Post-Apocalypse Dead Letter Office Part 2

Before leaving, I took another look at the little map I'd drawn of Denver, and realized I would never be able to find the address with it, so I rummaged around the house I'd been squatting in and found an old yellow pages and ripped the map parts out of it after circling Sean's address nearest I could find it and drawing a route from where I was pretty sure I was.

It was clear as a bell when I left the house in the morning. The whole city was so quiet as I rode up the highway through the other suburbs. I saw maybe a couple dozen people stirring outside as I rode, cooking breakfast over wood fire in grills or hanging out laundry or weeding their gardens. So few people, though. I know it was almost like Wichita and... other cities now. Well, the few folks that looked at me gave me odd little doubletakes, like it was obvious I didn't belong, even though I really had tried to blend in. Thought maybe it was my beard.

By the time I made it through Aurora and Glendale and then into Denver proper, though, the sky had clouded over and looked real nasty. There was lightning off above the mountains. I had left my poncho with the rest of the stuff I'd taken off the bike, like a knucklehead a" but then, are there any forecasts anywhere anymore? a" and an hour later I was almost soaked, even though it had only rained about ten minutes. I hopped off before everything on me was completely wet and hid beneath the overhang of an old strip mall storefront. It was coming down in buckets a few minutes afterwards, and I felt lucky I stopped when I had. Not that it would have made a big difference to me, *cause my clothes were already pretty much soaked through, but it's a big pain to ride in that stuff. I propped my back up against the storefront wall and sat straight down, then immediately felt a stiffness in my chest. Well, I realized in a second what was wrong, and pulled out the map pages, which were completely soaked and stuck together and ruined.

I set the pages down and just sat there for the better part of a half hour with my head in my hands, when out the corner of my eye I saw someone come out the front of one of the shop doors a ways down. It alarmed me, *cause I thought the whole place was abandoned, but it was a little old lady, at least sixty years old. She didn't even pay me any mind, just walked over to the corner of the overhang to a big bucket a" which had just started overflowing a" at the bottom of the gutter there. She had a little trouble getting it out from under the gutter spout, so I walked over to help her out with it. Soon as I grabbed the bucket she let out a squawk that it belonged to her and I couldn't have it. Well, I didn't know any better. Said I was just trying to help, and she eyed me real close for almost a minute I thought a" felt that long, anyway a" and then nodded and pointed at the bucket. I hauled it to the door for her a" had a little trouble myself, *cause it really was d.a.m.n heavy a" and made to take it inside, but she stopped me and half-grunted to me to put it down. Said OK, and had an idea, so I asked her if she had a yellow pages. She eyed me again, like I had a d.i.c.k growing out of my forehead, and finally said yeah and to come in. I started walking in but she stopped me again and pointed at the bucket. Jesus, you know?

So, I hauled in the bucket for her and she pointed at a door through which to take it. I did, and saw almost a dozen other identical buckets, and half of them were filled. I walked back out and took a good look around. Couldn't tell what kind of store it used to be a" maybe a furniture store, *cause it was so big in area, and there were planters stuck all over the place, and the overhead lighting was a bunch of skylights. At a second glance I saw that there were plants in the planters. Most of them looked like regular crops: lots of corn, beans, some tomatoes and chilies, and even some onions or garlic, I don't know. A few other plants I didn't really recognize right away. I about jumped out of my skin a second later, as the old lady had snuck up behind me and pinched me. Freaked me out, I don't mind telling you. She laughed this nasty, throaty laugh and ushered me back to an office-type room. The yellow pages were at a desk and open to the map section in the front. I sat down and tracked down again vaguely where Sean was located and then asked the lady where we were. She flipped a couple pages and pointed one of the boniest fingers I ever seen at an intersection, just northwest of a bigger intersection at I-25 and highway 36.

I asked her how long it'd take me to get up to Holiday Hills. Well, she gave me yet another one of those looks and I felt myself s.h.i.+ver. Said it would take too long to make it up there that day, said it would be better to wait out the rain and go the next day. Then she leaned really close to me, so close I could smell her. She stank like h.e.l.l and I shrank away from her. Recognized then both what she had in mind and part of the odor and realized what she was growing out in the main room. I fell over backwards in my chair and scrambled up and sprinted out the door to the bike. She followed me and squawked out f.u.c.k you and you'll be sorry and other things I couldn't hear or understand at the time. The rain had almost blown over, clouds breaking up to the west, but it was still showering lightly as I got on I-25.

I took the highway 36 exit as it afforded a high point, and I thought I could use it to orient myself. So, I looked over towards where I figured Holiday Hills should be. There was hardly anything there but scorched earth. The whole area west of I-25 and north of highway 36 almost as far as I could see was just a nasty black field with scattered patches of grey and green. A good little bit of the city south of 36 was blackened, too. I couldn't believe my eyes, thought it was an optical illusion or something, but kept riding north from the 36 interchange. Past that, the southbound lanes on I-25 looked really rough, like they'd been melted and cracked open over the winter or something. I took an exit off I-25 around Thornton and headed west to see if I could still locate Sean's place.

There was just ruins down that way. Every single house and apartment and trailer had burned down. I kept riding down to Holiday Hills, to the little avenue where I was pretty sure Sean's place was. All of them, burned down, and there wasn't a soul anywhere nearby. The smell of the whole area was just... I can't describe it, and when I thought about what might be causing it I got real dizzy and had to sit down. I hadn't been tempted to look for a drink in the better part of five years, but just then I'd have sold my soul for one, or maybe a joint or just anything to take the world away.

