After America ww-2

by John Birmingham

  Sofia twitched and mumbled in her sleep on the bedroll next to his where they lay behind the counter. He resisted the urge to stroke her head, to calm her thoughts. She cried while she slept or during the day when she didn't think he would notice. He suspected she was trying to keep up a brave front for his benefit. As troubled as her dreams would be, however, he preferred her to sleep. They would have another long day in the saddle.

  He lay still for a minute, then stretched carefully before inching away from his daughter and standing. He had taken off his jacket and his boots but remained dressed in the clothes he had worn yesterday. They both did. He leaned over and picked up Sofia's bear, which was lying on the floor a short distance from her. After tucking it in next to her, he moved away quietly. The pop of his knees and a cracking back told him that his body would not thank him for the night on a hard floor. His sore ribs, combined with the cold air, made breathing a chore. Whatever aches and pains he may have felt in his body, they were nothing compared with the agonies of his soul, a torment that he had no choice but to ignore.

  To add to the discomfort of an aching back and stiff legs, Miguel's bladder was full, but he took the time to pull on his boots and gather his weapons before pushing quietly through the front door of Leona's general store. The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon, washing everything in a soft yellow light that only emphasized the sense of abandonment as he walked down to the intersection at the top of the main road.

  As he looked back over the ghost town, burned-out husks of buildings glinted where the dawn's rays struck broken glass or exposed metal and dewdrops glistened like a billion diamonds on grass that had grown wild and high in untended fields and gardens. Certain he was not being observed, he finally relieved himself at the side of the road by the fence where they had secured the horses overnight. Red Dog joined him at the fence, wagging her tail and panting in anticipation of breakfast.

  Wiping his hands on the dewy grass and then his jeans, Miguel took a minute to breathe in the chilled air as his gut cramps and chest pains abated. The cry of a night heron drew his attention back toward the main road through town, and he saw the hunched, almost stocky-looking gray and white bird lift off from the wreck of a house a hundred yards down. A flash of red and white zipping from the cover of the ruins gave away the fox that had been stalking it. A rumbling growl began at the back of the dog's throat, but Miguel silenced her with a simple command.

  "Quiet, dog. Even the fox must eat, yes?" he said. "And better a useless heron or prairie chicken than some farmer's egg layer."

  He heard the screen door bang open as Sofia emerged from the store. She, too, had pulled on her boots, and she was carrying her Remington. Her face looked puffy and pale, and she rubbed eyes that seemed to be rimmed by dark shadows.

  "I didn't know where you were," she said almost resentfully. "I don't like it in there on my own."

  "That's okay," he said. "If you look after the horses, I will see to breakfast."

  She seemed grateful for something to do. If her night had been anything like his, she would be looking for a distraction. The horses would provide one. By the time they had been brushed and had their hooves picked and cleaned and their legs massaged and rubbed down, she would have done at least an hour's work.

  "Keep the dogs with you and your rifle close to hand," he said. "I shall not be far."

  She gave him a brief, fierce hug as they passed, which made Miguel feel a little better. He had to admit that he didn't care for the ice-cold blankness of yesterday.

  He returned to the store, intending to search the cellar properly before he prepared any food. There seemed to be quite a treasure trove down there, but they would have to choose what they took carefully. They did not have the capacity to load up a wagon train, and even if they had, it would have slowed them down too much. He could not shake the conviction that they had to cross a lot of ground very quickly to get Sofia away from the agents.

  The cowboy shivered as he reentered the shop. The remains had not bothered him the night before, but now, in the light of day, something like a cold eel slithered up his spine, raising gooseflesh on his arms and causing him to shudder with an unspecified sense of dread. He regarded those taken by the Wave with some trepidation, as though the empty clothes, stiffened and black with the leavings of those who had worn them, might suddenly inflate with their specters and rise from the floor to admonish him-or worse-for living when they had died.

