Dead Weight

by Casamassina, Matt

  “OK.” He stood from the bench as needles prickled his lower legs. “This is a bust. Nobody’s coming and I feel like I’m going to catch pneumonia if we don’t get out of here.”

  Ben stepped out from behind a tree. “Yeah, totally, I’m freezing too,” he admitted. “Fuck it. We’ll try again tomorrow, but earlier.”

  A couple minutes later the Flex coasted back down Main Street. They didn’t make it two blocks when a pair of headlights beamed back at them through the distant darkness.

  “Shit, shit—stop the car,” Ben hissed and Zephyr slowed. “No, no—park in the street at an angle, kind of diagonally.” The boy did as he asked. When the car came to its full stop, the twin jettisoned himself out the front door, swung the back open and retrieved three of the guns. He left the fourth, the agreed-upon Uzi, for Zephyr, who snapped it up and concealed it by his side in the driver’s seat. “OK, same plan, except you’ll do it here.”

  Zephyr nodded. “Yeah, go.”

  “Turn on your emergency lights!” Ben called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the blackness across the street.

  The headlights drew closer at a rapid pace. This was nothing like the excruciating lull that defined the crawl of Merrick’s hijacked police car days ago. No, this driver was in a hurry and wasn’t shy about showing it. The boy recognized the now-familiar rush, a marriage of fear and exhilaration, as the headlights grew larger. Then the high beams were on him in a blast of blinding light and halos, and the rhythm of his heart almost doubled. Killer, slaver—whatever, this guy was at the very least an asshole. The vehicle halted roughly fifteen feet ahead of the Flex, but the driver neither turned off his headlights nor removed himself from the car. Zephyr rolled down his own window and offered a friendly wave. Nothing happened, so he waited and it was torture. He counted down from ten. Nine. Eight. Motherfuckers. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Come on, you bitches. Three. Two.

  The car launched forward and came screeching to a halt so that the driver sat window-to-window with Zephyr. And now the boy could finally see him. Them. There were two of them. The driver was an older man, pale white with a silvery beard, flannel and cowboy hat. There was another man in the passenger seat whose features remained silhouetted in darkness, yet Zephyr was sure he also donned a cowboy hat. The driver rolled down his window—it was a charcoal grey F150 raised slightly higher than Zephyr’s own vantage point— and the thick smell of marijuana permeated the air.

  The older man touched the tip of his hat and nodded. “Howdy.”

  “Hi there,” Zephyr said and clutched the handle of the Uzi with his unseen hand. “It’s good to see some people alive.” He started for a handshake and realized he would have to release the grip on his gun unless he extended his left, which felt wrong, and decided against it. “My name’s Zephyr.” Stay calm stay calm stay calm. “Are you guys local or, uh, traveling through?”

  Cowboy had no response to this. He just stared. Then another voice asked, “Whuch you doin’ here, puto?” The driver apparently thought this question the height of hilarity and bellowed laughter.

  “Looking for something to eat, actually. Then I’m hoping to be on my way.”

  “This here is our city, and you’re trespassing,” the older man said.

  “We don’ take kindly to trespassers,” added the silhouette.

  “Oh, no worries. I’ll just pick up the rest of my group and we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Where’s your group, son?” Cowboy asked.

  “Holed up in one of the places over there, basically starving until I get back,” Zephyr joked and pointed off into the distance.

  “You think you can just ride in and squat in our houses, bitch?” the shadow asked and laughed, but Cowboy raised his hand and his lapdog quieted.

  The driver smiled, revealing a mouthful of rotting teeth. “How about this: you take us over to your friends and we’ll give ya’ll a proper escort right out of town. How’s that sound, curly?”

  Curly? I don’t have curly hair, you idiot, Zephyr thought, and dismissed it. “Listen, guys, I’m sorry if I upset you or something. I swear, I don’t mean any harm. Just trying to survive here. I barely know what to do with myself these days.” There was the bait. The question was, would they bite?

  “Oh,” Cowboy mused. “I think we can help you with that little problem.”

  “Yeh, puto, don’ worry ’bout that,” Lapdog echoed, giggling.

