Red Runs the River

by Tony Urban

  He'd given the cabin several deep cleanings, but her smell remained behind. That was the worst of it. Her clothes, her trinkets, those could be tucked away in closets. The photos of them together were hidden in drawers. But he couldn't erase her scent no matter how hard he tried and every time he breathed in her aroma, the synapses in his head fired too quick and he thought she was still there, or that she'd come back to him. And then the rest of his brain caught up and he realized it was nothing but the leftovers of what had once been a happy life.

  One late June morning the sunlight and blue sky worked together to turn the surface of the water trough into a mirror and Wim was shocked when he caught his reflection. He hadn't bothered to cut his hair or shave since Ramey left, but even through all that fur he could tell he'd lost a considerable amount of weight. His eyes looked like dull marbles in their sockets and his face had taken on deep etchings, especially around his eyes. He looked like a tired, old bum and he supposed that wasn't too far off from the truth.

  It had been a few months since he’d made a trip to town to restock and he was running low on everything. As much as he didn't care about himself, he knew there wasn't enough feed for the livestock to make it through another week and he needed to remedy that, so he pulled the wagon out of the barn and rolled it to Gypsy.

  She shimmied side to side as he hitched it up. "Come on, now. Behave yourself."

  The horse settled a bit, but its nostrils flared as it huffed. She was a contemptible beast.

  The trip to West Jefferson took almost two hours by horse and wagon and would take twice that long going back, loaded down and mostly uphill. Before, when he made these trips with Ramey, they were events to be enjoyed. Long, dusty versions of Sunday rides. Miniature adventures. Now, he found the journey downright miserable.

  The mountain road seemed even bumpier and ragged than before and a few times he thought a wheel might break on the wagon, but it survived, and riding became smoother once he got to paved roads.

  He'd cleared the town of zombies when they first arrived years earlier, disposing of a hundred or so. Over the years, he found and killed a few dozen more that trickled in in dribs and drabs. He supposed they were probably residents who lived in the houses and farms outside of town and which had managed to find their way back to the place they once frequented through some vestiges of memory that remained inside their rotting heads. There were never more than a few on any given trip and, as far as he could recall, it had been a year or more since there'd been any at all.

  That's why he was surprised when he saw movement through the plate glass window of the grocery store. He pulled the reigns and Gypsy gave an annoyed nicker before slowing to a stop.

  He tied her off to a Stop sign, double knotting the rope. "You stay now." As if she had a choice in the matter.

  Wim grabbed his rifle from the wagon and moved toward the store without bothering to exhibit much stealth. The door was open but, although he was certain he'd closed it the last time he was there, that didn't concern him much. It was a rickety door, after all.

  The bright midday light lit up the store as well as the overhead fluorescents once had, if not better, and Wim had no trouble spotting the mostly bald head that bobbed up and down as the body it belonged to moved through the canned good aisle. To Wim, it looked a little like a brown egg rising up and dipping down. Up and down. If it was a zombie, it was an active one.

  He flicked off the rifle's safety and stepped to the end of the aisle. When he arrived, he saw the figure from behind and quickly realized the up and down motion was occurring because it was removing cans from the shelves and depositing them into an olive-green duffle bag that looked about big enough to hold a body.

  Wim thought about announcing his presence but decided that waiting and watching was more interesting. For the next four minutes the man with the bald head emptied the shelves of every can of soup and then all the vegetables with the exception of green beans. Upon completion, he made an attempt to pick up the bag. An attempt that ended in failure and a pained grunt.

  "That's a good way to give yourself a hernia," Wim said.

  The man spun around so fast that his foot got caught in the strap of the bag and his arms flailed as he tried unsuccessfully to get his balance before he fell on top of his bounty with a pained urgh.

  "Aw, darn it now." Wim hadn't meant to make the old fellow fall. He set his rifle against the shelf and moved toward him as the man tried to climb back to his feet. "Let me help you out there." He was a few feet away when the man looked up.

