Return from the Apocalypse Page 3

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You can go.”

  “Can I wait here for just a little while?” asks the girl, “So Kat thinks… that you wanted me?”

  “If it helps you.”

  Relief eases over the girl’s cheerless face. She leaves her hand on his chest. “Are you a good man?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I heard you were looking for someone. You asked all over town.”

  “My wife.”

  The girl is pretty in her simple way, her pallid skin almost opaque. Time moves slowly in the awkwardness of waiting. Roger wonders how long it has been, how much time is enough to placate Kat.

  “I might know something,” the girl says.

  Roger listens intently.

  “There’s a rider that asks for me when he comes here. He came before the winter for a night and had to leave early. Said he was picking up some woman and her kid.”

  Roger is wide awake now. “A Pony Express rider?”

  “I meant to say.” The girl chews her bottom lip. “Germantown is on his route.”

  “Do you remember where he was picking her up?”

  “I thought Elliston. But I can’t remember real well.”

  “You did fine.” Roger’s faculties come into focus, his senses sharpen. He feels the worn bedsheets against his legs.

  “Just a while longer,” the girl says. It would be fine. Everything would be, Roger thinks.

  Chapter 5: Coincidence

  Hello, Germantown. Goodbye, Germantown.

  Roger feels the stink eye from the boy at the gate as he makes his exit. He doesn’t look back.

  Good riddance.

  The old state route follows the river, and Roger sticks to it, in favor of the interstate. His footsteps clop heavily against the ground and echo in his hungover head. Arms, weary from splitting wood, dangle at his sides. He thinks about what he has: a plastic grocery bag filled with a day’s worth of dried meat and a bottle of water; the clothes on his back and the worn shoes on his feet. And a memory folded in his left pocket.

  He thinks about what he does not have: everything else. The Pony Express required him to travel weaponless, without even a simple knife.

  And he didn’t have Esther.

  Or any solid clue as to where she was.

  But still, despite his folly of the previous night, he feels the slightest glimmer of hope.

  The sun promises to peer over the hills, and the birds make their morning songs. “Fee bee,” the little black-capped birds sing. “Fee bee.”

  Roger drinks some water and whistles back the notes.

  “Fee bee,” the birds continue to sing.

  Tiny icicles drip-drip-drip as the sun appears and tickles them.

  To his left, a hill covered in bramble and ever-shrinking patches of snow. To his right, the river. Bushes and branches spill over the sides of the road, matted brown leaves carpeting the cracked and potted roadway.

  Morning matures and Germantown is well behind him. Roger picks his way over a small landslide that has covered the road. His head still aches, so he sits on a dry stone that has rolled into the middle of the road, to rest.

  Last night comes back to him in patches. Kat had called him a “good boy” when she sent him packing this morning. He took comfort in that, though the standard for “good” in Germantown might not be that difficult to achieve. He remembers thinking he was poisoned, and chuckles at himself. He remembers seeing the sallow-eyed girl’s face in the doorway, and hearing her tell her story.

  But when do I give up?

  When his legs stop moving.

  No, when my heart stops pumping.

  When he finds Esther, one way or another.

  There’s still Elliston.

  Elliston. A short drive from here, Roger thinks. But a hell of a long walk.

  Roger compels himself to his feet once again. The sun radiates through the leafless branches and invigorates. Spring has sprung. Hope. Etcetera. Time to put more miles behind him. Put Germantown as far behind him as possible.

  A branch snaps on the hillside.

  Roger stops in his tracks.

  Stares at the collage of dead leaves and snow. Nothing moves; he sees nothing.

  Roughies?

  Roger continues walking, but now more alert. He abandons introspection and instead focuses on his surroundings.

  The familiarity of the roadway and the happy spring nonsense evoked safety, but that was a lie.

  Kat had warned him about the Roughies on his way out the door.

  “Might want to take the interstate,” she had said.

