An audio drama script by MM Dameron
Act 1
CHAPTER 1: UNITED WE WALK
- EXT. SOMEWHERE IN THE DESERT – MIDDAY
The sound of howling wind fades in. It lingers for about a minute before a guitar begins to softly play. It’s a melancholy tune, one that seems to emanate loneliness as the wind continues, softer in the background. The guitar pauses for a minute, almost as if the player is thinking of the next note to strum. There is a deep sigh as the sound of the wind picks up again. After a few moments, a man, THE ROVER, begins speaking. He has a deep voice, putting him somewhere in his late 40’s, coated with a thick Southern Drawl. He speaks slowly and methodically, as if he’s thinking of every sentence before saying it. His words are tinged in melancholy and acceptance in their truth.
THE ROVER
They say that a name holds power. It can write history or it can be the focus. A name can be used to uplift, to punish, to create, to destroy. It has the ability to bring people together or to tear them apart. But mostly, a name is meant for us to connect to the world around us. We give our children names so that they can create an identity for themselves and forge their own bonds. We give our pets names so that they can be part of our families. We give our friends names to show we care for them. Everything is in a name. The past, the present, and the future. Even nations have names. For instance: the United States of America.
The guitar begins once more, the tune coming back to the player. The man continues his speech as the guitar plays.
When you hear that name, what is the first thing that comes to mind? Perhaps it’s a family, all sitting around the dinner table after a long day. The kids are chattering about school, while the parents ramble on about what happened at work. A connection between them, baked and bred by a mutual understanding of respect and admiration for one another. Or maybe it’s a vision of a rolling countryside, with a long stretch of road seemingly going on to the end of the Earth. The radio in the car is loud and powerful, as the driver is mesmerized by the nearly unending journey they find themselves caught up in. It could even be a football game, with thousands of fans lining the seats of the stadium, all cheering on their favorite team and throwing curses and insults at both the opponents and the referees. Meanwhile in the comfort of home, a collection of fans gather around a television screen to do just the same thing, with the idea that maybe if they shout loud enough into it that they might be able to reach the ears of the players hundreds of miles away. Yet there’s always the possibility it’s a representation of hope in the world. A shining beacon of freedom and endless possibilities, where anyone can be who they want and do what they like. It’s all in the name. The United States. A coalition of smaller governments who all banded together and agreed to become one singular country. One nation, indivisible.
But what if that wasn’t the case anymore? What if the greatest country in the world—with millions of citizens, largest military, hundreds of years of history and a name that represented the hopes and dreams of the people of the nation as a whole—suddenly just fell to ruin and broke apart? If the United States of America lost its unity and name, what then? What happens to the people of America? The towns and cities that dot the landscape and make up some of the greatest feats of engineering and architecture known to mankind? The homes and jobs and families, who all call this land home and rely on it for their livelihood?
They lose it all. And that’s that. The Apocalypse came and we were left with what remained.
Sure, some people try to hold onto the world they knew. They create new homes, new families. They live on with their life and try to pretend like The Apocalypse never came. In their eyes, they were never forsaken by America. They make a fantasy in their heads that everything is fine and the world will eventually return to normal. They stay in denial and long for the days where the biggest worry in their life was what tie to wear to the wedding or what new color to paint the walls of the living room. You can’t fault them for that thinking though. That’s all they’ve ever known after all, and even after 3 years of living without the guiding hand of the fallen nation, they still haven’t gotten around to accepting the fact that they have been abandoned, left to fend off against the jaws of uncertainty on their own now. In truth, it’s a sad way to live, and I pity those with a hopeful heart. I wonder if they know that they live as lambs for the slaughter.
Meanwhile, some take naturally to a life of anarchy. They loot and pillage and burn and revel in the fact that they no longer have to live in a world that never accommodated them in the first place. They form gangs and tribes, all with one simplistic mission of destroying as much as they can as fast as possible. Humanity was a shackle for them and now they rejoice in their new lives, truly free to do whatever they want, whenever they want. They’ve become like animals. Savages. It’s why you avoid the cities as much as possible. They run rampant through the streets, and often kill on sight. In a sense, The Apocalypse never came for them either. No, they received Heaven on Earth.
