by Mike Kilroy
When Bray was promoted, Coe remained a beat cop. Coe liked it, he guessed. Coe never applied for a promotion, despite the fact he was a good cop—probably better than me. He had the compassion I lacked.
Bray lost touch with him. He’d see him around town and they’d exchange pleasantries, but it was only a courtesy. Bray had no time for the past. The future was all he cared about.
Now, it seemed, there was no future. Only this, the present, foul and nasty.
It’s no place for people like Coe. It may be even too cruel a place for me.
“What happened, Coe?”
Coe stared off toward the setting sun, just a dim half circle of red being consumed rapidly by the horizon. The light cast by it was eerie, refracted rays bathing everything in a reddish glow. All it did was illuminate how beaten down Coe had become.
Coe cleared his raw throat. “I killed them. They were coming at me with broken bottles and crowbars and metal pipes. They were going to kill me, so I fired. I mowed them down in the streets like animals.”
“Sounds like you didn’t have a choice.”
“Protect and serve,” Coe whispered. He repeated it, over and over again. Each time he said it, sorrow cut deeper across his face until he was sobbing uncontrollably.
Bray felt pity for Coe, who slumped to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face into the crease between his legs. Bray also felt loathing for his former partner who was so easily broken.
Then Bray saw it, stuffed into a small duffle bag dangling from Coe’s shoulder: a freshly killed rabbit. He wondered what else could be in Coe’s bag.
Bray closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew the decision he was about to make would alter the course of his life in this new world. He wrestled with that choice in that fragment of a minute, weighing the pros and cons of his actions, deciding what role he would assume in this new reality—good guy or bad guy. He came to grips with the fact that he’d most likely end up as the bad guy—and be just fine with it if it meant he and Maggie would survive.
Bray aimed his rifle at Coe and coughed.
Coe still had his head buried in his knees.
Bray coughed again, louder, which prompted Coe to slowly raise his head. His blue eyes were big and round and bright in the last shard of light cast by a sun that had almost set. “What are you doing, Paul?”
“Sorry, man. Nothing personal. I gotta survive. I have a wife to think about. You’ll get another rabbit.”
Coe peered down at his bag, closed it and held to tight to his side. “I found a little girl, all alone. She was orphaned. I’m caring for her. She needs this food just as much as you do.”
“That’s a sad story, Coe, but I don’t give a shit. Hand it over.” Bray thrust the rifle at Coe, who didn’t flinch.
Bray had feared as much. Coe had nothing to lose, which made him very dangerous.
Coe stood slowly, holding his hands up. “I’m just going to walk away now. You won’t shoot me, buddy. You’re a dick, but you’re no killer.”
Coe turned and began to walk toward the tree line. Bray fired a shot into the sky, the bang echoing throughout the open field as birds squawked and flew away all around them. Coe halted his walk, his hands still held up toward the darkening sky.
“You’re not going to shoot me. Not in the back. You can’t.”
Bray aimed at Coe’s back. His finger twitched on the trigger. “The fuck I won’t. Just drop the bag and start walking.”
“I’m not dropping the bag. You’re going to have to murder me for it. Then again, you are good at shooting innocent people, aren’t you? Do you still think about that girl?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Bray felt a rush of blood flood his face. His temples throbbed with rage. Every part of him wanted to pull that trigger, to blow a hole into Coe’s back. Something, though, stopped him. Maggie’s words and his promise to her echoed in his head. Weak. I’m so weak.
“I’m leaving now, Paul.” Coe took a cautious step forward, then another. Bray gripped the rifle so tightly in his left hand that his knuckles had turned white and his fingers turned numb. The rifle shook in his hands as he let out a guttural scream.
“Good luck, Paul. You’re gonna need it.” Coe said as he disappeared into the woods.
Bray was left standing there in the newborn darkness.
Meal 7
Bray hadn’t the heart to wake Maggie.
