by J. M. Snyder
At them. Softly, he said, “Ronnie, let’s go.”
“We just want to go around,” Bree started.
The man grinned at her—no, leered. Court felt his skin crawl at the look leveled her way. “You come on, then, sweetheart,” the fellow joked. He licked his lips, his tongue dark with disease. “We’ll let you in, but I guarantee, you won’t be able to walk very far when we’re through with your sweet ass.”
“Let’s go,” Adam muttered. “We can circle around in the trees…”
The man overheard the suggestion and laughed. “We’ve got you surrounded, and these woods are booby-trapped from here to 301 on your right, to Horne Pond on your left. The only way you’re getting around us is if you go all the way back up to State Route 631 and veer off to the east. What’d ya say to that?”
Court remembered seeing a road sign for Route 631, but he couldn’t say for certain if it’d been earlier in the morning or the day before. It wasn’t exactly an hour’s backtrack, that much was sure. And it wasn’t east they were headed—Sumter was south. Interstate 95 would take them all the way down into South Carolina, but if they got off course, they could spend the rest of their lives wandering deserted highways. How long before the food inside the cars they came across spoiled? How long before it ran out altogether?
Apparently they weren’t moving fast enough for the former prisoner. When he leveled the shotgun barrel at them, at Ronnie, Court’s heart stopped beating. His hand clenched uselessly at his side. “Ronnie,” he said, hating the quiver he heard in his own voice. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Listen to your fuck buddy,” the man snarled. “Turn around now and none of you gets hurt. But if I have to keep looking at your ugly faces much longer, I’m’ll shoot.”
This time Court really did grab Ronnie—fisting a hand in Ronnie’s shirt, he yanked his friend a step back. “Ronnie, please.”
“I don’t like this,” Ronnie murmured.
“You don’t have to like it,” Court told him. “Let’s just get out of here alive and we can figure out what to do then.”
Still Ronnie hesitated. Behind them, Court heard the others in their group moving away—from the corner of his vision, he saw Adam backpedaling, pulling the shopping cart noisily with him, and on the other side, Dizzy took exaggerated steps that would’ve been comical under other circumstances. Even Bree was backing up, shaking off Court’s grip as she stepped behind him, not daring to turn her back to the jailbird.
Only Ronnie stood his ground.
Court’s hand dropped to Ronnie’s belt and tugged. “Come on, Ronnie. I want to just go already.”
Ronnie fell back a step, then another. Court eased his hand into the waistband of Ronnie’s jeans where it gapped against the small of Ronnie’s back and gripped the denim tight. When Court backed away, Ronnie followed, thank God. Court struggled not to just turn and run—he didn’t want to make any sudden movements, nothing to cause these men to open fire on them. On him.
On Ronnie.
They didn’t bother going all the way back to where the state route branched off the interstate—Ronnie called a halt when they reached the vehicles on the side of the road they had cleaned out earlier that day. “We’ll camp here for the night,” he said, nodding at the lengthening shadows across the road from the wrecks. “There should be enough sunlight to get the tents up, at least.”
“What then?” Court wanted to know. “Those guys are still going to be there in the morning.”
Ronnie shrugged. “We’ll worry about them then.”
The shoulder of the road didn’t run far into the woods before the ground dropped away in an ivy-covered hill. The group crashed through the undergrowth, stepping lively to avoid tree roots and moldering logs. Bree and Adam struggled with the shopping cart, but could only get it halfway down the hill before they had to abandon it against the remains of an ancient tree stump. Court helped them carry a few grocery bags full of food down to where they would camp. They left most of the cans in the cart, sure nothing would make off with them in the night.
At the base of the hill, dry leaves and dead pine needles crumbled underfoot. Trees stretched far overhead, their branches blocking the sun’s heat and cooling the interior of the forest. The place looked like it hadn’t been disturbed for a hundred years—even before the virus wiped out most of humanity, this little patch of the world had been untouched by man. Unclaimed. Court imagined how quiet it would’ve been to lie here among the trees and listen to the distant rush of cars on the interstate above. He pictured himself spread-eagle on the ground, leaves falling around him, then morning sunlight, then snow as the season drifted into winter. How peaceful, to stay here forever, away from everything—from those men with their guns, from Sumter, from the rest of the world.