But for those who accept the end, but still wish to retain some semblance of what humanity used to be like? That’s what makes a pilgrim. I can’t remember who first coined the term, but it’s rather fitting for the people who seek to find a better life elsewhere. After all, if the country was founded by them, then why shouldn’t the next one be as well? Some pilgrims head to Mexico or Canada. Others flee away from the continent altogether, seeking some kind of escape from the past that is too painful to remain. However, they aren’t in a much better state than those who remain in the former borders of the USA. After all, the richest country in the world just disappeared from existence one day, which punctured a nation-sized hole in the global economy. Some pilgrims, however, decided to stay in this forsaken land, making the most of every day and just trying to survive until the next. Always moving, always changing, always surviving.
The guitar player slaps their hands on the strings, abruptly halting the song.
Pilgrims like me.
Rover gives a pause, letting his words sink in, before concluding his lecture.
The power in a name comes from the mutual acceptance that it holds sway over us in the first place. It represents ideas and ambitions. It signifies hopes and dreams. It creates identity and purpose. But ultimately, they all come to an end at some point. Ideas become lost causes. Dreams become dashed and torn asunder. Purposes die and fade away. And in time, so do names. Thus, the land they once called The United States of America, they now call The New West.
The guitar once again continues its song, as a distant sounding harmonica joins in with the tune. The song picks up and grows louder as the wind fades out. Percussion becomes added to the mix, and the voice from before begins humming along with it. There are no words, just a low sound that follows the melancholy melody of the song. Eventually, the song comes to an end. There is the sound of someone walking, and the wind picks up once again, covering any other sounds in the world. After a small amount of time, the wind eventually fades out into silence as well.
- EXT. CAMPSITE – SUNDOWN
The sounds of a campsite being set up are audible. Stakes being driven into the ground, someone attempting to light a fire unsuccessfully, and a conversation that can’t quite be made out going on nearby. Eventually, there is the sound of pages in a book flipping, then THE PREACHER clears his throat and reads aloud. He speaks in a heavy southern drawl, his words carrying a sense of righteousness, yet also remorse. He’s in his 50’s and has a very captivating tone, reminiscent of a televangelist. The sounds of the camp fall away as he begins to speak.
THE PREACHER
Matthew Twenty-Five, verses Thirty-Four and Thirty-Five. “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
He shuts the book and thumps the cover with his palm. He takes a deep breath before continuing his sermon.
Today, another lost soul joined our band of wanderers. He seems a good man, but so did the last fella we ran across. It was a fine shame. I was just starting to like the son of a gun too. But, we cannot abide having a thief within our ranks, and so he was sent to a new home beyond this world. To live amongst the angels and walk in step with those who came before. Least I hope so. For his soul’s sake. For a kid young as him to end up like that down below… well it’s simply pitiful. But I must admit I do feel a tad bit of envy for him. He gets to move on into the next life, while we still walk in the sins of this current one.
But where was I? Oh yes, the new fella.
Western Guitar music begins playing over the scene. It is soft and introspective, adding its own tone to the sermon.
He says his title is The Rover. Well, that could be said about all the rest of us here too. We’re all rovers, walking along the path of righteousness so we may earn our place up in Heaven! We walk to atone for our sins here on Earth! Now I told him as much and he just gave me a low chuckle in response. I didn’t quite understand whether that humored him or if he didn’t know what I was saying to him. Mr. President just brushed it aside and asked the man what he was doin ’round here. Rover says he don’t travel in groups much, and that this is only a “temporary membership”. He seems well spoken and right proper, even if his visage is less than courtly. There were a few objections to this new soul walking along with us but Mr. President turned them all right down and tells us “If we don’t take in one who is willing to join, we might as well live like the Savages in the city!” And that was the end of it. The first thing you learn being in this posse is to never question Mr. President’s decisions. That’s a mighty smart one after all, and ain’t we been led this far without going hungry? S’pose we can’t argue with that!
And so, our party grows from seven to eight. He’s still new, but he seems to have wisdom beyond his years. You can tell by his eyes. They’ve got a certain wariness to them, like he’s seen the mouth of hell itself and lived to tell the tale. I feel the same pity I felt for that boy we ended up having to lay low that hot day back in July. Only this time, it’s not after a death, but rather well before one. Now, I encourage all y’all to talk with him and get him to see the same righteous path we walk ourselves. Maybe that’ll be what leads us to atonement for our sins, as well as his.
