Return from the Apocalypse Page 7

  “Then what? How do I escape?”

  “Pretty sure that’s your problem.” The chieftain spits in the direction of his still-smoking cigarette butt. “But when you do, I’ll hook you up and you’ll be well on your way to seeing your dear wife again.”

  Roger stands in the opening of the pole barn, not quite inside or outside. At his back he can feel the morning breeze, and at his face he can smell oil, sweat and herbal smoke. In his mind he is stepping up to the steward. Pressing the nasty end of the pistol against his temple. So this was it. He would have to kill.

  No, he could not. Esther’s face was now a weird amalgam of memory and other faces, charcoal drawings and words themselves, fading like an etching sunned and poured over by each passing season. He could feel the ground under his feet loosening up, after his steps had just begun to find their footholds once again. Maybe there was some other way. Or maybe there wasn’t.

  “I can’t,” Roger says softly. “I won’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I told you, I’m not a murderer.”

  “But you’re other things, right?” The chieftain sneers. “A rapist?”

  Stunned, Roger stares back at him blankly.

  The pistol rests on the chieftain’s knee. In his free hand he reaches back into the drawer and pulls out a ragged sheet of paper. At the top, in thick, black lettering it reads:

  “WANTED.” And then, “By the Freedom Republic of Texas.” A large, hand-drawn illustration of Roger’s own face underneath. The style is familiar, Roger thinks… it is one of Vane’s drawings, an original, too— there were no copiers anymore. Smaller words under the picture describe Roger’s appearance, state his name and likely whereabouts. That he would be near Germantown and asking about Esther.

  It was as if two separate worlds collided.

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” Roger says, and then quickly adds, “except that I am innocent.”

  “The sun has made us all innocent,” the chieftain says. “And perhaps all guilty, too.”

  “I was falsely accused. And somehow it’s followed me here, how I don’t know.”

  “That Pony Express you’re so eager to find, brought these up.”

  “I am innocent.”

  The chieftain turns the pistol over in his hand, strokes the stubby barrel. “I expect you are.”

  Roger tenses himself, for the flash, for the sudden change and violent act. But it does not come.

  “I expect that someone so opposed to the idea of murder might also be against the act of rape. And my daughter has vouched for your behavior in her presence thus far.” The chieftain smiles. “So you can relax.”

  Roger realizes his face is strained and his hands are balled into white-knuckled fists. He slowly allows himself to unwind, still tense, still wary.

  “Here’s the deal. For some reason my daughter has the idea she’s going to take you down to meet a higher-up in the Pony Express who operates in the Southern Tier. It’s a hell of a walk, but she knows the way. Seeing as you’re not a murderer, I guess I feel a little better about it.”

  “Really?”

  “Apparently she’ll take the advice of a little yellow dog over her own father. Although, dogs know, I suppose.”

  Roger struggles to find the right words. “I’ll do my best to protect her.”

  The chieftain laughs heartily at this. “I’m not worried about her, Chelsey Dee knows how to look after herself. Just don’t drag her down with you.”

  Outside the pole barn, morning is growing old. Roger hesitates, then asks “What if I had said I’d murder the steward?”

  “Oh, I would’ve let you,” the chieftain says. “He’s a real prick.”

  Chapter 13: Embarking

  The chieftain pulls his daughter into a hug, and although she does not reciprocate, she also does not shrink away. She is a willow in the branches of a gnarly oak. It is the most vulnerable Roger has observed her. Slender like the willow, she bends rather than breaks.

  “You’re always at the cow’s tail,” the chieftain says, releasing her from his embrace. “Now get along.”

  “You know that’s not true,” Chelsey Dee replies.

  Is that a smile? Roger thinks. He swings a gunnysack over his shoulder, filled with dried venison, a fire-starting flint and other supplies for their trek. The lightness of it makes Roger anxious, but surely the chieftain knows how to much to pack for their trip. Roger keeps his lips sealed, letting the father and daughter do the talking.

