Max Ryker- The End Begins

by David Wayne

Donna nodded and spoke. “We were traveling from Hiateville to Atlanta, just like the government advised. We had no trouble until we started getting close and bumped into this bad man named Doug—”

  “He had a pet pig named Betsy,” Sam said.

  “Whose evil grip we barely escaped. Only to bump into more evilness, a man named Carlos—”

  “They call him the Mexican Cockroach.”

  “He kidnapped and turned us into what they called group wives. A code word for house slaves. We were available to all the men—”

  “They could do whatever they wanted,” Sam said.

  “Whenever they wanted,” Donna finished, “and they did so liberally. Normally, they sell captured women as sex slaves, but because Sam and I can cook, clean, and sew, they kept us for their own—”

  “They said we were old and no good in bed, so nobody wanted to buy us,” Sam added.

  There was a pause in the conversation, so I jumped in. “That’s an awful, horrible story,” I said, touching the sisters on the arm. “But tell us about what we might expect in Atlanta.” I noticed Susan scowling at me. She was obviously connecting to the emotional story, but I wanted facts and intel, so I ignored her look.

  Donna took the ball. “All I know is what I’ve overheard. There’s a group controlling the city. They call themselves The Citizens. Right now, they have a lock on Atlanta proper and claim it to be a Safe Zone. They have all the major arteries leading into the city blocked with buses and semitrucks, and the roads are heavily patrolled. You can only enter after passing through a guarded checkpoint.”

  “They shoot Hogwogs on sight,” Sam added.

  “There’s a five-mile perimeter around the city, called the Walk Zone. You can only enter that on foot, no exceptions.”

  “How far away from Atlanta are we, Donna?” I asked.

  “It’s a thirty-minute ride, plus the Walk Zone,” she said.

  I moved up closer to her. “How safe is it? Do you know?”

  “The Citizens patrol the Walk Zone pretty heavily, or at least they did—”

  “They shoot people they don’t trust,” Sam said.

  Donna was nodding in agreement. “Carlos never talked about what occurs inside Atlanta. He wasn’t allowed in. No one who came through his camp had been inside the Safe Zone.”

  “This Citizens group, is it the government?” I said.

  “Carlos seemed to think so,” she said. “Based upon what he’d heard, but like I said, he’d never been inside. Afraid of getting shot.”

  It seemed we’d exhausted what they knew. It was all secondhand anyway. “Anything else you ladies know or want to say?” I asked, looking for a way to end the conversation.

  They looked at each other and giggled. “We want to thank you, Mr. Ryker, for saving us.”

  “Like a hero,” Sam added.

  “Sam and I read romance novels, and the whole affair just seemed like a best seller—”

  “Like you rode in on a white stead and rescued us.”

  “From the darkest of nights,” Donna said, and both women squealed.

  “We don’t mind being sister wives, Mr. Ryker,” Sam threw out, causing both ladies to blush and squirm around.

  “But only if that interests you,” Donna said.

  “We think we’re good in bed,” Sam added.

  “Alrighty,” Sister interjected, standing up. “We need to get moving,” she said, smiling uneasily. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

  Chapter 54

  Sister and I walked outside for a private meeting, a very heated and unpleasant one, but we finally reached a compromise. We went back inside to explain our plan.

  “We’re going to travel with you guys up until the Walk Zone,” I said. “At that point, we’re going to split up.”

  “How come?” Bob asked.

  “I want to scope out the situation better. I’ll not walk blindly into Atlanta without knowing firsthand it’s safe—the Citizens group notwithstanding. Bob, I suggest you do the same for your family as well. I’d offer to do it together, but I can’t protect a group of twenty. We’re all safer in smaller numbers.” I hated to say it, but it was true.

  “I ain’t worried about it none. It’s a government Safe Zone,” Bob said, “but I would appreciate your help getting everyone to the Walk Zone. Once we reach that point, it’s patrolled,” he said, looking around at the others, who were nodding in agreement.