She had fallen asleep while he was out, the Ruger held loosely in her palm. Bray felt fortunate that no one had tried to invade during his fruitless excursion; Maggie would surely be dead.
Bray thought that perhaps that wasn’t such a bad fate for her. No more suffering. No more fear. No more wasting away in this tomb, waiting for the inevitable knock of death on their door.
He thought he could never hurt Maggie. He wouldn’t be hurting her, though. He’d be setting her free.
He could do it quickly. A bullet through the brain would end her in a split second. No pain that way. She would just never wake up again. He’d be doing her a favor, a kindness.
Bray grabbed the revolver from her loose grip and placed the muzzle to her temple. His eyes welled up with tears, but he blinked them away. He wasn’t going to cry. Not like a fucking pansy.
He closed his eyes and said a prayer—more for himself than for her—and pulled the trigger.
The click woke her, eyes wide, shock and bewilderment on her face.
Bray quickly hid the gun behind his back, stuffing it in his belt. He could have sworn he had loaded it, but his memory was fading. Perhaps it still has one bullet in the cylinder. I can try again when she falls asleep.
“Did you get any food?” She asked, unaware of what had just happened. It was the fatigue that had dulled her perception, or the hunger, or the combination of both.
“No. But I got water.” He held the cup to her lips and she gulped it down.
She grimaced and coughed. “It’s warm and metallic.”
“It’s rain water collected in a tin can outside. C’mon. drink more.”
She reluctantly obliged, her lips curling in disgust with each labored swallow.
She wiped her mouth dry with the back of her hand and smiled at Bray. Why is she smiling? She has no reason to smile. I let her down.
“We’ll be okay, Paul. As long as we have each other.”
Meal 8
Bray felt the fear overwhelm him. It was an uncomfortable feeling and one for which he held extreme disdain. He loathed feeling helpless. He loathed when fear invaded his very marrow.
He was strong. He was fierce. He was to be reckoned with.
He was none of those things now.
Bray stared at his rifle, propped against Maggie’s favorite chair, and contemplated sticking the muzzle in his mouth and blowing his head off.
That would make him even weaker.
Bray began to cry. The tears were thick and full of mucus. He couldn’t even cry properly.
He was dehydrated and had visibly lost weight and muscle tone. It had only been three days without food, but the meals he had eaten in the weeks before were not very nourishing: canned soups and the few bugs they had captured scuttling across the floor.
Maggie was faring much worse. She was in and out on consciousness. Bray tried to keep her drinking water at least. It perked her up for a few minutes, anyway.
Bray made fists and then straightened out his fingers. Over and over again he did this, all the while clenching his teeth against the dishonor of his state.
He pushed himself off the floor and stumbled into the kitchen. He pulled apart the cupboards and the fridge, the foul smell escaping into his turned up nose. He searched the stove for any crumbs left behind from a roast or streak of meatloaf they had made in the past. He dropped chest down onto the floor and reached his hand under the stove, searching for anything of substance. His eye widened as he felt something brush across his middle finger. He struggled to get his hand far enough under the stove to grab it and he
finally did.
From under the stove, covered in dust, was a pretzel.
One unbroken pretzel rod.
He held it up and smiled, brushing the dust off its prickly surface.
He carried it gently to Maggie and nudged her. “Babe, I found something to eat.”
Maggie’s eyes shot open and a smile creased her face when she saw the pretzel. She reached out and snatched it from Bray’s fingers. She began to snap it in half before Bray stopped her.
“We might lose some of it if it breaks. Put one end in your mouth.”
Maggie did. Bray began chewing on his end. It felt good to chew again, feeling and hearing the rod crack in the vice of his teeth, tasting the salt on his tongue.
They chewed in unison before their lips met in the middle.
Bray had never felt so good after eating a pretzel.
“I’m a slob. Maybe there are more crumbs in the basement?”
Bray stood and stomped down the stairs into his lair. He had thought about dismounting the deer head and cutting it open—maybe there’s some meat preserved in there—but he knew better.
