by Poss, Bryant
Between her nursing duties, Lo decided to make the area more secure. This was not her first time in a tight spot since the event, so she knew not to get complacent. A counter was dragged across the room to the double glass doors that made the front entrance. Most would think to just turn tables on their sides to block it, but that was pointless. Pokies were strong, strong enough to move a car if a few of them gathered, so something significant would have to be placed in front of the doors. It took a great deal of work and grunting, but she managed to turn the counter sideways and wedge it against the wall opposite the door. That was done, now for the back door.
There wasn’t much to do with the outer door riddled with bullet holes, but she reinforced the inner door to the kitchen by unhooking the gas line to the stove and wedging the appliance between the door, the metal counter, and the wall. Afterwards, she refused to be satisfied, so she climbed on top of the stove and moved the ceiling tiles in order to look around. There was more than enough room in the ceiling to crawl, but that would be her last resort if it came down to it. Smelling the insulation and dust above the ceiling, Lo couldn’t help but think about the predicament she was in, the world was in. A snort filled the room; she was chuckling in spite of herself.
“I’m clearing a path to the ceiling in case the zombies get in.” Saying it out loud seemed to help.
“If the zombies get through the door, and we can’t get out, I’ve got to climb in the ceiling and drag this boy with me.” Her voice was soaked up by the insulation and tile, choked off really. “Zombies.” The word felt funny in her mouth being used to describe reality. “Infected,” she sighed. “Let’s go with infected.”
She looked into the dark of the crawl space, most likely last inhabited by the construction worker who placed the final tile, or the electrician who ran the cable back when the world still spun counterclockwise then she eased herself back down. Sitting on the stove, Lo looked over and watched the kid breathe, the hypnotic rhythm slowly relaxing her to the point that she thought of Ben. He was into her, she could tell, and not just sexually. Of course there was that, which she herself held in high regard, but there was something else. It’s how he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was a look that went straight through exterior, directly through her skin suit and into her. He saw her, whatever there was in her, a soul, her synapses, or just her being. That’s how he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and she liked it. She’d liked it a lot. And she never had before. She saw him standing there in front of her, her brain doing everything it could, pulling every trick it knew to put the image of him in front of her, but it was tough. So much the brain ignored or dumped, so many minor details, but she was surprised at how well she could see him now. Brown hair, naturally curly, but kept swept back from his constantly running his fingers through it. His eyes a penetrating hazel green. A mild stubble that had come in rather full during their time together. He said he always kept some stubble to cover the scar on his right cheek, but she liked it, the scar. She’d told him so. No more than a diagonal line from a bicycle accident as a kid. Only a little taller than she was, he had broad shoulders and a long torso. She saw him now with his plaid shirt, unbuttoned, pulled over his Grateful Dead tee-shirt. Her eyes began to mist, and she quickly pushed the thought away, the image of him falling away in front of her like a shaken Etch A Sketch. She wiped at her eyes like they’d betrayed her then hopped down from the stove. Now, if only the boy would recover.
