by Weston Ochse
"I—" He looked from one woman to the other trying to figure out what was going on. After half a minute he smiled weakly and grabbed her hand. "Come on then. Let me show you this."
She hesitated a moment, and in her best Arnold Swartzenegger quipped, "I’ll be back," then allowed herself to be dragged down the hall.
Sissy followed the pair with her eyes. She was happy for Gert, but a little jealous too. She'd never feel what Gert was feeling, neither emotionally nor physically. Sissy had lost her chance when Bennie had been killed. Not that she'd have done anything, but she'd noticed the way he'd looked at her. At first it had made her nervous, but then she'd found herself wondering.
"You still have time, you know."
"What?"
"I said you still have time." Grandma Riggs reached out and placed her hand on Sissy's lap, gave her knee a squeeze and let go.
Sissy sighed. "It doesn’t matter."
"Oh. It matters all right." The old woman cackled. "The stories I could tell you. The stories I shouldn't tell you. My god in heaven, the things I've done in the name of love would make a Bishop blush."
"But they're just stories."
"So that's it."
Sissy remained silent.
"You're afraid you'll never become a woman."
"Something like that." The words came no louder than a breath.
"I told you that you still have time, and you do. So stop worrying about things you have no control over."
Sissy tried to fathom what the women meant by you still have time. Surely she wasn't supposed to take that to mean that she could learn the secrets of womanhood by one of the men left in the apartment. The thought made her queasy. She shuddered. How horrible that would be, to—she refused to finish the thought. Instead she picked up the magazine that Gert had been thumbing through and concentrated on what the Prettiest Women in Hollywood were wearing.
CHAPTER 18
He sounded like Darth Vader.
Bad-assed, motherfucking Darth Vader, ruler of the universe and master of The Force.
Biggest, blackest, baddest motherfucker on the planet, breathing like a telephone stalker.
Buckley had always thought the breathing sounded evil and cool. As kids he and his honchos had gone around the neighborhood harassing everyone too slow to get away, copying the awful sound. Darth Vader Breathing. "Luke. I'm your father." More breathing.
So fucking cool. Darth Vader was the hero of his neighborhood. The big, black, galactic pimp telling what for to the white kid with magic, crushing the throats of those who would bring him down, and destroying planets filled with uppity white governments, and sickly-looking white sisters with cinnamon bun hairdos. The folks in his neighborhood especially liked Empire Strikes Back, when Indiana Jones turned stone-cold, carbon pizza slice.
Buckley wished he was there now; somewhere on one of those three-mooned planets sucking down an alien drink through a crazy straw in a funky bar with three-titted bitches instead of here. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but the end of the world in search of a way to escape to a place they've never even heard of.
Buckley breathed.
He sounded like Darth Vader covered in cellophane wrapped in duct tape.
He sounded scared.
He sounded desperate.
He sounded anything but cool.
Now resting against the side of the hotel, he and Samuel had been lowered by sheets, dropping the last few feet, catching themselves before they broke something. Looking out at the devastation on the streets before them, it was a wonder they'd survived. Nowhere was there sign of humanity. Cars had been ripped inside out. Homes had been gnawed upon, the insides scattered about the road until what was left was indecipherable, multi-colored, post-consumer confetti for the dead. The higher floors winked at him from broken windows. Broad swathes of brick and wood had been chewed away.
Cocking his head, the strangest thing of all was that the only thing he was able to hear was his own Darth Vader breathing. The honk and growl of traffic had disappeared. The buzz of the electric grid was gone. Even the birds had fled. Only the occasional thump of a building falling in upon itself broke the silence.
Still he searched, his eyes scanning, his ears desperate to pick up a sound. Where were the herds of maggies everyone talked about? Where were the caddies they'd heard earlier? He ducked and examined the sky. Where were the flyers? The more he looked, the less likely these things seemed to be. He saw nothing other than debris. The whole thing seemed so anticlimactic. The coast couldn't be more clear. Not only wasn't there any maggie sign, but there wasn't any sign of anything.
