by Lisa Morton
I hoped the coyote got away. Los Angeles had belonged to the wild animals before we got here, and by rights it should be theirs again.
It was definitely time to go.
In the morning we had a last meal in the mansion, I took my dose of Prolixin, then I loaded Teddy into the SUV, and said goodbye to our shelter. I even made sure the front door was closed as solidly as possible. Silly, I know, but somehow it mattered.
I knew where I wanted to go and, thanks to the road atlas, how to get there, but I had no idea how long it would take. I didn’t know how far the SUV would go on a gallon of gas, or how many gallons it held. I’d tested my siphoning abilities on some cars yesterday, and had discovered it wasn’t hard at all— one hard suck on the end of the tube, and the gas would flow out of their tank into our can. I figured as long as we found cars along the way that we could siphon gas from, we should be fine. It was late summer, so we shouldn’t run into any snow or any of that shit.
Snow. Like I knew anything about snow.
Christ, I’d never been out of Southern California before. Now I was embarking on a cross-country tour.
Yeah, I know—everybody in L.A. is from somewhere else, right? Nope, not me. Born and raised. In fact, second generation—both my folks were natives, too. Of course they’d divorced when I was three, and my dad had moved then, to Atlanta. I hadn’t seen him since. Last time I saw my mom, she was just going into rehab for the third time.
They were probably both dead now. Somehow that thought didn’t shake me up much.
Between mom’s addictions and her minimum-wage job at a convenience store we’d never had enough money to travel. We’d been to Disneyland once. The beach a few times. Mom promised to take me to Vegas once, but then she went with a new boyfriend and left me behind.
So, the mental facility in Oxnard was the farthest from L.A. I’d ever been.
We drove through the early-morning streets of Beverly Hills, heading for the 10 freeway. It was still weird to see L.A. looking like a ghost town. I passed a few dead people on the sidewalks, and I saw exactly three living people in the few miles it took to get to the freeway. One teenage girl was naked and crawling across a lawn. One older woman staggered aimlessly down a sidewalk. One middle-aged guy looked like he was trying to hump a fire hydrant.
I was glad when we finally got to the 10. It was relatively clear of cars and hadn’t been covered with sand or trash yet. It was a pleasure to get the SUV up to eighty. Its motor purred, and the air conditioner silently kept us luxuriously cooled. Teddy lolled in his seat with a slight smile on his face, and we headed into the east.
Chapter 6
We took the 10 freeway to the 15 heading north, which took us to Barstow, where we caught the 40 heading east again. We were going through desert country, and in some places the road was already partly covered with sand.
If I tried to come back this way later, it might not be passable.
A few hours later, we crossed the border, leaving California and heading into Arizona.
I was out of California for the first time in my life. And you know what was strange? Arizona didn’t look much different from California. The same tumbleweeds and trash blowing across the highway. The same cars just sitting in the road, requiring me to swerve around them. The same corpses splayed out across sidewalks. Some more sand and cactus, that was about it.
We stopped in a place called Kingman, to gas up. I spotted a strip mall with a bunch of cars still in the parking lot, and pulled in. Once my engine was shut off and I was out of the truck, it was completely silent, nothing but the sound of wind and blowing papers and something banging against a building somewhere.
I went to the nearest car, used a screwdriver to snap open the little door over the tank opening, unscrewed the lid and shoved my tubing in. I knelt by one of the gas cans, gave the tube a good suck, and was rewarded by the sight of gas flowing down. While I let the can fill, I stood up and looked around.
I laughed when I remembered the line from the old song “Route 66” about “Kingman, Arizona” (Interstate 40 had once been Route 66); gee, it sounded great in the song, exotic and kind of wild. Unfortunately, Kingman now looked pretty desolate, and I thought it probably had even before the dreaming started, nothing but cheap chain restaurants and gas stations and convenience stores and ugly two-bedroom stucco houses. I’ll bet the height of culture around here had been TV Guide. Made me proud to be a Californian.
While I was thinking that, I heard Teddy whimper in the car.
“Teddy, what—” I started, but broke off at a sound behind me.
A strange sound, like a fast rattling buzz.
Something told me to turn very slowly.
There was a goddamn rattlesnake three feet away from me, coiled up and rattling and ready to strike.
Where the fuck had it come from? Must’ve been under the car. I was probably lucky the goddamn thing hadn’t bitten me while I was setting up the siphon. Its ass-ugly head swerved back and forth on its upstretched neck; its mouth was open, and I could even see stuff dripping from the fangs.
I was vaguely aware that Teddy was screaming his head off in the SUV. What I was mainly thinking—and it was weird, how time had slowed down to a crawl, how my thinking seemed to move so much faster than everything else—was that I had on my gunbelt, and the revolver was loaded and holstered at my right. Could I draw faster than the snake could strike?
It was going to strike anyway, so I had nothing to lose.
I swear, I felt like I was the sheriff in some old cowboy movie, the fearsome gunslinger. My hand slid smooth as could be to that gun, and before I knew what’d happened I’d fired and blown that snake’s head clean off.
The rattle kept going for a couple of seconds, then stopped.
