Return from the Apocalypse

by Blake Pitcher

  “Vane, she waited it out in that cave for a while, but she ran out of food and water. I couldn’t get away from camp to check on her, or I would’ve. Poor girl comes wandering down the trail into camp like a lost puppy. I thought she was done for. Strange thing is, that woman, Zulé, she wanted her alive. They questioned her about you, but she never said a thing. Other people talked, though. And they even had a picture that Vane drew of your wife. So after most of us were done and killed, they left and took Vane with them. Poor thing probably been better off starving in the desert.”

  Because of me, Roger thinks. All this suffering. He struggles to find something to say, to show the remorse he should be feeling, but comes up empty.

  “So Roger, I’m itching to ask you. Why the hell are you back here?” Crimhauser sweeps his hand across the decimated camp. “We got you away scot free.”

  “I came here because I need men,” Roger says, “to assault the White Texan’s headquarters and rescue my wife.”

  Crimhauser snorts. “You really are a dipshit.”

  Chapter 26: The Plan

  Unlike the battered Fort Davis encampment, Catclaw Glen is unchanged. Goats roughhouse on the rocky hillside and lap water at the spring while Joe Mercusio sits back in the shade of a tree sipping peyotequila. His red flannel is a little more faded, and his already long hair is longer still. The scruff of his beard has straggled down to brush against his chest when he rests his head, and he rests it often, now.

  Roger, Ernesto and Crimhauser have joined him, sitting in a semi-circle facing the livestock.

  “You’re really here?” Joe’s face is haggard, with permanent bags formed under his bleary eyes. Roger thinks he must have aged ten years since he left.

  “They’re here, Joe. It ain’t the peyotequila,” Crimhauser says.

  Joe smiles thinly. “Hard to tell sometimes.” He offers the bottle up to the three of them. “Drink?”

  Crimhauser shakes his head, looking down.

  “Then we’ll call it a toast,” Joe says with a faint gleam in his eye. “To Billy, my hermanito.” You wouldn’t deny me that? Not when you want to ask me for a favor. Yeah, I can tell before you even ask. A toast to Billy, beat to a pulp under the butt of the White Texan’s gun. You know the last thing he ever said was ‘Joey.’ They held me back and made me watch. My little brother, getting his blood all over the White Texan’s jeans. I bet that really pissed Maddox off.”

  Roger takes the bottle and drinks. The liquid is fire in his throat, but he can still hold it down like he used to. He hands the bottle to Ernesto who shrugs and takes an equally hearty swig. His eyes bug out but he keeps it down, too.

  “And you, ‘Hauser?” Joe eyes him keenly.

  “I ain’t asking for no favors.” Crimhauser tucks his tongue in his lower cheek, thinks for a moment. “But I’ll toast to Billy.”

  Satisfied, Joe loosens up after Crimhauser takes his drink. “So you two idiots want to ride up and attack the White Texan’s ranch, just like that. Sorry you didn’t find your army here. As you may have noticed, the population’s a little thin in these parts lately.”

  “I didn’t know what I was thinking, exactly,” Roger says. “Except I trust you guys as much as anyone left in the world. That and I’m going either way.”

  “We don’t have much for weapons,” Joe says. “They took most of those, except for what their lackeys keep on them.”

  “I’ve got weapons covered.” Ernesto nods his head to the canvas sack at his side.

  “You got any rockets in there? Or maybe a tank?” Joe asks. “Forgive me for being skeptical.”

  “This is an act of desperation,” Roger says. “And the outcome probably won’t be pretty. But me and Ernesto are riding out at dawn tomorrow, with or without anyone else. No one owes me anything. In fact, I’m the one that owes all of you. But I’m tired of running, and I’m tired of evading. I’m tired of being one step behind someone else’s plan. I’m tired of walking and I’m tired of riding. So I’m going to throw myself against the horde, and see what happens.”

  “And I just don’t give a shit.” Ernesto smiles.

  “My plan is to save my wife and son. I don’t hold out much hope for myself.”

  Joe stares out at the hillside dreamily. “I’ll go with you. For Billy.”

