by David Bruns
The land was desolate when I laid her here, but look at it now. The grove that regrew following the Great Flood is ancient once more. Now your people, the Earthborn have built a community of homes here—the place of the Final Stand that is yet to come.
Remember what I told you, dear one, at the beginning? The world is rarely as it seems. You look to the stars and think you know all there is to know. You look to the depths of the sea and assume that by cataloging the variations of life, you are the master of your domain. But what about the war that rages beyond your ken? What about the legends of old that occupy the collective unconscious of your people, the truths that dare to escape the dark recesses of your dream-self?
Well, now you know a small portion of what is. I pray you take heed of your surroundings. Visit this grove when you can. If you sit quietly, you can still hear Keena’s lament whispering through the ancient oaks. Though I have never seen her—and oh! I wish I had—I have heard it said that on a moonlit night, the shape of a great hound can be seen circling the mound, standing watch. And waiting. Waiting for something that is most certainly coming.
Here among the sacred oaks of Weston.
A Word from Hank Garner
Hank and Eleanor.
Earlier this year, my friend Chris Pourteau started talking about this passion project that ultimately became the collection you are now holding. When he first released “Unconditional” as a stand-alone story, we all knew he was onto something unique and, frankly, quite special. There is something stirred deep within our hearts when we think of the most unimaginable catastrophes and how our four-legged companions show unconditional love in those times. I think these stories stir us to be better than we are.
I love stories about strange people and places. For a couple of years now, I’ve been building a fictional place called Weston, Mississippi. Each of my books have been set there, and each story has at its core the fact that the veil between this world and another is somehow thinner in Weston than in most places. Chris challenged me to tie “Keena’s Lament” to my larger world, and the idea for this tale was born.
I’m fascinated with legends and myths that seem to transcend cultural groups and specific places. Almost every culture has some sort of ancient flood story. There are also stories about creatures that came from the heavens and mixed with the people of Earth. These offspring became the demigods, the heroes of old, the Nephilim; they’ve been called many names. In most of these legends, these otherworldly creatures were destroyed in floods or other disasters. I wanted to tell one of these stories from the opposite viewpoint that you’re likely familiar with. I began to wonder what it would have been like for these creatures to experience an apocalyptic event. Would they also be blessed with the companionship of one of our four-legged friends?
“Keena’s Lament” is a piece of ancient backstory that gives a glimpse into one of the reasons Weston is such a strange place. In my latest book, Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, a character named Crowley has uncovered others of these ancient stories. He sets out to manipulate the power of this place for his own diabolical ends. But a man and his dog—different characters from the Watcher and Keena in this story—stand in his way.
If you’d like to learn more about me and my work, you can find my other books at hankgarner.com, as well as listen to the weekly podcast I host called the Author Stories Podcast.
Tomorrow Found
(a Wasteland Saga short story)
by Nick Cole
In the night she carried the runt away from the sleeping pack. It was the poor thing’s only hope. Its last chance. She’d given birth to a full litter in the remains of a bombed-out hospital where the pack had been hunting that winter. Five survived; one had two heads and didn’t. The others were starting to bully the tiniest. The runt. They’d bully it to death.
She knew.
It was the way of dogs.
But there was a memory in her. A memory of a different way deep down inside of her. She’d been a part of something she couldn’t articulate and could barely remember. Men. Women. People and dogs. Together. Living along the heat-blasted roads and in the blackened forests that would never grow again. Until they’d met other people. And then the people she’d lived with were no more. She’d escaped in the chaos of loud bangs and repeated metallic cackles.
Fire and screaming.
She’d escaped and in time she’d joined the pack. And they’d hunted the lone stragglers of men who seemed to be fewer and fewer in the days after the world was gone. The pack had even hunted bear and wolves and other dogs. And for a time she forgot the ways of men. The pats. The scraps tossed by firelight. The rubs for deeds done well. The darkness beyond the firelight around which the humans murmured or sometimes wept for what was lost, or softly sang old commercial jingles throughout the cold nights that were especially long in those times.
The firelight.
The pack had argued that gray, rainy, wet day before she’d taken the runt. There was a man making his way along the big road. But there was also a pack of wild pigs. Many, by sign and scent. Sucklings were easy pickings, and the pack had argued violently over which way to go. The Alpha, a big, iron-gray pit with demonic eyes, had been challenged. His challenger had been that night’s meal.
And she’d watched her own young bully the runt as the pack tore at what little the challenger provided. Imitating the big pit who had fathered them. That night, as the pack slept, she picked up the mewling runt by the neck and carried him out into the wind and the rain and darkness that smelled always of ash and death. She carried him across a desiccated plain thrashed by a howling, sand-filled wind that skirled like a nightmare’s scream. She carried him and ignored his feeble protests and his chubby-pawed battings. Sniffing the air, waiting, then moving on, she carried him.
