600 Miles: A Post-Apocalyptic Adventure (2 page)

Chapter 3

They roused real early, the sun coming up over distant hills. I heard them talking and the noise of cooking pots clanging and opened my eyes, wearily spying down from my place behind the rocks and seeing an old woman stirring something up over the fire, a big man with a rifle who I recognized as being the one who had shot at Lucky standing close by.

They ate breakfast, all of them gathered around, then packed up their gear and were moving on, that old sputtering pickup truck following. When they were far enough away, I made my way over to their camp to see what I could find, though there weren't anything they'd left for me to pick at, just some charred gristle that I dug out of the warm ash and chewed a bit before spitting out.

I took care to stay far back, no longer hidden by the night, nothing but hot desert filled with rocks and dry weeds all around. After a few miles, from far off I could see the ruins of places long since dead: old highway stops and restaurants and what looked like it had once been a motel. But weren't nothing to find there, I knew. Weren't nothing in any old building to find, every place picked clean like the dead bodies the desert scavengers had picked at until there weren't no more meat left on the bone.

By noon that heat was deathly. I screwed the top off my old bottle and drank.
Olde English
the label read. If only it were still filled with liquor, I might have been happy. It would have felt real nice going down. Weren't too much hooch left around though—liquor, I mean—not unless you knew how to make your own, and since I knew even less about making things than fixing them I settled for whatever I could find. Plenty of water left in it at least. Warm and gritty, but it kept me alive.

We walked on another day, that old truck eating a lot of gas. I knew they couldn't have much left with them, because weren't much more than a couple of extra tanks in the back, one of which they used up on the road. There was a couple of places they stopped at, but every time it was the same thing: nothing left to salvage, and sure as hell weren't no more gas. It was something they should have known but they kept stopping anyway, like maybe some miracle was going to happen when it was just empty pumps and buildings full of old skellies and whatever else I reckon they found. I never got too close and they never once saw me, because if they had I imagine there would have been quite a stir. I mean to say I'm sure they would have come after me without bothering to talk, both for what I might have been carrying as well as the good meat on my bones.

Or maybe they was good folks, I thought. Surely there must have been some decent people left around. Ain't everyone given to making a meal out of somebody or taking their stuff. Problem was telling the difference between good and bad. Still, I couldn't stop being curious. Lonely too. It was hard when you'd been going it alone for such a long time, couple years maybe, which is how long it had been since my friend Pete fell down that hole back in Albuquerque, breaking both his legs. Was a slow, hurting way to go, but soon after they was broken the rot set in and for two weeks he cried and sweat it out before being dead.

But Pete was long gone. Ain't no use in holding onto such sad things. Maybe he'd gone up into the sky like some folks said dead people went, up to them clouds to where it was said you could find the Kingdom of God. Maybe, though thinking about it weren't no good. I'd just have to find out the way Pete did, though it weren't something I was hoping for anytime soon.

I got closer to them that night than I should have. What kind of threat was one man? If I came in all peaceable then maybe they'd take me for a friend. I saw the lot of them gathered round the fire, eating their supper and talking about things I couldn't hear, one of the fellas suddenly hollering about something as he waved his arms around and made everyone laugh. It was a good way of laughing, it seemed, because there was always a difference between the way good folks laughed and how they laughed if they was bad. The sound of it, I'm saying. I'd learned that a long time ago, back in a time when I was still dumb about things and had to learn it the hard way, back then when I didn't know how many bad people was in the world.

My hands was sweating as I stood there telling myself to get back down. I would have been plain to see had they looked over, because though it were dark there weren't too much distance between us at all. I started forward, still waiting for them to see me, but it weren't until I was close enough to see clear their faces that one of the women sitting there suddenly looked up and gasped, the rest of them drawing their guns.

It was a right hard moment standing there, no one saying nothing, just guns pointed and faces all mean and scared. "Ho!" one fella shouted, astonished not enough to describe his face as his mouth hung open under that big hairy beard and I held up my hands.

"Evening," I said. "Ain't no need for alarm. I just saw you folks and your fire and it sure was lonely sitting out there in the dark."

