A Little More Dead

by Sean Thomas Fisher

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Paul peeled his eyes open to see Dan turn to Wendy.

  “Why is it that strippers like to wear those big clunky high heels?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What?”

  Dan sat up a little straighter. “You know, those clear plastic things that look like something KISS would wear on stage.”

  “I don’t know, Dan. Why do librarians wear ugly flats?”

  He adjusted his grip on the wheel and turned onto a gravel road. “I’m just saying, why not wear some classy, black high heels once in a while? If those clod-hoppers were so great, how come you never see normal girls wearing them out at the bars and stuff?”

  “Normal girls?” she said curtly. “I see plenty of normal girls wearing stripper heels at the bars and stuff.”

  “Yeah but I’m talking about those thick plastic…”

  “I know what you’re talking about, Dan, and I don’t know why they wear them! I think they’re ugly too.”

  Dan stopped the car and got quiet, running his fingers over the leather steering wheel. Paul could hear him swallow. “Were you a dancer? You can tell me.”

  “Oh, can I?” She folded her arms across a brand new v-neck t-shirt, hiding her assets. “Thank you for the permission but I already told you I waited tables and…”

  “Did the books,” he finished for her.

  Paul squinted at a two story house with brown siding on a large plot of land stretching into the twilight settling around it. “Where are we?”

  Dan studied the dark house with the engine softly idling. “Close to Victoria, Texas.”

  “Where the hell’s that?”

  “Probably forty or fifty miles from the Gulf; not exactly sure.”

  “What?”

  “You were asleep for a while, man. We made good ground around Houston.”

  Wendy turned to him and nodded her affirmation but it wasn’t possible. He just shut his eyes a minute or two ago and now it was almost dark. Dan backed Shelly1 down the long, double drive and parked near the house’s expansive deck in the sprawling backyard. He shut the motor off and the eerie quiet swept in with the bats above. Paul drank some water and surveyed a fenced-in area holding at least a dozen longhorns, all of which seemed to be faring okay. A big red barn sat in the tree-lined backyard, with what goodies lurking inside only time would tell. The house was just as big and the thought of clearing everything made him groan.

  He rubbed his face with both hands, pulling the skin down around his eyes. “It’s too big. Go somewhere else.”

  “There’s nothing else around and I’m tired of driving.” Dan slammed a full clip into his Glock and racked the slide. “It’s almost dark.”

  Paul tried blinking the sleep from his eyes, his mind as thick as his tongue felt. The car show guy’s slobber haunted his mouth.

  Would it hurt when he turned?

  Would any part of him remain?

  He hoped not.

  Quietly, they exited the vehicle and approached the back deck. Paul’s legs felt like wet sandbags. He was tired of these chores taking him away from his thoughts of Sophia. He needed to grieve and they wouldn’t let him and it wasn’t right! What didn’t they get about that? On the wooden deck, Dan peered through a window with his hands cupped around his face, his Browning leaning against the house. “I think I saw something,” he whispered.

  Wendy and Paul peered through a set of French doors, the kitchen inside cloaked in shadows.

  “It looked like someone just walked out of the dining room,” Dan said.

  “Yeah, probably the same person who boarded up these windows,” Paul replied, noticing the two boards running across the patio doors. “We should leave.”

  “And go where?”

  Dan shifted in his stance. “Wait, are those candles smoking?”

  Paul and Wendy went to his window and observed thin streams of smoke rising from two long and skinny candles centered on a dining room table, as if someone just blew them out. “I see it.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Wendy whispered.

  The hammer clicked back on a gun behind them, gluing them in place. “We already gave at the office,” a gruff voice said.

  Instinctively, they eased their hands into the air and slowly turned around to find themselves staring down the barrel of a .357 Magnum revolver. The man behind it spread a sly grin below his bushy gray mustache. He tipped his cowboy hat to them, a toothpick wiggling in the corner of his mouth. “Now just keep your hands were I can see em and step away from the house.”

  They did as requested, coming closer to the tall man standing in the backyard.

