Summit

If you want to call four city blocks a town, you can call it Summit, Utah. At least that's what the good folks up there called it. The only reason I was able to recognize it was the situation of the church against the Frontage Road. Other than that brick edifice the town was run over.

I'd hit the path of the swarm as I went over the point. A million footprints carving a swath of destruction across the desert floor. Nothing stood over an inch tall in this ground. It seems, however, that the Zed do take the path of least resistance, breaking on the high ground.

They left their stench, behind. A few trampled corpses, too. I didn't expect to make it to Summit so quickly, but I was doing the Bear Grylls 'run and leap' through the terrain. I felt stupid doing it, but I had fun.

The outdoors is so quiet. No wildlife, not even a squirrel. I don't hear any birds. I'm just sitting here, watching Summit to see if anything stirs. The heat is like a blanket fresh out of the dryer when all I want is to dive into a cold river. There's that ache - the pain of longing that cannot be satiated. I can almost feel my hair dripping with water. I can't sit here anymore, I have to move. I feel dehydration setting in.

I set out for the church, kicking through dust and debris. Honestly beginning to feel naked out here. The mountains tower, the fields extend to the horizon, and there is nothing to hide behind, under, or upon. It's a good mile and a half to the church, and I want to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

I'm hoping Scotty is there.

Too tired and hot to jog, so I just trudge. But trudging doesn't seem to be getting me where I want to go fast enough. I took my water jug out and shook it. There were about three good swallows washing around in there, almost as hot as the earth I stood on. I took a moment, and decided to wash it down, all at once, and then make for that church. Its steeple rippled in the heat, like a tall white spear waving at me. I popped open the jug and swallowed. Then I took a small amount in hand to rub on my neck and face.

Then I ran.

Five strides later I fell. No, a better description would be fly six feet, and slam into the dusty ground, which seems to have sucked out all the moisture I had just attained. I laid there letting my body catch up on diagnostics.

Breath - knocked out of me. Face - covered in dust. Spine - seems okay. Stomach - intact. Legs - functional. Feet - OUCH! My ankle. I rolled over and discovered the culprit. A simple gopher hole I missed with my eyes, but found with my foot. I looked at the church off in the distance, disgusted that it was the same exact distance from me that it was thirty seconds ago.

My ankle gave me one of those horrible throbs that says something is torn, swelling is in progress, and I will be limping my way to whatever fate awaits me. In the meantime . . . dizzy. Head is still hurting a little from the crack I gave myself a few days ago. Combine dehydration, concussion, and one monster of a twisted ankle in the 100 degree heat, and you've got one toasty Martin. I lay down, breathing the burnt earth smell around me, and note with a chuckle that there is a bird in the sky. Right above me at about 700 feet, circling what may well turn out to be lunch.

Whoop. There goes my stomach.

Ugh. What was I thinking? They say in situations like these people die because they lose hope. I am too hyper to lose hope right now, and this situation is just too stupid to amuse me any less. But the kind of pain I feel fast absorbed my positive outlook on life, turning the desert sun brightness of this world dark. Melancholy set in, and I can feel myself growing sorry.

Ah what the hey . . . I haven't had a good cry in awhile.

So I wail like an injured animal. That seems to draw my circling bird a few hundred feet down from the atmosphere. He continued circling. And now he has friends.

I really am in trouble. Not only am I incapacitated, in pain, and now draining of hope, but I am crying. That's more water out of my impoverished reservoirs. But I can't seem to help myself. The sobs just get stronger. I think about life before Zed. I think about this big, beautiful world thrown into chaos. I think about the Marines I saw die, the scavengers that allowed themselves to be no better than animals, watching movies on the big screen, driving cars, feeling safe at night and . . . blast this fetching heat! Air conditioning! Remember that? I weep all the harder.

And then I just felt stupid. I turned off the tap, and worked myself into a sitting position. The ankle is swollen pretty good, starting to turn sickly colors of purple and red. I looked around, for something akin to a crutch, but there is nothing. The church is over a mile away.

I assess.

I stay out here, I die. I crawl to the church, I may survive.

Tough call. The thought of crawling over a mile through this terrain ticks me off. Hot. Just hot. So I laid on my stomach, the ankle tweaking in protest. I push myself up to my knees, and crawl. It isn't long before my breath comes faster. I am squinting to avoid too much brightness, as my head is still hurting. My stomach is sympathizing between ankle and head, making it that much more difficult to focus. I don't even look up, or look back as I work my way toward my goal. I don't want to see how far (or not far) I have come. It's just one hand in front of the other, and curse the pain.

I reached the shoulder of a road, panting. This is good. There is only one paved road in this town. I sit on my side, and look. The sun is blaring at me, stabbing my corneas, but I can make out the steeple. Looks like a clock tower. It is only three blocks away.

Three blocks of me crawling like a  . . .

Branch.

Oh thank the heavens. It was a branch. I reached out and grabbed it. It seemed tall enough. I used it to lift myself to my feet. It fit beneath my arm, a bit dug into my ribs, but otherwise it was good. I used it as a crutch, and hobble the last few blocks to the church.

Someone has sandbagged the whole thing round the parking lot. There's barbed wire. I see no sign of life until I hear a gun cock. Up on the roof. I feel the barrel pointing at my head.

