"I think desperate is a fair description," I say.
The man snorts and spits a stream of brown liquid on the ground. "You inventory their bags?" he inquires the men who captured us.
"Their clean, aside from the looted corn," one of his men answers.
"Three boys with handguns and empty packs," the old man says. "How many more of you are out there?" I don't respond, and neither do Leon or Felix. I won't give up the rest of the group, no matter what happens here. "That's alright, one thing at a time," he says after a beat. "Tell me though, what was your plan exactly? Rush an occupied farm at midday and just hope we're stupid enough to leave our crops unguarded?"
"You called it earlier...we're desperate," I reply. "The past few weeks...they haven't been easy."
"Whereas it's been nothing but palm trees and umbrella drinks for us, right?" he questions.
"No sir, that's not what I was implying." I gesture to Felix. "My friend here, his Uncle has a farm back home." I gesture now to Leon. "First jobs we ever had were farm hands. I know your blood and sweat went into these crops."
"Yes, they did," he replies. He turns to Felix. "So, your Uncle has himself a farm you say? Tell me, what you suppose he'd do if he were in my situation?"
"I think Uncle Frank wouldn't have let this discussion happen," Felix says. "He'd be shooting from the get go, trying to run them off his land."
The man’s mouth lifts at the corner. "Yeah, that's one strategy alright. Problem is, once they've gone through their loot they can always come back. I'd rather get the job done right the first time." The implications of his words aren't lost on me. But he's already had plenty of time to kill us, yet we’re still breathing. The fact alone gives me hope there might be a way out of this.
"We wouldn't have come back," I say. "We just wanted enough food to make it home. Ever since this all began that's been the only thing on my mind: surviving the trip home. And not because I value my own life so highly, but so I can try and keep those I care for alive." I pause, reflecting on all the times we danced so close with death. I shake my head. "By some miracle we've made it this far. But the road here has been as brutal as it’s been long."
He nods, and his gaze drifts a bit. He spits another stream of brown at his feet. "I wish I could say the brutality hasn't reached here either." His eyes shift back to mine. The coldness still lingers, but it’s more calculating than before. "You mentioned a long road home. Where is home exactly? And where were you at the start of all this?"
"We're from Durango," I say. "We were in Denver when the pulse hit."
I might be imagining it, but I think his features darken when I mention this. He opens his mouth to speak but there is a sudden crackle, and a staticky voice issues from his front pocket. He fishes out a small walkie-talkie and puts it to his mouth. "Repeat, scout team one," he says.
"Captured several individuals scoping out the farm," comes the reply. "They're not responding to my questions, but I believe they're with the raiders on the farm." My stomach drops at these words. They found them. The glare the man gives almost cuts it's so sharp. "Bring them to me," he says. “Copy over and out.”
"Care to explain?" he asks, after a long pause. "Or are you all out of lies for the day?"
"I didn't lie to you," I say, my mouth so dry it's a wonder the words pass my lips.
He spits. "We'll see."
The silence that follows is so much worse than before. The air is charged, like that split second just before lightning strikes—when you feel the energy building up around you, and you know any moment it will strike, unleashing its rage upon the world. That's what the man reminds me of: like a bolt of lightning about to be unleashed. I only hope it's not brought down upon us.
A whistle sounds nearby which one of our captors returns. And then they appear around the corner of the corn field, all bound and held at gunpoint, save for the children. When I see Eli, all I can think of is what he told me days ago, about how fear wasn't in its purest form staring down the barrel of a gun, but seeing it pointed in the faces of those you love most and knowing there's not a damn thing you can do to stop it. Watching them draw nearer, seeing the shotgun pointed at Lauren's back, the pistols raised to back of Maya and Emily’s heads, I know he was right.
They are lead to kneel beside us, the remainder of our belongings tossed beside the three half full packs of corn. The old man looks over the pitiful pile for a second, not needing much time to take it all in. Then he surveys our new arrivals, his eyes softening as they linger on the children.
