by Jason Offutt
He collapsed on a carpeted floor and lay still, wheezing like a smoker. Who the fuck is in my town? He wondered. My town.
“Devil woman,” Posey whispered in his ear, the wet tip of the dead man’s tongue ran over his lobe. Craig pinched his eyes tight. No, goddamnit. No. No. No. He swung a fist that would have caught Posey in the face, but it connected with nothing. He opened his eyes.
The light of midday shone evenly through the big window that joined this room with the rest of the ground floor. Craig pushed up to his hands and knees, his breath still trying to escape him. This was an office, an expensive office. A large, clean, albeit dusty mahogany desk dominated the room. The room, the desk, belonged to Billy Bob Purdy. Craig could tell by all the pictures, and Purdy’s name carved into every award that cocksucker had ever won. Top seller plaques lined the wood-paneled walls, along with fishing trophies, a stuffed fox, wild turkey, deer head, and a bobcat. Purdy owned Purdy’s Hometown Real Estate, Purdy’s Insurance, and Purdy’s Funeral Home. Locals at the coffee shop said he got you coming and going and every fucking way in between. Craig grabbed the corner of the big desk and pulled himself to his feet.
He’d bought his house from Billy Bob Purdy, that fat bastard in an ill-fitting Sears suit. He hated the man the moment he met him.
“I tell you what, Carlton,” Purdy had said, never getting his name right. Not once that whole goddamned afternoon. “I’ve got a beauty of a house. It’s just about four blocks off the square, two bedrooms, right in your price range, and your neighbors are gregarious types.” Gregarious coming out ‘gree-garus’. “The Poseys are nice, nice, nice. Mrs. Posey will bring you over a casserole the day you move in. I guaran-damn-tee it. You’ll love having them as neighbors.”
Fuck you, Purdy.
Craig turned away from the desk and screamed. A huge, dark, bipedal form loomed in the corner of Purdy’s office, arms stretched to strike. Craig lurched back, grabbing the desk to keep his rubbery legs under him; then his mind understood what he saw. A bear. A fucking stuffed grizzly bear with a brass plaque at the base that read, “Billy Bob Purdy, 1999, British Columbia.” Goddamned Purdy shot a bear. Not enough to take a picture and put it on the wall, he had to put a bullet in the beautiful beast’s heart. But the laugh’s on him. In ten years bears, and elk, and fucking Sasquatch will be roaming all over this continent. Maybe even sitting in Purdy’s chair smoking a cigar. Resting from the trophy base to the hip of the bear leaned a rifle with a scope. Craig stepped forward, cautiously eyeing the bear like it might animate and swallow his head. The car might still be out there, stalking the streets; he needed that rifle.
Craig moved slowly toward the bear, the great paws of the beast the size of his face. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Gentle Ben. Gentle Ben.” He snatched the rifle from the bear and quickly backed toward Purdy’s desk. The rifle was heavy and cold in his grasp. This was a real weapon, he realized, not the popgun he had in his new penthouse apartment at the tower that jutted from the crotch of Allenville like a giant penis. Craig pulled back the bolt. A bullet sat in the chamber. He kicked out the clip – it was loaded. Craig grinned. With as many people in this county who hated that goddamned Purdy, he wasn’t surprised the fat bastard would keep a loaded gun in his office. Craig slapped the clip back in and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. It felt good. I can pick off fleas with this thing, he thought. Devil woman better not have any fleas.
Craig hung the rifle off his shoulder and walked through the Kingdom of Purdy to the front of the real estate office, keeping low, away from the great front window. The day seemed quiet; nothing moved on the street. He slowly pulled open the front door that would spill him onto the square. A bell on a string jingled over his head. He froze, expecting what? A SWAT team to crash through the windows? No one heard the bell. He slipped out the door and ran across the street to the courthouse.