Signaling Samuel, Buckley dashed across the street only stopping when he crashed his back against the brick wall of the Ben Franklin Store. Hugging it with his shoulder, he peered through the broken front into the dim interior. He knew that some of the things he needed were within the shadowy depths of the department store, and some were half a block away in the dark grotto that had once been the Piggly Wiggly.
Buckley waved his hand. Samuel sprinted diagonally towards the grocery store. Hunched over because of the bindings, he looked like a shrink-wrapped Quasimodo.
They'd created an armor of sorts. Nothing that would protect them from arrows or lances or bullets, but something good enough to protect them from maggies, which was what counted. They'd stripped off their clothes, rolled in salt, then been wrapped from tip of the head to the end of the tow in cellophane. Nine or ten layers of the see-through material used for keeping leftovers fresh felt like hard leather to the touch, and played hell on mobility. Around all of this were several strips of duct tape wrapped in horizontal circles to reinforce the cellophane. Although the material stretched a little, neither the elbows nor the knees had full range of motion.
To protect his eyes and still allow him to see they'd cut holes in the layered material, placed aviator shades atop them, then affixed the glasses in place with a single layer of cellophane. Breathing through a tea strainer half filled with salt, the final touches were work gloves over his hands and boots over his feet.
Buckley didn't feel like Darth Vader anymore. He felt like a fool. He kept reminding himself that in these last days of the world fashion no longer mattered. And every time he did, he shook his head at the sadness of it all. He'd always wanted a tux. He bet he'd have looked great in one. Now he'd never get the chance.
He stepped into the shadows of the Ben Franklin store. Three banks of cash registers stood on the left. On the right were carts resting in ranks. The store went back about a hundred feet. He couldn't make out the back wall. Racks of clothes clogged most of the right side of the store. Some had fallen, some remained upright. Between the clothes on the right and the rows of seven-foot shelves arranged on the left was a scene of pure carnage. The bodies of one-time shoppers lay among the destruction of gift baskets, new shoes, school supplies and cheap cologne. Arms and legs intertwined with upended racks and shelves that seemed to have been crushed by a great weight.
Caddies! As surely as earthworms had never grown longer than a foot, the interior of the store had been devastated by a Cadillac-sized maggie eager to feed. This was his first maggie-sign, and to be honest, he felt better seeing it. He was beginning to think he'd made the whole thing up.
Buckley lowered his shotgun and let it lead him inside. Not that the weapon could do anything to the monsters, but he felt better having it. He stepped gingerly, careful not to fall. Over broken glass, a set of Christmas lights wrapped around a rotting ankle and a big yellow truck like the one he'd played with in the front yard when he was a kid and before they invented drive-by shootings. He had to twist and step wide to avoid a pile of gumballs stuck in a pile of stomach sludge. After about a dozen feet, he spied the toy section.
Buckley began to head that way when he came to the first complete body. He glanced down and shuddered. The chest and face had exploded outwards, flaps of skin and shards of bone jutted upwards, as if something had been inside and had insisted on coming out. The e
yes were gone leaving dark wet holes.
But no maggies.
No maggies anywhere.
Where were they? He couldn't help but feel that they might be anywhere. Under a toy? Behind a shelf? Perhaps they'd all gone to the ceiling? He jerked his head around and ducked as he examined the ceiling for any sign that maggies lurked above the thin waffled tile. He had to keep his cool. Now wasn't the time to lose it. He breathed Darth Vader confidence until he felt badass again.
Finally, he found what he was looking for. Picking up several cloth duffel bags, he carried them to the toy section. It took him awhile to sort through the debris, but he eventually unearthed the things he'd come looking for - Super Soakers, of every shape, size and caliber. H2O Commando. Super Soaker 2. Revenge of the Super Soaker. Maxi Soaker. Mega Giga Soaker. Godzilla Soaker. He grabbed all he could, filled the bags to their limit, then zipped them shut.
