Solaris Mortem: The New Patriots (4 page)

They tied the horses to oversized entry posts at a Holiday Inn in Vancouver beneath a covered auto court. Dawn hinted its arrival in the eastern sky, but no harried business travelers graced the lobby, racing to their next stop, gulping cheap coffee and grumbling about the continental breakfast.
Breakfast—now that would be a treat….

“Joe? Why did you shoot that guy?”

“Why? Are you serious? What do you think woulda’ happened if I didn’t, huh?”

Joe didn’t give him the chance to respond. “We’d both be dead; that’s what. You should be thanking me, not scolding me. If it had been up to you, we’d probably both be buried in that farmer’s field by now.”

“I dunno, Joe…. I just think you shouldn’t have been so quick on the trigger. He might'a let us go.”

“I don’t think so, kid. It’s a dog eat dog world out there, especially now. What we shoulda’ done, is seen what else they had in that house we could use.”

“You’re fucking crazy—didn’t you hear his wife on the porch? What would you have done…shot the whole family?”

Joe ignored the question. “We need rifles and I’m sure he woulda’ had ‘em.”

“What we
need
is to get to Washington and stop killing people!”

“Haha,” Joe chuckled, “I told ya’ those Walkers are smooth. You musta’ been sleeping in the saddle—we’re
in
Washington.”

“Fine, yeah, whatever.” Terry was getting flustered now. “We’re
not
killing anybody else….”

“Terry, I’m always gonna do what needs doin’. Okay? Whether you know it or not, I saved your life back there.”

Terry agreed, that might be true, but he didn’t say it. He also knew no one would have been getting shot at all if they hadn’t been in that guy’s barn stealing his horses. That was the important part. That was the part that really sank in. Had Joe and Terry wound up getting shot, it would have been their own damn fault. The rancher, on the other hand, was killed by no fault of his own. That’s what really hurt.

“C’mon, Terry. Let’s get some rest. Everything will look better after a little sleep.”

Maybe—but Terry didn’t think so.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
erry and Joe slept like the dead and woke a little after noon to feed and water the horses. They grazed contentedly at the lush lawn in front of the hotel. Beautiful animals and Terry was glad to have them, but not for the price paid. What’s done is done, he told himself.

Muscles he didn't know existed, burned in his legs and back. Riding cross country on horseback would take some getting used to. As he rubbed the knots in his legs, a horse drawn carriage came into view. A driver and a rifleman sat up front, the back heavily laden with supplies. They stopped for a moment and appeared to be having a conversation about the two strangers at the Holiday Inn.

“Be ready,” Joe warned.

“I’m ready,” Terry said. This time, Terry
was
ready. He had something to protect, something to lose and he understood how Daniel Wheatley must have felt.

Joe stood with his hand on his pistol, and Terry wondered if he might just start shooting as soon as they got close enough. He was a little disgusted with himself to find a small part of him hoped Joe would. These guys looked like bad news. They drew closer; Joe and Terry waited.

“Stop right there,” Joe commanded once they got within earshot. “What’s your business here?”

They stopped, looked at each other, then the driver hollered back, “I was gonna ask ya’ the same thing. We don’t mean ya’ no harm, can we come on over?”

Joe thought it over briefly and waved them over, much to Terry’s chagrin. Apparently, he didn’t have a say in these matters.

“What are you doing? These guys look like outlaws.”

“Don’t worry, cupcake. I’ll protect you.”

Terry didn’t appreciate being patronized. He rested his hand on his own pistol now.

“Howdy,” the driver said, and the rifleman offered a nod of his head. It was like a bad western just before the firefight breaks out.

“Howdy,” Joe offered back, “What can we do for ya’?”

The driver offered his hand. “Titus Clemens, pleased to meet ya.' This here’s, Bo, an’ we’re part of a group outside a’ town. We’s just gettin’ what we can get from town, then headin’ back. How about you folks?”

“What kinda group?” Joe asked him.

“Ah, just a group of us bandin’ together till this shit-storm passes.”

“You got a place?”

“Ya,' we got a real nice place, matter a’ fact,” Titus said and grinned.

Bo nodded, then sneezed into his sleeve.

“Got food, shelter, women
and
whiskey,” Titus said.

