“Yeah, because I’d hate to miss out on all this.”
Dan set his jaw, the breeze rustling his curls. “I’ve got news for ya, Paul, the shit hit the fan for all of us and, like it or not, we need you. I need you.”
Paul sipped his coffee and stared out over the backyard, unable to be bothered with such trivial matters like survival.
“You may want to die but I don’t. I want to keep living and I want humanity to beat whatever this is out there.”
Paul grunted. Humanity. That was a good one. Sorry, Dan, but that ship had sailed. How many people were left in the US alone? A few thousand? A few hundred?
Humanity.
Yeah right.
“You know what, forget it,” Dan said, getting to his feet.
“I got your back,” Paul said softly, bringing Dan back into his chair. “Happy now?”
Dan blinked out a rare tear and listened to the birds sing for a bit. “I miss her too, ya know. Unlike most of my other friends, Sophia was the only spouse who actually liked me.”
Paul refused to make eye contact, fearful his best friend would see the tears building in his eyes. They shared an uncomfortable moment, soaking up their foreign surroundings and sipping their coffee.
“I can’t believe any of this is happening,” Dan said, studying the Chevelle. “Stealing cars and having breakfast with cows in Texas. How did it come to this?”
A sinister smile swept through Paul’s beard. “Because Hell’s full, that’s how,” he said, cheering Dan with his mug.
Dan swallowed hard.
“Boys!” They turned to see Wendy standing in the doorway. “Breakfast is ready, y’all!” she said, sticking her hips out and mimicking Cora.
Dan went inside while Paul sat there and took another drink, not even close to being hungry. It sounded like Wendy was on vacation, having the time of her life, and he wanted to give her a piece of his mind. He took a deep breath instead, Sophia’s beautiful lips telling him what he needed to hear.
Calm down, Paul, it’s not her fault. Help them get to the beach. Dan is your best friend.
Paul was going to laugh in her ethereal face but she pressed on.
If you don’t, they will die.
“They will anyway,” he whispered back, getting up before she had the chance to counter. It was time to pack up and go. Besides, he was tired of being lectured to by a ghost.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
After a hearty breakfast of chocolate chip pancakes, water, Cokes, and blueberry breakfast bars, Dan and Paul followed Brock out behind the barn where they pumped gas for both vehicles from a small tank he used for the riding mowers, weed whackers and two ATV’s. With his gas guzzling 2015 Chevy Suburban and the beefy Chevelle, they would have to stop more frequently for gas, but this should get them to the ocean no problem.
“If there aren’t any roadblocks, we could be there in less than two hours,” Brock said, pulling his zipper up with a hop after watering a dead bush. “We’ll pack the cars up today, have a few more good meals, and head out tomorrow morning.”
Paul stared at Jasper’s fresh grave with unfocused eyes, throwing in a vacant nod of the head here and there to make it look like he was present. But he wasn’t. He was up on that hill. With her. The clouds had turned even darker since breakfast and the thought of her being alone in this gloom and doom made him shudder. If he couldn’t be there with her physically, he would emotionally.
“We might have better luck finding a boat or a nice beach house in Corpus Christi,” Brock said.
Dan looked up, filling a large gas can. “Don’t you mean, Corpses Christi?”
An uneasy laugh rolled from the cowboy. “Yer probably right about that.”
“Either way, sounds like a plan to me,” Dan replied, capping the can.
Brock pulled a fresh toothpick from his crisp shirt pocket and stuck it between his lips. “Not gonna sound like much of a plan to Cora.”
“You haven’t discussed this with her yet?” Dan gasped.
Brock hung his head and pushed the dirt around with the toe of his boot. “She loves this house, born and raised in this town.” He paused to survey the landscape, hands on his hips. “This is home,” he sighed, taking his hat off and mopping the sweat from his brow. He fanned himself with the hat, looking them over for a minute. “Y’all wanna see some guns?”
☠
Downstairs in a basement office – decorated with a longhorn skull hanging above the doorway, tiny horse statues, and a framed poster of The Good, the Band and the Ugly – Brock unlocked a tall black safe.
