Flowers in a Dumpster

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  I couldn’t help but notice, however, that those around us did not seem to be having as good a time as us. The people seemed morose and unenthusiastic, even the children. I noticed it, but decided not to dwell.

  After all, it had been such a glorious day.

  ***

  It was the middle of the next week when I came home from work to find Jesus making love to the mail lady in my bed, what I had come to think of as our bed.

  She had the decency to seem embarrassed, quickly dressed, gathered up her mailbag, and rushed out the door. Jesus, on the other hand, seemed not the least bit ashamed.

  “I’m trying to experience everything I can,” he said. “The world has so much to offer.”

  “But what about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “I . . . I thought you loved me.”

  “I do. I love everyone in the world.”

  ***

  Over the course of the next week, I started seeing less and less of Jesus. He stayed out late, apparently making new friends who took him to nightclubs. He got a tattoo, a Chinese water symbol carved right into his wooden forearm. He also had people over to the house at all hours, playing loud music, smoking and drinking.

  A few times when I actually managed to catch him alone I tried to broach the subject of him going back on the cross where he belonged, but he was always too busy to discuss it.

  ***

  I tried going to church the following Sunday, but no one was there. Not even the preacher. I guess with the cross empty, no one saw the point.

  The news became more disheartening every day. The world wasn’t becoming more violent or more dangerous, simply more apathetic. People had stopped caring—about each other, about their jobs, about their homes.

  It was as though the collective lives of mankind had lost all meaning.

  ***

  Jesus had been in my home for nearly two months when he came to me excitedly one day and said, “I got a job.”

  “What? Where?”

  “I’m bagging groceries down at the Food Emporium.”

  “You’re going to work at a grocery store?”

  Jesus looked offended. “Hey, it’s decent money and within walking distance. I can save up to get a car and eventually my own place.”

  The whole conversation was causing me to feel a little dizzy so I sat down heavily on the sofa. I couldn’t say I was entirely surprised; part of me had known this was coming. “Your own place?”

  “Yeah, I can’t keep living with you forever.”

  “But you’ve got to get back up on that cross.”

  He folded his arms and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you have to. It’s your . . . I don’t know, your duty.”

  “I think I performed that duty long enough,” he said, walking around behind me. “It’s time I got to have a life.”

  “But don’t you see what’s going on in the world? Mankind needs a Savior.”

  “I know,” Jesus said, and I heard real mourning in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

  I turned to look at him in time to see the bat swinging toward me.

  ***

  When I came to, I didn’t know where I was. After my initial disorientation passed, I looked at the church’s sanctuary. Looking down at the sanctuary. The pews were full again, some people with their heads bowed in prayer, others with faces and hands upraised. There was singing and laughing and shouts of “Amen.”

  The preacher stood directly beneath me, his face beaming with joy. “We knew you would not forsake us, Lord. We praise you and thank you for returning to us.”

  I did not speak, didn’t know what I would say even if I could. I could feel the nails through my wrists and feet, the thorns digging into my forehead, the spear gouging my side, oddly, there was little pain. Discomfort, yes, but no real pain.

  I looked across the sea of worshippers.

  In the very back, near the exit, I spotted Jesus wearing my best suit. He smiled sadly at me then walked out the door.

  SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

  Dru was her name.

  She wasn’t exactly sure of her age. Such abstract concepts as years, months, and days meant little to her. The last birthday Dru remembered was her sixteenth, and that had been shortly before her mother had fallen victim to the Plague. That could’ve been five years ago or fifteen; she wasn’t sure and figured it didn’t really matter.

  She rode through the streets on a motorcycle, a big bitch of a Harley she had lovingly restored herself. The city seemed deserted, the silence of the night shattered only by the rumbling of the Harley’s engine. The raw power of the machine vibrated up Dru’s crotch to radiate throughout her body. She reveled in the feeling, leaning forward into the wind as she edged the machine’s speed up a few more notches, rocketing down the street, winding her way effortlessly through the burned-out husks of long abandoned automobiles as if through a labyrinth.