Well, I don't know how long I sat there, and I can't say exactly why I got back up. But I did. And I rode on back to the interstate, trying to not look at anything but the street. I finally got back to heading south towards the house. The interstate really was cracked up bad down to 36, but I made it through. Just south of there I saw a few other folks, kids really, heading north. They started hooting and hollering at me to stop, but I just kept pressing on. That wasn't the best idea, as they turned around and caught up to me in just a minute or two. A couple of them had bats in hand and looked like they were itching for a reason to put them to use. The leader, maybe he was the leader, I guess I'm not real sure, asked me what the h.e.l.l I thought I was doing on that bike. I didn't figure it'd do to lie to this group, so I told them I was from Wichita and in town looking for my stepson. Told them where I'd looked today. I half-expected them to start jeering at me and start a beat down, but they all got real quiet. One of the other ones piped up and said, real gentle-like, that I'd probably ought to call off my search, as the fire had started in the middle of the night and n.o.body in the area had lived through it. He also said I'd either have to get out of town or stop using the bike, as the city bosses only let a few people a" including themselves, of course a" use them, and that they couldn't guarantee they'd be so nice next time they saw me on one... or that another group would be nice at all. None of them volunteered any more info, and I didn't want to press. Might have been ugly, especially for me.

So I rode back down to the house, and by the time I got there the sun was almost down. Forgot how fast it gets dark once that sun's at the top of the mountains. Couldn't bring myself to look at the sunset. I ate maybe two ravioli out of a can then took a hard look at the booze there in the cabinet but the thought of drinking it made me feel sick to my stomach, so I laid down on the abandoned bed and tried to not think about anything. I guess I must have fell asleep at some point, but I woke up feeling as tired as I'd ended the day before. Well, I went downstairs and ate the rest of the can of ravioli, then thought about heading back into town to look a bit more for Sean, despite the risks and fact that I'd seen... what I'd seen the day prior. Went outside to gauge the weather and saw that the bike's tires were slashed. And, on the door of the garage someone had written, "SQUATTER GO HOME!" in red paint. I thought a minute on why they'd slash my tires when they want me to get out of town, but got lightheaded again and went back inside.

Well, at that point I figured there wasn't any point in trying to stick around any longer, so I stuffed as much of the canned and dried goods as I could into my backpack, especially the coffee. There was a couple bikes inside the garage that had the same kind of tubes and tires as the bike I was riding, so I replaced the tubes and tires and took the others as spares. (Maybe the person(s) who did the slas.h.i.+ng knew there were more bikes in there... didn't really care to find out.) Stuck the rest of the c.r.a.p I'd taken off before back on the bike, and left as quickly and quietly as I could.

It was clouding up again by the time I hit the exit for I-70 east, maybe early afternoon, then started raining about a half hour later. Caught me off guard a" I hadn't even looked back as I left the city. I rode through it, even though there was lightning strikes just to the south of me about every five minutes. Probably should have stopped, but I wasn't thinking too straight that day. Couple hours later it had pa.s.sed me by and the sun came out. I was in Bennett a while after that, and figured it was as good a place as any to rack out. Next day I made it into Limon, with just a little bit of rain in the afternoon. Despite what had happened in Denver, I was riding much faster than before. I suppose it was having the wind at my back, pus.h.i.+ng me on... well, something had to be.

Truth be told, I had completely changed my mind about what I was going to do. I figured it would be best to just not go back to Wichita at all. Instead, I'd ride all the way to Kansas City, where I could see you and explain things. I hadn't thought past that point, but hoped something halfway positive would come out of it. After all, we've got history, you know. So that's what was motivating me, what was really pus.h.i.+ng me.

A couple days out of Limon I was just about to Burlington. I stopped in Bethune there for the rest of the day, then got up at dusk and waited. Once it got late enough, must have been the wee hours of the morning, I hopped on the bike and pedaled quietly as I could into Burlington. I couldn't stop pedaling because that would make a noise, and I didn't want to be heard. So I went through town there as quickly and quietly as possible. Well, there was a guard shack of some kind on the eastern end of town, just after the spot where I was initially waylaid. A torch or candle was lit in the shack, and someone was sitting outside in a chair. I couldn't very well turn back at that point, so I just kept on going like it was n.o.body's business. The guard was asleep, or at least, he had his eyes closed. I kept pedaling, and was past him. I relaxed a bit but kept pedaling, then about a half a minute later I heard a "HEY!" At that point I knew I'd been found out and just started going flat out. A minute or so after that I heard a couple whistling noises go by, one just to the southeast and south of me. I started getting lightheaded but pressed on for as long as I possibly could, which was about ten minutes. I slowed down a bit, but kept pedaling until I really blacked out. Couldn't tell you how long it was before that, or how long I was out. But I had a pretty good sc.r.a.pe my head when I came to, as the sun was just coming up, and was in a real steep ditch just off the interstate. Well I scrambled up the side of the ditch best I could and peeked out to see if anyone was watching. n.o.body was in sight, so I hauled the bike back up to the road, hopped back on and kept at it. I was in Goodland by the end of the day, so I must have been making decent headway.

I probably should have just gotten off the interstate and taken some country roads around. But the rains had kept up and it would have been a G.o.dawful mess just hauling the bike up to a country road where there was no exit. Not to mention that the country roads probably weren't in very good shape, as from what I saw they were almost all dirt and gravel. That and I hadn't been thinking real straight since before Denver.

A day or two after, I had stopped in Oakley mid-afternoon. It had started raining real hard and I just didn't have the energy to go much further that day. So, I squatted out by an old Montana Mike's steakhouse. An hour or so later a cyclist pulled up. I'd heard him a minute before and hidden myself. He knew what was what, though, and called out to me. Said he'd seen my tracks leading into the parking lot. I stayed hid, but he kept calling me out and said he meant no harm. He didn't look real tough, so I finally walked out to meet him. Young guy, said he was a "special courier" for some folks in Denver, heading into Lawrence to make a delivery. I didn't ask him any further about that. But, seeing as how we were going the same way, I asked if he wanted to ride together. He shrugged and kind of agreed, and we left out the next day.

We rode along with each other for several days. The kid was really in shape, probably wanted to go faster. But, I had a bunch of canned and dried goods yet, and so he kept pace with me. It kept raining on us pretty steadily, only one real day of decent sun, between WaKeeney and Hays.