July 15: Allenville, Missouri
Chapter 32
A pile of burned bodies sat at the entrance to the Budget Barn grocery store parking lot next to a Burger King. “Charbroiled,” Maryanne said, the sound of her smile painful in Karl’s ears. The drive to Allenville had been a convoy, one after another of the half-dozen cars in the Ninja Turtle fleet peeling off to wait along the road to Allenville for the red Mustang, or any vehicle coming up the highway with Darryl. Darryl was coming. Somehow, some way, she knew it, and that frightened Karl like he’d never been frightened before. Maryanne instructed the drivers to follow any Traitormobile at a safe distance, shutting the door to any escape. The only car that remained with the RV was the Kingsville Police cruiser, carrying Trent and that greasy bastard in the Megadeth shirt. It followed the RV because Maryanne wanted Trent to stay close. Karl hated how excited Maryanne got when she talked about killing Darryl, that poor, poor bastard. When the sign “Allenville: 6 miles” grew in the great RV windshield, she took a shot of whiskey and hooted.
“Put this boat on the far side of the Budget Barn lot, north of the Burger King, across from the Taco Bell,” Maryanne told Mike as the RV pulled into town, greeted by a concrete smattering of square cookie cutter stores a few blocks away from the old downtown, the tower from the courthouse loomed in the distance. Karl watched Maryanne’s gaze as Mike pulled into the parking lot, around the fire truck and ambulance that sat on the perimeter of the long-cold funeral pyre, and toward Taco Bell. Her eyes never left the red brick courthouse tower that dominated the skyline of one- and two-story houses, and a thick canopy of trees. Karl almost asked what was so damned important about the courthouse, but didn’t want her to look at him anymore.
Mike backed up the RV and tried to park a couple of times before it satisfied Maryanne. She wanted the word “Haven” Leo had spray-painted on the RV to face north, so Mike did it. If driving meant she wouldn’t shoot him in the head like Leonardo, he was going to drive any way Crazybitch wanted.
“That’s good,” she told him, patting his shoulder, her touch soft and hard at the same time. “Now get out, boys. You have more work to do.”
Trent and Greasyman stood outside the Kingsville Police Department cruiser talking when Maryanne threw open the door to the RV. The Greasyman in his stained T-shirt laughed when Trent jumped. The rest, Donatello, Raphael, and a few of the other feral beasts that followed Leo were back on the highway, waiting for that goddamned Darryl. Karl and Mike followed her out of the RV; Karl watched her eyes that kept jumping back to the red clock tower.
Maryanne nodded toward Karl. “Beavis. Toss the keys to the Cowboy.” She turned toward Karl and pushed herself close to him, her breasts pressed against his chest. “I need you to do something for Momma,” she said softly, running a finger across the line of his stubbled chin. “Take Mike and drive around town. There’s something here, something important, and I want it.” She looked into his eyes, and as much as he did not want to, Karl couldn’t help but look back. They weren’t a shark’s, they weren’t a devil’s, they weren’t crazy. Maryanne looked like someone people fell in love with in movies. “It’s big and it’s beige. Will you get it for me?” Karl didn’t want to, but he nodded. This woman, he knew, was some kind of sorcerer.
“Keys,” he said to Trent, who tossed Dooker’s janitor-sized ring of keys, only one of which fit anything within twenty miles of them. Karl caught the keyring and nodded to Mike. “Come on.” He didn’t look back at Maryanne as he opened the door to the police cruiser and sat behind the wheel. He couldn’t look at her because he knew what he’d see; shark’s eyes, and he didn’t want to see that. He knew he couldn’t see that and retain any of the little sanity he had left.
Maryanne snapped her fingers at Trent and the Greasyman as Karl pulled the cruiser out of the parking lot and drove down Main Street. Trent snapped to attention. Damn, the Greasyman, this ain’t right.
“Hey, boys,” she said. “Get over to the Budget Barn and find something nice to eat. Maybe a box of Ragu pizza; something I can cook in the RV oven. Maybe grab a can of mushrooms, and black olives, and a bag
of pepperoni. Oh, and a bottle of champagne. I feel like celebrating.” And because she snapped, they went.
Karl and Mike drove with the windows down, the yellow and green smell of summer gently flowed through the cab of the police car.
“What’s her deal?” Mike asked, his voice loud, too loud. Karl put up the palm of his right hand and shook his head. “Hey,” Mike said slightly louder. “I’m talking to you.”
