CHAPTER 1
Just When Life
Seems Pointless…
Foot pain
interrupted Jake Henderson’s rambling thoughts on the world as it was. Boots
pulled off a corpse a few miles back had little sole remaining, but more than
on the ones he now wore. The pair he swapped for wasn’t much better. Add the
reshaping process and he wondered if it was an improvement at all. Foraging for
food must wait while he rested. A fallen tree would make a good seat while
rubbing circulation into hot tired feet. He yearned for a cool breeze to tickle
bare skin.
Dropping the
frayed knapsack slung over his shoulder to the ground, he sat heavily on the
log. As his butt touched, he grunted and sighed. It was such a welcome relief
to simply sit. While wrestling a boot off, he looked to the remnants of a
nearby building sheathed in rusted corrugated metal—a barn once upon a time. It
must be less than a hundred years old, given its condition. “Humph.” Probably
built when some farmer thought things would get better. He pulled the other
boot off and looked to wiggling toes, and then propped a foot on his knee to rub
it as eyes drifted back to the barn.
Suddenly, a locust
slashed across his view in a darting flight for his life from a mocking bird.
“Don’t let it get away, pal,” he muttered to the bird.
The gray bird
deftly plucked it from the air.
“Yeah!” He winked
and nodded approval. “That’s how it’s done.” Jake felt kinship with the bird
spending most waking hours in search of food, too.
Pushing shoulder length
sandy blonde hair back over an ear away from a beard the same color, a sudden
streamer of air, a cool breeze, on that now-exposed sweaty neck eased anxieties
for the moment. The sky appeared pristine blue, but scarcely worth a glance.
The morning spring in his step had become an afternoon plod. The day wore
down—so did he. Ill-fitting boots only compounded an existing problem.
With an analytical
eye, he looked again to the ramshackle building. It seemed structurally sound
in the front, a broad entryway centered. If doors had ever existed they were
long gone; the back wall and roof, sometime in the distant past, had collapsed.
He wondered what use it might serve—shelter for the night perhaps. As quickly
as the idea hit, it was dismissed—too much daylight remained for foraging
regardless of fatigue. Food trumped all. Nevertheless, he considered potential
usefulness. He might pass this way again.
Judging by the
odor, a thorough foot airing was overdue. He switched feet and propped the
other ankle over a knee and gave that one equal treatment. He moaned enjoying
the sensation.
The guttural sound
of pleasure stopped abruptly in his throat when he noticed movement at the back
corner of the collapsed building.
A form appeared.
He sat still and
made no sound.
At first it
appeared apelike but as it cleared the brush between trees he saw that it was a
man skulking about. The scraggly beard, long hair, deteriorating clothes and
grimy face indicated he had been victimized by this world, too. The man had not
noticed him and Jake wanted it to remain that way. Something held the guy’s
attention inside that portion of the structure still standing. Why did he creep
about like that? Why didn’t he announce his presence? Jake was leery of people.
This odd-acting man did nothing to improve on that.
As the world
regressed, continuing a downward slide that began some two hundred years ago,
there was no law enforcement and no doctors. No one remained alive he depended
on—no family no friends. The walls of the prison he lived within were mortared
with distrust, shunning everyone. If he were noticed by a man that clearly had
nefarious intentions, the outcome could not be good. Toward whom he didn’t
know, nor why and didn’t care, but was curious. He watched as he slowly began
to rub his foot again.
Whatever went on
inside that building held the man’s attention. The guy sneaked to a rusted out
hole in one of the corrugated metal panels and watched for a time.
What, in God’s
name, was he so intently staring at?
The man pulled
away and searched the ground snatching up a jagged shard, possibly a piece of
the metallic skin of that old barn.
Jake finally got a
good look at the man’s face. The guy smirked; rotating the rusting metal in his
hand, feeling for the better grip then turned and glided high on his toes disappearing
from sight around the back corner of the dilapidated structure.
Jake heard an
angry male voice coming from inside but nothing he understood. Was it the
intruder or another man perhaps? Quite suddenly, he was immensely curious and
had to know what was going on inside that old barn.
He pulled his
boots on then sprang to his feet. He ran to the same rusted hole that the man
had used but stopped to the side of it. As slow as a slug on a wall he moved
laterally until he saw the goings-on inside.
The man had
confronted a pretty wisp of a woman with long blonde hair, about twenty-five,
he guessed. There was nothing about her appearance that indicated she could
protect herself.
“I’m not tellin’
ya again! Give me the sack!” the man bellowed thrusting that metal shard
menacingly.
The woman didn’t
seem the slightest unnerved. “I can’t do that,” she replied in a friendly
manner. “It’s all the food I have, but I’ll share with you.” She smiled.
Although calm of
voice, her stance was defensive, legs spread and arms crossed over her chest
blocking his view of the cloth bag on the ground behind her. Clearly, this
wasn’t the first time she had been challenged.
