The boy pushed his lower lip out, but he settled after that, and Duncan reached for a bottle of water.
It wasn’t what he wanted, but it would have to do.
Kindness
The afternoon wore on, as always, staring at the ass end of Lee’s truck and listening for the walkie-talkie.
“Ginny?” Juju glanced at his passenger. “You all right?” Then it occurred to him there was no way she’d be all right, and being lead driver for a bit in this ugly snow-slop mess required a fair bit of concentration, too. He should’ve been overjoyed she was quiet, staring blankly out the window…but he wasn’t.
At least Traveller was in the truck with Lee and Phyllis. The damn dog’s innards were full of SlimJims and kibble, and Juju was tired of smelling the result.
“Hm?” Ginny stirred. Her hair was in a loose braid today, tendrils falling free, and it was…well, a little disturbing to see that slight dishevelment. Her black jacket was only zipped halfway, too, and her gloves lay forgotten in her lap. She wasn’t reading the thick black medical manual or anything else, or writing in her little notebooks.
No, she just stared out the window. He didn’t quite blame her, but it was like having a ghost in the front seat.
“I just wondered…” His damn conscience was pinching, too. Nobody should have to do what she’d done, especially a fuckin’ civilian. “Well, you know, how you was feelin.”
A pale, half-smothered laugh escaped her; one bare, cold-reddened hand flew to her mouth to trap it. “Uh.” Her hand dropped back into her lap, a wounded bird. “Fine, I suppose. Considering.”
Yeah. Considering. There was something dry in his throat, so he coughed a bit to clear it. They were all ass-deep in shit and sinking, why talk about it? Still…something impelled him. “Yeah.”
Snow crunched and bunched, pushed free of the four-by’s grill by sheet of plywood, tilted and braced with 2x4s held by strap tie-downs around the winch. There was another halfass plywood plow on the truck, breaking the crust; the four-by was just picking up the slack and clearing for the RV creeping along behind. They’d find a front-hitch plow somewhere along the way, Lee reckoned, but nobody wanted to stay in Saratoga another day, country club or no country club.
Go figure. First time he’d ever been in one of them damn places, and Juju hadn’t even thought to piss in a corner. Might have been satisfying.
The pressure in his throat mounted, until he had to say something. “Ginny?”
She made another soft I’m listening sound, but he couldn’t tell if it was true or not. Christ knew she probably didn’t need anyone bothering her, least of all his clumsy ass.
Comforting had never been one of Juju Thurgood’s skills, you could say. He left that shit for women and chaplains. “I never thanked you,” he found himself saying. “When you an Lee showed up, after Tip…well. You were right kind to me, and I ’preciate it.”
“Oh.” Now she looked down at her cupped palms instead of out the window. “You were pretty upset.”
I was fuckin crazy, thanks. “It weren’t no walk in the park.” Nobody should have to beat their own buddy’s head in with a lamp, either, but at least Juju had been…well, prepared wasn’t the right word, but being in the service had done him a good turn, he guessed. The trainin’ took over when it was time to do, and you didn’t have to think.
It was the thinkin’ that knotted you all up.
“Yeah.” Ginny’s quiet agreement put the entire subject to bed. Or not, but he couldn’t figure out anything to add for the life of him.
The four-by wanted to drift; Juju held it steady. He really should retire this piece of machinery and get a big old truck. Half-ton, with a hemi. That would be useful. But he and Tip had worked on the Jeep together, and even with the bullet holes breathing chill-wet air into the cab, it was familiar.
Safe.
Oh, what the hell. Might as well jump in, he wasn’t gonna get no peace with himself otherwise. “What you did, back there. For your sister. It was a kindness, Ginny.”
Crunch-squeak went the snow. Hiss-crunch, when the chains. Purr went the engine, and he hit the wipers once to clear spattered droplets.
“Was it?” Ginny spoke to her hands, a few of her unpolished nails broken. The two words were so quiet, Juju almost missed ’em.
“It was.” He sounded damn certain, even to himself. “Just like it was a mercy for Tip. He wouldn’t have wanted to be no zombie critter.” That’s what I tell myself. It’s gotta be true.
