Sunfall (Season 2): Episodes 7-12

by Tim Meyer

  The officer guffawed obnoxiously, his doughnut-loving belly shaking like a dog leg. His shadow fell over Chuck, who rolled around the parking lot, holding his ankle with both hands, hollering in agony.

  “Well, where the fuck did you think you were going?”

  Chuck was in too much pain to reply. He grunted as the officer bent down. In one lightning quick strike, the officer smashed the butt of the pistol into the center of Chuck's face. His nose busted, streams of blood squirting from his nostrils like caterpillar guts from under a boot. Jarvis and Sam rushed forward to his rescue, but they were greeted with a pistol.

  “You just hold the fuck on, right there,” the officer said. “Guess we'll add resisting arrest and assaulting an officer to the charges.” He grabbed Chuck by the throat and hoisted him to his feet. He shoved him toward his friends, who caught him as he stumbled. “Get inside the station. Now.”

  Sam and Jarvis helped Chuck hobble forward. He winced, the pain too much to risk pressure on his foot.

  “And the next time one of you decides you want to get rowdy, I'll put a bullet in your fuckin' head.”

  With their backs to him, they couldn't see his face, but they could tell from the sound of his voice he spoke through a broad grin.

  Brenda knelt next to Lilah and offered her a wet cloth. She smiled and took the rag, arched herself back on the pullout they found in the pharmacy's break room, and placed it on her forehead. She closed her eyes. Brenda rubbed the girl's shoulder and asked her if there was anything else she could get her.

  “Is there anything to eat?”

  “What would you like?”

  Lilah's eyes shifted. “Is there... any meat? I know I shouldn't. A day ago I couldn't even think about meat. But I'm so hungry.”

  “I don't... I don't think so. There's whatever we grabbed from the store and I spotted a vending machine by the checkout counter.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment almost broke Brenda's heart. “I guess, crackers or potato chips, whatever they have.”

  “Is that enough to fill you up?”

  “Not sure. I haven't eaten any real food in a long while. I'm scared I might get sick again.”

  Brenda didn't know exactly what the girl meant by “real food”, but it frightened her. Surely she couldn't have survived only on human flesh over the past few months. She had to have eaten other things... right?

  “Thank you for taking care of me,” Lilah said, closing her eyes. “I know it must be hard, considering how my brother treated you back at the zoo. If I were you, I wouldn't have been so nice.”

  “Well, I'm usually a good judge of people. And you don't seem anything like your brother.”

  “He brainwashed me, you know. He was like... a disease. He infected me.”

  “You weren't the only one. He had a whole army of kids that bought into his psychotic escapades.”

  Lilah scrunched her lips together. “That's because they were as crazy as him. I look back on it and I can't believe how I went along with it.”

  “Maybe you feared what he'd do to you if you didn't comply.”

  “Maybe.” She opened her eyes and faced Brenda, a sick grin briefly overpowering her face. “Maybe I liked it.”

  Brenda's heart wriggled. This was the girl her son fell in love with? A girl who participated in cannibalism and used hard drugs? She's changing. She's not that way any more. You can tell. You could always tell about people. She wanted to believe it, but it took a special kind of crazy to get involved in that lunacy. They twisted her, HE twisted her. Malek. He brainwashed her and pumped her full of drugs and she had no idea what she was doing. Matty only wants to help her. Help her get better. Help her be the person he sees on the inside. Brenda thought she saw glimpses of that person too, but in that moment she doubted whether that person existed at all.

  “I don't believe that,” Brenda said, hiding her disbelief behind a smile. “I think deep down inside you're a wonderful person who cares about people. I think your brother did some very disturbing things that altered your perception. I think once the sickness is purged from your body, the real rehabilitation can begin.”

  “Rehabilitation?” Lilah asked. “You sound like a psychiatrist. And I would know. I've seen my fair share of them.”

