Return from the Apocalypse Page 4

The conversations with Blondie… now they were truly terrible. The stiff awkwardness, the passive-aggressive posturing, all coated in a stale paste of mundanity that one would usually find in talks about the weather.

  But Blondie seemed to be in her element. She enjoyed this.

  The venison in mushroom gravy digests as he sits on the couch where Blondie has led him. His stomach thanks him for the meal, turns the reins back over to his brain, which then lets them droop limply from sheer exhaustion.

  Blondie sits in the armchair across from him. Roger notices that her blue jeans do not have any tears or worn-through spots.

  “I should probably take more care with myself,” Blondie says. “Alone with a strange man in the house.”

  Roger feels the worn ribs of the corduroy upholstery with his fingers. The room is growing darker, but Blondie has yet to light any candles.

  “Only Bob knows that you’re here,” she says. “Poor, silly Bob. He probably already forgot.” Blondie smiles, her teeth jutting out from her drawn face. “What if you murdered me?”

  “I think you’re safe.”

  “You mean you’re safe,” Blondie says. “Safe like a little kitten. I’ve found most men who’ve survived this long tend to have danger in them. A little darkness.”

  “Some of us are just lucky,” Roger says.

  Blondie smiles. “Probably best the village is unaware that you’re here. People love to talk. Make up stories.”

  Roger thinks back to his time with the Freedom Republic, in the company of Zulé. Her false allegations against him. He shudders, then reminds himself she is thousands of miles away. He wouldn’t have to go back.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Blondie says.

  “No,” Roger says.

  “People love to talk,” she repeats mindlessly.

  “I’m tired,” Roger says. “You mentioned there was a place I could sleep?”

  “Not with me,” says Blondie, in a hollow way that seems to suggest he could.

  “No,” Roger says.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  The twin mattress creaks as Roger finds his position in the darkness of the small room. Even this worn, unforgiving mat is a luxury. Roger hasn’t slept on a real mattress two nights in a row since… a long time. He slept on a bedroll at the Fort Davis camp, and a cot in the time before that. And often, the ground. It wasn’t the hardness, so much as it was the bugs and the creeping moisture that made it uncomfortable.

  No, even this strange little room in a house of ghosts was a thing of comfort.

  The moon sheds its light through the small window, illuminating letters carved into the footboard, which Roger’s feet are almost touching. They spell “Mackenzie” and Roger thinks about the name, and Esther, until sleep takes him.

  Chapter 7: Interrogation

  Rough hands grab, twist and suppress. Hold down his legs. Clasp over his mouth.

  A gut punch.

  Dreamless to breathless.

  Scratching cloth over the head, pulled tight. Sucking dust.

  Roger resists. But the hands are too strong and too many. He tries to go limp. Sometimes, resistance is death.

  He is lifted under the arms and feet as his back arches. Hushed voices coordinate the awkward transport of his body up and out of the bed, through a door (a knock to the head) down the stairs (a tailbone to a step) and outside.

  The night insects thrum.

  The jostling is like riding on the back of a horse.

  Was that Dixie yelping?

  Roger sways in the grasp of his captors; they are finally getting into the swing of transporting him. Fewer clumsy drops and errant bangs of the head. Any pain to come would be intentional.

  Not the things I have witnessed happen to others, not tonight. Not to me.

  The end of the world was a free pass to perform cruelty in the minds of many, a special situation that negated all ethics and humanity. Do unto others before they do unto you. All’s fair in love and war and the end of the world. Except, the world has been ending for over ten years now.

  Roger feels himself being carried upward; a door creaks open; he is going down now and a door shuts above.

  He is dropped to his knees on cool concrete. His boots are still on— he has learned to always sleep with them. Events changed quickly in these times and you never knew when you’d need to make a quick getaway.

  A good pair of boots was increasingly difficult to come by.

  Whispered instructions, people backing away. One voice remains. It is low and calm. Level.

  “Who are you?”

