Speaker 1: This program is intended for mature audiences only.
Speaker 2: You are now listening to Observable Radio.
Speaker 1: Hi, there, it's Cameron Siuey. We're back again with another
short tale from the early days, a folksy little story
of a walk past a farmhouse on the open road.
Maybe it's a story about one thing pretending to be
about another. We hope this stranger is treating you all well,
and we'll have some news about season two coming soon.
If you'd like to get more updates, we'd love to
have you join us over on Patreon, where we have
some little artifacts to share. Shortly and now, after a
brief word from the Observable Radio Company store, here's tonight's story.
Speaker 2: Have you been looking high and low for the latest
Observable Radio merchandise? Are you hot on the trail of
our comfy T shirts, vibrant holographic stickers and elegant eat
enamel pins. Have you been asking questions? Well, you need
to stop right now. They're watching you and they know
what you're doing. Did you even consider the possibility that
you were being observed? Did you take any steps to
conceal yourself? We saw what you did. You didn't have
to do that. For the time being, you should be safe,
but for God's sake, show a little discretion. You are
now by from observable radio.
Speaker 1: Before the sun is high above me. By the time
I see the farm on the horizon with its tattered
yellow flag whipping in the hot breeze. The central roof
beam of the barn is bowed, sagging gently in a
way that feels warm and inviting the childhood ideal of
a barn. There have been a half dozen farms along
the last stretch of road, but none displayed the signal
flag or showed any signs of habitation. It is providence
that I should come to this place, so I step
off the highway onto a weak, choked gravel path. I've
been following a highway thirty seven all morning, the black
top scar dividing the glass still wetlands to the south
from the fields and hills of wild golden grass to
the north. Alone, except for the elegant cranes above the
water and the herds of deer grazing in the dry brush,
I find long, silent hours to reflect and meditate on
the days past and the glorious days ahead. I savor
the quiet emptiness of creation beneath my feet. The pavement
is hot and the air shimmers. In the distance, there
is a wet earth. The riot of smells like fresh
tilled soil and still waters. The wine and drone of
insects is a monotone symphony, unbroken save for the short
cries of waterfowl. The Vallejo Crater is far behind me,
now hidden by a ridge of meek hills and the
opalescent summer haze. Ahead, a little farmhouse comes into view.
Behind the barn, a leaning, two floored structure, pale yellow
paint peeling in the sun. My heart sings at the
charming innocence of the little home. I try to imagine
it without the thick wooden boards nailed over the windows
and doors, without the furrowed claw marks on the barricades
on the wrap around porch. An elderly man in a
stained white shirt stands up as I approach, slow and stiff,
and wipes his hands on his jeans. With no particular hurry.
He hoists and shoulders his rifle, bringing the sights into
alignment with our eyes. I pull the corners of my
mouth into a smile and wave ho there. He barks
in a voice like tumbling rocks. Would you mind speaking?
Please your name? Caleb? I reply no, point in line.
I concentrate on holding the grin firm and come to
a stop as I swing the pack off my shoulders.
I just I saw your flag. That's why we have
it up. The rifle comes down at his side and
he steps off the porch, the aching of his joints
visible like a road sign. What can I do for you, Caleb?
I exhale and raise my eyebrows with what I hope
is a convincing look of honest confusion. But to tell
you the truth, sir, I'm not sure if I need anything.
I just got excited to see the flag. It's it's
been a little while, I imagine it has, he says, softly.
It's been a while since anyone's seen it. Where are
you coming from?
Speaker 2: Son?
Speaker 1: Around the crater and before that, out of Winter's up
on the way to Sacramento. He cocks his head to
one side and regards me for a long moment, absently
chewing on his lip. It's a long way on foot,
he says, at last, where you headed the ocean? I think, sir?
He smiles wide at this, and when it his skin
creases into a weathered map of joy. I see so
clearly what a good and righteous man he is. It's
evident at once that God has led me here, and
I thank him for his guidance. He takes another step,
leaving his rifle behind him, and I struggle for one
hot moment to keep still, to wear the mask in
a hurry to get to the ocean. Caleb, he asks,
with a few dry truckles that could be mistaken for coughs. No, sir,
his smile is infectious, and I no longer have to
strain to affect the expression. I'd just like to get
there sometime before the end of September. The heat makes
them sluggish, so it's been easy traveling so far. He
barks once with laughter at this. No need for sir,
he says with a wave, as if it embarrasses him.
