ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story)

by Chesser, Shawn

  After another round of bushwhacking he was back at the shed, the toolkit unrolled, screwdriver in hand.

  Hoping to use the metal eye part of the shed’s locking mechanism as a fulcrum of sorts, he inserted the pointed end of the Phillips-head next to the small padlock. After finding adequate purchase, he gripped the handle and applied his entire two hundred pounds to the equation.

  After a brief groan there was a gunshot-like snap as the four rivets holding the metal base plate in place sheared off. Newton’s Law being what it is, the opposite reaction was Duncan landing face down in the coarse bark dust with a wind-stealing thud.

  He lay there for a second gulping air and staring at the reddish-brown mixture of cedar shavings and topsoil. Once his breathing was back to normal, he rolled over onto his left side and worked his right arm free from where it had become trapped between his gut and the ground. Fearful he may have fallen on the screwdriver, he held it up in front of his face and turned it over in his hand, inspecting it for blood. The eight-inch chrome shaft was bent into a shallow “V.” However, thankfully, it was still clean and reflecting the afternoon sun.

  Charlie’s voice carried from the corner of the house nearest the garage. “That was a close call there, Old Man. No hospital’s going to drop what they’re doing to sew your pasty carcass back up.”

  “Thought did cross my mind. Figured I would’ve just finished the job Samurai-style.”

  Charlie pushed through the warren of unkempt bushes, stopped before Duncan, and said, “Not quick by any means with a screwdriver. But effective all the same.”

  “Yep,” replied Duncan, picking himself off the ground. “Insert the blade into the stomach near the navel. One quick pull to the left. Then one more back to the right where you start—”

  Charlie finished for him. “—and drag the tantō right up the gut … literally. Balls of steel, those guys. And after seeing what the alphabet networks are showing on the tube now …” He went quiet and helped brush the dust and wood slivers from his friend’s back and shoulders. “Ritual suicide sounds like it just might be the easy way out.”

  A strange look fell on Duncan’s face as he parted the shed doors.

  “What?” Charlie asked, brow furrowing.

  “The dog isn’t barking.”

  “Noisy bastard’s not growling either,” Charlie added. “Which one of us is going to check it out?”

  Duncan shook his head no.

  Both men stood rooted and looking over their shoulders toward the front of the house.

  After a few moments of silence the warble of distant sirens broke the spell. Duncan shrugged and grabbed a shovel from the shed. Wiped the cobwebs from it and inspected the blade. It was sharp and shiny, the wooden handle barely worn. Judging from the condition of Charlie’s yard, he guessed it hadn’t seen a palm since last summer or the one before. It’ll do, he thought.

  “You want to hear what I saw on the tube … or not?”

  “Fill me in while I dig,” Duncan said, ambling back the way he’d come and adding enough scratches and furrows on his right side to balance out the roadmap of them already criss-crossing his left arm and ribcage.

  When they reached the parking pad, the dog was still silent with no clear reason why.

  Charlie peeked around the Dodge. “Nothing there.”

  “Dog’s crazy. That’s all.” Duncan stabbed the shovel into the ground underneath the willow. While he dug the grave, Charlie detailed all he knew about was happening from coast-to-coast—none of it good. Duncan stopped digging only when he heard mention of the dusk-to-dawn curfew that came along with the recent declaration of Martial Law.

  After processing what that meant for them and the predicament they were in, Duncan resumed digging and listening, wondering all the while how his friend had absorbed that much material in the short time he was inside. Channel surfing and speed reading the crawl, he presumed. When Charlie finally fell silent, Duncan had the beginnings of a Tilly-sized hole scratched into the topsoil and a worsening sense of dread tickling his spine.

  For ninety minutes he speared the shovel into the ground and deposited the dirt onto a growing pile near the neighbor’s fence.

  Charlie had disappeared back inside at the twenty-minute mark and had stayed there.

  The entire time Duncan was digging, sweat was pouring down his face, back, and sides, stinging where it found its way into the fresh wounds there. In a way the pain helped to keep him going. Kind of like self-flagellation, his steady movement contributing to the pain which seemed to be drawing him nearer to a much-needed closure to the day’s events.

