by Urban, Tony
As he stepped over their bodies, he spotted Papa sprawled on the floor beside his couch. A cannibal straddled his mountain-like midsection, a sight that made Wyatt think of riding an old horse. The savage had a knife pressed into Papa’s bare chest, drawing thin, white lines in abstract loops and swirls.
The glass coffee table was shattered, the floor covered with the exploded shards. As Papa struggled some of them sliced into his back fat and rivulets of blood leaked out.
“Fat piggy’s gonna be good eatin’!” A bald man said, and Wyatt realized there were three cannibals in the room. The one mounting Papa, the bald man, and a woman whose dust-brown hair was so wild she could have been an extra in a movie set in prehistoric times.
“I’m gonna fry up his big ole belly like bacon!” The rider said, his words peeling off into laughter. “Finger lickin good!”
“That was chicken,” baldy said.
“You two shut your mouths already. I get first dibs. That fucker killed my boy!’ The woman bounced on her feet as she spoke. In each hand she held knives. “I’m gonna roast his cock like a hot dog and gobble it down!”
The men looked to each other, exchanging an uncomfortable sneer at the thought of cock-gobbling.
Three against one. Wyatt didn’t like those odds, not one bit. But he knew going back for help would take too long. And as much as he hated Papa for the horrific demonstration, he now understood the enemy they were up against.
He wasn’t going to let these monsters win.
On a nearby end table he saw a candle in a glass jar. He grabbed it and estimated it weighed a pound or more. It might work if his aim was good.
And it was.
The jar slammed into the skull of the cannibal who had turned Papa into his own, personal pack mule. It made a dull crunch and Wyatt wasn’t sure whether that was the jar breaking or the savage’s cranium. He supposed it didn’t matter. The man toppled sideways, bouncing off the couch before hitting the floor.
The other two cannibals shifted their attention to Wyatt and the bald man came first. He bounded over his fallen comrade, barreling forward, but Wyatt was ready.
He reared back with the hatchet and swung, planting the blade into the center of the cannibal’s chest. The man’s eyes grew so wide Wyatt wouldn’t have been shocked to see them fall from his face as he fell into him.
The impact sent Wyatt backward and off-balance. He stumbled into the wall and shook the man off him but now the feral woman was on him and his hatchet was still embedded in the dying man’s sternum.
“You fuckers think you scare us?” She screamed as she stabbed with one of the knives. The blade slashed through Wyatt’s upper arm creating a shockwave of pain. “Torch my boy to send us a message? We’ll eat every last one of you to the bone!”
She lashed out with the other knife. That one caught Wyatt in the side and he felt the blade ricochet off his ribs.
He latched hold of her hair with both hands, craning her neck as far back as his arms could push. Breaking someone’s neck always looked so easy in the movies. Real life was harder.
She squawked, arms flailing, each gesture sending steel blades in Wyatt’s direction, but she couldn’t see to aim and none of these new blows landed.
Wyatt pushed harder, jerking her head side to side. Maybe he couldn’t snap her neck like a dry twig, but a concussion could buy him time.
The woman made another flailing attempt with the knife and that one landed. It plunged deep into Wyatt’s forearm and he lost his grip with that hand. He strained to keep her at arm’s length, to contain her ferocious fury, but he was losing.
He had a moment to think about his family. About Supper. He wondered if they’d be okay if this wild woman ended him.
And then he saw a hand reach around the woman’s throat. A hand holding a jagged eight-inch long shard of glass.
Wyatt’s eyes adjusted and he saw Papa standing behind the cannibal just as the big man sliced open her neck from one side to the other.
She turned her head to see who had cut her and in doing so the wound gaped open wide enough to expose tendons and muscle, veins and arteries. To Wyatt it was like an up close and personal anatomy lesson.
The woman fell to the floor and bled out on the white carpet. Carpet Wyatt thought would never come clean again. Then he looked up and saw Papa grinning.
