by Jason Offutt
Terry nodded. “I know, man,” he said, leaning closer to his friend. “Now, I don’t really want them to hear,” he whispered. “But what do you figure we’re doing here?”
“Here?” Doug asked. “We’re getting you a damned generator so we can cook and have lights and let you watch TV. What do you think we’re doing?”
Terry lifted a finger over his mouth. “Not here,” he said softly, dropping his hand back over the bed. “I mean here like, well, anywhere. Where are we going, man? Omaha? What if it’s like Kansas City? Everybody’s dead. Should we find some place to live? Or are we going to just keep driving until all this shit catches up to us? Or maybe something worse.”
Doug stepped closer and leaned closer to Terry. “Worse? We might be the last fucking people alive on Earth. What is out there that’s worse than that?”
“Other people, man. There’s a nice, sweet, pretty girl in the cab of that truck. We ain’t going to do nothing bad by her, but if we’re alive, there are other people out there who will,” Terry spat. “And Arnold. Well, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on with him, but at least we’ll take care of him.”
Terry’s eyes burned in a way Doug had never seen. He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve just been running. From something, not to something. I couldn’t stay in Paola. Too many memories. I knew too many faces on too many dead bodies. Do you think we should settle down? Find a place and hide?”
Terry nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I do,” he said. “Someplace out in the country, but close enough we can come into town for beer.”
Doug smiled and nodded. “Okay, Terry. That makes sense. Let’s give it a shot. There’s a lot of small towns north of here, we’ll head there tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll party.”
A grin grew across Terry’s face. “Shit yes,” he said, then walked back to the cab, opened the passenger side door and slid back into his seat. Doug dropped into the driver’s side seat next to Jenna.
Jenna looked at Doug. “We heard everything you said.”
Terry cracked open a beer. “Damn.”
“I agree with hiding. I also agree with partying. And him,” she said, motioning toward Arnold. “I have no idea what the heck he thinks.” She held out her right hand. “Now beer me.”
They decided on a hotel, the biggest one they could find. A Ramada Inn with a restaurant and indoor water park. Doug drove through town, down Belt Highway, Fredrick Street, and through the south part of town that probably looked desolate even before the Outbreak. After driving through the city for hours they knew St. Joe was as dead as Platte City. Near the Ramada they raided a grocery store for as much canned food as they could carry out, and enough beer to keep Terry happy for at least a while, the stench of the rotting meat and produce kept Jenna in the parking lot. After about twenty minutes, the three men walked out of the store each pushing grocery carts loaded with food, and they drove toward the Ramada. They didn’t make it.
“Hey,” Jenna yelled a few blocks from the hotel. “A mall. There’s a shopping mall here.” She turned toward Doug, a smile pulling her face tight. “Back in that garage you promised me clean clothes and a safe place to stay.” She started bouncing in the seat. “You promised. And the clothes are in there. And guess what?” she paused for a moment to giggle. “Everything’s on sale.” She burst into laughter. Doug took his eyes off her enough to steer the truck into the mall parking lot and park it right in front of Dillard’s.
It was stupid, Doug knew. A vast, dark building full of who knows what. If the human race had been decimated by an alien invasion or real zombies instead of something like a disease or a gypsy curse, Doug wouldn’t have said “no,” he would have said, “hell no.” Stay small, stay safe. But this wasn’t an alien attack. There were no monsters except those they imagined. As far as he knew, most of the people on the planet were just dead. He hadn’t heard any news report about this happening in Europe, Russia, China or anyplace else, but he didn’t see troops planting flags he didn’t recognize. Whatever started turning people into mushrooms, if it were the Piper, there used to be a lot of depressed people in the world. “Okay,” he said. “I keep my promises. I just hope this doesn’t get us killed.” As Jenna grinned at him, her eyes melting into his, he knew he really didn’t care. Doug pulled the baseball bat from behind his seat, Terry grabbed a beer, Arnold cocked a pretend pistol, and Jenna pulled the strap of her purse over her shoulder for some reason Doug couldn’t imagine. Maybe it was her time of the month. Terry was the first to the door. He pulled the glass entryway wide.
“It ain’t locked,” Terry said. “Welcome shoppers to, uh, some fucking mall in St. Joe. Enjoy your shopping experience.” They all went inside.
