The Last Mile Trilogy

by Jacqueline Druga

  Robi knew that she and Nick, and anyone else who remained alive, couldn’t bury all the bodies in the world. Maybe, with all the love they had put into the graves for James, Maggie, and Linda those graves would stand as a symbol for all who had died and lay unburied.

  Nick made soup and handed his mother a cup. “I’m using the bottled water. I figure what is still pumping through the lines should be okay for washing hands. . .Unless you don’t think so.”

  Robi accepted the food. “For washing it should be fine. Follow up with sanitizer,” she spoke dazed.

  “I did.”

  “Then we’re good.”

  “For now.” Nick sat next to her on the couch. “Eat.”

  “I will.”

  “Anything new?” he asked.

  “He’s a twit.” Robi nodded toward the television. “This is doing us no good.”

  “It’s our source of information.”

  Frustrated, Robi sighed. “Yeah, but they’re giving us information we basically have right outside our door.”

  “Yeah, and all we have to do is look out. I really don’t care to yet. Do you?” Nick asked.

  Robi shook her head. “No.” She then glanced at him. “I’ll be better tomorrow. I promise.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I just need today,” Robi said. “Then tomorrow I’ll be different. I’ll kick back into gear. Tomorrow will be different.” She lowered her hand and lifted her spoon while mumbling, “I hope.”

  Buffalo, New York

  Her name was Juanita. At least that was the name Bishop had given her. When he was nine, his mother found Juanita at a flea market. There was something strange about the find. His mother loved it so. An eight-inch, ceramic head of a woman. Her face was Spanish, complexion dark, hair plastered and flowing. Proudly she placed it on a shelf where it greeted all who entered the Bishop home.

  It sat there for years.

  It wasn’t that Bishop was particularly fond of Juanita; he’d just grown accustomed to her unemotional, beautiful face. The eyes that stared blankly. If she wasn’t there when Bishop walked in, he would’ve missed her. What started as a practical joke when he was a teen, turned into an adult habit—the practice of not only saying hello to the bust, but also answering for her in a high, fake, female, accented voice.

  Bishop started doing it to irritate his father who would simply raise his eyes above his newspaper and grumble, ‘you’re an asshole’ before continuing his reading.

  The joke became a fifteen-year habit.

  Bishop looked forward to the sight of the bust after he conjured up enough courage to return to his parents’ apartment.

  He’d spent the entire day in his own apartment… alone. Often he’d look to the ceiling, debating on whether he should go up there.

  After most of the day had passed, Bishop decided it was the right thing to do. He not only had to say goodbye to his parents, but out of respect for them, he had to do something with their bodies…a burial of sorts.

  First, he had to separate them, and that probably was the reason for his hesitation.

  Deciding that he would simply go to their apartment, bid them a loving farewell, lay them peacefully in bed, and cover them, Bishop walked up the stairs to their floor.

  The door was still ajar from the night before and Bishop walked in.

  Juanita stared out from her shelf.

  “Hey, ya, Juanita,” Bishop said, then paused and cleared his throat.

  “Hey, Bee-sheep,” he answered in his ‘Juanita’ voice.

  “Pretty dreary, huh?”

  “Everybody dead.”

  “Yeah.” Bishop nodded. “Thanks.” Hands in pockets, he found his way to his parents’ bedroom. With a ‘here it goes’ and a deep cleansing breath, Bishop opened their door.

  He shuddered. The figures of his parents were beneath the blue sheet, the exact same way he had found them the night before.

  “I’m sorry, Mom and Dad,” he said as he moved closer, “I know you probably didn’t want me to find you like this. But … Dad died happy, huh?”

  He tried not to look as he stopped at the bed. “How am I going to do this? Should I do this?” he thought to himself, “Yes. Yes. I should. What if sometime in the future, someone comes in here?” After a few moments of staring sadly at his parents and said to himself, “For their dignity, I have to.”

