by Joe Nobody
Jack tried to stand again, the room spinning and flashing so violently he thought he was going to puke. Retaking his seat, the commander answered, “That’s a good question, Mr. Bell. I guess I’m going to have to stay here until I get my land legs back.”
Shaking his head, Archie scanned the area outside. “That’s not wise, son. I still encounter the occasional straggler and ne’er-do-well through here. Hell, just a week ago, a whole gang of ‘em set up camp on the other side of the interstate for three days. They were a mean looking bunch, hiking up from Mexico, I think. No, given your condition, I probably ought to take you back to the ranch and let you mend for a few days.”
The offer surprised Jack. If it was genuine, it was one of the few acts of kindness he’d experienced since making landfall. Yet, despite the rancher’s apparent sincerity, Cisco was suspicious. Why would a stranger offer such charity in these times?
Yet, the old man could have easily killed him or made off with Jack’s supplies while he was still buried in the building’s ruins. The commander sensed no malice.
Archie seemed to read Jack’s thoughts. “Given my current state, I can’t offer a lot of hospitality, but I wouldn’t sleep well tonight if I just left you here to your own devices.”
When Jack didn’t comment, the rancher continued, his voice becoming sad. “I’ve seen so much killing and death these last few months, son. I’ve watched friends and neighbors die, and every time I’ve wondered if I could have done something more to help them. I was never in the military. I was never a brave man. I’ve lost count of how many times I hid, or stayed away when I knew there was trouble. I felt like a coward, worried about my own life and nobody else’s. Now, there’s hardly anybody left, and the few that I do encounter seemed to have turned into primitive animals. That makes a man wonder why he wanted to live so badly in the first place. If you want shelter and fresh water, come with me. If not, then I wish you well.”
Jack’s gut told him he should be on his way. His heart, however, wasn’t in agreement. Trying again to stand, the commander stumbled and almost fell. Wave after wave of nausea bombarded his very core. There was no way he could travel. He didn’t see any other option.
“I’m inclined to accept your invitation, Mr. Bell. However, I’m not sure I can even travel to your home. Standing is difficult right now; walking would be impossible.”
“Archie,” the rancher said in a friendly tone. “Please, call me Archie. I can get you back to my place ... or at least out of here,” he said, eyeing what remained of the shop’s unstable wall. “I have my own contraption outside.”
The rancher turned and stepped on the other side of the concrete barrier, returning a minute later with a small, two-wheeled cart. “I use this when I go out to hunt and gather. Some people would call that looting,” he winked, “but I don’t think the original owners are coming back anytime soon.”
With an arm draped around his benefactor’s neck, Jack managed a weak-kneed gait to the makeshift wheelchair. The rancher returned a moment later with the commander’s pack and weapon. “You sure you’re not of a mind to shoot me in the back, son?”
“No, sir, I’ve never shot anybody who wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“Good. I stashed your bicycle. We can come back and get it later when you’re feeling a little better. Hold on now, this buggy doesn’t have suspension torsion bars.”
Watching as the older man stepped to the front of the pushcart, the commander was impressed with how easily Archie lifted the two wheelbarrow-like handles and then pulled two leather straps over his shoulders. A moment later, they were rolling across the parking lot.
“I never thought I’d end up a draft animal,” the rancher reported from the front of the improvised gurney. “But it sure beats carrying back armloads of stuff.”
Indeed, Jack detected little effort in the man’s stride.
“It gets tougher going uphill. My place is up in the mountains a bit, so I’m going to transport you to an old friend’s place that is off the beaten path. We can stay there until you’re healthy enough for a hike, and then we’ll head on up to my hacienda.”
“Are you a cattle rancher?” Jack asked.
“No, son, I’m an avocado grower. I have one line of lime trees and a private garden … or at least I did until Yellowstone belched her displeasure with mankind. That’s how I survived. I had a barn full of almost-ripe fruit that I was getting ready to ship for market. The world went to hell, and I ran out of food like everybody else, so I began eating a lot of my own produce. I ain’t gained any weight, but I’m still breathing.”
