There are People here

       A bag of silver coins dangles from my hip, completely worthless to me in its current state. 

            I tie another bag closed, full of old steel utensils, and let it hang from the saddle. I know of a man in a nearby town that can melt scavenged metal into bullets for a decent price. I've given him ample business, and just through seeing his clients I've wondered how many of his bullets have been used to kill people.  

            From my own witness, at least sixty-six. 

As my horse continues down the unmarked path, I decide to pluck out one of the silver coins to examine it. There wasn’t much else to do or see, since around us was an infinite expanse of sand and dust with the occasional stripe of old, broken roads. Sometimes you’ll come across a small patch of cacti and stones. Or the remains of the wind turbines that were abundant here a long time ago, all laying on their sides with gaping holes from freelance mechanics trying to find parts. That was all the sensory input you could get out here, besides the mirages if the heat gets to you. 

The coin still had the plastic casing on it, keeping the metal shiny and pristine as the day it was made. Or at least, that's what the gunsmith tells me. I remember one day he pointed out all the features to me and explained what they meant - the lady that is meant to represent freedom, the eagle that is supposed to be our national bird (although I have never seen one, nor has anyone else), the number that is supposed to be the coin's weight, and the lettering that is supposed to say a bunch of government mottos and such. The mottos that make people burn paper money, give away their silver dollars, curse the Old Government. I've tried reading them, but I barely even know enough to differentiate the letters. I have never touched any other book besides the bible, and the family bible had disappeared with my entire hometown. Even then, my mother was the only one who could read it. 

            I squinted my eyes at the numbers at the bottom of the side of the coin with the lady on it. Four numbers, spelling out 2020. Because of the coin's potential value as ammunition, I've never shown it to anyone else but the gunsmith. But I've stared at that number, trying to decipher what it means. 

            The gunsmith was much older than me, but I could hardly believe it when I saw that he had a shake in his limbs. He could barely hold onto the bag of silver with a steady arm. 

            “Sir,” He was one of the few people I ever addressed as such. Even my employers didn’t get this level of respect from me. “Are you alright?”

              He set the bag of coins on his workbench and sighed. There was a tremble in his voice. 

            “Providence, please be careful out there.” 

            I was used to this warning. I remember him telling me once that I was his youngest client, the youngest one he knew that wielded a gun. The one that held the title as the child that dodged the mystical mass disappearances and could live to tell the tale.

            “I know.” 

            “I mean it.” His eyes were squinting through his glasses, as if he was trying to see me clearly. Given that there was nowhere that we knew of that could repair or sell glasses, I had no idea if that pair actually did anything for him. “There’s something going on lately. My boys are finding strange things, good people preaching the good word are going missing, and less foreigners are coming through.” 

            “I don’t think there’s anything you have to worry- “

            “You don’t understand,” I hated it when people said that to me. I can admit it myself if I don’t understand something. I felt my stomach burn with anger. I suddenly had the urge to rip those glasses right off the old man’s face and smash them to bits. “This is all something bigger, Providence. There’s something bigger going on.” 

            “As in?” 

            He was about to speak but stopped himself. A quick reconsideration. 

            “There are People here, Providence.” 

The gunsmith had to tend to his next clients. I left the coins there to be smelted into ammunition that I would pick up in a few days. 

I decided to hop to a bar and grab myself a drink. Bars were a prime place to get hired, even if it was for a nasty job. People get pissed, rant about their problems, and you can easily present your offer in exchange for whatever they can provide. Around here, most people just want you to fix a part of their house or shoot a locally spotted sheep or deer. On rare occasions, I’ll get a bounty request. I don’t like those, but they offer very substantial rewards.

            I ask the bartender for a glass of milk with three shots of cinnamon whiskey, and I couldn't believe it when I saw the glass slide down the bar counter. I got a few strange looks, but I happily nursed that drink. The warmth that settled in my gut was profoundly comforting, far better than the heat of a campfire or gun barrel. 

            As I finished my first drink, I noticed that the bar was still eerily quiet save for passed whispers. Everyone had this tension in their shoulders, like they had a muzzle to the back of their neck and was waiting for it to fire. 

            Once I had my second drink in hand, I turned to the two guys on my right and tapped one of their shoulders. They looked at me, suddenly puzzled. With my blonde hair buzzed short and my body defined in slender muscle, I could understand why they initially had difficulty determining if I was male or female. 

            "What happened around here, Mister?" I asked, my softer voice helping them determine my sex. 