Lord, I hope it does! After all, it’s three years past due for Judgement Day, and you best be certain I’m keeping interest on miracles!
Now, let us pray.
The song keeps playing as the sound of crackling fire fades in. A group of people can be heard speaking indistinctly, quietly in the background.
- EXT CAMPSITE – EVENING
A short amount of time has passed, as desert crickets begin their chirping. There is the sound of a match being struck, a cigarette being lit and a puff of smoke being blown, which is followed by a coughing fit from THE PINKERTON. Once the coughing dies down, another man’s voice begins to speak. The man, who is in his mid 30’s, has a clear Bostonian accent and an excitable and airheaded attitude about him. He has a cigarette in his mouth, which he’s talking around. He is speaking to THE STUDENT while she sets up her own tent, not paying much attention to him. He’s trying to sound impressive and boastful, though not in a flirtatious manner.
THE PINKERTON
So kid, I was talking to ‘Case about this new guy, Rover? I told him-
He changes his voice to imitate an old western movie hero. He’s not good at it.
“Look ‘Case, I don’t know if you know this but we are currently tight on supplies as it is, and I don’t know if we can trust a new face moseyin’ on into camp like he owns the place! I say that you and I talk to The Prez about keepin’ a watchful eye on him. Make sure he isn’t gonna step outta line, not while Pinkerton’s around!”
He returns to his normal voice.
Then I gave my trusty old steel a spin and… well I dropped it but it looked pretty cool! He just gave me one of those side-eyes he’s practiced so well over the years. You know, the kind where you can tell they’re judging you, but they also don’t want to insult you because they think you’re an idiot or something? Yeah, that kind. The kind I can see you practicing right now. Quit that. It looks dumb.
Another puff of smoke and a sigh from Pinkerton.
Anyway, the old coot just sighed and responded with a-
He goes into a terrible British accent, trying to sound like an old man as he mocks THE BRIEFCASE.
“That’s nice Pinkerton.” followed up with a quick “And quit using your foolish nicknames. You know if Mr. President hears you calling him or anyone else nonsense like that he’s bound to get rather cross with us all. We are supposed to use only our titles at all times after all.”
He gives a slight chuckle at this, returning to his normal accent.
Man, don’t even get me started on these stupid little titles. They say it’s so we can survive, but to me it just seems that an entire country wants to play The Man with No Name. Not everyone can be Clint Eastwood, you know! I mean, as far as anyone knows, he’s probably dead, along with the rest of Hollywood by now.
He takes a puff of smoke that shifts into a quick and short whistle.
Man. What an actor, that guy! You know his first film wasn’t even a huge blockbuster western? No, of all things it was in a sequel to Creature from the Black Lagoon! Crazy stuff, right? One of the greatest actors in the history of the silver screen started as a small, unimportant role in a C-list sequel for a B-rated movie monster. It really makes you think to yourself “Gee, maybe one day I could be a star too!” But you’re wrong, Stu. Dead wrong, in fact. The world’s changed, kiddo! There’s no need for stars anymore. You should have chased your dreams when you were younger. Been a child star, maybe. You’ve got the looks for it, I mean. Maybe you could do with a shower though, yeesh!
He takes another puff of the cigarette and begins the next sentence with a cough.
That’s one thing I think I miss more than anything else, honestly. A nice, hot shower. I used to spend hours in there, just thinking of all sorts of things. You never had a better thought than one you came up with in the shower. One time, I came up with an entire stage play based around the Fall of the Alamo. I wrote it all up in my head, even down to a final monologue by the President of the United States himself! You see, it would have been an alternate history, where instead of Santa Anna’s men overrunning the fort, the American Army would come in and help the Texans fend off the Mexicans! Never got around to writing it down though. I was always preoccupied by work most of the time.
I find those kinds of stories fascinating, ya know? It’s always interesting to take a step back and think “Wow, if this had happened in just this specific way, our entire history would be completely different!” It must seem kooky to someone like you. I mean, you’re so young, you probably never lived through much history. Hell, I watched firsthand as the towers fell on 9/11, while you were probably still in diapers! Course, I was only 10 and on a field trip at the time so who am I to judge, huh? Wait… how old are you again?
A final cigarette puff and a long sigh.
But anyways… Shit. What was I saying?
