by L. ROY AIKEN
Brandon looks at me like he might explode on me in rage or tears. “Brandon,” I say, “I’m sorry you lost him. Everybody’s lost somebody, all right? Besides, this was not Mr. Sanderson. It’s some fucked-up thing eating a corn snake by the side of the road because nobody else was walking by out here. All right?”
Brandon’s eyes are fixed angrily on the remains of the monster that was once Mr. Sanderson.
“So what do we do with the body?” I say. “Do we leave it out here or do you want to take him back for proper burial?”
“We’re supposed to burn ‘em,” Krystal says.
Brandon shrugs violently, like he’s trying to get something off his back. “Help me get ‘im into the truck,” he says.
“He’s gonna stink to high heaven in this heat!” Krystal says. “Don’tcha think we oughta leave him here and come back for ‘im later?”
I’ve made a point of grabbing for the armpits; let Brandon have the shit-stained legs. “Krystal, hush,” I say.
“What! I—!”
“Quiet!” I lay Mr. Sanderson’s shoulders and head on the gate of the flatbed and haul myself up. With Brandon pushing at the legs I’m able to drag Mr. Sanderson’s remains to lay on their back in a clear space among the tools, empty potato chip bags and beer cans.
Brandon slams the gate shut and I jump over the side. We climb back into the truck in silence. He puts it into gear and we scratch away down the road.
“Just so you know,” Krystal says, “I remember ridin’ on that hay wagon, too.”
“Woman,” says Brandon, “shut up!”
We ride along at a reasonable speed—hell, almost slow. I expected the exact opposite but now I realize this is Brandon’s way of showing deference to one of the few adults who was ever kind to him.
After a while Brandon turns on the radio. He runs through the stations—where they used to be, anyway.
“Yep, that one’s gone. Was up yesterday.” He comes across another repeating the Civil Defense script over and over. “I reckon that one’ll be up ‘til the end of time,” he says.
“It’s already on past Doomsday,” I say.
“Shit. When was that?”
“Friday, where I was. I heard it came a little earlier here.”
“Things were going to shit all week long,” Brandon says. “There wasn’t no Doomsday. More like Doomsweek. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Shit man, where you been? I thought you been around!”
“It was different in Kansas City,” I say, knowing that’s not the whole truth. I was in an air conditioned bubble of leather upholstery and tailored suits and free passes to the most fashionable places in the Big City, where you sweat from working out, but never while working. Far from the concerns of people who dirty themselves handling oil pans, bed pans—of course, at least they had jobs, however shitty, and saw things going on around me.
I realize now I’d have been fatally clueless if I’d stayed home. If I’d just been there in my basement office, never encountering the sick cabbie, all the sick people at the airports and on the plane. Seen Giselle break down. Seen Angie transform. It would have been just me and Claire.
What would I have done there, with no frame of reference save the worry and helplessness of watching Claire die? When I see the dead rise and it’s not strangers on a TV over a bar in a securely locked hotel, it’s my wife of 22 years and I’m not saving anyone because I’m the first one going down....
“Well, here we are.” Brandon pulls off the road towards one of the many drainage/irrigation canals that run between properties in rural Kansas. These are among the few places you find trees out here. He parks under a thick, gnarly looking specimen with crazy limbs and thorned twigs. “Watch where you step,” says Brandon. “These fuckers’ll go right through those shoes of yours.”
I stand just inside the shade line while he goes down to the black, stagnant water at the lowest part of the ravine. Krystal looks at me. “You feelin’ all right? Color’s gone out of your face!”
“Just thinkin’ about things.”
“Your family?”
“Yeah.”
“Aw. Bless your heart!”
The rustle of leaves and debris shoved aside draws our attention downhill. “Hey, Mr. Grace,” Brandon calls up, “you hear anything before you crashed?”
“There was an explosion beneath us. I figure it was the tires on the landing gear. Either we were going too fast or we hit something, I don’t know.”