Well, we were riding and were maybe ten or so miles west from Salina when the courier spotted a group of five or six guys coming north, just over a ridge south of the interstate. Just as they crested the ridge, one of the men let out a war whoop and waved his hands, obviously trying to get our attention. Through the rain, it looked like they were carrying something like a big box. As they got closer, we figured out it was a man, and that he was pretty seriously injured. You could hear the moans from fifty yards away. Well, at that point, the courier said he'd ride on ahead and let a doc in town know to expect company pretty soon. He was out of sight in two minutes a" so d.a.m.n fast. Wasn't sure at that point whether he was really going to alert folks or just to get the h.e.l.l out of dodge in case the men weren't the friendly sort.

The men came up on me pretty d.a.m.n quick. There were eight of them, and they were almost completely silent except for the one moaning until they reached me. One of them said "our friend is hurt", or words like that in pretty broken English. They were all Mexican except for the one being carried. He was a blonde kid, not even thirty I bet. Probably just a couple years older than Sean... his leg was splinted and cinched tight with leather straps and he had a black eye and a b.u.mp on his forehead, and they were carrying him with leather straps supporting him from below. It was a f.u.c.king mess. They pointed at the bike and I immediately understood what they wanted. I resisted for about a half a second, but the kid being carried moaned again, and he said "mama". Well... I just let go of the bike, didn't even think about taking my own stuff off it. Just let them have it. They said "Gracias" almost in unison, put the kid on the bike best they could and turned east towards Salina. They moved a bit quicker than me, of course, and were out of sight within ten minutes or so. I hoofed it as long as I could, almost into town. There was a farm barn on the outskirts, and it was really dry inside and there was even some dry hay, so I took off my soaking wet clothes and rolled up in that and fell asleep.

And that's where I am now. Well, Salina. I made it into town yesterday. Somehow found the courier a" actually, I got found out by him. He really did help out, let a local surgeon know the men were coming into town. I wanted to get moving on from there, but the courier said he didn't know where my bike was. Said he heard a couple of the men tussled over it after getting the kid into the doc's place. One of them won out and took off, couldn't say which way.

Well, that was that, pretty much. I didn't figure it was realistic any more that I could make it to you in KC without a bike. I asked, really begged the courier to stick around another day. He did under duress a" and a threat by me that I'd tell some local folks what he was hauling (a bluff by me that actually worked for once). So, I been sitting in an emptied out Wal-Mart all afternoon and evening writing this to you on whatever I could sc.r.a.pe together. Figured you should at least know what happened.

Not sure where to go from here. I suppose I can scavenge up some supplies to get me on my way south. Maybe beg off some more flour from the local Methodists.

Well, regardless, I have a 90-mile walk ahead of me, and it's raining. Hope things are better for you in Kansas City. If I get dizzy again and never come out of it, please know that you'll be the last thing I think about before it all goes black.

All that's left of my love, Sam.

P.S. - I'm sorry this letter was so long... I just wanted you to know that I didn't half-a.s.s this whole thing like the everything I did before you left. I tried so hard this time and, there's not much else I can say except I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

To: Mike Dunham, Abilene, KS.

From: d.i.c.k Dunham, Burgin, KY.

March 5th, 20+4.

Mike-.

Got your letter about two weeks ago now. I pa.s.sed it on to Dad, but he's so far gone now that what he said doesn't make a whole h.e.l.l of a lot of sense. I have a fair inkling what he would have said about your little game plan had you sent it to us a few years ago. Mama took a look at it, too.

Do you remember when you were 12 and I was 15 years old. That summer we were both working on Finn Murray's farm, topping tobacco and generally lending a hand. He never paid too well, remember? I think it was $25 a day split between the two of us and we had to bring our own food and water. It was so G.o.d d.a.m.n hot that year. But do you remember one day, it had just been a scorcher, and we weren't getting on so great. Murray was loaded by noon and gave us each a sip of that clearpouring dynamite. Well, I took another slug or two off it after he stumbled back into the cab of the truck. Then once that badness had taken effect on me, I think I'd tossed a clod of dirt at you and caught you full in your pudgy little face with it. And you a" I think you might have taken an extra sip, too a" tried to tackle me and then I nicked myself with Dad's old knife trying to get you off of me. G.o.d d.a.m.n Mr. Murray was furious, threatened to send us home with no pay and to tell our folks that we couldn't come back. And we punched each other in the shoulder on the truck ride back. And then we hosed off out back and went inside for dinner, and I was hungry and happy but you looked like you'd tasted an unripened persimmon.

We were having sweet potatoes, pan fried chicken and cukes and onions. We three a" Dad, Mama and I a" dug right into it after grace, but you didn't pick up a fork, much less spoon anything on to your plate. We all carried on for a few minutes until Mama asked if you were going to join us. (Actually, Dad kept eating. I remember a" he took more cukes.) And when you said no, she asked whether she could get you anything. Then it happened. You didn't even raise your voice, but simply had some requests ready. New clothes, not hand me downs. A little allowance so you wouldn't have to work in old Murray's stinking hot fields. And then, a new family in California.

Well. Honestly, that's pretty mild stuff compared to what me and Kat used to get from Lloyd and Jennie. But back then?!

Do you remember seeing Mama's reaction when you said that? Her eyes kind of got glazed over and far away seeming. She didn't cry about it, just stood up, wiped her hands on her napkin and went outside and sat on the porch swing the rest of the evening. I remember that was also the very first time Dad never swatted you for getting so far out of line, and that was almost the farthest you'd ever been. He just stopped eating, told us to clean up the table, then took his pipe outside and sat with Mama as we washed and dried and put away the dishes in silence. But do you remember her face at that moment? That was the face she had after she'd read your letter, read what you're planning.

The bottom line is this: you really ought to reconsider your plan. In fact, cancel it outright, is what it comes right down to.

