Revenence (Novella 2): Dead Tired

by M. E. Betts

  "I found you on I-40," the man said. "You were laying in the road, unconscious. I saw you move a little, and I almost put a bullet in you. But then I saw you were fresh-looking, not rotted. I walked up, and sure enough, I heard you mumbling, even made out a few words here and there. It's a pretty good gouge you've got running across your forehead."

  "I don't know what we hit," Adrian said, beginning to recall what had happened. "I mean, uh, what I hit. I was tired. Probably too tired to be riding, honestly. I'm Adrian, by the way."

  The other man gave Adrian a quick nod of acknowledgment. "They call me Ragtop," he said.

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ragtop," Adrian said. "And thanks."

  "Eh, it was nothing," Ragtop said. "I didn't have to go out of my way, I just found you. And I wasn't about to leave you in the road for the zombies headed your way. Our species is endangered, hard to come by."

  "That, it is," Adrian concurred with a heavy sigh, glancing out the window at the steadily brightening daylight. "So where are we?"

  "About ten minutes outside of Groom, Texas," Ragtop said. "Probably half an hour from Amarillo."

  Shit, Adrian thought. I managed to keep my eyes open that long?

  "As soon as you're good to go," Ragtop said, "I'll be hitting the road. Not back to Amarillo, though--that's where Dean and me came from. I'd advise you to stay away from it, yourself."

  Adrian's hunter instinct kicked in. He consciously steadied his breathing, even as his heart and lymphatic system kicked into high gear. "You came from Amarillo, you say?"

  Ragtop locked eyes with him for a moment before he responded. "That's right."

  Just then, a knob turned on a door to Adrian's rear, and another man entered the room. It startled Adrian, as he hadn't been aware that anyone else was in the building but Ragtop and himself.

  "This is Dean," Ragtop said. "Dean, this is Adrian."

  "How do you do," Adrian said.

  "Good to see you're gonna pull through," Dean said, nodding. He was middle-aged and slightly heavy-set, with wheat-colored hair streaked with white and gray. "You didn't look too good when we found you. But we got you back here, got you cleaned up, and saw it wasn't as bad as we first thought."

  "I appreciate what the two of you have done," Adrian said. "I don't imagine I'd be alive if you hadn't happened by." He paused. "How long have I been out, anyway?"

  "Least six hours," Ragtop said. "You worried about that putting you behind for anything?"

  He wants to know more about me, Adrian thought. He supposed it was natural, and to be expected. If I helped some stranger, I'd wanna know they wouldn't turn around and stab me in the back. Still, Ragtop and Dean, as kind and helpful as they seemed, had come from a sadist settlement. Furthermore, it wasn't just any group of sadists--they were the ones who had his daughter. Adrian wasn't ready to trust them, but he was curious to see what would come of the interaction.

  "I was just passing through," Adrian said. "I'm looking for a family member."

  "Shit," Dean said, "ain't we all?"

  "Where you headed to?" Ragtop asked.

  Adrian shook his head. "Not sure. That's the problem."

  "This family member," Ragtop said, "did they go missing, run off or something?"

  Adrian and Ragtop stared one another down for a few moments while the former man tried to read the face of the latter. He couldn't help but feel that he was being interrogated.

  "Tell me," Ragtop said, leaning his weight onto a counter about four feet from Adrian, "what have you heard about the folks in Amarillo?"

  Adrian shrugged, unable to formulate a response he deemed suitable.

  "Nothing good," Dean said. "Am I right?"

  "I've heard some things," Adrian said. "I admit, not good ones."

  "What if I told you Dean and I were escaping for good when we found you?" Ragtop asked. "That they left more than a bad taste in our mouth? Would that change anything? Make you any more likely to trust us?"

  Adrian mulled over the thought. "Maybe a little."

  "Tell me," Ragtop prodded. "What were you doing so near Amarillo, with nothing else around for hundreds of miles in any given direction?"

  Adrian sighed. He supposed there was little to lose if he were to divulge more information. Even if Ragtop tried to turn him in to Pfeifer, the sadist in charge in Amarillo, that would at least let him know where he stood, and to expect a fight when he got into the city, after dealing with the two men in his present company. Least I've gotten some rest, he thought.

