Dead Weight

by Casamassina, Matt

  Merrick leaned back and sighed. “It’s far-fetched. I mean, I believe you went down there, but I think you’re stretching with the alien connection. I’m not hearing any proof.”

  “My dumb-shit brother acts like he wasn’t weirded out now, but he was crapping his pants when we saw it, and for good reason. Whatever that thing was, it was the point of the base. And it couldn’t have been manmade.” He seemed to be pleading the case to himself. “It couldn’t have been.”

  24

  The twins were not only eager to join them, but also offered to drive. Merrick, of course, resisted this generosity from the start. He argued that the police cruiser had served them well so far and it would continue to do so. Additionally, he said, it would be a good idea to have two vehicles in case one broke down. All logical, but neither Zephyr nor Jordan, still groggy and keen to find a stopping point so that they might enjoy a full night’s rest, were having it, and eventually the man relented.

  “So we made it to Roswell but there really wasn’t anything to see,” Brad said as he drove, the highway ahead of them ablaze in the headlights of the Humvee. Ben and Merrick also sat up front, leaving Zephyr and Jordan to stretch out in the back. It was roomy and for that he was thankful. His gun lay flat on the floor as Jordan rummaged through their crinkly plastic snack bags for a candy bar.

  “The place is really just a tourist trap.”

  “Not anymore,” Merrick said, popped the cap on a beer bottle and chugged it. He belched and rolled down the window—Midwest etiquette, Zephyr thought. “Really, you two are off your rockers. If I had seen what you claimed to see — and I’m not saying I buy it — I wouldn’t still be trying to find little green men.”

  “Well, to be fair, we weren’t really trying to find anything. After we left Area 51 in our rearview, my bro made some crack about Roswell and that got us off again. But I think we were just happy to have a destination in mind.”

  “Yeah, totally. By the way, we probably stayed in Roswell for about twenty minutes before we tore out of there,” Brad said. “Place was a bore.”

  Merrick laughed. “Damned Ping-Pong balls, bouncing all around.”

  “We just go with the flow, baby.”

  The chatter continued for a little while, although Zephyr stopped listening. He welcomed the veil of regularity, however thin. Some ’90s grunge, he thought it was Soundgarden, played low but steady as the twins fought for airtime and the older man listened and occasionally interjected. Jordan chomped on some nutritionally-empty bag of chips while the car weaved through the last remains of traffic. Zephyr thought of Keiko and his parents and wondered if any of them had been awake when “everybody popped.” He tried not to dwell on it, but couldn’t escape a vision of Keiko’s terrified eyes rolling back into their sockets and her body jerking in electrified rhythm before she vanished from the world.

  Sometime later, they pulled off the highway and parked outside a La Quinta motel about fifty miles outside of Las Cruces. It offered little in the way of comforts, with its zapped electricity, moldy bread and turned milk. Someone had shattered several front-facing windows and one of the rooms the twins tried to claim had been altogether ransacked. Broken beer bottles lined the bedroom floor and they found the television floating amidst cold, gray water in the bathtub.

  “If this is what the world has left, we may as well call it quits now,” Merrick remarked upon seeing the aftermath. Zephyr thought the comment somewhat hypocritical coming from a man who regularly drove drunk, but he kept quiet.

  The broken windows did nothing to stop the flow of bitter air into the rooms. “I can see my breath,” Jordan said when she sat on her bed. Eventually, the group searched the quaint lobby for more blankets. The reception area was small and unremarkable except for one unavoidable detail: someone had taken the time to write a message upon the wall in blood-red lipstick:

  My World Now

  Zephyr didn’t want to meet the author, ever, and based on the sudden silence the words induced, he guessed he wasn’t alone in his opinion. Shortly thereafter, they all resolved to sleep in the same room, which was fine by him. But sleep didn’t come to any of them, and before too long Brad threw off his blankets, settled his flashlight on the floor so that it beamed at the ceiling, and finally stood.

  “Sorry, peeps — I can’t do it,” he announced. “It’s too flippin’ cold in here.”