  “We’re just looking for a place to spend the night,” Dan said, reaching for the sky. “We’ll move on.”

  The man stared up at them for a bit, one eye thinner than the other, toothpick jiggling. Time slowed to a crawl. “Well, so far I ain’t seen no talking stiffs yet, so y’all got that much goin for ya,” he said, his voice as deep as the blue in his eyes.

  “No, we’re not one of those things,” Dan replied.

  “Not yet anyway,” Wendy muttered.

  He snorted, eyes landing on Paul. “Just the three of ya?”

  Dan nodded. “We’ve been on the road all day.”

  The French doors clicked open behind them. “Brock! Put that goddamn gun down before you kill somebody!”

  They turned to a pretty lady in black high heels standing in the doorway with her hands planted on slender hips.

  “Get back in the house and mind your own beeswax, woman!” Brock hollered back, not taking his eyes or gun off the strangers. “Where y’all comin from?”

  “Paul and I came down from Des Moines, Iowa,” Dan told him, glancing at Wendy. “We met Wendy in Kansas on our way south.”

  The tanned cowboy eyeballed them with careful consideration, stroking his mustache as he mulled things over in his head. “And where to now?”

  “We’re going to play volleyball at the ocean and start civilization all over again.” A destructive grin slid through Paul’s thick brown stubble.

  Brock chuckled a little. “Not a bad plan,” he responded, tentatively lowering his weapon. “Bet you were freezin your tails off up in Iowa. Power’s out there too, I take it.”

  “Power’s out everywhere,” Dan said, dropping his arms to his sides.

  Brock made a clicking noise with his tongue and stuffed the cannon in a western drop-loop that hung low and tied above his right knee. “Never seen anything like it,” he stated, resting a hand on the butt of his gun and giving them the once over. “Well, y’all look like ya could use a hot meal. Come on inside.”

  “Oh, we don’t want to put you out,” Wendy responded, nervously looking to Dan and Paul.

  Brock stepped up onto the deck and stopped in front of her, the ghost of a grin tugging at his thick mustache. “Not puttin us outta nothin, Miss. Only visitors we’ve had lately can’t hold a conversation worth a shit anymore, so we’d love the company.” He nodded to the cattle mooing in the distance. “Gonna grill up some steaks tonight.” He spit the toothpick to the deck. “Hated to waste an entire cow for just two people and it won’t be worth a hog’s ass tomorrow,” he said, giving up his back and clicking his cowboy boots past a long patio table with cushioned seats.

  The three friends traded uncertain looks, darkness staining the sky.

  Brock stopped at the French doors. “Well, y’all comin or what?”

  “What if it’s a trap?” Wendy said under her breath.

  “Let’s go somewhere else,” Paul suggested, locked in staring match with Brock. The last thing Paul wanted to do right now was make new friends over dinner. Small talk wasn’t high on his list of priorities and oh how they would talk! Talk about what they did before the spread, where they were when it happened and how they’d narrowly escaped with their measly fucking lives. Paul could give two shits.

  Dan spoke in a soft voice. “It’s not a trap; it’s T-bones.”

&nbs
p; Paul and Wendy watched him head for the patio door, confliction in their eyes. Wendy turned to Paul and shrugged. With a heavy sigh, he followed her across the deck, the purple butterfly peeking out from her motorcycle jacket reminding him of the night they spent in Dancers. The night Sophia was still Sophia.

  Inside the kitchen, Paul noticed two things inside right off the bat: A) It smelled delicious, and B) Brock’s wife was tipsy. He could smell the whiskey in the cola she toted around in a rocks glass as she shook their hands. The way Cora carried herself in the kitchen reminded him of the women Sophia watched on the Food Network – easy to talk to with a warm smile. Cora’s shoulder length hair, a mixture of chocolate and silver, bounced as she tended to four different things at once. Timeless black heels showed off her toned calves and Paul found her black tight skirt and shiny red top a bit of overkill considering the situation. And was she wearing perfume? They must’ve had a special dinner planned for tonight, maybe one last big shebang before blowing their heads off for dessert.

