Digger 1.0

by Michael Bunker

  We need a good sheep dog, thought Ellis and remembered other dogs he’d known.

  Back before the Beginning, Ellis had read Far From the Madding Crowd and he knew what could happen to sheep that were kept in pasture that abutted a cliff. And without fencing, livestock could dash down through the lowland draw and right across Fontana’s Bridge if they had a mind to.

  Ellis stretched his neck to each side, feeling the tendons pop and release. Add fencing to the things the family needs to make the best use of the valley.

  “I know,” he said aloud.

  Up near the northeasternmost corner, just short of the cliffs, there was a large rocky hill; an area of stone and rubble encompassing a region almost an eighth of an acre across. That hilltop was known to the family jokingly as Utah. Besides the cliffs and the river, Utah was the most dangerous area on the farm, and Ellis had long ago banned anyone from playing, or exploring, amidst the precariously balanced rocks, boulders, and rubble. Sometimes the older boys were sent there to gather large stones for construction projects, but other than that, Utah was off limits. And that made Utah the perfect place for Ellis to go, sit, and think.

  Chapter 7

  Ellis followed a sandy animal trail that wound into the formation of massive rocks that made up Utah. Most of the rocks were limestone or granite—some weighing ten to twenty tons or more. Ellis didn’t know how they’d gotten there, or what calamity might have piled them in such an odd array, but back in the time before the Beginning, he’d seen such formations while traveling through the states of Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, and even here in Texas.

  Perhaps the stones, once buried beneath hundreds of feet of soil, became exposed after oceans of floodwaters eroded away the layers of dirt, sand and clay, leaving these rocks as a memorial; a reminder of a time before another Beginning. Or perhaps during some remarkable period of catastrophic geological instability—maybe when the limestone cliffs not two hundred feet to the east were formed by the same deep tectonic surges—the huge stones had been thrust up from the earth, maybe even in a matter of hours or days, and then deposited on the surface to befuddle future generations. And maybe the same glaciers that had carved the hundred mile wide basin on their way to the sea left behind the upraised castle that was the valley as a token of catastrophism, with the stones of Utah as the keep where the secrets of time and creation lay buried.

  Ellis hadn’t spent much time among the stones in the five years since the Beginning. He came up here once a month or so to sit and think and even to pray. Sometimes, while sitting among the boulders he’d hear his daddy’s voice telling him what he should do or not do next—but he knew it wasn’t really his father’s voice, only a mental manifestation of his own intense desire to have someone to lead him… to not always be the one shouldering all the responsibility. Occasionally, he’d been here amongst the stones working with the boys, and together they’d stack rocks in a stone boat they’d yoke themselves to and pull it down to the farm to be used in fences or foundations. Those were the times he’d thought it would be nice to have an ox or a horse, but then he’d remember that those animals drink water too. Once or twice he’d had to run up here with a sniper rifle when they thought invaders might be heading toward Fontana’s Bridge. Those were the scary times.

  We need to do something with that bridge.

  The hilltop made a fine sniper’s nest, but there weren’t many other reasons to value the huge area of mostly unusable stones. In the past, Ellis had even cursed the rocky patch because it would seem on first blush that more pasture would be better than a bunch of heavy rocks that no one after the Beginning would ever be able to move.

  When he thought about the size of most of the stones, that’s when he’d pray for a backhoe or bulldozer, but even if the bridge would hold the weight of such a large machine, the dream of finding heavy equipment this long after the Beginning was probably more of a delusional fantasy than anything else.

  Ellis found his sittin’ spot—a little, flat clearing guarded by a low cliff face where he could put his back up against the largest stone in Utah and think without being disturbed.

  Sitting there with his back against the cold stone, his view was blocked in every direction by massive boulders that gave this place an otherworldly sense to it. He could actually feel like he was in another place, or even on another planet, alone with his thoughts and with history and time without the omnipresent weight of responsibility and the threats that badgered him day by day.

  He stretched his legs out flat and leaned his weight against the cool resistance that pressed evenly against his back, pushing his hands down against the ground as he felt the pleasant sting of his muscles straining against the weight of earth and rock. He felt like the pressures and worries, multiplied by authority and unreal expectations, were hanging over him like the massive rock pressing against his back, and he closed his eyes for a moment and imagined the rock crushing him into dust.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be all that bad.

  He was ashamed as soon as he thought it.

  Who would watch over the family? Who would calm Rooster when she was in a rage, and who would help and support Delores as she tried her best in her young womanhood to hold the children together by the strength of her will? And who would mentor Chuck and Shooter as they became men during one of the most difficult times anyone could ever imagine?

  He slid his hands back until the heel of his palm and his pinkies touched the wall of stone behind him.

  That’s when he noticed it.

  Maybe not consciously, but the fact did register.

  A crack between the stone and the flat rock that made up the ground where he sat. Most of his mind was still on his troubles, and the mounting needs and evils that threatened to destroy what little they’d managed to build.

  If we’re going to be destroyed, Lord, then let’s just get it over with. We can’t go on like this. Something will have to change. We’re barely making it as it is, and the threats grow every day. Something. Anything. If a horde is going to flood through this valley, or a gang is going to come over that bridge…

  Again he flexed his legs and pushed against the immovable weight that pressed back against him.