Dan’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the handguns, shotguns, rifles, knives and enough ammunition to keep Phil Spector happy hiding inside. “Holy shit, you have an M16?”
“M4,” Brock corrected, taking the weapon from the safe. “Got this from a friend a few years back.” He ejected the long clip, showed them it was fully loaded, and slammed it home. “Guy was a U.S. marshal and a hell of a drinker.” Racking a round, Brock shoved the stock into his shoulder and stared down a black scope aimed at Clint Eastwood’s face. “This’ll make a mess of things real quick, brother.”
Dan couldn’t shut his mouth. “Dude, that is some serious gun porn! If we each had one of those bad boys we could do some real damage.”
Brock handed him the weapon. “Feel the weight.”
Dan weighed it in both hands. “Damn, that is light as hell.”
“Has a shorter barrel to ease close quarters combat, telescoping stock, and is capable of mounting a grenade launcher.”
Dan and Paul turned to him with the same looks branded into their faces.
Brock laughed and laid the weapon on an enormous wooden desk with a tiny laptop on it. “Unfortunately, I don’t have that attachment and this is the only M4 I got.” A toothpick dangled in the corner of his mouth. “Don’t have much ammo for it neither.”
“Oh great,” Dan murmured.
Brock rubbed the hair riding his lip, studying the guns inside the safe. “These’ll do some damage as well. We should split em up in both cars in case we get separated or have to take off in one vehicle in a hurry.”
Dan and Paul looked at each other.
Brock shrugged his broad shoulders. “Just in case,” he said, shooting Dan a wink and grabbing two nylon duffel bags from a closet on the other side of the room.
After filling both bags and storing one in each vehicle, Paul left Brock and Dan standing in the driveway, where Brock gave Dan a crash course on operating the M4. Back inside the house, Paul caught Cora gazing fondly at a picture of Chuck propped up on the mantelpiece. She stared at it dreamily with a drink in her hand, not noticing Paul standing behind her. He almost said something, but continued upstairs instead. Gingerly closing a spare bedroom door with a light click, he leaned against it and soaked in the silence. The room was a perfectly normal spare bedroom, but felt perfectly strange at the same time. He draped his gun belt over a white rocking chair and back flopped onto the bed, rubbing his puffy eyes until he saw stars.
All those guns.
Was it even worth it to try?
What was Sophia’s favorite song?
Was this his family now?
He couldn’t see her face.
Yawning, he decided he would go back to Des Moines and get their photo albums as soon as it warmed up. That was all there was to it. He couldn’t see her face again and it twisted his insides into wet ropes. His eyes were heavy and he couldn’t remember Sophia’s favorite restaurant. Was it Centro? Or Americana? A gunshot jolted him awake. Throwing back the bedspread he didn’t recall pulling on, he peered around the room with sleepy eyes for a moment before snatching his gun belt and strapping on.
Wendy screamed when he stormed into the hallway and pointed the Beretta at her face.
He lowered it. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, I was in the bathroom,” she said, fastening her belt.
He ran downstairs, careful not to roll an ank
le which would be a death sentence in this world. The echo of Wendy’s shoes slapping against the hardwood floors followed him into the kitchen. It was empty so they bolted through the French doors and spilled out onto the deck. A faint sobbing drifted around the corner of the house, drawing them down the steps and into the brown grass. They ran around the corner and found everyone gathered around a young girl lying in the driveway. Paul and Wendy lowered their guns, squinting at the girl’s blood-stained lavender dress.
Wendy threw a hand over her mouth while Cora stood crying beneath one of Brock’s arms. Paul looked from what was left of the girl’s head to a purple bicycle with training wheels turned on its side next to the Chevelle, tassels swaying with the breeze.
“Lindsey Wagner,” Brock said in a husky voice, holstering his .357. “Lived down the way.”
“This isn’t right,” Cora mumbled.
Brock pulled her closer against him and glanced at Paul. “I played poker with her father, and Cora was tight with her mom.”
