Letters from the Apocalypse

Part One: Antipodes

Chapter 1: Javelina

The stars are a blanket .  The sky is huge and within reach.  The crystal air is cut by a mountain lion’s scream, a jagged slash through the murmurs of the night.  Not a threat; the prowling cat hunts somewhere else.  The night returns to the trickling of the brook and soft footfalls padding through the underbrush.

Roger relaxes in the crook of the tree, as best he can.  He listens to his companion, but his mind is with the stars. 

He tries to picture her face.

Ooh, now she was a real tart, that Señorita, continues Roger’s companion, Julius.  Knew how to handle a man, you know?  Moonlight reflects in his wistful eyes.

Yeah?

Nice butt, too. Julius sighs.  No one’s got a butt like that anymore.

Sure.

Seriously, man, no one’s got enough food to have a butt like that, you know?

You’re going to scare them away.

Nah.  They’ll come.  Julius leans back into his branch, hands behind his head.  Anyway, she didn’t make it long after the First Apocalypse.

How do you not roll right out of the tree?  Roger asks.

Julius’s eyes are already closed.  Wake me when something happens.

The muscles in Roger’s legs ache from the stillness and constant bracing.  Below, unseen creatures disturb the dry grasses while night birds make eerie sounds from above.  Roger tries to picture her face again, but Esther’s face is clouded.  A poem, he thinks, I’ll write a poem and keep it in my head until I get back.  Or another page of the letter.

Soon, Roger thinks.

A grunt.

Hooves beat the soft earth along the streambed.  The grunting grows louder with each approaching step, but Roger cannot see anything below despite the luminance of the moon and stars.

Until the javelinas are right under him, snorting and snuffling.

Roger readies his loop of rope, and whistles to a sleeping Julius whose coy smile and curled lip evince a dream of a roll with a woman who does not exist anymore. 

The whistle is too loud.  The javelinas are briefly silent, before breaking into a run past the tree, tusks chattering.

Roger lowers his rope to snare one of the beasts.  He misses the neck and the loop tightens around the hind legs of the wild pig as he jerks the rope and braces himself in the tree.

Julius gently snores.

The pigs are riled.  The snared one dangles and flails as Roger heaves at the rope. 

Julius!  Roger strains against the rope.  His feet slip against the bark.

Julius opens his eyes and yawns.  He slides his knife from its sheath and leans over the edge. 

Take your time already.  Roger heaves and gasps.

The irate herd chatters angrily and the snared pig’s squeals only madden them more.  Julius deftly cuts the throat of the javelina and takes the rope with Roger.  Together they pull back on the rope and tie it to the trunk of the tree.  The javelina hangs and bleeds, twisting slowly a few feet above its herd.

Let me fall, why don’t you?

Julius wipes his knife clean.  Skunk pig never killed nobody.

Ten of them might.  Roger glances down at the moonlit backs of the angry pigs, spiky dark hair bristling up at him.

You Yanks are something else, man.

Yeah, okay.

You’re an old lady, scared of a bunch of skunk pigs like that. 

Why don’t you climb down and show them how brave you are?  I’ll be waiting up here.

I just got these pants, or I would.  Julius strokes the dark blue denim.  Long walk to the mall from here.

Roger laughs and leans back against the trunk of the tree.  These bastards aren’t going anywhere until morning.

Goodnight, brother.

Me Hermano, don’t let me roll off, will you?

Dawn mutes the starlight.  The javelinas have carried on, one member short.  The morning is musk and blood, but morning still.  Roger and Julius carry the javelina back to camp between them on a pole.

Here we are, Julius sings.  Get digging, ‘cause we’re going to be cooking us a skunk pig.   

An extremity of an extremity, the camp represents the loneliest, far-flung zone of the Freedom Republic of Texas, wedged between Mexico and insanity. 

A West Texas black hole. 

A teenaged girl emerges from a canvas tent and greets Roger and Julius with plastic bottles filled with rainwater. 

Thanks Chica.  Julius tilts back and drinks deep. 

Not for me. Roger avoids water he didn’t collect himself, whether from the camp’s dug well, rainwater, or otherwise.

Liberty and Life. A sallow-faced man with a worn cowboy hat salutes. Paltrow.

Liberty and death, Julius says, for the skunk pig.

A permanent frown in the rawhide face deepens.  You’re late.

Fire me, Julius says.