If it wasn’t, he didn’t want to know.
Another long silence. Then Ginny stirred, restlessly. “Flo hated being dirty,” she said, finally. “All her life. Even as a kid.”
What was it like, Juju wondered, to have that luxury? “Tip didn’t mind him no dirt, long as he got to wash his face. There was that one time, in Iraq…you prolly don’t want to hear none of that, though.”
“I don’t mind.” Now Ginny was looking at him, studying his profile instead of staring at a snowy wasteland or her own fragile hands. “If you feel like talking, that is.”
“Maybe. I dunno.” What he felt like was helping her, he guessed, but there didn’t seem to be much prospect of that.
Still, he’d beaten his brother’s head in, she’d shot her sister. There was a kind of…what was the word? Symmetry. Yeah. That was it.
“Tip was an asshole.” Juju settled himself a little more firmly in his bucket seat and glanced at the weather station display taped to the dash. The pressure was holding steady, which was a good thing. In half an hour, Lee would drop back and the four-by would take the lead for a half-hour, snow-pushing along south. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. But he kept his word. That’s pretty rare.”
“Flo was the favorite.” Ginny’s throat worked, and she rubbed at her left cheek, a quick, swiping movement. “It sounds horrible to say it out loud.”
“Well, ain’t no way to hurt ’em now.” Dead was dead, and you could say what you pleased. “Might as well be honest.”
“That’s true.” Ginny’s fingers interlaced; pulled tight. “Do you think they know? I mean, that we…we were helping them?”
And Lord, that was one thing that kept him up at night, when he wasn’t exhausted from the day’s work. Had there been something of Tip left inside that raving, chewing bastard, screaming to be let out?
Would he be lying if he reassured her? Or was he trying, God help him, to reassure himself? “Way I figger,” Juju said, slowly, “is that they were hurt, an confused. And it was a mercy to let ’em out. Let ’em free.” O Pharaoh, his grandmother used to sing. Let my people go.
“That’s a good way to look at it.” Ginny sniffed, hard. Then she sniffed again, and Lord help him, he’d made her cry.
Jesus on a stick. “Didn’t mean to—” he began.
“No,” she said, quickly. “No, Juju. It’s…I just…it occurred to me you understand. You know?” She bent to dig in her purse, probably for tissues. Women always carried tissues.
And everything else.
“Some of it, yeah.” Juju nodded, eased off the gas to let the Jeep right itself when the back wheels started to drift a bit. The sky was a flat, iron-colored lid, clapped over a box. “That prayer you got, the one you said over your people.”
“The Kaddish?” It was tissues, a red and blue travel pack, thin plastic covering battered by rubbing against whatever else a practical, no-nonsense librarian kept in her bag. Ginny wiped at her cheeks, blew her nose. “I might have forgotten some of it.”
“Don’t think it matters.” He hadn’t been a church man since his gran went to Jesus. “Wish I’d had me some time to pray over Tip.”
“I’m sorry.” She blew her nose again, yanked out a fresh tissue, dabbed at her eyes. She even honked snot out gracefully. Maybe they taught that in charm school, or at the goddamn country club. “Juju?”
“Huh?” The Jeep shuddered, and he touched the accelerator to get them over a frozen hump. Snow crunched and splattered aside; he hit the wip
ers to keep the windshield clear.
“I can say Kaddish for Tip.” Shyly, and she didn’t look at him, insteady studying the wad of used tissue like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “If you want.”
It was right kind of her to offer. Freeway signs, a coating of ice melting off their reflective surfaces, marched slowly beside the road. “You think he’d like it?”
“I guess it’s mostly for us, instead of the…the dead.” Her breath caught; she blew her nose again. “You can’t do anything more for them.”
“Guess not.” He thought it over. “I’d be right honored. All I got’s my grandma’s prayers, and I say ’em, but won’t do no harm to add none, I reckon.”
“Sure. It’s basically…you say it and you let God decide how to take it. It’s really for those left behind. Funny.” She wiped at her nose again. “We weren’t orthodox or anything, I’m agnostic, but I guess I absorbed more than I thought.”