There is the sound of The Student getting up and walking away with a stomping gait, finishing her work and very clearly annoyed by being bothered so much.
Hey where are you going? I wasn’t done talking yet! Hey! Stu!
The walking continues, and the tent is zipped up with a sharp and quick motion. Pinkerton gives jeers from outside, but eventually gives up to go trouble someone else. There is the sound of pages being turned, then a pen writing in a journal, as The Student begins to narrate what is written. She has a younger sounding voice, in her mid 20’s, with a midwestern accent. She’s bored and annoyed with her circumstances.
THE STUDENT
September Twenty-third. Three years, Five months, and Seven days after the end of America. Somewhere in New Mexico.
I swear, one of these days either The Pinkerton’s going to end up getting himself a bullet in the mouth, or the rest of us with a bullet through the head. It’s bad enough having to live off of what little supplies we have, he’s gotta ruin the small bits of peace we get out here as well? And does he have to call me kiddo and treat me like some child? I might be the youngest one here, but dammit I am 25 years old! Why did I ever make my title “The Student” anyway? I dropped out of college! What was I thinking?
She lets loose a long and frustrated sigh
Deep breaths. I just need to take deep breaths. After all, if we are to make a new nation, we have to welcome everyone, right? Even the rowdy and rough. That’s what Mr. President said, after all. If we don’t accept those with attitudes and ideas separate to our own, then what makes us different from the Savages in the cities? From making the same mistakes as the nation that came before? So, I’ll bear it, even if I have no idea what he’s talking about half of the time.
A beat. The writing stops for just a moment before starting up once again.
What even is a Pinkerton anyway? He says it’s some kind of old west police officer, but then why don’t they just call them cops or policemen? He didn’t know the answer to that one.
Another deep sigh
And once again, I long for the days when we had Google.
A brief moment of silence, as if she has to take a minute to reminisce, before continuing writing.
I’m getting sidetracked though. We have a new member, and I think it’s important to write about him as well.
When he joined us, he said his title was The Rover. I think everyone was a bit surprised that someone just walked into camp on their own, without the intention of shooting all of us up and taking our food, water, and stars. After all, The Briefcase is usually the one who brings in new faces to the group, so a stranger joining up on their own accord is rare at best. He seems to get along friendly enough with everyone, even if he did have a rocky start with The Preacher. Then again, it’s hard not to, considering he gives a sermon to anyone about anything if they even give so much as a glance towards him.
He looks like he’s been wandering for a long time, even before America fell. Most of the group seem to tolerate his company enough, even if they are still wary of his arrival. The sole exception being Mr. President, surprisingly. As usual, our leader didn’t say anything to the new recruit, but I can see those long stares given to the stranger from behind his masked face, and the two had a strangely tense handshake that belied a hint of contempt, even if the action was friendly. For his own part, The Rover seems suspicious of Mr. President too, commenting on his mask and giving a snide remark about our group. His tone seems to have an air of superiority over us, as if he is a judge and we are on trial. I recall him saying something about the rules of pilgrims, but before I could hear more, Mr. President motioned for me to gather more firewood. Then The Pinkerton felt the need to pester me as well. There’s something going on between them, but I don’t quite know what it is yet.
Perhaps it’s nothing though. Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me. I am getting tired, and staring into fire does mess with your head a bit.
I know that better than anyone here. I’ve stared into far too many flames now.
She snaps the journal shut, and the old western song finally comes to an end with a fade out.
- EXT CAMPSITE – NIGHT
The only sounds that are left are the popping of the fire, the sounds of desert nature nightlife, and, after a moment, the sound of a very distant gunshot. The Rover sighs and begins another monologue. His tone is similar to his first monologue, but more informational and twinged with just a hint of judgement. He wants to very clearly explain what he has to say so he only has to say it once.
THE ROVER
Most pilgrims have figured out a good ruleset to survive which has been passed along by travelers down the asphalt trails lining the lands of the former nation.
The first rule is to never become too attached to others. In this new world, you can only afford to care about yourself above all else. It’s not for lack of compassion, but for the need for survival. This rule goes all the way to names. You can’t have a name, otherwise you get attachments. You get a title. You can choose whatever you want pretty much, but it’s gotta be one word. No more, no less. You can’t be a pilgrim of the New West without a title. For me, that’s Rover.