“You hit something, all right,” says Brandon. He pulls it from its hiding place.
I see the spike strip dangling from his hand and then I remember. The last thing I thought I saw before the bang and the nose going down. A line across the asphalt.
“Brandon, you can’t be sure of that!”
“You saw me pull it out of the landing gear yourself!”
“You don’t know who put it there, though!”
“Who the hell else is out here, Krystal! Who?” Brandon looks at me. “I got three more in here that I pulled off the roads comin’ past town. I figure they musta pulled these out of the back of the cars at the sheriff’s substation close to here. After the crash me and Marcus went out lookin’ for ‘em. We took ‘em and hid ‘em. I try and get back to see if they’re puttin’ any more down. So far, they don’t seem to have to, at least as far as I-70 is concerned.”
“How do you figure?”
“They left your burned-out plane by the side of the road. It’s practically a goddamned tourist attraction now, with a burned-up body in the cockpit an’ everything! They just kinda pop up out of nowhere when they see people they want, invite ‘em to dinner, give ‘em the tour. A lot of people are so damn happy to get a square meal on an actual plate they’ll give up their freedom for the promise of another helpin’ of mash-potato flakes outta the box.” Brandon smirks. “But it’s on a plate, see, so it’s all good!”
“And the people they don’t like?”
“Well, if they look white enough, they’ll let ‘em go. Niggers an’ beaners an’ other colored folk, not so much. They end up where Mr. Sanderson up there is gonna end up. In an ash pit, with hot tar poured on ‘em and set ablaze.”
“You hear somethin’?” says Krystal.
It’s the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine. Two of them. Brandon puts the spike strip back in its hiding place and strides up the embankment. “No sense trying to run,” he says. “Just stand here and be cool. We’ll tell ‘em we stopped to take a leak.”
“How do we explain being out here in the first place?”
“New guy wanted the tour. Just let me do the talkin’, all right?”
A shiny black pickup the size of a small building breezes in front of Brandon’s truck and scrapes hard to a halt, blocking our way out. Pulling up behind us is a bright yellow beauty of a truck, tall off the ground, a beautiful chrome job.
Of course, it could only belong to Mr. Evans. “What are we doing out here?” he says grinning behind black aviator sunglasses. A tall bruiser of a man with a bandolier across his huge chest and a Smokey Beat hat comes out of the black truck to join him. I see a blonde kid in the big yellow truck looking like he wants to come out. I gather Dad doesn’t approve of the risk.
“Just givin’ him the tour, sir.”
“I’ll bet. Who’s that in your flatbed?”
“Mr. Sanderson, sir.” I wince to hear Brandon say sir. He thinks this shows Good Upbringing, and it does—an upbringing as a disposable peasant.
“Where’d you find him?”
“Out on the east side of his field, sir.”
“What was he eating?”
“A corn snake, sir.”
“All right, then. You better get him up to the processing area. Mr. Grace?”
I look at Evans.
“You all right?”
“I’m good.”
“I’d like you to take the rest of the tour with me.”
“That’s all right. Brandon and Krystal had it covered.”
<
br /> “No, they don’t. They got work to do when they get back to the school. That right, Brandon?”
“Yes, sir.” Brandon looks at me. “Good to know you, Mr. Grace.”
“You, too, Brandon.”
Krystal stands next to him, stricken. I nod at her, smile. I’ll be all right when we both know that ain’t at all so.
“Oh, stop it!” says Evans. “You’re all going to see each other tomorrow on the box store run! Now go take Mr. Sanderson up to the processing place and get yourselves back to the school before you draw every last former citizen of Natalia down on us! Go!”
Brandon and Krystal take one last frightened look at me before the brute with the bandolier and Smokey Bear hat turns in their direction, and their sense of self-preservation overwhelms their morbid instinct to have one last look at the condemned man, maybe watch him die.