  Only it wasn’t immovable.

  The stone shifted.

  It was only a microscopic slide at first, but he felt it, and it shook him from his thoughts.

  Raising himself to his knees, he crawled around the rock, and that was the first time he realized that the gargantuan stone he’d been using as a back rest was pressed flat up against the rocky cliff face like it had been put there on purpose. And now he was seeing that the stone didn’t sit flat against the ground at all. Something underneath it lifted it—suspending it a quarter of an inch above the stone on which it sat.

  Ellis moved to the south side of the stone and looked closely at the place where the stone and cliff met.

  This rock has been quarried… made to fit flat against the wall!

  He pushed against the rock and it moved, and the crack between the stone and the wall increased by an eighth of an inch. He pushed again and he realized that the heavy rock must be sitting on pebbles or bearings because it was designed to slide.

  He shoved harder and the opening appeared, and the big stone slid back more than a foot, exposing a tunnel, pitch black and mysterious, which had been dug into the cliff face.

  A cool breath of air from the void touched his face. There’s air circulating somehow! And then he heard the voice of his father, long dead he‘d supposed, and even though he knew it wasn’t his father speaking but the words of his conscience preaching to him with the authority he longed to hear, the voice was that of his daddy and it spoke with conviction and a warning…

  Son. You best prepare yourself. You wanted a change and now you have it.

  Chapter 8

  Bad Things Do Not Just Happen

  The man in black rode his donkey into the setting sun and no one followed him. At dusk, in the gloaming, the sage thic
k and heavy and sweet to the taste of his nose, he started a great and reckless bonfire.

  The mule honked as the man drank thirsty swigs from a large plastic bottle that once held honky-tonk grade Jack. “Ah Clarice,” he screamed hysterically at the end of a maniac laugh, “Let me enjoy my triumphs!”

  Bad things don’t just happen.

  They’re made.

  Call him the Man in Black. Or even Walter o'Dim or Richard Fannin or Randall Flagg the Walkin’ Dude. It doesn’t matter, call him whatever you’d like. Rasputin or even the Witch King. Call him the kid everyone in the neighborhood was afraid of. Or call him HAL. Every story’s got one. Stephen King knows that. The maker of bad things, the doer of dirty deeds done dirt cheap, the villain of stories, yours, mine and other people’s. One of the 88.

  The Man in Black.

  Mayhem.

  Oh how he loved to cause mayhem. He rejoiced in it because that’s who he is, and tonight was surely a night for rejoicing if ever there was one. He could still smell the smoke of burning Summner on the night’s rising wind, a wind he was sure would howl sometime around midnight when he would summon a demon. He had run alongside the starving horde, run inside them, whispering and tempting and in the end, dressed like a ragtag lunatic like them all, he’d led them toward the walls of Summner and when he was sure their ravenous course was straight and fatally true on that sleepy, little walled hamlet east of the Basin, why, he’d just faded away.

  Disappeared. That was the way of the 88.

  He’d watched from afar as they fell hard on one of the last outposts of humanity.

  Oh yes, he told himself, drunk on spirits other than the one in the bottle, he knew all about hordes. Knew all about Slenderex. Why once, in another life, long ago, he’d had a little something to say about its design. Just a little something about want and desire and unquenchable hunger. But he’d been more interested in its marketing being overt rather than subtle. He loved the lies he’d promised to everyone. Youth, vigor, fitness, sex. All of it in a family-sized bottle for the taking.

  He’d never said “beauty” and, as he skipped once through the massive fire, his hobnail boots kicking up sparks while the wind began to moan and Clarice honked in fear, he was glad he hadn’t ever offered those suckers “beauty”.

  Everyone knew you couldn’t get beauty out of a bottle. Maybe one of the others in the 88 had sold that lie, but not him.

  And then the blindness had given him real powers. Not just marketing and strategy, but the power over life and death. The good stuff.

  He laughed wildly.

  The Man in Black laughed and laughed and it was not a pretty thing. There was just something so wrong about it.

  Later, he fell to his knees in the sand, drool stringing from his mouth as he rolled over onto his back, recounting out loud how he’d told the Santeria Bikers to be ready for the convoy coming out of the west. Why, he’d even salvaged that old parcel truck and mixed up a little Oklahoma City Bomb for them to run straight smack dab into it.

  He cackled.

  That had been delightful.

  Simply delightful.

  A mere appetizer for Summner while he waited and watched the horde coming out of the desert wastes.

  And now, tomorrow he was headed into the Basin. He’d been listening to the tales told by deranged old salvagers and whispering whirlwind demons out in the wasteland. There were more Summners in the Basin and he was going to have some fun once he got there.

  Oh, what fun he was going to have with whoever it was that was unlucky enough to be left in the Basin.

  Oh, what fun he planned for those survivors.

  He danced and cackled and drank, and at midnight summoned a demon only he could see and the wind became a storm and a whirlwind and sparks flew out into the night at the dry sage all around.

  Clarice honked.

  The moonless night wore on.

