by H. R. Romero
“You know, Rose, you remind me of my daughter,” says Dr. Valentine, her voice slurring.
Rose sits quietly. She can smell the strong smell of the medicine on Dr. Valentine’s breath. Dr. Valentine forces her eyes to open and focuses on nothing in particular.
“She had a sweet spirit, always smiling, and singing… dancing. It was such a blessing to have known her. I was very lucky to have been her momma.”
Rose smiles gently. “I’m sorry Dr. Valentine.” Rose feels sad for her. It’s a shame that no matter what happens, nothing will bring Dr. Valentine’s daughter back to her.
“What will they do with me when we get to Fort Worth?” she asks. Her voice sounds all quivery. She can’t help how it comes out.
“They want to learn more about you. We think you can help us make things the way they were before,” says Dr. Valentine.
“Dr. Shaw wants to kill me.”
Dr. Valentine only nods and slips into a restless sleep.
Something unexpected and wonderful catches Dr. Shaw’s attention. Just there beside the front door of the service station, not fifty feet away, is a long red box with a sliding top. The white lettering on the front says 6 cents, Enjoy, Coca-Cola, Ice Cold. He thinks, not ice-cold now, but a Coke, is a Coke, hot or cold, and boy does he ever have one hell of a hankering for one.
It’s not so far away that he can’t grab a few and be back before anyone’s the wiser. The major and the sergeant are busy, furiously working to replace the blown tire. Dr. Valentine and that little monster are locked up tight. It’s not like I’ll even be out of sight. What could possibly happen?
He reaches for the lid, placing his fingers on the long black handle to slide the dust-covered lid open. It’s stubborn, but it slides. And inside is a whole lot of… not-a-damn-thing. He sighs, not bothering to close the box. He raises his head and something inside the station changes his mind about returning to the Fish. Near the back of the store, on a shelf is an issue of, Popular Science Monthly, Mechanics and Handicraft, it's sitting right there on the shelf waiting for him to take it. The rest of the place looks pretty much ransacked. It’s a real treasure; one that he can’t resist. There may never be another publication of anything, ever again. And he never had the chance to read the issue staring him in the face, not twenty feet away.
The door opens easily, making the temptation even easier. There’s broken glass on the floor. It crunches under his feet like rice at a wedding. He steps gingerly as he goes, trying not to make too much noise in the loneliness of the station. He leans forward with each step he takes, looking past the endcap of each aisle for potential trouble. The place smells of concentrated urine.
One of the store-front windows is broken out, and bats have made a home in here. They cling from the ceiling by their toes. He steps even softer, so he doesn’t spook them, and works his way to the shelf. September 1942, the cover is beautiful and crisp. Its cover is graced with a large gun, being triggered by three brave soldiers. Nope, he hasn’t read this one. He rolls it up tightly and shoves it into his back pocket. He kicks a newspaper lying at is feet. It reads: Roosevelt Calls Troops Home, to Fight Alien Menace.
Glass breaks behind him and his hair stands up on the back of his neck. A cold shiver runs up the length of his spine. He clenches his teeth. His legs feel heavy. His blood seems to pool in them. He can barely manage to turn. He expects to find a Wicked Briar standing face to face with him, but that isn’t what he finds. A large dog, coming from a dark room in the back, spots him and bares its gleaming teeth. It hunches down, shoulder blades arched, ready to lunge at Shaw. Its hackles raise, and it drools long lines of thick saliva, which trail to the dirty floor.
“Oh, okay there, nice dog. You’re a nice dog… nice…”
It’s not a nice dog. It snarls and barks once in warning.
Shaw searches for a weapon or something which might distract the animal. There’s a tire iron on the counter. It’s too far away to reach, but he reaches out for it anyway, in vain. His useless attempt to reach it causes the dog to step forward and come into the light. It has growths of some kind on its back. Small, almost bonsai-like, trees sprouting from it. The vines run throughout the fur. The same as the deer in Salado, except more advanced. Further along in whatever transformation its undergoing.