Roger watches Paltrow carefully.  The anointed representative of the Freedom Republic might be a tiny-pricked man with a badge, but he was an official, nonetheless.  When the Freedom Republic fired you, it came from the end of a barrel.

Relieve the Mercusio brothers of the livestock watch, Paltrow tells Julius. And take the Yank with you.

Aye, aye.

THE TRAIL TO CATCLAW Glen slowly twists upward through the narrow gap of the enclosing hills.  Julius and Roger hike under the side-eyed watch of rock squirrels gathering from the Pinyon pines that dot the hillsides.  The gradual rise gives way and slopes into the valley below, where goats meander around a sandy spring.

To the far side of the glen, the Mercusio Brothers sleep in the shade of a scrubby tree, chins to chests and hats pulled forward.

Julius motions to Roger to tread quietly as they approach.

Liberty and life! Julius shouts, hovering over the brothers.

An exhausted Roger cringes as Julius’s voice echoes through the glen.  The brothers, however, do not appear perturbed.

The younger brother, Billy, stretches and yawns, peering up at the newcomers from beneath his still slanted hat. 

Sup?

Rise and shine, assholes, Julius says as the brothers rub grit from their eyes.  You’re lucky a cat didn’t drag a goat off, and one of you with it.

Cat wouldn’t like the taste of me, says the older brother, Joe.

I dreamt I was a cat, Billy says. 

Sounds like you’ve been hitting the peyotequila, Julius says.

What, you want a swig?  Billy dangles a scuffed polyethylene bottle half filled with a brownish liquid.

I probably shouldn’t.

Billy and Joe pull themselves to their feet.  Joe is tall and lanky, like Julius, but in his late twenties, a few years younger, and his face shows it.  Billy is shorter and a bit stockier, but the two could almost go for twins based on their faces.  Each has cut features and sharp, black eyes framed with thick curly hair.  Joe has let his hair grow longer, almost down to his shoulders.

C’mon, says Billy.  How ‘bout you, Roger?

I’ll take some.  The liquor burns his throat and widens his eyes.  He sputters.

Peyotequila, friend, ha, ha.

A mind-shifting concoction of agave liquor steeped in mind-bending herbs. Anything the Mercusio Brothers were sharing would be watered down enough to keep a person from flipping out.  Made the goats more interesting, though.

Well, jeez.  Julius motions for the bottle.  "If even Roger’s having some..."

Julius tilts back his head and presses the opening to his lips.  The long draught almost finishes off the remaining liquor, as the brothers start counting in Spanish to keep time.

Gracias.  Julius wipes his lips with his sleeve.

Gracias? The bright red plaid of Joe’s shirt shakes with his laughter.  You think you’re Hispanic now? You wish.

Julius slaps him on the rear and waves them off.  Back to the ranch, assholes.  Commander Dick’s gonna get impatient.

Paltrow’s got no teeth, Billy says.

Yeah, but he’s got a gun. 

Roger and Julius take up the brothers’ spot in the shade.  The grass is pressed flat and the ground is still warm.

You doze off first, hombre.  I got plenty of rest last night.  Julius winks at Roger, his pupils widening from the peyotequila, but Roger doesn’t see or hear him—he is already somewhere else.

Esther dancing in the sun.  Esther in a cotton blue dress.  Esther in a peyotequila fantasy.  Esther slipping from her clothes and into the lake’s cool waters. 

Golden hair and ripples...

Ripples in the mind; ripples make you blind.  Thoughts in waves and goats that graze... Rhythmic motor-mouths pull prairie grass and chew, chew, chew.  Where was Esther?  A ghost in the ground or a life firm and true?  Time was years and time is cruel.  Forever torture with pleasures that flit.  Hate the things you have done, but what isn’t necessary to survive? The goats are back and forming a wall, and the wall shimmers. 

Roger is coming to.  Exhaustion is a smashing hammer.  That’s how it happens, he thinks. Wakefulness for days, sometimes, then the smash.  Hits you hard and leaves you helpless and prone. 

But there are the goats, staggered about the side of the hill.  He counts them off, one by one, and they’re all accounted for.   Julius is out cold.  Roger nudges him, cautiously.  The man would stick you in reflex.  That’s why he was still alive.

Yeah, yeah, grumbles Julius.  But he knows.  And he sits up straight and folds his arms.  Cold enough today.

Roger’s already sleeping.  But not dreaming.  They had been spent. 

Darkness, darkness.

Chapter 2: Pig Roast

S o, have I got one for you. 

