Under the circumstances, Zephyr thought that a trip to the grocery store was an inevitability for anyone left standing and yet coming here just two days after everyone disappeared seemed altogether premature to him. Left to his own devices, he probably wouldn’t have ventured over for another week or more. He wondered if other survivors had already visited the store. If anybody had, they hadn’t really upset the place. Everything seemed in nearly perfect order.
The contents of their carts were telling. In Zephyr’s, cereal boxes, milk, soda, chips, fruit, candy, bread, peanut butter and jelly, chunky and raspberry respectively. Ross had filled his cart with boxes of beer, some beef jerky, hot dogs, paper plates and various soup cans. The beer, however, greatly outnumbered all of the other contents combined and Zephyr suspected the man would be good and drunk before he drifted away to sleep that night.
The clouds no longer blocked the sun, but the moon, as they raced to stow their groceries inside the truck. When at last they finished and took refuge, Zephyr knew he could no longer avoid the possibility of a lonely, sleepless night.
“All right. Done with that,” he said. “I was really kind of hoping I could hang with you tonight. If that’s OK. If not, that’s cool, but… I was really kind of hoping.” His head down, the words came dumb, and had Ross seen his face in the shade of night, he might’ve looked altogether sunburned.
“Well, it’s been a hell of a day and I ain’t gonna be much company tonight, boy,” Ross said. “What do you say we pick up tomorrow instead?”
“Sure, OK. That’s not a problem. I’m just kind of freaked out to be alone.” He hoped his voice didn’t quiver. He didn’t think it did.
Ross surveyed him a moment, scratched his head and then started the truck.
“I got an idea,” he said. “Hang on now. This might get bumpy.”
He rolled the truck along the cement walkway, coasted past the nail salon and slowed at the Radio Shack. There, he turned inward, stopped, then put the vehicle in reverse and backed all the way into the lot until the tires rubbed against a nearby parking divider. The store sat directly ahead, its lights off. He revved the engine and then put the truck in gear, ignoring Zephyr’s questions. It sped forward, and when it did, the boy screamed and shielded himself. He thought Ross had lost his mind, that he intended to plow the truck right into the store and come racing out the other side. Instead, the man slowed the vehicle as it came to the walkway. It retained more than enough speed to smash through the entrance— a thin wire lock snapped as the doors came off their hinges, glass shattering – and yet the truck stopped firm and only its front end penetrated the doors.
Ross laughed hard, beat on the horn twice and shouted, “Yessir! That’s how we do it, eh, boy!”
“What the heck are you doing!” Zephyr screamed back. “Are you insane?”
“No alarm, either. Hoo-wee! Little bit o’ luck, and ’bout time!”
The man finally turned to the boy. “Now, I was thinking you wouldn’t be scared if you could talk to me anytime and anywhere you want, and then it hit me. We just get us some of those fancy walkie-talkies. Then it’ll be like we’re together even when we ain’t.” He pointed toward the gaping hole that used to be an entrance.
Zephyr finally breathed. “Got it. All right, yes, good idea. But geez, can you clue me in a little earlier next time? I saw my life flash before my eyes there.”
The boy returned to the truck a few minutes later with two boxes and some batteries. After they powered them on, Ross held in the talk button and squeaky, irritating feedback overpowered both speakers.
“What’s your twenty, good buddy?” he joked, ignoring the noise.
“All right, all right – turn it off. They work.”
A little while later, the truck rolled to a stop outside the wrought-iron gate that protected Fairfield Court. The boy reached into his pocket for his keys but found it empty. Then, he remembered that he wore a uniform and not his jeans and hoodie, presently soaked and tossed on the floor at the nearest McDonald’s, a dead man watching over them.
Crap! Well, that’s that, he thought. My mobile, too. They’re gone for good now because there’s no way in hell I’m stepping foot in there again. Ever. I guess it’s not like my phone was ringing off the hook, anyway.