  ***

  When the hole was finally dug deep enough—three feet, maybe four—Duncan stuck the shovel into the waist-high dirt pile. He planted his aching hands on his hips and stared at the sky. Dusk had come and gone. Overhead a dozen different shades of purple were working their way to black. As if in on the cosmic joke currently befalling him, a few early stars were out and winking at him from up there. How surreal, he thought. I’m standing in the dark next to a freshly dug grave in a city home to hundreds of thousands of people. A tick after the inane thought came to him, the automatic light by the garage came alive and he saw that he wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 25

  The massive Rottweiler was sitting on its haunches next to the chain-link, liquid brown eyes fixed on Duncan as if aware of the burden the man was currently shouldering.

  “How long you been there, boy?”

  The pooch yawned and lay down fully, legs outstretched, forepaws clawing at the dirt. Its stub tail was going a mile-a-minute.

  “The entire time you’ve been digging,” came a rasping male voice from afar. “I think he’s grown jealous.”

  Duncan swung his head in the general direction the answer had originated from. Squinted to see into the darkness of the windowless back porch attached to the house beyond the fence. “Who’s there?”

  Nothing.

  “Wherever you are … this sure as hell isn’t what it looks like.”

  A match flared, orange and yellow, the light illuminating a man’s face, whose features were gaunt and drawn thin with age.

  “Come on out so we can talk.”

  There was a creaking sound, like someone walking across old planks. A two-count later a hunched-over form was filling the narrow porch entry.

  “I know it’s not what it looks like,” the man said. He took a drag off the cigarette he had just lit. Stepped off the porch, one gnarled hand on a rickety wood rail, the other clutching something catching and reflecting the waning light of day. “Because my friend, the end is nigh. I can feel it in my gut and bones. Satan … he knows it, too.”

  Humoring the old fella, Duncan asked, “What do you recommend we do about Satan?”

  The man grabbed a cane propped next to the porch. He covered the distance to the fence with a dozen jilted unsteady steps, steering clear of holes where the dog had been digging.

  The Rottweiler remained still and watched the elderly man’s approach.

  Once the man was at the fence he said, “Satan will be fine.” He scratched the dog behind his cropped ears. “Just fine. Won’t you, boy?”

  Duncan stifled a chuckle.

  The man reached out a hand. “You can call me Will. Mother named me after the famous playwright.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Will.” He reached a newly blistered hand across the fence top and said, “Name’s Duncan Winters. You can call me Duncan or Winters. Whatever floats your boat.”

  The man snorted. Then, reeking of booze and neglect of bodily hygiene, he produced a pint bottle of Irish whiskey and passed it over the fence.

  Waving off the bottle, Duncan said, “Thanks, but no. I’m putting that behind me. Still, I’d like to hear your theory about what’s been happening.”

  The man made a clucking sound with his tongue. “More for me,” he mumbled. He fed the dog a treat taken from his pocket, cleared his throat and asked Duncan if he was a believe
r.

  Duncan nodded.

  A light came on in the man’s eyes. He said, “When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, “Come!—”

  Duncan added, “—And I looked, and behold, a pale horse.”

  The man said, “And its rider’s name was Death—”

  “—and Hades followed him,” finished Duncan, throwing a visible shudder.

  “You are a believer,” Will said, beaming. “And there’s your answer. Hell has opened. Buckle up, it’s going to be a wild ride. And Duncan, my boy. You better finish your business there … whatever it may be, and get far away from the city.”

  Duncan stole a closer look at the man’s upturned face and saw that his eyes were clouded with cataracts. Feeling a little sheepish, he said, “Take care of yourself, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  To that, the man cackled, about-faced, and made his way back to the porch, the dog following obediently on his heels.

  Shaking his head, but unable to shake the building desire to flee, Duncan hollered toward the little house to get Charlie’s attention.