"You have quite the drive, young man." says a male voice, "That was a feat crawling through that desert."
"Happy I could entertain." It hurts to yell.
"I have a soft spot for wounded creatures," said the man, "Make me care enough to help you."
I had all sorts of retorts in mind, none of which could answer the twisted logic of this person. So I decided to give him another show. I dropped my branch, attempted to step on my twisted ankle, and went down to the blacktop with a sharp intake of breath.
"Alright, alright . . ." he says. I saw him disappear.
He popped out beneath the steeple, gun in hand, and walked toward me.
Someone else appears from the church. They lead me through the sandbags, and into the surprisingly cool interior of the church. My relief is so heavy, I almost start to cry again. They guide me down the dark hallway to a carpeted gymnasium. They sat me on a table.
"Go get Maggie, would you Burt?"
Burt left.
"What's your name, bud?"
"Martin." I answered, "Have you seen a guy, about my age, with a pretty young thing with black hair?"
An older lady came in just then. The man with the gun scowled, not at me, but in my general direction. My heart skipped a beat, but that hurt, too, so it went about its normal rhythms.

"Hello." said the lady. She was pretty. I smiled.
"Thanks for letting me in." I said.
She handed me a cup of water. It was cold. I couldn't believe the difference that made as I drank it. I was feeling better already. She was quiet as she checked me out. She noted the cut on my head. Poked around my neck, stomach, and legs.
"Mike," she said, "Could you get his shoe and sock off? Then go fetch me some ice in a bowl." She looked at my foot, "A big bowl. Please?"
Mike, the man who had been pointing a rifle at my head, nodded. He was deft with his hands, but it still hurt like a mother getting my shoe off. He set them on the table next to me, and walked out.
"You have ice?" I asked, then shook my head, "Listen. Have you guys seen a young guy, brown hair, blue eyes, with a young lady about my age walk through here?"
She scrunched up her brow, too. I was starting to think that had significance.
She smiled, rather painfully, "We saw them." she said.
"Oh!" I smiled.
"They were just two blocks down. Mike was watching from the roof. We were out front, piling some sand bags. The girl collapsed. When we went to help, he waved us off."
My heart sank.
"He stood over her. She stopped breathing. We could see it."
I didn't want her to go on, but I had to know.
"Mike cocked his rifle. The young guy looked up, and shook his head. He pulled out his own pistol. We looked away."
Mike returned with the ice in the bowl.
"Thank you Mike." she said, "We need to get him to one of the classrooms so he can sit and soak."
That sounded so incredible I almost forgot Scotty.

We hobbled into a room off one of the hallways. She sat me in a cushy chair, and plopped my foot in the ice. The hot to cold transition was a little too abrupt, and I hissed.
"Mike," she said, "Could you bring some water and some more ice. I think our guest is a little dehydrated."
Again Mike consented and left.
"Subservient fellow." I said.
"Bishop Mike." she said, shrugging her shoulders. She eased my foot into the ice, from which, all of a sudden, sprang joy.
I was a taken aback by the title. Bishops are basically the presiding authority over the individual churches throughout the world. They lead the meetings and such. Sniper Mike didn't strike me as the Bishop type.
"So he just sits up there and guards his stewardship with a .270, huh?" I asked. Mormons like it when you use words like stewardship.
She just smiled at me.
"My friends?" I asked.
"Right." she shook her head, "Sorry. The young man, he shot her. When we turned around he was walking away. Burt went after him, and a couple of the other members. They couldn't talk him into coming."
"Why didn't you just drag him in?" I asked.
She looked at me, that same sad smile, "When he came back, Burt said he was thinking the same thing. But the look in the kid's eyes, and the loaded gun . . ."
I nodded. The silence stretched on. I felt sad, again. Sick. I reached down and got some of that ice from the bowl. I rubbed it on my neck and over my aching head.
Mike came back in with a whole pitcher of water and a glass full of ice.
Ice. Couldn't believe it. They must have a generator.
"Which direction did he go?" I asked.
"Parowan." said Bishop Mike, "A day ago."

I sat back, "What's the plan."
They looked a bit confused at that.
"I mean for me." I said, "I don't want to take up your time, or cost you supplies."
They both smiled at that. Mike leaned down. He looked me in the eye. There it was. I could see it now. That comforting kindness, and unconditional affection. He was a Bishop. "Martin," he said, "You'll stay with us until Maggie says you can go. Then we will take you home."
I wanted to yell out No! I'm going to find Scotty! But I just nodded.

"Daisy?" I asked.
"The girl?" said Maggie.
"Yeah."
"We buried her behind the church."
Ah man. Now I could be left in the room alone. They both seemed to sense it. Mike walked out with a nod, Maggie went to follow. She turned around, "I'll bring you a cot." she said, "Her name was Daisy?"
I nodded, feeling tears coming.
"That's good to know." she said, "The boy didn't give us a name. Now we can mark her resting place."
"Thank you." I said.
Maggie closed the door.
I looked down at my ankle, swollen and purple within the blessed embrace of water and ice, and wondered what my family was up to.
Wondered if I really wanted to know.
Wondered where Scott went.
And wondered when something would resolve for once. It felt like none of this could possibly end. I hope I'm wrong.