  "Madre de Dios," Miguel muttered to himself, momentarily forgetting his own frequent commands to his family to always speak in English. "Get a grip, you ignorant fool," he said more forcefully.

  Still, he could not help glancing back over his shoulder to where the dogs sat patiently guarding Sofia as she brushed down his horse in the warming light of morning. The animals seemed not at all perturbed, and he consoled himself that although he was not a stupid and superstitious peon, he had heard it said by such types that dogs were especially attuned to the spirit world and to those who passed, by accident or design, from the place of shadows in the world of real things. If spirits there were in this empty store, Blue Dog and Red Dog were unaware of them. They sat, grinning stupidly, awaiting a feast of canned franks or loose meat.

  Tamping down on the very strong urge to step back out into the bright, clean light, Miguel stroked his saddle gun in the oversized holster at his hip and stepped farther into the crypt.

  He stopped.

  Why had he called it that?

  The same shiver seized his whole body this time, and he could feel goose bumps spreading all over both arms and legs. Even his ass tingled with a strengthening sense of free-floating dread.

  Miguel Pieraro remained fixed where he stood, and darkness gradually seemed to swirl up like mist from the shadowed recesses of the aisles at the rear of the store. He was certain that were he to turn around, the Disappeared would be standing there, yellow teeth grinning at him through rotted lips, bony claws reaching out to seize him and carry him off to wherever the Devil had taken their souls on the morning of March 14, 2003.

  When the dogs began barking, he nearly filled his pants. The two men were on horses, which wasn't unusual. The fact that they wore white business shirts with clip-on name tags and black ties under their navy blue Columbia windbreakers definitely was. They had been advancing down Leona Road on two chestnut-colored horses until they'd encountered his daughter leveling the business end of her Remington 700 at them. Now they weren't going anywhere. They sat very still in their saddles with their hands in the air. The dogs had taken up guard positions on either side of Sofia and hunkered down on their front legs as their wiry fur bristled and their lips skinned back from cruel-looking fangs.

  Miguel lowered his weapon as he emerged from the store and recognized them as Mormons. Another two just like them had come by the ranch almost a year earlier, and at the time he had been struck by the incongruity of their dress. It was a sort of uniform, he knew, and he could think of nobody else who would be dressed in such a fashion this morning in East Texas.

  "Sofia," he called out. "It is all right. You can put the gun down."

  He was gratified to see that his daughter did not take her eyes off the men even as she lowered the muzzle of the rifle.

  "Good day to you, gentlemen," he said, projecting his voice down the empty street. He still held his Winchester, but casually, one-handed, pointing it down into the dust. The saddle gun lay heavy and reassuring at his hip. The riders, he noted, made no effort to place their weapons within easier reach. They each appeared to have modern military-style rifles slung across their backs, and he could see no evidence of a quick-draw saddle gun such as his own Lupara.

  "Good morning to you, sir," one of them called back, waving with what looked like forced cheer. "Do you homestead around here, or are you passing through?"

  "Around here," he answered with some care. There was no reason to explain to these men what he and his daughter were doing on the trail. "But I am traveling north. Yourselves
?"

  "We head north as well. To Kansas City, with a herd of beef cattle."

  "Advance riders?" he asked, walking out to meet them in the center of the road.

  Sofia turned slightly at the hip to watch him as he walked toward them, her gun pointed down but her finger still firm on the trigger. Miguel could see no sign of a big herd anywhere near town. His horses had trotted up to the fence line of the property where he had secured them for the night. They snorted and whinnied at the new arrivals while the dogs remained on guard on either side of his daughter. Should trouble develop, they would fly at the men's horses with fangs bared. The chance meeting did not feel dangerous, though, despite an air of strain about the men.

  "Our main group is some miles back. Near Elwood," said the second rider, who had not spoken before. "We've ridden up to see whether there is pasture and shelter for them here at Leona, or whether it might be best to push on for Centerville. My name is Willem D'Age, and this is Cooper Aronson. Besides driving cattle we are witnesses for the Lord and…"

  Miguel waved him off before he could get into his sales pitch.

