by Caleb Casey
of profane words stacked creatively on top of each other. I decide very swiftly that this is someone I want in my foxhole during the apocalypse. I brush Mr. McCarthy out of the way, and before anyone realizes what I’m doing, I open the door.
“Hey! In here!” I wave to him. He’s several feet away, near Mr. Howard’s grey metal mailbox. I glance upward to check for ugly winged things; nothing’s there. The clouds still look like lava.
I hear protests and cries of “Shut the door!” from the fools behind me, but I ignore them, using my body as a doorstop. The mystery man jogs toward me. The winged things are watching him, seeming reluctant to attack. One glides from the roof in his direction, but he’s ready for it. He takes one step to his right, a subtle (but effective) dodge, and drives the tip of his spear into the thing’s bony ribcage. It shrieks in pain as he yanks the weapon from its flesh. The mystery man glares at some of the other winged things, spear in hand, as if daring them to attack. I feel hands around my waist and I’m pulled back inside. The man follows and the panicking fools slam the door behind us.
The hands are still on me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that it’s Desmond. Disgusting Desmond, whose hands have probably put more than a few one dollar bills in the G-strings of strippers in sleazy clubs. His fingers are moving slowly upwards, invasive and unwelcome.
“Let me go, toad!” I bring the empty bottle up, wondering if I could hit him with it.
Desmond sees the spear-man approach and loosens his hold. The spear-man shoves him and Desmond lands on his rear end.
“What’s your name, man?” He points the spear tip at him. Like most of his sentences, the question contains profanity; I’ll leave out the specifics.
“Desmond.” He looks frightened, like he’s worried that his busy hands might have just earned him an epic spearing from this foul-mouthed Prince Charming.
“Desmond, quit being rude, man.” Desmond is staring at the spear with two wide eyes. I see now that it’s actually some kind of plumbing pipe with the end of it broken off in a 45-degree angle to make it sharp. “Understand?”
The spear-man looks at me and gives a quick wink that Desmond can’t see. I can’t help but reply with a brief grin.
“You’re crazy,” Desmond says.
One of the others says, “Look here…” He trails off, abandoning the rebuke.
My new friend isn’t wearing a shirt. He’s lean and wiry, a few scratches and scrapes on his arms and chest. He’s barely taller than me, and I’m only five-three with shoes on. His pants are dirty and his shaggy blonde hair is wet with sweat. He looks familiar, but I can’t attach a name to the face.
Desmond is cowering on the floor. The spear-man reaches down, offering his hand. Desmond hesitates, grasps it. The man pulls Desmond to his feet and pats him on the shoulder.
“No hard feelings, right? No point having enemies in here when there’s so many out there.”
Desmond, looking befuddled, nods and says something unintelligible.
The spear-man turns to me.
“Got any more of those?” he asks, gesturing toward the empty bottle in my hand.
He’s holding the spear in his left hand; I take his right hand in mine and lead him past Desmond into the kitchen. After a moment of silence from the others, the argument begins anew with a few muted whispers. When I open the refrigerator, the debate goes back to its former glory, loud and irrelevant.
I hand my new friend a Corona and he tosses it to Desmond, who nearly drops it. I hand him a second one and he pops the top. I grab one for myself, close the fridge, and lean against the door. Prince Charming is already half done with his beverage.
It seems like a perfect time for my new line. “Lovely apocalypse we’re having tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
He smiles, propping his spear against the kitchen counter. He offers his hand.
“I’m Boesch.”
“Meagan.”
We shake and I realize why he’s familiar; he’s Brandon Boesch, the sports writer and photographer for the local newspaper, the Stone River Sounder.
“You took a picture of me shooting a lay-up my senior year; my tongue was sticking out.”
“Sorry,” he says.
“No, I liked it. I have a framed copy of it somewhere.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
He holds up his Corona – it’s almost gone already – and I tap my own bottle against it in a mild toast.
“To our lovely apocalypse,” he says.
We drink to it.
The idiots are yelling at each other near the door. “It might be our only chance!” “That’s a suicide mission!” Typical stuff.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The talk dies down. Mrs. Prendergast, holding her crucifix: “We think it would be best to try for the church. It’s only a block away.”