He lay on his stomach again and fished under the couch and chairs.
He found nothing.
Bray lifted his head as he heard footsteps above him. Then was startled when he heard Maggie yell, “Paul, come quick!”
Bray jumped to his feet, his knees cracking, and rumbled up the stairs. When he hit the top of the steps, he could hear a voice say, “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Bray stepped as quietly as he could around the corner, but it was no use. Bray was a loud walker even when he tried to be discrete. Maggie had chided him about his bullish gait.
“Get in here, Paul!” The voice bellowed.
Bray raised his hand and took a few steps into the open. Anderson stood with Maggie held close against him, the tip of a knife pressed into the hollow of her neck.
Maris stood to his left and another man to his right, who held Bray’s rifle and aimed it at him.
“Thanks for dropping by, but we ate all the pizza. Sorry,” Bray said.
Anderson was unmoved by Bray’s flippant remark. “Shut up. Where are the guns?”
“Guns? What guns?”
Maris took a few steps forward toward Bray. “Don’t be like that. Just give us the guns and we’ll be on our way. No one has to get hurt.”
“Oh, someone is gonna get hurt all right.”
Anderson pressed the blade tighter into Maggie’s neck. A spot of blood beaded on her skin as she grimaced.
“Okay. Okay. Just don’t hurt her,” Bray said, his voice cracking with fear.
“The guns,” Maris said softly.
“Why are you throwing yourself in with this lot?” Bray asked.
Maris took another couple of steps forward. She was standing almost face to face with Bray now. “Safety in numbers. I came. I warned you. You didn’t listen. Take me to the guns. I’m not sure how long I can keep Anderson from killing your wife.”
Bray rested his eyes on the other man, a jittery sort, rail thin with rotting teeth and greasy hair that hung down to his shoulders. His eyes were sunken and his face drawn. He wore ratty clothes and the zipper of his army green pants was down. Bray could peg his sort from a mile away: a drug addict, probably meth, and he was in a serious state of withdrawal.
Not a lot of people cooking meth in the apocalypse.
He was liable to have a twitchy finger on that trigger and start firing. His aim wavered as he swayed. Probably wouldn’t hit anything anyway.
Bray stared at Maris now. “What’s his deal? Does he know his Kennywood is open?”
The man peered down at his crotch and sighed.
Maris shook her head. “Like I said, safety in numbers.”
“He might just shoot you by accident. Besides, he’s gonna die within a week.”
“You’ll die in a minute, just after your wife if you don’t take Maris to those damn guns!” Anderson bellowed, pressing the tip of the blade hard against Maggie’s neck again, causing another droplet of blood to bead.
“Okay. Okay. Jesus,” Bray said. “Maris, follow me.”
Bray backed away and turned, walking toward the steps that led down to the basement, his hands still in the air.
“Don’t try anything, Paul,” Maris said coldly. “You don’t look in any shape to fight.”
She has me there.
By the time Bray reached the bottom of the steps, his legs ached and wobbled. Maris noticed this, surely, because she was trained to notice such things.
“Where are they?” Maris asked.
“In the safe.”
Maris peered around the basement, confused. “I don’t see a safe.”
“You don’t? I guess I don’t have any guns then.”
Maris shook her head and sighed. “I will yell up to Anderson and he will cut her throat.”
Bray clenched his jaw and pointed to the far wall. “It’s behind the door.”
Maris walked briskly to the door and swung it open. Inside a cubby hole was a large gun safe, matte black, sturdy and impenetrable without the combination.
“Unlock it,” Maris barked.
“You know what? I think I forgot the combo numbers. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Maris stomped to Bray. “I’m not messing around here. We will kill her.”
“I’ll give you the combination, but you have to let Maggie go.”
“Are we negotiating now?”
“Looks like it.”
“Then I have a counter offer. Open the safe or Maggie’s blood spills all over the floor up there.”
