The dried country road ran red in the middle of spring; covered in layers of dust and rock, the road fell and glided across the many hills of yellow grass with substantial ease. It had been dry for more than a few months now, and it did not look to be any better in the coming days. Lines in the dirt made irrelevant patterns against the ground, making crosses and parallels on the ground. At the head of the freshest line was an ash-gray shell shifting itself along the ashen earth in rigid and sporadic motions. The turtle’s nose was hard and worn, and its legs were swimming in the dirt. The claws attempted to dig into something, anything to progress further; but there wasn’t anything to grab hold of.
Its head peered out of the shell as if the world was unfamiliar to its own recollection. Sitting on the sides of the head, its eyes looked coldly unto the land stretching ahead; and in between glances the turtle opened its tight jaw to feed on dried grass, its neck stretched to its full length and unwrinkled. The turtle chewed and looked through the afternoon air towards the horizon with the sun approaching its zenith, its eyes like glass in the sunlight.
Blazing wind and its lashes came across the field in cutting waves. Much upturned dirt passively followed the wind’s trail while the trees sat rooted in the soil. The shell sat in the dirt as the wind made such harsh thrashes; in the shell the turtle would feel safe and invisible.
The winds subsided and left the world stirred and confused.
Much like rain and music the leaves had fallen and died, suspended in the air and carefully descending to the ground below in brilliant cadenzas. Each one a marking of its own life and light and luster.
A black car containing two sullen looking men made its way through the waning hours of the day. The engine made a sound as if sleeping beasts were dreaming in the middle of a century long dormancy, the noise being relatively faint and audible as the wheels turned rigidly against the grooves of the road. The man steering along the path had a freshly shaven face, and his head resembled a pale egg. A black hat sat on his neatly displayed countenance, leaving little strands of hair peering out from the curving sides of his dome. He wore a black suit with a white undershirt and a gray tie with black shoes and socks, his usual attire. In regular intervals he would take his hand from the steering wheel and rub his right eye, believing that this would remedy the irritation but really just adding temporary moments of relief followed by a more intense discomfort. But he couldn’t keep his hand down. It itched too much.
It began to turn red.
The other man in the passenger’s side was taller by a few inches and bore a scrupulously trimmed beard which covered most of his lean face. In his hand was a piece of red string; he rubbed it between his thumb and finger as he watched and listened to the surrounding spaces, giving him a sense of comfort. His movements were precise and formulated, his hands placed strategically on his lap, his thin lips resting and paralyzed together, always silent. His main means of communication were various gestures and nods, opting to use nonverbal communication instead of words unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then he sometimes didn’t say anything.
“Why are you doing this?” the driver of the car said to him, looking towards the wooden house on his left. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Why do you want this? Why, why, why? Who are you to tell me this? Who are you to do this? Who the hell are you? Who, who, who?” He took one hand off the wheel and leaned slightly back in his chair, feeling the cushions against his back, his arm dangling on his knee. “That’s what they’ll say to us after we tell them. And they’ll be mad and lash out at the closest things near them, which will be us. I know we’re not exactly going to tell them they won the lottery or anything, but, Jesus, don’t shoot the messenger. Don’t shoot me.”
His partner slightly bowed his head forward to indicate that he was listening to his thoughts. That’s all he needed, anyway. Just an indication of listening.
“And it ain’t us who wants this. Nobody wants this. I don’t care who you are. Nobody wants this. It’s just how it works. These things just happen is all.”
The dying wind seemed to guide the black car into the driveway of the next family. The driver couldn’t remember the family’s name.
“What’s the name of this family, again?”
“Freeman,” replied the other in an almost frail monotone.
“Freeman,” replied the driver, his mouth barely opening.
As he guided the black car to a stop, his face began to turn solemn and more routine in preparation for the meeting. The noise of a screen door creaking in the wind sounded as the engine died down to a whimper, the feeling of quiet desperation seeping through the surface and remaining so. The car doors both opened and closed in an uneven gallop, and the two men both stood facing the house, their eyes fixed on the opened windows.
Out of the screen door came a man in tattered clothing that hung idly from his protruding shoulders, his pants folding over his feet as he came. In between his dark set eyes formed a section of deep wrinkles in consequence of the many years of roaming the landscape in search of means of production. The shoes he wore were held together by little bits of material he had stitched on with his own hands, and they looked to be a light gray color even though originally black. His hands were cracked and calloused. His overall appearance suggested that he had been living reservedly for the past number of years.
He walked through the threshold with an air of mystery and perplexity familiar to the shorter of the men.
Maybe it’s the way he walks, he thought. Or the way his arms drop.
The hair upon his head, wiry and still, fell just above his eye; he took his hand and combed his hair back. His eyes seemed to darken in the sunlight.
An old dog of twelve long ending years laid on the porch and in the thin shade of the chair and table. Its ears hung across its paws as its head placed itself on the ground; its eyes watching the two men cross the yellow yard; its mouth dry and cracked. The tail moved slightly and thumped the wooden porch out of exhaustion and tedium.
The wind only a whisper coming across the barren fields.
And as they moved closer the shorter man said, “Hot day, ain’t it?”
“What?” said Freeman as he shifted his weight to his left foot.
“Ain’t it a hot day?”
“Yes.”
“Dry too.”
“Yes.”
“This morning I looked out my window and just looking out it made my mouth dry.”
“I suppose.”
Resonating from the house were sounds of objects moving and clapping clumsily on the floor. Freeman stood stoically, seeming not to hear anything.
