by Seiple, Paul
Winston grabbed a broken ax handle with both hands and straightened his arms just as Jimbo brought the pickaxe down on him. The ax handle held up under Jimbo's force. The pick stopped inches from Winston's face. Vibration stung Winston's hands and rattled the bones in his forearms. When Jimbo raised the pickaxe above his head again, Winston rolled to the right. The pick hit the floor beside him and stuck in the decaying wood.
Winston sprang to his feet and bumped into a workbench.
"Jimbo, it's me, Winston."
Jimbo ignored Winston and jerked the pickaxe from the floor, sending shards of woods toward Winston.
"You don't have to do this." Winston grabbed a shovel, hoping to spot the Colt.
"I don't know what's wrong with me, Winston."
Winston kicked a few rakes over while looking for the pistol. "You're sick, Jimbo. But you don't have to kill me."
Jimbo lowered the pickaxe to his side. "I don't want to kill anyone. I'm going insane."
"It's the virus, buddy. Why don't you give me the ax?"
Jimbo's eyes shifted to his side. "If I give it to you, you're going to kill me with it."
"I don't want to kill anyone either," Winston said.
"Is that what you told Harry before shooting him?"
"Harry was sick. I had no choice."
"You said I'm sick."
"Harry was a different kind of sick."
Jimbo looked at the pickaxe again. "I'm sorry, Winston. I can't give it to you." He flashed a smirk at Winston. "I can't give it to you because I need it to kill you."
Jimbo lunged at Winston, knocking him back against the workbench. Jimbo held the pickaxe in his right hand and wrapped his left hand around Winston's throat. Winston fumbled around the workbench, grasping for anything. Jimbo's grip tightened. This was different from Randy. Winston couldn't gouge out Jimbo's eyes. He couldn't reach Jimbo's face; his arms were too long. Finally, Winston felt a screwdriver. He white-knuckle gripped it and jammed it into Jimbo's forearm. The screwdriver went in at an angle. The head pierced the underside of Jimbo's wrist. Jimbo let go of Winston's throat and reached for the screwdriver. Winston rolled on his side and fell to the floor. He scrambled to the gardening tools to look for the Colt.
"That fucking hurts, Winston."
"Your hands around my throat weren't exactly a massage."
Jimbo examined his arm, turning his palm up and then down. Blood splattered onto his muddy boots and the wooden floor around him. The sight of the impaled screwdriver caused his head to go dizzy. Jimbo stumbled back, catching the wall just before falling. He slid down the wall.
"I'm really sorry, Winston. It's like I've got the devil in me."
Winston blindly ran his hand over the floor. After at least two splinters stuck in his palm, he tapped the handle of his gun. "It's not the devil. The sickness fills you with rage." Winston flipped over, back to the wall, and pointed the Colt at Jimbo. The hatred in Jimbo's eyes was replaced with fear.
"You're going to shoot me, aren't you?"
Winston thought for a minute and lowered the gun. "Don't make me have to."
"I thought ripping my knee apart was pain. This is worse. You're stronger than you look."
"Adrenaline kicks in when someone is trying to kill you."
"What's going to happen to me, Winston?"
Rage, Winston thought. Choose your words carefully. "I'm going to get you help. The CDC will have a cure soon."
Jimbo smiled. "There's no cure. They don't give a damn about us. You saw the way they killed those people without blinking an eye. We ain't worth shit to them."
"It's different now. Remember that CDC doctor? She told me some things that could lead to a cure."
"Then why did they abandon her here with us? I'm sick, Winston, but I still have my memory. If they didn't care to save their own, they're not saving us."
"I'm not letting anyone else die."
Jimbo laughed. Blood trickled from his nose over his lips. He caught a droplet on his tongue. "Fight till the end, Winston. Show the bastards who's boss." Jimbo laughed louder. It turned into a cough. He covered his mouth. The shed went silent after a few more violent coughs. Jimbo looked at the crimson spittle on his palm. "I never thought my blood would be labeled a deadly weapon."
"You never think about all the things that can kill you. I watched this show about puffer fish a few weeks ago. They have a poison that's like 1,200 times more potent than cyanide."
