Return from the Apocalypse

by Blake Pitcher

  Chapter 20: Assurances

  The mess hall is just that— a mess. Adjacent to the living quarters wing of the complex, it serves to feed the Enlisted that work on the ranch. During dining hours, the atmosphere is that of a rodeo, with men acting like rowdy children who do not need to clean up after themselves. That is the job of the Penitent, who at this moment haunt the now strangely quiet space wiping down tables and cleaning the floors. Back in the kitchen, other Penitents scrub at pots and store food.

  Esther is the fly, an unappealing metaphor, but that is how she thinks of herself as she flits from plate to container, collecting scraps and the bottom-scrapings of pots and pans. Zulé has advised her to avoid dining with the men; any interaction at all was strongly dissuaded. The danger was the suppression of the male urges and the limited means in which to express them, according to Zulé. Better to take what was left, she had advised.

  The Enlisted had voracious appetites, not only of the carnal variety but also of the stomach. Still, Esther manages to put together enough for her and Mackenzie’s meals. This evening, as Mackenzie waits in the room, Esther is a step slower and a more than a tinge sadder as she scours the kitchen for her sustenance. She would talk to the Penitents, except they would not respond. Their faces, at least here, are dull and expressionless much like the woman she cleans with. Esther imagines that in the privacy of their quarters, that they must laugh and cry, emote and relate. But she has not witnessed it. They strike her as beaten dogs who carefully stick to their leads and avoid unnecessary attention.

  Esther scrapes the bottom of a pan used to cook beans, flaking off valuable protein. Her plate is almost full, if not appealing.

  The vibe in the room shifts; though she hears nothing, someone has entered.

  The Penitents adjust from quiet dullness to quiet alertness.

  Routine is penetrated with tension.

  Act normal; Esther tries— it is what the Penitent do. But she finds herself breathing more quickly although she knows not why.

  From her peripheral, a figure strafes casually into her view.

  The man with the white cowboy hat.

  His sun-weathered face is solemn but not unfriendly. He leans against the nearest counter, placing his hat as his side, revealing a shock of thinning white hair.

  The Penitent work on in dull terror. Esther can smell the tension dripping from their pores, but she is not afraid. Tense, perhaps. But also curious.

  “I don’t think we’ve met.” The man extends his hand, which Esther accepts. His grip is firm, and not condescending. The roughness of his hand wraps hers. “Maddox.”

  “Esther,” she says in reply. “I’ve seen you.”

  “I’m around,” the man says simply. His slate eyes watch her. “Zulé has explained your situation to me. I like to be aware of the goings on of my ranch.”

  “My situation?”

  “Of your long and arduous journey with the Pony Express.” Maddox’s voice is sympathetic. “Of waiting for your husband Roger.”

  “Zulé said he lives here, or lived here once. I didn’t follow her one hundred percent.”

  “Yes,” Maddox says.

  “She said he would be returning soon, from some errand.”

  “Zulé would know best about that.” Maddox motions in the direction of the living quarters. “Do you and your son have everything you need? Do you find your situation comfortable?”

  “We’re very appreciative of everything.” Esther looks down at the plate in her hand. “Our food, rooms… everything.

  Maddox narrows his brow, observing the plate and its haphazard contents. “You shouldn’t have to beggar for scraps as a guest at our ranch. Let me get you something better.”

  “Oh, it’s not necessary, really. We are very thankful for the food we have.”

  “I insist,” Maddox says, with an inscrutable flicker in his eyes. “It’s a flaw of mine; I’m used to getting my way.”

  “I don’t want to waste this,” Esther says, her sad plate of scraps weighing heavily in her hands.

  “It will be accounted for,” Maddox says, glancing at the Penitents. “Nothing is wasted here.” He bows slightly and motions her forward. “Follow me, this way— if you please.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  His thick hand deftly wields the paring knife, peeling the avocado and dicing onions and peppers. The ingredients, pulled from well-stocked pantry and cold room are the freshest and finest that Esther has seen in years.

