by J. D. Palmer
“Shitty for you. Because if you can see that then you know, if I ever see you again, you will die.”
We take not one, but two of the cars from this clan of thieves. I take the cars favored by the men, the spies, the weasels who drove Theo and I out to succeed or die. And I let Sheila, a large grin on her face, slash two tires on every other car that they have in their possession.
It would have been more of a victory if any of the vehicles had more than a quarter tank of gas. But that is their way; to use until gone and then move on. To think of the future is not their job.
It is Cyrene’s.
They huddle around their leader. Some of the girls cry. Some of the men clench their fists and puff their chests out. One takes a step out from the circle, as if to have words with me as I take food from their stash.
“Look,” Beryl says and points to her own eyes.
The man steps back into the huddled group, face a shade more pale than before.
The spell is broken. I can’t help but see these people as children. Errant teenagers acting out in order to gain attention. Attention that might lead to some sort of connection. A tenuous line to hold onto as we all try to make sense of this new life. I remind myself that not all have seen the horror we have seen. The terror. The darkest side of a moon foreign to this world.
I do not begrudge them this. How could I? I am a murderer. A liar. A deceit to people I called friends. How dare I look down on these people?
Still… Children playing at survivalist games will not dictate our future.
I stare at them. Perhaps the only difference between our two groups is that we are aware of what we have become, and they are not. People who know not what they are… yet.
The butterfly effect… That whole metaphor used to drive me nuts. A flap of a butterfly’s wings might end up as a hurricane on the other side of the planet. But now I see it. The ripples of small acts in one life echoing forever in another’s…
Like that boy.
But I still hate it, because it isn’t phrased correctly. A hurricane, and the butterfly, they are out of control of everyone. They happen because they will happen or they will not. To rail at them is folly. But us… Me…
You want to be a good person. But for who? For your friends? For your progeny? I let strangers on the road live, and they kidnapped Beryl, and then I end up killing the father of a child. I end up killing more people than I can count in the darkness of some antique store. For what? Had I killed those three idiots when we met I would not be here. I would not be caked in blood and my mind coated, clotted with these dark memories.
The mercy effect. Fuck butterflies.
We drive. Beryl and I alone. And she knows words, and when to speak, and definitely when to not. And it’s not long before we pick up Theo and Cyrene’s father. And they don’t seem to want to speak either. As if they had a talk and have come to an understanding. To be honest, her father seems more at peace than the rest of us.
I drive as close to the ruins of Mackay as I can. Spitting distance to the smoke. To the missing chunks in the wall. To the missing sentries and the damp, low hanging clouds that serve as a reminder of how much mourning must be happening.
I shove her father out. I tell him he’d better be quiet. I tell him many things, finding myself pressing his face into the pavement until I feel Beryl’s hand on my shoulder. And then Theo’s. I hear them say things but I don’t actually hear them. I stride back to the car with Theo and I don’t remember thinking anything, my body suffused with a rage that drives out all rational thought.
Beryl rejoins us after a time.
She drives after that. Just us. I lead them, because I must, out and away from Mackay. Away from my final road, highway 93, because I will not try to cut through that town.
We circle back around south. And every step of the way part of me wants to meet someone from Cyrene’s camp following us. A chance to vent some of the anger, and hate, and despair inside of me. To give away what haunts me, to transfer it to another.
As if that’s possible.
And we drive. And we drive. But it’s only forty-five minutes before the car dies. And only two hours of walking before Beryl says, “we should stop.”
And I didn’t know just how much I was waiting for these words.
BERYL | 18
I DON’T KNOW what happened. After all we’ve been through, Harlan will not say. But we stop that night and he takes Sheila’s bottle away from her and she doesn’t say a thing. In fact, after the initial surprise, she looks pleased.
I sit with Harlan, and even share a few drinks with him. His hands are a mess of small cuts, and a few deep. Fingers swollen and angry. His sides and elbows, too. He takes off his shirt and sits silently as I do my best to bandage the inflamed, crusted seam across his upper back where a bullet grazed him. He drinks, and I pour the liquor over the wounds, and he doesn’t make a sound, only kicking the floor with his heels with eyes closed.
Afterwards he doesn’t talk much, but when he does it isn’t about what happened. He mutters things about changing. He says he thinks that maybe John was right.
He doesn’t say much after that.
So it’s my turn. For every morning that I wake up thrashing, or every night I tremble and toss, he has been there speaking to me. Describing things or events, painting a picture of a home, and a life, and something to perhaps look forward to.
I don’t have much of that to share. Nor do I have the words. But I can hold him close, and be here, as he has for me.
Pike settles in. He squirms his way between us and can’t get comfortable. He pushes us apart and somehow glues us together. He demands and gives at the same time. He is cuddly, and utterly disgusting, and wholly integral to whatever healing is going to happen.
I hum.
Pike sleeps.
And there is something between the deep breathing and a soundless tune that seems to calm Harlan. Something that allows him to also find slumber.