  Packages of instant mashed potatoes, gravy and cornbread littered the kitchen island, and soon the wonderful smell of charcoal filtered in from the deck.

  “Cora, where in tarnation did you put those tongs, woman?” Brock hollered from outside.

  “They’re right here, honey!” she sang out, gracefully ushering them outside and planting a big kiss on his cheek as she handed them off. She glided back into the room, wiping her hands on a flowery apron. “Man would lose his head if it wasn’t already attached,” she muttered, the enormous diamond ring on her finger making Paul blink. “Shoot, might lose it anyway these days!” Cora let loose with a wild laugh and quickly sobered, eyeing them as if one of them had just stolen something from her. “Now, let’s get serious. What do y’all want to drink? We’ve got whiskey, rum, vodka, gin, and lukewarm beer and wine.” Her hazel-colored eyes sparkled like copper pennies, desperate for any distraction to keep her mind from the calamity outside. Her bright gaze lingered on Paul. “You look like you could use a double, sweetie.”

  They all went for Jack and Cokes, but later Wendy switched to a nice cabernet to go with her dinner. As promised, Brock grilled up some fresh cuts right off the farm and the smell alone made Paul’s mouth water like a Seattle raincloud. Red juices bubbled around the charred edges of the enormous slabs of meat taking up most of their plates. Paul hadn’t felt hungry in the least but ate like he’d just been rescued from a deserted island. They all did. Perched around a long dining table made from heavy wood, they wolfed down the thick cuts, mashed potatoes and gravy, and canned corn under the trembling light of two tall candles. Cora even baked some instant cornbread on the grill.

  Gravy dripped from Brock’s mustache and he didn’t seem interested in wasting time with the silk napkins Cora passed out just before dinner. He chewed with purpose, only stopping to take long pulls from a can of Coors Light, taking his time appreciating what won’t last forever while Cora refilled their glasses and warmed up more potatoes outside on the grill. Paul ate with his mouth shut while the others eventually traded predictable stories about where they were from and what they used to do and who they lost in the spread and blah, blah, blah. Wendy told Brock and Cora she was a waitress at The Cheesecake Factory, which prompted Dan to start choking on a piece of meat.

  Wendy dropped her napkin next to her empty plate and leaned back, rubbing her belly with both hands. “That was ammmmazing. I feel sick, but thank you so much.”

  “There’s plenty more if ya want.” Cora flashed them a pretty smile. “Normally, I would’ve made a nice chocolate cake to top it off with, but kinda hard to do without my precious oven.”

  Paul stared down at his empty plate like he didn’t recognize it, like he couldn’t believe he was the one who finished it, like he could ever be hungry again. It was insulting to Sophia and he pushed his plate forward, sickened by his lack of respect. How could he eat when she was dead? Asshole! He stared at his Jack and Coke, consumed with guilt. She should be here with them, enjoying this meal and looking forward to the beach tomorrow. It almost could’ve been fun. Just them against the world, living on their own time and no one else’s. But he failed her and there was no do over. Tipping his rocks glass back, he let the whiskey burn, wanting to be alone with his miserable thoughts instead of seated around this table like it was Thanksfuckinggiving.

  With her legs crossed, Cora nibbled on a warm piece of cornbread and said something about a solar-powered oven, which prompted Wendy to say something about a solar-powered car and then Dan said something about getting a generator so he could watch movies and play his iPod outside of the car.

  Brock sat back and laughed, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah, that’s just what ya wanna do these days, go and stick an iPod in yer ears so ya can’t hear any of those creepers sneakin up from behind!” He followed that up with a loud belch that drew a warning look from his wife.

  “I don’t have to wear the ear-buds, I can get a dock for it,” Dan coolly replied.

  Brock leaned his elbows on the table and ran a hand down his mustache. “The what’s the who now?”

  “Never mind,” Dan chuckled, shooting Wendy a sideways look. “We need a generator. That’s the bottom line.”

