by McBain, Tim
Delfino
Rural Maryland
9 years, 40 days after
The Delta 88 eased to a stop, veering onto the shoulder and juddering over the gravel there. At last the tires stopped rolling, and the car’s frame seemed to settle down as though relaxing.
“Jesus,” Delfino said, staring at himself in the rearview mirror. “I’m sweating so bad it looks like my forehead is bejeweled or something. You seein’ this?”
He turned to look at Baghead and found him leaned forward, head half disappearing into the dark below the dashboard as he bowed toward the floor. His arms worked at something in the blackness, shoulders twitching a little.
At last he bobbed back into the light, his left shoe in his hand. He snaked a hand into the battered Chuck Taylor and fished for something toward the toe. After something of a struggle, the hand emerged from the piece of footwear, a wadded plastic bag pinched between the index and middle fingers.
He peeled the white plastic open and retrieved a folded stack of dollar bills from within. Old money. American currency. Legal tender.
“Oh, hell,” Delfino said. “I wasn’t even thinking about…”
Baghead wheezed out a strange laugh.
“What were you going to say? I shouldn’t pay you for driving me across the wasteland and saving my life?”
Delfino licked his lips before he responded.
“I mean…. It seems wrong in a way, don’t it?”
“No. Seems like the opposite of wrong to me. Seems like right.”
He paused for a second, eyeballing how much money was there, before he went on.
“I’m giving you a little extra, more than what we agreed upon. I want you to give it to those at the house, the ones who’ll take care of Ruth and the other kids they’ve taken in. They’ll put it to good use, I’m sure.”
Baghead seemed to be counting the money, riffling through it like a magician showing everyone that this was just a normal deck of playing cards. Then he neatened the stack , folded it in half, and handed the whole thing over to Delfino.
The money waited there, a somehow restless thing lit by one little bar of moonlight shining through the windshield. Glowing. This incredible stack of cash hovering in the space between them.
Delfino felt his eyebrows reached up to touch the place where his hairline used to be, almost spasming there. It was the most money he had seen since before the collapse.
“Good God, dude.”
Delfino just stared at the money. Frozen.
“Take it.”
The driver lifted his hand, hesitated a second, and then took the fold of bills. Without thinking, he brought it straight to his nostrils and sniffed. Then he lifted his butt off the seat to be able to get the money down in his hip pocket.
“I gotta say. Smells like feet. Cash mixed with feet.”
“I always thought paper money smelled like dirt.”
“Well, there you go. Dirt and feet. A match made in heaven.”
They fell quiet for a second, and now it was Delfino’s turn to lean forward and submerge himself in the shadows beneath the dash. He dug around under the seat until his fingers found the cold metal they sought.
“I’ve got something for you, too, actually. A gift for a gift. Like one of them secret Santa deals,” he said, pulling the gun out into the light. “This here is the Beretta. 9 mil. I call her Bertha. Sometimes Beri Sue. I think you’ve made good friends with her over the course of our little journey, and I’d really like for you to take her.”
His hand clasped the barrel of the weapon and thrust the grip toward the passenger seat. This object, too, hovered in that space between the two of them, lit up in that little box of moonlight.
Baghead eyed the thing and hesitated, the palm of his good hand idly wiping at his jeans.
“Honestly, it’d mean a lot to me if you would just take the thing,” Delfino said, giving the weapon a little wiggle. “I want you to have it.”
Bags’ hand slid around the grip, and the gun passed to him. He brought it to his lap, something awkward in his movements as he debated whether to set it on his legs or suspend it a few inches above them.
“You gotta hide it, of course. Concealed weapons are generally my favorite kind. More fun that way. The element of surprise, you know. I’d probably tuck it in the small of your back there. Least likely to be discovered in a frisking, should you find yourself being patted down or what have you.”
Baghead scooted forward in his seat, as though he might shove the gun in the back of his pants now, and then, realizing this was not likely to make logistical sense in the car, gave up on the idea and scooted back to his original position. The gun still hung at the end of a limp wrist, almost like a dead fish drifting just above his legs.
“Thanks,” Baghead said, after another delay. “Thanks for everything. You’ve done so much for me. You’ve been a good friend, better than I’ve had in a long time.”
“Aw, shit,” Delfino said, his voice cracking a little, almost hitting a falsetto in there. “You’re just going to dump that on me now? Play the friend card here at the 11th hour? Get over here, you dummy.”
Delfino leaned in and hugged his arms around the stiff shoulders beneath the canvas bag, pulling the other close. He pressed his cheek right into the bag. Squeezed the odd stick figure tight.
Bags stiffened against this touch. Braced and awkward as always. After a second, his arms hugged Delfino back a little, though he let go after just a couple seconds, seeming to want to wrap the hug up already.
And now they peeled apart, and Baghead was climbing out of the car, stepping into the night. Delfino’s body tingled as he looked upon that open threshold of the car door, physicality suddenly seeming strange and distant again — that semi-out of body experience rippling through him, making him numb from the neck down, though a sentimental heat still flushed his cheeks.
