by Post, P. J.
“Yeah.”
“I think it’s like that, but you have to get bitten. I think it’s something in their spit that makes you sick.”
“Why…”
“It’s called rabies. Animals sometimes have it and bite people, like wild dogs and then people get it.”
She jerks her attention to Pixie, suddenly worried. “Is there medicine for it?”
“Yeah, well, there used to be. But Pixie isn’t sick, so don’t worry.”
“Help me,” the guy pleads.
“How? What do you need, man?”
He just stares into my eyes, afraid and shivering.
Shock?
I’m guessing that the kid upstairs turned about the time we got here, so Dad’s been infected for maybe five minutes. I need to know how long it’s going to take…
He twitches and his eyes start to wiggle, the irises darting back and forth frantically.
“Jem, move,” I say and grab his wrist, trying to find a pulse.
She’s against the back wall of the landing in no time, but then jumps when she backs into the dead kid, leaping to the first step of the next flight of stairs, and leans over the railing, watching.
“Careful,” I admonish her without taking my attention from Dad’s transformation.
“Sorry.”
I keep holding his wrist, searching as the guy’s eyes continue to spasm, flitting around in tiny little movements, it’s weird and very unnatural, and then, almost as if someone took an eyedropper and dripped black ink into his eyes, they slowly cloud over, first in little pools and then the ink spreads out, darkening and about the time he begins howling, they turn black.
Whatever the fuck he is, he’s not dead — not completely dead anyway, he has a pulse.
“Cover your ears,” I tell Jem, and once she does, I debate telling her to look away, but at this point, why? It’s not going to change how much therapy she’s going to need, or the fact that she’s never going to get it.
I lower my .45 and put two holes in dad’s forehead.
So five minutes it is.
How long do I have?
“Jem, listen closely.”
“What?”
“Stay where you are. I wish I had more time, keep Pixie with you.”
“Time for what?” she asks nervously.
I pull my jacket and shirt back, showing her the bite wound as I sink to my knees, kneeling on Dad’s chest.
“No, no, no, no,” she screams and starts to run for me.
I hold one hand up. “Stop, stay there.”
“But…” Her voice is breaking.
“It’s okay…” There’s that lie again, it won’t leave me alone.
“No, it’s not!”
I hold my gun out.
“Jem, Jem! Listen. You’ve used this one before, you know what to expect. This one will stop me. We only have a couple of minutes. If my eyes change…”
“You said not to shoot you!” she shouts at me, refusing to take my .45.
“I know, I know. Don’t let me hurt you, please. Promise me, if I change, right here,” I say, rubbing a spot on my forehead as I push the .45 at her again.
Jem erupts into sobs as she takes it.
She hefts it, hits the safety, ejects the magazine, checks how many rounds she has left, and then slams it back home before pointing it to the ceiling. She stares at me with glassy eyes as she kills the safety and chambers a round.
She’s going to be great someday.
But today I have no fucking clue how to make this easier for her.
I could run, try and get away, but I think this gives her the best chance of ending me — point blank, I mean, what if I found my way back inside when she was asleep?
How long has it been?
I feel myself sweating and the wound doesn’t hurt as much now.
I check it again.
It’s healing, even faster than the cut on my forearm.
I look up at Jem.
“Look into my eyes. Tell me if you see something, okay?”
“What?”
“You know what…if…if they turn black, you have to be quick.”
Tears are streaming down her face. “You said you wouldn’t leave me.”
“I never would, not on purpose. But…” I don’t have the words, and then… “Remember I told you about Emily?”
She nods. She’s crying so hard, I’m not sure she can talk.
But her gun hand is unnervingly steady.
“My other friend is named Samantha. She wears scarves, you know around her face,” I say, making a motion around my head. “Tell them I love them, if you ever meet them, tell them.”
And now my tears join Jem’s.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be one of those things.
Jem continues to stare into my eyes, not flinching from what she has to do.
“Who loves them?” she asks.
“I do, and you too.”
“What do I tell them?”
I’m not following her.
“Who are you, what’s your name? I think I should know. First Abby, then the big man and now you, who are you?”
“I…” Does it matter anymore? I guess not. She deserves to know. “Lane. When you tell them what you had to do, what I made you do, you tell them my name was Lane.”
“Hi, Lane,” she says, and peers closer to look at my eyes.
“But they don’t know that name; I’m the one in love with Sam.”
“Why don’t they know your name?” she asks.
I laugh against the tears. “Good question. Teenagers are stupid, remember that too.”
She tries to laugh with me. “I remember you said not to shoot you.”
I stare into her deep brown eyes as she sets her jaw, trying to imagine how she was just a few short months ago, trying to imagine the life she might have had, when I realize she’s not staring into my eyes, searching for some emotional connection — she’s looking for any change, pretty fucking earnestly too.
Her little chest heaves one last time and she wipes the tears away as her lip quivers. She raises the .45 over the rail, holding it with both hands.
Playtime’s over.