“We make a good team, my child.” He dropped the shard of glass.
Wyatt scanned the room, double and triple-checking to make sure there were no other cannibals, no more danger. But they were alone.
They had survived.
Chapter 29
“This isn’t easy work, not for any of us. But we all know why it’s necessary.” Papa spoke out over the crowd, which was now much smaller than before. “No one signs up for this voluntarily.”
The survivors looked like refugees. Their faces masks of dejection and fear. There were no Amens, no shouts of agreement or encouragement. The only sound that broke the silence was weeping.
Wyatt couldn’t help but compare it to the demonstration when the bustling crowd was bloodthirsty and cocky as they celebrated death. Now that death had come to them, their attitudes had changed, and he wondered if it all could have been prevented. He wondered why it had to come to this.
His bandaged arm was around his mother whose body shook with sobs. He squeezed her shoulder, trying to give comfort. At his other side Allie looked to Papa. She wasn’t distraught, but the fearful, worried expression he’d seen so often on her face during their time on the road was back and worse than ever before.
Allie reached over and grabbed his free hand, squeezing it. His skin was ripped and blistered from digging graves all night long, but her touch still felt comforting. More comforting than Papa’s words, that sounded hollower to his ears than ever before.
“Our fallen men and women are heroes of the highest order and right now they’re dining at Yahweh’s table. They are feasting in ways you and I can only dream. But one day, my children, we’ll be with them again. We’ll all be together, victorious and rewarded in Heaven.”
As Wyatt gazed across the crowd, he thought the group looked broken physically as well as spiritually. The sight of many of them clad in black suits and dresses, formal wear which was common in the world before, looked bizarre and anachronistic in this wasteland where ripples of smoke still rose from the ground and the stench of burning bodies and death filled the air. They could have been stockbrokers or bankers, but their battered and bandaged faces belied the reality.
These people were losers. They’d lived with their heads in the clouds, promised safety by a morbidly obese motivational speaker who was talking out of his ass. When Hell came to them, they folded like a tower of cards. The only miracle to be found was that any of them were still alive.
Wyatt looked to the protectors. Their desert camo uniforms were blood-stained, and their faces carried the shame of a battle poorly fought. By his count, five of them had died the night before leaving only seven, counting Alexander.
The man Wyatt had viewed as a comic book hero upon their first meeting looked like a defeated soldier at the end of a deleterious battle. His eyes, once so fierce and eager, seemed dull as old marbles and, when Alexander realized he was being watched, he let his gaze fall to the ground.
Wyatt pitied him but was also angry. His mother had told him there were only two guards on duty at the time of the attack. How could these people have a virtual fortress yet live so unprepared? The more he thought about it, the more his rage built.
“We’ve made sacrifices to build this place, to make it into our own paradise, even though I’m sure for many of you, right now, it feels more like hell.” Papa stood in front of the crowd, on one side of the graves, while everyone else was on the other. Even now he was still separated from the rest of the community, and with more guards surrounding him like spokes on a wheel, each keeping a careful eye to any threats.
“We know that more today than ever before...” Papa took o
ut a handkerchief and blotted his face, wiping away sweat. “This life, the righteous one. Living for Yahweh has its own trials and tribulations. But it has its rewards. And for that, we are forever grateful.” His voice broke on the last words, overcome with a choking, coughing fit.
“Love you, Papa.” Someone said from the front of the crowd.
Papa’s eyes filled with tears. He covered his mouth with the handkerchief while he cleared his throat of phlegm and seemed to regain his composure as he looked up at the person who spoke.
“Thank you, my child.” Then he turned to the crowd, but Wyatt thought he looked unsteady on his feet. He wondered how much longer the man would be able to stand. “We must accept that our path to glory will be littered with trials and tribulations. And this,” he gestured out to the graves. “This is one of them. And let me promise you, vengeance will be ours.”