How can she be so calm? That guy has crazy eyes, Jake thought. People
get killed for less every day.
She was
smooth-skinned and feminine and certainly did not convey the appearance of a fighter.
The man stood more than a head taller.
“What’s your
name?” she asked.
“Last chance, gimme
the sack!”
“Sorry. I can’t do
that.”
He lunged with
that jagged piece of metal leading the way to her abdomen.
She spun sideways
stabbing a boot heel into the wrist of the hand holding the weapon.
His fingers sprang
apart and the strip of metal slammed clanking into the wall. He roared and
grabbed his wrist.
Resuming an
at-ease posture, she let her arms fall limp and then held hands out in a show
of acceptance. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t even want to fight you.
Believe me when I tell you there’s nothing in that sack worth your life or
mine. Let’s try this again. What’s your name?” she asked, almost pleading.
From between
hair-covered lips the man bared crooked yellow teeth, snarled and charged the
woman.
With uncanny speed
she went airborne, prone, nearly six feet off the ground and locked her legs
around his head twirling to the ground. His spinning body followed slamming the
ground in an explosion of dust.
The woman rose and
dusted her brown denim vest over a loose-fitting lighter brown shirt. “Now look
what I’ve done. My clothes are dirty. I just washed them yesterday.” She
clucked her tongue. “For heaven’s sake,” she said eerily nonchalant slapping dust
from her pants.
Jake looked on, surprised
and awed by what he witnessed. She was marvelous. A fine-boned woman
incapacitated a much larger man with speed that boggled his mind. Now the
wretch lay on his side semi-conscious.
She squatted next
to the man resting arms over the points of her knees. Jake became enamored. Her
hair caught afternoon rays through the wide doorway glistening and dancing over
her cheeks in the breeze. Such femininity, grace and beauty just didn’t fit.
She was neither angry nor scared.
Examining the man
head to toe, the young woman drew a breath then released it in a nasal snort.
In lackadaisical fashion, she shoved him onto his back.
He moaned and
reached for his head.
“I sure would like
to be your friend.” She patted his stomach then rubbed tiny circles on it
almost as if she petted a puppy. “But we can’t even begin until I know your
name. So, what’s it gonna be? Do I get your name and we get chummy or shall we
dance again?” She patted his stomach a final time.
He rolled over
onto his side then onto his stomach and pushed up onto hands and knees. He fell
sideways to a sitting position. Powdery dust drifted away from him. “Baker . . .”
he said then grimaced and grunted, “. . . Hiram Baker.” He held his drooping head
in both hands.
“Do you always
force your intentions on people, Hiram Baker?”
“A man has to eat.”
“True. But there’s
plenty to be foraged in the countryside. By chance you’ve had a bad day, a
person, as myself, might share with you. We all have those days.”
She stared at him
for a second longer then stood. “Oh well.” She sauntered to the cloth bag that
started it all. “If you insist on acting like a lunatic you’re going to be a
high maintenance friend for sure.” She snickered. “We have to do something
about that nasty temper, Hiram Baker.” The young woman then looked at him and
smiled as if he were a pal from way back. She then turned away. The warmth of
her smile and glint in her eyes indicated she already knew they’d become
friends.
She knelt and sat
on her heels in front of the sack, flipped back the flap on it and produced a
small handful of berries and what appeared to be a piece of dried meat and a
few mushrooms.
The man came to
his feet. Without taking his eyes from the woman he retrieved the metal shard
and in one giant step came from behind as she remained down on her knees looking
through the bag.
Jake’s breath
hitched as he prepared to scream a warning. His face distorted into what should
have been a yell but suddenly, he was conflicted. Survival instinct kicked in
and prevented him from warning her or doing anything at all. His head overrode
his heart and made no sound whatsoever.
Still rummaging
through the sack, “I think I have plenty to keep you going until you can find
something on your own and, if you like, I can help—“
The man reached
for the hair at the front of her head and yanked flipping her chin up ramming the
pointed piece of jagged metal into her neck. Blood gushed in spurts from the
jugular wound. Still holding her hair he dragged her away from the sack then
tossed all she had removed back inside it. His disregard for the woman was
absolute.
She writhed in the
spreading dark red pool, strength fading.
Jake stood, mouth
open but paralyzed, as if he still considered yelling.
A young girl
leaped from a darkened corner and ran to the squirming woman pathetically grabbing
at her throat. The youngster wore pants too short under a threadbare top too
large. Her shoes didn’t match and her light brown hair blended with the color
of her face.
The man took his
prize and marched to the space created by a missing panel at the rear of the
building where he’d entered. The brute looked over his shoulder and snarled,
“Bitch.” Then he was gone.