I’m doing the math, estimating how long it’s been since the kid chomped down on his dad, and Sis got me…it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes different.
Has it been that long?
If the wound is healing, that means whatever Pixie did to me, she’s still doing it, on the outside — is it doing the same thing on the inside, against a virus or whatever this shit is?
Am I immune to the black-eyed sickness?
“How are my eyes?” I ask.
Jem bites her lip and tries to smile again. “Pretty.”
I choke a sob back and laugh. “Not black?”
She shakes her head.
I take a deep breath. It’s been way more than five minutes.
I slide off dad and lean back against the stair wall and wave my hands at her. “Okay, let’s go back to not shooting me for a minute.”
She drops the .45, runs around the railing and leaps into my arms, burying her face into my chest.
I hold her, hugging her back.
I don’t know what to do.
Am I safe?
Am I going to turn five minutes from now, or will it be sometime in the middle of the night before I kill her?
“Okay, let’s figure this out. You’re a pretty smart kid,” I say.
She wipes at her face and then slides one step down.
I scoop up my .45, and then hop past her, down the steps and lean against the couch. Pixie watches me and then crawls across the back of the couch, her tail wagging so hard it’s shaking her whole body.
How can anyone not love puppies? I pet her and wonder how wild she is. Is she part wolf, or all wolf? She looks like all wolf, all wolf plus some.
She licks my hand and I swear she’s grinning.
Do wolves grin?
Would she do that if
I was seconds away from being a monster?
I take another peek. The wound is already closing up and I feel fine, better than fine.
Shit.
“How about them clean clothes?” I ask.
She smiles through her worry. I think this might have been too much, but every time I think that, she digs deeper. The last few days are finally catching up, though. I don’t know how long she can keep it together.
How should a seven-year-old grieve?
How about a sixteen-year-old?
§§§§§
We searched the house, gathering food, and the best thing was finding a carton of soft oatmeal raisin cookies; we stood in the kitchen and ate them all in silence. We also found batteries for my flashlight, medical supplies and several unopened packages of toothbrushes and toothpaste. The old clothes still hanging in the back of the boy’s closet were only a little bit too big for Jem, and Dad wasn’t much bigger than me, so we got new clothes too, including jeans, sweatshirts and clean underwear.
Jem’s wearing baggy faded jean overalls with the cuffs rolled up and a long sleeved I Believe in Harvey Dent t-shirt. The kid had an old black North Face parka too; it fits her almost as well as his forgotten and well-worn hiking boots. His gloves were still in the pockets.
Dad wasn’t as stylish, but I have his old, white painter’s pants he must have worn when he was way younger, and a plain black sweatshirt over a good old Hanes undershirt. I ditched my blood and weather ruined leather coat for a parka like Jem’s. My boots are worn, but still comfortable, so I decided to keep them.
But, Jesus, this place is a gold mind, if we didn’t have someplace to be, I’d stay for a while, like forever.
But we do have somewhere to be — someone needs us.
The laundry room gave up thick blankets and sleeping bags, so the only thing missing is weapons, fortunately, I packed heavy on the brass before leaving the caravan.
And just in case I beat the black-eyed goddamn fever, I borrowed a few things from Mom for Sam, and not all of them are lacey underwear — not all of them.
The other best thing tonight was the running water, and not just any running water, hot running water. I don’t know how the water heater works, but then again, I really, really, really don’t give a shit.
The bed is a massive California King.
And the mattress is soft.
Jem is asleep almost instantly.
Pixie wasn’t all that excited about her shower, but she’s squeaky clean and we even shampooed her. Now she smells like green apple candy.
I can’t believe how easy it is to ignore the dead bodies downstairs; and we just kept the lights out, moving heavy furniture in front of the doors in case of unexpected company, but there’s no way to tell anyone is here. I think we’re safe, and even though I feel guilty about taking the time to rest, we needed this.
I needed it.
I found the Treadwell’s sex toys drawer in the dresser, and praise Jesus, one of them was into handcuffs. They’re real, and the key was there as well.
I cuffed myself to one of the bedposts and gave Jem the key and my .45 before she went to sleep. She patted me on the head and said she’d see me in the morning.
Fortunately, she didn’t ask any questions about why the cuffs were here in the first place.
I laugh as Pixie crawls up onto my shoulder and begins licking my bite wound.
“You’ll protect her, won’t you?” I ask as I scratch her neck.
I’m so toast.
It’s only a matter of time.
Jem is breathing deeply at the other end of the bed, so regular it’s mesmerizing.
God, when you stop being a dick, please watch over Jem, do me this one solid — you owe me.
What a day.
What a…fucking day…so sleepy…
The Del Ray Motor Inn sign stands tall in the hot summer afternoon, the Texas wind throwing sand in my face, forcing me to cover my eyes…
§§§§§
“Does God hate me?” Jem asks.
“Why would God hate you?” I ask, caught off guard by how fast her words cut at my heart.
