Preface

Duke of the Valley

I’m not sure I have heard him introduce himself as “Duke” or even refer to himself as anything other than “Dutch” (which turned out to be the name of his grandfather’s plow horse.), but he did respond to the name "Duke" and most people addressed him as such.  In this time without rules and constant danger, Duke’s farm seemed like little slice of heaven. 

When I arrived here were eight people not including Duke. my understanding is he took them in, one by one as the wondered the deserted highways, alone,starved to the brink of delusions, and with out hope. He was tall man (about 6'4") beared with pearcing blue gray eyes and sandy blonde hair that typically bushed out from under his well worn Seattle Mariners hat.Now ono one has ever said the leader of this little group talked to much, but it seemed when he did open his mouth, it was concise and strait forward and we all listen.

The “farm” was located about 30 miles north of Walla Walla, Washington, if I were to guess, I would say that Duke  had been there for a while before what many people consider the end of the world. It really wasn’t much of a farm, there was maybe two inches of water deprived topsoil on top of what appeared to be nothing but rock, at one point it might have been a wheat farm of some sort, but that must have been decades ago, a time long before even the “first wave”.

Duke found me half-starved staggering down the middle of North Touchet road, just south of the old highway, to be honest I think I was walking out to the dessert to die like some biblical mad man. A life of constant hiding and survival had taken its toll on me and I was ready for what at the time, seemed like the sweet release of death.  He slid down the gravel embankment with his Henry’s .45 lever action clutch in his hand like some sort of wild west gunslinger, a day or two earlier, when I still had any motivation I would have made some effort to hide but at that point my parched lips just prayed for a quick death. As soon as he had hit the dirt covered roadway  and had steadied himself, he walk slowly toward me raised his hands and said 

 “Are you okay ‘fella?, ya’ don’t look okay” he said in his oddly soothing Sam Elliot style voice.

My mind even in its massively dehydrated state envisioned jumping down the near by gully,  pulling the 7 shot .22  caliber  revolver that was stashed in my belt and trading shots with this lone man they way I had been forced to do so many times over the past  decade and a half, but my body just didn't have any any fight left in it and I stood there rocking like a blade of grass in the slight breeze. I recall thinking “I’m dead” and then my knees gave way and I hit the ground, hard, I have a slight memory of those dusty boots and then darkness for what I’m told was three days…