A rough elbow caught him in the small of his back and he stumbled as Ronnie brushed past. “You better help me with this tent if you plan to share it with me tonight,” his friend said. In one hand he hefted the pack containing their tent, which Court had inadvertently left behind at the shopping cart. Over his shoulder, Ronnie added, “Unless you want to see if Bree will sleep with you.”
“Ha ha,” Court muttered. He glanced around to make sure she hadn’t heard that—she was a little ways off with Adam, the two of them struggling with their own tents, and she didn’t spare Court any attention. Good, he thought, hurrying to catch up with Ronnie. She didn’t need any encouragement.
By now, all of them were adept at pitching their tents. Some of the others doubled up; some slept in single, one-person pup-tents like Adam and Bree; and some stretched their sleeping bags out in the open to enjoy the cool evening air. Fallen leaves, small sticks, and plant debris were pushed aside to make room for the sleepers, and as the sun began to set, the disturbed ground cover found its way into a pile in the center of the tents. Almost everyone carried matches or a lighter with them, picked up while scavenging. A bonfire was lit, and as twigs were fed into the flames, Bree began the onerous task of doling out food to the group.
Court knew men were creatures of habit, but he’d never appreciated just how ingrained order was in the human psyche until he began to see patterns emerge when they settled down for the night. The tents were set up side-by-side in the same fashion regardless of where they stopped. Everyone had a preferred spot, and by the time the fire was roaring away, Court was never quite sure they’d even been traveling at all. The camp always looked the same—same layout, same design, and, in the dark, even the same trees, the same stars peeking through the same leaves above.
Ronnie preferred a space just on the outskirts of the makeshift city. The southernmost point of their little group, as if positioning himself at their head. The brains of the operation, and the fire between his tent and the others burned like the heart behind their southern movement. Once their tent was erected, Court laid out their sleeping bags in the same manner as he did every night—himself on the left, Ronnie on the right. Their lantern and the radio sat at the back of the tent between their pillows.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
After dinner, Court stripped down to his briefs and crawled into his bags. Beside him, Ronnie sat in an undershirt and boxers, his gun dismantled on a chamois cloth as he began his nightly ritual of cleaning it. Court fiddled with the radio a bit, but could get in nothing but static. Glancing at Ronnie, Court watched his friend’s hands smooth lovingly over the gun. “You could’ve used that this afternoon,” he said.
Ronnie grunted. The sweet scent of gun oil hung between them in the air. “I could’ve gotten us all killed if I did.”
“You’re a good shot,” Court countered. “You could’ve taken out the asshole in orange, at least.”
“And all his friends would’ve opened fire.” Ducking his head a little, Ronnie gave Court an exasperated look over the bridge of his nose. His think about it look, Court liked to call it. Ronnie often shot it his way whenever Court said something…
Well, stupid.
In an attempt to get that look off Ronnie’s face, Court asked, “So what are we going to do now?”
Ronnie shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.”
“Still head south, though, right?” Court turned the radio’s tuning knob, searching desperately for something other than white noise. “I guess we’ll take the state route down, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Ronnie said again.
Almost to himself, Court mused, “If only there was some way around those jerks. Can they really have booby-trapped the whole damn forest? I mean, that’s a lot of area—”
“I don’t know!” Ronnie tossed aside his chamois cleaning cloth and glared at Court in irritation. “Why do you keep asking me these things? I don’t know, okay? I’m not the goddamn leader here. I don’t know why everyone insists on looking at me to find a solution to the problem.”
Court started, “I’m not—”
“I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do,” Ronnie continued, his voice strengthening in anger. Twin spots of color appeared on his cheeks, as they did every time he got mad.
