Post-Apocalypse Dead Letter Office (12 page)

Sorry, I’m ranting. Been smoking a bit much this evening. Anyway, here’s the deal. It’s me and three other guys: Monty, Hal and Sean. You know Monty and Hal. They were a couple years ahead of us at Haskell. Crazy knobs, not that bright but... yeah, just crazy, pretty much. Sean’s of Irish descent but he’s still a good guy, originally from northern California. He’s the idea guy.

Here’s his idea: we ride west out of St. Louis, pick you up in Lawrence and keep on towards the coast, working odd jobs, pilfering if necessary. Once we get to Colorado we turn north to avoid Denver and Colorado Springs, and go through Fort Collins. Keep on north to Cheyenne, maybe score a few horses – beats pushing yourself, yeah? – then turn west again and ride all the way to Salt Lake City. Pick up supplies on the way and turn northwest. Head up through Idaho to Pocatello and then Boise. Sean says there’s hot springs somewhere in Idaho that we could rest our sore asses in. What the hell ever, I say, just give me some dope. After a few days or however long we feel like staying in Boise (why more than a day or so, I don’t know – maybe there’s some willing chicks there?) we head west again, straight through the middle of Oregon. Stop for a bender in Bend, then head onto Eugene. Sean says that Eugene is a soft little town near the coast, and some of Monty’s people (Coquille) live near there, like right on the coast. Perfect for hanging our hats, raising a little bud, fishing for salmon. And if not, hell, we can always go on from there, north or south. Oh, say you’ll join us. It’ll be so fucking fun, just like the Haskell days... except with a little more drug abuse and maybe violence. Hee hee hee. If you won’t, don’t take our reaction personal, OK?

See you soon, buddy. Red Bill, Three-spoke Monty, Hal B. and Sean Mac

To: Biggs Carroll, Lawrence, KS

From: Pete Weixelman, Hamburg, IA

March 23, 20+6

Biggs-

Hey, man. You were out “on a job” when I stopped by. I wanted to tell you this in person, but I can’t wait for you to get back from Ottawa or Harrisonville or wherever you’re trying to score some poon, so I suppose a letter will have to do.

I’m quitting. Here’s why.

I was with you from the beginning, man. When everything went down six years ago, I didn’t really know what to do. But I thought that the only thing I did know was that you had a plan. And it really seemed that way – actually, it’s obvious now that it was/is that way, but you planned more than you let on. We hung low, all of us, for a year or so after the university shut down. I still can’t believe it took such a short period of time for the whole system to fall apart. Don’t know why I think that. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised by it. But then, hey, our little clique worked its way into the new “order” of things. We busted our asses, all of us and not least of all you. We all know you skimmed a bit off the top for yourself – hell, still do. We were all willing to forgive you for taking cush runs. I can overlook the pretty cut and dried way you run the operation. I’m even over the fact that you got Amy liquored up and banged her when she was supposed to be my girl. Still hurts a little, but I’m over it.

Here’s the thing that really tears it for me, though. Two weeks ago I was making a run from Topeka up to Lincoln. It’s no small task, as you well know, especially with the parcels I had loaded up. Started out at first light, just like usual. Made it up to Holton, that dive, in about two hours, just like usual... almost. The wind had really picked up by that point, and I had to buckle down to get up to Sabetha by mid-day. Broke bread – if you can call it that – there and refilled my water bottles. There’s a pretty little reservoir just north of town. Probably wouldn’t have lasted too long this year had the drought kept up. Lucky for Sabetha. Made it up to Auburn, NE, about three hours later and decided to hang my hat there for the rest of the day and evening. Well, just south of town at the old golf course clubhouse. Auburn itself is a sty, if you ask me. Plus, I’d stashed a bottle of vodka there several years ago. So, I had an early – and well-deserved, I’m sure you’ll agree – nip, ate a bit of parched corn and a decent slice of cured ham, and took a nap. Woke up to the prettiest sunset with the blade of a corn knife pointed at my face.