  "Well," he told Ragtop and Dean, "as it turns out, I'm looking for my daughter. Some guys, I'm assuming under the direction of this Pfeifer I've heard about, kidnapped her back in Kentucky. I chased her all the way here to Texas, though they likely got into town hours ago. I got a tip in Oklahoma City that these guys were from Amarillo, and so I kept on I-40. I've only slept so much since leaving Kentucky, so I guess I fell asleep riding and crashed. I think that pretty much brings us to the present."

  All three men were silent for a few moments.

  "I don't know your daughter," Ragtop said. "She'd have gotten into Amarillo after Dean and me left town. I can't say I don't believe you, though. Pfeifer's men have kidnapped a lot of daughters, and sons, too."

  "So I take it you two don't like this Pfeifer too much, "Adrian said, panning his gaze from Ragtop to Dean. "You said Amarillo left a bad taste in your mouth."

  "Shit," Ragtop scoffed, "there's nothing to like about Pfeifer or that place, unless you really enjoy that dog-eat-dog way of life. Pfeifer goes for the throat. If you don't go limp, tuck your tail, he'll go for blood. Seems like it's the same way with the groups he sends out to terrorize the few survivors. So no, we don't care too much for Pfeifer."

  "We just didn't realize 'til after we got there," Dean said. "We didn't know what kind of people they were. They thrive at everyone else's expense. And once we did realize, well...it's not the kind of place where you can just leave."

  "But isn't that what you said you were doing?" Adrian asked. "Leaving?"

  "Not leaving, escaping," Dean said. "Ragtop and me were on a mission, sent by Pfeifer. We were supposed to pick up the truck that's outside, the one we drove here in." He gestured out the window. "Take it back to Pfeifer."

  "Must be one hell of a truck," Adrian said, "if this Pfeifer sent the two of you this far out to get it."

  "It is," Ragtop said. "TFFT, Tactical Fire Fighting Truck. Impenetrable cabs and cargo holds, oversized tires, built-in roof hatch. It's got a lot going for it. I imagine Pfeifer had big plans for it, not that he shared those with us."

  "It's well on its way to being a tank," Dean added. "A few modifications, and it'll be better than a tank in a lotta ways."

  Ragtop nodded. "Worst thing about it is it's a gas-guzzler. One of the first things it'll need is to be switched over to bio-diesel."

  The three men were quiet for another moment, until Dean broke the silence. "Ragtop," he said, his tone subdued, "we need to go to Amarillo. We need to soup up the truck, and then all of us--including Adrian and his daughter--get the hell out of there and don't look back."

  Ragtop nodded. "It would give us the resources to get that truck fixed up." He rubbed his face vigorously before it broke into a spontaneous grin, and he locked eyes with Dean. "Didn't imagine we'd be turning around so soon to go back into the belly of the beast, did you?"

  "And willingly," Dean added with a smirk. "But we'll come out ahead."

  "Your timing is good," Ragtop told Adrian. "Pfeifer isn't even expecting us back yet."

  "So what's the plan?" Adrian asked.

  Ragtop mulled over the thought for a moment before he spoke. "We get back in the truck," he said, "as soon as you feel like you can walk, that is. We'll take a little drive over toward the opposite side of Amarillo, where Pfeifer's expecting us to be coming from when we get back to town. We say we picked you up out there." He paused. "This is all assuming none of them saw you."

  "I never got very close to them
," Adrian said, "except the ones I killed. I guess maybe one of them could've seen me, but they'd have needed a damn good scope. Even then, I doubt they could pick me out of a line-up."

  "We'll change up your look a little," Ragtop said. "Make you look like you're just one of the good ol' boys, and we should be able to get you in there. Long as you're up for it, we'll leave at sunrise."

  Adrian stepped out into the sun-drenched morning, fishing through his backpack for his wrap-around sunglasses. He slid the ends carefully beneath the edge of his 'do rag, then pushed them firmly onto the bridge of his nose. Beneath the fabric wrapping his head, his scalp was shorn and itchy, the stubble left behind catching on the cloth. Although he had shaved his head, he left the overgrown, unkempt beard and mustache that had accumulated in his time on the road. The rest of his facial hair was shaved down, matching his head. His bones, muscles, and even his skin seemed to throb as a result of the impact he had suffered due to his crash.

