It Was 2052, High Haven (3 page)

“
Get
what you can, Babe. We're leaving. Move damnit! We're getting out of
here. Help your mother, Taylor.” Streams of grief and fear
still trickled without pause from his mother's eyes. He gathered what
he could, his mother sobbed out some instructions.
Moments
later t
he
jeep jerked and surged around dead cars and dead bodies,
h
is
sister
'
s
head lay in his lap and her swollen face was turned against his small
young
form
.
Her
battered
body
s
till
curled
up
in a blanket, he struggled to keep her from bouncing around.
His
father maneuvered the jeep away from the littered interstate highway
and onto the back roads.

The
first place his father set up their tent was on the outskirts of a
town about fifty miles south. The town wasn't as large and populated
as the one they
fled,
t
heir
camp
was
set up
in a spot with no one around in sight.
He
trusted his father but that first night
stretched
for
frightening
hours,
broken
by
exhausted sleep. Over the coming years, Taylor thought more than once
about how tough his mother
had
been
.
She was awake with the sun, standing beside a small portable stove.
Coffee bubbled in a pot, eggs cooked in a skillet.

His father pushed a loaded rifle into
her hands, said “Anybody comes around, shoot them.” His
large hands lifted her sad face, “You hear me? Don't let
anybody near the camp.”

She
nodded okay. Taylor and his father left on the first day
for
what would be a way of life for the years to come,
even
long past when the jeep had fuel and was abandoned.
Days
of searching for food and supplies, dangerous days of avoiding when
possible and sometimes facing head on confrontations with the
desperate. Their life became a constant struggle to survive and one
camp
faded
into the next one—the one that would be safer.

The sister wasn't to be the young
sassy teen that he loved ever again. She healed physically but
talked very little, he never saw her smile and she never saw her
twentieth birthday. A picture that would for all his days be
implanted somewhere in his brain was her pale face, eyes wide open
and fixed on the canvas tent roof. When he tried to wake her, the
blood from her wrist dripped down on his feet and the wet puddle that
he stood in oozed up through his socks. To this day, wet socks gave
him a sick feeling in his gut.

Strangely,
his mother seemed to be completely out of tears. They buried h
is
sister
there at that camp and their life trudged on.
He
missed his sister and he missed the laughter and warm care of his
mother. She was as hollow as
the
mountain caves. When she did hug him, it was a suffocating squeeze so
intense it was scary. In a cold winter campsite, three years later,
his mother touched his face for the final time and drew her last
pneumonia heavy gasp.

The day that Taylor killed his first
human being, he and his father had been on their own for nearly five
years. This was also the day that partnership was dissolved.

He and his father sat near the camp
stove that morning, in two old lawn chairs they had been proud to
find on one of their many scavenging safaris.

“
I'm thinking that we'll go
around to that south part of the city today, Son. That old man we
bartered with last week was going on about a trading market he heard
rumor of. I could really use some ammo for that M9. I haven't had
even a sniff of alcohol in it seems like years.” He lifted a
metal cup that had some pale weak and warm tea in it, his mouth
turned down. “Damn, a cup of coffee would be better than sex.”

“
You dream big, don't you, Dad?”
The bond that the father and son had formed made the laughter come
easy. For himself, there had never been a chance to form a taste for
coffee--- and sex?---partners weren't just roaming around like the
wild antelope they often hunted in the high meadows.

His father had stories and once even
said, “We might ought to find you a women, boy. You could use a
little hands on training.” He couldn't say he hadn't thought
about a women, he thought about it plenty. They had encountered some
pretty nasty, rough women. He was a typical young man with wants and
needs, but the thought of getting close to some of those females just
wasn't tempting enough. Not yet, anyway.

He learned a lot about his father
the past five years and he learned a lot from him. No question, he
would be dead by now except for the man. The parent did what was
necessary for the two of them to survive. Taylor respected the
strength and intelligence of his father and he saw goodness in him.

“
We've got a few decent things
to trade. Doesn't hurt to dream, you know.” The day was warm
and they both wore long sleeve t-shirts. The city that they ebbed
and flowed around in their small migrations was lower in elevation
than much of the surrounding areas, a valley that got plenty hot in
the summer. Not yet though, not summer yet. His father leaned forward
in the chair and it creaked out a warning of dilapidation, he placed
his elbows on his knees.

“
Taylor, before we head out,
want to talk to you about something.”

“
Sure.” They had lot's of
lengthy conversations. Once, about a year ago, they uncovered twelve
old stale unopened beers. At first, Taylor thought it tasted like
pure warm piss. There was a small stream nearby and they placed the
beers in the cool water. After gagging down a couple, it began to not
be so bad. The talk got loud and raunchy. The next morning, his head
filled with spiky hammers, he thought his Dad was relieved to know
that he didn't remember very much of it. Truth was, it only made
their bond stronger.

Continuing, his father kept his eyes
on his hands and said, “It's been rough these last few years. I
wish that I could've given you a far better life. You didn't even get
to be a kid. Your sister and mother deserved so much better.”

“
Don't know what I would've done
without you,” said Taylor.