  “Thank you, Joe.”

  “Don’t bother thanking me, I won’t be of much use. Just another husk of a man to be blown away in the desert wind. But promise me this— I get first stab at that bastard Maddox.”

  “Fair enough,” Roger says.

  “I’ll go with you.” Crimhauser says thoughtfully. “I’m no fighting man, but I’ll ride out and carry some things. For Vane, mostly. I’d like to see her saved. She didn’t deserve any of this.”

  “Vane,” Joe says bitterly. “She has it worse than Billy. Cause she’s still alive.”

  “What about these henchman types left behind to monitor the camp?” Ernesto asks. “Should we take care of them first?”

  “They spend most of their time drunk or out hunting. Or both. They’re in the field now. Could be a day or two before they even return.”

  “What Crimhauser’s saying is that they’re too useless to kill,” Joe says. “Aren’t worth the bullets.”

  “If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to leave now.” Crimhauser’s cheeks flush red as alcohol heat seeps through his body. “They’re useless, but we don’t need the hassle of running into them. If they never see Roger and his friend here, they might not be in a hurry to figure out where we are. Could pad our time on the backend of things.”

  “It’s a two day ride to the ranch,” Ernesto says. “Then the fun begins.”

  “Three days, if you plan on me keeping up,” Crimhauser says.

  Joe fixes a bleary eye on Crimhauser. “With you, more like four.”

  “So that’s it? We ride out to the White Texan’s ranch and you throw yourselves into its defenses like beans into a hot, greased skillet? If I survive, maybe I can stick around to bury what’s left of you with Julius,” Crimhauser says. “At least he won’t be so lonely.”

  “I’ve been thinking of a plan,” Roger says. “And I’m not saying it’s a good one. Odds are, we’ll die. But there’s a chance. I know the ranch and the complex like the back of my hand, and I know they won’t be expecting us.”

  “Roger the strategist.” Joe’s smile still lingers on his face. “At least I don’t care what happens to me.”

  “Do we get to hear this plan?” Crimhauser asks. “I’m filled with suspense at how you’d like us all to die.”

  “It’s rough,” Roger says. “But it’s something.”

  The goats have sought shade from the midday heat and conversation has spent itself as the peyotequila warms and entrances. Roger watches the hillside saturate with color, feels himself at a peace he has not known since the sun went strange. The journey was complete, and the decision made. Esther was alive— he felt it in his spirit. He could not control the future, but he would not be shuffled along its path without setting a direction of his own.

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  “You planning to bring the good china, too?” Joe Mercusio watches as Crimhauser packs his mule with water and supplies exceeding the group’s needs for the ride.

  “You may all have a death wish, but I intend to be prepared for the possibility we don’t all die.” Crimhauser tightens the straps holding the pack to the mule.

  “Is that old nag going to keep up?” Ernesto asks jokingly. “We don’t want Roger’s wife to die of old age.”

  Crimhauser pats the side of the mule. “This ‘old nag’ is superior to the common horse in many ways. She’s braver, more surefooted, and she’ll live twice as long. Hell, she’ll probably outlive us all.”

  “I ain’t volunteering to kill that goat you’ve got tethered there,” Joe says.

  “This goat’s coming with us— alive.” Crimhauser says. “I don’t need no dead goat.”

  “You serious? That
’s going to be one mighty unhappy beast. They’ll hear that goat braying for miles if you hog-tie it on the back of that poor mule.”

  “Goat’s coming.”

  “‘Hauser can bring a whole farm so long as he keeps up,” Roger says, “but we need to be out of here before sunup.”

  The men finish their preparations at the Fort Davis encampment, wrestling the unlucky goat to the ground, binding its legs and adding it to the mule’s burden of dried food, water and a large canvas sack full of Ernesto’s weapons. As promised, the goat protests loudly at its treatment. Roger wonders if he can keep his sanity the entire ride.

  “Two to a horse,” Ernesto says. “Crimhauser, you ride with Roger.” He surveys the ragtag quartet with their laden mule. “Aren’t we a sight? Maddox’s going to be trembling in his boots if he sees us coming.”

