by Dan Henk
An hour passes as I roll through the unending forest, the monotony broken up by the occasional small meadow. Not a house or living person in sight. At one point the trees break on both sides to reveal a stretch of power lines. I wonder if I’m going the wrong way. In fact, I wonder what the right way is. It’s going to suck if I run out of gas and get stranded in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be back to square one with the added bonus of some unwanted publicity.
The road abruptly curves to the right, the rural vista opens up, and I’m greeted by a wide interstate. I screech to a halt. It’s two lanes both ways, a barrier of grass partitioning the middle. Beyond the road, open fields of prairie roll toward the distant horizon. Glancing down, I see the gas needle doesn’t appear to have fallen much. Then again, with these older trucks, pinpoint accuracy isn’t exactly to be expected. I spin the wheel to the right, screeching out in a sloppy arc.
The pickup is vibrating like crazy, the engine coughing through the RPMs like a dying old man. I’m south of Houston and closer to the Gulf than to San Antonio, but it’s a big state, with way too many roads. I could be headed toward Oklahoma for all I know. I’m beginning to think my intrinsic sense of direction is failing me, because I can’t make out anything.
The cab has an old radio. The channel dial is missing so I grip the metal lever and slowly spin through the bandwidth. Progressing through the wavelengths, I hear a crackling. It sounds like someone giving an impassioned speech, like something out of an old World War II movie about Nazi Germany. The distortion masks the words, but the tone is clear. I wonder if it’s some evangelist stirring shit up, or some politician engaged in the same activity on a different level. I also wonder how far the gas in this heap is going to take me. Maybe if I see a gas station I should risk it. There can’t be a statewide APB out on me. I hope. I mean... this is Texas.
The tree line on my right has fallen away into a meadow of tall grass. Just visible beyond is what appears to be an airfield. I see the shapes of a few helicopters baking in the midday sun. It might be worth hijacking one. I’d get a way better view, have a full tank of gas, and maybe even be able to fly straight over the border. I wonder how all the radar operations are functioning, given the current political state. Maybe if I stay low, just above tree level. Only, I can’t fly, and using a pilot would give away my landing location at the very least. It’s not very practical, but it would be cool. It always seemed to be a real advantage in the old zombie movies. Then again, this is real life, not some Hollywood script, and there is way too much that could go wrong. I keep driving.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BORDER CLOSES IN
I’m seeing signs for San Antonio, so I have a rough idea of where I am. If possible, I’ll hop on Route 90 and head toward a more isolated border town. From what I’ve heard, it’s more desolate out there. It would be better to deal with rough terrain than angry citizens and the possibility of military presence.
The last trees have fallen away into wide-open grasslands. The gas gauge has dropped perilously low, and I start scanning the wasteland for a gas station. But open fields with distant clusters of diminutive trees are all I see. There isn’t much traffic. Occasionally I see a pickup truck or old car pass, but nothing on my side. No matter how rural the area, I would guess there would at least be some eighteen-wheelers. To my right I see cows grazing leisurely in the fields, totally oblivious to the fall of the Western World.
I crest a small hill and a gas station creeps up on the right. It’s all shiny white columns and plastic Exxon signs, a tasteless flourish on the undulating softness of the savanna. Apparently Texans do things differently, and this gas station isn’t closed. I pull off the highway and swerve up into the lot, slowing as I approach the outer row of pumps. Grinding to a halt, I stomp on the emergency brake and step out.
The sun has fallen, a faded yellow pall drenching the property. Circling around the outside row, I enter the shadow of the awning.
I almost make it to the glass box before the clerk looks up. He’s a bald, stocky guy in a white tank top. His goatee and mustache sprout in uncombed tangles of faded black from his pockmarked face. It takes a minute before he notices me, but when he does, his eyes widen and the toothpick falls out, bouncing off his goatee in a death plunge toward the counter. He ducks below the desk and reemerges with a shiny Dirty Harry-style .44 magnum. There’s no place like Texas. The window cracks and things explode behind me. A couple of bullets hit me, shoving me back. I hear a soft whipping sound, and a crescendo of flames course in, engulfing me and the entire station in a smothering orange ball of fire.