The brute walks past the battered brown truck towards his own. He moves his truck over just enough for Brandon’s comparatively puny rustbucket to get by. Brandon zooms away down the frontage road. I watch him turn left way down the road, driving back up into the general area where we came from all of 45 minutes ago.
Evans nods his head towards the black truck and the man backs it up close, parks it and gets out. “Brick,” says Evans. “Check out that area down there where they were when we were coming up. Unless, that is, Mr. Grace cares to tell us what’s down there.”
“I’d hate to spoil anything for anybody.”
“Indulge us.”
“No.”
I can sense the big man bristling but Evans nods towards the wooded ravine and with one final look at me Brick turns and walks down the slope.
“Come,” says Evans. “There’s much you need to see.”
It’s a long walk to anywhere from here. If I’m going to get killed, I might as well enjoy a final ride in air conditioning. I follow Evans back to his truck.
14
The blonde-haired kid—I’m guessing he’s at least as old as my son, Jack—slips into the rear cab as I pull myself up into Evans’ big yellow truck. The new car smell is almost overpowering, bringing back fond memories of the Luxury Tank. Of course, this is a far more practical vehicle for the Batshit New World we’re coming into now.
“You like my truck?” Evans says as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
“Yes, it’s nice,” I say. I note the low double-digit on the odometer as he starts the engine. “Just picked it up at the dealership?”
“Believe it or not, I’d custom-ordered this just three weeks ago. I was scheduled to go in and sign for it the day everything started shutting down around here.” Evans puts the truck in gear and we pull away. “I’d made a substantial down payment on it so it’s not a 100% post-apocalypse discount. Though Nelson back there and me did have to take out the salesman in order to take delivery, so to speak. Turns out my man Bud had wandered into work from his deathbed. Still in his pajamas and everything.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. Bud was a good man. I’d been getting a new truck from him every year for the last ten years since I retired from the Army.”
I think of my 11-year-old beater back home, and how grateful I’d been it only needed minor repairs every year because a car payment would have been out of the question even in the best of times. “I guess this is the last year they’ll be making new trucks, then.” It’s a stupid thing to say, I know. I’d really like to know where that dealership is so I can take possession of something as defensible and resilient as this.
“Sobering, isn’t it?” says Evans. “It’s why I’m trying to round up mechanics like Brandon. We’re going to have to learn how to fix what we have, because this is it.”
“Well, I’m glad to know you’ll be keeping Brandon alive a little longer,” I say. “He seems like a good kid.”
“Of course the ultimate would be to get some body-work men. Just imagine, we could keep everything running and looking good at the same time! We didn’t lose that many people. All we need to do is gather the scattered masses unto us, so to speak. It could even be better than before!”
“So that’s what the spike strips are for. Glad to know my pilot buddy didn’t die for nothing.”
“That’s what Brick’s gonna find down in that ravine?”
“What if he does?”
“We’ll put them away. Those weren’t supposed to be out there.”
“Why were they?”
It’s a small spot of silence, but I can hear Evans’ son shift a little in the backseat. He’s probably armed. I’d sure as hell have armed Jack if he was with me.
Finally: “Mr. Grace, as leader of this community I accept responsibility for the errors in judgment that brought you to us. But I also want it understood that those spike strips were procured and deployed without my knowledge or authorization. Your boy Brandon there was hiding evidence of his own wrongdoing. His friend Marcus had already fled the shelter in fears of punishment for that.”
“So you and your people didn’t kill Marcus?”
“Contrary to what you may have been told, people are free to leave whenever they please. All we ask is that they do their supplying outside of Natalia. We need everything we’ve got to rebuild here, let alone take care of the people here willing to help us with that.”
“So I’m free to leave, too, then.”
“Absolutely. But let me try to talk you out of that. I think you might do well for yourself here.”
“Really?”
“I know it doesn’t look like much but you only see so much from the Interstate. The land is good here. We can get things growing.”
