Ferryman

by Jonathon Wise

  As if the fire sucked out what little life Jason had left, he stumbled backwards and fell on his ass. The big redhead ran over and squatted next to him. “Mr. I sure am thankful for what you did. I don’t know how on Earth you did it, but I sure am glad you did.” He extended a hand. “I’m Mark.”

  Jason lost the ability hold his head up and it smacked against the asphalt. Mark bent over to tend to him, but Jason still wanted vengeance. As every ounce of strength quickly drained from his body he managed one last act. He tipped the pistol up on the asphalt and pointed it as Mark’s stomach. The redhead would be his last victim. But before he could pull the trigger, Mark pulled the gun from his hand. “I’ll wait here with you to the end.”

  Jason gave in to the weight of his eyelids, and as he began to see brilliant bursts of light he cried out, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “You talking to me?”

  Jason swore as the life started to leave his body, “This isn’t over. We’re not square by a long way.”

  “I’m right here by your side,” Mark said, as he shook Jason lightly. “Did you see a woman on your way over here? My brother’s wife…she went looking…”

  Chapter 18

  The shadows of sunset made their way across the room as Chuck sat against the bottom of the sofa, lost in an endless stare at the floor while he held the lifeless body of his wife. His only movement during those hours came from the occasional kiss he placed on the marbleized skin of her forehead.

  When darkness fell and the only illumination in the house came courtesy of the streetlights outside, he knew it was time. He slid out from under her body and laid her down gently on the carpet. After he got up, he shut the front door and turned on the lights. He paused to look at her one last time before heading for the bathroom in the hallway.

  For several minutes he stood under the light above the sink and stared at the blank features of the reflection in the mirror. Who was that man in the mirror? It wasn’t until he slowly began the chore of undressing that he took notice of his appearance. The dried vomit on his shirt was no surprise. But the dried crap, caked in his boxers did raise an eyebrow.

  He threw the soiled clothes in the corner and stepped under the cold spray of the shower. Other than the goose bumps along his arms and thighs there was no sign that the chill bothered him at all. There wasn’t even the slightest shiver as he stood there watching the water take on a brownish tinge as it washed away the dried clumps from his midsection. As the spray began to warm up, he grabbed the shampoo and started washing his hair just like he would any other day.

  He didn’t sense anything peculiar about the situation until he was rinsing off. The hot water was beating against his back when he slowly looked up at the bathroom light on the ceiling. The water continued to run as he stepped out onto the rug and stared at the ventilation fan. He reached over to the switch and flicked it on. A second later he heard the initial clanking sound of metal against metal quickly followed by the gradual buildup of a hum as the blades built up speed.

  There still wasn’t any visible expression on his face as he turned off the shower and went to the bedroom for some fresh clothes. After he got dressed, he turned on all the lights in the house before heading out the door. All the streetlights were on. So too were the lights in several of the houses. He could even see the glow of the television through some of his neighbors’ drapes. For the first time since he found his wife, expression broke the cast numbness of his face. His lips parted and a slight pinch formed between his brows. He walked out to the middle of the street and yelled, “Is anyone there?”

  Before his echo had a chance to die, he headed across the street to Bill and Rena’s house where it looked like the television was on. He and Becky had never put forth much effort to socialize with the neighbors, but this was different. They would understand him coming over at a time like this. He glanced through the drapes as he crossed the sidewalk to the front door. They were both on the sofa watching the television. He knocked on the door. “Bill…it’s Chuck from across the street.” After a few seconds he knocked again. “Come-on Bill…This is important.” He rang the doorbell and as the chimes finished their short musical score he tried the knob—it was locked. He jumped off the porch and pressed his face against the picture window. “Hey man! Let me in!”

  When they still refused to budge, he resorted to banging on the picture window with his fist. “Goddamn it I’m not going to ask—” His hand broke through the glass before he could finish. He jumped back as the entire panel slid out in several large pieces and shattered on the landscaping stone next to the house. After a quick glance at the cuts around his knuckles, he stepped over the broken glass and popped his head between the drapes as they began to ripple in the night breeze.