The lines around Paul’s eyes tightened when he saw the claw marks running down the side of Lindsey’s face. The only side left. He looked to Dan, who still had the M4 tucked in his shoulder like this shit wasn’t over yet. Paul looked all around, brushing his hand against his sidearm.
“She was only five,” Cora said, her words muffled by the fist pressed to her lips.
“C’mon, lil lady,” Brock said, ushering her back to the house. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
She shoved him away. “It’s not going to be fine, Brock! She was just a little girl, goddammit!” Cora swatted teardrops from her cheeks like they were pestering flies. “Who would do something like this? Who?” Slowly, she turned her grief-stricken gaze on Paul as if maybe he had something to do with this. “You think flu shots did this?”
His eyes fell back to the dead girl, heart breaking all over again. The satin bow holding back her yellow locks matched her dress and tassels. No one was safe and it wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. Whatever it was, it was out for extinction.
“Answer me, dammit!”
Paul looked up, meeting Cora’s watery eyes. “I don’t know what did this.”
She swung her pointed glare to husband next. “What’re you going to do about this, Brock?”
“I’ll take care of it; you just go back inside and calm down.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it!”
He sighed and removed his hat, running a hand through his thick head of hair. “What do you want me to do, Cora?”
“I want you to fix it! All of it! Everyone’s dead, for Christ’s sake. What’re we going to do?”
“We have a plan,” he told her, struggling to maintain his composure.
She threw her hands up and feigned a bright smile. “Oh, a plan? How delightful!” Her eyes gravitated back to Lindsey, voice lowering. “Well, it looks like your plan is a little too late.”
“Let’s go back inside, honey, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Cora covered her mouth, tears smearing her perfectly painted mascara.
Other than their deceased dog and neighbor, Paul guessed she hadn’t seen much action up to this point.
“I just don’t get it,” Cora said, turning the corner with Brock and disappearing behind the house.
The breeze ruffled Lindsey’s dress, exposing Dora the Explorer underwear and a bite mark on the back of her left thigh. Paul rubbed his face, whispering an expletive into the wind. He wanted to shoot someone for this because somebody needed to pay and he was just the man to deliver the bill.
Dan did a double take at the show car, eyes thinning. “Sonofabitch” he muttered, rubbing the driver’s side door. “She rode her bike right into the side of the car.” His fingers traced a small scratch in the door. “Car show guy’s probably rolling over in his grave right now.”
Wendy arched an eyebrow. “First of all, who cares about the stupid car? You can get any car you want now, and second of all, we didn’t bury the car show guy. Remember?”
Dan turned his attention back to the little girl, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She rode her bike.”
Wendy squatted down like a detective analyzing a body found by a dog walker in a wooded park. “They can’t ride bikes.”
“No?” Dan looked up with a drawn face. “Why do I get a bad feeling about this?”
Paul blew out a long breath and scanned the area for more unwanted guests, envisioning a dead farmer riding up on a big green tractor next. Could these things adapt? Learn? He took one last look at Lindsey before going back inside, cursing himself for the gruesome peek. It pissed him off and Cora was right...she was just a little girl who deserved to grow old and experience all that life had to offer. Back in the spare bedroom, he could hear Brock and Cora arguing in the master bedroom downstairs. Mostly Cora, crying and yelling things Paul couldn’t quite make out. He turned on his side and curled up on the small bed, staring at the white rocking chair across the room.
He shouldn’t be here.
This was all wrong.
He shut his eyes and tried to see Sophia’s face but couldn’t so he tried to remember the last TV show they watched together. Maybe that would spark something inside. His lips curled up at one corner of his mouth. Parenthood. She loved that show and he hated it but it made her laugh so he didn’t mind. God, he missed her laugh.
Someone tapped on the bedroom door.
His eyes cracked open, bringing the rocking chair back into focus. It was almost dark now and Paul rolled over. “Yeah?”
“Dinner is ready,” Wendy said through the door.
Paul checked his watch. “Okay,” he said, amazed three hours had passed by so quickly. Silence took root and began to grow. He could feel Wendy still standing on the other side of the door. “I said, okay.”