  But Roger didn’t want to take the interstate. He was familiar with this old state route by the river.

  And now his heart was tapping against his breastbone.

  Roger had asked Kat about the Roughies.

  “They don’t like walls, and they sure won’t like you walking on their road,” she had said.

  Kat and her beetle eyes.

  “But, the interstate ain’t much better,” she had cackled.

  So here he was.

  Walking on a beautiful spring day along the old state route. Birds singing and sticks snapping the woods.

  Could’ve been a deer.

  He didn’t see a deer.

  He didn’t see anything.

  “Fee bee,” a bird sings, lowering an octave. “Watch your back,” Roger hears.

  A dented green road sign reads “Elliston, Five Miles.”

  Practically there, Roger thinks, ironically.

  Elliston, the place Esther had spent the last ten years of her life, according to her letter.

  But was she there now?

  Beckett had left him off a few miles from Germantown. Was that because he knew something? Knew that she wouldn’t be there? He had seemed distant and sketchy.

  Or had Esther left of her own accord?

  Ten years, thinks Roger. Maybe it was too long, too much.

  Maybe she had never left Elliston at all.

  Maybe she didn’t even want to see him.

  Ten years is a new life. Ten years is a lot of things.

  But, the letter…

  She had written the letter.

  He had it still, folded in his pocket. A letter, some dried meat and the clothes on his back.

  My legacy.

  A legacy for whom? He had no children. He wasn’t even sure if he had a wife anymore. An image of the boy in the Ashland basement pops in his head. Snow turning to droplets of water on his hat, rummaging through the boxes. Taking a gaudy necklace for his mother.

  Life goes on, Roger thinks. Children are born to this new world and it probably doesn’t even seem strange to them.

  Of course it doesn’t. It’s theirs. While our world is a discarded husk.

  Children like Zulé. Roger shudders at the memory, but reassures himself.

  I may never find Esther, but at least I’ll never have to see Zulé again.

  Or the White Texan.

  The boogeyman.

  This is what you think about when you hear a branch snap in the woods, thinks Roger.

  Ahead, the road curves out of sight.

  Perfect place for an ambush.

  Let it go. What do you have that anyone would want? A letter?

  Roger approaches the curve and he cannot suppress his nerves. He clutches his bag tighter, wrapping the plastic handles around his knuckles. Was this when he would meet the Roughies?

  The curve is here, and then it is passed and there is open road again. Roger looks ahead. The terrain is familiar, and Elliston is not far. He can make out the bridge crossing in the distance.

  From behind, a crashing in the woods.

  Roger scans his surroundings, his heart thumping. He can’t see anything, but the crashing is coming closer. Run? From what? To where?

  Barking.

  A cacophony of excited yapping heralds a barreling yellow flash. The mutt is on Roger at once, barking, crying almost, a canine’s ode to joy.<
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  “Dixie?” Roger’s hands run through the mutt’s rough, golden coat. The dog’s tail wags intensely, battering itself against Roger’s shins. Dixie? But how could it be?

  It was too much of a coincidence.

  Impossible, Roger thinks.

  And yet, here she is…

  “How’d you get here?” Roger tries to calm the mutt’s joyful anxiety. “It’s really you? But it’s been years.”

  Dixie’s eyes shine and seem to say “yes, it is me, but what is coincidence, anyway, but something we just don’t understand?”

  “You were just a young pup.” Roger’s eyes grow moist and he can’t remember that happening in a very long time. “Now you’re an old dog, like me.”

  “I’m ageless,” Dixie seems to tell Roger. She chatters her teeth.

  “Who’s going to show up next?” Roger scratches Dixie’s ruff.

  “Just me,” Dixie says with her eyes.

  Roger beckons to the road ahead. “Shall we, old friend?”

  Dixie seems unsure, looks back up at the woods, whines.

  “C’mon old girl.” Roger begins walking. “Just a couple of miles more.”

