“You shot him,” Howard said in
disbelief, wishing silently that he could've had the courage to free Jennifer.
She came for him, stumbling, moaning. He pushed her away. But he didn't kill
her, couldn't kill her.
“Fuck yeah I shot him. The way I look at
it I saved him from a second death somewhere down the road.”
Howard didn’t know what to say. He
hadn’t quite thought the story would end that way. He’d been raised on the
bravery of sacrifice. So many stories of laughing in the face of death. And as
he looked into Brooks’s tired eyes, he realized just how blind such acts were.
There was always a way out. He had to believe that. He had to trust in his
skills and his wits if he ever found himself in a potentially hopeless
situation. To give up in the face of certain death was to defeat yourself, and
he wasn’t about to do something so stupid. His father never gave up.
“This isn’t some epic tale. This isn’t
Beowulf. This is survival. You don’t give up, ever. I don’t care how bleak it
looks. The moment you let that fear in, you’re done.”
“Thank you, Brooks.” Stale or not,
Howard didn’t understand how anyone found cigars appealing. He let his burn
between his fingers. Every chance he got, he sipped cold water from his canteen
and swished away the taste of smoke. “Can I play something for you?”
“Play what?”
Howard pulled out the device and the
headphones. He handed one to Brooks and put the other in his ear.
“Shit, haven’t seen one of these in a
long, long time. Looks brand new.”
“It kind of is.” Howard thumbed the song
and set the volume with a swipe.
Brooks eyes focused for a second then
moved into the infinite distance of memory. He bobbed his head, saying, “Eddie
Vedder. By God, thought I’d never hear that voice ever again. This is special.
First time I heard this song I was so high I thought my heart was going to
explode.” Brooks laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just memories.” Brooks wiped
away a tear. “You got that look like you’re getting ready to leave. Can’t do
that. They’re still out there. Sometimes it takes them awhile to get moving. I
got some food and water. You’re welcome to stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can, but you won’t. I’ve known
too many people with that look in my life. You won’t, Howard, but are you sure?
Are you really sure?”
“I’ve been sure since the day I left
L.A.” Brooks did not need to hear the details. With details came questions.
Howard didn’t know how the man would react if he discovered the secret coursing
through his veins. That secret had cost his mother's life and Jennifer’s, and
in a way, his father’s.
“But North. Shit. There’s a lot of
reasons to head elsewhere. You’re talking about heading into what’s out there.
I’ve seen the tribes move south. I’ve seen animals moving south when they
shouldn’t be. Something’s out there, but you already know that.” Brooks
scratched his beard and began to rummage through his collection. "I kind
of miss the crazies, the tribes. I used to hear them on calm nights, chanting
and hooting and shit, like damn cavemen. I’d see their fires."
“I know. But—" Howard flinched as
the wind howled outside— "I have to face it in order to save them. It’s
all she wanted to do. It’s all that mattered, and if I don’t do that then I
take meaning from her life, and that’s worse than death. That’s forever."
Howard thought of the determination in
Jennifer’s voice as she taught him how to operate the explosives, as she told
him her plans, as she talked about saving the women and exacting revenge.
"That's heavy." Brooks cocked
his head to the sound of the Creepers moaning. “Something’s got them buzzing.
Here we are.” Brooks handed Howard a battered book. “That there will guide you
in the right direction. It helped me a long time ago. No need to hang on to it
now.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Man named Huxley. About a world that
came close to happening. Think of it like a lesson in what not to do when
you’re done with what you have to do. There’s a world out there waiting to be
rebuilt. Those taking up the task will need guidance. Can’t think of anyone
better to guide you, Howard.”
Howard let the old man’s wise words hang
in the air. He wondered if they were drawn from Brooks’s own experiences, or
were they drawn solely from the pages of the books he coveted? Ultimately,
their origin didn’t matter to him, for he had already made up his mind. He
pictured her wandering the hills, the moon barely reflecting in her rotting
eyes. She had begged him to release her. She spoke to him. He heard her as he
heard all of them. But he couldn't grant her wish.