“Are you alone, boy? Let’s hope you are.”
As if on cue, another canine comes from around a shelving unit, snarling, and growling, and clicking its teeth together.
“Oh, shit. Okay. You have a friend. A damn-ugly-friend. I’m just going to move to the counter so I can get over to that little tire iron. Okay, guys?”
The animals are intelligent. They won’t allow him to move much more than a few inches in any direction. For every inch, Shaw moves the dogs take two steps, and already, they are maneuvering to foil his plans to defend himself or escaping. The first, a German Shepherd, lowers its angular head, gluing its keen eyes on Shaw. The second, a mixed-breed, circles around, never losing track of Shaw, it snaps strong teeth into the empty air. Together, the dogs are moving in the close the gap and make a kill.
Shaw’s heart is in his throat, his breath comes in short pants. His skin feels numb and tingly all over. His ears pound like drums. He’s afraid to shout for help fearing the dogs would leap and tear his throat out. Inch by inch he eases toward the tire iron. It’s a race; a slow and agonizing race and the animals will get to him long before he gets to it.
He makes his move and scrambles for the tire iron. He slips on the broken glass covering the floor. The dogs begin their attack. The German Shepherd sinks its teeth into Shaw’s leg. The taste of hot blood entices the dog causing it to shake its head violently, trying to tear meat from the bone. He screams and raises his arms to his throat just in time to block the mixed-breed from locking on. The mixed-breed, instead, takes him by the arm. The raw strength of the dogs is bolstered by the smell and taste of blood. They intend to rip him in two.
The Shepherd yelps and drops dead, a spearhead in its heart. The mixed-breed lets go of Shaw’s arm. He holds it tight to his chest, blood pours from the wound.
The dog bares his teeth and goes after the other humans who killed its mate. It leaps. Connors shoots it between the eyes. Brains splatter onto Shaw’s clothes.
“Told you not to wander off,” says Connors. He and Sergeant Hollander back out of the station and return to the Flying Fish. “We’re leaving, Shaw. You better come with us unless you want to make this a permanent residence.”
Dr. Shaw hurries after them with no intention of staying here a moment longer.
Chapter Eighteen
“None of us really change over time. We only become more fully what we really are.”
-Anne Rice, The Vampire Lestat
The roads and highways stand clogged with debris, rusting cars, tractors, bicycles, and a dead horse litters the landscape. The journey has worn everyone egg-shell thin, and Connors’s patience is stripped to the bone. The burden of command and the responsibility to protect the two doctors and Rose is starting to shave off his inflexible exterior skin, leaving his soft innards on display. Rose thinks it makes him appear more human, and more vulnerable.
She doesn’t like the way Dr. Shaw keeps looking at her. It reminds her of the buzzards she’s seen on the roads before they go face down into the guts of a rotten carcass. She knows he has plans for her, which take place under the sharp point of one of his scalpels. She moves to sit closer to Dr. Valentine. After a while, Dr. Shaw’s focus moves on to other things, like cleaning his wounds.
They come to a place on the highway where Sergeant Hollander asks Connors, “This is it. Which way you wanna go?”
Looking the map over, as if he has a choice, Connors considers if he has it in him to disobey the direct order of a superior. He can just show up at Last Command as pretty-as-you-please. Of course, there would be that whole, firing squad thing, he’d have to face. Nah, it wouldn’t be a firing squad. It would be hanging. Bullets are a precious r
esource. So, the choice isn’t as simple as all that. Does he go up Interstate 35 West towards Last Command, or does he go up Interstate 35 East into Dallas?
He rubs his face with one hand, and scratches behind his ear, pondering his decision. He can feel the sandiness of the road grit, blown in through the passenger side window, where it’s collected on his face in a thick layer. One thing he’s always believed, being in the military isn’t only an honor but a duty. Why should his beliefs change simply because the world went dead-fish-belly up?
“35 East. We’re going to Dallas, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. Goin’ to Dallas.” Hollander pulls the stubborn steering wheel to the right, guiding the bulky vehicle around a cattle truck full of dead steers and clouds of bloated, black flies.