  A moment later he walked back across the street with his head hung low. He pushed a section of the broken garage door off the hood of his Chevy, climbed in, threw the truck in reverse and backed out of the garage. Even though the front bumper dragged out the lower section of the metal door, he was in no mood to stop. He gave the truck a little gas, and after a few sparks and scrapes, the section pulled free halfway down the cracked cement of the drive.

  He pulled onto Michigan and stopped right in the middle of the road. He was going somewhere, he just didn’t know where yet. He rolled both windows down and started a slow, easy descent down the hill toward the historic district. Halfway down he rounded a curve and had to stop. There were so many lights on. He climbed out and walked over to a spot on the shoulder for a better look. At first, downtown looked the same as it always did. Streetlights were on, roughly a third of the old houses clustered around Main had their lights on, and even some of the stores were lit up. It was only as he continued to scan the streets that he noted the difference. There weren’t any cars driving around. His head dropped and his chest sank. After a dry swallow, he climbed back behind the wheel and continued down the hill.

  The stark reality that he couldn’t see from above was readily evident once down on Main. Nothing had changed. The bodies of the three men were still lying on the street. The wind pushed and rolled debris from the looted stores along the sidewalk and out into the street. Broken and discarded merchandise, fixtures and displays were scattered on the ground in front of several vandalized stores.

  He drove all the way down to the gas station at the far end of town and pulled in to fill up. While the dollars rang up on the pump, he started scanning the area for any signs of life. At first glance he swept right past the smoke bellowing from the power plant. It wasn’t until he started to come back around that a slight ray of hope perked up the corners of his mouth. He stepped away from the truck for a better look at the smoke churning up toward the sky. There was a chance. He topped off the tank and headed for the two towering smokestacks at the power plant.

  There were at least a dozen cars behind the locked gate, but he didn’t bother to honk. He eased the bumper up to where it was touching the gate, and then gave the truck just enough gas to snap the chain. He parked at the foot of the stairs to the main office and ran up to the steel door. It was locked so he peered in through the wire mesh, reinforced window. There were two technicians slumped over in their chairs next to a long panel full of lights and gauges. Knocking would be a waste of time and he knew he couldn’t break out the window, so he walked around and looked for another way in. Unfortunately every exterior door to the facility was either solid steel or if it had a window, it was the same kind of window as the door to the main office. There was no way for him to get in. As he trudged back to the Chevy he knew it didn’t matter. No one was alive inside anyway. The place was running on automation—at least for the time being.

  On the way back to town he had to stop again. It was just too unbelievable. Everything looked so normal from a distance. Before he realized it, he was slowly weaving up and down each side street, honking his horn and yelling out the window, “Is anybody there?” Somebody else had to still be alive. Surely he couldn’t be the only
one.

  By the time he reached Michigan he was beginning to wonder. He turned around and instead of taking Michigan back up the hill—he drove down to Highway 7 and took it up. He stopped at the state mental hospital near the crest of the hill, broke through the gate, and checked it out before continuing on. He continued to weave in and out of each street along 7, honking and yelling just like he did downtown. But just like downtown, there was never any response.

  He took a right on State Road 62 on his way back over to Michigan. There amongst the stores, hotels and fast food restaurants was the semi-truck he saw at the gas station the other night—the TM unit C61 truck. It was sitting under the bright lights in the high school parking lot. As soon as he pulled in he sensed a horrible presence of death.

  The scene at the high school was completely different than what he saw elsewhere in Madison. The parking lot was over half full—and most of the cars weren’t empty. Many had more than one lifeless occupant. He grabbed an old napkin off the floorboard to hold over his nose and got out. Every car he passed, as he zigzagged his way over to the semi-truck parked at the edge of the lot, had a body in it. Some were laid out across the back seat while others were slumped over on the passenger side up front. He knew what they were. They were drop offs. Their loved ones brought them there to die.