Before the Outbreak, malls had been dying across America to the point it looked like the end of the world had already hit. Not this mall. As they walked through the concourse, skylights bathing the walkway in warm, yellow light, every storefront sported a sign, and every store was full of merchandise. The group kept near the front, under the skylights and the occasional window, steering clear of the corners black with shadows.
“Hey, Arnold,” Terry said, lightly hitting the thin man on the arm. “Look over there.” He pointed. “GameStop. Let’s get an Xbox and some video games and shoot us some zombies.” And they were gone, half-jogging toward the video game store. Doug watched them go out of sight. His chest grew tight; it didn’t feel right to be separated.
Doug jumped at the sudden warm touch of Jenna’s fingertips on his forearm. “Are you coming with me?” she asked softly. Doug turned, her deep green eyes grabbed his every thought. At that moment, nothing else mattered; not the moldy bodies in the street, not the crazy people in the world, not the boys in the GameStop, nothing. Doug nodded and followed her into a clothing store. The vastness of the store, the deep shadows along the walls and behind the racks of clothes immediately made him nervous.
“We can’t stay here long,” he said, wondering if Jenna could hear the wavering in his voice.
“Relax,” she said, brushing the palm of her hand gently down his chest. “I’ll just try on a few things. It won’t take a minute.” Softly singing something Doug couldn’t make out, Jenna raked her hand across racks of dresses, and finally plucked one off. “Turn around,” she said, grinning. “Don’t peek.”
Doug’s hand squeezed down hard on the neck of the aluminum bat as he turned to face the front of the store. Hair rose on the nape of his neck, and his heartbeat made the front of his shirt jump as he waited for Jenna to change, but, he wondered, was this feeling the mall, or Jenna naked behind him?
“What do you think of this?” Jenna asked. Doug turned to find her in a form-fitting blue dress, cut low enough he could see the lower curve of her small breasts.
“It’s, uh. It’s nice,” Doug stammered, feeling a flush rush over him. “It’s nice for, you know, a date or something.”
“A date?” Jenna said, playfully crossing her arms under her breasts, pushing them close to popping out of the tiny dress. “Did you say a date?”
Doug nodded. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since high school. A bead of sweat ran down the small of his back. “Yes, I did. And we should take the dress. But right now, we need clothes like jeans, or cargo pants. You know, something tough with lots of pockets.”
Jenna smiled and grabbed a few pairs of jeans from a shelf and some shirts with sleeves and collars. “I know. But I’ll keep the dress for later. Maybe we can …” A scream echoed through the empty mall. Terry.
“Doug, Doug,” Terry yelled from down the mall court. The scream was followed by a thud.
“Damn it,” he hissed and started to run toward the door. “Terry,” Doug called back.
Jenna grabbed his arm. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“Never,” Doug said, wrapping his hand into hers.
The angry barks of dogs rang down the mall court as Doug and Jenna shot from the entrance to Dillard’s, Terry’s grunts came closer in the darkness. Arno
ld was first, Terry followed closely behind, a box under his arm. Arnold paused and looked at Doug and Jenna. “Come with me if you want to live,” he said, and pushed them toward the exit, and they followed this strange little man through the shopping mall.
Furious barks rang through the empty, shopperless mall walkways, getting closer with every flapping step the four made toward the exit.
“Guard dogs,” Terry hissed, the morning, noon, and nights of beer dragging him down. “Hungry. Hungry guard dogs.”
Doug turned his head as he ran, holding Jenna’s hand so tightly their knuckles were white. The dogs, Dobermans, foam flying from their lips, appeared briefly in sunlight before the shadows quickly reclaimed them, their skin pulled tight over their ribs. He knew these dogs were going to kill them and eat them. “Run,” he wheezed. “Get outta here.”
Sunlight streamed through the big glass doors as they moved too slowly to reach them in time. Something hit the tiled mall floor with a slap; Doug turned his head to see Jenna’s clothing lying behind them. Jenna wrenched her hand from his.
“What are you doing?” Doug shouted as Jenna’s hands started fumbling in her purse. “There’s no time.”
Jenna pushed him away and stopped. “Get them out of here,” she screamed and stopped, turning to face the flying bodies of claws and teeth. Doug stumbled and fell to the floor; the first dog ran over Jenna’s clothing pile like it wasn’t there.
