Desolate - The Complete Trilogy

by Robert Brumm

  Calling it a building was a little generous. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t much more than a shack. A rundown one, at that. If someone was inside, I wasn’t exactly eager to meet them for several reasons. For one, it was the middle of the night and whoever lived there didn’t have any close neighbors that I could see. They probably wouldn’t be too keen on having strangers calling. Not to mention I probably looked and smelled terrible. I also had a feeling they wouldn’t understand English. I still had no idea where I was, but my best guess was somewhere in South or Central America. If the plane was headed to the States then I figured that’s where we would have crashed. I took one semester of Spanish in high school and just barely passed with a D. Besides asking for agua, I don’t think I’d be able to communicate very well.

  I crept up to the door, knocked a few times, cleared my throat, and called out “hello.” Nothing. I knocked a little louder and waited. I tried the door latch and it opened. I pushed the door open, calling out one last time. It was pitch dark inside and I couldn’t see a damn thing. The air was thick and smelled a little dank and musty. I carefully took a few steps forward with my arms out in front of me, making sure I wasn’t about to walk into anything. As my eyes started to adjust, I could make out a small table by the wall. Sitting among a few other items was the shape of a lantern. It was one of those battery-powered jobs. I turned it on and the weak fluorescent bulb lit the room.

  As far as jungle shacks go, it was pretty much as I expected. There was a crummy-looking cot in the corner, an old card table with a couple of chairs in the middle of the room, and a little kitchen area in the other corner. On the counter was one of those big orange containers you see get dumped over football coaches when they win a big game. I tested the spigot, and what looked like fresh water poured into my hand. I gave it a taste and indeed it was. I filled up the cleanest looking cup I could find on the shelf. The water was room temperature and tasted a little stale, but still hit the spot.

  I downed a second cup and rummaged through a little cupboard that served as a pantry. It was pretty sparse, and most of the items were useless without cooking. A container of rice, some sort of grain-looking stuff, spices, dry pasta, things like that. I held up a jar to the light and it looked like some sort of pickled meat. To this day, I have no idea what animal it came from, but I cracked open the jar and gave it a taste. I gotta tell you, it wasn’t half bad. A little gamey and chewy but it was meat all the same. I devoured half the jar. I completed my little meal with a banana. It was brown and mushy, but still edible.

  I inspected the shack some more. Considering the short shelf life of a banana, it was obvious the cabin wasn’t deserted. I put my hand on the small potbellied stove in the corner and it was slightly warm. I knew I was pushing my luck and it would’ve probably been smart to get the hell out of there before the occupant returned. Then again, I was dead tired, and the thought of going back out there and walking down the road was demoralizing to say the least. I guess I could have found a spot off to the side of the road to sleep, but I couldn’t take another night of all those creepy crawlies all over me.

  I decided to take my chances and spend the night in the shack. I dragged the mat off the cot and put it on the floor right in front of the door. That way, if the occupant came home I would be woken up by the door hitting me. It was a pretty dangerous idea, but I was so tired it seemed brilliant at the time. The second my head hit the mat, I was out cold.

  I woke the next morning and slowly rose from the floor. It was the first time I’d gotten a decent night’s sleep in a while. Despite that, I was tempted to lie back down and sleep for the rest of the day. I didn’t want to push my luck though. I had a nagging feeling whoever lived there would be home soon and I needed to get out of there. My whole point of this trek was to find people and get help, but I didn’t have high hopes the occupant had a cell phone or a car to drive me to the hospital.

  I rummaged around though the junk in the cupboard and found an empty bottle I could fill with water. I finished off the jar of pickled meat and headed outside. The coast was clear and I headed to the road.

