“Wall!” Bruce calls. “Come on out. It’s Bruce.” The old man waits, but doesn’t get a response. He takes this as a bad sign.
They climb the mountain made out of a bookcase and a sofa. Their feet land on more shell casings on the other side. He had a standoff, Bruce realizes. This should be a good sign. So, why do I feel so hopeless?
The door to the den is locked until Bruce kicks it wide open. The air trapped within rushes out carrying a foul stench of decay. Worst sign ever, Bruce thinks, growing more and more despondent. Flies fill the air buzzing loudly.
Except for a sofa bed, this room is identical to Bruce’s. He actually patterned his after this one so his ranch would feel like home. When they were kids they were never allowed in here. There is a lump on the fold out couch, covered with a sheet.
Bruce holds a hand up for Rash to stay put as he slowly walks to the shrouded couch bed. He draws the white sheet back and sees Nancy, Wall’s long time wife, Dan’s loving mother. She has a bullet wound in her head. Her arms are crossed over her chest.
Nancy had always felt Bruce was a bad influence. Not just on her son, but on her husband as well. She hated how snarky Wallace became when the two got together. Although she hated Bruce, he never had a bad thought about her. He actually found her feelings toward him to be a sign of character. She was a great mom to his nephew, and a great wife to Wallace. He could never hold her bad judgment against her.
“Bruce,” Rash says softly. “Over here.”
The soldier is in the corner of the room, standing by the man of the house’s desk. Sitting in a large high back chair, partially hidden by shadows, is old Wallace Williamson, Bruce’s younger brother and best friend in the world. He is slumped over his desk blotter, dead from an apparent suicide. In Wall’s hand is a large pistol. The flies dance crazily around the corpse.
“I don’t see a note.” Rash says. She whispers as if her voice might intrude on Bruce’s mourning.
“No. He didn’t think anyone was coming.” Bruce explains, fighting back his feelings. He doesn’t know if he should cry, or be angry that his brother didn’t trust him enough to wait for him. Why didn’t you just come out to the ranch?
In a small box Bruce sees checks that haven’t been cashed yet. Room numbers are written in the memo sections.
“They must have been renting out rooms for the festivities.” Bruce says, dropping the useless bank notes back into their box.
“According to this they were doing it for a while.” Rash shows him a leather bound ledger, a registry. Some folks were renting on a month–by-month basis. Bruce feels a wave of misdirected anger. He takes the book and hurls it against the side of the desk.
“He was pimping out my childhood!” He screams.
“Bruce.” Rash soothes in a calm voice.
“I’m out there sitting on a pile of cash, and he was out here struggling.” Bruce tells her. Rash realizes it is himself he is mad at. He leans against the wall and slides down, gazing up at his brother.
“He knows I would have held it over his head.” Bruce says. His voice is choked with sorrow.
“No you wouldn’t.” Rash says kneeling by him.
“Yes, I would. He would do the same if the situation was reversed. We’re too much alike, my baby brother and I.” Bruce looks into Rash’s brown eyes and gives her a sad smile as he continues. “We’ve been in a pissing match ever since he was a sperm. Well, those bastard creditors can’t touch him now.”
Bruce sniffs hard as if pulling back any trace of human emotion, or weakness. He stands up and looks at the desk again. He sees a set of plane tickets.
That’s right, Bruce thinks. They were coming to Waterloo around Heather’s due date to see Vincent be born. He had forgotten that. That was part of the reason he hadn’t come out for the bicentennial. Nancy could only take so much of Bruce.
He puts the tickets down and spots a waste paper basket. Flies are swarming all over the mesh wire receptacle. It’s full of gray feathers and what looks like chicken bones. Wall’s pigeons, Bruce deduces.
He removes some of the remains and the flies seem angry to be disturbed. They scatter frantically as Bruce puts together a plausible scenario.
“Nancy got bit,” He starts his synopsis. “Wallace had to put her down. He was left alone in his den with these flying rats. He chose to eat them. Unlike the people of Sinclair, he knew, no real man eats his wife.”