Before long the way to Dallas is congested with the bodies of humans and animals alike. When you see this many bodies laying out like forgotten garbage, it’s a sign that you’re getting close to a major city. Out near smaller towns, it’s not so bad.
Connors reaches the radio. He tries different frequencies, even some old civilian frequencies the Army doesn’t use. But, no one answers from the satellite base.
“Bad sign,” says Connors.
“Maybe not, Major. Last Command didn’t answer either for a while,” says Hollander, not taking his eyes from the road as he navigates slowly around the bodies on the baking asphalt.
“No, we’re within range of the satellite base. They should be answering.”
“Maybe they’ve got radio troubles,” says Shaw.
Nature’s steadily reclaiming the highways and roads, and every other thing human beings ever built. Yellow-white clusters of ragweed work their way through the cracks in the pavement, breaking it up even more as the roots take hold.
“Look, there,” says Dr. Valentine. She still looks pale and thinner than when they left Camp Able, but for the first time, she’s wobbling on her feet. She’s pointing ahead, past the windshield, at a small settlement in the distance.
Tall chain-link fences surround what’s left of the satellite base. There are no guards posted, but there are people dressed in military uniforms milling around inside. They notice the Flying Fish almost immediately and greet it with waves and friendly cheers.
“They look happy to see us,” says Hollander.
“Keep going, keep going. Don’t stop here,” says Shaw, trying to wave away the stench, coming from the base. The sour and fetid odor wafts in through the open windows. He waves his hand back and forth but turns to placing a handkerchief over his nose instead. He screws up his face, overcome with the smell. No one likes it, but they don’t make such a big deal out of it as Dr. Shaw does.
Small fires are lit in barrels and thin, black streamers of smoke spiral into the air. The people inside are coming to the fence now, and the smell of filth and sickness strikes like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil, triggering Dr. Shaw’s gag reflex.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Shaw, there aren’t any trees you can hide behind here,” says Connors.
The front gate to the satellite base opens allowing them to roll inside. The gate is then closed, and it secured carefully behind them.
“Rose, I want you to get inside one of the storage cabinets and do not come out until I come for you. Now go on and stay very quiet. Do you understand?” says Dr. Valentine.
“Yes, I understand.”
Major Connors, Dr. Shaw, Dr. Valentine, and Sergeant Hollander exit from the ambulance and are immediately welcomed with open arms, halitosis, and rank body odor.
A small man, much shorter than any of the others, approaches through the tangle of living flesh and bones. He introduces himself straightaway. “Oh Lord, Lord. Welcome, welcome, one and all. My name is Ewing, and I am the leader of this small, but proud group.”
“I am Major Connors of the United States Army, Dr. Shaw, Dr. Merna Valentine, and Sergeant Hollander. The last time I heard, this base was under the control of the U.S. military. What happened to the soldiers who were stationed here?”
Ewing turns his head to the right, and to the left as if he were searching for the soldiers Connors mentioned. “Yes, it’s still under the control of the military. In fact, there’s one of the soldiers now.”
Connors spots a man of medium build, wearing fatigues that are several sizes too large for him. The name on the shirt says M. O’Riley. The only problem is, the man isn’t O’Riley, but he’s, sure enough, wearing his clothes. Connors fakes a passable smile and nods his head.
“Are we ever happy to meet you, folks,” says a thin woman with darkened circles and bags below her eyes.
“Welcome, Major Connors. Do you have any water, food, or medicine you can share? We’re in great need here,” says Ewing.
Connors is about to offer up some of the supplies when Dr. Shaw sidles up next to him. “I would strongly advise you not to do what you are about to do.”
“What the…?” Connors can’t believe the man who hid behind a tree, while two children and a woman were being attacked, is giving him advice, “And just what is it you think I’m about to do, doctor?” He whispers out of the corner of his mouth so no one else can overhear.
Shaw isn’t as subtle and speaks too loudly “We need every ounce of our food and water. We still have to get to Fort Worth, and if –” His comments cause a ripple upset to course through the group of survivors.