Jake stepped
through the doorway at the front of the building. The woman arched her back
then collapsed. She moved no more—eyes fixed and vacant. Limp fingers draped
the end of the makeshift weapon protruding from her neck. The young girl
dropped to her knees on the dirt floor and cried. Jake heard no sound, just a
raspy push of air from the youngster’s throat.
He stepped around
the grieving girl looking into the woman’s lifeless eyes. He dropped down onto
a knee. I’m no better than that guy. I
should’ve warned her.
The youngster paid
his presence no mind.
Jake didn’t speak
to nor touch the youngster. He let her mourn. The woman was likely her mother
but the youthful appearance indicated an older sister perhaps. Regardless, the
woman had been the girl’s caregiver and now she was gone.
He rose and walked
outside.
Still, the girl
ignored him.
He continued on to
the log where he’d rested. With an exhausted thud, he collapsed onto it. Shame and guilt exhausted him more than the
day’s work had. The face of that little girl burned an indelible image. He
wondered if he should help her. After a time and several conjured points of
view: Best not get involved. It’s safer. Vigorously rubbing his face, he
washed his conscience of complicity.
He rested elbows
on knees. Loathsome thoughts swarmed him on how the world had gotten into this
mess. Four generations had passed since the decline began; passing of the fifth
lay in the near future. Four generations of Texans in his family had come and
gone since that fateful decade almost two hundred years ago. Texan was an empty
label. Texas had not been a state or member of any union in over a century,
just a name for the place he lived. There had not been a United States of
America in many decades. Nowhere in the known world existed a stable
government. Texas had reverted to what it had been before given the name.
Dissolution of central
governments worldwide brought economic evolution to a halt in a single
generation some eighteen decades ago. How could such a thing be allowed to happen?
World economies collapsed followed closely by governments—a domino
effect—simple and pure, leaving in its wake the world as it was—chaotic and
primitive.
Now, coming out of
a cold winter, the warm spring of 2208 he welcomed, but it only marked another
season of surviving. The after effects of that drunken orgy of excess those
many years ago worsened with time.
Jake harbored no
delusions of his insignificance—an irrelevant cog in a broken gear. Still, he
fanned flickering hope that an answer lay waiting to be discovered. Maybe there
was a way to piece it all back together; but how and by whom? The savage death
of that young woman took a sizeable chunk from hope; just another vile cruelty which
there seemed to be at every turn. What he’d just witnessed stood as proof.
People died everyday over small bits of food. Life had become cheap and
devaluation continued.
He glanced again
to the collapsing corrugated metal building and wondered a final time about the
young girl but selfishness ruled. He had to fend for himself. So would she. And
that was that. He looked skyward taking it to its inevitable conclusion: The
world is about survival, nothing more.
Slapping his
knees, he came to his feet while adjusting his knapsack. I’ll not forget the
name Hiram Baker though. He
resumed his journey.
After walking for a time, he began a gentle
descent. Trees increased in number as he swished through lush spring grass. A
river lay somewhere just ahead. It can’t be more than a mile, he
thought.
Although he had
made the decision and made it firm, guilt simmered as he wondered about the
wisdom of leaving a helpless youngster alone—a death sentence for someone so
young. Non-action made him the executioner, just as it did her mother. Rampant
cruelty so hated about the world, he came to realize, was as deeply ingrained
in him as it was in Hiram Baker, just cut from a different cloth is all.
Bubbling remorse
finally boiled over. The weight of conscience won out. He threw his hands into
the air and shouted, “Damn it all!”
His walk slowed to
a shuffle and, finally, a full stop. He dropped his head, frustrated by
inability to harden his heart and turned to go back. There, barely a hundred
feet behind him was the young girl. Well, I’ll be . . . His face relaxed
into a faint smile. Okay kid, I’ll let you follow me but you’d
better stay out of my way.
After half an hour
over uneven terrain and increasing brush to dodge, Jake stopped to mop sweat
from his brow.
The little girl
had begun to close the gap. She stopped walking when he did maintaining a safe buffer
between them. She continued to cry, wallowing a tiny fist into her eye.
Jake stood on a
knoll and looked away from the expected river to a valley that gently sloped to
the crumbling remains of some nameless city in the distance, inhabited by
cannibals—people who knew no other way to survive. Stories were common that all
large cities suffered the same fate. He didn’t care to find out if it was true.
Open countryside was the safer choice, even with people like Hiram Baker
lurking about.
From that
crumbling skyline, he looked at other remnants of technology littering the
landscape. The wide trail he walked had been a thoroughfare once paved in
black. Rusting lumps dotting the countryside, returning to the earth, had been
motorized vehicles that rolled on this blacktop at unimaginable speeds, or so
the stories went, told him as a child. Corroding remains of machines swallowed
by time lay mangled and strewn—mountains of twisted and rusting steel. He had
no idea what purpose it had served, none of it; just more things becoming lost
to time. He picked up a heavily oxidized and pitted metal object that might
have once been a hand tool. But what had it been used for? He tossed it aside
and kept walking.
