Resurrection (Book 2): Into the Wasteland

by Michael J. Totten

  Kyle remembered seeing a family restaurant down there on their way in. He decided to check it out, not for the food but for the chance to meet other people.

  Max the motel manager had said it wasn’t really open for business, but Kyle had seen a neon open sign in the window and people milling about inside. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. Perhaps the restaurant was for locals only. Maybe that’s what Max meant, that refugees weren’t welcome. The restaurant employees wouldn’t know he wasn’t a local, though. Thousands of people lived in Lander. Nobody knew everybody. Freddy the barista hadn’t known Kyle was from somewhere else until Kyle told him.

  So he turned up the collar on his jacket to keep the cold off his neck and walked down there.

  The restaurant looked like a generic family establishment from the outside, the kind that had high chairs and a kid’s menu. It might have been a Denny’s in a previous life except that the exterior walls were made out of logs. An American flag hung limply on a pole next to the parking lot. An antique wooden wagon wheel sat on the grass between the front door and the main road. The neon sign in the window still said open. Kyle saw somebody, perhaps a waitress, pass in front of a window.

  He felt unsure of himself and slowed as he approached the front door. Nobody came out to stop him, though, so he stepped inside.

  Only two tables were occupied. Two of Steele’s men in their unofficial uniforms sat in a booth, and two others, also men but in regular clothes, shared a four-top with chairs.

  The restaurant looked and felt like the 1970s with its fake wood paneling, Formica table tops, chairs with curved backs and orange water glasses. Halloween decorations were still up in December, a cheap paper pumpkin taped to the hostess stand.

  Kyle saw no stacks of menus near the front, nor did he see a sign telling him to sit down or to please wait to be seated. He wasn’t sure what do, so he stood there awkwardly and waited for someone to notice him.

  At first, nobody noticed him. He watched the two men sharing the four-top. They had mugs in front of them. A waitress came to their table carrying a Bunn flask filled halfway with dark liquid.

  Coffee. They had coffee.

  Kyle expected a waitress in this place to look like a 60-year-old battle axe with wide hips, gray hair, and a heavy world weariness, but this woman couldn’t have been a day over twenty. She’d dyed her hair burgundy, had long fake nails and a pierced left eyebrow.

  She refilled the two mugs on the four-top, then turned to head toward Steele’s men in uniform sharing the booth. When she saw Kyle, she raised her eyebrows and froze.

  He wasn’t supposed to be there. Max had been right.

  And the thing was, Kyle was obviously not supposed to be there. The waitress didn’t know he wasn’t from Lander. The restaurant wasn’t closed to refugees. It was apparently closed to just about everyone.

  She set the Bunn flask down on one of the tables and came over to him.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “I’m new in town. The place looked open.”

  “You’re…” She turned her head toward the tables. The four men in the restaurant stared at him now.

  “Are you closed?” he said.

  She nodded. She seemed nervous. “This is the mayor’s place now,” she said in a low voice.

  Kyle got it. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” the waitress said. “Just go.”

  “Who’s this?” One of the men in uniform stood and walked to the front of the restaurant.

  “Hi,” Kyle said. “I’m new in town. Thought the place was open. Sorry for bothering you.”

  The uniformed man said nothing. He just stared at Kyle.

  “I’ll just…” Kyle said and awkwardly headed back out the door.

  He was back in the cold again and had no idea what to do with himself.

  The coffee shop on Main was still closed. Freddy the barista was dead, and there was apparently no one else to take his place. The mayor had taken over the one open restaurant. There seemed to be no other public establishment, no common area except the streets.

  He needed to talk to someone. Anyone. He was beginning to feel a little bit desperate. The only person Kyle knew in all of Lander was his neighbor Andy at the motel, but Andy was at work.

  Kyle had no job, no friends, no responsibilities, no plans. He was dead in the water.

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in Lander any more, but where on earth would he go?

  Steele turned left onto the 135 toward Sand Draw and drove onto a smooth blanket of snow. Not a soul had driven up that road since the winter storm hit.