  With almost a shudder, Bishop reached out. His plan was to grab hold of his father’s shoulder, and hopefully with a shove and push, his dad would roll off his mother.

  Bishop gripped his father’s shoulder and … screamed.

  His hand did not grab flesh. Instead, his fingers sunk through his father’s shoulder as if his skin were a pastry and his body hollow. Eyes shifting down, Bishop backed up in horror. The night before, his mother’s body lay beneath his dad. Now all that remained were broken, chalky, dust like particles.

  Bishop’s parents didn’t just die; they had now started to disintegrate as well.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  June 1st

  Mt. Lebanon, PA

  Dear Journal …

  Has it really been eight weeks? When I reached the marker for the calendar this morning, I noticed it was Thursday. Not that I don’t notice the days, I do. But today I flipped the page.

  Eight weeks.

  This is the first time I’ve written since it happened. Although Nick diligently keeps a log—not journal as he corrected me—a log.

  Eight weeks.

  Eight weeks ago my life changed. My son’s life changed. The world changed.

  Nick’s loss is great, his father and sisters. But I lost my children, my husband.

  James. I suppose he is the reason I decided to write down my thoughts finally. I was going through a box last night of his things. James was the writer. What a poet. He had been published in a few outlets, nothing that paid, but we were proud. His words flowed and conveyed emotions like none other. His diary of pieces was indeed a journal of his life.

  We fought over his mother once, and her demeaning way with me when it came to my cooking. He wrote a poem called Split Pea. A metaphoric writing that compared his mother and me.

  I loved James. Still do. I swear I hear him, see him, sense him. I curl up at night with my pillow missing him horribly. Really, if he heard me say that, he’d laugh. Me, Robi Pierce, a sensitive person. He claimed he was the sensitive one, not me. I agreed. He was the ‘feeler’ and I was the ‘thinker.’ He stated on numerous occasions that I must have cried a lot as a child, because as a woman, I ran out of tears.

  James should have seen me the night he and the girls left.

  Granted, it is tough to get me to show emotions, and I suppose now it will be even more difficult. If I wasn’t out of tears before, I am now.

  Losing them took everything from me. My reserve emotions are for Nick. I pray to Almighty God, that I will never have to use my tears on him.

  Nick is a pillar, a genius in a realistic manner, if that makes any sense. These past eight weeks have been a learning experience. I believe we are doing well at it.

  We sat the other night to plan our life. For the immediate future, we will stay put. Who knows what’s out there beyond our circle of living? We don’t. Eventually we will.

  But for now, we live for the moment, and plan for tomorrow.

  That’s the best we can do.

  Robi

  Erie, Pennsylvania

  He had not seen that particular brand of beef stew in a can before, and Bishop had seen many. Perhaps it was a local brand, he didn’t know. He ate it nonetheless, with a plastic spoon as he sat on the beach staring out into Lake Erie.

  His work was done there, but not the day. Another town, another name crossed off the list he had compiled. The news had stayed on the air for one week. During that time, Bishop had listened and written down every name, every town, every location, of every person that called in. He figured it would be important when he ventured out. He had accumulated one hundred and fi
fty places to stop and check for survivors.

  He was late getting started. He had stayed in Buffalo hoping that someone would come to him. After all, he had called the television station. Then after weeks of waiting, he had gone north, hoping against all hope that Canada wasn’t hit.

  It was.

  He had started his journey to search and find.

  So far nothing.

  It didn’t surprise Bishop.

  Everyone wasn’t dead, he knew where they were. He was headed to the same place—or at least in the vicinity. Bishop didn’t have an exact location. Two weeks after the world dropped, the electricity fluttered and faltered. Having followed the televisions advice, Bishop had acquired a radio.

  He’d monitored that until it died. For some reason he was unable to get another car battery hooked up. He tried. It was useless. But he didn’t need the radio anymore. It had given him all the information he needed.

