by Jason Offutt
July 11: Kingsville, Missouri
Chapter 26
Maryanne leaned against the open cell door as the prisoner stood and dusted off his pants. “That was a dick move, you know that?” he yelled. “Did you really not know if the gun was loaded?” Maryanne shook her head slowly. “Shit, man. Shit.” Yeah, not a Ph.D. by a long shot, but that was a good thing. The dumber he was the easier he would fall in line.
“What’s your name, baby?” she asked.
The man stepped past Maryanne who thought of blocking his way with the gun, but decided not to push it. Freedom, sort of. “Trent.”
Maryanne laughed. “Not anymore,” she said. “It’s Beavis. Your name’s Beavis. Now, let’s go upstairs. You can piss on Dooker while I find ammo for this baby. We got pigs to stick.”
“Pigs?”
“Don’t worry your pretty head, just get upstairs.” Trent walked up the stairs in front of her, Maryanne cocked her head from side to side with each flex of his butt cheeks. “Must be jelly,” she yelled even though he was three feet before her. “’Cause jam don’t shake like that.”
A huge Poland China sow, its hooves on the front windowsill, stared into City Hall as Maryanne and Trent emerged from the basement. It grunted, and squeals filled the afternoon. “Those are the pigs to stick.”
“Jesus.”
Maryanne laughed. “He drove demons into them, Beavis. Maybe these are some of the same fuckers.” She pointed toward Dooker. Was that knob thing growing out of his chest bigger now? She just wished he wasn’t lying right in front of the door. “Don’t get too close to him. I don’t know what that thing is on his chest, but I don’t like it.”
“Dear God,” Beavis whispered. “What is that thing?”
“What’s wrong?” Maryanne said from the armory. “Pissing your pants make you deaf? I said I didn’t know. Just don’t touch it.”
She found boxes of shells, loaded and cocked the shotgun, stuffed two ammo belts with shells, and draped them over her shoulders. Fucking A. “Let’s do this.” She stepped out of the armory broom closet, walked past Trent standing over Dooker eyeing the stalk, and stepped to the front window. The sow stared at her. It was hungry, angry. Maryanne knew it; she could feel it. It felt hate, hate for her. How smart were pigs? Plenty smart. Too smart. A feeling rushed over Maryanne, and not a good feeling. Something bad was about to happen. Something really bad.
“Come here, Beavis,” she snapped and grabbed Trent’s arm, pulling him toward the door, the great swollen bulb craned on its stalk to follow him. It was going to blow. She knew it, and when it did, they were screwed. Maryanne pointed the shotgun toward the window and the hog’s face and smiled as she blew its brains out the back of its thick skull. Squeals split the air outside the shattered window; pigs ran back and forth along the wooden porch.
“Showtime, Beavis,” Maryanne said, and handed him the .9mm from her belt. “Remember, just the pigs. You might miss me, but I won’t miss you.” She heard a stretching sound, like someone was pulling a filled balloon, but she knew Beavis couldn’t hear it; the sound was just in her head. Maryanne threw open the door and fired at the closest pig. It dropped down the steps in sickening squishy thuds. She pulled Trent onto the porch and slammed the door, just as a pop filled her head, and a thump hit the door. A small cloud of yellow wafted from the window Maryanne had shot out, a slight breeze blew it away from them. The bulb had exploded. It wanted them. Somehow that fucking thing wanted them. Tough shit, Maryanne thought, and cocked the shotgun.
A sow, close to 400 pounds, charged Maryanne. She raised the weapon and began to squeeze the trigger when a shot, silent compared to the 10-gauge, went off behind her. A red spot sprang from the center of the pig’s forehead and it dropped onto the porch, now slick and red with blood. Pigs ran around the great porch that surrounded the building, ran away from the noise, the death.
“Nice shot, Beavis,” Maryanne said. “Thanks.”
“Just do the same for me.”
Maryanne nodded and handed him the heavy keyring. “Find the key to the Chevy out there,” she said and fired at a pig starting up the stairs. The blast struck its shoulder, and drove it to the ground. The hog groaned and tried to stand, its three working legs thrashed in circles. Maryanne raised the gun and shot again. The pig stopped moving. Grunts and squeals came closer as the pigs running around the porch neared them. Trent shoved the .9mm into the front of his jeans, and fumbled with the keys. The first pig rounded the corner of the building and Maryanne fired directly in its face.
