Return from the Apocalypse

by Blake Pitcher

  Beckett stares at the floor and says nothing.

  “We don’t have a lot of time, and neither do you,” Ernesto says, “so I’ll keep it simple for you. Talk now, talk fast, tell us everything we ask. Do this and I promise we will not kill you.”

  “I’m not making any such promise,” Roger says.

  “You must, and you will.”

  Roger frowns. “I’m trusting you.”

  “You hear that?” Ernesto tells Beckett. “We’re on the same page. I hope you are, too.”

  “You have to kill me,” Beckett says sullenly, like a disciplined child. “I just saw what you did in here. You’ll never be accepted back into the Pony Express if people find out.”

  “You’re right. They wouldn’t. But I’m not planning on going back. Besides, it’s not just you that’s seen me. So talk and live. But make it quick.”

  Beckett does not respond, but there is a glimmer of hope in his eye.

  “Let’s keep it simple,” Ernesto says. “All we want to know about is this man’s wife, Esther. Where, when, why and how. We know you met her and a boy near Germantown. Start from there.”

  “I have your word, that you’ll let me live?”

  “Yes.”

  “No matter what?”

  “Yes.”

  Roger frowns but says nothing.

  “And you’ll protect me from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I met her and the boy near the Germantown gate. I told her there was a new plan, that I had received directions from her husband to escort her down south instead.”

  “How far south?”

  Beckett licks his lips. “Like Texas south.”

  “She’s alive?” Roger wants to reach in, shake him.

  “They both were, when I left them.”

  “Where was that?” Ernesto prods.

  “I took them as far as Ashland on the Pony Express route. Then a new escort took over.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know his name, honestly. But he was in the know. A few guys along the line were.”

  “Esther was in Ashland?” Roger asks.

  “They both were. Then I took you up north.”

  Roger sees the face of the boy with the costume jewelry in his mind. Esther had been so close. A simple room away.

  “Who wanted her?” Ernesto asks.

  “I thought you knew. The Freedom Republic.”

  “But who?”

  “Someone high up. Someone willing to pay really well. A woman.”

  “This woman, she wanted the boy, too?”

  “He was sort of a bonus.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “All they told me is that they were heading down to Texas to this woman. She’s some kind of legend down there.”

  “Zulé,” Roger says quietly.

  “I’ve heard her name, but I honestly thought she was made up. Her and some White Texan guy.”

  “Zulé has Esther.” Roger says dully. “In Texas.” Catatonia mires his mind, his stew of a mind. “I passed her in Ashland.”

  He looks at the gun in his hand and feels like shooting someone. Maybe it would be easiest just to choose himself.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Outside the Moonshine Sadie, Ernesto has already mounted one of the horses left tethered outside. The morning birds chirp in the young light of dawn, unaware or unconcerned with the carnage inside. “Hop on,” he says to Roger, who is still in a stupor. “Time to ride south.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll pick up my horse at the creek and book out from there. We’ll need to stay ahead of the word. Luckily for us, there isn’t any more texting.”

  “I don’t understand… you’re taking me south?”

  “All the way to Tejas, amigo.”

  The emptiness inside of Roger is suddenly flooded with questions. He can feel himself stuck in his inaction, wanting to wither away and be no more, to slowly sink into the ground and let the earth take his body back. But then there is Ernesto, focused and taking action, pulling him from the tar pit of his mind. “You would do this for me?”

  “I don’t have anything better to do, now. And I sure can’t stick around here. So let’s have us an adventure.”

  “She might not even be alive.”

  “Or she might be.”

  “She could be anywhere.”

  “Or she could be right where we think she is.”

  “With Zulé,” Roger says. “At the White Texan’s ranch complex.”

  “Follow your gut.”

  “I saw it in a dream,” Roger says hazily.

  “That’s cool,” Ernesto says. “But we need to get going, like already.”

  “What about me? I can help.” Chelsey stands resolutely.

  “I know you can. But someone needs to stay with Dixie. She’s too old for this ride.”

  Chelsey thinks this over. To Roger she says, “Save Miss Esther.”

  “I will,” Roger says. But inside he feels lame and helpless.

  “What about him?” Chelsey tilts her head toward the bar where Beckett is still tied to a chair.

  “Let him figure that out,” Ernesto says. “Or do whatever you want.” And then he is riding, with Roger at his back. And Roger knows they will be riding for some time to come. To Texas, the place he thought he would never have to see again, and to Zulé, the face he thought he would never have to see again.

  PART THREE: The Heart of the Freedom Republic

  Chapter 18: Life or Liberty

  The Friday bonfires burn in the nearby valley. Esther cannot see them from the room’s window, except for the light that glows above the valley’s rim. She smells the pine smoke drifting in with the warm air. Whooping and masculine laughter echo and fade, like wisps of steam pouring over the sides of a boiling cauldron.

  Esther is not as apprehensive about the bonfires as when she first arrived at the ranch, but the primacy of the whooping chills her, even from the safety of the main building. Mackenzie, restless at her side, tires of being kept in the room, of the constant upheaval, and the litany of ever-changing rules.

