by McBain, Tim
Sperm congealed in his shorts again, and his eyes crossed once in a while, usually when the jizzy feelings came over him. He thought about all of the billions of people who lived and died and never felt this feeling, never took these pills that pressed that button on the brain that made a grown man come a little bit just walking around. He felt sorry for them. They had no clue what they were missing, and maybe that meant they had no clue about much else. This level of pleasure brought life itself into a strange focus. It made him feel separate from everyone, made him understand that was the nature of things, that we’re all stranded in our own skulls, all trapped and isolated from each other, never to fully intertwine with any other, and when he was on it, that was just fine and dandy. He walked around alone and somehow still felt complete. When the bliss died down, though, the heightened sense of loneliness was somehow more intolerable than before, more final.
He moved down the tracks past the place where the buildings running alongside them gave way to trees and brush, soon reaching a point he’d never gone past as a kid. No bottles this way. Just plants. Today he kept going, though. Nothing to lose or gain now. Just a whole lot of time to kill.
He stepped from plank to plank, his feet landing with rhythmic thuds. He sipped from a water bottle as he moved. He had plenty of water, he’d filled 13 tanks that held 100 gallons each while there was still pressure in the pipes and stored them in the garage. The water tasted a little funny after sitting in plastic for a while, though. Not bad but not good. Flavorless. Dead. That’s what he thought when he drank it. It tasted dead. Somehow the bottled water he’d looted from the store tasted better. He took another sip. Yep. This water wasn’t stale. Maybe these bottles were sealed better? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t have many of them, though, so he only drank one a day to make them last.
He wondered what the dog was doing. He’d made her stay on the porch when he left. The dog had been trained well. He was sure Hannibal was wandering around the neighborhood by now. Maybe someday she would wander off for good. He hoped not.
As he moved away from the city, the soot smell faded out, and he smelled trees and grass and fresh air. It smelled like the time the whole family went camping when he was 17. Before his dad’s stroke. It wasn’t all that extravagant. They borrowed his uncle’s camper and set up at one of those campgrounds where a grass field full of RVs are hooked up to plumbing and electricity. It wasn’t what he imagined when his dad mentioned a camping trip. He pictured a tent out in the woods. A big fire. Privacy. The silence of nature. He got none of these things.
Still, it wasn’t terrible as far as vacations with the family went. It was the first time his dad offered him a beer, and then the second, third, fourth and fifth times his dad offered him a beer. They all got drunk and played cards by lantern light. His mom got the drunkest of all of them and laughed herself to tears on multiple occasions. He felt close to them. Plus, they lucked out in that their plot was right by the woods, so it at least smelled like they were really camping.
Now he passed steel paneled buildings set here and there in the woods and grass fields along the sides of the rails. The large structures looked like factories, maybe, though it was hard to tell much. No windows or doors on the sides he could see. Just ribbed metal walls.
He thought about taking a look inside of one, pictured the exposed rafters above, the large machines spread about over concrete floors, all of them fallen silent and still, the layer of dust coating all things, the small break rooms with candy and pop machines.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to stop the churning momentum of his feet, though. His knees swung forward, his feet kicking out from under them, landing, pushing off, repeating. Something about the repetitive nature of the motion, the feel of it, the rhythm of it, lulled him into a trance that he didn’t want to end.
Somewhere in the distance an engine growled. Based on the pitch and cadence, he could tell it was a diesel, something pretty big. Even so, he thought nothing of it at first. And then the thudding pound of his feet stopped as its meaning sunk in. People. People driving a car or truck. How long had it been since he’d seen a car in town? How long since he’d seen one go anywhere aside from the grocery store? He wasn’t even sure how long it’d been since he’d seen any living soul aside from Sean. He saw a fat man on a dirt bike driving away from the grocery store. That might have been eight or ten days ago. Maybe longer. Time got weird when he was fucked up like this all the time. Days seemed to divide up in strange ways in his memories. He lost count.
He remained motionless for a moment, listening to the grind of the motor ring out over the silence that stretched out around him in all directions. It was getting louder, getting closer. He was excited and a little bit scared at the same time.
He walked on, heading toward the noise, thinking maybe there was some crossing ahead, that maybe he’d get a look at whatever vehicle was passing by. The thuds picked up, their tempo growing more and more upbeat.
As he raced forward, the sparsely wooded fields alongside him morphed into cornfields at some point, he wasn’t sure exactly when. Other matters occupied the bulk of his conscious thoughts. He could still hear that diesel out there, and it sounded closer than ever.
And then he saw the arms of the metal frame rising above the tracks in the distance, the railroad crossing gates pointed skyward. That meant there was a road, and when he saw the little shimmer of the light reflecting off the blacktop, he knew for sure. He ran now, feet still careful to land on the planks rather than the gravel, and that care slowed him some.
Pictures danced in his head, different versions of the truck barreling down this road. First he imagined a military truck with soldiers on the back ready to administer some vaccine shots, and every patient also got a big chocolate chip cookie. Then he saw a dump truck full of corpses headed to some mass grave out in the boonies, the soldier at the wheel letting his left arm dangle out of the window, his hand half-cupping the wind. Then he saw one of those extended cab pickup trucks, the bed piled high with scavenged bits and pieces: a mattress, a wood pallet stacked with cases of Lucky Charms wrapped in plastic, a pair of big tanks, probably nitrous but maybe O2.