Jimbo nodded. "Did you ever see that show years ago about the Iceman? I can't remember his name, but his favorite weapon was cyanide."
"I didn't see that."
"You should look it…" Jimbo laughed. "He claimed to have killed over 200 people. Murder was nothing to him. Just like cutting the grass. After killing someone, he probably took a shower and sat on the porch with a glass of sweet tea."
I'd kill for a glass of sweet tea, Winston thought. He chuckled under his breath and tallied his death toll in his head. Not quite Iceman numbers, but it was nearing double digits. "Have you killed anyone, Jimbo?"
Hesitation answered for Jimbo.
"It's OK. You have to live. Don't feel bad for surviving," Winston said.
"I strangled Betty Reed. It wasn't self-defense, Winston. I don't know why I did it. She wasn't a threat to me. Something just took me over. Like a hunger. It felt like my body was starving."
Keratin, Winston thought. Do I tell him? Winston wrestled with telling Jimbo what was causing the hunger that made him kill. He decided it was best not to. "Betty was probably sick."
"It doesn't matter. I took her life."
Winston thought about all the lives he took. The lines were blurred. He didn't know whether the people were alive or dead when he ended their time on Earth. This virus made it nearly impossible to distinguish between life and death. The only sure sign was the cloudy film over the eyes. Getting close enough to determine that was too risky. I had to kill them. Winston repeated those words over and over in his mind.
"How many have you killed?" Jimbo asked.
"I don't know. I try not to think about it. It's a different world, Jimbo. It's all about survival now."
That was a lie. Not the survival part. The death count. Winston knew exactly how many people he killed. The weight of his actions, no matter how necessary, grew heavier. Talking with Jimbo made him think about every person he had murdered. And any way you looked at it, it was murder.
"What about Marianna?"
Marianna's cloudy eye peeking through the crack in the door was the only thing Winston thought of when he heard her name. Cloudy eyes meant dead. Marianna was dead, but Winston couldn't bring himself to admit it.
"She's sick. I'm going to find a cure for her."
Jimbo smiled. "Fight till the end." He looked at his arm. "This really hurts."
"Don't pull the screwdriver out. You may bleed out."
Jimbo laughed and then coughed. More blood. "You say that like it's a bad thing. I'm in pretty bad shape here, buddy."
Winston stood up. "Let's see if we can get you some help. You're not going to try to attack me, are you?"
Standing was a chore for Jimbo. He braced his good arm against the wall. After a few moans and grunts, Jimbo was on his feet. "Do I look like I could attack anyone? I've lost too much blood. Besides, you've got the gun."
Winston eyed the Colt dangling from his right hand. "That may be the case, but you did try to kill me earlier. I didn't try to kill you, so face away from me, and walk out of the shed."
Jimbo chuckled. "You're the boss."
Jimbo turned to leave the shed. Doubt never crossed Winston's mind. He strengthened his grip on the pistol, pointed it at the back of Jimbo's head, and pulled the trigger. Jimbo fell forward, face first onto the ground with his feet still in the doorway of the shed. It was over in an instant, but the ringing in Winston's ears continued. He was getting used to the tinnitus. At first, Winston saw it as penance for breaking the sixth commandment. But, as days went by and the horrors g
rew worse in Black Dog, Winston doubted a God even existed. Why would he stand by and watch a small town of good people suffer?
The ringing was just another by-product of this new way of life, along with killing. Winston was the new Iceman. He stood over Jimbo and watched blood pool beneath his forehead. Jimbo and Winston weren't good friends. Every once in a while, they chatted over breakfast at Luther's Diner, but it was small talk. When they passed each other, they waved and exchanged pleasantries, but then again, that was the norm for Black Dog. Winston felt no guilt for shooting Jimbo in the back of the head. Some would see it as a cowardly act. Winston saw it as a strength.
"Pointing a gun to someone you know and pulling the trigger takes guts."
The words seeped into Winston's conscience undetected, but after a few moments, they blistered his thoughts. He grabbed Jimbo's ankles, swinging them out of the shed's doorway. Winston froze.
