Dead Reckoning

by Tom Wright

  I resisted the urge to flip through the papers and instead moved into the living room. Like the kitchen, it was neatly arranged, but cob webs stretched from corners to anything in reach. Photos of Paul’s parents adorned the mantle and coffee tables, but I noticed a lack of children or a wife in any of the pictures. As I crossed the room, the smell became worse and seemed to be coming from upstairs. Morbidly curious, I approached the stairs and looked up.

  I placed my foot on the first wooden step, and as my weight shifted forward, it creaked and groaned loudly. The hairs on my neck stood up, and I withdrew my foot. Out of fearful habit, I looked behind me and around the room. I yelled out again, and still no one answered. I put aside my fears and climbed the stairs. I had to force myself to ignore the clicking and popping and creaking of the old staircase as I ascended.

  The smell increased exponentially as I reached the top of the stairs and moved down the hallway toward a closed bedroom door. Whatever or whomever created that smell was clearly in that bedroom—the other two were empty. I found the door unlocked and slowly opened it. I winced as the hinges creaked like in an old horror movie. I stepped inside, and the unmistakably raw and sharp smell of death hit me, like a sharp spike boring into my sinuses. My eyes began to water, and something like pain rose behind them. I pulled my jacket up over my mouth and nose. It hardly helped.

  The old, small bedroom appeared to be the room of his childhood. Why he hadn’t moved into the master bedroom, I could not say. In the center of the far wall, a bed stood in front of the primary window. Cobwebs stretched from the ceiling and window corners to the bed posts and onto the corpse lying in the bed. Dust floated by in the air, illuminated by the filtered light.

  The staircase suddenly popped behind me, and the sound echoed through the room. I froze, unable to turn to look. The old staircase rebounding from my weight, I hoped. I listened for a few seconds, and nothing happened.

  I focused again on the gruesome body. I could not recognize the caved-in face, but it was almost certainly Paul. Something grew on it that reminded me of a chia pet. Suddenly, struck by a fear that I could not name, my testicles pulled up inside me. My hair stood on end again.

  Why should I be afraid of a dead body? Every ounce of reason in me suggested that there was nothing there but a lump of rotting flesh. Why should I be any more wary of what lies there than a side of beef in a butcher shop? Perhaps it was what C.S. Lewis called the fear or dread of the numinous, which is not a fear of an object like a corpse but the fear that the numinous may exist. Most of us can live in denial of anything numinous. But if the corpse were to suddenly move, we would be confronted with the reality that such a thing can happen. Suddenly, it would be possible that all the noises you heard as a child really were monsters after all.

  Curiously, only a human corpse inflicts such dread. If I happened upon a dead elk, my fear would be limited to the predator that may be nearby and not a worry that it would get up.

  I ignored the terror and choked back my last meal and approached the thing. Even upon close up inspection, I could not identify it. My urge was to poke it to verify that it would not move, but I refrained. I went to the closet and pulled out a blanket and draped it over him. A spider scurried back up along a strand of web into the corner from which it had originated.

  I looked around the room for anything useful and found his wallet on the chest of drawers. It contained Paul’s identification and over $1,000 in cash, which I took, thinking that he wouldn’t need it any more. Of course, neither would I, but I didn’t know that then, and old habits die hard. I flipped open his cell phone, and it was dead. I considered for a moment that I should say something, but then I decided that I did not know what to say except: “Good bye friend.” I feared this would not be the last time I gave someone their last rights. I took his keys and left the room.

  I bounded down the stairs two at a time and hustled back through the living room. With the house cleared, I stopped briefly to scan the papers on the dining room table. I picked up the top paper, which was dated about three days after we left Kwaj, the day Paul apparently stopped getting the paper. The headline read: Virus Spreading Rapidly. Tens of Millions Feared Dead. Tip of Iceberg?

  I scanned the headlines since they generally told the whole story: Suicide bombers continue to target hospitals; Explosive filled truck rams Houston MTF (Mobile Treatment Facility), detonates; 28 Daycare Centers targeted across nation, hundreds of children murdered; EU Imposes 24-Hr Curfew Over Europe; Bank run triggers lockdown; major interstate fuel lines hit, OPEC stops production, gas to $40!; Societal collapse? President considers martial law; Dow Zero?; China Takes Taiwan In Bloodbath, Says Japan Next; Peacekeepers Leave Africa, Blood Flows, Aid Stops; and on and on it went. One particular article several papers into the stack caught my attention, so I read into it:

  Salt Lake City, UT: Extremely low humidity coupled with hot winds and tinder dry forests created the perfect conditions for the latest terrorist strike across the western U.S. on Sunday. Armed with flame throwers, terrorists drove along interstates, highways, and rural roads setting fire to millions of acres of forest across six western states.

  Further down the stack another headline described the result: 100 million acres burned, 17 towns destroyed, more threatened.

  I kept reading, and it just kept getting worse. The virus spread without restraint and was determined to have been purposely engineered by terrorists. Communication was next to impossible. Commerce stopped. Grocery stores emptied. Israel bombed Iranian Nuclear Facilities. Wildfires raged out of control across the west, and there was no relief in sight. India and Pakistan squared off. Lawlessness prevailed, and the government was helpless to stem the tide. For the first time in its history, “the United States of America, indeed the entire civilized world, teetered on the brink of total collapse” said one editorial.