It became habit to
look back and check on the girl. She was getting closer with each glance.
Intellect existed
but systems of education and willingness to share know-how did not. Intellectually
superior persons, able to think and reason, fear those who would manipulate
them for greedy advantage. Jake did not view Satan as some wraithlike spirit.
The devil stood for all to see as exploitation of man—an undercurrent in this
world of disjointed societies where people with intelligence were sought as a
perverse form of wealth. Jake wanted to make a difference, but how? What could
he possibly do to change something so large and so broken?
When governments
crumbled so did urban life. People fled into the countryside. Some tried
maintaining a semblance of society by forming “corporations”. But the reality
was stockades—walled forts housing people that stole and forced their will on “independent
consumers”, those who chose to remain
free of structured society.
Disease and
desperation left virtually entire cities vacant. Crumbling metropolitan centers
remain occupied. Like rats in a flood they bunched together devouring one
another. Cannibalism, it was said, had become a way of life, places to be
avoided.
In the
countryside, competition for basic resources made peaceful interaction on a
broad scale implausible. From an era when commerce and doing business had
become Godlike, the concept metamorphosed into something darker. “Corporations” preyed on “independent
consumers”. Jake counted himself among the I.C.s.
All forms of long
distance communication went away over a hundred years ago and transportation now
depended mostly on how well a person’s legs worked. The luckiest have horses
but even those animals were often used as food and rare.
He fondly
remembered having seen a working bicycle last year, a marvelous contraption.
He’d never seen one or even heard of them before. He committed it to memory.
It, too, would eventually return to the earth. In time it would become legend
and dismissed as a bedtime story.
It was as if he
played poker and knew the hands in advance, yet, had no chance of winning.
Regression was an unstoppable wave. He feared it would not end until the entire
human race hit the equivalent of stone-age man without language and eating one
another.
It seemed as plain
as the holes in his clothes and the grime streaking them that everything
evolved, but in reverse. The average span of a man’s life had been reduced to
fifty years, maybe less. I haven’t seen many as old as I am in recent
months, forty-three . . . I think. He lived within his thoughts, figuring
it safer than conversation with strangers—people angling for advantage.
He readjusted the
knapsack to hang at his side instead of behind and renewed his gait. As he
hastened his step, he glimpsed the girl breaking into a trot, gaining on him. So what if she is only a child; should I
trust her?
CHAPTER 2
The
World As It Is, Plus One
Walking at a
steady pace, Jake looked down at the girl now at his side. “You’re spunky. I’ll
give you that.”
The day was warm
but comfortable. To look at the youngster’s face, it could’ve been sweltering. It
wasn’t. She struggled to keep up. The end of the day neared. Her chin hung
loose bouncing with each step. Another mile just wasn’t in her. Short legs
chopped three steps to his one yet she doggedly matched his speed and had for
two days; no complaints, nor words of any kind, nary a grunt. It wasn’t only his
pace she matched. Distrust of him and lingering wariness of her were close to
even, too. Still, her desire to keep up was tenacious.
At the beginning
of the day, when he woke under an open sky curled on a patch of tall grass having
fallen under its own lush weight, he saw the youngster appear between parting
eyelids—knees drawn up surrounded by skinny arms. She stared unblinking as if
she expected him to vanish if her eyes closed even once. He didn’t know how
long she’d been sitting and watching but he figured a long while considering
how she fidgeted.
The end of another
day was upon them. A place to spend the night approached the top of the daily
priority list. The child’s stumbling behavior indicated a place to rest a short
time might have to come first. Sneaking glances, Jake began to admire the
youngster’s resolve not to fall behind. He figured that he, too, might need a
short breather. Another quarter mile came and went. The time had come to sit
for a while, anywhere. Jake fared little better than the youngster—every joint
ached.
He kept to an odd
sense of schedule like a genetic appointment calendar was inside him. What once
had been a mysterious urge, Jake eventually defined. Things done according to an
agenda hadn’t made much sense at first. During a rare moment of philosophical
clarity, it occurred to him that schedule, even a vague one, equaled purpose
and plan. It kept him motivated and a step ahead of hunger and, almost always,
under shelter by dark when the weather turned bad. In truth, no timetable
existed, no place to be, as long as he had a dry place to sleep and something
to eat by day’s end. Every day the same—forage, eat, sleep and then move on.
If only I could
stay in one place and make a home. He puffed air into his cheeks then
huffed it away as he looked down at the little girl. But,
survival is key. That goes doubly now.
Rounding a bend in
the path an overgrown cemetery came into view off to the side. No one made
headstones so ornate anymore. It had to be a century old, likely older. Many
had fallen and those still standing were mostly askew. One stood out as just
right to sit on. He cleared tangled vines from its mildewed, gray and pitted
top. A name was revealed: Carol Leann Flannery. He wondered what her story
might have been. Beneath the name, the span of her life had been chiseled: 2016-2073.