  His face was the color and texture of old leather and one eye was clouded over by a cataract. He sneered as he saw Wim, revealing a set of teeth that was at thirty percent capacity tops. He wore clothing that reminded Wim of a WWII Army uniform and which was too large, sagging off his thin frame.

  Wim didn't even realize the man had pulled a knife until he spoke.

  "Stay back from me! I'll gut you, you get any closer!"

  Wim's eyes went to the man's hand and he saw a rusty Swiss Army knife clutched in his boney fist. But the can opener tool was open rather than the blade and Wim couldn't hold back a smirk.

  "I reckon you could if I stood still long enough. But you'd be better off using that on some of the food you just took."

  The man looked down at his arthritis-swollen hand and his good eye grew wide. He fumbled with the knife, his hands shaking like he had the palsy, while he tried with no success to pull out the correct blade.

  Wim gave him a whole minute before deciding it had gone on long enough. "I'm not gonna hurt you, fella, so why don't you save us both the trouble of trying to put an end to me?"

  The man peered up at Wim, squinting his good eye. "You trustworthy?"

  "If I wasn't, I doubt there'd be much you could do about it."

  That seemed to be good enough and the man stopped fiddling with the knife. He turned his attention back to the bag. "This is mine, though. I got here first. Fair's fair."

  "Whatever you say. But from the looks of it, and the looks of you for that matter, you wouldn't make it a mile with all that loot before your ticker blew right up."

  The man seemed offended at the slight and redoubled his efforts to lift the bag. That time he succeeded but his body tipped heavy to the side like the leaning tower of Pisa. "There. Shows how much you know."

  Wim raised his eyebrow and nodded. The old man was already out of breath and beads of sweat had risen on his forehead. "Uh huh. You showed me."

  The man wobbled back and forth as he pushed by Wim and toward the exit. Wim watched him go and examined the shelves to see what he left behind.

  "What do you have against green beans?"

  "I don't..." the man huffed, puffed, "Appreciate the texture."

  Wim didn't care about the texture and grabbed a few cans for himself. He was moving on to the baked beans when he heard a crash. When he looked toward the noise, he found the man sprawled on the floor, half the bag on top of him, and looking like he'd just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

  "You need some help up there?"

  The man waved him away. "I decided to rest a spell."

  "As you wish."

  The old man's name was Zeke. He didn't tender a surname and Wim didn't bother asking, Zeke was good enough. He said he was sixty-two years old and while Wim suspected he was off a good decade, he didn't call him on that either. He said he'd been on the move for the duration of the apocalypse and, from the looks of him and his worn-out loafers, Wim believed him that time.

  The two of them sat on the sidewalk and ate cold peas and corn straight from the cans. Zeke wanted to follow that up with some Vienna sausages but when he popped the can Wim thought the vaguely gray meat looked well beyond its expiration date.

  "Think I'll take a pass on those."

  Zeke grunted. "More for me."

  The old man wasn't much for talking and certainly didn't display any of the wisdom or eloquence of Wim's last elderly friend, Emory. But that was quite a high bar
.

  Wim noticed that Zeke kept eyeing his boots so when the man commented, it wasn't a shock.

  "Nice boots you got there."

  "Uh huh."

  "Wishum I had me a pair like that."

  "They're heavy. Not the best for walking."

  Zeke scratched at his groin for a while, then spoke again. "You got a woman?"

  "I do not."

  "Wishum I had me a woman."

  Wim tried to push thoughts of Ramey from his mind. "You've been alone for the duration?"

  "I traveled with a man, bout your age, and a boy not quite in his teens early on. Back when the cars still worked. We met up outside of St. Louis."

  "Why'd that come to an end?"

  Zeke gave another grunt. It seemed to be his fallback response when he didn't want to provide information. "How bout you? You alone?"

  "Yup."

  "Too quiet. Gives your head too much time to think. Too much thinking ain't good."

  Wim thought that to be the most profound statement the man had made.

  "That's why I wishum I had me a woman. You got a woman, there ain't never no quiet. No time for thinking."