  Scattered around the front yard was salvaged junk I didn’t see last night in the dark. Old tires, scrap metal, nail-filled lumber, you name it. One little item did catch my eye, and that was a crusty looking old bicycle. It was in pretty rough shape but the tires still had air and the chain looked decent. I pushed it onto the road, got on, and gave it a go. Success! I hadn’t been on a bike since I was in high school; but, as they say, you never forget. I pedaled down the road and glanced back at the shack that had taken me in last night. I felt a little guilty for stealing the bike and food. But, after all, I’m a convicted killer. I’ve done worse.

  14

  A little farther down the road I passed a few more rundown shacks. I didn’t bother stopping this time since I didn’t see any signs of life. Even if anybody was home, I didn’t have much optimism for the occupants’ ability to help me. I figured there had to be an actual town nearby, and now that I had some wheels my goal was to find it.

  Eventually, the crummy little road intersected with an actual two-lane highway. I assumed I had found B6. There were no other signs around so I followed my hunch again and picked a direction.

  The B6 was in much better shape than the last road and I was making good time on my trusty bike. I debated what to do if I finally came across a car. The smart thing would be to flag it down and try to get the driver to help me. For all I knew, I could still be hundreds of miles from the nearest town. After riding for thirty minutes or so I was beginning to wonder where the cars were. I still hadn’t seen any vehicles on the road.

  By now, the sun was up and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The road offered no shade; the blacktop made it feel like I was on a cast-iron skillet. The heat waves emanating from the road distorted the view of the distance, creating mirages ahead. Any energy I got from that soggy banana and gray meat was long gone.

  Just when I was starting to really get worried, I noticed a thinning in the vegetation ahead and a sign on the side of the road. I got close enough to read the sign and it greeted me to the town of Boones Run. I cracked a smile and picked up the pace, despite my burning legs and sore neck.

  I passed a few houses on the edge of town and a little gas station that looked closed. Still no cars or people around. As I got closer to an intersection, I saw something lying in the middle of the road that I mistook for a dog at first. I rode the bike closer and realized it was a man.

  He was face-first in a pool of what I could only guess was his own blood. I thought about checking for a pulse, but the odor that hit my nose and the flies milling about made his condition pretty obvious. I was really starting to get tired of finding dead people.

  I looked up and down the streets, trying to find a sign of somebody, anybody. There were a few parked cars but otherwise the town seemed deserted. I shouted as loud as I could but heard nothing in return.

  I left my bike next to the corpse and walked down the middle of the main street. The buildings were a hodgepodge of different architectural styles all crammed together, practically built on top of each other. Most of the houses and shops were painted with once bright but now faded shades of red, blue, or yellow. Mismatched sheets of corrugated metal served as the main roofing material in town and covered many of the windows that were missing glass.

  Vegetation was growing out of just about every crack in the road. I would have sworn Boones Run had been deserted years ago if it wasn’t for the festering piles of garbage on the sidewalks. The funk from the trash hung over the street like a blanket, making the oppressive heat and humidity that much worse. Somebody must live here, but where were they?

  I walked up to a nearby store sporting a large hand-painted sign above the door that read “Sonia’s Grocery.” I tried the wooden doors, one painted red, the other green, but they were locked. There were two windows. One was boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood, the other cloudy with years of neglect and fil
th. Somebody had tagged the wooden window with the words “Koukie” and “Propea,” whatever that meant. Below that, a crude drawing of a smiling man with large joint hanging from his lips flashed me the peace sign.

  I knocked on the window and asked if anybody was inside. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye and saw a brown goat casually walking up the middle of the street. It paused for a moment to look at me, snorted once, and continued on.

  The doors to the grocery didn’t seem very solid when I pushed on them. I gave the green one a good kick and my foot actually broke through the flimsy material. The goat stopped again to observe the commotion but didn’t offer to help. I flipped it the bird.

  Carefully, I pulled my ankle out of the jagged hole, sighed in relief that I hadn’t cut myself, and looked inside. It was dark and I couldn’t see much besides a rack full of canned items and boxes.