If Buckley planned right, these toys that had once been the scourge of adult manners would be the weapon that would allow those in his keeping to survive. The irony didn’t escape him. Of all the trillions and trillions of dollars that America had spent on weapons research and the defense budget, toys were what society fell back on when it collapsed. Was that a statement about the dedication of society to its own well-being, or a statement on the construction and utility of the modern toy?
A muffled crash came from behind him. Buckley spun and leveled his shotgun, searching for a target. Was this it? Were the maggies preparing to attack? He realized that he'd been holding his breath and breathed small Darth Vaders.
Peering through the shadows, he couldn't see anything moving. He took several steps to his left to get a better view. Still nothing.
"Anyone there?"
Nothing.
"If you're there, let me know and I won't shoot."
Nothing.
"Hey motherfucker! Get your ass out from behind there or I'll blow your fucking nuts off!"
Five minutes of nothing and he straightened. Whatever had made the noise wasn't there now. If they were maggies, they would have attacked. Leaving the bags where he'd dropped them, he crabbed his way across the store, his senses on hyper-alert. When he reached the area where the noise had spawned, he searched carefully.
Debris and more debris, some of it broken to the point of being indescribable. But there lying on top of the pile was a rotting arm. Atop the shelf above it laid a body, the arm missing, looking all the world like gravity had tugged at the rotting limb until the arm fell free.
Buckley grabbed the duffle bags and returned to the sidewalk.
Samuel met him five minutes later with a hundred pounds of salt. "Everything go okay?"
"Of course," Buckley snapped. "And you?"
"No probs."
They headed back to the Franklin Hotel at a more leisurely pace than they'd come. It seemed as if the danger was over, at least the danger they could see.
CHAPTER 19
Buckley was the last inside. Sissy and Gert held the boards to the window, while MacHenry hammered them back in place. Little Rashad held a plate full of nails which MacHenry dipped into. Already Samuel was struggling out of his cellophane armor, looking like a piece of sausage pushing free of its casing. Buckley pulled off his mask, and couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear.
“What’s so funny?” Gert asked.
Buckley told her and got a giggle in return.
Then she added, “I was thinking more like it was something Richard Simmons would make you wear to lose weight. You know, those neoprene sweat suits?”
Buckley shook his head. “Richard Simmons is evil.”
“Don’t you mean Gene Simmons?” Samuel asked.
Little Rashad turned to Buckley. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s that?” Buckley began ripping the cellophane from around his chest. “Gene Simmons is a member of the band Kiss. You know, Detroit Rock City? Beth?”
Both Little Rashad and Samuel shook their heads, blank stares clear evidence that they had no idea what Buckley was talking about.
“If it ain’t Snoop Dog or Dr. Dre then he don’t listen to it.” MacHenry finished hammering the board in place, and took one of the bags from the floor. He peered inside, looked back at Buckley, then shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask what you got these for. Anyway, Kiss ain’t his type of music. He only listens to--”
“Don’t make this into a black-white thing,” Samuel warned.
“I’m not. It’s a rock and roll versus rap thing.”
Sissy spoke up. “Ever listen to Kid Rock? He does this Southern Rock-Rap fusion that’s pretty cool.”
“Isn’t he from Detroit too?” Gert asked.
“Kiss isn’t from Detroit, they just sing about it,” Buckley pointed out.
“Eminem is from Detroit and he’s a white rapper,” Sissy added.
“What does that have to do with anything? Are we taking a survey of musical birthplaces?” MacHenry snatched up as many bags he could carry and headed to the hallway. “What the hell were we talking about?” he mumbled as he left the room.
Gert rolled her eyes. She and Sissy had begun to apply the cook’s mortar to the edges of the boards. They worked with military efficiency. “Richard Simmons. We were talking about Richard Simmons.”
“Yeah. Richard Simmons.” MacHenry re-entered and grabbed the bags of salt. “You know,” he said looking pointedly at Samuel, “the gay guy.”
Samuel mouthed the words the gay guy and rolled his eyes.
“Hey!” MacHenry shrugged, trying to keep his cool. “I didn’t make him gay, he just is. Stepping to the oldies with the fat chicks is about as gay as they come.”
