into his pocket. He could make it seven miles, in the remaining light.
“Roger!”
It’s Billy Mercusio, his youthful ebullience swapped for urgent sincerity.
“Yes?”
Roger feels the sun, pulsing. Its contorted rays pervert every surface.
“It’s Vane, back at camp.”
Billy’s a good kid, Roger thinks.
“Paltrow’s making a… scene.” Billy can’t quite figure how to phrase the issue.
“Is it bad?” Roger knew it was bad.
“Crimhauser sent me.”
It sure was bad.
“Speak plainly, Billy.”
“You gotta come back. They’re gonna kill her.”
“It’s worse than that.”
“Yeah,” says Billy, “it’s worse than that.”
Chapter 25: Penitent
Vane cowers beneath the pelting assault of slaps and sticks, her stonewash denim jeans and t-shirt replaced with a makeshift sambenito made from an old feed sack. The opening roughs against her thighs like the hem of a skirt, holes cut for the head and arms on the top and sides. The sack is composed of woven plastic fiber, the logo across the front long faded and now replaced with a violent red “x” across the front.
It’s been years since someone had been crossed at the camp, red or black. Not since the earliest years of the Republic, when fervor was sharp and bodies many. The energy of the camp members lulls as the afternoon drags toward evening, and their afflictions along with it.
But as the larger pack loses interest, and deems its participation satisfied, the vultures hover. As a newly Penitent, Vane will be left to the whims of her peers until her purgatory is complete, and darkness covers the deeds dreamed by the dark hearts of lonely men. As the crowd thins, blood pulses and saliva moistens the mouth, waiting for what has been central to be taken to the side, and for what has transpired under the rays of the sun to be finished under the dark of night.
Julius is a dark heart, at the fringe; quiet and lingering. But his heart pulses slow and his lips are dry. As Paltrow begins to leave, and in so leaving the responsibility to the remaining, Julius steps forth and pushes away a grabbing man. All eyes are on Julius, as he looks down at the cowering Vane.
“Black cross. Black-cross her!” Julius spits at her feet.
Paltrow gives him an eye, as the vultures fluff their wings impatiently.
“And what’s your charge, for which she should be found guilty without mercy?”
“She’s not penitent. She denied her crime.”
Paltrow frowns. “So you would have her die?”
“The law would have her die. And I would have the law.”
“It is the law,” Paltrow agrees. “And if black-crossed, the law dictates she be held tonight, and executed at dawn. Crimhauser, take her to the hold.”
Paltrow sneers down at Julius. “You are a good and faithful member of the Republic.”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
“So that’s it then?” Joe Mercusio hunches over the dying embers, prodding them with a stick. “This is it how it goes?”
“Don’t see what we can do about it,” Crimhauser says, “without implicating ourselves.”
“I told Roger, I told him as best I could what was going on.” Billy puts his hands up in frustration and disbelief. “Guess I should have done better. He said he was sorry about it, but, but…”
“It’s alright, Billy. You did fine.” Crimhauser puts his heavy hand on his shoulder. “If Roger had come back, they’d just have killed him too.”
“Screw ‘em.” Joe drops the stick onto the coals and watches as it lights up in flames. “Why don’t we just break her out of there ourselves? Paltrow’s nothing but a windbag. We could ditch this camp and try our luck up toward New Mexico.”
“You’re a good kid,” says Crimhauser. “Bot
h of you are.” Crimhauser continues, carefully. “But, you ain’t seen what I’ve seen. And you both have seen a hell of a lot. But the White Texan is riding into camp tomorrow morning, and he is the angel of death. As for Paltrow, he’s full of shit, but he’s a straight shot who won’t blink an eye as he puts a slug right between your shoulders.”
“Isn’t it better to die than to do nothing?”
“What good’s a martyr? Ain’t met a corpse that’s helped me none.”
“But what if we sneaked away? Made it to New Mexico, like Joe said?” Billy’s eyes shine with hope. “Even the White Texan doesn’t reach that far.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Billy.” Crimhauser shakes his head. “Those stories about the Wasteland aren’t just fairy tales, I’m afraid. Like it or not, life at camp’s about as good as it gets for us.”
“Ain’t too good for Vane,” says Joe.
