From the Ash II: Broken

Interlude I: Smoke Signals

Sam Macksey took the chew from his lip, tossed it away and immediately reached for the Skoal can in his back pocket. The moment the fresh minted flavor rested against the inside of his bottom lip, Sam felt a jolt of adrenaline rush through his veins. He shook his head, slapping himself a few times in the face, trying to make himself focus.

"Being up for almost thirty-six hours will do that to you, old man," Sam mused to himself.

He squinted, looking towards the field of flames that continued to burn a few hundred yards away. Even with the sun coming to the end of its descent, giving way to dusk, the surrounding area was lit up like it was high noon, and Sam had a bird's eye view of the devastation. He counted his blessings that he hadn't lost anyone in the battle—if you could call it that—and that everything had gone according to plan. Well, almost everything. Rubbing his thumb and index finger against the sides of his thick grey mustache, Sam pondered over what his group's next move would be. They had left Oklahoma City a week ago, but they hadn't been able to gain any ground on the ones they desperately searched for. Now, after what had unfolded a few hours ago, and the information they had learned from their new "friend," there was a renewed sense of optimism amongst the group.

Hearing laughter from the makeshift camp behind him, Sam looked over his shoulder and sighed, again feeling the weight pressing against his chest like a hydraulic press. "Get it together, you old fool," he said to himself, "these people are counting on you."

He shook his head, remembering the day that everyone had elected him to be their so-called "leader." He had simply suggested that they all needed to band together—act as one or die alone. They were desperate, looking for any sliver of hope.

They thought Sam was that hope.

Sam assumed it was because he was an authority figure: the sheriff of a nearby small town just outside the city. That was before the world went to hell. But whatever the reason, here he was, in charge and leading a small band of men to find something far more precious than food or water.

Adjusting his favorite black Stetson hat, Sam turned towards the campfire to see if their new "guest" was ready to talk further—when he stopped in his tracks.

"Son of a—we got to put a bell on you or something, Z," he said, clutching his chest.

Ohanzee, or "Z" as everyone called him, stood a few feet away. Sam couldn't help but grin at the young man's warm smile; it was infectious.

"Sorry, Mr. Macksey," the young man replied, shuffling his feet.

Z's thick Native American accent was getting easier for Sam to decipher. At first, he couldn't understand a damn word the young man said. He'd lived with his family on a reservation all his life, telling Sam that they honored the traditions of their people, adhering to the old ways and living off the land, as Mother Earth intended. Sam admired that. He came up and patted Z's shoulder, which felt like patting a brick wall; the kid didn't have an ounce of fat on him.

"No need to apologize," Sam said. "And how many times have I told you? Call me Sam."

Z simply nodded.

"Well? Did you find anything?" Sam asked, rubbing his hands together.

"Yes sir. I was able to follow the vehicle's tracks easily, but the trail ends abruptly..." Z turned his head towards the campfire as his voice trailed off, clearly distracted.

"And?" Sam asked, furrowing his brows, following his gaze.

"It's just like she said—the town, the trees—like a lush forest, the old-world right in front of me." Z turned back to him; a wide grin spread across his face. "It's beautiful, Sam."