They ain't say nothing, the ragged, dirty lot of them staring at me like I was the Devil himself. They looked far from being hungry, though they was still filthy and sure had looked a lot better from far off. Of the two women, one was old and the other not so much, like she still had some good miles to go. The men were of all sorts, though none of them too young, looking real rough and desperate, killers, it seemed to me, one and all.

I spotted the big one again, the fella who had shot at my dog. Weren't no mistaking him, because though it were the first time he was seeing me, I'd looked at him long enough before. He just glared at me, wondering what I was all about. Then, sure enough he had a loose finger, raising up his rifle and popping off a shot.

He should of hit me square, as close as I was, but the man was guilty of the worst shooting I'd ever seen and I ran. There was another shot, so close that I felt it zip right by my ear, then even more. I tripped and hit the ground but was up and running again, men shouting and shooting though ain't one of them bullets find its mark.

I could barely breathe as I laid there listening, though they weren't brave enough to follow me into the night. I heard them shouting back and forth, cussing and telling each other which way to go, though after a while the excitement finally died down. I poked my head up but didn't see no one, and so off I went under the cover of darkness, the glow of their fire getting farther and farther behind me until at last it disappeared and weren't no trace of them at all.

Chapter 4

Having narrowly escaped them people, weren't much danger left but the rattlesnakes and the hot desert sun, though despite how deadly they could be, the snakes was also some of the best eating around. There was a big one I spotted curled up in the dry bushes cooling itself in the shade, its rattle buzzing like it was real pissed at me for disturbing it as I was passing by. Lucky for me, the thing was too dumb to know I was fixing to make a meal of it until I trapped its head under a big stick, beating and stabbing at it as it thrashed around. It weren't long before I had skinned the thing, lopping off its head and cooking it up over my fire, my belly finally getting some much needed grub.

I never saw them people again that day, which was a good thing no doubt. Were probably man-eaters, I figured, seeing as how they'd just started shooting at me without giving me a chance, just like they'd shot at Lucky. I was too fast for them though. I weren't that big a man but I was pretty quick on my feet. I could outrun a coyote even, or if not outrun it then at least run twice as long. I even caught one like that before, though in the end I couldn't find it in my heart to eat him, what with him looking too much like a dog.

Alone again, I continued my journey, closing the distance between me and Lost Angeles with every step. Only five-hundred and twenty-eight miles to go, or so said the sign. Weren't much around in the way of scenery, not unless you had a thing for old junkers and skellies that had been stripped clean by the desert years before. Dust to dust, a preacher once told me, one of them well-dressed, smooth-speaking Mormons who'd tried to get me to see the light. That's what he called it, giving up sin and turning to
God's light
, saying in fancy words how the world had turned to a big pile of shit and that only God could save me from ending up like all the rest, that he would save my
soul
, that thing that were said to live inside a man, though all I'd ever seen come out of one was blood and guts.

I missed Lucky. I'd only had him for thirty miles, but I was the kind of man who had a soft spot for animals and got attached to them in no time at all. That old dog gone, I walked them long miles like I had so many, thinking back from time to time to the people I'd once traveled with, people like my friend Pete who'd died on account of the gangrene that had eaten up his broken legs. Then I thought of Eddie, that fella I'd joined up with soon after. He weren't too smart like Pete had been, though he sure knew how to tell a funny story and he had lots of them and it was always a good thing to have your spirits lifted up. But Eddie weren't around no more either. God damn dysentery, which was a fancy way of saying he'd shit himself to death, which I reckon weren't no proud way for a man to go.

But shitting yourself to death sure beat ending up in someone's belly. That was an abomi... an abom… an
a
-
bom
-
nation
against God, if he was really there I mean. The Mormons had told me that too, about how those who ate the flesh of their own kind were surely going to suffer for it after they was dead. Not that I didn't know it already, but they told me the fancy word for it—
a-bom-nation
—along with a lot of other things they said about what made God angry, though most of it sounded like a bunch of horseshit to me, stuff like drinking and fornicating and such, because I can't see why God would be so angry about a man doing what he had to do to get by.

As I settled in that night, I thought about how good it would have been if I still had my books with me. There were some I had found here and there, though all of them I'd lost while traveling from one place to the next, which was a shame because good books were real hard to find. Then there was the time when I had given some to a smart-talking man who had been fool enough to trade me a pistol for these funny-reading books I'd been carrying, some old fella who said he hadn't got too long anyways, but goddamn could he at least have something good to read to pass the time.