  The last transmission he picked up was an invitation sent to all those listening. In southern California, near the coast and close to Mexico, a community had formed. Civilization was going to begin again there. A band of people had water running, electricity flowing and were setting a course for long-term community survival.

  Bishop’s goal.

  He would get there … eventually. He supposed he could have just headed straight there, but what if, like him, someone else’s radio had died and they hadn’t heard the invitation? Aside from informing someone of this valuable information, Bishop was looking for people to travel with him.

  He referred to his list, set his course, and began.

  He wasn’t having much luck.

  That didn’t bother him. The virus that hit everyone had this distinct ability to keep going even after the body had succumbed. It ravished until there was no more body to ravish.

  Literally, those who died turned to dust.

  Visually, it made it easier when Bishop went into towns. No bodies lying about. Only wrecked cars, and occasional white particles that didn’t sweep away with the weather. Barren, quiet cities.

  Bishop was fine. Food was plentiful, and he had Juanita. He brought her, amongst other things from his parents’ home. The once annoying, inanimate object became his companion.

  On the beach, Bishop finished his meal. The plastic spoon clicked against the empty can.

  “You missed out,” he said, showing the can to Juanita who was perched in the sand beside him. “Pretty tasty. You sure? I have more. Guess not. Sorry, I won’t push.” He exhaled and set down the can. “I was here before, you know. You remember, don’t you? No? Sure you do.” Bishop smiled. “Six years ago, spring break. I couldn’t afford to go to Florida so I came here. I figured it had a beach. I didn’t count on it being so cold. But, yep, Erie can be a party town. I got drunk and hooked up with this married broad. I know. I know. You don’t need to hear. But I’m gonna share anyhow. You do this all the time.” He chuckled. “Stop me mid good story. So, continuing. I hooked up with her. We went back to her room. She told me she was married. I was fine with that because I was a kid. We started undressing, having fun. She said she was married but failed to tell me her husband was right there in town. Wouldn’t you know it, he came in. Man, I flew out of that room bare ass naked and kept going.”

  Bishop paused. “Speaking of going, we better get a move on. It’s still early and I want to hit New Castle before we move toward Pittsburgh.” He stood up. “I’m sure we won’t have a problem finding a new car with gas, do you?” he laughed. “Oh, you just like to be difficult, don’t you?”

  After brushing off the sand, Bishop pulled on his backpack, grabbed his duffle bag, then Juanita.

  With the bags and bust in tow, he headed off the beach. His path would go as it had. He moved from town to town, exhausting his traveling resources and replenishing in each new location. He could have planned things to be easier and take less time. But what difference did it make? What else did Bishop have to do with his time?

  CHAPTER SIX

  June 6th

  Mt. Lebanon, PA

  The sun peeked in through a long line of windows and Robi crouched in the row of planters on the floor. She touched the soil and examined the growth. “Yeah,” she spoke to the plant, “another week, you’ll be ready to venture into the world.”

  She stood up, brushed off her hands and cocked her head to the left when she heard a scuffling of feet.

  “Hey, Mom,” Nick said as he walked in. “How are they?”

  “Better than could be expected,” Robi replied. “I thought for sure the cloudy weather would hinder them.”

  “Did the ultra violet light work then?”

  Robi shrugged. “Seems to.”

  “Good thinking on Doc’s part, huh?” Nick asked.

  “Surprising thinking on Doc’s part,” Robi said sarcastically.

  “What? He’s smart.”

  “Medically,” Robi replied as she walked over to what looked like a wall of fish tanks.

  “He said since he’s been with us a little over a month now, that I can start calling him by his name.”

  Robi stared for a second, and then returned to examining the plant growth in the tank. “What is his name?”

  Nick shook his head. “I thought you knew.”

  “Tell him you’re sticking to Doc, it’s cooler.”

  “That’s what Ray said,” Nick stated. “Everyone calls him Doc anyhow. So … did you get the trespasser signal we sent?”

  Turning from the tanks, Robi faced him. “The signal went through. How about the arm?”