Karl shook his head, reached onto the dusty dash and grabbed an ink pen, then pulled a Sonic napkin from between the seats of the police car and wrote in big, blue letters, “She knows what we’re thinking.” Karl’s hand shook as he held the note where Mike could see it. Mike nodded and Karl wadded the napkin into a ball, stuffed it into his mouth, and swallowed.
Mike shook his head. “Whatever, dude.”
Main Street spilled onto the Allenville city square, the courthouse in the center, the lawn surrounding it starting to grow over the granite monuments honoring local men who died in wars back to 1861. Karl noticed a shovel handle sticking out of the tall grass and thought that odd. A few taverns dotted the storefronts, along with restaurants, and businesses with the name Purdy. Purdy Funeral Home, Purdy Insurance, Purdy Real Estate.
“He must have been a bastard,” Mike said, and looked over at Karl. “Hey, man. You gonna talk?”
He nodded. “In a minute.”
The square gave way to a short string of businesses, the public library, and a long municipal park, the empty swings swayed slightly in the easy breeze. From the moment Karl met the Devil Bitch, a door seemed to slam shut, trapping him in a room where Maryanne stood watch with all-seeing eyes. Past the park, that feeling simply vanished. Karl smiled for a moment, then terror dragged the smile away; she was still too close.
“You think I’m shitting you, Mike, but I’m not,” Karl said. “That crazy-assed woman, I don’t know how she does it, but she knows … things. Just things. Shit that’s going to happen, shit people are thinking. Hell, sometimes she knows it before I think it.”
Mike laughed. “Man, that’s just your imagin…”
“Fuck you,” Karl spat. “You haven’t seen her bad side yet. That woman is evil.”
How evil? Try Hitler evil. John Wayne Gacy evil. The evil that woke Karl up in the dead of night, shaking, only to find that blond, crazy evil sleeping next to him.
“Okay, so why haven’t you left her? I mean, this is a big country, lots of places to hide.”
Karl shook his head. “Darryl. This Darryl she keeps on about. He left her; he got away somehow. He snuck out in the middle of the night, with my gun, and she woke up in a rage because he left and she didn’t know it. Somehow he got under her radar and vanished. I think that scared her. Now that’s all she thinks about, finding him and killing him very, very slowly. I don’t want any part of being the next Darryl.”
“Then why haven’t you killed her?”
“How do you kill someone who knows you’re going to do it?”
The next eight blocks went by in silence; the park gave way to squat, white houses, the paint peeling on most. Karl’s foot eased off the accelerator as they drove by a two-story colonial that must have been grand at the turn of the 20th century, but now the gray porch sagged, and mortar crumbled between the bricks of the foundation. A body, mostly skeleton, lay sprawled on the steps in a DC hoodie, the flesh gone under a coating of black ooze. Karl started to think they were the lucky ones.
The brown street sign came out of nowhere. Karl pulled the police car around a bend on Main Street sheltered by trees, and a sign reading “National Guard Armory” loomed into view. It pointed to 16th Street to the west. He felt he’d been slapped.
“You think that’s it?” Mike asked. “What Crazybitch was talking about? An armory? A fucking armory?”
Holy shit. Maryanne wasn’t playing around. This was serious. Karl was sure Maryanne had never been to Allenville, Missouri. Hell, Darryl said he’d met her running from Colorado. How could she know an armory was here in this town Darryl was heading to, unless she just did?
“I’m sure of it.” Karl’s voice not more than a whisper. “Hey, Mike. What do you think we’ll find there?”
Mike shrugged. “Normally at a small-town armory, probably some M-4 carbines, and some Beretta 9mm side weapons, but little-to-no live ammo. Even then everything’d be locked up tight.” A grin slowly broke his face. “But this is the end of the world, baby. I can bet we’ll find some M-60 grenade launchers, and M-249 SAWs just lying around.” He paused. Karl glanced over for just a second, but was sure Mike licked his upper lip. “I hope there’s a Bradley fighting vehicle. Those fuckers are fun to play with.” He turned to Karl. “Ever see a building just fall down?” Karl shook his head slowly. “It’s better than pokin’ a piñata and watching the candy fall out.”