“If Maggie’s blood spills all over the floor up there, you’ll never get inside that safe and I’ll take as many of you down as I can. I guess we’re in a stalemate.”
Maris sighed and brushed past Bray, walking to the landing of the steps. “Anderson!” she bellowed, peering back at Bray, who put his arms behind his back, his fingers reaching for the revolver that was still tucked in his belt under his shirt. “Let Maggie go.”
“What!”
“Just do it. Send her down here.”
Bray held his breath and listened for footsteps. He heard soft and light ones pad across the floor and down the steps.
Maggie stood on the final step, her mouth ajar and her eyes big and round. Maris grabbed her by the arm and pushed her toward Bray, who grabbed her and held her.
“Get the gun in my belt,” Bray whispered into Maggie’s ear. He felt her hands reach to the small of his back and her fingers wrap around the grip. She pulled it out slowly and lowered it into Bray’s hand as he pulled away, Maggie still standing in front of him.
“Okay. Reunion is over. I did what you asked, now open the safe.”
Bray nodded at Maggie, who moved away quickly. Bray raised the weapon and aimed it at Maris, who started to move her lips to scream to Anderson, but Bray shushed her.
“No. No. No,” Bray said softly. “One word and you’re dead.”
Maris slammed her lips shut, her eyes glaring at Bray. “You don’t have to kill me. Anderson and Pete will come down in a few minutes and you can take them out. I’ll join you. Safety in numbers.”
Bray chuckled. “Jesus, you’ll say and do anything to save your sorry ass, won’t you. Not gonna lie. I kind of like it.”
“Does that mean we have a deal?”
“Fuck no!”
Bray walked to the safe, still pointing the gun at Maris. He glanced at the dial and spun it to the three numbers quickly. He needed another weapon—one that had more than one bullet in the chamber.
He heard a click and swung the door of the safe open.
Bray reached out for a rifle, but before he could grab it he felt a searing pain ripple through him. He felt the electrical charge make all the muscles in his body seize. He crumpled to the floor and rolled over to his back. He could hear Maggie cry, “Paul!” as a figure hulked over him.
Bray blinked a few times, his eyes trying to
focus. The figure put his face down close to his.
The smile was a sinister one behind that fuzz of facial hair. The eyes were blue, but unfeeling.
“Protect and serve, Paul,” Coe said as everything began to dim around Bray. “Protect and serve.”
Meal 9
Bray blinked his eyes open and coughed. Smoke was spilling into the basement, the dark, heavy, suffocating kind. He peered behind him to see the safe, plucked clean and empty.
“Maggie!” He called out.
He heard her stir on the couch, mumbling and incoherent. He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his wife, dragging her up the three steps to the storm doors. He threw a shoulder into the pressed wood and the doors slammed open. He dragged Maggie outside and they spilled onto the grass.
They crawled away from the burning house, flames shooting out the upstairs windows. The crackling of burning wood was loud and the smoke that billowed up from the roof was thick.
Maggie peered up at the fire and began to sob.
“It’s gone. It’s all gone.”
“They did us a favor. We would have died in there. Better to die out here, fighting.”
Bray heard a groan as Maris stumbled around the corner. She held her stomach tightly, her fingers stained red. She wobbled and fell against the bark of a tree on Bray’s property line and pressed her back against it, coughing.
Bray and Maggie stood and walked to Maris, who was wan and sweating.
Bray grinned at Maris and he stood over her. “What happened to you? I guess those numbers weren’t all that safe.”
Maris coughed up some blood. “It was Coe. He killed Anderson and Pete, shot me, and left us in that burning house.”
Bray was smug. Serves the bitch right. Her plight gave him just a bit of solace. He’d take all the victories he could get.
Maggie, though, did not take the same pleasure in Maris’ fate. She ripped a piece of Maris’ shirt and pressed it on the wound, which seeped bright red blood. “Paul, we have to help her.”
“Please, Paul,” Maris said through a raspy, weak voice. “Help me.”