Baghead stumbled out onto the asphalt, reached back to close the door behind him, and then he hesitated for a second in the open doorway. Gave Delfino a little wave. The driver stared dumbstruck for a moment, none of this quite seeming real, and then he got a hold of himself and lifted his right hand to wave back, holding it up a long time before he let it fall.
Now the door swung closed. Careful. Just the tiniest click. And the night sounds cut out. Gone quiet again. Delfino already felt the loneliness settling over the car with Baghead now on the other side of the glass, visible through the screen like an image on TV so long ago.
Baghead snugged the gun in the back of his pants and moved out, stepping off the asphalt to crunch a few steps over the gravel and make his way toward the wilderness. Delfino watched as the woods swallowed his friend up, the shadows clasping around him for yet another awkward hug.
Baghead
Rural Maryland
9 years, 40 days after
Baghead moved through the cool of the night. The humidity wrapped itself around him, its touch somewhere between a wet blanket and a frozen hug.
He would walk the last mile in, take a roundabout path. The scenic route, he thought Delfino might call it. Then again, it may be too dark to appreciate the view this evening, now that he considered it. Just as well. He thought he could find a way to live with that. Life would carry on.
Going straight for the gate didn’t strike him as wise, of course. The guards there would be the most vigilant, the least flexible, for lack of a better term. Of course, he also needed to be mindful of the watch towers along the perimeter as he made his way around. Needed to stay out sight of those, if possible, lest a search party come find him or a pack of dogs be loosed upon him, both of which were notorious around here. Neither ideal means of travel, he thought.
He veered off the road and stepped into the woods, picking his knees up as the thicket swelled up to knee height around him. The dark enveloped him up as soon as he got under the trees. The moon and stars fought at the leaves but could only manage to squeeze a smattering of light through — little glowing figments that did little bu
t were somehow much better than nothing. He picked his way through the foliage, slow and steady.
He thought he knew a way in. Thought. There was a lot of chance involved in this plan, or almost total lack of a plan as Delfino had pointed out. Much and more. But not everyone here had fallen under Father’s sway. He knew that as well. He would need to lean on that information tonight.
If any historian existed in this time and place, it was he. The collector of letters, the publisher of a kind of word of mouth history. All of that intelligence had to serve him now. It had to. It was the only way.
He slipped a little on some wet ivy and caught himself on a tree trunk, leaning into it and grappling it with both arms. The scare put a little jolt of fear in him, and it occurred to him how loud it must have been as well. The stomping steps as he stumbled, snapping twigs and the like. So he held still. Clutched himself tightly to the tree, changing his grip to pull himself closer to it. Better to pull the elbows in, hug his chest right to it. Tighten up the silhouette the best he could, in case anyone was looking for the source of the noise. It was awkward with only one hand. Felt wrong.
Looking around, he had no feel at all for where he was, wasn’t even too sure which direction the road was at this point. His progress had been slow, that was the only thing he was really sure of. The dark made things difficult, of course, but his desire to remain quiet also played a role in the slowness. Deliberate motions. Measured and steady like a sloth inching along, reaching out one little limb at a time.
He realized that he truly was like a sloth in a lot of ways. A slow, quiet thing. Mostly peaceful. And mostly solitary. Living in his tree. Alone. Always.
But slow was smart for other reasons on this night — everyone knew about the pits out here. The great gaping divots in the land hand dug by the disobedient members of the flock — the rule breakers.
Those who crossed father or otherwise broke laws in the camp got sent out here to dig holes to nowhere. That was the punishment used to break their will. Digging without purpose, without end. Night and day. They dug until their spirit longed only for another chance to never break a rule. He thought perhaps the notion that they might be digging their own grave played a role, a psychological component that upped the effectiveness. If they screwed up again, maybe they’d wind up right back in this very same hole, sans both the shovel and a heartbeat.
All he knew for now was that he didn’t want to fall into one of the damn things. Going slow decreased that risk, he thought, at least a little.
He took a few more breaths. Listened. Heard only the insects chirping and buzzing around. Good.
At last he unclasped his arms from the tree, felt a strange emptiness in his torso where the solid thing had been pressed. Its absence somehow unpleasant. The night felt cooler than before, its chill sharpening like the edge of a knife, now something that cut right through the clothes to get at his flesh.
He plodded forward again. Little sloth steps.
And now his mind went blank. The endless stream of words dying back, letting his sensory experiences come forward. Front and center. He absorbed the moment more completely. Lived in it entirely rather than living in his thoughts as he wandered through.
The earthy smell struck him then. Dead leaves turning to rich black soil. A little pungent, just that hint of a pond muck stench to it, but not enough to make the overall effect unpleasant.
His eyes seemed to adjust better as well, the stark black giving way to shades of gray. Partial shapes forming in the void. Layers and lines. Leaves, mostly. Frilly ferns down low and oak and maple leaves up high, all of them tossed about in the wind.
The crooked limbs of the trees filtered in after that. Thin lines just a little blacker, a little more solid than everything else here. The fine strokes of a paint brush, tapering to hairlines at the tips.