Samuel raised his eyebrows. “So Richard Simmons is gay, but Gene Simmons isn’t gay. This band Kiss isn’t gay?”
The question stopped MacHenry in his tracks. “Hell no! I mean yes! I mean—”
“So they just dress up in platform shoes and wear make-up, but that’s not gay?” Samuel asked not letting up.
Buckley wondered how Samuel knew about what they wore when he’d pretended he didn’t even know who they were. The kid was pulling MacHenry’ chain. Bigtime.
“Hell no!” MacHenry turned to Samuel. By the way he held the bags of salt, he could just as easily throw them as carry them. “What are you trying to do? Start a fight?”
Samuel grinned broadly. “Nope. No fight. I’m just fucking with you.”
“Just fucking with…” MacHenry glowered and stomped towards the kitchen.
When he left the room, everyone’s attention switched to Samuel.
“What?” he shrugged. “It was a slow pitch across the plate. I had to hit it out of the park.” He pulled the rest of the cellophane off and began wiping the sweat from his skin with a towel. “Some people just beg to be fucked with.”
Buckley finished stripping as well. “And you’ve been put on the planet to do it.”
“Why not?” Samuel asked, passing the older man a towel. “There’s no television. No radio. Not even any Kiss, Eminem, Snoop Dog or Kid Rock. We’re back to caveman times.”
“So you think the cavemen fucked with each other as much as we do?”
“Hell yes! After a long day of trying to invent the wheel and chasing pterodactyls, what else would they do?”
Buckley stared at Samuel and had nothing more to say. It was the pterodactyl comment that did it. Or was it the gay Kiss comment? Whatever it was, he was happy to dwell on the evilness of Richard Simmons or the homosexuality inherent in choosing to wear makeup as a rock star rather than dwelling on the grayish-red sludge that now covered his body. If he thought on it, he’d remember that he was infected and would most surely die. If he thought about it, he’d realize that the gray sludge was none other than the result of maggies coming into contact with the layer of salt that had surrounded him beneath the cellophane armor. If he thought on it, he’d recognize that the red tinge was from his own blood, seeping from exit wounds as the maggies escaped his body. So with studied
persistence, he decided not to think on it, instead remembering the energy and vitality of Richard Simmons who’d once been the King of Infomercials and the salvation of fat chicks worldwide.
Back when there’d been infomercials.
Back when there’d been fat chicks.
CHAPTER 20
Thirty minutes later, Buckley had changed back into his clothes and once again stood in his little circle of salt by the door. The difference was that this time it was by choice. The sludge he’d wiped away had more than scared him. It had energized him. Time was as much an enemy as the maggies. If he was going to be any help saving these people he’d gathered together, he’d need to switch things into high gear.
He'd explained to MacHenry and the others his idea about the super soakers. Even now he and Gert were busy in the kitchen widening the holes the water fired through so they wouldn't get clogged with the salt crystals.
Meanwhile Samuel and Sissy were filling every container they could find with lighter fluid and salt water. Samuel had only managed to find about a dozen pints of the fuel in the Piggly Wiggly, but what they had was being put to good use. Buckley wished they had more, but there was nothing they could do about it. As it stood, even with the loaded water pistols and the Smokey Mountain Cocktails, they might not make it.
Then again, he reminded himself that he hadn't seen even one maggie on their recent excursion. A small silent part of him hoped that it was all over. Another larger part of him scolded him for even thinking such a thing.
Buckley's attention was drawn to Little Rashad who sat at the feet of Grandma Riggs. As she rocked in her chair staring at the blank television screen, he cleaned his trumpet. The boy's actions reminded Buckley of a soldier going out to war. Just as a soldier would lay out the pieces of his rifle —barrel, butt stock, magazine, firing pin, carriage assembly— Little Rashad had laid out the pieces of his trumpet. With wrinkled brow and pressed-together lips, the boy wiped each piece, then lay it down careful.
So much like a little soldier it was scary.