“Light poles…, with vultures nearby?”
“Yeah.”
“Them light poles are the only ones left standing for some reason. But that’s all I know. They don’t work.”
“Nothing else you can tell me?”
As the man with the scar spoke, he reached over toward a small nightstand to the right of his cot. He opened the wooden door on the front, reached in and pulled out a thin scrapbook from the shelf. The book was made of dark, worn leather. A feather hung from the inside with a string and beads attached. He wiped the cover clean of dust.
“I found this book in the ole Woodson sto’. Wasn’t much left of that place. That bastard destroyed Pineville. Destroyed Hock. Sucked us dry. Fucker.”
“Us who? What is that?”
“Us, the people. The citizens. The people that have kept this place what it is. Alive and kicking. I’ve been using this book to keep the latest happenins’.”
“The latest happenings?”
“Mmm hmm. You ain’t the first wanderer.”
“Wanderer?”
“You gon’ repeat everything I say? Yeah, Wanderer,” Kinth responded, visibly frustrated. He looked at the front of the book with an expression of familiarity. His mild arthritis was evident as he opened the front flap. “Time to time wanderers come by here, but not often. I reckon they all seek the same answers. Normally they take one look at this station and keep walking. They all have the same look on their face.”
“What look?”
“That one right there,” the man with the scar said as he nodded toward Langston. “The ones that don’t come by here, the vultures get. Either that or the Desert Dwellers get ’em.”
“Vultures I get, but Desert Dwellers? What, like -people that live out here, in this wilderness? You speak of them like they, like they – some other species of people or something. Can’t be real.”
“Oh – it’s real, pretty boy. As real as I’m sitting here speaking to you. Doesn’t make a difference what you think is real or not. I seen what I seen.”
“So… what do these Desert Dwellers do?” Langston made air-quotes with his fingers, “They eat them?”
“Eat ’em, kill ’em, whatever. One in the same. Normally that kid, or someone else, finds ’em already dead. Sometimes the Dwellers take them away. You got lucky. You got real lucky.”
“And then… then what? He takes whatever he finds and sells it?”
“You not as dense as you look, boy. You might just survive this place.”
“But how did these people end up here? The people you spoke of. Out here in this place?”
The man with the scar either ignored the question or he didn’t hear it. The man continued to explore his book as Langston spoke. He turned to a page that contained a list. The list was simple in structure. It was a ledger, which listed various traits of the different people that stopped by the station. Things such as height, gender and other physical attributes. Any details he could remember.
‘Female, average height, light-colored.
Male, tall, brown, no shoes.
Female, dark, tattoo.’
“All these people had one common thing about them.”
“Which was what?”
“Isn’t it obvious? That they didn’t know how they got here. It was like they were dropped outta nowhere.”
Langston closed his eyes as he lied down on the bed. He tried his best to remember the events that led up to where he was now, including why he was in a hospital gown, but his mind drew a blank. He smacked his head out of exasperation.
“Shit!”
“Mmm. Well, I told you all I know. I’m hittin’ the sack. There’s more ale in that jug right there. All I got. Don’t waste it. Either drink it or leave it. Take what you need and be on yo’ way by sun-up.”
A defeated Langston looked at him. The man with the scar turned over in his cot to go to sleep. He rolled over without a care; unenthused to say the least. Langston figured that he had done this song and dance one too many times.
Highway 99
Langston moved around on the cot uncontrollably. He dozed a few times, but couldn’t get comfortable, partly because of body aches and pains. His muscles were weak, and the thin cot didn’t help. Nor did the odd insects that circled the room.
He didn’t know what was worse – the hard desert ground or his new sleeping arrangements. The cot hadn’t any back support, while the potato sack was filled with sand for a pillow. It definitely wasn’t pleasant, but at least he was indoors, away from vultures and the Desert Dwellers.
Yeah, okay. Desert Dwellers. He chuckled at the thought.
He grew tired of staring at the ceiling while hearing rodents and other disturbing sounds. The man with the scar’s farts and belching throughout the night was no picnic, either. He decided to leave. It had to be in the wee hours of the morning because of the darkness across the land.
He grabbed a jug of ale and an empty potato sack in which to carry it, heading toward the front of the station. He walked as carefully as he could, so that he wouldn’t wake the man with the scar. He didn’t seem like the type that enjoyed interrupted sleep.
He stood for a moment at the station’s entrance, looking out the soiled windows. He rubbed one spot of the window hard enough to create an eyehole. There was little lighting except the stars above the old station. A glow shone from the lights in the main section of Hock City within the distance behind the walls. But getting there seemed like a task. The station was miles away, and the darkness didn’t seem friendly. Quite unfriendly, in fact, if you looked at it long enough.
He regained some strength, and was awake. He might as well try to make his way there; friendly or not, he had to keep going.
He walked with caution along the remains of the roads within Pineville. He practically tip-toed. He sipped on the ale whenever necessary. It was growing on him but what choice did he have? He noticed a road mark: Highway 99. It hung on its last screw, squeaking as it swung momentarily.
The road looked hopeless behind him, as if it led nowhere. Possibilities and answers were in front of him. He looked around cautiously, while doing his best not to make any noise. With every step, the glow of lights in front of him grew larger of which were compelling to look at it in the moment.
The journey was taxing at night, but not as bad as during the day. The lack of sun meant less heat, and less heat made it easier to travel – but only if you were prepared for the temperature change.
Looking out into the desert, though, was troubling – as if looking out into deep ocean water while submerged. What was lurking? Paranoia. Langston tried not to look to the sides, but rather only toward what was in front of him. Lights.
He grew fidgety with the journey; his nervousness heightened. A flock of crows cawed without warning, taking flight in his peripheral vision. More crows. They previously fed on the remains of a wild hare, which lied on the side of the road. All that remained of the hare was fragments of dark, reddish meat, wrapped around cracked bones and shredded organs.
The sound of the crows startled him, causing him to run. He tripped and fell, due to the oversized pants he wore. During his tumble, the jug of ale slipped from his fingers. It shattered when it hit the ground. The ale oozed from the cracked jug and engulfed a portion of the asphalt.
Through the liquid he could see the reflection of the stars in the sky, as well as the sun. The sun still had a dark orange glow, but it was not bright enough to light the land. He also noticed his face, touching his cheeks with his fingertips. He sat at the edge of the sand to gather himself. His reflection and the stars were the only things that seemed normal in the last few hours.