I know you're not about to be swayed by emotion here. So ready yourself for some argumentation now. I took the time to read your letter and detailed plan, and I hope that you'll take the time to read this reb.u.t.tal to it. I went around to a few other nearby ranches, as well, and every one of them had the same response. BAD IDEA.

First and foremost, you're not a G.o.d d.a.m.n horse rustler, much less a bandit, cow-poke, -boy, -hand or anything -else. After you took all those "prep" cla.s.ses and graduated from Burgin, snagged yourself a Berkeley degree, gigged at interns.h.i.+p after interns.h.i.+p and then scored yourself an MBA. We couldn't believe it. Our scholars.h.i.+p boy. Didn't hear from you for almost five years, except for the regular semester transcript and dean's list announcements and periodic postcard from your latest post that "needed a person to survey the situation, develop a plan to remedy the wrongs and put that plan in action... and who wanted a good lackey to serve that person coffee their way." (Your words.) But the end result, hey, that was terrific and we all respected it and knew you'd do great things with your smarts. Then Denver. You gave us a heads up, but we never knew what happened to you, with you while you were in Denver. Were you skiing, watching the Broncos, the Avalanche, the Rockies? You couldn't have been watching the Nuggets, could you? Not a word. You never called, never e-mailed, never wrote for over a year and a half. Never even sent us an address. We only learned that you'd moved to Denver after you'd moved on to Abilene, and only then after you had already been in Abilene for three months. Had your corporate compadres kicked you out? Had you chased a skirt out there and then to Abilene, or fled from some crazy person? No clue. Anyway, by that time I'd taken up with Kat (then Monegan) at her folks' abode, working with the foals, but I could still see our folks' place from the MOBAR ranch. They left the front porch light on as they always had. Before you wrote from Abilene, I know I saw Mama out there once or twice a month, at least, sitting on the swing. Anyway, we finally got word from you that you were there in Abilene. Weren't sure what was there for you, as all you'd sent was a manila envelope with a box of chocolates and a "Kansas at night" postcard with "prettiest town I ever seen" written on the back and tucked inside it. We all laughed at the joke you were making, but later on we weren't sure that we or you truly knew the joke you were making there. Mama mentioned that she ate one of those chocolates out of the box every week, even the cherry mash kind. (Yeah, I know.) And at least you'd included your return address this time, and so we wrote back. Mama said that she felt like you were coming back home to us, one time zone at a time. Then, of course, the clocks stopped working. I don't want to talk about that. We saw hards.h.i.+p in the first couple years afterwards. I'm sure you saw hards.h.i.+p. Chocolate probably isn't all that high on the list of necessities once the power and water goes out and your car turns into a brick. But the fact remains that once you made your mind up on what you wanted to do a" which I think we all agree was when you were 11 or 12 a" you pushed forward with your professional plans and never spent time getting to know much else. And that spirit of yours is what inspired you to come up with this idea, but ideas are cheap and work ain't anymore. You're a businessman, Mike, a manager a" not a ranch hand.

The risk in what you propose so far outweighs the possible benefits that, for me, it's not worth discussing. But Duke Monegan said I'm not doing this for my own benefit a" though I wonder about that a" so here goes. None of us here know the men you're falling in with to do this. Are you certain you can trust them? Not to not stab you in the back or anything silly like that. But are they going to stand by you if you get in a jam? Are they going to risk getting trampled if you fall off your mount in the middle of a stampede? Risk drowning to save you if there's a flash flood in a gulch? It sounds to me like this is a pretty mercenary operation, and that can often draw the wrong kinds of people. I know you mentioned that you had good prospects for "selling" your herd once you acquired it, but are these solid offers or just rumors? How in the h.e.l.l are you going to keep that many horses alive and corralled long enough to sell them? You didn't mention any of this in your plan, and I know you know better than to just let them roam in some fenced-in farmer's pasture. That's always been a good way to get into mighty hot water, even moreso nowadays.

You might have maps, and the roads are probably still pa.s.sable in your neck of the woods, but have you scouted things out? Do you know exactly where the herd is, what its range is? The temperament of the group as a whole. Also, since I more or less backed into this topic, a few words on your quarry. Mustangs are the most worthless G.o.d d.a.m.n animals on the face of this earth. You're right that they're fast, but they're so blinkering stupid and bad tempered, I can't imagine a good use for them except as in a stew of some kind or glue. I'm dead serious. They sure as h.e.l.l aren't going to be any use to couriers a" they're probably a bit quicker than a bike, if you can even get them broken in. But they'll just go native once they're out on the range again. None of those couriers know how to handle an animal, anyway. Good kids, just not hors.e.m.e.n, and I doubt your meager and dubious "contribution" would do much, if anything, to change that.

All in all, your idea is terrible and I'm sure as h.e.l.l not sending saddles and tack and what few good hands I have here to risk their necks for some shot in the dark. I don't want this to be completely me busting you out, so let me make you a counteroffer here. I've got more business on my hands now that I can reasonably handle. Burros, mules, and pack and draft horses a" people need breeds capable of doing real work, and we've got them but not in sufficient numbers and their manners still aren't all they should be. If you trust them as much as you seem to, bring your boys back here to work at the MOBAR. We'll put them up, feed them decent food and provide a cozy spot for them to hang their hats. I'll tell you what to have them do, and you make sure they do it. You've always been much better at working with people than me. Then, once we've got a good handle on the current business, we can look into getting some Arabians and working them into good courier mounts. They're so much better than those wild a.s.s mustangs.

You want to completely break Mama's heart? Then just go right on ahead with your plan there. You want to make Mama cry? Come back to Burgin.

Your brother, d.i.c.k.

To: Tess Lorantz c/o Eileen Gold, Leavenworth, KS.

From: Alvy Garraldo, Geneva, NY.

Sepember 29, 20+6.

T.-.

You wouln't beleive it. f.u.c.king fired. f.u.c.king fired me. Said I was drinkning to much and was no good laying abound, hiting the stupid wetbacks to hard.

Those squarhead f.u.c.ks. Wasnt my fault harvist failed. No s.h.i.+tf.u.king rain this year. Everything dry as bones.

