Etched Deep & Other Dark Impressions

by David Niall Wilson

  "Why?" Jack asked.

  The sneer was back on the boy's face, and Jessup wanted to smack it loose, but he held his peace. Dan had it under control–the two of them had talked this through, and Dan's logic was sound.

  "Simple," Dan replied. "As long as we avoid the base in San Diego, there's not much down there they'd try to hit. Shouldn't be as hot in uninhabited areas as it is in the cities. Like here. We're not close to anything–first time in my life I ever saw it as a good thing."

  "It's why we should stay," Tish spat. "I don't like it. We don't know if there's a damned thing past those hills. Here? We have some water…maybe. We have some food, and if we're careful, we can grow more. For all we know everything past the mountains is hot, or dead."

  "You know that's not true," Jessup said. "It hasn't been that long since the broadcasts stopped, Tish. They're out there, and we need to find them–a group large enough, and stable enough, to take us in."

  "I say we go," Jack said. "There's nothing here. Anything we find is better than sitting here."

  Dan and Jessup turned and met the boy's gaze. He didn't drop his eyes.

  "Anything," he repeated.

  "So we vote?" Tish asked.

  Dan nodded. "I'm for going," he said.

  Jessup raised his hand. Jack and Lonnie were next, and slowly, everyone in the room raised their hand but Tish. She shook her head slowly, but Jessup knew she saw it too. She'd been living in Wiley all her life. The house she still lived in was the house she'd grown up in. For all her strength, leaving terrified her.

  "When?" Jack asked.

  "We pull the trucks in today," Dan said. "Get some heavy equipment fueled and checked out. No reason to push it, but it's time to get started."

  "Maybe there's some women out there," Jack said, his voice low.

  Tish turned on him like a snake, ready to strike, and he held up his hand in mock defense.

  "I'm just saying," he continued. "Food and water ain't the only things we're short on here. At least some of us are short of it, anyway."

  Jack glared at Jessup, who reddened, but remained silent. The boy was right, and he knew it. It wasn't going to be long before they were all over one another for bigger shares of what was left. As one of those who still had things to lose, he didn't want to see it get to that point.

  "That's it, then," he said. "Let's go get as many big trucks in here as we can that are in good shape. We'll inventory what we have and get them loaded. We can work in shifts. When we're nearly ready to go, we can take a couple of bulldozers out and clear the road up to the west pass."

  Jessup had been in construction, he knew he could get the road cleared. Dan could get the young men and the boys motivated to guard their perimeter, at least for a while. Tish would be the one to get the supplies gathered and the trucks loaded. It wasn't any sort of a dream team for survival, but they'd get by.

  "Let's get to it," he said.

  They milled about a few minutes longer, and then Dan grabbed Jack and Lonnie and headed out. Jessup sent Brian Winslow back for his boy Michael. Both men had worked with Jessup before things had gone to hell, and both knew their way around heavy equipment. Not much maintenance had been done recently, and it might take them some time to get what they needed fueled and on their way to clear the road.

  It was good to have a purpose; it'd been too long.

  In the end it took a week. Jack Cooper didn't show up for work the second day of the second week, and others had to fill in. Lonnie said it was something his brother had eaten, but there was a glint of emotion in the boy's eyes that made Jessup's stomach twitch. Probably Jack was just too damned lazy for any hard work, but there was no way to tell. Lonnie wasn't talking, and there was too much to do to worry about it.

  They lost a half day when Lonnie got a front loader stuck trying to dislodge a fallen tree. He hadn't wanted to bring the boy, but Dan didn't trust him on patrol. No reason given, but Lonnie's weapon had been taken, and Jessup wasn't about to let a healthy body go to waste. It was a mistake.

  When Jessup confronted him, it was hard to read the reaction. Lonnie remained distracted, staring off first into town, then into the mountains. He nodded at all the right times, and he really did seem upset that he'd wrecked the front loader, but something was off.

  "Jack still sick?" Jessup asked at last. "It's been days now. Do we need to get Tish over to look at him?"

