Post-Apocalypse Dead Letter Office (9 page)

So, I hauled in the bucket for her and she pointed at a door through which to take it. I did, and saw almost a dozen other identical buckets, and half of them were filled. I walked back out and took a good look around. Couldn’t tell what kind of store it used to be – maybe a furniture store, ‘cause it was so big in area, and there were planters stuck all over the place, and the overhead lighting was a bunch of skylights. At a second glance I saw that there were plants in the planters. Most of them looked like regular crops: lots of corn, beans, some tomatoes and chilies, and even some onions or garlic, I don’t know. A few other plants I didn’t really recognize right away. I about jumped out of my skin a second later, as the old lady had snuck up behind me and pinched me. Freaked me out, I don’t mind telling you. She laughed this nasty, throaty laugh and ushered me back to an office-type room. The yellow pages were at a desk and open to the map section in the front. I sat down and tracked down again vaguely where Sean was located and then asked the lady where we were. She flipped a couple pages and pointed one of the boniest fingers I ever seen at an intersection, just northwest of a bigger intersection at I-25 and highway 36.

I asked her how long it’d take me to get up to Holiday Hills. Well, she gave me yet another one of those looks and I felt myself shiver. Said it would take too long to make it up there that day, said it would be better to wait out the rain and go the next day. Then she leaned really close to me, so close I could smell her. She stank like hell and I shrank away from her. Recognized then both what she had in mind and part of the odor and realized what she was growing out in the main room. I fell over backwards in my chair and scrambled up and sprinted out the door to the bike. She followed me and squawked out fuck you and you’ll be sorry and other things I couldn’t hear or understand at the time. The rain had almost blown over, clouds breaking up to the west, but it was still showering lightly as I got on I-25.

I took the highway 36 exit as it afforded a high point, and I thought I could use it to orient myself. So, I looked over towards where I figured Holiday Hills should be. There was hardly anything there but scorched earth. The whole area west of I-25 and north of highway 36 almost as far as I could see was just a nasty black field with scattered patches of grey and green. A good little bit of the city south of 36 was blackened, too. I couldn’t believe my eyes, thought it was an optical illusion or something, but kept riding north from the 36 interchange. Past that, the southbound lanes on I-25 looked really rough, like they’d been melted and cracked open over the winter or something. I took an exit off I-25 around Thornton and headed west to see if I could still locate Sean’s place.

There was just ruins down that way. Every single house and apartment and trailer had burned down. I kept riding down to Holiday Hills, to the little avenue where I was pretty sure Sean’s place was. All of them, burned down, and there wasn’t a soul anywhere nearby. The smell of the whole area was just... I can’t describe it, and when I thought about what might be causing it I got real dizzy and had to sit down. I hadn’t been tempted to look for a drink in the better part of five years, but just then I’d have sold my soul for one, or maybe a joint or just anything to take the world away.

Well, I don’t know how long I sat there, and I can’t say exactly why I got back up. But I did. And I rode on back to the interstate, trying to not look at anything but the street. I finally got back to heading south towards the house. The interstate really was cracked up bad down to 36, but I made it through. Just south of there I saw a few other folks, kids really, heading north. They started hooting and hollering at me to stop, but I just kept pressing on. That wasn’t the best idea, as they turned around and caught up to me in just a minute or two. A couple of them had bats in hand and looked like they were itching for a reason to put them to use. The leader, maybe he was the leader, I guess I’m not real sure, asked me what the hell I thought I was doing on that bike. I didn’t figure it’d do to lie to this group, so I told them I was from Wichita and in town looking for my stepson. Told them where I’d looked today. I half-expected them to start jeering at me and start a beat down, but they all got real quiet. One of the other ones piped up and said, real gentle-like, that I’d probably ought to call off my search, as the fire had started in the middle of the night and nobody in the area had lived through it. He also said I’d either have to get out of town or stop using the bike, as the city bosses only let a few people – including themselves, of course – use them, and that they couldn’t guarantee they’d be so nice next time they saw me on one... or that another group would be nice at all. None of them volunteered any more info, and I didn’t want to press. Might have been ugly, especially for me.