  Dixie gives one last look to the woods, seems to struggle with decision, and trots to catch up with Roger.

  “Fee bee,” the birds sing. The gentle ripples sparkle on the river as they glide toward Elliston. Roger looks down at Dixie, smiles, and wonders.

  Chapter 6: Elliston

  “Oh!” The soft-looking gatekeeper at the bridge scrunches his face. “Yes, I know Esther.” He cocks his head. “And you are?”

  “Roger. And this is Dixie.”

  “What did you want again?”

  Roger stands patiently at the Elliston gate with Dixie panting at his side. “I’m looking for her.. She’s my— well, she’s very close to me. I’ve come a long ways.”

  The gatekeeper uncrosses his arms. “Esther was a wonderful woman. And I say that even though she did get me into trouble.”

  The sense of accomplishment Roger had been feeling starts to drain. “Was?”

  “A few months ago she pulled one over on me. Helped a Roughie to escape. Lost my bridge duty for that. That’s why I’m here, at this gate. Not much to guard from coming Germantown way, you know.”

  “You said Esther was a wonderful woman?” Roger’s mind races through a medley of terrible scenarios.

  The gatekeeper nods sadly. “I was guarding the jail when she helped the Roughie escape.”

  “What happened to her?”

  The gatekeeper looks puzzled. “To Esther? I don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “No one knows, for sure.”

  “Is she,” Roger struggles to finish, “dead?”

  “More than likely,” the gatekeeper says wistfully.

  “What happened?”

  “Drowned swimming across the river, could be.” The gatekeeper’s eyes are sad, but resigned. “Or kidnapped and murdered by Roughies. Dragged off by the coy dogs when she left the trail. I don’t know. Mugged on an unsanctioned trip to Germantown? Could be.”

  “So she might be alive?”

  “All I know is that I forgive her. She was a sweet woman, Esther. Brought me cookies. Of course, she did that to trick me that one time.”

  “No body was found?”

  “No body.” The gatekeeper leans in closer. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “When was she last seen?”

  “After the jailbreak, a few months ago. Before winter.”

  “She didn’t mention where she was going?”

  The gatekeeper shakes his head. “Sorry.”

  Roger puts on his best disarming face. “Would it be possible for me to take a look around inside? Talk to a few people?”

  The gatekeeper fidgets with the rifle slung over his shoulder. “No one’s supposed to come in without the approval of the steward.”

  “Can I talk to him? Or her?”

  “He’s out in the field right now.”

  “Bad timing on my part.” Roger looks down at Dixie in disappointment. “I’ve just walked all the way from Germantown today. If you let me in I’d behave myself. I’m unarmed, hungry, and tired.”

  “I don’t know,” the gatekeeper says nervously.

  “Nothing bad comes from Germantown,” Roger suggests.

  “True.”

  “Just an unarmed, tired man and a little dog.”

  “I’d have to ask someone.”

  “Of course,” says Roger. “Let’s talk to someone together.”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  “You let him in?” The woman stares over the gatekeeper’s shoulder at the pathetic image of Roger and Dixie. Roger feels the grime on his face. Dixie is a little rough around the edges, too.

  “No, Blondie. I’m asking if you think I should let him in.”

  “But he’s already in,” Blondie says. “And his dog. You’ve done it again, Bob.”

  “But,” Gatekeeper Bob falters, “I wanted to check with someone. And you know Steward Sal best, and you were close, and he knows Esther—”

  “Esther?” Blondie asks.

  “I’m looking for her,” Roger offers. Dixie just wags her tail.

  “Esther’s gone, and most likely dead.” Blondie’s voice is sharp. Sharp like her glances at Roger and Dixie.

  She’s pretty, though, Roger thinks.

  And terrible.

  Blondie puts her hands on her hips. “Sal won’t be back until tomorrow morning. You shouldn’t have let him in, Bob, although he seems harmless enough. You know better.”

  “I do,” Bob says. “I know better.”