Setting down the radio, Court rolled onto his side and frowned at his friend. “Ronnie, I didn’t say—”
“I never asked to be in charge.” Ronnie scrubbed at the gun barrel now, no longer careful and tender but furious. “I didn’t ask for any of this, you know? At first it was just you and me, and then we picked up Adam, and then Bree, and then this one, and then that one…”
“I know.” Court kept his voice calm, hoping it would entice Ronnie to lower his. With a grin, he joked, “I don’t even know half those people out there, do you? I mean, where’d the hell they come from? Why follow us?”
Ronnie nodded, and Court sensed the fight leaving him as quickly as it had kicked up. “Exactly. Like we know what the fuck we’re doing.”
“You fake it well,” Court teased, laying his head in the crook of his arm to grin at his friend. “You act like you know what you’re doing so everyone just falls in line behind you. That, or they just like watching your ass in those jeans when you walk.”
Ronnie grunted. “Yeah, well, that might be your reason, but I doubt it works for everyone.”
Something tingled along Court’s spine—anxious anticipation? Lust? He didn’t know, and it was gone before he could bother to identify it. At least Ronnie’s anger had dissipated. Court could always seem to diffuse his friend. “It might work for Bree,” he said with a shrug. “Adam, I’m not so sure. Maybe that Dizzy fellow…”
“Bree’s too busy watching your ass to look at mine,” Ronnie countered. “You should show her that box of condoms you found. See what happens.”
Court grinned. “How do you know about those? Did you go through my pockets?”
With a grin, Ronnie said, “Let’s just say I know, okay?”
“I’ll go through your pockets,” Court threatened. Ronnie just shrugged, and Court climbed out of his sleeping bag and over Ronnie’s to reach the pair of jeans folded behind his friend. “What do you have in these, hmm?”
Ronnie stretched an arm under Court’s stomach to pull him back. “Don’t—”
“Too late.” Court sat back on his legs, Ronnie’s jeans in his hands. When Ronnie lunged for them, Court held them out of reach. One hand dipped into the front pocket like a magician looking to pull a trick out of his hat. “Let’s see.”
The first pocket held a tube of Chapstick, a wadded up tissue, and a handful of pennies. “What do you need these for?” Court asked as they clinked together in his palm.
“Put them back.” Ronnie set aside his disassembled gun and reached for his jeans again. “Come on, stop it.”
Court scooted back, his hand already reaching into the other pocket. “What’s in here? More change…”
But no, it wasn’t coins he extracted—it was a pair of rings Court would recognize anywhere. Solid gold wedding rings. He’d been with Ronnie when they bought four of them. One set for him and Jeanie, one for Ronnie and Melissa. As far as he knew, both their wives had worn the rings to the grave.
These rings were the men’s bands, plain and unburnished, nothing fancy. The last time Court had seen his was when he tucked it into his dead wife’s hand. He didn’t remember exactly when Ronnie had stopped wearing the other—when Melissa died? No, that wouldn’t be right…he could recall a moment when the two of them had been sitting in his living room, Jeanie cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner, and Ronnie’s hand had rested beside Court’s on the seat of the couch. The ring had been there then, and Melissa had already been gone for a good nine or ten months at that point.
Court remembered the scene because he had covered Ronnie’s hand with his so the rings clinked together, as they did now in Court’s palm. “The rings match,” he’d joked at the time. “We could be married to each other.”
Now he looked at the rings, then raised his gaze to meet Ronnie’s. Steady, unflinching. No apologies in those dark eyes, no shame. Had he pried this ring from Jeanie’s grip? Had it fallen while he carried her from the bedroom and he went back to pick it up after the burial? Why keep it all this time?
Gently, Ronnie said, “Put those back.”
Because Court didn’t know exactly what he wanted to ask about them—or rather, he didn’t know if he wanted to hear Ronnie’s answer—he tucked the rings into the front pocket of Ronnie’s jeans and handed the pair of pants back to his friend.