She stood there not taking the hint while Paul realized his wife was dead all over again. Waking up was the worst part. He gritted his teeth, anger rising inside. Why wouldn’t she just leave? Was she really that fucking stupid? They aren’t the Bradys. He’ll be down when he’s good and fucking ready to come down.
“Okay,” she said, finally reading his mind.
He listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway, Sophia’s nosebleed springing into his mind from left field. He swung his legs out of bed and caught a glimpse of his reflection in a freestanding mirror in the corner of the room. The wind fled his lungs like a punch to the gut. On shaky legs, he stepped closer to the man staring back. Paul didn’t recognize him and reached out to touch him. To see if he’d really lost that much weight over the past two weeks, to see if those sunken eyes were really his. He threw on a ball cap to hide his messy hair before massaging the two week-old scruff itching his face and neck. It wasn’t him. It was a bad impersonator, like you’d see at some small town tulip-festival. He left the room on heavy legs, taking one least look back over his shoulder. That wasn’t Paul Hessler. That man, much like his wife, was gone and never coming back.
Downstairs, it smelled like a Texas steakhouse again. He took a seat at the long dining room table with the others, exchanging silent nods and staring at a giant platter of smoking steaks with charred stripes like you’d see in a commercial where everything is perfect. But this was far from perfect because Dan told Paul how Brock showed him how to kill a steer for one last big supper. Paul could only blink in response. Two weeks ago, Dan was hawking iPhones and fifty dollar leopard print cases for his bread and butter; now he was killing livestock with his bare hands.
“I mean, there was blood everywhere,” Dan continued, slurring a bit and washing the meat down with some Jack and Coke. Paul stared at the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting next to the platter of steaks, wondering how long they’d been drinking without him. How long they’d been drinking without her.
“That is so gross.” Wendy scrunched her nose up and turned to Brock. “How did you do it before the power went out? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
; Brock chuckled and chomped away on the delicious meat making Paul’s mouth water even though he refused to be hungry ever again out of respect for his wife. His eyes drew to Cora while Brock told a story about nearly getting gored by the very animal they were eating. Throughout the sordid tale, Cora quietly pushed food around her plate, her brilliant hazel eyes a heavy shade of gray. She wasn’t busying herself with playing hostess like the night before and Paul couldn’t tell if she was upset about Lindsey or too drunk to form complete sentences.
Probably a lot of both.
Brock finished his story with a half-hearted laugh and, soon, the quiet slowly resumed its place in the room. Paul could tell little Lindsey had hit home with Brock and Cora, and their little Bonanza fantasy was headed to the slaughterhouse. Paul could see it in their faces. The worst part was that if those things were way out here, they were everywhere. Nowhere was safe. The oversized forks and knives seemed much louder than the night before and Paul was grateful for the lull in conversation. His mind floated back to the hill overlooking a great valley of trees spreading below. He should’ve written her name on that cross. Stupid!
Brock dropped his utensils to his half-empty plate with a loud clatter, jarring Paul from his thoughts. Brock looked up at the eyes staring back at him. “Sorry, guess I’m not very hungry,” he said, pushing his chair back and heading for the patio doors.
“I’m not leaving this house, Brock.” Cora’s words were slurred but stern nonetheless.
He stopped in the doorway and lit up a cigar. Exhaling, he followed the smoke out into the night. Cora threw her fork down and whisked her plate and rocks glass out into the kitchen while Paul forced himself to chew. Apparently, the plan hadn’t gone over well with Cora and Paul didn’t blame her. They could stay here but it wouldn’t take long to deplete the neighboring small towns of their food and ammo. Plus it smelled like cow shit here.
Dan filled everyone’s glass, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and went out back to join Brock. Wendy wiped her mouth on a napkin and gave Paul a tight smile before taking her glass outside and leaving Paul to his intrusive thoughts while Cora noisily cleaned the kitchen. He ate more than he wanted and took advantage of the solitude to go back upstairs and fall asleep before anyone could stop him. His eyelids and legs had gained a hundred pounds over the last few days and all he wanted to do was sleep.
A Little More Dead Page 19