He must have hit a gas pump. Air is sucked into the raging inferno with a churning roar, a deluge of seething yellow dancing a destructive jig as it scorches everything into oblivion. A faint crackling gives way to a loud burst of shattering glass, windows blowing in intervals like syncopated pockets of expiration. That was stupid. Everything is destroyed, and I’m probably the only survivor of this little encounter.
The fireball subsides, the charred corpse of the attendant wearing a strange grin as blackened skin peels back from his yellowed teeth. His eyes have disintegrated into burnt sockets of gristle. The security glass of the window frames the carcass in an arc of jagged splinters. Shards litter the ledge and blanket the floor. The glass entrance beside him has also shattered into a serrated portal, the rift revealing the smoldering ruin of a mini-mart beyond. I’ve never seen such efficient destruction. Rows reduced to blackened carbon speed bumps, the contents scattered about the floor in small smoking piles. The remnants of the shelves are warped into bent sheets of metal, their empty shells tossed about. A layer of soot clings to the walls.
Great... Back to trudging through the wilds of Texas. I turn and walk away slowly. Just as I pass the wall of the Exxon I peer behind me. Mostly obscured by the building is a jacked up 1980s Chevy pickup. It’s parked at an angle, nestled up against a metal air pump/vacuum combo. An unstained wooden fence stands guard just beyond. That truck probably belonged to the gas station attendant. Time for me to change rides. I look back at the now smoldering wreckage of a station. The pumps have deteriorated into melted rectangles, their sharp edges a charred mess of metal and plastic. A thin haze of smoke wafts out of the sunken cores. The awning has been ripped clear, the underside smoldering in the fading sun as it straddles the far end of the parking lot. The supporting columns have been reduced to shredded strips of metal.
The still burning wreckage of my truck lies sideways just beyond the farthest concrete tier. The rubber long since compromised, the tires have melted into dripping morasses of black goo, the clumped remains slowly sliding down the rims. I turn back around to survey the only other survivor of the encounter.
The body is electric blue, marred by rusted patches at the wheel wells. It has a lift, probably about six inches, with bright yellow skyjacker shocks peeping out from behind thirty-eight-inch Super Swamper tires. There appears to be a full roll cage welded in the cockpit. An overhead steel light bar supports four KC lights. A chrome bull bar juts out from the front grill, a weathered Milemarker winch nestled snuggly in between. I stroll over to the driver’s side. The windows are rolled down, exposing stained gray cloth seats—obviously transplants from some other car. A Summit Racing sticker and a line decal of Calvin taking a piss complete the back windshield. There are no keys in the ignition. I’ll bet the gas station attendant has them. Lovely.
I wander back to the burning shell. A polluted mist wafts around the concrete wall, growing in density as I round the bend. The blackened rows of pumps look like something out of Baghdad, not rural America. Then again, this isn’t the same America anymore. I should get this over with as quickly as possible.
It’s only been a few minutes, but the building has taken on an eerie character, the interior a gloomy sepulcher sheathed in ash. Stepping in, I circle around the counter.
The overhead cigarette frame has melted into hanging slabs of plastic that descend in drooling queues. I push aside th
e mutilated shelf and walk up to the charred corpse.
It slouches in repose, the body frozen in a death’s head form for eternity. The afternoon light pours in through the shattered window, casting a ghostly shadow abaft that stretches into the darkened recesses.
The clothing has been mostly burned off, with a few vestigial tufts wedged into the crevices. A greasy layer of blackened skin mimics the former contours of the body. The knobs of joints protrude at his shoulders, the skin cracking like old paint to reveal the yellowed marrow beneath. He looks like one of those Japanese World War II victims right after they dropped the bombs. His right pocket probably held the keys at one point. I look down. Beneath a layer of soot, a clump protrudes, an exposed edge gleaming in the smoky sunlight.
