All Is Silence - Deserted Lands #1

Chapter 18 - Part I

MANNIE WOKE THE NEXT MORNING uncertain if he had dreamed. Outside it was still pitch dark, but the habit of getting up early for work or war didn’t change even if the world had. He jumped into a hot, hot shower.

Coffee and yogurt with Grape Nuts stood in for breakfast while he went through the series of texts from Lizzie. They included extra phone numbers for Lizzie, a paranoid tactic after his own heart, and her friend Jess’ number. He copied them down on a piece of paper and put it in his wallet. Then he copied them down again and tucked the paper inside the lining of his Smokey the Bear hat. He put on his olive drab work pants and the heavy gray khaki shirt. Something about being in uniform made him feel more solid. And if he was going to requisition a government Jeep, he better look like he was supposed to be driving it.

He refolded the maps and replaced them in the glove box. He picked up the double burner camp stove and a three-pack of camping gas, then put them back down. A sleeping bag went in the back of the truck in case he ended up sleeping in-between towns. But he would always be near towns. The cautious camper took over. He put the stove and gas in and added his one-man tent. He packed the rest of the Coke, a frozen loaf of bread, a pack of lunch meat, a baggie of fast food condiments, and a handful of water bottles from the fridge. The coffee went in a to-go mug.

Mannie found himself whistling; he couldn’t remember doing that in years. A new life. A new shot anyway. A shudder rippled through him as he thought about leaving Bellingham and his daughter. He’d made it to the next bar, drinking himself into a stupor and waking up in the drunk tank. After he got out he managed to hold off of the drink while he drove home. To his parents’ here in Texas. This trip might reverse some of those years. Maybe.

He was ready to say goodbye. His heart felt a jab of pain as he took a last look around the living room. There was the worn place on the couch he and Isabel had spent weekends reading, napping, watching movies and the other things couples did together. At its foot was the dark spot on the rug where Isabel’s black cat, Sheba, used to sleep. The cat had run off after Isabel died. Probably become coyote food. He shook off the ghosts.

What if Lizzie couldn’t stand him? Wouldn’t forgive him? He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. No. I can’t think that. Isabel would have said something about letting fear have control. Elizabeth is counting on me. He opened his eyes and went out, closing the door without locking it.

The old truck grumbled to life. The sun rose beautiful over the distant horizon, dawning a new day. The morning star had not yet winked out as he left the rocky gravel of the driveway and the wheels quieted on the pavement to town. First, the ranger station, then provisions in Del Rio and head north.

The station looked like a normal morning. He could almost expect everyone would be in later. Since he’d stopped drinking he’d become that morning guy, always the first one there to unlock things. If he was in uniform he didn’t drink, so getting dressed for work helped him stay sober.

His right knee ached as he stepped down. He’d blown it out in the mountains a few years ago and though it worked, it ached when the weather changed or when he abused it. The pain served as a nagging reminder of his lack of invincibility.

He lifted the keys to ‘his’ vehicle, Rubi, off the rack. It bugged him when the station bought the big Jeep Rubicon. It was a big expense on the taxpayers dime, and overkill for the job needed. But over a decade she became a partner to him. She was showing her age and would’ve sold at auction last year if he hadn’t fussed.

In the garage he crossed to Rubi, tossed his backpack into the passenger seat and transferred the rest of his gear to the way back. He heaved a case of MREs, Meals Ready to Eat, and a first aid kit for ‘just in case’ cases in the back seat. From the gun safe, he took out a Sig p220 pistol and holster, a Remington 870 shotgun and shoulder case, a couple boxes of ammo and a cleaning kit. He wrote a sticky note listing what he’d taken and their serial numbers before signing it. He closed and locked the safe. The world might really be headed to Hell in a hand basket this time, but he would follow protocol—the one thing the military had taught him. He printed his full name, Department of Defense ID and cell numbers, then signed it.

Mannie headed into Del Rio. The ache in his knee subsided as usual, though he knew the long drive would be problematic. He’d need stops to walk and stretch.