  Everyone agreed, even his brother, who normally dissected and debated everything he said, yet there was nothing to be done about it and they all knew it. Brad fetched more blankets for all of them and, still shivering, wrapped himself like a burrito before settling back onto the pile of pillows he’d strewn over the floor as a makeshift bed.

  “This blows,” he declared. “We should be on some tropical beach now, not freezing our asses off in the world’s worst motel. The car would be better than this.”

  “You’re welcome to it,” his brother said.

  “You’re welcome to my middle finger.”

  “Yeah, I’ll pass. No telling where that’s been.”

  “Your mom knows,” Brad replied.

  “I shouldn’t need to point out how wrong that is.”

  Merrick rolled over to glare at them. “I’ve got an idea — why don’t both of you go to the car and leave the rest of us in peace?”

  “What we need, is a bonfire up in here,” Brad said, ignoring him.

  “Yeah, if you want to smoke yourself out and burn down the motel,” the older man retorted.

  “Burning down the motel might not be a bad thing.”

  “At least we’d be warm,” his twin agreed, and they both giggled.

  “Hold up,” Ben said, and then the room was overwhelmed by the sounds of crinkling paper and clanking glass as he rummaged through his grocery bag of goodies. He brought forth a tall, skinny bottle of vodka and smiled at the party. “This’ll warm us up.”

  “Oh my God, I’ve waited my whole life for you to do something smart and now that it’s finally happened, I don’t know how to react,” Brad quipped. “Am I dreaming? Jordan, come pinch me.”

  “OK,” she said, and sprung from her heap of blankets to do as he asked. Zephyr was beginning to think she might have a little crush on Brad, or Ben, or maybe both of them.

  The twins and Merrick took turns passing the bottle around and shivering while Zephyr and Jordan remained bundled side-by-side on one of the room’s two queen beds.

  Merrick winced. “This tastes like shit.”

  “Need to throw in the towel, old man?” Ben mused.

  “Not too old to teach you both a lesson.”

  “That’s because we’re lovers, not fighters,” Brad said.

  Jordan, meanwhile, complained that whatever they were drinking smelled like window cleaner and pulled the blankets over her nose. This, of course, triggered more laughter from the group.

  Zephyr dangled his legs over the bed and slumped forward, his blankets falling over his shoulders. He didn’t feel like drinking, especially because it excluded Jordan, but neither was he tired. The ceiling shone a round gradient that resembled a tree’s growth ring and the resulting radiance cast the room in dim, yellow light.

  “Take a swig, dude,” Ben told him but Zephyr shook his head.

  “Your loss.”

  “If New Mexico doesn’t pan out,” Zephyr said. “What will you two do?”

  Brad took another shot and then passed the bottle to Merrick. “I don’t know,” he said. “Our calendars are still pretty clear. We might have some cousins in North Dakota, I guess, so if all else fails, we could check that out.”

  “Except that it’s North Dakota,” Ben said.

  “Yeah, except that.”

  “What we should do is hit Mexico proper. There are some sick beaches down there and we don’t have to worry about getting our heads chopped off any more.”

  Zephyr chuckled. “Not from the cartels, anyway.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Merrick said. “The pessimist speaks.”

 
Ben ignored him. “Yeah, the old man told us about your… about your rough start in your hometown. I’m sorry that shit went down like that. On the bright side, you’re here. You made it.” He nodded in Jordan’s direction. “And what you did for her, what you’re doing for her, it’s legit. One-hundred percent props.”

  “You’re the real deal, man,” his brother agreed.

  “One day, we’ll be upstanding citizens like you, but for now, we’re cool with being more like Merrick here.”

  The older man was about to take another swig and stopped. “Hey, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  25

  Crossroads

  Las Cruces did not greet them with open arms. The freeway into the city was littered with more jilted trucks and cars than they had grown accustomed to, yes, but that wasn’t the problem. Rather, it was that someone had blocked the roads, both in and out of the city, with four adjoined yellow and black school buses. The rusty behemoths kissed nose-to-nose, two for each direction of the highway. Merrick thought they could veer off the road into the thick mixture of dirt, weeds and rock that substituted for a divide in order to maneuver around the blockades, but nobody else agreed. There was also another consideration, which was that someone had spray-painted the buses with big blue warnings that read Stay the Fuck Out and Yer Not Welcome Here.