Second rule, you don’t make groups. Groups always end up with someone betraying the others in the name of survival. I met a party up the road who were in the middle of a gunfight after one of their members stole water from another. I watched 3 of them drop before the final 2 decided to simply run off in separate directions. The only thing groups are good for is getting you killed.
The third rule is to follow the roads, but never camp on them. It’s far too easy for a roaming band of Savages to come barrelling down the roads during the night in cars and trucks looking for someone to run over. Gas is limited in the New West, and the majority of the supply has been either stolen or used by Savages. They usually drive around the prairies, fields, and deserts during the day, but in the night they speed down the road in search of pilgrims breaking the third rule. While it seems dangerous, it’s even more dangerous to leave and head out into the wilderness. There’s no guarantee of coming across anyone out there, and those you do meet along the way might just put a round through your skull and take your belongings. No, you gotta stay on the roads in order to survive. People are friendlier on the roads, maybe because they understand the fourth rule.
That rule? Remember to always carry a weapon with you. Even if you don’t have any ammunition, it’s better to look armed and ready for a fight than to not have one and be vulnerable to any manner of threat out here. Having a gun can mean the difference between taking another step on Earth, and taking a stroll through the pearly gates. Myself, I carry a pistol that was passed down from my grandfather who fought in World War II. He told me that he took it off a German soldier that got a bit too close for comfort and met the business end of a shotgun. Rarely have I had to draw it, and only once have I had to fire it at another. As I am still speaking, it should be clear who won that exchange.
The fifth rule is less of a guideline and more of a useful piece of advice: In this land, American cash is worth next to nothing. You try to bring a dollar or dime to any store, you’re bound to get laughed right out the doors and back onto the roads. No, out here we use coins known as “stars”. They’re made out of pieces of fine metals, gold and silver and the like, which are then melted down by caravaners or at settlements and shaped into a coin bearing the symbol that each state took on the American Flag, that being a 5 point star. The country might be gone, but the capitalist ideals it was built on never went away. If you want something, you gotta buy it, and if you wanna buy it, you gotta have money. Even the Savages know that much, but it doesn’t stop them from robbing and burning any small communities they come across to the ground. Usually, though, they’re built far from the roads, so they have a bit of time before they inevitably are put to the flame. If I recall, one of the longest villages to last was Rangerville, down inside Palo Duro. It stuck around for a whole year, until someone snitched on its location and it was ransacked by trucker gangs. Occasionally you’ll come across a caravan, but-since they have premium goods and they risk the open roads-often times they’ll charge you an arm and a leg for even just a drop of water. It’s a ruthless business model, but it does work.
The sixth and final rule is to never enter the cities. Anything bigger than a shop, a gunsmith and a place to sleep is big enough to be a warzone. You’re more likely to get shot down within the first few moments of stepping into Dallas than you are spending 5 days traveling down the road towards the nearest village. But, on the off chance you find yourself in the middle of one of those concrete jungles, find the nearest building to hunker down in and wait for the shooting to start. If the city is quiet, it means there’s someone watching the streets for a target. When the city is loud, it means they’re distracted, and that’s your chance to escape. Sure, you might catch a stray bullet in the arm or leg, but it’s better than getting one aimed to kill. I have 2 scars myself from ignoring this rule, and now they serve as a constant reminder.
These rules have ensured countless survivors out here in the New West. While it’s not a nation anymore, I think a lot of people still have that American spirit. Always keep moving forward towards another day and make the most of the life you’re given. While the country died, the soul hasn’t. Not yet anyway.
Give it a few more years though. Maybe by then it will have. You can’t run on empty forever.
The crackling fire fades out as the world goes silent.
End of Chapter 1, Part 1
- EXT CAMPSITE – SUNRISE
A chirping bird can be heard, serene and calming. Then, a loud rousing rebel yell shouted out by THE SERGEANT, a man in his late 30’s with a twinge of a Canadian/Northern US accent cuts through the silence. His voice is loud and commanding, with an eager tone. The very definition of a morning person. He speaks in a militaristic manner, doing his best “Full Metal Jacket” impression, but clearly does not know what he is talking about. The somber guitar starts playing a new song as the morning comes.
THE SERGEANT
Rise‘n shine soldiers! Come on, let’s get up an’ at ‘em! We’ve got a loooong road to follow still, doesn’t matter how many empty bellies we’ve got around here! The land of the free is just waiting for us to arrive, so come on let’s go!
