by Paul Seiple
Melanie grabbed his arm. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"We have to stay warm. I probably should bring in as much as I can. Things like firewood are going to be more valuable than money if the power stays out."
Melanie knew Dean was right. They needed the wood. She couldn't help but worry that asking about Dean's life before Black Dog caused him to want to get some fresh air. She glanced at the fire. The flames were no longer dancing. They were dying. It's just the fire, she thought. "Take a knife from the kitchen."
A grin spread over Dean's jaw line. "What? You don't think I can handle any problem with these?" He flexed his arms. Dean's biceps rippled underneath the flannel shirt.
"I'm sure you can, Superman, but take the knife anyway."
Melanie never took her eyes away from Dean. Her stare followed him to the kitchen. He grabbed the biggest butcher knife from the drawer. Dean flashed it in Melanie's direction. Sort of a silent way of saying, "Are you happy?" She smiled.
Dean walked around the house to a woodpile. Melanie raced to the spare bedroom. She watched him stack wood in the bend of his elbow. Every few seconds, she took her eyes off Dean and surveyed the yard, looking for anything that could harm him. Melanie didn't like the hand life had dealt her. There was a very real possibility that she would die in Black Dog soon, but for now, as long as she had Dean, Melanie felt safe.
* * *
"Wonder if anyone tried John Denver’s music as a cure for insomnia?"
Winston chuckled at his joke as he rummaged through Harry's shed. It was a bit surprising that everything was disheveled. Winston never knew Harry to be disorganized, but there was no system to the storage in the shed. Winston swiped at a box for a leaf blower. When he connected, the box tumbled over, taking an empty box for a chainsaw and another one for a weed eater with it. Harry kept everything. When the dust settled, Winston spotted a red handle. He grabbed it and gave a tug. The can was wedged between a toolbox and a lawn mower. A lawn mower that hadn't run in years. Winston gave another tug and a box of screws fell from a shelf over his head.
"Dammit, Harry."
Something hit the shed loud enough to interrupt John Denver. Winston shifted from frustration to fear. He pulled the earbuds from his ears and crouched beside an old armoire doubling as a tool cabinet. Winston had the Colt. It was fully loaded, but he didn't have an endless supply of ammo. At some point, bullets would be scarce. He didn't want to draw unwanted attention either. Winston thought the best thing to do would be to hide and wait out whatever slammed against the shed.
Another bang sent vibrations through the metal walls. Flakes of rust fell from a small hole in the ceiling. Winston tucked his chin to his chest and stared at the rotting wooden floor, hoping to keep the rust out of his eyes. Then hundreds of small taps hit the shed like handfuls of gravel being tossed. The noise was continuous.
Rain, Winston thought. He sat listening to the hypnotizing taps. After a few minutes, Winston had to fight off heavy eyelids. The sound of rain always made him sleepy. The pelting against metal only intensified the desire to sleep.
"I can't sit here any longer," he whispered.
Falling rain methodically tapped against the metal. The loud banging ceased, giving Winston confidence that it was only a dead limb from a tree. He walked to the door and peeked through the small gap. The door flung back, smacking him in the face. He stumbled over a row of paint cans and landed on his back. The pistol dislodged from his hand and disappeared in a pile of gardening tools. A grunt, then a blur above him caught Winston's attention.
Jimbo Brookside stood over Winston with a pickaxe above his head. Jimbo stood nearly six and half feet and weighed well over three hundred pounds. A bum knee was the only reason Jimbo wasn't playing football on Sundays. He was projected to be a first-round pick before he destroyed his knee in the Peach Bowl. There was no doubt Jimbo had pent-up aggression. He traded fame and a multi-million-dollar contract to work on his family's farm. From the look on his face, Winston knew Jimbo was about to release that aggression on him.
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 trickl
ed 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 grew 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."