I pick it up, the ash sliding away to reveal a silver key. A GM logo is stamped on the top. Straightening up, I turn and look out the window frame. Carnage stares back at me. I don’t know why this, out of all that has happened so far, is affecting me, but it seems unearthly and out of place. The world has changed. I spy the underbelly of an overturned SUV, lying just past the last island of pumps. Circling around, I wander out, listlessly heading toward the overturned truck. To the left of the SUV, a charred corpse lies sprawled on its stomach, the right hand still clutching a gas nozzle. Small tendrils of smoke escape out of the blackened skin. I can make out the crackle of smoldering intestines. I turn around and head back toward the Chevy.
He didn’t have to die. It was that clerk’s fault. Fucking trigger- happy cretins. I can justify killing soldiers, but not random civilians. Each time it’s like I’m hit with a gut level shock, followed closely by a profound sense of wrong. I know I’ll become jaded, but I don’t want to. I shuffle slowly back to the pickup.
The truck sits a few feet off the ground. You’d think he’d install footsteps with a lift this steep. Then again, gas station attendants don’t make that much money. Grabbing the doorframe, I pull myself up. A flick of the wrist, and the engine roars to life. It’s a monster, probably a V8. And a manual! The tachometer mounted atop the steering column holds at fifteen-hundred RPM. That’s a bit high. Maybe he tuned it that way, or it has an automatic choke. The gas gauge marks off three quarters. It’s a nice truck, but I’ll bet the mileage is shit, and judging from recent experience, I doubt it’ll last very long. Shifting into first, I stomp on the gas and surge forward. An arc through the lot, and I’m back out on the highway.
The road stretches out into oblivion. I’ve seen way too much of south Texas landscape in the last few days. The drab similarity makes the time seem to drag by. The truck growls and vibrates, the roar of the engine fighting for dominance with the rumble of the tires. The stiff shocks agitate the dashboard into a throbbing blur. A green sign crops up in the distance, slowly growing as I close in. Route 37 West. That should lead me to the beltway of 410, which should take me to 90 and on to Mexico.
Things like highway signs provide a glimpse of a life that seems to be fading fast. They’re like a relic of a time before the fall. It’s difficult to see such order and normalcy persisting in an era of burning cities and trigger-happy locals. A nagging apprehension tugs at the back of my mind, a paranoid suspicion that dark forces will eventually come crashing in and change everything. I can’t wait until I’m out of the US.
I flip on the Sony stereo. It’s set on CD, and I’m assaulted by some horrible modern rock. I pound the source button until it hits AM radio. Hopefully I can find a talk channel. Pressing down on the scan button, I scroll through static. Dialog breaks out of the white noise, murmuring briefly as I overshoot the station. I skim back through the crackling bluster until I home in.
“I repeat, the real question is, What will be left? What alliances will form?”
“Well, I don’t see the Southern states rejoining the Northeastern states under any circumstances. They have gone too far. The Northern states, that is. You know, a real distance has grown between the rural and suburban dwellers, especially those that live in big cities. People in Charlotte, South Carolina, for instance, don’t feel any connection to those in New York City. And Texas, we all know, doesn’t feel like they need anybody.”
“I agree, but there are some bigger surprises. I didn’t think Virginia even considered themselves a part of the South anymore, yet they joined with states such as North Carolina and Georgia!”
“The whole country is falling apart. I don’t know specifically what did it, but Americans are pretty stubborn, and aside from a massive defeat or epidemic, I don’t see any side laying down their weapons.”
“The Federal Government, which has relocated to Boston, for those listening that didn’t know, still claims they run the whole country, and that all the errant states are involved in a massive civil war that essentially amounts to treason. But, since the splintering has started, I only see it going further. States such as California and Illinois are already showing signs of independence, and the Federal Government in its current and foreseeable state is in no position to do much about it.”
“Well, so much for the president’s sweeping socialist agenda. I doubt he has any money left for those services in the midst of a war, what with half his tax base ducking out.”
“You know, if there wasn’t such political strife, so much underhanded game playing, if the big dissent hadn’t been so—”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there. The point is there is no going back. What happens next?”