"You didn't say you were traveling with little ones," he says, facing me once again.
"No sir, I didn't," I reply. "Like I said, the road's been brutal. I've met men who would have..." I have to stop myself because the things I have seen still stoke anger inside me. "Let's just say there are those who I'd keep them away from at all costs." His eyes never leave mine. I can practically feel him trying to dig his way into my mind, searching to see if the words I speak are genuine. Finally, he nods.
"Will, Kurt, untie their hands," he says to two men. When we are unbound he gestures for us to stand. He closes the distance between us and sticks out his hand which I clasp immediately. "Name's Elroy."
"Morgan," I reply.
"C'mon up to the house. We’ve got some grub cookin’."
Chapter 22
I stare at the face of the man before me—searching for a shred of familiarity in his features. His cheeks are hollow, the several weeks’ worth of stubble unable to mask the sharp angles that have formed. His hair is overgrown, spilling past his brow in long dark strands. Shadows stain the skin around his eyes which stare back at me, tired and haunted. I take in the rest of him. The tall, lean frame, corded with ropey muscle. The multicolored bruises dotted across his body. He is a man I know, yet I do not recognize. I turn my back, suddenly no longer able to stand searching for flickers of the man I use to be in the mirror's reflection. That man doesn't exist anymore: I'm all that remains. No amount of searching will change that.
I sit with my friends amid a sea of strangers. Long folding tables sit end to end in two rows, accommodating the farm's many residents. Plus us: the eleven would be thieves turned guests. I feel claustrophobic. There’s too many people, too many voices, too much movement around me. I yearn for the reassuring grip of my Glock, but it sits locked away with the rest of our firearms and ammo. Elroy’s orders. I understand his reasons—I’d have done the same in his position—and though I know these people mean us no harm, I still feel vulnerable without a means to defend myself.
Eyes are constantly drawn to us. Some are brief glimpses, some are lingering stares. Some are friendly, accompanied with warm smiles; while others are hard glares seen through narrowed brows. Most though seem curious, assessing, and I get the feeling that while their homestead is five times or more our number, they too have grown comfortable with its size.
My fingers play out a rhythm against the table, an old nervous tick I thought I'd kicked. I feel a hand cover mine which stills at her touch. It's the first time she's acknowledged me since my outburst earlier. I know I need to explain myself, and more than that apologize, but it will have to wait. For now I lace my fingers through hers, focusing on the warmth of her hand until I feel a calm wash over me.
My mouth begins to water at the heavenly aroma wafting through the air, and I’m not alone in craning my neck in search for the source. An involuntary moan of longing escapes me when I see the procession coming out the kitchen; platters of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and fresh vegetables carried in their arms. They are set at intervals throughout the tables, and when a mound of golden chicken is placed before me, it's only with the greatest restraint that keeps me from reaching out and tearing into it like a starved animal.
When the tables are flush with food and everyone has been seated, Elroy stands from the head of the table we sit. The idle chatter is silenced, and everyone's gaze drifts to him. "Please bow your heads," he asks. One by one, heads are bowed and hand
s are clasped together in prayer. Our group is the last to respond, but he waits patiently for us to follow suit. "Dear Lord, we offer thanks for this bounty we are about to receive. Please bless this food. May it give us strength and grant us wisdom in these trying times. Please watch over us, and those dear to our hearts wherever they might be, and let us know your love. And to those who wander, lost, afraid in this world, please help guide them into the light and find a place of peace and rest. We offer this in the name of Jesus Christ, our lord. Amen."
A chorus of amen's ripple across the tables but Elroy still has words for us. "Before we start in on these plates, I'd like to extend a welcome to our guests." Eyes flicker from Elroy to us, and I feel myself fidget uncomfortably. "Welcome," he says raising his glass. Most of the tables raise their glasses to us and I nod my head, trying my best to force a smile. "Sure as hell beats a bag full of corn, ya' reckon?" he asks with a wry grin. His words are met with laughter and a genuine smile of my own. I can feel the embarrassment radiate off my friends, but I don’t share it. If anything, it makes Elroy more likable in my eyes—like he's this kind and generous old man, but that doesn't mean he won't call you out. "Yes sir," I say, failing to repress a laugh. "It sure as hell does."