Show them. so dry, Ill burn it all all down. p.i.s.s on it the ashes.

f.u.c.kins squarheads. The'll burn.

Than Im coming for you.

-A.

To: Tess Lorantz c/o Eileen Gold, Leavenworth, KS.

From: Alvy Garraldo, Geneva, NY.

October 19, 20+3.

Tess-.

Want to apologize for the last letter. Everything had hit rock bottom on the island and in the metro area. Riots, Papa's wine tour business had gone under, of course (not that there was much wine then, anyway), there was hardly enough food to cut it here, and people out and out starving in the city, no word from you.

Still none.

Moved to Geneva this spring. Things improved a bit last year a" most folks are somehow or other getting enough food to sc.r.a.pe by a" but once Papa died I couldn't stand it anymore. He had a good connection to one of the wineries up here, so I'm upstate for the long haul. I'm a glorified f.u.c.king day laborer, but I do mostly supervising and at least there's enough to eat and drink at the end of the day.

The whole thing is still eerie as s.h.i.+t, though. Like these guys I'm working for, they turn Rieslings by the boatload. I don't go for it all that much, but again, beggars ain't choosy. So, they have all this white, and with what doesn't sell or isn't the best they make brandy out of it. I've been there when they're doing this. The brandy turns out OK, right, but they've tried making moons.h.i.+ne or some s.h.i.+t out of it. They tried it once. Once they get their still rolling and it was pumping out stuff that was 100 proof or above, the weird s.h.i.+t happened. The booze curdled into this gray sludgy s.h.i.+t. It backed up the still and almost blew up before we got it off the fire. That would've been the end of me, at least. But instead, it's just the end of trying to make white lightning. Seriously, what the f.u.c.k is that stuff?

Still missing you, T. If you get this, come back to New York. I've got a little credit with these guys and can spring a" in bottles of Riesling and Pinot Grigio a" for your trip. When you get to town, just ask about Wilson Creek Vineyard and Farm. We make plenty of deliveries into town, and can pick you up there.

-Alvy P.S. a" Say h.e.l.lo to your aunt from me.

To: Tess Lorantz c/o Eileen Gold, Leavenworth, KS From: Alvy Garraldo, West Babylon, NY July 13, 20+1 Tess- Where are you? Where are you? Haven't heard a f.u.c.king thing, not a word out of you for over a year now. Things are s.h.i.+t here. Just s.h.i.+t. Are you seeing the date I'm writing this on? You swore to me, PROMISED ME IN FRONT OF G.o.d AND EVERYBODY you'd always be here for me. And WHERE ARE YOU NOW?!

You f.u.c.king liar.

-A.

[Keeping these together, just in case we get more. -Rand M.]

To: Geraldine Engle or RESIDENT, From: Arlen "Itzamna's Scribe" Morris, Manitou Springs, CO May 14, 20+6 Dear Resident- Through my own industry, the boons of the G.o.ds and the magic of ditto machinery, I am able to offer to you and 375 other inquisitive individuals of discriminating taste the first printing of the first edition of MORE NEW MAYAN MYSTERIES REVEALED!

Possibly you are familiar with my previous works, Mayan Mysteries Revealed! and New Mayan Mysteries Revealed! With its publication in 1995 and having accurately predicted Guatemala's Fuego eruption of 2002 as a harbinger a" specifically, the predictive text reads "... and soon the G.o.ds will return and bring fire to their const.i.tuents and herald the coming of the end" a" Mayan Mysteries Revealed! has proven to be of seminal importance to the field of Cosmomayatology. If so, you almost certainly are aware that since publis.h.i.+ng that volume's successor, New Mayan Mysteries Revealed!, so many events predicted within its pages a" too many to relate here! a"have come to pa.s.s that have proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that New Mayan Mysteries Revealed! was a stunningly prophetic revelation. However, since these events did not coincide with the December 2012 dates discovered and put forth in print by yours truly (and other pale imitators and plagiarists) a complete rea.s.sessment of the cosmological timeline was necessitated. This was not my own idea, for having miserably seen what I had prophesied come to pa.s.s I was contented to let my own minor errors pa.s.s into oblivion as a slight shadow next to the blazing golden truth that is New Mayan Mysteries Revealed! Rather, two years ago I was visited upon for four straight nights by the Becabs. Through their visits, speaking only in the complex spiritual geometry they themselves created, the Becabs fully revealed to me their larger plan. It has taken me over a year and a half to pa.r.s.e out, a.n.a.lyze and fully comprehend this plan, THIS GREAT WORK, and another half year to write it out and annotate it.

Other mysteries abound, entangled with, coinciding with and completely apart from the question of the Becabs' visitations and revelations. Are there reptoids astride on our planet, and if so are they descendants of Quetzalcoatl (i.e., VENUSIANS) or mere cosmic interlocutors from a separate? Do the Lords of Xibalba have plans to interfere with the great work set forth by the Becabs? What did the government know about my prophecies and when did it know it and is the government even in existence now and can they see you? (Hint: YES, they can!) Surely you are interested in such mysteries. Surely you want to know the answer to these questions. They and many others are answered in MORE NEW MAYAN MYSTERIES REVEALED!!!

More Predictions! More REVELATIONS! Satisfaction guaranteed!

I am not publis.h.i.+ng this volume to make a profit, only to further the cause of revealing the truth, so please DO NOT SEND CASH, only NON-PERISHABLE COMESTIBLES to Mayan Revelations, Manitou, CO. Namaste!

-Arlen "Itzamna's Scribe" Morris To: Arnold "Smitty" Schmidt, Lawrence, KS From: Your eastern friends, St. Louis, MO February 10th, 20+6 Smitty- Hey, buddy. Been a while since we heard from you. Been laying low lately? Can't say I blame you. Things blew up pretty good around there, huh?