Rash considers that last bit a little crude, but she knows it’s Bruce’s way of dealing with emotions. She lets it slide.
“He must have thought the outlook of surviving after the pigeons were gone to be pretty bleak.” Bruce points to the pigeon coop in the far corner. There are still three of them lying dead inside, undoubtedly starved to death with no one around to feed them. “So, he ended it before his food ran out.”
“So,” Rash has to ask. “What now?”
“Could you go out to the garage and see what’s parked in there?” Bruce says to her. His tone of voice is quiet and tender. She can see his eyes are glazed with tears begging to be let go. “And, see if there is a can of gasoline. If there is, bring it to me. Thank you.”
She leaves the man alone with his brother. Bruce waits for her to climb over the obstacle in the hall before he starts to say his final goodbye to Wallace.
“Wall, you should have waited. I’m here.” Bruce speaks to his sibling. “Dumb ass. Typical Williamson, more balls than brains. You could have told me about your financial troubles, I would have helped you out, and wouldn’t have charged much interest either. I would have given you the family rate. But, like me you are too damned proud. I should have told you some things too.
“I’m about two years passed my own expiration date. The doctors told me I should take it easy, cut out the bad foods and the smoking. I quit smoking, but for different reasons. I guess, I didn’t want you to worry about me.
“I can’t believe I outlived you. I mean, I always did win in everything we ever competed in, but I was sure I’d lose this race.”
Bruce pulls out the plastic locket and opens it.
“That boy of yours did you proud. Not only did he and his lovely wife give you a grandchild, he went out and rescued himself a stray that they adopted, Vincent and Jack Williamson.
“I wonder if you were able to see what that son of yours did up in heaven. He told me he feels like he’s never measured up to us. I think that’s a load of crap. He…” Screaming interrupts Bruce’s eulogy.
“Rash!” Bruce calls out, bounding to his feet. He hurdles over the obstructive furniture in the hallway and dashes through the kitchen where he finds her.
Rash is lying on the floor trying to crawl away from a zombie. The ghoul is clinging to her leg. She pulls it along in her efforts to get free. A trail of blood follows them.
Bruce takes a cast iron skillet from the stovetop and tears the corpse from his friend. He holds the flailing thing to the linoleum and proceeds to bash its skull in with the heavy pan. Again and again he strikes until the deceased man’s face is a concaved ruin. Maggots pour from the fractures Bruce has made like a piñata from hell. Flies that had been scared off during the attack return to resume their cycle of feeding, mating, and dying.
Rash had continued her get away by crawling into the dining room. Bruce has to follow the trail of blood to find her. She is sitting in one of the dining chairs with her head on the table.
“Baby, are you OK?” Bruce asks, fearing what the answer is going to be.
“No,” She cries. “He bit me.”
Bruce’s heart falls into his stomach. Not her, he thinks. He goes to her side, and for once in his life is at a loss for words. He knows he has to say something. Anything.
“Where did he get you?” Is all he can manage.
“In the garage.”
“I mean, where on you?”
“Calf.” She says. “He was under the car and grabbed me. I tried to hold him back by his hair. The clump just tore away from his scalp. I had n
o time to react…”
“I’m so sorry.” Bruce brushes her hair away from her face. “I should have never asked you to go alone.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have…” His hand balls into a tight fist.
“Bruce,” She interrupts. “You did nothing wrong. It’s what I signed on for. Situation normal: All fucked up.”
“I hate the fact I can’t un-fuck this one for you, Kid.” Bruce tells her solemnly. Silence falls between the two as they look into each other’s eyes. They both know there’s only one option.
“What now?” Bruce asks, breaking the quiet.
“You know ‘what now’.” She replies.
“No, we can wait. You may have some… freak immunity to it.”
“There is no immunity for this.” She shakes her head.
“We can cut your leg off before it spreads.” He is hopeful.
