by J. D. Palmer
One of my feet is loose. I pull it apart from the duct tape and start to belly crawl away. If I can just get some distance I can run.
A brutish hand catches the back of my shirt. “You ain’t going nowhere.” He kicks me in the ribs and I roll over onto my back causing stuck needles to burrow deeper into my skin. I try to roll onto my side but Theo stomps on my shoulder. His huge form looms over me. Dammit I don’t want to see it happen. I don’t want to look him in the eyes. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I don’t say anything. I don’t think I could. So many things to say and nothing at all.
I just feel like I failed so many people, myself included. I should have done more with my life. Something with my life. Is it really going to end like this? Tears leak out of me as he lowers the gun to aim it at my forehead.
“Goodbye fucker.” He yells it. He takes a deep breath and looks down at me. “I’ll take care of her,” he mutters before firing three rounds.
Chapter 24
I lay as still as I can in the dirt, desperately trying to stop the heaving in my chest and the twitching of my adrenaline pumped limbs. My ears ring, the sounds of voices in the distance muffled. The slam of a car door. Lights wash over me as the truck turns around.
I lay still. Waiting to make sure that they are actually gone. I hear a bird call. I gasp, not realizing I had been holding my breath. I gulp deep lungfuls of air as I roll over in the gritty sand.
I am alone.
I pull my bound hands under my legs and up in front of me, wincing in pain as my shoulder twinges. It throbs with a dull ache and hurts to raise up too high so I hunch over my wrists, biting at the duct tape, ripping and pulling and unmindful of blood coursing from a split lip. As soon as my hands are free I touch my neck, my side, my shoulder… Incredulous that there is no blood. The acrid smell of gunpowder clings to my shirt. God dammit he shot so close to me.
I don’t know why Theo did what he did. Maybe he just didn’t have the stomach to kill me but he wanted to preserve his standing in the group. Or does he disagree with Don? What did he mean by “I’ll take care of her?”
Fuck.
She told me not to come back. God, I wish it was that easy. What if John and Steven and Wing took care of Beryl? Maybe Camelot would become the rebirth of mankind. Other survivors would trickle in and all that I fear in that group of men would dissipate as civilization returned. Don would be seen for what he truly is and phased out of command as reasoned thought found its way back to the town.
And I see myself now, alone, speeding down an interstate for home. Not that I’m hindered by Beryl or the others, or in any way slowed. But the danger would be mine and mine alone. I would be free to be reckless. I wouldn’t worry about them. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything other than getting to Jessica. To my child.
Dammit.
I run shaky hands over my lower back and legs and pull cacti needles from my body. It’s probably best that I can’t see them. They feel deep. The skin around them has swelled and is unwilling to relinquish the pins without a struggle. Spit leaps from my mouth as I gasp in pain. When I pull the last one I sit on the ground, huddled in misery, waiting for the pain to fade.
The mountains loom tall and large right behind me. Jagged and severe, they seem to erupt right out of the desert floor. I trudge after the tire tracks as night falls.
They flow out of the desert and disappear onto a dirt road. I have no idea where to go. I see windmills to the south. I see windmills to the east and to the north, too. Desert stretches ahead of me in the dim light. Stars are making an appearance and a moon has crested the horizon. I hope, vainly, that I’ll see their headlights somewhere off in the distance.
Nothing.
It doesn’t matter.
I have the mountains to my left. All I need to do is walk east until I hit the road from which they took us. I know enough of the area now after our botched escape attempt to get close. And that’s all I need. They are arrogant, and loud, and they do not know what horror crosses the desert night to find them.
I zig-zag along dirt paths until I find a road that runs roughly east and I limp through the night. I pass what looks like a farm although I can’t imagine how hard it would be to grow crops out here. Dead trees line the dirt path that runs up to an ugly red square of a building with a rusted steel roof. It’s a shop, an assortment of cars in various forms of dissection languishing in corners or jacked up in the middle of the large room. I look around for a sharp tool. All I find is an awl. Fuck it, it’ll do for now.