  Ben whistled at the last notice. “OK, then,” he said.

  “Uh, anybody up for some gambling? Vegas is looking a whole lot better suddenly,” his brother added.

  Merrick didn’t comment but neither did he look disheartened by the predicament. He took the scene in with something resembling mild amusement and the boy wondered, not for the first time, if there was any alcohol remaining in the bottle that seemed to take permanent residence on his lap. Jordan asked what was going on and Zephyr shushed her. Something had caught his eye.

  “I think the twins are right. We should turn around,” he said, tapped Brad on the shoulder and then gestured the shape of a U-turn.

  “Wait, wait, let’s give it a second,” Merrick argued, finally showing some signs of life. “It’s just a damned bit of graffiti, for crying out loud. Let’s jus—”

  “No, let’s go,” Zephyr interrupted, meeting the man’s eyes. “Please.”

  Merrick shook his head. “One minute. Let’s just figure this out.”

  The boy pointed to the buses. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Spill it then.”

  Zephyr wondered if Merrick was ignorant or just unshakably optimistic. Or maybe just dense. “You mean beyond the call for us to turn back?” He pointed toward the buses. “First, look there. See? The tires are all locked. Those big black bolts are called tire boots. Supposed to deter thieves. But I don’t think that’s the intention here. They just don’t want anybody trying to move them.”

  “And?”

  “You don’t think that’s strange?”

  “Kid, this whole world is strange.”

  Zephyr ignored him. “And do you notice the lack of windows? No glass. It’s all sheet metal with little rivets,” he added, pointing. “Just big enough, I might add, for gun barrels.”

  “Really? Are we really doing this again? You always think everyone is out to kill you.”

  “That’s because they are!” Zephyr shouted louder than he intended.

  “OK, I get it. You’ve had a tough break, but let’s remember that you thought I was the devil when we first met and then you pegged these two turds as bad news too when we caught sight of their headlights,” he said, motioning to the twins, neither of whom seemed to care for the label. “Granted, it’s not a party waiting for us here, but I don’t think it’s, I dunno, cannibals, either. I’m sure they’re just paranoid and scared — not unlike you. If we could just chat with them, I’m sur—”

  “It’s just not right.”

  “This is all based on some locked tires and sheet metal. For all you know, these buses are junkyard specialties with broken windows. For all you know, the people behind this little stunt are scared shitless of other survivors.”

  When Zephyr gave no rebuttal, he continued. “Listen, I know, I’m Mr. Optimist, and yadda-yadda-yadda, but can we at least investigate this a little? We literally just got here. If anything looks fishy after we get a closer look, you have my word that we can roll out.”

  Zephyr considered it and shook his head. “I mean, are you reading the buses?”

  “I get it, but what you’re interpreting as hostile, I see as scared. Just… scared people trying to protect themselves. Besides, we came all this way for your aunt. Are we supposed to just turn around and forget her? Just give up? I honestly don’t even know how to go around this city, so we’d have to go back.”

  The boy weighed his words and then reluctantly threw up his hands. “Fine. OK, yes,” he conceded. “You’re right. I just… forget it. What do you suggest?”

  “Well, let’s go knock on the front door and say hello,” Merrick said with his trademark grin, and then he stepped out of the car.

  He made it halfway to the buses, the twins and Zephyr united in their calls for him to return, when a shot rang out and the top of his head exploded.

  26

  Gunfire and agony waged war as reality swayed in slow-motion. Jordan was hysterical. Brad tried to throw the Hummer in reverse, but bullets deluged the windshield, first cracking, then shattering and finally penetrating the invisible glass barrier that protected them from the onslaught. He clutched his brother’s arm and gasped as sprays of bullets punctured his face and chest with the heavy thud of meat and bone. Splattered in his twin’s blood, Ben bellowed something indecipherable and swung open the passenger door, which was immediately blasted by more bullets.

  “Fuck!” he screamed. “Fuck youuuuuuu!”

  Zephyr thought Ben would run for it and was relieved instead to see him duck for cover beneath the glove compartment as glass shattered and spilled all around him.