I'm Daniel, pleasure meeting you, Caleb. Likewise, Daniel, I nod,
luring my eyes for a moment, a gesture of deference
and submission, practiced so often it almost feels natural. Listen, Caleb,
I wonder if you'd be interested in a day's work.
I've got a beam on the barn that's rotted through.
I got sure, use a hand setting up a break. Yes,
we can give you as much food as you can
carry fresh off the farm. You interested. I opened my
mouth to speak, and he cuts me off with a
rapid shake of his head. You don't need to know
the first thing about carpentry. I just need you to
be able to hold some planks and follow directions. Daniel,
I think that would make me very happy, I say,
with something approaching sincerity, The thought of good, honest work
with my hands to better Daniel's last day as fills
me with warmth. I offer my hand and shake. His
hand is calloused and cool, and his grip is still strong,
perhaps stronger than mine. And make note of this good good.
He nods, his eyes narrowing a little. A nervous twinge
of paranoia bolts through me, and I harden my smile,
fixing it into place. Well, shall we get started. I
lean my backpack against the porch and turn to follow
him towards the barn. He glances out towards the highway
and then back over his shoulder at me. You didn't
see any sickos on the road or nearby, did you, No, sir,
I respond with a little laugh at his vernacular. I
haven't seen them all morning. It's been nice and quiet.
He gives one last scan at the horizon and turns
away with a little nod of satisfaction. We enter the
barn and I have my first lesson in carpentry. I
devour every word, he says, as we brace and buttress
several of the barns rotting timbers. I struggle to absorb
all the information he can offer. Surrounded by a cacophony
of clucking and baying farm animals. He shares his advice
on woodworking farm labor with an almost guilty pride. Lowering
his voice conspiratorially, he is aghast at the fact that
I don't carry a gun. With only a little prompting,
he tells me some of what he remembers from before.
I am a blank page rapidly filling. I fall into
the easy rhythm of the simple, repetitive actions, and we
are finished far earlier than I wish. The air grows cool,
and the whine of mosquitoes rising off the wetlands is audible.
It feels almost perfunctory when he invites me in for
dinner with him and his wife and a powerless against
the inevitable, except with all my good grace. Caroline is
a slow and doughy woman, with thinning hair and rotting teeth,
and I take a liking to her at once. She
unlocks the thick barricaded door to let us in, and
I am met by a bouquet of smells from the
small kitchen. The peppery grease of fried meets the bright,
sharp tang of something bitter and green. I am already
salivating as I bow politely before her. When Daniel introduces me.
Caroline remarks over dinner that she's never met anyone as
polite and well mannered as me, that even before I
would have been called old fashioned. I am silent for
a moment, flaring with panic, and conscious of all my affectations,
even the ones I no longer have to think about
to maintain. But it's obvious by her wide grin that
she finds me charming. I was raised well, I offer,
with a smile, feeling my heart rates slow. My parents
were God loving people, and we had a very secure
community in winters. She nods heartily at the mention of
God and closes her eyes. Daniel looks momentarily embarrassed and
shifts in his chair. The tiny flashes of his box
language fill my heart with sadness. I offer up the
tin of freeze dried coffee I've found in the lock
trunk of a car outside the crater, and we sit
and talk late into the evening, trading news and stories.
We've heard, much of it baffling and contradictory. It was
Caroline who brought up the end times, and I tried
to defer to Daniel's visible discomfort by suppressing my own fervor.
I just can't see how Dan can still deny it
after all these years, She tells me, as he shifts
in his chair. It's just like it says in the Bible.
The dead risen. These days are proof that he is coming.
Daniel smiles on a lesser man. It would look patronizing,
I would argue the opposite. He locks eyes with her,
and I can see the weathered and worn smooth love
between them, the old argument long set aside. I gently
steer the conversation away. When they retire, I excuse myself
to sleep outside, refusing the offer of the battered old couch.
