Class of 1989: A Post Viral Apocalyptic Story

by Jack Hunt

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone does.” Hal spread out his hands in front of him as if envisioning a banner. “If you can’t fight them, I can. Or something along those lines.”

  Grady rolled his eyes and shifted the conversation away from himself. “Miles, I caught your recent article online about the Pentagon’s Insect Allies program. Fascinating.” He’d never been one to clamor for the limelight even back when he was a straight-A student. The topic of grades and his family’s wealth always made him uncomfortable. Even though Grady was probably smarter than the three of them combined, Miles always saw him as a student of life more than law — but that’s what came from having a father who was a lawyer and determined to see him follow in his footsteps. Miles had envisioned Grady growing up to become a brain surgeon, an astronaut or the inventor of a new form of technology. The next Steve Jobs, as he was always tinkering with computers like the Commodore 64. At one time he’d torn one apart just to see how it all worked. “So what are you to the Pentagon?” Grady asked.

  “The sacrificial lamb,” Miles muttered.

  “Yeah, I figured. Seems the Pentagon is getting a lot of backlash about its intentions.”

  “My involvement is limited. I only provide a portion of the research required related to entomology, much of the actual development and testing is handled by others.”

  Grady was about to respond when all heads turned and squinted as bright lights filled the interior of the bar followed by the sound of a horn that mimicked the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard.

  “Nate,” they all said in unison.

  A gearhead with a love for cars, guns and fights, it was no surprise to hear Nathan Staples had joined the Army after graduating. All three of them strolled over to the door and opened it to see him hop out the passenger side of a green Hummer H1. A soldier in every way, his white T-shirt bulged beneath a black leather jacket bursting at the seams with an impressive muscular physique. An African American, six foot, cropped hair, he was and still remained the only black person in Gerlach. Maybe that’s why he got along with Grady so well. Both of them had felt like outsiders. For some odd reason, Gerlach never attracted a diverse crowd. He thanked the driver and shrugged a large green military-style bag over his shoulder and trudged over. “Ladies,” he said with a grin.

  “Nice ride,” Miles replied.

  He thumbed over his shoulder. “Yeah, belongs to a friend of mine.”

  “Where’s the Firebird?” Hal asked. “I figured you’d be tearing up the roads.”

  All of them laughed thinking back to Nate’s first ride, which was a beat-up Pontiac Firebird gifted to him by his uncle. The inside was held together with sticky tape and it had a hole in the floor. Yep, it was quite the chick magnet.

  They all had a good laugh as they observed the beast drive off, then greeted him with a handshake and pat on the back.

  An hour later.

  “So after sixteen years, three tours in Iraq, I left the military and worked in the private sector doing security, then decided it was time to don the civilian threads like you boys. I started a small business in Iowa selling military surplus online. It’s taken me around the globe, international deals and whatnot.”

  “Huh, sounds like you’ve been living the high life,” Miles said.

  Frank Davenport, the heavily bearded bartender, slung a towel over his shoulder. “Can I get you guys another round?”

  Miles looked at his watch. “Actually we have to get going soon.”

  The reunion began at 7 p.m. and it was closing in on that.

  Frank’s demeanor changed in an instant. He stuck out a finger pointing past them. “Now Beau, you remember what I told you,” he said loudly.

  “Can’t a man get a drink?”

  Miles looked over his shoulder to a grizzled cowboy and two others who’d entered. “Oh here we go again,” Hal muttered. “That’s Beau Hardin. A total ass. Drinks more beer in a day than I do in a week. Him and a bunch of ranchers come down to tease the hippies. Frank says there’s only two reasons they show up — to fight or fuck and with the lack of skirt in this town, you’ve got to figure it’s the latter.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to head on down to the Miners Club or Joe’s, management said you’re not allowed in after last year. You boys wrecked a table and chairs. Now go on, take a hike, before I call the cops.”