“Who’s that?” the shorter man said.
“Wife.”
“She must be cleaning or moving.”
“Yes.”
After a pause full of meaningful glances, Freeman diligently responded with his own retort with a monotone delivery.
“What is it you fellows want?”
“We’d like to talk to you, nothing more, Mr…” he trailed off in search of the man’s name. He just knew it was in there somewhere. “Freeman, yes. Mr. Freeman.”
“All right. What’s your name? And your friends, too?”
“Well, I am Mr. Gaines. Louis Gaines. And my associate here is Mr. Benham.”
“Jem Benham,” said Mr. Benham in a surprisingly brusque voice which sounded as if it originated from the bottom depths of his gut. Gaines smiled briskly.
“Is there anywhere you’d like to talk, in particular?” said Gaines trying to finish this as soon as possible.
“Here’s fine.”
“All right.”
The rustling stopped from inside the house, and the three men continued to stand unabashed. Where was the time going?
“Benham? Any relations with John Benham?” said Freeman.
“No relation.” said Benham.
“My father knew John Benham when I was a kid. They went out every weekend together to the bars in town after working all week, till John left all a sudden. Debts, I think, with men you don’t want to mix up with. He’s dead now, I think. Father is, anyway.”
“No relation.”
“Where you from?”
“I was born here, but I don’t claim it.”
“What about you?” questioned Freeman, subtly gesturing towards Gaines with his eyes.
“I’m from about three hours south of here. Moved here about twenty years ago with my wife. She’s from here.”
“What was her name before she met you?”
“Speers. Her name was Speers.”
Freeman looked coolly past the two men and watched the horizon spreading out ahead of himself. His eyes fell upon the car and he noticed the small details and contours curving and jutting inward and outward along its black surface.
Please end soon, thought Gaines. God, end it soon.
“The Speers are in-town. They run the store there. She the daughter of Noah Speers?”
“Yep, her older brother Donny runs the business now.”
“Yeah, I know Donny. That makes your wife Janice. And that makes you her husband. Say, no one has seen Janice in quite a while. Where’s she? You have her locked up in a chair?”
Gaines uncomfortably laughed and tried to make it appear to be genuine, but he faltered and rubbed his eyes and said, “No, no. She just likes to stay home and make things with all her time and all.”
The door began to crack open, showing a thin sliver of the insides of the house. A peeled eye peeped between the space with a hand cradling the door. A stillness came upon the men. And the ruffling of fabric could be heard in the back.
“Get back inside.” heeded Freeman to the eye. “It’s my son. Curious.”
“It’s all right, Mr. Freeman; we pay no mind. Let us talk now about why we came.” said Gaines, trying to stay on point and to leave as soon as possible.
“I knew this was coming.”
“What’s that?”
“It comes for everyone in these times. No use in struggling. You’re here to take it.”
“In layman's terms, yes.”
“How soon?”
“As soon as possible.”
Freeman shifted his weight and did not move, his chest as stolid as his face and his appearance resembling an item at an exhibition. The dog laid as if it was dead or close to it.
“Just like that and nothing is left. The land is dry and everyone seems dry, too. The food is dry and the water is dry. The air dry as the sky is dry. The sounds of the yard and animals sound just as nothing as the door and creaking windows aren’t. And with only the drop of sun and blistering light the land recedes into the ground and vanishes from the top, from the sight of us. And with no such thing as a warning. And with no sign of any kind. It all happens. Just like that. And nothing is left.”
Freeman had a look of defeat on his face as he finished what he said. His eyes relaxed and dropped to the dust laying at the base of his feet. His thoughts seemed to weigh on him in such a way as to cripple him, and his crutch was being ripped from him.
He looked tired.
Gaines saw the man in his state and said hollowly, “We’re sorry; it has nothing to do with us. We just deliver the messages from the bank. We wish these things wouldn’t happen to such people as yourself and your family. We really do.”
Benham began walking to the passenger side of the car with his feet barely lifting off the ground and his hands gently hanging against his sides, ready to leave after the hard part was  over; the string was being limply cast aside in the dirt. It had been over in no time at all compared to the other confrontations. He was scared, because it was getting easier.
Gaines went carefully to the car, walking backwards until his searching hand found the warm metal of the dark exterior. He went slowly and then slightly faster the farther he got from Freeman, concluding in a quick dart through the door and into the seat. A sound came out of his mouth, intending to sound like a farewell but turning more into a convulsing yelp. Freeman knew what he meant. Gaines’ hands and feet moved on a subconscious desire and swiftly started the engine; the feeling of the wheels turning ran up and down his arms. As the car was departing from the driveway, Benham looked through his window and could see Freeman sitting on the porch with his elbows on his knees and his hands covering his face. He continued to look at him until his eyes couldn’t cover the distance between themselves, until he was swallowed by the horizon.
The black car disappeared into the falling evening night.
The road now, after the harshness of the early hours, sat silently in the absence of the light; aging and wearing into itself, the road plodded along the unfeeling ground with tired years. Stars in the sky made absolute reflections rearviewing back into the ground, illuminating paths and divisions intersecting one another. In the phosphorescence, secluded in the unwavering dusk was an ash-grey shell sitting inert. Upturned and motionless it sat, drowning in the dust. There wasn’t much left of its rotting remains. The flapping of stagnant beating wings left the air with only thin threads of sound and sight. A single black crow with wings spread outright picked at the hollow shell and took off into the outer dark with strands of meat hanging off both ends of its waning mouth. And everything was still.