After two hours she got some ibuprofen down his throat to help the acetaminophen with the fever, and it was then that the first sound of the scraping at the front door filled the room. The blinds were pulled, but the shapes outside were obvious. There were three pokies at the door, whether they could smell them or just knew something was in here because this is where Ben had run, she didn’t know, but they definitely knew someone was in the building. She sat dead still for several minutes, the .38 snubnose in her hand with the hammer pulled back. The caliber might not be the biggest, but the hollow points did the trick with a head shot, and it never failed to shoot, ever. After feeling certain they weren’t able to get the doors open because of the wedged counter, she let the hammer down on the revolver. What she did worry about was whether or not they were eventually going to break the glass in the door. A few could be handled rather easily with their slow movement, but she couldn’t carry the boy anywhere by herself, and there certainly was every possibility that the spazzo was still out there. Staying here was the best course of action, where there were supplies, at least until the boy woke, if he ever did. Thinking of this, she reached in her pocket and pulled out Luck. Turning the ball back and forth in her hand, Lotus focused on the eye, and she thought about it. It had saved Ben, saved them both really, had been there when it shouldn’t have. Turning it this way and that, she looked at it and at the boy. Without thinking further, she placed it on his chest then backing her hand away, feeling the heat coming off him, not knowing what else to do—
A wave of heat like a sun-baked parking lot, but everything felt cold. Everything hurt. Somewhere in the distance his hand throbbed, an abscessed tooth at the end of his arm. Clothes hovered on pins and needles, icecube sandpaper. But the thoughts, the thoughts could barely be discerned. One minute he’d be in the car with the animal that used to be a brother and the corpse that used to be a parent. The next minute he’d hear her voice, somewhere in a distant land, so close and far away this woman whose voice sounded like honey. Was she a nurse? Was he in the hospital? That’s the last place he remembered. Was she an angel? Was she God? For some reason that made more sense to him. Wouldn’t a loving, merciful, parental deity be a woman? Wouldn’t it make more sense to be female? The man’s voice had been gone awhile now. His voice had become familiar, but now it was gone. Did she send him away? No, she would never do that. He adored her. His every word begged for her satisfaction. But where was he? Sleep now. This was the time the throbbing of his hand would cease, the poison in his blood would fade away. It was coming again, sleep, blessed sleep. Was it the medicine that made his dreams so real? Or, was he dead, not dreams at all? This was it, the afterward. Was this oblivion? He didn’t think so—
My parents wouldn’t let me have a motorcycle. I knew enough to know that. There were few places in the city where one could be ridden, so it would have to be taken on a trailer somewhere to ride, maybe Uncle Maddox’s farm just outside of town, maybe to one of the few dirt roads Daddy knew about. It could be left at Uncle Maddox’s to be ridden on the weekend. That had been mentioned, but it didn’t matter because I knew the real reason I couldn’t have a Kawasaki KX 85 dirt bike. The excuses about transportation, about having a place to ride, about the cost of maintenance and gas were all just that, excuses. It was Mom. It had taken two years of begging by me and Daddy just for me to have a slingshot, one of the good ones with the wrist extension for support, the ones that would sling a rock, marble, or ball bearing fast enough to punch a hole in a metal mailbox. Once it was in my hand, I never did anything foolish with it, gave her no ammunition against me so to speak, but it still scared her, could see it in her eyes whenever she saw it. I always kept it hidden from Liam. If he managed to hurt himself with his big brother’s toy—weapon if Mom was asked—that would be worse. I spent all my time mastering the device, shooting at cans set up a few feet away then yards, until finally I was shooting them with various ammunition from clear across our backyard. After that, I had taken to placing targets up in trees or shooting at grounded targets from trees. No matter how good I got, how careful, Mom would not yield on the motorcycle. That was a whole different thing, she would say.
No dirt bike for Cillian, and it had really done a number on me too. Magazines, websites, movies, I was drawn to the idea of riding. Some people loved horses or dogs. Many loved cars and guns, but for me, I wanted to ride. No friends as the youngest person in my grade by years, but I never suffered emotionally from any lack of social acceptance. My intelligence, which set me as
ide from my peers, also helped me not linger on the arbitrary need to fit in or belong. My parents were always glad of that. It was a source of some contention as to whether or not I should even skip grades, but in the end Daddy had made sure it was done. Life was bigger than school, he’d say.
Daddy watched my desire to ride a bike, monitored it, but I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known until the day before my twelfth birthday. It’s all so clear right now, like it’s actually happening. The day was hot even in the morning. There wasn’t a breeze to be found even if there’d been a hill to stand on. Uncle Maddox was stacking hay in the barn when we pulled up, just me and Daddy, just another random weekend for a little family time with his brother, Daddy would say. Those had become more frequent over the past few years after Aunt Celia died from cancer. Daddy said it was breast cancer. Uncle Maddox had no children of his own, and Daddy said it was important for him to help his younger brother through this time because they were the only two left in the family. They would be Uncle Maddox’s family now.
