Apocalypse

Juana knew her histories. Like every child at White River, the Elders’ ancient discs had schooled her. The history of the End Times had been a large part of their teachings.

Once the world was full of people. There were too many people and not enough resources. Land that had once grown crops to feed was covered in buildings full of hungry mouths. Oil that had powered vehicles and made plastics became scarce.

Countries and corporations waged wars over things they would need to survive. Man-made plagues ran rampant, decimating populations world wide. Panic spurred the dying civilian populatin into anarchy in some places. The first nuclear bombs were detonated in central metropolis Texas. No one was ever sure of exactly who was behind the bombings, and after retaliations and counter-strikes, few were alive who really cared. Mushroom clouds sprang up and disappeared all over the world, leaving death in the air.

The only living beings that had survived the fallout had been those quickly and properly sheltered, as well as the owners of gas masks. During the last days of the war, those few untouched by the plagues were rioting and looting. Army-Navy stores had been gutted and burned, all MREs and masks bloodied by fighting.

The people had had some warning, however. The Reign of Terror just after the turn of the 21^st century had prepared many Americans for the End Times. Some, mostly the rich and paranoid, felt that the End was inevitable and began preparing generations in advance. Money and high technology built vaults that could house hundreds for years. There had been a huge fallout shelter near what was now Terrapin Station. It was known as the Ark, and had housed many creatures other than humans within its climate-controlled depths.

Others did not prepare shelters and left their lives in the hands of their One True God. They called the final wars Apocalypse and the deaths of billions Rapture. Those that survived called themselves the Unworthy. Once the fallout settled, they made their home between the swamps that old-timers called Louisiana, and the wastelands that had once been known as Texas and Oklahoma. They and their offspring set up new churches, spreading the gospel of Jesus and the One True God. They spoke of how the End would come again. They spoke of being prepared to be saved. When they swore, they invoked the Four Horsemen. Juana had never met one of the Unworthy, but she was sure they would be just as uncomfortable to be around as the Dengari.

Moretta

Moretta snuggled up to Juana in the ripening of dawn. The pale girl was always warm beneath her blankets. The air matress squeaked in protest as they shifted their elbows and weight into more comfortable positions.

“We gotta go pick up the fare.”

“After the sun comes up, woman.”

“After coffee, too.” Moretta liked the clean smell of Juana’s hair. She hoped the sun took its time this morning. The first birds were waking and beginning their morning songs, the crows loudest among the chior [arw1] . She actively tried to tune out the rising sun and the sounds it brought when she heard the distinctive sound of a tent being zippered open.

“Drek [arw2] . It snagged.” Helen swore, and Moretta listened to her attempt to unsnarl the zipper. Soon she would be stumbling around the campsite in her rediculously high-heeled boots, knocking pans about in an attempt to make breakfast. Moretta hoped there was some deer sausage left in the cooler. What Helen usually rustled up for breakfast was almost always ugly, but it tasted good.

Moretta enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the bed for a few moments longer. After a quick kiss and a squeeze, Moretta rolled over to get up. She kept expecting it to be cold when she climbed out of bed; fall had started a week ago according to the Almanac. But the morning was warm enough that she slid into her clothes without a shiver. The sun was out of bed and blanketed in clouds. They had to break camp and pick up a fare.

“Let the air out, please.” Juana yawned, and Moretta opened the valve at the foot of the bed, watching it deflate as she zippered the ten shut behind her. Juana would be out in a few moments, and would start to store their bedding and break down the tent. Moretta started working on getting coffee into her bloodstream.

“Morning,” she said to Helen, filling her perculator at a water barrel.

“Good morning!” Helen was always strangely happy in the mornings. She sparkled, Moretta thought. It just was not right. But she did okay with breakfast.

Helen already had the fire burning again, consuming some pieces of hard wood that she had collected along the trails further southeast. “We need to find a job down near Terrapin Station, Moretta. It’s harvest time, you know. We need to lay in supplies. Winter is coming.”

“It sure as hell don’t feel like winter is coming. It feels like summer is staying. But you’re right, Helen. We’ll get supplies soon. I believe our next fare goes to Skiner, and that’s on the way to the Station.”

“Heard last night that they got the rail through to Cicada. Going to cut into our profits, boss?” Billiam sat up from his bedroll near the cookfire. Moretta had offered him a tent when he joined the outfit, but he preferred to sleep under the sky so long as it was not raining. If the night started off clear and the next day started in rain, often as not he could be found snug and dry inside the coach itself.

“Maybe not, Billy. Think of all the fares that people are going to need delivered to Cicada to get on the train.”