  "No!"

  Lonnie's answer was too loud, and too quick. Jessup started at him and frowned.

  "What's going on with him, Lonnie? Is he sick at all?"

  The boy managed a half-assed glare. "He's sick as a dog–some kind of stomach flu. He's had it before–we both have. It'll pass."

  When Jessup didn't relent on his stare, the boy added, "He should be up and around by tomorrow, next day at the latest. I got some oatmeal into him this morning."

  "We'll reach the highway late tomorrow afternoon. After that, time will be short. If he's getting better, you'll want to be keeping him on his feet and active. Road can be rough."

  Lonnie's already pale face grew momentarily slack. He seemed on the verge of saying something, and then bit it back.

  "He'll be ready."

  Jessup nodded.

  "I'm sorry about the front loader."

  Jessup shook his head. He was already thinking about the last twelve cans of beer he and Mae had been saving.

  "We won't need it. We're leaving, remember? Get some rest."

  As the boy walked away toward town, Jessup leaned on the back tire of a big Caterpillar Bulldozer and watched him go. He walked too fast, and he looked around nervously as he went. Jessup spat into the dirt. Something was going on, but he couldn't put a finger on it. He might ask Dan, if he saw him.

  He turned back to the road and scanned the rim of the cliff carefully. Sweat made him blink, and the sun was starting to drop toward the horizon. He didn't see anyone moving. He knew Dan, or Dan's people, were out there, but he didn't see them either. Suddenly, thinking about the ruined country lying around them, the dead, the crumbling cities, the poisoned water and ruined air, he felt very alone. A sudden chill made him push off the Cat, and he started down toward town, thinking maybe he understood why Lonnie had walked like the Devil was on his trail.

  The last day was rougher than Jessup had anticipated. It was hot, and they worked steadily. He was determined to reach the rim. Wiley, which had been his rock through the months since the attack, seemed big, and empty, full of shadows. He just wanted it over with–the road clear, and the group on the road. If they had things to do–work to concentrate on–they should be all right. That's what he told himself.

  It wasn't until nearly six that the final bit of debris was shoved aside. The road beyond, a short feeder road to the freeway, was as good as clear, and he decided they could navigate around what little stood in their way. Cars and buses abandoned. Trucks turned on their sides and garbage lining the ditches. The men and women who'd driven them were long gone. Some had come to Wiley for a time, but they always left. They drifted. They took cars, gas, some too bikes and motorcycles, but they all went. Their lives were in other places–probably blown to hell, or sick with radiation, but still they went.

  Jessup stared off into the distance, shading his eyes with one hand. Nothing moved, and after a moment he turned back and started down the hill. He drove the bulldozer. The other equipment had moved ahead of him. He needed to get his rig off the road, and they'd be able to move out–slowly–and start the search for civilization beyond the valley. The search for something that still mattered, and for enough to keep them all busy enough to prevent insanity.

  Jessup didn't hear the truck's motor at first over the drone of the bulldozer. As he reached the bottom of the road and slowly rolled off the pavement, a sleek yellow pickup roared out of a side street, skidded, and headed straight at him. Jessup cursed and gunned the big machine's engine. The pickup shot past. He stared in shock.

  There were three people in the front of th
e truck. The bed was loaded and tied down with a large blue tarp. The driver's face was clear. Jack Cooper stared at him with bright eyes and a maniacal twist to his lip.

  Beside him, hanging on and looking scared as hell was Lonnie, but Jessup barely noticed. As the truck shot past him, kicking up gravel, he saw the third face, staring out at him through the dusty windshield. It was Mae. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, and she was trying to scream, but her mouth was sealed with duct tape. He thought her arms were tied behind her, but he didn't get a long enough look to be sure. He dove off the bulldozer and started after the truck on foot, but it was only seconds before the pickup shot over the rim he'd just cleared, and disappeared from sight.

  Jessup stood and stared after them, then screamed in frustration and anger and took off for his home at a run. He knew his truck was no match for the Cooper's pickup, but the freeway wasn't a hundred percent clear, and he'd been driving a hell of a lot longer than Jack. He didn't think about food, or water. He didn't think about anything but his truck, his gun, and Mae.