  He left the parking lot of the building in which he, Ragtop and Dean had spent the night, approaching a thrift store across the street. He tried the door, finding it open, and entered the store.

  Inside, he was greeted by the smell and feel of stale, dark, cool air. He shined the beam of a flashlight across the small interior. Although the front door had been left unlocked, Adrian had the impression that not many had been in the store for some time. The dust and overall atmosphere appeared undisturbed.

  He made his way toward a circular rack full of men's shirts on hangers. As he rustled the garments, clouds of dust emerged, floating upward and into the shaft of sunlight coming from the southeastern window.

  His gaze panned down the beam of light and toward the doorway through which he had entered. He noticed a cluster of small, taxidermied animals piled up near the door, including several mounted heads. As he looked from one dismembered head to the next, his eyes seized on one in particular. He realized that it had come from a human, or at least a very fresh zombie. Its lifeless stare met Adrian's gaze, and the acutely eerie sensation hastened his search for a shirt.

  "I don't even wanna fuckin' know," he said as he chose a well-worn black muscle shirt with the Confederate flag on the front, the word REBEL scrawled beneath it. He grabbed a baggy, long-sleeved denim shirt to layer over the sleeveless garment, hurrying out the door past the mounted animals and body parts.

  "You find what you needed?" Ragtop called as he saw Adrian heading across the street with the newly acquired clothing bundled in his arms. The truck was already running, and Dean waited behind the wheel.

  "Yeah," Adrian said, opening the door and climbing in. He removed his trench coat, preparing to change his clothes. "Let's get the hell outta this place."

  "Alright," Ragtop said as he settled in on the end, pulling his door closed. "You heard the man, Dean."

  The trio detoured briefly eastward, retrieving Adrian's motorcycle and loading it into the back of the truck. They drove back to Groom, traveling to the opposite side of town and stashing the bike there, in a nondescript shed behind a neighborhood dwelling. Adrian sighed as he left the motorcycle behind and turned toward the idling truck, where Ragtop and Dean waited.

  "Celia and me'll be back for it, dad," he said under his breath. "I promise."

  He and his two companions made their way toward Amarillo, able to move quickly as all of the lanes were thoroughly cleared west of Groom. Adrian settled into the seat, gazing out the windshield from his vantage point high above the road.

  "This Pfeifer," he said, "he keep people stationed outside of town, I'm assuming?"

  "He does," Dean said, glancing at Adrian, "but closer to the city. We'll have to detour south once we get within about ten miles or so, but the bulk of that distance is to make sure folks in Amarillo don't hear the truck. From there, we'll detour around town so we can come in from the west, which is what they're expecting."

  They drove on in silence for several minutes before Dean spoke up again.

  "I don't know how we're gonna pull it off," he said. "I mean, yeah--we can get into the city. But after that, I don't know."

  "I don't know," Ragtop said. "I don't know how we'll get the truck out, or the girl."

  "Or ourselves," Dean added

  Adrian nodded, ruminating over the thought. "Guess we'll have to take it as it comes," he said. "One day at a time." He watched out the window as they sped past cottonwood and mesquite trees, and buffalograss nearing the end of its life cycle. The sun behind them set the sparse plains alight as they advanced westward, the hulking shadow of the truck preceding them.

  As Dean drove them down the highway, Ragtop checked the radio. After only a moment, Adrian heard the vocals of Toby Keith over the speakers.

  "Amarillo's official radio station after the apocalypse," Ragtop told Adrian.

  "101.1," Dean said. "Mouthpiece of Pfeifer himself."

  "Which is why," Ragtop said, "you won't hear them play anything but the most white-bread country music the Old World has to offer." He laughed, though he let the selection continue to play. "God bless America, right?"

  Through the window to his right, Adrian saw a handful of circular irrigation fields, apparently functioning. Unlike the many others of its kind he had seen on the road, which had been planted just before society's collapse and abandoned to die of thirst in the dry climate, these ones appeared to be green and thriving. Even from the road, maturing fruits and vegetables were visible on the full, abundant green plants.

