Finding a Whisper in Wind

To save his granddaughter, he must trust a whisper in the dark.

Spooky Moon by Matthew Jackson

It seems only the wind remains after the brief cacophony of the crash. He puts his hand above his right eye, feels a bump.

Hit my head on the steering wheel. Don’t stroke out. She’s waiting.

He stares down the two lane road lined with dying oaks. Through the dusted and now deer cracked windshield the road vanishes into midnight. No moon and thick churning clouds casts an absolute dark. Especially now lights aren’t spilling from nearby towns. Darkness’d reclaimed its supremacy over the whole of the world since all of what-was fell away.

Least it’s only me out here. Be in a real pickle if they was on my heals.

He looks about the small cabin of the car.

Think. Remember.

The bang on his head left him in a daze. He studies the small backpack in the passenger seat.

Naomi’s inhalers.

The ginger and garlic tea wasn’t enough to stave off Naomi’s asthma against the dust storm that blew through the last few days. After all settled, he left her outside on a cot, praying the clean night air would help her through till he got back. Hated to leave his granddaughter on her own, gasping for breath, only seven years on but there wasn’t nothing for it. Had to go. She understood and would do her belly breathing till he got back.

He scrounged four inhalers out of the ruins of a Walgreens. A miracle find. The rest was picked over years ago. He came praying and was answered. If he can get himself back and in time.

He presses the car’s ignition. Nothing.

It’s shot. Guess I’m walkin.

With a leathery hand, he grabs the pack. Limbs stiff, he opens the car door. Its creak scratches through the shush of wind. With an aching grunt, he stands. Tests his balance, one hand resting on the car’s roof.

Why’d I have to get so damn’d old.

He scans. In the deep dark, can just make out the sway of trees. Smell the dust on ‘em. Hear the death in their dry limbs.

They sound like I feel.

Checks the road behind. No lights nor sounds of another car. Not surprising, since there are few left running and them that are ain’t carrying anybody he might like to meet. He was lucky to snag this one, an electric. Quiet and could still charge off its solar panels. Besides, no one roams at night, less they’s desperate like him or chasing folks like him. He had to run with lights off, why he didn’t see the deer and why the deer didn’t see him. Lights make it easy to be spotted by one of them leftover white nationalist plunkers, the dragons. Ain’t no escaping their camps once they scoop ya. But at 71, he’s too rickety and weak to work their fields, so they’d kill him outright. Dragons don’t barter in pity.

He shuffles to the front of the mangled car. Checks the deer. It lies still over the buckled road.

Hope she didn’t suffer.

If there were time, and his back could manage, he’d field dress her, hoist her up over a thick branch and come back for her. Her meat would carry he and Naomi a fair piece through winter. Has what he needs in his pack.

But ain’t time.

He lays a hand on the deer, whispers a brief prayer, asks forgiveness. He rises, reaches into the passenger seat. With a grunt pulls out the pack, rummages, removes his long knife and headlamp, sheathes the knife on his belt and straps on the lamp. Won’t be switching it on less he needs to. Eyes adjusted to the dark, he can see well enough. He touches the inhalers to ensure he didn’t remove them from the pack and forgot.

Satisfied, he zips the pack closed, hauls it over his shoulders, sets the straps, grabs his hiking poles (can’t trust his knees anymore), crossbow and quiver of handmade arrows, slings them over a shoulder. He looks north. Sighs about the miles-long trek ahead.

Then, the rumble of a diesel engine. Turning south he can see the spray of the truck’s headlights and just make out voices. Heading his way.

Dragons’ patrol. Oh, Marta, how’m I gonna do this?

He still talks to her. His beloved passed on to the dream that is next five years back, leaving him to tend after Naomi on his lonesome. Opiates took his daughter shortly after Naomi was born. Dragon’s murdered Naomi’s father when he was on a scavenging run a few years back. Now, it’s just him and Naomi left.

Marta, I need to find a group, but might as well be trying to find a whisper in wind. One day my ticker’s gonna give and, while I’m longing to be with you, Naomi’d be on her own. She wouldn’t last long. But who I trust with our granddaughter?