  “Oh, what fun we’re going to have,” he cried aloud into the darkness.

  The End of Episode One...

  Texocalypse Now

  Episode Two

  Before Everything

  You Know Ended

  Chapter 9

  West of Texas. East of Eden. 1982

  “Where you at, Sugar?” repeated the platinum-haired fading bar beauty, yesterday’s homecoming queen.

  I’m in Tucson, Arizona, thought Jim Howard.

  Not ‘Nam.

  Not Cu Chi.

  Not back in the tunnels.

  “You want another?” she asked sweetly, holding up the empty beer bottle he’d been nursing. Just something to get the taste of the road off the back of his throat.

  He nodded once and mumbled, “Sure,” in his never committing to anything ever again way. He’d been driving since late last night. He’d left his job working the rigs down in the gulf and gone home to watch his dad’s old place be sold by the county land commissioner. On his way, the old truck he’d had since getting back from ‘Nam busted down outside Central City, so he’d thumbed it and caught a ride with some old boys he used to know before the war. They’d taken him out toward his dad’s place, and he’d walked the last five miles. He’d made it by dawn, and for just a moment it was like the past was still present.

  Like the boy he once was might appear, leading the horses out into the yard at first light. Combing, grooming. Gettin’ ‘em ready. Saddles and whispers. Dad coming out with two old tin cups of coffee to start the day. Then another day like all those uncounted and endless days of his youth that had promised to last forever. Fencin’. Bustin’. Herdin’. Day in and day out, and if you would’ve asked him, asked that boy he once was…

  …If I woulda asked myself, Jim thought, trying to find the ghost of himself in that early morning light, if I woulda asked myself if I was happy...

  He knew the answer.

  Knew the answer the boy he once was would’ve told him now.

  “Nah, I got to see the world first.”

  Idiot, he thought of himself. Idiot.

  Now the old place was gone. Bought up by a big corporate ranching group. They’d knocked down the little white house that leaned in the wind. The house that grandpa had built when he was young, a boy like he once was too, helping a man called Denton Howard. A man Jim had never known, but who was a county legend and great-grandfather to him.

  People still called him Dent.

  Grandpa was Little Dent.

  Dad was Bill.

  He was Jim.

  I am Jim Howard, he remembered, and took a long pull on the fresh cold beer just outside Tucson at an old Air Force honky-tonk in the quiet of an afternoon in 1982. The platinum-haired bar beauty faded on down to the end of the bar.

  Yesterday morning he’d gone to the old place to give Tom Childress, the banker, the keys to the ranch.

  “Sorry, Jim. Ain’t personal and I don’t like it.”

  Jim told him to never mind.

  No one liked it these days.

  “Both you and your dad fought for this country,” continued Tom Childress. “Somthin’ in that ought to let a man keep his property, regardless. But what’s done is done, I guess.”

  Jim turned and walked toward the old barn that still stood.

  Where have all those horses who hated me even though I loved them gone off to?

  Later, as he drove away from his childhood home down the dirty road throwing up chalk and dust, in the old sky blue Cadillac his Dad had won in a back room poker game down in Amarillo in ’58, he went over his plan once more, and probably for the last time.

  I tried hard to do it their way.

  And there was no answer back to himself, telling him right and wrong, winning and losing.

  He’d known lotsa guys back in Cu Chi who’d tried hard. Real hard. But the tunnels had been stacked against you. You went into those tunnels, you went into their country. Their world. Charlie’s house.

  You were as good as done. Even if you tried real hard.

  “I ain’t done yet,” Jim whispere
d softly as he turned out onto the paved road. He could hear his own words. He could hear the big engine in the Caddy and the gravel grinding beneath the wide tires and the springs in the seats that almost put a man to sleep. He could hear it all.

  And the road took him and sent him west, and he was still in Vietnam along all those countless miles.

  ~~~

  1968.

  “You see, we own all this,” shouted the Public Affairs LT over the chop of the blades. A gray-haired reporter in a khaki vest leaned forward and looked out the open door of the Huey transport at the spreading jungle and intermittent moonscape that was the Iron Triangle. Route 13 raced beneath them suddenly. Squat green APCs, surrounded by infantry on foot who walked the elevated road above the rice paddies. Jim noticed grunts looking up and watching them go by overhead. SGT Jim Howard could feel their hatred.

  He tuned out both the Public Affairs officer and the reporter the officer was giving a tour of the battlefield to. Jim was just hitching a ride forward after some R and R and treatment for an intestinal parasite he’d picked up in the tunnels.

  “Problem is,” continued the bellowing Public Affairs LT, “is the Cong are below all that out there. That’s where these guys come in.” The LT ducked his head toward SGT Howard, aviator sunglasses flashing in the hazy sunlight. The gray-haired reporter merely turned and looked at Howard. The reporter’s bushy eyebrows accented the scrutiny Howard could feel himself under.

  “These guys…,” yelled the LT as the noise of the chopper’s blades suddenly turned staccato drum roll. The pilot was bringing them into the LZ in a tight turn. “…they go down in there, in those tunnels, after intel. Problem is, Charlie’s still down in there, more often than not.”