Then I hit pay dirt. A large Culligan water dispenser sits against the wall. The water is stale, brackish. I still down about fifteen of the little paper cups in one sitting before looking around for a container. I find an old coffee mug with a lid.
Outside is a small mobile home. That’s where the man died. I brave the smell as I look for a gun. I give up after ten minutes. The stench of desiccation is trapped in the small compartment, as raw and putrid as the first bodies I came across. It’s still too much to take, even if the body is nothing but a badly prepared mummy, stretched skin over bones, liquids all escaped to stain the floor.
A row of cars, all junkers, line the field. I debate trying to take one.
Nah.
I’m going to be as stealthy as possible. I just hope that Don is serious about giving Beryl time.
I keep walking and I don’t pass any other homes. I finish the water and toss the coffee mug off onto the side of the road. I shake my head. I used to be so against littering. Now that everyone is gone everything we have ever made is trash that the world will have to dispose of. Odd that we used to worry so much about where we put it.
I stumble across a racetrack, the asphalt radiating leftover heat from the day’s sun. It is completely empty, probably hadn’t been used in years. Just a large oval in the middle of the desert. Metal stands sit on both sides with large chain link fences erected in front to prevent stray car parts from killing a spectator. If civilization doesn’t get rebuilt, how long before we lose memory of places like this? Will future archaeologists think this is some gladiator pit? A place where we raced and fought and people died for fame? I sure as hell wouldn’t think it was for cars to go around in circles.
I walk through the night and when the sun starts to rise I look for a place to hole up. There is a town up ahead. Or at least a lot of houses. I veer off the dirt road and go straight across the sand towards a group of buildings with large green trees.
I am stopped dead in my tracks when I hear a roar. It sounds like a struggling engine, gunning and idling, followed by groans as if something heavy is being drug across cement. I have no idea what it is. I wonder if the guys from Camelot are out foraging. Maybe there is something large they are trying to move.
Maybe I can follow them back.
I creep closer. I wish I hadn’t ditched the road. I sprint the last twenty feet and get closer to the houses. The tenor of the noise has changed the closer that I’ve gotten. More animalistic. The noise isn’t that of an engine, it’s the roar of an animal. There must be a trapped cow or… Something.
I walk into the parking area. There’s a large fenced off area to my left with a pool inside. What the fuck is this place? There is a huffing sound, a blast of air being expelled and it makes me jump. I walk up to the fence. In the shade past the pool by a rock is a tiger.
A fucking tiger.
“What the fuck?!”
The tiger slowly gets to its feet and pads away from me over to another gate. It turns and watches me with unblinking eyes. Its fur is patchy, the white parts tinged gray and coated with grime. I can see the outline of its ribs and its hip bones are all hard angles. Flies buzz near its head and it does nothing to deter them, its green eyes fixated on me.
I walk along the fence of the tiger’s enclosure. Bones lie in the dirt near a shadowed patch of ground. I ease away from the enclosure and the tiger follows me along the fence, giving little stutter steps and emitting a soft growl as I walk aw
ay from it.
The courtyard contains other enclosures, each one containing the decomposed body of a large cat. Lynxes, Snow Leopards, something called a Margay… I stop by a cage aswarm with flies. Bits of brown fur are scattered around the remains. The placard outside says it contained a lion.
Not for the first time do I wonder if I’ve simply cracked, finally losing my mind from either all the psychological trauma or the blows to the head.
I glance back towards the tiger. It still watches me.
I need to sit down for a second.
Near the front of the buildings I find an office. A sign out front reads “Exotic Feline Breeding Compound” and lists the hours for visitation. I laugh. I can’t help it. Of all the strange things I ever thought I’d see I never would have guessed this would be in the middle of the desert in California.
