The Pilgrimage Chapter 7
The SUV rattled along, covering miles that would have taken days on foot. They were finally making real progress, but the hours were long, and the silence heavy. Julio’s leg, though bandaged and numbed from the outpost’s treatment, still throbbed beneath the layers of dressing. Despite his pain, he kept a sharp eye on the terrain, an old habit from his days in the Corps and the violent domestic conflict they lived through.
As they approached a wide stretch of open desert, Shen adjusted his seat, keeping his gaze on the horizon. “This far out, you start to wonder what people are still hanging around for,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Guess it’s not that different from before.”
Brad gave a short laugh. “Different? This is paradise compared to how I remember it. Back then, it was cookin’ or cleaning up after someone else’s mess. Now, everything we do is our own mess, at least.”
Julio, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, said, “Semper Fi, Brad. Nothing like owning it.”
Brad glanced back at him. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll leave that gung-ho stuff to you jarheads.” The lightness in his tone belied a flicker of understanding, a nod to their shared willingness to step up and take on whatever came, even if they’d come from different paths.
The hours passed, marked by the endless, parched landscape. Occasionally, they spotted debris—a lone tire, the remains of a rusted-out sedan, or a scorched shell casing glinting under the sun. These remnants were a grim reminder of the convoys and caravans that had crisscrossed the desert during the conflict, moving supplies, weapons, and people across hostile territory.
As dusk began to settle, they pulled off the road and parked behind a rock formation for cover. They could only push the old SUV so hard, and the low rumble of the engine had begun to stutter, suggesting the fuel wouldn’t last forever.
They made camp with practiced efficiency. Shen adjusted a tarp to create a windbreak while Brad rummaged through their remaining rations, pulling out some water and a few protein bars. Julio kept a close watch, his gaze sweeping the horizon.
“So,” Julio began, his tone quieter than usual. “When we reach our destination, what’s the play? I mean, let’s say we find him—then what? He tells us we’re screwed up, gives us the boot, and we just go on our way?”
Brad looked thoughtful, chewing slowly before answering. “Guess we don’t know until we’re face-to-face. But maybe it’s not so much what he tells us as…what he sees.” He paused, staring at the dusty ground. “I keep thinking maybe he’ll look right through me. See what I’ve done and give me the words for it. The truth. Maybe that’s the whole point.”
Julio nodded, rolling the thought around in his mind. “Words for it,” he echoed softly. “That’d be a first.” He shifted, his mind briefly flickering back to the moments that still haunted him—moments when he’d acted fast, with grit but little hesitation, the Marine training kicking in. How many times had he hit targets he couldn’t forget? How many lives had he taken that he could no longer count?
Shen sat down beside them, his own expression distant. “I’m not expecting forgiveness,” he said. “Not after what we did. You all know I made things for our side that…I mean, I made bombs, put them together like puzzle pieces. And every time they went off, I’d wonder if I’d just added one more family to the list. But it didn’t matter, not then.” His voice trailed off, haunted, but resolute.
Julio placed a hand on Shen’s shoulder, a rare show of camaraderie. “You kept us fighting. All of us had jobs, roles. We did what we had to.”
“Sure,” Shen replied, his voice barely a whisper. “But that’s not gonna mean much to a guru, or whatever he or she is, will it?”
The night deepened, the quiet settling over them. Eventually, they lay down, pulling their jackets around them for warmth, and one by one, they drifted into uneasy sleep.
In the early hours, a faint sound stirred them—a low drone on the horizon. They sat up quickly, instinctively grabbing their weapons and scanning the landscape. The sound grew louder, but instead of a threat, they saw headlights slowly moving along a distant road.
Brad narrowed his eyes. “Could be another convoy. Supply run, maybe.”
“Or folks just like us, trying to survive,” Julio murmured, his hand resting lightly on his pistol.
They watched as the vehicle passed by in the distance, its path intersecting with theirs for a moment before it disappeared behind a ridge. As silence returned, they relaxed slightly, though each knew they’d never truly let their guard down.
The next day, they pressed on, each mile bringing them closer to the faint promise of Nevada. As they neared the border, the terrain became rougher, rocky cliffs and scattered brush breaking up the flat desert. The sun bore down on them mercilessly, and the heat clung to them like a shroud.
Just when their water supply was running dangerously low, they spotted a small, abandoned settlement nestled against a hillside. Most of the buildings were crumbling, but a few appeared intact, and they decided to search it for anything useful.
Inside an old, ransacked gas station, they found a few half-empty water bottles and a dusty first-aid kit with a handful of supplies. Julio snatched the kit up, inspecting the remaining contents—a single sterile bandage, a roll of gauze, and a few painkillers.
“Not much,” he muttered, “but it’s better than a boot to the head.”
They shared a quick laugh, a fleeting break in the otherwise grim day. But as they turned to leave, they spotted something else—an old map pinned to the wall, its corners frayed but legible. It showed the roads and trails winding through Nevada, and a particular point stood out, marked with faded ink: Fallon.
Brad tapped the spot, glancing at the others. “Maybe this is it. Greg talked about Fallon.”
“Long way off,” Julio noted, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. “But we’re getting closer. Just need this bucket of bolts to hold out.”
The SUV rattled to life again, carrying them onward as they drove deeper into the Nevada desert. They passed the hours in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts, the landscape blending into a blur of dust and shadow.
As night fell once more, they saw lights on the horizon—a small cluster, flickering against the darkness. They exchanged cautious glances, each wondering if this was yet another outpost or the destination they’d been chasing.
“Think this is it?” Brad asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
“Only one way to find out,” Shen replied, gripping his rifle. “But if this is another outpost, let’s keep things low-key. No telling who’s friendly out here.”
They parked on the outskirts, slipping into the shadows as they approached on foot. The flickering lights illuminated a handful of people moving between the buildings, their faces worn and wary. It wasn’t the end of their journey, but it was another step closer.
And as they drew near, Julio glanced back at the SUV, a flicker of gratitude crossing his face. This pilgrimage had started out as a faint promise, but every step, every encounter, had changed it into something else—a journey toward something none of them could quite name.
In the distance, the lights beckoned, the promise of the sage drawing them forward, and together they moved, bound by the ghosts of their pasts and the hope for something they might never find.