  "I am Catholic," he said. "For what it's worth. That will do me fine for now."

  "And on Judgment Day?" Aronson asked.

  Miguel gestured to the ruins of Leona behind him. "Some might think that Judgment Day has come and gone and left us all in its wake, my friend."

  The Mormons nodded somberly.

  "Indeed," said D'Age, letting a moment pass before continuing. "So you would know this area well, then, Mister…"

  "Pieraro. Miguel Pieraro," he answered before walking nearer, extending a hand, which Aronson bent down to shake. "I am a rancher under the Federal Mandate. This is my daughter, Sofia."

  The two men bowed their heads and removed their hats, each of them greeting her politely in turn. She nodded brusquely but said nothing.

  The two riders exchanged a glance as they replaced their hats.

  "You run longhorns?" D'Age asked.

  Miguel shook his head. "Bedak Whitetails. My family made it to Australia after the Wave. I have always worked with cattle and was sent to a property tending Whitetails after we were released from camp. They are a good breed. Well suited to this land."

  "But you are some distance from your land today, Mister Pieraro," D'Age said, leaving the obvious question unspoken.

  Miguel nodded and answered by spitting in the dust.

  "Road agents," he said without further explanation. Both men were sweating and high-colored in spite of the morning being cool. The color seemed to drain from the face of the one calling himself D'Age.

  Aronson, the taller, leaner of the pair, cleared his throat awkwardly. "And your family?"

  Miguel shook his head as he felt great weights and precarious burdens shift around somewhere inside him.

  "I'm his family," Sofia said, and left it at that.

  "I am sorry," Aronson said. "Some evil has befallen you?" His companion muttered condolences, too, shaking his head.

  "Some," said Miguel.

  Before dismounting, the riders appeared to consider something between themselves without actually exchanging any words. D'Age shook hands with Miguel while the other man led their horses over to the nearest fence line, where he tied them up. Miguel was surprised to see tears welling in D'Age's eyes.

  "I am very sorry," he said again quietly. "Very sorry," he added while half bowing in a strangely formal gesture toward Sofia.

  The girl smiled, but the warmth didn't reach her eyes. She didn't come and stand by her father, however, as much as Miguel could tell she wanted to. She knew not to present a small target by grouping together like that. Aronson knocked the dust from his hat by slapping it on his thigh as he walked back from the fence line.

  "I'm afraid we have had our own problem with road agents," he said. Miguel noticed that D'Age seemed to stiffen and bunch his jaw muscles tightly as Aronson continued.

  "Raiders hit us outside of Trinity," he said. "Near Lake Livingston. Took our supplies, a good number of cattle…"

  Miguel waited for them to finish. There was obviously more.

  "And some of our people," Aronson confessed at last, forcing out the words like squeezing pus from a wound.

  "Your women," Miguel said flatly.

  Both men nodded. He noticed something like fear tinged with rage in his daughter's eyes. The vaquero ran one hardened hand through his thick black hair. It came away damp with sweat. The sun was fully up in the eastern sky now, warming the day and causing all three men to perspire. Sofia seemed less bothered by the heat.

  "We had six young women with us," Aronson explained. "One of them was betrothed to Willem. The others were riding north to our community in KC. They are a great loss."

  "Your raiders came out of Montgomery, most certainly," Miguel said, his voice tired and cracked. "Many banditos infest the ruins of Houston. Not like the big Eastern cities, no, but still many. I believe that Blackstone leaves them alone in there because they threaten the refugee trails coming up from the south. They-"

  "You never said anything about that," Sofia interrupted, looking annoyed.

  He motioned her silent and continued. "They threaten the federale settlement paths out of Corpus Christi, too, another reason for Blackstone to leave them be. In my opinion."

  Both men looked hollow-eyed and raw. Aronson worked the brim of his hat like a length of rosary beads.