  I suddenly realized that the behavior of all of the world, outside my own little sphere, was as unpredictable as the weather and just as potentially malevolent.

  A crashing sound shook the entire house and startled me back to the present. I involuntarily dropped to my knees. Something crashed through the living room window and sent me sprawling for cover from the shattering glass. I cowered in the corner of the dining room. The sound died down as the shards of glass came to rest, and then all was quiet. I peered cautiously around the wall into the living room. A giant tree branch lay motionless, wedged through the window frame and against the floor. I crept to the window and peered through. Nothing moved.

  Satisfied that the falling tree had been a natural occurrence, I returned to the table and dug through the remaining papers looking for anything positive. I found one headline: Leaders Ponder Future Of Regional Light Rail. On the margin a small headline told of how the Mariners had swept the NY Yankees and were then in first place in the American League West. A small story toward the bottom of page one said: Experts Warn of Danger Of Bioterrorism. The paper was dated before Kate and the kids even left Kwaj, which got me moving again.

  On my way back through the kitchen, I checked the cupboards for food. A variety of canned goods lined the shelves, but I already had all I could carry. I pocketed a couple of granola bars and chugged a room temperature bottle of water. I opened the refrigerator, and due to the smell, quickly closed it again. The perishables were so far past their shelf lives that they probably would have smelled even if the refrigerator still had power.

  Back in the garage, I tried the keys in the vehicle. It turned over a few times and then sat dead. As I suspected, the gas gauge sat on E. I glanced around for a gas can, but obviously any gas cans would have been easier targets than the gas in the car’s tank. I wondered why they took the gas but left the car.

  The garage contained the usual supplies: camping stove, tent, tools, a broom, a rake—stuff that could be found in most garages—things I thought I could probably use but couldn’t carry. Then I noticed an old bicycle hanging from the rafters. I found a step ladder and lifted the bike do
wn. The tires were flat. I rummaged around and located a tire pump and re-inflated the tires.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Paul’s house had not been rummaged, and, on a whim, I ran back inside. I looked through all the closets, behind picture frames, and under rugs. I finally found a small, portable safe in the closet of the room that served as his office. It was not a gun safe, and I didn’t really even know if Paul had owned a gun, but it was worth a try in my estimation.

  I took the safe back down to the garage, found a pry bar, hammer, and chisel and spent a few minutes ruining, but not opening, the locking mechanism. I was sure I would never regret having another firearm or more ammunition or money, but it was no use.

  I jumped on the bike and road cautiously out into the street. I peddled up the hill as fast as I could, thinking that speed would reduce my chances of being seen, which, in hindsight, was probably about as logical as running through a rainstorm to avoid some of the drops or driving faster to get to a service station before you run out of gas—as if time, not miles, were the enemy. I reached the top of the hill just as the tires went flat again. I cursed myself for not bringing the pump. My legs felt like lead and my head began a new round of pounding, so I jettisoned the bike.

  I paused to look out over the water. From atop the hill, I could see the RY motoring south through the channel. I fished out my binoculars. Sonny had Jeff’s scope and swept back and forth in my direction. Jill looked through binoculars and seemed to be staring right at me. I waved and she didn’t respond. They were only a half mile off shore, but it might as well have been a million—I was a needle in a haystack now. I watched as Jill lowered the binoculars and sat down. She put her head in her hands.

  I had never felt so alone nor so terrified.

  I set out on foot. The road wound along through the trees, the tops of which, at times, completely closed in overhead and obscured the sky. I stayed close to the ditch and listened for any sound—in particular, the sound of automobiles. I encountered few houses along the first few miles of Bush Point Road, and I approached the ones I did warily. It slowed my progress greatly, but I spent time observing each house before I passed.

  In the long stretches between houses I thought of many things, but mostly I thought of my children. I didn’t truly appreciate the predicament we were in at that time, but it was clear enough that our lives would never be the same. At a time when women were breaking the glass ceilings all around them, even in the good old boys world of politics, I wondered if my daughters had lost their chance to change the world. I wondered if my son would have the chance to fulfill his dream of playing football. I wondered if any of them would have the chance to go to college or even high school. I wondered if any of them were still alive. Despite the fatigue, the dizziness, the headache, my pace quickened at such thoughts.

  The trees quickly thinned and then disappeared as Bush Point Road passed Mutiny Bay. The clearing was wonderful for the homeowners seeking a view of the bay, but bad for a traveler trying to pass undetected. Even though it slowed me down, I decided to walk in the ditches as much as possible because I could see everything from the surface of the road and, therefore, everything could see me on it.

  My thoughts went to Kate. What had she gone through in these months? What had she seen? Had she and her parents been able to protect the children? If she was still alive, had she given me up for dead? If so, had she taken another lover for protection, or worse, for love? The thought sickened me. I desperately wanted to hold her, or more to the point, to have her hold me. It had been such a long journey, and I was so tired.