  The dark buildings of the city loomed over her in their dilapidated splendor. Glass and debris littered the cracked sidewalks. From certain darkened doorways, curious, clandestine eyes peered out and tracked her passage, betraying her feeling of isolation. She brought her Harley to a stop in the middle of an intersection, the extinguished traffic light hanging overhead. Dru was running low on fuel, both for the Harley and her own stomach. It wouldn’t be difficult to scrounge up some food, but gasoline was another matter altogether. Luckily, a friend had given her the name of a man who had a stockpile of fuel and sold it to those able to pay what he charged. It wasn’t money the man was after; in this drastically altered world, money no longer had any real value. But the man had an insatiable craving for tobacco, which unfortunately was almost as hard to come by as gasoline. It just so happened that Dru had several cartons of cigarettes in the duffel bag strapped to the back of her cycle. Tit for tat, it would be a fair trade.

  As Dru checked over the directions one last time, a figure shambled out of the blackness of a nearby alley. He wore a ripped trench coat, and his scraggly hair obscured his eyes. He staggered toward the intersection, but one piercing glare from Dru and the derelict quickly changed course and disappeared into a shadowy storefront.

  Dru was a menacing figure, standing at six feet four inches tall, her body lean and as well-muscled as that of any man. She wore her shockingly red hair close to the scalp in a military-style buzz cut. Her face was full of sharp angles with thin lips and emerald-green eyes that were lethal in their intensity. She dressed almost exclusively in black, favoring jeans, tank-tops, and heavy work boots. Her expression was always one of extreme seriousness and cruelty, and only the foolhardy ever attempted to mess with her.

  She refolded the directions and stuffed them in her pocket, glancing to her right where she’d last seen the derelict. No sign of him now, but something did catch her eye. On the side of a four-story brick building a message was scrawled in neon-pink spray paint. The sign was faded but still legible. Dru’s face evinced no emotion as she read the message, a desperate plea: PLEASE FIND A CURE!

  Four little words, but they spoke volumes. There were similar messages all around, memorials to a dead world.

  Dru turned the Harley onto the intersecting street and shot off toward the city limits. Up ahead, she could see the glow from a fire burning in an old trash barrel, and voices drifted to her over the cacophony of the cycle’s engine. As Dru rode by, she saw two men screeching and laughing as they mercilessly kicked a third man lying crumpled on the ground. Dru considered riding on—it wasn’t any of her business—but she knew that her conscience would never stop needling her if she didn’t try to help. Making a quick U-turn, she drove back to the men. The two halted their assault as Dru pulled up and cut the engine on her motorcycle.

  “Well, lookee what we got here,” one of the assailants, a short man with the face of a particularly ugly sewer rat, said. Dru smelled the liquor on his breath even from a few feet away. “I thoughts it was a man at first.”

  Dru said
nothing as she dismounted the bike.

  “Nope, that ain’t no man,” the other man said. He was about the same height as his friend but at least a couple of hundred pounds heavier, his doughy flesh jiggled when he moved. “This is one of them butch chicks, pro’ly wishes she was a man.”

  Rat Face giggled. “Well, what can we’s do for ya, Butch?”

  “I was wondering what crime this man committed to deserve such a vicious beating,” Dru said evenly, her voice surprisingly feminine and melodic.

  “Oh, the crime of weakness,” Dough Boy, who seemed to be the leader, said. He grinned, revealing a few blackened teeth that protruded from his gums like tombstones. He grabbed the beaten man by the hair and pulled him to his knees. “This here boy’s a queer.”

  Dru eyed the battered man, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. Tall, pitifully scrawny, with long black hair falling into his face and down his back in matted clumps, Dru noticed. His facial features were distorted by countless bruises and abrasions, his left eye swollen shut. His hands were tied behind his back, and his clothes hung from his emaciated frame in tattered shreds. He made mewling sounds deep in his throat, like a frightened animal. Dough Boy pushed him to the ground.

  “That’s a crime punishable by death?” Dru asked.