  “Screw you, Frank,” Beau said flipping him the bird and glaring at everyone who was staring before ambling out. The last one slammed the door hard enough to make a framed photo on the wall hit the ground. Miles went over and scooped it up. It was a snapshot from 1997 of the vehicle that was used in the world’s land speed record set on the nearby Black Rock Desert.

  “Thanks, man,” Frank said as Miles placed it back on the wall. “Those assholes only show up when they want to cause trouble.”

  The cruiser idled at the edge of the road. Filling out paperwork, the deputy looked up every few minutes. He brushed breadcrumbs off his green uniform and took another sip of coffee. Abe Walker was forty-three and had been a deputy for Washoe County’s Sheriff Department for the past eleven years. Although deputies patrolled a vast stretch of territory and served over 460,000 people, he’d been assigned three years ago to the dusty town of Gerlach with one other deputy. It was a pretty sweet gig after spending the first ten years of his career in the big city. They operated out of a tiny substation that was only open until five in the evening and then after that they patrolled the surrounding area. At any given time it could take them anywhere from ten minutes to two hours to respond to a call depending on where they were situated. He’d been told by his instructor at the academy that shift work was hours of boredom with moments of sheer terror, but serving Gerlach was anything but terror.

  That evening, an increased number of deputies were on hand to ensure burners didn’t cause any trouble in town. He’d just got done dealing with a call from a resident who said a burner was defecating behind her house. As odd as it sounded, dumping human waste, leaving shorts and garbage in parking lots or on the side of the road was quite common — more so after the event — but taking a shit behind someone’s’ fence… ah that was new.

  By the time he arrived on scene, the culprit was gone, leaving behind the smelly deed and a pissed-off resident Although his job description involved cleaning up the streets, fortunately that didn’t mean literally.

  On a regular day, Abe’s shift varied from domestics to burglaries, mostly run-of-the-mill stuff but once a year for nine days, the insanity ramped up as the town was besieged by thousands making their way through to the playa. Most didn’t linger in Gerlach, and those who did were generally decent but there were the odd few who gave the rest a bad rap.

  Earlier that day they’d arrested two idiots in a red Mustang that was treating State Route 447 like Fury Road. Both were dressed in attire that was straight out of a Mad Max movie and were pulling donuts and giving the boys a run for their money. Those were the extremes. On the other end of the line were the more subtle but common morons who thought it would be good to leapfrog past others in bumper-to-bumper traffic all to get to the gate a few minutes faster.

  Then there were the ladies decked out in torn booty shorts, glitter and gold with a thread that barely covered their nipples. It happened every year. They would find some good-looking gal twerking in the middle of the road, out of her mind and touting one of the ten Burning Man principles, as if it put them above the law. Usually they would send them on their way without incident and ask them to cover up but the odd one would get out of hand and flash her bits and streak through town, then all hell broke loose.

  More often than not, time was spent pulling over vehicles, and intervening between the owners of Empire Store and burners who had purchased items only to return them covered in dust, hoping to get a refund.

  Abe’s radio crackled and he heard one of the deputies telling him that he was pulling over a guy with a busted taillight. Although
those nine days only came once a year, they found themselves back to back with incidents. Having BLM and Pershing County assist definitely made their job a lot easier.

  It meant he could focus on the town.

  Scribbling with a ballpoint pen on a sheet of paper, Abe was startled by the slap of a hand against the driver’s side window. He flinched and instinctively his hand went to his sidearm until he saw who it was.

  “Shit. Chester, you scared the crap out of me.” He brought the window down. Chester Mansfield was an Air Force vet who was rarely seen out of uniform even though he’d left the military over a decade ago. A pillar of the community, or a local drunk, that depended on the time of day that you caught him. Although he liked to think he was the eyes and ears of the town, his word didn’t always hold up especially if they could smell alcohol on his breath. Sure enough, it was pungent that evening.

  Out of breath, Chester struggled to get the words out. “You need to come and see this.”