  “Or hears us coming,” Joe says.

  “You’ve all got your sidearms, and we’ll bring out the fun stuff when we reach our destination. Giddy up.” Ernesto finishes his speech and looks to Joe to mount up behind him, but his audience has turned their attention to a distraction.

  From the farthest tent in the camp, a rough looking character without a shirt staggers out and stares groggily at the group. Though shirtless, he is wearing jeans and boots. His hand feels for where his gun is holstered at his side as he squints stupidly.

  “What the blazes is going on?” He calls out in a hoarse voice, apparently awakened by the braying of the goat.

  “One of them must have come back early last night,” Crimhauser says quietly. “Sleeping off a binge.”

  The man stares at the unresponding group, the wheels in his head creakily turning. His hand withdraws from his holster as he turns and runs away.

  “The lockbox,” Crimhauser cries out. “He’s heading for the lockbox. If he gets in there we’ll never get him out.”

  Roger is already off his horse and sprinting. The man has a good start on him, but is running awkwardly. Roger stretches out his legs, sucks in air to his lungs. He is bridging the gap but the man is nearing the lockbox and picking up speed. Roger considers pulling his sidearm and lining up a shot. But if I miss… The man would make it to the lockbox and bar himself in the concrete structure not much bigger than a garden shed. So Roger sucks in more air and propels himself even harder.

  The man is swinging open the lockbox’s steel door when Roger tackles him at full speed. They roll over the hard-packed earth with Roger gaining the top and delivering a strike against the man’s face. Roger has his pistol out and is pointing it between the man’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Don’t shoot,” says the man through his yellowed teeth. “I ain’t seen nothing, ain’t heard nothing.”

  Roger hesitates. Let him go and he tells the others. But to kill him in cold blood…

  “I ain’t a badguy,” the man says, trying to smile. A half-engorged tick has embedded itself amongst the prickly hairs of his eyebrow. Roger feels the man’s heart beating against his bony chest. Damn it. Roger thinks. Why can’t you do what you must? He glances to see Ernesto and Joe running toward them, Crimhauser puffing behind.

  Pain sears through his left hand as his sidearm is pushed away in the right. The man has sunk his teeth deep into his hand. Roger is toppled aside and the man slips through the partially opened door, slamming it shut behind him.

  “Goddamn!” Ernesto shouts. “You alright?”

  “I’ll live.” Roger holds his bruised and bleeding hand. “I messed up. I should have shot him right off.”

  “Now what?” Crimhauser asks, puffing heavily.

  “We can’t leave him in there,” Ernesto says.

  “Well, we won’t be able to break our way in, either,” Joe says. “Maybe we grab the brush wood for the cooking fire and pile it up all around. Cook him out.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for him to turn golden brown,” Crimhauser says.

  “Then we lock it, light it up and leave.” Joe says.

  “What if his buddies see the smoke?” Roger is doubtful. Shooting a man was one thing. Cooking him alive…

  “There’s a small vent we could pry off near the roof in the back. Might be able to get a shot at him through it,” Joe says.

  “He’ll have his gun trained right on it,” Crimhauser says. “Don’t feel like getting my hand blown off, personally.”

  Ernesto crosses his arms. “I’ve got three grenades. They’re pretty precious to me, and I thought they might come in useful later. But, we could always toss one of those bad boys in through the vent.”

  “Hell yeah!” Joe raps on the steel door. “You hear that?”

  “Someone else could hear it, too.” Roger says. “We’ll lock it up and leave him. Earliest his buddies come back would be tonight, maybe later. Then they’ve got to get him out of there. We’ll have a good start by then. And they don’t know where we’re going. They might not be in a rush to follow us anyway.”

  “You remember watching movies, Roger? Or have you forgotten?” Joe shakes his head. “You leave a bad guy, they get you later.”

  “This isn’t a movie.”

  “Which is why we shouldn’t be taking any chances.”

  “Everything’s a chance,” Roger says. “And this is the one we’re taking.”