So I rode back down to the house, and by the time I got there the sun was almost down. Forgot how fast it gets dark once that sun’s at the top of the mountains. Couldn’t bring myself to look at the sunset. I ate maybe two ravioli out of a can then took a hard look at the booze there in the cabinet but the thought of drinking it made me feel sick to my stomach, so I laid down on the abandoned bed and tried to not think about anything. I guess I must have fell asleep at some point, but I woke up feeling as tired as I’d ended the day before. Well, I went downstairs and ate the rest of the can of ravioli, then thought about heading back into town to look a bit more for Sean, despite the risks and fact that I’d seen... what I’d seen the day prior. Went outside to gauge the weather and saw that the bike’s tires were slashed. And, on the door of the garage someone had written, “SQUATTER GO HOME!” in red paint. I thought a minute on why they’d slash my tires when they want me to get out of town, but got lightheaded again and went back inside.

Well, at that point I figured there wasn’t any point in trying to stick around any longer, so I stuffed as much of the canned and dried goods as I could into my backpack, especially the coffee. There was a couple bikes inside the garage that had the same kind of tubes and tires as the bike I was riding, so I replaced the tubes and tires and took the others as spares. (Maybe the person(s) who did the slashing knew there were more bikes in there... didn’t really care to find out.) Stuck the rest of the crap I’d taken off before back on the bike, and left as quickly and quietly as I could.

It was clouding up again by the time I hit the exit for I-70 east, maybe early afternoon, then started raining about a half hour later. Caught me off guard – I hadn’t even looked back as I left the city. I rode through it, even though there was lightning strikes just to the south of me about every five minutes. Probably should have stopped, but I wasn’t thinking too straight that day. Couple hours later it had passed me by and the sun came out. I was in Bennett a while after that, and figured it was as good a place as any to rack out. Next day I made it into Limon, with just a little bit of rain in the afternoon. Despite what had happened in Denver, I was riding much faster than before. I suppose it was having the wind at my back, pushing me on... well, something had to be.

Truth be told, I had completely changed my mind about what I was going to do. I figured it would be best to just not go back to Wichita at all. Instead, I’d ride all the way to Kansas City, where I could see you and explain things. I hadn’t thought past that point, but hoped something halfway positive would come out of it. After all, we’ve got history, you know. So that’s what was motivating me, what was really pushing me.

A couple days out of Limon I was just about to Burlington. I stopped in Bethune there for the rest of the day, then got up at dusk and waited. Once it got late enough, must have been the wee hours of the morning, I hopped on the bike and pedaled quietly as I could into Burlington. I couldn’t stop pedaling because that would make a noise, and I didn’t want to be heard. So I went through town there as quickly and quietly as possible. Well, there was a guard shack of some kind on the eastern end of town, just after the spot where I was initially waylaid. A torch or candle was lit in the shack, and someone was sitting outside in a chair. I couldn’t very well turn back at that point, so I just kept on going like it was nobody’s business. The guard was asleep, or at least, he had his eyes closed. I kept pedaling, and was past him. I relaxed a bit but kept pedaling, then about a half a minute later I heard a “HEY!” At that point I knew I’d been found out and just started going flat out. A minute or so after that I heard a couple whistling noises go by, one just to the southeast and south of me. I started getting lightheaded but pressed on for as long as I possibly could, which was about ten minutes. I slowed down a bit, but kept pedaling until I really blacked out. Couldn’t tell you how long it was before that, or how long I was out. But I had a pretty good scrape my head when I came to, as the sun was just coming up, and was in a real steep ditch just off the interstate. Well I scrambled up the side of the ditch best I could and peeked out to see if anyone was watching. Nobody was in sight, so I hauled the bike back up to the road, hopped back on and kept at it. I was in Goodland by the end of the day, so I must have been making decent headway.