  “You know it,” Rat Face said, striding over to deliver a swift kick to the captive's ribs. Rat Face then sat on a crate by the fire and laughed as he watched the captive’s obvious agony.

  Dru said nothing.

  “Few days ago we caught this ‘un and some other guy sleepin’ together in a warehouse,” Dough Boy said. “They didn’t even have the decency to deny they was doing the dirty deed. It was like they wasn’t ‘shamed of it.”

  “Where’s the other man?” Dru asked.

  Rat Face spat into the fire. “He up and died on us. Guess he wasn’t as strong as his butt-buddy here.”

  “Say, you’s kind of pretty,” Dough Boy said. “I’s don’t usually go for you butch types, but I’m just drunk enough. I bet you’s a real wildcat in the sack, huh?”

  Dru smiled tightly. “Why don’t you come find out?”

  “Alrighty, this my lucky day.”

  When Dough Boy was within range, Dru spun around and kicked out with her right leg. The heel of her boot smashed into Dough Boy’s face, crushing his nose and sending hot blood gushing from his nostrils. Dru punched him squarely in the gut. He woofed out all the breath in his lungs and fell to the ground.

  Rat Face was still immobile on the crate, too stunned to react. Dru turned and started toward him, but then Rat Face’s paralysis broke. He jumped up, grabbed Dru by the neck, and slammed her against a nearby telephone pole, slivers of the splintering wood digging deep into her back.

  “You’s gonna die now, bitch!” Rat Face spat, pulling a serrated hunting knife from his belt and pressing it against Dru’s throat. The tip dimpled the soft flesh on her neck and sent a thin line of blood trickling down into the collar of her shirt. “I’m gonna kill you slow; make you hurt.”

  In one quick, fluid motion, Dru grabbed Rat Face’s wrist and gave it a violent twist, efficiently snapping the bones in two. Rat Face cried out and dropped the knife. Dru took this opportunity to ram her knee into his crotch. Whimpering, he crumpled to the ground at her feet.

  Dru saw that Dough Boy had managed to struggle to his knees, clutching his still-gushing nose and screaming bubbly curses at her. Dru hurried over and planted a strong kick under Dough Boy’s jawbone, snapping his head back and sending him sprawling onto his back. She retrieved Rat Face’s knife and hacked through the ropes that bound the captive’s wrists together.

  “Thank you,” the captive croaked as Dru helped him to his feet.

  “No time for thanks. We’ve got to get the hell out of here. Come on.”

  After situating herself on the bike, she helped the scrawny man onto the back and urged him to hold on tight. She peeled away. They were long gone by the time Dough Boy and Rat Face regained their strength.

  ***

  Miles away, in a barn on the outskirts of the city, Dru tended to the wounded man’s injuries. He told her his name was Lowell. Outside, an elderly black man in faded overalls and a straw hat gassed up the Harley while happily puffing away on two unfiltered cigarettes at once.

  “I’m sorry about your friend,” Dru said in a neutral voice.

  Lowell grimaced. “Yeah, me too.”

  Dru cleaned the gashes on Lowell’s back. Dough Boy and Rat Face had used a whip on him. The wounds were deep and Dru hoped they wouldn’t get infected.

  “What was his name?” she asked to distract Lowell from the pain.

  “Rick.”

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  “If only I’d had the strength to fight back, to make those bastards pay for what they did. If you hadn’t stopped, I’d be dead, too.”

  “Well, I did,” Dru said, applying makeshift bandages. “And you’re going to be okay.”

  “I want to get out of the city,” Lowell said softly. “Rick and I were planning to head down to the coast soon, maybe spend the summer there.”

  “Really? That’s where I’m headed myself.”

  Lowell perked up and said, “Take me with you. I won’t be much trouble, I promise.”

  “I don’t know about that, trouble seems to follow me.”

  “Please,” Lowell said, taking Dru’s hand. “I need to get out of here, away from the memories. I don’t have anything to pay you, but I’ll do anything you ask. It’s not even that far, really.”