And in time she caught the scent and smelled the smoke and remembered firelight. The smoke went with the firelight. Men gathered around firelight. Men, some men, were good to dogs and could make use of even a runt like she’d once been. Like the one she held between her teeth now, in the darkness.
Men could be good friends.
She found the stranger in the remains of a leaning gas station. The firelight glowed from within, and she crawled on her belly through the darkness until she could smell the lean rabbit the man had killed. She watched him motionlessly staring into the fire. She waited.
The pup whined.
She opened her jaw and released him to the dust. And slowly she began to nudge him forward. At first he didn’t want to go. He simply refused to budge, to leave her and her warmth. And then she nipped at him and he began to waddle forward and into the firelight. Crying for the loss of the only love ever known. Crying because the world was ending once more, again.
And when the man turned and saw the pup, he did not see her out there in the night, watching still. For a long while she watched from the darkness. Watched as the man stared at her mewling runt. Watched as the stranger mumbled to himself and then rose.
What he would do next she didn’t know, but she knew … she knew it had once been something she’d been a part of.
It was the only way. Her runt would never survive within the pack. And a mother is still a mother.
No matter what.
And always.
She watched from within the cold cloak of a howling night as the man bent, held out his weathered hand and waited for her pup. She watched as an ancient thing written into the language of all their DNA began again.
And it was a lost memory found to her.
And….
She knew the pup would live now.
* * *
He’d been alone for a long time.
Too long.
Too long since he’d crossed the wastes east of Saint Maggie’s home along the coast. His home. The only home he’d ever known. Too long since he’d steered clear of the craziness the mad wanderers he sometimes encountered called El Lay as he quested. Sent forth, like the others. Sent forth to find what was lost.
Sent forth to find the past, if it still lived, breathed, existed.
Sent forth for some hope that the past might still provide.
He’d killed twelve men in his travels because he’d had to. The worn shotgun was down to three shells and who knew if they’d go when they were needed most in a clinch. He wore the gun on his back amidst the clutter of his patchwork armor and road-mended scraps as he crossed the Mojave and the Valley of Death.
In Vegas he’d found silence and nothing.
Nothing that remained of the past.
Nothing in the big rooms he’d searched.
Everything had been burned.
Not even a scrap that something might be written on.
Not even a page.
He’d walked down into the southwest and searched every corpse of a town for a specific building like he’d been taught to look for. Always the finding was the same. The remains of an old fire. Fires. The empty spaces along the crumbling shelves where the past had once waited. Waited to be had for the easy taking. Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
And gone again.
Years passed.
Men died.
He loved a blind woman once, but she wouldn’t leave her people and so he’d continued on in search of the past.
What had happened to them all? he wondered one black dusk when the map didn’t match the landscape and the night screamed again like a howling savage, angry at a world that had destroyed itself for no reason that made sense anymore.
What happened to them all?
Mac.
Teddy.
The others.
What happened to them all? Those who’d been sent forth. Orphans who’d been rescued on that last day.
And in the past two years, as he’d headed back west with no past in his ruck to bring back to the last home on the coast, he hadn’t spoken a word.
Who was there to speak to?
The blackened stubble of once-houses stretching off to the horizon like endless tombstones.
The mutie-blind pigs who hunted him beyond the valley that a big highway had once run through. Where he’d seen the bomb crater from five miles off atop the ridge that led down into it.
The bombs that destroyed the world on the day he was just a little boy on a bus.
He heard the distant sirens from that day again. In his mind. After all those years. The day he was just five and an orphan. The day Saint Maggie had rescued them all, all the orphans, in a stuck bus for “such a time as this,” as Miss Wanda had told the girl who was becoming Saint Maggie.
“How don’t you know, girl…” dying Miss Wanda had cried. “How don’t you know you weren’t meant for such a time as this?”
That was… thought the once-orphan man standing atop the ridge, looking down into the massive crater that the had-to-be-a-hundred-kiloton warhead, musta-been, had left in what had once been an interstate all those years ago….
Thirty years ago….
Thirty-five years….
Maybe even thirty-eight.
Which makes me….
He hadn’t said a word in the two years since the crater.
Who was there to speak to?
He’d crossed the Sonoran Desert and seen a village alongside another highway. They’d given him corn tortillas and offered him shelter, but he hadn’t stayed. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think of any words that would mean anything.
A man older than him watched him go and gave a little wave that was like a prayer.
He took the tortillas in a monsoon rain and kept moving on up the highway, smelling their mesquite wood smoke in the miles that followed.
You can only see so much.
That’s how it began.
The thought….
To end it all.
How much can you see? he’d asked himself.
And then he thought of….
