“That’d be alright. Not a bad idea. It’d keep our spirits up. We’ve got lots of batteries for now, anyhow. But… don’t go off alone, ok?”
“Mmmhmm,” Meg said vaguely. I could tell she was beginning to nod off.
“Let’s go to bed,” I suggested. Suddenly she looked up, startled, her eyes wide.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean…” she trailed off as she saw my confused expression. “Oh. Like separately. Sorry, we were just talking about…” She looked down and her cheeks were red.
“Oh,” I stammered. “No of course not. I mean not that I wouldn’t… It’s just… No it’s… it’s not a good idea right now is all.” I stumbled through the sentence awkwardly. All the pie and romantic lighting and wine in the world could not have helped me save face. Suddenly the illusion of romance was shattered and I felt more like an awkward pubescent boy trying to talk to a pretty girl than a man having steak dinner and drinks with a beautiful, fascinating woman.
“Don’t worry about it,” Meg said, laughing lightly. I could not get over how much difference it made to see her smile and hear her laugh. It was musical and instantly infectious and the awkward feeling was replaced with relief. “We don’t want things to get awkward between the two last people on earth. I mean, what if you’re bad in the sack?” she said with a mocking smile.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I said adopting a proud and indignant look.
“Zombie outbreaks only happen in movies and on TV,” she mused. My expression became puzzled. I didn’t follow her train of thought. “If we sleep together now, we lose the sexual tension and we won’t get renewed for a sequel or second season. I want my sequel. Maybe for the season finale we could sleep together?” She said, looking very serious.
“We should go over these scripts again,” I caught on, playing along, “maybe do a few test screenings. I’m not sure your character comes across as likeable or believable.” Meg shot me a glare, then laughed melodically again. She yawned widely.
“I had a lovely time this evening,” she said, putting on the tone and air of an upper class lady. “Do call me again sometime. I’m off to bed, goodnight.”
“Night, Meg,” I replied. She took her dishes and piled them by the door.
“We’ll throw them away tomorrow,” she said. “No sense cleaning when we have a whole town’s worth of plates.”
I laughed. I dimmed the lantern, but continued to sit at the table for a while as Megan moved behind a tall shelf and changed for bed. I heard the creak of her cot as she settled in and the zip of her sleeping bag. Within minutes she was breathing softly as I continued to sit at the table. I stayed up for a long time, listening to the strange and unnatural stillness of a town without people; without power. I felt relieved to an extent I’d never experienced before. I knew now with some certainty I could live with Megan and I knew that she, too, had chosen to survive. None of the fear and loneliness that had washed over me in those first nights alone now remained. I was content and, although deep sleep still eluded me, I rested comfortably that night.
Fifteen
Well look way down the river
And what do you think I see?
I see a band of angels and they’re comin’ after me
Ain’t no grave can hold my body down
There ain’t no grave can hold my body down…
I’d thought the song had been part of my restless dreams but as I opened my eyes, I realized I’d been half awake for a while. Somewhere nearby, Johnny Cash was singing in his cracked and aged voice made all the more haunting by the tracks of twanging, ringing guitar and a percussion track made to sound like a dragging chain; the sound of a prisoner limping slowly to his last meal, or perhaps that of a proud man, falsely accused, moving nobly to his long awaited redemption. I stretched and yawned, though I felt neither rested nor tired.
Megan peered from around a shelf. “Morning,” she called, “I found a speaker and some batteries. Don’t worry, I didn’t leave, it was here in the shop. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, I was awake,” I replied, sitting up. “Where’d you find the music?”
“My phone still has a little juice. Later on I thought I might find a car that’ll start and plug it in.”
“Good idea. We should try to keep a few cars running if we can; start them every so often; keep their batteries charged up and their oil flowing.”
“Sounds good,” she replied, though she sounded indifferent to the idea.
“I was thinking about heading off for a bath,” she said. “I could find a house or something and boil some water.”
“We probably shouldn’t go alone,” I replied.
“You really are determined to make sure I don’t off myself, aren’t you?” she teased good-naturedly. I was glad that she was in a good mood and that she was able to joke about it. It made me feel more comfortable to have it all out in the open. “Or are you just hoping you’ll get to see me naked?”
“Honey, I already seen you naked.” I replied nonchalantly. “You might not remember that first night, but I sure do.” I closed my eyes and smiled, pretending to imagine a scene I hadn’t witnessed. I may not have actually seen Megan naked, but my mind was beginning to form the picture unbidden. I pushed the thought away.
“You sick bastard!” she cried, but there was no sincerity behind it. “Taking advantage of a helpless drunk girl in the middle of the night! I was cold, alone and vulnerable.” She pretended to cover herself over her clothes. I laughed.
“It was either that or let you die of hypothermia,” I shrugged. “The best way to heat up a body is with another body,” I winked dramatically.
“Great,” she said in mock disgust. “The only man I know is a pervert.”
“Is that really any different than how it was before?” I asked feigning innocence. “In all seriousness, I didn’t see anything, just so you know. And we really shouldn’t go out alone. That was a mistake yesterday. I shouldn’t have gone out either.