“A loose confederacy, not unlike that under the Articles of Confederation, might spring up. I can’t really see all the former states joining together. Maybe a split between the North and the South. Maybe a further split with the western states. In this age with a lack of superpowers, no nation is really set to dominate as the US formerly did. Even the current alliance between the northern states is larger than England, France, and Germany combined.”
It’s growing dark. The daylight seems to fade away so quickly in the fall. The sky has deteriorated into a dim gray, the roadside fallen into a shifting ebony mass. The hard lines of manmade structures break out of the bucolic gloom. I seem to be approaching San Antonio. The suburbs, with their loose clusters of random businesses, start to buffet the road.
Vacant and lightless, the drab industrial facades sprawl across empty lots, the sidewalks skirted by a jumble of useless billboards and power lines. Light poles shoulder the highway at regular intervals, their overarching lamps dormant. Maybe in the cover of darkness this stretch will be easy to cross. Glancing at the gauge, I notice the fuel doesn’t appear to have dwindled much. I can only hope this gets me to the border. I don’t want to leave a trail of decimated gas stations in my wake.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TROUBLES WITH ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION
The pass by San Antonio was cake. A long, arcing highway that rolls through the outskirts of the city, circling around the metropolis in multi-laned isolation. A blinding flash of light, and the occasional vehicle would flit by, the passage too quick for a close look. Better for me... and them. Street signs and telephone poles are the only consistent roadside markers. A brief skirmish with civilization, and I’m back on another incarnation of the same lonely road I’ve been traveling for what feels like forever. The landscape morphs as I head farther south, everything grinding down in size as the hot, arid night settles in.
Hours pass as I cruise down the rural highway. I’ve seen one car this whole time, an ancient station wagon that passed in a screech of slipping belts. The gas gauge has fallen steadily, the dim dashboard lights casting a faint glow over the slumping orange needle. The sky is dotted with pinpricks of light, the multitude of stars spanning the sky conspicuous in the cloudless hours of predawn. No street lights. No population. Just the pure black of isolated wilderness. My headlights pour forward as a twin volley of brilliance, the interstate flowing like an endless river.
Everything is in upheaval right now. The body I currently inhabit, the chaos and anarchy sweeping through the United States we’ve been seeki
ng visions of the future for millennium, but nothing ever seems to follow a blueprint. Chaos and uncertainty are the only constants. I glance out the window in an attempt to distract myself.
Nothing. Just the twin tunnels of light, bleaching out all detail in their harsh white glare.
The border is vast, and that’s why it could never be completely safeguarded. People jump at secluded spots all the time. I’m hoping I can accomplish the same. The approaching dawn is lightening the sky, forcing back the shadows of night. A road sign catches the glare of my headlights, announcing the impending arrival of Brackettville. Even the name sounds small and rural. I don’t recall seeing it on maps, but then again I didn’t examine any of them too closely. It’s a long journey from New York to Mexico, and I mostly just concentrated on the major cities.
The ambient light glimmers off the tops of the diminutive trees, their scattered proximity casting the landscape into a maze of tangled leaf tops, the tips reflecting a pale blue glow. The town I’m looking for is Del Rio. Route 90 makes a pass by that municipality, and it should be the last major outpost before Amistad Reservoir and my shot at a border crossing.
The sky has blossomed into a rich hue of purple. The sun has yet to struggle into view, the glow of early morn casting long shadows across the road. The edges of a house crop up in the distance, the planks twinkling in the early morning light. This must be Brackettville. After a few minutes the house comes into a view as a two-storey white paneled abode, nestled among the low-lying trees. I can see the shapes of a few more buildings lying just beyond. The orange needle on the gas gauge has fallen below half a tank. I briefly consider trying to procure gas in the local town, and then I remember the fiasco of my last attempt. I think I’ll push on. I would rather risk running out of gas and hiking the rest of the way than leaving a trail of carnage. Bad for my conscience, not to mention perfectly avoidable publicity. I can only hope I’m traveling under the radar right now—two gas stations reduced to bubbling infernos and I’ll be very easy to trace.