"I don't want to be the Iceman. I want to save people, not kill them. This isn't me. Maybe I'm infected?"
The question clung to Winston, squeezing tighter as every second passed. If Winston was sick, soon he would no longer care about saving Marianna. He had to get to Salk. Winston stepped over Jimbo.
"Shit. The gas can."
Winston went back to the shed and grabbed the only gas can he could find. As he turned to leave, he spotted Marianna's iPod on the floor. The screen was smashed, but that didn't stop John Denver. Winston drowned himself in "Rocky Mountain High" and walked down Baker Street.
* * *
"Was that a gunshot?" Melanie asked.
"I didn't hear anything," Dean said, stoking the fire. He heard it. He knew it was a gunshot, but he didn't want to alarm Melanie. "I need some water. Want a bottle?"
"I'm fine."
Dean took the opportunity to pass by every window on his way to the kitchen. The shot didn't seem far away, but he saw nothing but a ghost town. He grabbed a bottle of water from a cooler and went back to the living room. Melanie was sitting in front of the fire. The flames lit her blonde hair with a brilliant orange hue. She was beautiful, naïve, and innocent. She didn't deserve this hell.
"Warming up?"
Melanie turned and smiled. "Toasty, and I have you. There's no one I'd rather share the apocalypse with."
"Not even that guy from The Notebook?"
"Ryan Gosling?" Melanie put her index finger on her chin and looked to the ceiling as if she were thinking. She smiled. "Not even Ryan Gosling."
Dean flashed a half smile. "Liar." His smile widened. He fell back onto the couch.
Melanie scooted over and took her place between his legs again. Dean pulled her hair away from her neck and massaged her shoulders.
"I'm sorry about earlier," Melanie said between soft moans.
"Sorry?"
"I wasn't trying to pry into your past."
"You weren't prying. Nothing to be sorry for." Dean kissed the top of Melanie's head. "I'm not proud of some of the things I've done."
"We've all done stupid things in the past. It's OK. I didn't know you then. I know you now. That's all that matters."
Dean pressed his thumbs a little deeper into Melanie's shoulders. He hit a knot that sent pain to her neck. She winced and shifted her weight away from the pain.
"Sorry." Dean eased his fingers to a gentle touch.
"No, it felt good. Hurt, but felt good. I've always held tension in my shoulders."
Dean increased the pressure. Another moan escaped Melanie.
"You were so beautiful the first time I saw you."
Melanie pulled Dean's hand away from her shoulder. She kissed the protruding veins. "I thought you were handsome too. My heart may have fluttered a bit." She pressed Dean's hand to her chest.
"I'll never forget that night."
"Night? Don't tell me you have me confused with someone else. We met at lunch at Luther's." Melanie let out a short, hard laugh.
Dean took his other hand away from Melanie. "I'm not confused. I meant night."
Dean's words were muffled. Melanie pushed his hand away from her and she turned to face him. Fear stopped her heart. Dean was wearing a clown mask. Not just any clown mask. It was identical to the mask one of the robbers wore in New York.
Melanie sprang to her feet, tripping over the edge of an area rug. She fell and hit the back of her head on the coffee table. She was out cold.
Dean lifted the mask from his face. "I swear, if you killed yourself before I get the pleasure." He pulled the mask over his face, lifted Melanie, and tossed her over his shoulder.
* * *
Don't think about moving or I'll put a bullet in your forehead.
Melanie opened her eyes and gasped as if hands were wrapped around her throat, stealing life. She jerked her arms, but they only moved a few inches. The force felt as though it ripped her shoulder out of its socket. Melanie tried to move her legs. No budging.
"Feisty."
Dean rocked in the rocking chair given to Melanie after her grandfather's death. She loved that chair. When she was a little girl, her Paw Paw used to sit in the chair and read her stories while she played with her dolls. Dean picked his fingernails with a knife. The butcher knife that Melanie insisted he arm himself with for protection. Dean hummed along with the creaking of the thirty-year-old chair. Melanie's heart fluttered, but this was much different from the first time, or at least what she thought was the first time, she had seen Dean. His face was hidden beneath the mask that chased sleep away from Melanie. Throbbing pain from the fall pricked her neck. She tried to move her arm again. No luck.
