as the thunder rolling

The boy sat on the porch in the sweeping dust of the desert with the east sun in his eyes and still he watched the rider and still the rider came. He was another dry bit of sage bumbling through the high desert, shunted aside at every obstacle but still moving, never stopping. Miscellaneous detritus in the unfeeling wind.

Still he came. Nothing moved for as long at one time as did he, the boy thought. From across the flatness of the hard-pan the horse and rider looked closer than what they were, distance losing meaning in the long sweep of nothing and nowhere.

To where did he go? To here? Nowhere.

Henry, came the mother's voice from inside the one-room shack behind him, come inside set the table. The boy did not ignore so much as fail to hear it. Such attention as he had he'd squandered on the rider.

A crazy? A mutant? Sometimes they came out this far – survived this far. Always dying shortly thereafter – dreaming whatever memories of the time before as they had left, if indeed they had anything left in their blistered, bald heads and their rotten yellow eyes.

Not a crazy. Crazies never ride horses. Not a mutant. Mutants always make noise, and he's so quiet. Somebody who can talk? What will he say?

Henry get in here set the table.

The wind picked up. Dust obscuring the little figure so far in the distance. All in shadow. He squinted through the cloud. The dust was in his own eyes, even here on the porch miles away from it.

After a moment it cleared. The rider's horse stumbled along as if it had lost its head, or maybe as if the ground was strewn about with broken glass. He gigged the animal forward, kicking it. Cursing it? the boy wondered.

Closer now. Close enough to see he sat tall in the saddle. Too far to see the face, the east sun cast behind his head and shadowing it.

Henry breakfast ready now get inside set the table!

He wanted to get off the porch and walk closer to him – knew it was pointless. He knew it stretched forever, the nothing. Knew that if he tried to meet the rider halfway there would be no meeting because there was no halfway because there was no end to any of it. He might die with the walking – the rider might die with the riding.

Henry get inside now!

The horse stumbled again. He kicked it with a booted foot and the boy could hear the cursing now, drifting over the flat nothing. He said words the boy had only heard from his father before his father had put the gun in his mouth and fired it.

The boy heard other people down the street, deeper in the small town, stirring. Listening to the unwelcome sound of speech. The first words said in several days by anybody. It was offensive – a shattering of the pristine silence that was the daytime lullaby of the mind.

The fat woman across the dirt street and down the way called to her husband to come look. There gathered the crowd, not at the edge of the town at the boy's house but behind it – the imaginary boundary of the uncharted municipality their sole protection, as if it were somehow one-way glass.

This time the horse fell. It fell forward, the front legs giving. It started talking.

This model fifteen-hundred Equubot is in need of maintenance. Would you like to activate the help menu?

He kicked it. He swore. His shouts and curses directed at the horse intended for a higher, less accessible being.

You have selected help. Would you like to run an auto-diagnostic?

The boy saw he had a bag at his side, hung from a shoulder strap. With it he beat the horse over the head repeatedly, dragging at the reins, swearing, the sun and its jackhammer of heat relentless.

You have selected yes. Running auto-diagnostic. Cooling system failure. It is recommended that you move away from this unit and notify emergency services. No further problems detected. Thank you for using auto-diagnostic, a service of the Monolith Corporation.

The swearing ceased and he took a few steps back. Shoulders heaving with rage, even at this distance.

He'd drawn something from a pocket and pointed it at the horse.

Would you like to search for nearby repair and maintenance centers? You have selected

The horse's head snapped back.

A crack, painful in its volume and suddenness, even from across the nothing.

Henry heard them all run back inside. From within his own house, the peaceful sound of oil roiling in heat and scalding the fish. Loud enough to defeat the gunshot.

HENRY YOU GET INSIDE I'LL BEAT YOU!

Very well.

The rider continued walking, the saddlebags over his shoulders, the air rippling and sighing silently in the heat.

A high-pitched beeping, rising in tempo.

The horse became a fireball, metal parts spitting in all directions. A sound of destruction rippling back to the town as the thunder rolling. Unscathed, still he came.

The boy went inside to find his mother, who had already forgotten her anger over his slowness. She said the only other words to him she'd said that day.

Storm coming?