  "I do not take your point about Governor Blackstone, Mister Pieraro, but do you think it is possible the men who attacked us also attacked you?" he asked.

  "Papa?" Sofia asked in a small voice, her eyes looking very large in her face.

  Miguel sighed and shook his head. "I don't think agents from out of Houston would come this far. I saw no sign that the men who attacked our farm were traveling with prisoners."

  D'Age looked ill. "But that could just mean-"

  Miguel cut him off with a chopping gesture.

  "No, the men who killed our family were not taking prisoners or hostages. They took nothing. A few who stayed behind were scavenging food, but that was all." He tried to give D'Age a reassuring look. "The men who attacked you were seeking plunder. They will still have your women and cattle."

  Sofia surprised him by speaking up and doing so with real force.

  "Then we must help them, Papa," she insisted, sounding very much like her mother for just a second. His first instinct was to argue with her, but the fierceness of her gaze gave him pause. He could tell she had made up her mind. Miguel spent a few moments sizing Sofia up. For the first time since yesterday he saw a strong emotion other than sadness in her features.

  He saw ungovernable rage, a killing rage suddenly boiled up from within her heart, and it disturbed him greatly.

  He sighed.

  "You are looking for them, are you not?" he asked. It was more of a statement than a question.

  Aronson nodded. "We followed them north as best we could, but we are not country people, really. I am a sociologist by training. I was witnessing in Scotland when the Wave hit, studying at Edinburgh. All of us came home when it lifted. We have tried to do the best we can, Mister Pieraro, but…"

  Miguel could see the that man was losing his composure fast. It was not surprising. Being wrenched from city life onto the frontier and told to make do as best one could, would be enough to break most people, but these poor bastards did not just have surly beasts and stony ground with which to contend. They had fallen afoul of human treachery as well.

  The vaquero came to a decision.

  "There is a store here in Leona," he said. "It has a well-stocked cellar, protected from the heat and rain. You can take supplies from there. I will show you. As for your raiders, if they are not here and they did head north, they will have set down in Crockett for a few days. It has not been reclaimed, and much of the town still stands. I believe the power failed there after the Wave. If you wish, I will help you take back what is yours."

  The men gaped at him as though he had j
ust materialized in the morning air. He was aware that compared with them he must look every bit as rough and untrustworthy as the bandits who had attacked their party. Their questions spilled out one on top of the next.

  "You would do that?"

  "You would help us?"

  "You're sure that's where they would be?"

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. "We are also traveling north. It will be safer for my daughter if we travel with a large group, even though we may attract more attention. If you will have us as companions, I will help you. Sofia, however, I must insist be protected. If there is fighting to be done, I will do it."

  He gave her a stern look, as if to cut short any dissent, but she bristled anyway.

  "I want these men as much as you do, Papa," she protested through thin lips.

  Miguel folded his arms and shook his head. "They are not the same men, Sofia. And even if they were, it would not be your role to settle our affairs with them. That is my duty and mine alone. Your mother, God rest her soul, would not have it any other way. As you well know, young lady."

  The Mormons tactfully found something interesting to look at off on the horizon while the surviving members of the Pieraro clan played out their small confrontation. Miguel did not glare at his daughter. Indeed, he was proud of her for wanting to exact vengeance with her own hands. But although a life of hardscrabble farming had given her great strength and fitness for one of her age and sex, she remained at heart a young girl, and he would do all he could to protect her innocence as much as her life. While she fumed and pouted, he merely stared back at her, waiting her out. After a few moments she expressed her exasperation in the time-honored manner of all teenage girls, rolling her eyes and muttering loudly about the unfairness and indignity of life.

  Miguel shrugged.

  "We are all heading north." he said to the two men. "It is a dangerous path we take, especially for Sofia. If you help us through Blackstone's land, I will help you through this. Is that a fair trade?"

  The dogs sniffed at the feet of both men and wagged their tails, pronouncing them acceptable. D'Age looked the more pained of the two, and Miguel remembered he had lost someone to the raiders.