  Esther draws the curtain. “Pick out a book for us to read.”

  The boy shrugs and thumbs through well-worn offerings on the shelf. “This one, I guess.” He looks toward the window. “Can’t we leave it open? It’s hot in here.”

  “After the story,” Esther says. As if the curtain could keep anything or anyone from crawling in; as if their room were a refuge and not a prison as she was beginning to suspect.

  A knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in?” Zulé. The question proves to be a nicety, as the door is already opening. Her tallness is magnified by the smallness of the room. Impeccably shined boots thrust her even higher above Esther, more than a head.

  Zulé peers through the curtains. “Don’t worry. Us womenfolk are safe in here, where we belong.” Her tone laughs and bites at a set of rules that Esther is only beginning to understand.

  “I can almost get used it,” Esther says.

  “That’s our job, to get used to things.” Zulé’s blue eyes run cold. “Boys need to let off steam once in awhile, so they don’t fully succumb to their more wild urges. Or so I’m told.”

  “What do they do down there all night?”

  “Drink. Burn stuff.” Zulé’s expression suggests more, but she leaves the subject to talk to Mackenzie. “Reading a book?”

  Esther hears a note of disdain in her voice. Mackenzie, whose eyes lit up the moment Zulé walked in, is noncommittal.

  “Reading’s okay,” Zulé says. “You going to help me out on the ranch again tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” the boy says eagerly.

  “We appreciate everything you’re doing for us,” Esther says.

  Zulé puts her hand on the doorknob. “You’ve been a good worker. I’m sure you’ll earn your keep twice over.” On her way out the door she calls out to Mackenzie, “Bright and early tomorrow.”


  Esther is still awake listening to the whoops and smelling the smoke long after her son is asleep beside her. His face is more boyish in its relaxed state, as it should be. Recent events have given it an older look during his waking hours. She wishes she could preserve his childhood innocence, or what passed for innocence in these days. But her same impulse to preserve is met with the necessity of survival and the hardness that makes it possible.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The list is longer; it grows with each passing day. Esther kneels over the toilet and scrubs the bowl, wringing out the cloth and wishing she had latex gloves.

  Another chore to check off her morning list. The care of Zulé’s quarters have been assigned to her during her temporary stay at the ranch, among other tasks.

  “Until Roger gets here,” as she sometimes tells the wordless Hispanic woman who works beside her.

  The young woman, dressed in worn linen, never responds verbally— sometimes smiles, more often frowns, but always keeps on working. Esther wonders if she is mute, wonders about the red cross tattooed crudely on the side of her face. She has seen others at the ranch with the mark, but has never heard them talk. Like her companion in cleaning, they complete their tasks, heads down and eyes dull.

  Today Esther feels brazen enough to ask about the cross, but she predictably shunts her attention to the job at hand.

  “You’re the only person I get to talk to around here,” Esther tells her. “Besides Mackenzie. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  The woman smiles faintly, indicates that she is not bothered. Esther is struck by her youthfulness, and yet there is something old and heavy in her spirit that makes her age an enigma. Much of the weight is in her eyes, sunless ovals set against smooth skin and framed with black, straight hair. Esther thinks she must own a brush and use it all the time, it is so perfectly velvety.

  Esther wipes down the mirror, observing the lines that have deepened in her own face and her hair pulled plainly back in a loose ponytail. How much older I look, she thinks. Am I still attractive? By whatever today’s standards are, maybe. She wonders what Roger looks like, if she would even recognize him.

  Esther follows the woman to the next room, where they turn over the sheets. “Lil’ Mack’s been different since we arrived. I don’t know if it was leaving the commune, or the journey, or if it’s just a phase boys go through.”

  The woman nods.

  “He’s taken a shine to Zulé. He’s out with her now, doing God knows what.”

  The woman frowns and stares down at her work with a curt shake of her head.

  “Zulé? I shouldn’t talk about her?”

  The woman makes a zipping motion across her lips without looking up.

  “What is it?”

  But the woman provides no other response, and works on, with even less animation than before. She motions to Esther sweep the floor, and disappears out the door as she sometimes does to retrieve a cleaning item.

  Esther sweeps the lightly soiled floors merging the dirt and grass into one pile. As she collects the pile into the dustpan, she senses someone watching her.

  She judiciously turns in the action and sees him lingering in the dimly lit hallway, face obscured by the shadow of his white hat. He watches for a moment, then continues on his way.

  She has seen him before, observing her. Always from a distance, and always fleeting, moving on. She wants to say something, to call out “hello,” but instinct prompts her to carry on with her duties and leave well enough alone.

  She did not know who he was, but she was certain she would see him, or his shadow, again.

  Chapter 19: Subversion

  “I have something fun for us to do today.” Zulé leans against the rails of the stall, offering the colt a sugar cube made from wild honey.

  “This is fun,” Mackenzie says, “taking care of the horses.”

  “And you did a good job at it. But this is even better.”

  “What is it?”

  Zulé pulls back the cube from the colt’s eager lips, crossing her arms. “I don’t think your mom would like it. She’d probably say you weren’t old enough.”