  That was less profound and, as much as Wim agreed silence wasn't good, he was tiring of this character. "It'll be nearing dark before long. I better get back."

  He stood and, when he did, Zeke scrambled to his feet too. "You got a place round here?"

  Wim nodded.

  "An extra bed too maybe?"

  It was Wim's turn to grunt.

  After showing Zeke his way around the cabin, Wim unloaded the wagon and fed the animals. He'd brought back enough food to last the livestock a few months and, despite the addition of the old timer, he felt more accomplished than he had in a while.

  When he returned to the cabin, he found Zeke sprawled on the couch with sounds that reminded him of an out of tune chainsaw exploding from his open mouth. The snoring kept Wim awake most of the night. When he finally passed out, he slept like a stone and when his eyes opened it was well past dawn.

  He sat up in bed, alarmed at the quiet. The roosters should have been cock a doodle doing by now. He remembered the first day of the plague when their silence was what tipped him that something was very wrong. He was in a near panic as he rushed outside and was expecting the worst.

  What he found was Zeke sitting in the dirt and feeding the chickens out of the palms of his hands. The birds pecked at him, fluttering their wings and giving gleeful chirps. Wim smiled at the sight.

  With each day that passed, Wim expected Zeke to say it was time to move on. Even if he hadn't meant it, making the offer would have been the polite thing to do. Only Zeke didn't mention leaving and, if anything, he seemed to make himself more at home.

  He wasn't a bad man, quite the opposite really. He'd shown himself to be a great hand with the animals and he was good about cleaning up inside the cabin. But, every time Wim saw Zeke sitting on the swing or on the couch or at the kitchen table, it only made him remember seeing Ramey in those same places and Wim found the sight almost obscene. Like a pig inside a church. It wasn't Zeke's fault and Wim knew that, but by the time two weeks had gone by, the very sight of the man only irritated him and made him recall what he'd lost.

  One day, while watching Zeke shovel manure out of the pen, Wim realized what needed to happen. He waited a few days before mentioning it, letting the idea stew inside his head to make certain he wasn't being rash, but time didn't change his mind.

  Zeke sat at the edge of the coop and held a chick that was a couple weeks old in one hand and let it peck food from the other. When Wim's shadow fell over him, he swiveled his bald head around to see.

  "Afternoon, Wim."

  "Zeke." Wim didn't say anything else and Zeke watched him, curious.

  "You look like a man with something on his mind."

  Wim nodded. "Umm hmm."

  Zeke set the chick down and rose to his feet, brushing dust off his pants. "I'm listening. Don't have to hold back on me."

  Wim thought the old man looked scared. That he seemed to know Wim wanted to be done with him. His fearful gaze was so pathetic that Wim looked away. "I'm taking the wagon to town to stock up."

  Zeke gushed out a relieved exhale. "Oh. Okay. We ain't running too low though, are we?"

  We, Wim thought. Friend, you and I aren't we. "Not yet, but it goes quicker than you'd think."

  "All right. You'd know better than me."

  "I would."

  Wim didn't say another word to the man before hitching the wagon to Gypsy and leaving.

  He thought his mind might change on the ride to and from town, but it did not. He had so much feed on the wagon that he wasn't sure the nag would be able to make it back up the mountain, but she did. When they got back, he found Zeke had cleaned out Gypsy's stall, going so far as to shovel away the built-up mud from around the base. If he'd had any doubt about his decision, that dispelled it.

  Zeke appeared at the cabin door and waved when he saw Wim hopping down from the wagon. "Made good time. I was going to mix up an omelette, but your arrival caught me off guard."

  "I can go and come again if you prefer."

  "Not at all. You'll just have to wait a spell for dinner."

  "That's never been a problem."

  By the time Wim was finished unloading the day's haul, he'd worked up enough of an appetite that waiting did indeed seem like an inconvenience. To take his mind off eating, he busied himself by surveying the area around the cabin.

  Zeke had it all fixed up to the point where the buildings looked almost new and were cleaner than they'd been in months. The small vegetable patch Wim had often struggled to maintain in this rocky soil was doing better than it ever had previously. Even the blue pig which had always been on the scrawny side seemed to have fattened up since the old man's arrival.