  “My personal kitchen,” Maddox says, observing Esther’s silent wonder. “We are blessed to have great access to food here.”

  Strips of beef are rolled in seasoning and added to a sizzling pan. He is intent on his preparation, but also engages Esther in casual conversation, as if she were a guest over for an intimate dinner.

  “I’ve seen your boy, Mackenzie, about the ranch with Zulé.” The knife slices through pepper and slides the pieces from the cutting board into the pan. “A fine young man.”

  Esther stands by the counter, watching Maddox cook. She has already offered her assistance, which Maddox dismissed pleasantly. “Have a seat,” he suggests.

  Esther rests on the stool like a bird ready to take flight. “I’m worried about him.”

  Maddox stirs the contents of the pan, listening.

  “He’s been acting different since we arrived.”

  “Boys of a certain age have that way.”

  “True. But it’s difficult, especially now.”

  “With so many changes?”

  “And the waiting.”

  Maddox places a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “I knew Roger quite well during his stay here.”

  Esther feels the weight of his hand, unmoving on her shoulder. The meat hisses and spatters in the pan.

  “He worked for me on this ranch for several years. He and Zulé were very close.” Maddox watches Esther’s eyes. “In a mentoring way. She was few years older than your boy when he arrived.”

  “I thought she said he still was at the ranch.”

  Maddox withdraws his hand from her shoulder and gives the pan a final toss before removing it from the flame. “It’s been a long errand.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Zulé runs most of the day to day business of the ranch now,” Maddox deflects. “I’m just the old hand who stays out of the way.”

  Esther does not push him, sensing he does not want to continue the topic. They eat, pulled up to counter, and the food is the best she has had in years. He asks her questions about herself, about her experiences and thoughts. He is warm and kindly, and to Esther’s mind, surprisingly humble. “I am just a vessel,” he says more than once when presented with a compliment. “Doing the good work, as I am able and allowed.”

  The conversation drifts on beyond the eating of the food, and is a pleasant change from the hunger and silence of the last several weeks. He cleans the dishes himself, allowing Esther to aid him when she offers. She dries the plates and utensils, arranging them neatly on the counter. A plate is carefully arranged for Mackenzie, should he want it, which he hands to her with a supportive smile. “The boy, he’ll come around.”

  “Thank you,” Esther says, “for everything.”

  Chapter 21: The Protégé and the Penitent

  “Can we?”

  “After you tend to the horses.”

  “Just the usual?”

  “Yes. But don’t rush it— do a good job. And check their coats for any cuts or scratches.”

  Mackenzie works his way down the row, mucking out stalls and refreshing food and water. He checks each horse for nicks and scratches, pets them and says kind words in their ears. He enjoys the work and loves the animals, but is still eager and anxious to complete his tasks.

  To please Zulé, and to shoot again.

  Mackenzie’s shirt is damp with sweat when he reaches the final stall. The horse inside is Zulé’s own, a fine beast with a silky mane and fine shining coat. Mackenzie does not rush, carefully
following the routine. “Good horse,” he tells it, inspecting from all angles. Along the left flank, his hand brushes over a small scratch.

  Mackenzie hesitates— it is a minor injury— but decides he must tell Zulé, who he finds smoking outside. He brings her in and shows her the scratch.

  “It doesn’t seem like much, but I thought I should show you.”

  Zulé inspects the flank. “You did well.”

  “Martin,” she calls out. “Present yourself at once.”

  A rail-thin young man climbs down a hatch from the hayloft. Strands of hay stick to his hair and tattered clothes. His shirt is burlap, with a red cross painted across it, like others Mackenzie has seen on the ranch.

  “Yes, Zulé?” The young man says carefully.

  “This gentleman has found a scratch on my horse.” Zulé stands, arms crossed. “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course not, I did not know.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “No, Zulé.”