I unfurl my bedroll beneath the stars and soak in
the chaotic summer night. The constellations are a shimmering riot,
and I trace the shapes I know again and again.
As the stirring breeze from off the water cools the air,
I close my eyes and concentrate on the near silent
passage of a coyote as he walks in a slow
half circle around me before bounding off into the dark.
The night is woven with life. It cradles me like
a nest. I sleep long and well. I awake before
dawn and prepare myself. Daniel is up before me. He
has packed a box full of fresh cabbage and squash,
a dozen grapefruit, as well as a half dozen jars
of homemade jambs. He looks at me with a sheepish
grin when I discover him filling the box, and I
know more than ever that God has not led me astray.
There is a contentedness that fills me as I approach.
Thank you, Daniel, and she's right, you know, I say,
smiling at him. He opens his mouth to speak, but
his eyes are crinkled in confusion about the end I offer,
and I see that he understands. Look, Caleb, I see
how much this pains him. I wonder if he lost
his faith or if he ever had it. I don't
really want to have this argument, not with you. The
dead aren't rising. This is a disease who says viruses
can't be divine or diabolical. The revenants are just one
of the signs. I'm already starting to strain with exhilaration
as I somehow manage to keep my words even and slow. Kid,
I'm really not interested his brows furrow and frustration, making
him look ten years older and tired. And take another
step towards him. Daniel, I am sorry for what you've
had to go through. You didn't deserve it. I lock
eyes with him and continue moving. I want to make
it right for you. I put one arm around him
and pull him toward me. I can feel him start
to panic in my arms, his strength undiminished by the years.
He starts to say my name. The first hard syllable
exites his lips and then stops as I slide my
thin blade gently between his ribs and into his heart.
I hold tight and whisper to him as he slips away,
eyes growing dim Afterwards, I lay him on the floor
and admire with a twinge of jealousy, the peaceful expression
on his pale face. Caroline is still in bed, but awake.
I could smell the sickness on her the night before,
the demonic taint to the disease flapping in the air
like a chemical flag. But it is stronger now, surging
forward as she grows weaker. I sit next to her
on the bed, smiling warmly. She is fixated on the
blood on my shirt, and I curse myself for the
lapse in empathy, for scaring this good woman, Caroline. I
know you must have felt sometimes like God has abandoned you,
like you've been left behind. But you're not. No one
will be left behind. God is loving. She is shaking
and fear, and I want so badly to be able
to comfort her, but I know she will understand as
soon as I have set her free. Tears well in
the corners of her eyes, and I'm so happy for
the opportunity to do these good works to save good
people like this. I know you're sick, and I know
you're scared, but I won't let that stop you from
going home. Daniel will be waiting for you, I tell her,
stretching my smile wider. I press the pillow tight against
her face, cupping my hand above her nose and mouth.
She only struggles for a few moments, and I stroke
her hand and sing old hymns as she grows still.
After I use the knife to cut and shred the
vertebrae just above her shoulders. I have seen the disease
take hosts that were already ours dead. But without the
spinal column, the beast can never take Caroline's body and thrall.
I do the same for Daniel, even though he seems
free of infection, because I take what I do very seriously.
I am an instrument of God, and there are any
good souls that need to be called home. I bury
Daniel and Caroline side by side beneath the noon sun,
and say a few happy words over their earthly remains.
There is much joy in me, and a little pride
as well, but mostly I know how lucky I am
to have been chosen. I fill my pack with fresh
food from the kitchen before I leave, thanking them both
silently for their gifts. I am on the road, the
sun again on my back, and the ocean ahead. This
is the end of history, the winter of God's creation.
Still there is work to be done. You have been
listening to Observable Radio. Tonight's episode before was performed by
The Ensemble, written by Cameron Suey, Produced by Cameron Suey,
Phil Van hest Purparina and Wendy Hector. Edited by Cameron Suey.
Our psychology consultant is doctor Elisa Leal. Art by Carin Fletcher.
Our theme is the back Rooms performed by Mew. Additional
music from this episode provided by American Legion, Will Harrison,
Tim Koolig, Roots and Recognition, and Wanderer's Trove. Observable Radio
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