  Was it enough? Zephyr thought yes—yes, it was, and killed his emergency lights. Just seconds now, he knew, so he decided to dive in hard. “Listen, guys, isn’t the city big enough for a few more people?”

  Cowboy stared at him without speaking for a long moment. Then he grinned. “Sure it is, son. Sure it is,” he said. “Just, we got ourselves a pecking order here and I’m not so sorry to say but you and your little curly friends are at the bottom of the food chain.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you my bitch, bitch, and—” Lapdog started but was startled by someone knocking on his window.

  “Who dis bitch now?” he asked and then actually rolled down his window.

  Could he really be so stupid? This is spectacular, Zephyr thought, and drew his weapon in perfect harmony with his friend’s on the other side of the truck.

  30

  It went down at light speed. The silhouetted man in the passenger seat grabbed for something between his legs, then shrieked as deafening gunshots tore through the air and muzzle fire strobed the front compartment in brilliant, blinding flashes.

  Blat-blat-blat-blat-blat-blat.

  Lapdog seemed to convulse in tune to the rhythm of the muzzle flashes. Zephyr barely had time to ponder the passenger’s temporarily-illuminated features—dark hair, stubble, agony—when Cowboy jerked back and began squealing, too. Then he put it together. Ben had tried to aim in the general direction of Lapdog’s unseen weapon, but in his haste he shredded the man’s groin and upper thighs with bullets instead. He also forgot to consider the recoil and the barrel of the gun kicked up, sending a couple of rounds into Cowboy’s right leg.

  “You!” Cowboy roared in disbelief, cupped his leg with one hand and started to reach for something with the other when Zephyr pointed the Uzi at his face and he stopped.

  “Yes, me,” Ben said. “Whatever that means.”

  Lapdog squealed, beat his fists against the seat and arched his back, relaxed, gasped, then arched again as he rode out the throes of what could only be pure misery. Zephyr didn’t envy the asshole, but neither did he really pity him—not if everything he suspected about these two was true.

  The boy locked eyes with the driver. “Hey there, curly,” he said, with emphasis on the latter word. “I’m going to open your door and you’re going to step outside with your hands up. If you try anything dumb, you will die. Do you believe me?”

  Cowboy nodded.

  “Good. You should. Truth be known, I’m just looking for a reason to kill your worthless redneck ass, so you better not give me one.” The door swung open and Cowboy stepped outside with his arms raised, wincing and moaning. Zephyr told him to take his shirt and pants off.

  “W-what?”

  “Take off your fucking clothes!”

  He did as the boy demanded, although the process was slow and painful thanks to Ben’s handiwork. The flannel came off easily enough, revealing a hairy, potbellied creature with man boobs decorated by a dangling golden crucifix. The jeans, tight to begin with and now blood-soaked, clung to Cowboy like plastic wrap. He kicked off his boots, sat on the cold ground and tugged the pants from his legs in a series of grunts and grimaces. All the while, Lapdog wailed and released a barrage of incoherent curses peppered with groans as he continued his spasmed assault on the truck’s dashboard.

  Gun aimed, Zephyr squatted several feet in front of Cowboy and smiled. “Guess that escort out of town will have to wait, huh?”

  “What do you w-w-ant?” the man blubbered.

  “I want to tell you
a story. Don’t worry, I know it’s cold outside, so I’ll make it brief. Then I’m going to ask you a question. Your answer to this question could save your life, so make sure you answer it honestly. You follow me?” When the man nodded, Zephyr continued. “It begins with a set of buses outside of Las Cruces and ends with a bunch of now-barbecued people chained up inside those buses. Have you heard it before?”

  The bleeding man shifted as he considered how to respond to this and when no words came he finally nodded.

  “Good! I thought you might. Now here’s my question— and remember, curly, you don’t want to get this one wrong or its lights out for you. Who chained those people up, and why?”

  Cowboy frowned, then removed his hat and massaged his scalp and nape while he contemplated his answer. To Zephyr, he looked as though he was waging an inner battle of morality versus mortality: — to tell, or not to tell, that is the question. He raised a hand as one might to shield their eyes from the sun.