It was an old, old man. Had to have been at least 55, probably more like 60. I can’t really tell what he said, he muttered just like almost every other Beefer you’ll ever meet. Well, I think he asked if I was one of Carroll’s boys. I nodded tentatively and he shook the corn knife at me. Well, it was already shaking, but he I’m pretty sure meant to do it this time. He motioned for me to get and, then pointed his machete at my bike, which I’d leaned against the shade tree I’d been napping under. He said something like “impack datchunk nah, sehn. ‘isez mah fishin’ hoal.” I understood hardly a goddamn word, of course, except maybe I thought he wanted to see if I had bait or something – I don’t know why, I’m not used to waking up to old people waving edged things at me – so I walked over to the bike and pointed at it. The old geezer nodded furiously and his eyes bulged. I made a nervous glance over to the bottle of vodka lying a few feet from the tree. He followed my eyes and gasped when he saw it. I took that as a go-ahead, grabbed the bike and mounted it at a full sprint. So desperate was the mount that I didn’t look back until I was at the very least a half a mile away. The old buzzard hadn’t followed me. I bet he was drinking my vodka as I fled. Hope he choked on it.

I don’t know how the guy found me. Maybe he saw a glint off the bike as I came over a hill. Regardless, I didn’t stop pedaling until I was past Nebraska City. By that time it was dusk, and I’d covered more than a century, fully loaded, with a headwind. I stopped, wheezing and giddy, at another golf course west of NE City. (Didn’t want to stay in the city proper – god knows who’s lurking about in that place.) Then the rain started. I’d seen it coming in since just after leaving Sabetha. Well, it is March, I thought. I lucked out, in that I’d made it that far without getting wet, and also in that the clubhouse door was easy to unlock. There was a good covered patio there, but why stay outside when I can be inside, right? Anyway, I brought the bike inside with me, finished off the rest of my water, put the bottles outside to fill on their own, and crashed hard in one of those weird plastic lounge chairs. I only woke up once. I thought I heard growling and snuffling outside, but it was probably just the thunder.

I woke up the next morning hungry as a bear in spring. I rummaged around in the clubhouse kitchen for some non-perishable stuff, but it had long since been cleaned out – even the non-dairy creamer shit. I didn’t even bother opening the fridge, as someone was thoughtful enough to actually put up a sign saying “DO NOT OPEN!” I don’t know, maybe some Beefers aren’t so bad after all. Hard telling what was behind the door, but I don’t relish imagining what it would have smelled like. So, I had a little more parched corn and ham and took a good slug out of a water bottle. They don’t fill up as well as you’d think in the rain. Oh yeah, and it was still raining. So, I put on my trunks and poncho, wrapped up my other clothes and started out.

The wind had settled down a bit during the course of the night and never picked up too much after full light, and I made it into Lincoln proper by mid-day. Least, it felt like mid-day – couldn’t really see the sun. Took my time and tooled up that expressway west of the wilderness park. Looks like the Lincolners are putting together a real forestry operation. That spot was never full-on forest, of course – more like thickety stuff. But they’re actively chopping down whatever is there. I think they must be hard up for cooking fuel. Gotta give them credit, though – I saw kids planting seedlings as their folks worked the larger trees. Most of the folks working stopped what they were doing as I rode by. I waved – a few waved back. Friendly, I thought.

Anyway, I dropped off that heavy bastard parcel at the fairgrounds – what was in that thing, iron cogs? – left the letters at the non-syndicate delivery office and had a late lunch under a gazebo at Oak Lake park, then took the last couple parcels to the hospital on my way south out of town. Word must have got around that I was in town – I did not get the reception I expected at the hospital. Suffice it to say, Biggs, that several dozen stout, leathery Beefers – what passes for law enforcement now, I guess – the local docs and all their friends and neighbors want you to stop distributing opium, pot, magic mushrooms or anything even remotely resembling a narcotic, hallucinogen or psychedelic in Lincoln and, for that matter, everywhere else in Nebraska.