  This time, I slammed my shoulder against the rickety door and it broke open. I fell to the floor, banged my knee, and gritted my teeth as my abdomen acted up. It had been aching steadily all morning and that did not help the situation one bit.

  After the pain eased a little, I got up and surveyed Sonia’s Grocery and all it had to offer. A cooler against the wall held an assortment of bottled drinks. I opened it, grabbed a bottle of water, and drained the whole thing in a few gulps. Warm but satisfying. It seemed the power must have gone out a while back because, like the water, everything in the case was lukewarm. On the bottom shelf were some sandwiches in plastic wrap and containers of cold cuts and egg cartons. My stomach rumbled, but I had enough to worry about without adding botulism to the list.

  I checked out the assortment of dry goods on the shelves and didn’t see much to get excited about. Like the little shack, most of the stuff was useless to me at the moment, like boxes of powdered milk and sacks of cornmeal. All the labels were in English but I didn’t recognize any of the brand names.

  Around the corner was a small snack section consisting of various chips and sweets. I grabbed a can labeled Mister Potato Crisps and ripped off the top. They may have been a blatant rip-off of Pringles, right down to the mustachioed cartoon character on the can, but they were salty and delicious.

  I stared absently at the old cash register on the counter as I ate the chips, and it occurred to me I might be able to figure out where I was. I walked around to the back of the counter and studied the register. It didn’t appear to be electric. I pressed a few of the number buttons and then Sale. The drawer opened with the clinking of a few coins. I picked up one. There was a bust of some old-looking guy on the face. The inscription on the coin declared him to be THE RT. EXCELLENT SIR ALEXANDER BUSTAMANTE - NATIONAL HERO. I flipped it over. JAMAICA - ONE DOLLAR 1996.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. For months I suffered on a dirty turd of an island off the coast of Antarctica, and here I was stranded in a place practically the exact opposite. My luck wasn’t that great though. Instead of ending up in one of those swanky beach resorts, I was in what looked to be a completely deserted mountain village.

  A shuffling noise from the room behind me snapped me back to reality. I absently slipped the coin in my pocket and crept up to the door.

  I was ready to knock, decided against it, and just opened the door. I peered into the hallway of the small living quarters behind the store. The smell that hit my nose was immediately recognizable and my heart sank. That odor would be burned into my memory forever.

  Lying in the middle of the living room was a heavyset black woman. Was this Sonia? Or did the grocery change hands over the years? Maybe the original Sonia who had founded the store was dead and buried long ago.

  This woman, Sonia or no Sonia, was flat on her back, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. Dark blood covered most of her face, neck, and shirt. The white sweatpants she was wearing were soiled dark where her bowels had given way. A dog was standing next to her, licking the blood off the floor beside Sonia’s head. It looked up at me and a low growl escaped its throat.

  “Easy there, buddy,” I whispered.

  I realized I was still holding the chips, so I pulled one out and tossed it to the dog. He snapped it up and looked to me for more. I tossed the can into the store and he ran after it.

  Either Sonia lived alone or nobody else was home at the moment. The small apartment was a disaster. Used tissues littered the coffee table. Empty water bottles and dirty dishes were everywhere. The air was heavy and dank and flies buzzed around the body and dishes. Suddenly, those Mister Potato Crisps weren’t sitting very well. I staggered out the back door into an alley just in time to paint the wall with some vomit. In the state this town was in, I doubted anybody would notice.

  As the nausea eased, I leaned against the wall, the cool cinderblock feeling good against my cheek. I knew exactly how and why Sonia died, and the deserted town started to make sense. The bloody, swollen face. The smell of fever and puke and shit. I’d seen dozens of inmates go down the same way. How was it possible? Here I was in Jamaica, thousands of miles from the island where the disease started. I just couldn’t believe those germs or bugs or whatever, trapped in that ship for who knows how long, had made it here. How did it travel so far and so quickly?

