Pocalypse Road

by Lilith Saintcrow

  A ringing silence fell, the quiet after a stinging slap. Mark Kasprak stiffened, visible in Juju’s peripheral vision, and he wondered which way the boy was gonna jump. It was all Juju could do not to clear leather and solve the fucking problem of this shitheel once and for all.

  Brandon measured Juju one last time. He raised his right hand, stiffly, and pointed—a jabbing, accusatory little motion. “Imma get you, boy.”

  “When you think you man enough, cracker.” It wasn’t the wisest thing in the world, and if the world hadn’t gone to shit in a shuttle Juju probably wouldn’t have said it.

  But here they were. Home was behind them, and without backup, the Kentucky college boy maybe wasn’t as powerful as he thought he was. Maybe Lee would come down on the bastard so Juju didn’t have to, and if he didn’t, probably all Juju had to do was mention Miz Ginny.

  It wasn’t right to play dirty, and it wasn’t fair, but when you were dealing with the massive bloat of a white-man ego, you did your belt and your suspenders, too. Lee was good folk, but you could never be sure a paleface would do what he ought.

  Even if you called him your brother.

  Brandon pitched forward, like he was going to come on into the room, getting ready for a tango. Then he glanced at Steph, and Kasprak. Whatever he saw there didn’t make him brave enough, Juju guessed, because the idiot turned on his heel and strode away down the darkened hall, smacking the wall once or twice for good measure. Brandon’s blundering passage was that of every balked bigot since time began, and Juju let out a long breath, his hands still itching. It wouldn’t take much to step out into the hall and draw a bead.

  Not much at all.

  “You shouldn’t have said that,” Kasprak said, heavily, finally straightening. The brick-color was draining from his cheeks leaving them cottage-cheesy. He rubbed his hands over his hair, ruffling it up like a cartoon halo. “Oh, man.”

  “Shut up, Mark.” Steph Meacham rounded on him, har arms swinging angrily. “How could you just stand there with him talkin to Mr Thurgood like that?”

  The kid blinked owlishly, his jaw dropping a little. He yanked on the cuffs of his expensive new coat, pulling the sleeves down. “What?”

  “Never mind. Mr Thurgood?” Anxious, wide-eyed, the girl took two nervous steps and ended up next to Juju. “You okay? He’s awful mean. Imma tell Miz Mills.”

  Go runnin to the teacher. Juju shook his head. You couldn’t tell which way a damnyankee librul would jump when the chips hit the fan, either. “Ain’t gonna do a bit of good. Just be careful.” Might as well give all the warnings, now. “Don’t you be alone around that man, Steph. You hear me?”

  “Hey.” Mark, a faint objection. “That’s…what d’ya mean, don’t be alone around him?”

  “You either, Kasprak.” Juju headed for the door, shaking his head. And I sure as hell won’t be alone with that bastard unless I have a full clip and one in the chamber. “Let’s finish the haulin.”

  Safe Second

  Dinner was a sober affair. Even Kasprak didn’t laugh, too busy hunching his broadening shoulders and casting worried looks at Steph. The girl was quiet, her blue eyes moon-huge, and Juju had retreated into familiar post-combat taciturnity. Even Brandon was morose, though he made a show of collecting the paper bowls for the garbage bag after everyone was done.

  At least the college boy had helped Ginny feel a little better, even if Lee could have cheerfully chopped both his big manicured hands right off. Taking off a woman’s gloves—did he learn that at school, or was it one of the secret things rich boys were told? It seemed indecent, but maybe that was only because Lee wouldn’t have thought of it and besides, needed both his own paws for driving.

  If only he’d thought of it, though. Lee had been too damn busy sitting there in a cold sweat thinking of what could have happened to her instead of figuring out she’d need a bit of…comfort. Something. Anything other than to sit there ignored until the rich boy took it into his head to touch between her pretty fingers and tell stories about his mama.

  The hotel was cavernous and silent, one half of the glass front door shattered and the check-in desk a bullet-riddled ruin. There wasn’t anyone in the place; near as Lee could figure, someone looking for loot had come through. Why they chose a hotel rather than stores or gas stations in whatever place the rich of this town settled was beyond him, but it took all types to make the world go round, as his sainted Nonna said more than once with varying degrees of disapproval each time.