  Brock lit up a thick cigar and blew smoke rings through the candles as he thought on it for a spell. “You’re absolutely right, Danny,” he said, polishing off his beer with one last big gulp. “Wish I had one now, but never had the need.” Brock went on to inform them he’d been a fifty-seven year-old cattle rancher before the outbreak and was now just a fifty-seven year-old. Cora, he boasted, was the best damn cook in the county and the prettiest woman in the whole wide world.

  “Oh, don’t listen to him; Brock likes to exaggerate,” she smiled, getting up and grabbing his empty beer can. “I’m certainly not the best cook in the county.”

  She shot Brock a wink and he tipped his head back and bellowed with laughter, swatting her on the butt as she pranced back into the kitchen. “Lucky as lightnin to’ve married her thirty-two years ago today.”

  Wendy’s eyebrows slanted. “Today’s your anniversary?”

  He cheered her with his cigar and took a long pull, exhaling a gray stream of pungent smelling smoke to the ceiling. “Supposed to be in Barbados right now,” he said with a faint shrug. “I’m just glad we didn’t end up getting caught there when the power went out.” He patted his sidearm, which was more like a rifle on his leg. “Would’ve hated to be away from the Undertaker during this shit-storm.”

  Wendy traded a quick look with Dan. “Well, happy anniversary. I’m sorry we intruded.”

  “Thank you, Wendy, and it’s no intrusion at all.” He leaned back when Cora brought him a new beer and took his empty plate away, his gaze hooking on Paul’s wedding band. Slowly, his eyes rose to find Paul staring back. Paul braced himself for the impending question that would haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. But what could he do? He sure as hell wasn’t taking the ring off and hiding it in his sock. He almost buried it with Sophia but couldn’t bring himself to part with the platinum band she said was her favorite in the entire jewelry store. No, he would wear that ring to remind him of her every single day. When he rubbed it, he could sometimes see her face and smell her hair.

  Brock washed whatever he was thinking down with a swig of warm beer and took a slow drag, blowing more smoke to the dead chandelier above. He and Cora lived alone in the big house. Chuck, their only son, died in a tragic motorcycle accident thirteen years ago when an elderly woman pulled out in front of him. The woman told the police she never saw him coming. Brock shook his head, watching the cigar burn. “Said she didn’t have the best vision around the edges.”

  “But that didn’t stop the idiots at the DMV from giving her a license!” Cora shouted from the kitchen, slamming some plates into the sink with a clatter.

  Dan stopped his fork and knife from scraping against his plate and looked up. Silence crawled into the room, hesitant and jumpy. Broc
k took a long drag off the cigar, the tip glowing red, and changed the subject, recounting how he’d shot their closest neighbor right between the eyes just over a week ago when Brock found the man eating their yellow lab named Jasper. “I’d been lookin for a reason to shoot Ted for years!” Another booming laugh shot out from beneath his mustache and slowly faded with the smoke rising into the air. His voice turned heavy when he told them how he buried Jasper under a sawtooth oak tree out behind the barn. He grew quiet, bringing Cora’s light sobs in from the kitchen. She pounded the countertop with a tight fist, rattling dirty dishes.

  Brock took his hat off and wiped his forehead with a leathery hand, regretting even bringing it up. Paul sipped his Jack and Coke, eyelids heavy as hell. It seemed the zompocalypse was a license to spill your darkest secrets to complete strangers and he hated it. Hated their horror stories that reminded him of her. He’d be better off on a deserted island with just him and his thoughts.

  “Hope you saved room for dessert,” Cora said, back to her light and airy voice. She set a package of Pepperidge Farm chocolate chunk cookies on the table and a new glass in front of Dan. “Brock has to have his chocolate fix right after every meal or he turns into the Hulk, even after breakfast.”

  Brock proved her right by digging right in.

  “Did you get enough to eat, sweetie?” Cora asked, taking Paul’s plate. “There’s plenty more.”

  “No, I’m stuffed. Thank you.”

  “Well, you are very welcome,” she said, sweeping their plates away. “I’ll put the leftovers in Tupperware and leave them on the deck to stay cool overnight. Help yourselves to more if you get hungry later.”