The epitaph read: “She made a difference”.
He shuddered. Her
age at death had not been much older than his present age. In all his rambling
thoughts on the state of the world, mortality rarely crossed his mind. When it
did, he ignored it. But lately, and with increasing frequency, it found a way
into his head. Still, the length of his life stood in a dark shadow of those
four words: “She made a difference”. Goose flesh rippled his arm as if hit by a
chilled wind. He’d made, and was making, no difference for better or worse on
his small corner of the world he touched. Jake Henderson, he feared, would
disappear from the earth without ever having made a mark. Dying unknown and
unremarkable terrified him.
Nagging internal
voices often tested him. But, this new one strummed an off-key note that
knotted his heart and lumped his throat. If it weren’t for the young girl at
his side, he would’ve cried. He had to control the urge. The girl, he chose to
call Annabelle, depended on him for survival. Emotional outbursts of any sort
had to be contained.
Centering his
aching butt, he moaned as he dropped exhausted onto the gravestone. The harsh
realization that he’d someday pass without notice intensified fatigue.
Annabelle stepped
in close at eye level, a frail young shoulder inadvertently nudging him.
The warmth of
human contact felt nice. He examined her profile. She can’t be over ten. She remained speechless. Could she
talk and refused to, or did she genuinely have no voice? The mind’s eye visual
echo of the child crying over the woman he assumed to be her mother had branded
deep. It haunted him. He grappled with personal accountability to the young
girl.
It was a pleasant
surprise to discover that talking to someone and not just aloud to himself or
lost in thought added clarity; a clear improvement over traveling alone.
Earlier in the day he detected what he believed to be a smile. He glanced often
wanting to see it again. Why do I care?
He wriggled his
butt until he hit a sweet spot of comfort atop the gravestone then swiped sweat
from beneath shoulder length sandy blond hair long enough to curl at its tips.
After a quiet
moment, he again spoke. “Showing sympathy for a stranger can be dangerous. Did
you know that? I’ve lived my life avoiding it.” He glanced sideways at her
standing near him and crinkled his nose. “It’s safer. If you understand, it’d
serve you to remember it. Trusting people will get you killed. Don’t ever, ever
forget that.”
A flash of
embarrassment reddened his cheeks. Even a speck of trust would’ve saved the
youngster’s mother. Conviction in the shared advice wavered. “Look, Little One,
trust is almost as precious as food and water . . .” He lifted an eyebrow, “. .
. but . . . not quite.” The truth of it was suddenly questionable. It seemed
less credible spoken aloud for some reason.
He examined her
dirty face and tangled mop of hair that should’ve been straight. “Hungry?” He
pulled a partially eaten turnip from his tattered knapsack and held it out to
her. With doe eyes set sunken in a sallow face she stared at him. The
distrustful gaze then shifted and locked onto the shriveled vegetable in his
hand. As he moved the hand around, her eyes followed. Only then did he realize
how hungry she was. “Go on. Take it.”
Once in her grasp,
Jake yanked his hand away or risk bitten fingers. Watching her eat, his heart
ached. For the first time, he noticed how poor this child’s condition was; ratty
dusty blond hair, face streaked with filth, and snot dried and crusted on her
upper lip.
Her pants had been
crudely fashioned and stitched from several types of cloth, as was her shirt.
Both were dirty and frayed, likely to disintegrate if laundered. The girl’s
mother may have been a fighting phenom but she was certainly no seamstress. Then
again, maybe the child was simply outgrowing clothing faster than her mother
could renew it. He considered embracing her and telling her that people were
still around that cared, but couldn’t muster the courage of such pretense. How
could he? He had no faith there were—anywhere. I wonder if her generation
will fix everything the past five could not. He continued watching her,
thinking, chewing the inside of his cheek, giving her time to eat the last of
the food.
The wide trail
ahead appeared as a ribbon through the woods that the flora had mostly
reclaimed. The cemetery where they rested was situated about a hundred feet
above the river paralleling the old roadbed. Trees grew in the middle of it,
pushing up disintegrating asphalt-encrusted gravel. He imagined motorized
vehicles whizzing by at great speeds.
A beetle crawled
across the cracked leather of his boot. “You, my tiny friend, have been blessed
with inability to worry.” He looked sideways at Annabelle. “Yet, here I sit
with something new to worry about.”
Having always
ruminated on the bleak future of the world, Annabelle’s presence had moderated
those views, now becoming less radical. It seemed to be happening exceptionally
fast. Her presence might complicate things but it occurred to him she could
also be an unexpected blessing.
He remembered a
snippet of wisdom handed down from his father. “Knowledge, son, is what it will
take to fix this broken world. To think, ponder consequences, and then act
rationally with compassion is the key to humankind’s survival. Always remember
that what this world will become begins with you.”