By the time the coffee was percolating, and Helen had most of breakfast done, Juana had the tent and bedding all rolled up and piled beside the coach, ready to be tucked into the proper lockers.

“I’m going to check the hogs; I’ll be right back.” Juana headed over to the coralled animals to give them their morning feed. Moretta followed her, a cup steaming in her hands.

“You ever find what you were looking for yesterday?” Moretta asked once Helen and Billiam’s muted conversation was out of range.

Juana scooped grain and pellet feed from a bucket and poured it into the pigs’ trough. “No. Does ‘Bert Pike’ mean anything to you?”

“Isn’t the road that intersects Main at the bricks called Albert Pike?”

“The one that heads south to the ruined fort? I never noticed. You are the navigator; you’re probably right. Maybe some of the locals would know.”

Moretta sipped her coffee. “Go ahead and check it out, if you want. We don’t have to pick up the fare until noon. Camp should be easy to bust up between the three of us. You’ll need to go to the feed store, anyway. I can harness these beasts.”

Prophet snuffled at Moretta’s bare brown toes as the other hogs swarmed greedily around the trough. “I’ll be back in time to help you harness them,” Juana promised her. “As long as we’re coming back this way soon.”

“We’ll probably be back this way after we get supplies from Terrapin Station. It’s supposed to be autumn already. We need winter supplies. We’ve got to decide which relay station we’re going to winter at when the roads become impassible.”

“Would it be possible to winter here?”

“There’s no relay here, Juana. The closest place with real accomidations for the pigs is at Luster. Unless we just decided to build us a relay here. I don’t think anyone would complain, especially if we built it out here in the ruins. We could probably find everything we’d need out here too. This is the second job we’ve had out here this season, maybe Center City wants an Arroyo relay station out here.”

“The Dragon would have to okay it though, wouldn’t he?” Juana asked.

Moretta grinned and winked. “That’s the clincher. I’ll post the message at Luster on our way to take today’s fare to Cicada. Maybe the Dragon’ll get back with us sometime before winter starts.”

Juana snorted. “If he doesn’t just recall us all to headquarters to fire us and take the coach.”

“That would be bad business. I guarantee we turn in more money than any other coach on his line. That’s why I think he might let us set up a relay here. Besides, Center City is a booming metropolis for the wastes. We need a relay here. While you’re out looking for Bert Pike, I think I’m going to the town hall and find out who’s really in charge of trade here. The more information I can give the Dragon, the happier he’ll be.”

Juana

Downtown Center City’s roads were paved in brick. There was an intersection on Main Street. East the bricks extended a couple hundred yards down Pine Street. To the west, the bricks lasted just beyond the end of a fenced park on Albert Pike Road. Moretta, as usual, Juana thought, was right. Fingering the napkin in her pocket, Juana walked to the gate of the park. To the east she could see the cantina where she’d gotten Ishi’s message. People were starting to wander up and down the garlanded streets. Vendors had opened their stalls early, and the sage smell of cooking sausages mingled with the yeasty smell of spilled beer. The festival was under way. Juana wondered where the cart races would be held. She wondered what sorts of animals would pull them. She had heard of zorses and mules from Terrapin Station strains. They were expensive, the people at the Station kept their breeding techniques secret.

Their anscestors had built the Ark, and they had saved cattle, horses, donkeys, zebras, dogs, birds, and many other animals from the fallout and plagues. It was their burden and their right to hold their secrets close, keeping the strains pure. Over a few generations, the breeders at Terrapin Station had repopulated the woodlands west of their settlement. The delta to the east yeilded acre upon acre of rice, cotton, beans, corn, and hemp. For every animal kept inside the Ark, there had been a plant or seed saved as well.

Beyond the hopes of the builders, the woodlands had survived the fallout. The animal life in the forests had suffered from mutated viruses – man-made plagues that did not descriminate between animals and humans. Some creatures had survived – the drone of seventeen-year cicadas greeted the first survivors as they left the Ark. The trees themselves had survived; they were bearing fruits and nuts.

Juana pushed through the gate. It swung shut behind her on a well-oiled spring. The crunch of her sandals on the little gravel path and the sound of an angry mocking bird seemed louder than the gathering crowd. In the shade beneath the biggest tree in Center City was a statue of a bearded man on a concrete plinth. Juana wondered if it had always stood in the same spot, or if someone had moved it from the ruins after the war. Vines of poison ivy obscured most of the plaque that identified the long-bearded man. Juana had found Bert Pike. Beneath his name, Albert Pike, were dates: 1809-1891. She wondered if he was from before the war. Beneath the dates was a symbol unfamiliar to Juana. There was a star and sextant, and beneath the symbol, another word Freemason.