After the End: Survival

by Stebbins, Dave

  "Yancy! Here, Yancy! Where are you, boy?"

  She looked over between two houses and saw a man who looked up at her at the same time.

  "Hi," he said. "I'm looking for my dog. He's about this tall," he said, indicating the height with his hand, "and's kind of reddish colored. Probably the only pooch in the world who likes chocolate," he added with a grin.

  "Your dog eats chocolate?"

  "Sure," he said, still smiling. "M&M's are his favorite, but he'll eat almost anything, as long as it's chocolate."

  "You've got M&M's?" This from a girl who hadn't seen "store bought" candy in more than two years.

  "Sure," he said, holding out a bag and shaking it. "Would you like some? Melts in your mouth, not in your hand!"

  "Yes, sir!"

  She actually ran to him.

  The dinner was winding down. The mayor had given a brief speech, thanking everyone present for their help in making the community ‘strong and stable.’ He focused on the ‘Progress’ theme, tying it in with cooperation between departments and the public. And he hinted at future developments that would continue to improve the lives of area residents.

  Rooms were available to anyone who didn't feel like making the late night journey home. Pretty handy, since the building had once been a hotel.

  Pete had gotten into his ‘party mode,’ which consisted of drinking, eating and walking around the room talking with individuals and small groups. He was pleasantly tired and happily drunk, the first time he'd had more than a single drink at a sitting in two years.

  Time for bed. He ambled over to the checkout desk, where Patty White, pensively tapping a pencil eraser to her front teeth, assigned him a room.

  "Patty, if your eyes were any redder, I'd swear they were on fire."

  The sheriff's dispatcher laughed as she handed him his key.

  "Pete, if you knew how hot things were going to get, you'd be packin' a fire extinguisher."

  He laughed politely, having no idea what she was talking about. He figured on telling James Snyder maybe his pot was a little too potent.

  The band was packing up, and he yelled a "Thanks guys!" across the room to them as he headed to the stairs. They ignored him. At the top of the dimly lit stairwell, Larry Maxwell of KAMR fame was engaged in some serious necking with Marilyn Holman, the grocer’s wife. Pete waved to the couple but was ignored again. He walked down the hall to his room, and it took just two attempts to unlock the door. Kicking off his shoes, he stumbled into the bathroom for a quick, warm water shower. He'd heard engineer Chick Barrett had plumbed a number of waterbed mattresses together on the roof of the building, and used the sun to warm the water. Have to see how he does that, Pete thought. In winter, wouldn't the water freeze overnight? And how does he pump the water up to the roof? The man is really clever, he decided, brushing his teeth. "Please Turn Off Light When Not In Use," read the sign by bathroom light switch. He peered at the light fixture. It was an LED taillight. OK, twelve volt system, wonder where he keeps the batteries. He sprawled back on his bed, a cool breeze stirring the curtains slightly.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  "Shit," he muttered. Opening the door, he looked into an empty hallway.

  He heard the knock again, and then realized it was coming from inside his room. He walked over to the connecting door, feeling a little bewildered.

  And behind door number two, we have...

  Brenda Farley. Wearing a sheer black nightgown over a black teddy.

  "Hi, Pete. Care to join me for a nightcap?"

  "Uh, sure. Not at all. What do you want? I'll run downstairs and get it." He said it at the same time seeing a wet bar in a room that was obviously part of a suite.

  "Oh, don't worry about that. I think we've got everything we need right here."

  And taking him by the hand, she led him in.

  CHAPTER 12

  Pete woke up the next morning, nude, alone, and in a strange bed. Sitting up, he waited a moment for his head to stop spinning, and looked around. There was a note on Brenda's pillow.

  "Thanks, Pete," she'd written. "You were just what I needed."

  Yep. That's what they all say.

  "Sorry, honey." He had thought of his wife. He wondered briefly if there was a heaven, and was she watching him now. Feeling pangs of guilt.