  He turned the corner and saw his home, what had been his home, and he stopped. It looked as if the front wall had been blown off…maybe it had. His truck was canted over on its side, its windows smashed. Where his front door had been there was just a hole in the wall. Smoke curled out from the interior. Jessup saw Dan standing in front of the structure, waiting.

  "Dan," Jessup screamed. "They got Mae."

  Dan nodded. He turned and stared into the ruined home. Jessup kept running.

  "Did you hear me? I have to go after them. My truck…"

  Dan didn't turn around, and Jessup slowed slightly. Dan glanced at him.

  "You can't catch them," he said matter-of-factly. "They're gone."

  "They got Mae," Jessup repeated.

  Dan nodded again. "They did."

  He turned back toward the city and scanned the streets.

  "We need to get moving early tomorrow," he said, not meeting Jessup's gaze. "Trucks are loaded, and Tish has everything organized."

  Jessup grabbed his friend by the shoulder and spun him around.

  "Are you not hearing me? They blew up my house. They took my wife. I have to go after them."

  "No," Dan said evenly, "you don't. You know you don't. They're long gone, and if they aren't, we'll find them on the road. Probably the others will get them–they aren't too smart." Dan hesitated, and then added, "I'm sorry about Mae. You know you can't go after them though. Things have changed, Jess, and not for the better. We don't have much, but we need to keep it together. We're pulling out in the morning."

  Jessup stared at his house. Tears ran down his cheeks. He might have stood there like that until the sun rose the next morning, but at that moment, something inside ignited, and flames shot out the windows and licked at the doorframe. Dan dropped at the first sound, but Jessup was caught by the blast. The concussion lifted him and tossed him back like a rag doll. He saw red, and then the dark, star-filled sky, and then he hit. Hard. After that, he saw nothing.

  The next morning, they rolled out of Wiley. There were three large trucks, and towed behind the last was a Jeep. Also included in the convoy was the tanker truck that had been in town to fill the gas station's tanks when the world turned on its side. They'd pumped it full, and Dan was up behind the wheel. He carried a shotgun across his lap.

  Jessup watched the houses pass from the passenger side of the truck Tish was driving. She'd tended his wounds, and despite a pounding headache, he'd recovered well enough. He was shaky, and he felt as if he'd swallowed a ball of barbed wire, but he knew Dan was right. They passed the ruined frame of his home, and he closed his eyes. He tried to picture things the way they'd been, but all he saw was Jack's leering stare, and the terrified, empty expression he'd last seen on Mae's face.

  As he closed his eyes, he couldn't help but wonder if she'd let them in.

  Cuttlefish Squeezings

  A Three Word Challenge Poem

  Cuttlefish / Sardonic / Moss

  Her sardonic smile split

  Lips red as sunset fire and thin

  So thin, how to begin?

  They bled…bitten through

  A thousand times,

  Punctuating epithets and rhymes

  With pain,

  Drawing up from swampy graves

  Drenched in moss and mired in time

  Black plantations and

  Forgotten tombs,

  Her pages dripp with ink so black

  Cuttlefish squeezings,

  Like bitter juice

  scratched in eldritch patience

  and dried on vellum skin.

  One Off From Prime

  The walls of the shelter were dingy and gray. The paper was white, or had been white. Too many hours stuffed in the bottom of Angus' bag had dampened the sheets and marred their sheen. Most of the pages were empty, windows and doors to places the words hadn't yet taken him; even doors need a new coat of paint now and then–a hinge, or a knob replaced. Angus' paper, as his mind, remained unhinged and without knobs or slots, collecting flecks of dust and smears of sweat and blood.

  He wasn't alone in the room, but he might as well have been. Angus stood adrift in a whirling miasma of images and words so thick they obscured the bland walls and walking, talking worlds that orbited him.