  “See what?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Ah man, you’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”

  “No. Listen to me, Abe, Beau Hardin is dead.”

  Although he wanted to write him off and notch it up as the mad utterings of a man who’d consumed one too many beverages, it was his duty to go and see even if it meant finding Beau two sheets to the wind. Beau Hardin was another resident who had a reputation for drinking too many. “Where is he?”

  “Behind Joe’s.”

  Joe’s Gerlach Club was one of three bars in town, they were all off Main Street and within spitting distance of each other, at least that’s what locals said. He thumbed over his shoulder. “Jump in the back.” Chester got in and a waft of bad body odor filled the cruiser as Abe pulled out. “You know you really should take a shower once in a while, Chester, it might do you some good.”

  Abe glanced in his rearview mirror. Chester had this deer in the headlights look.

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Positive.”

  “What were you doing back there?”

  “Taking a leak. The washroom was full of those damn burners.”

  It didn’t take long to reach the spot. He pulled up behind a camper and got out. He flicked on his flashlight because the light of day had all but melted into the horizon. “Where is he?” he asked Chester who refused to get out. He pointed randomly to a dumpster near a stack of logs at the rear of Joe’s. Abe strolled over and swept the beam of light before him. It was then he saw a pair of cowboy boots, and jeans sticking out from behind the dumpster.

  Beau looked as if he’d been propped up against the wall, his face down, and hat still on as if he was taking a nap. Abe groaned as he gave his foot a little kick, thinking he would wake but it only made him slump to one side. The hat fell to the ground revealing two black holes where his eyes had once been, and multiple bloody wounds around his neck. “Oh shit.”

  Four - Reunion

  Miles noted the faint strains of “Sweet Child O’Mine” coming from the one-story, A-frame high school gymnasium. Not much had changed in thirty years, except maybe a fresh lick of cream-colored paint and even that had bleached under the Nevada sun. There were very few vehicles in the lot, certainly far less than he imagined. Back in 1989, the population in Gerlach couldn’t have been above seven hundred and out of that less than a hundred were in school. According to Hal, now there were less than twenty students and eight faculty, and the grade twelves did most of their work online. It was a far different world when he was a kid.

  “Doesn’t look like a large turnout. How many said they were interested in coming?” Grady asked.

  Hal piped up. “Forty-two.”

  They all glanced at the lot again as Hal opened a set of green double doors and their senses were instantly attacked by the sound of Slash’s guitar solo. Nathan came alive and did a jig through the door reenacting some air guitar to the amusement of the others. “Damn, they just don’t make music like this anymore,” he said before regaining his composure.

  Inside, the interior had been decorated with colorful balloons, and a large banner erected high above them that read: GERLACH HIGH SCHOOL REUNION - WELCOME BACK CLASS OF 1989. There didn’t appear to be more than twenty-five under the sparkling glow of a glitter ball, and bright disco lights.

  An overly enthusiastic blonde in a pink dress with a busty figure to boot eyed them with wide eyes. She flashed a set of pearly whites as she came around a table full of name tags to greet them. “Oh my God. If it’s not the Three Amigos.”

  It was a nickname that had been given to them back in high school, of course not through any fault of their own. They’d been forced by a drama teacher to come up with a skit to do for the talent show at the end of the year, and they’d opted to do the Three Amigos after the comedy flick back in ’86. It was meant to be funny but it turned into humiliation as the music somehow got switched halfway through. By the time it was fixed, the three of them had already walked off. It would have been four of them that day except Hal had conveniently suffered from a bout of sickness, nerves he said. Anyway, it had stuck, he just didn’t think anyone would still remember it.

  “Peggy Sanders,” Miles said without looking at her name tag — her voice was unmistakable, high-pitched, slightly teetering upon a lisp, it was like hearing nails go down a chalkboard. He figured it would have changed, improved by now, it hadn’t.

  “You recognize me?”