“So on your left there is the keypad to open the gate,” Zephyr said and pointed. A silver box enclosed a small pad with numbers on it. “The code is 2020. Like the vision you wish you had.” Ross chuckled, rolled down the window and keyed it in. A moment later the gate slid open with all the stuttering grace of any giant mechanism. A minute after that the truck stopped curbside in front of Zephyr’s house.
“Nice place ya got there. What’d your parents do, own a bank or something?” Ross asked.
“They’re doctors.”
“Yep, ’course they are.”
The rain broke against the windshield like heavy water balloons and the noise was so loud that it blotted conversation. Ross turned on the interior light, reached back into the cab and eventually pulled out one of the Glock 9mm handguns. Midnight black, cold steel, and heavy. With the unthinking ease of a man well-versed in the practice, he ejected the magazine, and thumbed bullets into the cartridge one-by-one. Afterward, he snapped the cartridge back into the handle of the gun with a satisfying click and then flipped on the safety.
“You ain’t gonna need this, but just so you’ll feel better. To shoot, you just undo the safety here and then back the slide here,” he said, unlatched the lock and then demonstrated. “Now you’ve got a bullet in the chamber. All you gotta do is point and pull the trigger.” He returned the safety and then handed the weapon to Zephyr.
The boy’s heart hammered as he closed his hand around the grip. He knew that Ross was trying to offer him some small, misguided sliver of peace through the night, but the weapon induced just the opposite effect. It seemed to drive home the seriousness of the situation. If he really didn’t need it, why did the man give it to him?
“All right. Thanks, Ross. I’m still kinda freaked out, but I’ll live.”
“You’re gonna be fine. And don’t forget your walkie. If you need me, I’m just a click away.”
“What about all the other guns?” Zephyr asked.
“Your call, chief. If you want ’em now, they’re yours, but running ’em up to your mansion over there ain’t gonna be fun in this rain. Otherwise, I’ll just bring ’em by tomorrow and then we’ll go get us some more of that wonderful breakfast.”
“Yeah, that’s cool. Just bring them by tomorrow.”
“Bright and early.” Ross put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Listen, no hard feelings or anything, ya hear? I just saw some things I wish I could forget and I’m gonna try and drink ’em away tonight. Ain’t no reason for you to be around for that.”
“I understand. I mean, I wouldn’t care. I’d probably just sleep, but it’s all right. I’ll just see you tomorrow.”
Ross waited as Zephyr sprinted from the truck with a Glock in one hand and two bags of groceries in the other. Thankfully, his door wasn’t locked, although he almost wished it had been. The rain seemed to draw a murky curtain around the neighborhood, but as the older man finally drove away, the boy could still make out the dim red halo of his taillights.
When he finished putting his groceries away, he found an oversized mixing bowl and poured generous helpings of cereal and milk into it. Then he sat at his dining room table and ate in a daze as he dialed the phone numbers of friends and family no longer answering. When he was finally full, he took the gun and canvassed the house, once more searching out every room, every corner, every potential hiding spot. At last satisfied, he drew the lights, walked upstairs, powered the television and fell onto his bed.
“Boy, ya there?” the walkie-talkie hissed and squeaked. Zephyr about dropped onto the floor before he realized what and who it was.
He pressed the button on his own device. “Yeah. Where are you? Sounds pretty good on my end.”
&nbs
p; Several seconds passed. “At home already. Working like a charm. Sometimes I’m so smart I amaze even myself, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, a real genius. You ever hear of safety in numbers, smart guy?”
More hissing and pops.
“Now don’t go getting all butt-hurt over nothin’. You’re not the one who saw a fella shoot his head off today. Cut me some slack, boy.”
“I’m just kidding,” Zephyr said. “But these do work pretty well. I’ll be hanging around so if you get bored, you can always say hi.”
“You got it. Over and out,” Ross said and then he was gone.
Sleep was myth; it teetered on the edge of reality, ever elusive. Midnight faded into one and two in the morning as he lay in bed with restless legs, the overwhelming compulsion to kick and to move as he struggled to find comfort. This frustrating sensation always tormented him whenever he dared sleep in his shoes, but he wanted to stay ready to race if the situation necessitated it. Eventually, though, he decided that preparedness simply wasn’t worth sacrificing all chances at sleep, rose from bed, undressed – the McDonald’s garb wasn’t becoming anyway – and put on a new pair of jeans and a v-neck sweater. Then he lay down again and began to browse the television once more.