  “I’m good with that,” Donna said. “My sister and I will stay with the family and the others. They need us.” She turned to me. “Please, Max, please don’t abandon us. Do you promise to get us safely to the Walk Zone?”

  “Of course he does,” the sister chimed in. “Don’t you, Max?”

  I hid a frown. “Yes, we’ll travel as a group to the Walk Zone, but then we go our separate ways. Does everyone agree?” I asked.

  Everyone did.

  *

  While the adults talked, the Brouder kids had packed up and were ready to go—all without being told to do so. Having a litter of kiddies had its benefits. Sister and I loaded our stuff, and we prepared for shove off. The van, a large crew cab with multiple rows of long seats, could barely hold all twenty of us. Most of our belongings, sparse as they were, rode rooftop. The group of slaves had nothing. The plan was to travel at fifteen miles an hour, take it easy, and get there in one piece with our resources intact. As it turned out, we had no choice. As we got closer to Atlanta, the roads grew harder to navigate. They were clogged with broken-down or stalled vehicles and other obstructions. We also encountered a steady stream of travelers heading to the Big Peach. Mostly on foot, but some folks were creative. We saw a unicycle, an old farm tractor carrying an entire family, and two people on a donkey. The only constant was the mood. No one waved or acknowledged us as we passed. People kept their heads down and trudged along. What we didn’t see were Hogwogs. Presumably, we were too close to the Safe Zone for their comfort level, which was fine by me.

  Brenda Brouder fought with her brother to win the seat next to me. I wasn’t sure why, because I intended to nap the whole time. At twelve years old, Brenda was a prodigy, already enrolled in college. She talked like a professor, which was very disconcerting. Your eyes saw a child, but your ears heard an intelligent adult. It threw you off, like touching a flame that’s freezing cold.

  I made a pillow from my shirt, turned my body sideways, and leaned into the window. I felt a small, tentative elbow in my side—which actually hurt, because my body was bruised from the wall thrashing. I used my newly acquired women skills on the young female, the ones I’d refined dealing with the sister—I ignored her.

  She elbowed me harder. This time it really hurt. “Ouch, Brenda, be careful. I’m still hurting there.”

  I started to lean back into the window, but she cleared her throat, loudly. I turned and looked into the angry eyeballs of a mini-Sister. How young do they learn this stuff?

  “Mr. Ryker, I’ll have you know that I traded the last of my candy to win this seat. Do you have any idea as to the value of candy in this economy?” she asked, very huffy. The little girl was mimicking the way Sister and I interacted, and I didn’t like it one bit. In fact, I didn’t much care for the real version of it. Time to handle the little pike.

  “Max needs a nap, sweetheart. Why not sit with Sister? Off you go, now,” I said, attempting to pat her on the head. She ducked and threw me a scowl.

  “I’ll not be shooed off like a fly, Mr. Ryker. We’re pressed for time, and I insist we dig in. We have work to do.”

  So much for a nap. “What work?

  “My major is human psychology, and I find you to be a most intriguing specimen,” she said, her face beaming.

  “Well, to my knowledge, I’ve never been referred to as a specimen before—”

  “No offense intended. It’s strictly a clinical term, Mr. Ryker,” she said, giving me a light pat on the arm.

  “Please, call me Max. Mr. Ryker is reserved for when the sister�
�s angry with me,” I said.

  “In return for saving us, I’m going to try and provide some measure of payment, small as it is.”

  I smiled. “I don’t want your candy, Brenda, but thank you anyway.”

  She frowned. “No, I’m going to provide you with a free counseling session.”

  Great, I was being analyzed by a twelve-year-old shrink.

  She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now, I’m not yet a licensed psychiatrist, but I am still bound by the Hippocratic Oath, so nothing we discuss will be shared. Is that understood by you, Mr. Ryker?”

  I matched her whisper. “If it wasn’t, it is now,” I answered.

  “Very well, to my first question. You dislike children. Do you know why?” she asked.

  That question caught me off guard. “No, Brenda, I’m afraid you’ve lost me on that one. I actually enjoy children very much. Sorta like pets,” I said. Sister was sitting across the aisle and up two seats, desperately trying to hear. I could see her smirking. I made a face at her.