  There was nothing up there. Sand Draw wasn’t really even a town. A census-designated place at the most. He had no idea what had happened to the people who lived there. Hadn’t even thought about them until now. He’d heard nothing and assumed they were dead.

  The 135 was a straight shot through nearly featureless terrain. The landscape wasn’t quite desert, exactly. It was scrubland over light topography, a place not of beauty but of great emptiness. That was the appeal. It’s why Steele built a cabin out there and why he was going there now. His external surroundings would match how he felt on the inside.

  He could make out the way even with snow on the ground. The frozen scrubland had texture, the snow-covered asphalt did not. He had to pay attention, though, or he’d drive off the road.

  He could see for miles in every direction out in the open country as if he were cruising on a frozen ocean. No one lived on that land.

  Twenty minutes after the turnoff from the main highway, his cabin stood out like a skyscraper. His place was the only sign that that human beings had ever set foot there.

  Steele let himself in with the only key. He could see his breath and adjusted the electric baseboard thermostat from 50 to 70. The cabin looked just as he’d left it—hardwood floors, brown leather couch, a hand-woven carpet from Turkey, attached kitchenette, a bathroom and single bedroom off to the left—but it felt wrong now. He’d always gone there to unwind, usually without Charles or Nadia, so he associated the place with relaxation and contentment. He always felt a deep unspooling inside, as if he could breathe easier, as if all the muscle tension that had built up since his last visit was finally being released.

  This time he felt no release. He felt, instead, like he was at the bottom of a dark well.

  In the refrigerator he found four gallons of distilled water and some rotting leftover chicken legs he’d forgotten to toss out last time. That was it. There was more in the freezer, though. A couple of frozen pizzas, some preformed hamburger patties, several salmon steaks, breaded shrimp in a box, strawberry freezer jam, and cheese ravioli in a lobster bisque for two that you heat up in a pan on the stove.

  He’d eat better at the cabin for a couple of days than he’d been able to eat at the house.

  In the cupboard he kept a five-pound sack of rice, bags of fettuccine noodles, more than a dozen cans of soup and an unopened box of Frosted Flakes. Nadia didn’t know he ate kids’ cereal for breakfast when he stayed at the cabin.

  He felt a deep pain in his chest and his throat as if a tumor were growing inside him. He’d reached the end of the road. Not the end of a road, but the end of the road.

  In his late thirties, he’d hit the burnout wall at 200 miles an hour. What made us happy during the first half of our adulthood didn’t always work for us in the second half. He hadn’t wanted to be a lawyer anymore, but he’d never known anything else, at least not professionally. Lawyering had defined him. It was the core of his identity. The bewildering feeling of his dream job turning sour felt like the end of the world.

  How foolish and naïve he’d been then. A mid-life crisis is hardly the end of the world. It’s not even original. Plenty of people burn out in their careers and move on to find new ones. There was life after lawyering, and for Steele it was politics. It took him a while to see that—more than a year—and to figure out how he could reinvent himself.

  Yes, he’d r
eached the end of a road back then, but there was another one ahead. He just couldn’t see it at first. It had been concealed by bushes. All he had to do was spend some time with a machete, clearing away the thicket ahead of him and letting the old version of himself, the lawyer self, die.

  There were no more roads ahead of him now. There were no more roads ahead for anybody.

  Sure, there could be life after divorce or the death of a spouse—if you lived long enough. There could even be life after the death of a child, stunted though it may be.

  But there could be no life after the death of just about everybody and everything.

  He saw the truth now that he’d been denying the whole of his life. There is no way to win. We all begin circling the drain the day we are born. Steele doubted there was a single human being left anywhere on the planet who had been alive 100 years earlier, and 100 years in the future, nobody would be left. He wasn’t sure anybody would be left in 10 years or even in one year.

  It shouldn’t matter to him that his generation was last. What difference would it make to him personally if humans thrived in bliss 500 years in the future with hover cars and space travel and 200-year life-spans? He’d still be dead.

