by Tim Meyer
“I'll go out there,” Sam whispered to Tina.
“What?” she said, keeping her voice equally low. “No. You're not.”
“Maybe I can settle things peacefully. I'll try to talk them out of whatever they came here to do and send them on their way. If they don't leave, I'll yell...” He spotted the apple core on the ground. “Apple.”
“Apple?”
“If you hear the word apple, I'm in trouble and need back up.”
“Fine.” She pulled a semiautomatic pistol from the back of her jeans. “Take this.”
Reluctantly, he took the gun and stuffed it into his jeans. Sam started to push himself to his feet when Tina grabbed the back of his head, turned him to face her, and smushed her lips against his. “Come back to me in one piece, goddammit.”
Sam crept down the hallway, moving in the shadows, making sure the six men in the parking lot didn't see him. He thought about getting back to Tina alive. And that meant not dying at the hands of these intruders. He thought about his encounters in the past. Malek (nut job), Officer Mickey (raging psychopath), and Soren (megalomaniac). With the apocalypse rearing its ugly head, the world had lost its sanity; why would these masked intruders be any different?
As he made his way to the end of the catwalk, he heard footfalls ascending the staircase ahead. Sam ducked underneath the small overhang above one of the rooms. He put his back against the door, flattening himself, appearing invisible until they were at the door. What am I doing? He had told Tina he'd try to settle things peacefully, but the more he considered it, the more it sounded like a death sentence. He had been through much over the last few weeks, escaped death on more than one occasion. Did he really want to put himself back in death's cold grasp? Or did he want to adopt the shoot first, ask questions later, Wild-Wild West mentality the world had become so smitten with over the past six months. Sam knew one thing: he had to survive, whatever the cost, by whatever means necessary. If that meant stooping to the level of others, changing the way he thought, becoming a savage in a savage land, then so be it. I have to do what I have to do. For my family, he thought, as two shadows appeared on the concrete walkway before him.
The shadows stopped.
“What? What is it?” one of the men asked.
“Yo, I heard something,” the second man answered.
“Shit, what?”
“I dunno. Something. Fuck. You didn't hear it?”
“Hell no. What do you think it is?”
“People?”
“Shit, son. Think they got guns and shit?”
“Shit, man, of course they do. Be careful. We don't want to—”
He abandoned his hiding spot and rushed forward, throwing his shoulder into the man closest to him. The impact knocked the intruder backward, into the railing. Sam pushed him again, forcing the man over the railing. He fell thirty feet and hit the parking lot head first, the sound of his head splitting on the concrete echoing through the still, silent night.
“Holy shit!” the man's partner said.
The man's hand moved speedily toward his inner pocket. Sam drew the semiautomatic pistol and fired two shots into the masked man's chest. Less than ten feet way, he saw two red holes blossom on his chest, flowers of blood blooming, and the man stumbled back, into the door marked 10. He slid down the door, leaving two crimson streaks in his wake.
Sam turned. Two men—American-Flag one of them—looked up from the parking lot, catching his eyes. Sam looked across the lot to the other side of the motel. Two men were on the walkway parallel to his position. They had been creeping toward Brenda and Bob's room when they heard the gun clatter. They were facing him now, their priorities changed. He glanced down and spotted the corpse of the man who had toppled over the railing, a crawling red pool beneath his lifeless body. His head had split open like an overripe melon; brains leaked out of the crimson crevice, spilled across the pavement, reminding Sam of raw hamburger meat. He glanced up at the two men next to the cruiser. The one who had removed the shotgun was now pointing it at him, steadying his aim. Sam ducked as the shotgun thundered. Too far away, the shots scattered, not a single fragment coming anywhere close to him. Without hesitation, without thinking himself through the next few moments, Sam booked it toward the stairs. He flew down the steps three at a time. He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “APPLE” as loud as he could. Then he took aim at the two men near the cruiser and fired three shots, all of which missed. The two men took cover behind the cruiser as the bullets sailed into the driver's side door.