  “Still, we can be good hosts until the steward arrives and makes a decision. I assume you must be hungry... what was your name again?”

  “Roger.”

  “Follow me.” Blondie leads Roger to a row house under a steep hill. Paint cracks and peels from the siding and weathered deck boards creak as they walk up to the entrance. Blondie takes out a key from the waist of her long skirt and opens the door with some jiggling as the old lock fights the insertion.

  “The dog’ll have to wait out here.”

  Dixie complies, lying warily beside the door.

  Blondie sits Roger at a small pine table near the kitchen.

  “Tea?” She asks.

  “I haven’t had tea in years,” Roger says. “I’d love some.”

  Blondie pulls a tin from an upper cupboard. “I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. It’s not black tea, or green, or oolong. Just my own concoction. This time of year I add fresh pine sprigs, the new growth.” Blondie places a small teapot on the stovetop and opens a door below to stoke the coals. “A wood-fired stove. Ten years ago I would have found this irritating and backwards. Now it’s the pinnacle of convenience.”

  “Practically a microwave,” Roger says.

  “Except instead of being ready in ten seconds, your tea will be hot in ten minutes.”

  “Worth the wait.”

  Blondie adds a small piece of firewood and closes the door to the burner. “So, how do you know Esther? Bob didn’t mention.”

  “We were close.”

  “You’re not from Elliston?” Blondie asks, but it’s not really a question. Roger gets the sense she would know everyone in the village before and after the First Apocalypse.

  “I was thinking of moving here, actually, before everything happened.” Roger laughs uncomfortably.

  “I met Esther after the first winter. Things were tough back then.”

  “Things still are tough.”

  “She was very dear to me.”

  “I’m glad to know she had a friend here.”

  “She never mentioned you.”

  Roger feels hurt, then questions his own feelings. He tries to maintain an impassive face, but wonders if Blondie can see it in his eyes. Why would have Esther not have mentioned him? To a close friend in the first year?

  Who did you mention Esther to, back then?<
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  The thought is an indictment. He thought of her, often, perhaps always, somewhere, in the back of his processes, but to speak of her? Each moment had been an act of survival. Still was. Yet, the idea still hurt that his wife could not have mentioned him to this woman, or perhaps, anyone, all these years.

  You were dead, Roger thinks. And she buried you.

  Mourning was a privilege of more peaceful times.

  Apparently, she had mourned quickly. Stop it, thinks Roger. The letter. You have her letter.

  Still, the doubts have footholds. Maybe she didn’t want him to find her. Maybe she sent him on a wild goose chase. Maybe she didn’t want to raise the specter of what she had already laid to rest.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe Blondie was lying.

  “I’m sure those were difficult times,” Roger says. “I know they were for me.”

  Blondie sips her tea, then rests her mug on the table. “They were.” Her expressionless eyes rest on his. “It’s still a miracle to me that a pregnant woman could survive that winter.”

  Roger is not hiding any feelings now. He can feel the surprise written on his face, in the stiffening of his limbs. His grip on the hot ceramic.

  “But she had help,” Blondie continues, “From me, and the steward of course.”

  Roger feels as if he is shrinking, and Blondie is looming over him.

  “She really caught the steward’s eye, a female in distress and all. Looked after her even though the baby wasn’t his. Or, at least I don’t think it was. The timing was pretty close, if you know what I mean.” A look of enjoyment sneaks across her face. “It really was the hardest winter.”

  “The child, where is it now?”

  “Little Mackenzie disappeared when Esther did.” Blondie rises and goes to the kitchen counter. “More tea?”

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  After the second cup, Blondie offers Roger dinner, which he wants to decline, but is directed by his stomach to accept. Besides, where else could he go? So long as he was in Elliston it appeared he was Blondie’s captive guest.

  Then again, what was left to find in the village if the consensus was that she had mysteriously disappeared? The idea itched at his brain that something wasn’t right.