  Do something, damn you, the boy told himself, but he couldn’t move. Then he caught sight of Merrick’s limp body on the pavement before the bus, blood hemorrhaging in a thick red torrent from the gaping wound that used to be his hairline, and something inside him stirred.

  Move! Do it now! And he did.

  He fumbled for the rifle, unlatched the safety and thrust open the backseat door. He told Jordan to curl up behind the passenger seat. Then he turned to the twin.

  “Ben!” he shouted. The bastards were still shooting at them, although the steady barrage had dwindled to intermittent discharges. “Ben! Listen to me. Can you hear me?”

  “Fuck!” the older boy cried.

  Good. Still alive and maybe just angry enough to do what needed to be done, Zephyr thought. “We have to get to these assholes on the other side of the bus. I’m going to do it, but I need a distraction. We’re gonna need to crash into them. Do you understand?”

  No reply, and he was sure Ben had either blacked out or gone fetal when the twin unfurled himself from the sanctity of the floorboard and slithered from passenger to driver’s compartment. Sobbing and cursing, the older boy grunted and pushed his dead brother’s limp body into the passenger seat before taking his place. When he finally managed to switch gears, the Humvee lurched before he reasserted his foot on the brake, and more wild gunfire peppered the hood as bullets whizzed through the windshield and tore into the upper seats.

  “Motherfuckers! My turn!” Ben screamed, and in that moment, Zephyr loved him.

  The vehicle sped backward for what struck Zephyr as an inordinate amount before the car stopped. He changed gears, the tires spun before they gained traction and the Humvee shot forward again like a bullet. The engine roared as the seconds passed and Zephyr’s stomach turned as he fought without success to anticipate the point of impact. Jordan wailed next to him. He had just enough time to place her hand in his and squeeze before the world shook.

  The Humvee struck the bus with bone-rattling ferocity and Zephyr’s head slammed against the passenger seat befor
e he came to rest atop Jordan and lost consciousness.

  He opened his eyes seconds later, or probably it was minutes, he thought. Reality bled back in and blind imagery connected to context again. The good news was that the Hummer hadn’t flipped. The better news was that the bus had. Somehow. Miraculously. The impact had actually knocked the damned thing on its side, boot-locked tires and all. He couldn’t fucking believe it. As far as he could tell, the only damage to the Hummer was the missing door on his side—his own fault for opening it before the crash.

  “Holy shit, Ben— you did it!” he shouted and when the twin gave no response, his heart skipped a beat. No, no, no—not you, too. Please, he thought, and then peeked around the seat into the front compartment. Ben’s limp body remained slumped in the driver’s recess, his face still kissing the recently-blown airbag. He was probably all right, just out cold.

  Jordan’s face was streaked with tears and her hair was frazzled, but otherwise Zephyr thought she looked no worse for wear and was relieved. OK, good, good, this is good—it’s time to do it, he thought, and reached for the rifle.

  It wasn’t there.

  27

  “Jord. You need to stay here while I do a quick search. Absolutely do not move.” He palmed her cheeks with his hands and stared into her eyes. “Do you understand me? Do. Not. Move. Say it. For real.”

  “Do not move,” she said, but she was already weeping. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t wan—”

  “I have to, but I’ll be back, I promise. Jordan, listen to me. Do. Not. Move.” He kissed her forehead and then slid out the side opening where the door used to be.

  He caught sight of Merrick’s body several feet away and wrestled with a fleeting ripple of dizziness before his eyes locked again on the bus and anger took him. Heavy black smoke billowed from the coach’s underside before the air caught and dispersed it into nothingness. He thought he heard people crying and cocked his head to listen. Was it just the wind? No. For sure. He heard them in there. They were crying and shouting. Someone was calling for help. And now his anger gave way to rage. These damned subhumans possessed the temerity to first wage unprovoked war on the innocent and then beg for help when fate turned against them? His eyes darted around for the rifle and finally he spotted it almost buried within a stout tuft of yellow weeds in the center divide. It must’ve flown out at the impact. He sprinted to it and ran back to the bus just as fast, still aware of the danger before him.