  We’d all be dead a lot longer than we’d be alive. We wouldn’t even remember our lives, so what’s the point? Albert Camus was right when he said our existence was essentially meaningless. So why not kill ourselves immediately? That was the only question the French philosopher had thought was worth asking, and it was the only question Steele thought was worth asking.

  Nadia had believed that all we could do was choose to live well while we’re here and die well when it’s over. He knew she was right, but something deep inside him screamed no. It kicked and scratched and clawed its way up through the blackness.

  Steele could not join Nadia. Not yet. There was still a faint hope.

  Annie Starling was still alive.

  27

  Hughes woke the next morning to the sound of wind outside the guest house. He squinted his eyes, rolled out of bed and opened the curtains.

  The snow was gone. All of it. A high elevation cloud bank loomed directly above Elias’ house while the sun shined in the clear eastern sky like it was summer.

  He got dressed, slipped his boots on, stepped outside and felt like he’d been whisked into spring. The air felt cool and refreshing rather than cold. He smelled fir needles and earth. Wyoming had leapt forward in time from late December to late April. The only thing missing was birdsong.

  Hughes knocked on the sliding glass door of the main house and let himself in and found Elias preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

  “The phone’s here,” Elias said.

  “The phone?” Hughes said.

  “The foehn. The Chinook wind. The snow-eater.”

  Hughes knew it would come sooner or later, but it still surprised him.

  “I still have a bit of pancake mix left,” Elias said. “Only need to add water.”

  Hughes raised his eyebrows.

  “Don’t worry,” Elias said and winked. “I boiled it.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Nah, I got it. It’s just pancakes. Figured our last breakfast at the house together should be a good one. We move against Steele tonight. You ready?”

  “As I can be,” Hughes said.

  “I’ll whip these up and drive you back to Carter’s place. You can walk to the prison from there in just fifteen minutes.”

  Come dark, Hughes wasn’t going for the prison. He was going for Annie. Maybe he’d scope out the prison after. It would be nice to have Parker again, but he’d have to play it by ear.

  Elias’ pancakes tasted spectacular. They were just your standard instant pancakes, and Elias had long been out of butter, but he still had half a plastic bottle of maple syrup, and there was nothing quite like starting the day with a sugar bomb.

  Hughes helped Elias clean up in the kitchen and retrieved his backpack from the guesthouse next door. He put his hands on his hips when he returned to the main house, his quiet way of saying he was ready to go.

  Elias strapped a Sig Sauer P229 to his ankle. Hughes loved the P229. It was nicely proportioned, had a solid heavy slide, and was the weapon of choice for the United States Air Marshals. Hughes tucked his Glock into his pants, covered it up with the heavy winter coat he wouldn’t need in the balmy weather, and said, “okay.” They were officially ready to go now.

  They stepped outside. Elias didn’t bother locking up.

  Elias drove a spit-shined old-fashioned Chevy truck, bright red like a candied apple. Elias hadn’t bothered locking it either.

  He and Elias got in. It had only a front seat. Hughes didn’t like that. He didn’t want to be seen in town, especially not in front of Carter’s house. If he were to lay down in the back he’d be exposed on the flatbed, and there was no room to lay down anywhere on the inside.

  Hughes was a big guy. He couldn’t quite get down out of sight.

  Elias flipped the visor down on the driver’s side and produced a pair of aviator sunglasses. “Just wear these.”

  Hughes put them on. He didn’t feel much less conspicuous. He was one of the very few black men in Lander. Just about anybody could hide more easily than he could.

  He ducked and scoped himself out in the side mirror. Elias’ sunglasses were all wrong for his face. They made him look like an African dictator trying to scare the shit out of people.

  “Anyone sees you, they’ll think you’re Carter,” Elias said.

  Hughes shrugged. Carter. The town’s other black man. He and Elias were known associates, and hardly anyone in Lander even knew Hughes existed, so yeah. People should assume he was Carter. Hopefully.