I stood there staring, kind of shocked but kind of stoked, too. I’d never done anything like that in my life. I felt powerful and super-talented and pretty fucking invincible.
Then I realized Teddy was still screaming, and it all went away as I holstered the gun and ran to the car.
He was still staring at the snake’s headless body, his eyes big watery saucers, his hands clutching at the dashboard, his body trembling all over.
I got it: He had a snake phobia. My past experience had taught me a little about phobias, and Teddy had a bad one.
I jumped into the driver’s seat and took hold of his face, trying to get him to look at me, not the snake. “Teddy, Teddy, it’s okay, it’s dead, it can’t hurt you—”
His eyes turned my direction, but he didn’t really see me.
I tried taking his hands. “It’s okay, Teddy, it’s over—”
Nothing.
Have you ever watched someone you love twitch in terror in their sleep? This was like that, only ten times worse. He kept screaming and crying, and I didn’t know what to do. I tried a light slap, but he just howled more.
I couldn’t stand this. My mind was racing furiously. How could I get him out of this?
Of course. Prolixin.
I knew it probably wouldn’t help this nightmare—it needed a couple of days to really kick in—but it would stop this from happening again. So I cradled him until it was over, crying with him, rocking him gently. Then I slid two of the pills into his mouth and made him drink some bottled water.
Since we weren’t in any big hurry, I decided to hole up in Kingman for a few days. I would have preferred somewhere else, but I thought being in a quiet, comfortable place would make the transition back to sanity easier for Teddy. I found us a decent three-bedroom up on a hill, with a little (dying) garden and nice furniture, and we moved in.
The Prolixin worked. Teddy actually slept through the night, which was new because the people who had the dream sickness didn’t really sleep.
He woke up the next morning, not long after dawn. He was groggy, but fairly lucid. I told him where we were, and why we were there, and where we were going. He kind of nodded, then drifted away.
I spent the day just goofi
ng around. Exploring the house. Eating. Drinking. Reading.
It was late afternoon, and I was cooking up a box of macaroni and cheese I’d found in the kitchen when Teddy shambled in. I took one look at him and knew he wasn’t dreaming.
“Hi,” I said cautiously.
He sat down at the kitchen table. He was frowning, and trying to remember.
“Do you know where we are?” I asked.
He nodded. “You told me this morning, right?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure if you’d retain it or not. I gave you some of my medication, this stuff called Prolixin. It seems to stop the dreaming.”
“Okay,” he said.
“How do you feel?” I asked, spooning mac and cheese onto a plate for him.
“I don’t know. Weird.”
“Maybe this’ll make you feel better.”
We ate in silence, and drank canned fruit juice.
When we were done, Teddy said, “Do we…can I take a bath?”
I nodded. “Yeah, there’s enough water in this house. We can heat some of it, and—”
He cut me off. “That’s okay, I don’t mind.”
He picked up a five-gallon jug and started to lug it towards the nearest bathroom. I got to my feet. “Do you want help?”
“No. Let me do this.”
Uh-oh.
An hour later, Teddy emerged from the bathroom, wearing a cotton robe he’d found. He looked better (and, frankly, smelled better), but his expression was still clouded. He sat down by me on the couch. The sun had just set, and the room was lit only by the glow of a few candles I’d set up.
“You need to know who I really am,” he said.
And then he told me his story.
His name was Theodore Wittell, and his family had been upper middle class; they were set up nicely thanks to an import/export business that’d been started two generations ago. They had plans for Teddy to take over the business; but, unfortunately for those plans, he’d discovered at a young age that he liked to draw. His parents tried to pressure him into the family biz, but Teddy’s passion was his art, and he was finally allowed to major in Fine Art at a prestigious school. Upon graduation with his Bachelor’s Degree, he had several major gallery exhibitions and a coveted lead article in an influential art magazine, and he became kind of a celebrity in the art world. He was, for the first time in his life, happy. He loved being an artist, seeing people react to his paintings; he’d even been touted as “the first great African American artist of the 21st century.” He had a girlfriend he was nuts about, and figured they’d get married some day.
Then it all fell apart with the rest of the world.
The last thing Teddy remembered was sitting in his loft near downtown L.A. and listening to news reports of something called “the dream sickness.” Then everything just kind of blurred together, like snatches of half-remembered dreams. Me…the supermarket…our time together in the mansion…the drive east… waking up…
Oh Christ. I’d had nothing, and he’d had everything. We were really not an ideal match.
Teddy looked pretty glum. “I’m glad you found me, but I… this really isn’t…”
“It’s okay,” I told him, trying not to cry. “I’m glad you told me. And I want you to know that whatever you decide, I’m okay. If you want to split, I’ll understand…”
He looked up at me sharply, then took my hands. “Oh God no, that’s the last thing I want. You’re my strength now.”
I choked back a little happy sob. “You could paint again, you know. We could find an art store, get whatever you need…”
Teddy shook his head. “No. What’s the point? What I loved about painting was being able to share my dreams with everyone. There’s no one left but you now, and you don’t need any more dreams to contend with. No, that’s gone. My life is gone.”
