The Road North

by Phillip D Granath

  Unable to stand it any longer, Miles raised his cup and offered, “Gentleman, to your health.”

  The words snapped Kyle back into the present, and after hesitating for just a moment, he raised his cup to his lips alongside his two friends and drank deeply. Miles was the first to come up for air,

  “Oh my god, it’s amazing,” he said, “It’s everything I remembered it being!”

  Kyle nodded his approval, the coffee was an unexpected treasure, but in truth, the memory outshined the realities of the dark liquid sloshing around in his cup. The instant coffee more than a decade expired left a bitter, chalky aftertaste in his mouth.

  Coal nodded, “Sure is…amazing,” he said and then reaching down he tore open two of the sugar packets and unceremoniously dumped them into the bitter brew.

  “Heathen,” Miles muttered.

  “Technically true,” Coal replied.

  The bounty-hunter book a second sip from his cup and nodded to himself in approval.

  “Gentleman, shall we get a booth?” Miles asked.

  Kyle nodded in agreement, and the three men left the kitchen. They found a booth along the back wall that not only boasted a standing table but seats that had most of their cushions intact as well. Miles sat on one side propping his foot up, while Kyle and Coal sat across from him. The three men sat in silence for a time, enjoying their coffee and watching the sunrise over the mountains. A vast expanse spread out before them, and it was clear to see why someone had built the small diner here, “Come for the view but stay for the coffee and apple pie!” Kyle mused.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Miles said.

  Coal smiled, and Kyle nodded in agreement, “It is,” he said.

  “So the plan for the day?” Coal asked.

  “Right,” Miles said, pulling out his battered map and spreading it out on the table before them.

  “It’s a hundred miles from here to Flagstaff, with not much in between, no sizeable towns at least. Another hundred from there up Interstate 89 to Marble Canyon, where we should be able to cross the Colorado River.”

  “I guess that’s one nice thing about the Colorado going fucking dry, should be an easy crossing,” Coal pointed out.

  “Well I was hoping we would be able to just use a bridge, but if not, you may be right.”

  “And after we cross the river?” Kyle asked.

  “We hit the state line and take I-15 north, from there it's maybe another four hundred miles to Salt Lake.”

  Kyle shook his head in disbelief, they had already been on the road for two days, and they weren’t even halfway there yet. Miles took another slow sip of his coffee and then perhaps sensing Kyle’s anxiety the old man smiled at him.

  “We got a lot of miles left, that’s for sure, but I think the worst of it is past us. After Flagstaff, there isn’t another major city between us and Salt Lake. On top of that, most of the route runs through what used to be National parks. That means no locals to deal with, few roadside conveniences to attract scavengers and a lot of wide open spaces. And once we hit Utah, the 15 runs flat and straight all the way into the city.”

  “That all sound good now, but 400 miles is still 400 miles,” Coal pointed out.

  “I think we are going to make up for a lot of lost time today, I can feel it, this is where everything starts to turn around for us,” Miles said shaking his head.

  Kyle just smiled and nodded at the old man’s enthusiasm. They had slipped out of Phoenix by the skin of their teeth and taking another drink of his coffee, Kyle began to wonder if his friend’s sudden burst of confidence wasn’t just the result of the caffeine now flowing through his veins. He raised his own cup to his lips, but just then, something caught his attention. It was so faint, so unexpected that Kyle couldn’t even tell if he had actually heard something or perhaps felt something instead, but whatever it was, Kyle turned his head slightly and looked back over his shoulder.

  The arrow escaped the bow with a hiss, and Kyle’s eyes went wide as his mind registered what he was seeing. The archer, a man clothed in dirty rags and animal pelts faded into the background, momentarily forgotten and Kyle’s eyes locked on the arrow. It was black fiberglass, with three neon green feathers and a broad and shining tip. The thing looked evil, twisting and warping in flight as if eager to find its prey and unleash the deadly energy trapped within it. Yet despite all of its twisting, the arrow flew straight and level, aimed at Kyle’s head. As the deadly missile cleared the distance between them faster than the eye could follow, all Kyle had time to do was bite down on his own tongue. If it was the sudden turn of his head or the wind, or perhaps just simple luck Kyle couldn’t say, but the arrow missed him. Its razor-sharp tip slid past his right cheek by a hair’s breadth and passed him by, but the arrow wasn’t done. One of its green feathers sliced a shallow cut across Kyle’s cheek as if to remind him how close he had come, before burying itself into Miles’ chest.