  “But shouldn’t you? Don’t you care for the horses here?”

  “Yes, I should have known.” The young man is strangely resigned, as if he is simply talking through a play he has performed many times.

  Zulé selects a leather lead with a metal buckle hanging from the side of the stall. “My horse is cut on his side. Get down and show me your side.”

  The young man kneels down, and then places his hands on the floor of the stable, bowing his head. Zulé lashes out with the lead, striking him with the buckled end. Once, twice, three times.

  Mackenzie cringes. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Why? Will you do it for me?” Zulé looks at him plainly.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Martin knows it must be done. He accepts it. You should too.”

  “Why do you have to hurt him?”

  Zulé lands one final blow across the kneeling man’s back. “Because pain is nature’s choice of admonition. Pain saves us from making the same mistake twice. It protects us from death.”

  “Isn’t there another way?”

  Zulé hangs the lead up and strokes her horse’s face. “Only if you would have him die.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The walk to the firing range is a somber one. Zulé lays out an assortment of guns from the armory, letting Mackenzie choose a few of the more exotic weapons to try. Any reflection on the incident is soon lost in a fog of noise and gunsmoke, shattering targets and recoil.

  Before long she hands him the cherry-stocked shotgun.

  “You’ll enjoy this.” Zulé leads him to the clay launcher, where a box of bright orange discs sits waiting. “You’re getting good at hitting a still target, but how about a moving one?”

  Zulé loads the spring-loaded trap thrower with a single clay disc and instructs Mackenzie on how to call, track and shoot.

  “Pull!”

  The orange discs fly out from the thrower one after another. The shotgun barks twice, but the discs float lazily along until they land and shatter in the distance.

  “You’ll get it,” Zulé says.

  More orange flying discs and more shooting; Mackenzie hits his first, then another. The accuracy grows as the session continues. The boy relaxes the gun from his shoulder and disguises a grimace of pain by flattening his lips tightly together.

  “One more,” Zulé says, “and we’ll take a break.”

  In the shade of nearby trees Zulé and the boy sit cross-legged, eating strips of dried fruit and meat, sipping warm water from a canteen.

  Zulé has brought the shotgun with them, and it lays across her lap. She shows Mackenzie a marking on the stock. “My initials from when I was your age.” She hands Mackenzie a pocketknife. “Add your initials next to mine. I want you to have it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, Mack.”

  Mackenzie takes the knife and opens it. Carefully, he accepts the gun and begins carving. “I’m sorry about earlier, about questioning you.” He pauses, blade lingering over the wooden stock. “My initials… I don’t know what to carve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always thought of this guy, Sal, as my father. Except he’s not. So maybe I shouldn’t use his last name.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She never really used her last name, much. Maybe because it wasn’t the same as Sal’s. Maybe because it wasn’t hers, either.”

  “You mean it was Roger’s last name?”

  “Yeah.” Mackenzie is downcast. “But I’ve never met him.”

  “That will change. Perhaps soon.”

  “I don’t know if I want to. What if I don’t like him? I feel guilty saying it.”

  Zulé pulls herself closer to Mackenzie. “Always trust your instincts.”

  “You’ve met him. What is he like?” Mackenzie’s eyes are hopeful.

  Zulé sits quietly, gazing out toward a more wild part of the ranch. “I can’t say. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Say what?”

  Zulé places her hand on Mackenzie’s knee. “I wish I could say he was a good man, but some things you must learn for yourself. To truly learn.”

  “Like with pain?”

  “Like that, yes. You learn quickly.”

  “But my mom… is she in danger?”

  Zulé locks her gaze into Mackenzie’s. “You and I are a lot alike, both children of this new world. Children who must be better than their fathers. Years ago, when I carved my initials into that wood, I was just beginning to learn that. I wish I had just carved my own name. Our parents, whether good or more often bad, will always be tied to the old world, and think in old ways. We must be of the new world and think for ourselves. Except I am not a child anymore. And now, neither are you. You are becoming a man.