I stroll through the building and back out towards the enclosure. There are more cats than I even knew existed, there’s even a whole building dedicated to the smaller exotic felines. I walk past different pens all carefully labeled with the breed of cat inside and the cat’s name. Small placards in front of the cages provide information. Leopards, Tigers, Mountain Lions and lynxes. Cats I had no idea existed; Margays, Jaguarundis, something called Geoffrey’s Cat. There’s even little pictures to let you know which one is which. Large, graceful looking cats peer out of the pictures while their bodies rot behind them.
My best find is a tranquilizer gun with an array of darts labeled with different amounts of dosage. There’s a baton that has a shocker at the end of it. Just knowing that it electrocutes something is enough for me to put it back, a hand subconsciously rubbing my neck.
I still wish I could find a gun. But it might be better not to have the option to kill people. I know I’ll pull the trigger on a dart gun faster than the trigger to a rifle.
I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept for two days. I find my way to the main office and rummage around until I find a first aid kit. Aspirin swallowed down a dry throat. I go to the bathroom and look at my backside in the mirror. Tiny holes of dried blood with swollen purple circles dot my thighs and lumbar.
I look like one of the freaking cats.
I feel bad for these animals. It suddenly hits me how many animals are probably dead from being trapped inside a building as the humans they depended upon perished. Cats and dogs inside houses, not to mention other pets. Zoos. Chickens, cows, pigs. Oh God, I think of the horses at Jessica’s family’s ranch. Animals reliant upon their owners not only to feed them but to free them as well. How many waited, day after day, for their owner to return? How many ate each other to survive? How many died in cages?
Maybe it was being imprisoned myself. Used as an animal. I find myself hurting for these animals in a way that I do not think existed before the end of the world. I laugh a grim laugh. How like humans to take down everyone else with them.
I slept, fitfully, in a chair in the office, slouched onto a side not riddled with holes, numb arm cradling the dart gun. I dreamt of the room in which I had been caged. I dreamt of Beryl sitting on a bed. I dreamt of Jessica and I dreamt I was on an empty road but I didn’t know which way to go. I dreamt I was a tiger in a cage.
It’s midday and it’s fucking hot. Things have changed in me. I’m not giddy, or crazed, or filled with despair.
I’m fucking pissed.
And I’m impatient. I think those combine to equal reckless, right?
I don’t care.
I see my broken fingernails and the scars around my wrists. I’m tired of seeing this shit. Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. I’m exasperated. I’m frustrated. I’m done with it.
I walk over to the tiger’s pen. According to the placard his name is Caesar. He had laid down after I left and he is slow to get back up. There’s a low thrum from his throat, I can’t tell if it’s a purr or a growl or just the anxious sounds of an animal daring to hope. We stare at each other and he breaks eye contact to pace back and forth in front of the door.
I wonder if he had to kill the other tiger. I hope not.
“I was locked up too, Caesar.”
He doesn’t respond. Not that I thought he would. I wonder how stupid this is, me trying to find common ground with an animal. But I do see something of myself in him, no matter how crazed that sounds. Emaciated and weak, forced to do unspeakable things to survive. But surviving. Holding on after who knows how many days alone.
I knew from the moment I saw him I would set him free. I can’t tell you how I know he won’t attack me. Eat me. But I know.
His eyes are a reflection of my own.
“I’m going to let you out. Go. Be free. I’m sorry.”
You’re losing it.
The keys for the cages were all neatly organized in the office. I raise the tranquilizer gun and step towards the cage. He paces backwards to give me room, perhaps a habit trained into him by his long gone masters. I fit the key into the lock and slowly push the door open just wide enough for him before taking ten quick steps backwards.
He is frozen, eyes on me for a long minute before he gently places one pad forward. Then another. Then aborting to pace along the backside of the cage by the bones. I remember how used to living in chains I had become, how scary it was when we finally broke free.
“I understand.”
I figure I’ll have to leave before he’ll chance exiting the cage. But abruptly he trots forward, hesitating at the door before slowly flowing out and slinking away into the desert.