  The Biltmore Fashion Park had always been one of Phoenix’s most exclusive and upscale shopping centers before the fall, and the Seeker considered that it was only fitting that the same held true now, under the Masters’ careful oversight. Dozens of sections of canvas provided shade and kept the temperature bearable in between the odd assortment of trade shops. But should one of the Chosen happen to pause between shops and sit for a moment in one of the numerous chairs, a slave child, collared and carrying a long-handled palm would be close at hand to fan them. The Seeker paid the heat no mind, in fact, he wore his long patchwork duster even now in the midst of the midday sun. The coat, sewn from the skins of his prey, had grown to become a mark of distinction among the Master’s Chosen, much like the long black spear he often carried. Trailing obediently behind the tall man came two male slaves, their heads were neatly shaven, and each wearing just a simple loincloth along with their obligatory collar. Between them, the slaves carried a heavy trunk and though the heat was intense, like their master, neither gave any sign of complaint.

  The tall man arrived in front of the shop he was looking for, Wendigo’s was spray-painted in red above the glass doors.

  “Wait here,” the Seeker said, and then after a pause added, “You may sit.”

  Though their master never turned around, both slaves bowed in unison before sitting down on the hard concrete. Just then the door to the shop flew open and a short man wearing a striped suit and sporting a large plume of hair, dyed a bright red, burst out.

  “Welcome Seeker! Welcome to my humble shop!” Wendigo loudly proclaimed.

  The Seeker stared at the shop owner for a long moment making no attempt to hide his distaste for the man and doubting that two people could be any more different. While Wendigo was small, boisterous and ill-mannered, the Seeker was tall, rail thin and spoke very little. Two of Wendigo’s slaves, both young boys, stood just inside of the shop, with their hair dyed and dressed in suits very similar to their master’s, it was as if the shopkeeper was trying to create smaller versions of himself. The Seeker shook his head slowly in disgust and then slid a hand over his bald head, something he often did when he was annoyed.

  Sensing his customer’s displeasure, Wendigo went suddenly silent. The shopkeeper had served many of the Master’s Chosen, but few had the reputation that matched that of The Seeker. The man was old compared to most these days, in his mid-fifties, Wendigo guessed, which was a testament to the man’s skill. He was not overly muscled and if anything looked a bit drawn, with a lean frame and a pitted face that ended in a short gray goatee. But it was the man’s eyes that chilled the little shopkeeper the most, they were a piercing blue, and if they provided any reflection of the Seeker’s soul, then it was a cold, hard and unrelenting.

  “Your note said you had something that would interest me, shopkeeper?”

  Wendigo nodded excitedly, his fear of the man momentarily overshadowed by the prospect of a sale.

  “Yes Seeker, I have something that I think you will like very much indeed! Please, please step inside!”

 
The shopkeeper turned to lead the Seeker into his shop, quickly shooing away his mini-mes before him, suddenly convinced that they would only infuriate the man. Wendigo had discovered early on in this new and twisted world that he had only one truly marketable skill and that was being able to determine what a person really wanted. It made him a successful trader and had risen him high enough to be counted among the Masters Chosen and most importantly, it had kept his neck out of a slave collar. The Seeker entered the shop, giving his surroundings a quick glance and then dismissing it out of hand. The showroom was filled with an odd assortment of things, some of them were shiny and precious, and all together useless, like a gilded egg the size of a child’s fist or a wooden model of a sailing ship. While others were perhaps a bit more practical, like the telescope on display in the window or perhaps the maps that decorated the back wall.

  “Right this way if you please Seeker,” Wendigo gestured from the back.