When they got into the barn, the smell of dust and hay was potent, tickling my nose. I sneezed several times when I walked in.
“That’s it, get the city out,” Uncle Maddox said. He said it almost every chance he got.
He turned and looked at us, a sly grin on his face that I caught Daddy return before he walked over and hugged his brother, both patting each other on the back too hard. Uncle Maddox looked down at me and tousled my hair, again too hard.
“Did you tell him?” Uncle Maddox asked.
“Nope,” Daddy responded, a stupid looking grin on his face now like he’d walked into church with fresh dog shit on his shoes.
Uncle Maddox disappeared around the stack of hay, his silhouette fading through the morning sun rays cutting the spaces in the boards of the barn wall and dust stirring in the air. When it came back into form, that outline was pushing something, something Uncle Maddox had to bend over a little to handle. I could make out the shape long before he got to us, and all the hair on the back of my neck stood up, pins and needles much like I felt all over now when I wasn’t quite asleep, just in pain. The helmet was looped by the strap around the throttle of the dirt bike my uncle rolled toward us, and Daddy quickly went to it and grabbed the helmet from him, turning and facing me. He tried to tone the smile down while he talked to me, but it kept creeping through between words.
“Man, I wish I could’ve been my dad,” he said.
“Hell, mine too,” Uncle Maddox replied, brushing the dust off the seat where the word Honda was written. It was an old XR80, but it looked to be in fine shape. It looked like a top of the line Harley to me. It could’ve had a plywood seat and broomstick handlebars for all I cared.
“You wreck this thing and break something or get scraped anywhere, and I’ll probably only get to see you every other weekend because your mom will leave me if she doesn’t kill me.”
“Whose is it?” I found myself asking weakly, like I was afraid of the answer.
“Well, it’s the first kid who jumps on it to ride, and I don’t see a line, do you?” Uncle Maddox flipped the crank over and placed his foot on it.
“No,” Daddy said, holding up a hand to stop him. “Let’s let him do every bit of it.”
“You’re the boss, Carson” Uncle Maddox said, and he motioned for me to get on.
They hit me from both sides with all the information on how to ride it. This wasn’t a movie, Daddy said. If you hit the front brakes while you’re going fast, you’re toast Uncle Maddox chimed in. They showed me the clutch on the left handle, one down four up. The rear brake is your right foot; that’s the most important thing to remember. Don’t cut the handles, just lean. Watch out for loose rocks. Listen to the engine; don’t let the rpm get too high. Change gears but not too fast. Once you get the hang of the speed, use the front and back brakes to stop. And for the love of everything holy, watch out for barbed wire. That shit is invisible.
Daddy helped me lace the helmet strap correctly. I held in the clutch with my left hand, turned on the choke and kicked down on the crank. The first time, I didn’t give it enough weight and it almost threw me off the seat when it popped back up. Daddy said that happened to everybody the first time. I hit it again, and again. On the third kick, the engine coughed to life and after a few seconds Daddy told me to cut off the choke. Eventually, the engine hummed evenly. Unlike the KXs I’d seen on videos, this bike had a quieter muffler which I was actually glad of.
It’s just like riding a bike, Daddy said. The principle was the same anyway, the motion of the bike keeping it upright. I pushed the gear down into first, feeling it engage then I let off the clutch. The engine choked dead after the bike lurched a few feet. It was all I could do to hang on. Embarrassed, I looked back to see Daddy hold out his hand and Uncle Maddox put something in it. Was that a dollar? Everybody does that the first time too, Daddy said. I pulled the clutch and cranked the engine back to life, but this time I eased off the clutch ever so slowly, giving it far too much gas, but I was determined not to let it choke down again. I felt the power of the bike move me, so effortlessly like I wasn’t even on it.