“Well, well…pleased to meet you. I’m Joe and this is Terry. We’re actually on our way someplace, but—do you need any help out at this place of yours?”

“Mister, I’d say we’re gonna need all the guns we can find, so yeah. That’s why we come over. To see if you fellas was lookin’ for a place.”

Terry began to say, “Thanks, but we—,” when Joe cut him off.

“That sounds like something we might want to have a look at, eh, Terry?”

Terry’s heart jumped to his throat. As much as he wanted to break away from Joe, he was a little scared to. The other part of him was afraid Joe might make him go check out this camp. “I—I can’t, Joe. I have to get back to Katherine and the kids. I have to.”

Joe looked at him like he was angry—
how could you?
—then brushed it off just as quickly. “Suit yourself, kid, but I gotta check this out. You might wanna think hard on this one. You think you can actually make it out there without me?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Joseph Hughes had already taught Terry plenty. For example:
you can’t trust people….

Joe looked disappointed. His protégé was abandoning him. “Well, all right then. Good luck out there, Terry Burrows. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” As they shook hands, Terry had a sense he’d just shook free of shackles.

Joe turned back to the men on the wagon and said, “You boys wanna give me just a sec to gather my pack?”

Terry was alone again, which wasn’t all bad. When he was alone, he didn’t have to worry so much about people getting shot unexpectedly, and that wasn’t all. Bo Wiley, the unspeaking rifleman, the man in the carriage who had sneezed, was also an H1N1 carrier. He and about a dozen others back at that place of theirs. In two week’s time, their camp would be decimated, taking Joe Hughes with them.

Unbeknownst to Terry, Swine Flu was making a run up the West Coast and people were starting to die. What could have been reasonably well contained in the modern world would become a pandemic in this one. If dehydration, starvation, or looters didn’t kill you, then the flu certainly would.

Terry rolled up his meager belongings in his bedroll and fastened it to the back of the saddle, then mounted his steed. “Easy now, boy.” Despite his guilt over what happened back in Woodburn, it was nice to have transportation—and a companion. “You need a name…. What was your name?” Terry laughed at himself for talking to a horse and stroked its mane. “I think I will call you—Blaze. What do you think of that, Blaze?”

The horse snorted, so Terry took it as a sign of approval. “All right then. Blaze it is. We’re goin’ to Seattle, boy. You ever been there?—No?—I didn’t think so.”

Blaze continued walking, and Terry continued talking. “My sister lives there, Katherine. You’ll like her and she
loves
horses. She also has two kids. There’s my nephew, Jonathan and my niece, Tabitha.”

The horse turned his ears backward occasionally like he was listening. “They’re great kids, they really are. You’ll like them too. You know how some kids are just rotten, and you can’t wait to get away from them? Well, Jonathan and Tabitha are not like that. Not at all. Nope—they’re really great.”
I’ve gotta stop talking to this fucking horse. I think I’m losing my shit.

They kept walking and got to a small town. The horse took a startled step back when a wino on a park bench erupted into a violent coughing fit. “Whoa, boy, easy.”

The guy was in rough shape. Sweating bullets, delirious, hacking up a lung—“Hey man, you got anything to drink?” More coughing, this time with blood.

“No, sorry,” Terry said and nudged Blaze into a gallop. “We need to get outta here, boy.” Terry was getting the hang of riding, the feel for a horse and was surprised how much he enjoyed it. He had never thought of himself as a horse person, but suddenly he saw the appeal. The appeal was easy to grasp in a post-automobile world, but putting that aside, horses were actually kind of cool.

Terry and Blaze got back on the interstate and continued their sojourn north. Terry babbled on and Blaze walked on. “Just a few more days and we’ll be home, boy.”

If there was one thing Terry would miss about Joe Hughes, it was his coffee. He was dragging ass and missing that sweet, brown, liquid love he had grown accustomed to in his adult life. If there were
two things
, then it would have to be conversation. Talking to the horse, or the occasional insane person was getting old. And if there were
three things
, then it would be the extra gun. Things were getting weird; people were getting weird and Terry didn’t much care for it. It was every man for himself, and you stood a better chance of getting your throat slit for your canteen than you did of getting a little help from anyone.