The walkie-talkie beeped and squeaked.
“Dipshit.” The line hissed. “Little… damn it, pick up.”
Zephyr jumped out of bed and yanked the talkie from the top of the dresser. “Here, here. What’s up? Little late. Had a few drinks, did ya?”
Static. Then: “Damn right, I done. Fuckin’ hell right!”
Oh yeah, he’s ripped. Guy’s out of his gourd, Zephyr thought. He already wished he hadn’t responded – that’d he’d just left the man to sleep it off.
“What’s up, Ross? You get any sleep?” He suspected that’d be a no.
Whatever the man meant to reply wasn’t decipherable. Several pops came over the walkie-talkie and then a series of noises that sounded like scrapes. Zephyr thought he heard Ross saying something to himself in the background, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You there? I think you broke up. Say again,” the boy said.
No response.
“Ross, you there? I think we’ve got a bad connection.”
Static hissed back. “Fuck yer congestion, boy.” Ross laughed hard at this. “I heard just fine. Takin’ a piss out over here.”
“OK, sorry.” Zephyr caught himself pacing around his room and then sat down on his bed. He pressed the talk button. “So what’s up? Are you feeling any better about earlier?” He winced as soon as the words tripped over his clumsy lips. Oh, you dummy. You dummy! Right now? You just asked that now? Of all the things, Zeph. Seriously?
“Feel great,” Ross replied. Nothing more.
“OK. Good.” He paused. “Glad to hear it. So, it’s pretty late. So I think I’m going to call it a night.”
The talkie hissed. Then: “Why wouldn’t I feel great, you—t? Why wouldn’t I—” Broken, cut off. More words came, but they were so loud and distorted that Zephyr couldn’t understand them. What did come through loud and clear was that Ross was screaming into his handset. The garbled, one-sided tirade continued for a little while longer before the correspondence returned to silence.
Zephyr stared at his talkie and said nothing. Instead, he sat on his bed, his heart beating hard, and considered an appropriate response. He waffled between replying in turn with a few stern words and apologizing – groveling, maybe. In the end, he did neither. He just sat there, now wide awake.
The talkie squeaked back again. “Ya fuckin’ wi— m—oy?”
Zephyr didn’t respond. He grabbed for the television remote and then muted it.
“Boy. Ya fuckin’ with me?”
“No,” he said. “No, man. I’m not. I’m just sleeping, Ross. It’s really late.”
Static filled in the gaps. “Yeh, that’s what I thought.” He muttered something else that Zephyr couldn’t make out. “You ain’t wanna be fuckin’ with ol’ Rossy. Yer boy earlier, he learned that lesson the hard way, but he sure as shit learned it all right.”
My boy earlier? Huh? Does he mean Jerry? Zephyr’s stomach felt as though it had been pushed off a cliff. “Listen, man. Go to sleep already. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Ain’t talkin’ ’bout nothin’. Just tellin’ ya how it is.”
“All right. Sounds good.” He considered his next words, and then said, “Hey man. I’m really sorry if I upset you. Try to get some sleep and sober up. We’ll get some breakfast tomorrow, on me.”
The line remained dormant for a moment and then it squeaked on. “Well, I guess some sleep will do me s’good.”
Zephyr sat in his room, the TV casting dim light all around him, and waited. He half expected Ross to burst back on the talkie with some drunken tirade, screaming and raging, but one never came. After fifteen minutes, his mind abuzz with horrible possibilities, he decided that the man had probably finally succumbed to the alcohol and passed out. If only he could be so lucky. He glanced at his alarm clock: it was 2:57 am. He wasn’t tired anymore.
