600 Miles: A Post-Apocalyptic Adventure

by G. P. Grewal

  I weren't no smart, educated man with the means of putting it into high-sounding words, but I had brains enough to know just how rotten it all was: people, the world, everything, no matter how much folks liked to talk about God and hope and the natural goodness of humanity, like human beings was something special, like they should be treated any better than that poor dog back there on the spit. Where was she, that bucktoothed woman? Where was everybody? I hadn't wanted to see anyone before and kept coming across them anyway, and now that I was looking weren't no one to be found. And which way was I going anyway? Seemed to me it were once again back the way I came, back towards that road and the house and that tunnel.

  My mouth was getting dry again. My stomach, forget it. To say how hungry I was ain't even worth it because ain't too many people know what it's like to not eat for three days. Four, maybe? I didn't know. But there it came, just beckoning me in the distance, that good old American flag flying high, and I knew them boys had something to eat there, especially on account of how fat one of them was.

  Where were they now? Come get me, I thought. Better yet, let me sneak up on them and do it my way. I'd killed a man before with nothing but an old shoelace and I could do it again. I saw the road, but weren't no sight of them around. They was probably in the house doing to each other what they did best. God knows it weren't shooting, because had they been any good with them rifles I wouldn't have been standing there.

  As I headed down the hill I saw something laying near the road, a moment later realizing it was a man. I went over, wondering if the bullets were going to suddenly start flying, certain it was some kind of trap.

  "You," I said.

  I knew him all right, one of them men who'd tried to shoot me, one of them two boys who had chased me until I'd rolled down the hill. Weren't the fat one though, but the other, which was a surprise, seeing as, in my experience, it was always the fat one who was the first to die. There was a couple of holes in him and blood all over. I looked up, almost expecting to see the shooter but I was the only one around. Then a short ways up the road I spotted another body. This one I recognized before even coming close.

  Beneath me was Ramiro, as dead as the other, half his skull blown off. It was a mess. I weren't no caliber expert, though I knew enough to see he'd been sniped from a distance, whoever had done it obviously packing a rifle with a lot of punch. .308 round, I guessed. I'd seen what one of those could do to a man before and no doubt was seeing it again, though the first time I'd seen it, it had been me who had been doing the shooting, exploding a bandit's head from a pace of about a hundred yards.

  I looked up the hill to the house, wondering if I was next. Weren't no shots though, and I left that dead Mexican whose guts I hated where he lay, his pistol now mine and that nasty meat hook of his too, a taste for blood still in my mouth. To my surprise, there was a third body I now came across, this one also being someone I knew: the fat man who, like his dead buddy, had tried to kill me. More bullet holes, this one, a bunch of them in the chest. I picked up his rifle and moved on.

  Then I was at the house, everything so still, the wooden boards creaking under me as I stepped onto the porch. A fourth body. This man I didn't know. More blood, more bullet holes, flies buzzing around.

  I stepped inside the doorway ready to shoot, pulling back the bolt on the fat man's rifle. Apart from the racket the flies was making the place was dead quiet. It was pretty dark and I squinted as I swept the point of my rifle across the room, but there was no one there, just some old furniture and a wooden stove, a stuffed deer head on the wall staring back at me.

  Then I heard the heavy breathing and the grunting and pained gasps. I started forward, creeping real slow, my eyes fixed on the doorway back near the stove until I noticed the blood smeared all over the floor, a long trail of it leading me on.

  Them gasps were real loud now, the blood real clear. I took another step, the point of my rifle leading me around the corner.

  Roy.

  He was sitting on the floor, bleeding all over, his back up against the wall. His head lolled over as he looked up at me, one bloody hand on his belly, the other, resting on the floor, still clutching his gun. We just stared at each other, his breathing unsteady, his eyes fighting to keep open, the red puddle beneath him getting slowly bigger.

  "Looks like you done got shot good," I said.

  He smiled a little, all scornful and bitter, his mouth suddenly twisting with pain.