“Come on,” Terry called from what seemed to be miles away.
Jenna pulled her hand from the purse, the bag fell to the floor. Doug watched, incapable of moving. Jenna stood still in the form-fitting blue dress, levelled the Peckinpa’s .38-caliber pistol in a policeman’s stance and fired, the pop of a bullet discharge echoed through the long hall. The lead dog yelped and jerked backward like its owner pulled hard on an invisible leash. Another pop dropped the second dog. Jenna stood next to Doug like a really pissed off prom princess. She turned and knelt beside him, so close her hair brushed his face.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Doug nodded slowly. Jenna smiled. “We should probably go.”
July 10: U.S. 71 in Rural Missouri
Chapter 19
When the highway sign on Interstate 29 read “U.S. 71, Seven Miles,” Darryl nearly giggled, but didn’t; Maryanne might hear him. The hot July wind whipped through the Mustang as he drove north on U.S. 71, Maryanne somewhere out there in this great, wide, dead world – but Maryanne wasn’t in Darryl’s new ride, sucking his dick, or sleeping in the passenger seat with a rifle pointed at his face. That bitch. That crazy, crazy bitch. But she could hear him anyway, Darryl knew she could. He felt it. St. Joe was still in his rear-view mirror. He might still be in the city limits, the limits of what was left of the city. St. Joseph itself was still there, but the people were gone. Even Maryanne. He’d made sure of that.
As he lay in that bed in St. Joe’s Motel 6, Maryanne passed out from liquor, the Cowboy next to her in a heap, Darryl knew he would probably die when the sun came up. Now that this fucking psycho had some new toy to play with, he was as dead as the guy at the gas station in Junction City, Kansas. He knew Maryanne shot the big, sweaty man in the chest because if she’d blown his head off he wouldn’t have had time to suffer. She watched the man bleed and wheeze until he finally shook and didn’t move again. Darryl thought blankly of her smile, her cold, cold smile.
Maryanne’s soft, blond hair rested on Darryl’s shoulder, her right arm and leg draped over the Cowboy. Darryl knew if he didn’t move now, he might never move again. Darryl slipped out of bed, ready to mumble some excuse about taking a whiz, but Maryanne didn’t move, her breathing steady. Yeah, enough Evan Williams will do that to you. The man she called the Cowboy moaned softly in his sleep, freezing Darryl, but neither of them moved. Moonlight shone through the window, lighting the room, every contour of Maryanne’s gorgeous body visible through the thin sheet. He peeled his pants gently off a chair, thankful he no longer had keys or change in his pocket to betray him, picked his tennis shoes from the floor, and took a step toward the door, wide open to let in some kind of breeze. It didn’t. He stopped and smiled a nervous smile. The Cowboy had shown him something, a present. A present for him. A .44-caliber pistol sat in a hotel drawer behind the Gideon Bible. He knew if Maryanne ever caught up with him, he would need it.
Darryl stepped softly to the dresser and slowly pulled the metal handle on the cheap pressed-wood furniture, keeping his eyes on the maniacs in the bed. The slight scrape of the sliding drawer sounded like a scream in Darryl’s head, but neither of them moved. He slid his shaking hand into the drawer, a feeling of strength rushed over him as his fingers curved around the cool handle of this machine made to kill. He pulled it from the drawer, the moonlight shone off its silver barrel, and wondered if he should just kill her. Kill her now. Put the gun against the back of her head and, boom, no more fear, no more torture, no more days wired on amphetamines fucking until Darryl’s cock was a raw, throbbing lump. He stepped toward the bed and stopped. But what if I miss? Doubt crept through the dark parts of his brain. He knew what she’d do if he missed his chance to kill her.
Darryl turned and crept out of the motel room as quietly as a thief, and never looked back.
Once he cleared the second-floor walkway and hit the steps, he ran, wincing when his bare feet met a rock on the pavement. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was gone from her and he had to keep going. But where? Ducking behind abandoned cars, he made his way to a UPS truck that sat on the entrance to a bridge over I-29. He stopped. Nothing moved from the dark room of the Motel 6, Maryanne’s room, the only room with the door hanging wide. Darryl slipped on his jeans and tennis shoes as he caught his breath. No shouting, no shooting. They must still be asleep. Darryl grinned. He was free. He’d only known Maryanne for a couple of days, but she’d beaten him, broken him. Darryl now knew real fear.