Crimhauser is the only fat man left on earth.  Not obese, by any means, but solid.  Squat, sturdy legs support a stocky trunk and an enviable pot-belly as he huffs from the mile-long trek from the camp to Catclaw Glen.

News you can use.

Julius squints skeptically.  Someone sit on a snake?

This is something.

Well, you waddled all the way out here, so just spill already.

Pony Express man’s here.  Crimhauser’s reddened face shows pleasure as Roger comes to attention.

Whoopity doo dah.  Julius yawns.  Pony Express Man comes just ‘bout every month.  Why don’t you waddle back on down to camp?  But don’t gobble up our pork roast.  That’s cookin’ right? 

Pig’s in the pit.  And the Pony Express Man ain’t the news, Crimhauser says.  It’s the news the man brings.

So?

As if the sunbaked hills have ears, Crimhauser leans in and speaks confidingly.  Maddox.

Say?

The White Texan.

I know who Maddox is, cheese-wheel.   But he’s not bothering to come way out here.

Roger touches Crimhauser’s sweat-dampened sleeve.  You sure?

Unless Pony Express Man’s lying, then yeah.  I’m sure.

Damn.

Julius shakes his head.  Not out here.  Don’t believe it.

Believe what you want.  Dick Paltrow sent me up here to relieve you.  Looks like I get the lonely shift while the pig’s on.  That’s the thanks I get for cooking. Crimhauser lowers his haunches and snorts.  Dipshits.

Nestled between Soldier’s Hill and its lesser, innominate sibling, is the Fort Davis camp.  Few of the camp’s structures are permanent, save a concrete jail referred to as the lockbox, and another concrete-based structure serving as an armory.  The long-vacant lockbox rests in the shadow of the unnamed hill, on the protected side of the camp, and the armory on the opposite side, under Soldier’s Hill, near the horseshoe pit.  Canvas tents radiate from a central, dug well, with cooking fires scattered amongst them. The back of the camp is sheltered by a ridge only broken by a narrow trail to Catclaw Glen on one end, and at the other end, another trail that leads out toward the Chihuahuan Desert – if one were minded to walk that far.

Roger’s a Yank.  Julius squats by the fire and chews at his portion of the roast, as the flames lick mesquite and illuminate the faces of those gathered around.  But he sure can lasso a skunk pig.  He gets nervous, though.  Julius looks at Vane and makes a frightened face.  Julius, wake up! Don’t let me fall!  The Javelinas will get me! 

Yeah, okay.  Roger smiles wryly. 

Poor Roger. Firelight dances across Vane’s apple-skin cheeks and disappears into the inky wells of her eyes.  You shouldn’t make fun of him like that.  You’ll make him blush.

You make me blush, Julius says. 

Across the fire is a new face to the camp. The Pony Express Man is Hispanic, with a broad, soft face.  He eats quietly and listens to the others, the strap of his satchel looped around his right boot.

Roger wants to talk to him, but a discreet opportunity has not presented itself.

Billy Mercusio is less shy.

Hey, man.

Yeah?

How do you know the White Texan is coming here?

The man rests his pork shank on his tin plate.  It’s my job to know—my life.  I go where no one else does.  As long as I get paid.

You ever see him?  The White Texan? 

Yeah, I’ve seen him.

Billy leans in eagerly.  I hear he’s almost seven foot tall, and always wears two golden guns at his side.  Never misses a shot, and kills at least a dozen people a day.

He’s no taller than me, says the man.

Is it true about the woman who always travels with him that looks like some kind of exotic model?  A Bond-girl with her own machine gun.  And she’s even taller than he is—she’s the real killer.  Ruthless.

The man stares into his plate. Anyone else got any questions they’d like to ask me while I’m trying to eat?

Billy sits back and resists the urge to continue the interrogation, a difficult task.  The rest of the group falls into listlessness as forks scrape metal plates. Except for Vane.

Is it true about the Wasteland?  The forks pause as heads turn to her, and she runs her fingers through her long black hair.

It’s alright, man.  Julius waves off Vane’s question.  You don’t have to pay attention to her.  Just enjoy your meal. 

For a beautiful young woman, says the man, I will respond.  He fixes his eyes on Vane.  Our network stretches even into the Wasteland.

Bull, Julius says, I haven’t met no one that’s been north of El Paso and came back to tell about it.

The man shrugs. Believe what you want.

What’s it like?  Vane asks.