I probably should have just gotten off the interstate and taken some country roads around. But the rains had kept up and it would have been a godawful mess just hauling the bike up to a country road where there was no exit. Not to mention that the country roads probably weren’t in very good shape, as from what I saw they were almost all dirt and gravel. That and I hadn’t been thinking real straight since before Denver.

A day or two after, I had stopped in Oakley mid-afternoon. It had started raining real hard and I just didn’t have the energy to go much further that day. So, I squatted out by an old Montana Mike’s steakhouse. An hour or so later a cyclist pulled up. I’d heard him a minute before and hidden myself. He knew what was what, though, and called out to me. Said he’d seen my tracks leading into the parking lot. I stayed hid, but he kept calling me out and said he meant no harm. He didn’t look real tough, so I finally walked out to meet him. Young guy, said he was a “special courier” for some folks in Denver, heading into Lawrence to make a delivery. I didn’t ask him any further about that. But, seeing as how we were going the same way, I asked if he wanted to ride together. He shrugged and kind of agreed, and we left out the next day.

We rode along with each other for several days. The kid was really in shape, probably wanted to go faster. But, I had a bunch of canned and dried goods yet, and so he kept pace with me. It kept raining on us pretty steadily, only one real day of decent sun, between WaKeeney and Hays.

Well, we were riding and were maybe ten or so miles west from Salina when the courier spotted a group of five or six guys coming north, just over a ridge south of the interstate. Just as they crested the ridge, one of the men let out a war whoop and waved his hands, obviously trying to get our attention. Through the rain, it looked like they were carrying something like a big box. As they got closer, we figured out it was a man, and that he was pretty seriously injured. You could hear the moans from fifty yards away. Well, at that point, the courier said he’d ride on ahead and let a doc in town know to expect company pretty soon. He was out of sight in two minutes – so damn fast. Wasn’t sure at that point whether he was really going to alert folks or just to get the hell out of dodge in case the men weren’t the friendly sort.

The men came up on me pretty damn quick. There were eight of them, and they were almost completely silent except for the one moaning until they reached me. One of them said “our friend is hurt”, or words like that in pretty broken English. They were all Mexican except for the one being carried. He was a blonde kid, not even thirty I bet. Probably just a couple years older than Sean... his leg was splinted and cinched tight with leather straps and he had a black eye and a bump on his forehead, and they were carrying him with leather straps supporting him from below. It was a fucking mess. They pointed at the bike and I immediately understood what they wanted. I resisted for about a half a second, but the kid being carried moaned again, and he said “mama”. Well... I just let go of the bike, didn’t even think about taking my own stuff off it. Just let them have it. They said “Gracias” almost in unison, put the kid on the bike best they could and turned east towards Salina. They moved a bit quicker than me, of course, and were out of sight within ten minutes or so. I hoofed it as long as I could, almost into town. There was a farm barn on the outskirts, and it was really dry inside and there was even some dry hay, so I took off my soaking wet clothes and rolled up in that and fell asleep.

And that’s where I am now. Well, Salina. I made it into town yesterday. Somehow found the courier – actually, I got found out by him. He really did help out, let a local surgeon know the men were coming into town. I wanted to get moving on from there, but the courier said he didn’t know where my bike was. Said he heard a couple of the men tussled over it after getting the kid into the doc’s place. One of them won out and took off, couldn’t say which way.

Well, that was that, pretty much. I didn’t figure it was realistic any more that I could make it to you in KC without a bike. I asked, really begged the courier to stick around another day. He did under duress – and a threat by me that I’d tell some local folks what he was hauling (a bluff by me that actually worked for once). So, I been sitting in an emptied out Wal-Mart all afternoon and evening writing this to you on whatever I could scrape together. Figured you should at least know what happened.

Not sure where to go from here. I suppose I can scavenge up some supplies to get me on my way south. Maybe beg off some more flour from the local Methodists.

Well, regardless, I have a 90-mile walk ahead of me, and it’s raining. Hope things are better for you in Kansas City. If I get dizzy again and never come out of it, please know that you’ll be the last thing I think about before it all goes black.