Ross was the culprit this time. Not loneliness or fear of a horrifying situation, but a fat, bald man in his late fifties. A man with a penchant for alcohol and a talent for guns. What was it he said? Your boy earlier learned that lesson the hard way. Was he actually talking about Jerry and if so, why would Jerry’s suicide serve as a lesson in not messing with Ross? Zephyr thought the old man was talking nonsense fueled by too many beers.
And then the boy’s eyes widened as a terrifying image came to him. It was Jerry’s teeth. He’d blown them clean out when he’d killed himself. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time — the raw violence of the act took center stage — but in hindsight, it was bizarre. Who the hell shoots through their own teeth when they off themselves? Nobody does, that’s who, Zephyr thought.
The hair on his arms stood up as a chill slid down his spine. There’s no way. No way Ross would do that. Just, no. I don’t believe it, he thought. And even if he could, how? You’d have noticed something, for crying out loud.
He replayed the scene. He’d been outside pissing when the blast occurred. He made it back inside seconds later and Jerry was dead, blood everywhere, the gun on the floor, and Ross looked sick to his stomach. That was it. It was just suicide.
But Jerry’s teeth.
OK then. The recoil from the gun knocked his teeth out, he argued. That’s a hell of a lot more logical and likely than a nice old man murdering a guy with his own gun, especially when the same nice old man had a chance to shoot the guy in a full-fledged standoff minutes earlier and didn’t.
Dude, his mind persisted, you’ve known Ross for two days. Two measly days. Don’t presume that you really know anything about him. That nice old man just screamed so loud into your walkie that he just about blew out the speaker on the thing. And there’s no way a gun that small would kick hard enough to punch out two front teeth — even you know that.
He’s the only person here and he helped me, he thought. He wouldn’t have done that to Jerry. He stood down against him and he could probably out-shoot all of us. I just can’t believe he’d murder a guy in cold blood after something like that. He’s just not that evil. He went out of his way for me. Without him, all my guns would be useless.
And then, don’t you mean all of his guns, Zeph? In case you forgot, they’re all sitting in the back of his truck.
14
Zephyr’s pillow was a rock, his blankets sandpaper as the prospect of sleep fled like he wished he could. More than ever, he missed his parents. His dad watching television downstairs, his mom slumbering across the hallway. His face contorted and he fought off tears. He felt so powerless and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lasso proper rest until daylight arrived.
Although his mind argued incessantly about the real Ross and what he might or might not be capable of, no fundamental decisions about that man had yet been reached. Zephyr knew only that
he would likely be taking a raincheck on breakfast, a truth that filled him with a dilution of fear, sadness and guilt. He’d enjoyed making up a meal with the old guy. He was funny, he told great stories, and he didn’t seem overwhelmed by everything going on around them. Zephyr liked him. The problem, of course, was that he just wasn’t sure he could trust him anymore.
You’re overreacting. He was drunk and out of his mind.
Do you really want to take a chance on something like that?
Stop it. He’s you’re only friend here and he’s been nothing but helpful.
You don’t know what his motives really are. You need to use your head and play it safe.
On and on the left and the right hemispheres of his brain dueled. Every time he closed his eyes and willed consciousness away, those arguments seemed to increase in speed and in volume and deep sleep proved evasive. As rays of light finally darted through the holes in his shutters, he put his feet to the floor and scurried downstairs to the fridge in search of soda and more precisely some caffeine to jumpstart his system. It was becoming an unnatural ritual.
It was three days now without any real news. He sat down at the kitchen table with a cold cola and tried to clear his head so that he could think about his next move. He’d happily surrendered control to Ross shortly after he met him, but the old man’s drunken outburst in the night had triggered a reversal of that ownership. Zephyr no longer thought of the future as something they would face together, but rather something he might need to endure alone.
He also realized that he hadn’t really considered the future – at least not one minus so many millions of people. Not really, anyway. Everything he’d done so far had been reactionary in nature and only to immediate problems. In a bubble. He couldn’t find anybody so he looked for them. His clothes were soaked so he stole new ones. He heard gunshots in the night so he looted a weapon of his own. All fine. All logical. But nothing he could really call a plan, especially if the situation at hand didn’t resolve itself tomorrow, or next week, or next year, or ever.
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