When I’m finally allowed to eat, I can’t put into words how amazing that first bite is. The crispy outer layer of skin and breading preceding the moist, tender meat, so rich and flavorful it nearly brings me to tears. Tears do fall from Grace's eyes, and from Maya's as well. I understand the emotion. The meal before us is a blessing we haven't had in weeks. I eat until my stomach begins to cramp and I cut myself off for fear of hurling everything right back up. When I'm finished, I lean back in my chair and let out a sigh of contentment.
"I think this might be the best meal I've ever eaten," Maya says from across the table. She pushes her plate away and pats her stomach.
I hear a deep laugh to my left. I turn and match it with the man sitting at the adjoining table. "Home cooked meals on the road must be hard to come by these days, huh?" he asks.
Maya looks over and spots him as well. "Meals in general are hard to come by," she says after a moment's hesitation.
The man laughs another deep rumble. "I hear ya'," he says. "Name's Nick," he points behind him, "The beautiful redhead carrying a stack of dishes back to the house is my wife, Nancy. It was a few days before we figured out whatever those bastards did wasn’t going to be fixed anytime soon. Took us another week or so to get here from Mancos. Ran out of food just past Durango. Thought Uncle Elroy would whip me for not being better prepared. I couldn't imagine being on the road this whole time." At the mention of Durango, our group has gone from loose and comfortable to tense and alert. The man must notice. "I say something wrong?" he asks.
I have so many questions I want to ask, but I can't find my voice. "You said you ran out of food past Durango?" Felix asks.
"Yeah, it was a rough couple of days after that," Nick replies.
Felix and I exchange a look. It’s been nearly two months, and this is the first chance we've had to gain any knowledge of our home since the collapse. "How was Durango fairing when you passed through?" Felix asks, voicing the question I'm afraid to ask.
His face loses the easy smile he's worn since that first laugh. His brows scrunch together as he pieces it together. "Y’all are from there...right?" he asks. At our nod, his shoulders seem to sag and he lets loose a heavy sigh. "It wasn't...in the best of shape," he says carefully.
"What does that—" I am cut off by two sharp blasts of a whistle. At the sound, the farm's residents rise, stretching and shaking off the drowsiness before heading off in various directions. Nick looks relieved. "Sorry, but I gotta get back to work," he says, already heading towards the opposite side of the farm. A tense silence follows his departure. A thousand different thoughts pass through my mind. I try to imagine the state the town must have been in to wipe the smile off Nick's face so thoroughly. I look to my friends, all of whom are unnerved by the past minute or so.
"Not the news I was hoping for," Felix says quietly.
"You think?" Emily asks sarcastically.
My thoughts are interrupted when I notice Elroy walking our way. I push aside my worries and stand to meet him. "Elroy, I can't thank you enough for all this," I say. "If there's anything you need, we'd be more than willing to help."
He waves my thanks away. "I appreciate the offer Morgan, but my people have a handle on things," he says. "I'd like a private word though, if you don't mind."
"Of course," I say.
I share a quick look with my friends before following him to the house. We pass through the back door that leads to a spacious kitchen where several women have set to work cleaning up from the meal. We pass into a narrow hallway lined with several closed doors, all the way to the end where a large living area sits to the left, and set of stairs to the right. We take the stairs and enter the second door on the right.
The room is bare but for a large oak table dominating most of the space, and a dozen chairs situated around its circumference. Several shelves and cabinets line the length of the far wall, leather bound books, CB radios, and a tool chest rounding out its contents. The air of the room has a certain heaviness about it. Serious matters are discussed within these walls. A place where decisions are made. Elroy takes a seat at the head of the table. "Go ahead and have a seat," he offers, gesturing to the chair to his left.