The advice seemed
sage but aches and hunger kept it hollow over the years. Nevertheless, it was
all he had to pass on. Having no son, Annabelle had become his heir by default.
She gnawed on that leathery turnip. Annabelle
may be my last chance to make a difference—my legacy.
“I want you to
know what I know. Okay?”
The girl paid him
no mind, focusing on the shriveled vegetable in her hands; the strong smell of turnip
filling the air.
She seemed
inattentive but he thought it worth trying. “It’s said that, once upon a time,
harmony existed among diverse groups. But you and I know that could never
happen.” A wry grin widened, spreading his hairy cheeks. “I’ll assume you
agree.”
Annabelle relaxed
and sank to her knees next to the grave stone he sat on, eating, seemingly oblivious
to his commentary. The tone of voice must have comforted her.
“Small groups have
formed that believe a genius, a savior, would emerge from among common people
to save us from ourselves then guide us back to a peaceful technologically
functioning society. I know this because I’ve seen them. Last week I walked
past a group standing before a rusting electrical transmission tower, wishing
so hard for a return to a functional society that it sounded like a prayer
complete with a worshipful gaze up it. Can you believe that?” He laughed. “They
were actually worshipping a rusty ol’ tower . . .” he shrugged shoulders “. . .
or, so it appeared.”
His smile wilted
away. He straightened and went silent. The opinion made less sense than it did
while hovering in his tired thoughts. Maybe it wasn’t preposterous. After all,
what would life be if there was nothing to believe in and no hope for a better
future. Was exhaustion to blame for questioning the long-held belief? Or, could
this be another example of cynicism abating simply due to Annabelle’s presence?
He pushed a tangle
of hair away from the girl’s eyes, ensnaring his fingers—board straight except
for the knots, darker in color near the roots. A smattering of freckles beneath
the smudges across her nose hinted the beautiful woman she’d eventually grow
into.
She grunted and
rolled her head away from his touch. Trust had not caught up to her level of
need.
“My grandfather
told me stories about how the world was put on a competitive course over
two-hundred-fifty years ago, in the nineteen-fifties, throwing the industrial
machine into overdrive. That’s when Corporate America came to be. The
industrial complex flourished. Here, in what used to be the United States,
growth seemed boundless. Complacency rose during the nineteen-sixties. A war
that was not a war was waged in Indochina and split the nation ideologically.”
He scratched his chin then tossed out a hand flippantly. “I’m still not sure
what ‘war that was not a war’ means... or, where Indochina is.” He looked away
and thought on that for a moment. “Oh well, neither here nor there. We were no
longer homogenous Americans, splintering into Afro-Americans, Asian Americans,
Native Americans, Angry White Men Americans, Feminist Americans, Jewish
Americans, Christian Americans, Muslim Americans and so on. We drifted apart.
Misinformation became acceptable as the nineteen-seventies introduced
high-level trickery to politics.”
He snapped a twig
between his fingers and flicked it. “By the nineteen-eighties, lying went
mainstream to form public opinion. I call it lying. They called it “spin”. I suppose it made an unpopular
notion seem right and noble. I bet the public even laughed about it, like . . .
like it was some kind of joke! Can you believe that, Annabelle? No one cared.” He
attempted stroking her head again.
She snapped a
startled look at him then ducked from under his palm and leaned away. Only a
bite of that turnip in her hand remained.
“Nearing the end
of the twentieth century, people controlling corporations had grown obscenely
wealthy and powerful—strong enough to manipulate whole governments that had
become inconsequential and subordinate to them. Countries worldwide had become “corpocracies”.
Affairs of
government had become simply lesser divisions of big business in the
twenty-first century, just another door down the hall of home offices
sandwiched between the janitor’s closet and the restrooms. Government’s only
function had become the printing of unsupported paper currency and making
speeches on behalf of companies. Companies merged and grew until only one remained.
America was one big company vacuuming money and resources into glutinous piles
for self preservation while the country hungered.
Now squirming on
the uncomfortable hard stone of the grave marker, Jake leaned over and rested
elbows on his knees. He snickered under his breath then flipped his hands palms
up and shrugging lazily. “That’s right, governments
were the puppets of business, plain and simple.”
Jake sat up, just
then realizing how low the sun had sunk in the western sky. About two good hours
of daylight remained. He wondered about the summation of that legacy passed
down to him. “‘To think and ponder consequences’,” he said slowly, exaggerating
every syllable. “How can that be the key, Annabelle? The only consequence I
worry about is starvation and the only consideration is how to prevent it.”
As he spoke,
Annabelle chewed the last bite of turnip, juice trickling down her chin—pulp
decorating the corners of her mouth.
