Return from the Apocalypse Read online

  Roger frowns, and feels his body tense.

  “Relax, I’m just kidding with you.” Sully looks to Fred. “Right?”

  Fred says nothing.

  “Listen, I sure would’ve remembered a tall, blue-eyed pretty woman if she came to my town. But there’s been no one like that here.”

  “The Pony Express said she’d be here.”

  “I said listen. She isn’t here. As for the Pony Express, they must have their wires crossed. Who was it that left you off? The young guy? Beckett?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “Bet my life it’s him. Beckett’s no stranger to Germantown. He’s as big of a fan of our establishments as any red-blooded young man. He’d know better than anyone that there’s no pretty blue-eyed Esther here.”

  “You’re saying he’s lying? That the Pony Express is corrupt?”

  “I can’t speak to that. But certainly there’s been a miscommunication to say the least.”

  Sully pulls himself to his feet with a heavy breath and Roger rises with him, as does Fred. “Listen,” Sully says, “today and tonight, you’re our guest. We’ll put you up for the night and give you a decent meal. I understand you must be disappointed, suspicious even. You have a look around town and satisfy your curiosity. Then come to The Kathouse and have Dineen cook you a venison steak—on the Mayor. Have a room… and a bed… to yourself. Probably been awhile since you’ve slept on a mattress.

  “But then, you’ve got to move on. The communes,” Sully turns and spits, “have strict rules on visitors and induction. Now if you want to apply for residential status—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Roger says.

  “Good.” Sully nods to Fred. “Anything we can do to help.”

  Chapter 3: Splitting Wood

  The sun hovers above the trees, but will set soon, as Rogers plods the streets of Germantown in his own thick fog. The realization that Esther was not waiting with outstretched arms paralyzed his spirit, body and mind, responding with the mechanical reflex of a well-programmed robot, words spoken and legs moving, but hello no one’s home today....

  His feet maneuver the cracked and heaving pavement of Germantown’s sinking streets, until a particularly menacing rut catches Roger’s step and sends him to his hands and knees, wrists and palms scuffed and welling with small droplets of blood. Pain shoots from his hands up his arms and to his head, waking him from his trance. Disappointment still hangs, heavily, but his mind is active.

  You’re close, you fool. Don’t give up now.

  Thousands of miles, a decade, to come up empty?

  So walk, one mile more.

  I can’t.

  You will.

  And he does, now with his eyes seeing, his ears listening, and his mind planning. Burn through the fog. Take ownership of the future. Did he trust the mayor? No. Maybe Esther had never been here, or maybe she had. He had to rely on his own investigation.

  Ask the people.

  Behind a decaying Victorian, a man splits wood next to a fallen maple that has been sawed into sections. The pieces lay in the general area in which they were cut, making a rough outline of the tree’s original shape.

  The man, in his fifties, lifts the maul and comes down hard on the log, splitting it in two and sending the pieces flying.

  Roger approaches carefully. He knows the dangers of startling anyone in these unpredictable times. He waits until the man leans on his maul with one hand and wipes his brow with the other.

  “Excuse me,” Roger says.

  The man looks up sharply.

  “I’m looking for someone and was wondering if you’ve seen her.”

  “Haven’t seen you around here before.” White stubble sticks out from the man’s face like a balding porcupine.

  “I’m from out of town.”

  “The mayor know you’re here?”

  “Mayor Sully? Yeah, he knows.”

  The man relaxes, slightly. “What do you want from me?”

  “Like I said, I’m looking for someone.”

  The man grimaces, and then looks at the sawed up tree rounds spread out before him, covering most of the yard. “How’s your back?”

  “My back?”

  “Can you split?”

  “I guess I could.”

  The man leans the handle of the splitting maul toward Roger. “I’ll help you if you help me. As long as you keep splitting, I’ll keep talking.”

  Roger accepts the maul, and tests its weight. The tool is made from solid steel and is heavy in his grip. “So, this person I’m looking for—”

  “Let’s see you split a piece, first,” says the man.