Simplicity. That must be it. For it works its same magic on me. Pike is at home. You would not trust a person who trusts so quickly. You wouldn’t trust anyone who would give a part of themselves so unselfishly. But maybe that’s the essence of being human. To hide true thoughts, true feelings. To disguise everything to achieve something else. I’ve seen it.
I’ve done it.
And the sad part is that we are missing out on so much. This dog only knows the worst. Yet it gives everything of itself in this second chance, never wondering if our motives are good. An utter optimist.
He nips at Harlan and Har cuffs him, softly. I didn’t know I had dozed and they had decided to play. The moment I sit up Harlan stops, as if he is guilty of something. Guilty of taking a moment to himself. Part of me wants to cuff him for that. Part of me is glad that he can do this at all, take a moment to be what he is instead of what he thinks he has become… Even if it leaves us with an asshole for the rest of the day.
Oh, Har.
It’s forgiven. Doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot.
Doesn’t mean I’m not, either. He needs time to recover from whatever happened. Not just emotionally. I… He can’t afford to have his wounds go bad. Infection could have serious ramifications.
This is what I tell myself as I lie to him. When I tell him there are no vehicles nearby. When I tell him the rain is too thick and the wind too cold for us to venture out the next day. And when I tell him that Theo’s neck needs another day to recover. Every day that I convince him that we need to hunker down, and wait to get a fresh start tomorrow. Lies that are for him, which is true… As much as they are for me.
HARLAN | 19
I’M SITTING IN the cafe, again, across from John. But he isn’t speaking, I am.
“Fires would hit Montana every year. But every seventh year was supposed to be the worst. And we would fight it, hard, every time. And that always made Jessica mad.”
“Why?” he says, genuinely confused.
“It makes it worse. A forest need
s to burn to be healthy. Needs to be swept clean in order to grow properly. And fighting it every year just means there’s more undergrowth to burn, and spread fire, the next year. The more undergrowth, the more small trees and plants crowded together, the more everything is sick. Malnourished. Not growing… Naturally.”
“Just like people?”
My turn to be confused. “Huh?”
“Isn’t that what you’re saying? That to be healthy, to grow properly, we need to ‘burn’? Go through problems?”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
“Would you say that maybe this whole “thing,” the downfall, is just like a forest fire? That maybe we had become unhealthy, and we needed a burn to restore order?”
I give him a long stare. One that he gives right back. I can’t help but feel like I’m in a courtroom with him. Being led into saying something I shouldn’t. Do I think this? Do I think that this whole thing might be a good thing? Gods no. Not for what’s it’s cost me. But what has it given you? What has it shown you?
“I don’t know. I think yes.”
“I think I agree with you.” He gives a small smile at my surprise. “I do.” He eyes me, head cocked to the side as he ponders his next words. “A forest needs to burn. But I don’t know if I agree with you setting fires.”
Standing tall. You don’t know you are doing it until you are not. Days of assurance. Pride. Whatever charisma is inherent in a leader. For I am the leader, right?
I don’t feel it today. Today, I do not stand tall. Today, my head is bent and it is so, so hard to lift it. For to raise my chin would be to look others in the eye. Today, that is hard.
I will be the monster for them. I will be the monster…
It’s true. And we’re all safe. We are all together, and uninjured, and… whole. But the quiet moments in between doing things; driving, scavenging, cooking, eating… Killing. These are the moments when I am bowed by an unseen wind. A wind that is getting stronger.
Icy draughts and frosted mornings. Frigid afternoons that defy the warmth of the sun. Sudden storms. As if the world were a mirror for my inner turmoil. Now we are both frozen in place, a dark wasteland glimpsed in grays, and blacks, and whites that are not pure.
Winter has arrived.
Days of little movement have proved costly, the season sneaking up on us out of nowhere. Lucky that we aren’t caught between towns. Lucky that I listened to Beryl.
“This is fucking retarded.” Sheila tries on a pink coat, grimacing as it fits her perfectly. “What are we going to do when it snows? Plow the roads?”
A good question.
“Is this why you asked me to come up—”
She cuts me off. “And what about food? What about staying warm? What about—”
I hold up a hand. I’m too tired for this. Mentally exhausted from thinking about it. From never not thinking about it. “I don’t know. Okay? I do not know. But I’m going. And no one has to come with me.”
I try not to sound dismissive. It would crush me if one of them, or all of them, decided to abandon this madness. Especially Beryl.
I know that I’m leading them into tragedy. Even now, if they left, what would they do? Where would they find food? Where would they stay?
But I have to go. I have to get home before the last good parts of myself fall away. Before I have to do anything else that… Before I am unrecognizable.
“Fuck you,” is all Sheila says, rooting around in the closet for more winter clothes. I leave her to it. I understand why she’s pissed. I just hope that she finds something that’s not pink. Any more of that and she might get violent.
Beryl is downstairs, eyes staring out the window, and for a second I freeze on the steps as I catch a glimpse of the girl I first met back in that horrible house. Only difference is the gun on her lap. The heavy, dark clothes. And the light in her eyes when she turns to look at me.
“Prepare yourself, Berly, Sheila’s new look might cause you to laugh, and I’d strongly advise you not to give in to that impulse.”
A lopsided grin. “As bad as Theo’s new stuff?”