  “You have the travel pass for the communes, should they stop you along the way. It will check out, and remember that no one really cares that much anyway. However, don’t be confident; be flat in your attitude.”

  “I know,” Chelsey Dee says.

  “And you know all the Roughie passphrases from here to Chenango Forks.” The chieftain is warmly proud.

  “I do.”

  “Fly straight back, little bird.” The chieftain gives Roger an inscrutable look as he turns back to his pole barn, as if to say “you don’t matter much to me, but she does, yet I am not worried— for her.”

  Roger and Chelsey Dee barely take a step when a worried trill of barking erupts from inside the pole barn. Dixie gallops out, spry yet limping. She has slipped the lead that kept her secured inside for this very departure; a measure intended to excuse an old dog from a walk of a punishing distance. Her shining black eyes accuse, but also forgive in the same expression, saying “take me with you and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

  “It’s too far,” Chelsey Dee says, “even for you.”

  “But I’m going anyway,” the shining black eyes respond. And Dixie, as if the navigator of the trip, trots forward.

  “She’s headed the right way,” says Chelsey Dee.

  “Then I guess we’re going with her,” Roger says, shrugging, “more than she is going with us.”

  Chapter 14: River Run

  The trek starts out unlike any other for Roger; it is almost pleasant. Apart from the nagging complaints of an abused body, the journey is a mellow affair: late spring warmth and a cool, not cold, first night. Chelsey proves a capable guide, although Dixie would take credit, heading up the trio as they briskly walked down an old country road or cut-through woodland path. The old dog would pause at an intersection, plausibly to sniff at some engaging scent, and then retake the lead position once Chelsey Dee made the turn. They see no one; Chelsey Dee’s travel pass and passcodes remain unused.

  “We’ve made decent time,” Chelsey Dee tells Roger as they stretch out two netted hammocks between trees at their first resting point. “We’ll reach the river in another day.”

  “And from there a day on the water?”

  “Hypothetically.” Chelsey Dee turns in her hammock, and is quietly snoring almost instantly. She has been uninterested in conversation since they started out, despite Roger’s awkward attempts to begin them. She was cool, but always alert.

  Roger feels the netting snug against his back, faintly brushing over the top of his face. The hammock swings gently, and Roger sleeps better than he has in a long time.

  At the start of the third day Chelsey Dee rouses Roger before the birds even begin their morning chatter. “We’re close to a commune,” she says, finger to her lips. They descend into a valley where thick fog looms over a small river.

  Along a densely thicketed bank, Chelsey motions to Roger. “We need to find a tree, bent like this.” She makes a u-shape with her arms.

  “Won’t be easy in this fog.”

  “The fog is our friend,” she says.

  Roger stumbles around in the gloom, scratched by thorny bushes until he almost trips over the unusual tree. “Here,” he says, regaining his balance.

  Chelsey observes the orientation of the bend, and counts off twenty paces in line with it. She removes a covering of boughs hiding a small, aluminum canoe painted black and a single paddle inside it. Together, they slide the boat down the bank and into the silky smooth water.


  “You take the front,” she says. “And don’t tip it.”

  “I’m heavier; shouldn’t I be in the back?”

  “You look pretty thin to me,” Chelsey says. “And keep your voice down— sound travels across the water.”

  Dixie pants her agreement, already curled up at the stern.

  {}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

  Chelsey Dee glides the canoe down the river. Her paddle dips cleanly into the water, pulling strong, smooth J-strokes. Along the banks Roger sees houses and even lights flickering in windows. The vessel pilots by, leaving nothing but a small wake that soon melts back into the glasslike waters.

  A few minutes after passing the last home, Chelsey speaks in a low voice. “We can talk now, carefully.” Roger finds this amusing as she has hardly said a word the entire trip.