Well, Juju was pretty agnostic himself, come to think of it. But it couldn’t hurt, and if it got her thinkin’ on something else, he figured that was a kindness, too.
“Guess I did too.” He hit the wipers again. “Only time I ever prayed after leavin home was when I’us gettin shot at.”
“No atheists in foxholes,” she murmured. “What about Tip?”
“He was raised Catholic.” Which reminded him of a lot of things, and surely there was no harm in telling a few of them. “Said he was recoverin. There was this one time, we were gettin our ass—uh, our butts shot off in some podunk sand-town, and Tip started yellin somethin. Latin. He was yellin in Latin at the assho—the, uh, the fellers shooting at us.”
Then he was telling the story, Tip yelling any old thing he could think of while they covered and moved, mortars pop-crumping and the taste of metal on Juju’s tongue, and later, back at base, when they started calling Tip “the preacher” and it pissed him off so much he snuck in and shut off the hot water for the showers.
The numbers on the weather station began to drop, atmospheric pressure not content to stay still Weather was massing in the distance, a deeper grey. After a little while, Ginny handed him the tissues.
Juju hadn’t even realized he was leaking. So he blew his nose, and Ginny began to tell him about a summer camp, her sister, and an ever-escalating series of practical jokes between two cabins that ended with a laxative baked into chocolate cupcakes.
When the walkie-talkie on the dash crackled with Lee’s check-in, they were both laughing helplessly; something in both of them had eased.
And all the tissues were gone.
Emotional Literacy
It was the closest Phyllis had ever gotten to New York, and she couldn’t even enjoy it. Plus, even if it was the end of the world, she didn’t want dog hair on her coat or her wool trousers, and Lee Quartine was not by any stretch of the imagination a social creature. If she was in the Jeep with Ginny, at least there would have been something interesting to talk about. Maybe Phyl could even mention Ulysses to her. The lady didn’t really seem like a Joyce type, but since the internet was down, there were precious few options for discussing literature and a librarian was far from the worst prospect for such a pastime.
Phyllis stared out the window. Snow, snow, abandoned cars, hillocks, hummocks, dark dead buildings, and more snow. They might as well have been back in Ohio.
To be absolutely fair, the dog wasn’t bad at all. He stared up at her with big, dopey, mournful eyes, and he’d never yell that she was a dumbass bimbo or mock her for reading something other than a fashion magazine. He liked it when she rubbed the downy top of his canine head, and she was pretty sure he would have leapt through a fiery ring or two if his humans wanted it.
He was also a better conversationalist than the man driving, that was for damn sure.
Just as Phyllis thought that, though, Lee opened his mouth. “Gonna stop in a piece.”
“Sounds good.” That probably finished up their conversation for another hour or so, and she wished she could dig the book out of her purse. If she did, though, would he expect her to talk about whatever she was reading?
Lee gave her a strange sideways look, chin down and long nose pointed. “Ask you somethin’, Miss Phyllis?”
Great. Here it comes. She braced herself, staring out the window. “You can ask.” But I don’t have to answer, she reminded herself.
Even though most of the time, she did, because men just didn’t stop when you ignored them. They seemed to take it as a challenge.
Lee cleared his throat, a dry scraping sound. “Figgered I’d ask, since you’re a girl and all. You, uh…well, Ginny.”
“What about her?” She kept smoothing the dog’s head, scratching lightly behind his mobile ears. The pattern on his fur was pretty—almost marbled, on the sides. That bitch from the Dalmatians movie might’ve wanted this hide for a hat. A big tall one, like a Beefeater’s headbucket.
Were there any Beefeaters left? The Tower of London was probably full of zombies, too. The British were on their own, just like everyone else. And the Irish? Well, there was no Joyce to do a stream-of-consciousness chapter from a Gaelic zombie’s point-of-view. Literature was going to have to live without that particular innovation.
Lee spaced out his words like each one cost him a miser’s quarter. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific there, Mr Lee.” Was he actually asking her for relationship advice?
“I just don’t know. She ain’t gonna be feelin so well.”