He approached with caution, gun drawn, waiting for the two men to either give up or grant him a clean shot. As he started forward, he waited for the men to make their move, being mindful of the men on the second floor across the way.
“One of you go around!” American-Flag shouted to his men on the balcony. “Surround him!”
One of the men took off down the hall, hustling, moving like a gazelle on the African plain. Shit, he thought. They'll have me cornered. He'd have no choice but to surrender at that point, or fire until he ran out of bullets. He didn't know how many bullets he had left to spend, but knew his ammo was limited. He kept his eye on the cruiser, the gun pointed at the area over the hood where he last saw the shotgun-wielder.
“APPLE!” he shouted again.
As the running man turned the corner and approached Room 6, Sam saw the door crack open.
Shit. She was going to walk right into him. Unless...
The man spotted her too late. He tried to stop, draw his weapon, but Tina had the drop on him. She stuck the rifle in his face and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains misted into the air, a burgundy cloud of death vanishing as quickly as it appeared. The man's body collapsed on the floor while electrical synapses misfired and caused his arms and legs to twitch violently. Tina wasted no time before aiming at the other man on the second floor, who stood diagonally from her. He was armed with a compact handgun and fired at her. The bullets sparked against the motel's metal exterior. She ducked back into the room before getting a shot off. The man with the shotgun fired in her direction also, but again, the weapon had no range and the round was wasted. Sparks from the shotgun blasts sizzled in the air like a dud firework.
Sam sprinted to his right, hoping to get the drop on them while their attention continued on Tina. As he rounded the cruiser, he saw the man with the shotgun waiting for him, looking down the barrel, expecting him to appear. This time, he was in the shotgun's comfort zone. Scared, he fired quickly, no time wasted on aiming. The shotgun roared and Sam felt thunder in his knees. Pain entered his chest, but it wasn't terrible, and Sam couldn't immediately figure out if he had been shot or his chest was aching from his thumping heart. A red puncture opened on the shotgun-wielder's throat. His hands abandoned the weapon and immediately clasped over the hole. He choked and gurgled, blood shooting through his fingers in wild spurts. The next thing he knew they were both on the ground. Sam looked away from the writhing man, unable to watch his suffering and inevitable death, and up at the man on the second floor. Tina had dropped him to his knees by putting a bullet in each leg. She rounded the corner and called to the man, demanding he drop his weapon. The man yelled some obscenity back to her and she ended his rant with a swift tug on the trigger. She ran past the man as he crumbled to the ground, bleeding profusely from the new orifice in his head.
Sam looked down at his chest and saw a lot of red that hadn't been there earlier. On his back, he looked up at the stars as they twinkled against the black sky. The pain had come in waves at first, but once his adrenaline rush faded, the pain became constant and sharp, like someone had set fire to his heart and the arteries surrounding it. He ripped open his shirt and surveyed the damage. Two red holes in his chest drooled scarlet. He touched the wounds and immediately regretted it, the pain fiery and unforgiving. He glanced up from where his rash actions got him and his eyes settled on the black bandanna and an American flag T-shirt standing over him.
“You fucked up, bro,
” American-Flag said, holding the same shotgun that had already done enough damage to Sam's body. American-Flag aimed and placed his finger on the trigger. “Night-night, motherf—”
The thunderous clap caused Sam to flinch, and for a second he thought he was dead and ready for that sprint toward the celestial white light. Scarlet flecks pattered his face, although he barely felt their gentle touch. He uncovered his eyes and watched American-Flag drop weightlessly to the parking lot.
Tina appeared where the man had stood moments before. She knelt over him, surveying the bullet holes in his chest. After she deemed them minor and of no immediate threat, she shook her head at Sam, no sign of jest in her features.
“What happened to talking to them?” she asked, patting his injuries with a rag torn from Sam's shirt.
Despite the searing pain, he smiled.