His breath burned in his throat. His lungs ached, two pulsing throbs of flame in his chest. He knew it must be pretty bad to be able to feel it through the infinite numb of endorphins, but he kept running. He fought through it.
Just as he reached the point where the road and rails intersected, the truck bounded around the corner somewhere between a quarter and a half of a mile away, the grill of the military cargo truck swinging to face him. For one second he froze, wide eyes staring at the moving hulk on the horizon, chest heaving. And then he ran down off of the rails, pounding down the gravel slope into the corn husks where he dropped down to his knees.
The truck rolled up on him at a leisurely pace, slowly but surely gaining speed. He crouched farther, broken shafts of corn plants stabbing at him with their pointed bits, rasping out bitter warnings at him whenever he stirred. It wasn’t much cover, but he was hopeful they weren’t paying too close of attention.
Part of him wanted to flag the soldiers down, see what they were up to, but he dare not risk anything. It seemed strange to be so excited by and scared of people at the same time. He felt the blood pulse everywhere in him now, felt it pound in his cheeks, twitter in that soft skin around his eyes.
The smell of dirt surrounded him. He longed for the odor of the diesel exhaust to fill his nostrils, but he knew it wouldn’t until the truck had passed. His eyes crawled over the vehicle as it got closer and closer, watching through the bars of corn husk in front of him. From his vantage point, he couldn’t make out what was in the back as the cabin blocked his view, so he focused on the driver. Looking through the windshield was like trying to gaze through dark water, cold and shiny and murky. Impenetrable. Then he saw the arm dangling out of the window just like he’d imagined it, the cupped hand and all. But wait. It wasn’t the same. A cigarette rested between the finger
s, and, more importantly, this arm lacked a soldier’s uniform. Instead a tattered flannel sleeve adorned it, a plaid comprised of red, navy blue and black.
Raiders.
The world slowed down as the truck passed. More raiders sat in the back, two rows of them with assault rifles and shotguns in their hands. Greasy hair hung down into their eyes. Blackened fingertips smudged at noses and brows. Cigarettes bobbed in and out of mouths. Wrists jerked to flick ashes away. A shine came off of them, the glimmer of scars and scabs and zits and yellow teeth. He’d seen plenty of their kind looting the grocery store, though never so many at once.
But he hadn’t just seen their kind. He’d seen two of these men before. In his kitchen. They had the same blank looks on their faces when they killed his parents. One was short with wide-spaced eyes and a fat face that reminded him of a frog. The other had overgrown brown hair hanging over his eyelids and curling out from the back of his neck. His face was sallow except for the bunched up puffs of flesh around his eyes.
The truck zoomed, cresting a small hill and dipping down on the other side so just the top was visible. Black smoke splooged out of the stack, looking like liquid somehow.
The heat of rage flushed his face, hot blood beating through his neck, his cheeks, his eyes, his temples, his forehead. His vision fluttered once as he stood. He didn’t know if he was on the verge of fainting from standing so abruptly or blacking out in some kind of rage. Being high on pills made this animal process his body was progressing through seem very distant and strange.
He rose to follow the truck, jogging in the direction it went. Out here in the fields of dead corn, he could tail them from a safe distance, at least for a while. He could follow the only sound that rang out over the empty world.
Baghead
Rural Oklahoma
9 years, 126 days after
The Delta 88 eased up next to a small cinder block building set off by itself. Thistle sprouted through every crack in the asphalt parking lot, standing a good three feet high in most places. The Delta 88 toppled them, the bumper knocking them over, splitting some of the stalks.
Bags turned toward the building itself, a small cement cube that looked windowless from his vantage point. The bushes looked to have gotten out of hand and then died, leaving oversized brown husks that crowded the front door.
“Place used to be a veterinary clinic,” Delfino said. “Not a lot of frills, but I liked the location, the lack of windows, and the secure front door.”
They got out of the car, and Bags stretched. An ache set in behind his knees upon standing, and his calves felt like there must be anchors attached to them. His legs already felt dead after just an hour in the car. He couldn’t imagine how they’d feel at the end of their trek.
They elbowed through the bushes to the front door, a heavy steel thing, and Delfino unlocked it. A hinge squawked as he pushed it open, and they hesitated a moment before that threshold. Bags looked into the shaded interior, unable to make out much detail.
The light from the door revealed a wood paneled front counter, where people must have checked in before having their dog’s balls chopped off years ago. Shadows shrouded everything else.
“After you,” Delfino said, his upturned hand waving toward the doorway.
“I guess chivalry remains alive and well in the post-apocalypse.”
Bags entered, stale smells coming upon him right away like a mixture of dried spit and raw potatoes. The air seemed different inside. He felt the dry of it in his nostrils. He opened his eyes as wide as they’d go, making out a doorway behind the counter but little else.