  Really, thinks Roger. Really? But this wasn’t the time to be a smart ass. “Roger, my last name is—”

  “I know your name. Who are you?”

  It’s going to be really hard to not be a smart ass. “Just a guy looking for someone.”

  “Esther.”

  “Yes.” Roger breathes burlap, waits for the flash, the sting, the pain.

  “Where is she?”

  “Where’s Esther?” There it was— the pain. A strike across the face.

  “Don’t get smart with me.”

  “I’m not trying to. But you already know I’m looking for her.”

  Another strike, this time Roger can tell his nose is bleeding.

  “Where is she?”

  “I hope this cloth isn’t roughing up your fists.” Roger wishes he hadn’t said that. He waits for an answering strike, but it doesn’t come.

  Whispering voices.

  “She disappeared with her son, left without a trace, without a reason. No word of her from here to Germantown and beyond. And now you come sniffing around. Makes a man wonder what you’re smelling.

  “So let’s be friendly. And let’s figure this out together.” The voice pauses. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Roger says.

  The sack is roughly pulled from his head. As his eyes adjust he can tell he is inside a small cellar. Always a damn cellar.

  “Have a seat.” A dark-haired man motions to a small wooden chair just behind him. Behind the man at least four, maybe five, men wait in the corner shadows. Roger wipes blood from his nose and sits in the chair.

  “Secure his hands,” says the man in the forefront. A man binds his hands behind his back with a zip tie. The plastic digs into Roger’s wrists.

  The interrogator pulls up a small, green chair, with its back facing Roger and rests his hands on it. “I’m Salvatore Ellis, the steward of Elliston. I care about Elliston— it carries my family’s name. This is my commune, and I protect its members. Everyone is important here, part of the system. When something happens to a member of our community it’s my job to fix it.”

  “You’re a stranger, and we’ve had a lot of problems with strangers in the past. That’s not your fault. It’s just the way it is. So, I apologize for this treatment. But it’s necessary. And I think you see that.”

  Roger lets his head roll forward, lifts it up in a nod.

  “Good. Now that I’ve introduced myself, why don’t you answer some questions? First, how do you know Esther?”

  Options flash through Roger’s mind. He could tell the truth and admit he was Esther’s husband. Or, he could try to lie his way out of here. Each choice was fraught with danger. He didn’t know what would set this man off.

  “Esther’s my wife.” Roger sighs inwardly. He sucked at lying. “We’ve been separated for years.”

  Sal is silent. Though he exercises control over the muscles in his face, something darker seems to set in.

  Shit.

  Sal purses his lips. “Keep talking.”

  “Ten years ago, when it happened, I was away. Far away. Texas far. But I’ve made it back. And I’m just trying to find her.”

  “Texas, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you know she’d be in Elliston?”

  “She’d started working at the school here. The elementary school. It was the last place I knew she’d been.” Roger decides to omit the letters. Why complicate t
hings?

  “That makes sense. Thank you for being so candid.” Sal’s hands grip the back of the chair as if they could release and attack at any moment. “Texas, pretty shit-crazy down there, huh? I heard there’s some crazy asshole called the White Texan who thinks he’s some kind of conquistador. Supposedly we need to volunteer up our folks for a New Union militia just because people think he’s going to trot his way all the way up here. Is that bullshit or what?”

  “Sounds like bullshit.”

  “That’s what I thought. But, I don’t carry much weight down in the Southern Tier where they’re spouting this nonsense.” Sal wrings his hands. “You know what else sounds like bullshit? That Esther disappears and now you come sniffing around.”

  “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “You know something I don’t. Why don’t you tell me where Esther is? Don’t lie to me now.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Then I guess I’m just going to have to rough you up until you tell me some lies.” Sal is a politician, but he is also a working man. He uses his large, calloused hands to work Roger over, not opting for other implements. Skin to skin. Bone to bone. Roger is lean and tough, like so many left in this world, but Sal’s hands prove unforgiving. Roger’s head swings this way and that, air bellows from his stomach. Drool flips and flies. There is blood and maybe a crack. Was that a small bone or just the impact against the concrete floor? The wooden chair is broken and it sheds its pieces around him. How long could this last?