"You hit your head pretty hard. You'll probably have a nasty bump. On the bright side, you're not bleeding." Dean stuck the knife into the arm of the rocking chair, digging into the wood as he wrote something. "I had to tie you up. I remember you're a fast runner."
"You followed me here? How did you find me?"
"Internet. You can find anything on the Internet. I would have been here sooner, but when you're in jail, traveling takes a backseat."
"Why? I didn't see your face. You got away with it."
"I fell in love with you at first sight."
Melanie showed fear that night in the alley. The two clowns got off on it. Months after the robbery, her purse, cash, and credit cards were replaced, but Melanie couldn't get back the dignity she felt she lost that night. Giggles from the clowns as she begged for her life haunted her. She made a promise to herself that if ever in a similar situation again, she wouldn't show fear. Melanie didn't break promises, but there was a part of her that didn't know if she could keep this one. Just another reason she’d moved to Black Dog, hoping to never confront this type of fear again. But, here she was, restrained to her bed by the same man who caused her to make the promise. Melanie had to be strong.
"You have a funny way of showing love," she said.
Dean lifted the mask, resting it just above his eyes. "Oh, this isn't love, honey. Love comes from the inside...the inside of your body. True love is slow dancing with your intestines."
Don't beg. Be tough, Melanie thought. Unsure of her ability to stay strong, Melanie didn't respond to Dean.
"I'm not the same kid I was when we first met." Dean laughed. "Back then, I was just some punk robbing chicks for beer money. I've matured. I've developed a taste for the finer things." Dean paused. "Like murder."
Murder. The word shook Melanie to the core. She never accepted that the virus would kill her. She was healthy and hadn't come into contact with anyone who was sick. Eventually, there would be a cure. Murder. It put focus on her mortality. The way the town was surrounded. First Sergeant James Carpenter couldn't pull some strings and get his own daughter out. Black Dog was viewed as a threat to national security. Her father preached "eliminate the threat." Reality hit and it hit hard. Melanie was going to die in Black Dog, but she would not give Dean the pleasure of taking her life. All I have to do is get him to untie me, she thought.
"Fate really must be on my side. I had no idea when I moved t
o Black Dog that I'd get the girl and be allowed to kill at will. No law makes Dean a happy boy."
Melanie laughed. "Fate. You're trapped in a town the United States military views as a threat to the country. You can't leave. No matter what happens today, you will die here. I will die here. Anyone still alive will die here. I think you mean karma is on your back."
Dean smirked. "Just gives me something else to kill. Splitting Luther's gourd with an ax was fun. Choking out that weird waitress with a chain was a rush. Those highs don't last. I'm jonesing again."
"You killed Vera?"
Dean's lip curled, and he nodded. "She wasn't even sick. She begged for her life just like you did."
Melanie ignored the comparison. "And at work? Did Tyler attack you?"
"Nope. Harold screwed everything up. He had to go. Jerry smelled like tuna. He always smelled like tuna. I hate tuna." Dean mimicked a shiver. "Tyler, well, he was the boss. I have a problem with authority." He went back to carving something into the chair.
"What do you plan to do with me?"
Dean jammed the knife into the wood. He scratched his chin. "Decisions. Decisions. Decisions. Any ideas on what I should do with you?"
"I'd say let me go, but I don't think that's going to happen."
"You're the reason I'm here. Now that I got you, I'm not letting you go." Dean cocked his head as if he were studying Melanie. "You've grown up too. You're not that scared little girl anymore. This will be fun."
"How can it be fun if you keep me tied up?"
Dean stood up and walked to the bed. He traced the knotted rope around Melanie's ankle. He never touched her, but that didn't stop her flesh from crawling.
"I've had plenty of fun with tied-up girls."
Dean leaned in to kiss Melanie. She turned her head. His lips rested on her cheek. Melanie noticed they were chapped and rough; something she ignored when she thought Dean was her soulmate. His warm breath held a faint stench. Maybe coffee. Something else that Melanie hadn't noticed. Dean wasn't Mr. Perfect.