  Elias took it slow on the way into town and even slower once they reached town. Not many people drove anymore, so any moving vehicle turned heads.

  Hughes checked the dash. Not much gas left in the tank.

  Elias cruised Main slow and easy, barely 20 miles an hour.

  Without turning his head any more than he had to, Hughes looked across Elias’ line of sight as they approached the motel. He was glad now for the sunglasses.

  The Suburban was still there in the parking lot and appeared unmolested. Hughes had the only set of keys in his pocket. His night vision should still be in the back. He saw no sign of Kyle.

  Elias turned right onto Carter’s street, stopped in front of the house, got out of the truck and headed straight for the back as if he lived there. Hughes followed.

  Carter must have seen them coming because he was already standing at the back porch holding the screen door open.

  “Beautiful day,” Carter said.

  “Carter,” Hughes said and nodded.

  It was more of a weird day than a beautiful day. The wind felt dry as baby powder and the air crackled with static electricity.

  “Come on into the living room,” Carter said.

  Hughes and Elias followed Carter into the living room. The weather was warmer, but the house felt cooler than before. Carter had all the windows open. Thin lace curtains billowed inside on the west side of the house and sucked against the screens on the east side.

  Elias said he wouldn’t be staying, that he had to get back. He let Carter know where Hughes fit in, that he’d hit the prison after the lights went out and that it would be best if Carter let him stay there until it was time to move.

  “Of course,” Carter said. “I have a spare room. I’ll move one of the space heaters in there from the living room.”

  Nights would still be cold despite the weird weather. A space heater wouldn’t do much good once the power went out, but Hughes wasn’t going to sleep back there anyway.

  “You both have everything you need?” Elias said and headed toward the kitchen and the back door.

  Hughes nodded. He still needed to get the night vision out of the Suburban at the motel, but he’d walk right past it on his way to the hospital.

  The board was set. The pieces were ready to move
.

  Elias said his goodbyes and headed outside and back to his truck. Carter stood at the front window and watched with a smile on his face as Elias drove back toward Main.

  “I really admire that man,” Carter said.

  “So do I,” Hughes lied.

  “I’m glad you’re in,” Carter said. “Real glad. We’re gonna make this place right again.”

  Hughes wasn’t so sure. And he wasn’t sure he even cared. Making Lander right wasn’t his job.

  “Let me show you to your room,” Carter said. “I guess you won’t be really be sleeping there but—”

  “I’d like to nap today.”

  “That’s what I was gonna say. We’ll be up all night. You can chill back there if you want some privacy. No need for you to keep me company all day. I got some things to do around the house anyway.”

  Carter didn’t expect to die. Not if he was doing things around the house.

  The spare room lived up to its name. Nothing in there except white walls and a small double bed covered with a plain brown blanket. It would do fine. The window was closed, so it was a little warmer in there than out in the living room.

  “You want to nap now?” Carter said.

  It wasn’t even noon yet.

  “Too early to sleep,” Hughes said, “but I wouldn’t mind laying down for a bit.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then,” Carter said and shut the door, then opened it again. “You want some water?”

  “Sure,” Hughes said.

  Hughes lay on the bed. The springs creaked as he sank in it.

  He scrutinized the cracked ceiling as if it were some kind of a map and walked through the plan in his mind over and over again. Visualizing failure was like planning for failure, so he visualized succeeding so vividly that he almost felt as if he’d already done it.

  He’d take Annie to Atlanta if he had to kill every single person he knew, including Elias and Carter and even Parker, in order to do it.

  Hughes believed in this world. He had to, because it’s the only one they had. Despite all the wickedness the human race had inflicted on itself since the dawn of the species—slavery, war, racism, genocide—he’d fight and kill even the innocent in order to save it. Because if the human race truly ended, it would be as if we had never even been here. The planet would survive in some form, and so would the universe, but there’d be nobody left to talk about or think about it or write about it or even remember it.