All the bones. Bleaching in the desert, and the mud, and the hardened ash.
All the wrecks.
All the airplanes smashed across the landscape.
All the short, dark stubble where once a house, or thousands of them, had been.
All the twisted metal and melting rebar.
All the blasted roads and highways.
All the distant cities that looked like haunted, eyeless scarecrows and the signs that told people to stay away. Poison. Radiation. Plague.
And all the bones that had once been a someone.
Who was there to talk to?
You can only see so much.
And….
There is no past left to put in my falling-apart ruck and take back home.
And….
You can only see so much.
He found the gorge on the edge of a place that had once been a town. Found it at noon and stared into its wide emptiness for the better part of a day.
He imagined the fall.
The final step.
You can only see so much.
That night, back near the town, on its outskirts in an old, abandoned gas station, the wind howled and he stared into his fire and imagined the fall.
And remembered all the bones he’d seen.
You can only see so much.
The past was gone. There was none of it left to take back in his ruck. It had all burned up years ago.
He shifted his head downward in agreement with the thought.
The thought to end it all.
The gorge was wide and empty and it would take him. There was room. He would leave, and in time, just become more bones in a world filled with them.
And that was when he heard the tiny cry underneath the howl of the night. The soft whimper.
He turned and saw the pup.
Puppy, he thought and remembered something from a long time ago before the day the world burned up.
Puppy.
It waddled two steps forward and collapsed down on its stubby haunches.
The man turned and scanned the darkness.
No one, no animal, no thing was out there to be seen.
The puppy began to mewl. Its attempt to howl. To cry for everything and every injustice done. To resign itself to fate without a mother to guide or protect him.
Oh, he thought deep inside the silent well that was himself. Don’t give up, little guy.
And he stood and felt so old, and then again, young all at once. So old from all the years on the road, looking for the past. So young because of that something he could not remember from that same dimly remembered past. That lost word….
Puppy.
He knelt down.
He held out some scraps from the tasteless dinner he’d found no joy in.
And he felt the smile, the first smile in a long time, crack his burned lips as the stubby little puppy snorted and chewed and whined all at once.
The man scooped him up and held the dog against himself and away from the night and the darkness and the world that had died. He watched it throughout the night, waking and waking again to make sure the poor thing was still breathing as the temperatures dropped and the fire withered under the cruel blasts that raced like a lunatic out in the darkness.
In the morning, in the cold, orange light of the epic dust storm’s passing, in the silence that followed such, he spoke.
“I’ll call you Dog,” he barely croaked.
The puppy scratched at a flea behind his flappy ear.
“I’ll call you Dog.” Pause. He swallowed hard. “You can help me find the past now.”
The puppy tried to howl, surprised itself, and then looked around.
That morning they walked away from the town, away from the gorge, away from the fall, and continued on, in search of the past once more.
* * *
The dog grew and followed the man. Followed him into all the old ruins as they made their way west toward the setting sun each evening.
The dog who had once been a puppy wove in and out of the collapsed buildings and across the rubble as the man searched for the building he kn
ew to look for, mumbling, “I am still faithful. I will never give up. I was … thank you for my helper. Thank you for my friend. I was just … too long by myself.”
When they, the buildings, weren’t found, and even when they were and they were empty save for the ash in the makeshift fire pits and the few bones they always found in such places, the man mumbled the words again, “Thank you, Lord, for giving me a helper to help me. Thank you for my friend.”
They shared the food they took from the land and the man would talk and throw sticks as they crossed the long stretches of a burning summer and a bone-deep winter until finally they came to the top of the mountain and saw the western ocean glittering far below.
When the man produced a small device, its clickety-clack noise-making made even the dog nervous.
“San Diego is like they always said it was. Annihilated because of the fleets and marines that were there,” mumbled the man. That spring they worked their way along the tops of lonely ridges, heading north along what was once called California on all the maps that had been burned for fuel and heating in the long winter that followed the end of the world.
“It seems like we’re going home, Dog. Giving up. But, there’s one last place to check and then….” He sighed as the wind beat at his clothes, making them flap and crack. “Then I don’t know where else to look.”
Dog thumped his tail against the chalk trail that barely existed anymore. Down below, along the coast well north of San Diego, spread the ruin of a massive urban sprawl that seemed ghostly and abandoned even from this high point.
“How can we have a future if we can give ’em no past,” muttered the man as he set to making their last camp in the coastal mountains.
All that spring and well through summer, they searched the ruin.
They found rusting cars.
Empty houses falling over on themselves.
Raven-haunted buildings.
Bones.
And the occasional salvager who shared a fire and told the man and dog that they were getting awfully close, dangerously close, too close to the El Lay and Mad King Arturo and the Dogeaters he made ally with.