“But…there’s still me…”
He did smile then, but sadly. “Yes. And that’s why…I’ve got something to ask that’ll sound crazy, and I know it’s not fair to you, but…”
“What, Teddy? Anything…”
“I don’t want to take any more Prolixin. I want to go back to dreaming all the time.”
I should have been shocked, or argued with him. But truth be told, I liked him better when he was dreaming, too. He might not be very useful, but he’d been happy, and I’d never had to worry about arguing with him, or if he’d run off with some other girl, or want me to do crystal meth with him.
He’d been the perfect boyfriend.
Teddy must have mistaken my silence for shock, when really I was thrilled. “I’m sorry. It’s really selfish of me to ask—”
“No, it’s not,” I answered quickly, cutting him off. “And it’s okay. If that’s what you want, then it’s what I want, too. No more Prolixin.”
He smiled, and it wasn’t sad this time, it was real and pleased, and I was happy to see it.
He kissed me, and then moved his lips up to my ear and told me he wanted to make love as long as he could. We did, then, by the light of the candles in that house, and at one point I blurted out that I loved him, and I think he was even still awake when he told me that he loved me, too.
It was probably the best night of my life.
When I woke up in the morning, Teddy was sitting up, watching the sand blowing outside, and murmuring about all the people at the party.
The Prolixin had worn off, and he was dreaming again.
And we were both happy.
We hit the road again the next day.
I’d restocked our supplies of food, water, gas and candles, and thrown in a propane cook stove. I’d even found some stores of Prolixin in a pharmacy, and added them to what I already had.
We headed east on the 40 again, blasting the AC during the day and singing along with whatever was in the CD player—She Wants Revenge, or Garbage, or some oldies like Siouxsie and the Banshees.
We crossed the state line and found ourselves in New Mexico first, then a day later Texas, heading for Amarillo. Desert gave way to flat plain with little splatters of green, and the interstate became easier to drive on, less covered in sand. I stopped the CDs long enough to scan the radio stations, just in case, but came up with zero. Texas seemed as asleep as every place else.
We hit Amarillo, and decided to do some scavenging for supplies. It was strange—there was plenty of gas to be had, but the stores here were stripped pretty clean. Even the pharmacy shelves were barren, nothing but a few bottles of rubbing alcohol and aspirin left.
God, was I stupid. That should’ve tipped me off, that Amarillo was stripped so clean. If I’d been thinking, I would’ve turned around right then and gone back. I had the road atlas, we could even have picked a different way…
Stupid. And both of us almost paid bigtime for that little lapse of thinking on my part.
The trouble came the next day. We spent the night in a hotel in Amarillo, then continued east on the 40 as soon as the sun was up. It was almost fall now, and the days were getting shorter. I didn’t like traveling at night, so we tried to make the most of the daylight hours and be on our way not long after sunrise.
We were maybe an hour outside of Amarillo, it was a bright morning with a few streaky clouds overhead, and I was doing eighty along the asphalt.
Until I saw something up ahead.
I started to slow, and at first I thought it was a big accident of some kind, that a bunch of cars had piled up in the center of the freeway.
Then, as we got closer, I saw the cars were grouped around a big semi that was positioned almost perfectly across the highway, so that all lanes were effectively…
…blocked. As in roadblock.
I jammed on the brakes, and as soon as we were done screeching to a halt I slammed us into reverse.
Too late.
Two guys with guns were stepping onto the asphalt right behind us. If I kept reversing, they’d probably just shoot out the tires.
So of course you know what I did:
I flo
ored the accelerator in reverse.
And they shot out the tires. And the rear windshield. And the entire back of the SUV. Those assholes had automatic weapons, and they just creamed my car.
Fucking Texas.
The SUV thudded to a stop on the two rear wheel rims, and I threw myself over Teddy because glass and shit was flying everywhere. Suddenly the front doors were jerked open, and the guys with rifles now stood on either side of the car, pointing those automatic weapons right at us.
“Get out of the car NOW!” they screamed.
“Okay, all right!” I let go of Teddy and jumped down from the driver’s side.
“Get on your knees!”
I did.
“Hands behind your head!”
No screwing off with these guys. I locked my fingers at the base of my neck and tried not to imagine half-a-dozen close-range slugs burrowing through my body.
“How much Prolixin you got?”
That took me by enough surprise that I just gaped for a minute. “What?”
The asshole over me said, very slowly, as if talking to a child: “You’re driving on the interstate, which means you’re taking Prolixin. How much do you have?”
It all clicked together in my head: Of course. These guys were awake enough to arrange an ambush—of course they were on Prolixin. They were the ones who’d stripped Amarillo clean. And what better place to wait for more Prolixin than the main cross-country interstate?
I actually dared to look up at my captor. He was a weathered-looking guy, in his forties, with sandy hair and the beginnings of a bushy beard. He was honestly wearing a big cowboy hat. Beneath the hat, his eyes were hard.
“A lot,” I answered. “Look, you can have it all, just let us go…”
He barked a harsh laugh, then went on in that clichéd-sounding drawl. “Well, now, see, if you’d done the reasonable thing and stopped when you should’ve, we could’ve just taken your stuff and let you go. But since you made us shoot up your car, what’re you gonna go in?”