We ride in a shuttle bus away from a falling schematic sky. The air has long been lost, replaced by blueprint facsimiles of unrendered clouds. We do what we can. Five hundred miles of uninterrupted roadway is the only thing that separates us from oblivion. The sandstorms have gotten worse. The whirlwinds grow. Ten counties worth of twisted metal now ride in their turbulent gusts; acres of chicken wire contorted into a whipping maelstrom of steel death.
Whatever was worth keeping from the old world now bobs with us as we race across the battered highway. The sun is setting. For many of us it will be the last time. It’s a raw blood orange sinking over the horizon, squeezed to a bitter breaking point. Plates clatter in overhead compartments as Jorge hits a rough patch of black tar, a sign that the road is melting.
Still a half tank of gasoline left. We’re not sure how long it will last us. Some give up hope and wonder if it’s better to pull over and let the dust devils take us. I remain resolute. As long as this heart keeps beating, I aim to see all this through.
Em is less convinced. For miles she’s been harping in my ear about the end of the world, talking about how all of this is the work of angels and the repeated low horns that blare through the night are the blasts of Gabriel’s trumpet. I humor her but let my mind wander. A patch of tumbleweeds roll on by as she yammers on about Revelations.
Religion’s never been my cup of tea. Despite the preacher’s warnings, I stumbled off the path a long time ago. Faith was always far too bitter of a swallow for my taste. Now, with a bus filled with converts and evangelicals, I can’t seem to slip away from it. I swear to Christ if I have to keep dealing with both the chocolate-colored sandstorms and reconciliation, I’ll jump out a window and let the archangels take me.
Broken vehicles litter the road. Lucky for us, Jorge’s an ace driver. He told us he used to work the LAX line down to Houston in a long hauler and I’m inclined to believe him. Most of us are strangers, picked up on a moment’s whim as the storm blew through. I reckon that at the end of the world, beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, there’s something not right about leaving people to face the wind, no matter the weight of their sins.
Nobody tries any funny business any ways. There’s not much to gain when all that’s left of everything is a stretch of 87 and a rickety old short bus with boarded up windows. Em thinks it’s tacky, that there ain’t a reason to keep the plywood on them. I think she’s a nut seeking the Rapture. Potatoes, potatoes.
It was at the hundredth mile marker that Em finally snapped. There was a UPS truck parked on the yellow double line that made Jorge buck the whole jalopy. We all had to rush the left to keep the bus on four wheels. That’s when she made her break. I never saw someone claw at splintered board so fast. It was like she was possessed by the Devil himself tearing down all that wood.
Even when Jacob and I tried to restrain her she wouldn’t quit. She kept screaming about Babylon and kicked the frayed barricade until the glass shattered. There was nothing we could do. We tried to hold her down but there was a strength inside her I didn’t know was possible. Before I realized it, she broke free and went for my eyes. Jacob cracked a baseball bat against her back but she kept coming. It was only when I stepped away from the busted window that she stopped her rampage. Chocolate sand blasted my face and knocked me to the ground. Before I knew it, she was gone; tumbling free and racing for the postal truck, screaming bloody hymns of hallelujah. A second later and her body was plucked and flew like chicken feathers, cast and incinerated by four winds.
We’re still on the broken path, looking for salvation in a world that is no longer ours. We’re down to a quarter tank now and the storms show no signs of stopping. We managed to patch up the busted hole, but it’ll never be the same. Absence is a festering wound that only grows more gangrenous with time. I guess mine will never be fully closed.