-6-
It was the middle of the day when SUN-TRAC pulled into the Pittsburgh charging station. Aldo informed them the train needed a good six-hour charge to make it to Chicago. He left the car and under the safety of a massive awning, hooked the train to the dangling equipment. The pleasant woman's voice announced the train was “CHARGING” and how long it would take until the battery reached capacity. It was a long six hours and the train left the charging station promptly, as Aldo promised.
Mouth grew nervous about Chicago, and his concerns fell on deaf ears, or at least ears that gave zero shits. Chicago loomed over his thoughts like black clouds on the perfect beach day.
Twenty minutes after leaving Pittsburgh, Soren excused himself from the rest of the group and headed to the back of train. Four cars down, he opened the door and stood on the platform separating the two cars, welcoming the fresh air. The train was moving at high speeds through the fall night, but he greeted the roaring wind as it pelted his face and ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes and thought about the past, the present, and the future. Kyra being alive changed things. Revenge no longer mattered. What mattered was finding her and dispatching Elias Wheeler, his demon spawn, and whoever else stood in his way.
Since he left The Dish his heart had been missing an important piece, and where it lay empty, hatred and misanthropy found a home. The world bored him. People annoyed him. He saw them as ants scurrying about the earth, unaware there were more important matters taking place, unaware of their own insignificance. Unaware they were specks in the universe's map. How their course of history influenced the universe's ultimate scheme as much as one deciding where to dine.
Soren drew in a deep breath. He thought back to Thoreau's book, how much nature influenced his existential thinking, and realized how important the earth's survival truly was to him, and not the universe. He knew what weapons The Dish had, how much potential damage it could inflict on the earth and its atmosphere. Maybe it wasn't wise to destroy the world after all. Maybe he needed the world. Maybe the world needed him.
He suddenly imagined himself living in the mountains with Kyra, two little ones playing at their feet while they huddled in front of the fireplace in their log cabin. He smiled at the dream, and although it'd never come to fruition, it filled his insides with warmth despite the chilly night around him.
Hours later, he headed back inside the car, the door sliding behind him with a forceful hiss, sealing off the strong earthly currents. Thoughts of her occupied his mind as he walked from car to car, until he reached the first car, the place they found comfortable and suitable for the journey.
The first thing Soren noticed upon entering the cab was Aldo kneeling on the floor, looking over his shoulder at him, and the gash above his right eye. The cut ran a scarlet dribble down the side of his face. Mouth was facing him, pointing the gun Aldo used to kill Shondra at Aldo's cheek. Mouth gripped the weapon, his knuckles white with anger. Soren took note of the madness in his eyes, and chose to tread carefully. Aldo's life held little value in Soren's eyes, but Aldo knew the individual in Chicago, the one with The Dish's codes.
Plan B.
“Stop the train,” Mouth said to no one specific. “Stop the train and let me, David, and the girls go.”
“Mouth, what are you doing?” Becky asked. “This isn't helping anything!”
“I told your father I'd protect you, little lady, and that's precisely what I'm doing.”
Soren watched Kyle skulk ahead, but Mouth must have heard him coming or sensed it. He whipped around, turning the gun on the twenty-something year old. The kid froze instantly, waiting a moment before backing away. Mouth returned his aim to Aldo's bleeding head.
“I don't want to shoot you, even though you fucking deserve it,” Mouth said, stepping forward. “But I will if I have to.”
“We can't stop. It's too dangerous.”
“Boy, it'll be more dangerous if you don't.”
Soren stepped forward. “Aldo, listen to him.”
“But, stopping the train at this speed could—”
“Just do it,” Soren snapped. “Do what he says and let them off.”
Aldo rose to his feet, wincing in pain as if every muscle in his body ached. He started toward the cabin, but paused after one step. He parted his lips to plead with him, but Mouth waved him on with the pistol. Aldo continued forward, reaching the cabin in the matter of seconds.
“You follow him,” Mouth said to Soren. “I trust you about as far as I could chuck your lanky ass.”
Soren followed Aldo into the cabin. Mouth kept the gun on them, steady and ready.
“This is a bad idea,” Aldo said, looking back at Mouth. “Very bad indeed.”