“Let’s go,” she screamed, and they ran down the steps. Trent flipped through keys with shaky hands. The pigs, their hooves rattling on the wooden porch, thundered after them, heaving their heavy bodies over the slaughtered the survivors would later feast on.
Trent reached the Kingsville city police cruiser first. The door handle moved when he pulled it, and the door flew open; he threw himself in and slammed the door. Maryanne jumped and slid across the hood like the hero in a 1970s cop show, landing on her feet at the passenger side door. It was locked.
“Let me in, Beavis,” she screamed. The boar, all 450 pounds of him, pounded down the steps and ran toward the car, toward Maryanne; three sows followed him. “Let me in.” Trent grinned at her, casually leaned toward the door, and unlocked it. Maryanne heaved it open and dove into the car. The boar slammed into the door, banging it shut. Maryanne, breathing heavily, sat up and slowly pulled the seatbelt over her waist. “That was funny, Beavis,” she said gently. “Real funny. Think about that if I ever give you head. Your wad might not be the only thing I spit out.” She gently pulled shotgun shells from the bandoleers draped across her shoulders and fed them into the gun.
Trent pulled the police cruiser onto Route B, the cruiser Dooker used to drive around to bust all the dicks that gave him shit in high school, and to flirt with the girls who still wouldn’t talk to him. Maryanne directed him to the highway.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“We’re not alone,” she said. “There’s a lookout on the blacktop, hopefully with news I want to hear.” She motioned him to stop at the LeBaron, which he did. She hopped out of the cruiser and picked her .38 out of the seat, a box of RU486 out of the glove box, and their remaining groceries and booze from the trunk. She’d driven the LeBaron from Colorado and it took her safely through the mountains, and around the smoking ruin that was Denver, but the cop car was fast, and powerful enough she was sure it could ram through a fucking wall if she needed it to.
“Want some?” she asked after capping the Evan Williams and taking a long swallow.
Trent shook his head. “Not on two Snickers bars.”
Fair enough. Two miles later they stopped at the intersection. Maryanne told him to get out of the car and they both stepped out onto a gravel patch. The Cowboy was gone. Shit. Maryanne liked the Cowboy. He was spunky, sure with his driving, and in good enough shape he could fuck as long as she needed him to. It’d be a shame if she had to put a bullet in his back.
“Hey, Cowboy,” Maryanne yelled into the hot July afternoon, the clear Midwestern sky blue as a Kansas City Royals jersey. “I hope for your own personal safety you’re still here somewhere, picking up trash for the Adopt-A-Highway people, or picking up aluminum cans to help the homeless. If you pulled a Darryl, baby, well …” She fired Mr. 10-Gauge into the sky, sending Trent ducking behind the squad car. “I just don’t know what I might do.”
“Don’t shoot, goddamnit,” Karl’s voice called from nearby. A square concrete culvert ran under the highway about twenty yards to the south of the intersection. A few seconds later Karl’s head popped over the crest of the deep ditch. Maryanne stepped toward the ditch and met Karl walking up the embankment, buttoning his jeans and zipping his fly, the rifle cupped under his right armpit. “I was taking a dump. Shit, Maryanne, I’m still here.” He stopped when he saw Trent, and gripped the rifle with both hands. “Who’s this?”
Maryanne grinned and Karl wondered
if at some point she’d hold a gun on them and make them fight just for the hell of it. “This is Beavis, baby. He was locked in the city jail, poor thing. Would have died, too.” She looked at Trent with her cold, dead eyes, his knees suddenly weak. “And you’re going to remember that too, aren’t you? That I saved your life. If I hadn’t stopped by, you would have starved to death.”
Trent slowly nodded, and Maryanne smiled a smile he didn’t like. No, not at all. She turned to Karl, the smile gone. “You see anybody?” she asked.
Karl tried to erase all emotion from his face, but he immediately knew he failed horribly. He didn’t want to tell her what happened, who he saw drive by in a red Ford Mustang, but this devil woman would know. Oh, yes, she would know.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Darryl. About a half hour ago.”