  "Well heck, it's been three years," he said aloud. His conscience didn't feel convinced.

  Picking up his jeans from the floor, he shuffled into his room. He got dressed, brushed his teeth, and began the arduous trek down the single flight of stairs to the lobby.

  "Coffee," he muttered. "I have a real and tangible need for caffeine."

  Walking into the nearly empty lobby, the first thing he noticed was the smell of coffee.

  There is a God.

  Walking over to the large urn, he poured himself a cup. Judy Gilliam, the new nurse, was sitting by herself at one of the tables. He walked over and sat next to her.

  "Morning," he said.

  "You look bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Bushy tailed, anyway. How'd you sleep?"

  "Mostly on my left side," he answered, sipping his coffee. "Actually, I slept pretty good once I got to sleep."

  Which was about an hour and a half ago.

  "Pete! There you are." It was Brenda Farley. Oh shit.

  "I called up to your room, but there was no answer, so I thought you might be down here."

  Brenda looked alert, well-rested, and all business. She walked across the lobby from the mayor's office.

  "Hi, Brenda."

  "And a good morning to you. Hello, Judy. Pete, I'm sorry to bother you so early, but the sheriff wants you ASAP. I'm afraid it's bad news. There's been another girl killed, this one near Westover School. He wanted me to tell you to head over there. They won't move the body till you arrive."

  "Tell him I'll be right over." Standing, he took another sip of his coffee and glanced at the retreating figure of Brenda Farley. What a great body.

  "Pete, if it's all right, can I come?" asked Judy.

  Right here, now, and in a public place? Snap out of it. Work mode.

  "Fine with me. You can either ride along or follow in your car."

  "I think I'll just follow you. I can head back to Claude without you having to bring me back here."

  They drove south on Coulter Avenue. The prevailing south wind had shifted to the north, and Pete noticed a bank of dark clouds in his rear view mirror.

  Maybe we'll get some rain out of this. He rolled up his car window, the north wind quickly dropping the temperature.

  He saw several vehicles parked in front of a two story house just north of the school and pulled up behind one of them. As he walked up to the house, he saw a deputy braced against the side of a truck, quietly vomiting on the driveway. Sheriff Rob Westlake came out of the home's front door, ignoring the deputy.

  "Hey, Pete. You doin' all right?"

  It was a standard west Texas greeting, but the sheriff peered to see if he really was doing all right. A look of relief crossed his face.

  Apparently I passed muster, Pete thought.

  "Just fine, Rob. What have we got?"

  The sheriff looked over Pete's shoulder as Judy approached.

  "Sheriff Rob Westlake, this is Judy Gilliam, the new nurse from Claude. She asked if she could observe, and I told her it was up to you, but it would probably be OK."

  Which wasn't quite the truth, but close enough.

  "Sure, that's fine. Glad to meet you Judy. OK, what we have is a twelve year old girl, deceased, identified as Laura Benchly. She was reported as missing at midnight last night by her foster mother. Last seen around dusk last night walking toward home from the school, where she'd been playing basketball with some other kiddos. We started the search for her at daybreak this morning with about a dozen volunteers from the neighborhood. We found her not thirty minutes later. Looks like another one, Pete. Come on in and tell me what you think."

  The house was new and in fairly good condi
tion, considering no one had lived in it for the past three years. The front door opened into the living room. A massive china cabinet dominated one wall. A large couch, matching love seat and recliner filled the room. In one corner, a shirt and a pair of jeans were folded, and next to them, two shoes and a pair of socks. The girl was lying on the living room carpet. She was on her back, nude, arms by her sides, legs spread wide apart. Pete focused all his attention on the body. Kneeling beside the prostrate figure, he saw an adolescent female, Caucasian, medium build, black hair. One eye partially open, the other swollen shut. Blood around the mouth and nose, lips swollen, jaw bruised and misshapen. Neck bruised. Right shoulder appeared to be dislocated. Numerous bruises to the thorax and abdomen. A single deep laceration extending from the pubis to the sternum. Lower extremities unremarkable. Hands, fingernails, unremarkable.