  “Now, OK, first of all, just remember none of this was my idea,” he began. “Just, a few of us got to thinking that with everybody gone and all, you know, we could live like kings, and then my nitwit brother said, ‘Well, kings got subjects.’ And everything just snowballed out of control from there. Next thing you know, we’re making folks work for us. We ain’t killed nobody, though. Just put ’em to work, is all.”

  I’m sure you pay competitively, Zephyr thought. “Chained them up and threatened to cut off their feet if they didn’t shoot anyone who tried to enter the city, you mean?”

  “What? No, sir.” He feigned disgust. “We didn’t make any threats like that. Shackled a couple fellas, yeah. And I admit, that was wrong. We shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m sure the charred remains of those people would be happy to hear that you’re sorry,” Zephyr said. “And what happened to the wives and girlfriends of the men you enslaved?”

  “Nothing. What wives?”

  Just then, the familiar blat-blat-blat-blat and strobe effect of the Uzi.

  Zephyr turned in surprise and witnessed Lapdog’s mangled body jerking and twitching as the twin riddled it with an onslaught of steady bullets. It lasted seconds, yet the event seemed to transpire underwater and the boy’s mind refused to accept what his eyes showed it. Had Cowboy been smarter or bolder, he could’ve tackled Zephyr then and wrestled the weapon away from him, but the man was also hypnotized by the turn of events.

  The gun clicked, smoke wafting from its barrel, and the unnamed passenger stirred no more. When Ben finally looked his way, he must’ve seen something on Zephyr’s face— disbelief, horror, or more likely a combination of the two— because he threw up his hands as if to say, what? “I warned the fucker, but he tried to go for that one’s gun.” Then he pointed at their remaining hostage, who looked as though he might piss himself.

  “Please, God, don’t hurt me,” Cowboy begged. “Please, none of this was m—”

  “Shut up,” Zephyr said, thinking, Jesus, Ben, really? He wondered just how damaged the twin was and knew that the two of them would have a candid conversation later, but for now, he needed to use it.

  “Do you think we’re playing here? Do you!” He lunged within striking distance of the man and steadied the barrel inches from his face. “Now,” he continued. “I’m going to ask you again. Where are the girls?”

  “O-k-k sure—don’t shoot! We got ’em. Just the two,” the man sniveled. “We been takin’ care of ’em while the men w-work, I swear. I can take you to ’em.” Cowboy looked up and Zephyr saw something dawn in the man’s eyes. “Y-you want them? They’re yours.”

  It wasn’t a good idea. Zephyr knew this, but he also understood that, live or die, Ben was determined to track down the remaining slavers and face them. The boy didn’t think he would be satisfied until every one of them perished alongside their opportunistic minions. And even then, would that really be enough? The twin who remained in the wake of his brother’s demise bore almost no relation to his former self.

  Then there was Cowboy. Yes, it was still just Cowboy. Zephyr hadn’t asked for the man’s name and didn’t want to know it. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t deserve an identity beyond the stupid, shadowy cliché that embodied him thus far. The more Zephyr and Ben learned about their hostage’s accomplices and their makeshift headquarters, the more the boy’s stomach threatened to practice the summersault. The bastard was terrified that he would meet the same fate as his good friend Lapdog and therefore eager to please his new captors. So they discovered that there were two more of them. That the man’s brother was allegedly three years his senior and carried a gun and that the other slaver was someone they picked up after the event and not very good with weapons. They were holed up in the local Target, an enormous department store.

  “We got five or six generators in there so we can plug in lights, TV, microwave, what have you, and we cleared some of the crap into a corner and used the space all nice like a big old house,” Cowboy explained as the three of them rolled down Main Street in the darkness. Ben had ripped off a few long, thin shreds of Lapdog’s bloody flannel, fashioned them into a serviceable tie, and bound Cowboy’s hands behind his back. Zephyr held his gun on the man as he sat in the Flex’s back row without moving.

  “Why Target?” he asked.