“Thank you,” Howard said.
Howard . . . Howard . . . Howard
Brooks shook his head with a laugh. “If
you come back this way, and if you happen to come across any books that might
be of interest to me, I’d thank you kindly for them. With another story, and I
promise I won’t pull a gun on you this time.” He winked.
“It’s the least I could do.” Howard
stared in awe. Had it all been a ploy? A test of some sort? To what purpose?
“Now, besides the story, I can’t promise
you anything other than a good meal, if the deer are cooperative, and what food
I can send with you when you leave.” Brooks snapped his fingers and knocked a
pile of hardbacks over to get at a yellowed cardboard box. He handed it to
Howard. “My service sidearm. She’s not much against that, but she’ll do you
proud. Shame all I have left is that clip. Better than nothing I suppose.”
“Thanks, Brooks, but there’s got to be
at least a dozen or more libraries in the surrounding area. What could I
possibly find that you haven’t already?” Howard gestured to the many books
leaning in large stacks around the fort.
Brooks shook his head. “There were.
They’re all burned down now. Not sure who, but some Neanderthal that got it in
his head that knowledge is a bad thing. A lot of people blame what’s happening
on knowledge. We know better. And I ain’t what I used to be. I can’t go
journeying across the land anymore. But I’ll make it easy on you, find anything
by a man named Robert Heinlein and you’re my hero.”
“It might be a long time before I’m back
this way. Are you going to be able to last that long, old man?” Howard kidded.
“Old man? This old man could beat your
smart ass all the way to L.A and back.” Brooks wrapped the smoked venison in
large green leaves and closed the creaky oven door. Without another word, the
gruff old man curled up on his bedroll and was fast asleep the moment his eyes
closed.
Howard didn’t doubt for second that
Brooks could take him. He’d known only a few true survivors over the short
expanse of his life, and their wisdom held more value than all the paper wealth
of the world that used to be.
With the night in full swing now, rain
beginning to fall again, Howard relived the horror of Jennifer’s ashen face as
she cried out for him. He could still hear her wails within the confines of his
mind. He packed up his things and left all his rational thoughts behind. If he
was going to do this, to finish what she started, he needed to make her wish
the only thing that mattered. He needed to leave all of his doubt and worry in
this lonely room with this lonely man.
So he did.
As quiet as he could, he climbed down
the chain to meet the waiting Creepers.
Pathos I – Traveling Historian
of the Dead
St. Louis seems like a lifetime away,
but in reality it’s only two weeks removed. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Half a
month. A measure of time I’d taken for granted before the war too many times.
Two weeks until summer, two weeks until fall, two weeks until that Billy Joel
concert, two weeks until our anniversary, but even as I dig deep into the past,
I can’t recall a single memory of any of that lost time. In hindsight, none of
it seems important.
Two weeks pre-war, maybe an aunt died of
a coronary, a bomb went off at some gathering home or abroad, maybe an
industrial accident or two. Death happened. But even when it hit home, it
didn’t hit all that hard after the initial shock. What I’ve witnessed during
these particular two weeks will never leave me. But each for a different
reason. One for the absolute horrors brought on by warped religion and
superstition. Two for the absolute apex of human kindness. Night and day, black
and white, top and bottom, the best and the worst.
I’ve spent a great deal of time at the
keys over those two weeks. I’ve recorded many dead. Just outside of St. Louis,
after that amazing morning, head dry and fuzzy from too much drink, we saw the
first of many atrocities. I’d heard the stories, heard the tall tales, the
warnings, just as Jamie had, of the techno cults. I’d even run across their
sites of worship and sacrifice over my years.
Never this many, and never occupied.
By the light of the lantern, we came
upon the first. A construct of wire and cattle fence that resembled a crude
dome. Three moaning Creepers were sacrificed within the rusted prison. A warped
homage to Christianity. A warped testament to our cruel past and what had
become of those who went full native after twenty long years. For starters,
they had perfected their craft.