  “Set me up,” Roger says, and the man does, placing an upright log before him. Roger heaves the maul over his head and sends it crashing down only to have it awkwardly glance off the edge of the log.

  “That’s not worth much.” The man smirks.

  Roger feels the length of the day and the shot of alcohol sitting low in his otherwise empty stomach, but raises the maul up and sends it down again. This time the head of the maul hits squarely in the center of the log and splits it neatly in two. “Better?”

  “Better,” the man says, begrudgingly. “Who’s this person you’re looking for?”

  “A woman, about my age. She would have arrived late last fall.”

  The man places another log in front of Roger. “Keep splitting.”

  And so Roger does, in between chops questioning the man, who relentlessly sets new pieces before him, even as the sweat pours from his skin.

  “It’s not unusual for women to show up to Germantown,” the man says. “They know there’s work to be had here when they’re down on their luck. If you know what I mean.”

  Roger’s expression hardens. “She wouldn’t be here for that.”

  “Just stating the facts,” says the man. “I don’t know nothing about it. Just stating the facts.” The man folds his arms as he watches Roger send another log flying into pieces. “Well, can you describe her?”

  Roger closes his eyes and tries to picture Esther. His memory is a mental drawing, colored with recollections of small, shared moments. The freckle on her arm, the scent of her hair. The memories are soft and blurry, unrelatable to a stranger seeking physical description.

  But he must provide something.

  “Her name’s Esther.” Roger breathes heavily. “She’s about my age, dark hair, well, sort of. She has blue eyes, I think?”

  “You think? You must have known this broad real well.”

  “She’s my wife,” says Roger, his voice dark.

  “Yeah, I had one of those once, too.” The man lines up another piece of wood. “Welcome to the end of the world.”

  Roger splits two more. The action is smoother now. His body has learned to adjust, to ignore the exhaustion and hunger.

  “I keep an eye on things happening in the village,” the man says. “There’ve been a few women that’ve come in. Don’t know their names or nothing. Or their eye color, for that matter.” The man pauses. “This lady of yours, she good looking?”

  Roger scowls. “Seems like that’s a popular question in Germantown.”

  “Don’t go getting your panties in a bunch. I’m just trying to determine if I’ve seen her or not, that’s the point right? So why don’t you answer my question— and keep splitting while you’re at it.”

  “Yeah, she’s good looking.” Roger grits his teeth and splits another.

  “Well, it’s been ten years, right?”

  “She’s still good looking.”

  “Alright, alright. Well, that narrows it down some. I wouldn’t call any of the women I’ve seen good looking. In a pinch, with some firewater, maybe…”

  Roger leans on the maul handle, which is wetted with sweat. “Then I guess I’m done here.”

  “Hold up now, just because I haven’t seen her doesn’t mean anything for sure. I might have a clue, if you’ve got a few more splits in you.”

  Roger spl
its two more before letting the maul drop to the ground. “That’s all I got. Now talk.”

  “If she came in at night, as some of them do, there are places she can be hidden away.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Now, I know you said she isn’t here for, you know, but I wouldn’t leave Germantown without visiting The Kathouse first.” The man looks down. “Not that your wife would be working there or anything. But it’s worth a check.”

  “All roads lead to The Kathouse,” Roger says.

  “If you think up any more questions, I’ve got plenty more wood to split,” the man says.

  Roger walks more crumbling streets, asks more questions of detached and unhelpful residents. He is met with suspicion, shifting eyes, and ennui. The sweat dries on his skin, but his clothing is still damp. The spring warmth of the day turns cool in the early evening, and what would have been a pleasant breeze now chills. Hunger and dehydration set in, dulling the brain. Roger thinks he must have talked to every resident in Germantown twice. Only one place is left, if he must. He is not eager to go to the place Mayor Sully directed him to so readily, though he cannot pinpoint why. But he suspects it is fear, fear of exhausting his only lead, or perhaps fear of what he may find.