“Actually, while you were out scavenging yesterday, I was heating you up a bath one small pot at a time. In the motel down the street. I even put in bath salts.” I pouted, pretending to look heartbroken and unappreciated.
“Did you? Really?” she asked, her voice sounding touched and sincere for a moment. “That’s very sweet.”
“No big deal, just thought it might help you feel better.” I shrugged, blushing a little.
“Or maybe you just can’t stand the smell of me any more?” she joked.
“No, you were right earlier. I’m just trying to see you naked.”
“Ok, ok. You can sit alone out in the cold, dark motel room and guard the bathroom if it would make you feel better, but you better get up quick, I’m not waiting for you and I’m sure as hell not letting you in with me.”
I rolled my eyes and climbed stiffly out of the cot. My legs and arms were cold and clumsy. I stood next to the propane heaters rubbing my extremities to get the blood flowing again.
“Let’s go,” she called.
We pulled on coats, grabbed our shotguns and opened the door, stepping out into a bright but windy day. The cold bit hard. It wasn’t a feeling, really, more of a sensation. I could tell that my skin tightened and stiffened in the freezing air. I could tell that my lashes were sticking together in the icy wind and there was burn in my nose as though the air was filled with razor sharp ice. I looked toward the west hoping to see a bank of clouds that would signal the end of this cold snap. What I wouldn’t give for a weather report, I thought.
“Amazing how much we took everything for granted,” Megan mused, “Even something as simple as a weather report… all the money, hours and technology that went into it… not to mention getting the information out to the public…”
“Git outta my head, woman,” I muttered, amused that she’d had the same thought. She laughed musically again. There were four more figures out today, shuffling stiffly toward us. Attracted by the sound perhaps. They weren
’t fast enough to pose much of a problem and they were still far out of our way. We left them and carried on to the motel. I’d taken the keys from behind the front desk the day before. The motel still used the old-fashioned lock and key rather than the magnetic strip. I inserted the key and opened the lock, my hands and fingers moving clumsily so that it was a difficult task to accomplish.
We entered the dark room and I drew open the thick blackout blinds, filling the room with the pale, watery light of a clear winter day. The day before, I’d left behind some extra pots, kettles, burners, some battery operated lanterns and a propane space heater. I’d left the bathwater to sit and refilled each of the pots, not knowing for sure when the taps were going to quit. A thin crust of ice had formed over each container. The ice was not at all unexpected, but it wasn’t a good sign. There could be major leaks draining the precious water supply even now and there would be a lot of leaks that would only develop after a bit of a thaw, pipes that would be cracked but blocked until they melted. But that was a problem for another day.
The motel room was musty and old. I doubted that it had ever been updated. It seemed to me that it had likely looked and smelled the same way since the day of its construction. It was the sort of place that you couldn’t imagine ever having been new or up-to-date. No doubt it had always looked cheap and worn out.
Despite the large front window, the room felt permanently dark. It was long and narrow and the walls, perhaps, had been painted a dirty off-white. I found it more likely that the walls had once been white and were simply covered with the unwashed grime of dust and fingerprints and cigarette smoke. The two twin beds were made up with brown threadbare comforters that should have been able to conceal their many stains but seemed noticeably spotty none the less. The mattresses squeaked loudly, seeming too soft in some spots and far too hard in others. The bedframe was loose and groaned under any movement. The groans were frequent, as the slightest movement seemed to tilt the unsecure legs back and forth or side to side. The scratched and dented wooden headboard knocked loudly against the wall of the adjacent room causing the cheaply framed nature print copies that hung on the wall above each bed to rattle. The carpet was the same shade of brown as the comforters and was equally patchy. It was stained prodigiously and the high traffic pathways and been nearly worn down to the nylon mesh. It looked painful; like a shorthaired dog’s coat with a bad case of mange. The television was a large tube model with a gigantic glass lens on the front; practically an antique.
We went around lighting burners and heating the water. Meg started up the propane heater and positioned it in front of the bed, where she sat warming her hands. I took the towels from the towel rack and left them next to the heater so that they’d be warm after Meg’s bath. They had become damp from the steam yesterday and had frozen stiff as cardboard.
It took twenty minutes to fill the tub, heating the water and pouring it in, pot after pot. It was a long, dull wait, but Megan had brought along her speakers and played music while we sat, sometimes humming or singing along.
I’d heard little of the music before but was enraptured by the crystal clarity of the singers’ voices and the perfectly matched harmony. It was stunning in its beauty. Up in the oil fields, what little music I heard was rough and garish, either the grunge rock that most of the young guys listened to or the hokey old pop-country music that the older guys liked. Back home, my father only listened to classic American rock and roll. It had to be red-blooded and blue-collared. The only commonality between Megan’s taste and his might have been some of the Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash was American and didn’t take shit so Dad liked him well enough. He didn’t like ‘hippy shit.’ He did tolerate my mother’s taste in fifties pop. It was her all over. The perfect housewife; never raised a voice against her husband, always brought him a beer when he was watching the game, never out of her place. The only time she ever contradicted him was when she was reluctantly defending me.