The lantern light took shape in that tangle of black lines. A tiny rectangular glow in the distance that swung in and out of his vision as he made his way around a big pine tree. Every time the tree branches blocked it out, every time it disappeared, he thought it’d stay gone. Perhaps it was his imagination, or whoever helmed the lamp would flee.
But when he got around the last scraggly pine bough, it was there, and it stayed there. Solid now. No longer fractured by pine needles or foliage. Clear and bright if still seemingly small because of the distance.
He slowed even more. Needed to be all the quiet, all the way soundless. Now or never.
As he crept closer, he could see that the rectangular shape of the glow was due to the light shining out of the doorway of a shed. His throat got tight all at once. This was exactly what he’d been looking for, and yet…
God, he hoped it was her inside. Let it be her. Please.
He pictured her there. The soft light of the lantern lighting up half of her face, the other left in shadow. She would look different now, though, he knew. Older. He tried to adjust the image of her in his head and lost it instead.
He swallowed. The tight throat fighting the spittle before letting it past. Felt dry.
He figured at best it was a 50% chance it was her. Probably worse.
He moved three steps and waited now. His body cleaving a gap into the leaves and going still again. He gave it a good 30 seconds before he moved three more and waited yet again. Waiting. Breathing. Willing his heart to slow, as though he could drain away the adrenaline, push his vital signs down into some undetectable range.
Again he pressed forward. Three choppy steps. Slow and careful. Didn’t want to string too many noises together. Not this close. What ultimately made footsteps detectable was the rhythm, the steadiness of their beat. So break it up. Split it so wide that no one could connect the sounds.
He realized he was as much scared of spooking her as he was scared of someone coming out in suspicion. Maybe it ultimately amounted to the same thing, but he hadn’t anticipated the former being a concern.
What if he got to the doorway, his silhouette a dark form blocking out a chunk of the light? Would she panic? Attack?
Maybe he should call out before he got there. Give a little whoop to let her know someone was there. If he did it from far enough out, he might be able to see who was manning this post tonight. He could still run away, if need be. Have a nice head start.
He pondered it as he took three more steps. From this distance, he didn’t think he’d be able to know for sure. Not in the dark. He needed to get a little closer. Then he’d call for her, and everything would happen. The whole plan, or lack thereof, would unfold, would become a finality, for better or worse — the toothpaste that couldn’t be put back in the tube, as Delfino put it.
He held still again. Waited. Listened.
The quiet seemed to intensify as the crucial moment drew closer. The little sounds of the woods seeming stark against that soundless barrier. The insect sounds died back, just a few chirps sounding now and then instead of the constant background screeching. Something tentative in what bug sounds there still were.
He focused on his pulse, which he could hear battering away in his ears. That would stand up against the quiet. Make it less overwhelming.
He shuffled forward three more steps. A little breeze hissed through the leaves, timing itself well to cover the sounds of his progress. Then he went still again. Had to stay patient now. So close.
He looked at the little rectangular glow ahead, at the elongated box of light stretching out beneath the doorway. Maybe nine more steps, he figured, and then he’d call out for her. Nine more steps. He could do that.
He looked up at the sky as he waited. Saw little patches of the stars shining through the gaps in the canopy. Soon he’d reach the tree line. He could kind of see it now, that edge of the woods where the land opened up again, where the sky opened up again.
Just as he went to take three more steps, the sound of a gun wracking clattered out from the shed, shattering the night. Impossibly loud.
And a voice boomed from somewhere beyond the door:
&nb
sp; “Who’s there?”
Louis
Rural Tennessee
1 year, 56 days after
When the rain finally made its exit, the sun came out to replace it. It brought the heat with it. Transmitted it through the glass encasing them like it meant to cook them.
The heat had taken its time, the temperature rising all through the morning and picking up speed into the afternoon. Now it was hot as hell. Sweltering in the car. More than once Louis felt like they were basically sitting in a solar powered crock pot together.
Beads of sweat plumped on both of their top lips, both of their foreheads. It swelled and wept down the sides of their faces. Matted their hair to their scalps.
Worse. Things had somehow gotten worse, Louis thought. This was worse than before, worse than the rain. How the fuck was that possible?
He mopped the back of his hand over his top lip. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. Wanted to scream, but he didn’t. Wanted to spontaneously combust and get it the fuck over with, but he didn’t.
At first, the sun had seemed like such a blessing. Watching that orange ball rise up over the horizon. The sky bright and clear. It made his whole body tingle, a strange sense of awe washing over him, euphoria flushing through his core, through his limbs, momentary bliss. And Lorraine had snapped out of her silence, held his hand, eyes all teary.
And now it had all gone to shit.
They cracked the windows, tilted their heads toward those openings where the breeze could blow in and touch their sweat-soaked skin. Cool air, if only a trickle, and if only by comparison to the heat inside the car. The air outside was probably 85 or 90 degrees and humid, but for each fleeting moment he could feel it, it was heaven. Compared to the heat in the car, it was heaven. It was like a tiny taste of something good when you’re starving, he thought, a thimbleful of water when you’re dying of thirst.
Thirst. The thought made him adjust his lips, his dry tongue sticking a little to the roof of his mouth. Tacky.