  So here Roger finds himself, under the dripping yellow sign of The Kathouse.

  Chapter 4: An Evening in Germantown

  Four stories of brick building loom above Roger as he stands at the entrance. Glimmers of candlelight escape from behind drawn curtains in the upper stories, while blacked-out windows at street level reveal nothing of their contents.

  Roger vaguely remembers the building from before, his life prior to the end of the world. A secondhand store, a coffee shop, a dive bar— each withering away in the economic desert that was old Germantown. Roger rests his hand on the door handle, wondering what he will find inside.

  The door sticks before opening with a drawn out creak. The dimness of the evening is a smooth transition to the dimness within. Crude candles provide flickering light in makeshift holders of tin cans with holes punched in them, screwed to exposed brick. Roger steps down into a large, open room staggered with support beams. To his left, a bar runs down the length of the wall. To his right, three men play a game of pool on a worn-out billiards table. A candle has been fitted inside the once-electric light hanging over the table.

  “You’re new,” says a gaunt woman from behind the bar. Her sunken eyes bulge like shining black beetles.

  “Mayor Sully sent me,” Roger says, hoping that is a good thing.

  “And you don’t have no money.”

  “No.” Roger is acutely aware of the three men who have paused their game and watch from behind their cues.

  “Thank you, Mayor Sully, for sending me another charity case.” The woman motions Roger to the bar. “But don’t you worry about that, Hon. Ain’t your problem. Pull up a stool— looks like you could use a drink.”

  “And some food.” Roger feels his stomach contract. “I hope that’s part of the charitable donation.

  The gaunt lady cackles. “I got a crock of soup on. I’ll get you some. Beer or liquor?”

  “Beer?” Roger hasn’t had a beer since… “Yeah, I’ll have one of those.” He relaxes against the back of the stool as the woman disappears into a room behind the bar. The men have returned to their game, and don’t seem to care about him anymore.

  “Beer,” says Roger to himself. “Maybe Germantown isn’t so bad.”

  The soup comes out first. The scent mixes pleasantly with musk of the inside air.

  “What’s in it?” Roger asks.

  “Mostly venison. Some turnips. Soup stuff.” The woman mocks a stare-down, then draws back. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  The soup is delicious, and he shares that revelation with the woman.

  “You must be hungry, Hon. Let me get you that beer.”

  The beer is poured from a growler into a glass with a small chip on its rim. Thin bubbles stream upwards through the golden liquid. Roger inhales a sweet aroma before taking a cautious sip. The beer is pleasantly bitter, slightly sour, and a little warm. It’s the best thing Roger’s tasted in the last ten years.

  Revived, his eyes come into focus. The textures of the space sharpen in detail. Don’t get too comfortable, he thinks. You’re here for one reason only.

  “What’s your name, Hon?”

  “Roger. Yours?”

  “Kat.” She smiles revealing her coffee-colored teeth.

  “As of the sign?”

  “That’s me.”

  Roger takes a deeper sip. “Where do you get this?”

  “Promise you won’t tell?” Kat looks at Roger coyly.

  Roger shrugs. “Not sure who’d I tell, or what I’d tell them.”

  “Relax , Hon. I’m just messing with you. Some Roughie makes it. Technically, we ain’t supposed to mix with them. But my customers sure love his product.”

  “It’s good. Damn good.” Roger wonders what a “Roughie” is, but doesn’t ask. It doesn’t have anything to do with him.

  “Need anything else? It’s going to be a quiet night. With the weather getting nice, everyone’s putting themselves to honest work.”

  “I’m looking for someone, actually. My wife, Esther.”

  “I know, Hon.”

  The back of Roger’s neck prickles.

  “Mayor Sully stopped by earlier.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you must have asked almost the entire town. Only been here half a day, and you’re already a Germantown celebrity.”

  “Swell.” Roger looks down at his already half-empty glass. “You got more of this?”

  “Two growlers full with your name on them.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “So, you gonna ask me?”