  Nobody asked why he didn’t have them staying in houses instead of looking for hotels or grocery stores. Juju would know, of course, but the rest of them probably didn’t think about it, just followed his lead. Maybe Ginny would figure out it was to cut down on potential contact with the critters, she was smart enough.

  It wasn’t anything he wanted her thinking on. People tended to crawl home to die; there was less chance of them hanging out in a hotel. The last thing Lee’s squad needed was the surprise appearance of a shambling almost-corpse, chewing and making that awful grinding noise.

  Ginny didn’t eat much. Her pretty face looked downright haunted, and she didn’t make any sort of trouble over staying in the truck while Lee and Juju swept the hotel. Nor did she try to draw Steph out, or comfort Mark. She barely patted Traveller’s head, but the dog was just fine with that as long as he could lean against her shin and beg for a treat or two. He ate more of her preservative-laced cold cuts and cheese than she did, and that was worrisome.

  No power was worrisome too, but they had the Colemans, and there was no shortage of fuel. Yet. After a while, he was going to have to start thinking about fire just like a caveman.

  Food, fire, protection. At least they weren’t fighting off the critters in the dark with sticks.

  Yet.

  Lee decided the third floor was best for all of them, and after dinner everyone set to carrying up the rest of the baggage and supplies for the night while Juju muttered about barricading the shattered front door or the stairwell exits. The kids skipped the usual malarkey, and Brandon did his fair share for once. Which was great, it was wonderful, it was fantastic—but Lee was not happy. At all.

  He finally got a chance, though, when Ginny took Traveller out near the hotel pool. The chain link fence surrounding it wouldn’t be a problem to a bored or halfway determined hound, but with the snow coming down and Ginny standing in the doorway, he didn’t think it too likely Trav would wriggle out even if his nose did catch a hint of something fine. The day’s excitement had tired everyone out, even the dog.

  Lee stood just behind Ginny, looking down at the top of her head wrapped in a pair of braids she’d done before dinner, hands moving quick and deft. A pretty crown for a pretty girl. Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned against the side of the door like it was too much trouble to stay upright.

  Shit. He glanced at the pool. Nobody was going to swim in there for a while. Already the chlorinated water was frozen, since the pump and heaters were out of commission. Traveller watered the side of a stack of white plastic deckchairs. Might as well have been a tree, for all the dog cared.

  Lee’s hands itched. Finally, he lifted the left one, and closed it around Ginny’s shoulder. Gently. There was a trembling going through her, humming high voltage.

  Was she crying? Oh, hell. Lee made sure his rifle was well out of the way and tugged on her shoulder. She turned, willingly, and he didn’t have to do anything. She buried her face in his chest, and she wasn’t crying, really. Just…shaking. Her faint sniffle could be from the weather, the temperature was dropping right quick now that darkness had crawled out of its hole.

  “It’s all right,” he said, keeping an eye on the dog’s tail, wagging businesslike as Traveller stuck his nose under a blue plastic cover shrouding another stack of deckchairs. “It’s all right, Ginny.”

  “It’s not.” Plaintive, muffled against his coat and his rifle strap. “It’s not. Someone could die, Lee.”

  So she’d finally realized as much
. He’d been waiting for that particular point to hit home, really home, for her. Now that it had, he wasn’t sure he liked the result. The unsteady looking-for-a-spark feeling inside his chest and skull meant he wasn’t quite calm, and she needed him steady.

  They all did, but Ginny especially. Or maybe he just wanted to be that way, for her. What would be the most soothing? He settled for bare fact. “I ain’t gonna let that happen.” Well, unless it’s Mr French. Motherfucker can vanish, that would suit me fine. That would be the wrong thing to say, though.

  Ginny shook her head, slightly. “You might not be able to do anything about it.” Her trembling paused, resumed, a little less intense. Her chin was against his rifle strap, and he hoped the tough webbing wasn’t rasping at her skin.

  Been doing all right so far. That wasn’t the point, though. “Well, guess I’ll just do what I can.” He hunched a little, and rested his chin lightly on her braided hair. “You did a good job today, Ginny. Now listen. You listenin to me?”