Word got to us about Biggs's f.u.c.kup. His own range, his own backyard and he can't run good product past the local yokels without his operation getting found out, and by a bunch of Nebraskans of all people. I'd say it's a shame, really, but I don't think that. What little I heard about old Biggs through the grapevine matched up pretty well with the real life version. Only met him once in St. Louis, just before he took over in Lawrence. Seemed like such a clever guy. Obviously totally lazy, and a d.i.c.k to boot, but clever nonetheless. Not surprising, that s.h.i.+t catches up with you. Heard it was Petey that sold him out. Ha! Always thought Petey was Biggs's little b.i.t.c.h. Definitely wasn't good for business anywhere, but good on him for getting out and taking down Biggs with him.

The muckity mucks in Cleveland are peeved about this development, of course, but don't really want to start any s.h.i.+t down your way. They've had enough trouble lately fending off the long arm of the law. Some folks up in Cleveland and Columbus are starting to really and truly reconst.i.tute the local governments, and they've got some serious muscle at their disposal. One of the extended operational bosses in Chicago actually got strung up last spring! So, the head honchos can't afford to move any people into your range any time soon, if ever. They've actually been talking about reworking their game plan, s.h.i.+fting the "mission" of the entire organization. Swear to G.o.d I was there when one of them dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.ds used the word "mission statement". Who in the h.e.l.l talks like that anymore? Of course, they think I'm just some jerkoff leg, but I bet half a Folgers can of dope (good stuff, not that ditch weed you grow out west) I went to a better business school than he did, and I can recognize MBA-speak when I f.u.c.king hear it. No idea how a twit like that made it so f.u.c.king far up the totem pole. Chances are he's in someone's extended family.

Speaking of families, there's also been way way too much inter-syndicate violence the past couple of years. Our syndicate and the ranges therein are all run by Poles. Don't know whether you were aware of the fact. Guess it doesn't matter so much. But they've had several run-ins with the Chicago mob, the Italians. Our syndicate takes out a couple of their boys a year, at the very least, and vice versa. (Ours a" yeah right. I'll never be more than a hired hand. A couple of the real a.s.sholes have started calling me Tonto a" one of the main f.u.c.king reasons I'm writing you.) It racks up, man. Add to those bodies the mistaken hits that get made a" the information network ain't what it used to be, obviously a" and the poor dopes who have to get put out to pasture because they saw a beatdown or a deal or just about anything they weren't supposed to see, and we're talking serious body counts.

Don't it make you wonder, sometimes a" is there still a Poland or an Italy? Should we make a trip across the pond and start some s.h.i.+t with the locals there, just like old times but in reverse? We'd probably best start with the Portuguese. Heh.

Really, this whole government resurgence thing is our own f.u.c.king fault. Well, the bosses' a" yeah, you'd better believe I'm pa.s.sing that buck up. (Ain't one of them who'd think twice about blaming me for some f.u.c.kup.) With so many of the abovementioned sloppiness, all the outright violence and the general ill-will towards the syndicates a" can you blame them, for the price we charge just to get letters from A to B?) a" it's no f.u.c.king surprise these sad sacks finally started saying enough is enough.

Anyway, it sounded like they're pretty serious about changing things. First off, they're talking about making deals with the new-forming governments. s.h.i.+t like normalizing the ranges and running them under some kind of semi-official, semi-commercial arrangement. Taking almost all the"profit motive" a" yeah, what little there is, right? a" out of this gig. They f.u.c.king just don't realize the kind of risks that we take day in and day out. I think it's really a cover story the bosses are pus.h.i.+ng. They might actually put some structure into this operation to get on the good side of the law, but they'll keep the margins on their services as high as they can get away with. If the bosses are good at one thing, it's obscuring their profits. Even I don't know how much our syndicate clears per parcel delivered. I know roughly the average of how much it costs, but the profit remains a mystery, and I'll bet that's just how they want it.

There has also been talk of the more profitable side of things also falling under the government banner. Couldn't begin to tell you how that might play out. I think it's just talk to leak to the farmers, to try and get them against the side of law and order. Legitimizing the products farmed by syndicate operations would have a big negative effect on a lot of these farms, and I mean a lot. h.e.l.l, you should see half the countryside here in late spring. Looks like blankets of red draped over everything. I expect they grow opium not just in Nebraska but Kansas too, yeah? Ever get sleepy making a run on the yellow brick road? "Poppies!" Ha ha sorry a" it was too obvious a shot to not take. You still remember that movie? Seems like it's been forever since movies and all that other stuff. Well, anyway, I might be reading too much into how and why word of this is getting around so much.

This is all relevant to but not really what I'm writing to you about. What these w.a.n.ks really don't understand a" and that, oddly enough, these redneck cornshuckers, hog callers, the settlers of old and other a.s.sorted rubes DO get a" is that there really is no "legit" any more except for the promise and occasional deliverance of fatal violence that doesn't gain anyone anything. Wait, scratch that last part about not gaining anyone anything. But listen: no gold standard, no ISO-based organizations, no f.u.c.king metric system (except for our bikes), no nothing but fists. Impossible to tell who we have to thank (or curse) for that, but the fact is that it's the way things are. Maybe it still was the way when we had internet and the UN and all the other bulls.h.i.+t, just obscured enough that no one really thought about it much.

Sorry, I'm ranting. Been smoking a bit much this evening. Anyway, here's the deal. It's me and three other guys: Monty, Hal and Sean. You know Monty and Hal. They were a couple years ahead of us at Haskell. Crazy k.n.o.bs, not that bright but... yeah, just crazy, pretty much. Sean's of Irish descent but he's still a good guy, originally from northern California. He's the idea guy.