There was a long pause, as if Papa was waiting for praise that didn’t come. Then--
“Why did this happen, Papa?” A man in a suit asked. “We’ve lost so many…”
Papa straightened his back, steeling himself. “We could not foresee last night’s violence, but Yahweh did. That’s why he brought our new friends to the community. Because, my children, without our friend Wyatt I’d be in one of these graves.” He stomped his foot on the ground for effect. “I would be dead were it not for him.”
Everyone, even Allie and Barbara who were right beside him, turned to look at Wyatt, whose eyes widened in surprise. He didn’t expect to be recognized today, of all days, and especially not by Papa.
“Bless you, Wyatt.” Myrtle said. Other, grateful voices followed. The survivors moved to him, patting his shoulder, shaking his hand. He felt like a political candidate at a campaign rally and was uncomfortable with the attention.
“Wyatt, my deepest, most sincere gratitude. Thank you.” Papa said. “I don’t think I said that to you last night, but let me say it now, in front of everyone. I owe you my life.”
Allie rubbed his back. Her hand slid down, first cupping his ass then giving it a squeeze. Wyatt felt his face and skin burning.
Missing from the adulation, was any reaction from Barbara. Her eyes were vacant and haunted and locked on Richard’s freshly dug grave as she cried silent tears. He wondered how many more deaths the woman could bear. First her husband. Then Trooper. Now Richard. Was there a limit on how many loved ones a person could lose before they were irreparably broken?
He supposed that was a question for God. Or, as Papa would say, Yahweh. In the meantime, all Wyatt could do was pray that this be the last life she had to mourn.
He had no idea how soon that prayer would be denied.
Chapter 30
As the crowd dispersed Wyatt waved at Seth to join them. Throughout the funerals, his brother had sat beside Rosario and Franklin, never meeting his gaze. But now, with fewer faces in the crowd, it was impossible to ignore him.
Seth gave a curt nod, then leaned toward Rosario who’d been pushing his chair. He said something to her, then took hold of his own wheels and changed course, moving toward his family while Rosie followed the others into the casino.
“Hey,” Wyatt said, unsure why things had to be so awkward. They were family, after all. Hell, he’d cleaned Seth’s shitty ass more times than he could count. Besides, he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Seth looked to Barbara, reaching out and taking her hand. “How are you holding up?”
Barbara peeled her eyes from Richard’s burial plot and looked to her youngest son. “What?”
She reminded Wyatt of a cracked windshield, covered with spiderwebs of cracks and ready to shatter at any given moment.
“I asked how you are.” Seth rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, consoling.
“Oh. I’m... here.” She tried to smile. Failed.
Seth looked sideways at Wyatt, his expression going cold. “Maybe I should ask for your autograph. Since you’re such the fucking celebrity now.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Wyatt said.
“But you found it anyway. Always the golden boy. Rising to the occasion while I’m locked away like your dirty secret.”
Wyatt rocked back and forth on his feet. He didn’t want to fight, especially now, here, in front of their mother. Why couldn’t Seth see how fragile she was? “Come on, brother. It was crazy last night. I just didn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Really? Because it didn’t seem like that to me.”
Wyatt opened his mouth to respond but Alexander sidled up next to them. The man rested his hand on Barbara’s forearm. “Let me just tell you how sorry I am about Richard. He was one of our best. And he wasn’t shy about letting everyone know how special he thought you were.”
Barbara’s lip quivered and she made no attempt to speak.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time to help you both,” Alexander said.
Barbara swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks, but it was a losing battle. “You do not have to be sorry for anything,” she said. “There’s a reason for everything. Isn’t that what they say?”
Alexander shrugged his shoulders. “Some do, I guess.”
Barbara’s facade broke and her quiet cries turned into wracking sobs. Wyatt reached for her, but Allie stepped between them. “Come inside, Barb,” she said. “Let’s get you washed up and something to drink.”