  Brenda chuckled softly. “Before I became a full-time mother, I studied psychology at Rutgers. Night school. That's where I met my first husband. He was going to school to become a nurse, and working at Costbusters part-time. We shared a few classes, went on a few dates, and voilà. The next thing you know, they offered Sam a management job and he quit college to make a career in retail, and it all went downhill from there. Three kids, one divorce, one second marriage, and here we are.”

  Lilah managed a smile, but it hurt. Even the most insignificant muscle ached.

  “But, that's boring stuff you don't want to hear,” Brenda said.

  “No, I like it. Sounds... normal,” Lilah told her.

  “Your family wasn't normal?”

  “Sure. If you consider your brother murdering your parents normal, then yes.”

  “Oh...”

  “He claimed the sun did it. That's what he told Carp and I. But we knew better. Maybe if they had lived, we wouldn't be where we are today.”

  Brenda put her hand back on Lilah's bare shoulder. Her skin was clammy and cold. “I'm sorry about your parents.”

  “It's okay. They were assholes anyway.”

  “Huh.” Brenda had expected her to break down, mourn them in some way. Maybe the drugs she had taken still numbed her true feelings. The shit continued working its way through her, tearing her apart from the inside out. It was possible she wouldn't be herself for some time.

  Rehabilitated.

  Maybe she's permanently fucked, her inside voice spoke up. Maybe she's every bit a killer her brother was.

  She couldn't think like that. She had to see the good in people, the person on the inside. For Matty's sake, she hoped so. But once the girl was better and on the mend, if she doubted Lilah for a second, thought she was as twisted as Malek, she'd do whatever it'd take to protect her son.

  Anything?

  Anything.

  “Brenda?” Lilah asked, her voice sugary sweet. Her eyes slipped behind her fluttering lids. “Could you find me a blanket? I want to sleep.”

  Brenda put a hand on her forehead, feeling the heat escaping Lilah's pores as she made contact.

  “Jesus, you're burning up.”

  “No, Mark. I won't eat it,” Lilah whispered. Her arms and legs twitched. Lips quivered. “I'm not a killer, Mark. I'm... not... like... you.”

  Brenda kissed her forehead before calling her husband, telling him to scrounge up all the blankets and towels he could find.

  The officer locked them in the holding cell and pretended to swallow the key. “Just kiddin'. I'm such a prankster.”

  They weren't amused by the officer's antics.

  Sam read the small engraved tin tag on the big man's chest. “Officer Mickey?”

  “That's Sargent Mickey. Sargent James Mickey,” he told them sternly, the words rehearsed.

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Sargent Mickey. Come on. What are you doing here?” He figured the best way out was to reason with the man, find out what he wanted, give it to him, and be on their merry way, assuming the man wanted something. The bodies outside suggested he wanted to watch them burn. No, Sam thought. If he wanted us to burn, we'd be out there already. “I get it. We were jaywalking. Shame on us. We shouldn't have done it and I'm truly sorry, but this—” He pointed to the jail and everything around him with a wavy finger. “This is a little much, don't you think? Is there a fine we can pay and be done with it? There's a family member we need to get back to. She's very sick and needs the medicine—”

  “Oh, right,” Mickey said. He stretched his fingers in the air and wiggled them, making air quotes. Sam hated when people used air quotes. Especially when he was the one being quoted. “The medicine.”

  “It is medicine
!” Chuck shouted. His face was a mess. Between the pounding he took back at the rehab center and the one suffered outside, he looked like he had survived ten rounds with Tyson and lost badly. “It is medicine, you fucking bastard!”

  “You watch your goddamn mouth, you insufferable little shit!” Mickey shouted back. “I swear to God, you will not await trial and I will blow your goddamn brains out all over the fucking place. Then I'll take your skull and fuck the exit wound with my twelve-inch cock.”

  This shut everyone up.

  “Goddammit,” Mickey said, chuckling, the redness on his cheeks fading. “I almost lost my cool there. Whatta mistake that woulda been, right?” He bent over and slapped his knee. Laughter escaped his mouth, throaty and strange. “Whew, doggie!”