“That’s actually been tried.” She tells him. Her tone indicates that it didn’t go well for the amputee. “One of the scientists got bit on the hand by one of his test subjects. He lopped his arm off at the elbow within minutes of contact. He still turned.”
“So, there’s no hope? This is it?” Bruce hates to accept the facts.
“I wish we had another choice.” Rash gives him a weak smile. She never did get her three wishes.
“I wish I could grant that one for you.”
“Me too.”
Bruce excuses himself to the den. He returns with a small pistol in his hand, retrieved from Wall’s cabinet. He chose the smallest gun, finding the larger calibers too obscene for the task he is obliged to perform.
“It’s so cute and little.” Rash says.
“It isn’t the size that matters.” Bruce tries to use humor; the sadness of his voice ruins the joke.
“If I had a nickel for every guy who has said that…” Rash attempts to cheer him up. The old man can’t make eye contact with her. “You have to be gentle, it’s my first time.”
Bruce can see what she is doing. The condemned is trying to comfort the executioner. She knows he uses humor to cover up serious emotion. It has always been his armor against life when things get too real. She is beating him at his own game. He decides to play along with her.
“Don’t worry baby.” He starts smoothly. “I’ve had a lot of practice. Just lie back, and let the seasoned hands of experience take care of you.”
“Hmm. Where do you want to put it?”
“Back in the gun cabinet.” Bruce collapses into the chair next to her. He doesn’t know if he can do this.
“This happens to every guy sooner or later.”
“Rash, this is serious. You’re actually one of the few people I’ve met that I didn’t want to shoot in the head. Why ruin that?”
“Because I can’t do it myself, and one of us has to.” Rash answers. They fall back into silence. Bruce is staring at the miniscule gun in his hand. It’s a two shot Derringer, typically used by woman for self-defense. The handle is curved and covers only half his palm.
“Do you have any kids, Bruce?” Rash asks.
“No.”
“Ever married?”
“Came close once. I had a fiancé when I used to live here.”
“What happened?”
“She died. About three months before our wedding day.” Bruce looks to the floor when Rash makes that sound girls always seem to make when you tell them such news, an intake of air, like a sigh in reverse that speaks volumes about how bad they feel for you.
“I’m so sorry.” She says.
“It was a long time ago.” Bruce forces himself back into his stoic demeanor. “She had some heart thing. Had it since birth, I guess. She didn’t even know.”
Another pause in conversation, Rash can see Bruce wants to say something and is just giving the man all the time he needs.
“You actually remind me of my Rosie.” He smiles when he says her name though his eyes are sad and distant. “She never took my shit either. She actually got me, and was able to joke right back. Not a lot of ladies are like that. At least, I’ve never met another one like her, until I met you.”
Rash takes Bruce’s hand in consolation.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been with woman since. I’ve been with scores of woman. I’ve sewn more oats than that Quaker on the box. There just hasn’t been any that I wanted to keep around.”
“You have to do me.” Rash says. She thinks now that he has purged some pent up emotion he will be able to get this over with.
“I just wish it wasn’t a bullet I was putting in you.” The old man raises an eyebrow.
“Hey, once I’m gone… Who’s to know?” Rash jokes. She digs into her shirt and pulls out her dog tags. With a tug she snaps the ball-chain. “Here, take these as a memento.”
“I usually take panties or nudie pics as mementos,” He coils the ball chain around his hand. “These’ll do.”
“Like I said before, ‘Once I’m gone’…”
They share a laugh together as Rash empties her pockets. She has been carrying Bruce’s diary for him in her cargo pocket. The hard cover notebook was folded down the middle lengthwise. She also puts a paper bag with holes in it onto the table. The bag is moving.
“The pigeon’s still alive?” Bruce marvels at the bird’s resilience.
“He’s my new boyfriend. Your pigeon has been keeping me company in my pants.”
“Lucky bird.” Bruce says as he inspects the wallet the soldier girl had lain on the table.
“There’s no money in it.” She says.
