by Jason Offutt
“Whatever, dude,” Terry said, the grin on his face showing the number of beers he’d consumed.
“No,” Doug hissed. “Somebody’s here. The hotdogs, the lights, the mowed grass, the game on the Jumbotron. This shit ain’t because of the baseball fairy.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jenna said. She stepped in front of Doug, and pointed toward home plate. “There he is.”
Doug and Terry grew hush as they stepped even with Jenna; she stood with her right hand on her hip and drank Coke from a straw. Someone sat in the bottom row, right behind home plate, wearing a blue baseball cap. “Holy, shit,” Terry whispered, turning away from the field. “What are we going to do?”
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Doug said. He didn’t ask. “You insisted on coming here. You ate this guy’s hotdogs. Now you’re worried about the situation? How do you think Jenna feels? Jenna? Jenna? Where’d she go?”
Terry looked around. “She’s down there,” he said, pointing toward the man in the blue hat. “She’s walking toward him and, noooow, she’s sitting with him.”
Panic played with Doug’s chest, poking it, pulling it, stretching it like Silly Putty. “What’s he doing?” Doug asked. He’d just met Jenna an hour before, and to him she’d become his responsibility. What if…
“He’s offering her popcorn,” Terry said.
Doug grabbed Terry’s shoulder with his free hand, and clutched his beer in the other. “And what’s she doing?”
“Eating it,” he said, shrugging off Doug’s hand. “I’m going down there. I want popcorn, too.”
Doug clutched the beer Terry poured him and marched down the concrete steps.
Jenna had already found the man’s name was Johnny. When Doug reached the bottom of the row he folded his arms and nodded at the man. Thin, gray hair stuck out from the man’s Kansas City Royals baseball cap, a powder blue jersey hung off him like he weighed nothing. “How long you been here?” Doug asked.
Johnny shrugged. “A month or so,” he said, his voice soft, raspy. “It’s easy to lose track of time when time doesn’t mean anything.”
Deep. “My name’s Doug. You’ve already met Jenna and Terry.” Doug took a slow drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anybody else around here we should know about?”
Johnny shook his head and smiled. “Just me,” he said. “Just me and my baseball.”
“Yeah, there, Johnnyball,” Terry said through a mouthful of popcorn. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
The man smiled. “Johnnyball. I like that.” He took a small handful of popcorn from the nearly empty box and popped one kernel into his mouth. “When the Outbreak hit, teams stopped playing baseball, networks showed an old game here and there – ‘classic’ games. But the networks went away, too.” Johnnyball coughed, the sound came from deep inside his frail chest.
“So you came to the ballpark,” Doug said. “You figured if anywhere had baseball, it would be here.” Johnnyball nodded. “You were right.” Doug paused, picking over his next words carefully. “Listen, Johnny …”
“You don’t look so good, Johnnyball,” Terry said. “You dyin’ or something?”
Damn it, Terry. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Tact, man, tact.
“Cancer,” Johnny said, waving him off. “From years of smoking. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later. So I came here. My wife and family are gone; the Outbreak got them. I at least got them in the ground before they started sprouting mushrooms, and I wanted to die someplace happy.”
Doug stole a look at Jenna expecting to see tears; there were none. She saw him look at her and smiled. “Hey, Johnnyball,” she said. “You need anything?”
Johnny looked into the now empty popcorn box. “You could get me a refill,” he said, and handed her the white and red striped box. She took it and scampered up the concrete steps; Doug fought to keep his eyes off her bouncing bottom. He failed. Doug turned to Johnny.
“Is there anybody else here?” he asked.
Johnnyball shook his head. “No, not since the people who burned the bus on the entryway came through. I heard them coming, heard the gunshots. I locked myself in one of the luxury boxes and watched them come down the stairs, and run out onto my field. One of them peed. Two of them fornicated,” he said, spitting the words. “Fortunately, it was in the daytime so they didn’t know I was here. They didn’t stay long.”
Doug nodded and looked deeply into Johnnyball’s eyes, the whites yellowed and crisscrossed with veins, the blue iris washed pale. “Johnny, most of the people out here, the ones of us still alive are probably like those people who burned the bus,” he said. “Do yourself a favor and turn off those lights.”