The domes were beautiful, painfully
crafted from the useless technology of which they were a commentary. But all
that effort, that great driving force, it was nothing more than an implement of
death. Like a cruise missile, sleek and amazing, but utterly devastating. All
for naught, but not from their point of view. Oh no, not from their point of
view.
We stopped at each construct to give the
dead a proper burial. Even though we’d passed plenty of wandering Creepers
during our journey east, we never stopped, never even thought to do so, but
something about the domes gave us pause. Something about the severity of these
acts and their terrible aftermaths struck our very human souls. It would’ve
been wrong of us to leave them like that. And those acts of kindness saved us.
Jamie had just finished burying our
ninth body that day. We’d gathered around to bow our heads in respect when the
first arrow whistled past. We’d finally caught up to them. What had taken them
months to do had been undone by a few hard working survivors in just two weeks.
We weren’t happy. Neither were they. And we let each other know it. The
technology they hated so fiercely wiped them from the world in minutes.
Baylor had taught the women how to
handle firearms well, and they made quick work of the cultists. As I walked
among the dead, ensuring they didn’t come back to haunt another group of poor
souls, I realized what I had previously thought animal skins were in fact
human. There was a faded tattoo of a woman holding a baby covering one of the
cultist’s waist. A smiling mom and her big beautiful child, their faces warped
into devilish caricatures.
It was that tattoo, the image and idea
it represented, that floored me. I broke down. In that brittle, dry field, next
to the corpse of a savage, I broke down and cried. It’s okay, Sophie said to me
then. She stood over me, smiling like the woman in the tattoo, holding little
Randal, like the woman in the tattoo held her son.
Our brave mothers, our amazing women—the
caretakers of this terrible apocalypse. It is because of them we survive, we
grow. My god it is because of Sophie and Jamie I’m alive now. It goes deeper
than the two weeks. I realize that now. Jamie’s been keeping me going for a
long time.
Her words, the way she drives a
conversation, she uses the same precision that navigates these haphazard
tracks. I imagine she did the same for Baylor over the years. A mother to them
all, but more than that. An ear to listen, for sure. A shoulder for us all to
cry on when needed. The lover, the caretaker, coaxing great flavors from what
should taste like wood chips. The example setter and the fierce warrior, and
even, when situations deemed it, the ice cold killer.
Even through all of that, she never lost
her motherly instincts. She cares for Bobby and Sophie’s child as if it were
her own. She dispenses knowledge to Sophie with a careful hand. She never over
steps her bounds and she never makes Sophie feel inadequate as a mother. Jamie
is the epitome of what it means to be a woman. By simply being such, she has
ensured there will, one day, be another like her, and hopefully many more when
it comes time for Sophie to set the example.
My, how dumb the other half of our
species has been. Perhaps if we’d only listened to what we knew all along we’d
have circumvented wars and genocide and not lost so many along the way. I feel
humbled, I feel shame, I feel I’ll never be able to even come close to her
level. I wish I could, but I know I can’t, for my mind does not work like that.
I’ve been too damaged by the world.
She saved me. She can save us all. I
only have to make sure she lives to do so. The world is still in a great flux
and there are many perils along this rusted track. One day I hope there is a
monument in her name, but I am afraid, so afraid, that like so many of our
strong women before her, she will be ignored, or even forgotten when it comes
time to write that history. I must do all I can to ensure Jamie’s name will not
be forgotten.
I hope, somewhere at the end of what is
to come, she will know peace. I hope that she will know what it is to not live
in constant fear. She deserves that at the very least. They all do. They’ve put
on such a brave face. They endured even when the strongest of us have cracked.
Such power and grace and beauty they possess. Times like this make me think of
Siobhan. How I miss her. How I wish she were here to bear witness to beauty
born. For that is what Jamie is. She is beauty. She is everything right with
the world. We can all learn from her, from them all really.
It is the women who will save us. It is
the women who will ensure the world is not rebuilt, but reborn. It is the women
who will make sure it never happens again. It is the women who help the rest of
us cope when all seems lost.