"Seriously Elroy, if you need anything just name it," I say as I sit down. "I know we don't have a lot to trade with and that your people—"
He raises his hand to stop me. "It's alright Morgan," he says. "I can tell you folks have been through a lot. The fact that you've made it this far is amazing to me. And as far as paying me back? I'd say a couple bottles of whiskey we found in one of your bags ought to suffice." I'm too stunned to speak. Hours ago, my friends and I knelt with guns trained on us, completely at this man’s mercy. And not only did he let us live, his mercy has surpassed anything I'd have dared hoped for. I struggle to find words to show my gratitude, but Elroy shakes them away before they can be offered. "It's alright, son. Everyone needs help once in a while, and I believe in lending a hand if I'm able."
He says this so matter of factly, as if this type of kindness is no big deal—like something anyone would do. "Thank you," I finally choke out. "I didn't know people like you still existed."
He laughs, a dry hacking sound. "People like me?" he asks.
"People with kind hearts, who wouldn't think twice about helping a stranger...I haven't met many since all this started."
He runs a hand through his wintery beard, his expression turning serious. "No, I don't suppose you would have." He pauses. "You said y'all started in Denver?" I nod, and he shakes his head. "How the hell did you keep yourselves alive this long?" he asks, voice filled with reverence.
"I don't really know how to answer that," I tell him.
Elroy scoots his chair back and stands to open a cabinet on the far wall. His back is to me, and it's not until he turns around that I see what he's retrieved. He opens the bottle and the two glasses turn amber as he pours a generous serving in each, leaving the open bottle between us. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" he suggests, sliding one of the glasses my way. I tip my glass in acknowledgment and take a sip, the single-malt scotch smooth and smokey, and settling in a pool of warmth inside my stomach.
"I guess it all started with a weekend trip to visit my sister," I say. I tell him everything. I tell of the mad dash through Denver, scrambling for food and supplies, and earning the first scar upon my soul while defending them. Of later that night, when I witnessed firsthand the wickedness of evil men after rescuing Lauren and Grace, and the decision to let them join us. I tell him our choice of bypassing the interstate and taking our chances navigating the Colorado Trail, and all the shit we've dealt with along it: our first encounter with Eli and Jolene; the scavenger attack; Emily's infection; seeking meds in Salida, and subsequent robbery and trial; our secon
d encounter with Eli after our girls were abducted, and learning the leverage Clint held over him; taking out Clint and his gang, and the controversial decision to let Eli and his family join us; the wildfire and barely escaping with our lives.
By the time I've reached the point where Elroy and the farm come into play, we've put a decent dent in the bottle. I feel drained, but in a good way—like a weight I've carried inside since all this began has been eased slightly. I've never been to therapy, but I imagine those who have might have experienced something similar to what I feel now. I'm glad I shared this with him.
"That's a hell of a story, son," Elroy says after I’ve finished.
I nod, emptying the remaining scotch from my glass and pushing it away. I’ve already consumed more than enough. "I was talking with one of your men earlier. Nick?" I say. I wait for him to nod before continuing. "He mentioned passing through Durango on his way here. He said it wasn't in the best of shape." I pause, waiting to see if his face will betray any sign I can read, but he remains stoic. "Do you know anything about how it's held up? These past few weeks...the only thing keeping me going has been getting back home. If you know anything, please tell me. I have to know what waiting for me at the end of this road."
The scotch swirls as he moves the glass around in circles with his hand. He lifts it to his lips and drains the remainder with an audible sigh. From his breast pocket, he removes a pouch of chewing tobacco and takes a healthy pinch before replying. "We've been scanning the shortwave ever since the shit hit," he finally says. "Have had contact with people from all over—North and South America, parts of Europe, Asia. Far as we can tell there isn't a place on earth that wasn't affected by the attacks. How the hell those sons of bitches managed to do so much damage without anyone ever learning of them is beyond me."
Echoes of a Dying World (Book 1) Page 25