            The two of them looked at each other. One of them said, "Another nearby town went missing. Several sons and daughters from this town lived there."

            A knot formed in my gut. Towns going missing were a rare phenomenon, but the why and how was what always terrified people. Towns that were bustling with three or four hundred people can go silent overnight, with no evidence of where those people went. It was as if they simply vanished into thin air. I've heard many theories, such as gangs taking over and enslaving the townspeople, or God punishing them for being blasphemous. I once heard someone proudly claim that people disappeared because they got into contact with the Old Government. I wanted to pop them in the mouth for coming up with such a stupid sounding idea and for even mentioning such an entity. 

            "I see. I'm sorry." I was about to down my drink and move on to the inn for the night when the other guy piped up. 

            "Say, you're one of those free-lancers, right?" I nodded, setting my drink back on the counter. He continued in a hush voice, one quiet enough that his partner could barely hear. "If you're up for it, I want ya to search that town for anything of value. I can pay ya however ya want. Steaks, bullets, hookups."

            I cringed at that last suggestion, the idea of it making me want to vomit in my own mouth. 

            "Is there anything in particular you want me to search for?" I asked. Value can mean many different things. 

            "Canned food, jewelry, and shoes."

            Seemed reasonable enough. "How much do you want me to bring back?"

            "As much as ya can carry." 

            Greedy bastard. 

            "Pay me in three steaks for the first twenty pounds, a magazine of bullets for each additional ten, and you've got a deal." 

            Scavenging a town like this always made me uneasy.

            Many people considered towns like these after a disappearance haunted or cursed. Some treated them like cemeteries, considering the vanished inhabitants dead. Although I have done jobs like this several times before, taking the belongings always gave me chills. Like I was tampering something that I should never, ever mingle with in the first place. 

            I found out quickly that this town was one of those that still presented its name. 

            Jitter Valley. 

            I also found that the population number was severely outdated. It claimed that the town had over eight hundred people in it but judging from the amount of belongings in the houses, in reality it must've been a quarter of that amount. Many houses were empty or seemed to have held squatters, and some properties looked like they had been torn apart a long time ago so the townspeople could use the house materials. 

            In an odd way, it reminded me of my hometown. Before they disappeared. 

            I remember the colder nights when the town would host community fires to keep everyone warm. Deserted houses that me and the neighborhood kids would play in would be torn apart, used to repair other houses or to manufacture something else since all the factories were shut down a long time ago. The main street provided a general store, where I would often buy herbs and coffee for my mother’s cooking. Sometimes I went with my dad to the bar to talk with the other townsmen, and I would drink milk but pretend that it was alcohol. Some nights my dad would take me with him on hunting trips and he’d teach me how to shoot all his old rifles and shotguns. 

            I clutched my rifle closer to my chest. Along the stock was an engraving, something that the gunsmith called initials. He told me what each one was and that they stood for a different part of my dad’s name. However, it meant nothing to me, for I didn’t know my father’s name. 

            It took a whole day to search a third of the town. I wanted to take my time to see if I could find any bullets to smuggle or any booze to drink. Unfortunately, none of the bullets were the right caliber for my pistol or rifle, and all the booze was beer. I couldn’t stand taste or smell of beer. What was the point in drinking if it didn’t taste good? If it didn’t quickly get you that buzz, that floating feeling that made you not care about a thing in the world? 

            Eventually it got dark, and from my experience I’ve learned that churches were a great place to stay for the night. The pews could easily be taken apart, and if I was able to remove the front foot board I could fit inside and be completely concealed. It wasn’t comfortable by any means, but it was safe. Like a holy coffin. 

            But before I began this task, I decided to snoop around the church. I checked every corner, drawer, cupboard, and could not find a single bible. It was an odd thing that happened with these disappearances, all the bibles would go missing.

            Everybody that I asked why had an answer that was eerily similar. It had something to do with that common motto on the paper money that was burned, the unwanted silver coins, and the Old Government.

            They always mentioned the same phrase, "In God we trust". 

            But it shouldn't matter anymore. Any government, new or old, shouldn't exist. It broke down a long time ago. 

            Through my snooping, I came upon something I’ve been stumbling upon more of recently. Something that was always broken before I could figure out what it was. 

            A strange orb-like object sat on the podium. It was entirely black and didn't have any visible seams. There was no dust or signs of wear on it, indicating that it was new. But I couldn't find any feature that indicated its use. No buttons or levers or hooks. 

I’ve been finding these in deserted towns for a while now. The only thing left behind by whatever or whomever was doing this.

My only question was why.