  The closer he got to the semi, the more his senses were assaulted. Not only was the smell of death penetrating the napkin, but a droning hum was also beginning to echo in his ears. It was the hum that set him on edge. Not because it was the first real noise he had heard all day, but because he recognized it for what it was. He had seen too many carcasses while hunting in the deep woods not to know.

  The droning sound grew louder as he slipped quietly between the cars. He saw the half dozen thirty-foot trash dumpsters lined up, side-by-side behind the semi and put it all together. He walked a few steps past the trailer and there they were. At a quick glance, they looked like small puffs of smoke drifting over each dumpster. But he knew better. They were actually swarms of flies, hovering over the rotting contents in the depositories. He walked over and was about to inspect one of the metal bins, when better judgment beat out curiosity. “No…no way.”

  Instead, he climbed up the metal stairs attached to the semi-trailer and pushed open the outer door to an air lock. That was as far as he got. When he hit the button to release the inner glass door nothing happened. Since the room on the other side of the glass was dark, it was reasonable to conclude that the trailer wasn’t getting any power. That meant he wasn’t getting in. So he pressed up against the door and cupped his hands to the glass for a look. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he didn’t need to get in. He could see the dark lumps of three bodies lying dead on the floor in biohazard suits.

  A few minutes later he was back in his truck. Hope of finding anyone else alive was fading quickly. He continued his weave in and out of the first two streets along Michigan. After finding no one, he decided to go for broke. He skipped the rest of the streets and drove on down to where Stan lived. Surely his best friend wouldn’t abandon him. He parked in front of the dark house, climbed out and methodically walked up to the porch. But once at the door he couldn’t bring himself to knock or ring the bell. He stood there and stared at the bottom of his friend’s front door for almost a minute. In the end, he walked back to the truck and slid behind the wheel. After a long, drawn-out sigh, he raised his head and turned the key.

  Chapter 19

  Chuck headed straight for bed when he got home. It wasn’t the late hour that drove him to seek the comfort of his sheets—it was the hope that once he closed his eyes he would forget everything he had seen. He shed his clothes between the door and the bed and withdrew from the world under the security of the sheets.

  That’s where he stayed as daylight came and went. What was the point of getting up? What was the point of living? Everything and everyone was gone. Even the smell from his wife’s body couldn’t pull him from the depression. It simply drove him further under the covers.

  He wasn’t sure how many days had gone by, but one night when he got up to go to the toilet—he flicked the light switch in the bathroom and nothing happened. As he flicked it again he became aware of how dark the house was. There wasn’t any light coming in from the streetlight outside. He ran over to the window. The neighbors’ houses were dark too. He immediately began to fumble his way through the dark shadows to try every light switch in the house. Wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, he walked out to the middle of the street and looked around the neighborhood at the dark shapes under the starlit sky. For nearly a minute he stood staring at the ground while slowly shaking his head. Things were changing whether he liked it or not.

  It was that awareness that pulled him out of bed at the break of dawn the next morning. Whether he was ready or not, he needed to take proper care of his wife. After he got dressed he opened all the drapes in the house and grabbed Becky’s favorite quilt out of the linen closet. It was the one her grandmother made. Becky’s mom handed it down to her several years ago. It was old and soft with age, but still withstood the test of time due to the skill and artistry of its maker. He spread the quilt out on the floor next to his wife. Nothing in life could prepare him for what he was about to do. He was about to wrap up the love of his life in a quilt. He stepped back and shook his head. “For crying out loud!”