She steered her away and Wyatt supposed that might be for the best. Men didn’t know how to deal with a crying woman, himself included. And Allie has experienced her own losses, so she might be the best person to handle his mother in her fragile state.
He watched them disappear into the casino, then looked back to Seth and Alexander, but Seth was gone too. Wyatt followed the tracks his wheels had left in the dirt and saw him moving toward one of the casino’s side entrances.
He shook his head, wondering how long and intensive the process of rebuilding that fence would be, then turned his attention to Alexander, looking like a shadow of the man he’d been days earlier. Gone was the confidence that set him apart from everyone else. He was less a superman, now just a man.
“I’m assembling a team. Can I count on you?” Alexander said.
“For what?” But he knew the reason.
“Come on, Wyatt.” Alexander scowled. “We’re not letting this go by without retaliation.”
Wyatt understood this was coming. He’d felt the gravitas of the situation with every shovelful of dirt. “When?”
“Three hours.”
Wyatt’s eyes grew wide. “Are you kidding? That’s not enough time to plan any--”
Alexander leaned in close enough for Wyatt to smell his sweat. “We don’t need a plan. This isn’t a mission. It’s an extermination.” He looked Wyatt up and down, examining. “Meet us in the armory in half an hour.”
Alexander turned and left Wyatt alone, trying to figure out how he was going to tell his mother and Allie the plan.
Chapter 31
“What do you mean you’re going out there again?” Allie paced back and forth, hands flailing. “Are you insane?”
Wyatt reached for her hand, but she pulled it away before he could catch her. He knew she needed time, time he didn’t have. He looked to his mother who sat on the bed. Supper laid across her lap but all she seemed to care about was nursing the glass of booze she held in her hand like it was liquid gold.
“Alexander wants to end this once and for all,” Wyatt said.
“So, let him. Tell him to take his ‘roid raging buddies out there and go all Wild West on the cannibals. But don’t go with them.”
“What difference does it make?” Barbara said, words slurred. “It’s not like it’s any safer here.”
Allie and Wyatt both looked to her, then each other. Wyatt wanted to grab her, to kiss her, to tell her how much he loved her, but his mother’s presence made that awkward and impossible.
“Allie, they expect me to help. I can’t hide. If you want to stay here, I have to d
o this.”
“Don’t make this about me. I don’t want this. Not you going out there the day after those monsters killed dozens of us.”
“It’s the cost of living in a community,” Wyatt said. “I don’t get a free ride.”
“You saved Papa’s fat ass. That should count for something.”
Wyatt checked the clock on the wall. He was running out of time and this was going nowhere.
“I’m sure it’ll be okay. Alexander and the protectors know what they’re doing,” Wyatt said.
“Do they? Because the way I see it, this is just taking you down a path that will never end.”
“It’ll end when all those fucking cannibals are dead,” Barbara pushed Supper off her lap and stood up. She wasn’t as far in the bag as Wyatt had thought and there was more life in her eyes than he’d seen all day. “It’s either that, or we all end up burned and eaten.”
“So, you want your son to go out there and risk his life?” Allie asked.
Barbara glared at her. “You think we should just let them get away with what they did? Let them live after they killed Richard?” She swallowed a sob. “And the others,” she said in an afterthought.
Wyatt felt sick over the pain and hate in her voice. He wanted no part of a search and destroy mission in the desert but if it was between that and being here, caught up in a feud between the two women in his life, he’d take the mission.
“I have to go.” He gave his mother a quick peck on the cheek. Allie a longer kiss on the lips. Supper a thorough belly rub. And then he was gone.
Chapter 32
There were fourteen of them in all. Seven protectors, six volunteers, and himself. The pace was triple what they’d used on the supply run. A steady, draining jog with only short reprieves to eat and shit, and then continue on.
They’d been at it for two and a half days now and the incessant march was a good excuse for Wyatt to keep quiet. While the others chattered about what they were going to do to the cannibals, Wyatt wanted no part in their grim fantasies.