  ***

  Five minutes after the over-the-fence chat, Duncan and Charlie had dragged Tilly’s body over to the grave and placed it at the bottom along with the comforter and once cheery yellow sheet.

  ***

  Thirty minutes after the impromptu Revelations refresher, and two shifts each spent shoveling dirt, Tilly’s remains were buried.

  Thirty-five minutes after making up his mind to leave Oregon at first light, and just in case his and Will’s assumptions were not correct, Duncan was tamping down the much darker tell-tale oval of freshly dug earth.

  Five minutes after saying a few unrehearsed words for the woman who wasn’t really blood, but had always treated him and Charlie like they were, the two men were parked on the sagging couch and watching the world crumble before their very eyes.

  Chapter 26

  Dawn was breaking outside the east-facing window. A halo of orange was showing around the dark curtains and a thin sliver of golden light was lancing through the inch-wide vertical part. It bisected Duncan’s bare dirt-and-sweat-smudged chest, then the coffee table, and all the way across the living room floor to the glossy panel of the Japanese wide-screen which was showing a static image he hadn’t seen since the late eighties.

  After willing his lids to part beyond the puffy slits six hours of sleep had reduced them to, Duncan sat up with an audible groan. He swung his legs over the side of the sofa and wiggled his toes. He yawned and stretched and for a split second everything seemed normal until he realized that the gray screen emblazoned with the words PLEASE STAND BY across the head-shot of an American Indian frozen in profile meant the usual round the clock cable news station had inexplicably gone off the air.

  Shaking off the gauzy in the head feeling, he swept his gaze to the door and saw his dirt-caked boots and, piled next to them, the jeans he’d been wearing the day before. It was at that moment when everything came rushing back to him with full clarity. He remembered burying Tilly. Then he was reliving pistol-whipping the cyclist mere seconds before the soldier put a bullet into her brain. Oh how he wished he was waking from a nightmare. And just to make sure, he craned around and parted the curtains.

  Sure enough, though in the light of day the soil was not quite as dark as he recalled, the mis-colored rectangle was there. As was the shovel. It was leaning against the fence where he had shared a brief, though thought-provoking conversation with the old man.

  All put together it was more than enough evidence to verify that everything he hoped had been conjured up in a few minutes of REM sleep was the real deal.

  He let the curtains fall together and regarded the coffee table. Strangely it was clear of the usual platoon of “dead soldiers” as Charlie was wont to call the empty bottles left behind from the previous night’s festivities. There were no fast food wrappers to be found. Nor were there any of Charlie’s girlie mags—usually left open for all to see his favorite of the month. Charlie had even policed up the remnants of the chili dog he was eating when Duncan fell asleep sober for the first time in months.

  In the immortal words of Dylan, he thought, the times, they are a-changin’.

  “Charlie,” he bellowed, as he slipped on his jeans and cinched the belt, “I’m hitting the road. Five minutes ago—”

  Some random curse words filtered out from the back bedroom. A door opened with a plaintive creak. Then the water was running in the bathroom. Lastly, the toilet flushed and Charlie emerged from the narrow hall, fully dressed save for shoes and with a toothbrush handle protruding from his mouth.

  “Nice shirt,” Duncan said. “Your mom know you’re wearing stuff like that?”

  Grabbing the tee shirt with thumb and finger near each nipple, Charlie stretched it flat and peered at it upside down. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Duncan double-knotted the lace on one boot. He looked up and said, “Those big titty girls are kind of offensive on truckers’ mud flaps. On your shirt … they’re downright embarrassing.”

  “I ain’t all about that woman’s lib crap. You know that. Besides … girly mags and mud flaps never hurt a woman.”

  Duncan said nothing. He laced and tied his other boot. Then stood and stared at Charlie for a long silent ten-count.

  “What?” asked Charlie, sticking his arms out at his sides. “You were the one who clocked that girl.”

  “Like I said then,” Duncan hissed, “I’m not proud of it. Thought she was on some kind of mind-altering drugs. Like that dude in Florida was.”