  Striding through the little showroom, the Seeker found the annoying little man waiting for him in an oddly shaped room. It was a semicircle, and the back wall was covered in an array of large full-length mirrors. A pair of comfortable chairs sat in the center of the room, and it wasn’t until the Seeker was seated in one next to Wendigo that he realized what this place once was, in a previous life this had been a bridal shop. But now, instead of being a place of happiness and new beginnings, it marked the end for many. While the trader’s in the Biltmore carried all manner of goods, there was one thing that they all provided in one fashion or another, slaves. And while the Seeker had never dealt with Wendigo himself, the man had a reputation for finding and selling only the most unique of specimens.

  The nervous little trader clapped his hands twice, and one of the dressing room doors opened revealing the man’s ill-dressed slaves. The two boys quickly pushed a small piano out into the room before them, and upon seeing it, the Seeker’s eyes went wide with surprise. It was a Welmar he thought, a British stand-up piano housed in deep mahogany case. The Seeker’s back was straight, his eyes focused and next to him it was all Wendigo could do to suppress a smile at the man’s surprise.

  Wendigo clapped a second time and the second door opened, a boy of perhaps 14 stepped out into the room wearing a poorly fitted suit and a new slave collar. The boy had the shakes, his eyes were wide, and they went back and forth between the two men. The Seeker had seen enough slaves in his life to recognize a fresh one, the boy had been in a collar a week or two at best he guessed, he hadn’t accepted his new station and was still hoping to awaken from the terrifying dream his life had become. The boy focused on Wendigo for a moment, and the trader gave the boy a fierce nod. The boy quickly nodded in reply, before bending at the waist and bowing to both of the men. Then the fresh slave turned and approached the piano, the moment the boy sat the Seeker stood up, followed a moment later by the startled Wendigo.

  “Go ahead boy,” the trader commanded.

  The scared boy took half a breath and started playing, his fingers moved across the keys in a quick and almost frantic manner. The Seeker recognized the first few chords of an old gospel hymn called, Trust and Obey and the Seeker nearly smiled at the Irony. The two men stood silently, listening through the second verse. The boy made a few mistakes but recovered from them quickly, that in itself, an important skill to master.

  “Stop, play something else,” the Seeker commanded.

  The boy hesitated for just a moment and then began to play the first few lines of a Beatles tune, Hey Jude.

  “Stop, can you read and write boy?” the Seeker demanded, approaching the piano.

  The boy nodded quickly in reply, his eyes wide with fear now as he looked up at the tall man.

  “A little or a lot?”

  “A lot…my mother taught me,” he said.

  “And can you read sheet music?”

  The boy nodded again and looked as if he was on the verge of tears. The Seeker reached into the pocket of his coat and hastily removed a small notebook and the nub of a pencil. He quickly drew a half a dozen notes across it and then set it on the piano in front of the boy.

  “Play this then,” he ordered.

  The boy nodded, and after a few heartbeats, he hesitantly played the first few notes before the Seeker reached over and snatched the paper away, before wadding it up and shoving it back into his pocket.

  “Good,” he said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

  Wendigo appeared then at the Seeker’s side wringing his hands in front of him, “You are pleased then Seeker?” he asked grinning.

  The big man fought down the urge to kill the trader just then, but he had to admit it, he was pleased.

  “I will take the boy, tell my slaves to bring in the trunk.”

  “Of course, right away!” Wendigo said excitedly gesturing to his mini-mes.

  The Seeker’s slaves walked in and set the trunk down squarely in front of the men and with a gesture from their master they opened it. A dozen bolts of brightly colored cloth filled the box, and the trader’s heart skipped a beat when he saw most of them had the shine of silk. But that was not all, several bottles of liquor could be seen, alongside a plastic bag filled with an odd assortment of silver and gold jewelry. Wendigo’s smile widened, and he leaned forward to see what other treasures lay in the bottom of the trunk. Then the Seeker casually raised a hand and placed it on the trader’s chest. Wendigo’s eyes went wide, his heart began pounding, and he suddenly felt as if a shadow had passed over his grave, a shadow in the shape of a tall man in a long coat. The Seeker did not look at him, the man’s eyes were set on the boy and Wendigo was thankful that he didn’t have to see those eyes when the man spoke.