  My thoughts suddenly came to present as the reality of my worsening symptoms hit home. As a man suddenly becomes aware of his heartbeat when he feels the slightest pain in his chest, I became aware that I was not well. It was a similar to the resignation one feels when it dawns on him that he’s had way too much to drink and that the last two drinks probably aren’t even in his bloodstream yet: loss of control imminent, mitigation unknown.

  I felt the back of my head, and just as a tongue easily detects the slightest abnormality in the mouth, so did my hand detect the increased swelling, the tenderness, and the dampness of blood. In a wisp of thought, I wondered if maybe I should have let Sonny come with me. I knew the RY was gone and out of reach. I began to panic at the thought of dying alone.

  Despite the desperate urge to press on, I had to rest. I intended to lie down for just a minute, but it must have been longer than that—much longer.

  20

  Whidbey Island, WA

  As I approached Kate’s parents’ house from along the beach, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Light flooded the house, and smoke rose lazily from the chimney. Kate talked gaily on the phone while her dad sat in his usual chair, watching the Seahawks game. A fully decorated Christmas tree sat in the corner, surrounded by gifts. Waves lapped at the beach, and the sun warmed my skin as I stood there in bewilderment.

  I ran to the sliding door and threw it open.

  Kate smiled and held up a finger to stall me and then told her caller that she had to go because “he just walked in.” Her dad did not even turn to look.

  “Well, it took you long enough!” she said. “Where have you been?”

  “Where have I been?” I exclaimed. “I’ve been sailing across the Pacific for the last two months.”

  She threw her arms around me and gave me the hug and kiss I had longed for. “That’s absurd,” she said.

  “Kids, come out here!” she yelled over my shoulder. “Your dad is here.”

  The kids! Soothing waves of relief washed over me. I felt as if I floated in the air.

  “Daddy!” they screamed running to me and gathering for their hugs.

  I suddenly felt the sensation of falling as a strong, sharp pain rose in the back of my head.

  “I need something for my head,” I told Kate.

  “Oh don’t be silly,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Look!”

  She turned and pointed at the mirror. The entire back of my skull was missing. I touched the back of my head, and it felt like cold tofu. I ran my fingers over the ridges of my soft, spongy brain. My fingers began to pick at it. I couldn’t control them. Walnut size bits of brain dislodged and dropped into my hand.

  Kate’s dad turned to look at me. He had no face, bleached white bones stared back at me. “Dinner at eighteen hunnerd?” he asked as his bony lower jaw moved mechanically.

  I looked at Kate as panic washed over me.

  “See?” She said. “Everything is fine.”

  “No, really,” I said. Kate and the kids began to fade from my vision. I desperately tried to hold the image. Confusion and fear turned to dread.

  “Mommy! What’s wrong with him?” one of the kids asked. I didn’t recognize the voice through the black.

  “I told you. It’s his head.”

  It wasn’t Kate’s voice. The voice was deeper, frightened, frightening. The sounds of their voices echoed as if they were talking through a culvert, but gradually the reflections of sound coalesced as my mind focused.

  “Is he going to be all right?” the child asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I sensed the wetness on the back of my head—like a cold patch of drool on a pillow. I opened my eyes and flickering firelight cast picket-fence-like shadows on the wall next to me. Somewhere a door opened, there was a rustling, and then a dull thud like firewood being dropped echoed through the structure.

  I quietly tried to move and found that I was tied down. I wriggled against my restraints, and the apparatus upon which I was lying shifted, causing the floor to creak. The people immediately became silent, leaving the irregular crackling of the fire as the only discernible sound.

  “Get your brother,” the woman whispered.

  A pitter-patter of footsteps, and then a distant door opened and closed again.

  I heard a turn and click of a knob on a much nearer door. A plane of firelight slowly opened up and spread across the bla
nket over me. I closed my eyes and tried desperately not to blink.

  Realizing that the woman was alone, I began to fight against the restraints and the pain in my head. Light spilled into the room as the woman rushed in with a lantern.

  “Please don’t do that!” she pleaded. Her long, dirty, frazzled hair made her look like a witch in the light of the lantern.

  I managed to get one leg free just as a teenage boy entered the room and pointed a shotgun at my face. “Don’t move!” he yelled.

  I froze.

  “Where am I? What are you doing to me?” I asked as a younger boy entered.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said in a tone of voice that was part guilty cry and part remorseful whine. She grabbed the younger boy and rushed out.

  The older boy stood there and studied me for some time. A handsome boy of maybe seventeen with fine hair clinging in patches to his tightly stretched facial skin—his meager attempt at a beard. I smelled in him more fear than hate.

  “Well?” I asked.

  The woman rushed in and pushed down the barrel of the shotgun.

  “Mother!” exclaimed the boy.

  “Stop it! We can’t hold him here like this. I’m going to untie him and let him go.”

  The boy protested that I could be dangerous, that maybe I was one of them.

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone,” I said. “I promise. I just want to get out of here.”

  She untied my legs first.

  “You’re sure you’re not going to try anything?” she asked.

  “Try anything? What have I ever done to make you think I’d try something?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, well, you know.”

  “No I don’t, really. By the way, where am I?”

  “What do you mean?” asked the older boy.