  The fog has been burned from the water’s surface and the orange-pink of sunrise has faded. The first few miles are relatively effortless, especially for Roger, whose only responsibility is to “not tip the canoe” while “keeping an eye on the shore.” Both are rote tasks, and Roger is almost bored— a sensation he has not truly felt in years— until they reach their first obstruction, a fallen tree. The obstacle requires them to get out of the boat and port it around on the bank, which is quite muddy. Roger feels the muck grabbing at his boots, but manages not to lose one. Dixie is content to stay in the craft, allowing Chelsey and Roger to lift her up and over the partially submerged log.

  Throughout the morning and into the afternoon many such obstacles hamper their progress down the river. Roger almost suggests ditching the canoe, but intermittent stretches of easy paddling change his mind.

  This river was taking them where he needed to go, anyway. Their Pony Express contact was to be found just a few miles from Chenango Forks, a small hamlet downriver about sixty miles from the start.

  Exactly how many miles they had put behind them, Roger couldn’t guess. The distance was a blip compared to the distances he had traveled this year alone. If I had an odometer it would have reset, he thinks.

  A seemingly unobstructed and uninhabited stretch opens before them. In the prow, Dixie has sat upright and now surveys the landscape with mild interest. With a snap, she grabs a passing dragonfly and crunches down the large insect, a wing flickering out the side of her jowl.

  Roger laughs, and though he can’t see Chelsey Dee behind him, he imagines that even her staid expression must have allowed a small smile at the comical demonstration.

  “I think the only thing Dixie likes more than you is eating bugs,” he says.

  “Dixie likes you, too.”

  “This stretch seems fairly straightforward. Can I take a turn and give you a break?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Right,” Roger says. Apart from coordinating the lifting of the canoe over fallen trees and the occasional terse pleasantry, he and Chelsey had not spoken much on the journey, or even since they had met. It was her way, apparently. But Roger itches for some conversation, no matter how trivial.

  “Pretty out here, on the water,” he says.

  Chelsey says nothing.

  “Do you travel this far out, often?”

  “Not really.”

  Roger calculates his next question to avoid a yes or no answer. “How long have you known the two sisters?”

  “A while.”

  “They’re nice.”

  “Yeah.”

  Was that an audible sigh? However, Roger is not to be discouraged; she likes Dixie, so maybe that is the tack to take. “Tell me about how you and Dixie met.”

  “I found her, well— I heard her. She was caught in a snare. One used to catch rabbits. I thought she might bite, she was hurting, but also pretty worn out. I was able to free her, but her leg was messed up.”

  Roger notes the animation in her voice. He reaches out and pets Dixie. “You probably saved her life.”

  “She’s saved my life more,” Chelsey says. “A lot of ways.”

  “You find her out near Elliston, I guess?”

  “Closer to where we’re headed, actually. I was with my dad, he was doing some business. I was foraging to pass the time, heard her whimpering. I had to carry her back, because of her leg. I didn’t think my dad would let me, but he didn’t say anything.” Chelsey pauses. “Probably knew better.”

  “She’s a good dog,” Roger says.

  Dixie senses she is being talked about. Although she continues her lazy scanning of her surroundings, her ears have perked up.

  “All compliments, Dixie,” Roger says.

  This time, Chelsey speaks up without prompting. “She likes you, but she’s wary around most folks.”

  “Dixie and I go way back,” Roger says. “I can’t figure out how she’s here. Boggles my mind. Teleported, maybe.”

  “You had her in Texas?”

  She asked me a question, Roger thinks. “Maybe she had me, more,” he says. “You know how it is.”

  “How’d she find you?”

  Roger tells her how he hid out in the house on the Resaca, about the intruders, and the fire. Chelsey is intrigued, and the conversation grows from there until it finally runs its course as the trio float down the river, now graying in the dusk. Roger thinks about his time in Texas, about coincidence. He tries to form a picture of the future, but there are too many variables. His thoughts flit like a small bird from branch to branch, never seeing the entire tree for what it is.

  His musings are interrupted by a small splash near the boat. A fish, no doubt, feeding on some unsuspecting waterbug. It was that time of evening. Roger is about to ask Chelsey how much farther when he feels a stinging against the side of his head.