Maryanne’s smile returned; it was the small, tight smile of a hunter about to pull the trigger.
“Let’s eat,” she said right to Karl’s ‘what the fuck?’ face. “I know that foul little bitch. He’ll stop in the next town and look around for supplies, maybe survivors he can help.” She looked at Trent. “Open the trunk, baby.” He did and they sat in the middle of a once busy highway that connected Kansas City, Missouri, and St. Joseph to towns in southern and central Iowa, and dined the dinner of Post Outbreak Royalty: Spam, saltines, and sour mash. As Trent cracked open the tin of Spam and cut slices of the jellied meat with a plastic knife, Maryanne felt something wrong. She felt Darryl. Spam and saltines was something Darryl would eat; something Darryl did eat. He had it for breakfast.
“What’s your story?” Karl asked Trent between bites of Spam and crackers, a couple of belts of whiskey eased his fear of that evil, evil bitch sitting nearby.
Trent shrugged. “Graduated from high school a few years ago. Went to college for a couple semesters up in Allenville,” he said, nodding north. “Ran out of money and came home. Been working on the family farm since. I planned to go back to school, but I guess school’s closed.”
Maryanne tossed the empty Spam can onto the road. It rattled in the quiet afternoon, a silence that had only been broken by the caw from an occasional crow; the noise loud enough to be startling. “Beavis’ been in jail since people started keeling over,” she spat. “He don’t know shit about what the world’s been through.”
Or what the hell you are, Karl thought. Maryanne snapped her head toward him, her glare boring into him like a drill. At that moment Karl was glad he’d taken a dump, or he would have right then, the moment he realized this woman could read his mind. Holy shit.
Maryanne stood, wiping crumbs from her once white pants. “Time to go, boys,” she said and tossed Dooker’s keys to Trent. He caught them in one hand. “You drive, Beavis. Cowboy, you ride shotgun. Put your weapons in the back seat fellas. I’m going to take a nap while you look for that skinny assed, big dick son of a bitch.”
Then they got in the cruiser and went to kill Darryl.
July 11: Allenville, Missouri
Chapter 27
Sweat ran down Craig’s face as he made his way up the dusty steps that zigged and zagged the ten-foot-square courthouse clock tower, the tall staircase scattered with boxes and cans of food, cases of beer and Dr Pepper, and stacks of books and magazines. Craig held a box of bottled water tightly as he took step, after step. If he tripped and didn’t have a good handle, the flat box of twenty-four plastic bottles would bounce three stories down into the darkness. He’d already dropped one; it wasn’t going to happen again. A few steps later, Craig’s head broke the plane of the trapdoor to what he called the Observation Deck; he heaved the box onto the floor and pulled himself up. More supplies sat against the wall, a sleeping bag and pillow stretched across the floor. Craig reached into his shirt, pulled out a rolled 8x11 piece of paper and tacked it to the bare wooden wall. Farrah Fawcett in a red swimsuit smiled at him. This was now home.
The room had been dirty and bare when Craig forced his way into the courthouse, broken the lock to the tower door, trudged up step after step, and flapped open the trapdoor to the room at the top of the tallest structure in town. Hot, stale air seemed to suck breath from his lungs as he looked across the wooden floor littered with dead flies. That could be cleaned, he knew. The view is what he needed. Craig unlocked and pushed open the window, ancient weights hanging off pulleys groaned inside the walls as Craig slowly forced the dirty window open. He could see everything.
Streets ran in even east-west/north-south blocks; Main Street cut beneath Craig’s courthouse perch and merged with U.S. 71 highway that ran around the town. Farms dotted the fields that rolled on forever, the monolithic white windmills from a wind farm near Stanberry, Missouri, that and the paved highways the only scars on a horizon that could be from 1880, for all Craig knew. He leaned out of the window and scanned the tall grass of the courthouse lawn below, the shovel handle he’d used to mark the shallow grave of the man Posey made him kill still visible in the tall grass. Fucking Posey.