            "What in the world is this even for?" I mumbled to myself. 

            I nearly pissed myself when it spoke. 

            "I am Ezekiel. Ask me anything!"

            I chuckled to myself. This thing had no mouth but could talk. It had a boy's name yet a very womanly voice. 

            I decided to test this thing. 

            "What is the temperature?" 

            A ring glowed at its bottom, softly pulsating for a few seconds before it responded with a ding. 

            "In Woodford County, the temperature is currently ninety-three degrees. Would you like a more detailed weather report?"

            The ring flashed again, as if the orb was eagerly waiting for my answer. 

            "Sure?"

            The ring pulsated for another few seconds, followed by another ding.

            "It is projected to be sunny today, with a high of one-hundred and nine degrees, and a low of eighty-one. There is a zero percent chance of precipitation."

            I got intrigued and decided to ask more questions. 

            "What food can be grown here?"

            "Some species of wheat and potatoes can be grown here. However, this is only possible through conventional farming and irrigation due to the dry soil."

            "What animals live here?"

            "Animals such as wild coyotes, mule deer, pygmy rabbits, and different species of bighorn sheep can live here. However, in the last few decades, animal populations have been in decline and many of these species can be considered endangered or at risk. It is highly advised to not hunt them."

            Considering that most people were scrapping for their next meal and were willing to pay good money for rabbit, an advisory from this thing wasn't going to stop me. 

            However, I found this “Ezekiel” fascinating. I had no idea how it worked, but all its answers were truthful. This seemed like the closest thing to reading a book – absorbing knowledge from a database of prepared answers laid before you. 

            I decided to halt our conversation and get the pew ready for me to sleep in. It certainly wasn't going to be comfortable, but it was safe. 

            The wood was easy to pry away, and within minutes I had my little hiding spot prepared for the night. A flask of water, my valuables, my rifle and pistol, some food, and a thick blanket was set out for me. I brought the orb with me before I placed the foot board back in place, enveloping the entire space in darkness spare for a small hole in the bench seat just above my head. The air tasted of dust and musk, the building beyond the pew dead silent. 

            "Ezekiel," I paused, feeling strange for addressing the object by name. As if it were a real person I was talking to. "What happened to the country a long time ago?"

            As the orb pondered its answer, I shifted around in my spot. The footboards on either side of me forced my shoulders to press in towards my chest. I knew that I would be sore in the morning. 

            "Sixty-seven years ago, there was a plague that spread around the world and caused severe economic problems in the United States. Two years later, the United States broke out into civil and global war, and three nuclear bombs were dropped on us. As a result, much of the population died from radiation and disease. Additionally, the climates changed and much of the country now has an arid and hot environment."

            Anytime that I had asked the elders in any town about this, they refuse to talk about it. They stare off catatonically into space. Some get this distant look in their eyes, as if they were staring at something blankly that was two-thousand yards away. 

            But that word, years, stuck out to me. I’ve heard of it before but could never figure out what I meant. It was a measure of time, but nobody could explain it to me in a way that was applicable. 

            That term had become obsolete. Useless. I suppose that bombing and war caused it to be that way. 

            After all, what would be the point in keeping track of time if nothing substantial enough would cause change to need to keep track of time? If everything remained on the same, continuous plane of sterile homogeneity? 

            I certainly saw no point in tracking anything in this dry, infinite expanse of lawless desert.

            "Ezekiel, what happened to the Old Government?"

            It pondered my question for a few seconds. Then a minute. 

            "I'm sorry, I do not understand your question."

            I rose a brow and decided to repeat it. "What happened to the Old Government?"

            Ezekiel pondered this for the same amount of time, and responded, "I'm sorry, I do not understand your question. How about instead, I ask you a question?"

            "Okay?"

            It was sudden, but I went along with it. 

            "What is your name?"

            "Providence."

            "What do you look like?"

            I paused. Why would this thing care of what I look like? 

            A smirk then broke out onto my face, and I was tingling with a mischievous curiosity. I chuckled to myself, at the stupidity yet amusement of my idea.

            "I have long brown hair and a beard. I'm very skinny, have tons of tattoos, and I’m not very-"

            "I'm sorry, please answer truthfully. What do you look like?"

            My stomach sunk beyond the sand under my back. 

            How did it-?

I suddenly felt like I had been speaking down a tunnel. A long, narrow tunnel that carried my voice far to the other side. A side that was so distant I couldn’t see who or what was there. 

"Ezekiel," The space beneath the pew felt chilly. Vulnerable. "Are there People here?"