  "Where's Gitty?"

  "Don't know," he gasped. "Took off when Ramiro got it. Probably dead too."

  I nodded, smiling just a little like he had. Then my eyes moved to the pistol laying in his hand.

  "Let go of it."

  "Nobody..."

  "Nobody what, Roy?"

  "Nobody gets my gun."

  He were quick, even for a dying man. My rifle cracked, splitting my ears, Roy's brains splattering on the wall.

  Outside it were just me and a couple of dead fools, Old Glory flapping in the wind. "Gitty!" I cried. Weren't no reply, and weren't no sight of her. I went back into the house to quickly rummage up what I could and set off, calling out her name as I went.

  Chapter 22

  I reached the tunnel and then the woods, never catching sight of Gitty. Desperately I called out, though no matter how many times I shouted her name I never heard a reply. I hurried back to our old camp, hoping to find her there. It was empty, the cold ashes of the campfire being the only thing I found.

  "Gitty!" I cried again, the woods seeming to swallow up her name. I sat down, running my grimy fingers through my sweaty hair, wondering where to go next. Should I press on, or go back in the direction of the tunnel? Or should I just wait there at the camp? Or maybe she hadn't run this way at all.

  I'd never find her, I knew, though even as I thought it there was a shred of hope. I got up and shouted again, paced around, then finally gave up. No use waiting there, I knew. But where?

  I cried a little, frustrated and in despair. I started walking back toward the tunnel. I stopped. I was going the wrong way. I felt it in my bones. I went back to the clearing, back to our old camp, and sat down.

  "I still love you," I said. "Come home!"

  I was tired and dizzy. Best plan was to stay put. She was still spooked and hiding somewhere. She'd come back. I just needed to wait. So I waited.

  Soon it was getting late, then it was dark and I knew she was out there somewhere alone and in danger. The tears started falling but I made myself stop, knowing I had to admit to myself what I already knew. I stayed there all night, finally falling asleep, though before long the sun was coming up again and I got up, frantically setting off. I went all the way back to where Ramiro's rotting body was still stinking up the road, then all the way down until I could see the ocean in the distance, and then to the ocean itself, searching up and down the highway for a woman who was lost forever.

  It went on like that for two days before I finally gave up, back and forth up that empty road, then all the way back to our old camp, then up the hills, thinking she might be so close without me even knowing it, maybe hidden somewhere just out of view. I had shouted so much it hurt to shout anymore. I cried, knowing she was gone for good.

  I sat where I was on the grass looking at the ocean that was too far away to hear. Over, I told myself. Done. The sun was going down again, leaving me to wonder where she was out there in the dark. The wind had picked up and it was chilly, though there weren't nothing to cover myself with. I was tired. I had only slept a couple of hours the night before. I kept dozing off, my chin falling on my chest before I'd suddenly awake with a start, trying to keep up as long as I could, telling myself I should keep looking, forcing my eyes open every time they shut. I had that beautiful gun in my hand, that sleek 9 millimeter Beretta pistol that had belonged to Roy, that pistol that had sent God knows how many men to hell. I felt the weight of it, the power. It was mine now, for all it was worth. I would have given it back if it meant going back, but there weren'
t no going—not a week, not a month, not even back to before I ever seen that woman, that woman I should have turned away that night, that early morning, when she came to me and asked me to take her away.

  My eyes closed again. I couldn’t fight it no more.

  Just keep looking, Elgin, just keep looking...

  "Gitty!"

  It was far off but I swore I could see it, that small fire that burned out there in the dark. I kept looking, wondering if I were really seeing it or if it were just something I was hoping for, wondering if my eyes were playing tricks on me, my imagination fooling me again like it had been doing for the past two days, always hearing little things I thought were her, always seeing things that ended up being nothing at all.

  Then I was walking toward it, and though it was far away I knew it weren't my imagination no more: that faint flicker of firelight alongside the ocean highway, that campfire that couldn't have belonged to anyone else. I hurried up, wanting to shout her name but keeping quiet, knowing that she might run. She must have been scared of me. In fact, I bet she'd probably already heard me shouting for her but had been too afraid to come out.