  “So just carve your own name, Mack. And forget your initials. Someday, choose your own. And when the day comes, you can protect your mother yourself. If that is what you need to do.”

  Mackenzie stares at the “M” he has carved into the stock. He takes the knife back up and finishes out “MACK,” in uppercase. He runs his finger along the fresh marking. “How do I know when I’m a man?”

  “I will teach you,” Zulé says. “If you want me to.”

  “I do,” Mackenzie says.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Esther works beside the silent woman, another day blending into the routine of the next. Today the heat is especially oppressive, penetrating the concrete walls of the complex, devouring any lingering coolness from the night before.

  The woman, as usual, works steadily and without emotion. Esther fights the impulse to slap her, to get any reaction from her. Her presence almost makes Esther feel more alone.

  They are changing sheets in the bunkhouse, when the woman tightens up, her hands grabbing the cotton fabric more tightly. The woman stares down at the bed.

  Esther, who is facing away from the door, turns her head.

  Maddox leans against the doorframe. He waves for her to come to him.

  Esther turns back to the woman, who refuses to look up. “I should go,” Esther says, carefully releasing her side of sheet. But the woman says nothing, tucking in her side of the bed, head bowed.

  Maddox smiles and touches Esther’s arm when she walks over to him. “This way.”

  Esther follows him through the hallways of the complex, heading back toward the wing where he had shown her his private kitchen. He leads her through a nearby room, sparely furnished with a mesquite dresser and mirror, and a simple bedframe. Sliding doors open to an adjacent patio.

  “It’s cooler here.” Maddox pulls out a chair for her at a small patio table set with two crystal glasses and a carafe of dark wine. A simple wooden bowl with freshly cut fruit is also set out, along with two linen napkins. “This side doesn’t get the sun until later.”

  “It’s very nice,” says Esther.

  “I’d like to say I get to relax here more often,” Maddox says. “But the reality of the ranch
keeps me busy, despite my lessened role.” He takes her glass and fills it from the carafe, handing it to her. “Please, have this.”

  “I should be working,” Esther says, though she accepts the glass. “There’s much left to do before the end of the day.”

  “And it will be done,” Maddox says. “But I would be a poor host if I let my guest slave all day in the heat without food or drink, and a moment of rest.”

  Esther holds the glass in her hand. “I don’t know… Zulé…”

  “Zulé forgets that it is my ranch. She will be fine.” Maddox fills his own glass, and lifts it in the air. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Esther says softly, allowing herself a sip for the toast. The dark liquid is sweet and fruity.

  “We make it here on the ranch,” Maddox says. “It’s no French vintage, but I hope it suits you.”

  “It suits me very well.” Esther takes a longer sip, her eyes resting on the bowl with sliced peaches and some kind of melon.

  “Please, help yourself,” Maddox says.

  They sip wine and taste the fruit. Esther feels herself relaxing back into her chair. She slips off her sandals and feels the smoothness of the patio stones beneath her feet.

  Maddox asks her more questions, about herself and her life in the communes, with particular interest about how work and law were delegated. He is familiar with the Amish and is complimentary of their lifestyle. “They were well prepared for everything,” he says. “The prepared shall inherit the earth.”

  “And the meek,” Esther says.

  “I suppose they have,” Maddox says strangely. He tops off his glass, and does the same for Esther. “It must be difficult for you waiting. Lonely even.”

  “Everything has been good here,” Esther says quickly. “We eat, have shelter, and are happy to contribute as we can.”

  “I admire you,” Maddox says. “Don’t be afraid to say what is on your mind. I would be a fool to think this has been easy on you.”

  “Not knowing has been difficult,” Esther says. “Not knowing how long before Roger arrives. If he ever does.” Esther feels the warmness of the wine in her belly. “Sometimes I think it is just a dream. Sometimes… I wonder why I am still waiting for a dream.”