  Sal rubs his knuckles, looking down at a sprawled Roger.

  “I’m not a good liar.” Roger bleeds on the floor. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I don’t like having to do this.”

  “Guys like you never do.”

  “Let me tell you something about Esther,” says Sal. “We were very close, me and her. She was my woman. And she had my child. Does that make you angry, Esther’s husband?” Sal cracks his knuckles. “I think it does. I think it makes you angry. Angry enough to kill, maybe.”

  “No.”

  “Did you just kidnap her, or did you kill her and her son, too?”

  During the barrage of questions Roger detaches from the current reality. Maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s the exhaustion, but he drifts away from Sal and himself. He sees himself on the floor amongst the shards of green wooden splinters, blood oozing from a busted lip. But he’s not thinking about the moment. He’s thinking about Esther. How has the picture of her he’s maintained in his mind changed over the years? Has its integrity been kept? Has it been colored with the sepia tones of nostalgia and blurred with the relentless passing of time? New imagery batters against the walls of the safe he’s kept her in so securely. Esther with the steward. Esther with… a son.

  “How long were you married to her?” Sal looks down at Roger. “A year? We were together almost a decade.” He grinds the words out cruelly. “Now tell me, what did you do with her?”

  Sal crosses his arms, staring down. And perhaps he can sense Roger is slipping away from the situation. He motions to the men in the corner, who lead out a familiar creature.

  It’s Dixie, leashed with a rough old rope around her neck.

  “This here your dog?”

  Dixie pants, looking this way and that, then whines, picking up on the tension. Her shining black eyes fix on Roger, and she tilts her head in concern.

  Sal picks up the rope, taking up the slack and kneeling beside Roger. He strokes Dixie’s head, which she tolerates, for now. “You going to stay catatonic on me?”

  Roger swims back to the situation. He spits out his words along with a bit of saliva and blood. “You a dog-beater, too?”

  Sal’s eyes narrow. “I’m what I need to be. That’s the nature of these times.”

  Dixie whines.

  “There’s a glass of water over on the shelf. I’ll leave you two alone for a while. How long, I don’t know. But when I come back— well, I hope for both your sakes you tell me what I need to know.” Sal roughly pats Dixie on the head and drops the rope. He and the men leave up the stairs, the door shutting ominously behind them.

  Roger pulls himself up. Dixie puts her paws on his lap and gently licks at his face.

  “Good girl,” Roger says. “Except you should have bitten him.”

  Dixie wags her tail.

  “I forgive you. Now can you fetch me that water?”

  Chapter 8: Intervention

  Sometimes a voice is a spark of light, sometimes a voice is a rescue rope. Wants to pull you up, and out. Rescue you. Save you from the bad guys and the trouble you are in.

  There is a persistent and repeating pressure against the side of Roger’s face. An earnest pressure, it rhythmically continues, reaching from beyond the darkness. It is a moist pressure; it hurts yet it feels good, medicinal in a way. Roger’s eyes struggle to open, but the lids won’t extend very far. As they waver into slits, all they consume is the surrounding darkness— except for a tiny patch of light above. Roger moves his hand to block the pressure from his face, and his fingers find Dixie’s mouth. She is licking a gash on his cheek, kindly enough, though there is a certain selfishness and urgency to the act as she tastes his blood.

  “Good girl,” Roger manages to sputter out through his swollen lips. “That’s enough.”

  Dixie goes in for one more lick.

  “Enough.”

  Roger hasn’t moved his head— it doesn’t want to be moved, yet— and the patch of light still holds his eye. He almost thinks it is saying something to him, barely audible above Dixie’s panting.

  The patch of light is saying something.

  Just how hard did I get hit on the head?

  “Dixie,” the patch of light says.