“Oh well . . . are
you ready to find a place to spend the night?” He didn’t expect an answer but
increasingly compelled to ask questions. Someday, I hope to hear you speak. He kept empathetic leanings to himself—selfishness
deeply ingrained having lived alone for so long. He was comforted by her
presence. Someone to talk to was novel. He slapped his knees and rose. “Come
on, let’s see what’s down the road.”
Annabelle . . .
Annabelle. He rolled the name over in his mind as he walked. He liked the
way it sounded. He’d considered calling her Waco, but only because he
remembered it as the only distinguishable word remaining on a sign almost
totally corroded away. He didn’t know what the word meant or its origin. He
just happened to see it near the outskirts of a decaying deserted town the day
before he discovered her. But it had a hard masculine ring, whereas the name
Annabelle had softness to it. It did make him wonder just how feminine this
grimy little creature would eventually turn out to be. He settled on Annabelle,
his mother’s name who died before he was two.
He recalled a time
his father shared memories of her. What he remembered most about that day had
nothing to do with the story of his mother, the tale of a woman he never knew.
Resting in a crumbling movie theatre, the remnant of a stylized picture encased
in glass caught his eye in an alcove protected from the passage of time. While
his father told the story of the first Annabelle, his eyes fixed on the remains
of that picture. It was the birth of opinions on the world he struggled to
survive in.
After walking only
a few yards, before leaving the cemetery behind, Jake stopped. Thoughts boomeranged
to the present. He looked upon the headstone a final time that had provided a
few precious moments comfort. Goodbye Carol Leann Flannery, whoever you are—were.
I hope someday I make a difference, too. “Come on, Little One. It’ll be
dark soon.”
“You know,
Annabelle, as a youngster I saw a poster for something called a motion picture,
a movie. I’ve heard stories they still exist somewhere far to the northeast of
here but I’ve never actually seen one, someday maybe.” He paused and looked
down at her. He hoped to see animation of expression, but did not. “Anyhow,
what was left of that picture depicted a world in shambles breaking into
warring tribes. It was popular back then, or so I’ve heard, to believe
humankind might be destroyed by an exchange of powerful bombs, leaving only a
few to start over. I think those bombs were called nucular or nuclea, something like that.”
He abruptly
stopped walking. “You know what? It occurred to me that if those bombs really
did exist, they’re out there somewhere. They never exploded.” He scratched his
head and wrinkled his nose. “At least, I don’t think so. Even so, I don’t want to
think about that. I sure don’t need that worry heaped on top of all the rest.”
He walked on.
Annabelle stared
straight ahead marching like a miniature soldier as though she traveled with
purpose. If so, he wondered what that might be. If she feared he’d leave her
behind again, that troubled him. But he bore the weight of fault on his
conscience. He had, after all, walked away leaving the child in grievous pain
over the blood-drenched body of her mother. It would have been a condemnation
of death by neglect on someone as young and fragile.
“What was I
saying? Oh yeah. No one realized back then that a collapse of order could be a
slow decline that, once begun, couldn’t be stopped. It followed such a logical
path; family decay followed moral decay then greed that brought on corruption.
Oversimplified?” He pushed out his lower lip. “I guess so, but that’s what
happened . . . minus embellishment of course. How can something so obvious not
have been noticed? Now it’s unstoppable, like my rotting teeth. If we—“
Annabelle stumbled
hard to her knees after stepping into a shallow depression. She winced.
“Hey, be careful!”
he barked then squatted to lift her up.
She quickly
returned to stoicism, as if she had something to prove.
Growing affection
for the child frightened him. “Are you okay?” A trickle of blood appeared
through a hole in the knee of her dirty pants tattered at the bottom. It was
only a scratch. There were no doctors or medical facilities, only a few people
with knowledge of healing herbs but he wasn’t one of them.
“Doggone it, girl!
Watch where you’re stepping!”
Annabelle
recoiled. Tears filled her eyes.
“Wait. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” He
stepped toward her.
She backed away.
He took another
step.
She again moved to
create a new buffer between them.
“Come on, don’t do
that. You scared me, that’s all.”
Fragile trust
shattered. She didn’t rejoin him at his side and again followed from the
perceived safety of a few steps back.
He needed to stop
worrying about the child. The only way to do that was think about something
else.
Greed accelerated
at unprecedented levels, becoming global in one generation nearly two hundred
years ago. The world’s wealth concentrated into fewer and fewer hands—the early
stages of the New World Order. Countries no longer existed, only land and
property holdings by individuals controlling all the world’s economies. Once
consolidated, growth stopped and that left the door open for economic incest.
Desire for greater power and wealth turned ravenous; economic war raged. A
sucker punch born of gluttony became the stone in the worldwide pool that
rippled with destructive radiating waves—a tit-for-tat on a global scale became
the straw that broke the back of the world’s economies.