That was putting it mildly. At least Phyl’s own mother and grandmother were safely in the ground before all this went down.
And at least Lee wasn’t coming on to her. It was a goddamn miracle. Maybe he was that unicorn, an actual nice guy, after all. “None of us are.” Phyllis wiggled her toes inside her boots. Wool socks, nice and cushy, and this was a lot more comfortable than heels. Still, she would have liked to slip into a nice pair, along with her comfortable blue maxidress.
It would mean all this shit was over, that the weather was better, and civilization was still holding. Which was a helluva Christmas list, when she thought about it.
“Well, I guess.” Lee coughed uneasily again. “But if there was somethin…you know, anything…I ain’t good with girl shi—I mean, stuff.”
Go figure, he was actually asking for advice. Well, whether or not he’d take it was another matter, but Phyl decided she’d give him a hint or two. “Well, I mean, all you gotta do is be there for her.”
He squinted at the whited-out highway like it personally offended him. The jury-rigged plow on the front of the truck was holding up pretty well, but if the snow got wetter and heavier it might not. “You wouldn’t happen to know no girl details about that, huh?”
“Girl details?” It was Phyl’s considered opinion that men spoke a different language, and he was no exception when you could get him to open his mouth.
Lee cogitated for a bit, then spat out the whole point of the conversation. “How you make a woman feel better?”
“Oh, Lord, I dunno.” Chalk one up for him, he was trying. “Give her a hug. Do things for her. Let her talk if she wants to, let her get angry if she wants that. This is all basic stuff.” Basic emotional literacy, which might as well have been Swahili to most dudes.
Phyl wished again that she was in the 4x4 with Ginny. This was awkward as fuck.
Lee’s nose wrinkled a little bit. “Just don’t want to do nothin wrong.”
“I’m pretty sure you could dump hot soup in her lap and she’d still like you.” That was the old joke, wasn’t it? Once you liked someone, you were inclined to put the best angle on anything they did.
“Rather not.” He grinned, a lopsided, easy expression, and maybe that was what Ginny saw in him. It was clear the guy was gone over her, and he was a real Mister Fixit. All the movies agreed you could do a lot worse in the zombie apocalypse.
“Well, good on you.” Phyl restrained the urge to roll her
eyes. How did men get past their toddler years without learning empathy, for God’s sake? “Just…look, the dog knows what to do, right?” Irritation flooded her shoulders, tightening along her neck.
“He does?” Lee didn’t look quite baffled, but certainly questioning.
“Yeah. They can tell when you’re sad. It’s science.” Just don’t put your nose up her skirt. She had to stuff that irreverent thought back down her throat in a hurry. Everything was better when you saw the funny side. “Just, you know, follow his lead. If he can tell she’s sad, and what to do, so can you.”
“I’ll do that, then.” Now Lee sounded utterly relieved. “Much obliged, Miz Phyllis.”
Phyl suppressed a chuckle. Hopefully he wouldn’t think she was laughing at him. “You’re welcome, Mr Quartine.” She decided to forgive him, too, mostly because he shut up about it and went back to staring morosely through the windshield, flicking the wipers every so often.
Ten minutes later they began the laborious process of pulling off the freeway to find gas, and Traveller’s head was in Phyllis’s lap. Cats were best, of course, and men were only borderline okay in exceptional cases.
Dogs? Well, she liked this one, and it was the strangest thing, all of a sudden she didn’t mind the hairs working into her wool trousers.
The signs said Ardonia; their little group didn’t go into the town proper but halted just at the periphery where a Marathon station, all its front glass shattered and a path of looting cut straight for the register counter, crouched under a lowering sky. The pipes hadn’t frozen all the way yet, thank God.
Just mostly. “Be flushing with bottled water soon,” Phyllis grumbled, rinsing her hands in a thin cold trickle from an arthritic faucet. “Lord, I miss plumbing.”
“Best invention of civilization,” Ginny agreed. Hollow-eyed and hunched, she held the flashlight in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. Phyl’s trusty pink warrior was propped next to the door, and Steph, closeted in a stall, cursed under her breath. “Steph? You all right?”
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