  A thin, wisp of a woman sidled up sneakily and glanced sidelong into Angus' vacant eyes. She eased along the table, trailed her bony fingers over its surface and watched with bird-like intensity for any reaction. Angus didn't flinch. The woman's dry, pale lips curled into a cruel grin. Like a striking snake her hand darted past the sheet of paper Angus held flat on the table and gripped the strap of his old, green duffle bag.

  There was a blur of motion, and the woman screamed. Between her fingers, gouged into the surface of the table and quivering, stood Angus' pen. It didn't touch her skin, but it prevented the sliding of the duffle across the table. The plastic shaft of the pen was shattered, but the inner plastic tube and the ballpoint were intact, quivering from the impact.

  Without a word, Angus worked it free of the table. The woman fluttered back and away. She sputtered words that died in strangled bleats of sound and a yellow mist of spittle. Angus paid no more attention to her departure than he had to her approach. He stared at the paper in front of him and willed the words to stop spinning and sort themselves. He had to capture them and bind them to the paper to get them out from in front of his eyes and behind his ears.

  He thought–no, he knew–that there was one word among them that could set him free, if only he could unravel the rest and place it properly. He vaguely remembered others who had once helped with the placement, but though he knew there had been three, he couldn't recall names or faces.

  None of those around him saw the words. They saw a thin, emaciated man of thirty or so years with thick black hair that dropped over wide, narrow shoulders, their strength belied by thin, protruding shoulder blades. They saw wide eyes that stared at everything except what was directly in front of them and long, slender fingers perpetually wrapped around a pen, or a pencil, or a paintbrush.

  One time the counselors had found Angus in the alley behind the shelter with a piece of charcoal in his hand. He'd covered half the back wall with a single long, rambling sentence.

  A young woman, thinner still than the insectile Angus, had stood midway along the wall, reading. Her slender, beak-like nose had pressed so close to the wall that its tip was black from accidental encounters with charcoal and brick. Her hands had been filthy from trailing along behind. She'd worn thick cats-eye glasses that slid down her nose and had to be pressed back into service every few minutes. This action, over the course of her reading, had streaked her face with more of the charcoal.

  When the counselors had led the two back inside she'd looked ready for a combat raid, camouflaged and intense. Angus, as usual, had looked confused and on the verge of saying something he couldn't quite remember. He'd written it down, but she'd caused it to blur.
She'd taken the words into her pores or her skin and the ridges of her fingers. The counselors took the charcoal, and by the time anyone thought to try and read what Angus had written, the words had faded and smudged.

  Angus didn't remember the wall. He remembered that there had been words, but not what they'd been. He remembered the young woman's face. He remembered the dark swatches of charcoal embedded in the pores of her skin. He remembered her expression, and her eyes. He'd wanted to reach out, brush his fingers over her cheeks and drag the black, dusty smudges back into the proper order. He'd memorized her features in an instant and imagined them covered in letters, the words merging to one long statement encompassing everything he was unable to say. He thought she was more beautiful without the words, but had no way to be certain.

  Now he stared at the blank paper, clutched the shattered pen and tried to bring her face into focus and transfer it to the page. He imagined the lines of letters, like soldiers, or the bricks on a wall. His lips moved, but before he could record the wispy letters in their proper order they slipped away and new ones took their places, always a step ahead. His hand trembled, but he didn't touch the pen to the paper.

  The girl sat in the corner of the room, huddled in a severe chair of hard wooden slats. She clutched her knees to her chest and her chin rested between them. She gazed in unwavering concentration at Angus' profile. She saw the paper clearly, and the pen. She knew the tremble in his hand and the nervous shake of his head. She'd seen both so many times they'd become a part of her.

  She didn't have to huddle in the shelter. She didn't have to watch this skinny man stare at his paper and chase the words flitting through his head. She had a home, and a name, a family who wondered where she had gone, and friends–acquaintances, really–who noted the empty spaces she would have filled in their own small worlds. But none of that was real. They knew the thin, wispy shell of her, but her connection to Angus was much deeper. Given time, she'd fade from their minds as surely as Angus' words had faded from the alley wall.