  “I’m plenty old enough.” Mackenzie looks up at Zulé hopefully.

  Zulé is cagey. “Have you shot a gun before?”

  Mackenzie is eager to inform her that he has. “Sal let me shoot his rifle. Said he was going to teach me how to hunt.”

  “That was nice of this Sal person. The ability to hunt is essential.”

  “He was my… well, I don’t know. He was like my dad I guess.”

  “And Roger is your real dad?”

  “That’s what mom said. I’ve never met him. I… I’m not sure I even want to.” Mackenzie’s voice quavers.

  “I’ve met him,” Zulé says, with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t feel bad. I don’t want to see him, either.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you some other time. We should probably go back to the house.”

  Mackenzie hesitates. “What about that fun thing you mentioned?”

  “I don’t know. Do you promise not to tell your mom?”

  “I promise,” Mackenzie says solemnly.

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Zulé lets the colt take the last of the honey cube from her fingers. “I trust you.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The midday sun glowers down upon Zulé and Mackenzie as they exit the stable. “Take this,” Zulé says, giving him a cattleman-style cowboy hat. “It might be too big.”

  “It’s not,” Mackenzie reassures her, although the sides push down on his ears.

  “Keep it. It’s yours.”

  Zulé leads Mackenzie down the winding path that leads to the firing range tucked in the valley. Most of the ranch hands have taken shelter from the heat, although a few people labor at digging ditches and mending fences. They are separate from the ranch hands, many of them with visible red crosses painted or branded on their bodies.

  “Is it okay if I call you Mack?’” Zulé asks. “I know your mom calls you Lil’ Mack sometimes, but you seem too old for that, if you ask me. And Mackenzie, well, I don’t know. It’s a little long.”

  “I like ‘Mack’ better. You can call me that.”

  “Okay, Mack.” Zulé smiles like a fox. “Here we are. What’d you like to try first?”

  “Can I shoot a big one?”

  “I think we can arrange that,” Zulé says.

  Mack’s eyes widen at the sight of the shooting range’s armory. “This is crazy.”

  “This is just the tip of the iceberg. Pick one out.”

  “I didn’t know there were so many kinds of guns.” Mack stands in overwhelmed indecision. In the picture of his mind, a gun is a wood-stocked .22 rifle, somewhat abused and about as sexy as a flathead shovel. Or maybe a plain handgun, simple, small and black. These were cartoon guns, the kinds he had seen in the pages of tattered comics, and even then rarely. And then there was the ammo. In the commune bullets were as rare and desirable as precious stones. Here, boxes were stacked upon boxes and bandoliers hung down like bunches of ripened fruit.

  “I’m not sure.” There it was. The quaver in his voice he hoped she didn’t hear. The quaver that might serve as evidence that he indeed was just a kid, not ready for this or any adult responsibility. The quaver that would make her laugh at him, not like him.

  “How about this one to start?” Zulé takes out a simple shotgun with a well-oiled cherry stock. “It’s one of my first. I think it’ll serve you well.”

  “Okay.”

  Zulé shows him the operation of the shotgun, how to load it, and to always point it down and away. She walks him to the range and gives him a shell, which looks big in his hand. “Ready?”

  Mackenzie cocks back the gun and loads the shell before looking back up at Zulé.

  “Alright then. Let’s shoot.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Back at the main ranch buildi
ng Esther watches the sun drop toward the horizon as she sits wearily on a small side porch. The heat is bearable now, but her muscles ache. Her hands have adjusted, new patterns of callouses forming to replace the old. Work was a constant, but the type of work was changing. Caring for children had become scrubbing toilets. Her companion in cleaning had trudged to some distant barrack on the other side of the ranch, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The woman did not speak but Esther knew she could hear. Maybe she could even hear her thoughts.

  As the temperature drops, her concern for Mackenzie rises; it is the longest he has been away since they arrived at ranch. Why did I bring you here, she thinks. Was it all for me? Or was it all for Roger, essentially a memory of a person she once knew. A memory that like everything else was distorted and faded under Stranger Sun.

  But they had never been closer, not since the world had gone awry. He was coming, he was on his way. He could be arriving any day. Zulé said so. Zulé.

  A person she could trust?

  There was Mackenzie coming down the pathway. Esther calls out to him and he cuts over to the porch. He looks older every day, Esther thinks.

  “Where’s Zulé?” Esther asks, glad that she is not with him.

  “She had something to do and told me to come back here.”

  “What did you guys do today?”

  “Took care of the horses.” Mackenzie worries the toe of his shoe against the porch floor. “Stuff.”

  “You must be hungry.”

  “Not really.”

  “The men should almost be done with their dinner. We can see what is left for us.”

  “Zulé let me eat with her.” Mackenzie says guiltily.

  “That’s alright, Lil’ Mack. I’m glad you ate.”

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t want to be called Lil’ Mack anymore.”

  Esther touches his hair, looks out toward the purpling sky. All the water of the dry and dusty desert is in her eye, threatening to swell out and run down her cheek.