Archive of Our Own

He woke up before dawn.

He had his boots on.

The air tasted of salted dust — the type of dust left unstirred for eons, only stirred by the coming of the sun (if the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst) that now crested the horizon.

Forty-five? No, too late for that. He still had the SLA pin, it had to be at least seventy-four — but he’d kicked it like a soccer ball in that shootout. Died like a dog, but at least he’d died laughing.

He didn’t think he’d died laughing this time. That made his teeth itch.

(He took a face from the ancient gallery)

The Dark Man examined his pale, callused hands with a sort of lazy curiosity. They had been burned, but the burns were fading even as the sun threatened to renew them. Fun. All right, someone had gotten close enough to meet his fire with fire. He’d have to thank them in person when they met up.

“You screwwwwwed up,” he said out loud, and chuckled to himself.

After a moment, he got to his feet. Denim jeans, denim jacket, and singed pamphlets falling out of it. Good. He experimentally sniffed the cuff of the jacket — metal and rotten eggs.

(the radiance of a thousand suns)

Nuclear warfare? Embarrassing. He only hoped he’d been the one to push the button.

Whistling tunelessly, the Dude began to walk. That was what he did best. If you walked long enough, you could find a hungry soul willing to consume any old poison.

The freeway was easy enough to find, a long concrete snake winding through the scrub. All right. Somewhere with civilization, at least once. Cars left out to seed. He could feel the crows watching him, and that brought the Dark Man some comfort. One even hopped alongside him for a couple of feet, cawing anxiously at the clicking of his bootheels.

(And he walked on down the hall…)

Noon hit, and the Dark Man felt the sweat bead fresh on his skin. He could have taken a car, of course, but he hadn’t found any that ticked his fancy. Besides, he was going nowhere fast, and that was how he liked it. He’d have a rest by that reservoir fed by the convenient stream over there, the laughing one running just underneath the bridge. Perhaps he’d take in some of the local sights — he was growing oddly fond of the mountains he found himself between — and be to civilization by nightfall. His civilization, just waiting for him to reach out and wrap his strong fingers around its pretty little neck.

He stretched, reaching greedily towards the angry sun, before flopping on his backside like an overgrown boy scout ready for a jamboree. Pamphlets for a dozen different revolutionary orgs scattered along the shoreline. That made him laugh — maybe someone would be lucky enough to find them. A militia of one in a dead world, wouldn’t that beat all? Maybe they could read their pamphlets to the raccoons.

The Walkin’ Dude, now sittin’, was so absorbed in his own amusement that it took him a minute to realize he wasn’t alone.

A pretty blond girl in long sleeves and a longer skirt, her bucket half-submerged in the reservoir, stared at him like he was some strange new species. Maybe he was. He’d never felt quite at home once he stopped walking.

“Bring me a drink,” he said, staring back.

“I really shouldn’t,” she responded, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He noticed she was wearing gloves — big, heavy, rubber gloves. “We don’t know if it’s safe."

“Who’s we?”

“The Latter-Day Saints. Of Goshen,” she added, with emphasis.

“And what do the Latter-Day Saints of Goshen call you, sweetheart?”

She bristled at that. “My name’s Bathsheba, but everyone calls me Beth. What about you? If there’s anyone left to call you anything.”

He paused at that, his eyes clouding over. Was there anyone

(Nadine Lloyd Donald Whitney Harold The Fucking Kid)

left to call him anything?

He supposed not.

“My name’s Richard Freemantle,” he said, the words coming as easy to him as the water to her bucket, “but you can call me whatever you like, so long as you get me a drink.”

Bathsheba-called-Beth looked at him hard. “You’re not one of those godless looters, are you? Bishop Williams is always preaching against them.”

Richard Freemantle, the most godless looter in recent history, shook his head. “No ma’am. Just looking for fresh water and a place to lay my head. I’d think that saints would have some charity to offer.”

That seemed to soften her a little bit. Without her suspicion, the childish roundness of her cheeks became more pronounced.

“Well, this water isn’t what you’re looking for. Bishop Williams says the star of Wormwood fell upon Deseret, and if we’re not careful, we could drink poison.” She nodded solemnly to the heavy gloves that covered her up almost to her shoulders.

“And you’re carrying the poison to—”

“Back to test it, yes.” This time with childish impatience. Richard suspected she was younger than even Harold. Ah, blossoming youth. He could work with this.

“Then I ought to be tested too,” he said, widening his big blue eyes. “After all, I’ve been out here for who knows how long. If I’m gonna die, nurse Beth, I should know how long I’ve got to live.”

She looked at him again, for a long moment. A brief moment of doubt shot through his head. Had he lost his touch?

“...all right,” Bathsheba-called-Beth agreed, in the way a teenage girl making a deal with a parent agrees. She stripped off the left glove and threw it at his feet. “But I need you to carry the bucket.”

Carrying a bucket to a Mormon commune? Child’s play. He almost laughed out loud as he put on the glove and rose to his full height. He felt better now that he was back on his feet and he had a plan. Of course he wasn’t poisoned. The Dark Man drank poison like mothers’ milk. 

( mother, I want to…)

The bucket full of reservoir water sang to him as they walked. He could sink Bathsheba-called-Beth, his little nurse’s, head in it, and watch the skin peel off for that little “if there’s anyone left to call you anything” crack, if he wanted to. No one would know. He could skin her like 

(a deer in the darkness, rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub)

roadkill to reassure himself.

He didn’t.

He knew now what he’d been given: a second chance. A world without an old woman and her prophecies to derail him. A chance to get it right, and this time, the Almighty or who-the-fuck-ever wouldn’t be cheating. 

But he could cheat. It was his birthright. His was the tongue of snakes and wolves, and he’d come upon the Latter Day Saints of Goshen like a mighty rushing wind. Or was it a thief in the night?

“I saw Wormwood,” Bathsheba-called-Beth informed him, as they passed a cemetery. The dead before the dead.

“That so?” Freemantle, whose name he had stolen from a prophet, was deep in ransacking his own mind for any vague memory of Mormon theology.

“Mmhm. It hit to the south. I must have missed it falling, though. I only saw the flash.”

(I’ve brought you the big fire my life for you my life for you my life—)

She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think it must have been beautiful to see.”

Richard Freemantle ground his teeth, the vague memories of blood oaths and retribution scriptures replaced with Las Vegas. Nuclear warfare. Embarrassing, fucking all right. Two witnesses, killed by the fire from their mouths. No, by the fire his pet had brought. The biiiig fire.

Fine. All right. So his — Trashy’s —  bomb was Wormwood. He ran his fingers through his hair. He could work with that.

He matched his voice to hers. “Y’know, you’re right. It was magnificent.”

“You saw it too?”

“Sure did. I didn’t want to mention it before, in case you got the wrong idea.”

The suspicion returned to her voice. “The wrong idea? What, like it was faked?”

Richard Freemantle, a mighty prince of the air, gave her a winning smile. “No. It just takes a special mind to appreciate the beauty of Wormwood. One in harmony with the angels — you know that Wormwood was an angel himself, don’t you? Be not afraid and all that.”

“No…”

But the doubt crept into her little voice all the same. He let Bathsheba-called-Beth, his own personal Samaritan woman, walk with that. The Dark Man’s smile remained plastered to his face, the fires of Las Vegas glittering in his eyes. Goshen and its radiation-tainted lake might just be the foothold he needed.

Come on, baby, take a chance with us.