Archie had just answered Jack’s next question – how had the rancher survived when most others had perished.
They continued further, Archie pulling the cart down a two-lane California state highway. They passed the last few remaining businesses that had sprung up around the overpass, moving on into what was definitely a rural environment.
Jack's brain wasn’t working well enough to gauge time or distance, but the interstate had faded from view a while back when Archie finally stopped to take a breather.
“We’re headed to the old Brody place. It used to be on my land, but when I sold all those parcels down by the thruway a few years back, I went ahead and sold the old farmhouse as well. Hell, I didn’t need it, and Brody was a nice guy who was just down on his luck. He took good care of it until he passed on a few years back. It isn’t much, but it will be a roof over our heads.”
Not being in a place to criticize any shelter, Jack merely nodded. His head hurt, his stomach churned, and his body was beginning to sense every bruise and cut. Trying to take his mind off his misery, the commander scanned the countryside. The first thing he noticed was that every plant and bush seemed to be dead. He then thought of Archie’s livelihood. “How are your trees doing without much sunshine?”
Archie frowned, Jack’s question obviously bringing up a sore subject. “My whole orchard is brown,” came the monotone response. “Even most of the seedlings in the greenhouses have died. But I don’t think it’s the lack of sunshine. I think it’s the water.”
“Sir?”
“All this ash,” Mr. Bell said, waving his arm to encompass the grey surroundings. “I think it’s alkaline or has been contaminated by some harmful substance. Lack of safe drinking water is also what killed a lot of people. Everybody I know that was drinking from Hobson’s Creek … even if they boiled the water … they all perished from some kind of stomach ailment. I have a very small spring on my place. I think that, and eating my crop, saved my hide.”
Jack hadn’t thought about that. He wondered if some of the sickness described by the priest back in San Diego had been due to drinking the rainwater or some other tainted source.
“So you think the rain killed your trees as well?”
Nodding, Archie responded, “And before I knew any better, I was hauling buckets of water from the creek up to my greenhouse. This seemed like a natural choice for irrigation as the creek streams thousands of gallons of water daily and is close to the hothouses. However, that decision nearly destroyed all of my crop, and now, I’ve only got a handful of seedlings left. That being said, I am luckier than most. A small spring that bubbles right out of the earth is located on the other side of my spread. It is clear of ash, but it is located too far away for me to carry enough to keep my plants thriving.”
The words rang true with the commander. Even people living in the countryside would eventually have started using either rain catches or some other ground source to drink. Boiling wouldn’t eliminate heavy metals or other chemical substances, only bacteria. He wondered how many had perished because of tainted water.
“We’re almost there,” Archie announced, setting himself up in the harness again. “Another 10 minutes. You feeling okay?”
Embarrassed at having to be lugged around, Jack grunted, “Yes, sir. And thank you again.”
“No problem, son. It’s good to have someone to talk to for a change. My wife pa
ssed away a few years back, and now with the end of days upon us, I’m enjoying your company.”
Another mile up the road, Archie turned into a narrow lane. Jack could barely make out the roofline of an older home in the distance. After he had ascended a few hundred yards, the rancher again stopped and said, “Sit tight, commander. I have to brush away our tracks.”
Jack watched as the old man stepped to the bordering fence line and pulled out a long swatch of brush. Careful to stay in his original tracks, Mr. Bell walked back the road and began a light sweeping motion to erase any evidence of their passing. “I’ll be damned,” Jack thought. “That’s one hell of a good idea.”
Ten minutes later, they were rolling up to Mr. Brody’s former residence. Jack spied a small, adobe structure with a red tile roof. Paint peeled from the few windows, and the front door was boarded shut. The place looked abandoned, which was probably made it safer.
Archie pulled the cart up to the rickety-looking rear deck and proclaimed, “Home sweet home. Be careful where you walk. Some of this old timber is pretty rotten.”