“I hurt Abby, and the big man…”
I heft the new sports bag, readjusting the shoulder strap. “How’s the new backpack, is it too heavy?” I ask, dodging the question.
She shakes her head.
We grabbed the new luggage at the house and then, after a half-hour of watching and inspecting and circling and me being a scared shitless tool, we stopped off at the store down the hill and grabbed lots more goodies, not the least of which was cigarettes and a shit load of plastic lighters. We’ll be good for a while, even if Freemont doesn’t go as planned.
They even had some canned cat food — Pixie couldn’t tell the difference. The gravy was a big hit. I’m carrying more of it than I should, but if the shit hits the fan, Pixie might have to share.
Pull-tab gravy rocks.
I have no idea why the stuff was still in the store instead of up in the house. But then I have no idea why they were still here in the first place. They were completely defenseless. I can’t believe they lasted this long.
And I was too skeeved out by the garage to get too close. It seemed to be all locked up, and that was good enough for me.
“I’m confused,” Jem says.
“By what?”
“I’m almost eight, but I’m not eight yet.”
“So?”
“I don’t know what to do. First, you say don’t shoot you and then, if you turn into one, I am supposed to shoot you, and you said the big man, that wasn’t bad, and Abby…”
She stamps her foot on the ground, which is kind of cute considering she’s got her new .22 in her other hand.
We’ve made it all of the way to the intersection of the four-way stop. This is going to be a long, long day.
“Which way?” I ask.
“What?”
“Which way. We can walk while we talk, right?”
“I guess.”
“We still need to find Casey, right?”
“Yeah.” She stands up and looks back the way we came, and then ahead, back toward the house, and then past the store, considering each option carefully.
I have no idea what she’s thinking, or which way to go.
The tracks are gone, there’s nothing to indicate one direction over another.
Pixie patters to our left, past the store and stops at one of those big green road signs that’s been knocked over, bent back to the ground.
We follow her over, and then I laugh.
“This way?” Jem asks.
“You asking or telling?”
“Telling?”
I tousle her hair. “Can you read?”
“I’m not stupid.” She looks up with angry eyes.
“What’s it say?” I ask, pointing to the sign.
“Freemont, fifteen miles.”
“Freemont, that’s where we’re going.”
She looks down the highway and then back the other way, shrugs, shifts her backpack and then starts walking.
I spare another glance around the clearing, like I’ve been doing constantly since I woke up — the motorcycle guy is still out here, either watching us or waiting somewhere up ahead.
“No, Jem, God doesn’t hate you,” I say as I fall into step beside her.
“How do you know?”
God is supposed to be a comfort, there’s no point in telling her he’s not real, unless I want to kill Santa and the Tooth Fairy while I’m at it, then again, maybe this much evil can’t happen by accident.
“Trust me. You’re a good kid. You saved my life,” I say.
She looks up at me and grins. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Yep. And I’m one of God’s favorites, so that’s how I know he’s not mad at you.”
“Hey, no fair, how did you get to be his favorite?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
We should make Freemont by tonight, at least get there early enough to
check it out, and then we can find the Dunks at first light.
“Remember last night?” I ask.
She ignores me and walks a little faster.
“The thing bit me.”
She’s more resilient this morning.
“Jem, listen to me, I can still turn into one of those things.”
She stops and turns on me. “No, you won’t. If you were going to you already would have. The man on the stairs, he changed fast, stop telling me to shoot you!”
“I’m not telling…”
“Stop telling me to shoot you!” she screams as she stomps her boot.
I hold a finger up to my lips. “What did I say about using our apocalypse voice?”
She sighs and kicks at the ground again. “It’s the same as our inside voice.”
“Try not to get us killed out here, okay?”
“Sorry.”
“Look Jem, I’m not sure what my deal is, just stay frosty.”
She laughs. “What’s that mean?”
“Stay frosty, it means stay cool — calm, don’t get…just…” I sigh.
She looks at me, and then puts her fist on her hip, waiting for an answer.
“It means don’t shoot me, just be ready too.”
She raises her .22 and stops, aiming it down the road. “Stay frosty, I got this shit.” She turns and grins at me.
“Yeah, so if I turn…”
Jem covers her ears. “I’m not listening, la, la, la, I can’t hear you!”
I grab her shoulder and she looks up at me, suddenly scared and lowers her hands.
I feel like shit, but she has to be ready. “Jem, I need you to listen. I think you’re right. Maybe I’m immune, I don’t know, it might just take longer for me to change. You have to be really careful. I need to know you can do that, or I can’t stay with you.”
I’m such an asshole.
Her eyes glass over immediately. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
I kneel and hug her. “I know you’re good, but I can’t let anything happen to you, I can’t hurt you, I won’t, I couldn’t…”
She pushes me away and stands up straight as she wipes her eyes. “If I say yes, can we stop talking about it?”
I nod.
She points her index finger at my forehead, and then presses her fingertip against my skin. “Here, right?”