  “Ask you?”

  “If I’ve seen your wife?”

  “Have you?”

  “Nope.” Kat laughs. “Sorry.”

  Roger finishes his beer, and another. The Kathouse is quiet, as predicted, with an occasional customer wandering in and settling at the far end of the bar. Kat quips with the regulars, keeping a tab on a notepad under the table. Roger never sees any currency change hands, but from what he can tell the residents keep an informal barter system. No one pays much attention to Roger, which suits him.

  Germantown was a dead end, in every respect. Either Esther arrived unseen, or there was a mass conspiracy to hide something from him. But why? The truth was probably much simpler: Esther had never been here. It meant he had been misled by the Pony Express. But why? And where was there to turn now? Esther could be anywhere, if she was even alive. All I have is a letter. A letter anyone could have written.

  No, the letter was hers. He knew.

  He knew.

  But what he didn’t know was what to do next.

  Roger stares at the bottom of another glass and the number of drinks he has had eludes him.

  “Second growler’s kicked, Hon.” Kat spirits from the other end of the bar to address his needs before he even thinks to ask for a refill. “I can get you something harder, or maybe you’re ready to bed down for the night?” A grimy twinkle lights her eye. “Maybe some company from one of the girls?”

  “Girls?”

  “Upstairs, Hon. Germantown’s finest.”

  “I’m married.”

  “We all know that, remember?”

  “I need to find her.” Roger stares foggily at his empty, fingerprint covered glass. “How do I even know if I can trust you, or anyone, in this godforsaken place?”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you drank all of that poisoned beer.” Kat’s lips press together thinly.

  “What?” Roger looks up from his haze, feels the room spin off-kilter, and clutches at his stomach. “Good Lord, no.”

  Kat laughs so hard flecks of spit fly from her mouth and land glistening on the beaten bartop.

  “I knew it,” Roger says, “I should have known it.”

&nbs
p; A man at the end of the bar joins Kat in her nasty bout of laughing, as do a couple of men playing darts nearby.

  “Calm down, Hon. You ain’t poisoned.” Kat places a brimming shot glass in front of him. “You’re just drunk. Roughie brew’ll kick your ass if you ain’t careful. Knock this back and I’ll show you to your room.”

  Sallow eyes in the glim. Roger rows himself up the stairs behind a waggling Kat. Her thin torso extends from potting jar thighs, which wither away into crooked, spindle legs. The rough hem of her black skirt brushes creamy skin.

  At the bar Roger took his shot and demanded another. Saw a face in the cracked bar mirror glass, his face, one eye and half a mouth with a big old slash through it.

  Sallow eyes, powdered face. Roger rows up the stairs past sad little doors.

  The green one is chipped paint and scratches.

  Sallow eyes in the glim. Her face, she was just a young thing.

  Most doors are closed, and behind them the earthy workings of subterrestrials, groaning and grinding. Roger loses his boat and swims up the stairs, one swinging foot after reaching hand, his reflection in a mirror, a slash.

  Sallow eyes in the glim.

  “Her?”

  “No.” Yes.

  I don’t know.

  The fourth floor is one long swerving glide to a musty box of a room with a prone parenthetical of a bed. Takes a shot, and demands another. Gleaming eyes in the glim.

  No.

  The fourth floor room is a box with a bed and square of a window that looks out over the street. The curving bed accepts his back, holds his weight. Someone takes off his shoes.

  Shiny beetle eyes and coffee teeth.

  “Night, Hon.”

  The door clicks and he is alone but the ceiling is still water. He swims against it, but he is already below the surface. The depths take him and he sleeps.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  In the early morning the bed creaks and the sheets shift as a body slips beside him. Roger feels the alcohol escaping his skin, on his breath. A slender shape conforms to his and a delicate hand crosses his chest.

  “Kat sent me.” It is the sallow-eyed girl he had seen through his intoxicated haze. Roger moves in the bed, feels her body quiver expectantly.