Hard not to laugh at that. Theo has taken to adding a new layer of clothing every time we stop. Muttering small words of wonderment at how cold it is, how crazy people must be to live here. Vests and multiple hats and at least three scarves have transformed the giant into some sort of flamboyant art collector. And I don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not even that cold yet. At least, not as cold as it can get.
My smile fades away as I’m reminded of just how scary the winter can be. Especially if you’re caught out in it.
“Did you get more socks?”
She rolls her eyes at the question. I’ve asked them all a thousand times. Boots. Socks. Blankets. Bullets. Water. Matches. Bullets. Bandages. Bullets. No wonder Theo and Josey said they needed to go look for food.
But this has to be the final push, it fucking has to be.
“What did you say to Sheila?”
I give her a look. “You know.” I pace around the small room. The wind picks up outside and the walls creak, branches scrabbling at windows and wind chimes from every house on the street fill the air. I like this place, it reminds me of my home. Beryl is still looking at me. Not you, too.
“What are you thinking?”
She arches an eyebrow at me. She knows that I know. We both know I’m just being petulant. “I’m thinking… We’d better move fast.”
And that’s exactly what we do. Or, to be exact, what I force them to do. Early mornings and later nights. Now that the days are so short, I want to milk them for all they’re worth.
And I don’t pay any mind to the complaining. To the downtrodden looks as we cast about for a car. Or how a truck starts, but then dies on us a mile later. The silence as we trudge along, wind whipping hair across faces and noses and cheeks red with cold.
And I don’t stop to investigate the flaming RV on the side of the road. I don’t stop in Clayton, Idaho, where a billboard has been painted over to read CHAINS ARE THE ONLY WAY TO KEEP THE RATS AT BAY.
I don’t stop. It feels good to put my blinders on. A racehorse only allowed to see the track ahead of him, ignorant of flailing hooves and lashing whips. Violence kept on the periphery. Only the one goal, everything else can do nothing but slow me down.
And I get away with it for three days. Days of hard walking and short-lived driving. Eyes tired and aching from squinting at a road that’s creased by snow blown sideways in ribbons, a white filigree too capricious to stick. Yet. Eyes tired and aching from glancing from the road to the gas gauge and back again. Eyes tired and aching from seeing the creased faces of my glum companions in the back seat.
Keep walking.
We find a shitty, wine red Ford Explorer with half a tank. It starts, and though it rattles and clicks, the old thing appears to be drivable. A boon to people stuck walking for the last day and a half. Makes me do the damn stupid thing of starting to hope.
We start the ascent to Gibbons pass. A twisting road with a steep embankment on one side and a scary plunge on the other. Trees, trees, everywhere, snow ghosts standing still and silent in their millions. An audience holding its breath.
“Slow down, please.” Josey says please and it sounds more like “fucker.” The SUV fishtails on some ice, as if to prove his point, and I ease up on the accelerator.
“It’s going to be worse going down,” I say without thinking, and Theo elicits a small groan.
We round a curve and there is a gaping hole in the guardrail. Far below I see the carcass of a semi-truck laying on its side. Elevation signs crop up, coupled with yellow warnings to drop speed to 25 miles an hour. Dips, and turns, and a wind pushing our top heavy vehicle around until even I am feeling sick to my stomach.
Then a brown sign on the left. BITTERROOT NATIONAL FOREST. And ahead of that, off to the right just past a junction in the road is a green sign partially obscured by ice and rime. A bear barely visible on the righ
t corner, just beneath letters that spell out Montana.
The top of the pass. The last few feet of what was Idaho melting into… home. Breakneck speed suddenly arrested as emotion clouds my vision. I pump the breaks and swerve into a turnout. Silence in the car. Waiting for my cue to speak, although I’m not sure I can. My jaw is off, turned to the side and teeth gritted as I work to control myself. I guess I didn’t believe, truly believe, that I would get this far. That this moment would ever come. That maybe I was destined to batter myself to pieces against an invisible wall, always seeing the other side but never able to breach it.
And now that I have…
I get out of the car and walk forward. Walk a road that is no different than that which I have been on these last thousand miles. Bits of ice and rock and faded yellow lines.
But beyond is a sky bigger than anywhere in the world. Blue mountains and air so cold it burns the lungs. Wind whips my hair across numb cheeks. I feel so small, here, but somehow invincible. As if this is more than just the top of a mountain, but the top of every damn obstacle I’ve faced. Now vanquished. All I have to do is get down, now. One last journey through a land in which I share a heartbeat.
I guess that’s hope I’m feeling.
Pike’s wet nose hits my hand a second before Beryl’s hand joins it. I look over at her and see happiness in her eyes. For me. All for me.
Doors slam and footsteps approach. And we stand there, looking out over a land vast and empty and wild. As if we were the first explorers to cross this threshold. In a way, I suppose, we are.
I turn and give them a smile. A genuine smile, one that doesn’t pull on the scar on my lip. A smile that, for once, doesn’t stand as a precursor to violence. “Welcome to Montana.”
HARLAN | 20
THE BLIZZARD HIT us midday.
