Dear Wendie,

 

Please forgive Mick's old Smith-Corona, in particular the letter that's sometimes a vowel. That one’s sticking and I have to write without it. I'm killing the hours before night falls, so I can get on the road without incident. I've pared down to just the essentials, and the rest is for the land. It's a long drive to Fort Buffalo, but I’ll relish it. Even before it all went down, I loved nights like these. Things don't feel so different after dark. The moon still shows against the healing black; the critters still scatter; the sweet wind still drags the lake into the boardwalk where folks never walked after it got late. I like the night because I understand it. That's about all I understand. Wendie, how come this happened? 

 

I can't sleep without knowing, and it’s not for a lack of silence. The rarest moments bring roaring motors, and then I have to watch and wonder who on earth it could be. It was the same when I drove diesels long-distance. Those barbaric rigs told the night drivers who was coming. But I'd sit up high, the insomniacs jibber-jabbering over CB, and I’d wonder who the other lonesome drivers were down there. What could be pushing them along at such an hour? What I drive now isn’t so imposing. The fridges in the diesels won’t run after all, and driving them is just inviting trouble. Now I drive a crude flatbed with wood panels I fixed up, and no one ever has reason to assume I’m worth bothering. We’ve all had to make changes. That’s just surviving.

 

I’m fortunate because it’s all too simple to get into trouble when strangers start asking what’s in the truck. For instance, Mick (remember old Mick?). He made it through the woods too, and we sort of reconnected. Mick was such a survivor until he wasn’t. He was coming back from Green Rock with four dozen cases of Evian – taken straight from the shipment, dated long before the incident, and safe to drink. That was Mick's water. He earned it. But some dudes stopped him on the 119, rattled their shotguns and demanded he hand it over. As Mick told it, he kept his cool, and he told those toughs, “Take all the water, or just take some of it, but just know I’ve cracked the seals on all the bottles and replaced half of them with water from the taps.” Of course, we don't mess around with water from the taps – not after seeing what it can do. Their leader asks Mick how come he’d waste half his good water, and Mick explains, “So I can protect the good half against thugs and brainless cretins.” And the leader tells him, “Perhaps I'll just have to pull this trigger then,” and Mick goes, “Oh, kill me with those big mean guns, I guess?” And the dude’s like, “It wouldn't be the first time.” So, now Mick's onto him, and he’s like, “Tell me something, skip. After those other killings, whatcha feel?” And the dude shrugs, “Felt nothing.” And Mick goes, “Besides thirst, right?”

 

Mick drove off with his four dozen cases of water, not just untarnished, but seals unbroken too. The thugs never even thought to take a closer look. Just went in the other direction, guns limp. That tale's a legend around here. It's how Mick helped set the laws about what’s fair when driving the ashen stretch between forgotten towns. Granted, he bit it a few months later when he got smug and stole food from a camp that, let's face it, needed it more than him. I found him in the brush near the river, just down from where I happened onto his truck one afternoon. He was bug-ridden fast. That's the other option when handling troublemakers – shoot 'em point blank. I pushed his truck into the woods. It was a nice one but I can't be seen driving something from someone with enemies. I did take the smokes from his glove-box, and this Smith-Corona. It seemed someone should have it, even if it sticks.

 

I confess, I’ve been no saint. Survival and ethics can’t coexist, and if I follow all the rules, I’ll just slide further down the food chain. In truth, I wasn’t such an angel before the bad water. I never talked about it, but I sometimes allowed third parties to do business out of the backs of the diesels. That's not unusual, and the compensation’s fair. As I see it, work on the books wasn’t so honest either. So, I drive out to an agreed-upon destination, and I load a dude's cargo into the back of the truck, and there's a handshake between us, and on we go. That's it, more or less. When I'm moving regular provisions, sure, it's a genial transaction. Tonight, it's a little more complicated.

 

Tonight, it's the good stuff. It might be hard to believe, but this is what’ll bring us back together again. It's not clean water, I have enough of that for a lifetime – a short one at least. It's not guns or fuel or dope. Nope, it's the stuff we've all been clamouring for since the beginning. And when I section it off and market the portion I don't keep, I'll run these parts. Understand though that the high stakes mean I can't be quite so cordial. The dude I’ve got coming into Fort Buffalo thinks I can afford what it's worth, but I can't. So, I'll have to compensate him in lead. I feel bad, but I think Mick would get it. Besides, I'm just doing it so we can find each other. It's a risk, sure, but it's worth it to be together and to feel something like normal again. Jesus, I still need a proper explanation. Wendie, how come this happened? I've been so lost. 

 

It's a long drive to Fort Buffalo but that’s fine. I've got some thinking to do. Speaking of Mick, I've got to come up with a plan in case I get questioned coming back. Mick was so good at thinking on his feet, but I tend to need to plan ahead. I've got lots of time to mull it over, and no distractions but the few other lonesome drivers. It’s like that time with Mick and the cases of Evian. He lied and said he'd meddled with half the water, so there was no knowing what part was safe. I'm not going to Fort Buffalo for water. It's a higher demand product than that. But I need a similar lie to get me out of potential trouble.

 

Looks like night is setting in and it’ll be another nice one. It’s not that I like things better now, but there are silver linings. It's quieter now, and some like it quieter. I miss Mick, I'll admit that. And I miss some other good people. The one’s I’ve learned from and looked up to. And I miss carefree drinks of water, and simple chats with strangers. I miss when the things we did were things we could do with ease. And Wendie, guess who I miss the most. I miss someone fretting about me. I miss that ever-changing hair colour, and that wheezing laugh. All I can do is hope this letter knows where to go. I know I do. Fort Buffalo, Wendie. That’s our bridge, and I’m going tonight.

 

It's looking about dark enough now that I can hit the road. Wish me luck with the trigger. I was never great at hitting targets. And wish me luck with whatever lie I come up with. If I need it that is. I was never much for lies either. I apologize for this mess, but all our electronics out here have been dead for months and penmanship has also never been a great skill of mine. If this letter arrives sooner than I do, just know that I'm coming as fast as I can. We're going to survive together. And we’ll lie out in the flatbed and look at the stars, and I can have all this explained to me. Then I’ll get some sleep at last. When we’re together is when I'll love the night for real. Just us, lost in the same place, getting through it all together. Just us, Wendie. Just us.

 

In the meantime, wish me luck, and trust that I’ll be there soon. I’m so eager, Wendie. I have to know how come it all happened.