  "If we had a bell, now's the time I'd ring it."

  Wim turned to see Zeke standing on the porch. "I hope you made enough for seconds."

  "Thirds and fourths even."

  The omelettes weren't anything special. Zeke put in too many canned mushrooms for Wim's liking, but he was hungry and cleaned two platefuls nonetheless. When they finished, Zeke moved to gather the dirty dishes when Wim stopped him.

  "I've made a decision."

  That panicked, fearful look washed over the old timer's face again and Wim wanted to be done with this business as quick as possible, so he spit out the rest of the words as quick as he could. "I'm leaving this place. It's not home anymore. I wanted to leave months ago but I couldn't up and abandon the animals. Now that you're here, I don't have that worry."

  Zeke only stared at him, his hazy eyes wide.

  "I'll take the horse, and the wagon too for that matter since it won't do you no good without an animal to pull it. I've got you stocked up for the better part of the year. After that it's on you. So that's that. This is your place now. Think you can handle it?"

  The old man continued to stare. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and swallowed hard.

  "I'll take that as a yes and I'll head out in the morning." Wim stood, pushing his chair backward, the legs scratching at the wood floor. He'd miss that sound.

  Zeke still hadn't spoken by the time Wim went into the bedroom, closed the door, and packed.

  Wim was ready to ride out at dawn, but Zeke insisted he stay for breakfast. Wim agreed but when he saw Zeke had put stewed tomatoes into the eggs, he regretted that decision.

  The old man didn't have much to say and that was just as well. After they ate, Wim loaded the few possessions he'd decided to take onto the wagon. Aside from his clothing, it was limited to a few rifles, one shotgun, enough food to last a few days, and the meager amount of photographs he had of Ramey, including one from their wedding.

  As Wim climbed into the wagon and took the reins in his hand, Zeke stood a few feet away and watched.

  "You change your mind, anytime, you come back okay?"

  "I don't reckon that'll hap
pen." And he meant it. Since he'd made the decision to leave, he felt more comfortable and less stressed, than he had in months. He wouldn't go as far as to say he was happy, but he was better. He needed away from this place. Away from the ghosts that lingered.

  "Well then, I don't know what you're looking for out there, but if it's other people I came across a little settlement in Arkansas about ten or fourteen months ago. Wouldn't know how to tell you how to get there but it was a little west of Prescott and if you hunt and peck around long enough you might just find it." He spat onto the ground. "Nice enough folks, they was."

  "Then why didn't you stay there?"

  "Well, they had the place sealed up about as tight as a sardine canister. For protection, of course and I couldn't blame 'em. Way the world is now, you need all the protection you can get. But I spent a good patch of time in the clink back when I was a younger man. After that, I don't much care for being cooped up."

  "Fair enough."

  Wim didn't know what he was looking for either, or if he had any use for other people, but he appreciated the information. He gave the reins a little shake, but Gypsy didn't take the hint. He stomped his boot against the wagon to get her attention and she perked up.

  "Wishum I had me a pair of boots like those," Zeke said.

  Wim glanced his way as he rode off. "I already gave you my cabin. I imagine that's enough."

  Chapter Four

  They'd taken to calling this place Shard End after the neighborhood where Saw grew up. It wasn't really a town. It was a collection of campers, mobile homes, and shacks that were cobbled together in the flat like some white trash post-apocalyptic encampment and, the way Mitch viewed it, that's all it was.

  When he threw in with Saw years earlier, back when he was sixteen and thought he knew it all, he believed Saw was a man with a vision. A man who could dominate in this bloodthirsty, lawless world.

  The passage of time had revealed the opposite was true. Starting with the events where Saw came up with the plan to take over the Ark, maiming Mitch for life and turning him into some stereotypical double-crossing bad guy, only to tuck tail and run when a few bullets flew his way, Mitch realized that Solomon Baldwin was every bit the blowhard his father, Senator SOB had been.