Here's his idea: we ride west out of St. Louis, pick you up in Lawrence and keep on towards the coast, working odd jobs, pilfering if necessary. Once we get to Colorado we turn north to avoid Denver and Colorado Springs, and go through Fort Collins. Keep on north to Cheyenne, maybe score a few horses a" beats pus.h.i.+ng yourself, yeah? a" then turn west again and ride all the way to Salt Lake City. Pick up supplies on the way and turn northwest. Head up through Idaho to Pocatello and then Boise. Sean says there's hot springs somewhere in Idaho that we could rest our sore a.s.ses in. What the h.e.l.l ever, I say, just give me some dope. After a few days or however long we feel like staying in Boise (why more than a day or so, I don't know a" maybe there's some willing chicks there?) we head west again, straight through the middle of Oregon. Stop for a bender in Bend, then head onto Eugene. Sean says that Eugene is a soft little town near the coast, and some of Monty's people (Coquille) live near there, like right on the coast. Perfect for hanging our hats, raising a little bud, fis.h.i.+ng for salmon. And if not, h.e.l.l, we can always go on from there, north or south. Oh, say you'll join us. It'll be so f.u.c.king fun, just like the Haskell days... except with a little more drug abuse and maybe violence. Hee hee hee. If you won't, don't take our reaction personal, OK?

See you soon, buddy. Red Bill, Three-spoke Monty, Hal B. and Sean Mac To: Biggs Carroll, Lawrence, KS From: Pete Weixelman, Hamburg, IA March 23, 20+6 Biggs- Hey, man. You were out "on a job" when I stopped by. I wanted to tell you this in person, but I can't wait for you to get back from Ottawa or Harrisonville or wherever you're trying to score some poon, so I suppose a letter will have to do.

I'm quitting. Here's why.

I was with you from the beginning, man. When everything went down six years ago, I didn't really know what to do. But I thought that the only thing I did know was that you had a plan. And it really seemed that way a" actually, it's obvious now that it was/is that way, but you planned more than you let on. We hung low, all of us, for a year or so after the university shut down. I still can't believe it took such a short period of time for the whole system to fall apart. Don't know why I think that. Guess I shouldn't be surprised by it. But then, hey, our little clique worked its way into the new "order" of things. We busted our a.s.ses, all of us and not least of all you. We all know you skimmed a bit off the top for yourself a" h.e.l.l, still do. We were all willing to forgive you for taking cush runs. I can overlook the pretty cut and dried way you run the operation. I'm even over the fact that you got Amy liquored up and banged her when she was supposed to be my girl. Still hurts a little, but I'm over it.

Here's the thing that really tears it for me, though. Two weeks ago I was making a run from Topeka up to Lincoln. It's no small task, as you well know, especially with the parcels I had loaded up. Started out at first light, just like usual. Made it up to Holton, that dive, in about two hours, just like usual... almost. The wind had really picked up by that point, and I had to buckle down to get up to Sabetha by mid-day. Broke bread a" if you can call it that a" there and refilled my water bottles. There's a pretty little reservoir just north of town. Probably wouldn't have lasted too long this year had the drought kept up. Lucky for Sabetha. Made it up to Auburn, NE, about three hours later and decided to hang my hat there for the rest of the day and evening. Well, just south of town at the old golf course clubhouse. Auburn itself is a sty, if you ask me. Plus, I'd stashed a bottle of vodka there several years ago. So, I had an early a" and well-deserved, I'm sure you'll agree a" nip, ate a bit of parched corn and a decent slice of cured ham, and took a nap. Woke up to the prettiest sunset with the blade of a corn knife pointed at my face.

It was an old, old man. Had to have been at least 55, probably more like 60. I can't really tell what he said, he muttered just like almost every other Beefer you'll ever meet. Well, I think he asked if I was one of Carroll's boys. I nodded tentatively and he shook the corn knife at me. Well, it was already shaking, but he I'm pretty sure meant to do it this time. He motioned for me to get and, then pointed his machete at my bike, which I'd leaned against the shade tree I'd been napping under. He said something like "impack datchunk nah, sehn. *isez mah fis.h.i.+n' hoal." I understood hardly a G.o.dd.a.m.n word, of course, except maybe I thought he wanted to see if I had bait or something a" I don't know why, I'm not used to waking up to old people waving edged things at me a" so I walked over to the bike and pointed at it. The old geezer nodded furiously and his eyes bulged. I made a nervous glance over to the bottle of vodka lying a few feet from the tree. He followed my eyes and gasped when he saw it. I took that as a go-ahead, grabbed the bike and mounted it at a full sprint. So desperate was the mount that I didn't look back until I was at the very least a half a mile away. The old buzzard hadn't followed me. I bet he was drinking my vodka as I fled. Hope he choked on it.

I don't know how the guy found me. Maybe he saw a glint off the bike as I came over a hill. Regardless, I didn't stop pedaling until I was past Nebraska City. By that time it was dusk, and I'd covered more than a century, fully loaded, with a headwind. I stopped, wheezing and giddy, at another golf course west of NE City. (Didn't want to stay in the city proper a" G.o.d knows who's lurking about in that place.) Then the rain started. I'd seen it coming in since just after leaving Sabetha. Well, it is March, I thought. I lucked out, in that I'd made it that far without getting wet, and also in that the clubhouse door was easy to unlock. There was a good covered patio there, but why stay outside when I can be inside, right? Anyway, I brought the bike inside with me, finished off the rest of my water, put the bottles outside to fill on their own, and crashed hard in one of those weird plastic lounge chairs. I only woke up once. I thought I heard growling and snuffling outside, but it was probably just the thunder.

I woke up the next morning hungry as a bear in spring. I rummaged around in the clubhouse kitchen for some non-perishable stuff, but it had long since been cleaned out a" even the non-dairy creamer s.h.i.+t. I didn't even bother opening the fridge, as someone was thoughtful enough to actually put up a sign saying "DO NOT OPEN!" I don't know, maybe some Beefers aren't so bad after all. Hard telling what was behind the door, but I don't relish imagining what it would have smelled like. So, I had a little more parched corn and ham and took a good slug out of a water bottle. They don't fill up as well as you'd think in the rain. Oh yeah, and it was still raining. So, I put on my trunks and poncho, wrapped up my other clothes and started out.