  He touches above his ear and his fingers come away with blood.

  Another splash. Dixie growls.

  “Down,” Chelsey orders amongst a sudden barrage of splashing and pelting rocks. “It’s an ambush.”

  Chapter 15: Hyenas

  Roger crouches as low as he can in the canoe, but his head and shoulders are still exposed. Chelsey crouches while paddling, expending energy quickly with swift, strong strokes. Dixie refuses to duck down, instead putting her feet on the edge and barking aggressively at their unseen attackers.

  The volume of the barrage increases. Clots of mud and pebbles spray against the side of the boat, some striking Roger’s face. A larger stone grazes the top of his head and splashes loudly in the water on the opposite side.

  “Maybe it’s time for that Roughie passcode?”

  “These aren’t Roughies,” Chelsey says, “Or commies either. They’re hyenas.”

  In the dim light Roger can see dark bodies along the shore, pitching rocks and now screeching loudly. The forms are slender, and the voices young.

  Young and animalistic.

  Roger thinks of the infamous rebel yell of the Civil War and wonders if it has anything on these terrifying cries. He feels helpless to assist, not having a paddle, as he watches the hyenas on shore.

  “They’re all coming from one direction,” Roger observes. “We should move to the other side.”

  “That’s what they want,” Chelsey says grimly. “Then the half of the pack hiding on the opposite shore will have at us.” She wipes a clot of mud from her eye and steels herself to continue paddling straight down the middle of the river.

  A bend approaches. Roger holds the sides of the canoe and hunkers down, trying to balance against the weight of Dixie leaning over the side. A hand reaches up out of the water and grabs the rim of the boat, pulling it down and revealing a young, grinning face covered with streaks of grey and red. Before Roger can react, Dixie savagely bites the offending hand, eliciting a scream from the once-grinning invader. The hyena releases his grip, and the craft rocks back up sharply.

  “Good girl,” Roger says, but there is little time for congratulations. Swimming bodies are surrounding the boat, heads bobbing just above the surface and teeth gleaming in the gloom.

  At least the barrage has stopped. Roger takes a swing at an approa
ching head, missing widely and rocking the boat.

  “Easy, now!” Chelsey rebukes. But she is soon using her oar to beat away someone on the opposite side.

  Roger’s next punch connects, and the young devil falls backward and drifts away into the shadows. “Who’s next?” Roger shouts, somewhat stupidly. For there are many heads and they are just himself, a girl and a little yellow dog.

  Though the girl and the little yellow dog are doing their fair share of repelling the assault. In between paddling, Chelsey has nailed at least three hyenas in the face. Dixie has marred several offending hands, and her muzzle is flecked with blood and froth. Unlike Roger and Chelsey, she seems to be enjoying herself.

  The bend in the river looms, and the assault melts away. “We did it,” Roger says breathlessly. “I think they’re retreating.”

  Chelsey shakes her head and keeps paddling. Blood trickles down her cheek from the side of her eye.

  “You okay?”

  Chelsey points ahead. “We’re not okay.”

  Around the bend a large, sprawling maple has fallen across a narrower section of the river. Shriveled leaves hang from skeletal branches that reach out like entrapping hands.

  “We’re not making it through that.”

  Shadowy forms are slogging along the sides of the muddy bank toward the tree. Roger tries to count them. Ten? Maybe more? Not a fair fight.

  “They want to harass us, but they also want our things,” Chelsey says in a quiet voice. “About ten feet out from the tree we leave the boat and our supplies and swim out. And keep on swimming.”

  The fallen maple approaches quickly. Chelsey slips over the side of the boat first, and motions to Roger to hand down Dixie. Dixie sturdily treads water next to Chelsey as if waiting for directions. Roger is out next, and the water is cold. Chelsey pushes off from the canoe sending it away from them, and heads out for the tree with Roger and Dixie close behind.

  The momentary silence erupts into another cacophony of howls and shrieks. Splashes sound from the shore, but they seem headed toward the boat.