  Why would a patch of light call out to Dixie? Roger squints. The light is a beam, and it stretches from Dixie up to what must be a cellar window. Dixie sees the beam and looks at it eagerly. She growls, gently.

  “Quiet girl. C’mere Dixie,” says the light. The beam jitters on the floor, and Dixie steps toward it. Beam and dog dance along the damp concrete, closer and closer to the window. Roger’s eyes strain to see in the dimness, and he makes out a looped rope hanging down from the window.

  “Dixie, stay.” Roger struggles to move. Dixie glances at him, but seems dismissive.

  “Almost,” says the voice, a girl’s voice. “Here girl.”

  “Wait.” Roger’s mind swims with questions about the source of the voice and how it knows Dixie’s name. “Who are you?”

  “Shh,” the voice says. “You want those guys back?”

  “Who are you?” Roger speaks as quietly as he can while still projecting his voice.

  “No matter.”

  Dixie is within a foot of the dangling rope. Another step and it can lasso her and pull her away. And then she’ll be gone, and the patch of light with her.

  “How do you know Dixie’s name?” Roger can pull himself to his knees, make a leap, and grab, maybe…

  The voice ignores him and continues her plea to Dixie to step closer.

  Panic wells in his chest. He doesn’t want to lose Dixie again. Doesn’t want to be left in this cellar alone.

  “Dixie,” he calls out desperately.

  Dixie turns her head and considers. With a parting glance to the beam dancing on the floor, she patters over to Roger’s side once more, her long nails chattering on the concrete.

  “Good girl.” Roger pets her scruffy head with difficulty.

  “Oh Dixie,” says the voice, disheartened.

  Roger sits up, and his head swims. He wraps a protective arm around the old yellow mutt.

  “You really care about that dog?”

  “I do.”

  “Those men are going to come back. Soon.”

  Roger’s heart sinks. It was true.

  “You want Dixie to take your beating?”

  Roger looks into Dixie’s shining black eyes and back at the light. The men would come back. And maybe they were bluffin
g. But maybe they weren’t.

  “Why do you want her?” Suspicion rises in his chest. Was this another trick, another torture? Were these jerks playing a game with him?

  “Dixie and me, we’re friends.”

  How the hell does she know Dixie’s name? Roger doesn’t recall ever saying it since reaching Elliston.

  “How do you know her name?”

  A long pause. “I named her, didn’t I?”

  The seconds to make a decision slip away. Roger looks at Dixie, whose ears perk every time the voice speaks. He lets his arm slip away. “Go on girl. Go to the light.”

  “Dixie,” the voice calls again, this time more hopefully.

  Dixie looks to Roger for confirmation.

  Roger nods his head. “Go on.”

  The yellow mutt trots over the jittery light where it now dances on the wall under the window. Dixie puts her paws up on the wall to catch the light, and the lasso is deftly slipped over her head and front paws. In a smooth motion Dixie is pulled up toward the window. She’s a funny sight, still smiling face and paws sticking out over an extended body.

  And then she’s gone, pulled through the small rectangular opening.

  Roger sighs, and his soul sighs with him. Goodbye Dixie. Happy Trails. Though this may be the end of the trail for me…

  And maybe that’s for the best. Roger is tired. Of everything. Put me down, already. And make it quick.

  It wasn’t likely to be quick.

  The light returns to the window and the beam passes over Roger’s face.

  “Over here,” says the voice. “For Dixie.” And after a brief hesitation, “Don’t make me regret it.”

  The offer shocks Roger out of his ennui. He crawls as quickly as he can to the window. The loop of rope comes dangling down. Still, it seems impossibly high, well over his head, when he can barely stand.

  “Five seconds,” says the voice. “Hurry.”

  Roger grasps the rope and pulls himself upward, struggling to find footholds in the cobblestone wall. Almost his entire weight strains against the rope. He hopes the owner of the voice is strong enough to support him. His hands find the sill— his body will be a tight fit— and he pulls himself with much pain through the opening. Slender hands grab hold and help him through as he worms his way from the dampness of the cellar to the outside.