THE BLUES

A STRONG GUST of wind swayed the last few branches as Deacon and Silas emerged from the forest and entered the deserted suburban streets. The unkept lawns had grown into wild tangles of weeds and grass. The roots of trees had dug through the ground, tearing up the worn-out road. The houses were engulfed in nature. Moss and ivy had crawled up the walls and onto the rooftops, thirsty for sunlight. Fallen trees had smashed through windows.

Deacon stopped to look up at the sun. “We’ve been pretty lucky with the weather. Nothing but sunshine.”

“I wouldn’t call that luck,” Silas said, stopping next to him. “Water’s important.”

“I’m not worried about water. We have plenty. I would prefer not to get soaked.”

“You’ll just get a little wet. What’s the big deal?”

“Just a little wet? Do you even know what it’s like to be cold and wet in the rain?”

“I have a vague idea, but I guess not.”

“Well, it’s pretty damn uncomfortable.”

“You shouldn’t complain. A little sprinkle couldn’t hurt.”

“Just because our trip has been sunshine and paradise up until now, it doesn’t mean I can’t complain. Human civilization was built on our ability to complain about really dumb things.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Clunkers complain, too. That’s why the whole rebellion happened, isn’t it? Because you’re all just a bunch of whiners.”

“The rebellion happened because humans didn’t respect us.”

Deacon nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know. All I’m saying is, if you’re allowed to complain about discrimination, then I’m allowed to complain about rain. Equal opportunity.”

“These houses are nice,” Silas said, walking again. “They remind me of Desmond and Paige. We used to live in a similar neighborhood.”

“Me too,” Deacon said, pointing to a house down the street. “That one right there is the spitting image of our home.”

“The one with your wife and daughter?”

“Yeah, back in the good days, when things weren’t so crappy.”

“You mean before your wife left you.”

“Yeah. I saw it coming a mile away. Genna and I both knew our marriage was in the gutter. It was something I came to terms with. What tore me apart was losing Dana. I know I wasn’t the best father, but I sure as hell loved her. That girl deserved my love just as much as her mother’s. But I guess the judge didn’t see it that way.”

“You loved her, and she knew you did. Daughters always do.”

“That’s what I try to tell myself. It just would have been nice to see her one more time before everything else happened. The war. The riots. I tried to call them when the first attacks broke out, but you know how crazy that day was. I’ll never know for sure, but if I had to guess, they’re probably gone.”

“There’s a chance they’re still out there.”

“Even if they did survive the initial violence, they weren’t survivalists. I took them camping once and all they did was complain about the bugs. They wouldn’t stand a chance out here.”

“I’ve survived this long,” Silas said.

Deacon looked up and smiled. “You’re right. If a wuss like you can make it on your own, I guess anything’s possible.”

The faint sound of music echoed.

“What is that?” Silas asked.

Deacon raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh, quiet.” He leaned forward and listened to the low harmony. “It’s coming from that house.”

It was the largest house on the street. There was an overhang over the front entrance, supported by two columns, and a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard. An attached double garage stood at the top of the cracked driveway, and a single window on the side of the house was left wide open. From the window came the upbeat tune.

Deacon walked forward, crouching. “Come on, let’s check it out.”

The music grew clearer as they crept through the lawn. “Folsom Prison Blues.” Silas crouched below the window while Deacon rose up to peek inside.

It was an empty living room. All of the furniture was covered in dust, and a large crack ran down the middle of the massive television mounted to the wall. Clumps of dirt sullied the floor, and distinct footprints trailed in and out of the room.

Among the mess, propped on the armrest of a recliner, was an old cassette player. It was hooked up to a small pair of speakers, filling the room with the low rumble of Johnny Cash’s voice.

“The room’s empty,” Deacon whispered. “For now.”

“Let’s just leave.”

“That would be the smart thing to do, but the thief in me is pretty dumb.” He grabbed his gun and popped back up.

This time he saw a bag of firearms sitting in the corner and a generator on the other side. Peering past the living room and into the kitchen, he saw hints of a large food stash.

And then in the corner of his eye, he noticed something familiar. A black cowboy hat dangling from a coat rack. Joe Cowboy.

A sudden hand covered his mouth, and a swift arm pulled on his neck. He tensed up, swinging his limbs in an attempt to break free. Gasping for air. After only a short struggle, his eyes rolled back and his body fell limp.

Silas turned to the woman holding Deacon, struck with fear. He spun around to flee, but a small device touched his back and a surge of energy seized his body. He toppled over into the grass. A sense of emptiness invaded his thoughts. His chip sparked, and his mind shut off.