The audio shifts to be clearer, as if we were getting a direct meeting with Sergeant. He speaks as if he was being interviewed by a production crew for a journalistic podcast. The rest of the sounds of the campsite are abruptly halted as this interaction occurs.
You know, I’ve always been a bit of a patriot. I mean, what about America isn’t to love? The people? Fantastic! The landscapes? Beautiful! The culture? Just the greatest, you know? I mean, who can resist hotdogs, burgers and a football game on a Sunday afternoon right after Church? Not me, that’s for sure!
The sounds of camp cut back in, as The Sergeant begins to bang a pot and a pan together. Tent zippers unzip, and the popping of bacon cooking over the fire is audible.
Let’s go! Wake up! Unless you wanna become meat for the Savages out here! Mornin’ Mr. President, sir! Hope you had a good rest, sir! Ah, Private Rover! An early riser I see, eh? Well I’ve got breakfast sizzling near the fire. You can’t start the day without the most important meal! We’ve got bacon and eggs cooking up right now, the perfect American morning meal! Just, don’t ask where we got the eggs from!
He gives a hearty laugh at his joke. The campsite once again cuts out as the scene returns to the interview format.
These folks, they say that the nation is lost, forgotten forever. That we should move on with our lives and find a new place to settle down. But I know better than all of them that it takes more than this to truly kill the US of A! I just know that somewhere out there, the powers that be are just biding their time. Waiting until the day that they can finally make their triumphant return and build this nation anew! They just need to find their hope again, to realize that America always bounces back.
Halfway through the interview, the camp sounds fade back in. The other group members are packing up, putting their tents back and murmuring just out of focus. He still speaks in the same interview tone, finishing his bit, before returning to his militaristic tone.
Well, we’ve got some fair weather today, boys! Nice blue skies with barely any clouds over our heads! A cool breeze from the mountains blowing over the desert! Just how I like it. Now eat up boys! We don’t have all day, you know! We need to get back to marching speed
He pronounces this completely wrong
el rapido! That means quickly in Spanish, Corporal Student. I took a class or two in it. Now, get up and dig in! Your food is gonna get cold if you don’t!
Back to the interview tone, but this time the sounds of camp still stay in focus. There is obviously something strange going on within The Sergeant’s mind.
Most of these guys have lost their American pride, you see? Maybe some of them didn’t have it in the first place. I mean, if you were born and raised in this gorgeous country, why wouldn’t you be proud of it? Are there some problems with it? Sure, but what country is spotless? I mean, Britain went around conquering the world, Germany started not only one, but two world wars, and Russia was a huge evil Communist superpower for a long time and, if you ask me, probably still is. I mean, compared to all of that, America doesn’t seem so bad. It’s just taking a bit of time to work on itself, that’s all. Everyone needs that sometimes. Even I take smoke breaks once and awhile.
He chuckles to himself before shifting back to speaking back to the group in his militaristic tone.
Alrighty soldiers! Let’s move! These boots were made for marching, and they aren’t going to wear themselves out, you know! One, two, three, four! One, two, three… Major Hunter! Pick those feet up! You’re dragging behind! Two, three, four! One, two, three, four!
Sergeant’s voice continues the marching count, but eventually he deliberately fades his own voice out. The guitar continues as the group begins to walk down a highway, the loose asphalt crunching underneath them
- EXT. NEW MEXICO DESERT HIGHWAY – MORNING
As they walk, it’s relatively quiet save for a few small sounds from Pinkerton, who mumbles to himself as he tests out different notes on his harmonica, trying to brute force his way into learning the theme to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” to little avail. Eventually, THE HUNTER, a man in his early 30’s gives a grumble as he begins a conversation. He speaks with a grizzled, rough voice, with no clear accent. It is low and a bit accusatory, as he privately speaks to The Rover. He talks in a very headstrong manner, as if he knows better than those around him.
THE HUNTER
It seems that no matter how far your feet take you, you never seem to make it anywhere. You can walk for hundreds of miles, and still be just as lost and alone as you always are, and always have been. You think to yourself “Maybe, if I follow the roads far enough, and run fast enough, the past can’t find me.” You walk on hope, even as your feet become covered in blisters and your skin burns from the hot sun up above. Even as you freeze in the cold, and your stomach goes hungry.