The silence between them stretched until it was almost unbearable. When Court couldn’t stand it any longer, he said, “You really should throw those pennies away. I mean, they were already sort of useless before the virus came along. Even if we do bring back money, nobody’s going to want them.”
“They’re a piece of our past,” Ronnie explained. “No matter what happens here on out, I don’t want to lose that.”
Court wondered if maybe that also answered the question he couldn’t ask.
No one was more surprised than Court when Ronnie had announced he wanted to marry Melissa. Though they’d been dating all four years of college, Court would’ve been hard-pressed to admit the relationship was something special. Hell, he’d dated Jeanine the same length of time, and he didn’t think they were much of a couple. Whenever Ronnie went out, Court tagged along. Sometimes Melissa and Jeanie showed up. Even with graduation fast approaching, Court thought that just about summed them up. He assumed after school, he and Ronnie would keep the apartment they shared, maybe get jobs at the same company despite their different degrees, and maybe they’d see the girls now and then, but eventually things would cool between them and they’d all move on.
Then Ronnie dropped the bombshell. He wanted to get hitched.
They’d been sitting on the ratty sofa that comprised the bulk of the furniture in their small bachelor pad. The television was on, but Court wasn’t watching it. He sat sideways on the sofa, knees up, laptop balanced on his thighs as he struggled to write a paper on some stupid book he hadn’t bothered to read. He kept hitting the ALT and Tab keys, flipping from Microsoft Word to a Wikipedia article on the book, hoping to glean enough information off the internet to get a passing grade. He wasn’t hoping for an A—it was an elective course, one he had taken only because he needed a certain number of credits and American Lit had sounded promising, but this far into the semester, he had a bad case of senioritis and just wanted school over with already. If he got a C on the paper, he’d be happy. Hell, maybe even a D, if he could bring it up in the final…
Ronnie sat beside him, watching the TV. For some reason, Court thought it might’ve been a sports program, maybe even the winter Olympics. It was late February, and their apartment was cold because they didn’t like to turn the heat up if they could help it. Kept the bills down. So Court had tucked his bare feet under Ronnie’s right thigh to keep his toes warm.
During a commercial, Ronnie drank down the last of his soda and set the can on the arm of the sofa, then pressed down on it until it crushed beneath t
he weight of his palm. Court glanced up, saw the contemplative look on his friend’s face, and leaned back over the laptop again. “What’re you thinking?”
He didn’t expect much of an answer. Sometimes when Court asked Ronnie what was on his mind, the reply was a bemused grunt, nothing much. Or he’d come up with something like, “Let’s order in Chinese for dinner,” or “Let’s go see that new Bruce Willis movie tonight. What’s it called again?”
When he said something along these lines, Court knew he meant just the two of them—if Court asked about inviting the girls, Ronnie would shrug and say Melissa had a class, or they wouldn’t really like that film. Which told Court their relationship was still foremost in Ronnie’s life. They were together 24/7. Sometimes the girls tagged along. Sometimes they didn’t.
At the moment, trying to rewrite the Wikipedia article into some semblance of original thought, Court hoped Ronnie suggested Chinese for dinner. That sounded real good right about now.
Instead, his friend surprised him. Without looking up from the crushed can, Ronnie announced, “I’m going to pop the question.”
Court glanced up and met Ronnie’s gaze. His heart felt as if it’d stopped in his chest. “What question?”
“You know. I want to get married.”
Court frowned, his paper forgotten. “What? To whom?”
Ronnie shot Court his patented think about it look. “Hello? Melissa?” When Court didn’t answer immediately, Ronnie asked, “Who’d you think I meant? Jeanie?”
“No, I…” Court hit CTRL+S and closed the laptop. “Married? Why?”
Ronnie shrugged. “We’ve been dating long enough. Graduation’s coming up. Haven’t you thought about what you want to do the rest of your life? We can’t stay here forever.”
Why not? The retort was on the tip of Court’s tongue, but he bit it back. Staying right where they were forever had sort of been his plan, but only if it meant with Ronnie at his side. Otherwise, what was the point?