There was no debate. They took the parcels – opium, I’m guessing, and by the weight of them, quite a couple of prizes you let me pack north – and the twenty pound sack of cornmeal, and the gallon jar of honey I’d picked up at the non-syndicate location. They did give me a pretty decent beating, though. And a note, but I’m almost certain that it’s actually for you. They pinned it to me – yeah, not to the inside of my jacket, but to ME – so I wouldn’t drop it in my stupor, and sent me on my way.

Well, I was actually able to ride out of town. They kept their blows to my head and arms, fortunately. Ha. I got maybe halfway to Nebraska City that day. Just after dusk I fell off the bike and laid there, wherever it was, and fell asleep/passed out/blacked out. I woke up the next morning, dragged myself up onto the bike and started out again. I thought I could just slip back unnoticed, but immediately after I’d rounded Nebraska city to the southwest and was on my way towards Auburn, I saw two people in the distance. They were dressed up in camouflage, poorly, standing right next to each other, and were maybe a hundred yards off. One of them motioned at the other, who fidgeted a bit. I was about to call out, say hello, but a second later I heard a twong sound and then a stiff thunk to my right. I looked around, but there were no deer in the area.

I took this as a sign that the folks in Auburn had become aware of my presence in the vicinity and subsequently rallied themselves. Didn’t figure it’d do much good trying to explain myself to them, so I wheeled the bike around and headed back north. Ten seconds later, my right ear exploded. I fell off the bike and cupped my bleeding head. The arrow’s momentum was so great that it planted itself right into the blacktop, bits of cartilage stuck to it. I sat for a second, dazed, then whipped out my clothes from a couple days before and held my shirt to my head. I clambered atop the bike again and started off in a wobbly manner. A few seconds later, I heard another thunk about twenty meters to the right and front of me. One last thunk a minute later materialized just a couple meters to my left.

I didn’t really know which way to go at that point. I was pretty sure I’d staunched the bleeding, but kept my right hand affixed to my head. I was a little woozy, but finally decided to head east from Nebraska City. From there, I thought, I could catch the interstate southeast and make my way roundabout back to St. Joe. Well, I was a little more dazed than I’d originally thought, and wound up missing the exit. Before I’d realized what had happened, I saw a rusted sign saying “Now exiting Waubonsie State Park”. Well, I kept on another mile and hung a right, which I was pretty sure was south. A half hour later I fell off the bike in some teeny town. The sign was scoffing at me. Humbug.

Don’t know how long it was before I woke up. An old man that looked like death warmed over was looking down at me, sour as owlshit. I heard kind of a noise at the right and felt kind of a tugging at my head. Once I figured out what was going on I passed out again. Woke up again probably fifteen minutes later and got properly introduced. When I told him I didn’t have anything to give him for the stitches, he waved it off. You know, Biggs, I’ve been at this game for almost six years now. I’m 25, my knees and back and hips are shot from hauling loads all over this range. I’ve been cramming down cold handfuls of parched corn, poorly preserved pork and whatever I could rummage up in deserted kitchens daily for over half a decade. One of my ears is turning into cauliflower, and the other is missing. But nothing, nothing in this whole fucking world made me cry until that moment. What made it even worse – better? – is when he suggested we go to their town store to get something to eat.

Popcorn. They grow popcorn, and pop it. It’s almost all they eat. Big honkin’ bowls of it, hot, salted AND buttered. It was heaven, and I seriously don’t mind telling you I bawled like a baby as I ate it.

I spent a couple days there, doctor’s orders. The town’s in bad shape, took a bit of a hit when the dam in South Dakota failed. The doc showed me around town a bit. Podunk, to be certain, but it’s all green, got a ball field. I’ll be honest. They didn’t exactly ask me to stay. But it was clear that the wish for some new blood was there. I told the doc I had to make one more delivery, then I’d be back. And here it is, attached to this letter. I think you’ll find it unambiguous. I only wish you were here so I could deliver it to you the way they had intended.