  "There's hardly any bleeding from the abdomen."

  Pete became aware of Judy kneeling next to him. He nodded.

  "He did that after he'd killed her. I'm thinking she was strangled first, and then he made the, ah, incision."

  Pete looked around the room. He was about to stand when his eye caught something small and dark under a chair. Walking over, he picked it up.

  "Whatcha got, Pete," asked Rob Westlake.

  Pete held it out for the sheriff to see.

  "An M&M. Haven't seen one of these in a long time."

  CHAPTER 13

  The rain started quickly, coming down in torrents so heavy, at times houses across the street were obscured. Judy covered the body with a blanket she'd found in one of the bedrooms. The group moved out of the living room, away from the dead girl, and into the kitchen. They were mostly quiet, sitting at the kitchen table, watching sheets of rain pound against a sliding glass door.

  "The rain will wipe out any tracks or scent we may have had," said Pete.

  Nothing else was said for a few minutes. A sound like popcorn popping began, and Pete could see marble size hail on the concrete patio.

  "Starting to hail," said a deputy.

  More silence. Finally, the sheriff erupted.

  "Goddamn, Pete, we've got to get this son-of-a-bitch. We just can't let it keep happening."

  "I agree," Pete said calmly. "What do you suggest we do different?"

  "Well, obviously, we don't know who this guy is. So why don't we just try and figure out what we do know. Or what we can assume."

  "OK. It's a guy. And he's probably white."

  "How do you know he's white?"

  "I was afraid you'd ask that. I read an article in Reader's Digest about serial killers. It said victims were almost always the same race as the killer."

  "Reader's Digest, huh?" said the Sheriff, starting to grin.

  "Hey, Rob. You wanted my expert help," Pete said, shrugging his shoulders. "You get what you pay for."

  "OK. Let's assume he's a white guy. And he rides a horse. What else?"

  "I would say kids trust him. He didn't seem to have to fight little Laura here." Pete spun the M&M on the kitchen table. "I know it's almost a pedophile's cliché, but maybe he offers them candy.

  "And speaking of pedophiles, maybe he's already been arrested for it. Could he have been at the Clements Prison Unit? What happened to the surviving prisoners there after the Change?"

  There was a pause before the Sheriff spoke.

  "They were all released."

  "About how many?"

  "Seventy two."

  "How can you be so precise?"

  "Two years ago, right after my department came into existence, I drove up there. In the warden's office there was a logbook of prisoners who'd been released. From the guards standpoint it was a matter of letting them out, or letting them starve to death. From that list, I pulled the files on those individuals. Each of those files contained a full set of fingerprints. I’ve got them at the S.O. None of those fingerprints match the set that was found on that beer jar. Good idea but no dice. What else do we know?"

  "We haven't ever found any underwear."

  "What?"

  "I think he keeps the underwear. Like a souvenir. There's none here, and the Shupe girl didn't have any either.

  "I think he knows the area really well. He knows where he can find his victims, and he knows where he can go where it'll be . . . private. So that means he's local, or at least he's been here for a while. Since there's no guarantee that the beer jar we found in Canyon belonged to the killer, how much good would it do to try fingerprinting doors and such here?"

  "We can try it," Westlake said, doubtfully. "Everyone who's sitting here, we've got their fingerprints on file, on account of all of us being county employees. So other than the people who've gone scrounging through here, the kids that have played here, the original owner's fingerprints. . .

  "The point being, what we find out from fingerprints may help us, but probably only at some future point."

  "Has anybody seen any new faces in the neighborhood?" asked Judy.

  "No. We asked around, the search volunteers asked around, nada," said the sheriff.

  It was quiet for a moment.

  "Drafty in here,” said a deputy.

  "Shouldn't be," said Judy.

  Pete and the sheriff's eyes met. They walked over to the stairs.

