When they were young, they shared a bond only brothers know. They could read each other’s mind to outwit their parents. Multiple times they stood together against the town bully, Wes Barns. But life had sent them down different roads as young adults and now they tried to deny that the result was two very different men. Maybe it was simply a decaying with age. Time was corrosive. Given enough of it, everything changes. They were no longer kids. All relationships, Marcus had learned, were simply a manifestation of circumstance and convenience, nothing more. The rest of the journey home Bodhi alternated between humming a Johnny Cash tune and commenting about the simple life, nothing enlightening to Marcus, nothing requiring a response, observations on the obvious.
Marcus drove west, the sun dropped behind the horizon and selfishly took its light away. The dark road would lead them home, but Marcus knew that word had no meaning anymore. Home was a place that mattered. It was a place where things could be built and grown; a place that anchored your soul. There were no places like that anymore. Shapes in the darkness slid past them. Even without seeing, Marcus knew they were abandoned places, inhabited only by ghosts. Just like that family in the farmhouse, he thought. But tonight, they had to go somewhere, if for no other reason than to drop off the items they had taken.
Bodhi woke up as Marcus pulled the old truck, now loaded with supplies, into Washburn. Located a few miles north of what had been the Missouri Arkansas border, Washburn’s population had fallen from 1,632 to less than 100 because of the war and aftermath. The town was recovering, and now was over 800. Survivors had come from all over. Survivors searching for a place away from the heavily damaged cities which remained controlled by looters and violent types; a place with healthy soil and good rain where crops could grow easily, a skill that few people could do well in what was now, modern America, or as Bodhi liked to think of the world today, old Montana. Few people were awake at this time of night, mostly the watchmen. One of them raised a hand to stop the truck and Marcus rolled down the window as the man approached. He was dressed in a brown wool coat, military style pants, and had a shotgun ready.
“Hey Marcus, how’d it go? Glad to see you back.”
“Had to go out real far this time. Soon we’ll have to decide if it’s worth the effort.” Marcus replied.
The watchman nodded, “Especially now that the farms are producing and trade is increasing every day.”
“Are the grapes ready yet?”
“Yup, had some today.” Folks in town called the man by his nickname Duke due to the resemblance to John Wayne. “One group hasn’t come back yet.”
“Left the same day as us?”
“Yup,” Duke took a drag on a cigarette, handmade and crude, “It’s been twenty-seven days. I doubt we’ll see them again.” He took off his hat and scratched his head hard. “Hell, some didn’t expect you two back.”
“Yeah, I figured we would be the last.” Marcus noticed how tired the drive home had made him. He put the Chevy back into gear and asked, “Who’s missing?”
“Not sure, just overheard Doc talking.”
Marcus nodded, “Alright then, see you later.”
Washburn, like countless small towns across the country, spent the first couple weeks of the war relatively undisturbed. News programs reported the first attacks happening, but no one was really sure anymore. The violence and chaos spread, and the world unraveled quickly. The technological advances in communication and ubiquitous nature of information had weakened governments and made national borders irrelevant. It was only a matter of time before old alliances broke down which caused the ruling classes to panic and start the conflict which spread around the globe. No one knew how it started or why, but everyone had a bullshit theory.
The fighting was enough to cripple the infrastructure supporting most major cities. The crackdown broke the fragile technology grids, and once the power, television, and radio went dark it was only a matter of days before civilization crumbled in upon itself. Unknown to Washburn at the time, the cities were destroying themselves. Citizens in the rural quiet of southwestern Missouri were wondering, not knowing if the conflict was spreading or concluding. It wasn’t until a week or two after the power went out that things became desperate in Washburn. No trucks were coming and supplies were running out, especially medicine. That was about that time the city survivors began to appear.
Highway 37 into Washburn became a river of the displaced masses. They came from St Louis, Tulsa, Kansas City, Oklahoma City, Jacksonville, and some even farther. People were fleeing the big cities like ants from a flooding creek bed; those still alive were in terrible shape. Most had not eaten in weeks. The walking dead, they came and came. Desperate and dangerous they looked for food, water, shelter, and medicine. And for months the hordes kept coming. The decent became indecent, and the indecent became ruthless. They overran the town and robbed the people of everything that might keep them alive. Killing became casual. For years the country languished in famine, disease, and violence.
When the winters came it devastated those that were still alive. Millions died, and they kept dying until there were few left. It was only then, almost seven years later when the violence calmed that small communities began to reestablish and start over. Populations stabilized and some were now growing slowly, areas like Washburn. Trade with nearby communities with factories or refineries had started. Crops were growing in Washburn and that was a good trade for gas or ammunition, but there was still no medicine.