  “Y-yes.” One pale, sighing little word.

  “Right this second, there ain’t nothin to worry about. We’re safe, we have food, and even the dog is fine.” He paused, glancing at the whirling snow, the dog’s businesslike tail-wagging. “And look at that, another safe second.” Another pause. “Another one there, too.”

  “Is that what you do?” Thankfully, the words didn’t break or tremble. She was calming down. Maybe he was doing all right. “Just…second by second?”

  “It gets easier with practice.” His stubble scraped at the edge of her braid. Soft, silken hair, even unwashed. If she relaxed a little, he could. Or at least, the fumes in his head could settle a bit. He didn’t much like the idea that he could explode if even a hint of heat hit. “Getting shot at shakes you up, takes a while to come down.”

  “I feel like a coward,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

  Do you now? “Darlin, that is the last thing I’d call you.”

  That seemed to be the right thing to say, because she relaxed all at once, leaning into him. “What’s the first?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Lee shifted a little, leaning back on his heels. Not because he wanted to pull away, but because a few parts of him were very aware of both an adrenaline hangover and a soft, slim, very pretty woman right up close. She still smelled clean, though none of them were particularly fresh. Just the slightly spicy odor of a healthy female, one he wanted to curl up around and simply breathe in for a good long while. “Right now, look. Another safe second.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “And another one.” A little more confident. “That helps.”

  “Soon enough you’ll be able to get whole minutes going.” You never get the hang of weeks, though. Leastways, I never have. Maybe she would, if he could keep steady enough.

  Her sigh took them both by surprise, a deep, hitching exhale. “Sounds like a useful skill.”

  He expected a betraying little movement to tell him she was done being held, but none came. She shifted to rest her cheek against his rifle strap, and her breathing evened out. The wonderful simmering scent of her hair brushed his face, loosening every string inside him. Traveller shook slush out of his coat and trotted for them, yip-yowling his commentary on the damp, his dinner, and everything else in the blessed world.

  Lee couldn’t help himself. He pressed his lips onto the top of her head, gently. Maybe she’d think it was still his chin. His arms tightened, and he hugged her the way he’d wanted to for long, long time. Ginny’s arms slipped around him, and, wonder of wonders, she hugged back.

  They stood like that, in the door of a darkened hotel, until Traveller shouldered past them to get inside and shook, ridding himself of slushwater. That meant Lee had to close things up, and Ginny busied herself drying Traveller off with harsh white hotel towels, scrubbing at the hound’s undercarriage and murmuring who’s a good boy. Her cheeks were flushed, and when she glanced up at Lee, she smiled, tentatively.

  His face felt strange, because he was grinning like a fool, too.

  The Decent Thing

  “It ain’t right.” Steph’s chin set, her sharp-pretty face pale as milk as she stood in the doorway. “He threatened Mr Thurgood, and Mark just stood there.” It was hard to tell which disturbed her the most. She clasped her hands; her knuckles turned white and you could almost hear the joints creak. Faint pink nail polish, carefully applied but now chipped and cracked, gleamed a little.

  Current events were hard on the manicure.

  “Threatened him?” Ginny pushed a stray curl away, tucking it behind her ear as she patted at her cheeks with a towel. A tealight candle on the bathroom counter gave enough golden glow to see by, falling into the mirror and multiplying. It smelled of bleach and dampness in here, the first from the stacked towels and the second from the hotel standing empty. It was amazing, how soon rooms became stale without someone breathing in them.

  At least this place had been nice before the disaster. The maroon carpet was thick enough to lose a dime or two in, the beds were likely to be comfortable, and if she couldn’t sleep alone at least she’d be warm. She’d almost gotten used to Steph’s slightly whistling breath at night.

  “Said he was gonna get him.” Steph’s expression hovered between worry and relief, switching back and forth as thoughts raced through. It was amazing, Ginny thought, how open someone’s face could be, especially a young someone. “And he wasn’t talkin about no Christmas present.”

  At least the pipes weren’t frozen here; Ginny set the towel aside, twisted the faucet off, and wrung out the washcloth halfway, again. Traveller’s ears perked; two sharp raps on the room door made Steph jump.