  He walked over to wall and started bumping his forehead against it. After a few seconds he stopped and looked back at her. He knew he couldn’t leave like that. That didn’t keep his eyes from welling up or his nose from running. After a hard swallow he walked back over and knelt next to her. “I’m so sorry Becky. I’ll always love you.” He closed his eyes, and then with a sigh and a pain deep in his chest, he rolled her onto it. He grabbed a corner of the quilt and was about to pull it over her face, but paused to stare into her eyes one last time. Even in the dull reflection he saw the love and life she once had. While fighting the uncertainty and regret erupting within him, he slowly lowered the flap over her face. After a solemn moment, he bent over and gently kissed the quilt before rolling her up in the possession she prized most.

  As he slowly rose to his feet, his soul was caught by the sight of his life mate wrapped in a cocoon of sewn linen and fill. The finality of it was more than he could bear. Everything drained from his body as he fell back on the sofa and began to sob.

  He sat with his face buried in his hands for the better part of the morning. Emotional outbursts came and went, and then came again. It wasn’t until he was finally able to breathe without his chest fluttering, that he wiped the tears off his face and went out to the garage to fetch some rope. He tied the rope around the foot of the cocoon and worked his way toward her head wrapping it around her as he went. He stopped around the shoulder and tied the rope off. Before he could agonize any further about it, he lifted her up and carried her out to the bed of the truck.

  As he made his way down the hill, he rounded an outside turn and caught a glimpse of the smokestacks at the power plant. The grand cement pillars in the sky were silent—their steam-driven generators at a loss of coal fired heat to drive them. Two blocks before Main, he took a right off Michigan and headed for the hospital a half block down. What he saw there was similar to what he saw at the high school, but with fewer cars and no dumpsters. Drivers were slumped over the wheel in several cars while others were abandoned with their back seat doors open. As he drove past one of the cars, he pictured a hysterical husband lifting his wife out of the back seat and rushing her in to the hospital for help. What the poor guy didn’t realize was that he was bringing his wife there to lay her to rest—just as Chuck was doing.

  He pulled into the circular drive at the emergency entrance and parked alongside the line of abandoned cars. He got out and gingerly picked up his wife and carried her to the entrance. Out of habit he waited a second for the glass doors to open, then remembered the smoke stacks and kicked the doors open.

  Halfway to the
reception counter he stopped. What am I doing here? He looked at the dead bodies lying against the walls of the tiled corridor. He then glanced over at the waiting area and stared at the wives and husbands and fathers and mothers who came there out of hope, but who deep down knew the inevitability of what was going to happen.

  He lowered his head. I can’t leave you like this. He turned around and carried her back out to the truck. Five blocks later he parked along the curb of First Street on the bank of the Ohio River. He closed his eyes and let the cool morning breeze wash over him in the cab. For a second he lost himself in the memory of the wild time he and Stan had on this very street last summer during the regatta. But when he opened his eyes, it wasn’t a jubilant crowd that he saw—it was something else. At first he thought they were logs floating down river, like the kind that get caught in the current after a good storm. Yet it hadn’t stormed in several weeks. He got out and scrambled down the steep bank for a better look. They were bodies.

  He glanced up river past the bridge over to Kentucky, and saw more floating down. The flow was sparse and inconsistent. For a few minutes dozens of bodies would float by, and then there would be a gap before the next cluster. It was as if they were dumped one truckload at a time up river.

  He climbed back up the embankment and stood next to the truck for a moment of thought. A few seconds later he spotted the boat ramp two blocks up river and climbed back behind the wheel.

  He parked the truck parallel to the water at the bottom of the ramp and carefully laid the body of his wife on the cement and positioned her to where the left side of the bound quilt was sitting in an inch of water. As he kneeled on his knees next to her, he smoothed out the quilt over her chest and stroked the flap over her head as if it were her hair. With his eyes growing redder by the second, and snot dripping from his nose, he fought through the swelling in the back of his throat and said, “I’m so sorry for letting us drift apart. And for not being there when you needed me.” He rubbed his eyes. “I love you with all my heart…everything there is in me. You were my one true love.” Tears started trickling down his cheeks. With his face and hands trembling, he gently pushed her into the river. “Please be at rest my love…please forgive me…”