“–These people are desperate,” Connors interrupts, “Have you ever seen what desperate people will do for food and water? And you might want to look around. You’re fenced in with them. And if you care to take another look, Shaw, you might notice that they have snipers on the rooftops.”
Before Connors can repair the damage, Shaw has done, a throng of hysterical, emaciated people rush forward and grab them.
“If you don't share with us then we’ll have to take everything,” says Ewing, rubbing his hands together. “Take them to the church!”
They’re taken to an old two-story building. The address is posted in large, black numbers above the entrance: 2424 Swiss Avenue. They are forced through the double front doors and find themselves in a room with a curved staircase. They’re wrangled, not unlike cattle, into a large, half-moon-shaped room. The second-floor balcony hangs suspended above them. A beautiful gothic chandelier hangs in the center of a tin-tiled ceiling. A stunning stained-glass window graced with the image of a woman is built into the wall. Light from the outside cascades through the glass lighting a podium which lies on its side. They’re in a church, and though the building is just a quarter of a century old, it smells of mildew, and of age, and of death.
One might believe, if they try hard enough, that the voices of ghosts can be heard singing. The apparitions of lost souls can be seen swirling and dancing, in time, to haunting melodies long forgotten.
Now, this holy place has become a sanctuary for the living dead; men and women, who are among the last survivors of an, almost complete, extinction event. And what these men and women have in store for them becomes crystal clear. A large area has been set up off the side of this large room, with no other purpose than the slaughter and preparation of meat. A makeshift slaughterhouse. Cannibals have decided their fate, and there seems to be no way out.
A small section of the wall has been knocked out, and a stovepipe snakes through it, to vent smoke outside. In the corner, near the women’s restroom, there’s a barbeque pit. A long stainless steel, food preparation table is adorned with butcher knives, small hand axes, fillet knives, and other odds and ends. From various points on the balcony railing hang half a dozen or more ropes and affixed to the end of each one are large, angry hooks, used for hanging human cuts of meat.
A man is moving from one end of the table to arrange his butcher’s tools, just so, for ease use. He’s an opposing giant. At one time he could have been a bodybuilder or a wrestler, but now fat has replaced the muscle which has disappeared, but not so of his strength. He steps heavily, his feet thudding as he walks, his fat jiggling. He lifts Hol
lander with one hand, by his neck. He’s able to do it so easily. Connors shouts at the man, pleading with him not to take the private, but to take him instead.
Hollander gasps for air, trying in desperation to pry the strong hands away, but the man maintains a grip like an iron collar around his throat. His face is turning a dusky shade of blue. Hollander swings his fists at the man, but the only blows he lands are ineffective.
The giant is the chef, dabbling in the underappreciated, and peculiar culinary art of cannibalism. He draws his club-like fist back and jack-hammers it into the sergeant’s face, multiple times. Hollander’s limp form sags, clinging to consciousness, but the fight has been taken out of him. The giant takes him to the wall where he secures leather straps across his chest and forehead. The man touches the edge of a sharpened knife to the sergeant’s throat., gliding it across, and a torrent of bright red blood blossoms from the carotid and cascades down the body of the dying soldier.
Dr. Valentine screams.
Connors curses the giant and threatens to kill him.
Shaw’s puking on his own shoes.
A filthy, scabies-ridden woman enters the room. “What? What is yew doing, son? Shit and fire! You know what Ewing told yew. The men taste gamey until you cut off their balls and let ‘em sit a spell. The testos-ter-oner’ whatever the hell makes ‘em taste rank. You’re s’posed to start with that woman first, dummy.”
Merna, overhearing the conversation, realizes she’s escaped death purely by accident. She was supposed to be in the sergeant’s place. Nausea slams into her guts like a fist. She clenches fighting the overpowering sensation of needing to empty her guts from both ends. She wretches, her taste buds register the sour taste of bile as it enters her mouth, hot and foamy. She spits it out onto the blood-encrusted carpet.