  “Yet, if a child tries to engage, you pretend to be asleep—like you did on the wagon, and just a moment ago,” she said. “Please explain.”

  I shrugged. “I never do that.”

  “I see,” she said, frowning. “Do you see the avoidance, the desire not to interact with others, Mr. Ryker?”

  “Nope, it’s just an exhausted nap. Sorry, Brenda. You’re doing a good job, though,” I said, without attempting to pat her head. I tried to catch Sister’s eye to come and save me—but she’d anticipated this and was practicing avoidance.

  Brenda leaned forward, taking on a more aggressive body stance and tone. She looked me square in the eyes and said bluntly, “Do you hate me, Mr. Ryker?”

  “What? Of course not. I didn’t mean…uh… You shouldn’t think…”

  She let me hang that way for a few awkward moments. “It’s all right. What you’re doing now is called processing. It’s what one does when facing uncomfortable realities during counseling sessions. That’s normal,” she said, patting my leg gently. “The first step to overcoming your fears is to establish a small bond with another person. What you need is a friend.” She held out her hand. “Go ahead, Mr. Ryker, hold my hand, I won’t hurt you.”

  I didn’t move. I was way out of my element and had left my comfort zone long ago.

  Brenda reached over and grabbed my hand. “There you go, Mr. Ryker. See? It doesn’t hurt—it’s quite pleasant, don’t you think?” she asked. When I didn’t answer, she added, “You must face this head on. I will help you through it.”

  She was so sincere, what could I say? “Sure, it’s… nice. You’re a very sweet girl.”

  “Good, let’s move along. When did you first realize you were in love with Sister Susan?” she asked.

  I tried to pull my hand away, but she held on tightly. “Now you’re moving into adult subject matters.”

  “Would you say it was before or after she fell in love with you?”

  I was trapped in the seat. Brenda was sitting between me and the aisle, so I couldn’t bolt. I didn’t want to be mean; her look was so innocent. I took a few deep breaths. “Tell you what, let's solve one thing at a time. I’m trying to learn how to properly bond with a child right now, you know? That’s hard work.” I pulled her hand onto my lap and lay my head against the window. I felt her lean into me, and saw the huge smile before I closed my eyes. The problem was her words had upset me, and I didn’t understand why.

  A mile before the Walk Zone, we had to park. The obstacles were too thick to drive through. We had no choice but to pull over and load up our persons. During the walk, Brenda held my hand, one minute talking psychobabble over my head, the next minute giggling over some silly girl comment she’d made. I guess the young ones were no easier to understand than the adult ones. But she was genuine, and I enjoyed the walk.

  As we rounded the crescent of the last hill, we caught an expansive, distant view of Atlanta; thousands of people were walking toward downtown from all directions. We stood in awe. People, as far as you could see, marching toward an unofficial meeting place—like a group of lemmings. It was an aha moment. The skyline was gloomy, dark grey clouds hanging over the city like an angry boss. People who traveled together walked shoulder-to-shoulder, giving wide berth to other groups. They slunk along, heads and shoulders drooped, as if walking toward the gas chamber. This was not the vibe I was hoping to find when we reached the Peach.

  After we said our good-byes to the group, the sister and I headed south. We hadn’t gotten far when I heard a small voice yelling my name. I turned to see Brenda running toward me. Sister nudged me to walk toward the girl. We met halfway.

  “I wrote you a poem. May I read it?” she said.

  “Sure.” What else could I say? She cleared her throat and unfolded a paper.

  "Your heart is bigger than the Grand Canyon, while your hurt runs deeper than the Rio gushing through it."

  I’m no poem king, but I thought they were supposed to rhyme? As I struggled to respond, she curled her finger back and forth, indicating she wanted to whisper in my ear. I knelt; listening would be easier than responding.