“I want a picture.” Bruce finds one of Rash and a tall black man, her late friend Zee in better days. He slips the picture into his own wallet next to a photo he always carries of Rosie.
“Ready?” They ask at the same time.
“I love you, Rashida.” Bruce says, kissing his friend’s cheek.
“I love you too, Bruce.” She closes her eyes.
Bruce raises the petite gun to her temple before he can lose his nerve. He hesitates for only a second, hoping she will stop him. Her face is completely at peace, there isn’t a trace of fear. It’s what she wants, he thinks. And, I always give a lady what she wants.
He only catches a glimpse of the exit wound as the bullet leaves through the other side of her head. Just a flash of red across the table. The gun falls from his hand and he is running away from her. He leaves the table as fast as he can and retreats into the living room. He falls onto the couch, putting his elbows on his knees so he can push his hands against his eyes as hard as he can. His jaw is clenched so tightly it feels like his teeth might shatter. He is trying to keep the tears back with all of his will power.
It’s not fair, he thinks rocking back and forth. She was a good kid. Even his internal voice cracks from the deep sorrow he feels. Tears want to fall for Rash, and for Wallace. They want to fall for the dredged up memories of Rosie. A couple of them even want to fall for Nancy. So much of his love has died in this house. He converts the awful emotion into one he’s always found useful and productive. He turns it into anger.
“It’s not fair!” He screams, grabbing the coffee table before him and standing fast. He flips the large wooden table violently. Rage courses through his veins, burning like lava. “I’ve got shit to do.”
Bruce’s mind rattles off a list of things he wants to do before he leaves this house forever. He enters the den and heads straight to his brother. He twirls the man in his swivel seat and lifts him out. Flies beat against his face, he can feel a thriving ecosystem brewing beneath his brother’s skin.
He carries Wallace over to the sofa bed and lays him down next to his wife. Bruce drapes a sheet over the deceased couple. Not even death shall part them, he thinks.
From Wall’s gun case Bruce takes some weapons and their corresponding munitions. He finds some .44 rounds for his pistol as well. He snags a bottle of whisky from the bar and takes everything out to the living room. Opening the front door is difficult with his a
rms so full, but he manages. The salvaged gear is dropped onto the lawn.
Back inside, Bruce lifts the remains of his short time friend. He carries her to one of the living room couches and covers her with an afghan. The flies are already being attracted to her and the knitted blanket won’t keep them away for long. He doesn’t need long.
Bruce is trying to be quick and doesn’t want to make too many trips. He grabs everything off of the table and takes it outside. The weapons they had brought with them are piled with the others as well.
He now completes the last task Rash had been sent to do. He finds a can of gas in the garage and heads to the den one last time. Accelerant is doused over his brother and his wife. He travels to where Rash now lies, leaving a trail of the flammable liquid behind him. The fumes are making his eyes water. He allows the tears to fall now that he has an excuse. It’s like the flood gates have been opened, his cheeks quickly became soaked with his tears.
After Rash is coated with gas he lights the couch. He can’t stand the thought of watching her burn. He heads to the bathroom. His feet leave wet footprints of gasoline behind that ignite in his wake.
Whisky bottle in hand Bruce looks at his massacred face in the mirror. He pours a swig of the brown liquor down his throat, and then another down the left side of his face. He stares at his reflection that mimes his painful twitching. The alcohol enters all the tiny wounds disinfecting them. Cold water then soothes the burn, most of the old blood is cleaned away.
Hundreds of minute pockmarks disfigure his skin. The whole left side is swollen and tender to the touch. He takes another long swallow of rotgut before re-entering the inferno.
Bruce’s childhood home burns around him as he makes for the exit. Black smoke fills the rooms, starting from the ceiling and slowly working down, pushing out the viable air. The acrid soot tries to choke the old man to no avail. It can’t hurt him.
Bruce leaves all the gear on the ground and walks towards one of the neighbor’s vehicles. He hops onto the hood of a minivan and watches the house burn around the bodies of those he loves.
Life Among The Dead Page 47