“Just fucking do it, short stuff.”
Aldo pulled the lever and the train rumbled like they were caught in another earthquake. The car shook and shifted, tossing its passengers left and right. Mouth lost his balance and fell to the ground. He watched Dana slide across the floor. Becky held the seat to prevent herself from slipping. Susan had fallen and rolled down the main aisle. Kyle was in the back of the car, gripping the seat closest to the back door.
Aldo held the wall as the car rocked back and forth turbulently. “Everyone!” he said. “Hold on to something!”
What sounded like the world ripping in half filled their ears. Over the deafening noise, Aldo shouted, “We're going to crash!” but no one heard a single word as the car flipped, tossing the passengers in the air like paper shreds at a ticker tape parade.
Tina extracted the second fragment with a pair of tweezers Bob had retrieved from a first aid kit he found in the parking lot. Sam winced and cried out. Jarvis gave him the open bottle of Jack Daniel's he had stripped off an intruder's corpse. Sam took a swig, hoping to numb the pain. The golden liquor did nothing but burn his throat and the pain in his chest raged like the sun.
“Not bad. Thought you'd cry more,” Tina said.
“Me too,” Sam grumbled. He took two more gulps of whiskey and handed the bottle back to Jarvis.
Tina dropped the metal shards on a bloody paper towel.
“You okay, Dad?” Matty asked.
“I'll be fine, kiddo.”
“You were awesome out there! Like James Bond!”
“I was doing what I had to. To protect us.” He looked at his son, hating the joy in his eyes after witnessing his father's violent actions. “You understand that, right?”
As the smile faded, Matty said, “Yes.”
“I didn't enjoy it.”
“I understand.”
Matty turned and sat on the other bed, the one Lilah rested on, propped up on one elbow, watching the family drama unfold. She looked away when the bloody shotgun shrapnel made an appearance. He asked her if she was okay, and she replied yes, quickly explaining how she couldn't stand the sight of blood, blaming the withdrawals for her weak stomach.
Tina stood. “Take it easy over the next day or two,” she told Sam.
Throwing his feet on the bed and leaning back against the bed frame, Sam let out an overdue sigh. “We'll have to figure what to do next. Right, Bob?” he asked.
Bob turned t
o him as if he weren't expecting to hear his name.
“You have any plans for us?” Sam asked.
Bob looked to his wife. “Actually, Sam, we were hoping you could tell us.”
“Me?”
“We had a discussion. You're different now.”
“I am?”
“Yes. You understand.”
“Understand what?”
Bob squinted.
Sam knew what they wanted hear. “I know I fucked up. I know that now. I thought the store was the best place to survive. It had everything we needed and it felt like home. I also had control. But I should have listened. I was stubborn and controlling and I'm sorry. It took that explosion for me to realize that.”
Tina put a hand on Sam's lap. “It's okay.” She noticed Matty staring at her. She knew he couldn't tell his father the truth, who really destroyed Costbusters.
Tina winked at Matty; I was right.
EPILOGUE
Morning broke through the clouds and his skin tingled, the serum's effects wearing thin. The ground was cold; he peeled his face from the damp earth, pushing himself to his knees. The world was out of focus, and while he gathered his senses, he reached inside his jacket for another vial of his magic juice. His pocket was empty and Soren's heart sunk. Over his shoulder, rays of sunlight streaked through broken clouds, and he was beginning to feel the orange globe's murderous touch.
Minutes passed; the world became clearer, although grainy. Disoriented, Soren glanced around and found himself in a wooded area, sparse with trees and other plant-life. Flames and embers danced around him, sporadically placed throughout, small sparks sailing through the air like drunken fireflies. In the near distance he could make out the tracks and ruined cars. The closest car was twenty yards away. Black smoke rose from the cabin, unfurling like the angry fingers of ghosts. The atmosphere reeked of burnt oil and death. He couldn't remember the details; the last thing he remembered was hitting his head on the control board. He reached for his face, finding it caked with dry blood.