  A scream from down the block snapped me out of it. I ran down the alley, weaving through the piles of trash, and into one of the side streets. A little girl was desperately trying to break the grasp of a tall, dirty-looking man. She slapped at his arms and wiggled away from him, only to have him grab her hair and pull her down the street. She cried out again, louder this time.

  “Hey!” I shouted and ran toward them.

  The man, clearly surprised by the sudden appearance of a white man running at him, froze and stared at me. The girl took the distraction to her advantage and quickly crawled away from him. She ran down the street and around the corner, out of sight.

  The perv continued to stare but didn’t say anything. He was wearing brightly colored clothing that looked brand-new but didn’t fit well over his emaciated frame. A tag he’d forgotten to remove from the baggy pants was sticking out of his pocket. A white sticker stamped with an L was on his chest. Despite the new clothes, his hair was clumped and matted with filth. Deep cracks decorated his withered face. I was at least ten feet away but could clearly smell dried piss.

  “G’won, get now,” he said, his toothless mouth making it difficult to understand. “Not cho bidness, mon.”

  “Is there anybody else in town?” I asked. “I need help.”

  I took a few steps forward and he picked up a piece of concrete from the ground and held it up, ready to throw.

  “Easy,” I held my hands up, palms facing him. “Just wanna talk.”

  He hurled the concrete in my direction and ran off. I followed a few steps and stopped, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. For a homeless guy, he was fast and he disappeared around the corner. With my aching stomach, I was in no condition to run after him.

  Instead, I headed in the direction of the girl to see if I could find her.

  15

  The girl had run down what appeared to be the main road in town. Down the street I could make out a large group of abandoned vehicles. They surrounded one of the few multistory structures in town. It was painted bright white and stood out like a gleaming temple compared to the other shabby buildings surrounding it. As I got closer, I could make out the sign above the door: “Boones Run Health Centre.”

  As I weaved through the maze of cars, I saw many of them were still occupied. A few drivers were still behind the wheel, slumped over or lying back in the seat, covered in blood and flies. Many of the dead were in the passenger seats, no doubt left behind as the drivers ran ahead to the clinic for help that never arrived. Several dogs were nosing about, investigating the dead. I wondered if they were immune to the disease like I was.

  The front of the clinic was in shambles. Several bodies littered the sidewalk in front of the main entrance. The doors were locked and it looked like they had taken quite a beating from
the rocks, pipes, and lumber scraps scattered around. The door windows were smashed but remained intact due to the reinforced metal mesh woven through the glass. The windows on the clinic walls all had bars over them, the glass behind them broken.

  There was no sign of the girl so I decided to try to find a way into the clinic. I walked down the sidewalk, looking for any other possible access. If anybody besides the girl and the bum were alive in this town, I figured there would be a good chance they were inside.

  In the alley behind the building, a cinderblock wall about ten feet tall formed a little courtyard. It smelled awful back there but I continued forward. At the far end, the rear half of a pickup truck stuck out of a crumbled section of the wall. I climbed into the bed of the truck, planning on jumping into the courtyard, when I froze.

  The entire yard was full of bodies.

  Near the back door, body bags were stacked three or four high. The clinic must have run out of bags quickly, and I doubt they had much of a supply to begin with. The rest of the bodies rotted out in the sun and the elements. The sea of flies was so thick it practically looked like a storm cloud. The farther the bodies were from the door, the less organized the piles became.

  Speaking of piles, the truck was in the middle of a doozy. When it smashed through the wall, it drove right through a sea of corpses before stopping. The mangled mess of bones and guts and gray matter under the wheels made the scene that much more gruesome. If that wasn’t enough, I peered into the cab of the truck and spotted what was left of the driver. Apparently, he lost hope when he saw what was left of the hospital. The interior of the truck was painted with the contents of his head-thanks to the handgun on the seat. I considering grabbing the gun for a second before the smell got to me and I gagged. I stumbled out of the back of the truck while dry heaving. The air was a little better outside of the walls and I got myself together.