“Nope.” Crimhauser spits his tobacco into the fire. “Life’s a bitch, and then you die.”
“You hear that?” Billy’s squirrel ears perk up.
“That’s Paltrow’s voice… this late?”
“Let’s check it out.”
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
God forgive me, Roger thinks as he takes his first step. But would Vane forgive him? She was the one who would die, or perhaps worse.
We would both die, if I went back. Each step toward freedom is heavier than the last.
Roger stops and sits on a stone between the hills from the far side of the glen. Its warmth emanates through him even as the setting sun promises a cold night. You’ve made it through all these years and all this insanity, he thinks. And now you’re willing to allow an innocent girl to die alone?
“She wouldn’t come back for me,” Roger says, aloud.
Yeah, she would.
“Goddamn it,” Roger says.
So here is the camp, with its drifting campfire smoke and darkened tents. And here is Roger, with a slow but committed step. The eyes peer but the mouths stay silent, watching and waiting. Paltrow is fore, and Julius hangs near. Other eyes fix on the encounter, choosing distances that balance the allure of curiosity against the danger of stray violence.
“She’s innocent, and you know it.” Roger stands, arms folded, facing Paltrow.
“I know what I saw, and the law is clear.” Paltrow smiles. “But don’t fear for yourself, your punishment will be less severe. However, Vane dies at dawn, in the manner of the black-crossed.”
“Me for her.”
Amusement plays across Paltrow’s face. “What’s this— some ill-advised, noble gesture? The little whore must have given you quite the ride.”
“Me for her,” Roger repeats, stone-faced.
“As much as I’d love to toss you in the lockbox, that isn’t how this works.”
“The White Texan rides into camp tomorrow. And I know what he’s coming for.”
“Is that so?”
“He’s coming here for me.”
“Bullshit.”
Roger motions to his pocket. “May I?” He removes a folded up paper and hands it Paltrow. “This is a wanted poster for my capture—alive.”
Paltrow studies the poster, glancing between the worn paper and Roger. “How come I haven’t seen this before?”
“I have my connections.”
“Well,” Paltrow says, “Looks like Vane just got herself some company in that lockbox.”
“And well she may,” Roger says. “But you might be interested in why the White Texan wants me.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve got something of his that he wants. And if you let Vane go, I’ll take you right to it. When the White Texan arrives, you can hand it right to him yourself. He doesn’t care about some brown-skinned scrub.”
“What if I just convince you to give up the information with other means?”
“Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t.” But that poster makes it clear I’m wanted all in one piece. And having what he’s looking for might help ease the fact you’ve been harboring a wanted fugitive in your camp for years.”
“I didn’t know about it.”
“I’m sure that’ll sound much better to the White Texan’s ears.”
Paltrow frowns, and calls over Crimhauser. “Lock up Roger here, and let the slut go. But she ain’t staying at the camp. And if she’s caught hanging around she’s to be shot on sight.”
Crimhauser shrugs, and motions Roger toward the lockbox. “Sorry, Roger.”
Roger nods and breathes out heavily, starting his walk over to the lockbox when Julius springs on him like a wildcat, tackling him to the ground. Work-hardened fists pummel him into a curled position, forearms braced against blows to the neck and head.
Julius spews a rail of curses and accusations throughout the blows, while Crimhauser catches his balance and thrusts his considerable heft into the situation.
Julius is in low, face to face with Roger, a rabid spectacle of froth and blood. While the froth is Julius’s, the blood is from Roger’s scalp and nose. The wildcat Julius grabs Roger’s wrists, wrenching them away from his face and buries his head alongside Roger’s, whispering a message for only him to hear. Crimhauser is at Julius’s back now, grabbing him by the trunk and heaving him up, over and away.
“You hear me?” Julius screams, blood dripping down from his jowls. “I’m the wolf.” He thrashes against Crimhauser’s sturdy grip.
Roger feels his ear— still intact. Teeth marks and scratches scream red along his neck.
“Enough of this,” Paltrow says, clearly amused. “Calm yourself down before I put you down.” To Crimhauser – “Get ‘em in there.”
Julius is still, but his eyes are wild. He stares Roger down as Crimhauser leads him to the lockbox to make the switch.