The soles of Delfino’s shoes shuffled over the tile floor behind him, and he turned to see the driver’s silhouette still framed in the light streaming through the doorway. Delfino sidled past him and walked through the doorway behind the counter, disappearing into the dark.
“Should I shut the door?” Bags said.
“Nah, leave it. For the light.”
“You can actually see back there?”
“Well enough. I don’t want to light any lanterns. We’ll be in and out in a couple minutes.”
Something thudded to the floor in the backroom, something heavy, and after a beat, it scraped over the floor. Bags watched the black doorway as the sound crept closer.
Delfino took shape in the rectangular opening, stooping to slide a large metal cooler over the floor. It looked like it would have been an antique when Bags was a kid.
Delfino stood, his back jerking on its way up and a grimace pulling back his lips to flash his teeth for an instant. He put his hands on his hips.
“I’ve got enough water in here for us to make it the whole way. Got a little food, too, but we’ll need to get more along the way. It’s cool, though. There are places for that.”
“So that thing fits in your trunk?”
Delfino laughed.
“Great thing about driving an old car. I can squeeze this big fucker in the back seat. In fact, I can hide it back there.”
“Want some help moving it?”
“That would be awesome.”
They lifted the metal box and toted it toward the light. Bags expected it to be heavy, and he wasn’t disappointed. It was a load. They slowed in the doorway to avoid any elbow-to-door-frame collisions and got back up to speed as they moved out into the light, nearing the car.
“Right here is good,” Delfino said.
They placed it in the sand next to the Delta 88, and Delfino climbed into the back. He peeled the upholstery off of the bench seat, and one half of the seat itself pulled right out. The front corner of the pad popped off just as easily. Delfino tossed the bulk of the seat out, hanging onto the corner.
“OK, in she goes,” Delfino said.
They put the cooler in the back where the seat had been, attached the corner piece of padding to it, and Delfino spread the upholstery over it.
He turned to Baghead, the grin on his face teetering on the verge of laughter.
“Looks legit, don’t it?”
“Yeah, it looks good.”
“I like to put a blanket over it, too. That way if anyone searches the car, they’ll feel like they’re really digging in when they peel that blanket back and see regular old upholstery underneath.”
“Smart. But will anyone be searching the car?”
Delfino’s grin faded.
“More than likely, yeah.”
Mitch
Bethel Park, Pennsylvania
42 days before
They circled around the side of the house, tall grass mashing under their feet. Mitch ran a hand along the windows, pushing and testing for something unlocked. Nothing so far. It seemed so quiet out here. He swallowed hard, his heart racing like some neighbor would see them and call the police, but he knew the cops had more pressing concerns at the moment—riots and zombie apocalypses, namely.
The backyard smelled like flowers and dust and some sweet green plant smell he could never identify. A pair of huge pine trees blocked their view of the alley with a little stone bird bath in front of them.
“Are we breaking in to Grandma and Grandpa’s?” Matt said.
Mitch looked at the boy. He expected to find his son’s face concerned but instead saw him smiling, his eyebrows raised, his eyes open wide. He looked more excited than anything.
“Not yet,” Mitch said. “We might have to, though.”
“Is something going on?” Kevin said. “Something we should know about.”
Mitch sighed.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve kind of been waiting for the right time to lay it all out, but yeah, there is something I need to tell you.”
“Does it have to do with the riot?” Kevin said.
“In a way, yeah.”
They fell quiet, taking the step up onto the concrete square that comprised the back porch. Mitch opened the screen door, tried to twist the knob beyond that. Nope. Locked.
He took a few steps back to survey the scene. There was only one wind
ow along the back of the house, a small pane of frosted glass that led into the bathroom. He looked back at the pines that penned them in, separating the yard from the alley, giving it a sense of privacy.
“So are you going to tell us what’s going on or what?” Kevin said.
“In a minute. Let’s get inside first.”
He picked up a rock and tossed it through the bathroom window. It put a hole the size of a cantaloupe in the frosted glass, cracks splaying out from there in all directions. Mitch tucked his hand into the sleeve of his jacket and knocked the rest out piece by piece, reaching into the opening to knock as much as he could onto the ground outside rather than the bathroom floor. With the glass clear, he stuck his head in to get a look.
The bathroom smelled stale. He smelled soap, but under that he sensed stuffiness. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. The toilet came into focus first, a pink carpet seat cover staring back at him. It was about three feet from the window to the floor, he thought. That would work. He popped his head back.
“OK, you’re going through, Matt,” he said. “Be careful of any broken glass in there and then come around and unlock the back door.”
“Me?” Matt said.
“Yeah,” Mitch said. After a second he added, “You’re the only man for the job.”
Grabbing him by the waist, he lifted his son over his head to stick him through the window feet first. The kid’s eyes went wide as he hit that moment of descent when his feet were inside and his torso was still outside. Must feel like hell to be out of control like that, Mitch thought.
Matt supported his weight by propping his elbows on the window frame as it got to the point that Mitch could no longer hold him. The boy eased himself the rest of the way, his back bending like he was limboing the last little bit in. His head disappeared into the house, and all was silent for a beat.