Tim Washburn - Powerless

Zeke whispers softly to the horses as he walks the length of the trailer, hoping to calm them from the drive. He slides the trailer’s gate open just wide enough to allow one horse out at a time. He clips the lead rope to the first horse through and does it two more times until all three are secured to the side of the trailer. Before leaving, he and his father had discussed the best way to lead the horses and which one would be best to ride. They settled on Murphy, the gelding, as the best horse for him to ride while leading the two mares, Tilly and Ruby.

His fingers dance across Murphy’s soft muzzle as he uses the other hand to position the saddle blanket onto his back. The task of getting the saddle aboard takes two hands, but once it’s in place he begins cinching down the girth strap, waiting for the horse to exhale before tying it off.

Zeke feeds the bit into Murphy’s mouth and ties the reins to the trailer. Ruby and Tilly get blankets before he mounts the two wooden carriers he had fashioned back home. He ties those off and slips a halter over the necks of both mares.

He glances up at the sun, trying to gauge the time. Still morning, but much later than he had hoped. He loads the remaining gear onto the horses and double-checks that his rifle remained in the scabbard. Not wanting to carry the keys to the pickup with him, he slides them up under the rear wheel well and jams them into a hole in the frame.

He leads the horses away from the truck and sweeps his hand across his hip to make sure the Glock is securely holstered. He grabs the mare’s lead and mounts Murphy. After a slight heel tap to the ribs, Murphy whinnies and begins walking toward the road. He pulls the horses to a stop at the edge of the pasture and looks back to make sure the truck and trailer are out of sight and to mentally mark the location for the return trip. He turns forward to mark the entrance gate in reference to the road and a big elm tree shading the opposite side. Satisfied, he works the horses around the side of the cattle guard, picking their way through a collapsed portion of barbed wire fence. From the lack of animal droppings, it’s obvious there haven’t been any cattle grazing in here for a while.

Zeke loosens the reins to allow Murphy to set his own pace—a nice, steady walk. He glances over his shoulder to make sure the mares are comfortable at this pace. They’re plodding along fine. With nothing left to do but ride he takes a moment to look the area over. The bright sunshine highlights the flat landscape, revealing a good number of recently plowed fields in anticipation of spring planting. A sudden realization begins to gnaw his gut—the months ahead are going to be much more difficult than he first thought. The next field over is sown with winter wheat, the green shoots just breaking the surface, and thoughts of fallow fields follow him for the next mile.

The midmorning sun is relentless, and even though he’s not exerting much effort, a steady stream of sweat works its way down his back. He’s glad he had remembered to bring along an old cowboy hat. With the intense heat, Zeke begins searching for water sources as they walk forward, holding to the centerline of the empty roadway.

With the immense fields taking up most of the land, the few houses are scattered a good distance from one another—maybe a half a mile to a mile between them. The first one they pass is set close to the road and Zeke’s hand drifts to the gun on his hip as they pass. No one is out and about and the only things moving are a few head of cattle grazing up close to the house.

Two hours later the horses have worked up a lather, as the black asphalt pushes the temperatures up twenty degrees. He steers Murphy off into the grassy side area. The heat instantly lessens but the danger of the horses stumbling into a gopher hole, or over discarded items along the roadway, increases. They’ve made good time and he pulls the sweat-saturated map from his back pocket to check their location. As best he can figure, they’ve covered over seven miles. Much better than he thought, although once they’re closer to Dallas the pace will slow dramatically.

The small creeks they’ve passed have been bone-dry. Water is Zeke’s main focus now. In the distance he spots a windmill turning lazily in the stingy breeze. He’s hopeful it’s not an ornamental piece of iron and is actually pumping water into a stock tank. The one negative about the windmill is its proximity to a house. As they draw closer, Zeke discovers that the windmill is confined within a four-stranded barbed wire fence. He makes the decision that, regardless of the danger, the horses need water.

He dismounts Murphy at the head of the driveway and leads the horses toward the house. His gaze scans the surrounding area, his senses on high alert. When he is about fifty feet from the house, the front door opens and an older man steps onto the porch with a shotgun pointed in Zeke’s direction. Zeke stops and pulls Murphy and the mares to a stop next to him.

“Whatcha want?” the man shouts. The man is dressed in a pair of dirty pants pitted with holes and a pair of black suspenders strung over a no-longer-white T-shirt. A floppy black hat in the semi-shape of a cowboy hat tops out the ensemble. If Zeke didn’t know better, he’d think he was looking at a reincarnation of Wishbone from the old Rawhide series.

“I was wondering if I could water the horses.”

“Step up a little closer so’s I can see you,” the man says, the shotgun never wavering more than two inches on either side of Zeke’s chest.

Zeke emits a couple of clicks out of the side of his mouth and he and the horses ease up closer to the man. The old man lets them get within about ten feet of him before ordering them to stop.

“Who are ya an’ where ya heading?”

“I’m Zeke Marshall, sir. We’re from up around Durant on our way to Dallas to get my sister and her family.”

The old man ponders the statement for a moment as if he were making a life-or-death decision, which he may well be. “Take them through that gate there,” the old man says, pointing his gnarled finger at the gate across the yard.

“Thank you.” Zeke leads the horses to the gate and swings it wide. The horses can smell the water now, and they’re anxious for a drink. He glances over his shoulder to find the old man still on the porch, the shotgun tracking their progress. The horses are tugging and shaking their heads in an effort to get loose. He releases the reins and the three horses charge to the big stock tank and begin gulping the cool water. A hose runs from the pump and into the stock tank, which he removes. The cold water is like the sweetest nectar as he puts the hose to his mouth. He drinks his fill before refilling his nearly depleted canteen. Zeke turns back toward the old man, to find him holding his ground. But, a sign of progress—the shotgun is no longer pointed in their direction.

Once the horses have drunk their fill, Zeke leads them away from the tank and closes the gate. He would like to spend a few minutes chatting with the old man but he doesn’t seem to be in a real talkative mood. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Zeke says.

“You’re welcome. You best be careful out there, young ’un.”

“I will. Thanks again.” Zeke leads the horses back to the road and offers a wave as he remounts Murphy. The four of them continue their trek along the deserted roadway. He glances at the sun again, now high in the sky, and figures they have about four or five hours of daylight left before they need to start searching for somewhere to bed down for the night.

University Hospital

The last of the living patients and their families are ushered through the outer doors of the hospital just as the generator heaves a last gasp. Twelve patients had died during the last six hours as their ventilators or other life-sustaining devices were switched off. The hospital had been the scene of enormous agony as the loved ones said good-bye to those who could no longer be sustained. More agony is in store for those patients who are dependent on dialysis, oxygen, insulin, and certain prescription drugs.