“I know you hear me.”
Chapter 26: The Coming of the White Texan
The sun, the sun— the hideous sun. Its tentacles reach over the conical hills and trace mirage-like fingers over cold stone and cacti. The insects are touched, they creep, they buzz, they make repetitious noise with the crossing of their mandibles. The fingers crawl forth and cover the lockbox, and intensify, promising to heat, to cook, to abuse the imprisoned.
Paltrow sits with leg over knee in a camp chair, his cigarette clenched firmly in his lips, but despite his cool demeanor, his buttocks also clench, holding back the roil hiding within his stomach. Still, it’s a good morning; at his side rests the desirous contraband in a rough sack, procured from Roger, who waits for the White Texan in the confines of the lockbox. Hopefully the legend won’t arrive too early, muses Paltrow, as he fancies letting the prisoner cook in the midday heat for a while.
Yes, it’s a good morning; Crimhauser with his loose yap has been assigned to the glen to watch the goats; the Mercusios are in the rare condition of sobriety; and that Vane tramp wouldn’t survive a week in the elements – he’d make sure of that.
A golden hour, muses Paltrow. A golden opportunity— to make a mark and earn a fold in the graces of the leader of the Freedom Republic.
A shout brings him to his feet; Billy’s running down the hill.
So the White Texan has arrived. Paltrow looks to the lockbox before tightening his belt and mounting his horse. Roger would burn, one way or another, today.
Paltrow rides out to the outer circumference of the camp’s border, with two grunts in tow. There’s the band, approaching through the plain at a steady gait. Paltrow can make out a figure in white in the lead, with a smaller figure riding at his side. Stretching behind in a loose V is a band of apocalypse and battle-hardened Enlisted – The Thirty.
The Thirty are the White Texan’s handpicked cadre of the toughest, most callous and most loyal. The select membership accompanies the leader of the Freedom Republic on most occasions and all trips abroad from base. Paltrow licks his lips, and in his mind’s fancy imagines being rewarded for his own loyal service and contribution to the Republic. Don’t get carried away, he thinks, anonymity h
as its own set of perks. Still…
The Texan is shorter than Paltrow envisioned, himself a once-lanky six foot two with the beginnings of roundness under his belt. Beside the White Texan is a tall, dark-skinned woman, with sharp blue eyes glaring under the brim of a hat and an ugly looking gun hanging at her side.
Paltrow looks past the woman to the White Texan and removes his hat. “Welcome to the frontier.” Paltrow allows a modest smile, which is not reciprocated by either party.
“You lead this outpost?” Zulé’s voice is sharp glass that cuts Paltrow’s sensibilities. The brazenness is difficult for him to swallow.
“Err, yes. At your service.” Paltrow swallows. “And you are?”
“I am Zulé.” The blue eyes are ice cold. “Take us to the defector.”
“I have what you’ve come for.” Paltrow raises the sack in his free hand. The White Texan looks to Zulé, who stares nails into Paltrow. Directed by the White Texan’s stare, Paltrow addresses Zulé. “Will you see?” His voice squeaks ever so slightly on the word ‘see.’
Zulé sighs and motions for the sack. “Toss it.”
Feeling put out and increasingly nervous, Paltrow throws the sack to Zulé who inspects the contents dismissively. Reaching inside, she pulls out a handful of colorful, detailed bandanas.
“Freedom Flags?”
“Over twenty of them,” asserts Paltrow. “I recovered them from the defector myself.”
Zulé laughs harshly. “You think the White Texan himself rode out to the edge of nowhere with his top men, leaving the Houston front, for a sack full of colorful rags?”
“They, err, appear to be authentic,” Paltrow stutters. “Of a great value on the black market…”
“Stop wasting our time and take us to what we came for.” Zulé caresses the stock of her rifle absentmindedly.
“Yes, why don’t you?” the White Texan says.
Paltrow is an overcooked string bean on a horse. He leads Zulé, the White Texan, and The Thirty through the center of the camp and to the lockbox. Everyone in camp feigns business; everyone watches keenly from the corner of their eye. Julius whittles at a branch, slumped back in a canvas chair watching it all.
Letters from the Apocalypse (Book 1) Page 15