“You were in the military,” Karl said, but knew he didn’t have to ask. The answer he felt coming already made too much sense.
“Army. Infantry.”
“How about the other Ninja Turtles? Were they in the military?”
Mike shook his head. “No. Don worked security at a mall somewhere. I think Raph ran a meth lab.”
“So, psycho bitch tells you to drive the RV. Tells you to go with me to find something she knows is here. That something might just be the armory, which might be armed to the teeth. And you’re the only person in this entire fucking group who knows how to use what we might find there?”
Mike shook his head; his smile not so big anymore. “That’s just coincidence.”
“She didn’t ask if you’d been in the military, did she?”
“No.” Mike’s words came slowly. “She didn’t.”
“But everything I said is right, isn’t it?”
Mike pointed ahead. “The armory’s right there.”
The long, low brick building with a shallow green tin roof stood in the middle of a field under the watch of a new white water tower, “Go, Bearcats!” painted in green around the reservoir. Someone had been ready for something. A military ambulance rested in the new black asphalt armory parking lot, the back doors open, what remained of a body on a gurney behind it, half the shit Alice in Wonderland ate growing from it. Six beige Humvees also sat in the armory parking lot, the soldiers stationed next to them lay on the ground in dark gray lumps. A stack of decimated moldy remains in civilian clothing was about twenty yards outside the perimeter of the vehicles. The military must not have known what to do with so many.
“Shit,” Mike hissed.
“This is what she wanted,” Karl said, pulling Kingsville’s only police car to a stop in front of the ambulance. “There’s something big here, isn’t there, Mike?”
Mike nodded. “You see that fucker over there?” He pointed to a tall chain-link fence, signs bolted to it reading ‘138th Infantry,’ and ‘No POV Authorized.’ Karl nodded; it looked like a tank. “That’s an M2 Bradley. It’s equipped with heavy incendiary round machine guns and an MK-19 weapons system.” Mike’s voice shook with excitement. “That’s a big damn gun, right there.”
“What is the MK-19, in English?”
“It’s basically an automatic belt-fed grenade launcher,” Mike said, grinning again. “It can fuck some shit up.” Karl didn’t like Mike’s grin; not at all.
July 15: Allenville, Missouri
Chapter 33
Doug wiped his forehead with a kitchen towel and stuck it into his back pocket like it was a grease rag back at the shop. He figured he’d probably gone through a thousand of those square, red rags since he started working on cars, but he wasn’t fixing cars today. Didn’t need to. The Marstens kept their vehicle in perfect shape. He slammed the H3’s hood shut and hopped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over immediately. His old truck would get them to Allenville, and Omaha with no problem, but the H3 would get them to hell, and maybe even back. He hoped they wouldn’t need it that far; Tanelorn would be fine. Doug turned the key, killing the huge engine and rendering the afternoon silent.
“Hummer okay?” Terry asked as Doug dropped out of the H3 and walked around the vehicle, the garage door open, throwing light over a survivalist’s boner.
“Yeah. If we can keep it in gas, we could drive it to Hawaii.” Doug peeled a morning beer off a case of Budweiser, the crack of the tab filled the garage. “What do you think we can put in it?”
Terry sat on a case of MREs and slapped the side. “These. All those tuna cans and bags of dried beans are great, but these babies are full meals, with dessert, a tiny bottle of Tabasco, a book of matches that might just light underwater, and they have a longer shelf life than Twinkies. We could eat on these forever.” He took a Budweiser from the same case and popped it open, ignoring the spray of foam on his shirt. “And water. We need to load the Hummer with lots and lots of water.”
“What about …” Doug started.
“Guns?” Terry interrupted. “That’s a no brainer. Guns and ammo.”
“I meant beer.”
Terry smiled. “That’s what the pickup’s for. We’re not going in just one truck.”
Doug started to laugh, then saw Nikki standing in the doorway that joined the garage and the kitchen. She didn’t look like she wanted to hear laughter. “We’ve got to do something about Herman Munster,” she said solemnly.