  “At least you didn’t use the business end of that hand cannon of yours.” Charlie cinched his belt and bloused his shirt, which did little to hide his ample gut. “However, after staying up well after you crashed and watching FOX and CNN, I’ve come to believe that it was a justified shoot.”

  Duncan threw Charlie a look that said: elaborate. Then he stood and went to the closet. He came out with the shotgun he’d stowed in there for the night and propped it by the door. Then he went back in and came out with a long-sleeved denim shirt with cream-colored cloth inserts near each shoulder. The inserts were embroidered with a western motif featuring blocky linked symbols in black and red. The salesman at the outfitter store had sworn it was a Navajo-inspired design. The snaps on the pockets, sleeves, and running up the shirt front were faux mother of pearl that caught the light and shimmered, seemingly harnessing it for later use.

  He donned his favorite shirt. Buttoned it two from the top and rolled the sleeves to just below his elbows.

  “When you’re done getting ready for the St. Paul Rodeo,” Charlie quipped, “sit down and I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  Casting a wan glance at the image still frozen on the television, Duncan said, “How are you going to do that? Looks like the broadcasting day is over … forever.”

  “It’s called a DVR, Caveman. I set it to record blocks of news on FOX and KATU so we wouldn’t miss the overnight national and local happenings while we got some shut eye.”

  Duncan grabbed his .45 off the coffee table. Still snugged in its paddle holster, he slipped it on his right hip and bloused the shirt away from it to allow for easy access to the weapon.

  “How’s six hours of that”—he pointed at the Native American in full headdress on the screen—“going to tell us more than we already know? Which is basically shelter in place and kiss your asses goodbye, as per what our honorable governor, mayor, and President all seem to be advocating.”

  Charlie replied, “Just watch, ye of little faith. They only replayed it real early in the morning this one time as far as I can tell.” He sat down hard on the couch, snatched up the remote, and pointed it at the black box below the television while thumbing the rewind button.

  Flashing a skeptic’s grin, Duncan obliged his friend and sat down on the sofa.

  Suggestive of some kind of motion, there was a little bit of judder to the still static off-air image gracing the
screen. Though the status bar at the bottom of the screen showed two hours of past footage available for viewing, it took fifteen seconds of constant rewinding to get past a full hour dominated by the Indian Chief. Once the gray hieroglyphic-filled screen faded away, a jumbled stream of footage, on-screen captions, and bottom crawl—all blazing by in reverse—took its place.

  Finally the DVR’s hard-drive reached the location where the recording had started the night before. Charlie hit a button on the remote and together they watched the footage fast forward until he hit pause and a mousy female reporter, mouth agape and frozen in rigid repose, was filling up the screen. In her left hand was a microphone. Emblazoned on a placard were orange block letters spelling out KATU—the local station’s call letters. She was wearing a sensible pantsuit rumpled from a long slog of a day and patent leather high heels that looked none too comfortable for standing, let alone walking, that was for sure. Moreover, she was broadcasting from what looked like a hospital waiting room amidst a flurry of activity all frozen in time. For some reason the nurses and doctors clad in soiled scrubs were going about their business in a lobby crammed with dozens of patients on folding chairs and gurneys, on the latter, several shrouded bodies of the recently deceased.

  “Start the thing rolling already,” Duncan said, impatience evident in his voice.

  “We’ve already seen most of it already,” Charlie said. “Yesterday before we headed off to Tilly’s.” He thumbed Play and sat back in the couch.

  At once the KATU reporter was talking about methods of infection and stating numbers of dead as a direct result of the uprising at Pioneer Square. As she delivered the grim news, like a scene from an old Benny Hill episode the doctors and nurses behind her zipped back and forth, stethoscopes banging on chests, the squeak of their comfortable shoes her oration.

  Charlie said, “I know her from work. She drives a real nice Mercedes coupe. Likes to drink in the bar on the thirtieth floor. Saw her yesterday and she had scratches and blood on her neck. Must have gotten roughed up in the ruckus at the rally. She’s a real bitch. Still, wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”