  "I ain't gonna hurt you, Gitty!" I said.

  The feeling was so strong, that love for her I had tried to tell myself was dead. I was closer, walking even faster, fighting the urge to run. I could see her sitting near the fire, at least her shape, that figure I knew was her, and at last, not being able to help myself, I shouted.

  "Gitty!"

  She stood up.

  "Gitty!"

  No.

  No it weren't.

  Closer now.

  No, goddamn it. No...

  All the life suddenly sucked out me, the last of my hope draining away. It was a man I saw, a goddamn old man pointing a pistol at the dark, straining his eyes to see who was there. He didn't see me until I got close, brandishing that pistol as I stepped into the fire's glow.

  At first I was astonished. He looked just like a man I used to know.

  "Pete?"

  "That's close enough, you low-down, bushwhacking Mexican!"

  I stopped. Weren't no Pete after all, though with the white beard and ruddy, wrinkled up face the resemblance was uncanny. He licked his lips, that pistol none too steady. I knew that if I even twitched he might shoot, though at the same time seeing me so calm was only making him more jumpy.

  "Ain't no need for that gun," I said.

  "No need for it? Ha! Fella, you gotta be kidding me."

  "I'm just looking for someone. I thought you was someone else. Couple different people, actually."

  "Looking for someone," he said. "That's an interesting story, asshole."

  "Ain't no lie. I was looking for Gitty."

  "Gitty? Do I look like a Gitty to you?"

  "No, you ain't look nothing like her to be sure."

  "Her? So it's a woman then."

  "Been looking for days. You ain't seen her wandering around here, have you?"

  "I ain't seen no woman in months, and even if I did I sure as hell wouldn't tell some no good ruffian like you."

  "I see. Well I ain't no ruffian and I sure ain't no bushwhacking Mexican neither. I'll be on my way then. No need to get yourself riled up."

  "Wait," he called.

  I turned back around, wondering if he was going to shoot.

  "You got anything to eat?"

  *****

  We sat around the fire slowly chewing on the crispy squirrel bits I had left over, the stars shining, the distant waves crashing on the shore, two strangers thankful not to be alone in the middle of nowhere, once again sharing the company of a fellow human being, if only for a night. His name was Henry, a wandering scavenger from Nevada who had finally dared to make his lifelong dream of coming to Lost Angeles come true.

  "Only it weren't so great after all," he told me. "Years of dreaming it, years of hearing how beautiful the ocean was, years of hearing fellas who didn't know better talk about how rich you could get scavenging the ruins. All goddamn fairy tales, every bit of it. Nothing out here but a bunch of crazy bandits, murderous Mexicans, and death."

  "Took a lot of balls, an old man like you walking so many miles alone."

  "Ah, shit. I ain't that old, son. Well maybe just a little. Weren't nothing I had to lose anyway though, nothing but an old tin shack in the hills outside of Carson City where I'd been scraping out a living for myself ever since my wife passed away, which was, hell, past ten years maybe, if I'm doing my counting right. Besides, I weren't by myself in the beginning to tell you the truth. Had an old friend named Juan who came with me, though that poor fella never made it too far, God rest his soul."

  "Sorry to hear it. What happened? Bandits?"

  "Nah, weren't nothing of the sort. He would have probably died happy if it had been, what with always talking about how he wanted to go out in a 'blaze of glory' and all. Rattlesnake bit him. After a few days it seemed like he was getting better until he went and had a heart attack. Poor Juan. I had to bury him out there, though I at least laid some good whiskey with him before covering him up."

  "I'm sure he was much obliged."

  "Yep, Juan sure loved his whiskey. Women too, only the women were a lot harder to come by, Juan not having been a man with much to offer, lest you's a lady looking to live in a cave living off field mice and bean soup. Ain't too many like that though, I reckon."