I soaked in Megan’s melodies and it was like awakening to a new world, a new language and the purity of the music washed over me while we waited for the bath to become hot and steamy. I’d never given music much attention before, but this told stories. It spoke volumes. It was as ageless as the human spirit. The music somehow suited Megan perfectly. It was exactly the right thing for her to listen to.
“No peeking,” Megan teased when at last the bath was ready, closing the door to the bathroom. I laid back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling while the music played on through the bathroom door.
I could hear the water slosh as she lowered herself into the bathtub. She began singing softly to herself. I listened contentedly, closing my eyes.
Some time later, I realized that the hunger had intensified again, pushing itself to the forefront of my mind. Some delicious smell was coming from inside the bathroom and I could almost visualize tendrils of scent snaking under the door as though I was in a cartoon. I hoped that whatever wire had become crossed in my brain that caused me to feel hunger and smell food everywhere would right itself. I also wished that food would recover its taste soon. At least I’d learned that I could still enjoy steak. I pushed aside the hunger and listened again to Megan singing, forcing thoughts of food out of my mind. The sound of her voice, as cliché as this may sound, soothed me and when I allowed it to occupy my thoughts I felt everything else subside; the hunger dulled.
I wasn’t sure how long it had been there, but I suddenly became aware that I’d been hearing movement and scratching coming from somewhere nearby. I opened my eyes and got up from the bed. The motel room’s large front window revealed a horrific sight. I stood gaping, unable to move or breathe for several moments.
“Meg,” I called, my voice a strangled croak. She hadn’t heard me and carried on singing. I stumbled toward the bathroom door, not taking my eyes off the window. “Megan!” I called again, louder, the panic evident.
“You still can’t come in,” she replied in a soft tone that spoke of the utmost relaxation.
“We’ve got company.” Outside the window, shuffling against the door, I could see a crowd of about two-dozen people, all with the same mindless look; all displaying various stages of severe frostbite. I wondered if perhaps our noise had attracted them as I looked on feeling revulsion and pity. Two more came into sight as I watched. Without thinking, I grabbed the door handle and burst into the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of Megan looking up at me shocked, her mouth hanging open, silently admonishing.
“What the hell…” she began. I quickly turned away to face out toward the motel room, partly to give her privacy and partly to punctuate the subject of my concern with violent head nods and gestures.
“We gotta go,” I said quickly. “Now.”
“What?”
“Dozens of... them,” I motioned outward vaguely, “right outside. Something must have attracted ‘em.”
“Shit,” she breathed and I heard water splash and drip as she stood up. “Pass me a towel.” I looked around but didn’t see any towels. I realized that they were out in the other room, warming in front of the heater.
“Damn,” I hissed. “One sec.” I ran to the other room to grab one. At least they were very warm and dry. The last thing Megan needed was another brush with hypothermia. It was intensely cold outside and she wasn’t going to have time to dry off properly before heading out. Another figure was ambling awkwardly down the street toward the hotel. Who knew how many more would gather if we waited… I didn’t want to get trapped by these creatures in the dank and tiny hotel room with no supplies. The portable heaters and stoves would not last long without more fuel. Once they ran out the cold would seep in. The batteries would not last and we’d be left in the dark. I’d just brought what could be carried in a bag. It hadn’t even occurred to me that we might become trapped and unable to return to our well-stocked shop. I felt the walls press inward. The room seemed to shrink by several feet. My breathing became heavier; more laboured.
Despite the horror of the people milling aro
und outside and the growing dread I felt at having our only exit blocked, I couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill of instinctive excitement as I tossed the towel to a naked Megan who stood dripping and trying to cover herself with her hands. She was lean but still had wonderfully sloping curves and just a hint of the tummy that formed on all but the most dedicated fitness buffs during the long cold winter. She was perfect and my eyes lingered subconsciously, drinking in the sight of her skin.
“Even with zombies at the front door that’s all you can think about?” Megan said dryly.
“Sorry,” I muttered, realizing my appraisal of her had been noticed. There was, I noticed, a hint of amusement on her face. I turned my back to the door as she quickly towelled off and dressed.
“Well it was nice while it lasted; not quite the quality of spa I’m used to, of course,” she said in the dry, airy tones of a diva. I could hear the strain in her voice but admired her desire to make light of the situation. “Good try though,” she added, “I appreciate the effort even if it is a rusty old tub in a cheap motel.” Again, I marvelled at how different she had become. This was not the same woman I had found… two days ago? Three? I glanced at my watch but could not seem to remember what the date had been when I’d found her. The date hardly seemed to matter at the moment. When we got back I’d figure it out and keep better track. I could not shake the feeling that losing the date was like losing something fundamentally important; like giving up on centuries of societal accounting; millennia of human recordkeeping.
“You know,” she mused, her voice becoming more calm and natural with each sarcastic word; only a hint of wild fear remained, constricting only the edges of her words with breathy anxiety. “You know you’re pretty lucky. If you’d taken a girl to a motel like this as a surprise back before all this you probably would have received a swift slap in the face. Now, believe it or not, I’m actually appreciating it as a kind and noble gesture.”
The Penance of Leather (Book 1): Ain't No Grave Page 13