  “It’s yours, all of it, but first you must tell me how you knew. Tell me the truth and trust that I will know if you do otherwise.”

  Wendigo trembled, and his mind raced to come up with a suitable lie, but some part of him knew that the Seeker would see through it and then he would die. Wendigo gave a short laugh, a twisted thing that sounded half mad and then, left without any other choice, he went against his own nature and spoke the truth.

  “It’s just something I can do, a gift I guess you would say. I can look at someone, and I just know what’s in their heart, sometimes before they even know it themselves. So, I talk to people, many people and some I pay to tell me things. A guard told me that sometimes he hears music being played late at night near your home, a violin he said, sad and slow. I asked him if it could have been a record player that he heard, like the one that the Masters have, but he said that the music he heard was often repeated, like someone trying to master a haunting tune. I knew your great home, with its high walls was nearby, and it all just clicked for me,” he said.

  “It just clicked?” the Seeker demanded, his voice now carrying an edge.

  The trader was visibly shaking with fear now, but as they say, the die had been cast, and he held nothing back, allowing the words tumble out of his mouth as he tried to describe a thought process he barely understood himself.

  “Yes, you’re a man of very few words, and you live in a grand house that no one is ever allowed to visit with only a handful of slaves. It must be a terribly lonely place. You don’t display your wealth like the other Chosen, and yet you have much of it. But most of all, it’s because you go out there, out into the broken lands and hunt and kill among the sheep for the Masters. You’re a beast you see, a wild beast struggling to hold yourself in check even here amongst all of this savagery. Don’t deny that you wanted to kill me the moment you arrived.”

  “No small secret there,” the Seeker replied.

  “A beast and as they say, nothing soothes the savage beast like…” Wendigo stopped mid-sentence, sensing the Seeker suddenly tense.

  “Speak the words, speak of any of this and Chosen or not, I promise you, you will beg for a slave collar before I’m through with you,” the Seeker promised.

  Wendigo nodded slowly, not sure he could force words past his trembling lips. And then the
Seeker slowly lowered his hand, and the trader was nearly overcome by the wave of relief that struck him.

  “Clip the boy’s tongue and his balls, then see that he is delivered to my house by the end of the week.”

  With that the Seeker turned and strode from the room, his slaves trailing obediently behind him. Wendigo raised a hand and tried to call out after the man, eager to give him his thanks and reassurance of his silence, but he found his voice had yet to return to him.

  The Seeker strode from the Biltmore Fashion Park with the same determined stride that he always carried himself with. But his slaves, along with anyone else that happened to pass by could see that a storm raged within him. The spineless trader had been right, he had wanted to kill the man nearly the first moment he laid eyes upon him, but when he had pressed, Wendigo had spoken the truth. Begrudgingly, the man had earned an iota of the Seeker’s respect in that moment. But no matter how the man had figured out his secret, he couldn’t be trusted to keep it, and the Seeker would find a way to eventually kill the trader. He would find either a fitting excuse to kill the man himself, something that would seem justified, because after all the shopkeeper was still considered one of the Masters’ Chosen. And if that could not be arranged he would find someone else to slip a knife between the trader’s ribs, he doubted it would be hard to find another of the Chosen eager to take over the little shop. As Wendigo had pointed out himself, here amongst the Master’s chosen there was so much savagery.

  A slave rounded the corner ahead of the Seeker, the man was bathed in sweat and moving at a steady trot, the brand on his forehead marking him as one of the Masters’ messengers. Upon seeing the Seeker, the slave turned and ran towards him only slowing when he reached a respectful distance. The slave bowed low, a sign of respect used to disguise the man’s attempt to catch his breath. When the slave stood again, he announced, “The Masters request you attend them without delay Seeker.”

  Into the Desert