He coughed again. “No,” he said, wheezing. “I’m going to finish the ’85 season before I die. I want to see the Royals win the World Series.”
“Then I guess you’re not coming with us?” Jenna asked, walking down the last few steps to her seat and plopping down beside Johnnyball.
“No,” he said. “I’m only on game 39. It’s May 24 and they just opened a three-game home stand against the White Sox. I’ve got a lot of season to go.” He patted Jenna’s knee and smiled. “I do appreciate you stopping by for a visit, but I have work to do.”
“You sure?” Doug didn’t know why he asked; a cancer-stricken old man would only hold them back.
“Yes,” Johnnyball said, waving them off. “Help yourself to beer and nachos on the way out. I put the cheese on right before the ‘National Anthem.’ It should be ready by now. Shoo.”
They walked back to the truck in silence, stopping at the concession stand long enough to fix nachos, pour beer, and grab a case of peanuts. There were plenty, and Johnnyball didn’t look like he ate much. Terry leaned on the truck, his nachos gone before they left the stadium. He took a drink of beer and sighed. “Is there anything we can do for him?”
Doug shook his head. “Nothing other than this. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Is Johnnyball going to be all right?” Jenna asked, a glob of orange cheese on her cheek.
“Nope,” Doug said, popping the last chip in his mouth. “Not at all.”
July 7: Topeka, Kansas
Chapter 11
It was about 5 a.m. the third day after Darryl had met Maryanne when he realized he was no longer in control of his life. He stared at the snow playing through the fuzz and dust on the cheap motel television screen, a half-full bottle of Ten High wedged between his legs. Darryl almost felt tired, but he couldn’t go to sleep. Not anymore. Not now, anyway. The ride wasn’t over yet, nor were the amphetamines she kept him on. Darryl sat in bed, leaning against a fake headboard nailed to the thin motel wall, listening to the sound of running water trying to drown out the television hiss. Maryanne Davies was in the shower again. She had been in there an hour, at least. Darryl was sure the woman had a phobia about being dirty. She was always in the water, scrubbing. It must be the blood, he thought. That stuff was hell to wash off. Darryl wondered if the Piper had driven her mad, but he had to admit to himself that it wasn’t sanity that caused him to stay with Maryanne the past two days. When Maryanne popped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her, she just looked too damned good for Darryl to really care about anything. The water stopped. Darryl took another pull from the Ten High bottle and waited for her to stalk into the bedroom.
Darryl Cousins walked down a stretch of Interstate 70 that led to Kansas City when he met Maryanne, her dirty brown LeBaron the first car Darryl had seen since his own piece of shit had died outside Salina, Kansas. He’d pointed his car toward Kansas City, Missouri, from Goodland, Kansas, to escape, to run. The Outbreak, or whatever in the hell it was, had hit hard in Western Kansas, and everything, everyone Darryl had ever known was gone, dead. He didn’t think about anyone much anymore, Darryl figured if he did, he might go off and join them. All he wanted to do was get to Kansas City, Missouri; Denver was closer, but that was out. The Air Force had dropped bombs on it. At least that’s wh
at somebody passing through Goodland said. The LeBaron had squalled to a stop beside Darryl. The driver side door swung open and a female voice said, “Hop in.”
Darryl slid into the driver’s seat, the upholstery still warm, but he didn’t expect anything like Maryanne. She looked like a high fashion model with a blond ponytail dressed in skin-tight polyester. The pants were white and spotted with blood, her T-shirt dirty and sweat-stained, but nobody was too picky about clothes anymore. He didn’t know it, but that was the last time he’d ever see her dirty.
“Can you drive?” She asked, her ponytail dancing as she spoke. Darryl nodded. The girl smiled with a mouth full of white teeth. “Good,” she said, her voice close to a laugh. “Let’s go.”
He put the car’s transmission in drive and started west. A highway sign, the white on green letters pocked by shotgun blasts, read Kansas City 175 miles.
“Are you going to Kansas City?” Darryl asked. Maryanne’s face suddenly appeared in front of his, blocking his view of the road.