  Throwing her arms around my neck, she said quietly, “Mr. Ryker, you are a very special man. You saved my family, along with twelve others, for no personal gain. Eighteen people walk away free and alive today, indebted to you forever. My fear is that you walk away and will forget us—or have already forgotten us. That would mean we brought you nothing in return for your sacrifice and kindness.” She was tearing up, her body trembling. Then, to my horror, the poor girl started sobbing uncontrollably. I hugged her tightly, fighting my own tears.

  “Brenda, you’ve brought more joy and insight into my life over the past two days than I’ve known over the last ten years. I will never, not in ten million years, forget you. Now, go. Leave with the knowledge that you have somehow softened a cold, hard stone.”

  She smiled a smile that only a child can. Then she kissed me softly on the cheek before running off and rejoining her family. Somehow, in the course of only a few hours, a child had flipped my world upside down.

  Chapter 55

  We walked south, skirting the Safe Zone while hugging its outer perimeter. I stopped occasionally, using the binoculars to scope out Atlanta—but we were too far away to see much.

  “So, what did the little professor have to say on the ride in?” Sister said.

  “She’s amazing—a big brain in a little body,” I said, changing the subject.

  Sister chuckled. “Her mother told me she already had a full ride to Harvard. They estimated she’d be a full doctor by twenty and was also going to minor in creative writing. She showed me some poems—amazing writing, especially for twelve.”

  It was hard to describe the little tot without using the word amazing. “Maybe now she can use those smarts to help rebuild the world."

  “So, what was her diagnosis? I saw her analyzing you.”

  So much for tap-dancing around the subject. “She said I suffered from Kids Love You syndrome. She described it as being a human magnet for children. I knew that about women, but—”

  “That’s a joke if I ever heard one,” she said without laughing.

  “You, on the other hand, apparently have many strange afflictions. Per the genius,” I said.

  She swung me a look. “Like what?”

  “Sharp-tongue-itis, mother-hen syndrome, control-freak disease—”

  “I think you’ve got the diagnosis flip-flopped, kiddo. I’m sorry the family's gone. I’m going to miss the adult conversation,” she said, putting it in high hiking gear and speeding off.

  We veered east, traveling midway between I-285 and Atlanta—roughly down the center of the Walk Zone. We passed old campsites, evident from burned spots on the ground and trash littered about; evidently people no longer felt the need to clean up after themselves. It was late morning, but we still encountered several live campsites—people milling around, preparing f
or their last walk into the unknown. For the most part, campers were semi-friendly yet wary—nodding cautiously as we passed but not speaking. We returned in kind, unaware we had subconsciously adapted the new way of greeting strangers—hopeful apprehension.

  I watched a young couple packing, working together to fold up their tent. My thoughts drifted back to earlier, when Susan and I were doing much the same. We’d awoken knowing that today would be our last, but neither of us acknowledged that knowledge. Tomorrow, all things being what they were supposed to be, we’d walk down into Atlanta. Then it would be over. Something new and unknown would begin, literally a new life. I had watched Susan packing and felt a sense of sadness—yet she was smiling and humming softly, which lifted my spirits some. Today marked four weeks since we’d started our journey, and that travel would be culminating at the end of today’s hike.

  “Excuse me,” someone said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I turned swiftly toward the voice. It was a middle-aged couple, traveling with a brooding male in his early twenties—most likely their son.

  “Mister, you got anything to eat?” the woman asked, adopting a false friendliness. As she talked, she drifted slightly to the right of her companions. “We’ve had nothing for two days and don’t have the strength to keep going.” While engaging us, she moved farther right, attempting to divert our attention from the men, who were drifting in the opposite direction; they were fanning out around us. Father and son were looking me up and down, assessing and considering. After the father did a three-sixty look around, he returned his gaze to his beefy-built boy. They had made their decision, but so had I—proactive assessment was in my DNA.

  “Not a good idea, fellas,” I said, pulling out my sidearm. “Mama, move next to them now, or I shoot the kid. You’ve got two seconds.” She made it in one. I expected the sister to protest, but she stood idle, saying nothing.

  “Look here, man,” the kid said, taking a step forward, but he stopped when he heard the click of the hammer being cocked.