But the past is already with you. It rides on your back, weighing you down while pushing you forward. You chase what is already behind you and continue to think that you can break free from its hold on you.
Am I wrong, Rover?
I see it in your eyes. The burning regret of things that have already come and gone long ago. The death of the soul which was held together by a spider’s thread to begin with. You and I share the same eyes, Rover. Like you, I understand the hardships of this twisted and cursed land better than anyone else. I know what it’s like to lose everything and still be yanked on a chain towards what has already been lost. You try to move on, to forget, but it just comes flooding back and all you can do is scream and yell and cry. You want to be able to live with yourself again but you can’t look at yourself in a mirror without the desire to take your gun, put it to your head, and watch the light fade from your own eyes as you pull the trigger.
To finally be free of the fear and loathing that make their home within them.
There is a moment of silence, with only the walking of the group to keep the audience company. The Hunter breathes deeply, then continues.
Sorry, I’ve been rude. I never even introduced myself and I already started running my mouth like this. They call me The Hunter, and I’m looking for the people who killed my family.
I find that a direct and forward approach to introductions is always an easier approach than deception and trickery. I’d rather just lay all of it out on the table immediately and deal with the consequences upfront.
But as for you? Your secrets and past are your own, Rover. I don’t pretend to know you, and I’m not going to pretend to understand what demons you’ve got in your own history. But, I do have one request of you, if you do choose to stay with this posse after all:
Never let the past die. Because, after all, it’s your only true friend out here.
The steps continue, as the guitar ends. The cry of a bird can be heard, and the sound of cicadas permeates in the world. There is a small bit of wind that can be heard as well, whooshing across the landscape.
THE BRIEFCASE, an older man in his late 60’s, gives a small little hum of appeasement to himself. He begins to talk in a low voice, with a clear tone in a very obvious British accent. His words are formal, but he seems to be unsure of what to say at times, often trailing off as he becomes lost in thought. He often makes little noises to himself when he has nothing to say.
THE BRIEFCASE
Well, Mr. President, it seems that Rover has made up his mind on the matter of his membership within our company as it were. He informed me just a moment ago that he will, in fact, be joining us on our journey. Day by day, your future nation grows even larger.
Of course, 8 people hardly makes a country. It barely even makes a party. But, we must work with what we are provided I suppose!
That reminds me…
There is the sound of a physical briefcase being popped open, then of paper flipping as Briefcase makes a few hums and vocal quips that indicate he is trying to find something within.
Ah! Here it is. If I’m reading this correctly, we are indeed low on supplies. If we are to maintain a healthy environment around camp, especially with a new face to feed, we are going to require a resupply, and soon. Not only that, but Sergeant is running low on medication, and we all know what that entails if that one stops taking the pills…
More sounds of papers rustling.
The map we bought from that caravan claims that the nearest settlement is just… about… 2 days’ travel north of here, just east of Santa Fe. It’s located within the Pecos National Park, apparently. Freedom, New Mexico. Very creative. You Americans and your relentless adoration of yourselves…
He gives a quick and indignant snort. There is more rustling again as the map is folded up and put away. The briefcase is snapped shut and The Briefcase clears his throat
I know you said from now on you would rather not get close to the cities, but you know what they say about desperate times. If we don’t get more supplies within the next few days, we’re bound to have to start all over… Again…
And besides, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to get out of the south as soon as possible. It is far too hot for me out here. How do you live like this? A year traveling with you and I still don’t understand a single thing about you.
But, I’m not here for pleasantries anyway. You saved my life, and that’s something someone like myself would never forget, nor take for granted. All I’ll ever ask for in return is a promise that you’ll always lead us the right way.
Well, that and a nicer place to sleep for once than the hard desert ground. My back is sore in places I was unaware it could even be sore. Perhaps I should invest in a hammock…
A beat.
Tell me, how long do you plan to keep us running around like this? While I would never doubt your reasoning, I cannot say the same for our “posse.” I don’t think they can keep this pace, and if they’re pushed too far, they’re bound to push right back. Newton’s Third Law and all that. You’re acting as if we’re being chased by something and we can’t do anything but run. So, that begs the question: what is it that we are running from?
Another beat
No answer, then? I didn’t expect there to be. Well I guess it doesn’t matter for now.