Jake wanted
Annabelle to know this history. But, he resigned to the notion she wouldn’t
comprehend and chose to save this part of the story for a later time. And then
he wondered aloud, “Why do I care? I can’t even guarantee it’s true, for God’s
sake.”
Only after it was already
out there echoing back from the trees did he realize he wasn’t alone and
glanced to see fresh trepidation in Annabelle’s eyes. “Not to worry, just
talking to myself, Little One.”
A severely listing
deserted farmhouse came into view as they topped a rise in the road. In another
year it’d be collapsed. “Come on. Let’s see if there’s any fruit on those trees
out back.”
She trotted to
catch up and clutched his leg. Two windows on the front of the house looking
like big rectangular eyes and a severely tilting door between them left the appearance
of a yawning monster.
“It’ll be okay.
That old house may give us shelter and protection for the night.”
Before taking a
step, she gathered two fists full of his pant legs and held him.
He peeled filthy
frightened little hands off, squatted, and held scrawny arms to her sides and
looked into her eyes, realizing he could talk until sunset and still not
convince her there was nothing to be afraid of. As their eyes remained locked,
he smiled. He noticed that the smile seemed to offer more assurance than
anything he said.
As he gazed into
disheartened blue eyes, he wondered about the child’s mother trusting that man
she’d bested in hand-to-hand combat. Turning her back on a murderous stranger
had been the ultimate faith—and stupid. What that man did should never have
happened. Why did she so willingly give up the advantage? He hoped Annabelle
knew and might share it someday.
He continued
smiling at the youngster. Her expression did not change but her body language
did. She stroked his long bushy beard with tiny fingers on each side of his
face, as if petting a puppy.
Harboring so many
fears of his own, how could he not sympathize with hers? Nowhere in the known
world existed organized law enforcement. Corporations
protected shareholders and their possessions while independent consumers protected themselves. Existing
law were only those of nature and a few arbitrary ones set by greedy and
powerful people meant for personal gain. All that remained was a
personal sense of right or wrong, usually hinging on desperation. Jake remained
ever mindful that, as ominous as the world had become, it could be worse.
He pulled her
sweat-moistened hands from his face, rose and began walking toward the rear of
the old farmhouse. “Stay here. I’ll be right back . . . promise.”
Approaching the
remains of an orchard, he stayed within view of the girl but moved closer to
the trees. Gangly and bore-infested, most of the trees barely alive and hard to
see within the overgrowth of Johnson grass taller than the trees in places.
He glanced back to
Annabelle. She held her ground but fidgeted with each step farther he took.
Determination
drove him closer to the trees to see if one of them possibly bore fruit. He
counted thirteen trees scattered over an area once covering a half-acre or
more. He felt kinship with the trees—proof that life would find a way. He
searched every limb.
Jake shoved weeds
and brush aside checking every green branch of each stunted tree, some close to
the ground. His search came up fruitless.
On his way back to
Annabelle, he stopped to check the last four trees. He saw her wringing her
hands, and then something beautiful, not one but a cluster of four apples on
the same branch of a sickly tree—red and ripe.
As if someone
might challenge him, he ran and plucked them claiming rights to dinner for two.
He held the fruit in his cupped hands, staring, disbelieving such good fortune.
For days all he’d eaten were leaves, a few berries and a couple of
turnips. And now to have the crown
jewels of dining, apples, seemed too good to be true. With a burst of
enthusiasm, he trotted to Annabelle.
Look, Little One!
Look what I’ve found!” He held them high, two in each hand. She didn’t appear
enthusiastic. No matter. He knew they’d sleep well with nourishment.
Annabelle followed
as he pushed aside weeds and vines that led to the concrete porch of the old
farmhouse. He sat and waved her over as he shined an apple on a ripped sleeve then
handed it to her.
An old man and
woman abruptly appeared from around the corner of the house.
Startled, Jake
snatched a rotted tree limb from the ground and leaped to his feet. As if it
were a sword, he held it extended defensively.
The couple made no
aggressive moves, no moves at all. Then the old lady wobbled. She went down.
The man knelt beside her. Lines of hard living creased both their dirty faces.
They were no threat just hungry—lives and ability to survive spiraling down to
a predetermined conclusion. Jake saw himself in their forlorn faces not far in
the future.
Even before he
lowered the limb, Annabelle walked past him to where the woman lay and handed
her one shiny apple. The old lady took it then clutched it in both trembling hands.
She wept.
Jake couldn’t very
well hold on to his extra apple. Tentatively, he gave one to the old man.
Annabelle
smiled—first at the couple then at him.
It
occurred to Jake like a bolt from the blue, “Ponder consequences . . . act
rationally.” Then he said, “This is what my father was talking about.” As soon
as it cleared his lips another thought struck: That’s what Annabelle’s
mother was trying to do. As the revelation jelled he began to slowly nod
then faster while muttering, “If the world has a chance, it has to begin with Annabelle and me.”