“It’s just not my part of the country. Not enough trees.”
“Funny you should mention that.”
We come upon a dark green wall of trees along one of the many short ridges that ripple through central Kansas. We cross a small bridge over a creek before turning down a side road. We turn down another road and the temperature drops noticeably where these trees touch over the street. Large, old houses on wide, raised lots sit comfortably out of the direct sun, sprinklers watering the gracefully rounded knolls of Kentucky bluegrass in some of the large front yards.
The old money “Good Families” would have been here a week ago while the real money ruled from their hundred-acre-plus farms and ranches outside of town. Now we’re back to the old neighborhoods. It makes sense, though, at least for the time it will take to train the peasants bunked in the high school to serve the New (Old) Paradigm.
“You like it here, huh?” says Evans.
“Made in the shade,” I say.
Evans pulls into the driveway of a large, 19th-century manse. When did it suddenly become impossible for modern builders to include rounded towers with conical roofs? So beautiful, unlike the tacky, blocky McMansions our century’s managing classes accept as “luxury living”—what I was drooling over in Kansas City barely a week ago. I’m guessing the swells lived here during Natalia’s wild western cowtown days. That these magnificent structures still stand after well over a hundred years….
“What do you think?” Evans says.
“I’ll take it.”
“It’s yours if you want it. I used to know the owner. You remind me a lot of him. I think you might even be the same size. Anyway, the generator’s hooked up. It’s been running for a while so you can take a hot shower and see if those clothes fit.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“We’ll talk about that over dinner.”
“Oh. When and where?”
Evans holds out a familiar object. “My house. Dinner itself is at six. Cocktails at 5:30 if you’re so inclined.”
I take the object. It’s my phone.
“Fully charged,” says Evans. “Here’s your charger, too, by the way. Mr. Riley two houses over and across the street had a spare to fit it.”
“I’ll be damned,” I say, taking the neatly wrapped bundle of wire-and-plug.
“I took the liberty of putting my nu
mber in your Contacts list.”
“Great.”
“We can at least talk to each other here. Of course, if we really get going we can get some of these other cell towers operational. Expand our sphere of influence, as it were.”
“All right,” I say, nodding.
“Let’s get inside, get you started. Got air conditioning in there. Get cleaned up; maybe you can get in a nap before cocktail hour.”
He pops his door, I pop mine. No one’s under gunpoint. So far, so good.
Evans nods at his boy and he runs down the driveway to the street, presumably to their own house along the shady lane. I follow Evans up the front steps of the house to the wide front porch. Mr. Evans makes a mini-ceremony of handing me the keys to unlock the door. I push the door open into a cool, dark space. The smells of hardwood floors, old furniture swirl around me.
This is the kind of place you live in, not at. You don't step into a living area right away; we're in a foyer. If I had a coat or boots this is where they'd come off before going into the first sitting area, just off the dining room.
“There’s one room in particular you may be interested in,” Evans says.
I follow him up the steep hardwood stairs. We emerge into a wide, dark hall, lit only by the faint light through the trees outside the windows of the many rooms. It’s so delightfully cool, even in this upstairs, I could lie down on the floor and sleep.
“We had to air it out,” Evans says. “I think it worked, but I was a little too close to the project, in and out while they were scrubbing. We had the mattresses hauled out, of course. We’ve yet to liberate replacements for the master bedroom and the daughter’s room so you might want to stay in the guest bedroom until we get that deep into town.” Evans stops and turns to look at me. “Just so you know this is a problem in every house on this block.”
“Who lived here?”
“The Tellers. Carol and Kaylee. Husband Nick supposedly got called away last week and frankly I don’t look for him to come back. If he does we’ll get you another place. This is the nicest one that’s vacant, though.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Speaking of things appreciated, we noticed you had a butcher’s meat ax and a meat tenderizer on your belt. They looked very much used. Not like in a kitchen, either.”