They entered the back door, and much to Jack’s surprise, the place wasn’t half-bad inside. The commander found himself in a small kitchen, complete with an art deco dining table that would have been right at home in any old-time diner. A half-burned candle sat in a stained coffee saucer, streams of melted wax ready to overwhelm the edges. The appliances looked like they had been originally manufactured in the 1960s.
“There’s a reasonably clean couch in the living room and a couple of lawn chairs I salvaged from my barn before it burned,” the older man offered.
“How come the lightning hasn’t burned this place down?” Jack asked, prompted by the mention of Archie’s outbuilding.
“I guess it’s the tile roof, or maybe the dirt walls. My house is larger but of a similar construction. The barn had a metal roof, and it didn’t last long.”
Despite riding the entire way, Jack was exhausted. “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll test out that sofa.”
“I’ll bring in your equipment, Jack. Go take a load off. I’ll wake you up in a few hours, and we’ll figure out something to eat.”
Chapter 7
For two days, Jack and Archie stayed at the Brody house, eating avocados and Jack’s pickings from the auto store’s vending machine. In an effort to contribute, the commander heated one of his precious MREs, which the local rancher seemed to relish.
Cisco spent most of the time sleeping and tending to his wounds. Archie made one trip to the creek, the rugged old man hauling back a full, 5-gallon water bucket without complaint. “It’s okay to wash in, but I wouldn’t drink this,” he cautioned.
“I’m feeling strong enough to walk now, Archie,” Jack announced late on the second evening. “In the morning, we can head back to your house if that is still the plan. As a matter of fact, I’m going to let you have the couch tonight. I’ll use my bedroll. I need the practice anyway.”
“I won’t argue with that,” the rancher grinned, nodding toward his makeshift bunk that consisted of three kitchen chairs and an old blanket.
They blew out the candle at just past nine. Jack had spread his bedroll on the kitchen floor, thinking that both men would sleep more soundly given private air. Besides, Archie snored louder than any man the commander had ever seen.
Sleep wouldn’t come. Jack had been resting and dozing so much the past two days, his body didn’t seem to feel the need. As he lay awake, staring into the darkness, the groan of a deck board interrupted the still night.
For a split second, the commander wondered if some animal had meandered onto the rotten porch. He quickly dismissed the idea – any critter large enough to make the rotten wood protest had long since perished. Any animal except man.
Reaching for his carbine, Jack heard his heart start increasing its pace. If there were men outside in the wee hours of the morning, there was little likelihood they were making a social call.
He thought about waking Archie, but didn’t want to risk moving in the darkness or making any sound. With his grip tightening on the M4, he slowly slinked and shimmied to a corner behind the table. His movements were measured, calculated for their diminutive size, and never had he listened with so much intensity in his life as when he crept around on the floor.
There was no noise outside. Nothing but the silence that seemed to dominate this new world reached the kitchen. The commander rose from his combat crouch, now wondering if he had heard the wind or the house settling, or if some other natural occurrence had been the catalyst of the unaccounted for sound.
A whisper drifted through the wall. The commander couldn’t distinguish the words, but he was sure the murmur had been uttered from a human throat. Again, silence followed.
Jack’s hearing hadn’t been the same since the dirty storm, the constant, deafening thunder causing his ears to ring most of the following day. Still, he was positive he’d heard something. He brought the rifle up to his shoulder, thinking to move closer to the window over the sink and peer into the blackness.
Another board squeaked, immediately followed by a man hissing under his breath, “Fuck! Watch that shit! Do you want to let the whole fucking county know we’re here?”
So there are more than one, Jack considered. Not good.
“I’m telling you, there ain’t nobody here,” the hushed reply retorted from outside. “We need to keep moving.”
“And just who made those tracks down by the creek, asshole? They led right up to this place. Somebody lives here, and they are walking upright, so they must be eating something.”
