2017:
Dante is standing at the edge of the cliff, watching the sun bleed its descent. His bandages are off; he's bled through the last of our supply. His arms are outstretched (crucifixion style) as though he's embracing the last of the light, basking in the remainder of the day. I watch him, sillhouetted black against the reds and blues and purples of the coming night. There's a tiny little bastard living in my head that whispers "one push and we can find out if he's really god or not." A tiny little evil bastard.
"You don't think he is what he says he is," Meghan says beside me. It’s not a question.
"He hasn't said anything," I say.
"I watch him," she says. "I watch to see if he's doing something to himself. Something to keep those wounds from closing."
"What's the verdict?"
"I can't tell," she says. "When we make camp, he wanders off a lot. Have you ever noticed that?"
"No," I say. "But what would he gain?"
"I don't know," she says. "Attention? An old man in a world like this is easily left behind. But an old man who may be Jesus? People keep him around."
"Provided they believe," I say.
"Here he is," she says.
I mull this over for awhile. "He doesn't seem that bright," I say, but I'm not convinced.
Naomi comes walking back to where we're sitting. "I miss toilet paper," she says. "Having to choose between leaves and drip-drying is barbaric."
The sun gasps its last and the darkness drops quick. There's a brief pause and then...
"What in the hell?" Lucas says. He's sitting behind us by the fire, but he can see exactly what I see. "Lights?"
Indeed. Peeking over the ridge of the cliff is the artificial twinkle of city lights. One by one we creep over to the edge, as cautious as a cave-man inspecting a city bus. The lights that catch our eyes, they're the bright chaser lights of an airport. As we watch, one by one, stadium floodlights pop on all across the city. They are not accidental.
We agree to investigate in the morning.
We go to bed.
When we wake up the next morning, Dante is gone. We see the twin thick mud spots where he stood and bled while watching the sunset, and we see the sporadic blood-drip trail where he wandered off, down a steep embankment on the cliff face, through rough foliage. Toward where we saw the lights last night.
The evil bastard in my head is glad to be rid of him.
"We have to be smart about this," Guillermo says. "We know where he's going. But we know nothing about this city. I don't want to risk any...unfriendliness."
We defer to him. Pack mentality. He's the alpha.
"I say that Sean and I follow on foot. Direct path. Hopefully overtake him. Everyone else leave the supplies here and take the bikes with the sidecars back down to where the freeway on-ramp is. That's where we'll meet up."
"I go where Sean goes," Lucas chimes in.
"O.G. M.C.," I say. "Founding members field trip."
"I'm going, too," Mercedes says. "He's my patient." But while she says that, it's Lucas she's eyeballing.
"No women," Guillermo says.
The women begin to protest.
He waits them out.
"There is no such thing as civilization anymore," he says. "Wish there was, but there's not." He is thinking, as I am, of the barn we encountered. All those ladies tied up and...
"No women," I say. I wish that I was looking at Naomi when I said this, but I wasn't. I was looking at Mercedes.
"Alright," Ellen says. "Let's hide the supplies and shake a leg. We're wasting too much time."
We scramble down the embankment, damn near falling face-first to tumble our way to the bottom several times. The idea of us going on foot was that we'd be stealthier than the motorcycles. I'm beginning to wonder.
We crash our way right into an ambush. A gun at my back. Our weapons are taken away. I still don't trust myself with a gun so I'm stripped of a crowbar.
We're led in the direction we were going, so the guns seem pretty needless. I tell them so. They answer roughly but wordlessly.
We're taken to a small camp. I see Dante. They have him tied to a tree. He's crying. When he sees us, he begins to whimper and cry out to us unintelligibly. I'm caught off guard; I didn't realize he had a voice.
A soldier walks up to us. He has a somber expression on his face and the shadow of a beard just starting to pop out. The name patch on his jacket says "Bacchus".
"You're with this man?" he says. Dante whimpers pathetically in the background.
"Yes, sir," Guillermo says.
"He's infected," the soldier says.
"No, sir," Guillermo says. "He's been like that for weeks and he hasn't turned."
"It's Stigmata," Lucas chirps.
The soldier stares him down hard.
"It's something," I say. "Probably not Stigmata, but it's something. Maybe he's got a mild case of...whatever. Maybe he's got the cure."
The soldier turns and calls for someone named Ev.
The man who responds is huge and boxy, and looks to be in his fifties or sixties. Square shoulders, square jaw. His grey military crew cut dropping down to a full but carefully sculpted beard gives his head a square shape. He looks down on Guillermo. The name patch on his jacket says "Starin".
"What do you think?" Bacchus asks Starin. "Should we take him to Sutton or should we kill him?"
"You kill him," Guillermo says, "and I'll kill you." He's so matter-of-fact. What a badass.
They ignore him.
Starin looks back at Dante and shrugs. "If we keep him bound, there's no harm in taking him. Who knows? Maybe he does have the cure."
Bacchus nods. "Fair enough," he said. "That's what I was thinking. And them?" He indicates us.
"Bring them with," Starin says. "If nothing else, Sutton could use more test subjects."
I don't like the sound of that at all. I find myself missing Loki.
Our wrists are bound with zip ties in front of us. I ask why the front and not the back and someone tells me they're not holding my pud when I piss. Fair enough. We're marched single file, and I'm right behind Dante, so I get to watch the slow drip, drip, drip of the blood from his hands. With all of that lubrication, he should be able to wriggle free at any time. But he won't because he's Dante. Too old, too stupid, too frail. I blame him for all of this.
We approach a tall barbed-wire-topped chain-link fence punctuated with sniper towers. The whole city looks like a maximum-security prison. I try to look back at Guillermo to see if there's some sort of dramatic gulping or terrified recognition, but apparently the soldiers on either side of me would prefer that I not look around. I try to rub the spot on my jaw that just recently became quite sore, but apparently the soldiers on either side of me would prefer that I not do that, either. Now there are two spots I am not permitted to rub.
Stupid Dante.
We get through the gates and Dante is ushered right. I start to follow, but I am ushered left. Dante turns and sees this. He begins to howl with fear. He looks right into my eyes and he screams and drools and reaches clutching hands toward me, blood flinging from his fingers like spit. I watch a soldier hoist him up and pull him away before I am turned again and he is out of sight behind me. I can still hear him screaming, though. Until, abruptly, I cannot.
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