The wind had settled down a bit during the course of the night and never picked up too much after full light, and I made it into Lincoln proper by mid-day. Least, it felt like mid-day a" couldn't really see the sun. Took my time and tooled up that expressway west of the wilderness park. Looks like the Lincolners are putting together a real forestry operation. That spot was never full-on forest, of course a" more like thickety stuff. But they're actively chopping down whatever is there. I think they must be hard up for cooking fuel. Gotta give them credit, though a" I saw kids planting seedlings as their folks worked the larger trees. Most of the folks working stopped what they were doing as I rode by. I waved a" a few waved back. Friendly, I thought.

Anyway, I dropped off that heavy b.a.s.t.a.r.d parcel at the fairgrounds a" what was in that thing, iron cogs? a" left the letters at the non-syndicate delivery office and had a late lunch under a gazebo at Oak Lake park, then took the last couple parcels to the hospital on my way south out of town. Word must have got around that I was in town a" I did not get the reception I expected at the hospital. Suffice it to say, Biggs, that several dozen stout, leathery Beefers a" what pa.s.ses for law enforcement now, I guess a" the local docs and all their friends and neighbors want you to stop distributing opium, pot, magic mushrooms or anything even remotely resembling a narcotic, hallucinogen or psychedelic in Lincoln and, for that matter, everywhere else in Nebraska.

There was no debate. They took the parcels a" opium, I'm guessing, and by the weight of them, quite a couple of prizes you let me pack north a" and the twenty pound sack of cornmeal, and the gallon jar of honey I'd picked up at the non-syndicate location. They did give me a pretty decent beating, though. And a note, but I'm almost certain that it's actually for you. They pinned it to me a" yeah, not to the inside of my jacket, but to ME a" so I wouldn't drop it in my stupor, and sent me on my way.

Well, I was actually able to ride out of town. They kept their blows to my head and arms, fortunately. Ha. I got maybe halfway to Nebraska City that day. Just after dusk I fell off the bike and laid there, wherever it was, and fell asleep/pa.s.sed out/blacked out. I woke up the next morning, dragged myself up onto the bike and started out again. I thought I could just slip back unnoticed, but immediately after I'd rounded Nebraska city to the southwest and was on my way towards Auburn, I saw two people in the distance. They were dressed up in camouflage, poorly, standing right next to each other, and were maybe a hundred yards off. One of them motioned at the other, who fidgeted a bit. I was about to call out, say h.e.l.lo, but a second later I heard a twong sound and then a stiff thunk to my right. I looked around, but there were no deer in the area.

I took this as a sign that the folks in Auburn had become aware of my presence in the vicinity and subsequently rallied themselves. Didn't figure it'd do much good trying to explain myself to them, so I wheeled the bike around and headed back north. Ten seconds later, my right ear exploded. I fell off the bike and cupped my bleeding head. The arrow's momentum was so great that it planted itself right into the blacktop, bits of cartilage stuck to it. I sat for a second, dazed, then whipped out my clothes from a couple days before and held my s.h.i.+rt to my head. I clambered atop the bike again and started off in a wobbly manner. A few seconds later, I heard another thunk about twenty meters to the right and front of me. One last thunk a minute later materialized just a couple meters to my left.

I didn't really know which way to go at that point. I was pretty sure I'd staunched the bleeding, but kept my right hand affixed to my head. I was a little woozy, but finally decided to head east from Nebraska City. From there, I thought, I could catch the interstate southeast and make my way roundabout back to St. Joe. Well, I was a little more dazed than I'd originally thought, and wound up missing the exit. Before I'd realized what had happened, I saw a rusted sign saying "Now exiting Waubonsie State Park". Well, I kept on another mile and hung a right, which I was pretty sure was south. A half hour later I fell off the bike in some teeny town. The sign was scoffing at me. Humbug.

Don't know how long it was before I woke up. An old man that looked like death warmed over was looking down at me, sour as owls.h.i.+t. I heard kind of a noise at the right and felt kind of a tugging at my head. Once I figured out what was going on I pa.s.sed out again. Woke up again probably fifteen minutes later and got properly introduced. When I told him I didn't have anything to give him for the st.i.tches, he waved it off. You know, Biggs, I've been at this game for almost six years now. I'm 25, my knees and back and hips are shot from hauling loads all over this range. I've been cramming down cold handfuls of parched corn, poorly preserved pork and whatever I could rummage up in deserted kitchens daily for over half a decade. One of my ears is turning into cauliflower, and the other is missing. But nothing, nothing in this whole f.u.c.king world made me cry until that moment. What made it even worse a" better? a" is when he suggested we go to their town store to get something to eat.

Popcorn. They grow popcorn, and pop it. It's almost all they eat. Big honkin' bowls of it, hot, salted AND b.u.t.tered. It was heaven, and I seriously don't mind telling you I bawled like a baby as I ate it.

I spent a couple days there, doctor's orders. The town's in bad shape, took a bit of a hit when the dam in South Dakota failed. The doc showed me around town a bit. Podunk, to be certain, but it's all green, got a ball field. I'll be honest. They didn't exactly ask me to stay. But it was clear that the wish for some new blood was there. I told the doc I had to make one more delivery, then I'd be back. And here it is, attached to this letter. I think you'll find it unambiguous. I only wish you were here so I could deliver it to you the way they had intended.

I don't want you to worry, though. I kept all this pretty tight to my chest. I only told Smitty, Thin Tim, Bob Banks, and Len Lindsay the story from start to finish. You never know which one of them might spill it to the rest of the gang, though. Heh.

I know you'd probably say that I should have talked my way out of it with them Beefers. Tried to play it all off as a big misunderstanding. But I'm not your spokesman, Biggs, and I'm sure as s.h.i.+t not your drug mule. I put out word to all the other legs, too. You're out of business, Biggs, and it's your own fault. You also owe me a bottle of vodka. I know I'll never be able to overtake you on a bike and wring it out of you, but if you ever dare deliver it, I'm in Hamburg, Iowa. Growing popcorn.