  “How could I forget,” he said taking a few subtle steps back to gain some breathing room. She had always been one to encroach upon personal space. Two steps back was an invitation for her to take two forward. Back then, it was even worse as she had a mouthful of metal and breath that could make a donkey curl over. She wrapped her arms around him and went in for a kiss on the cheek but it ended up being some awkward shuffle as he attempted to avoid her sloppy red lips. Unfortunately, after thirty years she’d mastered the art and managed to plant one on him to the horror of the other three who knew what was coming their way. After a nightmarish welcome, she ushered them toward the table to collect their name tags while turning to greet the next poor soul.

  “I swear she slipped me some tongue,” Nate muttered, grimacing.

  Miles looked at Grady who was staring into space. “No snappy jab?” Hal was too distracted. He followed his gaze across the room to a full-figured, dark-haired beauty who was chatting with a group of women near a table of finger food.

  “Is that…?”

  Hal nodded. “Vanessa Swan,” he said without taking his eyes off her.

  “Damn, some really do turn into swans.”

  “And some not so much,” Nate said, wiping his lips and throwing Peggy some shade. Vanessa had been a close friend to Hal, but nothing more than that. In high school he was besotted with her yet unfortunately, he lacked the courage to ask her out, so it was no surprise when someone else swooped in leaving him pining for her from a distance. It was kind of sad and yet common.

  “She live local?” Miles asked.

  “Yeah, she has a place over on Coyote Street. She teaches here at the school.”

  “Still banging every guy in sight?” Nate asked with a chuckle.

  “Show some respect,” Hal protested. “She’s not like that.”

  “And you would know?” Grady probed. “I thought you were on the road doing session drumming.”

  “Was,” he added, casting a sideways glance then looking back at her. “I hold down three jobs now. Carpenter, driver and part-time custodian here at the school.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you took the job. You’re still not over her, are you?” Nate said.

  “Nate.” Miles frowned.

  “No seriously, I saw your social media with all those ladies at the after parties when you were drumming. Courage didn’t seem to be something you were short of then, why haven’t you made a move?”

  “She’s engaged,” Hal said.

  “To who?”

  “Adam Fairchild. One of
the founders of Burning Man.”

  “You’re joking, right? That asshat?”

  “That asshat is rolling in dough. I don’t exactly have much to offer her, and besides that ship has sailed,” he said before ambling over to a table to get himself a drink.

  “Well done, Nate,” Miles added.

  “What? He’s a grown ass man pining for some chick from the past. Geesh. Get over it.” He chuckled as they surveyed the room. “Speaking of getting over it. Grady. Isn’t that Paige Roskin over there — your old flame?”

  Grady looked then glanced at his wife and back at her. “Man, she looks weathered, a far cry from the prom queen days.”

  All three of them squinted and then looked at each other. “Is that…?”

  “Gentlemen, I believe it is. Though, hard to tell with her face pulled back like that. That’s a whole lot of Botox, lip injections and plastic.”

  They were referring to Courtney Payton, Paige’s sidekick. A tall blonde who still carried herself with her nose up, though it was hard now to tell if it was her actual nose or the result of having gone under the knife.

  Paige, Vanessa and Courtney were like the three Ashleys — a group of girls who often looked down on others, dressed in brand-name clothes, and were frequently involved in arranging parties and heading up some social event at school. Courtney and Payton were the worst but Vanessa had her moments.

  “Oh how the mighty have fallen,” Miles muttered.

  “Except for those breasts. I call fake. No one at forty-eight is rocking babies like that.” He shook his head. “This place is starting to freak me out. I need some weed, either of you two want to go out and smoke a doobie?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Grady muttered.

  Miles declined.

  The two of them wandered off.

  Miles turned to Jenna who was busy talking with Grady’s wife and two other ladies he couldn’t recognize. Poor old Grady got nabbed by Yoon before he could exit, leaving Nate to fly solo. Miles thumbed over his shoulder and mouthed to Jenna, “You want a drink?” She smiled and excused herself.