  “It’s got everything we need, is why. Number one: food. Full grocery store in there. Some of it’s gone to shit already, sure. We got a lot stockpiled, though, and it’ll keep us from starving for a long time. Number two is supplies. Clothes. Tools. Medicine. We got enough penicillin stockpiled to last us for the rest of our lives, if we’re smart.”

  “Which you aren’t,” Ben interjected.

  It was actually pretty smart. They didn’t loot the place—they took outright ownership of it. Would he have tried something so brash had he stayed unharmed in Firefly Valley? He wasn’t sure.

  The gigantic, stretching parking lot was dark and empty except for a scattering of cars. They killed the Flex’s engine on the periphery of the blacktop and surveyed the scene. Cowboy’s home stood out like a lighthouse aglow in the midnight fog. Target was lit up inside. Not with the fluorescent beams that typically rained down sterile visibility upon shoppers, but with a series of standing lamps that had been placed behind the still-barred glass doors. Independently, they shed soft, gold light, but together they saturated the entranceway with bright luminescence and the signs of unmistakable life for anyone around to see it. Such travelers would, however, also notice the portable spotlights erected thirty feet outside of the store, supplied electricity via industrial extension cords, and there for the single purpose of irradiating a graffiti warning written in red and green spray-paint. The colors reminded Zephyr of Christmas. Someone had illustrated three crude skull and crossbones on as many large bedsheets, each pinned to tall pieces of thin plywood that stood at the store’s curbside. Under each drawing, the message: Occupied. Leave or Die.

  Real hospitable, these guys, Zephyr thought. “So, Cowboy. I hope you know that it’s in your best interest to get us in there, and safely. Because if anything should happen—like, for example, some asshole taking a shot at us from afar—we’ll leave your body behind as a parting gift.”

  Ben turned around and glowered at the man. “Believe him.”

  “Yeah, I do, I do, I swear.”

  “Where do they think you are and when do they expect you back?” Zephyr asked.

  “They know me and Juan went out to feed the men…” he paused, perhaps thinking about how to phrase it. “The ones who got burned. But they don’t know they’re dead yet and they don’t know nothin’ about us running into you lot.”

  “And when would you normally be back?” Zephyr asked.

  “Oh, right around now, give or take.”

  “What will they be doing now? Will they be waiting for you?”

  The man shook his head. “Probably sleeping. Either that, or getting drunk and…” Another moment of consideration. “And tending to the ladie
s.”

  “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Ben spat. “Demented little murdering rapists—that’s all you are. You and your shitty brother.”

  Brother, Zephyr thought, his eyes widening. For whatever reason—sleep deprivation, fear, or any of the countless other post-event distractions—he had never focused on the significance of the fact that Ben and Brad were twins. None of them had. He figured it was just a lucky coincidence that both of them survived. But here was another example of that link and again two related survivors.

  “Ben, I just thought of something,” Zephyr said and explained himself. “Don’t you think it’s weird that just about everybody disappeared, yet you, Brad, Cowboy and his worthless brother all survived?”

  The twin pondered it a moment. “I guess so,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know.” It was true. He didn’t. “I just think there’s something to it. Something we’re missing. You guys were twins. You’re identical. So maybe something about you both— some kind of property—is what kept you here when everyone else popped.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” Cowboy said.

  “Just shut the fuck up, you murdering douchebag. You better hope God isn’t involved in any of this because if he is, you’ve got some serious atonement in your future,” Ben countered, then recomposed himself and turned back to Zephyr. “So, what? Like, because we both have blond hair, we lived?”

  “Maybe. Or blue eyes. Or hair on the back of your hands. Or—I don’t know— moles. Or maybe seventeen moles.” Zephyr continued. “Could be anything. I think it must be some kind of commonality, though. Some rare trait you guys shared that almost nobody has.”

  “But Cowboy and his brother have it, too?” Ben asked.

  Zephyr nodded.

  “Can’t be a big dick then,” the twin said, and for the first time all day, he smiled. It was infectious, and Zephyr caught himself beaming back. It was just so good to see any expression beyond blank indifference or blind rage on his friend’s face.