Jack’s chest tightened when the doorknob turned, its rusty parts grinding as the latch opened. Shit, the commander thought. We didn’t even bother to lock the door?
Slowly, the heavy wooden slab began to pivot enough to expose the threshold, the barrel of a shotgun leading the way. Jack’s mind shifted into overdrive. Do I shoot? Shout out a warning? What if I kill innocent people? What if they kill me?
He finally decided to scare them off. “Take one more step, and I’ll cut you in half!” he barked with as much authority as he could muster.
As the last words left Jack’s mouth, some instinct told him to move. That premonition saved his life.
The shotgun roared through the kitchen, firing toward the sound of Jack’s words. He felt the heat of the blast on his face as his finger moved to the carbine’s trigger. The burst of white light from the scattergun’s muzzle filled the confined space. The commander was blinded.
The M4 pushed against his shoulder as he worked the mechanism without pause, sending round after round from pure instinct and some shadowy, mental map of the room. The only thing Jack could see was the zigzagging bright streaks from the 12-gauge’s blast. He had no idea if he was hitting anything.
Another report from the shotgun tore through the kitchen, followed by some other weapon that wasn’t nearly as loud. Jack stayed in motion, backing away from the gunfire, unsure where he was going. All along, he kept firing, using sound as his aiming point.
Yet another blaster joined the fray, this one nearly as loud as the shotgun. For a nanosecond, Jack thought some of the attackers had maneuvered behind him. He then remembered Archie’s lever action rifle. The rancher was working his weapon, now fully in the fight.
The popping gun was fading, moving away from the house. One of them is running away, Jack realized. Firing over his shoulder. Cisco stopped shooting but kept the carbine high and ready. Again he moved – just in case.
“Are you okay?” Archie shouted from behind.
“Yes. I can’t see shit, though. You okay?”
“Yeah … I’m good. I think we ran them off.”
“I can’t see anything,” Jack repeated, shuffling a few steps to his right and bumping into the kitchen table.
“Don’t shoot,” Archie replied. “I’m coming into the kitchen. Hold your fire.”
Jack detected a shadow of movement and prayed it was his host. Ther
e was a brushing noise, a grunt, and then the screech of the back door being closed. A few moments later, a match flashed across an emery board and burst into flame.
“They’re gone or dead,” the old rancher announced, marrying the match to the candle’s wick. “Still, you might want to stay away from the window while we have this torch burning.”
The light helped, Jack’s orientation quickly improving now that he could visualize his surroundings. A body lay twisted on the floor, just inside the kitchen archway. A pool of crimson was spreading across the old linoleum. Plaster dust was everywhere, the back wall of Mr. Brody’s former residence riddled with holes.
“There’s another fellow on the back porch. He’s as dead as a doornail,” Archie reported.
Moving the candle to get a better view of the deceased, Jack discovered the contorted figure of an older fellow, lying twisted on the floor, his eyes still open. The barrel of a shotgun protruded from underneath the man’s chest. His expression was veiled by a thick covering of scraggly whiskers. He was rail thin and sported a mouthful of clenched, yellow teeth.
“The one on the back porch is younger. We need to get grandpa here outside. I can already smell the body odor coming off his carcass. How did you know they were coming in?”
Relaying the story of his troubled sleep and the back deck’s rotten wood proved difficult for Jack. He had trouble forming his thoughts into sentences and found that his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. All along, Archie stood patiently, listening with a friendly nod or the occasional, “I see.”
“We were lucky,” the rancher finally announced. “Why don’t you get a drink and go sit on the couch. You’re not looking so good.”
“I’m okay. I’ll help you drag that one out back,” Jack countered, nodding toward the dead man on the floor as if the body was a bag of trash that needed to go to the curb.
“I got it, son. Seriously, you’re still fighting off that lump on the head you took a few days ago. Go rest and chill. I’ll be back in as soon as I’m sure their friends aren’t going to visit us again for payback.”