  "After you," said Pete, with a sweeping gesture.

  They went up the stairs and followed the draft of air to a south facing bedroom. Like the rest of the house, the room was neat. A quilt covered the queen sized bed. It was wrinkled, as though someone had slept on it recently. The room's two windows were open. The curtain on the east window was blowing in, along with considerable rain, drenching the carpet. The sheriff carefully closed that window. The other window, though open, was dry, its curtain blowing to the outside. Neither windowsill displayed any long term water damage.

  "Nice view of the playground from here," Pete commented.

  "This guy is slick," the sheriff said. "I bet you a dollar he came here the night before last, spent the day watching the playground, did the girl yesterday evening and left last night. No wonder nobody saw anyone strange around here. He only moves at night."

  The two men searched the rest of the upstairs, but could find nothing that seemed out of place. Pete noticed urine in the commode.

  "Doesn't smell, I guess it's fresh. Could be his. Think we'll find any fingerprints on the lid?"

  "Maybe. We'll try that and the windows. Can you do anything with hair samples, if we find any?"

  "Save them if you do. Other than determining the race of the person, though, they won’t help us much. We can’t run DNA profiles. If it's OK I'm going to clean the girl up some and take her home."

  "That's fine. Bill can tell you where she lived. We'll do what we can with the fingerprints."

  Pete went downstairs. While he quickly sutured the huge abdominal laceration, Judy gently washed Laura, using towels moistened with rainwater. Wrapping her in a blanket, Pete carried the limp body out to his car. Though the rain had stopped it was cold and windy.

  "Thanks for letting me tag along," said Judy, as she closed the tailgate to the SUV. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

  "Thank you for your help."

  They both stood quietly for a few seconds.

  "Well, I've to got go to morning clinic," she said, moving toward her car.

  "Yeah. Thanks again," Pete said. "Hey, you're a great dancer, you know it?"

  Judy smiled wanly, started her engine, and drove away.

  Since the massive deaths three years earlier, the institution of death had changed. People rarely died in health care institutions anymore because the sick and injured were usually cared for at home. Everyone alive had been scarred by the death of almost everyone they had ever known. It takes the mystery out of dying, Pete reflected as he drove the few blocks to the girl's house. The change in attitude was not subtle. Death had become an integral and inevitable part of life.

  The new traditions usually involved a wake. The deceased was put in a
n open casket, which would rest on a sturdy table in the living room. No embalming was used, so the weather and time of year would generally dictate the length of time the body would be on display. In the summer, that would be less than two days. Neighbors would come by, bringing food and condolences. Services would have family and friends eulogizing the deceased; those remembrances seldom involved more than events from the past three years. Burials were usually at an established cemetery, though sometimes the family would opt for a backyard burial.

  Pete pulled up slowly to Laura's house. Several groups of people stood in the front yard, watching him. As Pete got out of his car, a huge, bear-like man walked toward the vehicle. He looked to be six-five, maybe two hundred fifty pounds. A full beard obscured most of his face, and his massive arms were covered with tattoos. Pete had seen him before at area baseball games. A welder, he recalled.

  "You're Dr. Pete," the man said softly, extending a hand. "I'm Frank Crenshaw. Laura lived with us."

  "Frank, I sure am sorry for your trouble."

  Crenshaw nodded, and together they went to the back of the car. Pete opened the tailgate and for a moment, they looked at the blanketed form.

  "Same guy do this that killed that other girl?"

  "Most likely," Pete answered.

  Crenshaw nodded again.

  "He needs to be dead."

  There wasn't a thing Pete could say.

  CHAPTER 14

  By the time Pete drove away from Crenshaw's house, it was almost ten a.m. Clinic hours were from eight to noon, so Pete was not surprised to find several patients waiting for him. Amy Randolf, his whenever-she-felt-like-it sixteen year old clinic volunteer, had taken vitals and done all the initial paperwork.

  "Morning, Amy. Sorry to keep you folks waiting."