  “Swung really fast.”

  “How far out were you?” Robi asked.

  “We had it set for fifty feet.”

  Robi nodded. “Gives enough time to get the signal and get out there.”

  “Hopefully.”

  “I heard gunshots.”

  “Ah ….” Nick smiled. “Which brings me to another point of my visit.”

  “And what is that?” Robi started to walk from the room.

  “I ran into the dogs.”

  “How many?”

  “Lots.”

  “They the same?” Robi questioned.

  Nick chuckled. “Yeah, but I took them down really fast.”

  “Good. Good. Take Manny out next time, I don’t want you going alone.”

  “Mom,” Nick scoffed, “I can handle the dogs.”

  “That’s what Ed said, too. You saw what happened to him.” After stepping from their plant room, Robi reached into her tee shirt pocket, pulled out her cigarettes and prepared to open the door that led outside.

  Nick stopped her. “I have to tell you what I came to tell you.”

  “You did.”

  “No, I didn’t. There’s more. There’s this Yorky.”

  “Yorky as in Yorkshire Terrier?”

  “Yeah.”

  Shaking her head, Robi opened the outer door. “Tell me outside, I need …” She froze as she stepped into the smaller yard.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Nick said.

  “What in God’s name, Nick?” Robi stepped further into the yard. “You brought it back with you?”

  “It was so cute.”

  “Oh, yeah, real cute.”

  The Yorkshire was in a cage, small but with room to move. The second Robi drew closer, the mini dog started to react.

  It didn’t ‘yap’ like most small dogs. Its growl was deep and its bark was demonic. From a distance, it was clear that it was a terrier, but up close, it had all the symptoms. Its fur was splotchy from the small tumors that formed. Its head swung back and forth violently as it tried to eat at the cage. Thick, white drool oozed from its mouth.

  “Put it out of its misery,” Robi ordered. “You or me.”

  “But, Mom, Doc said we can’t catch it from the dogs. And really …” Nick paused to snicker, “you think she can kill me?”

  “No, but she can make you awful sick. Ask Manny how sick you get from a bite.”

  “Not eve
ryone gets sick. Ray got bit.” Nick defended. “He didn’t get sick.”

  “But Doc said he can’t tell if the effects are ethnically biased. Ray’s a very big black man; you’re a petite white boy.”

  “Petite?” Nick laughed. “I’m average. Actually, I’m big for my age considering I’m the only seventeen year old I know still alive.”

  “Get rid of the dog, Nick.”

  “But, Mom, look, he can be trained. Watch.” Nick walked to the cage and the dog went wild. “Hey!” Nick sapped. “Enough. Quiet.”

  The dog yelped once, and sat down.

  “Good boy.” Nick spoke in a high pitch. “Good boy. Here.” He dropped something in the cage.

  “What did you give him?”

  “A piece of meat. Look” Nick said, “I’m not saying we can train all dogs. But what if we feed him and just see. Maybe he just needs food. Maybe that’s why all the dogs went cannibalistic, because no one fed them.”

  “Nick …”

  “Mom, please.”

  Robi paused in thought. “Fine. A few days. If there’s no improvement the dog goes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grumbling, Robi turned to go back in. She grunted again when she realized she didn’t smoke her cigarette. Placing it in her pocket and saving it for later, she turned down the hall. As she walked, she could see Ray approaching. No one could miss Ray. Actually, Robi and Nick literally saw Ray approaching long before he joined up with them. A very tall black man who towered over most, he was as gentle as he was big. From the roof, Robi and Nick had spotted him three blocks over. It was about fifteen minutes before he knocked on their door.

  “Hey, Robi, did you get lunch?” Ray asked. “Doc says he’s claiming yours if you don’t eat.”

  “I’m on my way there.”

  “Do you know Doc’s real name?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Did you know we have a dog?”

  “Yeah.” Ray chuckled. “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

  “Cute?” Robi snipped. “Cute?”