A slight crunching, a dry branch snaps, calling his attention back north.

The shape of a buck 20 yards ahead stands at road’s edge. Points of antlers bent toward the ground rise up and face him. Turning his snout toward the trees, the buck disappears into the forest’s swaying dark.

A good sign.

He mulls. The lights, sound of the diesel and voices closing. They’d fine the wrecked car, the deer carcass but would they follow him along a deer trail? They’ll see his steps in the dusted road.

Nothing for it.

Gripping his hiking poles he starts toward the forest.

Be even darker in there. Gonna have to trust ancestors and my walking poles to find my way.

As he nears the spot where the buck entered, he passes a broken sign. Can’t make out the words but recognizes the shape, a trail sign. Won’t be tight as a deer trail but still overgrown. Hasn’t been tended in over two decades. He starts in and the forest closes around him just as the diesel’s lights eek over the road and a voice rings out clear, “He’s stopped.”

They was tracking me. How’d they track me? Marta I ain’t gonna make it to the end of this trail.

Twenty more steps into the woods, the truck’s headlights are full blare to the trailhead. Slither of wheels stop but the diesel continues to growl. So close, he can smell the oil on it. Gruff voices say:

“Hit a deer.”

“Ha!”

“Prints.”

And then loud, taunting: “Well let’s take us a stroll.”

Telling me they’re coming for me.

He tries to speed his slow, sore plod.

Naomi.

His eyes water, lips tremble and the aged shake in his hands expands, enflamed by his growing fear.

How’m I to make it back Marta?

From where he’s headed, a red puff of light shines down the trail. The crunch of wheels.

A bicycle? Two of ‘em. More dragons. Never seen a dragon on a bicycle.

No time to think, his body tells him what to do. He steps into the woods near a large jack oak, trunk wide, miraculous with leaves. Stifling a groan, he settles in at its roots and hunkers, willing his labored breath to still.

A moment later the red lights shut off.

Whoever they are, they don’t want the dragons to see ‘em. Why wouldn’t dragons not want to be seen by dragons?

He studies the dark.

Cuz they ain’t dragons.

The two shadows exchange whispers.

Can’t make out what they’re saying. Damn these ancient plunkin’ ears.

They dismount, walk past him removing what appears to be rifles from their shoulders and crouch walk into the trees.

Boots from the road crunch near the mouth of the trail. A dragon voice, ironic, sinister calls: “Come on out. We’ll take care of you. Sure we will. Just—.” And then a scream. What sounds like a hail of plinks of water.

What them rifles shooting? Ain’t bullets.

Mens’ voices from the road:

“Darts!”

“Enclavers!”

A gunshot from the road. More shouts. More plinks. Thuds of bodies hitting the road. Silence.

A new voice, “Check the cab.”

A woman’s voice?

Murmurs.

A man’s voice, “We got ‘em all.”

Woman’s voice, “Shut that plunkin thing off.”

The drone of the diesel stops, lights go off.

More murmurs.

“Guess we can try.”

A few steps of crunching boots. The woman’s voice, projecting as though she were calling from a stage from back in the Before. “Hey out there on the trail. My name’s Ada. I’m here with Rico. We ain’t dragons. We’re members of the Lawrence Enclave.”

Enclave?

“Anybody chased by dragons is welcome. We have food, medicine, power even. You don’t have to come but we’re here now so be a good time to make a bet on us. Call out if you wanna talk. You don’t have to come.”

His fists tighten around the hiking poles. He presses them against his forehead, squeezes his eyes. What do I do? What do I do?

A solemn shuffling beat of hooves turns his head. The shape of the buck passes toward the road. He peaks down the trail and watches the buck exit the forest.

Rico’s voice, “A buck!”

Ada’s voice, “Leave em. We got enough.”

His hands relax. He nearly chuckles. Marta, I think we got our answer. Knees popping, back twitching, he rises. Taking a breath, he moves toward the road. “I’m here.”