A dog would run in a straight line for freedom. Cats know better. They wait, and assess, and use patience even in desperation.
I am learning.
I use corners and shade and make my way to the road. It feels odd, in an empty land, to sneak around. I should be proclaiming my survival. I should be standing tall.
That’s for later.
I stalk towards Camelot and I think about death. In the modern world we were raised to see death as a travesty, something that shouldn’t happen. It was bad. Or it was evil. We saw shows with people on trial for causing it, or accidentally causing it, or for being linked to it at all.
That was then. That was to preserve order. Keep things civilized. I think about the men in Camelot who might help Don who are just kids, meek souls just trying to stay afloat. Children blown about by the gusts of misfortune now willing to follow the directive of anyone who can provide a respite. I will kill them if need be. This is a new world. An animal world. We kill to protect and we kill to survive.
I will embrace the darkness for those I love.
A low smudge of smoke inks into the dreary sky. A fire that feels like an eon ago. A fire meant to drive us out of hiding. Now it leads me to them.
Perfect.
I stop at random homes along the way and forage for food. I don’t find much. Most everything in the area has been picked over already. I catch a glimpse of orange out of the corner of my eye and smile. Caesar is around.
It’s at least five hours of walking before I hit the ruin that is the town of Mojave. The stink of burned metal, and plastic, and things that are too unnatural to burn fully permeates the air. I see a gas station I glimpsed out of the window. The car rammed into the light pole. The blackened husk of the McDonalds. The graveyard of airplanes blurred by streams of smoke off in the distance where Beryl and I were taken. I know where I am. I turn and face the mountains.
I don’t have a plan. I really don’t think it’s logical in this situation to have one. Too many variables. I’ve always been impetuous. Now I’m angry. I can feel my mom shaking her head at me. But I block out the prudent side of me. I can’t take the time to second guess myself. To plot and find holes and remain inactive. So I ride my frustration, let it buoy me as I stride headlong towards god knows what.
No plan, but I have a goal. Get Beryl out without having to kill them all. Or dying.
I know one thing. I can’t let Don speak. He knows how to manipulate these men. It’s easy in these times to make people feel in
significant. And he is a master. So keen to read into insecurities or mislead hopes. To prey upon their fears, not only of death or failure… But to make a man think that he will be pointless is another thing entirely.
I think about him and what he is doing. I mean really think about it. I see his logic. There are so many ‘what ifs’ circling like vultures over mankind. What if we are the last? What if Beryl is the last hope? What if Camelot is more important than our moral misgivings? To argue it is to say fuck the human race.
I’m fine with that.
So I walk down the road, not bothering to hide, hands raised up in front of me. Tranq gun stuffed into my waistband at the small of my back.
I wait for gunshots. I figure if Don sees me he will shoot me on sight. I’m hoping that no one else feels the same way. Right now it seems like Don is the only one able to murder.
Besides me.
No gunshots. No sounds. I approach the collection of buildings and I don’t see anyone at work out in the solar fields. No one is working in the gardens. I slowly lower my arms. It appears I am alone.
There is a streak of blood across the grass where Jimmy was shot. Other than that it feels like a ghost town. I check the houses, opening doors one by one. No one is here. A chill goes down my spine. I wonder, again, about my state of mind. Was I out there longer than I thought? What is real?
The blood is real. The blood is real. I repeat the mantra to myself as I cross the road and head towards the clubhouse. Then I see it. A small body lying face down, slightly covered in sand. The back of the shirt is a map of blood. I scan the golf course before dropping down to a knee and rolling him over. It’s Wing.
NO GOD NO.
His body is still warm. He had been shot in the chest, the bullet going through him and out his back. His face is locked in an expression of surprise. This is because of me. This place, these people, this death happened because of me. All the doubts that I had dismissed come racing back. It all comes down to me. What if I hadn’t been so untrusting? Would we have come here and helped build a city? Would Beryl have come back to herself and maybe found happiness? Wing was a good person.