I pulled out of the barn at a snail’s pace, the toes of my sneakers dragging the ground on both sides. The helmet muffled everything, but I think Daddy was trying to tell me something. I couldn’t take the chance of turning my head to see him, not about to fall in front of them. Instead I turned around slowly, keeping it in first and saw them both, Uncle Maddox with his hand over Daddy’s shoulder, both of them giving a thumbs up. I wish they could’ve seen the ridiculous smile on my face, but they knew it was there. They had to. Turning the bike around again, ever so carefully, I hit the dirt driveway that led to the pasture. Uncle Maddox must have left the gate open for me because it was always locked for the cows. By the time I hit second gear, my eyes started to water a little, but it didn’t bother me in the slightest. If a condor had swooped down and hit me in the face I wouldn’t have cared. Staying in the center of the path Uncle Maddox had made with his truck, the part where there was grass, I hit third. Twenty-five or thirty miles per hour at this point easily, but in my mind I was about to go back in time. I had never experienced such speed as this. The physics kept going through my mind, velocity, drag, torque. I couldn’t help it, just the way I think. Fourth, and I was flying now. If I could attach wings to this thing I could take off and see the field from an aerial view. Everything that I thought was a bother to me, was disconcerting, disappeared like steam on a mirror. By the time I hit fifth, I knew I had to be approaching forty-five, and there was nothing but open land in front of me. Would Daddy be angry I was going so fast? Maybe, but I think he’d be excited too. I think he would be thrilled. Blinking the moisture out of my eyes, I imagined him on the bike with me, imagined us flying together, imagined—
Lotus stopped Luck with her foot. The ball had rolled off his chest and onto the floor, making the ever so familiar sound of a golf ball on concrete. She looked at it for a few minutes, so anxious, so helpless, so desperately wanting to do more for the boy, so desperately wanting to see Ben again. The ball went back in her pocket, and she looked around, stretching.
Walking quietly so as not to affirm a presence for the pokies, Lo went over to the pile of goods they’d found in the pizzeria when they arrived the day before. There were thirty-two bottles of water, three two-liter Cokes, and a boat load of chips and Cheetos. There were also sticks of pepperoni and sealed bags of pizza topping that would at least provide some vegetable nourishment. She quietly searched through any cabinets that may have been missed and nearly giggled with delight when she came across two gallons of distilled water. Looking back at the shapes at the door, she felt confident the pokies weren’t going to get through, so she slid her shoes off and began to undress. With all that had taken place in the past few days (was it weeks?) she knew that maintaining some semblance of humanity was of the utmost importance. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, she did just that. Watching the boy’s chest
rise and fall a few more times, she took the opportunity to not be a savage.
Lo took off her outer shirt and laid it on the stainless-steel counter then slid off her thermal, her tank top, and her sports bra. She set them all out beside each other on the counter contemplating whether or not to use some water to wash them. Maybe if there’s enough left. Unbuttoning the two buttons of her jeans that held the waist and the fly, she started twisting, tiptoeing back and forth, sliding the pants over her hips and down her thighs with her thumbs hooked in the waistband. It was a little cool in the room, but she was looking forward to this. The worst thing about the world going to hell besides the risk of being eaten alive was walking around nasty. Taking the gallon of water, she leaned back and poured it down her front, gasping at the cold water that ran down her peanut butter skin then took a few paper towels and began rubbing herself clean. Water ran down her onto the concrete floor, but she wasn’t worried about that, the sensation too enjoyable. There seemed to be some movement from the boy, and she paused for a moment with her hand under her breast, just above the lotus blossom on her rib cage, cupping herself before continuing. Alternating pouring the water and rubbing herself with fresh paper towels, she stepped over to the sink and poured it through her hair, running her fingers through it as best she could, but it was slow work. Her hair was long and somewhat dry from years of dying. The red in it now was obvious with her dark roots showing.