  Chapter 27: Charge of the Light Brigade

  Vane’s face is a warning. Vane’s head is a sign. Vane’s head is on a pole. Her face is solemn. It has a strange dignity. It says, “here die the young.” It says, “here die the innocent.” It says, “here die all.” The black-winged birds alight and fight. Peck and caw. Her head lays its shadow down beyond the wooden fence and watchtower, beyond the bounds of the ranch and complex, free in the desert like her released soul. So there it was.

  Roger hands the field glasses back to Crimhauser, whose eyes seem unusually moist as he blinks them.

  Joe scowls, lying beside him on the crest of the knoll. “Let’s just get in there and kill those bastards. Screw the plan.”

  “You ever hear of The Charge of the Light Brigade? Crimhauser asks. “A futile display of bravery and honor will do us little good.”

  “So instead, we’re the charge of the night brigade,” says Ernesto. “Also a futile display, but if it makes you happy, we’ll be able to take out more of them.”

  “It makes me something,” Joe says. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again.”

  “Night comes soon,” Roger says. “And then the bonfires. They’ll be drunk, distracted in the dark.”

  “And then they go boom.” Ernesto taps the grenade clipped to his belt. “I’ve been waiting a long time for a good reason to toss one of these.”

  Below them, hidden by the knoll, Crimhauser’s mule and goat graze at a tuft of desert grass, blissfully unaware of their proximity to the headquarters of one the most feared men in the world. Roger’s nerves are calm, and his mind is clear. “Joe, you’re going to slip into valley where the bonfires are. You should be able to get close unnoticed. Use your grenade and make it count. They’re going to be like a swarm of hornets, so back out quickly. Spray them with some fire and disappear into the dark.

  “A path leads from the valley up to the complex. Ernesto, you’re going to split off from Joe and set yourself up where you can pick off any reinforcements running from the front area.”

  “And you?” asks Ernesto.

  “After Joe tosses his grenade, most of the front watch should be drawn down toward you. I’m going in right through the front. It’ll be dark, but I should be able to take out anyone left in the watchtower if necessary. I’m betting that Esther is somewhere in the main complex, so that’s where I’ll head.”

  “Then what?” Joe asks.

  “Then it’s up to you and fate. If it gets too hot, I don’t blame you for retreating while you can.”

  “I want to kill that bastard Maddox,” Joe says.

  “We all do.” Roger looks at the sun as it begins its slow descent from high noon. “Soon we’ll have our chance.”<
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  Roger approaches the main entry with deliberate steps. It is never truly dark in the desert; the brightness of the stars and moon softly illuminates the landscape up to the looming watchtower and Vane’s ominous head, now a simple oval, features hidden in shadow. He kneels what he gauges to be a safe distance from detection, pulling his automatic rifle from his shoulder and lining up the crosshairs in the vicinity of the tower where two heads create silhouettes.

  He waits, and the waiting feels long— the longest yet.

  A flash and a blast in the distance as Joe unleashes his grenade.

  Roger sees the Enlisted in his mind’s eye, reveling in the heat and light of the bonfires sending their unholy flames up to the night sky. Some would never know what hit them, while others would be knocked back and disabled. The rest would scatter and then swarm like angry hornets, grabbing for their weapons and utilizing the shooting range’s nearby armory. Some might shoot each other in the confusion, but they would gel and reinforce. The Enlisted were no strangers to sudden violence.

  Joe’s gun chatters in the night, one spurt, two and three. Shouts and screams echo from the valley. The gunfire stops. Joe must be making his retreat.

  One of the heads has left the watchtower. The plan is working.

  Roger waits.

  The deeper and closer report of Ernesto’s rifle sounds as he snipes the reinforcements heading down the path. It is time.

  Roger levels his gun, pauses. He could get closer. Shoot from out here and they might return fire too early. He bets on the distraction, shouldering his weapon and jogging toward the entrance. He takes the grenade from his belt and lobs it up into the watchtower, where it decimates the top of the structure and showers debris down on him. Ears ringing, he takes his rifle in both hands and charges forward.