  Sam opened his mouth, but thought better of speaking. He succumbed to the notion it was best to wait this thing out, see where it would go. He couldn't keep them here forever.

  “So, I wish I could stay and shoot the shit with you gentlemen, but I have a helluva lot of paperwork to attend to. But don't worry your heads, you'll get your due process and if The Judge wants to slap you with a fine and send you on your way, then so be it. You'll be outta here without further deliberation, you have my word.” Mickey's demeanor shifted. “But if he doesn't—and I have to say, possession of narcotics, resisting arrest, and assault on an officer are serious in these parts—then you boys better buckle up and start making amends with your maker. Catch my meaning?”

  Mickey's wide grin sunk their hearts.

  -2-

  After Bob handed his wife a few blankets for Lilah, he strolled down the pain relief aisle to see what he could take for the drum beating in his temples over the past two hours. He scanned the shelves and picked up a bottle of ibuprofen. His mind wandered away from the pulsing needle in the epicenter of his brain, into the past where he'd been enjoying a wonderful life, pre-apocalypse. He had it all: a beautiful wife whose love and support were parallel to none, three nearly-flawless stepchildren who accepted him into their hearts, the ideal home, a job he enjoyed and patients he loved even more. His life had been complete. Perfect.

  And it all ended when the sun tried to wipe out humanity.

  Tried.

  Popping two pills in his mouth, he thought about how worse things could be. Would things go back the way they were? Would he ever enjoy a long afternoon of jogging and tennis? Would the Gaines family spend another Friday night on the couch watching movies and eating popcorn until their bellies sagged?

  Things could be worse, he reminded himself. He had Brenda by his side and the kids were still alive, and even though they weren't all here, they had no reason to suggest otherwise. He thought about what he would do if one of them died. They weren't his children, but he had been around long enough to watch them grow, take them to ballet, dance recitals, and science fairs. One might argue he had been more of a father to them than Sam, but he was too good of a man to suggest something like that. He never saw spending time with them a competition like their father. And unlike their mother, Bob had never badmouthed Sam in front of the kids, and seldom agreed with his wife when she did so privately. Although he didn't care for Sam as a person, he didn't hate him, and often sparked cordial conversations. One time, several years back, he suggested they become friends, grab a beer sometime and have a talk. The idea went over like a lead canoe. Sam had never been outright mean, but there had always been this indignation bubbling beneath the surface.

  Now that the world was over and the real struggle began, it no longer mattered if they existed on good terms. Reality set in like storm clouds on a sunny afternoon, and after nearly a decade of putting up with Sam's shit, suffering through his tantrums and Type A personality, it was time for Bob to stick his chest out and set him straight. No more dancing around sensitive subjects, no more being treated like a “welcome” mat. It was time to step up to the plate and swing for the fences.

  As he popped two more pills into his mouth and swallowed, he heard Brenda scream, “She's having another seizure!”

  He took off down the aisle with speed he never knew he had. His foot slipped while making the sharp turn around a spin-rack holding postcards, but he was able to keep himself from falling. He sprinted toward the sound of his frantic wife, rolling his sleeves past his elbows. When he turned down the last aisle, he spotted Brenda kneeling beside Lilah, holding the girl's hand with both of her own. Lilah convulsed rapidly, gagging on air. He scrambled toward them and slid on his knees like a flashy rock star.

  “What happened?” Bob asked.

  “I don't know,” Brenda said, her voice shaky and full of panic. “I was sitting next to her, holding her hand while she slept. Next thing I know she's having a seizure.”

  Bob looked in her mouth. He could see Lilah's tongue rolling back and forth between her teeth. Quickly, he unfastened his belt buckle.

  “What are you doing?” Brenda asked.

  He didn't have time to answer. With one rip the belt was off his waist. He wrapped his hands with each end and gently placed the leather between her lips.