“No talk,” she said, smiling. “Just drive.” The girl ducked toward his lap and unzipped his denims. “If you see an open gas station,” she said. “Stop.” The girl grabbed him with delicate, sure fingers and gave him head as he drove. When Maryanne finished, she laid her head in his lap and slept. That’s why Darryl was still with Maryanne. She did anything, and she did it a lot.
The sound of running water slowed to a drip and Maryanne came out of the bathroom moving like a cat, her long, smooth legs ready to pounce. She wore a towel, holding it in front of her like a bullfighter, and she danced for Darryl. But, Darryl figured she’d probably dance like that for anyone, he just happened to be one of the lucky few left alive. He wondered what she’d been like before everyone started to die, walk around, then die again. Probably still crazy
“Are you ready?” Maryanne said as she crawled across the rickety motel bed on her knees, the towel still draped over her. She smiled at Darryl, looking to him like a hungry lioness. Her eyes glared with a spark of excitement as she crept up to him and dropped her towel. He gripped the bottle of whiskey tighter as a warm flush rushed over him. Maryanne was beautiful, and she knew it. Her naked body was about as perfect as people could still get.
“Ready for what?” Darryl asked, glaring at the smooth, naked body that was kneeling so close to his own, his voice soft, low.
“To go see the killings,” she said, a giggle capturing her attention. Maryanne’s body moved with her laughter. That’s all she’d talked about for the two days Darryl had known her. Well, that and sex. Since the day she picked him up and stopped at that gas station in Junction City, Maryanne scared the shit out of him.
“Hey, wake up,” he’d said in the car, grabbing Maryanne’s shoulder and shaking it gently.
Maryanne had sat up and yawned, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands like a child. Darryl watched her every move. Fluid, smooth. Maybe she’d been a dancer before the Outbreak, he thought, or a really expensive hooker. She looked at Darryl and smiled, her teeth seeming to glow in the dash light of the dusty car.
“Hiya, handsome,” she said. “Why don’t you get out and pump us some gas?”
A man stood in the doorway of the station as Darryl pumped premium unleaded into the tank. Darryl was surprised to see him, but anymore he was surprised to see anyone. Maryanne reached for something in the backseat, her butt stuck high in the air as she leaned into the open window. Darryl stared at it. Her ass was splattered with blood, too. He wondered what had happened to her.
“Whatcha got to pay for that?” the attendant asked. Darryl turned to him. The man, about six feet tall, was at least 50 pounds heavier than Darryl. He stepped out of the doorway and walked slowly to the car, a baseball bat, notched and scarred, in his thick, callused hands. “Don’t take money no more. Shit ain’t no good. I’m about out of gas, too. So it’s gotta be somethin’ I want.”
“We’ve got something,” Darryl heard Maryanne say. He hadn’t seen her move, but she stood out of the passenger side of the car, and leaned against the LeBaron’s roof. She looked at Darryl and winked before she stood straight and pulled up her shirt, her breasts bounced out of her bra. “This good enough for you?”
The man grinned as he stepped closer to the car, his clothes filthy; Darryl could smell the man’s body odor as he stepped around to the front of the car. No bath in a while, huh, Bubba?
“You got something more than that, sugar?” he asked Maryanne. “‘Cause he’s pumping premium.”
Maryanne pulled her shirt down and motioned for the man to step around to her side of the car. Darryl just stood and watched as Maryanne dropped back into the passenger’s side and pulled a shotgun from behind the seat. The attendant’s yellow, bloodshot eyes grew large as she brought the gun up and blew a red, ragged hole in his chest. He gurgled as blood swam into his ruined lungs, and he fell to the pavement.
Maryanne dropped the shotgun into the backseat and blew Darryl a kiss. “Gotta go shopping, honey,” she said, walking toward the gas station office. “Could you wipe the bugs off the windshield while I’m gone?” Yeah, fucking crazy. She killed a guy and all she came back to the car with were candy bars.
They fucked before leaving the Super 8 motel in Topeka. Darryl didn’t know where they were going other than Kansas City. Maryanne pulled on her bloodstained polyester pants and T-shirt she’d washed in the motel bathtub. Most of the blood had come out, some of the newer stuff anyway. She still fooled with her hair as he pulled out of the motel parking lot and headed back toward the highway. Kansas City was just an hour away. They drove in silence.