"Ain't nothing you'd understand anyways," he told me, saying a couple of the books I had were only for educated men, some stuff written in another language that talked about how things was like a long, long time ago, like two-thousand years he said, even more, which was much more time than I could imagine no matter how hard I tried.

The pistol he'd given me I'd made good use of though. A .357 Magnum he said it was, claiming that it were one of the most powerful handguns in the world. I didn't know if I quite believed him on that, though from what shooting I'd done with it I'd have to say it definitely weren't no gun to sneeze at, as old Pete used to say, meaning it weren't no kind of gun a man would want to get shot by if given a choice. Weren't too hard finding bullets for it neither, because I'd had guns that were good for nothing but using as hammers on account of never being able to find anything to load them with, but the .357 Magnum, well, the bullets weren't so hard to find.

More than just being good at killing things, my gun was a real handsome thing to look at too. Must have been more than a lifetime since it was made, but it were still a nice shiny silver with a handsome black rubber grip that made it so your hands didn't slip when they got all sweaty, which was usually how they was when it came time to either run or start shooting, no matter if it were a man or mountain lion or one of them crazy man-eaters like the one who'd come at me in Albuquerque before Pete had hit it in the head with a steel pipe, though a short time later he fell down that hole.

"Boy, is you deaf or something?" he'd said to me. "One more second and you'da been deader than nails."

"Hey, Pete, you blind or something?" I said a while later. Course it was before I realized just how bad hurt he was at the bottom of that hole.

I must have been thinking about Pete and all them good or not so good old times a lot, because that night sleeping I dreamed about him and we was happy and laughing about some good joke, and it was good to hear it because it were the first time I'd heard Pete laughing since before he died.

Then, even though Pete was still laughing, it got all scary and weren't so much a dream as it were a nightmare anymore. He just couldn't help himself though, that old coot laughing and cackling as the last of his good teeth started popping right out of his mouth, like spent casings popping out a gun. Scary as that was though, it weren't nothing compared to what happened next, his eyeballs, like his teeth, suddenly popping out one by one.

No teeth and no eyeballs yet he still couldn't stop. "Pete! Pete!" I cried, them empty black sockets staring right at me, that gummy old mouth laughing so terrible with them old cheeks sucked in now that his choppers were all over the ground.

I still heard that laugh as I opened my eyes. It took a minute for my heart to stop beating so fast, but finally it weren't working so hard and I shook that horrible picture of no-eyed Pete out of my head. No-eyed, no-toothed. Wasn't a good thing to recall.

I was just settling back in, thinking about nice things like cornbread and naked ladies so I'd stop thinking about Pete, when I heard a rustle from somewhere close by. Rabbit, maybe. Hopefully weren't no rattlesnake. Them things liked to curl up right next to a man as he slept, keeping warm until he made some sudden move that made them bite. I closed my eyes again, above me all those stars, under me nothing but cold hard ground. It weren't cozy, but at least I was alone. But then alone I wasn't, because I heard it again, that shuffling and rustling from close by.

I sat up, throwing a look around. Nothing. But there it was again, this time even closer. I jumped up, my hand coming down on my pistol, but it was too late. Son of a bitch already had that rifle pointed at me, though this time his finger weren't too quick to pull.

I knew him all right, same rotten-toothed, low-down, dog-shooting piece of crap I'd seen more than enough times before. I stared hard at him and he stared back. Then he chuckled, both of us knowing what kind of trouble I was in.

Just how bad a shot was that dumb grinning son of a bitch anyway? I wondered about my luck. Usually the third time was the charm, as Pete used to say. Would be for him anyway, because weren't much distance between us and I doubted he were going to miss.

"All right then," I said, "what's this all about, friend?"

"Friend?"
he said. "You ain't got no friends around here, you dumb fuck. Now how about you just drop that pistol, nice and easy, cause I'm fixing to shoot you but do just what I say and you might walk away alive."

Weren't no arguing it. I slowly eased my pistol out of my pants, dropping it just like he said.

"Good boy. Now back up, nice and slow."