Posey made him come to the courthouse. Craig sat on the front porch of his house, drinking beer, eating potato chips, and grinning as he watched Posey’s house burn, and collapse into the foundation. Then he tossed empty beer can after empty beer can toward the smoldering pile of debris and never reached it. It didn’t matter, because Craig had finally defeated that asshole. That taunting, mocking asshole. Then the dreams started.
“McAllister,” drifted through Craig’s bedroom the night the Posey house stopped spewing its filthy smoke into the pure night sky. “McAllister, wake up you pussy.” Craig remembered his eyes sliding open to a dark room, the waxing half moon cast a dull gray glow through his bedroom, although he still didn’t know if he were awake, or dreaming. More and more days seemed like that.
“What do you want, you fuck?” Craig, or was it Dream Craig, spat into the night.
Posey spoke as clearly as if he stood next to Craig’s bed, although Craig knew no one was there. But it’s hard to tell if you’re asleep. “They’re coming for you, McAllister. They’re coming for you, and they’re going to fuck you up the ass. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Goddamn Posey. “Somebody’s coming? Who’s coming? Who’s coming, you bitch?”
“Someone who will eat your soul,” Posey said. Craig felt Posey’s breath now as the dead old man whispered into his ear. “The Devil Woman.”
Craig sat up straight in bed, screaming.
That was four days ago, or five. Craig had a hard time keeping track of things anymore. He’d thrown the Jeff Foxworthy calendar into the fire because he was drunk, so not even Jeff could tell him it was Thursday. “You might be a redneck if you find a new recliner for your living room because the garbage truck comes on Thursday.” But Posey wouldn’t leave him alone. The Outbreak had taken the bastard and his fat wife, a truck had taken his shitty-assed dog, and Craig had taken his house, burnt that fucker to the ground. So, why aren’t you in hell, Posey?
“You gotta get ready, McAllister,” Posey whispered to Craig the next day as Craig sat on the porch drinking warm beer and playing Super Mario Brothers on an old GameBoy Advance. Craig had every package of AA batteries in town, so Mario and his tall Guido brother Luigi could bounce off turtles forever. That which does not kill you makes you smaller, eh, Mario?
“You’re dead, Posey,” Craig said. “You and your fat wife. I’m not listening to you anymore.”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” the voice said, softer this time, farther away. “People are coming. People who make you look like a goddamned prom queen. Get someplace safe, get someplace high.”
Craig shoved the palms of his hands over his ears. “Go away, Posey. Go away, Posey, “GO AWAY, POSEY,” he screamed. “YOU’RE DEAD. GO A-WAY.”
Moments of silence later, Craig pulled his hands away from his ears and was greeted by crickets. Just crickets. He lay back onto his bed and slept. The next morning Craig broke into the courthouse clock tower.
July 11: Barton, Missouri
C
hapter 28
A Hummer H3 sat in the garage like an alien spacecraft; the black, rectangular hulk seemed to absorb most of the electric light from the windowless room. But it was the walls that stole everyone’s attention. Racks of Winchester SX3 shotguns, M-4 carbine rifles, and several M27 light machine guns lined the back wall over boxes and boxes of ammunition. Crates marked MRE, and gas cans were stacked along one wall, boxes of non-perishable food, camping gear, cases of beer and bottled water lined the other. Terry stepped into the garage to make room for the others pressing behind him. Jenna squeezed her way in first, Nikki and Doug followed, his eyes locking on a wall map above a box of crates. Doug stepped up to it as the others fanned through the garage and marveled at the booty. Four states stared back at Doug from the well-worn map; Missouri, Kansas, Iowa, and Nebraska, a gold thumbtack stuck into the spot where Doug now stood. Other thumbtacks, black, blue, and red, scattered across the four-state area. A line of evenly spaced blue tacks led from the gold tack in Barton, north through Clarinda and Atlantic, Iowa, to Interstate 80, and west through Council Bluffs, Iowa, to Omaha, Nebraska, before jagging away into the northwestern part of the state. Red tacks surrounded Des Moines, Iowa, Topeka, Kansas, and St. Louis, like moats, or castle walls, or zones of death. A line of black tacks ran down the far west part of Nebraska and the border between Kansas and Colorado. Marks in Sharpie ran up highways and rural routes, some scratched out, others peppered with exclamation points.