The skyline of Kansas City soon rose from what had once been prairie and cattle ground; but the city had grown since its Cowtown days, now a big spot of concrete on the western corner of Missouri. “Downtown,” Maryanne said as Interstate 70 zipped through the cookie-cutter suburbs of Johnson County, Kansas, and into Missouri. “I want to see the fountains.” Darryl took a drink out of the Ten High bottle as he drove onto an off-ramp and toward downtown Kansas City. He started to see shapes on the highway in the morning light, but he knew they weren’t there. He hadn't slept since he met Maryanne, and the hallucinations were coming. Shadows danced across the highway. He wanted to sleep, but no longer thought he could. Maryanne snuggled close to him and kissed him on the ear.
“You’re doing fine, baby,” she whispered, holding the shotgun between her legs. “Just a little while longer.”
Weeds, brown and thirsty, grew between the cracks of the downtown sidewalks. The LeBaron crawled around the husk of an overturned car burned black on Baltimore Avenue; paper blew in the streets. Darryl’s family took a trip to Kansas City from Western Kansas when he was a boy; its downtown skyscrapers gleamed bright in the sunlight, and people hurried up and down the sidewalks. He remembered an old black man sitting at a Metro bus stop. The man smiled at Darryl as Darryl’s father stopped at a traffic signal next to the bus stop, his teeth big and white. Darryl smiled back and waved. The man waved too, his bony elbows stuck out of the holes in his shirt. Darryl thought of the man as he drove through the deserted streets. The Outbreak got him, he thought. Or maybe the man was lucky. Maybe he’d already died.
“Slow down,” Maryanne said, and slapped the dash with a palm, sending dust into the air. “Look at that.” Darryl slowed the car. A sign, painted in red and white, hung over a Metro bus stop. “YOU LIVE OR YOU DIE,” it read.
“My God,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” Maryanne screamed, the first traces of anger he’d heard in her voice, although she smiled like a hyena. “The killing’s here. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you smell it? Don’t you want it?” Maryanne bounced in the passenger seat, as excited as a teenager before a date. She stroked the barrels of the shotgun like she was jerking it off. Her face beamed. What the hell am I doing? Darryl wondered. He drank from the whiskey bottle and emptied it. But she was right, he could smell it. Death, sweet and pungent hung in the air, along with something. Bu
t what? What was the other smell?
“Drive,” she said, slapping the dash again. “Just drive.” The signs started coming by the dozens, hanging from abandoned Metro buses, mounted on buildings, spray-painted on the street. They saw the first body at 12th Street and Baltimore. The man was in his 20s, Darryl thought, just a few years younger than him. A thin wire, maybe an electrical cable, pulled tightly around his neck. His body, puffy, bloated, swung slightly in the wind as it hung from a lamppost. A rod stuck from his bare chest, the knot on the end burst open. Darryl had seen a few of these bodies on the highway after his car stopped working, and he started walking. He stood mouth agape as one of those knots grew like a blister under a dead woman’s blouse and burst through the crease in the shirt, two buttons popped onto the pavement. Darryl didn’t stick around to see any more; he ran until he thought his heart might burst. Darryl thought he might vomit. “There’s another one,” Maryanne screamed, pointing down the street. “Another bad citizen.”
“And another,” Darryl whispered. As far as he could see, gray, fuzzy bodies lined the road. They had been hanged from the lampposts. He could smell them now, raw, rancid, strangely sweet, but heady, like dirt. He took his foot off the LeBaron’s brake pedal and touched the gas. The car moved down the street under the eaves of swinging bodies, things that looked like mushrooms grew from all the flesh he could see, all sporting one stalk, about two feet long, with what looked like a burst seed pod. He giggled as people appeared in the doorways of abandoned office buildings, and stared at them from insane eyes. Some of them had weapons. One man, gray-haired and grinning, gave Darryl the finger. “This is it,” he said, the Ten High bottle slipped from between his legs and dropped onto the LeBaron’s floor. “We’re dead, baby.”