I did that too, backing up a few paces before he told me to stop. He came forward, stooping down and picking up my pistol, still aiming at me the whole time. Then, his face lighting up, he let out a whistle as he looked it over real good.

"Hot damn," he said. "Genuine Smith and Wesson. Man, nice gun. Prettiest pistol I've seen in a while, no doubt."

"I reckon so," I said.

"Just you shut your mouth." He shoved my pistol into his belt so that it was tucked nice and safe under his gut. "Now come on. Start walking. And don't even think about running, cause this time I ain't gonna miss."

He motioned me with the point of his rifle and I started walking, him following right behind. We didn't go far before I spotted them standing there, only shapes in the darkness at first until some flames started licking up from their campfire, though it didn't seem like there were as many as before. Then, as we reached them, I saw there was only the two women and a couple of men, one of those men lying on the ground. Their faces were hard and grimy, the man standing up wearing a dirty, bloodstained bandage around his head, the one on the ground looking even worse off than he did, sweating and groaning, his shirt all bloody and torn.

"What the hell?" the man we came up on exclaimed, nearly jumping as he saw us appear. "Bill, am I seeing who I think I am?"

"You damn straight you is. Caught this son of a bitch napping over yonder. Quite a catch, wouldn't you say?"

"Well fuck me!" his buddy said.

"Hell you bringing this piece of trash here for?" came one of the women. Old. Rotten teeth. She came up to stare me in the face, that cold nasty breath shooting right up my nose.

"He ain't got no business here!" she said.

"Yeah, should have just shot him and been done with it," said the man.

"Say, what happened to your friend?" I said.

"He ain't none of your concern."

"Yeah, none of it!" said the old woman.

"Well maybe he should know, seeing as it was his friends that done it," Mr. Dog Shooter chimed in. "Your Mexican buddies, they done sneak attack us. Took all our stuff and killed two men."

"You mean your truck?" 

"What do you think I mean by it, asshole?"

That rotten breath hit me in the face again and I almost gagged. "Big John!" the old woman screamed. "They done killed Big John!"

"I'm sorry to hear it. Ain't nothing to do with me though."

"It's got everything to do with you, you lying, Mexican piece of shit!"

"Hey, I ain't no Mexican!" I said. "In fact, them boys attacked me yesterday too, jumping at me from the bushes and shooting their guns, telling me they wasn't going to accept no surrender. Must have been the same ones that attacked you. Damn, so much shooting! I still can't believe I made it out alive!"

"How many?" the man asked.

"I don't know. A dozen maybe. Real tough-looking fellas. I managed to kill a couple before making a run for it. Almost did me in, them bastards."

"Liar!" the old woman yelled. "Weren't that many and they didn't even have no guns! But those dirty Mexicans sure knew how to creep up on us, shouting in that dirty Mexican gibberish of theirs and throwing rocks and sticking a knife right through Big John."

"I ain't no liar!" I said. "Well, maybe wasn't so many. Man can't quite remember things the way they really was in situations like that. But I fought them Mexicans, guns or no. You go look for them bodies if you want. Hell, I don't know why you got it in for me anyway, because I ain't ever been nothing but peaceable with you folks yet you shot at me for nothing, and if I hadn't been so fast or the lot of you such lousy shots I'd be as dead as them two Mexicans I drilled right between the eyes. Surely that ain't escaping your memory, now is it?"

The man pointing the rifle at me grunted. "We shot at you cause we know a lying, murdering Mexican when we see one," he said, "and maybe we missed before, but we's sure gonna take care of you now."

"Now hold on! I told you I ain't no Mexican!"

"Then what? Because if you ain't Mexican then you sure is something just as bad."

"Looks like nigger blood to me," the old woman said.

"Yeah, most likely. You want me to shoot him or what?"

"Aw, hell," said the other man. "He ain't seem too dangerous, but who knows what he might be planning. I still think he might be with them Mexicans."

They wondered about me a good while, the two men and the old woman, the younger lady just looking frightened and keeping quiet as she sat near, none of them sure what to do. Seemed it was easy for them to shoot a man unless he was up close and defenseless, like they weren't such bad folk that they could just gun me down in cold blood. Then their man on the ground started coming to, moaning and groaning as he twisted around.