I don’t even try to muffle my laughter. Boesch is standing behind me, spear in one hand, a fresh Corona in the other.
My response: “Have a nice trip. I’m sure our winged friends outside think that’s a wonderful idea.”
Prendergast ignores my comment; she’s looking at Boesch.
“We think it would be best for everyone to stick together. How about you, young man? Will you go with us?” she asks.
“Don’t call me young man. The name’s Boesch.”
“Mr. Boesch…”
“Not Mr. Boesch. Just Boesch. You call me mister, it’s like being in third grade and getting scolded by the teacher for talking out of turn or something.” Before she can speak again: “Why risk going out in the open to go to a church?”
“These creatures must be straight from the bad place. They won’t be able to enter a holy place,” Mrs. Prendergast says.
Murmurs from the others. “Speak for yourself, lady.” “Maybe we’re better off staying here.” Some support, also. “Worth a try.” “She might be right.”
Boesch’s response makes me smile: “Which one of you screwheads said ‘don’t open the door’ when I was out front?”
I survey the crowd. Even in the low light, the culprit – a balding man dressed in a white shirt and white pants, I think he’s a chiropractor – can’t manage a decent poker face, exposing himself by looking down, ashamed, for a brief moment.
“Please help us, Mr. Boesch. Obviously you can handle yourself against these monsters…”
“Do you work at the guard camp?” one of the others asks him, interrupting Her Holiness. “Are you military?”
Boesch laughs. “No, I’m not military. Usually I’m only armed with a camera.”
“Will you help us get to the church?” Prendergast again.
“Scared that one of those winged things will fly you up into the eternal paradise of heaven?”
“I’m scared. Yes. But I have faith that we’ll be safe in the church from these things. We can lock ourselves in; I have a set of keys.”
“Of course you do,” Boesch says.
“There’s food there, a room full, stuff we’ve collected for the poor,” she says.
“Yeah, there’s probably a thousand cans of food sitting in there and not one single can opener in the whole God-forsaken place.” I find Boesch’s answer to be uproarious; no one else even cracks a smile.
Prendergast, obviously used to getting her way one way or another, seems to be running out of ammunition: “Look, I think the least you could do is…”
“No.” He cuts her off, lifting his spear and tapping the floor with it. “The least I could do is nothing. Don’t bully me.”
Someone says, “Let’s just leave them and go.”
“That’s your plan?” Boesch asks. “Run for it?”
“What would you suggest?” I’m not sure who says it, one of the men.
Before Boesch answers, he leans close, and asks me: “What do you think? Want to take a walk?”
I survey the shadowed faces of the others. “Sure. Might be fun. This has to be a dream anyway, right?”
> Boesch, to the others: “Okay. First, who lives here? Any of you?”
A lot of heads shake. “No,” Prendergast says. “Mr. Howard lived here. He’s no longer with us.”
“You sir, with the lantern, what is your name, if I may ask?”
“Gordon.”
“Gordon, please bring the light with me for a few minutes. Maybe we can prepare ourselves a little before we put on our Sunday finest.”
With Gordon’s light, Boesch and I rifle through the drawers in the kitchen, finding a few knives (and two hand-operated can openers, which I put in the pockets of my sweat pants). Also, a box of matches, the blue-tipped kind. We put it all on the table. A door in the kitchen seems to lead to the garage. Boesch opens it. We go in.
The garage is a disaster of a mess. Piles of boxes, yard tools, broken TVs and VCRs, boating gear (did Mr. Howard even have a boat?), no room for a car. I almost trip on a lawn mower that’s turned on its side, a few of its missing components scattered on the cement floor. It reeks of oil and gasoline. I kick a stray spark plug into the corner.
“I read your sports section, Mr. Boesch,” Gordon says. (He doesn’t correct him on the “mister.”) “You take some good photos.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Gordon turns and the lantern’s light falls on the small rectangular windows on the top half of the garage door. In one of them, we can see the face of one of the winged things. I take a step back and almost trip over the stupid lawn mower again. I point at the window, but Boesch has already seen it. The winged thing taps one clawed finger on the window. One two three, tap, tap, tap. Boesch takes a step toward it, spear in hand, and the thing – with a chaotic flapping of its leathery