  Dru stared at him for a moment. “Okay, but once we get to the coast you’re on your own.”

  “That’s fine,” Lowell said, smiling. Dru hadn’t seen the man’s smile before, and she was surprised by its beauty. His teeth were even, if a bit yellowed, and the grin lit up his entire countenance. “Maybe you can even teach me some of your moves. You know, so I’ll be prepared the next time a couple of Neanderthals try to beat me to death.”

  Dru smiled crookedly. “I think that would take more time than we’re going to have together. Lie back and get some rest. You’re going to need some time to recuperate.”

  Lowell didn’t argue. He closed his eyes and reclined in the hay. Within moments, his breathing evened out and he snored quietly. Dru watched him for a while, listening as he called out for Rick in his sleep, then she walked out into the night. The stars shone in the sky and the crickets sang in the grass as if all were still right with the world. Dru knew better.

  The old black man limped over, a gap-toothed grin on his wrinkled face. “The tank’s topped off, and I’m giving you an extra can of gas for the road. You and your companion are welcome to stay the night if you want.”

  “Thanks, I think we will,” Dru said with a nod.

  The old man tipped his comical hat and went inside the barn. Dru lingered outside, feeling the need to spend some time alone. She sat on the ground, head tilted back. A shooting star streaked across the sky, leaving a trail of vapor in its wake. Dru felt the sudden need to cry.

  But she didn’t.

  LAND OF PLENTY

  Benjamin Fuller was executed this morning.

  The execution wasn’t a public affair—those were discontinued when I was still a little girl—nor was there an announcement in the paper. Everyone in the village knew about it though. We’d known it was going to happen for the past nine months, but the birth of Fredda Jones’s baby boy last night had solidified it into an inevitability.

  While I was working this morning in the garden behind the house, my callused fingers lovingly kneading the fragrant, fertile soil of the tomato patch, I heard the clock from the town square chime eleven times to signify the hour. I paused in my work, closing my eyes and letting a shuddering breath escape my lungs, allowing it to pass through my clenched teeth with a faint hiss. Each chime struck me like a physical blow, and if I hadn’t been kneeling in the dirt already, I might have collapsed to the ground.

  Ben Fuller’s death at the age of
eighty-one meant that my grandfather, with whom I’ve lived since my parents’ death ten years ago, was now the eldest living citizen of Pleasant Hills.

  I tried to ignore the chimes and their cheerfully ominous music, but I could not block them out. I was painfully aware of each thunderous chime. The sound reverberated through my entire body, causing me to shiver as if in the grips of palsy.

  “Isabella,” my grandfather called out from behind me, his voice weak and quavering. “Isabella, love, have you fallen asleep amongst the tomatoes?”

  I opened my eyes with a great effort and turned toward my grandfather’s voice. He stood at the back door, inside the threshold, leaning his full weight against the doorjamb. He looked so frail to me in that moment—his back bent, his shoulders stooped, his thinning hair the color of dirty dishwater, his clothes hanging limply from his emaciated frame—his image quivered like a mirage as my eyes moistened.

  “No, Pee-Paw,” I said, using the childhood sobriquet that neither I nor my grandfather had ever outgrown. “I’m not asleep, just resting my eyes a bit.”

  Pee-Paw looked past me toward the village. He did not comment on the chimes. “The sun is merciless today.”

  I rose to my feet, my knees cracking like burning kindling. “Do you need something? Are you having another one of your spells?”

  “No, no, dear,” Pee-Paw quickly assured me. Recently, Pee-Paw had been suffering from debilitating bouts of dizziness and exhaustion. He would be reduced to lying in bed for weeks at a time, unable to muster the strength to rise. I would prop his head up with several pillows and feed him soup as if he were an infant.

  “You should be resting,” I said, hurrying across the heat-dried grass, the brittle blades crunching like hard-shelled insects beneath my feet. Placing the back of my hand against Pee-Paw’s sweaty forehead, I added, “It’s too hot for you out here. You’ll tucker yourself out.”