Terry and Blaze happened upon an early-outer, swinging from a maple tree in his own front yard. His face was purple and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Pinned to his shirt was a note, detailing his many regrets, and proclaiming, ‘There is no God!’

“So, this is Castle Rock…. Not what I expected,” Terry said, “Let’s go, boy.” He nudged Blaze to a gallop and didn’t stop until he happened upon a little hardware store. There wasn’t much left, but he did find one piece of the missing puzzle: a shiny, blue, enamelware percolator.

“You were wrong, bud. There
is
a God and here’s proof. Now...where’s the grocery store in this joint?”

Castle Rock was small, and it didn’t take long to find it. It was just a hole in the wall, mom and pop shop with a hand painted banner on a bed sheet.
’CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS. GOD BLESS!’

Beside the banner was the other storefront window, busted out, mostly lying on the sidewalk. Apparently, people weren’t waiting for God or for the shopkeepers to reopen shop. God helps those who help themselves and help themselves they did. The place was trashed and mostly empty, but Terry did find a can of coffee and a carton of smokes. He didn’t smoke, and he didn’t plan on taking up the habit anytime soon, but he did think they may come in handy for bartering. After all, what good was cash?
Well, it was good to wipe your ass or start a fire with, but that was about it.
The new currency were things like ammo, booze, toilet paper and food.

Terry and Blaze rode along toward Olympia. The people were getting thicker now. They were everywhere. Militant survival types and religious zealots filled the streets. The helpless and the hopeless meandered about; many were sick.

“The time of judgment is here! Repent ye’ sinners!”

Some threw stones and bottles at the urban preacher while others sang his praises, “Hallelujah!”

“Get me the fuck out of here,” Terry muttered. Blaze didn’t seem to care much for the commotion either. He was high stepping and fidgety. His ears darted to and fro and back and forth, making Terry nervous. He was getting more comfortable on the horse, but he was still a long way from being an equestrian.

Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the street behind them and a German Shepard dashed directly in front of them. This was the final straw for Blaze and he went positively apeshit.
Or is it horseshit?
Kicking and bucking, he threw Terry off into a light post. He made a beautiful arc through the air, then stopped short with a dull thud and slid to the ground.
So much for my eight seconds of glory
, went through his mind before he blacked out.

Blaze was gone and Terry was shit out of luck. Everything he owned rode off into the sunset on the back of that horse. Of course, Terry didn’t know that yet. He was unconscious and being robbed. A thirteen-year-old, pimpled faced kid slipped the pistol from out of Terry’s waistband and ran away as fast as he could down an adjoining alley.

Terry woke up shackled to a cold, dusty bed in a dark and dingy basement. “Hey!” he cried, “What the fuck is this?” It hurt his head to yell. It was bandaged up, wrapped with gauze and throbbed. Not throbbed, actually; it banged, like a drum.

After a minute, though it felt more like five, a short, pudgy, bald man entered, dressed in a brown robe with a respirator on his face.

“Hey, Friar Tuck, you wanna let me outta here? Where’s my horse?”

“Are you—sick?” Friar Tuck kept his distance.

“No, I’m not sick. Now unchain me!”

“Any fever, vomiting, coughing?” he asked.

“None of that, now let me go!”

“All right then.” The Friar slipped off his respirator and edged closer. “What is your name?”

“My name is Terry Burrows. Now could you please release me?”

The Friar eyed him suspiciously, then asked, “What is your business here, Terry Burrows?”

“Jesus, man, you act like I’m one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I was just passing through. Trying to get home.”

“These are perilous times, Terry Burrows. We can’t be too careful. I am Brother Bach, or you may call me James if you prefer.” James produced a small set of keys and slipped them into the cuffs that restrained Terry to the bed. “I
am
sorry about all of this. We found you unconscious and didn’t know what kind of man you were, so we bandaged you up and bound you, just to be safe.”

Terry rubbed his wrists and flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fists as the blood rushed back in. “Well, I’d say, ‘nice to meet you,’ but under the circumstances….”

“Do you remember what happened?” the Friar, or James, asked.

“Yeah, my horse spooked and threw me. Do you have my horse?—or my stuff?”