  “I need you to hold her mouth steady,” he told his wife. “But be careful. Don't put your fingers where she can bite you.”

  Brenda carefully did as she was asked and opened the girl's mouth wide enough so Bob could slip the belt inside. Once the belt was in place, Brenda let go and backed away. He continued to hold the belt until her bout was over. The second she stopped, he removed the belt from her mouth and tapped her cheek, praying to God the child would wake.

  Foam erupted from her mouth, sputtered on her lips. Bob turned Lilah sideways. The frothy mixture of stomach bile and cracker fragments exploded forth, collecting in a small puddle on the floor. A few chunks splattered Brenda's pants, but she didn't seem to mind. She held Lilah's hair back, allowing her to concentrate on purging her stomach.

  Brenda shot her husband a grave look, and he stared back, dread forging wrinkles on his forehead. He had forgotten about his headache, but once he remembered, the pain returned with a vengeance.

  “I'm worried,” Brenda said. “They should be back by now.”

  “They better get here soon.” Whatever maleficent substance pumped through the girl's system was killing her, slowly and violently. He didn't voice his opinion, but Brenda saw his eyes shift, and she knew exactly what her husband was thinking.

  Lilah was going to die.

  Sargent Mickey was carrying a cardboard box overflowing with paper-packed files when Chuck awoke from his cat nap. Sam and Jarvis were sitting in opposite corners of the holding cell, watching the man closely as he made several trips back and forth. There was simply nothing else to look at.

  “How come no one fills the Keurig around here?” Sargent Mickey asked. “They always leave it for me. You know how much that pisses me off?”

  No one answered him.

  “Golly,” he muttered, disappearing back the way he came. A few minutes later he emerged with another box in his hand, equally full as the last one. “Be a cop, they said. It'll be a shitload of paperwork, they said.” He stopped and placed a finger on his lip. “Oh wait. They didn't say that!” He raised the box of folders above his head and smashed it against the floor like a cavemen bringing a rock down on the head of his injured quarry. Stewing, Mickey placed his hands on his hips, looked down at the mess he had created, and sucked wind like he had run a marathon. His face wrinkled like a throwaway dress shirt. He turned to his prisoners and stared at them as if their presence made him want to vomit.

  “Fuck are you bozos lookin' at?”

  Sam looked at his feet, feeling the cop's eyes fall on him. He couldn't believe the man was still carrying out his duties as if the world hadn't ended. Society was no longer civil. There was chaos all around them, the echelons of a stable social order had crumbled. There were no more cops. No more law. No judicial system in place. No one to prosecute the guilty. They were all guilty of one thing or another, a part of living now. No one survives this world without doi
ng something dishonest or unjust.

  “I know what you're thinking,” Sargent Mickey said. Sam didn't look, but he could tell the cop was staring directly at him. “You think I'm crazy. You think all of this is one big bowl of nutzo soup. Ain't that right?”

  Bingo, Sam thought.

  “Well allow me to drop a little knowledge on you. I have a family. I have people who care about me. People who need me in a time like this. But you know who needs me more? The United States of America. That's who. And I'll be damned if I let this great country go to waste.”

  “Sir, we appreciate everything you're doing,” Jarvis said. “But you need to let us go.”

  “Let you go?” Mickey asked. “Just let you go. So, what—you could break the law all over again? Do you know the statistics on repeat offenders in this country? It's sickening! We need harsher punishments for first offenders and I will take this all the way to the Supreme Court!”

  “Sir, there are people out there doing worse things than jaywalking,” Jarvis said. He banged the wall with his fist. “Like killing people!”

  “And they will be dealt with!” Mickey pressed his face against the bars. “I will bring them in and they will be judged like every other lawbreaker!”

  Jarvis looked to Sam with a how-the-fuck-do-I-get-through-to-him face. Sam grimaced. Jarvis backed off. He slammed himself against the wall, cupped his hands over his face, and slid down until he was seated on the cool concrete floor.