  "These farms being run by people in Amarillo?" Adrian asked.

  "You know it," Ragtop said.

  "Pfeifer wouldn't let 'em be, if they weren't his," Dean said. "Not so close by."

  "What are they growing?" Adrian asked.

  "Mostly wheat and sorghum," Dean said, pointing at the closest field, "but as you can see, there's some produce, too."

  "And then there's the cattle," Ragtop said. "Beef was big business in Amarillo back in the day, and that hasn't changed. Their feed is where the bulk of our grain goes."

  "Ah," Adrian said. "So at least I might get a chance at a decent steak while I'm in town?"

  "Shit," Ragtop said. "It's all those crackers wanna eat. No offense, guys."

  Dean shrugged. "A lot of them are crackers. I like to be more to the point, though. They're just barbarians, and barbarians come in all colors, right? All of them, even the blacks and Latinos they got. Other than me, Ragtop and a handful of other people, there's one neighborhood where the normal people stay, people like doctors and engineers, and some of the people that are still half-assed running the nuke plant."

  "If Pfeifer didn't isolate those folks," Ragtop said with a rueful laugh, "they'd probably have given up already. Run off into the desert to their certain doom. Pfeifer knows that he needs at least a handful of people that aren't like the rest, just to keep things running."

  "You can't expect to fill all the slots need filled with just sadists alone," Adrian said, staring out his window. "And normal folks need morale to function."

  "Sadists," Ragtop repeated. "Fuckin' A."

  Adrian paused. "So it's mostly a lot of honky-tonk white boys in Amarillo?" he asked.

  "More or less," Dean said. "Good choice, with that get-up. You should fit right in."

  "I know their type all too well," Adrian said, exhaling deeply and settling more comfortably into his seat. He couldn't shake from his head the image and laughter of Lee McMahon. "I might fit in better than what I like."

  It was roughly an hour later when Adrian looked out the window and saw a sign indicating that the small, satellite town of Bishop Hills lay to the left, down Tascosa Road. The truck continued ahead on 335, where the three men were headed in a north to northeast direction. They had detoured south before reaching Amarillo, taking a rural county road, then another to the west. Upon reaching 335, they had taken the route north, grazing the western edge of Amarillo until the road curved up and around the northern edge of town. From there, they continued east on 335, toward the Pantex plant.
The result was a near-circular path that left them not too far from the stretch of route 40 where they had detoured south. The purpose of circumnavigating the city was to make it appear that the truck were coming from the west, the direction from which Ragtop and Dean were expected to be returning, and not the east, the direction in which Dean and Ragtop had intended to escape.

  They reached a gate, manned by four guards, that would afford them entrance into the city. Adrian saw one of the guards speak briefly into a walkie-talkie. After only a moment, he raised the gate arm, nodding Dean through.

  As they drove along the northern edge of town, human infrastructure to the right and bare desert to the left, Adrian began to see, smell and hear the tell-tale signs of living human civilization. There was a distinctive aroma of cooking meat mingling with the smell of strong, fresh-brewed coffee. Far to the right, somewhere within the mass of residential streets, there was the squealing of rubber on asphalt and the whining of an over-strained engine as some unseen driver pushed a vehicle past its limit. Down the road, other cars and trucks turned right at a nearby junction, pulling onto the highway in front of Adrian and his two traveling companions.

  "Almost like business as usual around here," Adrian marveled.

  "More than you know," Ragtop said. "Business here in the old world was beef and bombs, two industries that are alive and well."

  "They made bombs here?" Adrian asked.

  "Yessir," Dean said. "The Pantex plant earned Amarillo the nickname Bomb City back in the day on account of it being the only nuclear assembly and disassembly plant in America."

  "Pfeifer's not using it yet," Ragtop said, "but that redneck just wants to be close to it for now, keep an eye on it. He has neither the resources, nor the understanding of what to do with it. But I have a feeling his second-in-command does. The understanding, that is. He's just missing the resources."

  "The power plant, on the other hand," Dean said, "that's up and running."