  It was only Lee, his hair ruffled and his hands washed, on his usual nightly visit to “get them settled.” Ginny drew him into the room, the sopping washcloth in her hand and her headache intensifying. It was probably normal to stress-cry after a day that included being shot at, but at least Steph hadn’t noticed one of the adult losing their cool; a cold cloth to the face worked wonders when a girl needed to camouflage.

  He didn’t need a neon sign to tell something had happened. Lee took a long look at her, hazel eyes back to dark but piercing, and his hair was beginning to fall stubbornly over his forehead. “Ginny? Somethin wrong?”

  “You mean, something else?” She tried for a smile, but her face simply wouldn’t cooperate. The urge to lean forward, rest her forehead on his shoulder, and close her eyes once more was almost overwhelming. A girl could get used to that faint, slightly lemony smell on a man. “Tell him,” she said, and retreated to the bathroom again, smoothing icy-wet terrycloth over her face. It felt good, and she listened as Steph haltingly described Brandon’s latest bad behavior.

  Christ. Getting shot at in the morning and having to deal with this bullshit at night. Why did things have to be so goddamn difficult?

  Then she felt like an idiot for even thinking such a thing in the middle of a disaster zone full of the walking dead. Were there places the…the sickness hadn’t reached? Enclaves that hadn’t been infected?

  Her head ached too badly to pursue that line of thought. They didn’t say coast to coast on public television for a few scattered sniffles. Was the entire continent…but she didn’t want to think about that, either. She had to leave the bathroom’s safety, Steph was finishing her story.

  Lee listened quietly, his arms folded and his head cocked, and his eyes had lightened once more. “Pointed at him,” he repeated, slowly and distinctly. Almost like a lawyer, repeating what he already knew, giving his interlocutor time to think of more. Seen in profile, with his hair mussed and his cheeks scuffy, he was no longer the slightly oddball library patron. Instead…well, he was something else. “And said Imma get you.”

  “Yeah.” Steph hugged herself. She’d taken her pins and rubber bands out; her changecolor hair was now full of soft waves. If I’d’a known it was so simple I’d’a worn it like this all the time, she’d said when Ginny showed her how to pin the braids across
the back of her head. “Mr Thurgood said it wouldn’t do any good to tell, but…I’m worried, Mr Quartine. Real worried.” Did the girl know, could she guess, how obvious it was she was braced for an adult not to believe her?

  God, Ginny remembered that feeling from her own teenage years. She also remembered Brandon’s warm fingers on hers, working out tension, soothing. How could he do that, then turn around and threaten Juju afterward?

  Bigots could be nice, they could even be kind. It didn’t change the ugly parts. Brandon didn’t pull his weight, that much was obvious too. To be absolutely, strictly honest, Ginny didn’t like him. He was a blowhard and yes, a racist. And just what had he been doing, testing doorknobs in the middle of the night while the zombies roamed outside? It had to have been him rattling at the door.

  There was being fair to someone you didn’t particularly get along with, and then there was this. Juju would call it a bad apple, and Ginny agreed. Maybe that morning she would have tried to gloss over this, make it all right, convene a meeting to talk it out. Bend over backward to be fair.

  Not now. “You did the right thing,” Ginny heard herself say. “This is something we needed to know about.”

  Perhaps she sounded strange, because they both looked at her. Steph’s hands halted their scrubbing at each other, and her shoulders relaxed a little, then a little more. Her bare toes, painted pink like her fingernails, looked cold.

  Lee, on the other hand, hunched slightly, new weight resting on him. “Ayuh,” he said, finally. “It is.”

  “Mr Thurgood told both of us not to be alone around him,” Steph added. A good little student, reciting for extra credit.

  “Did he now.” Lee nodded thoughtfully. Gold gleamed along his stubble. His jacket, unzipped, showed a blue sweater, the kind with leather patches at the elbows and two buttons at the neck. He was probably wearing that old, worn leather vest underneath it. No rifle, but a handgun, right on his belt. “That’s good advice. Go on and get ready for bed, Steph. Ginny, you mind steppin outside with me?”