  "You reckon it right," I said.

  "How about you? You come here alone too? You said you was looking for someone, a woman."

  "My Gitty. But she's gone, along with some other people I knew. Friends and such."

  "A right shame," he said, his tired old eyes staring at the fire as he picked his teeth. "It's a hard thing to lose a friend. Even harder to lose a woman. You was close, the two of you?"

  "For a while. Seems like every time I come across someone though they ain't around for long."

  He ain't say nothing to that, just thoughtfully nodded as he kept picking his teeth. The two of us were quiet for a spell, hitting that part of the conversation when things always peter out, the old man finally throwing his toothpick into the fire and slapping his hands down on his knees.

  "Well," he said, "I'd like to thank you for that good meal. Weren't much, but it warmed my belly a bit and sure beat them sea critters I've been eating."

  "Best watch them," I said. "Some of them might just end up killing you after they've gone down."

  "Uh-huh. I imagine they ain't too healthy, but then when you's hungry you's hungry, as they say. Anyways, as much as I'd like to keep gabbing all night, how about we just finish our business here?"

  "Come again?"

  I didn't need him to explain it, his pistol suddenly in hand. He just grinned at me, his old eyes twinkling.

  "Them guns, boy. You're gonna lay them down for me. That rifle too."

  I didn't move, thinking maybe it were some kind of joke. He stood up, cocking his pistol, the smile vanishing from his face.

  "Hurry it. I ain't got much patience."

  I did what he said, easing my rifle off my shoulder, careful not to move too quick.

  "That's it. And them pistols too."

  Roy's was the last I put down. He whistled when he saw it, his eyes lighting up.

  "Well I'll be! Ain't that a fancy shooter! Where the heck you find a gun like that?"

  "It belonged to a friend of mine. Well, at least that's what I thought he was. He's dead a few miles over yonder now, though I guess I ain't too sad about that."

  "Uh-huh. So you killed your buddy for his gun. I knew you was a lying, no-good bushwhacker as soon as I saw you. Get up."

  "Why?"

  "Cause I ain't letting you just walk away and I ain't accustomed to shooting a man unless he's standing up. Now get up, you thieving Mexican."

  "I ain't no Mexican."

  "No? Well you sure as hell look like one to me."

  "My daddy was Navajo. And my ma, she were as white as you."

  "Figures, you dirty half-breed. Ain't
no good ever come from any of you. Now up!"

  I stood up, our eyes locked as he licked them hairy lips and sniffed, his jaw working, his trigger finger itching to pull. Still, I could see him hesitate, like it were something he'd have to work himself up to.

  "So tell me," he said, "if I find this woman of yours, is there something you want me to say?"

  "I don't know. That I love her, I guess."

  "That's right touching, son. I'll be sure to pass it on."

  "You won't need to!" she said.

  We turned, the old man swinging his pistol around right as that shotgun went off, knocking him back so that he crashed down next to the fire. And there she stood, the two of us staring, my mouth frozen, Gitty lowering her shotgun as the fierce expression on her face suddenly changed.

  "Elgin!" she gasped, her face pale, her sweet lips quivering, until at last she dropped that shotgun and threw her arms around me, squeezing tight.

  "Oh, Elgin!" was all she could say.

  She cried and I cried too, holding onto her and not letting go. She told me she were sorry over and over again, tears falling down her face, until at last I told her everything was forgiven and she kissed me and cried some more.

  Then we made love, that dead old man lying nearby be damned. It were passionate, fierce, and as she kissed me it were like my lips were the only thing that could keep her alive, that to stop kissing them would mean to run out of air. Afterwards we laid in each other's arms, goose bumps rising on her thighs as the fresh ocean breeze cooled her glistening skin.

  "I love you, Elgin," she said. "It wasn't nothing, I swear to you. I was just so scared. He forced himself on me and—Oh God, Elgin!"

  "It's all right, Gitty," I whispered. "That's all in the past. I still love you too."