Besides, food comes first. Always. So, to Freedom we go.
The sounds of the men walking fade back in, as the desert crickets begin to once again chirp. Pinkerton has abandoned his attempts at learning the previous song, and is now playing the chorus of “Sweet Home Alabama” on his harmonica. He hits a couple of wrong notes, tries to get back to the song, but eventually gives up with a small curse to himself.
THE PINKERTON
Hey, Rover? You know Lynyrd Skynyrd?
THE ROVER
I don’t think I’m familiar, no. I never really listened to much country music. Or classic rock.
THE STUDENT
Oh, don’t worry. You’ll hear it every single day from now on. He found that harmonica a little while back in a crumbled old house and now he plays it nonstop.
THE ROVER
You said you’re from Boston? For someone from up North, it seems like you sure do have an affinity for Southern culture.
THE PINKERTON
Well, my dad actually was from Alabama. I spent some time with him when I was really little, but then my parents got a divorce, and ma moved me back up to MA. I always felt a small bit of an attachment to that part of my heritage though.
He plays a bit more of “Sweet Home Alabama.” Hunter gives a growl of disapproval.
THE HUNTER
Do you even know any other songs?
THE PINKERTON
Well, I also know Amazing Grace if you’d rather listen to that! It was the first song I learned when I was still practicing the harmonica.
THE STUDENT
Great, so the only two options we get are either “country” or “gospel”. It feels like I’m back at Vacation Bible School…
THE PREACHER
Well, that don’t sound so bad to me! It’s pretty fitting for the situation too I’d say. Pinkerton, why don’t you start us out and I’ll join in?
There is a murmur of slight agreement from the party. Pinkerton stumbles a bit with the notes at first, but eventually begins to play “Amazing Grace”. Preacher begins to sing as Pinkerton plays. After him, Sergeant joins in. Then comes Hunter, and then Briefcase. Finally, Student reluctantly joins in with the choir. Rover stays silent as they sing. The music fades to the background as Rover begins to speak to the audience.
THE ROVER
In the New West, we each have our own definition of survival. Some see it as just making it another day walking on the face of this earth. Not going hungry, not going cold, not getting a bullet through the skull. They’d do anything to make sure they survive in the wild, down to the vilest of actions.
Another type of person might consider survival as keeping their humanity, no matter what. They repeat to themselves “I will not break. I may not have food, I may not have water, I may not even have clothes on my back, but I am still myself, and that’s enough for me.” They hold onto the past. Objects like photos, books, jewelry, letters from family. Some of them find a way to manage, while others give up and fall into savagery, like those in the cities. Mostly, though, these folk usually end up dead. At least they survived up until their final moments in the way they believed, though.
And then there are those like the group I now find myself following along with. Those whose survival is defined by the concept of civility. To not only keep your own humanity, but to maintain that same idea in other lost souls along the way. To make a new beacon of humanity, like the nation that came before. The righteous and proud who will battle the inevitability of decimation and decay to lead any who will follow.
And those who will often have their own battles themselves. Whether it’s to repent for sins of a life already lived or to live a new life that is more fulfilling than the last. To run from the ghosts that still haunt them, or to chase after the ghosts that elude them. To have someone to follow when they were always the one to lead, or to have someone to lead when they were always the one to follow. To accept the rules of the Pilgrims or to challenge their very existence. Everyone has a reason for walking the roads, whether on their own or with others.
And that’s what you’re thinking, right? You’re wondering if the second rule says not to make or join groups, then why have I? What could my reason possibly be?
Well, call it a hunch, a suspicion, a notion, or whatever other term you want to describe the feeling of something being strangely out of the ordinary, but I’m curious about this silent leader. A strong stance, a commanding presence, and yet a mask that obscures the face of whoever we are walking behind.
Because there’s one rule that I never mentioned. One rule that is pivotal to survival, but is relatively unknown to the majority of Pilgrims. The seventh rule.
You can never trust a wanderer who wears a mask. Those who obscure their faces have a reason for doing so, and I’ve never met a man alive with a positive one. Good people don’t wear masks if they go around saving humanity from its own demise. Heroes don’t exist in the New West.
And neither do Presidents.
The singing fades back in and Rover joins in the song. As they end the song, the sound of their conversation fades out, back to the howling wind blowing up the dust of the desert.
End of Chapter 1, Part 2
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