His father's eyes met his now. “You've
seen some things and you've seen me do some things that I wish hadn't
happened. I still have hope, especially for you, Son. I want to
believe that the world will get back to at least a resemblance of
what it used to be. I don't ever want you to think that taking
another person's life or possessions is a right thing, that disregard
for other people for your own benefit, cruelty or dishonesty is
justified. I've had to do things that I've been ashamed of, but I've
always been proud of you. I want you to survive. I don't want to
think that I've taught you to be ruthless.”

He had never, even when his sister and
mother died, felt the pain in his father as he did now. Maybe he had
grown to be enough of a man to swim to those depths. “Not once,
did I ever think that you made a hard choice with no looking back. I
thank you for taking care of me and for teaching me how to take care
of myself.” His father had given him a quite rare hug and that
was the end of the conversation.

Before the end of that day, these
words between them would wash back over him as he sank into his own
deep hole.

It was an enjoyable day at the trade
market. Lots of people there, bartering and making deals. It felt
reasonably safe. Taylor found all the eclectic goods and people
interesting. They didn't find the ammo for the M9 but located a small
amount for a pistol that he carried and some for an old .22 rifle
that he actually got as Christmas present the year his world turned
upside down. A man with dark skin roasted antelope over an open
grill, they gobbled up some lunch and bought some extra to carry back
to camp. A small jar of instant coffee, seal unbroken made his father
smile. It took some hard dickering, a jar of precious sugar, a large
belt buckle and two old silver quarters finally bought it. Then
there was the fifth of home made liquor.

“
This won't go down like that
beer. We'll have to be a bit more careful,” he laughed as he
slugged back one burning sample. Taylor shook his head negative,
maybe later at the camp.

In and out of the crowd
all morning, Taylor had spotted more than once, a woman that he
couldn't help but notice. She was careful not to make eye contact
with anyone, he could see she definitely paid attention though, to
who was near her. Her hair was short and dark. The pale shirt tucked
into jeans that tucked into boots and left no doubt that she was
woman. She had a pistol at her waist and a rifle over her shoulder.
At one point, he was near enough to see that her eyes were dark, her
skin creamy tan. A strong voice with a rhythm to it that he hadn't
heard before, said, “No, no that's bulls—t, man. I'll
give you this for the pouch.” She haggled over a small leather
bag.

The day rolled away and
the camp would be a thirty minute or more walk, he and his father
moved back toward home base. “You know, things might be
getting a little better. It's been a good day. Lots of good stuff at
the market and I didn't see any major trouble,” said Taylor. He
wore a back pack with their deals of the day in it, shifted it a
little. “I heard some talk about things that are going on in
the city. Some people are even getting paid jobs working at some new
businesses and they say that up in Denver, some areas have
electricity and water.”

“
That'd be good.
Can't ever let your guard down though,” said his dad. “I
think it would still be pretty dangerous, living in the city.”

“
Probably true,”
he said. “You know, Dad. I kept seeing this woman today....”

His father turned his
head, smiled at him and then in a blink, he fell to the ground, blood
spurting from his neck. Before Taylor could bend to him, he felt the
tug at his pack. He whirled and shot, a dirty man fell to the ground.
A second man was close behind him and he shot him without hesitation.
He was enraged, he was stunned. A third man was running away from the
scene. He fell to his knees beside his father and shot at the fleeing
attacker, the man stumbled but kept on moving. There was no goodbye,
his father was dead.

A few people observed at
a distance, no one came to help. He sat and rocked on his bent legs,
his face wet. He wanted to lift the body, carry his father away. He
knew he couldn't, his parent was bigger than him. He wanted to scream
at the top of his lungs into the sky that was losing it's warm light.
What was he going to do?

The boots came into view
beside his father's body. He instantly raised his gun and jabbed it
at the figure in front of him. The woman from the market didn't
flinch, knelt down on the opposite side of the body, “Freak-in'
dirt bags,” she said. She reached for the body's wrist, checked
for a pulse to be sure.

Taylor had no doubt. “I
can't leave him here,” he forced the words from his mouth.

The woman gently rolled
the body over to it's back and moved to the feet, picked them up and
looked at Taylor. He pushed himself up, lifted his father's shoulders
and they begin to walk, the body suspended like a hammock. They had
to stop three times and get their breath before they reached the camp
site. The woman never spoke and never complained. A very dim light
remained when Taylor rolled the body in a blanket, a good distance
from the tent. He sat on the ground, next to his father. His head
dropped to his arms across bent knees, c
oyotes
was the single
word he said.

The woman went to the
tent. She returned and placed a jacket on his shoulders, spread one
blanket on the ground opposite the body, rolled another one up under
her head and slept. By the time the sun was high the next day, the
body was covered with piles of rocks that he and the woman gathered.
Taylor placed one last large rock at the head of the grave, walked to
the tent and layed out on the cot. The tears that he inherited from
his mother would not be stopped.

Through the next two
days, the young man slept and drank from the bottle of liquor, sat on
the cot and the river from his heart never seemed to run dry. He was
twenty one years old and he was alone. He wanted to be dead, like
everyone he ever loved, he wanted to have any relief from his pain.
On the third morning, barely conscious, for just a moment he thought
his mother must be cooking breakfast. The aroma of food cooking
drifted into the tent. He tried to open his swollen eyes more than a
slit. A blanket covered him but he only wore his jeans, no shirt, no
boots. Willing his body to sit up, he slid his socked feet into his
boots, didn't attempt to lace them. A shirt lay across the foot of
the cot, he slipped it on.