A new Chevy Impala rested a few yards from the UPS truck; the moon silhouetted the owner slumped over the steering wheel, alien lumps covered his body. He wanted to run, to hop in the Impala and go. But she’d hear him. Oh, yes, Maryanne would hear him, she would follow him, and she would catch him. Then Maryanne would cut off his dick and roast it over an open fire, smiling as she ate it while he lay next to her bleeding his life into the dirt. No, he had to make sure she was gone. He couldn’t have her chasing him. She was going to Omaha, that much he knew. He just had to make sure she went.
From Darryl’s view atop the interstate overpass, the skyline of St. Joseph looked like American consumerism had thrown up. A Red Lobster gave way to a Dunkin Donuts, which gave way to convenience stores, a Starbucks, Lone Star Steakhouse, a shopping mall, Budget Barn grocery store, an old Motor Coach Inn, and dozens more businesses, dark and deserted. The Motor Coach sat directly across the highway from Motel 6. Darryl grinned; his heart beat quickly in his chest. His right front pocket held a Ziploc bag of amphetamines. He knew if he could get to the Motor Coach and break into a room that faced Maryanne’s, he could wait them out. He squatted for a few seconds, watching the quiet, open doorway then broke into a sprint over the bridge.
Every room on the second floor was locked. Darryl squatted behind a cleaning cart, the remains of the cleaning lady lay where she fell, most of her exposed flesh sunk, buried under the dying, blackening mold, two stalks protruding from her abdomen hung limp, their pods open, spent.
“Shit,” he hissed, but not too loudly. As the young sun washed the horizon with pink, Darryl realized he might be fucked. “I know you don’t care, there, Maria, or Bonita, or whatever in the hell your name was. Crazy bitch can’t do anything more to you. She’s going to fucking eat me.” The morning grew light quickly. Darryl knew he had to move now or be stuck behind the cleaning cart with towels covered with gray mold in the humid Missouri summer. Then his eyes fell on Maria’s belt. Keys. This motel was so old it still used keys. He leaned toward her, and pulled the keyring from Maria’s belt, the revulsion of death beaten from him the day he met
Maryanne. Two minutes later he sat in the dark motel room’s stagnant air, already sweltering in the mid-July morning. He popped a White Cross and swallowed it without water, turned a crank to open the window, and stared at the second floor of Motel 6 through a slit in the curtain. He could wait on them forever.
Nothing stirred until probably noon. Darryl sat in the motel room; sweat beaded on his stubbly upper lip, as he watched the sun draw through the morning sky. A squirrel ran along the railing outside his window, a brief thought slamming through Darryl’s wired brain like a tennis shoe in a dryer. Hunger had crawled into Darryl, and that squirrel on the railing, nibbling on something it held in its clever little hands, Darryl knew he could catch it. He knew if he crept outside he could snatch that squirrel off that railing; then he’d eat it, eat it raw. He tensed to move, to follow the call and jump out of the door to chase that goddamned squirrel, that goddamned tasty squirrel. Then there was a gunshot.
Darryl screamed, or thought he screamed. The squirrel froze. The little bastard was only about five feet outside his window and Darryl didn’t know if it froze from the gunshot, or from his scream. Did Maryanne hear him? Yes, the devil goddess heard everything.
Something moved at the Motel 6. A shoe flew from the blackened doorway of the motel room and tumbled over the railing into the parking lot. The Cowboy followed it out, slamming into the metal railing. The scalp-tightening amphetamines made Darryl giggle – the Cowboy didn’t have pants. Then Maryanne appeared in the doorway, her perfect, firm form naked in the sun, a rifle at her shoulder. I would so do that, ran through Darryl’s head, an erection pushing tight inside his jeans. I would. He giggled again, because he knew he had. “Get in here, asshole,” Darryl heard from Maryanne’s shrill mouth, or maybe it was from her thoughts. As the White Crosses did their magic, Darryl thought he might be able to read her mind. The Cowboy slunk inside the motel room, and Maryanne followed. A few minutes later, screams punched through the dead still silence. It wasn’t pain, or fear. Maryanne always screamed like that when she took it from behind.